The Bastard King

by Jean Plaidy

  Now were William and Guy facing each other in earnest. Guy was not the only traitor but it was of Guy that he thought. The lust for battle was upon him; he was going to prove to himself and to all traitors that he was indeed the Duke of Normandy.

  How right his teachers had been! All that he had learned over the years of training stood him in good stead. He knew no fear. It was as though Rollo rode beside him.

  William was in the heart of the mêlée. How many died from his lance that day he did not know. All he knew was that with every thrust, every clash of steel he was showing his cousin Guy what it meant to go against the Duke of Normandy. In every man he killed he saw his cousin Guy.

  The French acquitted themselves well; and the enemies of the Duke were no match for him and his allies.

  His first victory! He had emerged with honour; moreover, he had taught his rebellious subjects a lesson.

  His first thought was to send a message to his mother for he knew what her agonies would be.

  ‘This day,’ he wrote, ‘I have shown the rebels who is Duke of Normandy.’

  It was true; but as he stood with the King of France surveying the field of victory and listening to the groans of the wounded and the dying, he deplored the need for such action and fervently prayed that in time he would bring peace to Normandy.

  ‘There is no profiting in wars,’ he said. ‘But traitors must be taught and how else can this be done but with blood?’

  Guy had been there among his enemies. But where was he now? Somewhere among those bloody bodies?

  He sent one of his men to find Guy de Brionne and bring him before him.

  But Guy was not to be found. He had escaped, it was believed, and was taking refuge in that fortress which his Duke had given him.

  ‘Does he think he will escape me there?’ cried William. ‘By God’s Splendour, he will learn that the castle I gave him will not give him refuge from my scorn and anger.’

  The King of France left for his own country but William’s task was not over.

  Men were rallying to his banner after the victory and there were many who declared that Rollo and Richard the Fearless had been born again.

  They should not be disappointed in him. They should know him for the stern just man he intended to be, and so should Guy.

  What a beautiful castle was that of Brionne! Its grey walls rose seemingly impregnable, defiant, jaunty almost. Brionne, Guy’s city, which went with the castle, was enclosed in its stone wall. From the ramparts arrows could be poured down on an invader.

  Inside the castle Guy would be rubbing his hands with glee.

  Brionne was impregnable, he believed. No one could take it. It was built to hold out against the invader.

  William looked at it and saw that the advantage was with Brionne. How storm such a fortress?

  In his mind he saw the sly face of his cousin and he knew that he was saying: ‘The Bastard can never break us. He will give up the attempt and then we will go after him, and kill him. The attempt failed in the inn but we shall not fail again.’

  Now was William’s chance to prove himself. Was he going to give up? Was he going to let Guy laugh at him, let him say: ‘There is your Duke. He is beaten. But what can you expect of a bastard?’

  There must be a way, and William would find it.

  He did. He built two towers on the banks of the river; thus he himself had a fortress to face that other. From these towers he bombarded the city and the castle and nothing was allowed in or out. The siege of Brionne had begun.

  So they faced each other, he and Guy, and victory for one would be the end of ambition for the other.

  Often William stood at the top of his tower and looked to that of the castle. Was Guy there watching, thinking of him? It was almost certainly so.

  And when he and Guy met face to face what would he say to him? Would there be any necessity for words? What should he do, hang him from one of his own turrets? Or pierce his heart with his sword?

  He shuddered. Commander of armies that he was, he did not care to kill. When a mad rage was on him he would kill without thought; but he regretted his rages and had always tried to curb them.

  Guy must die. But he hoped not directly by his hand.

  Guy was entrenched in his castle, well equipped for a long siege, and William saw that the only manner in which he could take Brionne was to starve those within its city walls.

  The weeks began to pass. It was winter. William chafed against the delay. He was joined by more and more loyal supporters, for the knights of Normandy were realizing the power and strength of their Duke.

  From his camp facing Brionne he often went hunting; it was his favourite sport and always had been. It kept his soldiers happy and whenever they supped from a fine boar or delicious venison William would think with grim satisfaction of what was happening within Brionne and how Guy and his supporters would smack their lips if they could smell the spoils of the hunt.

  It was a time for brooding. His temper might be hasty but he was possessed of patience. It was a waiting game he must play with his cousin and as long as he realized that he could not fail. He talked now and then with those he trusted of what he intended to do for Normandy. Building fascinated him; even the construction of those two towers had given him a deep satisfaction. He wanted to make a good life for his people; he wanted to make rules which would give them justice.

  ‘But first of all,’ he would end, ‘we must have peace. To be a Duke is not as my cousin Guy may think – receiving the homage of one’s people, performing feats of equestrian skill, riding among them in magnificent robes. Nay! It is governing well, giving them good rules that they may live in peace and know the meaning of justice.’

  The winter passed.

  William said: ‘We remain inactive here yet to remove ourselves would be a victory for my treacherous cousin. I have a plan. I will leave a garrison here while I go off to regain that which was taken from me. There is Domfront which the Count of Anjou took from the Bellêmes and holds against me; there is Alençon. While we wait here I will regain these two towns.’

