The Lion of Justice (30 page)

Robert of Bellême, commanding the rearguard of the Duke's army, and becoming aware that defeat was inevitable, made his escape, and not only did Robert of Mortain fall prisoner to Henry, but Robert of Normandy also. Perhaps more important, too, one of the captives was Robert's six-year-old son William, known as the Clito. Henry, realizing that although at this time he could be said to hold Normandy in his hands and that the battle of Tinchebrai was a decisive one, like his father before him he would have to hold the Duchy, and this would be no easy task. His father had found it one of the utmost difficulty even before he became King of England, and to hold both titles, King and Duke, had meant a life spent in battle.

There would be uprisings and Henry wanted to make sure that there was no heir of Normandy who could win adherents to his side. Robert had proved himself useless as a ruler and even the staunchest Norman was realizing this; but a child was always appealing.

He discussed with his generals and advisers what would be done with the prisoners. Duke Robert and Mortain should be taken to England and held there. The boy, too.

No, said those Normans who had been won to his side. That would be disastrous. There would be an immediate uprising if the boy was taken out of Normandy.

‘There will be risings if he remains,' countered Henry.

‘When he grows older, mayhap, but to take the boy to England and imprison him would mean that the indignation of the people would be aroused to such an extent that they would immediately rise against you. Beaten as they are they would rally to his cause and fight with more spirit than they have shown at Tinchebrai.'

Henry was at length persuaded to this point of view and agreed that the boy should be placed in the hands of one of his many kinsmen. He saw the wisdom of it but he knew that while the boy was free he would have to be very watchful.

Robert, brought before him as a captive, was too proud to
plead for himself but he did ask that his son be well looked after.

‘What will you do with me?' asked Robert. ‘Shall you remember our boyhood days?'

‘What I shall do with you you will discover. Yes, I remember our boyhood days. There was an occasion when you were ready to kill Rufus and me because we threw water down from a balcony on you and your friends.'

‘I was young and headstrong and you were children to be taught a lesson.'

‘You would have killed us if our father had not prevented you.'

‘It was just a flash of family temper.'

‘Robert, you have been a fool throughout your life . . . from the days when you attempted to pit your strength against our father. Now you have done the same towards your brother. You were doomed to failure in both these enterprises. Take your reward now and blame no one but yourself.'

‘Nor shall I if you preserve my son.'

‘Rest assured he shall not be harmed as long as he obeys his Duke.'

‘I shall see that he obeys me.'

‘You forget Robert there is a new Duke of Normandy and that is not you.'

‘You are a hard man, Henry, as hard as our father.'

‘You could not compliment me more than to make this comparison.'

Robert turned away in desolation. He knew that he could expect little mercy from Henry.

Very soon after, he was sent to England, there to be lodged at Wareham.

‘He is my brother,' said Henry, ‘so let him have some comforts. But in prison he must remain.'

His uncle, Robert of Mortain, was less humanely treated. His eyes were put out as a warning to any who did not obey Henry, the new Duke of Normandy. None would be spared, however close to him, as they would see from the example of Robert of Mortain, the remainder of whose life would be spent within the walls of a prison he would never see.

He meant this as a warning to those who hoped in due course to set up William the Clito. What he had ordered should be done to an uncle would also be done to a nephew should he warrant it.

He was very uneasy that the boy should be left free in Normandy, but he saw the wisdom of not alienating his new Norman subjects.

Another who was taken prisoner at Tinchebrai was Edgar Atheling. The King asked that he be brought to him and when he saw the old man he felt a mingling of contempt and pity.

‘So,' he said, ‘you fought against your niece's husband. What do you think Matilda will say to that?'

‘Matilda must know that I must be loyal to my friends,' replied Edgar.

‘I had thought I was your friend.'

‘I deplore these wars,' said Edgar.

‘Of a certainty when you are on the losing side.'

‘Nay, Henry. I would we could all live in peace. Robert was ever my friend, as you know, and I felt it my duty to support him. England is yours and, as I see it, your father Intended him to have Normandy.'

‘You know full well that my father hated Robert. He saw through him as a feckless fool.'

‘But he left him Normandy.'

‘Because of a long-ago promise to our mother.'

‘Nevertheless it was his.'

‘Know this, Edgar Atheling: I had my father's blessing at Tinchebrai.'

‘You had better troops, and a better general.'

Henry laughed. ‘Well, you are in my hands now.'

‘And you must do what you will to me.'

‘I shall release you for two reasons. One because I have nothing to fear from you and the other because you are Matilda's uncle and she is fond of you. It would grieve her if aught ill befell you. You may thank her for your release.'

Edgar lowered his head and the King went on, ‘You will come to England and there keep out of further mischief.'

‘I thank you, Henry.'

Henry waved his hand dismissing him.

There were some men in life, he mused, who were doomed to failure. Robert, his brother, was one and Matilda's old uncle was another.

Henry was fully aware that the battle for Normandy had only just begun. He might call himself the Duke, but he had yet to win over his new subjects. Just as he was accepted in England because he had been born on English soil and educated there, so in Normandy he was reckoned an alien. If he was to win the people of Normandy to his cause he must constantly remind them that his father had been the greatest Norman of them all and, even though circumstances had been such that his parents were in England at the time of his birth, he was none the less the Conqueror's son.

He made himself agreeable to his new subjects. First of all he wanted them to understand, as his English subjects did, that he wished to bring law and order to their country.

He knew that he would find most favour with the people if he showed himself to be of a pious nature, so he made a point of going to church when he passed through every town.

