Memory was aided by the fact that at nineteen, Robert was much as he had been at fourteen when William had last seen him. He was strongly made with a head of thick dark hair, and he stood with feet firmly apart. He was still nearly as short as William remembered him and the hands holding the bow were small. ‘I was christened Robert,’ he said, ‘but most people call me Curthose. Shortlegs if they’re speaking English. Have you got a nickname?’
Another youth, cutting in as William opened his mouth to answer, said: ‘He ought to be called the Red. Look what the sea wind’s done to his face.’ This boy was about Robert’s age but he was taller, with high cheekbones which gave him a wooden expression, and blue eyes in which there was a disconcerting ring of yellow. When he spoke, he drawled.
‘I’ve been called the Red for years,’ William said. ‘Or Rufus. That’s not new. The escort called me Rufus on the way here.’ They had meant it kindly and he had warmed to it. ‘You can call me that if you want.’ He wondered if the uncomfortable drawling youth was the hall bully. There always was one.
‘It’ll be up to Father,’ said Robert Curthose. ‘If he thinks you should have a nickname, then you’ll have one and you won’t have any choice. If he doesn’t, you won’t. Well, do you want to know who people are? These two are both called Hugh…’
William, gently steaming by the fire while Curthose performed the introductions, had already assumed that most of these boys must be the sons of his father’s friends, being educated at court to fit them for the illustrious futures their own fathers expected for them. He looked at them with interest, for he was mature enough already to realise that some of them would probably be his lifelong associates.
There were two Hughs, two Rogers, an Aubrey and a plethora of Roberts. Most, to avoid confusion, were not known by their first names but by their fathers’ names or the lands their families held. The uncomfortable boy with the blue and yellow eyes was a Robert but he was called Belleme after his mother’s lands in southern Normandy. ‘He gets his eyes from his mother,’ Curthose said, ‘and one or two quirks of character as well.’ There were some dutiful-sounding sniggers. Curthose did not enlarge and William asked no questions. The murderous reputation of the Belleme family was already known to him and besides, he had sensed at once the aura of menace round Robert of Belleme.
Another Robert, known as FitzHamon because his father was Hamon, Sheriff of Kent, also in adolescence foreshadowed the man he would become. He had a bull’s physique, with thick, forward-angled shoulders and massive features. His hazel eyes were intelligent, however; he looked as though he might be more capable of fine feeling than his crude bodily build suggested. More, perhaps, than the third Robert whom Curthose brought forward, the future Count of Meulan.
Meulan resembled nothing so much as a pugnacious mouse. He had alert round eyes and a pointed nose, and a short upper lip drawn up to reveal two bright front teeth. But it would be unwise, William knew instinctively, to comment on the mouselike features, unless one wished for a prompt demonstration of the pugnacity. Years later, when they were grown men and close friends, he spoke to Meulan of that first impression. ‘And I haven’t changed,’ said Meulan, amused. ‘Not in that way,’ William Rufus agreed. ‘In another, you have. You were grubby then.’
Meulan in adulthood had become a dandy, his tailor’s bills a byword and his barber a well-rewarded personal friend. He laughed, because William’s friendship was precious to him, and William was therefore one of the few people who could with impunity have suggested that Meulan had ever, even long ago, been grubby. As boy and man alike, Meulan, though as intelligent as FitzHamon, reserved his sensitivities for his own easily hurt feelings.
‘That’s the Roberts,’ said Curthose, finishing with Meulan. He turned to the monk and the two small boys. ‘This is Brother Britnoth and this goldenhaired angel with the curly halo is Gilbert Clare. He’s only five. His father is the Earl of Tonbridge. If you annoy Gilbert, he bites.’ The angelic child pulled a frightful face and Curthose sidestepped with a yelp of mock terror. ‘Hold on to him, Britnoth, I don’t want his pearly teeth in my elbow again. Gilbert’s new; he’s to be a companion to our little brother Henry. This is Henry. Henry, come and say hello.’
‘Henry?’ William dropped to one knee to get on a level. The second little boy regarded him suspiciously from brown eyes half hidden behind a black fringe, as though he were peering out of a thicket. ‘You won’t remember me because you were born in England and I’ve never been out of Normandy until now. But I’m your brother William.’
