The death of the red kin.., p.17
The Death of the Red King, page 17
“Our own father!” Duke Robert exclaimed.
“Precisely,” Anselm agreed. “When the Conqueror took up arms against Harold Godwinson, he appealed to Hildebrand, Pope Gregory VII, to approve his cause, alleging Harold was a usurper. Pope Gregory agreed. He sent your father a papal banner, divine confirmation through Christ’s Vicar on earth, of the justness of his quarrel with Godwinson. Pope Paschal might well have done the same.”
“But it did not happen,” Meulan intervened. “That did not happen and I doubt if it ever would.”
“Nonsense,” Anselm retorted. “Shortly after the Red King was killed, a papal legate arrived in this country. He came to warn the Red King but, of course, his abrupt death in the New Forest, as well as the policies, you Sire, had adopted, published and proclaimed, removed any need for him to act. No, no, if the Red King had not been killed, you, Duke Robert, would have become the champion, the holder of the papal banner, the divinely appointed vengeance against an infidel King. So let me ask –” Anselm leaned his elbows on the table, “– what would you have done then, Henry of England? Where would you have stood? What a hideous dilemma for you and the other great lords? If you stayed with William you would have also been God’s enemies, excommunicated, damned for all eternity to hell fire. If William your brother went down, he would drag you with him. However, if you separated yourself from your brother, you might well be on God’s side but, that does not necessarily mean that of the victors. If that happened, what then? You, my Lord King, many years ago had already rebelled against your kingly brother and been taught a sharp lesson. What would happen next time? Moreover, I have described Duke Robert’s celebrated return but did you really have confidence in his military ability? Let us forget about papal curses, the visions and dreams of monks. What would actually have happened on the battlefield? If the Red King was victorious what would be the fate of a younger brother like yourself, a rebel who’d taken part in a revolt and been defeated? You would have been driven out of England, out of Normandy, with no lands, no revenues and certainly no chance –” Anselm waved to the Queen sitting like a snow-maiden at the end of the table, “– no love, no wife. You would have become a wanderer, an exile in foreign courts, eating black bread, accepting charity, no place to call your own. Moreover, time was passing, you were over 30 years of age when your brother was killed, Mathilda was 20, there was an urgency both to your love as well as your need to act.”
Anselm stopped speaking. The atmosphere in the chamber was like that of a court-hall when the sentence of death was about to be announced and the executioner readies his noose. Anselm blithely ignored this but, picking up a taper, began to light more of the candles and then refilled everyone’s goblet. The King, his great lords and his lovely Queen sat expectantly. I could almost guess what Henry’s cunning brain was plotting; turning and twisting like a swallow beneath God’s heaven. What did Anselm truly intend? Was he there as judge and executioner, or something else? Anselm blew the taper out, sat down in the chair and lifted his own goblet. He toasted the assembled company and, turning, whispered to me. “Eadmer, remember this.” He squeezed my wrist gently and gestured with his goblet at Fitzhaimo.
“What would happen to you, my Lord, fighting to control your lands in the south-west and along the Welsh Marches. You exercise a lot of influence there, don’t you? You’re a great patron of the Abbey of St Peter of Gloucester and its daughter house at Tewkesbury: the same place, the same area where you, my Lady, were in a convent at Wilton, the same region which gave rise to so many of those visions and dreams of monks prophesying the Red King’s death. Were such portents subtly prompted by you Fitzhaimo? Did you sow the seeds, hint and whisper that something was about to happen? You, especially –” Anselm pointed at Fitzhaimo, “– had a great deal to lose in any war between Duke Robert and the Red King. You have many opponents in the south-west and along the Welsh border. Nobles like Robert de Belleme. If you’d lost, all you had would become theirs. Whilst you –”
“You’d have nothing!” Robert bawled drunkenly. “You would have got nothing from me!”
“Yes, you would have got nothing,” Anselm agreed, “and you, my Lord of Meulan, what could you expect from a duke who had once imprisoned you, seized your property and given it to another? Indeed, what would have happened to all your Norman possessions when Duke Robert, allied to Philip of France and Helias La Fleche – supported by the Pope as well as by every priest and monk in Normandy and England – swept to war, in defence –” Anselm mockingly beat his breast, “– of poor Archbishop Anselm, so cruelly driven into exile by the perfidious Red King?” Anselm smiled at Duke Robert. “Surely this is the song you would have sung.”
The Duke smiled drunkenly back. “Oh yes,” he slurred, “I knew the tune and all its verses. A sweet song,” he openly mused, cradling his goblet. “I was the Expected One.” He put down the goblet and flung out his arms. “The Messiah, the Avenger waiting at the door with his winnowing fan to sort the wheat from the chaff. Much good,” he snorted, “it did me!”
