Текст книги "The Lion of Justice"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

‘Jezebel’ whispered Aunt Christina. Edith’s head was pressed against the stones; she cried out in pain and Aunt Christina laughed derisively.

‘Get up then, spawn of the devil,’ she said.

Edith stood before her.

The Abbess sat on the stone seat cut out of the wall.

‘You like not the holy habit,’ she said.

‘My father said I was not to be a nun.’

‘It may be that God has punished him for denying his daughter her vocation.’

‘I do not wish to take the veil.’

‘It may be that you will have no choice in the matter.’ said Christina. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Take off the robe you so despise.’

‘I do not despise it. It is only that I feel it is not for me.’

‘Take it off,’ said Christina.

Edith took off the robe and stood in the rough hairy shift.

‘Take that off too,’ was the command.

‘I have nothing beneath it,’ replied Edith.

‘Well let us see this body of which you are so proud.’

‘Nay, you mistake me. It is not pride. It is...’

‘Vanity!’ The Abbess rose and taking the shift in her firm hands pulled it off. Edith stood naked before her.

She studied the girl. ‘Voluptuary!’ she said. ‘So you wish to flaunt this do you?’ She pinched the firm flesh and brought her face close to that of Edith. ‘Of what do you think when you lie in your cell? Of what are you thinking when you are on your knees? Pray tell me that. Nay, I will tell you. You are thinking sinful thoughts. You are thinking of men and this body in their hands.’

‘No, no, Aunt Christina, it is not so.’

‘Then you will take the veil.’

‘No, I will not.’

‘Why not, if your thoughts are as pure as you would have me believe?’

‘I wish to marry, to have children.’

‘Did I not tell you what was in your mind? So you add lies to your many sins.’

‘My mother was a good woman—the best that ever lived,’ said Edith defiantly, ‘yet she married and had children.’

The Abbess took Edith by the arm and pushed her down on her straw.

‘So you long for men. You want this body you so much admire to be admired by others, to be caressed. I shall caress it in my way...in God’s way.’ She called to one of the nuns who was waiting outside the cell. The woman came in carrying a long thin cane.

‘There, my daughter. This is the child from whom evil must be purged. She dreams of the caresses of men; give her the caress of the cane.’

‘Mother,’ began the nun.

The Abbess turned her venomous gaze on the nun. ‘Do you disobey me, then?’

‘Nay, Mother.’ The nun came to the prostrate figure of Edith and lifted the cane. It came down stinging her across the thighs. ‘Again,’ said the Abbess. ‘Are you so feeble that you can do no better than that? Again and again.’

Edith turned her back on them and covered her face with her hands. ‘Oh, Uncle Edgar,’ she prayed, ‘why did you send us here?’

The Abbess had snatched the cane from the nun that she herself might use it. The strokes were more firm, more vicious.

‘Aunt Christina, I beg of you...’

‘Ah, the miscreant becomes a penitent. Yes, daughter, what have you to say?’

‘Do not, I beg of you.’

‘Then you will wear the robe and love the robe, the outward sign of that which is holy?’

‘Yes, I will wear the robe.’

The Abbess laughed. ‘Your tender skin may rebel even more so than before. There are weals on your buttocks, girl. Do not strip naked and dream that they have been put there by a too eager lover. Come, get up. Put on your shift. Is it not shameful that you should stand thus naked. You will love the robe. You will remember that these are the robes of the Black Benedictines which our famous ancestor founded. You will pray that you may be purged of your worldliness. Come, I am impatient.’

Painfully Edith rose to her feet. Over her head went the hideous black hairy shift; she was enclosed once more in the black robes.

‘On your knees,’ said the Abbess. ‘Ask for forgiveness, for you are in dire need of the intercession of the saints.’

With lowered eyes Edith stood before her aunt. The Abbess was satisfied. She turned and with the attendant nun left the cell.

So she must wear the robes. But never, never shall I take the veil, Edith promised herself. This could not go on. A time would come when Uncle Edgar came to visit them. Then she would remind him of her father’s determination that she should marry. Her mother, it was true, had wished her to take the veil, but her mother had not known how vehemently she hated it.

She shuddered as the rough stuff touched her sore body

She would never forget the sight of Aunt Christina, the cane raised in her hand, her eyes gleaming with a virtue so intense that it was like a fierce pleasure.

How she longed for the old days in the schoolroom under dear old Turgot.

But the beating had strengthened her determination to escape.