Britnoth gently pushed Henry forward. He resisted, favouring William with an inimical and silent stare. ‘Greet your brother, Henry,’ said the monk encouragingly.
The small face became mutinous. ‘Not my brother. Richard was my brother. Don’t want any more brothers. Don’t know you.’
‘Now, Henry…’
‘You’ll get to know me.’ William adopted a coaxing tone. ‘I’ll be living here. Tell you what…’
‘Don’t know you! Don’t want you! Henry turned scarlet. ‘Go away!’ With a gesture of surpassing impropriety, probably learned from the older boys, he twisted out of Britnoth’s grasp, and ran. Britnoth uttered a scandalised exclamation. Henry, charging blindly through a forest of legs, crashed headfirst into a pair of shins striding the other way. Two strong hands came down and plucked him into the air. ‘Now that’s not the way to welcome your brother. What do you mean by it?’ said the Conqueror, and brought Henry with him as he came straight on to William.
William, who had started to rise from his kneeling position, changed his mind and decided to stay there.
Frightened, in the dormitory at St. Stephen’s, he had told himself that he was the son of a king, but it was a long time since he had seen his father and only now did he remember what this King was like.
The Conqueror was physically a tall man, becoming heavy as he grew older, but his stature was far more than bodily; it was a quality of the mind. Many men were as big and as finely dressed. But what was the secret of wearing clothes with such an air, so that the swing of the mantle expressed haste or anger or satisfaction in tune with its owner’s thoughts, and the shoulder brooch continually flashed to draw the eye? He put Henry down with a little shake and the small boy, awed, muttered some kind of greeting to William after all. ‘Take him away now,’ said the Conqueror, handing him to Britnoth, and set his warm, padded hands on William’s shoulders. His black falcon’s eyes saw everything, William thought. His voice was genial but had a grating timbre. ‘Welcome to England. Up you get, let me see you. Christ, you’re wet; we’ll have to wring you out before you sit down to supper. Turn round. Not as much height as I’d like to see but never mind, you’re sturdy enough. Show me your hands. Good. Callouses in the right places. I gave orders that you were to learn fighting skills. Forget the church. You’ll make a soldier. We’ll try you out against Curthose and the rest tomorrow.’
Curthose said mischievously: ‘He tells us he has a nickname too. Some people call him Rufus, he says.’
‘Rufus?’ The Conqueror stood back, hands on hips, taking in the wind-reddened skin and tawny hair of his second surviving son. He laughed. ‘Can’t have him at a disadvantage compared to you, can we? Rufus it is. It suits him very well.’
He had his nickname. He kept it, for life.
The rain had stopped. Curthose and Belleme were told to show him round, an indication at once of the pecking order among his new companions. These two were at the top and roughly equal. This was confirmed as the tour proceeded. Belleme showed no special deference to Curthose the king’s son, but Curthose on his side interrupted Belleme’s drawl with casual ease whenever he felt like it. They were courteous to the now officially named William Rufus but with an air of secret appraisal. His place in the boys’ hierarchy was yet to be decided and he might well have to fight for it. Even at St. Stephen’s, hedged by rules of Christian forbearance which wouldn’t apply here, he had once or twice had to use his fists to prove tha
t he couldn’t be bullied.
Westminster itself was interesting and unexpected. On the way over the Channel, questioning his escort, he had somehow got the impression that it was a single huge building, like a castle. But this old palace built by Edward the Confessor was more like a haphazardly arranged small town, with buildings dotted about anyhow within the containing wall. They stood at odd angles to each other, some of stone, with slate roofs dully gleaming under the grey sky, some of timber, roofed with dripping thatch. The dormitory where the boys slept, from which the tour started after he had changed his clothes, was a fair walk from the chief hall. ‘When it’s raining, we have to sprint,’ said Curthose.
Much of the palace was very old and his guides took turns in telling him stories, mostly lurid, of its past history. There had apparently been any amount of murders in Westminster and Belleme claimed solemnly that the place was haunted by a number of restless ghosts.
Trumpets eventually called them back to the main hall where he found that the others would have to serve their seniors at dinner before being allowed any themselves. ‘You can be excused this first day, William, but in future…’
‘I’ll join in with the others if I may, sir.’
