The Anarchy, page 2
After stumbling upon Nest’s wedding at Cardigan, Haith had returned with the king to London to make his first appearance as sheriff of Pembroke at the Michaelmas Court of the Exchequer. He should have returned to his post in Wales as soon as the business of the court was concluded, but instead, he travelled to Normandy. He wanted to be away from where Nest was. Pembroke was too close for comfort to Cardigan, where she lived with her new husband.
Haith turned his thoughts away from the painful memories of Nest and focused again on the sinking of the ship. With the king’s son dead, his nephews, Thibaud and Stephen de Blois, stood next in line to Henry’s throne. Haith had no suspicions of Thibaud, who was an honourable man and had been nowhere near Barfleur on the fateful night of the sinking. But Stephen had been on the ship and left it minutes before it sailed, carrying all its passengers to their deaths. Had Stephen conspired to cause the sinking and make himself heir to the king?
Haith could not get the suspicion from his mind and must pursue it. He had a few threads to pull on: a butcher named Berold, who was the sole survivor of the shipwreck; William de Pirou, the king’s dapifer, who had been listed on the roll call of victims, but then blithely appeared back at court without explanation; the two monks from Tiron whom Haith had witnessed following Count Stephen from the ship. He doubted he would get anywhere probing among Stephen’s servants and that was far too risky. Stephen de Blois was powerful at court. The king’s friendship with Haith would not weigh enough if he, a mere sheriff, raised the ire of the king’s nephew. Haith frowned. It irked him that Stephen behaved as if he had pretensions to be Henry’s successor, and this assumption had received no warrant from the king.
Haith could not return Henry’s drowned children and young nobles to him but, if there had been foul play, he could prove it and protect Henry from its intent. This self-imposed mission in Normandy kept him away from having to encounter the sight of Nest forced to another man. There was nothing he could do for her, either. She was wed to de Marais and there was an end to their hopes. Surely, his presence nearby could only make things worse for her. He shook his head, trying now, reluctantly, to empty it of visions of Nest – the long, gleaming curls of her black hair on the pillow beside him, her blue eyes laughing with him. His memory lingered on the curve of her wide mouth. Lurching to his feet, he looked for escape from the images in his mind, and narrowly avoided a collision with a ceiling beam. He had to get water. He leant to grip the beaker again, briefly considered he was only wearing a loincloth, but no one else would be about at this hour. Haith padded out barefoot to the inn courtyard, enjoying the cool night air on his naked skin and the scent of jasmine twining around a low wall. The stone basin of the spigot was cold against his palm as he leant against it to pump cold water into his beaker. Hundreds of crickets chirped on the riverbank as Haith closed his eyes and swallowed down the water.
* * *
‘Sir Haith de Bruges,’ he shouted up to the guards’ query at the gate of Pont Audemer Castle. The drawbridge began to lower, and he kicked his horse on. He had tracked the Rouen butcher named Berold to the lands of Count Waleran de Meulan. Pont Audemer was one of Waleran’s strongholds. This Berold, the survivor of the wreck of The White Ship, had no business being on the ship. That was a mystery that Haith intended to prod at. When the butcher had been located and interrogated, Haith could speed on to Fontevraud Abbey and visit his sister Benedicta. She had not replied to his letters and was, perhaps, still unaware that he had survived the wreck. Or maybe she had immersed herself in illuminating a new manuscript and was merely neglecting her correspondence. Haith was unconvinced by his own guess but suppressed his anxiety. He had to tackle one problem at a time. Worrying would not get him to Fontevraud and to the reassuring sight of his sister’s face any quicker.
Once inside the courtyard, Haith was forced to immediately dismount because of the great crowd of people and rushing servants before him. He grabbed the arm of a passing maid. ‘What’s going on here? Why so many people?’
She grinned at him. ‘Three weddings, sir! That’s bound to require a lot of people, no?’ She stood on tiptoe to get somewhere near his ear and pulled him down nearer to her whispering mouth. ‘I might be interested in trying out for a fourth if you find yourself free later.’
Haith laughed and shook his head. ‘Let me get my foot in the door, won’t you? Which way to the stables?’