* * * * *

There were visitors to Rumsey Abbey. Alan, Duke of Bretagne, wished to pay his respects not only to the Abbess but to the Atheling ladies whom he understood were being educated there.

The Abbess was gracious yet haughty.

‘It is not the custom of the Abbey to allow novitiates to receive visitors.’

‘Novitiates!’ cried Alan. ‘I understood that the Princesses were merely here to receive an education, and were destined to play that part in the world so often reserved for ladies of their blood.’

‘They have a great desire for the convent life,’ said the Abbess and then to absolve her soul she thought: As yet they are not fully aware of this but it exists.

‘I do not think it is the desire of their uncle and their eldest brother that they should take the veil.’

‘That is a matter for the future. For this time I must respect their youth. They cannot receive visitors.’

‘I understood differently from the King.’

‘You come from the King?’

‘With his blessing.’

The Abbess was taken aback. She dared not offend Rufus. She had to be grateful that he allowed her, a member of the Atheling family, to take up the post of Abbess in an English abbey. If Rufus had sent Alan of Bretagne here it could be with one purpose. He was a possible husband for one of the girls and as Edith was the elder her turn would probably come first.

This was disturbing, but the Abbess was not one to be disturbed for long. She could however not prevent Alan’s seeing Edith and Mary.

She sent for the girls. A summons to the Abbess’s apartment was a cause for apprehension, but Mary, who had not been selected as the butt for Christina’s venom as Edith had, and for whom the Abbess had no special plans as yet, was less concerned than her sister.

When the girls stood before her in their black garments, their hair carefully hidden, the Abbess surveyed them critically.

Edith had a certain beauty but the habit was very effective in concealing it and if this man had thoughts of marrying her, it might be possible to hurry her into taking some sort of vow. The determination to thwart Edith’s desire for a worldly life was growing in the Abbess. A strong woman, accustomed to having her own way, never forgetting her royal birth and that the crown of England should have belonged to her family, she was anxious to rule her own empire and that included her nieces who had become part of it.

She had considered Alan of Bretagne. A middle-aged widower, a man not without power and clearly a friend of Robert of Normandy and Rufus King of England since the former had sent him to England on some mission and the latter had given him permission to come and visit the Atheling girls at her Abbey.

Of course he was looking for a bride, although he was a little old for that, but if he were hoping for heirs he would select a young girl. Constance, his dead wife and daughter of the Conqueror, had been childless during their six years marriage. And his union with the royal family had perhaps given him a taste for Princesses.

Christina did not like it. Nevertheless she could not disobey the orders of Rufus. She shuddered to think of the man. He was crude and vicious. She was well aware of his perverted sexual tastes. She thought a good deal about such sinful practices, conjuring up pictures of the crude red-faced King and his favourites, the better she promised herself to implore the saints to put a stop to such evil.

She noticed with satisfaction that Edith was looking a little fearful.

She kept them standing in suitable humility.

‘We have a visitor who has asked to see you. As you know it is against the rules of the Abbey for our young novices to receive visitors. But this is an old nobleman who is visiting England on some mission from the Duke of Normandy and the King has asked if I would graciously receive him. I shall of course be present. Now, we will go.’

Alan of Bretagne bowed low and said what a pleasure it was to meet the Princesses.

It was long since Edith had seen such a man. He was old it was true, but he was a warrior and he brought a new and alien atmosphere into the Abbey.

‘I have recently come from Normandy on a mission from my Duke to the King. The King will I doubt not wish to have news of you.’ He had a commanding air, this man. He turned to the Abbess. ‘I would like a word in private with the Princess Edith.’

The Abbess bristled. Her strength was as great as his and she was on her own ground.

‘My lord Duke, I could not so far forget my duty.’

‘Then,’ said the Duke, ‘we will sit together in yon window seat while you remain here with us.’

The Abbess looked thunderous but the Duke had bowed to Edith and she without looking at her aunt walked to the window seat with the Duke in her wake. Christina, reminding herself that he came with the blessing of the King, and being astute enough to ask herself what report he would take back, had no alternative but to sign to Mary that she be seated on the far side of the chamber with her while the visitor and Edith conversed—in sight of her alert eyes, yet out of earshot.

