The Bastard King (6 page)

The days passed quickly – except those hours with Uncle Mauger. Guy whispered that Uncle Mauger was not what he seemed, that although he was an Archbishop and supposed to be a Christian he worshipped the old gods, Odin and Thor, and that he practised sorcery.

‘Then he is a wicked man,' whispered William.

‘If your father knew he would never allow him to teach you,' said Guy.

‘Then it cannot be true, for my father knows everything there is to know and he would not allow Uncle Mauger to teach me if it were true that he were not a Christian.'

But he did not like Uncle Mauger and he would watch him suspiciously during lessons and strange pictures would come into his mind. He wondered what one did in practising sorcery. He had a clearer vision of the Count of Talvas of whom he thought now and then. Sometimes he dreamed of the hall of Domfront and terrible things happening to those who had been unwary enough to be caught.

In due course Robert came back to the castle. His armies had been victorious; he had routed the Queen Mother of France and her upstart son and he had set King Henry back on his throne.

There were the usual feastings and revelries to celebrate his return, but it was not long before he was considering a new project. He wished to do for the Athelings what he had done for the King of France.

William had an inkling of what was afoot. Since his talk with his father he had tried hard to discover all that he could
of England. The country had a fascination for him, largely because it was the home of the beautiful Athelings. They had seemed oddly content with their seclusion at the Abbey of Jumièges. Robert visited them once more and William had been delighted to be in the company that went with him.

The cousins were a source of wonder to William. Their voices were soft; their hands white and beautifully shaped; their clothes were different from those of all others and William had an idea that they were transformed merely by being put on his cousins' graceful figures. His father had told him that they were Saxons and this was why they were different. They grew fond of William and they would tell him stories of England and they told them beautifully after the manner of the old Norse sagas; these were not so much of conquests and bloodshed, but of peace and the spread of learning. They enjoyed talking of their ancestor the great King Alfred who, although a peace-loving man, had done much to defy the Danes and so ensure a period of peace. He had cared passionately for the betterment of his people and spent his time not in feasting and debauchery but in discovering how best he could promote learning in his country. He made just laws and instituted a system of fines for offenders, for he knew that the most effective manner of punishing offenders was through their purses. If a man deprived another of a leg or an eye he was fined fifty shillings, which, explained Alfred, was a great sum of money. There was a grade of these fines. For cutting off the ears a fine of twelve shillings was imposed and the loss of a tooth or a middle finger would cost the man who inflicted such damage four shillings.

William thought again of Talvas and decided that if such a system existed in Normandy, Talvas could lose all his fine estates for the injuries he had inflicted on his victims.

Yes, Alfred was a great King.

‘Yet a humble one,' said Edward, ‘for with greatness comes humility.'

That was something William could not understand but he liked the story of how Alfred, when flying from the Danes, found shelter in a cowherd's cottage and while seated at the
fire preparing his bows and arrows, the cakes which the cowherd's wife had set down to cook began to burn, whereupon the woman loudly abused the King – having no inkling of who he was – and cried out that he was too lazy to turn the cakes when he saw them burning but would be ready enough to eat them when they were done. And how had the great King behaved? He had sat still, humbly accepting the abuse and even asking for forgiveness, because, although he had brought wise rule to the country he governed, he had allowed the old woman's cakes to burn.

That was humility, explained Edward. And Alfred had been rather a saint than a king.

William remembered that his father had said that a saintly man was not necessarily a kingly one; but he was assured this did not apply to great King Alfred.

But Alfred had died and the good he had brought to his country had not in every case lived on after him. The Danes were a perpetual menace to peace, and how could any country survive without that? The English had lived through troublous times and in due course Ethelred had come to the throne, he who was known as the Unready because he was never prepared in time to meet the invader. And he had married Emma who for her beauty was known as the Flower of Normandy.

The result of this union were Edward and Alfred themselves.

But Ethelred could not stand against the mighty Danes and Sweyn of Denmark drove them from their thrones and into exile where Edward and Alfred had been ever since.

Nor were they sad to be in exile, William noted. They loved the life of the Abbey. Could it be possible, wondered William, that his Atheling cousins preferred the peaceful scholarly atmosphere of the Abbey to the warlike state of their own country? They had spoken with more reverence for their ancestor's preoccupation with learning than for his skill in driving the Danes from his country.

They were strange, these Atheling cousins, and they made a deep impression on him.

Soon William realized why they had come to the Abbey.
Robert had set the King of France on his throne and now he was going to recover the throne of England for the Athelings.

He told William something of this when he said farewell to him.

‘Those whom we help will be our friends,' he said.

‘Will they remember, Father, that we have helped them?'

Robert tousled his son's hair affectionately. ‘You have a point there, son. You will find that those we help are often ready – nay eager – to forget the service we have done. But there may be some grateful men in the world and we must hope those we choose to aid will remember.'

‘The Athelings would remember, Father.'

‘You have a fondness for these cousins, eh?'

‘I like to look at them. I like to listen to them. They have such beautiful blue eyes.'

Robert laughed.

‘Well, I am going to conquer the land which rightly belongs to them. I am going to give it back to them.'

‘I think they would rather stay here, Father.'

Robert was silent but pleased with his son.

‘You will come down to the coast with your mother to watch us sail. There you will see a truly marvellous sight. The ships of Normandy, my son. Remember always that we are men of the sea. We are great fighters. Our knights in armour are a worthy sight, are they not? But first we are seamen. We owe all we have to the sea. Our ancestors left their own lands in search of others and they came in the long ships. We are invincible on land. But the sea belongs to us.'

