by Jean Plaidy
‘A braggart. Too much ambition.’
‘Can you blame him for inheriting such a quality from his father?’
‘When I was his age I had inherited a dukedom and had perforce to keep it. He has not inherited a dukedom . . . yet, although it seems to me that he longs for one particular circumstance which would give it to him.’
‘That is not true, William. He admires you so much.’
‘He admires my possessions,’ growled William. ‘But let us talk of happier things. Richard is growing into a fine young Norman.’
‘He’ll be as tall as you are, William.’
‘He has a good pair of Norman legs. How did Robert and Rufus mislay theirs?’
‘Because you married a Flemish Princess who was not over tall but still to your liking.’
He gave her his tender smile and then went on: ‘And our daughter? I was shocked to see her so. What ails the girl?’
‘She took it into her head to regard Harold as a hero, the love of her life. I wish we had never affianced them.’
‘We could not know then what a perjurer we should discover.’
‘Now that he is dead and killed by you . . .’
‘By God’s Splendour,’ cried William, ‘to what have I come home! To a son who wants my dukedom and can scarce wait for me to relinquish my hold on it, and a daughter who blames me for the death of my enemies.’
‘This is not true,’ retorted Matilda. ‘Robert takes his duty seriously and if he were of age you would make him Regent of Normandy. He longs for that day. As for Adelisa, Harold with his Saxon fair looks beguiled her. She is but a child and children set up their heroes and enshrine them in their hearts.’
‘You are right, I doubt not. I will find a husband for Adelisa and set that matter to rights.’
‘She is over young for marriage.’
‘As yet. But she can go to some court where she will forget what has happened to her and be brought up with her future family. That will turn her mind from the false Saxon. As for Robert, I can do nothing for him. He must perforce wait for the years to pass.’
The triumphant progress began. Everywhere they were acclaimed. Their Duke was now known as the Conqueror; he had set sail on an enterprise which many had believed would fail. Hadn’t his father tried before him and not succeeded? And he had been Robert the Magnificent. But their Duke had succeeded and he was now more than a Duke. He was a King.
He had conferred with Lanfranc. He had plans, he told him, of bringing him to England. He did not trust their Archbishops, neither of Canterbury nor York. He wanted to replace them by Normans, and he had decided that Canterbury should be for Lanfranc. At the moment though he was needed in Normandy.
‘When my son is of an age to be my Regent, then, Lanfranc, you must come to England.’
Lanfranc replied earnestly that his only object would be to serve his King as faithfully as he had served his Duke.
‘Why,’ laughed William, ‘I deplore Curthose’s lack of years even as he does himself.’
He could not endure the looks of Adelisa. She reminded him of that beautiful woman who had come to claim Harold’s body and the look of hatred she had given him – cursing him no doubt in her thoughts. She had loved Harold as Adelisa had. What had these Saxons, he wondered, that women seemed to care for them. Even Matilda had enjoyed those late night talks with him far more than she had admitted.
The opportunity arose. He was no longer a Duke merely, he was a King and as such a greater power in the world. He would not have difficulty in finding matches for his children.
He heard that a bride was being sought for the King of Galicia. Adelisa was eleven years old . . . too young for marriage. But perhaps in two years, three certainly . . . and such marriages were made in advance.’
He entered negotiations and to his delight they were received with enthusiasm.
‘Send for our daughter, Matilda,’ he said. ‘I have news for her.’
She came and stood before her parents. She was more like a shadow than ever. Did she not eat? William wondered. She should be forced to. He would not tolerate disobedience in his children any more than he would in his subjects.
Matilda, who could on occasions be as harsh as he was, was gentler with her children. She seemed to be over-indulgent with this folly about Adelisa’s love for a Saxon enemy.
Adelisa stood, eyes downcast, looking meek; and, although he expected meekness, he did not admire it.
‘Daughter, here is good news,’ he said. ‘You are to go to Galicia to finish your growing up in the court there. You are to have a bridegroom.’
Adelisa raised frightened eyes to her mother’s face.
‘It will be best for you,’ said Matilda gently.
‘No, please . . .’ began Adelisa.
‘What nonsense is this?’ cried William. ‘You are fortunate. You will be Queen of Galicia. Does that not please you?’ She was silent and he roared: ‘Answer me.’
She said in a whisper: ‘No, Father.’
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘You say no to an offer like this!’
‘I would rather go into a convent.’
‘Convent! Your sister is in a convent. One daughter is enough for the Church. You will be pleased by your great good fortune or by God’s Splendour . . .’
Matilda raised a hand. ‘Think about this, Adelisa,’ she said. ‘It is indeed a good match. You must remember that you are the daughter of a King and it is your duty to marry where your father chooses and in such a manner as will bring him good.’
Adelisa was silent.
‘You will eat the food that is prepared for you,’ cried William. ‘What do you think the King of Galicia will say if we deliver a bag of bones to him?’
Still she did not answer. Matilda saw the blood flood William’s face; he lifted his fist. She remembered that occasion when he had rolled her in the mud. She knew that temper. She had seen it repeated in Rufus.
