by Jean Plaidy
‘Thorold, I cannot see. I am stifling.’
There was no answer. He was taken out of the house – he was slung across a saddle and Thorold was riding as though for his life – which he was of course, and that of the little Duke.
His heart was beating fast; he was in danger. Someone knew he had been in that house and had come to take him – or was coming. Perhaps they were there now searching for him. He could see the evil eyes of Talvas as he pricked the straw with his sword. ‘Come out, you little bastard! Bastard! Bastard!’ How he hated that word. If they had not been able to apply it to him, would he be riding through the night like this? But Alfred had not been a bastard and they had cut out his eyes . . . his beautiful eyes. He had died. Better to be dead than to live without one’s eyes – a prisoner of cruel men!
The horse had stopped. He could hear voices.
Thorold had lifted him from the saddle; he was able to free his head and breathe the fresh night air.
‘Are we safe?’ said a voice.
‘Nay. They could follow us. We must needs hide here until fresh horses can be found.’
‘Into the hayloft,’ said a voice.
‘Thorold,’ William said imperiously, ‘who are our enemies this night?’
But Thorold ignored him. How like Thorold! He could be as respectful as William could ask when there was no danger but as soon as there was he made it clear that William was a boy and must obey his elders.
He was taken into the loft as though he were a bundle of straw and hay was piled up over him.
‘Lie there. Not a sound. Don’t move until I come.’ It was Thorold who gave the orders now.
It seemed long that he waited in the loft, his ears straining for every sound that might mean his pursuers had discovered his hiding-place. He imagined Talvas at their head; he could picture his coming into the loft cruelly laughing, knowing that he had run his quarry to earth.
It was terrifying to think of the stories of that cruel man. And now he was chasing the Duke of Normandy as he had his other victims. And if he found him? William touched his eyes and thought of Alfred.
Because he was trembling he tried to shut out the thought of Talvas and thought instead of his grandfather Richard the Fearless.
It was almost as though Richard lived again. Richard had been a bastard even as he had; Richard’s father had died when he was a child; Richard had been taken as a hostage into France and his faithful squire Osmond (how like Osbern!) had one day put Richard into a sack and covered him with hay, told all who saw him that he was going to feed his horse and had ridden with Richard out of the castle, out of France and brought his little Duke safely back to Normandy.
So would it be with William. His faithful friend would save him even as Richard’s had.
So he lay under the hay and listened for the sounds of horses’ hoofs. Osbern lay in the hay with him waiting to spring on his enemies, ready to defend his little Duke to the death. And I will fight too, William promised himself. I would kill Talvas and all who come against me.
At length that long night was over. Thorold had found horses. They set off on their ride to safety and so they continued their tour of Normandy.
But their enemies were powerful and more dangerous still, secret.
William’s friends saw now how dangerous it was for him to go openly among his people, for then his enemies would know where he slept each night and they would come by stealth.
They were everywhere, in quarters least expected. The Count d’Eu, one of William’s most loyal supporters, was attacked while out riding; one by one the little Duke’s supporters began to die.
They were hunting him, William knew. So must the wolf feel when the pack was after him. But he would always feel safe with Thorold and Osbern, those two giants who arranged that always one of them should be with him.
Then one day Thorold was no longer there.
Never had William felt so desolate as he did on the day they told him that he would never see Thorold again. This was worse than going to France, than leaving his mother, even than the death of his father, for when Robert died it had been more than two years since they had seen each other.
And now Thorold, big powerful ever-watchful Thorold, was dead . . . lost to him for ever.
No more would that rough voice bid him lie still or be silent. No more would that great protective body stand between him and his enemies.
Thorold was dead. They had poisoned him. These wicked cruel men who were determined that they would not be governed by a young bastard had killed Thorold.
William was no longer a child from that moment. A fierce hatred burned in his heart. He had loved Thorold. There had never been such a strong man, such a brave man as Thorold. He loved Osbern too but Osbern was gentler, a squire rather than a warrior. These two men had been to him what no one else had ever been since he had left for France. They had replaced his parents. And now Thorold was dead.
‘So help me God,’ said William. ‘I will be avenged on those who killed Thorold.’
In the quiet of his bed at night he wept for Thorold. He hoped his ancestors did not see the tears. What would Rollo say of a Duke who wept? Had Richard the Fearless wept when he lost his father? Perhaps in secret and tears might be forgiven if no one saw them.
I wish I were a man, thought William, so that I could go forth and smite the murderers of Thorold – ay, and every man who dares call me bastard.
Osbern never left him now. He even slept in his bed. Osbern missed Thorold too.
Osbern talked to him often, not attempting now to hide the truth. ‘We have many enemies,’ he said, ‘as you now know. But we have friends too. There are too many who wish to wear the ducal robes and they are suspicious of each other. In this lies our strength. We cannot go on like this. I heard that many of those who wish you well believe that you should go to your mother and stay with her. There you will be safe.’
‘My enemies could come there for me.’
‘Nay. We would have Conteville well fortified. You would be among those who love you. Your stepfather is a man of some power and he has faithful friends. Your mother would make sure that everything was done to safeguard you. You would continue with lessons and live the life natural to a boy of your age.’
