The Anarchy, page 30
‘Welsh chronicles?’ asked Alice sarcastically.
‘Welsh and Norman.’
‘Lady Nest is right, Alice,’ said Isabel. ‘Come, do not show your husband a face washed with tears.’
Alice swallowed. ‘Very well,’ she said, and drew herself up.
‘It is our lot, Alice, to be brave in the hall, in our marriages, and in birthing our children. You must be proud and strong for your family’s sake,’ I said.
She nodded to me.
When Isabel and I returned to the hall with Alice between us, the Welsh contingent had arrived. Breri was standing at the hearth in close conference with Cadwaladr. Prince Cadwaladr was wearing fine Norman dress, which would, I hoped, make his bride feel a little better about joining her life to his. Cadwaladr was slender and of average height, with dark orange hair and a freckle-splattered face. His intelligent black eyes surveyed us.
Noticing our entrance, Breri stepped away from the bridegroom and picked up his lute. He came toward us singing. It was hard to believe this man, with this sonorous voice and beautiful words, had murdered Einon when he carried the message in his beard, had exposed my brother to charges of treason, and worked to do the same to me. He was undoubtedly conspiring with Cadwaladr against my brother. I knew he was behind the poisoning of Haith, and here he came strutting with his lute.
Month of March – severe is the cold wind upon the headlands,
Every bird wings to its mate,
Every thing springs through the earth.
39
Exoneration
Nest had sent a messenger to Haith, asking him to attend her at Llansteffan and prepare for a journey if he might be willing. Her message said nothing more and was mysterious. She and Ida were waiting for him in the hall. ‘A letter came for Ida addressed to Benedicta,’ Nest explained. Ida handed the letter to Haith to read for himself.
Count Amaury de Montfort at Evreux, to Benedicta. I hope my informants speak true of your whereabouts and that this letter finds you. I am very ill and ask that you might come to me. I remember how you aided King Henry in his time of illness. It would be a kindness to me.
Haith looked up at the expectant faces of the two women. ‘It’s a very long journey, again, Ida, into Normandy. We grow old, you and I.’
‘Yes, but he would not write and ask me for a trivial reason. He has need of me and I must go. Will you accompany me, Haith?’
* * *
Great walls made with the neat rows of small stones, created in the petit-appareil masonry style, rose to either side of them as they entered the city of Evreux, which had been the scene of so much fighting in recent times during the rebellion against King Henry. The palace was quiet and seemed abandoned. ‘Where is the count?’ Ida asked the first servant she could locate.
‘Upstairs in bed, mistress, and not like to rise from it, I fear.’
‘And the countess?’
‘She does not reside here.’
Ida and Haith walked up the uneven stone steps to the solar. Entering the room, Ida controlled her shock at first sight of Amaury. He was wasted away to his very skeleton. Even so close to death, his bones showed the beautiful structure of his face, and his blond hair was paler but luxuriant still. Quietly, she sat on a low stool next to the bed and watched him sleep. A maid came and went with water and medicines and gave Ida a shy smile. He stirred and groaned at the return of consciousness and pain with it. ‘Benedicta,’ he whispered, widening his eyes on her in surprise. ‘I did not think you would come.’
There was no point in correcting him with regard to her name. She stroked his hair gently from his cold forehead. ‘Of course I came, Amaury. Of course.’
He struggled through pain to be able to speak again. She waited.
‘I never forgot you. I have known many women, but you struck a special chord with me.’
‘As did you with me.’ She was leaning in close, looking with love into his eyes. His voice was low. Each word an effort.
‘I wish I could fully embrace you, Amaury.’
‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t break.’ Haith drew back into the dark edge of the room to give them privacy, and Amaury seemed unaware of his presence.
Ida moved carefully onto the bed and nestled her body against the bones of his. ‘May I ask you something, Amaury? To give me peace of mind and also my brother.’
‘Of course.’ It was easier for him to speak – though that was difficult enough – than to nod his head.
‘My brother has been enquiring for a long time now into the tragedy of The White Ship. He believes there was foul play.’