‘Good,’ said the knight-instructor, and handed him over to a steward. Serving at table proved more nerve-racking than he expected, however, for he did not know the routine or the people. He had served the monks in the refectory at St. Stephen’s but that had been on a much smaller scale. He tried to do as he was told but soon proved conclusively that at St. Stephen’s he hadn’t been told nearly enough. He apologised for his errors (‘Put the napkin over the other arm, boy, and I hope you know you’ve just spilt gravy on the Earl of Shrewsbury.’) and found to his annoyance that the stammer he had developed when he first left home and went to St. Stephen’s, but thought he had mastered, had now reappeared. He was tired, and hungry.
The boys dined afterwards, separately. Britnoth joined them with Henry and Gilbert Clare. They had also helped with the serving, and more competently than Rufus. Gilbert irritatingly insisted on telling the others about the incident with the gravy. ‘I only spill things on important p… people,’ said Rufus as crushingly as possible, and applied himself ravenously to the food. It was excellent, especially to a monastically educated palate. The bread was white, the roast meat fragrant with thyme; there was an exotically flavoured stew, and beans in a sharp sauce. They were just leaving the table, and he was feeling better, when a manservant he recognised as the one who had brought him a change of clothes, arrived in haste. ‘You’re wanted in the boys’ quarters, my lord William. I believe it is to try on some mail for arms practice tomorrow. Do you know the way?’
Rufus nodded and the manservant, clearly concerned with some further errand, hurried away. ‘Haven’t you got your own mail?’ Henry asked. It was the first time he had spoken to Rufus since their initial encounter. He had spent most of the meal staring at him as if trying to decide what he was.
‘Yes, but I’m g… growing out of it.’ Inwardly, he cursed the stammer. ‘I said so on the way here. It must have been r…reported.’ He made purposefully for the door, to counteract the bad impression of his hesitant speech.
Belleme said: ‘I hope for your sake you soon g… grow out of that stutter too.’ The two Hughs laughed sycophantically. Rufus, deciding not to hear, marched on. The others drifted after him. They passed into the vestibule, torchlit now that night had fallen. A cold wind blew in through the outer door.
‘Chilly,’ remarked Curthose. ‘I think we’ll stay here. If you know how to get there, off you go. We’ll see you when you get back. There’s usually music in the hall before bed.’
They had halted, letting him walk on. The outer door stood half-open. He stopped dead on the threshold. In front of him, the courtyard steps went down into nothingness.
He stood still, peering into the dark. There were in fact torches fixed here and there on the walls of various buildings. But the pools of light they cast were isolated and in between them were gulfs of blackness as deep as oceans. At St. Stephen’s he had feared the dark but never had to challenge it. Never, that he could recall, had he had to face a dark room, an unlit courtyard, alone.
Plenty of people, all ages and both sexes, were afraid of the dark. But among boys, it was a conventional pretext for jeers. They looked out for it and pounced on it. He had claimed he remembered the way but he had forgotten that it was now night. His companions had not forgotten. Behind him, Belleme laughed softly and little Henry giggled. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Curthose. ‘Not scared of the bogles, surely? Want someone to come with you?’
He was a king’s son. He must prove himself.
‘D… don’t be a fool. I was just wondering if I really d ... did recall the way. I’ve got it now. No, I don’t need anyone to show me, thanks.’ He reached up, snatched a torch out of a wall bracket and stumped off down the steps.
Turn left, he thought, forcing himself to call to mind the route he had memorised earlier. Cross the courtyard, go under an arch and across a bigger courtyard, and he would be there. Look for landmarks in the pools of torchlight, not for weirdly shaped shadows, and don’t think about Brother Philip’s stories, or the earthbound ghosts of Belleme’s tales this afternoon.
There had been an ugly story of a girl walled up with her baby, whose ghost still sometimes cried for help…
He was a king’s son. The Conqueror’s son.
He could keep one hand on his belt knife, for reassurance. He had sensed his erstwhile companions drawing into a huddle as he set out, probably to laugh at him. Let them laugh. He held the torch high and it shone back from a wind-rippled puddle. He veered left, angling the torch to make sure that he was now walking parallel with the side of the hall. The arch loomed up, yawning darkly, and a cresset over a nearby doorway shot his shadow grotesquely out ahead. He wished his shoes didn’t echo so much.