Seated in the hall, Haith watched the servants’ frantic preparations. Tabletops were hauled in and set up. Delicate glassware teetered dangerously on trestles and shivered with the passing of heavy boots. Six maids, ranged in a straight line across the breadth of the hall, advanced upon Haith, strewing sweet-smelling rushes from baskets held in the crook of their elbows. One of the maids was the forward girl he had encountered in the courtyard. She smiled flirtatiously at him and he sighed at the dimple in her cheek that reminded him of Nest.
Haith ascertained, in casual conversation with other guests, that the brides were Count Waleran’s sisters: Adeline, Aubree, and Matilda, and they were marrying Hugh de Montfort-sur-Risle, Hugh de Châteauneuf-Thimerais, and William Louvel. The king’s permission was required for all noble marriages, but Henry was certainly unaware that these three daughters of an earl were preparing to marry here, within the hour. The other business in Normandy must be hurried, and Haith needed to return to England as soon as he could with the news. King Henry would be furious at this flouting of his authority, and wary. A bread board covered in flour had not yet been cleared away and sat on the table next to Haith. He smoothed the flour flat with the palm of his hand and dotted his finger into the white surface, plotting the locations of the bridegrooms’ castles. He added this castle of Pont Audemer and Waleran’s other holdings. Yes, that would make a very good frontline if everyone here were planning another rebellion against Henry’s rule in Normandy. Haith suddenly felt conscious of being alone, a supporter of the king, in a nest of rebels. Was he imagining it, or were people looking askance at him? He swiped his palm across the flour, erasing the map.
A maid nudged Haith’s foot with her broom, and he lifted both his legs so she could swipe beneath him and the bench he sat on. Haith’s enormous hound stayed immobile beside him, ignoring increasingly irritated prods from the broom and exclamations from the maid until Haith roused from his distraction and commanded the dog to shift.
The brides’ brother, the instigator of this triple wedding, Count Waleran de Meulan, was standing near the hearth talking with the three bridegrooms and his steward, Morin du Pin. Waleran’s presence here was a surprise. Haith had merely stopped at Pont Audemer looking for a short respite for his horse and had not expected to encounter either Waleran or these surreptitious marriages. Haith had known his host and his twin brother, Robert, since their early childhood and often seen them at court when they were the king’s wards. He had never liked Waleran, viewing him as an arrogant stripling who garnered over-indulgence from the king.
Waleran looked up at the maid’s grumbling and noticed Haith. The count headed across the hall, frowning at this uninvited guest. Waleran’s wedding outfit was a gold-embroidered purple tunic that suited his dark colouring and emphasised the newfound breadth of his shoulders. The young man moving purposefully toward Haith had recently inherited vast swathes of land in Normandy and France and become one of the most important Norman barons.
‘Haith! I did not know you were in Normandy. Welcome.’ Waleran’s expression contradicted his words. His face showed the perplexed annoyance that he was likely feeling at finding one of the king’s compatriots observing this unlicensed event.
‘Thank you. It is your sisters who are marrying today?’
‘Yes. Will you join the feast?’ Hospitality could not be what Waleran really wanted to offer to Haith. The twins had been frustrated when King Henry delayed granting their inheritances to them beyond their minorities, preferring to keep their English and Norman lands safely, and profitably, in his own hands for a few more years. Perhaps Waleran also felt some resentment at the king’s treatment of his eldest sister, Isabel, who had been the most recent of Henry’s many mistresses. Isabel had first been betrothed to Amaury de Montfort, but the betrothal had been quietly dropped when the king took Waleran’s sister to his bed. Perhaps she and her brothers had expected that she would be the next queen and were bitterly disappointed when the king married Adelisa de Louvain instead. Isabel, in turn, found herself married off to the lord of Pembroke, in the far reaches of Wales. Haith was as surprised to find himself witnessing this defiance of the king’s law as Waleran was to find Haith sitting in his hall. The servant who had greeted Haith and sent him straight in had assumed he was one of the wedding guests and did not announce his name, else Haith would surely have been turned away at the gate.
