The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  THE LION’S LEGACY

  CONQUEROR TRILOGY

  BOOK 3

  JULIET DYMOKE

  First published in Great Britain in 1972 by Dobson Books Ltd.

  This edition published in 2016 by Three Castles Media Ltd.

  Three Castles Media Ltd

  Copyright © 2016 Juliet Dymoke

  The moral right of Juliet Dymoke to be identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Jacket design by Fourteen Twentythree

  The main character in this book is a work of fiction and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Other names, characters, businesses, organizations and places are based on actual historical events. In such cases, every effort has been made to make such information as accurate as possible.

  Three Castles Media Ltd hereby exclude all liability to the extent permitted by law for any errors or omissions in this book and for any loss, damage or expense (whether direct or indirect) suffered by a third party relying on any information contained in this book.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Betsy and Jack

  PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS

  Henry I – King of England, the ‘Lion of Justice’, about sixty-five years old at the beginning of the story.

  The Empress Maud – His daughter, Matilda, widow of the Emperor Henry V of Germany and now wife to Geoffrey Count of Anjou.

  Stephen – Count of Blois and Mortain, son of King Henry’s sister Adela and thus a grandson of the Conqueror.

  Young Henry – Maud’s son, later to become Henry II

  The Empress Maud’s Angevin Party

  Geoffrey – Count of Anjou, Maud’s husband, and grandson of Count Helias de Beaugencie and lord of La Flèche and Maine.

  Robert of Caen – Earl of Gloucester, Maud’s half-brother and King Henry’s eldest bastard, holding considerable lands in Normandy and in the west country of England.

  William – His eldest son.

  Philip – His second son.

  Brien FitzCount – Lord of Wallingford. Bastard son of Count Alain Fergant of Brittany, educated by Henry I, and a Constable of England.

  Matilda – His wife. Nicknamed Mata and an heiress in her own right to lands passed from the Saxon Wigod of Wallingford through his daughter and her husband Miles Crispin, Mata’s parents.

  Miles – Sheriff of Gloucester, later Earl of Hereford, a Constable of England holding land along the Welsh marches.

  Roger – His eldest son.

  Mahel – His second son.

  Baldwin of Redvers – Later Earl of Devon, lord of lands in Devon and also on the Isle of Wight.

  Ranulf – Earl of Chester, nicknamed ‘aux Guernons’ because of his large moustaches. Lord of the wealthy and extensive palatinate of Chester.

  Sibyl – His wife, daughter of Earl Robert.

  William of Roumare – Half-brother to Ranulf, later Earl of Lincoln.

  Hawise – His wife and sister to Baldwin of Redvers.

  Guy de Sablé – One of Maud’s knights.

  William de Mohun – Lord of lands in and later Earl of Somerset.

  John FitzGilbert – Marshall at Stephen’s court and castellan of Marlborough Castle.

  Robert D’Oyley – Castellan of Oxford Castle

  Roger – The aged Bishop of Salisbury, faithful servant of Henry I, and justiciar of England.

  David – King of Scotland, brother-in-law to Henry I and adhering to his niece Maud the Empress rather than his second niece Matilda the Queen. Married to the widow of Simon of Senlis, daughter of Earl Waltheof.

  King Stephen’s Party

  Matilda of Boulogne – Queen of England and niece to Henry I as well as to King David. Married to Stephen.

  Henry – Stephen’s younger brother and Bishop of Winchester. Papal legate until 1143.

  William of Ypres – Bastard grandson of Count Robert of Flanders and commander of Stephen’s army.

  William Martel – Stephen’s seneschal, or steward.

  Count Waleran – Son of Count Robert, one of Henry I’s closest advisers, and lord of Beaumont-le-Roger in Normandy as well as Earl of Worcester.

  Count Robert of Leicester – Twin brother to Waleran.

  Simon – Earl of Northampton, son of Simon by Senlis and Maud, Queen of Scotland, by her first marriage – thus a grandson of Earl Waltheof.

  William de Warenne – Earl of Sussex though never designated by that specific title. Adviser to Stephen.

  Hugh Bigod – Later Earl of Norfolk.

  Geoffrey of Mandeville – Sheriff and later Earl of Essex. Castellan of the Tower in London and wealthy landowner in East Anglia.

  Robert de Marmion – Lord of Scrivelsby in Lincolnshire (and ancestor of Juliet Dymoke).

  Alain – Earl of Richmond, nicknamed ‘the black’, half-brother to Brien FitzCount.

  Prior Waltheof – Prior of Kirkham, second son of Simon of Senlis and Maud, Countess of Huntingdon, and thus a grandson also of Earl Waltheof. Brother to Earl Simon, and friend to Brien.

  Household of Brien FitzCount

  Gilbert Basset – Chief vassal of Brien FitzCount, owning property at Bicester and elsewhere.