She took charge of the situation.
‘Adelisa needs to grow accustomed to the idea,’ she said. ‘I remember how I felt when my father told me I was asked for.’
She smiled at William; his temper cooled a little at this reference to his violent courtship.
Matilda did not add that her benign father would never have forced her. But it would not be so with William of Normandy, King of England, William before whose will all must bend . . . except Matilda, of course.
She saw though that this marriage could be good not only for Normandy but for Adelisa.
She took her daughter’s arm. ‘I will talk to you, Adelisa,’ she said; and smiling over her shoulder at him, led her daughter away.
Adelisa stared stonily before her.
‘I can never marry anyone . . . now, my lady.’
‘My dear daughter, you are but a child. You cannot go on mourning for this infant passion.’
‘You do not understand.’
‘I understand perfectly. This Saxon came and he was handsome and seemed kind, but all the time he was deceiving your father.’
‘My father thinks he can rule everybody. He forced Harold to make his vow.’
‘How could he force him to do such a thing?’
‘He would have cast him into a dungeon, put out his eyes, cut off his hands and feet, perhaps poisoned him.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘These cruelties have been carried out.’
‘By your father!’
‘If not by his hand in his name. Harold swore because it was his duty to go back and take the crown which was his.’
‘You talk like a traitor.’
‘I am true to the man who would have been my husband.’
‘He would never have been your husband. He had a mistress whom he is said to have loved. She is the most beautiful woman in England. She came to beg your father for his body . . . a body which she alone could recognize because she knew it so intimately.’
Adelisa covered her face with her hands and shivered.
‘You know little of lif
e, dear child,’ said Matilda gently. ‘You will learn. In time you will have children of your own, and children can become as dear to you – perhaps dearer – than the man who gives them to you. My daughter, you must do as your father wishes. All must obey him. He has decreed that you shall go to Spain. Accept your fate, Adelisa, with a good grace, for you must accept it in any case. Try to eat the food I choose for you. Try to grow strong. Look to the future. Pray that you will be fruitful. Then you will love again.’
Matilda took her daughter’s face in her hands and kissed her.
Adelisa put her arms round her mother and clung to her.
‘You must not hate your father, Adelisa,’ whispered Matilda. ‘“Honour your father and your mother.” Remember that your father is a great leader, a great conqueror. In the defence of his possessions it is often necessary to kill and the methods cannot always be nice. Harold betrayed you. He loved his mistress. If he had married you it would only have been for form’s sake. But he married another woman, the sister of his enemies, because he feared them. Remember this. Go to Spain and begin a new life.’
‘I cannot do it.’
‘Now lie down, I will send some good broth for you. Take the drink I send with it. It will make you sleep. Nay, I will bring it myself. And tomorrow you will feel better. You will see everything more clearly. There is a future for you, Adelisa, in Spain.’
Docilely Adelisa drank the broth and the potion and very soon after she was asleep.
Matilda returned to William. ‘Our daughter will go to Spain,’ she said.
‘Indeed she shall.’
‘It is better she should go my way than yours, William.’
‘You are always over soft with your children, Matilda.’
‘Over soft with those I love,’ she answered, smiling at him; and she was triumphant, thinking how even now after fifteen years of marriage she could still direct him. No mean feat, she congratulated herself, with such a man.
Richard was the only one to whom Adelisa could explain. Her sisters were too young; Cecilia was in a convent and she would never have understood. She would have said Adelisa must pray and look for comfort in her devotions. Robert was too full of resentment against their father because he would not give him Normandy immediately. Rufus was too concerned with his own affairs to care for anyone else’s; he was always with his dogs and horses, or fighting with Robert. He would have fought with Richard if Richard had allowed him.
But Richard was different from anyone else in the family. He was quiet and kind and he hated to make anyone unhappy. She was able to tell him.
‘When I was affianced to Harold,’ she said, ‘I vowed I would marry no one else.’
Richard said gently: ‘You were over young to make such a vow.’
‘Nay, Richard, I made it and I meant it and I mean it now.’
He smiled at her gently: ‘We have to do what is distasteful to us because we are the sons and daughters of a king.’
‘I was happier as the daughter of a duke merely.’
‘You were happy because Harold lived and you loved him. He is dead now. You must forget him. In Galicia you will find much to interest you. Perhaps your future husband will be kind and you will grow up together. He is more your own age.’
‘Age is of no importance. You remember Harold, Richard. Was he not the most beautiful man you ever saw?’
‘He was indeed handsome but he is dead now, Adelisa, and it seems he was never meant for you.’
‘I have a feeling, Richard, that I shall keep my vow.’
‘You dare not go against our father.’
‘None dare do that, but God.’
‘What do you mean, Adelisa?’
‘We shall see, Richard, but it comforts me to talk to you. Sometimes I wonder what manner of king you will be, for kings have often to be cruel and I believe you would never be that.’
‘My fate, like yours, Adelisa, is unknown, but whatever it may be, when it comes I must accept it . . . as you must.’
Yes, she was indeed comforted by Richard.
