The Lion of Justice - Plaidy Jean - Страница 7

The little ones were cowering close to her. Mary was dismayed; but Edith knew that Aunt Christina had decided that she should be her main victim.

‘You are here to learn to become worthy members of a great family.’ said the Abbess, ‘but first of all you must be children of God. Here we show no mercy to those who stray from virtue. Understand that, every one of you. You will now go to the apartments reserved for you and there you will find your garments ready. Those which you now wear will be taken from you. They are the vestments of the world.’

A nun had come into the chamber and the Abbess said to her: ‘Take them away, Sister. You know your duty.’

Edith was about to protest and for a few moments she and her aunt looked into each other’s eyes. When her parents were alive she had resisted Aunt Christina’s efforts to put her into a nun’s habit. Once Aunt Christina had brought the rough serge garment to her and forced her to put it on. It had scratched her skin and was uncomfortable and ever after Aunt Christina had always terrified her. There was something satanic about her for all her piety or perhaps because of it. She was so sure of her virtue that she did not care how much she hurt others in her efforts to make them as good as herself.

How angry her father had been when he had seen her in the nun’s habit!

‘Take that thing off,’ he had roared. And how happily she had done so. ‘My daughter is not destined for the cloistered life.’ he had shouted. ‘A match will be made for her. She is to be a wife and a mother.’

Aunt Christina had been angry, but she could not stand out against the King of Scotland. Alas, her father’s eye had been cruelly pierced by a traitor’s lance and there was no one to protect her now and she was at the mercy of stern Aunt Christina.

The chamber to which she was taken was small and cold. There was a crucifix on the wall and a bag of straw on the floor. On the straw lay a black robe—of the same starchy material which she remembered. She shuddered with horror as the nun bade her remove her clothes. ‘Everything,’ said the nun, her eyes glinting. Off came the soft shift and it was replaced by the rough one and over that went the black robe.

Never in her life had Edith felt so desolate. Her parents dead, herself a prisoner in this gloomy place presided over by harsh jailors.

The nun left her and when she was alone she ran her hands over the hateful cloth; then in a sudden rage she took off the robe and throwing it to the floor, stamped on it.

‘I will never, never take the veil,’ she cried. ‘Never!’

Then the realization of the futility of what she was doing swept over her.

What was the use of stamping on the cloth? What was the use of raging?

She knelt down by the straw and clasping her hands together prayed: ‘Oh God, help me. Save me from my aunt Christina.’

She rose in despair, supposing God to be on the side of a pious abbess rather than on that of a young girl with thoughts of worldliness.

‘What can I do?’ she whispered in despair.

Then she heard footsteps, so hastily she picked up the robe and put it on.

For a while she must accept defeat.

* * * * *

A great enthusiasm had arisen throughout the Christian world to make what was called Holy War on the Infidel.

For many years pilgrims of all Christian nations had taken the journey to Jerusalem believing that by doing so they would expiate their sins. Jerusalem was in the hands of the Infidel and this influx of visitors, often very wealthy, had become a profitable trade to them.

Robbery had flourished; worse than that, pilgrims had been seized and taken into captivity; many of them had been tortured and killed. For years men had been preaching against these practices; and one of these was Peter the Hermit, a man of great eloquence who had aroused indignation throughout Christendom.

Pope Urban II had called a council at Placentia and during this the suggestion had been put forward, and unanimously agreed upon, that there should be a crusade against the Infidel.

Those who craved for adventure seized on the idea. To make war, to fight and kill and earn a place in Heaven for so doing seemed an excellent plan; and very soon after the meeting at Placentia, the first Crusade was being made ready.

This was an idea which appealed whole-heartedly to Robert of Normandy. This adventurer, dreamer and idealist who had recently been defeated by his own brother, saw in the venture an escape from the tiresome business of making terms with Rufus, who was more wily than he was.

He had lived a life of great extravagance; he had squandered many fortunes; he had been guilty of self-indulgence. Now he would go and fight the Infidel for the glory of God and the Christian Faith and so earn a remission of his sins.

So must his grandfather—Robert’s namesake—have felt. Robert the Magnificent, they had called him. He had been a second son and could not tolerate that his elder brother should inherit Normandy. So he had tried to wrest it from him and, legend had it, had poisoned him. After that his conscience had smote him so continuously that he finally decided to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the hope of wiping out his sins. And he, the present Duke Robert? Well, he had chafed against his father’s delay in granting him the Duchy and when they had met in combat had come near to killing him. So he had need of expiation too.

If he were to go to Jerusalem to join in this Holy War he would need more money, for he would have to equip an army which would be worthy of him. And how could he do this in his circumstances? He had never been able to keep money. Perhaps it was this failing which had incensed his father, for the Conqueror was avaricious in the extreme and never spent money unless it was going to bring him some good which would be more beneficial than the sum spent. But Robert could never resist giving money to his friends, to his mistresses, to any who asked for it. Money and possessions were to be enjoyed, not hoarded; and he found great pleasure in giving. Unhappily he often gave what was not his to give; consequent he was invariably in dire straits.

Now he was as penniless as usual and he desperately needed money to prepare himself to join the crusade. What could he do?

He sent for Alan, Duke of Bretagne, his brother-in-law. Alan had married his sister Constance and was now a widower, for after a few years of marriage Constance had died. Alan was looking for a suitable wife and having been the husband of one of the Conqueror’s daughters he was looking high. An idea had come to Robert.

When Alan came to him, Robert told him that he had a mind to join the Crusade.

‘I need money,’ said Robert, ‘more urgently than you need a wife.’

‘You would need a fortune, my lord, to equip yourself for this venture.’

‘And where should I find it? If my father had left me England...’

Alan was silent. Rufus was showing himself to be a more able ruler in England than Robert was in Normandy, and he doubted whether Robert would have been more able to equip a crusade if he had been King of England than he was as Duke of Normandy.

‘I have been thinking of my brother Rufus for I believe I could get the money from him.’

‘Has he so much money?’

‘He has means of raising it. He could tax the people of England.’

‘Would he do this for you?’

‘If the bargain was attractive enough.’

‘How could that be so?’

‘If I offered him something he would like to have...in pawn say. For a sum of money to be repaid on my return from the Holy Land I would offer him...’ Robert paused and Alan looked at him in disbelief. Robert lowered his eyes and said: ‘Normandy.’

Alan stared at the Duke.

Robert squirmed uneasily. ‘It would only be for a few years. He would be a kind of Regent. It would protect the Duchy against my enemies. I have decided that for a sum of 10,000 marks I will offer him Normandy. It is to be returned to me when I come back and repay the loan.’