Текст книги "The Lion of Justice"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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The Lion of Justice
Jean Plaidy
Copyright © 1975 by Jean Plaidy
Published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons
ISBN: 0399123555
CONTENTS
The Scottish Orphans
Rufus
A Suitor at the Abbey
The Vices of the King’s Court
Love Comes to Wilton Abbey
Brothers in Conflict
The Forest Tragedy
A Royal Wedding
Escape from the White Tower
The Chivalry of the Duke
The Abduction
Triumph in Normandy
Weddings in the Family
Young Matilda and Stephen
The Passing of the Queen
A Horse and a Bride for William
The White Ship
The King’s Resolve
BIBLIOGRAPHY
The Scottish Orphans
In her bedchamber the Queen of Scotland lay dying. At any moment she would send for her children to say her last farewell to them. The girls, Edith and Mary, sat gloomily in the schoolroom, their books before them; but they paid no attention to these as they thought of their mother who, from the time she had first come to Scotland, had been noted for her beauty and her piety.
Mary, the younger, was the first to speak. ‘Edith, do you think she will die before our father comes?’
Edith paused a moment before she turned mournful blue eyes on her sister and said slowly: ‘What if he should never come back?’
‘Don’t speak so, Edith.’ Mary shivered and glanced furtively over her shoulder. ‘It could bring ill luck.’
‘What I say will not bring us ill luck. It is the Normans who have brought that to our country and our family.’
‘But if our father defeats the King of England, our Uncle Edgar will be King. He is King in truth. If the Godwin Harold had not usurped the throne and the Normans had not come…’
‘If!’ retorted Edith scornfully. ‘What is the use of saying If! And it all happened long ago. Twenty-seven years. And it is said that no one could have withstood William of Normandy. All his life he had conquered.’
‘It will be different with William Rufus. He is not like his father. And he is cruel. The people hate him. He cares for nothing but hunting and they say he has vices which are…unnatural.’
‘But what do you in truth know of him?’
‘What I hear. And I believe that our father will defeat him and that very soon Uncle Edgar, the true King, will be on the throne. The English will welcome him. Of course they will welcome our dear Uncle Edgar. He’s good, he’s a Saxon and he is the true King.’
‘You talk like a child, Mary.’
‘And you of course are so wise. You have lived for sixteen years and because I haven’t lived quite as long you think you are so much cleverer.’
‘Don’t let us quarrel, Mary, while our mother is dying.’
‘She won’t die. She’ll get better and very soon we shall see a messenger riding to the castle with the news that our father has captured Alnwick Castle and is marching south.’
Mary pushed her books aside and went to the long narrow window which was cut into the thick wall. Edith joined her, for what use was it to pretend to work at such a time? They should be praying—for the victory of their father and the soul of their mother. Yet how difficult it was to think of anything but: What will become of us?
* * * * *
Looking down to the moat and the drawbridge and beyond to the green hills, Edith was thinking how quickly everything could change. For sixteen years she had lived secure in her father’s castle and it was only recently that she had been aware of a shifting pattern. Princesses became important when they grew up. Their future could become a matter of state. They either married or went into a nunnery. Edith was not of a nature to wish for the latter. The brief glimpses she had had of her mother’s sister, Aunt Christina, who was the Abbess of Rumsey, had decided her. How different were the two sisters! Her mother was gentle, beautiful and kind; she was good, too, for on every day in Lent she went to church bare-footed, dressed in a gown of hair cloth, where she selected the poorest people that she might wash and kiss their feet. She wanted her children to be good and happy—but most of all good, as she was herself. As for Aunt Christina she was far from beautiful and her black robes had frightened Edith when she was very young. Aunt Christina’s sharp cold eyes saw every fault and no virtue; her knees were hard it was said because she had spent so many hours on them praying and this was considered saintliness of the highest order. Aunt Christina was so busy being good that she had no time to be kind. She thought all those who were not dedicated to the convent life were sinners. Even her sister Margaret, mother of Edith, had lived in what Christina called a worldly manner, bearing many children.
No, it would not be a nunnery for Edith if she could help it. She would beg her father to spare her that.