The Duke bent towards Edith; she noticed his big hands, his weather-beaten skin, his rather rough method of speech. He lacked the grace of her uncle Edgar. He repelled her slightly. Ever since that day when her aunt Christina had made her put on the nun’s habit and her father had expressed his annoyance and said: ‘She is to be a wife and mother,’ she had dreamed of the man she would marry. Naturally he was young, handsome, courteous, learned, noble; this rough Norman soldier appeared to have few of these virtues.

He said: ‘I’ll be blunt. I’ve the King’s permission to woo you. I need a wife. I need heirs.’ His eyes swept over her body carefully concealed in the black robes. ‘My wife Constance was barren. It was a source of great concern to me. She died and now I look for another wife.’

Was this courtship? It was not how she had imagined it would be. This man leaned heavily towards her. ‘You’re young. You should bear me sons. I have large estates in Normandy. The Duke is a friend of mine and holds me in favour. I am, as you must know, his brother-in-law. You are a Princess but a dowerless one. Your father’s kingdom has been snatched from him. I doubt not your brother would be pleased to give you to me.’

Edith said hastily: ‘I am not sure, my lord, that I would make you a suitable wife.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know little of the demands of married life.’

He laughed and from across the chamber the Abbess watched uneasily.

He laid a hot and heavy hand on her thigh. ‘That is something I can teach you. I would not wish you practised in such matters. The King would give his consent I know.’

‘There is my uncle to be consulted.’

‘Have no fear. If the King consents so will he.’

‘I should need time to consider.’

‘You know little of the ways of love you tell me, maiden. You know little of the ways of state. The King has decided that I shall have you if I like what I see. And I like it well enough.’ Leaning towards her suddenly he pushed back the coif which concealed her hair. The two thick fair braids were revealed.

‘Why yes,’ he said. ‘I like it well.’

The Abbess, her face pink with mortification, had come towards them.

‘I gave you no permission, sir, to undress my charges.’

‘Why, Abbess, you put ideas into my head. You could not call removing the head-dress undressing.’

‘The interview must be at an end.’ she said.

‘So be it. I have seen enough.’ replied the Duke.

He stood up; he bowed. Christina said to the girls: ‘Wait here.’ And she herself conducted Alan of Bretagne from the chamber.

Edith’s face was scarlet; she was trembling. She could not forget the gleam in his eyes.

Mary was excited. ‘Edith, does it mean that you are going to be married?’

‘He said he had come to look at me and I was well enough.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me. As though I were a horse. His hands were hot and strong. Oh, Mary, he frightened me.’

‘But he would be a husband. Oh, Edith, if you marry I shall be here alone.’

‘They will find a husband for you doubtless.’

‘I hope he will not be as old as yours.’

‘I am going to my cell.’

‘The Abbess said we were to wait.’

‘I cannot, Mary. I want to get away from this room...I can see him too clearly here. I can smell him, I can’t get away from him here.’

‘She will be angry.’

‘I don’t care, Mary. I must go.’

* * * * *

She lay on her straw. Anything, she thought was better than submitting to what he was going to teach her. He was not the lover whom she had imagined. He wanted to breed sons and he was going to enjoy the breeding in a manner which she did not think would be very enjoyable to her. In truth he repelled her so strongly that what she wanted more than anything was never to see him again. Anything...simply anything was better than marriage with him.

But the King had given his consent. She knew well enough that Princesses had no say in whom they should or should not marry. She remembered the story of her mother’s being washed up at Queen’s Ferry and being given the hospitality of the King of Scotland; and the King of Scotland had been handsome and young, a veritable fairy prince. He had said: ‘This Princess is without dowry. She has no great position, but I love her and she loves me.’ And so they were married. Her mother’s attendants had often told the story. How beautiful she was and how the King had taken one look at her and had declared his intention of marrying her. That was love; that was romance; and if, as Aunt Christina had said, she had been guilty of dreams, they had certainly not been lascivious; they had concerned an idyllic romance such as that of her parents.

The door of her cell was opened; the Abbess came and sat down looking at her.

‘What did he say to you?’

‘He spoke of marriage.’

‘And you were all a-tremble to go to him! I could see you could scarcely wait. You should thank me for taking such good care of you. He would have had you with child by now had I left you together.’

Edith rose from her straw. ‘It is not true. I hated him. He is coarse...and I would rather do anything than marry him.’

The Abbess was silent for a few moments; her expression softened. Here was triumph.

Then her lips hardened. ‘You’re lying. I have seen the wanton in you.’

‘Nay, ‘tis not so.’

‘There was pleasure on your face when he removed your coif.’

