The Young Lion (40 page)

‘Off you go to bathe,’ he said. While Aelbad was gone he turned over in his mind an appropriate reward. Despite his age, the youth’s knowledge of figures suited him to be chancellor. Unless, of course, he wanted the Church. But Eustace left off these thoughts to worry about his lack of proof that the Pretender was dead.

A handsome boy clad in cream linen, his hair bobbed to the tips of his earlobes, returned to the tent.

‘I want a detailed description of how the execution was managed,’ Eustace said. ‘My father will not be satisfied with
anything less.’ Nor my uncle and the Archbishop of Canterbury, he thought.

Years earlier Aelbad had understood that the most convincing lies were those that told the whole truth, but for one fact. He obliged his liege with an account that took almost an hour, while the Prince took notes in his own hand. ‘That Earl!’ he muttered. ‘I’ll destroy Coventry. Not just his castle and manor. The town and the monastery as well. Ranulf supports the Benedictines.’

Aelbad included every detail, including how he got hold of a Cupid’s Arrow, thanks to the visit of foreign ladies.

‘Who were the ladies?’ Eustace demanded.

‘From southern lands. Their skin was dark.’

Aelbad wished he had glossed over them. He had heard from Ranulf’s servants that relations of the Anjevins had come to visit, but he had no idea that one would be in the Duke’s bed. Did I murder the Harlot Queen of France? he wondered. He did not mind if he had, but the possibility made him more anxious to finish this interview with the Prince and make his escape. His liege, however, was fixated on the women. Who were they? Why were they there? Were they Lombardis? Did certain nobles from Lombardy support the rebels?

Aelbad shook his head, helpless for an explanation. ‘My lord, I ask for no house, no land, no sheep. Only for what little reward you think befits me,’ he concluded. ‘To serve you better, I want to further my studies at a college in Oxford.’ He crossed himself. ‘I defended the realm!’

The normal curl of cynicism left Eustace’s lips. ‘You touch my heart,’ he said. ‘I’ve a reward in store for you after I ascend the throne. Meanwhile, here is a sign of my gratitude.’ He handed the youth a bag of gold, enough for a stone house, a flock of fifty sheep, land on which to graze them, horses and household servants.

For a second time that day Aelbad fell to his knees. ‘May I have your permission to leave, sire?’

Eustace ruffled his hair. ‘Of course. Study, then return to me.’

The boy had observed much while he travelled the countryside looking for his liege. Only a fool could imagine you’ll succeed against the rebels, he thought. He had no intention of studying at the new college at Oxford, but he needed to find a safe hiding place against the day when his Prince discovered he had lied. Leaving Eustace’s camp, he decided to present himself as a penitent at St Edmund’s Abbey, only a few leagues distant. Aelbad’s father, in one of his many attempts to atone for his vices, had done penance there himself.

The group which had travelled from Barfleur took a coach of twelve horses in Southampton and reached Coventry in less than two days. Guillaume sent post-riders ahead with a note to Isabella:

His mother gave a quiet snort and passed the note to the Countess whose blue eyes became as round as the bowls of spoons. ‘The former queen of France! Here?’

Isabella nodded.

‘Ranulf says she’s a Visigoth. And fabulously beautiful. Is she?’

‘My husband thought so,’ Isabella replied.

The Countess gasped and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I had heard … something.’

Isabella shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. Everyone knew towards the end. But I don’t especially want to meet her.’

The Countess chose her most sensible English- and French-speaking maid to accompany Isabella downriver and back to Normandy. They left only an hour before Guillaume and his precious cargo arrived. The Countess looked puzzled as he handed each woman down from the coach. ‘Who’s the fat nun?’ she asked in English.

The fat nun suddenly turned her head. Beneath her duncoloured headscarf came a ray from a pair of eyes as penetrating as a tigress’s.

‘I am Eleanor, Lord of Aquitaine,’ she said. ‘And you are?’

What perfect teeth, was all the Countess could think. She took the regally proffered hand of her guest. She was meant, she realised, to kiss it.

Eleanor introduced her maid and said she would like to bathe and dress properly before she met her husband. ‘Where is he at the moment?’

‘In the stables, my lady.’ Ranulf’s wife did not have the courage to mention that for the past five days Henry had taken to sleeping with a mare, using her wither as his pillow.

‘Excellent. Dear Countess, see that he stays there until I and little Geoffrey are ready,’ Eleanor said. She graced her hostess with another radiant smile and was off, following the servants who carried her luggage.

