by Jean Plaidy
Courage, bravery, to live without fear, that was the Norman code. He learned that from his father; it was above all things never to be forgotten. With Uncle Mauger it was a matter of poring over books, learning to read and write, a tiresome preoccupation when there were ponies to ride and falcons to be trained, sword-play to be mastered, archery to be practised.
He liked to be with his mother to hear of the magnificence of his father who according to her was the greatest Duke Normandy had known, even greater than Rollo and Richard the Fearless; she told him the stories of the heroes which her grandmother had told her. His grandfather Fulbert lived at the Palace and William loved him because he was different from anyone else he knew. He used to tell William how to skin a wolf and tan it and how the resulting leather was useful for so many things. Life was full of interest; he felt secure and well guarded for he was aware that when he rode out Osbern always kept close to him and he was never allowed out of the Seneschal’s sight. He could not help being aware that he was to be especially cherished. It was not so much because he was a little boy whose mother loved him dearly and whose father was interested in him and who had so many friends in the castle; there was another reason. It was because his father was the Duke of Normandy and he was his only son.
Richard the Fearless must have felt this when his father William Longsword came to visit him – for fathers it seemed rarely lived in their castles with their families; they were always away on other business which invariably involved fighting. Now he, William, awaited a visit from his father, Robert the Magnificent. He wondered what they would call him when he was a man, William the . . .? What should it be? He would like William the Brave, he thought.
Now they had forgotten him and were whispering together. He heard the name Count Talvas de Bellême. Yes, they had gone back to the Devil.
‘No one is safe on the roads. If you’re found you’ll be taken to the castle of Domfront Alençon. And there you will be thrust into a dungeon. And they say that he then asks his friends to a feast and when they have drunk their fill and beyond, the prisoners are brought up from the dungeons . . .’
‘And then . . . what then?’
‘Then they make sport with them.’
‘They kill them?’
‘It could come to that in time. But there’s no hurry about it. ’Tis a slow matter. Nails are torn off, eyes put out . . . hands and feet cut off and made sport with.’
William put his hands to his eyes; he looked at his hands.
They went on whispering together; he wanted to stop his ears but he had to listen. He could see it all so clearly; the hall at Domfront Castle which would be like that at Falaise, the cowering prisoners – young men and old ones too who had been unwise enough to be caught by the Count of Bellême’s men who prowled after dark in search of the unwary.
He could not bear it. He ran out crying: ‘No, no. It is not true. It is wicked. Only traitors should be treated thus!’
The varlets stared at him; the face of the chief cook even redder than before.
‘The little master!’ he said.
One of the women came forward and said: ‘What then, little master? Was it a bad dream then, a nightmare?’
He stood facing them, his grey eyes flashing. Did they think he was such a baby to be put off with tales of nightmares. Had he heard them, or had he not? He might be only five but he would remind them that although five might be very young for some, it was a different matter with the son of the Duke of Normandy.
‘’Twas no nightmare,’ he said. ‘I heard you talking of Bellême.’
There was a gasp among the company. One of the women knelt down beside him. ‘Listen to me, little master. We did talk, but you listened and to listen is sly, you know. The Lady Arlette would not be pleased to know that you hide in corners to spy.’
‘I did not spy. I heard . . .’
‘What you were not meant to hear! Now go out into the courtyard, go back to your play and forget what you heard here. For we did wrong to talk so, and you did wrong to hide yourself and listen. And what’s done and can’t be mended is best forgot.’
He nodded slowly. There was wisdom in it.
He walked out into the courtyard but he could not get out of his mind the thought of the hall of Domfront Castle and the cruel things that were done to the innocent . . . such things which should only be done as punishment for great crimes such as disloyalty to one’s sovereign Duke.
He would go to see his sparrow-hawk – always a heartening matter, but before he could cross the courtyard he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs and the clatter of arrival.
William forgot everything but that his father had come. He did not stop running until he came to the porch. Across the drawbridge rode his father, a little ahead of his escort. He wore the purple robe which proclaimed his rank and on his head the velvet cap edged with ermine; William was aware of the sword in its ornamental scabbard at his side, the steel which covered his legs and feet. Jewels glittered in his cap and at his throat. He was indeed a magnificent sight!
William wanted to hold his stirrup while he alighted but he was not allowed to perform this important ceremony, but his father noted his attempt and was pleased by it.
Osbern was watching him, William knew. He must do what was expected of him. Otherwise he would suffer reproaches. But that was not so important as that he should shine in his father’s eyes.
The Duke towered above the small boy. William knelt in homage to receive his blessing. The Duke muttered a prayer for he was a very religious man – though his actions did not always point to this.
He rose and the Duke picked him up and held him high above him.
‘You’ve grown, boy,’ he said.
‘Yes, Father. I thought you would wish it.’