‘I hated his hands on me.’

‘You hated that? Then what of the marriage bed? That will be more to your taste doubtless. Such a man would debase you. Your body would belong to him. You know little of such men. You know nothing of what marriage means. It is my duty to make that plain to you. You cannot fall into his probing lascivious hands without knowing what is in store for you.’

‘Pray do not tell me. I cannot bear to hear.’

‘But you shall hear.’ The Abbess bent over her. She forced her to turn so that she lay on her back and the Abbess stared down at her.

Edith wanted to stop up her ears. She could not bear to listen to what her aunt was saying. She could not believe it. Her saintly mother could never have done such things.

The Abbess was smiling to herself; she seemed to be looking into far-off pictures which she was conjuring up from her imagination.

She said several times: ‘This I tell you for your own good. That you may know the ways of men and what they expect from women.’

‘I want none of him,’ sobbed Edith.

‘There is only one safe place and that is in the Abbey. And here the soldiers could come at any time. Wear the robe always; hide your hair; try to look cold and unsmiling. For if the soldiers should come to this Abbey—as they have done to others—then men would seize you and do to you unlawfully what Alan of Bretagne would with the blessing of the church. There is only one way to save yourself. I offer you that. You can tell the King that you have made your mind to become a nun. That you have already taken some of your vows.’

‘I have not.’

‘That can be remedied.’

‘But I will not. My father said...’

‘You want to go to this man? You long for the touch of his probing hands; your body calls out to share in his filthy practices.’

‘No. No.’

‘Listen to me. It is custom in our royal family that a member of it shall always be an Abbess of Wilton Abbey. I am shortly to leave Rumsey for Wilton. I shall train you to take my place for you shall be the Abbess in due time. It is your duty to our ancestors and first of all to the greatest of them, King Alfred. Would you displease him? He would haunt you if you did. Alfred, the saints and God himself have decreed that she shall follow me. You will be in command of a great Abbey; you will be following our royal tradition. I have decided that I shall train you for this.’

‘My father said I was not to take the veil.’

‘And what happened to him? He was killed by a lance that pierced his eye. His was a painful death. A just punishment, some might say.’

‘He was good to us.’

‘Your mother wished it. She was an Atheling as we are. She understood the traditions of royalty.’

‘Mayhap Mary could be the next Abbess.’

‘Mary is not my choice. You are that. You can absorb learning. You do well at your lessons. You will be educated as few women are. And this choice has to be made. The noble life of the Abbey or the foul one with that rake who could not keep his hands from you even in my presence.’

‘Why must there be this choice?’

‘Because you are an Atheling. The King may well offer you to the Duke of Bretagne. If he does the only thing that can save you is the veil. I will leave you to think of it. Do not forget what I have told you. Imagine yourself in that man’s bed. Then think of the peaceful, dignified life you could have here.’

‘I have not been happy here.’

‘Nay, for it has been my painful duty to chastise you. If you took your vows, if you made the proper choice, you would find how kind I could be. Now I will leave you. You will have much to think of. I believe you now. You do not care for that man...but all men are alike. You have learned much this day. Think on it.’

She was alone. Images would not disappear although she longed for them to do so. She could not help thinking of that man’s hands; the gleam in his eyes, the horrible words of the Abbess.

Then she touched the rough serge of her habit. Fiercely she hated it. But not more fiercely than she hated Alan of Bretagne.

* * * * *

What rejoicing filled Edith’s heart when Uncle Edgar arrived at Rumsey. He had always been the kind and gentle mentor, more easy to talk to than her own father. She was greatly relieved, for since the visit of Alan of Bretagne she had been haunted by nightmares; she had dreamed that she was poised between two fearful alternatives. She was on a path which led to beautiful pasture lands, but to reach those pastures she must pass through two gates—one guarded by a black-robed figure waiting to incarcerate her for life and the other by a beast with slavering lips who would submit her to all manner of humiliation and pain.

She needed no soothsayer to interpret that dream.

What will become of me? she wondered. Oh, where was her good Turgot? Where was her dear kind uncle? How often had she prayed that they would come to her, and now her prayers had been answered. Uncle Edgar had arrived at Rumsey.

Aunt Christina was present at their first meeting so that it was impossible to throw herself into his arms and tell him how happy she was to see him.

He had changed a little. There was something remote, almost saintly, about him.