She reappeared after dinner, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, dressed in a gown of dark, flaming orange, offset by a purple sleeveless robe and amethysts around her neck. The Countess guessed she was six months pregnant. She led by the hand a beautiful little boy whose head was a mass of black curls.
‘Papa,’ she coached him. ‘Say “Papa”.’ The child dutifully repeated the word, but suddenly broke free and rushed towards a dirty, dishevelled man who had ambled indoors.

‘Papa!’ he cried. ‘Papa!’

Henry stopped, agape. ‘Geoffrey?’ he whispered. ‘My boy? My Geoffrey?’

The child ran to him, arms uplifted for his father to hoist him to his chest. Henry snatched him up, panting like an animal that has just escaped death. He buried his face against the child’s neck. ‘Horsey!’ Geoffrey commanded. Henry put him down, dropped to all fours, and Eleanor, whom Henry had not yet noticed, lifted him onto his father’s back. Geoffrey sank his fingers into the copper mane as Henry cantered back and forth for him on the flagstones of the corridor. After a few minutes Henry stretched flat on his stomach for the child to alight, then rolled over to grab him, sitting him on his chest and bouncing him up and down, both of them laughing until tears ran from their eyes. Quite suddenly the son lay his head on Henry’s chest, and was asleep. Henry continued lying on the stone floor, gazing at the ceiling in a wonderment of joy.

Eleanor realised she had been holding her breath. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured to the Countess. ‘Guillaume told me he had gone mad. But I had no idea …’

She approached him tentatively, as an animal leaves the cover of trees to approach something unfamiliar, possibly dangerous. When she was close she knelt beside him. He turned, looked at her and blinked. ‘Eleanor?’ he asked. ‘My beautiful Duchess?’ She stroked his forehead with her small, cool hand. He lifted it to his chapped lips. With his arms holding the sleeping child to his chest, he sat up so their eyes were level. She was astonished by the change in him. He was still as gorgeous as a rainbow, but it was a rainbow that hung in a different sky, against a background of
bruise-coloured clouds. There was a deep sadness in his gaze she had seen only in older men – in the Rumlar, in Louis often. Once or twice in Geoffrey.

‘You have suffered great misfortune,’ she said gently.

He nodded and handed his son to a nurse. ‘Rachel saved my life. She ran in front of the stiletto, so it struck her instead of me. She had a baby inside her. I’ll show you their grave.’ He took her hand and ambled outside to the flowering tree that in spring sunshine glistened like a graceful mound of snow. It had dropped an inch of white petals across the grave. ‘The tree is crying,’ Henry said.

Eleanor held both his hands tightly. She in her gorgeous robe and he in his filthy clothes knelt on the bare ground. Eleanor began to sob. ‘I loved her, Henry. I loved her more than my own blood sister.’

Henry sighed, but was dry-eyed. His grief was like the peak of a mountain range that he had climbed and was now descending. ‘Rachel’s death has changed everything between you and me,’ he said gently. ‘Now I have no one else to love but you. And little Geoffrey, and …’ He paused, his eye on her belly. ‘Eleanor. Oh, I am blessed. We are blessed.’ He tangled his fingers into her hair. ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘What?’

‘I’d forgotten there is life. And love. And that you are the most beautiful woman on earth.’

The household had gathered at a discreet distance. None of them, until now, had heard how Rachel had died. Eleanor glanced up at the assembled people. ‘Douglas!’ she exclaimed. He stepped forward.

‘Is Douglas here?’ Henry asked, looking around, astonished. ‘You Highland swine!’ he said. ‘I’ve been sick. Why didn’t you come to see me before now?’

‘We’ll celebrate your good health with a drink,’ Douglas said.

Henry took a long swig from the flask Douglas proffered, wincing and clutching his throat. ‘Hemlock emulsified with rotten fish tastes better.’ He grinned at the people who stood staring at him.

Ranulf stepped forward and enfolded Henry in an embrace. Tears streamed down his handsome, aristocratic face. ‘Dear boy!’ he said. ‘Dear boy! We’d despaired of you.’

‘I went to another world. Other worlds,’ Henry said. ‘But now …’ His eye glinted. ‘I need to spend an hour or so with my wife, if she will permit me. And then, Ranulf dear friend, and you Douglas, and my good-for-nothing brother – where are you Guillaume? – oh, you’ve decided to show up, have you? Well, perhaps we’ll leave it until tomorrow. But then, I think, we have a war to fight, do we not?’ His expression was business-like. ‘How’s Wallingford holding?’

‘By a hair. We must relieve it,’ Ranulf answered.