She had Amaury’s attention. He listened in silence, but his intelligent, brown eyes followed her words closely. ‘He discovered that Gisulf, the royal clerk, was murdered onboard.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I … I am sorry to ask this, to even think it, but I must know if you were involved in any way, Amaury.’
His mouth curved, and his eyes lit up with amusement. He did not have the energy to laugh. ‘Gisulf! Why would I … ah! Yes.’ Memory dawned. ‘He was troubling you and I said I would deal with it when we met in Reims. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’ She raised herself on one elbow to look earnestly at him. ‘I beg you to tell me the truth of it.’
‘Gladly. I had nothing to do with Gisulf’s murder on the ship. I planned to take action against him, but then heard he had drowned before I had the chance to do so.’
‘You were in no wise involved, then?’
‘No.’
‘That is a great relief to me, Amaury. I knew it. In my heart, I knew it, but I had to ask. You gave me no answer when I asked you in Fontevraud.’
‘We had other things on our minds then, as I recall.’ He closed his eyes, exhausted by the conversation, and Ida too allowed herself to drift into sleep.
When he was sure they were both asleep, Haith reached for the letter lodged in the inside pocket of his jerkin. He drew it out and turned the folded letter over a few times in his hands, contemplating the faded ink addressed to ‘Henricus Rex’ and the broken red wax seal. It was the letter from de Bellême, which had suggested to Haith that Amaury and, by association, Ida, might have had some role in the sinking of The White Ship. He would not read it again. There was no need. Haith held the parchment out to the flames of the fire and when it caught alight, he let it slip from his fingers and watched it collapse to ash. He breathed in deeply as the wax melted and released its odour to the room. Haith glanced at Ida and Amaury, but they did not stir.
Some hours later Haith was woken by Ida moving from the bed to pull the curtains aside a little and look for fuel for the fire. The room had grown chilled. In the light from the window, they looked back at Amaury on the bed and saw he was gone.
* * *
Haith accompanied Ida to the gates at Llansteffan, wearily declined her offer to enter, and rode on the short distance to Saint Clair’s where Robert handed him a letter as his feet touched the cobbles of the bailey. ‘The messenger came from England, Father. Perhaps it’s urgent.’
‘Nothing is urgent these days except the need for a bath and a quart of beer.’
Haith divested himself of his travelling gear, washed his face and hands and caught up with the news with Robert over a beaker. The letter sat on the trestle between them. ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
Haith turned it over. There was a red wax seal, but Haith did not recognise its provenance. ‘I will. I will. Can you look to my horse, then?’
His son smiled his assent and left him. Haith slid his knife through the wax seal and unfolded the letter.
To Haith de Bruges. Greetings, Morin du Pin, Canon of St Peter’s Priory, Dunstable. We are old battle companions, and you will perhaps struggle to envisage me in a monk’s habit with a shaven pate. Yet, all is changed with me, I assure you. I am entered a holy order and am not long for this world. I beg you might receive my confession.
Haith sat up in his seat. Waleran had urged King Stephen to give a pardon to du Pin, and he had been allowed to return from exile. Haith thought of him, as he instructed, clad in a monk’s habit at Saint Peter’s in Dunstable, which Henry had established years before. Yet Haith found it hard to credit the idea that du Pin would not be wearing mail beneath that drab, brown robe and its simple rope girdle. The letter continued:
I have made confession many times to my priests, but it is not enough. I need to relieve myself of my burden and ask that it be to your eye, by way of this letter. It is up to you to decide what you do with this information, but I beg you not to harm my lord Waleran with it. It was never his conscious doing. It was all mine.
