Stewart Binns - Anarchy

But all was not well in King Henry’s domain. He had always been a strict ruler, but he could be excessively cruel and had made enemies – especially among the lords on the periphery of his domains, who were often courted by his enemies.

When he was a young man in Rouen – during the Dukedom of his eldest brother, Robert – there was a revolt among the burgesses of the city, which Henry crushed ruthlessly. Many young hotheads were cut down in the streets by Henry’s cavalry. When their leader, Conan, son of Pilatus, was caught, Henry had him dragged to the top of the tallest tower of the city’s walls. Then, with the young man begging for mercy, Henry threw him from the top – laughing as he did so. Conan was very popular, and the incident was never forgotten by the townspeople.

In 1119, in a dispute over the lordship of Breteuil in Normandy, Henry sent a hostage, a boy called Ralph Harenc, to his rival, Eustace of Breteuil – his own son-in-law, the husband of his illegitimate daughter Juliana – to try to secure his loyalty. Henry held Eustace’s daughters, his own granddaughters, as hostages in exchange. When Eustace blinded the boy Ralph and sent him back, Henry was so angry that he agreed to Ralph’s request for revenge by allowing the two little girls to be blinded and have the tips of their noses cut off.

Mass executions and mutilations were not uncommon. Many people said that although there was peace throughout most of Henry’s reign, it came at a high price – one that was all too reminiscent of the draconian rule of his father, William the Bastard, Conqueror of the English.

Memories were long among those the King had wronged and among those who thought that siring more than two dozen illegitimate children and giving them all land and titles were both an affront to God and an outrage to those who paid him taxes and tithes. Henry was in his sixty-seventh year, and those with scores to settle knew that he could not live forever.

The old stag was nearing his end, and the young bucks were circling.

The King had spent almost the whole of 1135 marauding around the fringes of his realm, reminding any doubters of his power. He had prowled around Wales and the West of England with a large force, inviting challenges from the Welsh Princes, or from his own lords. He had made a point of inviting himself to the castles and fortifications of those he knew had an axe to grind, insisting on the laws of hospitality for himself and his retinue, making any troublesome nobles fawn at his feet, or challenge him. No challenges had been forthcoming, but the resentment had grown.

He had then turned his attention to Normandy – especially the south, where the French King, ‘Fat’ Louis VI, was constantly trying to win the allegiance of the local lords. Henry had taken control of the castles at Alençon, Almenêches and Argentan, and had then moved north to the border with Flanders. After another show of force, he had taken a break to indulge his third greatest passion, after power and women – the thrill of the hunt.

On Friday 29 November – only a few days after Maud realized she was pregnant – the King went hunting in the Forest of Lyons at St Denis and returned to the castle to a dish of lampreys, another of his many passions. He was violently ill in the night and died on Sunday evening, the first day of December 1135. It was a day that became etched in the memory of all Normans as the day when the last of the three mighty Norman Kings of England died.

The King had insisted that his body be taken to England, to be buried beneath the altar of Reading Abbey, his own foundation. It had been built, as he decreed: ‘for the salvation of my soul, and the souls of King William, my father, and of King William, my brother, and Queen Edith, my wife, and all my ancestors and successors’.

The gruesome task of preparing the King’s body for such a journey fell to a local embalmer, who was greatly honoured to be given the responsibility. He removed the brains, eyes and intestines, which were buried in an urn at one of Henry’s favourite churches, Notre Dame du Pré at Emendreville, before scoring the rest of the body with deep cuts to allow salt to penetrate deep into the flesh. The body was then sewn into ox hides and placed on a bier for the long journey by land and sea.

Unfortunately, the innocent embalmer had not been told that the King had ordered that when his task was complete, he was to be executed and his corpse dealt with in the same grisly manner.

Maud and I were in Rouen when we heard the news of her father’s death. But before we could make arrangements to accompany her father’s body to England, word arrived by courier that trouble had flared in the south. Scores were being settled and willful vengeance was replacing the rule of law. As Maud was now the titular Duchess of the realm, she decided it was her duty to ride south to impose her authority.

I disagreed with her decision.

‘Send your husband to the south. Make use of him – make him your regent in Normandy if needs be – but you must make England your priority. That’s what your uncle did when your grandfather died, and that’s what your father did when your uncle died.’

‘My priority is here. What would they think of me in Normandy if I hurried away to England when the south is in uproar?’

She made a strong case, but I knew how important it was to get to Westminster to claim the throne and the loyalty of London, and to secure the Treasury at Winchester.

‘Maud, England is the biggest prize – your birthright.’

‘Both England and Normandy are my birthright!’

She looked at me sternly. For the first time, she was speaking not as Maud, my lover, but as Matilda, my Queen.

I did not feel cowed by her comment, but I respected it. I looked at the Talisman around her neck. It caught the light streaming in through the window of Rouen’s ducal palace, and I knew that a new chapter in my life had begun.

‘To the south it is! I will tell the Constable to prepare the garrison.’

‘Good, and tell him that you will command the garrison.’

‘Very well, Your Grace.’

I used her title without mockery. Our lives had changed.

Fulham Palace, 15 July 1187

My dear Thibaud,

Thank you for the latest information from Rome. I also appreciate your prayers for my health.

I believe Our Lord is listening to you; I am feeling much better. You obviously have His ear. I fear He ignores me – I hope it doesn’t mean I have too much time in Purgatory to come.

Anyway, back to Harold and his compelling tale. So, the old King is dead. I remember his reign; we were all terrified of him, but I suppose he brought peace and prosperity. It is strange to think that we now live in the reign of his namesake and grandson all these years later. But although this Henry Is just as firm in his rule, he is a much better man.

We now approach the events that shook England to its foundations. Even though it was half a lifetime ago, the memories were still vivid for me even before I heard Harold’s story.

It was difficult to hear it all again: so much ambition; so much greed; so much suffering. I confess, Harold’s words made me weep at the loss of so many of England’s finest young men.

Events moved at a frightening pace over the next few weeks, but not in the direction we had planned.

The first omen of problems ahead came immediately. When I went to Henry de Pomeroy, the Constable at Rouen, to mobilize the garrison, he was polite but unhelpful.

‘I can give you three hundred men, but no more.’

‘But the Duchess orders it–’

‘I’m sorry, Earl Harold, but she is not the anointed Duchess yet.’