CHAPTER TWO

 

Count and King 1096

 

 

‘The last time we were all together was at Mont St. Michel,’ Curthose said. ‘It’s been only two at a time since then.’

‘Even then we were quarrelling, two versus one,’ said Henry dryly. ‘I can’t remember when we were last all in one place, in peace.’

The Council of Rouen, convened to arrange the government of Normandy while its duke was on crusade, was over for the day. In the airy upper hall of the castle, the trio were private together. All three had changed since they were last in each other’s company like this, and knew it.

Curthose, the host, was no less exotic but much less indolent. He had taken the Cross and knew himself to be on the eve of holy adventure. It had given him a channel where the fantasy of his nature could flow, conferring on him a new gravity and purpose.

Henry, a man of status now in England and nursing greater if as yet unspoken hopes, appeared to have grown bigger, as though he filled his excellent clothes more thoroughly. There was however something watchful about him; he stood apart from the others as though he did not quite trust them. Even through the euphoria of imminent departure, Curthose had particularly noticed that his youngest brother’s eyes, when they rested on Rufus, had a curiously considering and wary expression.

Rufus was still fresh from quelling his barons’ revolt. He had made examples of the worst perpetrators, not many of them, but terrible ones, awaking memories of his father’s savage vengeances. He had neither rejoiced in the business, nor shrunk from it. He was intensified, the barrel-shaped body more solid, the bright pale eyes truculent enough now to pin a man to the wall or flatten argument with a glance, like a bootsole on an ant.

The graceful hall was the quiet centre of a maelstrom. The castle seethed, full of squires and pages packing their masters’ goods, sewing maids stitching applique crosses to mantles, and lordly entourages wrangling over precedence. Hooves clattered in the courtyard where the horses for the expedition were being inspected. The harsh voice of a marshal could be heard criticising someone’s grooming. The sun, just losing power as September got under way, glowed on the rose and azure of the carpet-hung walls. Curthose, at ease on a couch, said, picking the idea out of the air: ‘Have you thought that we may never be all together again? If I don’t die on a paynim sword, I could die of a paynim disease. Our grandfather died that way on a pilgrimage. This journey of mine is a solemn undertaking.’

‘Our grandfather,’ remarked Henry, ‘shod his pack mules with gold when he entered Byzantium and had the nails made short so that the shoes would be lost. It was his way of distributing largesse to the population. Are you going to do that, Curthose? That would be a gesture to remember you by!’

‘He couldn’t afford it. Ten thousand silver marks won’t finance a campaign the size of his and golden horseshoes too,’ said Rufus. Like Henry, he was on his feet. He prowled to the window. ‘And ten thousand is my limit,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘Not one silver penny more. Couldn’t get it out of my tightpurse subjects if I wanted to.’

‘All right, you’ve hammered me down by two thousand marks already,’ said Curthose calmly. ‘What a fine living you could make as a pawnbroker! Ten thousand silver marks for a whole duchy! Still, it’ll be that much cheaper to redeem if I do come back. Will you be praying for my safety, Rufus? In your place, I’d have very mixed feelings about me.’

‘Rufus doesn’t go in for prayer,’ Henry said.

‘I don’t believe it works.’ Rufus turned his back to the window and considered Curthose with interest. ‘Do you believe it works, Curthose? Is there a God and does He listen? Are you really going to Palestine to save the Holy Sepulchre and buy us all out of bad summers and rotten harvests? Or just for the thrill of it?’

Curthose smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s an adventure, but it’s a good one. It might achieve something miraculous, I think. Look, if there’s nothing but the here and now, no other world than this, then this world makes no sense. It’s too full of queer echoes.’

‘Echoes?’ asked Henry.

‘Yes, things that seem to mean more than they do on the surface.’ He waved a slender brown hand, impatient at the limitations of words. ‘Like music, or comradeship. What it feels like to swear an oath of fealty and keep it even though you risk your life for it. What it feels like when they come and tell you you’re a father.’ A new uproar broke out below, with stamping and whinnying, the barking of a dog and a chorus of indignant shouts. ‘Talking of being a father,’ said Curthose, coming back to earth, ‘that’s my son’s voice, isn’t it?’ He joined Rufus at the window.