I heard from de Pirou that you sought information on The White Ship and particularly on Gisulf. I believe you learnt the clerk was an infamous blackmailer and held the bright future of my lord Waleran in his grubby hands from a youthful error on the count’s part. He should never have committed his devotion to William Clito to paper, of course, but he did and Gisulf laid his hands on that paper and made a noose with it for my young lord’s neck. I could not allow him to suffer the burden of that necklace. I commissioned the murder of Gisulf on the ship, together with Ranulf de Gernon, who was suffering the same blackmail at the clerk’s hands and would have it cease. It was the doing of those idiots de Pirou and the fat butcher that what should have been one death led to so many and one so particularly grievous to King Henry. You know all this, I understand. But you do not know that my lord Waleran had nothing to do with it. I swear it on my immortal soul and hope I will find some forgiveness in time. Perhaps, for the sake of an old battlefield comrade, you will light candles for me. Many candles, Haith.
A thousand candelabras each in a thousand cathedrals could not cleanse Morin du Pin’s soul. Haith caressed his brow with one hand, trying not to think too much about how it must feel to be responsible for the death of the king’s son and three hundred more souls besides. Haith could not have lived with that degree of guilt himself. No doubt du Pin had murdered de Pirou when Haith came close to getting the truth out of him and du Pin had commissioned the assassin who attacked Haith at Westminster.
Haith could imagine du Pin, that hoary warrior, bringing the same grim stubbornness to living with the burden of such enormous guilt as he had brought to bloody castle sieges and screaming, headlong charges into battle. And here, at last, was the proof positive that de Gernon had also had a hand in the murder and the sinking. This confession, this knowledge, was of no use now to anyone. Henry was gone and as Nest and Ida had told Haith long ago, the facts did not bring back William Adelin. Haith had given up his townhouse in London since he was no longer required at court and was growing too old for such travels. His possessions from London, including Gisulf’s chest, were stowed in the castle strongroom. Haith resolved to add this letter to the chest. When Robert returned from the stables, Haith was still staring at the folded letter. ‘From a monk,’ he said in response to Robert’s curious gaze. ‘A very bad monk.’
40
The Last Bastion
From the casement window, I watched the sun rise behind the copse at the top of the hill. Long tree shadows fingered their way down the green slope in the gold-red morning light. The ground was spongy and verdant after rain. Flowers were budding and trees were tentatively blossoming pink and white. In the hedgerows, new roses showed blood red amidst dark green foliage. Amelina ruptured my thoughts, banging through the door with a tray of delicious-smelling bread. ‘There’s a note come from FitzStephen.’ He often wrote me cheerful letters, humorously titled ‘From the last bastion’. Cardigan was not quite the last Norman bastion. Pembroke still had its Norman garrison and there were other Norman-held pockets here and there. In name, Carew, Llansteffan, and Arberth were Norman held – by my sons – but they had come to a peaceable agreement for it with my brother. I opened the note and was surprised to see it was just one line. After one first read, I read it aloud to Amelina.
Mother, will you and Amelina come to Cardigan as fast as you may? We have need of your assistance here.
‘It must be something medical, Amelina. Bring your potions and tell Maurice to instruct two men at arms to accompany us.’
‘Who do you think is hurt?’ Amelina asked as we hurried toward the stables.
‘I don’t know. Not FitzStephen, since he wrote to ask for aid.’
‘They must have wise women there they could call on,’ Amelina said.
‘I know. There is no use guessing why he asks for us.’ I screwed my eyes shut for a moment. It was not one of my sons. Please do not let it be one of my sons. I thought I knew where they all were and that they were safe. I had heard from Angharad recently from Manorbier and she was well.
I tried to take my own advice and focus on the scenery around me as we galloped toward Cardigan. It was a four-hour ride and a long time for speculation. FitzStephen and FitzMartin were waiting for us in the courtyard, and I saw from their faces there was bad news, very bad news. ‘Do not keep me in suspense, I beg you,’ I said to FitzMartin, as he handed me down from my horse. ‘What is it?’
‘Your brother.’
‘Gruffudd? What is he doing here?’ I was bewildered. They bustled us into the hall as we spoke. There were two men lying on skins on the floor near the hearth. I ran to my brother. ‘Oh, Gruffudd!’ He could not hear me. His face was white, translucent almost. I looked up at the people surrounding him and gripped the hands of my nephews Anarawd and Cadell, who were weeping. Amelina knelt and gently unwrapped Gruffudd’s coverings to find what ailed him. Bloodied bandages were wrapped around his torso and seeped red still. The life was draining from him.
