The Bastard King Page 6

  So Robert could ride away with a good conscience but William was sick with longing for his home. As a good Norman he must not show his grief but it was there none the less.

  There were boys of noble birth to share his games and lessons, but they were French not Norman. Smaller in stature than the Norse giants, William despised them; he found their habits mincing; they ate their meat more daintily than he had been brought up to, and it was soon clear that he was not one of them.

  The manner of his instruction was different from that he had received from Osbern de Crépon and his squires in Normandy. The French did not speak their minds with the frankness to which William was accustomed. Knightly instruction, which in Normandy was a matter of martial skill and chivalric behaviour, was in France a part of the religious training.

  William, brought up to speak his mind, was scathing in his comments on this.

  ‘Why,’ he said, ‘you French make monks of your chevaliers. In Normandy ours are warriors.’

  The French page with the silky curls who liked to wear rings on his fingers laughed sneeringly. ‘But do we not all know that Normandy is a land of pirates?’ he asked of his companions.

  William’s hot temper was immediately evident. This pretty French boy was sneering at his ancestors! Great Rollo, William Longsword, Richard the Fearless would have quickly shown the Franks who were their masters.

  ‘Rollo sailed up the Seine,’ he cried. ‘Rollo ravaged the land.’

  ‘Pirates,’ chanted the boys forming a circle round William.

  The young Duke could not contain himself. He struck out right and left. Two of the pages fell to the ground; two more attempted to fell William, but without success. He would show them that one Norman was a match for four Frenchmen. Blood spurted from the nose of one of them. The other began to scream for the guards.

  ‘The Norman has gone mad,’ he cried.

  William was seized by two men-at-arms.

  ‘What’s this, little savage?’

  ‘I’ll not have them speak ill of Normandy and Normans.’

  The guards laughed. ‘He has the devil’s own temper, this one. It’s time he was put in chains and left there till he forgets his rough ways and learns good French manners.’

  ‘Let me go,’ screamed William, his face scarlet with passion. ‘How dare you molest the Duke of Normandy!’

  Such a clamour did he make, and so uncertain were the guards and the priests who had heard the clamour, as to what should be done to a young Duke whose father had left him in the King’s care, that they decided there was nothing to do but to take him before the King himself.

  Henry listened gravely to what had happened.

  ‘You will have to forget your rough ways while you are at our Court,’ he told William. ‘You are to be instructed in the art of chivalry. That does not include indulging in brawls with those who are learning with you.’

  ‘They insulted Normandy,’ declared William. ‘Would you stand aside if any insulted France?’

  The King silently studied the boy. He was too precocious, he decided. He had been forced up too quickly. He was a fire boy, but too ready with his fists and his tongue.

  ‘You will have a care how you address your suzerain,’ he said. ‘Methinks that because certain honours have been thrust upon you, you have grown beyond your stature.’ Henry softened. He liked the boy. ‘Now, William, your father has told me to curb your temper. He has asked me to punish you when you so deserve it. You deserve it now and I am going to punish you in a manner which I think will hurt you most. You will not ride for a week. You will remain for that time in your own chamber; you will not see your dogs or your falcons. Two of the priests will be with you and you will study during that time. Now go away and when you feel inclined to lose your temper next time, remember what it has cost you.’

  William retired sorrowing. He wanted Falaise; he wanted Rouen; he wanted Normandy. And he wanted his mother.

  With the passing of the months he grew reconciled. His speech softened a little; his manners became more gracious. A middle-aged squire had been allotted to him – a man of great skill who saw in William an apt pupil. It was a delight to teach him the use of warlike weapons. It was being said that of all the boys who were being brought up in the Court none could compare with William of Normandy. His use of the sword and spear was masterly; his arrows fell farther than those of the others; he was an expert with a javelin; and he quickly learned how to wear his armour. His skills delighted him and did much to alleviate his homesickness.

  It was inevitable that he must learn certain facts about himself. He was soon enlightened as to his birth.

  ‘How is it that your grandfather should be a tanner and your father a Duke?’ asked one of his companions.

  It was strange, he had to admit it; but not so strange when he realized the truth.

  His father had never married his mother; a union between them would have been out of the question because she was the daughter of a tanner. But they had borne a son – himself. He was a bastard.

  The knowledge irked him. It was degrading in some way. He had even heard himself referred to not as William the Duke but as William the Bastard. He became more aggressive. He had to show them that if he were a bastard he could defend himself against their sneers. His manners brought him punishment and often he was eating his meals alone without wine or beer and working at his books instead of exercising his dogs and horses. It was folly, he knew; for while he was out of doors he could forget aught else but the joy of the chase. He must curb his temper. They were right – but his blood seemed to boil in his veins when he heard that whispered word Bastard.

  A whole year passed. Although he still thought longingly of Normandy, his life no longer seemed strange. He was accustomed to the manners of the French – their fêtes and banquets; the carefree way in which they combined religion and pleasure; he was working hard, learning much. He was certain that he could ride into battle at the head of his armies if the need arose.