She hoped to marry as romantically as her mother had. She had heard the story many times. Edith’s mother was Margaret Atheling, the daughter of Edward, who had been the son of Edmund Ironside; her grandmother had been the daughter of Emperor Henry II of Germany. When Edward the Confessor knew that his reign could not last much longer he had sent for Margaret’s father Edward, as was presumed, with the object of making him his successor. Edward had died before the meeting could take place but he left a son, Edgar, as well as two daughters, Margaret and Christina.
Then William came and conquered England and because of Edgar’s clear claim to the throne the Conqueror had kept him under surveillance. He treated him well but Edgar grew to suspect his motives and thought it an excellent idea to take his sisters to Hungary where his mother’s relatives would welcome him.
He had set sail from England but ran into a storm and his ship had been thrown up on the Scottish coast. There was nothing to be done to ask for asylum—which the royal Athelings did.
Malcolm Canmore, the King of Scotland, agreed to give them hospitality while they made their plans. Malcolm, young and comely, had recently come to the throne by driving out the usurper MacBeth, and was a romantic as well as a handsome figure. He entertained the fugitives in his castle and within a few days had fallen in love with Margaret and asked Edgar for his sister’s hand in marriage.
What great good fortune! The dowerless young woman who had been on her way to Hungary to ask for asylum was being asked to share the crown of Scotland.
Her brother Edgar had expressed his pleasure; as for Margaret she was no less pleased, and very soon after her arrival in Scotland the marriage was solemnized and the spot where she had landed was forever after known as Queen’s Ferry.
It was a happy marriage and very fruitful. She soon presented her husband with a fine son who was named Edward after her father and this child was followed by another son who became Edgar after her brother—then Edith, Mary and the little ones followed. Her brother Edgar stayed at the Scottish court while her sister Christina entered a convent and became its Abbess.
So it had been a happy storm which had driven their ship in to the Firth of Forth.
Why could they not remain happy? wondered Edith. But how foolish to think that time could standstill. Uncle Edgar talked constantly of the Norman usurpation and dreamed of the day when he might regain the kingdom. It had been useless while William the great Conqueror lived but it was five years since he had died and during those five years Edgar had begun to hope again.
There was much talk about Rufus who was not the man his father had been. William I had been a harsh ruler but people had respected him. They realized that what he had done had been for the good of the country. His great selfishness had been his love of the hunt and people had been turned from their homes to make forests where wild beasts could roam. The penalties for killing wild animals had been very cruel; but because of the manner in which the country had prospered and law and order had been brought in, William was accepted.
Rufus would never be. He was different from his father by all accounts. William I had had great dignity; he was a tall man and although towards the end of his life he had grown so corpulent that only the strongest horses could carry his weight he had always had the appearance of the great ruler he was. Rufus was short of stature, broad and fat; there was a red tinge in his hair and his complexion was ruddy. When he was angry he would stammer and become almost unintelligible, but in the company of his friends he was said to be witty and able to laugh at himself. As his vices were many and his greatest friends were among members of his own sex, his joking references to them made those about him accept them with more leniency than they would otherwise have done. Like his father his greatest passion was the hunt. At this time Rufus had fallen ill and when the news had reached Scotland, Malcolm Can-more decided that the moment had come for him to take revenge on his old enemy for all the slights Scotland had received at his hands.
Malcolm’s great ambition was to restore the Saxon line. If he could succeed, he would not only drive the Normans back to Normandy but set his own relations through marriage on the throne of England.
For this reason Malcolm had amassed an army and marched south; and it was while he was absent that his wife had become ill and that illness had so progressed that now she was on her deathbed.
* * * * *
Turgot came into the schoolroom, his expression grave, his pallor accentuated by his black priestly robes. He was their tutor as well as their mother’s confessor, but there would be no lessons today.
‘How fares my mother?’ asked Edith.
‘I fear, my child,’ he answered, ‘that you must be prepared for the worst.’
‘If only our father would cornel’ cried Edith in despair.
Turgot nodded. ‘Soon she will wish to see you to say goodbye. I have come to warn you to be ready.’
Mary began to cry.
‘Do not let her see your tears,’ went on Turgot. ‘She will wish you to be brave. Kneel with me now and pray for strength to face this ordeal so that she will know that all my teaching has not been in vain.’
There in the schoolroom they knelt.
