The Bastard King

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Let us hope that by the time he comes to the throne I shall have made England so secure that there is no need of harshness. Robert shall have Normandy. His fingers itch for it now.’

  ‘And Rufus? And Henry?’

  ‘It seems to me that you have given me too many sons.’

  ‘You have often said that a King could not have too many.’

  ‘I doubt not we shall find possessions for them. And it is well for Kings and rulers to have brothers. They should be more able to put their trust in brothers than in strangers.’

  ‘Yet the trouble in Normandy has been with members of your blood. And in England had Tostig stood by Harold there could have been a different story.’

  ‘I would wish my sons to be good brothers one to the other. Many of those who rose against me did so because I was a bastard. I saw their reasoning. Had my father married my mother and I been his legitimate son much less blood would have been shed over Normandy. And had Tostig been as good a brother to Harold as Gurth and Leofwine were, then Harold might still be King. So you see why my sons must have more wisdom than others have had. They must remember that united they will be strong, in discord they are weak.’

  ‘I pray with you that there may never be discord between them.’

  ‘I have decided Adela shall be given to the Count of Blois. He will be a good ally to Robert when he governs Normandy. I want to see the children settled in their niches, which I shall before I die.’

  ‘I beg of you do not talk of dying. You are a young man yet.’

  ‘When I am with you I feel so,’ he answered. ‘And now we have Cecilia, a holy nun. I trust she will remember to pray for the good of her family.’

  ‘I am sure she will do that.’

  ‘I have decided on Alan, Duke of Bretagne, for Constance. He has been a good ally and it will strengthen our friendship.’

  ‘Soon they will all be settled,’ sighed Matilda.

  There was much to be done. Triumphant tours, matters of state, visits to his various castles – all this exhilarated him. He was particularly interested in the magnificent piece of tapestry which was not quite finished. It depicted the scene of William’s conquest from the landing of Harold in Normandy to his fall at Hastings and was worked on a canvas which was sixty-seven yards in length though but nineteen inches wide.

  He admired it and said that when it was completed it should be set up in the Cathedral of Bayeux and he would often come to look at it.

  ‘Turold the dwarf has done his work well,’ said Matilda. ‘He is a fine artist but you should see him strut whenever the tapestry is mentioned. I have rewarded him.’

  ‘Doubtless you will employ him to design more of your canvases.’

  ‘Doubtless I shall for I could not find a better designer.’

  William could not take his eyes from the work – everything was brought back so clearly. Harold being delivered into his hands, the blazing comet, the landing in England and the battle of Hastings.

  It was a monument to his victory; it would live through the ages as surely as his great Tower of London which would be erected by the time he returned.

  But he did not want to think of returning. For a period here he could perhaps forget rebellion. He wanted a little respite, to stay cosy in the heart of his family.

  Matilda’s child proved to be a girl. They called her Gundred.

  ‘Perhaps ’tis as well,’ said William. ‘Had it been another boy what should we have given him? Daughters are good for marrying and making strong alliances.’

  ‘Pray do not talk of my children as though they are pawns on your chessboard.’

  He smiled at her. ‘What a brood we have given ourselves, Matilda! I come to think that Richard is the best. He will make a good king of England. Lanfranc tells me that he has all the qualities.’

  ‘You should not have favourites.’

  ‘You to talk of favourites! What of Master Curthose? Is he not the darling of your heart?’

  ‘He is my first-born and I beg of you do not call him by that name. He does not like it.’

  ‘Then he must needs endure it. By God’s Splendour, Matilda, I have had enough of his arrogance.’

  ‘Since he is your son, what do you expect?’

  ‘Come, let us talk of pleasanter matters. Henry will be for the church. I may take him back to England with me and put him in the charge of Lanfranc.’

  ‘He astonishes his tutors, William.’

  ‘Odd that we should have given birth to a scholar. Curthose will never be that.’

  ‘He will be a fine general of his armies which is perhaps more useful.’