‘And have learnt much, I trust?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘We shall put you to the test.’
A look of apprehension crossed his face when he thought of what Uncle Mauger might report, but there was such love and pride in his father’s face that he soon forgot that.
‘Now, to your mother,’ said the Duke.
And walking side by side they went into the castle.
Robert embraced Arlette and marvelled at her beauty once more as he did on every occasion after a separation.
‘So you are well and happy,’ he said.
‘Now that you have come,’ she answered.
He must kiss their little daughter, but Adeliz, for all her charm, could not delight him as the boy did.
It was good to be home with his family, for this was his family. He had married for form’s sake Estrith, the sister of King Canute of England, but he had no children by her and had soon left her to be with Arlette.
They feasted in the hall and Robert would have his son beside him. A boy could not learn too soon, he said.
‘He is but five,’ Arlette reminded him.
‘This is a boy who must shoulder responsibilities early.’
‘Why so?’ replied Arlette. ‘You have many years to watch over his growing up.’
Robert did not answer and his silence made Arlette uneasy.
The company ate heartily of the venison; they drank freely; there was music and jesting and the telling of stories. Many times had little William heard how Ragnar slew the dragon and Sigurd passed through the ring of fire but it thrilled him afresh. However, soon he was asleep and his mother took him on to her lap and he knew no more until next morning when he awakened to find himself asleep on his bag of straw and remembered that his father was at the castle.
In the peace of their chamber Arlette and Robert talked into the night; and they talked of William.
‘My heart rejoices in the boy,’ said Robert. ‘You have given me much and among that my great treasure, my son.’
‘Who could but be proud of such a one?’
‘He is advanced for his age. I can scarcely believe it is but five years since they brought the news to me of his birth.’
&nb
sp; ‘He is all that we could have wished for, though Mauger complains of a lack of attention at his books.’
Robert laughed. ‘I’d not have him otherwise. I want my son to be a duke, not a clerk.’
‘That will be in the far future.’
Robert was silent and the fear returned to Arlette; she knew there was something he had to tell her and that he was putting it off, for he did not wish to spoil their first night together after their separation.
She said: ‘Sometimes I wish that you were not the Duke. If your brother had lived . . .’
She should not have said that. She knew in her heart that he was not guiltless of his brother’s death. She had believed often that his involvement in that death overshadowed him, lay like a burden on his mind – one which he could cast aside for a long period and suddenly find he was carrying it again. She sensed that he carried it now.
The battle for Falaise which had been going on at the time of William’s birth had been inconclusive. Richard III had made a truce with Robert, but the friction remained; Robert could never take second place; he had been determined that nothing must stop his becoming the Duke and since he had had a son, he was more than ever determined.
Richard had sat down to a banquet one day and had never risen from the table; nor had those who sat down with him. There could only be one solution to such a happening. Someone had poisoned them. And who had everything to gain from Richard’s death – who but his brother Robert? Robert had not been at the scene of the multiple deaths, but that fact did not exonerate him. At whose orders had the poison been administered? The answer to that question would point to the man responsible for the murder.
Fratricide? It was a deadly sin. Yet, Robert had often convinced himself, only good had come of it. Normandy now had a strong Duke where before it had had a weak one. The fate of Normandy was too important to Rollo’s descendants to allow any squeamishness over a death or two.
This seemed to have been the conclusion the people came to, for although they deplored the method of removing Richard, they must applaud the accession of Robert known as the Devil or the Magnificent according to how one felt towards him.
He was a good ruler, a man dedicated to Normandy; a deeply religious man whenever it was not impossible to his interests to be so. He had no legitimate son but the little bastard at Falaise was good proof that he was capable of begetting fine sons. So the manner of Richard’s death was forgotten and Robert was accepted as the Duke.
Arlette had rejoiced because she believed that this would be an end to the fighting; but it seemed there was always some matter of danger to disturb the lives of such as Robert.
This reunion must be a happy one, but she could not resist trying to discover what was disturbing Robert.
They talked of William – a happy subject.
‘I have made up my mind,’ said Robert, ‘that he shall follow me. He shall be my successor. Your son, my love, will be the next Duke of Normandy.’
‘Will the people accept him?’
‘If I command it.’
‘We love him dearly. We know him to be the finest boy in Normandy. Remember, Robert, though, my humble birth. Can the daughter of a tanner give birth to a Duke of Normandy?’
‘If she is the best and most beautiful woman in the Duchy, yes.’
‘And he basely born as some would say?’
‘Never use that word of him, Arlette. A bastard he is and we must accept this. But he was my bastard and that is better than being any other man’s legitimate son.’
‘You have many years to reign as Duke, my beloved.’
‘I trust so, but who can say. Many of us are cut off in our prime.’