Below, horses reared and danced while grooms clung to their heads and swore. A tiny brown thing, a rat, was zig-zagging across the flagstones with a dog and a boy in pursuit. Curthose pushed his head out of the window, which was just wide enough to let it through. ‘Richie, get out of the courtyard and take that dog with you!’ He withdrew his head. ‘I gave him a pup as a parting gift,’ he said. ‘He likes to hunt. Rats will do when deer aren’t available. You ought to get on with Richie, Rufus. Look after him for me while I’m gone.’ He paused and then added: ‘There’s something I must mention. Our father was born out of wedlock and still inherited Normandy. But times have changed. The bishops wouldn’t have it now. Richie is not and never will be my heir. Biota was never more than my concubine. I want to make this clear for Richie’s sake. I’m leaving him in your hands. You’re my heir, Rufus, and I’m yours. We’ve signed the agreement and I meant it, just as you did.’

‘He’ll be all right with me,’ said Rufus easily. ‘I’ll look after him. Get some practice. You may not be my heir for ever, Curthose. I may have a son of my own, one day.’

He tossed it out as casually as though he were saying it might rain tomorrow. ‘What did you say?’ said Curthose disbelievingly.

‘I’m considering marriage,’ said Rufus. With an elbow propped on a window ledge, he enjoyed their shocked faces. ‘I’ve even sent Walter Tirel home.’

‘Who are you going to marry?’ demanded Curthose. ‘Probably Edith of Scotland.’

Henry opened his mouth but checked himself before he spoke. Then he said: ‘I thought that had all fallen through,’ in a neutral voice.

‘Anselm talks sense now and then,’ said Rufus. ‘He warned me I had a rebellion coming and he was right. Took me all last summer to deal with it. He says I need a son. Perhaps he’s right there too.’ The naughty royal grin appeared. ‘But he doesn’t recommend Edith, not now. She’s had a square of black woollen cloth on her head at some time or other and to Anselm, that puts her out of reach. But she’s taken no vows. I checked with the bishop of the diocese, and Henry here’s seen her still wearing her hair long. So I sent orders that she wasn’t to take any vows without my consent and when I get back to England, I’ll visit her. I’ll enjoy taking Anselm’s advice in one way and f… flouting it in another, both at once…’

Oh, my God, I knew it! Inside Henry’s skull, trapped words tumbled and whirled. I knew it! I was afraid of this when, before I could ask you, you casually told me you’d taken steps to keep Edith from becoming a nun. I was right! Oh, God! Oh, Edith!

They had been planning their journey to Normandy. He had known that nothing would happen until after Rufus had his hands on the duchy. If Rufus had intended otherwise, he would have said so then and there. So there had been time in hand. Best, Henry had thought, to wait. With a little luck, Normandy would distract his brother, drive Edith out of his head. He’d had this idea before and changed his mind, so it was said. But now…

Edith! She had come into that room like a vision, like an annunciation of his destiny. And he had thought she would be safe there, while he picked his moment to speak to Rufus. Safe! Where a pervert like Rufus could stretch out his hand and pick her up. Oh dear God, Rufus, haven’t you done enough? Made me your man without an inch of land to call my own. Made Curthose your heir for England instead of me, who was born there, the son of its king. Now you want to take Edith from me. What am I to do? What can I do…?

‘She’ll make an admirable queen,’ said Rufus. ‘Don’t suppose I’ll be a very admirable husband but she’ll cope with me.’

Doubtless she will, my dear, sodomite brother. Edith is magnificent. She’s the daughter of tough, earthy old Malcolm and Margaret the saint. She’s valiant and honest. If she’s forced to it, she’ll cope with you. She’ll hold up her head, keep her eyes averted from me whom she loves, saturate the astonished court with good works and give you an heir if it kills her, or you. She’ll learn what to do to make you give her a baby and she’ll do it no matter how revolting. Why should she have to? Yes, she’s fit to be a queen. My queen. I’d make a better king one day than Curthose. Oh may you die tomorrow of one of the plagues that keep sweeping the world. Why didn’t you die years ago, at Gloucester?

He was so angry that in another moment he would have burst out with every unforgivable word, had not God or Providence not blessedly intervened. God or Providence in fact hedged its bets, providing two interruptions in rapid succession. The first was another uproar below, this time the trumpets of a lordly visitor arriving. Curthose stuck his head out of the window again and said: ‘Good God, that’s the banner of Maine. I think it’s Helias in person! What’s he doing here?’

