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William Warren flushed slightly. He knew. It was Henry then, Henry this lecher, this man whose reputation was well known at Court. Henry, the pe
But he could not have taken the Princess Edith. Even had she been willing this would not have been possible in Wilton Abbey.
What then? Had he promised her marriage? How could he, the pe
Yet some instinct told William Warren that it was due to Henry that the Princess Edith had refused him.
Hatred flared up in him. He would take his revenge for this. He was favoured by the King. He was after all his nephew just as he was Henry’s. What a fool he had been to take Henry to Wilton! Trust Henry to make trouble where a woman was concerned.
But how could Edith have preferred this older man who lacked his good looks? He had that magnificent hair which he wore long and his many amorous adventures had made him very skilful in playing on female emotions. William Warren had to face the fact that Prince Henry was a man of deadly fascination to women, although it was not easy for him to define what this quality was.
They were enemies though. The successful lover against the one who had failed. And, thought William Warren grimly, of what use was Henry’s success in that quarter to him?
He changed the subject abruptly. ‘I see you follow the hunt on foot, Prince Henry.’ he said, patting the head of his own fine steed. ‘Why you are in truth a veritable Deersfoot.’
He rode off leaving Henry gazing balefully after him, angry because he, the Conqueror’s son, had no suitable horse while his nephew should have such a fine one.
And when he heard people refer to him as Deersfoot he knew who had been responsible for the sneer.
* * * * *
Abbess Christina paced up and down Edith’s cell.
‘There is no reason for delay. You have made up your mind. You are no longer a child. You should take your final vows without delay.’
‘I am still uncertain.’
‘How can you be? Two men have offered for you and you wanted neither. Is this not proof enough?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Then we must perforce insist that you do know.’
But the Abbess knew that without Edith’s consent there was nothing she could do.
Her pleasure at the Princess’s rejection of William Warren had diminished, for Edith would not take the final step. All kinds of penances and punishments occurred to her but she knew that none of these would avail.
There was a stubbor
‘God will punish you,’ she told her. ‘You have witnessed
His mercy. He has made it clear what He wishes of you and you ignore him.’
Edith did not answer. It was clear that she cared nothing for threats from her aunt or from God. There was about her a set purpose. She was not going to be worried into taking her vows.
‘We will pray together.’ said the Abbess.
‘My knees are sore with praying,’ replied Edith.
‘Mine are hard because of the hours I have spent on my knees.’
‘You are an abbess and a most pious woman. I beg of you be patient with me.’
‘All these years you have been under my care and still you hesitate.’
‘I must have time.’ insisted Edith.
In exasperation the Abbess left her. Edith did pray then.
‘Soon, oh Lord, let him come for me. He will come I know. I have been saved for this. I will be his wife and we shall live together in harmony all the days of our lives. And if, by Your Grace, he comes to the throne I will be a good queen as well as a good wife to him.’
She remembered how her mother had gone to church barefoot during Lent, how she had selected the poorest and dirtiest of the humble people that she might show her humility by washing and kissing their feet.
‘This I will do, oh Lord. I will serve You with all my heart and soul if You will but give me Henry.’
And so each day she prayed; and each day she held off the demands and harsh persuasion of Aunt Christina.
Her life had become a bitter battle of which at some times it seemed the Abbess would be the victor. Her love for Henry grew as time passed; she endowed him with all the qualities of the saints and the beauty of a pagan god.
And so the days passed, waiting, waiting.
The Forest Tragedy
It was August, a month when the forest was at its best, and the King, with a select party of his friends, those who shared his love of the chase, had come to Linwood Lodge in the heart of the New Forest.
Henry was member of the party and with him was one of his most loyal friends, Henry Beaumont. The Prince’s friends, the Clares, who were members of the party with Walter Tyrrell, had presented him with a fine horse, so that on this occasion he would not have to follow the hunt on foot.
The King had expressed his pleasure that Walter Tyrrell was of the party because he was known to be one of the best shots in England. It was his arrows which always appeared to inflict the mortal wound. The Clares, too, were very welcome, and it was a gay party.
They were some who were uneasy though. The servants had a way of looking over their shoulders as though they expected wild beasts to leap onto their backs. But it was nothing so tangible that they feared.
Henry heard them whispering together. ‘There are demons in the forest who come to life at night.’
‘The trees turn to monsters after dark; they dance wild dances and if any unwary soul should be wandering alone they would seize that one in their embrace and twist him this way and that in the dance of death an in the morning there would be another warped and twisted tree in the forest.’
When riding through the forest was no unusual sight to see the remains of a man hanging from a tree. He would be one of those ill-fated men who had thought to snatch something to feed himself and his family as his forefathers had been wont to do before the Conqueror came. To steal the King’s beasts was one of the greatest crimes in the country. Men were hung from the trees without trial and left there to feed the carrion crows or to rot in the winds and weather. Better such a fate, though, than to have one’s eyes torn out or destroyed by glowing metal.
Men had suffered for the forest. The forest was a monster. Homes had been destroyed to create it for the sport of the Norman kings and that was why it was generally believed that by night spirits walked abroad, and that the souls of men who had lost their homes, their eyes or their lives would haunt the forest bent on vengeance.
It was in this forest that Richard, the fairest of the Conqueror’s sons, had met his death. There were many who believed that that was the revenge of the dead on the man who had torn up their homes and made harsh rules for those who took what the forest had to offer.
So on such occasions when the King pla
Linwood Lodge at this time was filled with the odour of roasting meat; there was laughter and merriment, for the King was in a good mood. He felt well and younger than his forty years. He always felt so during a hunting expedition.
The talk at table became ribald. The King always encouraged jokes against the churchmen; he had a special feud with them and, as he had often before declared, he had no fear of having to answer for his sins after death. He did not believe in such judgements, he said. No creator would like the weak men of the Church. He would favour a fighter and a good hunter. As for the churchmen their sins were as plentiful as those of other men only they would not admit to them. They were puling hypocrites all of them and he never ceased to congratulate himself on getting rid of the arch-hypocrite, Anselm.