Turgot wondered whether the girls realized the tragedy which was facing them. They lived in a violent age from which during their short lifetimes they had been miraculously sheltered. He had advised peace; he had been against Malcolm’s marching across the Border. These Normans had come to stay. That seemed certain. And, although William Rufus might not be the man his father was, he was a wily general and the Normans were great fighters. Battle was in their blood. It had come from their marauding Norse ancestors who had roamed the seas in their long ships looking for lands to plunder.
Malcolm should have stayed at home. Turgot had not swerved from his conviction even though the news was good and Malcolm had laid siege to Alnwick castle and it seemed that the besieged could not hold out much longer. But if he took the castle that was but a beginning. Turgot hoped that Malcolm was not going to indulge in a long war which was most unlikely to bring any profit to either side as was the case with most wars.
Turgot was deeply involved with the family; he had been a part of it for so long. Of a noble Lincolnshire Saxon family he had become aware of the power of the Conqueror when, during one of the latter’s punitive expeditions, he had been taken prisoner and held hostage. There had followed a time of privation in the dungeons of Lincoln castle, from which, with the help of sympathizers, he had escaped and, reaching the coast, taken ship to Norway. When the ship was driven back to the coast by the treacherous winds, he had landed in the north and because the north was then in revolt against the Conqueror and he was a man of some learning had found hospitality in Durham Abbey and there became a priest and eventually its prior. Having heard his story Queen Margaret had been interested and had sent for him. Their regard for each other had been instantaneous. She made him her confessor and the preceptor of her children and ever since the welfare of the royal family of Scotland had been his chief concern.
The death of the Queen would be as great a sorrow to him as to her family and he knew that before she died she would want him to swear on oath to continue to care for them after her death as he had during her lifetime.
As they now knelt in prayer there was a shout from below and the clatter of horses’ hoofs could be heard.
Mary forgot she was supposed to be at prayer. ‘It is a messenger.’ she cried, and rushed to the window. The others were not long in following her.
‘It is our brother Edgar.’ said Mary.
‘He must have come from the battle.’ added Edith.
‘How sad he looks!’ went on Mary. ‘Oh I know something fearful has happened.’
They followed him down the stone stairway to the hall and there was Edgar, weary, mud-stained, his eyes wild, and a look of such misery on his face as the girls have never seen before.
‘My son.’ said Turgot, ‘you have ill news?’
Edgar answered: ‘The worst. I must see the Queen.’
‘The Queen is grievously sick.’
‘It cannot be...’
‘Tis so, alas. Tell me your news and I will impart it to her if she must know it.’
Edgar shook his head and it seemed as though the words would not come.
Turgot prompted him gently. ‘Your father was besieging the castle of Alnwick and had reduced the inhabitants to starvation. They were on the point of surrender.’
‘Yes.’ replied Edgar slowly, ‘they did surrender. They surrendered on condition that they should deliver the keys of the city to none but my father.’
‘Yes, yes, my son.’
‘So...he went in person to receive them, and a knight brought them to him on the point of a lance. The knight knelt and as my father stooped to take them, this...this...treacherous dog forced the point of his lance through my father’s vizor and pierced his eye.’
‘God in Heaven!’ cried Turgot. ‘And the King?’
‘He died mercifully soon. He was in great agony.’
Turgot folded his hands and his lips moved in prayer.
The King dead, he was thinking, the Queen dying. What will become of these children?
* * * * *
They stood about her bed. How different she looked from the beautiful young girl who had come ashore at Queen’s Ferry and captivated the King.
Her eyes, enormous in her pale wasted face, sought the children ranged about her bed—Edgar, the two girls and the little ones. She saw with relief that Turgot was there also.
‘You would keep something from me.’ she said. ‘I know it. There is ill news. ‘What of my husband and eldest son?’
Turgot nodded to Edgar.
‘Mother, there is sad news.’
‘My husband...my son Edward...?’
‘They are dead. Edward was killed in battle. Our father at the siege of Alnwick.’
‘Oh, God help you all.’
She looked at Turgot. ‘Come close, my friend.’
He approached the bed. ‘You will continue to care for these children.’
‘I will, with God’s blessing.’
‘They are young yet, Turgot. Too young to lose both father and mother. Swear to me, Turgot. Swear to me on the Black Cross.’