‘I am the Duke, you forget.’
‘I could not forget it – even if you would allow me to,’ said Osbern with a smile. ‘But we cannot go on like this. One day our enemies would catch us. You have to live . . . as a symbol. We have to get through these difficult years of your minority and when you are of age you can step into your rightful place. There are four or five years to be lived through but if we can keep you safe during those years and your loyal friends can keep your enemies at bay, then you can take over your duties when the time is ripe.’
‘I am ready to fight them now. By God’s Splendour, Osbern, I long to go into battle.’
‘A strong oath, my lord.’
‘Strong men use strong oaths. I am done with childhood.’
Osbern shook his head. ‘We can only enter manhood, my lord, when childhood has done with us. Let us face facts. You are too young to rule and you must be fitted to rule. You cannot be made so, roaming the country as a fugitive. This is what your loyal friends and advisers have decreed. Duke you are and Duke you must remain, but because of your tender years you must needs listen to those of maturer wisdom than your own.’
Osbern could always defeat him in argument. And in his heart he knew he was right. Even Richard the Fearless had had to accept the advice of his counsellors when he was a boy. He had not done with lessons yet.
They were on the way to Conteville, and stayed the night at the house of a man whom Osbern knew to be loyal. They supped and retired to the room which had been given to them. A large room full of shadows. Osbern went to the hangings, his knife in his hand as he always did – ready if any should be hiding there to despatch him without delay.
All was well.
They lay down to sleep, Osbern besi
de him, Osbern nearest to the door, to shield him: and so they slept.
Something had awakened William. It was dark in the room. He lay still listening. A footstep on the stair? The slow stealthy opening of a door. Nay, all was quiet.
He closed his eyes. He was mistaken again. It was always thus when he awakened in the night. He would think of ralvas entertaining his guests, of Alfred’s beautiful eyes, of Thorold who was lost to him; and then reassured by the bulk of Osbern beside him he would fall asleep. He dozed and dreamed that someone came and stood over the bed. In his dream he heard a voice. ‘Die . . . die, you bastard.’
Half waking he thought: A dream! Another evil dream. He could feel Osbern beside him and comforted, he slept again.
It was morning for a little light penetrated the narrow apertures.
‘Osbern,’ whispered William, ‘it is morning.’
Osbern did not answer, and after a few minutes William rose from the bed.
‘Osbern. How sleepy you are this day. Wake up, Osbern.’
William touched Osbern’s shoulder. His hand was sticky. He looked down at Osbern.
‘Osbern! Osbern!’ he cried.
That was blood on the bed . . . the blood of Osbern!
‘Oh, Osbern, my dear, dear friend. Wake up. Speak to me.’
But Osbern would never wake again. In the night he had been stabbed to death.
William heard that word ringing in his head, triumphantly, maliciously spoken: ‘Bastard.’ And he knew that Osbern had been killed in mistake for himself.
He was twelve years old and although still a child in years he had suffered the emotions of a man. Thorold dead. Osbern dead. He had loved these men. He wanted to go out and do battle with their slayers; he wanted to wreak a terrible vengeance on these murderers.
This could not be. But there were still men who remembered their oath to him and to his father. He was their Duke and they would serve him with their lives. They would wage war against his enemies but it was too dangerous to have him roaming the country. Narrowly he had escaped assassination; both those brave men – Thorold and Osbern – had died in his service. He could not hope to escape every time.
It was explained to him. ‘You are a figurehead. As yet you are too young to be the Duke in aught but name. You remember how important your father always thought it that you should be trained in every way to fit your position.’
He knew what that meant – going back to the schoolroom, studying the arts of war not in practice but with his teachers.
Of course they were right. He was but twelve years old. If only he had been born ten or even five years earlier. But what was the use of railing against that?
He agreed to go back to his mother.
The Seed is Sown
SHE WAS AT the top of the turret as he had known she would be. She told him this when he rode into the courtyard for by that time she was down there.
‘My boy,’ she cried. ‘Thank God you have come home to me.’
She took him into her arms; she wept shamelessly. He feared that he too might show a womanish emotion. But how good it was to be home!
She had a warming stirrup-cup waiting for him; he was thin, she complained.
‘William, my love, I am going to feed you. You have the best chamber in the castle. Come, I will show you. And then you will meet your sister Adeliz and your brothers. Odo cannot wait. I’ll swear he is peeping out at you from one of the windows. He has heard such tales of you. Even little Robert knows. Herlwin, my husband, has sworn to serve you with his life and you know your father gave him a large estate that he might care for me and be your faithful vassal. On this estate everyone is for you . . . every man, woman and child.’
Yes, it was comforting to enjoy the luxuries of Conteville. He could almost believe he was back in Falaise.
He embraced his sister Adeliz who had grown since he last saw her. He liked the children. Odo was a bright little fellow, who liked to stand at his side and gaze at him as though he were one of the heroes of his favourite legend, for his mother had told these stories to him as she had to William.
