Hellion (21 page)

Belle stepped around in front of her husband, looking anxiously into his face. “Will it be soon?” she asked him.

He nodded. “I expect a summons any day now, ma Belle. As I came back across the countryside from Worcester, I heard much gossip. Many of the great Norman lords have already shown their disloyalty to King Henry. The king sent ships out in an effort to stop Duke Robert from his folly, but some of the captains have gone over to the enemy. For the moment, the brothers but spar with one another. Soon, however, there will be war; a war for England. I had hoped that this war would be fought in Normandy, but it would seem that King Henry will make his brother come to him, that he fight this battle on his own ground.”

“Then that is why Richard dared to come here,” Belle said, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Ohhh! I did not tell you!”

“Tell me what,
chérie
?” he asked her.

“I meant to tell you last night, but I was distracted in the bath, and then
afterward.
” Her eyes met his, and she could not help the giggle that escaped her. Then she grew serious. “While you were gone away, my lord, my brother, the Sieur de Manneville, came to Langston claiming to be its rightful lord. I sent him packing.” Then she explained.

“You did not even allow him the courtesy of remaining the night under our roof?” he said, astounded, and then he laughed. “You were wise, Belle. You did well.”

“That is what Rolf said,” she replied.

“How in all of this did you manage to get your mother to wed with my steward?” he inquired, more curious now than he had been before.

“When Richard saw he could not force his man upon me, he suggested the fellow marry my mother. I told my brother that Mother was already married to Rolf, and Father Bernard backed me up. Of course, after Richard had departed, my mother had no choice but to wed Rolf. Father Bernard swore it would be a blot on his immortal soul if she did not,” Belle finished, laughing.

“You trapped your quarry quite neatly,” Hugh approved. “I am glad you love me, ma Belle, and are not my enemy.”

“Oh, for all her protests to the contrary,” Belle said, “my mother is quite content to be Rolf’s wife. He is nothing like my father. The lady Alette will, I am quite certain, rule her roost without any interference from her besotted husband. We must soon send to Northamptonshire for stone to build them a house of their own, my lord.”

“I would attach it to the keep,” he said, “thereby making a second tower within the bailey. Its entry will be only through our hall, for safety’s sake.”

“That will take several years’ time to build, my lord,” Belle
noted. “Can we not build them a house of wood until their tower is completed? With my mother’s child due between Christmas and Twelfth Night, we will soon be crowded out, particularly if I should have a child.”

“Are you with child?” he asked eagerly.

Belle shook her head regretfully. “Not yet,” she said sadly.

“You are young,” he told her. “There is time.”

“But what if you are killed in this war?” Belle suddenly cried.

“I will not be,” he said with such certainty that she believed him. “I have too much to live for, ma Belle,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Impulsively, she flung herself against his chest, silently imploring his reassurance and his comfort. “I will kill you, Hugh Fauconier, if anything should happen to you,” she told him with perfect illogic.

Three days later the king’s messenger arrived, summoning Sir Hugh Fauconier, lord of Langston Keep, and his steward, Sir Rolf de Briard, to the defense of England in King Henry’s name. They were to bring with them twenty men, trained and armed at Hugh’s expense. Their term of service would be until England was secured in King Henry’s name.

Chapter 8

T
hey were alone again, Isabelle and her mother, but it was different this time. Different from this same time last year. Different from only five months ago. Now she and Alette were both married. Her father dead. Her mother expecting another child. One thing had not changed, however. Langston was still hers. Once again it had been left in her keeping, but now she knew how to husband it better. Now she had the support of Father Bernard. Hugh was gone, and Rolf as well. The two young squires she had not even gotten to know yet were gone, and twenty of Langston’s best young men with them. The knights and their squires had left upon horseback; the Langston men, archers all, on foot, their crossbows slung across their broad backs.

She watched them all go, looking into each familiar face as they stood in the bailey waiting to leave. How many of those familiar faces would not come home, she wondered mournfully, suddenly aware for the first time of how truly serious this all was. She had clutched her husband’s hand then, silently pleading with him to have a care, to come home to her. Isabelle could not ask him to remain. She knew it was impossible. She would not shame Hugh Fauconier publicly before Rolf and his men.

“Work every day with Couper. Lind will instruct you in exactly what you must do. I want to see great improvement in the merlin when I return home, ma Belle. We will hunt together, you and I.”

“Will this be a long war, my lord?” Belle wondered.

He shook his head. “I do not think so,
chérie
. While I am gone, however, I expect you to take good care of Langston, even as you have in the past. I will come back to you by autumn.” He brushed her lips lightly and then left her.

Midsummer’s eve came, and Belle gave the serfs a holiday from their labors that they might celebrate. The fields and gardens were lush with growth, and all signs pointed to an excellent harvest. At Langston there was no word at all as to what was happening. They were so far off the beaten track that unless a message was specifically bound for Langston, they were not likely to hear anything. In one sense Isabelle thought it was a relief; but in another it was torture.

That night the lady of Langston stood upon the walls of the keep, silently watching the midsummer fires. She could see the shadowy figures of the dancers nearest the keep. It was a primitive celebration, and Belle, knowing what all the passionate dancing would lead to, longed for her husband. Alette, however, through the early weeks of her confinement and beginning to show just the faintest of bellies, was placid and content as Isabelle had never seen her.

“How can you be so calm not knowing what is happening?” she demanded irritably of her parent. “There could have been some horrendous battle. Hugh and Rolf might be horribly wounded!”

“Then they would be brought home so we might nurse them,” Alette responded reasonably. “If you are not going to eat that dish of cherries, Isabelle, I would be obliged if you would give them to me. They are absolutely delicious. Why, you haven’t even tasted them.”