The girls looked on in awe as the beautiful cross was taken from the black case which gave it its name. It was made of gold and enormous diamonds adorned it. On the gold the figure of Christ was engraved in ivory. It had been talked of often but always kept in a secure place and it was because the Queen was dying that it had been taken from that place that she might hold it in her hands during her last moments on earth. It was symbolic, that cross. It had belonged to the Saxon royal family for generations and must never pass into the hands of any other. While it was in the possession of the Athelings they believed themselves to be the true sovereigns of England no matter if William the Conqueror had snatched their lands from them.
Turgot took the cross reverently in his hands and swore that he would care for the Queen’s children.
‘My life is ebbing fast.’ she said. ‘Teach my children to love and fear God, and, if any of them should attain earthly grandeur, be a father to them and a guide. If the need should arise, reprove them if they should become proud; guard them that they may not offend God and forfeit their hopes of eternal life. Swear thus, Turgot, on the black cross in the presence of God.’
Turgot knelt by her bedside and kissed the cross
‘So help me God.’ he said. ‘I shall serve you as faithfully in death as I did in life.’
Her white fingers curled about the cross and she lay back and died.
* * * * *
The Queen was buried at Dunfermline and in trepidation the children waited for what would happen next. Turgot had told them that their brother Edgar was King of Scotland but this did not seem to be the case, for no one came to the castle to swear loyalty to him and there was no talk of a coronation. In fact, each day retainers disappeared from the castle and those who remained had changed subtly. They were furtive, expectant and they did not behave to the children as they had when their parents were alive. Only Turgot remained the same, stern and watchful.
Young Edgar did not know how to act. Was he the King or was he not? What could this strange attitude mean? Where were the lords who should come to swear fealty to him?
Turgot advised that they go on as though they were unaware of the changing situation, for soon there would be some indication of what was taking place.
He was right. Uncle Edgar Atheling came riding to the castle in great distress. He summoned Edith and Edgar and told them that he wished to talk to them very seriously.
They had heard of their father’s half-brother, Donald Bane, had they not? Indeed they had. He had always been a troublemaker. He was illegitimate but that did not mean he had no hope of inheriting the crown. Turgot had said that he wished kings would be less prodigal of scattering their seed throughout the kingdom, for the results often ended in wars and disasters.
Donald Bane had declared that as Malcolm and his eldest son were dead, and young Edgar was not old enough to rule, he had stepped into the breach and had taken the crown. Scotland had a new King.
‘But this is monstrous.’ declared young Edgar. ‘I will not endure it.’
‘You can do nothing,’ said his uncle shortly. ‘Donald Bane has the crown and there are those who will help him hold it. We have no means of wresting it from him. In time we will march against him, but first we must gather together a loyal army.’
‘Let us begin to do that at once.’ said his nephew.
But the older man shook his head wearily. ‘My dear nephew.’ he said, ‘we are in no position to do that. Moreover, King Donald has issued an edict. He orders all English exiles to leave his kingdom.’
‘Exiles!’ cried young Edgar. ‘Is the King of Scotland then an exile in his own realm?’
‘My dear nephew.’ replied his uncle, ‘against whom do you imagine this edict is issued? Am I not English? Am I not an exile? He wants me out of this country. And why? Because then you, my boy, will be at his mercy. What hope do you think you have without me to protect you?’
Edgar stared at his uncle in dismay.
‘It is true.’ said Edith. ‘I see it clearly. Oh, Uncle Edgar, what are we going to do?’
‘We are going to escape Donald Bane, for you, Edgar, as the rightful King of this country, are in the utmost danger. Go at once to your nurseries and prepare your brothers and sisters. We are going on a journey. First send Turgot to me.’
‘Will he come with us, Uncle?’ asked Edith.
‘He will.’
Turgot came with all speed. He had already heard the news.
‘We are in acute danger,’ said Edgar Atheling to the priest. ‘In particular my nephew.’
‘We are leaving here?’ replied Turgot. ‘And where shall we find refuge?’
There was a brief silence. Both men were remembering the occasion when they had been shipwrecked. They had escaped once. Could they hope to do so again?
Edgar replied. ‘In England.’
‘England! You think Rufus will allow us to stay there?’
‘We have to risk that.’
Turgot said: ‘I have recently taken a vow to protect these children.’
‘Think you not,’ replied Edgar, ‘that I will not protect them with everything in my power?’
