The Bastard King

by Jean Plaidy

  So when William had gone to Winchester she had done everything in her power to attract him. As Governor her husband must entertain the King and she had had the honour of sitting beside him at table, while her husband stood behind him waiting on him.

  She had dressed herself in a low-cut gown, heavily bordered with gold embroidery and which revealed her fine bosom. Her long fair hair was worn loose about her shoulders and she was indeed a beautiful woman.

  William had taken no more notice of her than if she had been the chair on which he sat; he had been far more interested in the men’s talk of rebuilding an abbey and he discussed the plans for the Tower of London all through the meal.

  Lady Grantmesnil was furious. That man, he is no man, she declared to her servants; and from then on did everything she could to harm the King. Not that there appeared to be much she could do, but she had discovered long before that insidious gossip and scandal – even if it was not the truth – could cause trouble.

  This William for all his arrogance was not very firmly on the throne. He had come to England, taken it from King Harold, but that did not necessarily mean it was his. He relied a great deal on the goodwill of the people and his supporters must be loyal. A people such as those of this land were not easy to subdue. There were going to be continual risings and who knew, one of these one day might push the new King into the sea.

  Serve him right, thought Lady Grantmesnil. He deserved no more after refusing the considerable favours she had so blatantly offered.

  What could she do? She could not raise an army. She could talk though. She was known throughout Winchester as possessing one of the most vicious tongues of the day.

  She began by discussing the Norman knights who seemed to find the ladies of England very much to their taste. How amusing to think of those Norman wives sitting at home in their castles. No wonder their husbands did not want to return. Why should they? They were having a very happy time in England.

  Messengers were constantly going back and forth between England and Normandy and it was not long before such news began to be circulated. The Norman ladies were incensed. They wrote urgent letters. Their husbands must return without delay, they wrote. Their estates needed them . . . and so did their wives.

  The effect of this began to be seen.

  Lady Grantmesnil was delighted every time she heard that some Norman knight had slipped back to Normandy.

  When she heard of William’s infidelity with the canon’s daughter she was incensed. So this simple little girl had achieved what she had failed to do!

  It was unforgivable.

  She wondered whether Queen Matilda was aware of her husband’s infidelity.

  ‘If she has not already heard,’ vowed Lady Grantmesnil, ‘she soon will.’

  The letter was unsigned. The messenger said he did not know how it had found its way into his pack.

  Matilda read it and a wild fury possessed her. He had sent her back because he had feared for her life, he had said. He had sent her back so that he could indulge his lust with this Canterbury girl.

  She had been insulted. No sooner had she avenged one humiliation than another was heaped upon her.

  And William too! She would have trusted him because he had never looked over much at women. She had believed he had been completely devoted to her.

  Often he had told her that no one else had ever attracted him.

  And had she not been faithful to him?

  Theirs had been the perfect marriage until he had spoilt it through his lust for this woman.

  What was she like? Young, she supposed. She had not borne children. A girl younger than his own daughters. It was shameful!

  But she would be revenged. There were many who would be ready to carry out the wishes of the Queen of England. She had her friends everywhere. It was significant that they were her friends and not William’s.

  She wanted that girl dead; and she was going to have her dead. She wanted her face mutilated in the killing because that was the face which had attracted William.

  Lady Grantmesnil was delighted with the effects of her whispering campaign.

  Moreover the mother of Harold, who would never forget that awful moment when she had looked into the hard face of the Conqueror and begged for her son’s body, delighted in circulating rumours about his misdeeds. It was true that William had since ordered that the body of Harold should be given decent burial in the church at Waltham and that there had been Normans in his funeral processions to do honour to him; and it was clear that he refused on the battlefield, not because he wished to deny the mother’s request but because he did not want it to be presumed that Harold was a martyr. Once William was firmly on the throne he was ready to concede a King’s burial.

  But Gytha, his mother, never forgot nor forgave; so with delight she repeated rumours of his harshness and realizing that the desertion of the Normans who were filtering back to Normandy was disastrous to him, she made sure that the stories of the orgies attended by Normans in England went back to their wives.

  When William heard that the young girl who temporarily had been his mistress had been murdered, he went to see her body. Her face had been horribly mutilated and he set up an enquiry to discover her murderer.

  He did but he did not punish the man for he had learned on whose orders he had been acting.

  So Matilda had discovered. And she would wonder why he, the faithful husband, had suddenly changed.

  She should know.

  What a woman she was! How fierce in her hatred! He had always known that she had a spirit to match his own.

  He felt a horrible revulsion as he looked down on that once lovely face. Poor child. It was no fault of hers. He would reward her father. Not that that could compensate him.

  He went away and thought of Matilda and wished she were with him.

  How furious she must have been when she heard the rumours, how magnificent in her anger! Hurt, bewildered and furiously, murderously angry, because William who was hers had momentarily strayed.

  His days were full. He had had little time to brood on Matilda’s deeds. Lanfranc had come to England and been made Archbishop of Canterbury; there was one friend in England then on whom he could rely.