I looked across at the other injured man and saw it was the bard, Breri. ‘What happened?’ I asked Cadell.
‘There was another attack on the castle,’ FitzStephen told me in a low voice, seeing his cousins were unable to speak.
‘An attack?’ I asked Anarawd. ‘I thought there was peace with the marriage of Cadwaladr and Alice de Clare.’
Anarawd shook his head. ‘My father, Owain, and Cadwaladr judged they would take back all of Ceredigion.’ He glanced at FitzMartin. ‘We were aided by Danish mercenaries, but we did not succeed.’
‘Your father was injured in the fighting?’ I asked.
‘No!’ It was Cadell who had spoken in a forceful, certain tone.
‘He’s right,’ Amelina said, her eyes on her patient. ‘This is not a battle wound. Your brother has been stabbed,’ she said to me. ‘In the back. Under cover of the battle perhaps, but he has been given this death wound through treachery.’
‘Death wound?’
She shook her head. ‘I can make him comfortable. I cannot save him. He has lost too much blood.’
‘It was this man, this bard, who stabbed him,’ Cadell told me, gesturing at Breri’s prostrate form. ‘Anarawd felled him straight after. When we saw how serious the wound was that father had received, we asked succour from our cousin and the commander of the castle here, FitzMartin. We knew we would never gain our own hall with father.’
‘I don’t doubt Cadwaladr ordered this slaying,’ Anarawd said. ‘He stands to gain. He wanted our father out of his way to take lordship fully of Ceredigion.’
‘Where is Cadwaladr now?’ I asked.
‘Long gone. To the court of the earl of Chester, probably, to de Gernon. They are confederates,’ Cadell told me.
I moved to look down on Breri. His eyes flickered open. ‘Water, lady!’ he gasped. I filled a beaker from a jug on the table and crouched to hold it to his mouth. When I made to move away, he grabbed my arm, but feebly. ‘Lady,’ he groaned. ‘Will you send a priest to me?’
I nodded and gave orders to a servant to fetch a priest. Breri’s breathing was laboured, and he looked at me with haunted eyes. ‘The priest will be too late,’ he said.
Again, I made to move away and back to my brother’s side.
‘Will you hear me?’ he groaned. ‘Lady Nest, please.’
‘Breri, you have given my brother his death wound. Why should I grace you with anything?’
‘Please. From your gentle mercy.’
‘The priest will be here soon.’
‘He will be too late. I do not have long,’ he gasped.
I sat on a bench and regarded him. His lips were turning blue, and he was evidently in great pain with every breath he took.
‘No one can forgive me for the things I have done,’ he said. ‘It was the nature of my life. To lie, to betray, to kill. And sometimes,’ he smiled through his pain, a tear trickling from one eye down his cheek and to his ear, ‘to sing.’
I said nothing.
‘One thing led to another. It started out as a lucrative jape. The occasional love letter purloined. The occasional nugget of overheard secrets. But I got in too deep and there was no way back.’
Still, there was nothing I could say to him. I looked across toward the unmoving form of my brother.
‘For a long time, I had a nice little business going with Gisulf where I was spying for Countess Adela de Blois and spotting any material that could serve two functions – answer to her need for information and provide evidence for blackmail. But then Gisulf was greedy and turned on me. He had a letter evidencing a murder I had enacted and held it over my head. It was in his chest of secrets, he said. If du Pin and de Gernon had not done the job of dispatching him on The White Ship, I would have done it myself and not botched it as they did.’
I look at him in disgust. Accidentally killing three hundred young people was a little more than a botch. He was oblivious to my response, and I suspected he could no longer see my face. His gaze was directed at nothing in particular, or perhaps he only saw his own sordid history in his mind’s eye. His voice came in gasps and reluctantly I leant closer to hear.
