by Jean Plaidy
‘So . . . he went in person to receive them, and a knight brought them to him on the point of a lance. The knight knelt and as my father stooped to take them, this . . . this . . . treacherous dog forced the point of his lance through my father’s vizor and pierced his eye.’
‘God in Heaven!’ cried Turgot. ‘And the King?’
‘He died mercifully soon. He was in great agony.’
Turgot folded his hands and his lips moved in prayer.
The King dead, he was thinking, the Queen dying. What will become of these children?
They stood about her bed. How different she looked from the beautiful young girl who had come ashore at Queen’s Ferry and captivated the King.
Her eyes, enormous in her pale wasted face, sought the children ranged about her bed – Edgar, the two girls and the little ones. She saw with relief that Turgot was there also.
‘You would keep something from me,’ she said. ‘I know it. There is ill news. What of my husband and eldest son?’
Turgot nodded to Edgar.
‘Mother, there is sad news.’
‘My husband . . . my son Edward . . .?’
‘They are dead. Edward was killed in battle. Our father at the siege of Alnwick.’
‘Oh, God help you all.’
She looked at Turgot. ‘Come close, my friend.’
He approached the bed. ‘You will continue to care for these children.’
‘I will, with God’s blessing.’
‘They are young yet, Turgot. Too young to lose both father and mother. Swear to me, Turgot. Swear to me on the Black Cross.’
The girls looked on in awe as the beautiful cross was taken from the black case which gave it its name. It was made of gold and enormous diamonds adorned it. On the gold the figure of Christ was engraved in ivory. It had been talked of often but always kept in a secure place and it was because the Queen was dying that it had been taken from that place that she might hold it in her hands during her last moments on earth. It was symbolic, that cross. It had belonged to the Saxon royal family for generations and must never pass into the hands of any other. While it was in the possession of the Athelings they believed themselves to be the true sovereigns of England no matter if William the Conqueror had snatched their lands from them.
Turgot took the cross reverently in his hands and swore that he would care for the Queen’s children.
‘My life is ebbing fast,’ she said. ‘Teach my children to love and fear God, and, if any of them should attain earthly grandeur, be a father to them and a guide. If the need should arise, reprove them if they should become proud; guard them that they may not offend God and forfeit their hopes of eternal life. Swear thus, Turgot, on the Black Cross in the presence of God.’
Turgot knelt by her bedside and kissed the cross.
‘So help me God,’ he said. ‘I shall serve you as faithfully in death as I did in life.’
Her white fingers curled about the cross, and she lay back and died.
The Queen was buried at Dunfermline, and in trepidation the children waited for what would happen next. Turgot had told them that their brother Edgar was King of Scotland but this did not seem to be the case, for no one came to the castle to swear loyalty to him and there was no talk of a coronation. In fact, each day retainers disappeared from the castle and those who remained had changed subtly. They were furtive, expectant and they did not behave to the children as they had when their parents were alive. Only Turgot remained the same, stern and watchful.
Young Edgar did not know how to act. Was he the King or was he not? What could this strange attitude mean? Where were the lords who should come to swear fealty to him?
Turgot advised that they go on as though they were unaware of the changing situation, for soon there would be some indication of what was taking place.
He was right. Uncle Edgar Atheling came riding to the castle in great distress. He summoned Edith and Edgar and told them that he wished to talk to them very seriously.
They had heard of their father’s half-brother, Donald Bane, had they not? Indeed they had. He had always been a troublemaker. He was illegitimate but that did not mean he had no hope of inheriting the crown. Turgot had said that he wished kings would be less prodigal of scattering their seed throughout the kingdom, for the results often ended in wars and disasters.
Donald Bane had declared that as Malcolm and his eldest son were dead, and young Edgar was not old enough to rule, he had stepped into the breach and had taken the crown. Scotland had a new King.
‘But this is monstrous,’ declared young Edgar. ‘I will not endure it.’
