The Bastard King
Page 1
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Jean Plaidy
Title Page
Family Tree
The Bastard
The Birth of the Bastard
The Duke of Normandy
At the Court of France
The Dangerous Journey
The Seed is Sown
The Traitor
Encounter in a Street
A Promise and a Wedding
Lanfranc goes to Rome
Adelisa in Love
The Conqueror
Harold and Edith of the Swan’s Neck
Preparations
The Brothers
Senlac
The King
Matilda’s Revenge
The Jealous Couple
Conflict in the Family
Death in the New Forest
A Dramatic Encounter
Odo Dreams of Greatness
The Last Farewell
A Game of Chess
One Hundred Thousand Candles
Bibliography
Copyright
About the Book
This glorious novel chronicles the life of William the Conqueror, the bastard son of the Duke of Normandy, from childhood until his death in 1087.
He is destined to succeed his father as the Duke of Normandy but questions about his legitimacy mean he consistently faces challenges from potential usurpers in the Duchy to retain the title. He marries Matilda, the equally intelligent and ambitious daughter of the King of Flanders, and together they have many children.
In 1066, he crosses the channel from Normandy to England and seizes the crown from King Harold, Edward the Confessor’s popular successor. This is the roller coaster account of his efforts to become sovereign and the events in his life afterwards, including his turbulent relationships with various members of his family.
About the Author
Jean Plaidy, one of the preeminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
Also by Jean Plaidy
THE TUDOR SAGA
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin Widow
The Shadow of the Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary, Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Spanish Bridegroom
THE CATHERINE DE MEDICI TRILOGY
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
THE STUART SAGA
The Murder in the Tower
The Wandering Prince
A Health Unto His Majesty
Here Lies Our Sovereign Lord
The Three Crowns
The Haunted Sisters
The Queen’s Favourites
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION SERIES
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiègne
Flaunting, Extravagant Queen
The Battle of the Queens
THE LUCREZIA BORGIA SERIES
Madonna of the Seven Hills
Light on Lucrezia
ISABELLA AND FERDINAND TRILOGY
Castile for Isabella
Spain for the Sovereigns
Daughters of Spain
THE GEORGIAN SAGA
The Princess of Celle
Queen in Waiting
Caroline the Queen
The Prince and the Quakeress
The Third George
Perdita’s Prince
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill
Indiscretions of the Queen
The Regent’s Daughter
Goddess of the Green Room
Victoria in the Wings
THE QUEEN VICTORIA SERIES
The Captive of Kensington
The Queen and Lord M
The Queen’s Husband
The Widow of Windsor
THE NORMAN TRILOGY
The Bastard King
The Lion of Justice
The Passionate Enemies
THE PLANTAGENET SAGA
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The Battle of the Queens
The Queen from Provence
The Hammer of the Scots
The Follies of the King
The Vow of the Heron
Passage to Pontefract
The Star of Lancaster
Epitaph for Three Women
Red Rose of Anjou
The Sun in Splendour
QUEEN OF ENGLAND SERIES
Myself, My Enemy
Queen of this Realm: The Story of Elizabeth I
Victoria, Victorious
The Lady in the Tower
The Goldsmith’s Wife
The Queen’s Secret
The Rose without a Thorn
OTHER TITLES
The Queen of Diamonds
Daughter of Satan
The Scarlet Cloak
The Bastard King
Jean Plaidy
The first book in the Norman Trilogy
The Birth of the Bastard
ON A HOT summer’s day in the year 1026, Robert, Viscount of Exmes, who was the brother of the reigning Duke of Normandy, saw a beautiful girl washing her family’s linen in the River Ante which ran at the foot of the castle of Falaise, and his desire for her changed the course of history.
Robert, aged seventeen and the second son of Richard, Duke of Normandy, was of a nature to resent the fact that he had not been born the elder. That his brother – named Richard after their father – should have become the Duke when he, already known as Robert the Magnificent, should have to stand aside merely because he had had the misfortune to be born a year or so later, was unendurable. It was for this reason that he was endeavouring to take his brother’s ducal crown from him, that he had captured the castle of Falaise, and was at that time in residence there.
It was certain that Richard would make an attempt to wrest it from him so the castle was well fortified and from the towers sentinels were on duty through the day and night, but Robert took time off to hunt the wild boar which abounded in the nearby forest; and it was as he was returning from such a hunt that the meeting took place.
