by Jean Plaidy
‘Still,’ said William, ‘I shall miss you.’
The King of France arrived at Rouen. He had come to take part in the most important ceremony William had yet known. This was to be his initiation; he was to show his people that he was worthy to be armed as a chevalier and prove he was skilled in all the arts expected of him.
Those arduous years of training had culminated in this and he meant to excel himself so that his people should have no doubt that he was indeed fitted to rule them.
Never far from his thoughts was that hateful word ‘bastard’. Because of it, he must not only do what was expected of him – but more. Was that why Richard the Fearless had earned his name? Had he too felt this pressing need to wipe out the stain of his birth?
Henry arrived, suave and friendly; but William was wiser than he had been when under the King’s guardianship. He was well aware now that Henry’s friendship with him was a matter of expediency; he must not be charmed by honeyed words and affectionate manners. He must remember too that he needed the help of the King to subdue his rebellious subjects and restore order in the land.
There was feasting at Rouen and William himself stood behind the King’s chair on these occasions and himself served him as a mark of respect and deference. The King knew and William knew that their friendship was uneasy. Only the preceding year the King had destroyed a fort on the frontiers between his kingdom and Normandy. The loyal Norman who guarded the fort had at first refused to pass it to the French but William and his advisers had decided that they could not take on a war with France and subdue their own rebels at the same time and had commanded the loyal Norman to hand over the fort which was destroyed by the French. ‘Neither should have it,’ said the King; but almost immediately he rebuilt another and placed a French garrison in charge of it. This had been too much for William. He was eighteen years old, of an age to lead his men into battle. To allow the French to remain would have given his enemies the chance they needed to declare him unfit to rule. He rode out with his men, attacked the fort and put the French to flight.
This incident seemed to have been forgotten, for the King was now in Rouen, and William was accepting him as his suzerain and paying him the homage of serving him at table.
The stage was set for the great ceremony.
The citizens of Rouen had assembled in the field in which William would perform his feats and win his golden spurs.
There was a silence as he rode out into the field. Seated on his horse, dressed in steel hauberk, his shining shield attached to his left arm, his lance in his right, he was a magnificent figure. Slender and tall, commanding, his face noble under his gleaming helmet, he looked as strong and defiant as the lions painted on his shield.
His primary test was to pierce a straw figure which had been set up on a pole; this had been dressed in the tunic worn by Normans going into war and which was made of mascles of steel. In addition to this tunic, a shield was affixed to the figure. William’s task was to ride to the figure and pierce both shield and tunic without pausing in his gallop. To perform such a feat required years of practice and even so only great skill and precise timing could achieve it.
William’s heart was beating wildly; if he did not succeed he would be dubbed for ever as unfit to rule. The old cry of ‘Bastard’ was in his ears as he heard the shouts of the people. He knew that the eyes of the King of France were on him, wary, veiled. Was he praying for William’s success or failure? There was one present on whom he could rely with the utmost certainty – Arlette, his beloved and loving mother. He knew that as she sat in her enclosure strewn with grass and herbs, mint and roses, she was praying as fervently as she had ever prayed in her life, that he might succeed.
His half-brothers Odo and Robert were tense with excitement. His stepfather wished him well, as did all loyal lords. He wished that Guy were there. Guy should have been there. Why was he not? Too busy looking after affairs at Brionne doubtless. He could well imagine Guy’s giving himself airs since he had become a seigneur.
This was more than winning his spurs. He was no ordinary pupil of chivalry. He was the Duke of Normandy with a far from stable country to control. So much hung on his ability to ride to that inanimate figure and at precisely the right second to send his lance through the steel.
He had practised it thousands of times. He was skilled. But was he skilled enough? What if his fears of failure betrayed him?
But he must not fail. This day he must take his golden spurs from the hands of the King of France.
The moment had come. He could see the figure on the pole. The sun was hot; the crowd tense.