‘You can do nothing,’ said his uncle shortly. ‘Donald Bane has the crown and there are those who will help him hold it. We have no means of wresting it from him. In time we will march against him, but first we must gather together a loyal army.’
‘Let us begin to do that at once,’ said his nephew.
But the older man shook his head wearily. ‘My dear nephew,’ he said, ‘we are in no position to do that. Moreover, King Donald has issued an edict. He orders all English exiles to leave his kingdom.’
‘Exiles!’ cried young Edgar. ‘Is the King of Scotland then an exile in his own realm?’
‘My dear nephew,’ replied his uncle, ‘against whom do you imagine this edict is issued? Am I not English? Am I not an exile? He wants me out of this country. And why? Because then you, my boy, will be at his mercy. What hope do you think you have without me to protect you?’
Edgar stared at his uncle in dismay.
‘It is true,’ said Edith. ‘I see it clearly. Oh, Uncle Edgar, what are we going to do?’
‘We are going to escape Donald Bane, for you, Edgar, as the rightful King of this country, are in the utmost danger. Go at once to your nurseries and prepare your brothers and sisters. We are going on a journey. First send Turgot to me.’
‘Will he come with us, Uncle?’ asked Edith.
‘He will.’
Turgot came with all speed. He had already heard the news.
‘We are in acute danger,’ said Edgar Atheling to the priest. ‘In particular my nephew.’
‘We are leaving here?’ replied Turgot. ‘And where shall we find refuge?’
There was a brief silence. Both men were remembering the occasion when they had been shipwrecked. They had escaped once. Could they hope to do so again?
Edgar replied, ‘In England.’
‘England! You think Rufus will allow us to stay there?’
‘We have to risk that.’
Turgot said, ‘I have recently taken a vow to protect these children.’
‘Think you not,’ replied Edgar, ‘that I will not protect them with everything in my power?’
‘I know it well. But to take them into England where the King of Scotland has been fighting the English . . .’
‘My good Turgot, I know Rufus. There was a time when we lived under the same roof. We were boys together. I became a friend to him and his brothers.’
Turgot’s brow furrowed. Edgar was of too gentle a nature to be a match for these treacherous Normans. He seemed to forget that he was the rightful King of England, that, had he been of an age to govern, King Edward the Confessor would never have named Harold, son of Godwin, as the future King; and it would have been Edgar whom William would have had to face at Hastings. And if Edgar had been King, how could William of Normandy have disputed the fact that he was in truth the King? Edgar had been too young at the time but he was no longer young; yet there was about him an air of gentleness which was in sharp contrast to what Turgot remembered of the mighty Conqueror, and admirable as it might be, it was a characteristic which did not win battles and subdue rebellious subjects. Edgar might well have been a King such as Edward the Confessor but there was no doubt that he was the rightful King of England, yet he seemed to be of the opinion that the son of the usurper would happily receive him and shelter him when the Saxon community were constantly chafing against Norman rule. To whom would
such people look but to the Royal Atheling to deliver them. And Edgar was suggesting placing himself into the none too scrupulous hands of William Rufus!
‘How firm is such friendship when a crown is at stake?’ asked Turgot now.
‘Why, Turgot, Rufus knows I have no means of taking the crown from him.’
‘I hear there is dissatisfaction with his rule.’
‘There will always be dissatisfaction. His father instructed him for some years before his death. Rufus will never be the great leader the Conqueror was, but who could be that? Turgot, none knows more surely than I that the Norman rule has come to stay. I am concerned with restoring the Scottish crown to my nephew and I believe I can persuade Rufus to help me in this.’
‘You face a grave risk,’ Turgot warned him.
‘Tell me, where else can we go? Or do you suggest that I leave my sister’s children here to be murdered by Donald Bane?’
‘Nay,’ retorted Turgot sorrowfully, ‘I see the situation is desperate.’