The triumphant journeys continued and so did the preparations for Adelisa’s departure for Galicia.
William said: ‘Last Christmas I was crowned King of England. This one I intend to celebrate in Normandy. We shall have such feasting as never before. I want people here to understand what this conquest means to us . . . and to them.’
Alas, for his plans. Messages were constantly arriving from England. There were risings throughout the country. William himself was a kind of figure-head, a bogey; his absence gave the conquered people hope that they could rise up and drive the enemy back into the sea.
There had been a massacre of Normans throughout the land and this must have been carefully planned for the people rose in various places on precisely the same day and slew every Norman on whom they could lay their hands.
‘There is no help for it,’ said William. ‘I must go back. As soon as possible you shall join me there, and then, Matilda, there shall be a coronation. I shall not be content until you are crowned Queen of England.’
So Adelisa sailed for Galicia and William once more set out in the Mora for England.
Soon after he had arrived in England William had crushed the revolt. The people who had boldly declared they would drive the Conqueror back into the sea on his return realized how rash they had been. His forceful energy and his passion for organizing his affairs and his genius for ruling were strained to their utmost; but he was not the man to be defeated. He had come to the conclusion that softness did not pay with these people. There should be no forgiveness when they erred. He was going out to punish those who flouted his authority and the punishment would not be lenient.
He would burn down the house of any man who did not realize that he was the master. There was not time to teach these people that they must obey; it was a lesson they must already have mastered if they were to keep alive.
They would have to learn that great countries were not governed well except by a rod of iron. People must live in terror of him if that was the only manner in which he could extract complete and unquestioning obedience.
He thanked God that he had left Matilda in Normandy to look after his affairs. She was the one whom he could trust more than any other. Lanfranc was his man, he doubted it not, but from a wife one could hope for the ultimate devotion. He did with Matilda. How many times had he thanked God for Matilda. He did so now.
There were letters from her. He read carefully of state matters in Normandy before he turned to the private letter.
He sat with the letter before him for some time. The words danced on the parchment. Instead of them he saw the face of his sad little daughter.
‘She set sail as we arranged she should,’ wrote Matilda, ‘but she never reached Galicia. She had vowed not to marry. I believe she willed herself to die.’
A flame of anger flashed into his eyes. She had willed herself to die when she could have brought great good to his house. He needed the King of Galicia as his friend. And she had died when on her way to make the alliance!
She willed to die. How could that be? How dared that be?
What a man suffered from his children! His daughter had flouted him by dying on her way to form an important alliance.
Poor child! He could not forget those great sorrowing eyes that looked too big in her little wasted face. Matilda was grieving for her, he could tell by the tone of her letter.
‘Poor Adelisa,’ she wrote, ‘we should never have forced her. She had vowed to marry none but Harold the Saxon and you see, she did not.’
William thumped his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
He had more to think of than the whims of disobedient daughters.
‘It has always been my wish that you should join me here,’ wrote William. ‘You know of my great desire to see you crowned Queen of England. Now the moment has come.’
He pictured her receiving that letter. How she liked excitement! She would stop brooding about Adeli
sa when she knew she was coming to England.
It was true that Matilda was delighted. She set about making preparations without delay. There was one other matter which pleased her.
‘Our son Robert,’ William had written, ‘is young yet, but he should begin to realize his responsibilities. Leave him behind and let him be a member of the council that he may learn something of government. I have a notion that this will please him.’
She went to Robert.
‘My darling,’ she said, ‘I have good news for you. Your father is allowing you to take part in the government while I am in England.’
‘I am Regent, then?’
‘Nay, that is going a little far. You are but sixteen remember.’
‘How can I forget? I am constantly told I am but a boy.’
‘A situation which time will remedy each day.’
‘I suppose I shall sit with the council as a matter of form.’
‘You will sit so that you may learn how a Duchy is governed.’
‘I know that,’ cried Robert impatiently.
‘You must remember that there is something in what your father says. You must not be so impatient, Robert.’
‘So you are on his side . . . now.’
She laid her hand on his shoulder. ‘You know I am always on yours.’
He looked at her slyly. ‘One day,’ he said. ‘You may be asked to prove it.’
She refused to see the implication of that remark and left him to continue with her preparations.
The rest of the family were excited. It was good, for it took their minds off the news of Adelisa’s death. The little girls were sad for they had loved their sister; Richard mourned her too. He said: ‘I think she knew she was going to die.’ Rufus was too full of his own affairs to think much about his sisters. He did not seem very moved by her loss.
It was exciting to leave in the Mora which had been sent back to Normandy to carry them over to England; and to arrive to find William waiting for them and to be accompanied to Westminster amid some pomp. That was gratifying.
Poor little Adelisa who had wanted to die when she might have been a Queen!
How Matilda enjoyed seeing the countryside – a beautiful country of green fields and thick forests it was; the people did not seem hostile; they came out to look at her as she rode by and it was clear that they admired her and her children. Richard appeared to charm them with his good looks, and Rufus looked merry and friendly; as for the girls they enchanted the people.