  Ingelric of Huntercombe – Also a tenant, holding Huntercombe.

  Roger Foliot – One of Brien’s knights and related to Gilbert Foliot, Abbot of Gloucester.

  Fictitious Characters

  John of Ramsay – Brien’s commander at Wallingford.

  Beatrice – His daughter.

  Bernard – Brien’s staller, or chief groom.

  Amauri de Beauprez – Brien’s steward and cousin.

  Thurstin – Brien’s page

  Author’s note:

  Although complete in itself, THE LION’S LEGACY forms the third book of a trilogy which began with OF THE RING OF EARLS and HENRY OF THE HIGH ROCK.

  ‘…the Countess of Anjou and Brien (EitzCount) gained a title to boundless fame, since their affection for each other had before been unbroken, so even in adversity…they were in no wise divided.’

  Anonymous author of GESTA STEPHANI

  PROLOGUE

  THE BIRTH

  1133

  Prologue

  Maud, Empress of Germany, Countess of Anjou and daughter of King Henry I of England, paced her bedchamber conscious of none of these titles but only of the pain that tore at her body. Her women walked beside her and now and again she stopped, clutching at their hands as a spasm came and mercifully went. Then she walked again, determined not to cry out, to maintain her dignity.

  Outside in the dark March night a strong cold wind blew from the north stirring the rich tapestries which were so small a deterrent that the candles on the table flickered wildly and smoke from the fire skirled into the vaulted roof. It was a fine chamber, lavishly appointed, the light catching gold and silver ornaments, burnished jugs and ewers. Brought up to wealth and magnificence Maud took these things for granted but at this moment knew her labour would be no different from that of a woman in a peasant hut – she, as the meanest serf, must bear her child as every child was born, and her proud spirit rebelled against the primitive ordeal that she too must endure to the end.

  ‘You will bear it well,’ the midwife said, clucking in sympathy. She was old and
nineteen years ago had delivered the Count himself, father of this unborn child.

  Maud did not like her for her teeth were rotten and her breath smelled unpleasant but everyone said she knew more about a lying-in than any other woman in Le Mans and Maud suffered her for the sake of the child on whom so many hopes were pinned.

  She shivered as a sharper gust of wind set a tapestry swinging on the stone walls that kept the room chilly despite the fire of logs. This new castle had replaced the one once so ably defended against William Rufus by her husband’s grandfather, Count Helias of Maine – that lord of La Flèche famed for his fine looks, his courtesy and his attention to the finer points of chivalry – but she only liked it in summer, and wished herself in England for the birth of her son. It must be a son, surely after all this pain and with the eyes of half Europe on her, it must not, could not be a daughter. Geoffrey wanted a son, her father wanted a son, and she too, with no child from her first marriage, wanted this union to yield a boy – no ordinary boy either for he would in time inherit not only Anjou but Normandy and England.

  The pains eased and for a moment she dreamed of the future, seeing her son, such a Prince as Europe had not held since the days of Charlemagne, for even her grandfather William Bastard called the Conqueror and King of England had not held Anjou as well as Normandy and England. Her dark eyes, almost copper brown, glowed with warmth as she indulged her pride for once vicariously. When her father was gone, and he was an old man now, she would be Queen and Duchess, his sole heir, and she would hold the inheritance for her son, training him as she had been trained for high office, to be a ruler, a soldier, his hand strong on the reins, a greater man than his barons, as the men of her house had always been.

  Oddly enough it was not of her husband that she thought now. Geoffrey was eleven years her junior, a mere lad thrust on her by her father, an unwelcome suitor to foster good relations between Normandy and Anjou, which it had not succeeded in doing for no one, neither Norman nor Englishman nor Angevin, liked the dynastic marriage. Perhaps they would like the dynastic birth better – not that she cared what people thought. She was Maud, Countess and Empress and one day to be Queen and it was for others to care what she thought.

  The pain came again, sharper than before, and she gave a gasp, her fingers digging into the hands that held her.

  ‘That’s better, my lady,’ the midwife said and turned as the door opened to admit the Count of Anjou.

  He came uncertainly, Geoffrey the Handsome as men called him, a youth who had inherited the beauty his mother Ermentrude had had from her father Count Helias, but he had none of the latter’s inborn charm or courtesy. He was more at home hunting in the forest, careless of horses and dogs in his pursuit of the quarry and it was no strange thing for his mounts to be stabled with bleeding flanks from his vicious spurs. This was one more cause for Maud to regard him without much affection for she shared her father’s passionate love of animals and would sooner beat her groom than her horse.

  He said, ‘How is it, wife?’

  She gave him a swift, petulant glance. ‘How should it be? A child is only born one way.’