  ‘I am weary of hearing you sing his praises. Rufus is growing up a brave fellow.’

  ‘A shadow of yourself. The devil’s temper and a passion for the hunt.’

  ‘Oh come, I have other qualities, would you not say?’

  ‘I doubt whether Rufus will ever be anything but a shadow of his father – nor will any of them,’ said Matilda seriously.

  He smiled at her tenderly and she said quickly, ‘Robert is of a different nature completely.’

  ‘Well, I must perforce make allowances for a mother’s prejudices.’

  ‘Remember it,’ she told him.

  Robert was restive. He wished his father would go back to England. He hated William. From his childhood he had felt inadequate in his presence. ‘Curthose’, William had called him and given him the nickname he hated. Why should a man have to be tall to be a great one? Were inches of such importance? Rollo was too big for his horse, Richard the Fearless, Robert the Magnificent, William the Conqueror, to the devil with them all. So proud of their Viking ancestors. It was time they started to be themselves instead of shadows of the past. He was weary of the name of Rollo. He himself was half Flemish half Norman and he felt closer to the Flemings than the Normans, closer to his mother than to his father. His mother could be relied on; she was sympathetic and understanding. He knew she pleaded his cause with his father.

  Here he was, nineteen years old. Old enough to be a ruler in his own right. He was to have Normandy. When? Was he to wait until his father died? By the look of him he had years left to him. And while he lived he, Robert, must be of no importance, except that he was the eldest son, but always in leading strings.

  ‘The trouble with my father,’ he had told his mother, ‘is that he cannot bear to give up anything. He has to own everything within his reach and keep it.’

  Matilda said: ‘It has been hard-won.’

  ‘He has Normandy and England. How can he govern both? When he is in England he needs rulers in Normandy and so in England. What way is that to go on? He has chosen England. He likes better to be a King than a Duke. Very well, he is the almighty one, the all-powerful one. Let him have England. But Normandy should be mine.’

  ‘Do not let him hear you say that,’ begged Matilda. ‘He might even give it to Richard.’

  ‘Richard is to be King of England.’

  ‘Rufus, then.’

  ‘Rufus. That red-faced fool.’

  Matilda said: ‘It ill-behoves you, my son, to jeer at his red face.’

  ‘But my short legs may become a jest.’

  ‘’Twas no jest, Robert. ’Twas in the first place a term of endearment. Now, I beg of you, try to make peace with your father.’

  ‘I make peace with him! Is he not the one who decides whether or not there shall be peace?’

  ‘You know how upset I am when I see discord between you.’

  ‘You think only of soothing him.’

  ‘You know I think of you, too. Oh, Robert, for my sake, try not to anger him.’

  Robert’s anger evaporated as he looked at his mother. She was his friend, he knew. Her loyalties were torn between them both. He wondered whose side she would be on if it were necessary at some time to take sides.

  It might well be, for he had no intention of going on in this way.

  On a balcony high up in the castle Rufus and Henry were playing a dice game.


  Henry, though years younger than Rufus, was so clever that mentally they were almost of an age; because of this his family were apt to forget his youth.

  Rufus looked down suddenly and saw his brother Robert in the courtyard surrounded by his companions. These were young men whom he had chosen to favour deliberately because he knew his father did not like them. They were inclined to be dissolute, cynical young men who, knowing they would never find favour with William, sought to curry it with Robert and with him looked forward to the day when William returned to England.

  Rufus, mischievous and hot-tempered, had his own grievances. Robert was always complaining that his father delayed in passing the dukedom over to him. Richard was training to be King of England. But what of him . . . and Henry? What were they to have, with big brothers stepping in before them?

  ‘Look at old Curthose strutting down there,’ he said to Henry. ‘He acts as though he is the Duke of Normandy, this his castle, and we his vassals.’

  ‘It is because of his short legs,’ said Henry. ‘If they were longer he would not need to tell us that he is as good as . . . nay better than the rest of us.’

