The Lion of Justice (20 page)

The brewer said that it was a sin that men should be imprisoned for breaking no laws; and for a cultivated man – and he was wise enough to know one when he saw one – it was doubly irksome.

‘I carried out the laws, but not on my own behalf, my friend. I did it for the King. I was his servant. I did for him what you would do for any of your customers.'

The brewer nodded sagely.

‘I am no ordinary prisoner. Athough my property is in the hands of those who took it from me, I hope to regain it one
day and when I do I shall remember my friends. But I am here, and while I am here I can do nothing.'

‘Where would your lordship go if you escaped from here?'

Ranulf pretended to hesitate. Then he said earnestly.

‘I see that you are a man of wit and courage. Forgive me for hesitating. So much is at stake.'

Flattered out of all good sense, the brewer said, ‘You may trust me, my lord sir.'

‘I know it. I would go to Normandy.'

‘How would you do that?'

‘If I could get out from this place, if a horse was waiting for me, if a boat was waiting to take me over the water . . . then I could get to Normandy.'

‘How could this be, my lord?'

‘I have friends. I shall regain everything one day and I shall never forget those who help me.'

The brewer's cupidity showed in his eyes. The oaf is considering what he will gain, thought Ranulf.

He was right. The brewer was considering. He was easily prevailed upon to take messages to Ranulf's friends outside.

It was in this manner that he learned that the Duke of Normandy was dallying in Italy. He seemed to be so taken with the daughter of Count Geoffrey that he could not tear himself away from her. The months were passing, and instead of returning to Normandy he remained in Italy.

Yes, Robert was the one for him. He could govern Robert as he had not been able to govern Rufus even.

The brewer had played his part well, and it had come to the vital stages of Ranulf's plan. It was surprising how so much depended on this poor tradesman.

There were two casks of wine sent in to him. He looked into one. This contained rich red wine; he looked into the other. Good man! Inside it, curled round and round, was a thick rope.

He said to his guards, ‘I have a new cask of wine. You must come and sample it.'

They were nothing loath. In fact there was little they enjoyed as much as an hour or so in the company of this unusual prisoner.

He could amuse them with his stories of the late King's Court. What a place it had been, by his account! He would mince round the cell, describing the manners and customs of the King's friends until he had them helpless with laughter. And he always had a supply of good wine, too. Very often they left his cell a little tipsy.

‘Welcome, welcome!' he cried.

He looked round. There were three men to be taken care of: his own special guard, whose duty it was never to leave him unobserved for more than a minute or two at a time; the keeper of the door of that part of the White Tower in which they were: and another whose duty it was to prowl round every hour for inspection.

‘Well, my friends, what think you of this brew?'

‘Excellent. Excellent.'

‘Better than the last?'

‘Well, my lord, I couldn't rightly say as to that.'

‘Drink up, then, and put it to the test.'

They could not agree on it, by good fortune, so he kept them testing and drinking so that they lost count of the amount they had taken.

He then began to amuse them once more with stories of the Court, never forgetting to fill and refill their glasses.

The keeper of the outer door was the first to succumb: he slumped from his stool and lay on the floor in a stupor.

This unfortunately seemed to sober the others.

‘We should drink no more, sir. Look at him.'

‘He could never hold his wine. He is something of a low fellow who has never learned the gentlemanly trick. Now you two are different. I have always known that. You could hold your drink with the rest of us. I'll warrant you can stand up to it as well as I can.'

They had not been aware, the simple fools, that while they had been engaged in the testing, he had drunk nothing. Flattery was the weapon to use against these people. They could not resist it.

He knew that it would not be long before he had reduced those two to the state of stupor which had overtaken their fellow guard.

Nor was it.

There they were muttering to themselves – three men, overcome by the intoxication of good strong wine!

There was no time to lose; at any moment, one of these men might be aroused sufficiently from his stupor to know what was happening.