The flagstones of the next courtyard swam up as he passed through the arch. In a tall building on his right, lamps had been lit, and two unshuttered windows, close together like yellow eyes, watched him pass.
Somewhere in the distance there was music but immediately around him, all was still. He saw a faint gleam ahead, which must be a candle or a lamp in the building for which he was making. But in the shadows under the wadi on his right, somebody was whispering.
He glanced sideways, hesitating, and a thin, quavering wail rose in the air, stopping him short, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
He froze, his eyes moving this way and that. He moved the torch in a slow circle, to see all round him. The wail was repeated, this time ahead of him, between himself and the safety of his quarters. He drew two deep, slow breaths and took a step forward and as he did so, into the wavering edge of the torchlight came three white things, bending and swaying and ululating.
His heart gave a single terrified lurch and his mouth went instantly dry and then he knew what he must do. Raising his hands high, the torch blazing and sparkling in one and the fingers of the other curved like talons, pulling the worst face he could manage and hoping that the torchlight would do it justice, he uttered an eldritch yell and sprang at the largest spectre.
At the last moment, he turned the talons into a fist and it contacted something satisfyingly solid, producing an entirely human yelp. The three spectres wheeled and fled, vanishing at once into the deeper darkness of the courtyard’s remote comers, except for the smallest one which unfortunately fell over its shroud. As Rufus seized hold of it, it began to shriek piercingly.
‘What’s this uproar?’ The monkish tutor, Britnoth, was suddenly there, brandishing a torch of his own, shining it in Rufus’ face and then on the sheet-entangled entity on the ground. ‘What in the world do you think you’re doing, Henry?’ There were more whispers in the shadows and the sound of swift feet retreating. Somewhere, a door banged. Britnoth did not seem to notice, which was understandable, since Henry was still screeching like a damned soul and Rufu
s only heard the sounds because he was listening for them. Britnoth picked Henry up and half-patted, half-shook him. Henry, still loudly bawling, pointed at Rufus. ‘It’s all right, it’s only me. You tried to scare me so I scared you back,’ said Rufus impatiently.
‘Tried to ... oh, I see, he’s dressed up as a ghost. Henry, be quiet! Come with me,’ said Britnoth, and bore Henry off indoors.
In well-lit and familiar surroundings, Henry, though shiny-eyed and red in the face, stopped screaming. ‘Now explain yourself,’ said Britnoth to him sternly. ‘Trying to frighten your brother, is that it? And ruining a good linen sheet while you were about it?’
‘It wasn’t only me,’ said Henry, hiccuping. ‘And he attacked me!’
‘You fell over. I was trying to grab one of the others,’ said Rufus. ‘I can guess who they were.’ He was fairly sure that he had recognised Belleme’s voice in the wailing and suspected that it was Belleme with whom his fist had made contact. It must have left a mark; he would know tomorrow. He looked at Britnoth. ‘The older ones made him do it; don’t be angry with him. It doesn’t matter. It was just a silly joke. I didn’t mind.’ No one must ever know about the very real terror he had known in the dark courtyard. ‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright,’ he said to his small brother. ‘Look, I think I’m going to ride horses tomorrow. I’ll take you up in front of me for a gallop. I expect they’ll let me. Would you like that?’
Henry nodded. Britnoth said approvingly: ‘That is a proper spirit. We can’t have all you brothers at odds with each other before you’ve been here five minutes.’
Rufus grinned and held out his hand to Henry. ‘I know I’m not Richard. I’m sorry about him, too. But… friends?’
‘Friends!’ agreed Henry and bounced off the couch where Britnoth had placed him, chanting: ‘Silly old Curthose! Silly old Curthose!’
‘Yes, isn’t he?’ said Rufus, under Britnoth’s interested eye. He put Henry back on the couch and solemnly shook his brother’s small hand, complete with the mud and grit it had picked up in the courtyard. Henry, unwittingly, had just confirmed his private guess that Curthose had been the third spectre and that the scheme had probably been his, rather than Belleme’s.
King of the Wood Page 3