by Jean Plaidy
Rufus was clever in his way. He had a certain wit; but William did not care for the companions he chose. Unlike Robert he was not interested in extravagance and women. He surrounded himself with young men like himself. They might be effeminate. Rufus was certainly not. His great passion in life was the chase and in this he and his father at least had something in common. Even Richard enjoyed the chase. It was the great relaxation. To ride after the deer, the wild boar, the stag with the dogs yelping at the horses’ feet was the complete joy. While he was thus engaged William could forget the disloyalties of his first-born; his dissatisfaction with Rufus, his longing to be home with Matilda. Nothing could soothe him as the chase.
It was said of him: ‘The King loves all wild beasts as though he is their father.’
He was determined to preserve the forests. He had made new ones, in particular one in Hampshire which was called the New Forest. In order to make this humble people had been turned out of their homes.
The fact that the people of England had fought against him and that he had had to conquer them over many years had hardened him against them. Had they accepted him after the battle of Hastings he would have treated them more leniently. Much blood had been shed, much treasure wasted in the conquest of England and he grudged that.
He was hated. He was always the conqueror. Therefore he retaliated with harsh laws. Any man who killed a wild beast was punished by having his eyes put out. As many of the peasants had lived by what they could catch, this was a hard and cruel rule.
Because the people would not accept him he was determined to show them who was master. He displayed a blind indifference to their dislike. Let them beware. If they broke any of his laws, he would have no mercy.
His New Forest was his delight and he had special laws to protect the animals. If any man kept a dog within a certain radius of the forest that dog must have its hind leg clipped that it might not chase and possibly kill the precious hares. To hunt in the forest it was necessary to get the permission of the King. But the New Forest, which the King so loved, was regarded by the people with misgiving; it represented so much that was cruel and harsh.
There came a day when William went hunting in the New Forest with his sons Richard and Rufus.
Richard had gone off in one direction with Rufus, leaving William with his own party.
William gave himself to the joys of the chase and as he was contemplating one of the finest stags he had ever seen lying dead on the grass, a forester came galloping up with news that there had been an accident.
The hunters left the stag and rode off.
Richard was lying on the grass, bleeding to death. He had fallen from his horse and been gored by a stag.
By the time they could carry him from the forest he was dead.
A hush had fallen over the land. Richard, the King’s son, who was destined to be King of England, had been killed in that forest, the construction and preservation of which had caused such misery to so many people.
‘It is a curse on the King,’ was the whispered comment.
People began to think of all those who had been turned out of their homes to make a happy hunting ground for the King; they thought of those poor men who had always hunted the wild boar and lived on its meat who, following their usual custom, had been caught by the King’s foresters and now lived in sightless misery. They thought of all those who had not survived the King’s savage punishment.
They thought of harsh rules, of taxes levied, of the curfew and all the harshness of a conqueror’s rule, and they said: ‘This is a judgement on the King.’
Matilda in Bayeux, heard the news.
Richard, the good one, the one they had trusted to be a credit to them, the son who lacked Robert’s arrogance and the crudeness of Rufus, Richard, the one of whom they had been so proud!
How William must be mourning. His son Richard whom he had loved best . . . to die. Robert working against him. Rufus? Who could be sure of Rufus? Henry, little more than a child. Richard, the flower of the flock, dead, killed by one of those stags for whose sake peasants had lost their eyes.
William should be with her now. They should be sharing this grief. She alone would know how to comfort him.
But even while he mourned he would be thinking of the effect this would have on the people. God was against him, they would be saying. One son a rebel, another slain by God’s hand in that very forest of which he had been so proud.
She was right, William mourned deeply. There had been something saintly about Richard as there had about little Adelisa.
Were they too good for the world?
He had felt so happy in Richard. There was a son in whose hands he would most happily leave his crown.
Richard would not have been a harsh king. Nor had William wished him to be. The harsh laws had to be made by the man who had conquered the land. The people would have loved Richard.
And now what was left. Rufus. Rufus for King of England!
I must perforce make him into a King, thought William.
And he admitted to himself that that would not be an easy task.
A Dramatic Encounter
WILLIAM READ THE despatches in his hand. He could not believe it. It was not possible. Roger de Beaumont had made a terrible mistake. His anger rose up against the man. How dared he! He could not believe and yet . . .
‘I am greatly disturbed,’ Roger had written. ‘Robert has risen against your rule. This was expected and our defences are strong. What I feel it my duty to tell you is this: He has been receiving help which has enabled him to equip men to fight against you, and this aid has been supplied to him by the Queen.’
Matilda! She could not work against him. She could not side with his enemy!
Yet for Robert . . .
Nothing had ever touched him as deeply as this. The death of Richard, the death of Adelisa, the slurs he had suffered in his youth when he was called a bastard, the loss of good and faithful friends, none of these had ever touched him as deeply as the treachery of Matilda.
He would not believe it. He dared not believe it. If he had to accept this hideous accusation there would be great emptiness in his life from which he would never recover.
