The Lion of Justice (38 page)

During the battle Clito was unhorsed; he managed to escape but the horse was captured – a magnificent creature, caparisoned in the most elaborate fashion. None could doubt that such a horse had belonged to the son of Robert of Normandy, for so magnificent was it that it must have cost a fortune to make it so.

Henry laughed aloud when the horse was brought to him.

‘The Clito's horse, sire. He was unseated.'

‘And escaped?' asked Henry.

‘Alas, sire. As soon as he fell he was surrounded by a strong force who held off his attacker, who was slain. Before more of our men should take him he was hustled away.'

‘I would rather have him than his horse,' said Henry, ‘for while he lives he will find men to rally to his banner.'

But the battle was won: the Clito had been unhorsed, the King of France was in retreat. It was a victory.

‘William,' said Henry, ‘see what a fine horse your cousin rides?'

‘I never saw a horse so richly caparisoned, sir.'

‘These riches should have gone into equipping his men. One does not win battles with gold and bejewelled saddles, my son.'

‘Nay, father.'

‘Never make the mistake of extravagance. Your grandfather never did that.'

William nodded. He had been lectured many times on the need never to waste money. Henry knew to a penny what was spent on his campaigns and on his household. He had not been nicknamed Beauclerc for nothing. He could wield a pen as readily as any scribe and he enjoyed working with figures which must always balance.

‘Learn all you can of your grandfather's campaigns. He was the greatest ruler ever known. Listen to my advice, for I follow him. One day, William, you will step into my shoes. The death of your mother who was more than ten years younger than I, brings home this truth. I cannot live for ever. Then you will be King in my place. You must be ready, for as your mother was taken when we least expected it, so could I be.'

‘Father, I beg of you . . . stop. The subject is so distasteful to me.'

Henry laughed. ‘There, my son. We kings must face facts. There is little time in our lives for family feelings. You must be ready when the time comes. But a king cannot afford to make mistakes. Learn from the folly of your uncle Robert; and of the Clito – a wanderer one might say in search of his inheritance, yet who spends a fortune on a horse which he could, and has, lost in battle. Your grandfather was a richer man than the Clito could ever be. He was the richest man in England and Normandy, yet he would never have wasted a penny, as I do not. Nor must you. Take this horse, then. I give it to you. Make what use of it you wish.'

William took the horse and left his father.

In his tent, he thought of the horse – a noble creature. He
fancied it had a sad lost look in its eyes; and he thought of his own horse bereft of its master. The finer the horse the deeper its feelings. This was the Clito's horse and he loved his master.

He went out to the stable and looked at the horse again. He patted its neck and he felt the aloofness of the creature, who managed to show him a disdain he understood, as though it were saying: Do you think I am yours because you won me in battle?

The Clito had loved this horse. He had decked it out in this fashion because he wished to give it accoutrements worthy of it. William understood that, though his father did not.

How could he take his cousin's horse when it belonged to him? It was not like a town or a jewel. It was a living thing. Nothing on earth could make this horse his. It would fret for its master.

William knew, then, that he could never be a king as his grandfather had been or his father was. He could not count his possessions and revel because they were so large and plan how to enhance them. William wanted to live. He wanted to be a king, yes; and he knew that a king had to go into battle. It would always be necessary for a king to fight to hold what he had, to gain more than he had. It was part of kingship.

He was joined by his cousin Stephen, who had come to look at the horse.

‘What a beauty!' cried Stephen. ‘Look at this cloth! These jewels are worth a fortune.'

‘So my father says. The Clito is a fool to have wasted money which could have gone into more useful things.'

‘But what a sight! And it is yours.'

‘I feel I have no right to it.'

Stephen surveyed William intently. William was too gentle, too honest for kingship, he decided. He wondered what would happen to the kingdom under him. He would be his close friend and cousin, and William would honour him. Their lives would be bound together. How often had he wished that he had been Henry's son instead of his nephew; being older than William he would have been the heir. Sometimes, he thought that Henry wished that too.

‘You have a right to what has been honourably won in battle,' said Stephen.

‘This horse pines for its master.'

‘It would soon forget.'

‘I think not.'

William continued to stroke the horse. ‘You see, he does not respond to me. He resents me. There is only one thing he wants from me and that is that I should send him back to the master he loves.'

Stephen laughed aloud at the thought, but William turned on him almost angrily. ‘That is what I am going to do,' he said.

Stephen stared in dismay. ‘Your father . . .'

‘I shall do it first and he will hear of it when it is done.'

He called a groom and said. ‘I want this horse taken into the enemy's camp. It is to be delivered to William the Clito, with my compliments.'

The groom thought the Prince had gone mad, but one did not question one's master's orders: one obeyed them.

The King said, ‘So you sent the horse back?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘With a fortune on its back!'

‘I am not a thief, my lord.'

‘You are a fool,' said Henry. ‘A man is not a thief for enjoying the spoils of war.'

‘I could not in good conscience take it.'

‘William, you are a fool.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And fools do not rule kingdoms.'

‘But a man must be at peace with himself, sir, and if he is not, how can he hope to be at peace with others? Peace is necessary to the prosperity of any land; and to have kept my cousin's horse would have seemed to me a violation of the rules of chivalry.'

Henry said, ‘Go, my son, I will think of what you say.'

Surprised, William left him. His father's reception of the news had been much milder than he had believed possible. Was he perhaps in a subdued mood because of the Queen's death, or did he in fact understand?

Later Henry spoke to him of the matter. ‘I believe you were right to send back the horse,' he said.

The expression of affection on his son's face was rewarding.

‘I am not sure about the rich caparisons.'

‘Nay, father, to have returned the horse without them would have seemed to me churlish.'