‘I know it well. But to take them into England where the King of Scotland has been fighting the English...’
‘My good Turgot, I know Rufus. There was a time when we lived under the same roof. We were boys together. I became a friend to him and his brothers.’
Turgot’s brow furrowed. Edgar was of too gentle a nature to be a match for these treacherous Normans. He seemed to forget that he was the rightful King of England, that, had he been of an age to govern, King Edward the Confessor would never have named Harold, son of Godwin, as the future King; and it would have been Edgar whom William would have had to face at Hastings. And if Edgar had been King how could William of Normandy have disputed the fact that he was in truth the King? Edgar had been too young at the time but he was no longer young; yet there was about him an air of gentleness which was in sharp contrast to what Turgot remembered of the mighty Conqueror, and admirable as it might be it was a characteristic which did not win battles and subdue rebellious subjects. Edgar might well have been a King such as Edward the Confessor but there was no doubt that he was the rightful King of England, yet he seemed to be of the opinion that the son of the usurper would happily receive him and shelter him when the Saxon community were constantly chafing against Norman rule. To whom would such people look but to the Royal Atheling to deliver them. And Edgar was suggesting placing himself into the none too scrupulous hands of William Rufus!
‘How firm is such friendship when a crown is at stake?’ asked Turgot now.
‘Why, Turgot, Rufus knows I have no means of taking the crown from him.’
‘I hear there is dissatisfaction with his rule.’
‘There will always be dissatisfaction. His father instructed him for some years before his death. Rufus will never be the great leader the Conqueror was, but who could be that? Turgot, none knows more surely than I that the Norman rule has come to stay. I am concerned with restoring the Scottish crown to my nephew and I believe I can persuade Rufus to help me in this.’
‘You face a grave risk,’ Turgot warned him.
‘Tell me, where else can we go? Or do you suggest that I leave my sister’s children here to be murdered by Donald Bane?’
‘Nay,’ retorted Turgot sorrowfully, ‘I see the situation is desperate.’
‘I prefer to trust Rufus rather than this uncouth Scot. I assure you I know Rufus. Once he is convinced that I shall make no attempts on his crown he will be my friend. We were boys together—he, and his brothers Robert and Henry. I was as another brother. They used to laugh at my Saxon ways, but all in good part. Well, Turgot, are you ready to set out for England?’
‘I see that there is no other way open to us.’
Rufus
When William Rufus heard what had happened to Malcolm of Scotland he lay back on his couch and laughed heartily.
‘Our brother of Scotland was too clever,’ he commented. ‘He thought to harry me while I lay on my sick bed and look what it has brought him.’
Those young men whom it pleased him to honour laughed dutifully. William Rufus was a man of violent temper. So had his father been but the anger of William the First was scarcely unpredictable. All men knew that if they gave him absolute obedience and never encroached on the strict forestry laws they were safe. Not so with William II; his red face could grow purple with rage and the unfortunate man or woman responsible would often have no knowledge of why this should be so. So, all must walk warily with the new King.
Like his father he loved possessions and looked in all directions in order to add to his wealth, but unlike his father he could be extravagant on occasions. That was in pursuit of his own pleasure. When he wanted something he wanted it fiercely and he was determined to get it.
Life had not been easy since his accession. There was certain to be trouble in the family. When he looked back over his childhood and remembered the stormy scenes in their various schoolrooms he laughed aloud. Robert would have run him through on one occasion but for the intervention of their father. Robert and he would always be enemies, because naturally Robert believed that he, as the eldest son, had more right to the crown of England than William Rufus had. It was true Robert was Duke of Normandy but it was a far better thing to be King of England than Duke of Normandy. And then there was Henry. Poor young Henry who was left without land—only five thousand pounds of silver and his father’s prophecy that one day he would be richer than either of his brothers.
Following this train of thought Rufus sighed and said: ‘It was unfortunate that our father had too many sons. It is a common failing that kings either have too many or not enough. You see what a wise man I am, my friends, for I have no sons– not even a bastard or two. If all men were as I am how much more comfortable the world would be.’
‘It would not be over-populated, my lord.’ said his favourite friend.
‘Oh, we’d keep a few studs for that purpose.’ laughed Rufus.
‘My lord’s young brother might be of use.’