And indeed it was a goodly sight – those long ships with their prows painted to look like dragons breathing fire as they plunged through the waters! So had their ancestors ridden the waves – Harold Blue Tooth and Giant Rollo. They struck fear into the watchers on the shore as they approached. And so would it be in England – the native land of the beautiful Atheling cousins.

The fleet sailed to wage war on England and William returned with his mother to await his father's return.

That which William had believed impossible had happened. His father's enterprise had failed.

Could it really be that the long ships had been defeated? Indeed it was so, though not defeated by another fleet, but by the elements.

As Robert's fleet had sailed towards the English coast a storm had arisen and the great ships had been scattered and Robert's own ship in which had sailed the Atheling cousins was washed up on the shores of the Island of Jersey.

What a sorry sight it must have been to witness the wreckage of those fine ships! Robert could only gloomily await the arrival of one of his captains whose ship was sufficiently seaworthy to carry himself and the Atheling cousins back to Normandy.

It was a sad homecoming. Robert was despondent. There was no feasting that night in the castle, for Robert had no taste for it. The songs of the minstrels could not charm him. He did not want to hear of the exploits of great Viking seamen when his own had failed so wretchedly.

In their chamber he buried his face in his hands.

‘My ships lost,' he mourned. ‘My enemies will be laughing at me this day.'

‘It was the storm,' soothed Arlette. ‘Who could stand against such?'

‘It was defeat,' insisted Robert. Then he stood up and looked long into Arlette's face. ‘God is displeased with me,' he said. ‘He will never forgive me until I have expiated my sin.'

‘A storm could arise at any time,' insisted Arlette. ‘No seaman could withstand such a storm.'

‘It happened to me,' said Robert.

His gloom continued. It hung over the castle. In the great hall the cooks stirred their cauldrons in silence. Nobody mentioned the enterprise, and for William it was a great discovery. His father could suffer defeat.

At least, he reminded himself, the Atheling cousins would not be sad. He was certain that they were delighted to be back in exile.

Robert came to a decision. He told Arlette first what he intended to do.

‘I have committed many sins,' he said, ‘and it is clear that God is displeased with me. I must show Him that I intend to lead a good life and dedicate myself to my country.'

‘He will know it,' replied Arlette.

‘Yes, He will know it. But sins must be paid for. I shall go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. There my sins will fall from me like a wearisome burden. I shall feel free again. He has shown me clearly by sending this storm to destroy my ships that He is displeased with me.'

‘How could you leave Normandy?'

‘Only by leaving another in my place.'

‘You would appoint one of the seneschals?'

‘I would appoint my successor . . . our little Duke.'

‘William!'

‘Why not? I have decided that none but he shall follow me.'

‘A child not yet seven years old!'

‘A fine boy and old beyond his years. I will make a Duke of him. I will prepare all to accept him when I am gone.'

‘Do not speak of such things. Are we not happy now together? Why should we wish for anything different?'

‘You do not understand, my Arlette. I am heavy with my sins. I fear retribution if I do not seek forgiveness.'

‘Then ask it here . . . ask it on your knees.'

‘It is not enough. I must make sacrifices. I must leave what I love most . . . you and the boy and the girl. My home, my love, my little ones. I must leave you all and go to the Holy Land. I will be back, my love, purged of my sins.'

‘I fear,' she said. ‘I fear greatly.'

‘It must be, Arlette.'

‘What if you do not return?'

‘You will have a son to protect you.'

‘A little boy. Even William could not do that.'

‘You shall have protectors, my love. But I must think on this. When I saw my broken ships I knew that this was a sign. I cannot pass it over.'

And Arlette was filled with great foreboding.

William had ridden out into the forest, Thorold beside him as ever. There was something going on in the castle, he knew. His father looked strange and remote and no more confidences were exchanged between them now, although sometimes he would find his father's eyes fixed upon him in a kind of wondering stare. His mother was silent too. Sometimes she would seize him and hold him tightly against her. He wanted to wriggle free but did not care to hurt her by doing so. They were both acting strangely and he believed it had something to do with the great defeat and the disintegration of the fleet. He wanted to remind them that at least the Athelings were happy. They did not want to go out and conquer England and regain the throne.

But all this could be forgotten in the fresh air and to ride through the green forest was a delight. Thorold had said he must give up ponies and master a real horse and this he had done after a while, although it had not been easy. There was so much to be learned; he must be a pupil in chivalry and the mastering of a horse however fiery must be quickly accomplished.

The bearers had carried the venison home. It was a fine beast. There would be rejoicing when it reached the great hall; but doubtless there would be the same solemnity at table as there had been since the return of his father.

They left the forest and rode into the town and as they did so a heavy, broad-shouldered man dismounted his horse and swaggered towards them.

There was something terrifying about this man; William had been aware that the few people he had seen had disappeared into their homes. The man was evil; there was no doubt of that. It was in those small lively eyes, that thin cruel mouth. On his face was the mark of a thousand debaucheries and it was evident that those eyes had looked on sights from which all decent men should turn away.

Thorold had laid a hand on William's bridle so that their horses were still close together.

‘Count Talvas,' said Thorold, ‘I present to you the son of your Seigneur.'

William felt the colour in his face. This was the man of whom he had heard such tales. This was the most wicked, the most cruel man not only in Normandy but in the whole of the world.

He knew that what he had heard had been only half of the atrocities this man had committed; he knew that he had strangled his own wife with his bare hands because she had begged him not to practise such cruelties; he knew that he had married another and at his wedding feast committed such odious and sickening torture on his victims that he had shocked even those who followed in his footsteps.

To be unprepared for such a confrontation left him bewildered. He had dreamed of this man whose name was a byword. Grown up people and children lived in terror of being taken into his dungeons and submitted to the most nauseating and obscene torture.