  Those were the fighting years. There was rebellion everywhere. These Saxons were a stubborn race.

  There had appeared on the Isle of Ely a mysterious and romantic figure: Hereward the Wake. His estates had been taken from his family while he was away on the Continent and on learning of this he had come back and because he had succeeded in driving out the Norman to whom William had given his family’s estates, a legend had grown up around him.

  He had set up a banner to which men flocked; it had begun to be said that there was a mysticism about him and that Heaven had chosen him to drive out the Norman invader.

  The marshy fen country which was often enveloped in mist was known as the Isle of Ely. The unwary traveller venturing into this strange place would find himself sinking into swamps and lakes which were often stagnant; it was dangerous country, the home of wild fowl whose cries, sounding weirdly through the mists, were said to be the voices of spirits.

  Because of the nature of this part of the country it was not easy for the Normans to rout out the rebels and because Hereward continued to harass them, he became known as England’s Darling and stories circulated about his daring exploits. Legends grew up around his name and many adventures were attributed to him.

  When a Danish force sailed up the Ouse, Hereward and his followers joined with it and together they raided the Abbey of Peterborough and stole its treasure, which Hereward rather naively believed he was saving from the Normans. The Danes were naturally delighted to gain so much for so little trouble but proved themselves false allies for, when William offered to leave them unmolested and allow them to keep all the spoils they had managed to amass during their stay if they would desert their friends of the Fen Country, gleefully they accepted and sailed off with the Peterborough treasure, leaving Here
ward to his marshy Fens.

  No one gained anything from this adventure as a storm destroyed most of the Danish fleet before it reached Denmark and although the treasure was saved it was lost in a fire which broke out when those who survived the expedition were celebrating their return.

  William was determined to rout out Hereward. He was well aware that a legend could be more difficult to displace than an army. To burn down castles was nothing to William. To march at the head of an avenging army, to lay waste towns and villages – that was fighting he knew well. But to lead an army through the misty marshes was another matter.

  Often his men were lost in the mists; some were sucked down into the marshes. They developed a horror of what they called the haunted country; and Hereward was allowed to live on in defiance of the King.

  But William was not the man to be daunted. It was imperative that he drive Hereward from his stronghold and most important of all he must prove to the people that Hereward was a man no less; ay, and as a mere man could not hope to stand against the might of the Conqueror.

  As he stood looking over those marshes and listening to the weird call of the wild fowl he realized that he could not take the place with land troops. He would have to build bridges over swamps; he would have to make firm roads. Once he had done this he would rout out Hereward the Wake.

  His attention to detail was meticulous; but even he was disturbed by the strange atmosphere of that marshy wilderness. Yet he would allow nothing to stand in his way. He commanded that a tower be built and in this he installed a witch whose duty it was to drive off the evil spirits.

  In due course it was as he had known it would be. He conquered Ely as he had conquered all; Hereward fled the country and was heard of no more.

  Even then there were fresh outbreaks of rebellion. The Scottish King marched into England; William met him and drove him back. So terrified was Malcolm when William the Conqueror set foot on his soil that he immediately swore to become his vassal.

  William marched south, the triumphant conqueror. When men were tempted to rebel against him they would consider what had happened to those who had made the attempt.

  The people of England were beginning to accept the fact that William was their King, that he was determined to remain so and that they would be well advised to accept his rule.

  There was peace – if an uneasy one – in England. William had been fighting for four years. It had passed quickly for there had been so much to do – so much marching from place to place. He had fought Hereward in the Isle of Ely and marched up to Scotland to subdue Malcolm.

  England was quieter; he could safely leave it for a while. He would go to Normandy, see his family.

  ‘By God’s Splendour,’ he said, ‘four years is a long time to stay away.’

  Conflict in the Family

  SHE WAS WAITING for him, as eager as she had always been. Four years! he thought. And she was beautiful still.

  She was smiling at him, unusually soft and tender, her eyes brimming over with her delight.

  Of course she loved him. How foolish to doubt it!

  ‘You have grown fat,’ she cried. ‘Too much good living in England.’

  ‘There was no good living for me when you were not there.’

  They were lovers. They would always be lovers.

  But there were shadows between them.

  He said to her: ‘I know of this man Brihtric.’

  ‘He whose estates I took?’ she said lightly.

  He caught her arm and swung her round to face him. She had forgotten how rough his gestures could be.

  ‘What was he to you?’ he demanded.

  ‘He was a man whose estates I took.’

  ‘And why?’

  ‘Because I wanted them.’

  ‘Because you wanted him and he would have none of you.’

  She flushed scarlet. ‘So you have set your spies on me. How dare you!’

  ‘I dare as I will,’ he answered. ‘And if I wish to know aught of my wife I will know it.’

  ‘And if I wish to know of my husband . . .’

  ‘Doubtless you will know that too.’

  ‘How much do I know,’ she cried passionately. ‘How much is there to know? I know of the whey-faced whore of Canterbury.’