‘We will,’ Henry said. ‘We leave for Wallingford at dawn.’

A little before dawn he said, ‘For five nights I slept with a mare in foal. She was amiable and talked to me constantly. But, God’s teeth, she was an uncomfortable pillow.’ His head lay on Eleanor’s thighs, turned so as to look at the pale mound of her belly. ‘As soon as you’ve rested a day or so, you’re to return to Le Mans. I’ll win this war. But if Eustace discovers you’re here he’ll try to seize you for ransom. Even murder you. Do you agree you should leave?’

‘Absolutely.’

He snuffled over her belly. ‘You love me a little, don’t you, cousin?’

‘Yes. I didn’t want to.’

‘I didn’t want to love you, either. But you’ve melted my heart. You know it’s made of iron? You’ve melted and mended it.’ He grinned.

Outside a cock crowed. ‘Henry, you’re due to ride to battle in about twenty minutes. And you haven’t slept all night.’

‘I’ll be all the more dangerous. One last kiss … then death to the Swine Prince!’

‘Where’s the body?’ the Bishop of Winchester inquired.

‘They’ve hidden it,’ Eustace said.

The prelate rested across his knees the fan with which he had been cooling his face. He raised an eyebrow and turned to look to his senior, Theobold, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Theobold remained silent. He was as familiar with the tantrums of the Prince as were the other men present – Winchester and the King – but he found them more trying. Their meeting that morning in Oxford Castle was already acrimonious; Canterbury had no wish to add fuel to a fire. He was equally determined to resist the demands of Stephen and his son that he crown Eustace the Young King. He continued the rhythmical fingering of a rosary.

Winchester spoke up again. ‘The bodies of royal dukes are not hidden, Your Highness. They are buried in marble sarcophagi, in abbeys and cathedrals, according to the rites of Mother Church.’

Eustace glared at him. ‘I tell you, he’s dead.’

‘We need evidence,’ Winchester replied.

‘There’s a rebellion against us! Of course the rebels won’t admit the Pretender’s dead, because to do so means their cause collapses.’

‘Your Highness, may I suggest an hiatus of logic exists in your argument? If the Pretender is dead, why do the rebels continue to fight?’

‘They don’t know! Don’t you see? They don’t know yet!’ Eustace almost screamed with frustration at the ancient, stubborn, block-headed churchmen.

Canterbury blinked. ‘I’d have thought they’d be the first to know,’ he muttered. ‘Especially as you assert the Duke died of fever in the manor of Earl Ranulf at Coventry.’

‘A physician must have attended him before he passed into eternal life. Perhaps you could produce the man for us to question.’ Winchester glanced at the King. ‘Does that meet with your approval, sire?’

The monarch nodded gloomily. Since his wife had died fifteen months earlier he had faltered and it was only this rebellion, begun in January, that had kindled the fighting spirit of kingship in him. He too had felt uneasy when his son came galloping from the east, where the war was going well, to announce that a spy in Coventry reported the Anjevin was dead and therefore the Archbishop could no longer resist their demand that he be crowned Young King. Stephen would have preferred Eustace to stay close to Wallingford, rallying their forces in the counter-castles of Brightwell, South Moreton and Cholsey. Wallingford was impregnable, but a death trap for those inside it. Already the rebel earl, Roger of Hereford, caught inside almost accidentally, had negotiated to be allowed to leave with his men, ‘lest we all starve’.

Those inside Wallingford were too weakened by lack of food to bury the dead. At high tide they heaved corpses over the castle walls into the Thames, which bobbed them along to the sea.

The King worried a different story was true from the one his son related: that the Anjevin was in Flanders, buying up mercenaries for an attack on London. ‘He’s so unpredictable,’ he fretted.

Winchester gave a tiny smile. ‘Yes, when one’s aim is to seize a throne, dying is a most unpredictable thing to do.’

‘I myself would not recommend it,’ Canterbury observed.

Eustace turned and walked out.

Winchester resumed the enjoyment of cool draughts of air from his fan.

After a few minutes of difficult silence Canterbury said, ‘Lord King, I can tell you this: the Anjevin is not dead. Nor is he in Flanders, as people say. He is alive and well, and preparing to attack South Moreton castle. In fact, I think the attack began yesterday.’

Stephen shouted, ‘How do you know this?’

‘My Archdeacon sent me messages by pigeon.’

‘He should be in Canterbury!’

‘Indeed, but he was in London and observed the Duke of Normandy and a body of knights leading infantrymen towards South Moreton.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Stephen said.