Even during the first encounter Robert sensed the unusual qualities of the girl. She was undoubtedly beautiful but there were many beautiful girls in Normandy. She was young. Perhaps she had seen no more than fourteen winters. There was a pride about her and a dignity as she stood there, skirts above her knees exposing her white shapely legs while she stamped on her linen and sang a song which Duke Rollo had brought with him from the Scandinavian countries whence he came to the land of France with his warriors in their long ships and so plagued the King of that country that he had been forced to concede to him that land now known as Normandy.
The girl’s long hair fell cape-like about her shoulders; her blue eyes were soft as she sang but the pride and dignity of a Viking’s daughter was evident.
Robert, who had had no compunction in taking the castle of Falaise, would certainly have let nothing stand in the way of the gratification of his senses, and he desired this girl as he never had another. So he commanded his followers to return to the castle and leave him. Alone he made his way to the edge of the river, but if she noticed h
im she did not appear to do so; she went on stamping her clothes and singing.
‘Good morrow, maiden,’ he called.
She lifted her head and, as she looked at him, his senses exulted in the pleasure to come; she was even more beautiful than he had realized.
‘What do you do here?’ he asked.
‘I am washing our linen, good sir.’
‘I like you well,’ he said. ‘Whence come you?’
‘From the town,’ she answered. ‘My father is Fulbert, the tanner.’
‘Come out of the river, daughter of Fulbert the tanner. Or shall I come to you?’
Her face flushed faintly. ‘Neither,’ she answered. ‘For I have my work and you are too fine a gentleman to dally with me.’
If she were afraid, she did not show it. He could stride into the river and seize her. Who would dare question the action of the lord of Falaise? Her family? Nay, he would quickly show them to whom they owed allegiance if they attempted to curtail his pleasure. He would cut off the hand of any man who raised it against him. Aye, and nail it to the door of his dwelling as a lesson to others.
Yet he did nothing. The dignity of the girl disturbed him. Strangely enough he was content to wait. It would only be a postponement. He had now sensed that quality in her. It should not be a quick encounter on the turf. He would prefer it in a castle chamber.
So he was content to stand there looking at her, the sun on her golden hair, she, poised like a deer or a gazelle, wary and by no means eager to obey the lord of the castle.
He lifted his shoulders and jumped on to his horse, and for a few moments remained looking down on her. She went on stamping the clothes. He hesitated. Should he seize her, teach her to show insolence to the lord to whom she owed allegiance, or should he bide his time? She was very young; perhaps she did not understand what he wanted of her. She was a virgin child – perhaps even younger than she appeared to be.
He rode on to the castle.
She looked up and saw his retreating figure.
She knew him of course. She had had a glimpse of him when he came riding into Falaise. Her grandmother and her father talked of him and his mighty family.
‘Trouble there will be,’ her father had said. ‘For Robert is not the one to take a second place. And second he must be, for his elder brother is Duke Richard’s heir and that’s all to be said of it.’
He was also not the one to see a desirable girl and pass her by because she did not come to him when he beckoned – unless there were so many waiting for him at the castle.
She could not be indifferent to him, for he was powerful and goodly to look upon; and she, who loved so much to sit at the feet of her grandmother and listen to the stories of the great gods and heroes of the Northlands, believed that she had seen one of them by the river that day.
In the hall of the castle, Robert was restless. There was only one fire on this day as it was summer and over that, at one end of the hall, hung the great cauldrons in which the food was cooking. The scullions hovered over it, anxious to placate Robert’s ill-humour; the smoke rose up to the vaulted roof and escaped through a louvre there. It was cool and dark in the hall for the thick walls which kept out the heat kept out the light as well; the windows were narrow slits open to the elements.
Robert was still thinking of the maiden in the stream and was angry with himself for not taking the girl and settling the matter there and then; when he was angry with himself he vented his wrath on others, and his servants were afraid to approach him.
Not so his squire, Osbern de Crépon, a young man of a dignity which matched his own, a friend whom he trusted. Osbern came to him and asked what had happened to put him into an ill-humour and before long Robert was telling him about the girl he had seen that afternoon.
‘A maiden!’ cried Osbern. ‘When have you not known how to deal with a maiden?’
‘She had an air . . . unlike any I have seen before.’
Osbern laughed. ‘What has happened to you? Was she a sorceress?’
‘Of a kind,’ answered Robert moodily.
‘Come, we cannot have you sad. This is a simple matter. Send for her.’
‘Would she come, think you?’
‘Are you not lord of Falaise?’
‘In truth I am and would have every man know it.’
‘And woman too. What’s stopping you? Who is the maid?’
‘She is beautiful.’
‘So you said. Thanks be to God there are many such in Normandy.’
‘A true Norman. Hair like gold and a proud spirit. She is the daughter of one Fulbert, a tanner.’