‘I prefer to trust Rufus rather than this uncouth Scot. I assure you I know Rufus. Once he is convinced that I shall make no attempts on his crown he will be my friend. We were boys together – he, and his brothers Robert and Henry. I was as another brother. They used to laugh at my Saxon ways, but all in good part. Well, Turgot, are you ready to set out for England?’
‘I see that there is no other way open to us.’
Rufus
WHEN WILLIAM RUFUS heard what had happened to Malcolm of Scotland, he lay back on his couch and laughed heartily.
‘Our brother of Scotland was too clever,’ he commented. ‘He thought to harry me while I lay on my sick bed, and look what it has brought him.’
Those young men whom it pleased him to honour laughed dutifully. William Rufus was a man of violent temper. So had his father been but the anger of William the First was scarcely unpredictable. All men knew that if they gave him absolute obedience and never encroached on the strict forestry laws they were safe. Not so with William II; his red face could grow purple with rage and the unfortunate man or woman responsible would often have no knowledge of why this should be so. So, all must walk warily with the new King.
Like his father, he loved possessions and looked in all directions in order to add to his wealth, but unlike his father he could be extravagant on occasion. That was, in pursuit of his own pleasure: when he wanted something he wanted it fiercely, and he was determined to get it.
Life had not been easy since his accession. There was certain to be trouble in the family. When he looked back over his childhood and remembered the stormy scenes in their various schoolrooms he laughed aloud. Robert would have run him through on one occasion but for the intervention of their father. Robert and he would always be enemies, because naturally Robert believed that he, as the eldest son, had more right to the crown of England than William Rufus had. It was true Robert was Duke of Normandy but it was a far better thing to be King of England than Duke of Normandy. And then there was Henry. Poor young Henry, who was left without land – only five thousand pounds of silver and his father’s prophecy that one day he would be richer than either of his brothers.
Following this train of thought Rufus sighed and said, ‘It was unfortunate that our father had too many sons. It is a common failing that kings either have too many or not enough. You see what a wise man I am, my friends, for I have no sons – not even a bastard or two. If all men were as I am how much more comfortable the world would be.’
‘It would not be over-populated, my lord,’ said his favourite friend.
‘Oh, we’d keep a few studs for that purpose,’ laughed Rufus.
‘My lord’s young brother might be of use.’
The young man laughed.
‘What then?’ asked Rufus. ‘Has he added another to his tally? I hear he was giving a good account of himself with the Lady Nesta of Wales.’
‘Exceeding good, my lord, and they say the lady grows larger each day.’
‘It keeps the young rake out of mischief,’ said Rufus. ‘But I have to keep my eyes on master Henry. It may surprise you, my friends, but he occasionally takes his thoughts from the ladies’ bedchambers and dreams of the battlefield.’
‘As my lord knows to his cost.’
‘We could have finished him at Mont St-Michel but for my elder brother. Robert is a fool. There was not a drop of water in the castle; they were dying in the fortress for lack of it, and what did my chivalrous brother Robert do? He sends him water – and not only water, but wine for his board. I could have killed him when I heard. “This is our brother,” he said, and he looked at me with those rather mournful eyes of his. He is very beautiful and he was my mother’s favourite, you know. He was always vain and hates the fact that his legs are too short. My father used to jeer at him. Curthose he called him. My father thought there was only one perfect man in the world – himself. And those of us who did not resemble him were poor things in his opinion. But when Robert rebelled against him and Richard died he turned to me. Richard was the first favourite. He looked like a Norman, you see. The rest of us had the Flanders touch . . . except Henry. He has a Norman look – tall and with that fine curly hair. I doubt not it is that which brings him so much favour in the ladies’ bedchambers. But I was telling you that we could have been rid of Henry but for Robert. And what has he ever done but bring trouble and bastards into the realm?’
The young man laughed obediently.
