The Lion of Justice (16 page)

As he stepped into the glade an old woman came towards him. At first he was not much taken aback by her appearance, yet he did wonder what such a one was doing in a spot which the strict forestry laws had made almost sacred.

He was about to ask her when she, seeing him, hurried forward and as she did so, fell to her knees.

‘Hail, King of England,' she said.

He stared at her as she rose from her knees, and at that moment the forester arrived with his wife.

As Henry turned to look at him, the old woman disappeared among the bracken and when he would have asked her for an explanation, she was no longer there.

‘My lord, your bow needs to be put to rights,' said the man.

Silently Henry handed it to him. While the man worked on the bow he wandered round the glade looking for the old woman, her words still ringing in his ears.

Who was she? Why had she spoken thus? Had she mistaken him for Rufus? Surely not. He was not red-headed and red-faced and even those who had never seen Rufus knew him to be thus by his very nickname.

‘Hail, King of England.'

He had lost his desire for the chase. He wanted to ride back with all speed to Linwood. He would wait there until the hunters returned. And if Rufus came with them, then he would think he had encountered a mad woman. And if he did not . . .

The prospect made him almost dizzy with excitement.

An old charcoal burner who had his cottage in the heart of the forest was returning to his home on the morning of the third of August, leading his thin little horse which was dragging a rough cart.

Suddenly he pulled up to a sharp halt. What was that, lying there in the ruined walls of the old church which thirty years before had been demolished to make way for the forest? He paused. It was a man – his face blackened and distorted, his
garments bloody, and protruding from his chest was the broken shaft of an arrow.

He could not believe it! But he knew that face. What should he do? As a forest dweller he lived in terror of breaking a rule of which he had not known the existence. Yet he could not leave a human being to be a victim to the carrion crows. The man's ghost might haunt him if he did not do all in his power to give him decent burial.

He lifted the body and placed it in his cart.

When he reached his home, he called to his wife and said, ‘I found a man dead in the forest. He has been killed by an arrow.'

She came out to look. ‘Why, Purkiss,' she said, ‘he is one of a hunting party. An arrow meant for a deer has killed him. He must be of noble birth for only one of such would hunt in the King's forest.'

‘What shall I do?' asked Purkiss, the charcoal burner.

‘Wait here,' she said and went to fetch some of their neighbours. They came and looked at the body.

‘The King is hunting from Linwood,' said one. ‘Mayhap you should take the body there. If it is a noble gentleman there could be some profit in it.'

Purkiss decided that if some of his friends would accompany him he would take the body to Linwood Lodge.

Henry was in no mood for the chase. He did not remember any other occasion when he had not been ready to hunt. His thoughts were in a turmoil. The weird old woman had set his pulses racing with a wilder excitement than any other woman ever had before.

Impatiently he waited for the hunters to return to the lodge. How slowly the time passed. He wished that he had not come back yet: his mood was better suited to the wildness of the forest.

The first of the party to return was William Breteuil, a great hunter who was in charge of the treasury. His father had been Fitz-Osbern, one of the Conqueror's greatest friends and most trusted ministers. Henry had never greatly cared for him, because he had taken little notice of him. He was a great friend of Robert, and Henry often fancied that he
would have supported his elder brother against Rufus. On this occasion, however, he was glad to see him.

They sat down at table together, and gradually other members of the party began to return.

Darkness came, and the King was still absent. Walter Tyrrell came in, but he said little to Henry.

A strange tension hung over the company. It could well have been that the king had decided not to return to the lodge that night.

Henry sought an opportunity of telling Henry Beaumont of his strange experience in the glade, because Beaumont was one of the few whom he could trust. Rufus had never liked Beaumont, and there was an unspoken agreement between Henry and this man that if Rufus died they would work together.

‘Who was this woman?'

‘I know not. I could not discover.'

‘Could she have seen the King . . . dead?'

‘I cannot see how she could have done so.'

‘Doubtless she was a witch.'

‘She had the appearance of such.'

‘And she said “Hail” to you and called you “King”. Rufus does not return. There is one thing you must do if the King is indeed dead, and that is to take the Treasury. Once you have that in your possession you have only to win the people to you and the crown is yours.'

‘I know it well. We will not both sleep at the same time this night. I will keep watch for three hours, then so will you while I sleep. We must be fresh for the morning.'

Morning came.

William Breteuil was asking everyone, ‘Where is the King? Have any seen him?'

But no one had.

It was in the middle of the morning when Purkiss the charcoal burner, leading his horse and accompanied by a few of the local churls, brought the body in his cart to Linwood Lodge.

Henry with the others went out to see what was in the cart.

When he saw the body, and in spite of the mire and mud
recognized it, a great exultation came to him. The woman's words had been significant.

William Breteuil was there too.

He cried, ‘My God, this is the King.'

‘He is dead,' said Henry.

‘Killed in his own forest,' murmured Breteuil.

Henry knew that there was no time to lose. If he did not claim the crown, someone might claim it on Robert's behalf. He knew what was passing in Breteuil's mind, and without a moment's delay he ran to the stables. Henry Beaumont was already there saddling the horses and in a few moments they were galloping away on the road to Winchester.

Breteuil understood. He leaped on to his horse and was speeding after Henry.

Henry and Beaumont spurred on their horses. They knew that Breteuil's idea was to stop them and to claim the crown of England for Robert.

That must not be. The crown belonged to Henry. This was his great moment. He kept hearing the words of the weird woman ringing in his ears: ‘Hail, King of England.'

King of England he would be, and the next days were the most important in his life.

He was ready to take the challenge.

No one was going to stop him now.

By God's mercy, he thought, I must reach Winchester before Breteuil.