  ‘And you’ve borne none before – I know,’ he retorted. He turned to the midwife.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘A few hours, maybe less. This is no place for you, lord.’ She sucked at the gaps between her teeth, making an unpleasant sound and the Count shrugged, returning his gaze to his wife.

  ‘We all wait. Don’t keep us too long or our household will have drunk itself too fast asleep to toast our son.’

  The attempt to joke irritated her. The insensitivity of men, she thought! What did they care for the pain of a lying-in – only for the life that would come, the child to ensure the continuance of their house.

  ‘You think I am too old for child-bearing,’ she snapped the words back at him, ‘and will be tardy about it. If I bore none to the Emperor that was more his fault than mine.’

  Geoffrey sniggered. ‘I care not whether he was potent. I have proved myself, eh?’ He glanced across at the women attendants and grinned suggestively. They were too used to the constant bickering of the Count and his lady to show surprise, but merely stood with lowered eyes, all but one who was prettier than the rest and blushed a little, stealing a glance at him as he lounged against the door, his long green mantle trailing in the rushes, his fair hair crisp and curling, one hand on his hip. He had a fine figure, well proportioned, slender but strong, and was well aware of it.

  ‘The apple will fall when it is ripe,’ the midwife said firmly. ‘We will call you, my lord, when all is done.’

  ‘Aye, go, go – ’ Maud shut her teeth on another spasm. For a moment she hated Geoffrey, hated that he should see her thus, without her defences, at the mercy of common nature. She was nearly thirty and he nineteen, a fact he seldom let her forget, and it had never galled her more than at this moment. But at least now she was proving herself no barren woman as she had once feared she might be and she wished he would go and leave her to a woman’s business.

  Still smiling he lounged out and she gave a low drawn out sigh. With only her women about her she could bear the pain, the indignity. Presently the spasms grew stronger and they laid her on her bed, a great wooden bed with sombre hangings that slid on rods to enclose her privacy – a necessity when the castle overflowed with guests and extra pallets for relatives might be laid in this room – but the comfort, the warm fur skins she loved, had been removed for the birth and she lay looking up at the dark red canopy above her and thought between the pains of all the nights she had lain here, of the first disastrous months of marriage. It had been a farce, she a twenty-five year old widow and Geoffrey a lad of fifteen. He knew nothing of love and she who had been the adored Empress of Germany, the child-bride cossetted and spoiled by her husband, Henry V, the stranger made welcome by the people of Mainz, had had to suffer the fumblings of an inexperienced youth. As so often her thoughts now went back to Germany. She had been eight years old when her father had packed her off under the care of her half-brother Robert and with a dowry of ten thousand marks to become the wife of the lord of the Holy Roman Empire, though it was four years before she was considered old enough to be married. During those years she had lived at the German court and learned its ways. The Emperor had dismissed her English servants and at first she had missed them, been wretchedly homesick for her mother, father and brother William, but that had passed and she had learned to love Germany and its people and even her husband who, thirty years her senior, had been more a father than a lover.

  She had wept bitterly when he died. Despite the fact that both she and his people wanted her to stay, her father, always a stickler for his rights, ordered her home and married her off, almost in secret, because of the unpopularity of a union between Norman and Angevin. But her father was more far-sighted than most and saw in it a way to end old enmities, to leave his grandson a fine heritage.

  Thinking of that second wedding night she shuddered and the midwife glanced down at her.

  ‘There, my lady, if the pain is bad, it will soon be cured.’

  But it was not the pain that had heightened the tension of her swollen body at that moment, only memory, and she thrust it from her. She could have been a ruler, she could have held the Holy Roman Empire, she knew it, and she had quarrelled with her father and later with Geoffrey in bitter frustration that she, with so much of her grandfather’s spirit in her, should be a woman and thought to be incapable of keeping her place in a man’s world. But she had the Conqueror’s blood and his will and she could have done it. Instead she was tied to a mere Count, and a Count of fifteen at that. It was humiliating beyond measure. In order to achieve his ends her father had broken his promise not to give her against the will of the barons and thrown the accomplished deed back in their faces. Inevitably she too came under their displeasure and she hated him for that – yet she loved him too, for he was a man commanding respect, a ruler, a statesman, so she did his bidding and married Geoffr
ey.

  After a year of quarrelling that set the whole castle in a turmoil the young Count screamed at her to go home to her father and she shook the dust of Anjou from her mantle with relief. But the quarrel was patched up, as it had to be, and three years later she had returned to find that Geoffrey had bought some experience in the time between. Handsome, elegant, a knight now and belligerent enough to suit his position, he took his wife with a new assurance. The disparity in their ages did not cease to rankle but now as far as the nights were concerned it became less apparent. There was at least some pleasure in the dark hours, but he touched neither her heart nor her mind and when daylight came they were quarrelling again.