Since, in courtesy, there was no choice to it, Haith indicated his acceptance of Waleran’s offer of hospitality and Waleran smiled insincerely in return. ‘What brings you to Normandy, Haith? You are a long way from the savage outposts of Wales!’
Haith ignored the slight to his office as sheriff of Pembroke. ‘Yes. The king sends me on his business,’ he lied. King Henry had no more idea that Haith was in Normandy than he knew Count Waleran was giving his sisters away in marriage to three castellans with lands and castles that were strategically well-placed for brewing a new rebellion in Normandy.
Waleran waited to be further enlightened on Haith’s business. When no further information was offered, the count frowned and moved away to greet other guests.
* * *
Standing before their brother and a priest, the three Beaumont sisters placed their hands into the grasps of each of their respective husbands. Haith tried to suppress the echo of the three other weddings that he witnessed in Cardigan last year: Gilbert de Clare marrying Isabel de Beaumont, the oldest sister of Count Waleran and these three girls, and visibly carrying the king’s child in her womb; Miles of Gloucester marrying Sybil de Neufmarché. Haith closed his eyes, reluctant to remind himself of the third marriage, but, like a battle wound, it would not heal by ignoring it. And Stephen de Marais, constable of Cardigan Castle, marrying the Lady Nest ferch Rhys. Haith could only look on at the devastation of his happiness and hers, keeping the grief from his face for her sake. The king’s command could not be contested. Haith took a long draught of the wine set before him, blinked again momentarily, as if this feeble gesture might wipe the memory burnt into his eyeballs.
‘Sir Haith de Bruges, is it?’
Haith opened his eyes on a strikingly handsome man. ‘Aye, my lord.’ The man’s clothes and bearing set him out as a person of importance. He was not young; around Haith’s own age of 50. His thick blond hair, like Haith’s, was mixed with grey and white strands, and there the resemblance ended. This man had expressive, deep brown eyes and his face had the symmetry and colours of a fresh bloomed peach. He looked like the hero of a troubadour’s roman.
‘Amaury de Montfort, count of Evreux.’ Amaury bowed.
Haith returned the courtesy. ‘Haith de Bruges, sheriff of Pembroke.’
‘And a member of the duke’s familia regis, I believe?’
Here, in Normandy, Henry was known as the duke, while in England, he was called king. Haith bowed his head modestly in agreement with de Montfort’s description. Haith had been a member of Henry’s military household since their shared childhood. He studied the man before him. This was the king’s greatest enemy in Normandy, and he was brazenly introducing himself to one of the king’s greatest friends. De Montfort bore out everything Haith had heard about his charm and his effrontery, but his next words were a surprise: ‘How is your sister?’
‘Benedicta?’ Haith swallowed astonishment with a mouthful of wine.
‘I met her at Fontevraud, and in Reims, too.’
Haith hesitated, searching for reasons why his sister’s name should be on the lips of this man. ‘She is well, I believe. I haven’t heard from her in some time and plan to visit her in Fontevraud next week.’
‘Ah! I wonder if you might do me a kindness, then?’
‘I will endeavour to, my lord.’
‘I have a gift I would like to give to Benedicta, to Sister Benedicta. Would you convey it to her?’
Haith’s confusion grew, and he struggled to conceal it. Why was the count of Evreux giving a gift to a nun? Haith knew Benedicta had spied on Amaury’s sister, Bertrade de Montfort, the former queen of France, while Bertrade was in the cloister at Fontevraud Abbey, but he could think of no respectable reason for a gift from de Montfort to Benedicta.
‘It’s nothing.’ Amaury’s tone was urbane. ‘A trifle. Just a small book of Ovid’s poems that I came across and knew she would like, from some conversation I had with her.’ Reading the confusion on Haith’s face, he added, ‘For the abbey library.’
‘Yes, of course.’ What subterfuge was here, beneath the words? A gift for the abbey library would be sent to the abbess. Why send it, in particular, to Benedicta? The library was his sister’s sphere of responsibility, but even so, it was odd. She used Ovid’s poems as a cipher to communicate with Haith sometimes. Was de Montfort making a veiled threat? Haith held his gaze. De Montfort’s expression did not appear threatening.