He would never forget that ride. The constant fear that his horse would fail; the anxiety that Breteuil would outdistance him; the great relief when he reached the door of the Treasury and found that he and Beaumont had arrived first.

‘Open in the name of the King,' cried Beaumont.

The startled custodian stared at him and Henry.

Beaumont had his sword at the man's throat.

‘William II is dead – killed hunting in the forest. Henry I is King of England. On pain of death open the door.'

The door was opened and Henry and Beaumont had command of the Treasury.

It was not long afterward when Breuteuil arrived to find Henry and Beaumont at the door, their swords drawn.

‘I claim the crown and regalia on behalf of Robert, the eldest son of William I,' said Breteuil.

‘I claim the crown and regalia as an English King born on English soil, educated in England, and the son of the Conqueror,' retorted Henry.

By this time many other nobles had arrived. The position was clear to them. Henry was on the spot. Robert was far away on a Crusade to the Holy Land. Normandy was in pawn. Henry had shown himself a good general; Robert was known to be feckless.

Those who supported Henry were firmly behind him, while Robert's adherents hesitated. Some of them, however, murmured together that this was a usurpation of the crown.

Henry spoke to them then. Being more learned than his brothers he had always been able to express himself with a force and logic which they had lacked.

‘I am English,' he said, ‘as none of my brothers ever could be. My father was aware of this. It was for this purpose that he sent me to England at an early age and put me in the care of that great scholar Archbishop Lanfranc. The people of this country want an English King. I will marry at once. I have chosen for my bride the Princess Edith who is a member of the Saxon Royal Atheling family. Our children will be entirely English. Those who stand beside me will not be forgotten. There were many harsh laws made by my brother. These I will change. I have been educated to govern. Accept me as your King and I promise you peace and prosperity. Reject me in favour of my brother – who has been singularly unsuccessful in his own domain, which is now in pawn to the English crown – and you will plunge this country into bitter war.'

The realization of the truth of this, the promises Henry made, and the knowledge that he had qualities which would make him a better ruler than his brother were decisive. Grudgingly those Normans who had been ready to give their support to Robert gave way. Henry was proclaimed King. He took possession of the Treasury and Regalia.

‘We must needs now win the same support in London,' said Beaumont.

Within a few hours they were riding to London.

Henry had been called a lawyer. The Normans had nicknamed him ‘Henri Beauclerc'. It was so rare to find a scholar king. Even the Conqueror had scarcely been that.

Henry knew that the consent to his accession could well waver: he had to consolidate his position, which meant pandering to those who might well stand against him . . . temporarily of course.

He believed he would have the humble people with him, for their hatred of the Normans had persisted ever since 1066. They still looked upon them as the conquerors. So he would appeal to the Saxon section of the community.

He called together all the leading men of the towns and villages and spoke to them.

‘My friends and liegemen, natives of this country in which I myself was born, you know that my brother would have my crown. He is a haughty man who cannot live peacefully. He openly despises you, believing you to be cowards and gluttons. He would scorn you and trample you under his feet. But I, a mild and pacific King, would maintain you in all your ancient liberties. I would govern you with moderation and prudence. I will give you, if you require it, a written promise to this effect, signed with my own hand. I will confirm what I write by my oath and my seal. Stand firm, then, by me. For, supported by English valour, I fear not the mad menaces of the Normans.'

It was a clever speech, calculated to move the oppressed people where they were most affected. Henry's lawyer's mind was already busy. He intended to govern sternly but justly, as his father had. He wanted a prosperous kingdom and he knew how to get it. He was not sure how many of the promises he made at this juncture would be kept; he only knew that they had to be given.

He caused copies of the speech to be made; his seal was set on it and it was put up in all cathedrals and abbeys throughout the country.

The people were won over by this calm and reasoned statement. They told themselves that the cruel days of Rufus were over. They would have a King who would marry and give the country heirs. The last King's influence on the morals of the land would be over. There would be no more ridiculous
fashions, with men aping women and painting their faces and frizzing their hair. England would become a country of brave men.

Henry was accepted.

He was determined to show that he was no coward, and ordered that his coronation should take place without delay in Westminster Abbey. There would be danger, he knew. It would be an occasion when his enemies might rise and make slaughter in the streets. He must take the risk. He could only feel safe when he was the crowned King of England.

So, three days after the death of Rufus, Henry's ceremonious coronation took place.

Meanwhile, Rufus's decomposing body was brought to Winchester by Purkiss and the five churls who had accompanied him. They took it to the close of St Swithin's Minster and presented themselves to the Abbot.

‘Lord Abbot,' said Purkiss, ‘this is the body of the King. It is in urgent need of decent burial.'

The Abbot took one look at the corpse and groaned in horror. Secretly he cursed Purkiss for bringing it to him. He hesitated; but he dared not send the men on with it. Where else would they take it? And if he turned away the body of the King, what then?

But he knew there was going to be difficulty in the burial.

He was right.

The Church had constantly been under the attack of Rufus. He had sneered at it and always baited churchmen. He had said he might be going to hell but at least he would have a good time on earth. Well, now he was in hell, so most people believed.

Stories about the dead king circulated. There was not the usual need to speak well of the dead, for Rufus had been a self-confessed sinner with no fears of hell. Some said they had seen the Devil, in the form of a great goat in the sky, clutching the soul of Rufus. Rufus was damned. Therefore nothing too bad could be said against him.

His evil life was recalled. His vicious friend, Ranulf Flambard, should be punished with him, it was hinted. He had shared his vices. Everything would be different now. Rufus was where he belonged – in hell.

How could such a man be buried in consecrated ground? He would defile any place where he was laid. Yet what should be done with him?

Days passed. The corpse was now almost unrecognizable, and horrible to behold. Something would have to be done.