She heard the catch in his voice and she knew he was thinking of his brother. How could he help it? They had played together in the castles of Rouen and Falaise. They had slept on the same straw; they had sat at the same board. Brothers! And now one dead at the hands of the other.
If he had been as his ancestors had been perhaps he would have suffered less remorse. Odin, Thor, Freya, they would have understood. He had killed because he needs must, because for the good of Normandy a strong Duke must reign. But he was a Christian and Christians must expiate their sins.
At length he said: ‘Arlette, most heavily does my sin hang over me.’
She said: ‘You have given Normandy a strong Duke. Yourself.’
‘I bear the Curse of Cain,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I fear that until I can cast off my sin I shall carry it with me.’
She held him tightly in her arms. ‘For tonight,’ she said, ‘you are safe with me.’
He was silent for a while and then he said, ‘Arlette, I have been thinking of what I could do. If I made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and prostrated myself before a holy shrine I could obtain forgiveness for all my sins. Perhaps I should do this, Arlette.’
‘You would leave us for so long?’
‘But think, when I come back I shall be cleansed of my sins. My conscience will be free.’
‘And while you are away what of Normandy?’
‘I have good and faithful men here.’
‘And will they remain good and faithful, deprived of their Duke?’
‘They shall have their Duke.’
‘But he will be far away.’
‘I shall leave them . . . William.’
‘A child.’
‘Others of our Dukes have taken on the ducal role at an early age.’
‘But he is so young . . . and a bastard.’
‘Was not Richard the Fearless?’
‘You must not go. You must stay here. God will forgive you more readily for looking after your son and your home than for making this pilgrimage.’
‘I must go, Arlette. Something commands me.’
She knew well that it was useless to try to persuade him, so she said: ‘And you would indeed make our son your heir?’
‘It has ever been my intention.’
‘How soon shall you go?’
‘When my affairs are in order.’
‘And one of these will be to make the barons swear fealty to your heir?’
‘Yes. But there is much to be done,’ he said.
‘You will prepare the child?’
‘Is he old enough to understand?’
‘He must be old enough since you are forcing this burden on him.’
‘I shall be back ere long.’
‘And he will remain your heir?’
‘Have I not said he shall follow me?’
‘You must remember . . .’
‘That he is a bastard, yes! Perhaps he will be called William the Bastard but when he remembers who his parents were he will see no disgrace in that.’
‘You love this boy as you could have loved a son born in wedlock if you had one.’
‘I love him as I could never love another child. He is the son of his mother and just as I can love none other as I love her, so it is with her child.’
‘So, because I went down to the stream to wash clothes one summer’s day I am to be the mother of the next Duke of Normandy.’
‘There, does the thought not give you pleasure?’
‘None, for he could only be so by the death of his father. Stay with me, Robert.’
‘Ask anything else of me. But – let me purge my conscience. Let me return to you with this sin wiped from me. Then we shall know even greater happiness. And together we shall watch the boy grow into manhood.’
‘Come back to me, Robert,’ she said. ‘Oh, come back to me.’
When the Duke was in the castle there was a subtle change. People talked in whispers; they hurried about their duties; the foresters hunted for the finest stags and the fiercest boars: there was continual feasting, for the Duke’s vassals came from throughout the Duchy to pay homage to him.
Arlette became more beautiful, William noticed; watching his mother and father together he wished it could always be thus.
During the first hours he overcame his awe of his father. He
liked to climb on to his great knee and sit solemnly watching his face while he talked and only now and then allowing the great jewelled brooch which held his cape in place to absorb his attention.
His father asked him many questions about his hunting, his archery, his sword play. ‘As yet,’ said William, ‘it is with sticks. May I not have a real sword?’
‘All in good time, my son.’
‘I should like a dagger too.’
‘Wherefore my son should you wish for a dagger?’
‘If I met someone . . . someone wicked. If I met the Count of Talvas . . .’
‘What know you of the Count of Talvas?’
William grew scarlet with mortification, but he could not lie to his father. ‘I listened to talk,’ he said.
‘You thought it good to hide yourself and listen to what was not meant for your ears?’
‘I thought if I was to be like you, I should know everything.’
It was an answer which did not displease the Duke.
He never ceased to marvel at the intelligence of this boy, who was moreover strong and sturdy. He delighted in him.
‘You did well,’ he said. ‘You have to learn more quickly than other boys. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Why must you?’
‘Because you are my father and everything you have must be of the best.’
‘A good answer, son. Can you shoot an arrow far?’
‘Farther than Guy.’
‘And you can ride faster?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And your lessons?’
William hesitated. ‘Has Uncle Mauger spoken to you?’ he asked.
The Duke laughed. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Am I to be disappointed in that field?’
‘I like not to be within stone walls.’
‘Nay, ’tis natural. But these things must be mastered, my son. You will have need of all you can learn. That you will understand as you grow older. You will need a strong arm to protect your mother.’