There was the King seated in his box, inscrutable. How many of the nobles watching were his true friends? How many hoped for his success? How many prayed for failure?
The moment had come. ‘Rollo, William of the Longsword, Richard the Fearless, Robert the Magnificent . . . revered ancestors, do not let me fail,’ he prayed. ‘Let me take my place beside you as one of the great Dukes of Normandy.’
He was not sure whether the thudding he could hear came from his horse’s hoof-beats or from his heart. Time seemed to be passing very slowly. The straw figure was far away. It seemed to take on a life of its own, mocking, malevolent, a sorcerer determined to defeat him. ‘Bastard!’ it seemed to say. ‘Is a bastard worthy to be a Duke of Normandy?’
Anger swelled up in him. He quelled it. ‘Your temper betrays you,’ old Mauger had said. ‘You must be calm to be ruthless.’
He was right upon the figure now. Up shot his lance. through the shield, through the mail it went. The figure hung for a second in mid-air and crashed to the ground; and he was still seated on his horse; he was riding round the field. He could hear the applause of the people.
He had won his golden spurs.
Rouen was en fête. Everywhere he went the people cheered him. He was indeed fitted to be their Duke. Never had they seen such equestrian skill as they had witnessed in that field.
His mother wept with joy.
‘How I wish that your father could have seen this day! How proud he would have been! Never has any Duke of Normandy excelled as you did. Rollo would have seemed of no account beside you.’
He laughed at her. ‘Nay, do not be disloyal to Rollo, Mother.’
And she was afraid because deep down in her heart although she was a Christian she still feared the old gods and heroes and Rollo was one of the latter. His name stood beside those of Sigurd and Ragnar. Had not Rollo given Normandy to the Normans?
He felt secure in her tenderness. They were happy days which followed. Odo and Robert clamoured for his attention. He could not help but revel in their adoration. His stepfather was delighted.
‘I never heard such cheers as those for you when the King of France gave you your spurs. The people are for you as they never were before.’
‘We have our traitors still. Let us not forget that,’ said William. ‘But Henry has offered me help to subdue them. He wants a peaceful Normandy and good relations between us.’
‘You trust him?’
‘No. But I need his help. This state of anarchy has gone on too long. No one can say I am too young to rule now and I intend to do so.’
His stepfather agreed.
No, thought William, none can say I am too young but they can still call me Bastard.
‘My first task now,’ said William, ‘will be to summon all the nobles together and they shall swear fresh oaths of fealty to me.’
‘At Rouen?’
At Bayeux, I think. If they swear the oath they will find it more difficult to rebel against me in the near future. So without delay . . . to Bayeux.’
He said good-bye to his half-brothers and his mother and sister. Arlette embraced him tenderly.
‘My pride is so great I cannot begin to express it,’ she told him.
‘You express it in your eyes, Mother.’
‘I knew you would do it. I know you will do everything you set your heart on. I shall never forget the dream I had befo
re you were born. It was not a dream. It was a prophecy.’
‘The dream of the great tree which grew from you and its branches spread over Normandy.’
‘Ay, my son, and beyond. Out over the sea . . .’
‘Out to England,’ he said. ‘Mother, did it spread over England?’
‘It spread far and wide. I can tell you that.’
He kissed her hands. ‘And I tell you this. There is no lady in the land that I would have had to bear me . . . but you.’
She laid her cheek against his hand. ‘God prosper you, William . . . for ever.’
Her mood changed suddenly. She lifted her beautiful eyes to his face and said: ‘William, you will have to marry now.’
He laughed. ‘I have far too much to do.’
‘Your duty is to get sons, William. Who will follow you? It must be your son.’
Marriage? He pondered the matter. There had been little time for women. But she was right, of course. He would have to marry.
When he had restored order to Normandy he would give the matter some thought.
He rode triumphantly into Bayeux amid the loyal shouts of his people. His eyes gleamed with pleasure to contemplate this fair city.
Mine, he said to himself. All mine!
