The Earl of Bournemouth

The Earl of Bournemouth

London, 1072

Within the castle walls there are sounds of songs, fiddles and feet stomping. Beyond its walls a mile away a lone figure approaches slowly on horseback. Raucous shouts rise again. William! William! The horseman arrives, dismounts and announces himself to the guards. Robert, son of Laurent of Rouen, he of recent fame in both Normandy and across the Channel in Hastings, has come to see the king. He is beckoned inside merrily, but he refuses, pleading for a quick word with the king in private.

“Ah, the Earl of Bournemouth has arrived at last.”

But the Earl’s eyes are downcast. “My king.” 

The king’s smile vanishes as he studies the somber noble. “What is it, Robert? Your latest adventure has gone awry?”

Robert, recently made the Earl of Bournemouth, offers a tight-lipped nod.

“In Ramsgate, were you?” Robert nodded feebly.

“And was that on my command, Robert?” The Earl shook his head. “Was it?”

“No, my king, it . . . it was my initiative. I thought you would be pleased.”

“And how did your little adventure turn out?”

“Your highness, I believe you know.”

King William scoffed. “Let me hear it from you, Robert.”

 “My king, we had to abandon the venture. Heavily outnumbered. There are still many English rebels who have not submitted to your authority.” The Earl glanced up, but the king was impassive. “And . . .  In my absence, some Danes came to Bournemouth, unawares, two nights ago, and burned much of the estate to the ground. And . . . the horse is gone.”

The horse, a beautiful chestnut coloured Norman horse, had been a personal gift from the king to celebrate the betrothal of his niece Agathe to Robert just three months ago. The Earl sighed. “But king, I know the Danes have sailed up to Norwich, and if I be granted men on horseback, we can defeat them there, and restore all that was lost. My king, you know my valor in war. I beg your forgiveness.”

The king remained silent for a time. “Robert, your recklessness is costly. And it seems you do not value my beloved horse that I have bestowed upon you.” The Earl stared at the stone floor. Voices rose again in the castle, then a hush. A song began again, this time a solo, a female voice singing a hymn. The voice echoed off the stone walls of the corridors of the castle. A soft, trembling voice, touching in the way it felt the words it sang. It was none other than Agathe. Jesu Dulcis Memoria, she sang. 

Hope of contrite hearts and meek, Jesu, near to them that seek. If to those who ask so kind, Lord, what is it Thee to find. 

The two men heard her voice, each in their own way, but the king let the words penetrate, and his visage softened.

“Ah, Robert, I know your deeds on the battlefield, and I know the love you share with my niece, my niece who is very dear to me.” The king paused, reflective. “So go now, meet my men at midnight at the Thames. You will sail and ride out at dawn.” The young earl collapsed at the king’s feet in relief and gratitude, full of stammering promises.

King William walks on his grounds, arms behind his back. Agathe runs up to walk side by side with him. “My king!” She exhales with effort and delight.

“Ah, yes, but I am still Uncle to you, Agathe. Blood runs thicker than the crown I wear.”

“Yes, Uncle,” she emphasizes the word to tease him, “but you know I must thank you, for the mercy you showed to Robert. You are a most gracious king, and a most gracious uncle.”

William smiles at his niece. She is known both in England and France as the most beautiful among the royal family. There is something in her blue eyes that is always so ardent. She is both playful and pure beyond the rest. She walks with a bounce in her step like always, and returns the king’s smile.

“Ah, but the truth is, my dear, that it is your faith in our Lord that inspired me to forgive. Many study His words, but you live them. And last night’s song was but a reminder to me of your faith in Him. And yes, at the right time surely, but is that not how our Lord works?”

“Oh yes, my uncle, my king, it is so.”

Southampton at dawn. A newly built castle looms across the harbor, both inviting and foreboding. Winds pick up, along with a light rain. Robert curses softly to himself. “What, sir, surely a little English weather cannot deter us?”

“Alain, look again to the north.” And there out of the mists come three more ships into view, to join the fleet. Alain sighs, Robert grimaces. “We have no chance now. There must be two hundred men on these ships. I need men, Alain, men! We must ride now. Back to Bournemouth.”

“Bournemouth, sir? We’ve no time for you to go home. Can't we hire local men to join us?” But Robert had begun to ride already, starting the journey southward. 

“Money, Alain, we need money.”

Late that evening the Earl of Bournemouth rides into his village, misty and damp, with stones strewn about, the wreckage from the Danish assault. Alain has been watching the Earl’s face twitch throughout the day’s journey. He knows his predicament. The failed mission, the assault at Bournemouth, the damage to the castle, and the stolen horse. The two men survey the scene. Thatch huts burned to the ground, and the stones from his castle walls lying about still in a rubble. A few hooded figures emerge from a tavern. They pause and bow at the sight of the Earl. 