The young man laughed.
‘What then?’ asked Rufus. ‘Has he added another to his tally? I hear he was giving a good account of himself with the Lady Nesta of Wales.’
‘Exceeding good, my lord, and they say the lady grows larger each day.’
‘It keeps the young rake out of mischief.’ said Rufus. ‘But I have to keep my eyes on master Henry. It may surprise you, my friends, but he occasionally takes his thoughts from the ladies’ bedchambers and dreams of the battlefield.’
‘As my lord knows to his cost.’
‘We could have finished him at St. Michael’s Mount but for my elder brother. Robert is a fool. There was not a drop of water in the castle; they were dying in the fortress for lack of it, and what did my chivalrous brother Robert do? He sends him water—and not only water, but wine for his board. I could have killed him when I heard. ‘This is our brother.’ he said, and he looked at me with those rather mournful eyes of his. He is very beautiful and he was my mother’s favourite you know. He was always vain and hates the fact that his legs are too short. My father used to jeer at him. Cur those he called him. My father thought there was only one perfect man in the world—himself. And those of us who did not resemble him were poor things in his opinion. But when Robert rebelled against him and Richard died he turned to me. Richard was
the first favourite. He looked like a Norman, you see. The rest of us had the Flanders touch...except Henry. He has a Norman look—tall and with that fine curly hair. I doubt not it is that which brings him so much favour in the ladies’ bedchambers. But I was telling you that we could have been rid of Henry but for Robert. And what has he ever done but bring trouble and bastards into the realm?’
The young man laughed obediently.
‘Come, my fine friend, what is there to laugh at? I am a man beset by brothers, and now Henry has squandered his patrimony and roams the countryside seeking consolation in robbing ladies of their virtue since he cannot rob me of my throne, and I doubt not his soul is stained purple with the sin of fornication. Listen.’
There was a commotion below the window. Riders were approaching.
‘Messengers mayhap. What now?’ said Rufus. ‘No evil news I trust to spoil the pleasant evening I had planned for us.’
The messenger was brought into his presence.
Rufus dismissed the man with the customary command: ‘Go and refresh yourself.’ and read the dispatch.
Then he said: ‘Edgar Atheling has arrived in England with his sister’s brood.’
‘What will you do, my lord?’ asked his favourite friend.
‘That, my dear, remains to be seen.’ he answered. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Rest assured I shall have them under close surveillance.’
* * * * *
William Rufus opened his eyes and sleepily surveyed his bedchamber. It had been a riotous night and as usual after such festivities morning came too soon. Sunlight filtering in through the narrow slit of a window shone onto the stone recess seat cut into the wall, but because this was a royal bedchamber it contained some modern luxuries such as the faldestol on which he sat when he entertained guests in his bedroom, letting them make do with the wall seats or the floor. A velvet drapery was thrown over it at this moment. His eyes went to the chest with its fine carving; in this were kept his clothes, and although he slept on a bag of straw this was placed on a bed the frame of which was elegantly carved.
In the early mornings he let his mind wander over state affairs. He was thinking at this time about the Atheling who had taken refuge in his country. Edgar had always amused him —pretty youth. He would never be a king though. He was not made of the right stuff. Still the people could rally to the Atheling if they hated the Norman enough, and he must face the truth: there had always been animosity towards the Normans.
Yet they could be persuaded, or could they? He had persuaded them once. That was when Robert had tried to take the crown from him. He had expected it. Naturally the eldest son wanted the greater prize.
But their father had nominated him, William Rufus, as his successor. What had he said to him on his deathbed, stern as ever? ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not claiming your kingdom?’
Rufus laughed. One had to admire the old man. He was the greatest they would ever know, and if he was without humour he was the finest soldier of his day and for most of that which was his and his family’s today they had to thank William the Conqueror who had given it to them.
They could never be like him—any one of them. And did they want to? Not Rufus. He knew how to enjoy life—which he was sure his father had not—and he intended to go on doing it.
But now his mind was straying from Edgar Atheling because that fellow’s being in the country reminded him of the early days of his reign when Robert had come against him. Robert was a fool; he could be relied upon to fail in any military exercise.
Rufus laughed to think of those days when the Norman barons who owned estates in England had declared that they would not accept Rufus as the King of England and prepared to set up Robert in his place.