  He remembered how his mother’s eyes used to follow him wherever he went, and how eagerly interested she was in everything he did. Indeed he was still homesick now and then. Often he thought of his father and wondered how he fared. There were occasional messages. He had heard how Robert had visited Rome where he had been graciously received by the Pope. For all his desire to do penance, Robert could not forget that he was the Magnificent. He hated the shabby pilgrim’s garb; it was alien to his nature to wear it, and he did not care that people whom he met on the way should mistake him for an ordinary pilgrim.

  So he decided to discard his coarse robe and stick, and dress himself in magnificent clothes, and ride a fine horse so that all might know him for who he was. He would distribute alms as he went so that all might stand in awe of Robert Duke of Normandy.

  William loved to hear news and often in his thoughts he was back in the great hall at Falaise listening to the scullions chatter as they hung over the steaming cauldrons.

  One day, he promised himself, his father would come home; he would come to Paris and take him home.

  He was growing up. He had been two years at the Court of France. He was no longer a child. He had learned much. He could beat other boys of his age not only because he was more skilled than they but also because everything he did was done with a stern dedication. He believed that one day he would have a country to rule and he meant to rule it well.

  He must excel all others not only because he was a Duke but because he was a bastard. He could reconcile himself to this fact temporarily. Had not many of the Dukes of Normandy been denied the blessing of having been born in wedlock? One only had to consider the history of his family. William Longsword, Rollo’s own son, was a bastard. Richard the Fearless was another; Richard the Second was the base-born son of Richard the Fearless by his mistress Gunnor. His own father was not illegitimate; but it seemed he was the only one. And with such a beautiful and good woman as Arlette for his mother, it seemed disloyal to wish she had been some Princ
ess. But for all these thoughts he hated to hear that whispered word Bastard, and to see the look of amused scorn in the eyes of those who said it. When he saw it he wanted to make them tremble in their shoes and to assure them that even though he were a bastard he was a legitimate Duke of Normandy. His father had made him such and the knights and barons of his country had sworn to serve him.

  One day the King sent for him and, when he looked into Henry’s face, he knew that something terrible had happened.

  ‘I have ill news for you,’ said Henry gently.

  ‘Is it my father, Sire?’

  The King nodded.

  ‘He is ill?’

  ‘He is dead, William.’

  ‘Dead. My father dead?’

  ‘He died as a Christian.’

  ‘But he is too young to die.’

  ‘Death comes at all times and your father courted it.’

  William could not listen to what the King was saying; he could only think of his father – gay and magnificently dressed, coming into the hall, sitting at the head of the table, walking with his arm through that of his mother. And now he was dead.

  ‘My mother?’ he asked.

  ‘She is to marry as your father wished. He even chose the man for her.’

  ‘I must go to her.’

  ‘Nay, William, you must stay here.’

  ‘She will need me.’

  The King laid a hand on William’s shoulder. ‘This is a shock for you. Go to your chamber, rest awhile and pray to God for His help, for you will need it now more than you ever did. Just stay with your grief and do not make plans yet. What is to be will be. Let it take its course.’

  William followed the King’s advice. He lay on his bed and thought of what this would mean. One idea struck him. He was in truth the Duke of Normandy now and a Duke’s place was with his people. Had his father not said he must grow up quickly? Had he had some premonition of what was to happen to him?

  The French Court was in mourning for the Duke of Normandy. Those who tried to comfort William told him that at least his father had not died with all his sins upon him. He had actually been engaged on a holy pilgrimage when death had overtaken him.

  It was a small comfort, but William wanted the old days which he now realized he would never know again. He wanted to feel that excitement he had experienced when his father had come home and he had some tale to tell him of a newly acquired skill.

  His mother. He thought of her often. He remembered how much more beautiful she was when his father came home, how her eyes would shine; and when he was away how she would go to the turret and shade her eyes as she looked for his return.

  He learned what had happened to his father, how he had travelled through Provence and Lombardy to Rome where he had been so well received by the Pope; how he had discarded the brown sacking garment of the pilgrim for one worthy of his rank; how richly garbed he had ridden on a mule which was shod with gold; how when it shed a shoe the gold was left on the road and the mule re-shod in the same precious metal. No one could have been in any doubt that this exalted pilgrim was indeed Robert the Magnificent.

  When the Emperor of Constantinople had received him, and in the reception hall of his palace there were no chairs, the Duke had spread his rich cloak on the floor and sat on it, commanding his followers to do likewise with theirs. When they departed they left their cloaks on the floor to show that they could not demean themselves by picking them up, for costly as they might appear to others in their own eyes they were trifles.

  Such extravagance delighted the poor who seized on everything that was cast off by the rich and extravagant Duke.

  When he had reached the Holy Land Robert had taken a sickness and was too feeble to be able to walk, so that a litter must be devised and four of the natives were engaged to carry it. Being met by a party of Norman pilgrims who stopped to parley with him, he was asked: ‘What shall we tell your people when we return to Normandy?’

  ‘Tell them,’ answered the Duke, ‘that you see their master being carried to Paradise by four devils.’