He drew the rope from the cask. He attached one end to the staple near the window. It was a pity it was not nearer, for the drop to the ground was far.

He looked out of the window and a feeling of apprehension overtook him. It was indeed a long drop and he had to rely on the security of the rope attached to the staple.

It was strong and coarse and he had bruised hands merely in tying it.

He let it out of the window, then cautiously clinging to it, lowered himself.

The agony! He had forgotten to ask for gloves. The coarse rope was taking the skin off his hands and they were raw and bleeding. He was dangling at the end of the rope which was far too short, and there remained a long distance between the end of it and the ground.

Fool, he thought. Why had not the brewer sent a longer rope? But the man had sent the longest that would go into the cask.

What now? Was he to wait here dangling at the end of a rope until he was captured. He could not if he wished to. His poor bleeding hands would not endure it.

He must take the risk.

He let go and fell.

Pain enveloped him; he was almost fainting, but he dared not do that. He could see the horse tied to a block a few yards away. His friends had done their part and he must get up. He must forget the pain. He stood.

Yes, he could stand, so it seemed his legs had not been broken.

He staggered to the horse, ready, saddled, waiting.

They had not failed him.

He mounted, and galloped off towards the coast.

Geoffrey, Count of Conversana, had watched the growing friendship between his daughter and Robert of Normandy,
and it occurred to him that a match between them would be a good one as far as his daughter was concerned. The Duke of Normandy, if he could regain his lands, was a man of great importance and as there was a possibility that he might be King of England also, the marriage would be a brilliant one for Sibyl.

He found an opportunity of broaching the matter as they sat in his gardens overlooking his vineyards and Robert remarked that it was time he moved on. Not that he necessarily meant it. He had been talking of leaving ever since he came; but there would always be something to detain him – a ball, a banquet, which Sibyl would point out would be spoiled by his absence.

‘Yes, I must depart,' mused Robert. ‘I have stayed over long.'

‘My lord Duke,' replied the Count, ‘you could not stay too long under my roof.'

‘You have been a gracious host to me. I shall never forget you . . . or your delightful daughter.'

‘I wish you all luck in your return to Normandy, my lord.'

‘I need it, Geoffrey. I need it as I rarely needed it before. I have heard that my brother Rufus is dead. Killed in the New Forest as my brother Richard was. And Henry has taken the throne of England.'

‘Has he a right to do this, my lord?'

‘Nay. England should be mine. Rufus and I made a pact that if I died before him I would leave him Normandy and if he died before me he would leave me England. Of course I needed money to make my journey to the Holy Land and I borrowed from Rufus, giving him Normandy as security.'

‘You will redeem Normandy as soon as you return?'

‘I have not the means to do this: 10,000 marks is the sum I need; I cannot do this. But I shall succeed. I shall not allow my brother Henry to take the throne of England from me. I shall regain Normandy, never fear . . . and England too . . . but I need the money if I am honourably to take Normandy out of pawn.'

‘And where will you find this money, my lord?'

‘I have good friends in Normandy.'

‘Your charm and grace have given you good friends wherever you go.'

‘I trust that you are one of them, Count.'

‘My lord, you never had a better, and I could be closer than a friend. Let me explain. You need 10,000 marks, the sum for which you put Normandy in pawn to Rufus. I have a marriageable daughter. Her dowry would be 10,000 marks if the Duke of Normandy would be prepared to take her.'

‘My dear good friend! I can think of nothing better. I love your daughter, and I venture to think she does not regard me with distaste.'

‘Well then, 'tis settled.'

‘I will first ask the Lady Sibyl if she will take me.'

‘She will take you, my lord. Her father will insist on that.'

‘I would rather the lady chose me of her own free will.'

He knew that she would do so most gladly. Nor was he disappointed.

Before he left Conversana he and Sibyl were married, and together and by slow stages, being lavishly entertained on the way, they made the journey back to Normandy.