  ‘And those friends of his. They look at me as though I am of no account. I’d remind them that I am the son of a King and a Duke even though I am not the eldest. Come, let’s have some fun with them, Henry.’

  Standing on the terrace was a jar of water which had been there for some time and was stagnant.

  Rufus picked it up and carrying it to the edge of the balcony, tilted it forward so that the group of young men, in the centre of which was Robert, were sprinkled with it.

  Rufus drew back and the two boys were convulsed with laughter for they could hear the angry exclamations from below.

  ‘That,’ said Rufus, ‘will teach them a lesson. This is dirty water, Henry. Look at the green slime. Their fine robes will be thoroughly spoilt.’

  This seemed a tremendous joke to the boys and boldly Rufus determined to repeat it. He perched the jar on the edge of the balustrade and tipped it over.

  There was a cry from below.

  ‘Look up there,’ said a voice.

  ‘By God,’ cried Robert, ‘it’s those devils of brothers. I’ll teach them a lesson.’

  ‘Quick,’ said Rufus. They ran into the chamber and drew the heavy bolt.

  It was not long before there was a hammering on the door. ‘Come out, you young varlets.’

  ‘Go away and grow your legs, Curthose,’ called Rufus.

  ‘I’ll kill you, you insolent young devil,’ was the answer.

  ‘Just try,’ shouted Rufus.

  Henry listened, applauding Rufus.

  ‘Open this door,’ cried Robert, who had been joined by his friends.

  ‘Get out your battering ram,’ shouted Rufus, and he and Henry were hysterical with laughter.

  ‘You are deliberately insulting me,’ said Robert. ‘You did it purposely. You think you will have our father on your side if you insult me. I’ll not have it. I shall run you through with my sword, William Rufus. We’ll see if your blood is as red as your hair.’

  They were hammering on the door. It was heavy and Rufus regarded it complacently. But he was thinking that he could not stay here for ever and when he came out Robert would be waiting for him. Robert was impulsive; he had a quick temper. Most of them had in the family and he meant – at least at the moment – what he said about running him through.

  The door shook.

  He looked at Henry. ‘They are battering it down.’

  ‘It’s like a siege,’ said Henry excitedly. ‘This is how it must be when your castle is being taken by the enemy.’

  Rufus was really getting rather frightened. He looked about him. Could they escape by way of the balcony? The drop was too steep.

  Henry was watching the door with a calm calculation which was typical of him.

  ‘If only I had a sword, I’d fight him,’ said Rufus.

  The door creaked on its hinges. Then gave a groan and moved inwards.

  There stood Robert, the green slime of the dirty water on his coat, his eyes blazing with fury. Seeing Rufus he drew his sword from its sheath.

  ‘There you are, my brave Rufus. What say you now? Wait till I slit your throat with the point of this fine steel. Perhaps I will put out your eyes, how’s that?’

  ‘Go away,’ said Rufus, backing to the wall.

  ‘And Henry,’ mocked Robert. ‘You are in this, you insolent young dog. Don’t think you will escape me.’

  Rufus ran for the door. He was on the balcony. Robert ignored Henry and went after him. Rufus was leaning against the balcony, his face more ruddy than usual, his red hair wild.

  A thunderous voice from behind said: ‘What means this?’

  Their father was standing in the doorway. Robert turned to him, his sword raised. In a second William’s sword was in his hand. The two young boys looked on in relief. They were safe now. Their father had come to their rescue and Robert was the one who would be punished.

  William stepped on to the balcony. Robert glowered at him. Their swords crossed for a few seconds while they looked into each other’s faces. Robert had forgotten his anger with his brothers in his hatred for his father.

  With a gesture of contempt William sent Robert’s sword hurtling from his hand. He still stood holding his own.

  ‘So you would kill my sons, eh?’ he said. ‘They are of a size to make you brave. Come, let us see you fight now.’

  ‘I . . . have no sword.’

  ‘And why not? Were you not holding it in good fighting spirit when I came in?’