“But at the time,” Anselm insisted, “the harvest was ripe for cutting. Duke Robert was approaching the borders of Normandy, the possible father of a future prince. More importantly he was armed with his wife’s dowry to pay the mortgage on his duchy as well as hire mercenaries and recruit men. So –” Anselm rose from his chair and walked to stand behind that of the King, “– what would happen to you?” Anselm slowly walked down the length of the table and stood by the Queen’s chair. “Even if Duke Robert hadn’t returned, what if the Red King had found out about your secret passion for Mathilda, a direct descendant of the Royal Saxon House? Would he force her to become a nun? Did he already suspect something was wrong? Was he going to marry her off to someone else like William de Warrene, Earl of Surrey? Is that why the Earl hated you so much my Lord King, and joined Duke Robert here? What could you all do?” Anselm walked back to his chair. “You may have loved the Red King, but he would not be advised, so when did you start plotting? You –” he pointed at Meulan, “– were already associated with Henry. I mean no offence but isn’t it true –” he quickly bowed to the King, “– that Isabel de Meulan, my good lord’s daughter, was your mistress, that she’s even borne you a bastard child? You had so much in common and so much to lose. You wanted to keep your power. You were frightened the Red King might lose all in his stupid gamble. He refused to treat with me. He defied the Pope and openly mocked him. You all knew that situation could not last.”
“You have planned this well, haven’t you?” Meulan retorted. He half rose from his chair still clutching the knife which he’d used to cut his meat.
“Pax et bonum,” Anselm whispered. “This is an Abbey, sacred ground. To even threaten me warrants excommunication!”
“Sit down, Meulan!” The King shouted. The Count did so.
“You have planned this well,” Meulan whispered hoarsely, leaning across the table. “You invited us here as your friends only to confront us with this.”
“I’m not your friend,” Anselm replied. “Not for this evening, not for this short period of God-given time, but your judge. I suspect you, Meulan, were one of the principal movers in this. And you –” he gestured at Henry, “– did not need much encouragement.” Anselm leaned across the table. “More importantly, I suspect that you, my Lord Meulan, were jealous of Walter Tirel, Lord of Poix. He had become the Red King’s close friend and confidant, a man who accompanied him everywhere. However, Tirel was a stranger to this kingdom and was unable to warn the Red King. By the summer of 1100 the Red King was certainly in great danger and totally unaware of it, but you were. He could be swept away and you with him so you all started to plot. Somewhere, sometime you reached a decision: William Rufus had to die. It was easy to start the whispering campaign; the Red King’s persecution of the church was now infamous. Fitzhaimo, with his power in the south-west, which included the convent where Mathilda sheltered, was well placed to fan the flames of rumour. It was easy enough, particularly as the monks of St Peter of Gloucester had recently witnessed the lechery and lascivious-ness of the Red King’s Christmas court and his way of living. Little wonder stories began to seep out about God’s bow being stretched back, of the arrow being notched, of vengeance coming. You knew William would regard these as he always did – as mere smoke in the breeze. You were also aware that, come the grease-time, the Red King would adjourn to the New Forest to indulge his passion for hunting. The plot was set, the snare prepared.”
“I wasn’t party to it,” Duke Robert protested.
“Oh yes, you were,” Anselm replied. “Like me, whether you like it or not, you were swept up in events. You came home, Duke Robert. Sooner or later, if I’d stayed in exile, our paths would have crossed. You’d be the rallying point, I would be the cause. Anyway, on the evening of 1st August, whilst he was at Brokenhurst, either the King’s meat or drink, or possibly both, were tainted. He suffered physical pain, anguish of the mind, he would be unable and, perhaps unwilling, to go hunting: that was important, the killing had to take place at night. News of the King’s death would not spread so fast and perhaps not be published until the following morning. By then you, my Lord King, and your councillors would have seized both crown and treasury.” Anselm paused to sip at his wine. “You had chosen both time and place well. The Red King could die hunting like the animal he was, in a forest many regarded as deeply cursed for the Great Conqueror’s family – God’s just judgement against the strict forest laws. After all, the Conqueror’s other son, Richard, had been killed in the New Forest –”
“As had my bastard child . . .” Duke Robert interrupted hastily.
“True,” Anselm agreed. “Two accidents which demonstrated God’s judgement, so why not let there be a third for the blasphemous Red King? Brockenhurst and Througham were ideal locations, close to the coast for Tirel, whilst Winchester was only a swift ride away, and from there, along the Roman road to London.” Anselm paused. “The plot was set. Ralph de Aquis, that mysterious huntsman, appeared in the King’s hall and drew close. In view of all he offered six arrows, William the Red King took four and gave two to Tirel. I am not too sure as I cannot prove if one of you here suggested that! On the grounds of logic I think you did. The Red King would only be too pleased to flatter Tirel. Now, it was only matter of waiting.