Henry nodded. Then he laughed aloud. ‘My son,' he said, ‘you have noble thoughts. You and I will spend more time together. You will have to learn when to be generous as you have been this day, and when it is necessary to be harsh. This gesture was not without merit although it has lost us the value of those jewels. But our enemies will see with what men they have to deal, and that is not a bad thing. They will know us to be just and virtuous in our thoughts. It may be that your actions will bring those who are wavering to our side. Then it would be worthwhile, as you see.'

William did see, but his father's motives and his were not quite the same.

‘So,' went on Henry, ‘we have lost a valuable horse and his splendid accoutrements. Let us hope we have gained in good will. But you have done this thing without consulting me, and it would seem that you now fancy yourself as a man capable of rule. Well, then, it is time you married. The ceremony must be delayed no longer. I fear your father-in-law may grow restive. Your wife is young . . . twelve years old, but Matilda went to her German Emperor at that age.'

‘I would lief wait awhile, father.'

‘Come, you are a laggard. And we cannot wait on your whims. This marriage must take place without delay. We have routed the enemy; now we must consolidate our gains. I need the help of Fulk of Anjou, and only when his daughter and my son are wed can I be sure of it. We shall leave for Burgundy forthwith, and there a very important young bride will be awaiting her husband.'

She was very young and her name was Alice, although the King said that he wished her to be known as Matilda.

‘It will give me great pleasure if this can be done,' said the King, ‘for deeply do I mourn my beloved and virtuous Queen.
And it will give her pleasure if, when looking down from Heaven, she sees her son married to another Matilda. My mother, too, was Matilda; my wife was Matilda, though she was christened Edith; and this beautiful child, this Alice, shall be another Matilda, too.'

Fulk did not care what his daughter was called, as long as she was the future Queen of England.

As for the girl herself, she was so enamoured of the handsome gentle youth who was to be her husband that she was as happy to change her name to Matilda as her father was for her to do so.

In the town of Lisieux there were great celebrations. Fulk was delighted with the honours done to him and that he had succeeded in making a brilliant match for his daughter. The King was under no illusion. He knew that this marriage was the price Fulk asked for his loyalty but he felt it was wise to pay it.

The young couple were charming to look upon, and there was great revelry in the neighbourhood, for everyone hoped that this marriage would bring the peace they so desired.

William was tender with his little bride, aware of her extreme youth. His cousin Stephen chided him and said that he was no husband, but William had no intention of frightening the child.

‘'Tis a pity,' said Stephen, ‘that we cannot marry where we will.' He was thinking of another Matilda, such a one as he had never known before, nor ever would, and the young meek Matilda who was now his wife. So many Matildas and all different! Only one was bold and exciting and what was she doing now? He did hear that her husband was indulgent towards her. Stephen laughed. Poor old man, trust Matilda to make sure of that. She was popular with her husband's German subjects. She spoke German well; she was cheered when she rode into the streets.

He could imagine her: bold, proud and exciting Matilda!

If he could have married her . . . If William had been killed in battle and the King, too, and Matilda were Queen of England and she married Stephen . . .

He was being foolish, indulging in impossible dreams; but in dreams he often saw a glittering crown that was being put on his head.

It was ridiculous. How could it possibly happen? There were too many in between, so he must be content with the lands his uncle would give him, and he must try to be satisfied with his mild little Matilda. There were other women and always would be. He would follow his uncle in his way of life. Others had done so before him. He and Matilda must get children and he would obtain grants and blessings for them from his uncle; and his cousin, he guessed, would be even more generous when he came to the throne.

It was a promising future, but he was near enough to the crown to covet it, and not near enough to be able to grasp it.

And so he gave himself up to the revelry; and often his nights were charmed by some fair maiden of Burgundy. His little wife was safe in England, no doubt longing for his return. That would not be long delayed for the King had been away from England for more than a year.

Matilda the Queen had died; and William the Prince was married.

It was time the royal party returned to England to assure themselves that all was well there.

HENRY COULD CONGRATULATE
himself. For the time being, at least, there was peace in Normandy. He had friends in useful places and he could afford to return to England, from which he had been away for nearly two years.

With his cavalcade he arrived at Barfleur, where his ships were waiting to carry him home. Among these was the beautiful
White Ship,
undoubtedly one of the finest in his fleet. He was filled with pride as he watched her dancing on the waters.

He was in his tent making the last preparations for leaving, which he liked to superintend himself and which gave him a chance to display his special talent and to assure himself that
all details were correct, when the captain of the
White Ship
asked for an audience.

Captain Fitz-Stephen was a man he respected and Henry was pleased to hear what he had to say.

‘I have a request to make, my lord,' he said.

‘Well then, make it,' replied the King.

‘I would like the honour of carrying the heir to the throne to England, sir.'

Henry, who had planned to sail in the
White Ship
himself, was momentarily silent. He could not sail in the same vessel as his son. That was a rule he had made, and it seemed fitting to him that the King should sail in the finest ship.

‘My lord,' went on Fitz-Stephen, ‘my father was captain of your father's ship the
Mora,
and he had the honour, of which he talked often, of carrying Great William to England in the year 1066.'

‘That was before I was born, Captain.'

‘Ay, sire, and he never forgot it. He made a sea captain of me and he said that he hoped one day I should enjoy as great an honour. If I could but take the Prince of England, sire, my father would look down in such pride that the angels would sing for us.'

Henry laughed.

‘So you would carry the Prince, not the King.'

‘I would follow your wishes, my lord.'

‘But you asked to carry the Prince.'

‘It came to me that I would like to carry the heir of England.'

‘So be it,' said the King. ‘I will not travel on the
White Ship
but will sail with my men. Let the Prince sail on that ship, and choose those of his friends whom he would wish to accompany him. I wish to sail with my gallant soldiers who have helped me to win this victory.'