Matilda and he were as one person. He was not an affectionate man, but from the first days of his marriage with Matilda there had been one in his life who was as necessary to him as all his dominions. He could love possessions rather than people, the hunt rather than the company of men; he could be a ruler, a good one though a harsh one and he cared passionately for his kingdom and his dukedom; but he cared as passionately for Matilda.
And she had betrayed him. She had been forced to take sides and she had not chosen his.
Clearly he must return to Normandy.
The evidence was in his hands. He would trust no one with this but himself. He had captured her miserable agent. He had read the letters in Matilda’s own hand. She had robbed her coffers for the sake of Robert; she had supplied him with money and jewels. She had enabled him to equip an army that he might stand against his father.
He rode to Rouen. She was not expecting him but her delight in his arrival was obvious.
He said: ‘I must speak with you alone.’
She knew immediately that something was wrong.
‘What ails you, William?’ she asked.
‘Trouble in my realm,’ he said, keeping his eyes on her face as he thrust a letter into her hands. ‘Your handwriting,’ he added.
‘Why yes.’
‘So you are in league with my enemies.’
‘I write to my son.’
‘You . . . traitor!’ he cried, and there was anguish in his voice. ‘You deceived me. A woman who deceives her husband destroys her house. Oh, my wife, whom I have loved as my own life, where could you have found a husband as faithful as I have been, so devoted to you in my affection? Yet you have deceived me. You have joined my enemies against me. I have given you riches and treasure and these you have passed over to my enemies. You have
squandered my wealth on those who work against me. I have confided my government to you, believing that I could not leave it in more faithful and loving hands. Yet in secret you have joined my enemies against me.’
Matilda faced him, her anger matching his. ‘Should you be surprised at a mother’s feelings for her son?’
‘Yes. If that son be an enemy of her husband.’
‘He is my son, my first-born son. I love him, William, even as I love you. You are rich and powerful. He is in need. I gave to him yes, and would give again. If I could give my life for him, most cheerfully I would do so. And for you. You know this well. You are my husband but he is my son.’
‘You had to choose between us,’ said William.
‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘I had to choose and because he was in need I chose him.’
‘You chose him because you love him the better.’
She was silent.
A wave of such jealousy overtook him that he seized her by her plaits and threw her to the ground.
It was almost as though he were back in that street in Lille years ago when incensed because she, who was so beautiful, so royal and had declared that she would never marry a bastard, was for him the only woman he wanted. Now he was conscious of a fierce hatred that was born of love and was in some measure love. He was wounded as never before; he was hurt and angry; he was jealous of that short-legged boy whom he had never liked and who now had taken first place in Matilda’s affections. He beat out his misery on her with heavy hands. He bruised her body as he had on that other occasion, but she was no longer young and had borne many children.
‘William,’ she cried, ‘you will kill me.’
‘Ay,’ he said, ‘as you have killed my love for you. By God’s Splendour, I have been foolish in my devotion for you. But it is over. You are my enemy. You, who were my wife and bore my children! I will be revenged on you . . . and your agents. Your man Sampson shall not see his way to the enemy’s camp ever again.’
‘Nay, William, the fault . . . if fault there be, is mine. He but obeyed orders.’
He smote her again and he saw that she had fainted.
‘Oh God, Matilda,’ he cried. ‘Have I killed you, Matilda, my love?’
He lifted her tenderly and carried her to her bed.
He sat beside her until she recovered consciousness.
‘Matilda,’ he said, ‘speak to me.’
‘Oh, William,’ she said, ‘is it you?’
‘I will send your servants. They will tend you but first I must speak to you.’
‘Your hands have lost none of their heaviness,’ she told him with a wry smile.
‘How could you do this to me?’
‘I can say no more than that I am a mother.’
He bent over her and kissed her.
‘Whatever happened,’ she said, ‘whatever you did to me or I to you . . . we are as one. We know that, William.’
‘’Tis true,’ he said. ‘Rest now.’
She did not rest. She sent for one of her most trusted servants.
‘Sampson is on his way here with letters,’ she said. ‘He must not come. They are waiting for him. The King will put out his eyes. He must go to the monastery and ask for sanctuary. Tell him to do this on my orders.’
She lay in her bed waiting. William was no longer angry with her, it seemed, only hurt and deeply wounded. He was anxious now because of any harm he may have inflicted on her.
But he was waiting for the return of Sampson. There would be no mercy there. She knew William. When his violent temper was aroused it must be assuaged. He would wreak his revenge for her treachery on Sampson.
He came to her, his anger no longer blazing, but smouldering still.
He looked down at her sadly.
‘Still unrepentant,’ he said.
‘Still always ready to help my son.’
‘Against your husband?’
‘Nay, I would die for them both.’
‘Oh, Matilda,’ he said, ‘I would he had never been born. To think that my tall good son Richard should have met his death in my forest while Curthose lives.’
