by Jean Plaidy
‘I like not his friends. Do you not see that he chooses them from the ranks of those whom I distrust?’
‘If you would but try to understand him it would make me happy. This discord between you alarms me. He is young and I fear your enemies will take advantage of his youth.’
‘And of his folly and his disloyalty, I doubt not.’
‘William, I am going to beg him to come back to talk to you. Will you promise me that you will see him and for my sake try to come to some understanding?’
At length he let her persuade him. Matilda then set about begging her son to come back and attempt a reconciliation.
Robert came, but in no humble mood. William, eager to please Matilda and realizing that a son – and his eldest at that – roaming through Normandy would collect adherents and the outcome of that could be trouble, wished to bring about some sort of reasonable understanding.
Robert sensed this and misunderstood. He believed that his father could be forced into granting his request. He did not know the Conqueror.
‘I have been promised Normandy,’ he said. ‘I am no longer a boy and I am weary of being treated as one. I demand my inheritance.’
‘So you demand?’ said William, dangerously quiet.
‘Ay. I demand my rights.’
‘And who has assigned these rights to you?’
‘I am your eldest son.’
‘A fact which has often seemed unfortunate to me.’
‘I know you prefer Richard and that Rufus is your favourite. You would rather give Normandy even to Henry than to me. But you cannot. I am your first-born.’
‘Do you imagine that I cannot do what I wish? What should have given you such a notion?’
‘You have promised me . . .’
‘I have promised nothing. You have been listening to evil counsellors, Master Curthose, and they have sought to seduce you from your duty. Do you remember the fate of Absalom? I would consider that if I were you.’
‘I have not come here to listen to sermons,’ retorted Robert. ‘I had enough of those from my tutors. I came here to ask for my rights. I want my inheritance without delay.’
‘Then know this,’ cried William. ‘It is not my custom to strip before I go to bed. As long as I live I have no intention of giving up Normandy. Nor will I divide it, for it is written: “Every kingdom that is divided against itself shall become desolate.”’
‘You have become very pious,’ sneered Robert, ‘in your efforts to explain your denial of my rights.’
‘Forget not that you depend for what you call your rights on me. I won England with my good sword. The vicars of Christ placed the diadem of ancient kings on my brow and the sceptre in my hands; and if all the world were to come against me they would not compel me to give up my power to another.’
‘You have promised me . . .’
‘I have promised nothing. I will not endure that he who owed his existence to me should aspire to be my rival in my own dominions.’
‘How will you prevent it?’ asked Robert angrily.
‘With my sword,’ answered William, ‘that same sword which has put down many a rebellion. And by God’s Splendour so shall it do again . . . no matter in what quarter.’
‘It would seem that I might find better justice from strangers than from my father.’
‘It is justice which irks you. Think you that I have seen that in you which would make me wish to give you part of my dominions?’
‘If you will not keep your word it is better for me to leave Normandy.’
‘I am sure we shall both be the happier for that.’
‘I, by right its Duke, will not remain here as a subject.’
Robert bowed briefly and left his father.
William sat down and stared ahead of him. Was this his first-born, this young man who stared at him with hatred in his eyes, who cared nothing for him only for what he could get.
He thought of the day he had been born and how proud he and Matilda had been, how they had prayed for a son, a son who would delight their days.
And God had given him Curthose!
Matilda was waiting for her son.
She seized him in her arms and held him tightly against her.
‘How went it?’
‘He is the most obstinate, arrogant swine . . .’
‘Hush, Robin, you speak of your father.’
‘So he kept reminding me. By God, how I hate him!’
‘No, Robin, no.’
‘It is no use saying No, Mother. The answer is Yes. He has always hated me and I’ve always hated him.’
‘He is your father and a great man. Some say the greatest of our times.’
‘He may say that. I say otherwise. It shall not always be as it is now.’
‘But what said he? I see he has not promised to give you what you want.’
‘He’ll give nothing. He’ll not strip till he goes to bed,’ he said.
‘But he will shortly be going to England. Surely . . .’
‘You do not know him, Mother. He will cling to everything he has. Don’t you know him for the most avaricious man alive?’
‘He has always said that you are to have Normandy.’
‘When he is dead. I shall be an old man by then . . . but I am determined not to wait.’
‘What are you saying, Robin?’
‘I am leaving here.’
‘But where will you go?’
‘Away from him. He must not think I have no friends. I have many who are weary of the Bastard’s rule. Let him go to England. He is so proud of what he has won with his good sword, so pleased that the vicars of Christ have set the diadem on his head. But I shall not let him keep what is mine.’
‘You must never take up arms against your father, Robin.’
‘Oh, Mother, you talk foolishly. He is my enemy before he is my father.’
‘Where shall you go?’
‘I have not thought yet. But rest assured there are many who will be anxious to receive me.’
‘His . . . enemies!’
‘They will have to be if they are my friends.’