  He laughed at her, maddened by the thought of her desire for Brihtric, so strong that she, a Princess of Flanders, had asked him to marry her.

  ‘A very respectable maiden,’ he said, ‘the daughter of a canon.’

  ‘Respectable no longer after her lecherous King had passed that way.’

  ‘Should you reproach me? What of you and your Saxon?’

  ‘I took his lands. He took nothing from me.’

  ‘You cared enough for him to have him murdered.’

  She turned pale. ‘Who has told you this?’

  ‘I have made it my affair. Matilda, you are a dangerous woman.’

  ‘Has it taken you all these years to find out that?’

  ‘You took his lands. Why? You did not want them.’

  ‘I am like you, my King, a lover of lands.’

  ‘And of handsome Saxons.’

  ‘Not such a lover of them as you are of Canterbury whores.’

  ‘All these years you have been thinking of this Saxon. When we were together you thought of him. You preferred him but he would have none of you so William of Normandy would serve instead.’

  She narrowed her eyes and said, ‘Believe that if you will. And how often have you deceived me with your women?’

  ‘You murdered him.’

  ‘I was nowhere near his prison.’

  ‘But you murdered him none the less. One does not have to be near a victim to be the one who will stand before God accused of murder.’

  ‘You to talk of murder! How many men have you slain with your own hands? How many have been done to death through you . . . at your orders?’

  ‘What I have done I have done for my country. What you have done has been done for your pride.’

  ‘And when you cut off the hands and feet of the citizens of Alençon was that for your country? Nay, William of Normandy, King of England, William the Conqueror of all – or so you think . . . but you never shall be of me . . . Nay, William, that was for your pride. They called you Bastard. They reminded you that your mother was the daughter of a tanner. That was why they lost their hands and feet. Oh, assuage your pride, do as you will, but pray do not take such a lofty attitude with me. I know you too well.’

  ‘As I am beginning to know you. You had him murdered . . . that man whom you had loved. Matilda, I saw that girl afterwards . . .’

  ‘And tell me, did you still desire her?’

  He lifted his hand suddenly and smote her across the face.

  She fell to the floor and lay there laughing at him. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘beat me. It will not be the first time. Do you remember how you rolled me in the mud because I said I would not marry a bastard.’

  ‘I would to God you never had.’

  She was on her feet suddenly. ‘You mean that?’ she asked. ‘William, do you mean that you wish you had never married me?’

  She was clinging to him, her face upturned and suddenly his temper had disappeared. This was Matilda . . . his Matilda, the only person in the world for whom he truly cared.

  His arms were round her and he was saying: ‘No, never . . . never. Whatever you are . . . whatever I am . . . we were meant for each other.’

  She was laughing now. ‘No one else in the world would have done for me. Brihtric the Saxon! Bah, that puny lily-livered churl. Had I married him I would have murdered him for other reasons than I did when you came along. It was because he had insulted William’s wife that he must die. The Queen of England, wife to William the Conqueror, could not allow him to live. Are you fool enough not to know that?’

  He looked into her face at the red mark on her cheek which his hand had made. He kissed it.

  ‘You are heavy-handed, William,’ she said. ‘But I like we
ll that you have marked me with your hands. On that other occasion the bruises stayed for weeks and I would use no lotions, no unguents, to soothe them because they had been made by you.’

  ‘I was maddened when I heard what you had done.’

  ‘You cared so much about a miserable Saxon!’

  ‘I thought only that you had wanted him.’

  ‘I was a child, William. A foolish girl. Nay, I have never wanted any other but you since I set eyes on you. That is why the news of your love for this girl maddened me.’

  ‘’Twas not love. It was anger . . . anger against you and Brihtric. You need not have treated her so cruelly.’

  ‘She took you from me.’

  ‘No one has ever done that. No one ever shall.’

  ‘It seemed so. I shall never forget when I heard of it. I could think of nothing but revenge, and revenge I took.’

  ‘On an innocent girl.’

  ‘Pray cease to mourn for her or I shall believe that you truly loved her.’

  ‘We should never have been separated.’

  ‘For,’ she added, ‘clearly I cannot trust you.’

  ‘You can always trust me as long as I know that you love me and that I am the only one for you as you are for me.’

  And then it was between them as it had ever been.

  He prayed that all would go well in England for he wanted to stay in Normandy. The differences between himself and Matilda had been wrought by their separation; they only had to meet face to face and all was well.

  Now it seemed to him that they were happy as they had been in the very beginning of their marriage. Matilda was once more pregnant, and he was delighted.

  Easter came and Cecilia was about to take the veil. It was some years since she had entered the convent and she had passed through her novitiate.

  The great ceremony was attended by William and Matilda.

  ‘It is good,’ said William, ‘to give a daughter to God.’

  In the privacy of their chamber they talked of the children. Richard was in England.

  ‘Lanfranc tells me he is a good student. He will make a good king to follow me,’ said William.

  ‘He will be less harsh.’