“Later on that day you, Fitzhaimo and the rest encouraged the Red King to go hunting – not that William would need much encouragement. He’d risen from his bed sick and ill but now he’d recovered. He had eaten and drunk well, he didn’t want to waste any more time, so he left. The only weapon he carried was his bow which had already been tampered with. Once you’d left the hunting lodge you all rode off to different parts of the forest and awaited events. The Red King, alone with Ralph de Aquis, was killed by an arrow similar to ones given to Tirel –” Anselm stared round, “– four for the King, two for Tirel. Who carried the seventh, the one which killed him? Ralph de Aquis, of course, that mysterious bowman whom no-one can now find? Who seems to have disappeared from the face of God’s earth?” Anselm paused at the tolling of a bell deep in the Abbey. “God have mercy on Rufus’ soul,” he whispered. “This is his anniversary, the very hour, the very day. In God’s eyes is there such a thing as time? Will the prayers I offer today for his soul be placed before God even as the Red King died? Ah well. On that night Walter Tirel was in a different part of the forest but he was warned about what had happened. He was allowed to flee. He had no choice. How could he stay to protest? He might face danger from some of the Red King’s immediate retinue. Whatever the truth, who would believe him? Accident or murder, Tirel stood to lose both life and limb so he fled, the best thing for him, and for you. Once that happened you were all safe. You gathered round the Red King’s corpse not caring whether he was alive or dead. The important thing was Winchester, the treasury, the crown. You, my Lord Henry, seized those, then you did two things which are most important. First, you issue a charter promising reform, a list of concessions and liberties. Secondly, you invite me back. You want me in England before Duke Robert arrives, before I’m seized by other people, before I’m persuaded perhaps not to return. You do remember that letter you wrote, possibly on the same day you were crowned? Not only were you desirous of me returning –” Anselm dug into his pocket and took out a copy of the letter, “– but you even told me which route to take. You write: ‘I would have sent you some money by some of our courtiers but the death of my brother has caused such commotion throughout the dominion of England that they could by no means have reached you in safety.’” Anselm glanced up. “You see, my Lord, you knew what was about to happen: ‘I therefore’,” my master continued reading, “‘advise you not to travel by Normandy but by Wissant and I will have my barons at Dover to meet you with money so that you will find, by God’s help, the means to repay what you borrowed’. You conclude: ‘Make haste then, Father, to come here so our Mother the Church of Canterbury, long agitated and distressed on your account, will no longer sustain any further loss of souls.’ Very persuasive.” Anselm rolled the scroll up. “You needed me in England for four reasons. You needed me to confirm your coronation, your seizure of the treasury and, above all, you wanted me out of harm’s way. You certainly did not want me in Normandy. Strange isn’t it?” Anselm mused. “Royal messengers can’t reach me in Normandy because they might be stopped. Walter Tirel, Lord of Poix, however had no such difficulty in fleeing abroad.”
“And the fourth reason?” Meulan broke in harshly.
“Oh, the fourth reason,” Anselm bowed towards the Queen, “Mathilda. I was needed in England because you, Sire, fully intended to wed Mathilda and crown her Queen. The only person who could confirm that was me. You knew my doubts about whether she was free to marry or not, my agreement to it would clear the way of future difficulties.”
“But you have no real proof for what you say,” Henry of Warwick declared. “This is all supposition.”
“I told my good friend Eadmer here –” Anselm patted me on the arm “– that this would not be solved by evidence but by logic. All those factors coming together: the portents; the omens; Duke Robert’s return; Mathilda’s marriage; my exile: growing papal opposition; the Red King’s delay in hunting; the arrows; the haste to Winchester; Tirel’s declaration; his good fortune to escape unscathed. True, I have not produced Ralph de Aquis but I challenge you, my Lord King, if I cannot find him, can you?”
Henry simply picked up his goblet and drank noisily.
“There is,” Anselm spoke slowly, “one final hypothesis and stating it, I admit my own guilt.” He took a deep breath. “At the end of 1099 I wrote a full and frank letter to Pope Paschal II: I accused the Red King of seizing the entire Church and driving me into exile. I virtually invited the Holy Father to excommunicate the English King. I believe that letter was copied and circulated. It certainly fed the feverish fires of prophecy and doom.” He gestured round. “You must have seen it because your letter to me, Sire, at least in theory, resolved all my grievances. In retrospect that was insulting but I’m not here to answer insult but to concede that my letter, when you read it, forced you to act. However –” Anselm sipped from his wine cup “– I offer another hypothesis but it leads to the same conclusion. Naming Tirel as the Red King’s slayer was a subtle deceit, especially as Tirel was known to me. Indeed he had been entertained by me. Would people also see God’s will in that? The blasphemous Red King brought low, albeit accidentally, by a friend of the Great Victim, Anselm the exiled Archbishop? And if it was murder, well who knows, was the great Anselm involved?” My master raised his hand. “I fiercely resent that, yet it leads me to another hypothesis: William the Red King was no fool. He, too, must have seen the signs when he read my letter. At Brockenhurst, and the accounts declare this, he discussed serious business. Was the Red King going to make peace with me? Was Tirel to be his envoy, his intermediary? Is that what William, after he’d heard Abbot Serlo’s warning, referred to when he asked Tirel to do justice in that matter? If a peace had been arranged between the Red King and myself, it would have resolved his problems, my problems – but certainly not yours, my Lord Henry? Once that accidental slaying took place, however,” Anselm shrugged, “the Red King was no more, Tirel was discredited, in the eyes of many he still is.” Anselm glanced around “What say ye?”