‘Your uncle brings good news.’ said Aunt Christina, smiling and looking almost benevolent. She was always pleased to see members of her own family and of course Edgar was very important because he was the true King of England.

‘Yes.’ answered Edgar, smiling from Edith to Mary. ‘We

have had good fortune in Scotland. We have displaced the traitor Donald Bane and your brother is now King of Scotland.’

‘What excellent news.’ said Aunt Christina. ‘I hope the traitor has been made to answer for his sins.’

‘He stares blindly at his prison walls. His eyes were put out. He will never see the crown of Scotland again.’

Edith shuddered. They had taken the kingdom from him, she thought, but they could have left him his eyes. Better to have killed him than to have blinded him. And yet an evil man had pierced her father’s eye. It seemed a cruel world. But she must rejoice with the rest because her brother Edgar had regained the crown and they were no longer penniless fugitives living on the bounty of the King of England.

Edith wanted to talk to Edgar alone that she might discuss the dilemma which faced her. Her spirits were high. Now that Edgar had regained his crown there would surely be a place for her in Scotland.

She could not tell him of her anxieties with Christina looking on, but there would be an opportunity later.

She was dismayed to hear that her uncle intended to stay but a few days, but she did manage to convey to him her great need to see him alone.

They walked in the gardens together—he in his embroidered cloak, she in her black Benedictine robes.

‘Oh Uncle.’ she said, ‘please help me.’

‘If God wills.’ he said.

‘Alan of Bretagne has been to Rumsey.’

‘I know it well. He wishes to marry you.’

‘I cannot do it, Uncle.’

‘My dear child.’ said Edgar, ‘there comes a time in our lives when we have to do that which does not please us.’

‘This is no small matter. This is for the rest of my life.’

‘I have to tell you, Edith, that I am going away.’ A rapt expression crossed his face. You have heard there is to be a Holy War. Jerusalem, the Holy City, is in the hands of the Infidel. Our pilgrims have been robbed and tortured. We have decided to take the city from the Saracens and put it where it belongs, in Christian hands. The Duke of Normandy will go into battle. He is amassing a great army. I shall go with him.’

‘You are going to leave us then?’

‘I have in truth come to say farewell to you before I go to

Normandy. I am joining the Duke’s army and we shall ‘ere long be leaving for the Holy Land.’

‘You must help me before you go, Uncle Edgar. What can I do? I cannot marry Alan of Bretagne.’

‘Why not, my child? He was good enough for the Conqueror’s daughter. He was accepted as the great King’s son through marriage. Why should you feel thus?’

‘Because he is old, Uncle.’

‘He is not too old to beget children; and he is a man of power in Normandy.’

‘I cannot bear him near me. Please do not let them force me into marriage with him.’

‘The King of England approves the match.’

‘But my brother is now King of Scotland. You have won back his crown for him.’

‘The King of Scotland is the vassal of the King of England. If Rufus promises you to Alan of Bretagne there is no gainsaying his wish. Your brother owes his crown to the King of England, for it was his forces who won it back for him.’

‘It was you and my brother,’ cried Edith.

‘We commanded the army, but the soldiers came from Rufus and the price he asked was that Scotland should be a vassal of England.’ Edgar smiled his gentle smile but she knew his thoughts were far away in the Holy Land. ‘If Rufus gives you to Alan of Bretagne there is no help for it. You will be his wife.’

She covered her face with her hands.

‘Little niece,’ said the gentle Edgar, ‘is marriage so distasteful to you?’

She lowered her hands. ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I know there could be great good in it. My mother was the best woman in the world’...she said that defiantly, thinking of Aunt Christina...‘and she bore many children. I wish to bear children. I wish to make a home. But I would rather anything than marriage with Alan of Bretagne.’

‘So it is his person that revolts you.’

‘He is old and he smells of horses and he is rough and he would not care for me only for the sons...and the pleasure...he could derive from me. Uncle Edgar, I want marriage but not with Alan of Bretagne.’

‘My dear niece, Princesses cannot choose these matters.’

‘I know it well, but not Alan of Bretagne.’

‘It will rest with the King.’

‘And you say he has given his consent.’

‘He will I believe. He is pleased with the man because he has satisfactorily given him Normandy in pawn. This marriage would be a kind of reward for the services he has rendered.’

‘And am I to have no choice then?’

‘Oh come, Edith, you are young, and you have childish notions. Marriage to one or another...what matters it?’

‘It matters to me,’ said Edith.