He never ceased to be delighted when he contemplated his possessions.
He would see Guy in Bayeux, he promised himself, for naturally Guy must be among the company of nobles who must come to swear fealty. They would talk over old times, banter a bit as they used to; Guy would make sly comments about the Duke of Normandy and he would retaliate about a certain seigneur who had become very important since he had been in possession of the castles of Brionne and Vernon.
In the great hall the knights were assembled. He sat on his throne and surveyed them, remembering the scene so long ago when his father had taken him to Rouen and told the people he was their Duke.
One by one they came to him; they knelt, they kissed his hand, they swore their loyalty.
But where was Guy? Why did Guy not come?
Herlwin came to his chamber.
‘You have something to tell me?’ asked William.
Herlwin nodded.
‘It is Guy. He is ill? By God he is not . . . dead!’
‘Nay, William. Alive. Too much alive for our comfort.’
William rose, his hand on his sword.
‘What means this?’
‘He was always an arrogant young devil.’
‘You mean he is conspiring against me?’
‘He thinks he has a greater claim to the dukedom through his mother who was your father’s sister.’
‘By God’s Splendour, am I not my father’s son?’
‘And presented to us by him as our Duke. That is so and all those loyal to Robert the Magnificent are with you. But there are some . . .’
‘More rebels . . . and Guy amongst them. Guy. My old friend and companion.’
‘You were always sparring.’
‘But it was not meant in rancour.’
‘Not by you, William.’
‘So Guy would set himself up as Duke?’
‘He has some supporters. He says . . .’ Herlwin hesitated.
‘I know what he says,’ cried William. ‘He says: “What right has a bastard to the Dukedom?” That’s it, is it not, Herlwin?’
‘My lord Duke, that is what he says.’
The colour flamed into William’s face. He said: ‘I gave him Brionne, I gave him Vernon – two of my most beautiful castles. I could have kept them myself. God knows it hurt to part with them. But I gave them to Guy and with them the means of rebelling against me. Wait, Guy de Brionne, wait until I lay my hands on you.’
He was more shocked by the defection of Guy than he wished anyone to know. He wanted to get away to think.
Over the years at Conteville he had grown into the habit of riding out alone and incognito. In this manner he had learned a great deal about the humble people of whom most nobles knew little. He would tell them that he was the son of a family of traders which was true, for he was on his mother’s side; he would thus discover their true feelings as to their conditions. It was a great advantage.
He had made up his mind that when he had brought his dukedom to a state of peace he would examine what could be done for the poor of his dominion.
On this particular occasion he could think of nothing but Guy. So, those bouts in the schoolroom had been deadly serious. When Guy fought him he had wanted to kill him. There had been no true cousinly feeling on Guy’s part. His taunts of Bastard had hidden an irrepressible envy. Guy wished to be Duke of Normandy. William laughed at the thought. Frivolous Guy, who thought too much of his own pleasures! Proud, arrogant, jealous Guy, whose only virtue was his legitimacy!
And Guy to betray him!
In times of stress and difficulty William had begun to find comfort from the sea. Merely to look at it soothed him. His mother had said it was due to his Viking ancestors, and the coast of Normandy had taken on a special charm for him of late. Across the water was Edward’s kingdom and whenever he could hear news of Edward he listened to it avidly. England fascinated him. Ever since Edward had put into his head that one day it could be his, it had been thus.
Edward had many years left to him but when he died . . . who could say? What if Edward named him as his successor? Then he would go and take the land which was his.
Land! How beautiful it was and how proud he was to possess it. His mother had told him how when he was a baby he had clutched at the straw on the floor and clung to it. His first acquisition! His nurses had said that he liked to gather his possessions about him and guard them. He hated to part with even the meanest of his playthings.
And he had given Brionne and Vernon to his false cousin!
It was far to the sea. He could not reach it that night so he would put up at an inn, making sure that the innkeeper would have no idea that the Duke of Normandy was under his roof. He was wise enough to know that he could not go about his dukedom without an escort. But he would not give up these solitary journeys and his friends had grown accustomed to them now.