‘Excellent,’ said de Montfort. ‘One moment, I have it to hand, in my baggage.’ He beckoned a servant and gave him instructions. The man returned to them a few minutes later, carrying a small parcel wrapped in fine black wool. ‘Ah!’ Amaury took the package and handed it to Haith. ‘I am very grateful to you.’
Haith nodded, still at a loss for words. Amaury bowed and withdrew to converse with other guests while Haith looked anxiously at de Montfort’s elegant, retreating back. Had harm come to Benedicta? From him? She had played a part in the downfall of Robert de Bellême, de Montfort’s compatriot in the previous rebellion, and Amaury must know that. The sooner Haith concluded his business with the butcher, the sooner he could get to the abbey and be reassured about his sister.
There was a sudden hushing of the babble of voices and a palpable shift in the crowd standing about the hall as they parted to allow entry to a new guest. A richly dressed young man stepped into the space created for him. His dark blue cloak swept the floor at his heels and was held in place with a magnificent ruby clasp. Waleran de Meulan hurried to welcome the newcomer and knelt to him. The whispered rumour, ‘The Clito’, slid around the edges of the hall. The Clito was the Norman name given to the heir of the duke of Normandy. Here he was, in person, then: William Clito, the son of Henry’s older brother, the pretender to the throne of Normandy, and the king’s nemesis.
The last time Haith had seen William, he was four years old. Henry defeated his brother Robert Curthose in battle, imprisoned him and took his position as duke of Normandy. Robert Curthose, this young man’s father, was still in prison in England, some twenty-four years later. Despite the years that had passed, Haith would have easily guessed at the young man’s identity. He had the same stocky build, the same dark eyes as Henry, and was evidently his kinsman. Henry had not imprisoned the boy and had come to rue that kind decision in recent years. William Clito had been in arms against Henry, trying to reclaim the duchy since he came of age, and he was the rallying point for rebellion. Since King Henry’s only legitimate son had drowned, William Clito was, for many, the obvious male heir to Normandy. His cause was supported by the French king Louis and by many lords, such as Amaury de Montfort and Waleran de Meulan, who desired the separate rule of England and Normandy. Haith could see how a young man, this William Clito, would appear a more glamorous option to the inflexible grip of King Henry for the likes of young Waleran. Haith became aware of eyes upon him and looked away from William Clito to meet Waleran’s glare. His host could hardly be pleased that Haith’s unexpected presence had revealed this nascent rebellion too early. The gaze of Waleran’s steward and veteran warrior, Morin du Pin, was also focused on Haith in nothing resembling a friendly manner.
Morin had been entrusted with the guardianship of Waleran and his twin brothers as teenagers when their father died, and he was a fierce guard dog. Morin’s grey hair was cropped close to his large head and his beard was plaited, Viking-style. One of his ears had been shorn away in combat, and he made no effort to conceal the ugly scar on the side of his head. He had berserker eyes that had terrified many an opponent on the battlefield. Haith noted Morin was wearing a short chain mail tunic that was quite unnecessary for a wedding celebration. The chain mail was a symptom of Morin’s hardcore attitude, which was also evinced by his ramrod stance. Haith knew Morin did the dirty work for the urbane Count Waleran so he could keep his hands lily-clean.
Haith sat through the feast, thinking how best to withdraw from the castle before his host decided to take action against him. He smiled and conversed and waited. The drinking dragged on long into the night and Haith sat it out. When the last drunk rolled from the bench to the floor, Haith made an appearance of settling down, wrapped in his cloak. His hound warmed his right side, and a drunken, heavily snoring wedding guest stretched against his other. The crowded hall reverberated with the wheezing of men and dogs and smelt of evaporating sweat and alcohol. Every now and then, the scaffold of logs in the hearth collapsed further in on itself and the night chill in the vast hall dropped a few more degrees. Waleran and Amaury knew Haith would tell tales to the king of these marriages, of brewing rebellion, and of the appearance of William Clito in Waleran’s hall. It was likely an assassin was moving through the sleeping hall, inching toward Haith, intending to slip a knife between his ribs and stop his story.