‘Ha, would you be so squeamish about a tanner’s daughter!’
Robert laughed. ‘Nay,’ he cried. ‘Send for her. Have her brought to me this night.’
The linen had dried well that day. She had brought it into the cottage and folded it. Her father – the finest tanner in the town of Falaise – watched her as she laid it aside and went to the pot which was boiling over the fire.
A fine girl, his Arlette; each day she grew more and more beautiful. He would have to find a husband for her; he wanted to see his grandsons before he died.
She was thoughtful today; silently she went about the cottage room. She could not get out of her mind the memory of the bold man who had stopped by the stream to look at her.
So clearly he had brought back to her mind the stories her grandmother told her of the great Duke Rollo who was so big that no horse was strong enough to carry him, of William Longsword and Richard the Fearless. These were his ancestors and they lived again in him. They were descendants of the men who had come in their long ships – the great men of the sea, the explorers, the conquerors. In their own land whence Rollo had come, they had worshipped the gods and heroes – Odin and Thor, Beowulf and Sigurd. They had been fearless, brave and bowed to no man.
She had seen one of their like today; and she knew that she would never forget him. So she was sad, thinking that ere long some man would speak for her; perhaps it would be one of her father’s apprentices, and she would spend the rest of her life among the odour of skins; and something told her that she would never cease to remember the day when one of the heroes of the land had stopped briefly to admire her.
Darkness had fallen when the sound of a horse’s hoofs came near to the cottage. Someone was at the door. Could it be that he had returned?
Her father had stood up, shielding her. The man had stepped into the cottage. She began to tremble because she knew that it was a servant who had been sent from the castle.
‘What do you wish?’ asked the tanner and she could hear the tremor in his voice.
‘You have a daughter,’ was the answer.
Her father was silent, but she stepped before him and said: ‘I am the daughter of Fulbert, the tanner.’
‘I have a message for you. You are to come with me to the Castle.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘My seigneur.’
‘Why does he send for me?’
She was aware of the smirk on the man’s lips and her spirit was in sudden revolt. She rejoiced that he had not forgotten her, yet she knew what this meant. He had not come to her in person; he had sent his servant. She would be taken into the castle when it was dark and be returned to her father’s cottage before sunrise. It had happened to others before. But it must not happen to her. This was different. Why had he ridden away after he had seen her? She was sure that never before had he done such a thing. He had desired her; she was aware of that. And she had never been so deeply moved, bewildered and uncertain in the whole of her life. This was important to her; it must be important to him.
She would not be taken to his castle to be returned to her father’s cottage and sent for again mayhap if he could find none better to amuse him. No. Some instinct commanded her.
She said: ‘Go back to your master. Tell him that if he wishes me to come to his castle, I will do so – but not by stealth. I will not be taken in by some postern gate as a woman wh
o is of no account. If he wishes me to come willingly I will come to him by daylight. He must lower the drawbridge and I will ride into the castle on a horse he will send for me. He will furnish me with an escort. That is the only manner in which I shall ride to your seigneur.’
The man laughed at her.
‘The seigneur is in an evil mood,’ he warned her.
‘I have said my say,’ she retorted.
He bowed and rode away.
The tanner looked at his daughter. ‘What came over you?’
‘I know not. It was as though something spoke for me.’
‘I fear. I fear for you, and for myself.’
‘He will not harm us, Father.’
The tanner shook his head.
He had seen many a hand nailed to a door. He looked down at his own which he stretched out before him. How could he carry on his work without it? Perhaps they could fly. To Rouen? They could be followed there. What of his trade? He was well known in Falaise . . . the finest tanner in the town. What had come over Arlette? She might bear a bastard it was true, but it would be a noble bastard. The Dukes and their family were good to their women. But they did not care to be flouted. And Robert – he whom some called Robert the Devil – others Robert the Magnificent – was a proud man.
As for Arlette her moment of triumph had passed. She sat in a pile of skins in the corner of the room and thought of what she had done. Would he send for her? Would he take her by force? Would he burn down her father’s cottage? Or would he ignore her? No, never that. He would surely not allow an insult to pass.
Through the night she did not sleep. Nor did her father. At every sound they started up.
And at last the sun rose and it was day again. They had lived through the night; but what would the day bring?
Throughout the morning none from the castle came near the tanner’s cottage. But an hour after noon, a party of men rode up.
The tanner shut the door and drew the heavy bolt but Arlette cried: ‘Do you think that will save us! Let us at least show good spirit.’
She opened the door and stood there, the sunlight gleaming on her golden braids, her tall figure erect, her blue eyes flashing.