The Lion of Justice (6 page)

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 understand 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 you 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 up your mind to become a nun. That you have already taken some of your vows.'