He was given a room. He paid for it and settled down for the night.
At such a time, with thoughts of Guy’s treachery uppermost, there came back to his mind vividly the occasion when he had awakened to find Osbern’s dead body beside him.
There was a faithful man – unlike his cousin Guy!
How could one be sure whom one could trust?
He took off his clothes and lay on the bag of straw naked, with his cloak covering him, and over and over in his mind went memories of Guy – Guy endeavouring to out-ride him, to throw him in their wrestling matches, to shoot his arrows farther, always ready to mock with that cry of ‘Bastard’.
He was startled by a rapping on the door. He was out of bed in a moment; his eye on the heavy bolt which he had drawn as he had always done in strange places after the death of Osbern.
He put his ear to the wood.
‘Master . . . master . . .’
He knew that voice, but it could not be!
‘Who is there?’
‘Gallet . . . Gallet, your fool.’
Then he was not mistaken. He drew the bolt and Gallet, mud-stained and dishevelled, came into the room.
‘Gallet, what means this?’
‘Fly, my lord. There is little time. They are on their way. They may be now not more than a mile from here.’
‘Who, Gallet, who? Tell me who?’
‘Please, master . . .’
William put on his shirt and seized his corselet.
‘No time. They will be here. They are armed . . . many of them.’
‘Who, Gallet, who?’
‘Ranulfe of Bayeux, Néel of Coutances . . . many many of them. They support Guy of Brionne and they will be upon you in a matter of minutes. I heard them planning. They thought I was too foolish to understand. One of their men has followed you here to this inn. My lord, I beg of you if you will li
ve . . . go . . . go now.’
‘My blessing on you, Gallet,’ said William, and half naked as he was, snatched up his cloak, wrapped it about him and ran down the stairs and out of the inn to the stables. He saddled his horse and was away.
The night air was cold on his insufficiently clad body and as he came along the road he heard the sound of galloping horses’ hoofs. He turned his horse into a wood and waited there. He knew that the party, with murder in their hearts, were riding on to the inn.
He was never to forget that ride through the night; on he went, his bare legs and feet frozen, wondering what would happen to him if he came face to face with his enemies now – unarmed as he was, his horse wellnigh spent.
Good fortune was with him.
A man was riding towards him. How strange he must look. What would this fellow think?
‘I believe I am on the road to Falaise,’ he said. ‘But I am unsure. I have urgent business there.’
Urgent business clad only in a shirt and a cloak!
With what joy did he hear the man’s reply.
‘My lord Duke, I am your loyal subject. Pray tell me what I may do for you.’
‘First give me some warm food and clothes, then a horse.’
‘Follow me, my lord.’
William learned that he had the good fortune to meet with Hubert de Rye, one of his loyal subjects. In a short time he was in warm clothing, was fed and a horse had been provided for him.
Hubert de Rye’s three sons then rode with the Duke back to Falaise.
Another narrow escape.
Oh, Guy, thought William, so you would murder me then.
He could think of nothing but Guy. During his life he had known many traitors but none like Guy. There were times when he felt bitterly wounded and at others he was filled with a searing hatred. He was going to punish Guy. He was going to show him what it meant to betray the Bastard.
He would make war on Guy and the rebels.
At this time, true to his word, the King of France came to William’s assistance. William had won his spurs; he had proved himself skilled in the arts of war; he was not without learning either; in fact he was capable of governing. The King, at this time, desired a peaceful neighbour and he thought that here was a good opportunity to show William that the matter of the frontier fort had not impaired their friendship. He offered to help the Duke rid himself of trouble-makers. He wanted a peaceful Normandy, for war was infectious; and it was not good that rulers should be overthrown by their rebellious subjects. It happened therefore that as William was preparing to go to war against Guy and his supporters, he was joined by Henry at the head of a company of French soldiers.