Canterbury shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ He crossed himself. There was another silence in the chamber, except for the buzz of summer flies.

‘How did your Archdeacon happen to see the rebels?’ the King asked. He loathed the Archdeacon, who had been the partisan of Matilda when he was a mere boy. Now he was the partisan of her son.

‘He happened to be visiting the White Tower. From its roof he could see the army and the red and gold standards of the Duke.’

Stephen glared. ‘I suppose he was visiting whoever it was who released you and him for a payment in gold?’

Canterbury gave his King a beatific smile. ‘I expect so.’

‘
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes
?’ Winchester noted, with a shake of his head. ‘Always a problem.’

‘We may as well eat breakfast,’ Stephen announced.

They had just finished the morning meal when the Prince burst like summer lightning into the dining chamber. ‘He lives!’ he
shouted at the three older men. ‘He’s destroyed South Moreton. Brighton and Cholsey will fall today!’

‘Crowmarsh Gifford?’ the King asked.

‘Gone!’

‘Then he’ll be able to relieve Wallingford by sunset. He’s in control of the valley of the Thames.’

‘Father, there’s more to England than the valley of the Thames. There’s the countryside!’

With barely a nod to his brother and Canterbury, father and son strode from Oxford Castle.

‘They’ll destroy the country to win the war,’ Winchester remarked.

‘Will they ravage lands that belong to Mother Church, do you think?’

‘My dear, they put you in irons when you resisted their will,’ Winchester replied. ‘Why do you bother to ask?’

Canterbury nodded. ‘Hope is foolish when applied to desperate men.’

‘Especially one such as our Prince.’ Winchester paused, wondering if he should divulge to Theobold news that had come to him from St Edmund’s Abbey. It concerned a young penitent who pleaded to be shriven of heinous sins. What was odd, and the reason the Abbot had related the matter to the Bishop, was that the youth had donated a bag of gold coins, each bearing the head of Prince Eustace. When asked if its theft were among his sins, the penitent had vehemently asserted the Prince had given him the gold ‘for services rendered’. They apparently included murder.

Having turned it over in his mind, Winchester decided to keep the matter to himself. He had advised the Abbot not to touch one sou of the money, but to store it safely and entire. Depending on the outcome of the rebellion, it could prove useful for the Prince to know that Mother Church was aware of why he had paid it.
The Bishop was confident that the penitent would supply this information before his penance was complete.

He had told the Abbot to order an initial regime of prayer of not less than six hours per day, eight hours of whatever work seemed suitable, plus the normal duties to pray throughout the hours of light and darkness. ‘Since it appears his soul is deeply corrupted, he should have no contact with the younger monks and be permitted only a few minutes daily to address you, Father, concerning his repentance.’

As soon as he had entered the Abbey of St Edmund, Aelbad realised he had made a terrifying decision. Waves of remorse ran through him like savage internal cramps. When he entered his cell to sleep that night, ‘the Dark Lady’ as he called her, stood at the end of his bed, regarding him with huge, lustrous eyes. The light that poured from them was so bright he feared it would shine beneath his door, and monks would come bursting in and see her ripe, naked body and the stiletto between her ribs.

When she was there again the next night he arose and entered the abbey’s chapel to the Madonna. The Dark Lady smiled at him from the wall above its altar. As he knelt in prayer, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. ‘I forgive you,’ she said. Her voice was gentle and foreign. Aelbad felt his body begin to shake, then shake faster, until every bone, every tooth in his head, his hair, the skin on his face, rattled convulsively, flinging him like a rag in a gale. Water poured from his eyes and the muscles of his face contracted in uncontrollable, painful spasms. He supposed this was what weeping was. The tears would not stop, nor the shaking.

Hours later some brothers found him prostrate before the altar of the Virgin.

The next day he confessed to the Abbot that he had murdered many people, most recently a woman with child. The holy man heard his confession as if he were not listening to the words but was, rather, watching Aelbad form them. The youth asked to change his name to James. He wanted, he said, to donate gold to the abbey. The Abbot accepted the bag of gold, and said simply, ‘You are now James. Continue to pray.’

James worked in the kitchen, preparing the two small meals the monks took each day: one before dawn, of bread and whey; the other at three o’clock in the afternoon. The afternoon meal was usually a thick soup, bread and light ale. On feast days there was river fish or chicken, and next Easter they would celebrate the Resurrection with a meal of roast lamb. From conversations in the kitchen, it seemed to James the monks looked forward to eating lamb as much as to the Resurrection – but he reasoned that was to be expected, for the Resurrection was in the past, but the roast lamb was yet to appear. Fruit was allowed throughout the year. The brothers were under orders to eat it in mindfulness of the food God had given Adam and his wife when they lived in the Garden of Eden.