  He began with Domfront which was unprepared for the siege and quickly gave in. He then turned his attention to Alençon. The speedy surrender of Domfront had not prepared him for a show of strong resistance at Alençon.

  Moreover the citizens attempted to sneer at him. They had hung the walls with hides and as William approached made pretence to beat them with their lances.

  ‘Hides, hides for the bastard tanner.’

  William’s calmness deserted him. He had been ready to show mercy to the Count of Anjou and had allowed him to escape when he took Domfront but now his temper was aroused. This was too much.

  ‘By God’s Splendour,’ he vowed, ‘they shall regret this.’

  He led a furious onslaught on the town. Burning pitch was thrown at the walls. Fury blazed within him no less violently than the walls of Alençon.

  ‘They shall wear neither hands nor feet again when I have conquered them,’ he vowed.

  The battle was short and swift. Never before had the Duke of Normandy fought so furiously. He hated the people of Alençon as he had never hated enemies before.

  How quickly they realized their mistake so to taunt the Duke of Normandy. Men might betray him, attempt to murder him, and be forgiven; but to sneer at him as Bastard was more than he would tolerate.

  The prisoners were brought to him. He looked on while his orders were carried out. And when those people screamed for mercy he had none. They had committed the unforgivable. They had called him Bastard.

  He looked on with grim satisfaction while their feet and hands were cut off and thrown over the walls of the city that all might see what befell those who dared to sneer at him.

  He was alone. Would he ever forget the sight of those writhing bodies? Would he ever be able to shut from his mind the memory of those eyes raised to his? He would dream of writhing bodies and bloody stumps of arms and legs – men who would never walk again, never wo
rk. Useless bodies! They would curse him for ever.

  ‘But they called me Bastard,’ he justified himself. ‘They deserved death, but I was merciful, I took but their hands and feet.’

  A ruler must be harsh at times. He was fighting for his life. They could not say that he was not a bold and courageous man. But they could say he was a bastard.

  Men must learn what it cost them to speak thus against their Duke.

  He must forget the men of Alençon.

  Domfront and Alençon in his hands, he turned back to Brionne.

  It was summer now. For many months now they had held the siege. Surely they could not last much longer?

  One of his commanders met him as he rode to Brionne.

  ‘The castle is on the point of surrender,’ he was told. ‘Several have already come over to us. They say they are dying of starvation.’

  William smiled. His tactics had been correct. Guy would learn now with whom he had to deal. How easy it would have been to make a spectacular onslaught on the castle and to have been beaten.

  He had done right to wait and to take Domfront and Alençon in the meanwhile. News might have been smuggled into Brionne as to what had happened to the men of Alençon. How were they feeling there now? Were they shivering in their fear? Were they studying their precious hands and feet?

  He rode up to the castle and as he did so the drawbridge was lowered and a figure appeared, a wretched starving man who could scarcely walk.

  Could that be Guy?

  William approached him and looked at him.

  ‘Cousin,’ he said. ‘My traitor cousin.’

  Guy was on his knees before William.

  William threw him from him. Poor abject cousin, the young arrogant cock of the schoolroom. Guy! What had he planned for him! He was not sure. Some dire punishment which he would have to work out. But what could he feel for this poor abject creature but pity.

  Guy raised his eyes to William’s face, and for the moment they looked at each other.

  Guy was too sick from lack of food to care what became of him. But oddly enough William cared.

  He raised up Guy.

  ‘You’re a bag of bones, cousin,’ he said.

  ‘And you will kill me.’

  ‘Kill you,’ said William. ‘That would mean I feared you. I fear none, cousin – not even a poor starveling such as you.’

  ‘What will you do with me?’

  Fleetingly William saw those footless and handless bodies; he saw the stricken looks of the watchers as the warm and bloody feet and hands were thrown among them.

  ‘I shall take back your castles,’ said William. ‘They are fine castles and will now be mine. As for you, you may go where you will. But let me not see your face again.’

  They said it was strange that one who had played him so false should escape while the citizens of Alençon for jeering at him had been so mutilated.

  Victorious he came to Rouen; and when his mother embraced him, he remembered once more that she wanted him to take a wife.

  A wife. He had not thought much of women. There had been little time in a life which had been so taken up with treachery and wars, sudden death and the need to learn to govern.

  He thought of his father’s returning to the castle and the joys of his reunion with Arlette. He thought of the children who delighted his mother and he remembered his father’s joy in him.

  He needed a wife who would love and teach him the comforts of homecoming. He needed sons who would follow him.

  He wanted that. He wanted closer bonds with his own people.

  He would marry and she whom he married must be a lady of high birth. That would be necessary for his son’s sake. The child must be no bastard, nor must he be of merchant stock.

  He talked to his mother. How she loved these cosy talks!