Matilda was silent. Then she said: ‘Go to Flanders. My brother will receive you. He will look after you for my sake. You will need money. Wait a while.’
She went away and came back with a bag into which she had hastily thrown some of her most valuable jewellery.
‘Take this,’ she said. ‘Go now. Do not let your father see you before you go. I know his anger will be terrible. And, Robin, my son, keep me informed. Promise that you will let me know what is happening to you.’
He embraced her tenderly.
‘May God’s blessing be with you,’ he said.
‘And with you,’ she answered.
She was at the turret window watching him ride away when William came to her. His face was suffused with blood and she guessed that he had been greatly provoked and was still angry.
‘He has gone,’ he announced.
‘Who?’ she answered.
‘Curthose.’
‘But he has only just arrived.’ William must not guess that Robert had been to her. That would only increase his anger.
‘I had never thought to hear a son speak to me in such a way.’
‘Oh, William, this makes me so unhappy.’
He put his arm about her. ‘We shall have further trouble with that boy, Matilda.’
‘I trust not.’
‘He will be exploited by my enemies and he is such a fool . . . such a young, inexperienced fool.’
‘When you were his age you had been Duke of Normandy many years. How many battles had you fought and won?’
‘Therein lies the difference. He is a boy. I was a man. He is demanding from me what I fought all my life for. He would like it handed to him . . . just like that. By God, I could have killed him and enjoyed seeing him die.’
‘I beg of you do not talk so.’
‘You will have to realize the truth about him, Matilda. He is no friend to us.
He is dissolute. I like not his friends. I like not his way of life. He is extravagant. He likes gaming and the company of loose women. He is no son of mine.’
‘You ask too much of people, William. You cannot expect your sons to be as dedicated as you have always been. There was never one like you nor ever will be.’
He laid his arm about her shoulders. ‘You have helped to make me what I am. In all my trials I think of you. And this is by no means the least of them. Our son, Matilda, to turn against us!’
‘It is a childish rage.’
‘Nay, I think not. We must be watchful of him. I know what he intends. To go among my enemies to stir up trouble. He will find some to support him, but not for long. He will not have the means to buy their support. He will soon find them false friends. I thank God that our first-born is a fool, Matilda. God will punish him, you will see. Come, there are pleasanter subjects. We will forget him until such a time as I may find it necessary to teach him what it means to take up arms against me.’
Matilda shivered. She did not tell him that she had given their son a small fortune in jewels which would perhaps enable him to take up arms against his father.
How could she say: You are my husband and he is my son. I am torn between you because I love you both.
William behaved as though he had forgotten the existence of Robert. He turned his attention to the marriages of his daughters. Alan of Bretagne had been accepted for Constance and Stephen of Blois for Adela. The celebrations were lavish and William was pleased with the alliances.
But he had been away too long, and matters in England needed his attention.
He was uneasy, thinking of Robert. Where was he? He could not be sure, but that it was somewhere where he was making mischief was almost certain.
There was one man whom he trusted completely and this was Roger de Beaumont.
Roger had been a close friend for many years. He was an able minister and a learned man; he had helped in the education of the children some years before and William knew that in a situation which might be delicate – if Robert decided to do something foolish – Roger would take a clear view and keep him informed.
He was closeted with Roger for some time before he left.
‘The Queen is clever and shrewd,’ he said, ‘and a worthy regent but since my son has gone away with disloyal thoughts in his mind, an unpleasant situation could arise. I beg of you in my absence to keep a firm hold on affairs here.’
‘You may trust me,’ said Roger.
‘I do with all my heart. I can go to England, where my presence is urgently needed, with an easy mind because I know that you are here.’
So William left for England taking Rufus with him. He left Henry, for he had not yet made his plans for his upbringing with Lanfranc, and Matilda had protested that she could not be deprived of all her children.
Death in the New Forest
HOW LONELY IT was without her family. Matilda was feeling tired and old. She needed the stimulation they could give her. Even the dramatic quarrels which had taken place between William and Robert stimulated her and suited her nature better than boredom.
It was all very well to sit over her tapestry recording great events. That was some consolation she admitted; but she was of a temper to prefer being at the heart of drama.
I am getting old, she sighed. She was nearly fifty, time perhaps that she ceased to look for adventure. She would never reach that stage.
Sometimes she almost wished there had been no conquest of England. Then there would not have been these long absences. The best times were when the children were babies and William was in Normandy.
Yet the dream of England had always been with them; but like so many dreams the anticipation was more exciting than the realization. What was the King of England but a man who must be continually on the alert, expecting disloyalty and rebellion from every quarter, hated by his subjects both here and in England? In England it was natural enough. The Saxons were not lightly accepting the Norman yoke. William’s life was one long succession of battles to hold what he had taken. And here in Normandy there was trouble.
Someone was at her door. A messenger had arrived.
News from William? she wondered, her spirits rising. But it was not from William the messenger came, but from Robert.