He was then cut short by the second interruption, as a gawky, tan-coated, half-grown hound with enormous feet came pell mell up the stairs into the room. He had one ear turned inside out and carried a rat in his mouth. A boy bounded up the stairs after him. The dog ran to Curthose and dropped the rat at his feet. It was dead. The boy skidded to a halt behind the dog and panted: ‘I’m sorry, Father, he still thinks he’s your dog when he gets excited. He only wants you to see how clever he is.’

The boy was about twelve, wiry and healthy and the image, in reduced size, of his uncle Rufus: pale red hair, sturdy build and all. He was apologetic but not abject. He was proud of his dog.

‘He can’t bring rats in here,’ said Curthose. ‘If the sewing women see it we’ll have screaming females all over the place.’ The dog wagged an ingratiating tail. ‘You stupid animal,’ said Curthose, but the words were a caress and his hands were gentle as they took the animal’s head between them. ‘You’ve got to control him better, Richie. He was out of hand down there in the courtyard and…’

A new set of feet rang on the stairs. An usher appeared. ‘My lords! Count Helias of Maine!’ A dark, athletic man strode in, with a tall white wolfhound at his side. Its claws clicked on the gleaming floor. Richie’s young dog saw it, twisted out of Curthose’s grasp, bristled, snarled and sprang. The wolfhound met it halfway. The centre of the hall became a whirligig of white and tan, yelps, growls and glistening bared teeth and then, in an instant, of scarlet blood.

‘Stagbane!’ yelled Richie in panic, trying to grab his pet and failing.

‘Leloup!’ roared Count Helias with a baritone resonance which made the room vibrate, and attempted with a similar lack of success to collar his. Richie sprang back with a shout, shaking a bitten hand. ‘Throw water over them!’ advised Henry at the top of his voice.

‘There isn’t any damned water!’ bellowed Helias, and then, inventively, snatched up a wine jug from the refreshment tray and hurled the contents of that over the dogs instead. They leapt apart, sneezing and shaking themselves, streaked with dark fluid. Their respective owners pounced.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’ gabbled Richie. It was his hound which had been wounded. Boy and dog bled in unison as Richie sat on the floor with his arms round Stagbane. The white wolfhound showed signs of wishing to continue the combat but Helias’ sinewy fingers wound into its collar prevented it.

‘I’m the one who should apologise. I should have had Leloup on a leash, in a strange place. He’d give his life for me but he obeys me only when it suits him. One wrong look from another dog and he’s away, and if he sees a hare, or a gamebird…! He burst into the middle of a cockfight once and ran off with the cock that was winning and ate it. I had to grovel to the owner and pay compensation to him and the men who’d lost their bets.’

He did not look like a man in the habit of grovelling. His voice rang with self-assurance. If Helias of Maine paid anyone compensation for anything, it was because he thought it was due, and he would be the one to decide it was due, no one else. The whole room knew it.

‘Richie!’ snapped Curthose. ‘Get out! We don’t want you bleeding all over the floor!’ Richie scrambled up, picked up his pet and bore him away, tawny legs dangling from the boy’s arms. Helias brushed a dog hair or two off his violet cloak. For the first time they noticed the white cross stitched to it. When Helias drew the mantle round him, the cross would rest on his breast.

‘My lord of Maine,’ said Curthose formally, ‘I am Duke Robert of Normandy and I can only apologise for your reception.’

Helias had a broad smile full of good humour and good teeth. ‘No need. Dogs will fight. When I said the fault was partly mine, I meant it. May I know your companions?’

‘Of course.’ The occasion returned to conventional lines. ‘My brother, William of England…’

‘I am delighted to meet you at last, my lord.’

‘…our younger brother, Count Henry…’

Henry, exchanging greetings, noticed that Rufus was standing very still, and glanced sideways at him. Rufus was standing not just still, but rigid, blanched, as if a thunderbolt had struck him. His eyes were fixed on the Count of Maine as though he had lost the power to with-draw them and the pupils of his eyes had expanded so that they seemed pale no longer, but dark as midnight as he looked at the man whom he had last seen blithely mounting a horse beside Fulk of Anjou, in the courtyard of St. Gervais Abbey near Rouen, while from his father’s death chamber, Rufus watched.