‘You will go to Normandy; you will be chatelaine of a great castle; you will have your children.’

‘No, Uncle Edgar.’

But Uncle Edgar was smiling serenely. He was obsessed by his own future glory. He was seeing himself in the battle—not that he was a great soldier nor did he love the battlefield—but he loved a cause; and this was the holiest cause of all: the wresting of the Holy Land from the Infidel and placing it in Christian hands.

For his part in such an enterprise surely a man would win his place of honour in the life hereafter. And of what importance was an ignorant young girl’s fear of marriage compared with such glory?

Edith looked at him sadly. He was very good, of course; he had always been that; and now he was even more good because he was going on this Holy enterprise; and when people were dedicated to the service of God they did not seem to care very much for the troubles of human beings.

‘Uncle Edgar.’ she went on, ‘I cannot , marry this man. Please, I beg of you, tell me what I can do.’

With what seemed like a mighty effort he forced his mind from the contemplation of Jerusalem. He took her chin in his hands and turned her face up to his.

‘If the King of England consents to your marriage there is only one thing that could prevent it.’

‘What is that, Uncle?’

‘You could take the veil.’

She lowered her eyes; she wanted to give way to despair. There was no way out, wherever she looked those two unhappy alternatives confronted her.

Edgar left on his glorious adventure and Edith went back to her fears.

The Miraculous Escape

It was with reluctance that Rufus received his archbishop. As he had said to Ranulf, he had little love for any churchman. It was his belief that a king had no need of the fellows and it was a well-known fact that they fancied themselves as the rulers of the realm. They liked to put their kings in leading strings.

‘That’s something I’ll not endure.’ he told his favourite. ‘My father was a religious man—he had far more respect for the church than I ever could have. He gave Lanfranc much licence. We were all brought up to reverence Lanfranc. But Lanfranc is dead and now we have this man Anselm. I forced him to office but I could take the crozier from him with as much vehemence as I made him take it.’

‘They’d say you would have to have an archbishop.’ said Ranulf.

‘Ay, that they would. Lanfranc fancied himself as a statesman and he was. My father made good use of him. He sent him to Rome when he was excommunicated for marrying my mother and Lanfranc served him well. It would seem that this Anselm would wish me to serve him.’

‘He calls it serving God.’ said Ranulf.

They laughed together.

Rufus went on: ‘Why to expect us two to pull together is like putting an untamed bull and a feeble old sheep in the same plough.’

‘Well, what are we going to do with our feeble old sheep?’

‘Let him know who’s master. He’ll be here soon.’

'I'll enjoy the encounter between the bull and the sheep. Will the bull savage the creature?’

‘Nay, my friend. But I’ll have some sport with him.’

They laughed together and in due course Anselm arrived to see the King.

He was brought into the chamber and was clearly not pleased to see the insolent Ranulf present.

‘I would have speech with my lord alone.’ he said.

The arrogance of these priests, thought Rufus cocking an eye at Ranulf. They understood each other well and it was not always necessary to speak their thoughts. Ranulf raised his eyebrows in a manner which suggested he agreed.

‘You need feel no shyness in the presence of my good friend here.’ said Rufus.

Ranulf smiled insolently at the Archbishop.

‘What I have to say to you, my lord...’

‘Can be said in the presence of Ranulf. Pray proceed.’

‘There is disquiet in the country because you, my lord, have not kept the promises you made to the people when the taxes were collected to pay the Duke of Normandy.’

‘Promises!’ said Rufus. ‘What should they care for promises when their King now holds Normandy? My brother Robert is going to find it somewhat difficult to regain the Duchy.’

‘They only wish, my lord, that those promises which were made to them should be kept.’

Dreary old Anselm! His place was in a monastery. They should never have brought him from Bee to try to play politics. Rufus for all his flippant manner was well aware of the conflicts which could arise between the Church and the State. It was like a measure they danced, each jostling for the better position. The Church of England would have to learn it could not usurp the power of the King. For all his religious feeling the Conqueror had never allowed that. He had respected Lanfranc; he had listened to Lanfranc and kept on good terms with him; all the same there had never been any doubt who was the ruler of England. Nor should there be now. William II’s rule should be as absolute as that of William I.

‘Tell me the true reason for your coming here.’ said Rufus.

‘You know, my lord, the conditions of my accepting the See of Canterbury.’

‘Ha! Here we have a monk of a little Norman monastery making terms with a king.’