  This had amused the pilgrims and they had returned to Normandy delighted to have news to impart of the Duke who they said had won the respect and awe of everyone by his magnificence and generosity. Because it was necessary to pay in gold to be allowed to enter Jerusalem many pilgrims were grief-stricken because they had not the money to pay for entry. It was discovered that Robert had won their undying gratitude and respect by paying their fees for them. For this and his extravagant gifts, which he had scattered in all directions, blessings had rained upon his head.

  William was glad of that. Whatever his father’s sins they would surely have been forgiven for all he had done since setting out on his pilgrimage.

  It was on his way home that he had died. There must have been poison in his wine cup, for both he and his friend, the Count d’Arques, who had been with him since the beginning of the pilgrimage and who drank with him, died too.

  William pictured it all so clearly. His father having recovered from that sickness which had forced him temporarily to take to a litter, having made his pilgrimage, his mind at peace. He would have been thinking of Normandy, and Normandy for him was Arlette and his children. William knew that chiefly he would be thinking of his son, asking himself how he had grown in two years, what new attainments were his . . . and then he had drunk of the cup and that was the end.

  It was sobering to think how many people were struck down in the prime of their lives – removed as one would remove a tiresome insect that plagued one.

  Then the awful realization came to him that he would never see his father again.

  He must see the King. He must talk to him. He must tell him that now it was imperative for him to go home.

  The King listened gravely. ‘I promised your father,’ he told him, ‘that I would care for you as long as he was not here to do so.’

  ‘But I must go back to my Duchy now. I am the Duke.’

  ‘You are a boy yet. You are ten years old. A boy of ten cannot govern a country. Your father set up able men to do that for you.’ The King eyed him obliquely as though wondering what he might tell him. He hesitated. Nay, he was often misled into thinking the boy was a man. It would be cruel to burden him with the truth. How could he say to such a boy: ‘Your dukedom is in revolt. It is naturally so. The lords of Normandy do not want a boy to govern them . . . and that boy a bastard.’

  William’s eyes were fixed on the King’s face, but the King said: ‘You are young yet. You must stay here because I have my duty to discharge.’

  ‘I must go back to Rouen,’ insisted William. ‘I must know what is happening there.’

  ‘You will know fast enough,’ said the King.

  William was riding with his fellow pupils when he heard the cavalcade making its way into the courtyard. He hurried to the embattled porch and there he saw a party of men. He gave a cry of joy for among them he recognized his old friend Thorold and with him Osbern de Crépon.

  ‘Osbern!’ he cried. ‘Thorold!’

  They had seen him; they leaped from their horses and there on the stone they knelt to him. How proud he was! For the first time since he had come to the Court of France he felt indeed their Duke.

  ‘Osbern, what means this? You have come to take me home?’

  ‘We have come to persuade the King of France that it is necessary that you return.’

  William was too full of joy to reply. Then he remembered that his father was dead and was ashamed that he could feel so.

  ‘But I want to go home,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Osbern, Thorold. You cannot know how I have wanted to come home.’

  The Dangerous Journey

  IT WAS A bitter-sweet journey home. How well he remembered riding this way before – but then his father had been with him. Nothing, however, could mar the relief and happiness he felt to see Normandy again.

  ‘Why do our fields look more green?’ he asked Osbern. ‘Why do our forests seem more grand?’

  ‘Be
cause they are Norman fields and forests, my lord.’

  Osbern riding beside him – fine handsome Osbern – had changed. He seemed less old than he had and the reason was that William himself was older. William liked to look at him and admire his strong Norman profile; he was more respectful to William than he had been in the past. The reason was clear. I am now their Duke in very truth, thought William.

  On the other side of him rode Thorold, the mighty Norman who was his bodyguard. He also was respectful; he would not now laugh to scorn the boy who had groaned when he fell from his horse; he would not dare now to command him to ignore his bruises like a man and stop whimpering like a child, mount again and ride.

  Behind him rode others of his vassals: Raoul de Vacé, the Counts de Beaumont, d’Eu, de Meulan and Pont-Audemer as well as Roger de Vielles – the most notable men of Normandy and all come to bring him back to his domain because they wished all to know that they were his loyal subjects.

  Rouen! How beautiful it looked in the sunshine!

  ‘Ha. I see Rollo’s tower,’ he cried. And how fine was the river with the spires and house on both sides of it.

  He said to Osbern: ‘I’ll warrant my mother is on the highest turret watching for me.’

  Osbern looked at Thorold and he saw the nod which passed between them.

  ‘The Lady Arlette is no longer at Rouen.’

  ‘No longer there? Does she not know that I am coming?’

  ‘She married as was the command of your father. He had chosen Sir Herlwin de Conteville as her husband and when we had news of the Duke’s death this marriage immediately took place.’

  His face puckered. He could not imagine it. His mother with another husband. Rouen, Falaise no longer her home.

  These changes were hard to bear.

  The people had come out of their houses.

  ‘Long live Duke William,’ they cried. ‘Long live our little Duke!’