He was in dire need and he was pleading with her for her help. She had given him a great deal when he left but that had gone now. It was necessary for him to live in the manner befitting his rank and as he had followers and some of them humble men of no substance they must come under his care.
She sent the messenger to be refreshed and lay back closing her eyes.
She could picture him so well. Robert, her beloved child. He had inherited his love of magnificence from his grandfather whose name he had taken, Robert the Magnificent. William did not understand his son. William was so austere. Yes, she would face the truth and say avaricious. He hated spending money on anything except that which would bring him more. Extravagant living had never attracted him. The only thing he spent money on was maintaining his troops, building castles, forming industries. There were times, such as his daughters’ weddings, when he would cheerfully pay for lavish entertainments, but that was for a purpose, to let the people know that he approved of these marriages, and the reason he would do this was because he had brought in powerful allies to be his daughters’ husbands.
No, William could never understand one as gay and charming as Robert, Full of faults, perhaps, from William’s standpoint, but what he could not understand was that some frailties were lovable whereas great strength of purpose could result in a coldness of manner which was quite the reverse.
Robin in difficulties! That must not be. He must understand that whenever he was in trouble the first one he must come to must be his mother.
She was rich in her own right. Some of William’s cautiousness had rubbed off on her. She had coffers full of treasure.
Robin should not ask her in vain.
There was someone at the door begging admittance. It was Roger de Beaumont. She had once been rather fond of him but now she thought of him as the watchdog. William had sung his praises before he left. ‘Always consult Roger. Rely on Roger. He is a good man.’ There was no doubt of it.
She sighed.
‘Well, Roger? What is it? I see you are concerned.’
‘I like not the news I have. Lord Robert is stirring up trouble throughout Normandy. I think he is attempting to raise an army and take the Dukedom.’
Matilda laughed in an attempt to hide her dismay.
‘Oh come, Roger, how could this possibly be?’
‘He is a reckless young man.’
‘To take the Dukedom from his own father!’
‘My lady, you know that is what he has threatened to do.’
‘Threats mean nothing. As if he would ever take up arms against his father.’
‘There is a messenger from him in the castle now.’
Matilda raised her eyebrows as though in surprise. How much did Roger de Beaumont know?
‘I am holding him here.’
‘Why so?’
‘Because I think it not in the King’s interest that his enemies should have free communication with the castle.’
‘Perhaps you are wise,’ said Matilda.
‘I knew that you would agree with me.’
‘I do not think for one moment that Robert would dream of taking up arms against his father, but William would applaud your decision, I am sure.’
Roger bowed and retired.
When Matilda was alone she sat pondering the situation. Of course he would take up arms against William. His friends – and he would have many – would advise him to do that. Her own brother had never liked William. Hatred for William had grown since he had become the King of England. When he was merely the Bastard Duke they had sneered at him because his mother was the daughter of a tanner; but now that he had earned the title of Conqueror they could not despise him and their envy and m
alice was intensified.
She knew this. She admired him more than any man she knew. She loved him; he was a part of her. She could not imagine life without him nor, she knew, could he without her. But Robert was her son.
William did not share this love for her children which was hers. Or love for Robert that was. She did not feel so strongly about the others. Yet little Adelisa’s death had moved her. Poor little girl who had loved the Saxon Harold and died, some said, of a broken heart. How different were their children from them. Adelisa had died for love; she, Matilda, had had murdered the man who had refused her. Robert yearned for his Dukedom and would doubtless fight for it. He was brave but too reckless. Deep in her heart she knew he would never get the better of his father.
And he was in difficulties. He needed help.
Sly Roger might well know that the messenger had brought a letter for her. He would guess what it contained; and for this reason he was holding the messenger captive in the castle.
She pictured Robert, perhaps suffering hardship, chafing against delay, asking himself: Has my mother turned against me?
What had she said before he went? ‘Always come to me. Let me know where you are. I will help.’
She sent for a man who held a post in her household. Because she loved intrigue she had always kept certain private agents whom she would call when she needed some private business transacted. She would send for them, secretly. She would meet them as if by chance when perhaps she was out riding or they called with travelling packs of goods – which was a favourite method, and perhaps, because of this, becoming suspect. Then she would tell them what she required of them.
One man whom she trusted particularly was Sampson. She arranged to meet this man now, for she had made up her mind that if her son was in need she could not fail him no matter what the consequences.
William was growing very corpulent. It was jokingly said that he grew more and more like Rollo every day and that soon it would not be possible to find a horse to hold him.
Since his quarrel with Robert he had grown morose. He had always been thus when parted from Matilda. While his grasping nature loved his possessions yet he grudged the need constantly to defend them.
Now he was in England, parted from Matilda, wondering what Robert was doing in Normandy. He had his sons Richard and Rufus with him; and he often wondered, what dark thoughts were going on in the mind of Rufus.
