That Robert’s remarks had been perfectly accurate, did not help.
Mildly, Britnoth said: ‘It is the custom for the eldest son to inherit his father’s lands intact. When a man spends a lifetime gathering a great estate, he doesn’t like to think of it being broken into fragments the moment he’s dead. Normandy and England are so very separate in the way of nature that perhaps in this case the two eldest sons may benefit instead of just the first, otherwise Richard would be no better off than you. In fact, Henry, you’re the fourth son. You’ve never met your brother William because he is being educated in Normandy while you were born here, but he will share what you regard as the unfairness. Both you and he will have to make your own careers. It isn’t a disaster. To make a successful life for yourself, to gather possessions by your own efforts, there are great satisfactions in that. But you’ll need your education. You must understand the world you live in, the better to seize your opportunities…’
‘That noise,’ said Henry persistently.
The clamour outside had increased. Doors banged and running feet sped by. A man’s voice was raised in shocked exclamation and a woman near at hand had burst out crying. Henry, regardless of the value of education, scrambled off his bench and made for the door. Britnoth went after him.
People were streaming across the paved inner court, towards the gate. A woman clutching a bucket and broom went by, followed by a fat baron whose hangover had kept him from hunting that day. After him ran a cook with dough on his hands. All their faces were distraught. ‘What’s happened?’ Britnoth cried as he and Henry, drawn by the ancient magnetism of calamity, fell in with the rest. ‘A hunting accident! They say it’s the king himself!’ The woman with the bucket quavered an answer. ‘And what’ll become of us all now…!’
‘It ain’t the king!’ the cook contradicted. They were through the gate now and jostling across the muddy outer court, towards the gatehouse. The drawbridge was down and a grim procession was already making its way across. Britnoth had caught Henry’s hand, but Henry dragged him forward, pushing between massed bodies. They were in the front as the hunting party which had gone out so bravely in the morning, came home.
It came sombrely, led by King William himself, on foot. He was obviously not dead but he carried in his arms something that was. Robert Curthose followed him, mounted and leading his father’s horse. Behind Curthose, a huntsman led another riderless animal. The Conqueror’s face was set like granite. As he stepped off the drawbridge, he paused to adjust his burden and with a gesture that seemed strange in a man normally so harsh, he lifted the head that lolled over his forearm and cradled it against his shoulder. Those who were nearest could see its face. Britnoth looked round for a way to get Henry out of the crowd but in vain. Someone let out a wail and someone else cried: ‘What did it?’
It could be seen now that the body had a smashed red band across its throat. The Conqueror glanced round and called an answer. ‘He was galloping to reach a good position for shooting. A low branch got him across the neck. He died before he hit the ground.’
Then Henry, who had been standing on tiptoe, recognised the dead face and with a screech of: ‘Richard, it’s Richard V broke away from Britnoth, flinging himself at his father.
Britnoth lunged after him. ‘Not now, Henry! I’m sorry, my lord, my apologies; Henry, don’t…’
‘But it’s Richard! He’s dead!’ Henry knew what death was. One did not reach even five years of age in the Conqueror’s household and remain unfamiliar with the concept of death, with the sight of dead stags and with talk of dead men.
‘Bring him to the chapel later, when his brother has been made seemly,’ said the Conqueror, and walked on. Henry fought to follow, pummelling Britnoth’s chest as the tutor picked him up. ‘It’s Richard, it’s Richard, I want to go to Richard!’
‘Hush!’ said Britnoth desperately. The woman with the bucket said: ‘Poor little soul.’ Curthose, who had pulled up when William stopped, jumped down, threw the reins of his two horses into the nearest pairs of hands and with the first sign of fraternal affection Britnoth had ever observed in him, removed Henry from his tutor’s arms. ‘You poor bloody little tyke,’ said Curthose. ‘Big brother Robert’s still here. Don’t cry.’
Next day, because it was customary, Britnoth admonished Henry on the importance of quiet and dignified conduct and took him to the chapel to say farewell to his brother, who lay before the altar, tidily disposed upon his bier, candles at his head and feet. Henry clutched his tutor’s hand tightly and seemed to be puzzling out what the meaning of this solemn new thing would be to himself.
He considerably startled Britnoth when at length he voiced his conclusion. Having touched the white waxen forehead with a small forefinger, he stepped back and said: ‘Poor Richard. Is he in heaven now?’ And then, before Britnoth could answer: ‘I only have two brothers ahead of me now, haven’t I?’
CHAPTER TWO
Lives Alter Course 1073
‘I’m thirteen,’ said the boy to himself and his recalcitrancy pounding heart. ‘I’m nearly a man. I’m the son of King William. I’ve slept in this room every night for five years and I know every stone of it. There are people all round me. I’m William the Red, son of a king and there’s nothing to be afraid of'. ’
His mentors at St. Stephen’s Abbey in Caen would have been both astonished and scandalised to think there was, for the young boys at St. Stephen’s, most of them prospective priests and monks, were protected as far as humanly possible from all harm, either physical or spiritual.