‘What has happened,’ replied Matilda, ‘is God’s will.’
She was weak and as the days passed it was clear that she was still suffering from William’s onslaught. The beating had been less severe than that suffered in the streets of Lille but she was less able to bear it now. Then it had been an exhilaration; now it was humiliation. She knew – and surely he must know – nothing could be quite the same between them again.
But they were too close not to be necessary to each other.
She was at her tapestry when he came to her and told her that Sampson had escaped to a monastery.
‘He will stay there in sanctuary. Doubtless he will become a monk. So he keeps his eyes. He has you to thank for them.’
‘If he had lost them he would have had me to blame.’
‘But you saw that he found refuge, did you not? Your agents warned him. Is that not so?’
‘That’s so,’ she said.
He laughed then. Then he embraced her. ‘By God’s Splendour,’ he said, ‘I must keep a firm hand on those who work against me.’
But he would never wholly trust her again. She knew it and it saddened her. When he left for England she was still Regent but there were those who were set to watch her.
He loved her, he needed her, but he no longer trusted her. She loved him, she needed him, but she would betray him for the sake of her son.
She could never admire Robert as she admired William. She knew that she had married the greatest man of his age and her love for her son did not blind her to his weakness. The arrogance, the love of power, the desire to be popular and appreciated, the fancy for finery, the preoccupation with women, choosing friends who flattered him, hating criticism, always looking for the slight – these were not the qualities which made a ruler. But he was her son and she loved him; she did not know why she must devote herself to him in preference to William, except that Robert was weak and William was strong.
Robert would never love her as William did. Yet William for all his strength needed her too.
She, a woman who admired strength and power must turn from William for Robert’s sake. Why? Love was something too subtle for her understanding.
Gone were the happy years. Never again would she know them. Even when she had been separated from William she had had the excitement of waiting for his return. Every day she had looked for him and the overwhelming joy when he arrived had been an event outstanding in a lifetime of outstanding events.
Never again.
She feared his coming for that might mean that Robert was making an attack on one of his strongholds. He would come suspiciously, wondering how much of the treasure she had given had gone towards building up Robert’s strength.
There was news and that from Robert. He was gathering adherents to his banner. There were always men to be jealous of William. He was a power in Europe. King of England and Duke of Normandy; there were many watchful eyes upon him.
The King of France, while not wishing to indulge in open warfare with William, would not be displeased to see strife in his kingdom. When Robert appealed to him for help he declared that it was a sad thing to see the heir of Normandy dispossessed of his rights and roaming the countryside seeking supporters. He would therefore give him the castle of Gerberoi so that he might have headquarters in which to carry out his plans.
This was naturally construed as an act of friendship to Robert and as a result many Frenchmen flocked to his banner and perceiving this, those Normans who felt they had a grievance against William did not see why they should not join their fortunes with those of the heir. They had nothing to lose, for William would give them nothing and it seemed likely that Robert must inherit sooner or later, since William could not live for ever.
When this news reached William in England he was filled with wrath. He sent for Rufus who was constantly with him and who, now that he knew tha
t he was to inherit England on the death of his father, was determined to please him.
Rufus was a good soldier who revelled in the hunt, even as William did, so that they had many a good excursion into the forest together. It seemed that this son was making up for the loss of Richard and the treachery of Robert. If he could have one good son he supposed he should consider himself lucky.
Rufus was ambitious. There was young Henry to consider of course, but he by this time was with Lanfranc and proving himself quite a scholar. Henry for the Church, then, for the archbishop’s role was an important one as his Uncle Odo was proving in England now. (Sometimes he wondered whether the power he now had was changing Odo.) But it was as well to have one of the members of the family in the Church.
‘Listen to this,’ said William to his son. ‘Curthose has set up his banner at Gerberoi. French and Normans are rallying to him. He plans to set himself up as Duke. What say you, my son?’
‘I say this,’ said Rufus. ‘It is time we set out for Normandy to show him that we have other plans.’
Rufus’s red face glowed with passion; the Conqueror looked at his son with approval. They were, as so often, of one mind.
Matilda took to her bed. She felt dizzy and sick. That it should have come to this – William and Robin fighting against each other! It was for Robert she trembled. If they came face to face how would he fare in the hands of the old warrior? What hope would he have? In her mind’s eye she saw the lance pierce his heart.
Who would have dreamed of this when he was a baby and they had both been so proud of him. If he had had long legs like Richard, if he had had the Norman looks, would it have been different?
She tried to pray but if she prayed for Robert’s safety might she not be praying for William’s defeat? But William had never been defeated. In the countless battles in which he had taken part not one drop of his blood had ever been shed.
‘Oh God,’ she prayed, ‘save my son.’
On the plain of Archembraye beside the castle of Gerberoi the battle raged fiercely. In William’s heart there blazed a mounting anger. The fact that the man he had sired had dared take up arms against him and was leading this attack seemed to him incredible. It was like a bad dream.