James was allowed into the orchard to pick fruit and the many varieties of berries the abbey produced. For the daily soups he sought out mushrooms that even in summer could be found sometimes in St Edmund’s forest. It was on one of these expeditions that he came across what, from a distance, he thought was a clutch of white eggs, abandoned without a nest, at the humid foot of an oak. As he drew closer, he recognised them. He often addressed the Dark Lady. ‘What should I do?’ he asked. ‘Pick them,’ she replied. He wrapped each one in leaves and placed them in a basket separate from the fruit. In the kitchen he washed his hands before he touched the fruit he had gathered, and washed them again after he had stored the mushrooms in a bag hidden
near the latrines. In the chapel that night he asked her why she had told him to pick the mushrooms, but she declined to answer. He remained on his knees with the feeling of her eyes glowing on his heart. Sometimes he lifted his robe away from his chest and peered down towards his small pink nipples to check if an imprint of her eyes was on his skin.

Since he had entered the abbey the outside world had receded like a faint memory of a distant country. No one spoke of rebellions, kings and wars of succession. The monks spoke little among themselves and no one spoke to him at all. The sounds he heard were of birds singing, sheep bleating, bells ringing the times for prayer and the chanting of plainsong. He was in the orchard one hot morning when he smelled smoke and heard the sound of many horses galloping and men shouting. He turned and ran indoors.

‘Alarm! Alarm!’ he cried. ‘We are attacked!’

Monks came running. ‘The boy is possessed,’ they said.

‘Escape!’ James yelled. ‘Run for your lives!’

They tried to grab him, but he was too nimble and fleet. The Dark Lady whispered urgently, ‘Gather the mushrooms and flee.’

He ran to the forest where he climbed a tree. From its branches he watched the Prince and his knights galloping to the abbey. A horde of screaming infantrymen followed, flaming torches in their hands. The Prince rode straight through the abbey doors, knights following, their horses’ hooves ricocheting like thunder on the stone floor. They’re stealing golden vessels from the altar and the treasure room, he realised. The mounted men rode outdoors again and he heard Eustace shout, ‘Lock them in!’ He saw torches flung through windows. Soldiers scrambled to the roof and set it on fire. The screams of the monks locked inside were audible over the roaring sea of flames. James suddenly remembered the lazars locked in a pit, and horror shot into his
throat like a clot of blood. He would have fallen from the tree but the Lady steadied him.

That night he secretly followed the army on foot to their bivouac not far from the blackened ruin of the abbey. Wisps of acrid smoke trailed towards the star-brilliant summer sky. He paid close attention to where the Prince’s tent was pitched, where food was prepared and who served it. Just before midnight on the sixteenth of August, Prince Eustace awoke in a sweat and clutched at his intestines. A physician came immediately, but left the Prince’s tent shaking his head.

‘God strikes His vengeance on me,’ Eustace moaned. The stench that came from him was unendurable.

He died a few hours after dawn.

When news of his son’s death reached the King, Stephen fell to his knees and struck his forehead on the ground. Henry, Ranulf, Guillaume, the Highlanders and all those who had withstood the siege of Wallingford, celebrated with song, drink, feasting and other pleasures. Henry walked among his supporters, sharing toasts with them. ‘We’ve won!’ and ‘The war is over!’ many shouted. The Archdeacon of Canterbury, who joined the celebration, managed to work his way through the excited sweating throng of men until he stood beside their champion.

‘Lord Duke,’ he cautioned, ‘let’s not forget Stephen has another son, young William.’

Henry nodded thanks. He leaped onto a table and strode up and down, brandishing his sword aloft until the hall fell silent. ‘Men, warriors, heroes!’ he shouted. ‘You have endured great hardship with even greater courage. May each one of you be ashamed to die before we win the final victory. Live! Live all of you until Stephen accepts me as heir to this realm. We’ll build on its ashes a nation of prosperity and of joy!’

Next day a letter came from the Bishop of Winchester:

Henry asked Ranulf his opinion. ‘We have no option. Meanwhile, I hear Prince William has been called to his father’s side. Stephen’s not beaten yet.’

Henry fell silent. He was thinking that Louis was a younger son, not groomed for the throne, and neither was the Lion. It was the untimely deaths of elder brothers that had awarded them their crowns.