By day, they went to church, studied, took exercise and dined, all under the eyes of their superiors. Some, whose parents had not finally decided their future, took lessons in riding and the handling of arms, but also under careful supervision. And at night they slept in a long dormer, each boy alone on his rope cot, although in the homes they had left behind, their brothers and sisters huddled like puppies, three and four to a pallet, to save space and keep warm. Two monks guarded them, sleeping in the two end beds, to watch over their charges’ safety, health and morals.
But in the interests of health, recreation times were needed. So during the day, there were interludes for games and stories; decorous games and improving stories. The machinations of a cunning sinner in a tale might inspire a little laughter, but the spectres of mortal corruption, the demons of Hell, must at the end of the story clutch him with their gaunt fingers. It had occurred to no one that these specifications might allow an unsafe amount of scope to those of the brethren with raconteur talents. Even wise old Abbot Lanfranc, who had laid down the rules for the boys, before departing for greater things – to cross the Channel and become Archbishop of Canterbury, no less – had underestimated the potential of the talents in some cases. That of Brother Philip, for example.
Of course there was nothing to fear. The boy slowly scanned the sleeping dormitory. Brother Philip’s bed was only four feet away, at the end of the row. It creaked as its occupant stirred. The windows were shuttered but a small oil lamp burned at each end of the room. The building was new, for the Abbey had been founded by the Conqueror after his marriage. But the shutters didn’t all fit well and the low flames flickered in small draughts. Shadows, enlarged and distorted, moved on the pale stone walls. The clothes chest facing the end of his bed, its dark bulk blended with its elongated shadow, looked like an animal with a stunted head and neck.
That evening, Brother Philip had told them a tale about a youth who spoke ill of St. Stephen. It was summer, Philip had said impressively, building his effects, and when the lad went to bed that night, his window was wide to the air and the moonlight. As he lay there, restless in the heat, he noticed that in the moonlight, the shadow of his own bed looked a little like a bear.
And for three nights thereafter, said Philip to his breathless hearers, as the moon waxed to the full, the likeness grew more and more pronounced. Until on the third night there was no more doubt and as the wretched blasphemous youth lay trembling on his
pallet, staring at the shadow on the floor beside him, he felt the mattress move under him, and grow warm and thickly pelted, and then mighty, furred paws encircled him and steely claws entered his flesh…
A few feet off, Philip raised himself on an elbow. His whisper just crossed the space between them. ‘Still awake, Red?’
The boy turned his head. ‘Yes.’
‘Scared? Come on, then.’
He was a king’s son and might yet be a knight one day. His terrors shamed him and he was more shamed still that he had once, incautiously, admitted them to Philip. He knew, though dimly, that Philip had stepped up the horror of his stories since then, to maintain a hold on him. For all these reasons, he wished to stay where he was. But fear drove him in the direction of comfort and besides, with the promise of safety there was mingled an unholy delight.
He yielded, slipping soundlessly from his bed and sliding into Philip’s. He pressed his face into Philip’s smooth, warm chest and Philip pulled him close. He felt the pulsating heat begin in the man’s loins and the queer, molten feeling that always answered in his own. Under the rugs, Philip felt for the boy’s right hand, and guided it.
When he woke, he was in his own bed again, innocently ready to rise with the others for Lauds. At this season it meant getting up before daybreak but the cold dark that preceded dawn never, oddly enough, had midnight’s power to frighten. He went to church with the rest, himself again, young and tough, afraid of nothing, somewhat bored by the monkish chanting.
Then came breakfast in the refectory. After that, there was a summons from the abbot.
He followed the brother who brought the summons, wondering what it portended. He could think of nothing he had done recently which merited a rebuke from the abbot himself. Unless…
Unless someone knew about him and Philip. That occurred to him when he was halfway up the narrow steps to the abbot’s door, and turned his inside liquid. If they had been found out, what might happen next would be beyond imagining. Human authority outraged by that would outdo the fiends of Hell with ease. As he entered the room, the first thing he saw was the chest in which he had brought his personal belongings to St. Stephen’s five years ago. It lay on the floor with its lid thrown back and he could see his clothes already folded inside. He was to be expelled, then? His head came up and inside his clenched hands, his fingernails cut into his palms. He would deny the accusation. (He hoped he wouldn’t stammer.) He would pretend he didn’t understand what it meant. He would find out who had laid the information and say whoever it was had a grudge against him. He would…
‘No need for that fiery expression, my son,’ said the abbot calmly from his chair. ‘Come here to me. Whatever you have on your conscience just now – plenty, I don’t doubt – I’m not concerned with it. If you’ve given another bloody nose to a fellow pupil over the tangled question of whether your father is or is not the rightful overlord of Maine, don’t tell me about it. I shall hope not to hear it officially until after you’ve gone.’
‘Gone?’ But if they didn’t know about him and Philip, why?
‘You’re leaving us, William. Your father has sent an escort to bring you to him in England. You are not to be a bishop after all, it seems. Not, to be honest, that I ever thought you had the makings of one. I would call you warrior material.’ And getting more so every day, the abbot added to himself, taking in the short, strong build of the boy in front of him, the round light eyes in the square freckled face, and the thick, pale ginger hair that topped it. Even a trace of ginger made for aggressiveness in the abbot’s experience, and there was more than a trace of choler in this boy’s temperament. He flushed so easily with anger that he had been given nicknames about it. He answered as readily to a shout of Red or Rufus as he did to his given name of William.
