August 1100
‘... we’re almost done. A few lesser matters to deal with, that’s all,’ said King Henry to the clerk who was his secretary. The August evening was dimming but the new king, as his staff had found, was a glutton for work. ‘I want an amnesty drawn up for some prisoners at present held in this city of Winchester. We’re prepared to release them as a goodwill gesture, to celebrate our recent coronation. It is a unique gesture, naturally. The Forest Law will be pursued in all its rigour in the future. Draw up a proclamation about that, if you please.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the secretary, who had been taking notes for hours and was getting tired.
‘One of the men who will be released comes from a place in the New Forest called Chenna’s Tun. He will no doubt go back there. He can act as guide to a courier we wish to send there. Take another note. The courier is to go to Sir Ralph des Aix, tenant of Chenna’s Tun in Hampshire, taking the first instalment of an annual payment of fifteen pounds in silver. Draw up a document making that official and put it for services rendered as the reason. We don’t propose to state the reason in the document.’ Henry raised his eyes to the clerk and there appeared on his face a fleeting, naughty grin which reminded the secretary strongly and startlingly of the king’s dead brother King William Rufus, who had died before his time, no doubt by the hand of God as retribution for his godless life, and been brought back to Winchester in such un-kingly fashion, on a donkey cart belonging to a charcoal-burner named Purkiss. ‘It would be tactless to put any details,’ said Henry blandly. ‘Sir Ralph has a son. Only he’s my son, if you follow. I can’t allow a child of mine to be reared in poverty and the family is poor. Add to the document an undertaking that if Sir Ralph dies – he has a recurrent chest complaint – we shall provide for the child and find a good marriage for the widow.’
The clerk scratched busily with his quill. Henry looked at the unexpressive tonsure thus presented to him and said: ‘I propose soon to present the court with a most royal and lovely lady as my queen and in due course I hope to have a lawful prince to follow me. But one must pay one’s debts.’
Certainly a man like Henry of England must. The two personalities within him, the Henry whom Edith loved and who had pitied Sybil, and the other, the relentless Henry who had thrust Conan and Rufus alike into oblivion, both acknowledged it. Their debts were very heavy and they would in time, no doubt, incur still more.
Henry had seized power, leaving his brother’s body to others while he himself galloped to Winchester to wrest the keys of treasury from its staggered custodians, send out his prudently drafted letters and get himself to London and crowned within four days. He had ruthlessly overturned Rufus’ will, snatching the crown from tardy Curthose. And soon he would have Edith.
To Edith he would give a position that would last all her life, and happiness, which would last for a while – until his roving nature took control of him again and Edith, living as a queen must amid a crowd of watching eyes, would keep a calm face all day and grieve at night, alone in her ornately-hung bed, wondering with whom he slept instead. He loved her and at the thought of her, his body stirred, but he knew himself.
‘We’ve shocked you,’ he said suddenly to the clerk. ‘You think all this immoral?’
‘My lord!’ The clerk did not know how to answer. He took a deep breath. ‘My lord, we all welcome your accession. Er .…immoral is the word one might use of…of your predecessor’s way of life.’
‘King Rufus?’
‘ Yes. My lord, ’ said the secretary nervously.
Rufus, before his death, had dreamed of his own blood, spouting to darken the sky. Then Serlo’s monk had come. And at the last moment, in the forest, Henry had heard his brother say to Ralph: That’s a bad way to die, with a bolt through the guts.’
Had Rufus guessed? Or even known?
Had he walked, knowing, ahead of Ralph into the wood, because he was too gallant to withdraw because of dreams or suspicions? Had he stood there, beneath that oak, knowing that death was coming for him?
‘My brother,’ said Henry coldly, ‘was as knightly, as royal, as a man can be and far braver than most. I am aware of the Church’s opinion of him. But in my presence, never speak of him like that again. He died a king and if I can do as much, I shall be thankful.’