MALTIDA WAS HAPPY
. The long years of incarceration in the Abbeys of Rumsey and Wilton under the strict rule of Aunt Christina were like an evil dream; yet she often told herself she could never have appreciated her happiness quite so whole-heartedly if she had not been able to contrast it with all that wretchedness.

Henry was a wonderful husband. He was tender and loving – and not only this, he quickly realized that she was a woman of unusual education and as he was more learned than most men, this gave them a great deal in common.

He talked to her as though she were one of his ministers, and more frankly, for while he must necessarily be on his guard with them he knew that he never need be with her. She would be loyal in every way.

Henry himself was far from displeased with his marriage. His Matilda was no Nesta but it had not been expected she would be; all the same he very often thought longingly of his one-time mistress and envied Gerald of Windsor. But affairs of state occupied him to the full, so perhaps it was as well that he must dispense with the tempestuous, demanding passion he indulged in with Nesta and should be content with the pleasant marital relationship he enjoyed with his wife.

He shared her delight when she became pregnant, and again and again she asked herself what joy there could possibly be in life to compare with bringing a family into the world. Sometimes she was afraid of her happiness. Was Aunt Christina right? Was it sinful to be so happy?

She remembered the vow she had made that if she could but be saved from the veil she would follow the pious habits of her mother.

As it was Lent, she went to Westminster Abbey dressed in a shirt of hair cloth – a reminder of the Benedictine robe – and gave alms. At the same time she insisted on washing and kissing the feet of the poor.

On one occasion Henry, who had been unaware of this activity, came to the Abbey with one of his knights while she was engaged on this. He was astonished.

He went to her and cried, ‘Matilda! What are you doing here?'

‘My duty,' she answered. ‘Will you not join me?'

He shook his head and walked away. She thought he was displeased, and this was the first cloud over her happiness.

She was apprehensive when they were alone together.

He said, ‘I had no idea that you performed such deeds.'

‘My mother did, and I vowed that if I could escape from the Abbey I would do likewise.'

‘What if there were lepers among them?'

‘My mother washed the feet of lepers.'

He frowned and she asked fearfully, ‘Have I displeased you?'

He took her face in his hands. ‘Nay, nay, 'twas done from the goodness of your heart, and that heart I have learned most gratefully is kind and loving.'

‘I feared greatly that you were angry.'

‘Nay, never with you, my Queen.'

He was thinking: The people were impressed by. it and we have great need to impress the people.

‘So you will not forbid this?'

‘Nay, my love. Rather do I applaud it. But remember the child. In no way must we imperil that.'

‘You are so good to me, so kind,' she said and there were tears in her eyes.

It was one of those occasions when he wondered what she would feel when she discovered the truth about him, which he supposed she would in due course. When he began bringing his illegitimate children to Court and bestowing favours on them, which indeed he must, he hoped she would not be too badly hurt. It might well be that by that time she would have more understanding of the world. But it was disconcerting when she showed so clearly that she looked upon him as a knight of shining purity. He supposed he was growing fond of her.

He was more at ease talking of affairs of state.

‘Matilda,' he said, ‘if ever I should have to go out of the country I should make you my Regent, and for this reason you must know how I govern and what is happening in the realm.'

She looked apprehensive, and he knew it was not because she was afraid of the task but because he would have to go on some expedition which might be perilous.

‘Why should you have to go?'

‘Perhaps to Normandy,' he said. ‘My brother Robert is claiming England.'

‘But he is the Duke of Normandy and Normandy is in pawn to England.'

‘The debt has been settled. He has married and the lady's dowry has paid his debt. Moreover, she is with child. Men become ambitious for their children.'

‘He has laid claim to the throne, then?'

‘Ay and he has many supporters – not only in Normandy but here. Ranulf Flambard has escaped from the White Tower. He is in Normandy now. It is men such as he that I fear rather than my brother. Robert is too lazy to carry
through any enterprise with success. But when he is backed by men like Ranulf we must take the threat very seriously indeed.'