He had flushed now, although this time with pleasure at being called warrior material. It was a pity, after that, to have to upset him. Breaking this kind of news was one of the harder tasks which devolved on those in authority. ‘Your father has sent for you for a special reason, William, not on account of any recommendation I may have made. Your family has suffered a bereavement and you are being called to England to fill an empty place. Your elder brother Richard – I am sorry, William – recently met with an accident, hunting. A fatal accident.’ He went on, speaking steadily, explaining the circumstances of the death, allowing the boy time to assimilate the news. When he had finished, he waited, but William said nothing. ‘Were you close to him?’ the abbot asked.
‘No, not really. Five years is a long time.’ It was difficult to take in, William thought. Richard was far away, a tiny figure at the end of a tunnel of memory. The abbot was speaking to him again.
‘Before you leave, you can spend an hour alone in one of the chapels. You’ll want to say goodbye to your fellow pupils, of course. Is there anyone else you would like to bid farewell to?’
‘I…yes.’ This was easier than answering questions about his own feelings. ‘Can I say goodbye to Brother Philip?’
‘By all means.’ Excellent, thought the abbot. It was so satisfactory to know that Brother Philip was able to win his charges’ affection.
‘He tells such interesting stories at recreation,’ said the boy. And added, with an ironic depth of meaning which quite escaped the abbot, ‘I’m sure I shall never forget them, or him.’
The weather broke while he was on his way to England. A gale delayed him at the coast and when the ship finally sailed, it was on a very rough sea. But he was not afraid and found that he had a reliable stomach. The men of his father’s escort were pleased with him.
The gale was mighty. It blew for several days and nights all across the southern half of England. It brought down hundreds of trees. One, a huge uprooted beech, blocked a track which for certain reasons was of interest to folk in nearby communities, especially that of Chenna’s Tun, twenty miles south-west of Winchester. A squad of men from the locality therefore went out in secret one moonlit night shortly after, and removed the obstruction.
The gale also did damage in a wooded Sussex valley near the northern edge of the downs, where a woman called Wulfhild, English by birth but married to a Norman, had just borne her third child; a son. It brought down a tree across the roof of the resthouse (which stood alone, English fashion) where Wulfhild and her child were lying. They were not directly injured but the damaged thatch let in rain and the baby, which had been baptised Simon after his father Sir Simon of Fallowdene, took cold and a few days later died. Wulfhild in her grief railed against God and shocked her family by crying out that they would do better to propitiate the old gods of forest and sky.
***
They sailed up the Thames to Westminster in a slashing downpour which turned the river to the likeness of pockmarked lead and hid the walls of the great Tower which William’s father had built. The rain was so heavy by the time they landed that he saw hardly anything of the outside of Westminster either. His escort hurried him from the landing stage and up some steps to an archway where a guard clashed pikehandles on the floor in salute. Then they went at a run across a courtyard and climbed some more steps. There were more guards and more salutes and then, squelching and dripping, they were passing through a vestibule to an inner door and suddenly there was brightness and heat, the scent of woodsmoke and rosemary, and the rustle and babble of a multiplicity of people.
They were in a pillared hall, with a raised dais at one end and a long central fireplace where logs blazed, pouring smoke through a roof louvre and hissing occasionally as the rain found its way in.
The flagstoned floor was thick with rushes and it was from these that the scent of rosemary was rising, for sprigs of the herb had been strewn there to release its essence as it was trodden underfoot. It was being subjected to heavy trampling now, for the lowering sky had driven everyone in from the outdoor pursuits most of them preferred.
Whatever activities could be followed under a roof were in progress. On the dais, where a brazier supplied a private s
ource of heat, half a dozen well-dressed men sat talking, feet stretched towards the warmth, brown hands absently reaching down to scratch between canine ears, for every man had a hound beside his chair.
In the body of the hall, a couple of merchants were displaying readymade cloaks for sale and, beyond them, an intent circle of men squatted on their heels betting noisily on the fall of a dice.
And at the far end of the hall from the dais, a number of youths stood round a man who seemed to be showing them different patterns of arrow and sizes of bow. A monk (one never got away from them, thought William) stood listening, with two small boys at his side.
He and his escort had come in unheralded and for a moment stood unnoticed. Then, because they were so wet and the fire was welcoming, they moved instinctively towards it. One of the youths, taking aim along an imaginary shaft at an imaginary target, found himself staring straight at William’s pale ginger hair. He lowered the bow and spoke to his companions. A moment later, they were all round the newcomers. ‘You,’ said the lad who had been holding the bow, ‘you’re my brother William, aren’t you?’
William’s escort was speaking to the youths’ instructor. The men on the dais were turning their heads. The instructor and the escort knights made for the dais. For the moment, William was alone with his peers. ‘You’re Robert,’ he said. ‘I remember you.’
King of the Wood Page 2