He had always been very proud of his hair, which he wore long and in ringlets. It was his finest feature and many said it was the second reason – the first being his crown – why so many women found him irresistible. He wore it in long curls which hung about his shoulders; he also flaunted a luxuriant beard and side pieces. As the King adopted a fashion, as a matter of course so did his Court and the men's hair was as much an adornment as that of the women. The fashion had started in the reign of Rufus, when court manners and mode of dress had been decidedly effeminate. There was nothing effeminate about Henry except his luxuriant curls and it was solely because he possessed such bountiful growth that he had allowed the fashion to remain.

The Normans had been astonished by the appearance of the English and had mistakenly thought that they would be easily beaten in battle. It was a Saxon custom to wear the hair long, but the fashions set by men of Rufus's court had been greatly exaggerated.

In the church of Seez where the Bishop was preaching, Henry and a party of his followers took their places in order to join in the service and show the inhabitants that they were
a godly band. They were unprepared for the sermon, the theme of which was vanity.

‘Men who look like women,' thundered the Bishop, ‘are the prey of the Evil One.' He went on to talk of the fashion which could only be offensive in the eyes of God. He believed that those who flaunted their locks as women might be forgiven for doing, would find them consumed eternally in the fires of hell. Such hairy men reminded him of goats.

Everyone was awaiting their cue from the King. Would he rise and demand the arrest of the Bishop? Have his eyes put out declaring that since he could not look with pleasure on the hair of Englishmen he should not be able to look at all?

Henry was indeed angry. How dared the man speak thus to his conqueror. His father would have fallen in one of his wild rages. But who could imagine the Conqueror with curls? Henry's anger was cool; it gave him time to reason. He had to win these Normans and he would do so.

He pretended to be affected. ‘Yes,' he answered the Bishop, ‘we have been sinful. We have been over-vain of our hair. We have displeased God by our vanity.'

The Bishop came to the King and said, ‘My Lord, I see that you are as wise as men say, and that you will repent in time and set a good example to your subjects.'

‘It is what I shall always strive to do,' said the King.

The Bishop then took a pair of scissors from his robes.

‘Then, my lord,' he said, ‘you will give those assembled here the opportunity of seeing that you are a man who means what he says. If your lordship will be seated I will remove that which is offensive to God, and the people of Normandy will rejoice in their Duke.'

Henry was aware of his men watching him. It was an awkward moment. He could snatch the scissors from the fellow's hands and order his arrest. But only for a moment did he hesitate. Then he sat down. Whereupon the Bishop triumphantly cut off his curls and not content with that cut off his beard and side pieces also.

Nonplussed but determined not to show it, Henry ordered the Bishop to shear his friends also.

That day he sent out an order. No man was to wear his hair long. The fashion for curls was over.

Crossing back to England Henry was elated. He had ceased to regret his hair. He had his prisoners; he had his dukedom; he was victorious.

When he landed he was greeted not only by Matilda but by his cheering subjects.

On the very day of the month forty years after the Normans had conquered England the English had conquered Normandy. Henry was English born, English bred. He was their King. He was their Lion of Justice, and although they had suffered cruel taxation to finance the war it had been worthwhile.

Matilda was at first shocked and then amused by the shearing of his locks. He himself was able to laugh at the incident now and ask himself how a great King and conqueror could ever have thought it admirable to look like a woman.

All had been well in his absence and he was longing to see his children. He was prepared to enjoy for a brief respite the cosy domesticity of his home.

He told Matilda of his triumphs and that his brother was his prisoner and should remain so that he might not make trouble again.

‘He will be well treated,' said Matilda apprehensively.

‘I knew you would wish that,' replied Henry. ‘Yes, he will be treated well, but you understand that I must keep him in close confinement.'

Matilda nodded.

‘There is something else I must tell you. Your uncle Edgar is my prisoner also.'

He saw the alarm in her eyes and for a moment let her imagine the horrible death which could overtake her uncle if her husband gave the word.

‘Do not fear,' he said tenderly ‘No harm shall befall him. For your sake I have pardoned him. He will never rise against me again, but will live in peace. He has learned his lesson.'

He was rewarded by her gratitude. At least, he thought, if I am not a faithful husband I am a considerate one.

He wanted to hear more of what had been happening and she told him that her sister was sending her daughter to Bermondsey and they might have her at Court from time to time; he replied that as his nephew Stephen of Blois would be
joining them in due course they would have a merry family of children.

She assured him that very soon they would be able to hold court at Windsor, for Gundulph had excelled himself and she was sure the King would be pleased with his new castle.

But first home to Westminster where they would feast and revel because of his safe return. There the finest deer would be roasted and she would see that some of his favourite lampreys were prepared for him.

It was a wonderful homecoming and he was determined to enjoy it, for he knew in his heart that Normandy, though it had fallen into his hands, was going to be as slippery as an eel to hold.

IN THE COTTON GARDEN,
at the Palace of Westminster, the royal children were at play. This was Matilda's own garden which she often tended herself, growing herbs which she used for medicines, and the flowers she liked best.

They had been warned not to pick the flowers unless given special permission, but the young Matilda for this very reason must show the others that such rules did not apply to her.

‘
You
may not pick them, but I may.'

‘We were told all of us were not to,' William reminded her.

She looked at her brother. ‘That does not mean me.'

‘But it does,' insisted William.

Their companions, children of the Court nobles, looked on with interest. There were often differences of opinion between the royal pair, from which Matilda invariably emerged the victor.

Matilda said, ‘You are younger than I, so be quiet.'

‘I am the heir, though,' William reminded her. ‘Not you.'

‘You are not,' she said hotly.

‘But,' put in one of the other children boldly, ‘the boy is always the next King.'

Matilda's eyes flashed. ‘If you talk of the next King that's treason because it means my father has to die first. You will be taken to the White Tower and your eyes will be put out.'