‘Come, my fine friend, what is there to laugh at? I am a man beset by brothers, and now Henry has squandered his patrimony and roams the countryside seeking consolation in robbing ladies of their virtue since he cannot rob me of my throne, and I doubt not his soul is stained purple with the sin of fornication. Listen.’
There was a commotion below the window. Riders were approaching.
‘Messengers, mayhap. What now?’ said Rufus. ‘No evil news, I trust, to spoil the pleasant evening I had planned for us.’
The messenger was brought into his presence.
Rufus dismissed the man with the customary command, ‘Go and refresh yourself,’ and read the dispatch.
Then he said, ‘Edgar Atheling has arrived in England with his sister’s brood.’
‘What will you do, my lord?’ asked his favourite friend.
‘That, my dear, remains to be seen,’ he answered. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Rest assured I shall have them under close surveillance.’
William Rufus opened his eyes and sleepily surveyed his bedchamber. It had been a riotous night and, as usual after such festivities, morning came too soon. Sunlight filtering in through the narrow slit of a window shone on to the stone recess seat cut into the wall, but because this was a royal bedchamber it contained some modem luxuries such as the faldestol on which he sat when he entertained guests in his bedroom, letting them make do with the wall seats or the floor. A velvet drapery was thrown over it at the moment. His eyes went to the chest with its fine carving; in this were kept his clothes, and although he slept on a bag of straw this was placed on a bed the frame of which was elegantly carved.
In the early mornings he let his mind wander over state affairs. He was thinking at this time about the Atheling who had taken refuge in his country. Edgar had always amused him – pretty youth. He would never be a king though. He was not made of the right stuff. Still, the people could rally to the Atheling if they hated the Norman enough, and he must face the truth: there had always been animosity towards the Normans.
Yet they could be persuaded, or could they? He had persuaded them once. That was when Robert had tried to take the crown from him. He had expected it. Naturally the eldest son wanted the greater prize.
But their father had nominated him, William Rufus, as his successor. What had he said to him on his deathbed, stern as ever? ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not claiming your kingdom?’
Rufus laughed. One had to admire the old man. He was the greatest they would ever know, and if he was without humour he was the fine
st soldier of his day, and for most of that which was his and his family’s today they had to thank William the Conqueror, who had given it to them.
They could never be like him – any one of them. And did they want to? Not Rufus. He knew how to enjoy life – which he was sure his-father had not – and he intended to go on doing it.
But now his mind was straying from Edgar Atheling because that fellow’s being in the country reminded him of the early days of his reign when Robert had come against him. Robert was a fool; he could be relied upon to fail in any military exercise.
Rufus laughed to think of those days when the Norman barons who owned estates in England had declared that they would not accept Rufus as the King of England, and prepared to set up Robert in his place.
Their uncle Odo had been Robert’s general. Odo! That Bishop who had been in disgrace with the Conqueror because he had passed over much English treasure to Rome. The old fool had had a fancy to become Pope and believed that by bribing the Cardinals he could persuade them to elect him. Fortunately William had discovered this, and sent him back to Normandy, where he had languished in a dungeon until his brother Robert of Mortain (like Odo, the son of their grandmother’s marriage after their grandfather’s death, to Herlwin de Conteville) misguidedly persuaded the Conqueror, on the latter’s deathbed, to set him free.
Free to come against the King whom William himself had chosen!
Rufus had been in danger then and he prided himself that he had acted with extreme astuteness. He had asked the people of England whether they wished to put their necks in the Norman yoke. This amused Rufus for it struck him as highly amusing that he, the Norman son of a Norman father, should be pleading thus. But there was some truth in it, for while Robert had remained entirely Norman, he, Rufus, had to some extent become Anglicized.
‘My good people,’ he had declared, ‘rally to my banner; I swear to you that if you will stand beside me and thrust out the unwanted Norman, there shall be no more unjust taxation, every man shall enjoy his own hunts and chases in his own woods and wolds, and all abuses of the law shall be abolished.’