  Robert could say nothing. His humiliation before the grinning Rufus was intolerable.

  ‘Come,’ said William. ‘Pick up your sword. If you must fight. Then we will.’

  Robert picked up his sword but in an instant William had once more sent it swirling from his hand.

  ‘You have not yet learned to hold it. If I were you, I should learn how to handle a sword before I was so brave with it.’

  With a cry of rage Robert sprang at his father’s throat. With one hand William hurled him against the parapet. He approached him, sword in hand. Fortunately for Robert at that moment Matilda came running in.

  ‘For the love of God,’ she cried, ‘what means this?’

  William turned to her. ‘Your son has been trying to kill his brothers.’

  ‘They insulted me,’ screamed Robert. ‘They tried to humiliate me and my friends.’

  ‘William,’ said Matilda, ‘I beg of you put away your sword.’

  ‘I may need it,’ said William, ‘to protect myself against this son of yours. He is in a bloodthirsty mood and threatening to slay me as well as his brothers. Mind you, he is in less fighting mood now than when I entered. I don’t think he was counting on me as an opponent. He likes better to try his skill with a sword on unarmed children.’

  ‘William, please . . .’

  Robert’s face was dark with anger. He turned to Matilda. ‘Those boys insulted me. They threw dirty water on me and my friends. I merely meant to teach them a lesson.’

  ‘With a sword?’ asked William.

  ‘I was . . . but frightening them.’

  ‘And were frightened in your turn, Master Curthose.’

  What hatred blazed from the eyes of both! It alarmed Matilda.

  ‘It is a storm over nothing,’ she said. ‘As for the boys they shall be punished. They must learn not to throw water on their elders. Now, Robin, my son, leave us.’

  He was only too glad to get away from the scene of his humiliation. Matilda turned to the boys. ‘Go to your chamber,’ she said. ‘You will be whipped soundly. You, Rufus, because you are the elder, and you, Henry, because you are old enough to know better.’

  That left her with William.

  ‘I’ll kill that boy one day,’ he said.

  ‘He was very angry because his fine clothes have been spoilt. It’s a just cause for anger.’

  ‘I believe he woul
d have run Rufus through.’

  ‘Rufus is an irritating boy. He never thinks of others, only his own fun and pleasure.’

  ‘But he is his brother.’

  ‘And you are their father. What do you want from your children, William? Meekness?’

  ‘I expect good sense. Richard has it. Why not the others?’

  ‘Richard is a saint, it seems.’

  ‘I thank God he is my second boy that I may make him King of England. Robert would be useless. He would never rule well. He lets his emotions override his judgement and that is not good in a ruler. As for Rufus . . .’

  ‘Oh come, William. Rufus is young yet; and Robert is chafing because he is a man now and has no position of his own. Once he has that you will see a change in him.’

  ‘I want to see a change in him before I hasten to put power into his hands.’

  Uneasy as she was, Matilda was thankful that she had arrived in time. Perhaps it was as well that William would soon go to England and Robert remain in Normandy.

  If they were often together one would surely ere long do the other a mischief.

  That day Robert left the castle taking with him his special friends.

  He had no intention, he said, of staying under the same roof as his father. He was weary of being treated as though he were a child. He would like his father to know that he had friends . . . sympathetic friends.

  There was something about that phrase which was ominous.

  Matilda was in despair. There were two people only in the world whom she truly loved – William and Robert – and these two had chosen to hate each other.

  She tried to reason with William.

  ‘He is your son, William. Try to understand. He is no longer a boy. Naturally he resents being set aside.’

  ‘He would have to show me that he is capable of rule before I give him the power he asks.’

  ‘He will. I promise you, William.’

  ‘Matilda, why are you so blind where he is concerned? I had always thought you were a discerning woman.’

  ‘I am, William. I know my own son and I know my own husband. They are so much alike that they must of necessity have their differences. If he came back would you talk with him?’

  ‘If he talked sense I would.’

  ‘He will talk sense.’