“I don’t want them, madame,” Belle replied shortly. She hated not knowing what was happening. When her father had gone with Duke Robert on his crusade, she had not cared, for she was but a heedless child, but now it was her husband who had gone off, and she loved him. She couldn’t understand how
Alette, if she really loved Rolf, could be so composed and so tranquil. It was absolutely aggravating! Still, the entire countryside seemed wrapped in summer, and very placid.

And it was peaceful. The king’s position was a relatively strong one. He had made alliances with both King Philip of France and the Count of Flanders, a relation. Neither France nor Flanders wanted to see England and Normandy united again. It was best that the warring brothers be kept separate, and each in his own domain. Henry’s other ally was the Archbishop of Canterbury, Anselm, who had been exiled during most of William Rufus’s reign. One of Henry’s first acts had been to recall the archbishop, who preached in favor of Henry’s claim to England’s throne. The king’s enemies, however, were some of the most powerful of the Anglo-Norman lords. They hoped that with Henry deposed and gone, and Duke Robert, a fine soldier, but an incompetent ruler who would more than likely remain in Normandy, in his place, they would be free to rule England. The most dangerous of these lords was Robert de Belleme, who held the Welsh marches. He was both ruthless and cruel, and cared only for his family’s advantage.

In July word came via a passing peddler that the Norman fleet had been sighted. Their current course would bring them to England in the vicinity of Pevensey. Duke Robert, instead, landed to the south at Portsmouth on July 19. He and his army headed for London, but Henry, a fierce fighter and far better tactician than his eldest brother, quickly moved his forces to check Duke Robert. William the Conqueror’s two surviving sons met on the London road. Archbishop Anselm stood between them, negotiating the treaty that would spare England another fruitless war.

King Henry would concede his Norman holdings to Duke Robert, and pay his brother two thousand marks of silver each year. Those who had turned traitor against Henry would be pardoned, and their lands restored. Whichever of the brothers died first, and without legitimate male issue, the survivor
would inherit his sibling’s holdings. Since Queen Matilda was with child, this last was thought irrelevant, especially as Robert’s duchess was also young and would surely bear sons.

The king, his face long and sad, waited with bated breath for the duke to accept the terms as dictated by Archbishop Anselm.
Take the terms, my dull-witted elder brother
, Henry silently prayed. He sighed gustily, and was hard put to keep from shouting his triumph when Duke Robert, grinning, certain he had bested his little brother, said, “Done, by God!”

“God bless you both, my sons,” the archbishop said piously. “You have saved us all much suffering. Both Normandy and England will praise your names. My clerks will draw up the compact between you, and you will sign it in the morning. For now, let us eat together.”

An enormous tent had been set up in the center of the English camp for the nobles to feast together. A rough high board had been fashioned, and three chairs were set behind it. Archbishop Anselm sat in the center, the king to one side of him, the duke on his left hand. Below, tables and benches were placed, and with much merriment the celebration began. Servants ran back and forth bringing trenchers of bread and pitchers of wine. Outside, whole sheep, sides of beef, and whole pigs roasted over open fires. Musicians moved about this temporary hall, playing and singing. For all the supposed goodwill, the king’s adherents stayed on one side of the tent and the duke’s men on the other.

Henry was feeling quite mellowed now. He had avoided a very nasty conflict by virtue of his own cleverness. Two thousand marks of silver was little enough to pay for England’s throne. Not that he couldn’t have beaten Robert in a contest of arms. His foolish brother’s withdrawal, Henry thought, would give him time to consolidate his position further. The northern border with Scotland was secured by his marriage to the sister of Scotland’s king. And England would be further secured by the removal of those traitors who now sat eating his meat and drinking his wine, comforted by the belief that he had
pardoned them. Well, he would not destroy them for this particular fault. But he would find others, and he would rid England of men like Robert de Belleme, who held the Welsh marches in his tight grip. Shortly he would not. And I will have Normandy, too, Henry thought coldly. Not today, and perhaps not tomorrow, but I will have it all the same within five years. He smiled to himself, his eyes sweeping about the room, mentally noting the disloyal, and those loyal to him as well. He saw his childhood friend, Hugh Fauconier, with Rolf de Briard. They had answered his call, and come with twenty men who were well provisioned and, from the look of them, well-trained.

The king whispered to his page, “Go to Sir Hugh Fauconier and tell him that I would see him and Sir Rolf de Briard in my tent when this evening is over.”

“Yes, my lord,” the boy replied, and hurried off to do his master’s bidding.

Henry saw Hugh nod curtly in answer to the page’s summons. He smiled. Faithful Hugh. He remembered his mother telling him as a child that Hugh, treated with courtesy and respect, would be the best friend he would ever have. He could almost hear his mother’s sweet voice even now, over the din in the tent. He could see her pretty face. Her youngest child, he had been her favorite, the one to whom she had left all of her English holdings.

“Hugh Fauconier may not be a great lord, or the son of a great lord, Henry,” his mother had told him, “but he has good breeding. The line of Merlin-sone descends from a younger son of the kings of Mercia. His father’s people were cousins of the lady Godiva, the Earl of Wessex’s wife, which is why they followed Harold Godwinson into battle at Hastings. Once they pledge their loyalty, they are true to it. Hugh’s maternal grandfather pledged his faith to your father as King Edward’s heir long before the battle which won your father England. They are not a powerful family, nor have they great riches. Their strength is in their loyalty, and their honesty. Gain Hugh Fauconier’s
true friendship, Henry, and this Saxon lordling will always serve you well. You will find as you grow older, my son, that good and faithful friends are as rare as hen’s teeth.”