“Where is the stone mason?”

“He is at home, sire, with his wife and children.”

“Bring him to me.”

A lean figure soon appears in the lane, weathered face, hardened hands, and a look of worry. But he stands tall to meet his lord. The townsfolk look on warily.

“Stephen, have you begun the repairs to the tower?

“My lord—”

“And have you the money you owe me?”

“My lord, it is my wife—”

“Your wife is of no interest to me, mason. Your debt is the question now. Where is the money you owe?”

“Sire, my wife is gravely ill. I needed money to journey for a doctor. She is —” But the stone mason is struck to the ground with the riding whip of the Earl. Again and again.

“There is but one place for men who cannot repay their debts.” The Earl raises his voice and his chin. “You there, send for my men, and take this debtor to gaol where he belongs. As for you, stone mason, perhaps your brother the horseman may be of use to me.” 

In the morning the people of Bournemouth whisper and shake their heads in derision. Work continues at the castle walls, but Stephen’s absence is felt. In his thatched hut his wife Gunnora manages a smile at the soup brought to her by fellow womenfolk, though she now looks weaker by the day. And the gate of Andrew’s stable is left wide open and all the horses have gone. Bitter talk of the Danes has been replaced by whispers against their own lord.

Days later on the outskirts of Bournemouth local peasants hail the incoming Earl, from the northeast, riding once again on his beloved horse. He looks in better spirits, joking with the few knights that ride with him. But then comes the rumbling sound of hooves from the north, perhaps Salisbury, a dozen riders from William’s army with a carriage close behind. They command the Earl to stop. Their faces show neither threat nor friendship. “Earl of Bournemouth, you must come with us.” There is women’s laughter from behind the curtains of the carriage. “Dismount, sire.”

The Earl is bungled into the back of the carriage, and a woman’s voice that he cannot quite place gives the command. “Bind him and blindfold him. And no, Sir Robert, I will not disclose the location of where our journey will end tonight.” Robert finally remembers her voice, that of Anne of Amiens, a cousin of Agathe, a vivacious woman known well to William and one of no small influence.

Robert bounces along in the darkness, wondering where they are going and what all this is about. Water is given to him and then that familiar voice addresses him. “Relax, you must trust the adventure tonight, Robert. After all, this has all been planned by your dear Agathe. You will never guess your destiny. But fear not, she awaits you there.”

The galloping of the horses slows. They seem to descend. Robert can smell the air of salt water. The horses stall now. The sound of iron chains. A hollower sound underneath as the horses move gingerly. The iron chains again. The sound of a large gate closing, and then silence. Soldiers take hold of Robert, and haul him onto his feet. He can sense flickering lights, torches. Only men’s voices now. He senses darkness as he is led through passageways. Then a key turns, he is seated and his blindfold is removed.

Robert finds himself in a cell of a prison, dark and damp, the flicker of torchlight dancing on the wet stone walls. There are two men seated next to him, filthy, worn and ragged. Across from him is seated a hooded figure, of more impressive stature. “Do you know where you are, Sir Robert, Earl of Bournemouth?” 

Robert’s eyes fixate, fearing the sound of the bass voice, uncomfortably familiar. “These are the prison quarters of the castle of Southampton, and here you shall stay, until your debt is paid in full.”

“But sir—”

“Sir?” The figure pulls back his hood. 

Robert gasps. “My king.”

“Robert, do you remember your recent foolish adventure to Ramsgate? When your mission failed, and you returned home to your unprotected castle to find it in ruins, and my beloved horse to you gone? Do you also remember, Robert, the family of Stephen the stone mason and Gunnora, the nurse who tended my men many a day after Hastings? And you see no connection between the two, hmm?

Robert remained silent, offering no plea. “And tell me, Robert, how did I respond to your situation when you came to me?”

“You forgave me, sire.”

“And when the stone mason tried to tell you of his beloved wife, gravely ill? Did you in like manner forgive his debt? Grant him time as I did for you?

“Your grace, how did you know—”

“Hush, Robert, surely you know a good king has eyes and ears about his kingdom.” The king looked up toward the tiny window, granting a view to night sky and sea air. “I remember when you knelt at my feet not long ago. It seemed a genuine gesture then, Robert. But I was wrong. I  believe now that you need more considerable time to consider the meaning of forgiveness. Good night, then.”

The king rose and departed. The cell door was closed and locked. Keys jangled, then silence, except for a faint sound of footsteps in the corridor of the gaol. And there passing by was Agathe, stepping lightly to follow her uncle the king, light casting a glimpse of her fair visage, full of grace, as she looked only ahead, and not once toward Robert, her once beloved and betrothed. He went to call out to her name, but her name could not rise beyond his throat, and silent he remained.