  So he would marry. She had long wished for that. He would know the pleasures of the married state. She had long been amazed at the manner in which he dedicated himself to his duties. Now he should have some of the pleasures of life and the greatest of these was love, a home which was indeed a home whether it be castle or hut. He needed children – and most of all a son who would inherit his ducal crown.

  ‘There is Matilda of Flanders,’ said his mother. ‘A lady of high rank, a princess no less. She is the one for you, William.’

  ‘Matilda of Flanders! She is the daughter of Baldwin of Flanders, of noble birth, and very marriageable I have heard.’

  ‘It is true,’ said his mother. ‘Herlwin decided she would suit you long ago.’

  ‘Then, Mother, I will marry the lady.’

  Arlette laughed.

  ‘You had better begin your courtship first and without delay.’

  And as William hated to waste time and the more he thought of marriage the more he liked it, he decided to do just that.

  Encounter in a Street

  IN THE TAPESTRY chamber in the Castle of Lille two girls bent over their work. Expertly they plied their needles, holding back now and then to cast a critical eye over what they had done. They were both in their teens, and their costly gowns set them apart from their women attendants who were at the other end of the room, some sorting out skeins of silk, others working tapestry.

  Matilda, the younger of the girls, was the more beautiful. Her flaxen hair was dressed in a long plait that had she been standing would have reached to her knees. This thick rope of hair was caught in a snood which twinkled with a few jewels and her long blue gown with the hanging sleeves became her well.

  Her sister Judith was handsome too. They were proud girls because their father, the Count of Flanders, a gentle, kindly man who had the good of his subjects at heart, indulged them, and their mother was the sister of the reigning King of France.

  The Count clearly regretted the fact that his girls were becoming marriageable and if a match were made for them this would mean their leaving home. It was not so much that he wanted to keep them with him for his own pleasure as that he feared that they, who had had such a happy home, might not find the same contentment away from it.

  At this time there was an air of excitement throughout the castle because the Ambassador of Edward the Confessor had suggested a bridegroom for Judith, and Judith was the focus of attention at the moment.

  Matilda laid aside her tapestry and said: ‘Shall you take him, Judith?’

  It was an indication of the indulgence of their father that it should be a matter for Judith to decide.

  Judith put her head on one side as though considering the matter.

  ‘They are very handsome, these Saxons.’

  ‘They have the clearest blue eyes I ever saw,’ agreed Matilda. She was thinking of the ambassador Brihtric Meaw who was called ‘Snow’ because of his white skin, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. If Tostig were as handsome as Brihtric, then Judith should take him willingly.

  ‘There is a gentleness about them.’

  ‘Gentleness. Your future father-in-law must be far from that.’

  ‘We cannot expect them to be all alike.’

  ‘Then should you not learn more of Tostig?’

  ‘I would I could,’ said Judith.

  ‘I would never marry a man I had not seen,’ put in Matilda. She had always been the bold one, her father’s favourite, the one he had delighted to indulge, who had amused him with her forthright opinions.

  ‘It is a long way to England.’

  ‘I should expect a man to woo me,’ went on Matilda, ‘and if it were too far for him to come to me, then it would be too far for me to go to him.’

  ‘You are being childish.’

  ‘I am saying what I feel. Is it childish to speak one’s mind?’

  ‘We are not village people whose marriages are of no concern to any but themselves.’

  ‘My marriage shall be of concern to no one but myself.’

  ‘What nonsense, Matilda. You know our marriages are arranged for us.’

  Matilda smiled. She had never liked to be left ou
t of anything and when marriage for Judith had been talked of she had immediately begun to think of it for herself. She had not had to look far. Her eyes had alighted on the beautiful form of Brihtric the Saxon. What grace! What beauty! Those blue, blue eyes! The gentle way he spoke! How harsh was the Flemish language compared with soft Saxon. She had decided she would like to learn Saxon and speak it all the time. She would like to go to Brihtric and tell him that she had chosen him and that he would no longer be a plain ambassador for she, the Princess, had chosen to marry him. He would be transformed into a Prince and her father would give him estates. Her heart swelled with love for her beautiful Saxon. Poor Judith who had been offered Tostig – the son of the Earl of Godwin. She was sorry for her, for no one could be as handsome as Brihtric.

  ‘Tostig,’ she said. ‘The son of a man who was a cowherd!’

  ‘The Earl of Godwin is the most powerful man in England,’ cried Judith indignantly. ‘It is for this reason that his son is offered to me.’

  ‘A cowherd’s son!’

  ‘How clever he must be.’

  ‘Clever men often have foolish sons.’

  ‘You are jealous, Matilda, because there is no husband for you.’

  That made Matilda laugh. ‘Never fear, Judith, I shall choose my husband. I admit I should like to go to England.’

  ‘It is a country which people used to speak of a great deal. Now that it is ruled by the saintly Edward and all is peaceful there, we hear less of it.’

  ‘I do not like what I hear of Edward. He must be rather a tiresome man I think. Imagine. He is married but the marriage has never been consummated. I wonder what Queen Editha feels about that?’