For a day he gave himself to the pleasure of being with his mother, his stepfather and the children. They were his family on whom he could rely with as much certainty as he had on Thorold and Osbern! Having experienced the uncertainty of not knowing who was a friend, it was good to sink back on a couch of security.
There were dogs and horses and falcons at Conteville.
‘Choose what you will,’ said Herlwin. ‘We get some good hunting here.’
He rode far from the castle with Herlwin. ‘These people you see are loyal to a man,’ said his stepfather. ‘They depend for their livelihood on me and would not dare raise a hand against my stepson even if they wished to. But they do not. They are with you.’ And it was true that people, seeing them together called a loyal ‘Long live the Duke.’
He began to sleep as he had not done since that terrible morning when he had awakened to find Osbern’s bloody body beside him.
He would return to the castle tired but exalted from the hunt. There was feasting in the castle hall as there had been at Falaise with himself at the head of the table as his father used to sit, and his mother on his right hand, his stepfather on his left.
He would lie on the grass beside the moat with young Odo and tell him how they had struck down the stag with their arrows and what a fine big animal he was. He would carry his little half-brother on his shoulders and trot round the courtyard with him; he would take him out on his pony; the boy adored him.
But he was in little mood for merry-making after the feast; he did not wish to hear the ballads and stories of heroes because they reminded him of Thorold and Osbern. So he and Herlwin would sit together over a game of chess.
His mother looked on, smiling at them both. It was as it had been many years and even more adventures ago when his father had come home.
A few days after his arrival at the castle he returned from a ride with his stepfather to find his mother waiting for them in the hall.
She was smiling in a manner which told him that she had a surprise for him and that it would please him.
‘There is someone to see you, William,’ she said. ‘He has come to beg to be taken back into your service.’ She turned and called: ‘Come, Gallet.’
And there was Gallet the Fool kneeling before him kissing his hands.
He must control his emotions. There must not be any foolish tears. Why should they come to his eyes at the sight of that slight figure kneeling there, and the rather vacant eyes looking up at him as though he were one of the gods or heroes of the Northlands?
‘Gallet,’ he said, ‘you are welcome . . . you old fool.’
Gallet understood in spite of the fact that he was such a fool.
‘You’ll have a fine sparrow-hawk for me to train, Master?’ he asked.
‘Welcome, Gallet,’ said William. ‘It pleases me to have you in my service.’
But days were not to be spent in sport and family pleasures. He was at peace here, but his realm was in turmoil. Loyal men were fighting for his inheritance. Although he could not join them he must do as they wished, which meant he must go back to the schoolroom as well as perfect himself in arms.
He must resume his studies under Uncle Mauger, which did not please him. But although he was no longer a child, he was not yet a man, and he must tolerate this cynical tutor who was reckoned to be one of the most learned men in the Duchy. Raoul de Vacé, the Constable and Regent of Normandy, was also his tutor, and William was expected to give as much attention to learning as he did to the study of arms. He would never be as good a scholar as he would be a man of action, that much was clear; but a leader could not be ignorant; as Mauger said, rulers must be acquainted with the past for then they would be aware of the mistakes of their predecessors and could profit from their knowledge, so avoiding the same errors themselves. There was wisdom in that and in spite of his dislike for his uncle, William had to admit that he was a wi
se man.
His stepfather’s son by a previous marriage came to the castle as a companion for William. He was Raoul de Tancarville to whom William took an instant liking. It was pleasant to have a companion. His sister Adeliz, although he was fond of her, could clearly not join in his lessons and pastimes as a member of his own sex could.
He had not been at Conteville a week when his cousin Guy arrived. What a joy it was to see him! Guy was the son of Duke Robert’s sister and they were friends from the old days.
He said: ‘I am to take lessons with you, cousin. It will be as it was at Falaise.’
William was delighted. He realized that was what he wanted, to get back to the happy days at Falaise, to forget the horror and misery he had witnessed, to sleep peacefully in his bed at night, his quarrels to be arguments with Guy and Raoul, his battles a round of fisticuffs about which they laughed afterwards.
There was one occasion when he bloodied Guy’s nose. The incident followed one of those moments when William – as he did now and then – remembered that he was Duke and their master.
‘Remember,’ he had said to Guy, ‘that I am older than you.’
‘By not much,’ retorted Guy. ‘Besides, I’m my mother’s legitimate son. You are a bastard.’
That hated word! William’s fiery temper, as easily aroused as it ever was in spite of his efforts to restrain it, flared up and Guy was sent sprawling on the cobbles of the courtyard.
Guy was on his feet, in a devilishly irritating mood, dancing round William, from a safe distance chanting: ‘Bastard! Bastard! William the Bastard!’
He could have killed Guy, for in that moment he hated his cousin. He might have done so too if his stepfather had not parted them.
‘Now, William! Now, Guy! What is this?’
William glared at Guy as though daring him to say that word which was the cause of the quarrel. Guy said nothing.
‘Two boys who cannot guard their temper,’ said Herlwin sadly. ‘When will you grow into men?’
William was sorry he had lost his temper. Osbern and Thorold had always told him he must restrain it if he was to govern well.