The Bastard King (10 page)

‘And I you, Mother,' he told her. ‘I thought of you often.'

‘And now you are our Duke. Oh, William, how proud I am of you.'

They talked of his father and were sad again. ‘He was good to me, always,' his mother said. ‘He even provided me with a husband to care for me when he was gone.'

‘And your husband pleases you, Mother?'

‘He is a good man. He is determined to obey the Duke's command and care for me.'

‘So you are not unhappy then?'

‘I'm as happy as it is possible to be without your father. He said to me before he went: “We must always live for the future. It is always what is to come that is important, not what is past.” Sometimes I think he knew that he was never coming back.'

‘It is strange, Mother, not to have you at Rouen.'

‘I would we could be together. But I must live in my husband's house and you are the Duke.'

She was content, he could see, and when she told him that she was expecting a child he rejoiced, for he knew that the children she would have from her new husband would stop her grieving for Robert and the boy, who because he was a Duke of Normandy, could not be brought up by his mother.

He could not stay at Conteville though he felt a great desire to do so. He liked his stepfather and it had been comforting to enjoy the tenderness which only his mother could give.

There was work to be done, Osbern told him. In spite of the good impression he had made on his subjects he had powerful enemies. Osbern had told him the names of some of those who had turned against him. Talvas of Bellême was one of them. He remembered that encounter long ago when he had looked into that evil face; he remembered the curse the man had uttered against him. He would never forget those terrible stories of the barbaric cruelties inflicted by Talvas on the innocent. What more diabolical sport he would wish to have with one whom he hated! Talvas was on the prowl, waiting to snatch him. For a moment he thought of running to his mother, begging her to keep him with her at Conteville. She would hide him there; she and his stepfather would do anything to protect him.

Then he despised himself. Was he not a Duke of Normandy of Rollo's line? Had Rollo ever thought of what might happen to him if his enemies captured him? Had Richard the Fearless? ‘Please God, make me as great and as fearless as my ancestors,' he prayed.

Men of his own family were against him. His father's brothers – those who were illegitimate – had declared that if a bastard boy should be elected Duke why not men? He suspected that Mauger agreed with them. Those sly sneering looks he had received in the schoolroom were significant. Mauger was an evil man. It was said that he practised sorcery. Was he practising it now? Was he murmuring to his evil familiars, asking their help in delivering the Duke of Normandy into their hands? Was he invoking the aid of the Allfather Odin? Was he praying to Thor to lend him his Hammer? But the
power of the Christian god was greater than that of those of the pagans. He was certain of it, and as certain of his destiny.

When the people cheered him he forgot his anxieties. The women smiled tenderly at him. ‘God's blessings on our little Duke.' He charmed them because he was a handsome boy. He was their idea of what a Duke of Normandy should be. And because he was young the women loved him even as the men asked themselves: ‘How can a child govern Normandy?' But his governors were good strong men and determined to carry out the wishes of the Duke Robert who had died in an aura of sanctity and would therefore have some influence in holy places.

It was inspiring to travel through his realm, to arrive at the houses of his loyal subjects, who felt themselves honoured to have him under their roofs.

It was such a night when they came to the house of one of his subjects and weary from the day's ride they feasted and went to their beds. Thorold and Osbern took it in turns to sleep in his room while the other watched at his door. They never varied from this routine and he realized in time that had they done so he would never have survived.

He was deep in sleep, for he was always tired out at the end of the day's ride, when he was aware of Thorold at his bedside.

‘Wake up,' said Thorold.

He started up. ‘What is it, Thorold?'

Thorold's answer was to pick him up and wrap him in a great cloak.

‘Thorold, I cannot see. I am stifling.'

There was no answer. He was taken out of the house – he was slung across a saddle and Thorold was riding as though for his life – which he was of course, and that of the little Duke.

His heart was beating fast; he was in danger. Someone knew he had been in that house and had come to take him – or was coming. Perhaps they were there now searching for him. He could see the evil eyes of Talvas as he pricked the straw with his sword. ‘Come out, you little bastard!
Bastard! Bastard!
' How he hated that word. If they had not been able
to apply it to him, would he be riding through the night like this? But Alfred had not been a bastard and they had cut out his eyes . . . his beautiful eyes. He had died. Better to be dead than to live without one's eyes – a prisoner of cruel men!

The horse had stopped. He could hear voices.

Thorold had lifted him from the saddle; he was able to free his head and breathe the fresh night air.

‘Are we safe?' said a voice.

‘Nay. They could follow us. We must needs hide here until fresh horses can be found.'

‘Into the hayloft,' said a voice.

‘Thorold,' William said imperiously, ‘who are our enemies this night?'

But Thorold ignored him. How like Thorold! He could be as respectful as William could ask when there was no danger but as soon as there was he made it clear that William was a boy and must obey his elders.

He was taken into the loft as though he were a bundle of straw and hay was piled up over him.

‘Lie there. Not a sound. Don't move until I come.' It was Thorold who gave the orders now.

It seemed long that he waited in the loft, his ears straining for every sound that might mean his pursuers had discovered his hiding-place. He imagined Talvas at their head; he could picture his coming into the loft cruelly laughing, knowing that he had run his quarry to earth.

It was terrifying to think of the stories of that cruel man. And now he was chasing the Duke of Normandy as he had his other victims. And if he found him? William touched his eyes and thought of Alfred.

Because he was trembling he tried to shut out the thought of Talvas and thought instead of his grandfather Richard the Fearless.

It was almost as though Richard lived again. Richard had been a bastard even as he had; Richard's father had died when he was a child; Richard had been taken as a hostage into France and his faithful squire Osmond (how like Osbern!) had one day put Richard into a sack and covered him with hay,
told all who saw him that he was going to feed his horse and had ridden with Richard out of the castle, out of France and brought his little Duke safely back to Normandy.

So would it be with William. His faithful friend would save him even as Richard's had.

So he lay under the hay and listened for the sounds of horses' hoofs. Osbern lay in the hay with him waiting to spring on his enemies, ready to defend his little Duke to the death. And I will fight too, William promised himself. I would kill Talvas and all who come against me.

At length that long night was over. Thorold had found horses. They set off on their ride to safety and so they continued their tour of Normandy.

But their enemies were powerful and more dangerous still, secret.

William's friends saw now how dangerous it was for him to go openly among his people, for then his enemies would know where he slept each night and they would come by stealth.

They were everywhere, in quarters least expected. The Count d'Eu, one of William's most loyal supporters, was attacked while out riding; one by one the little Duke's supporters began to die.

They were hunting him, William knew. So must the wolf feel when the pack was after him. But he would always feel safe with Thorold and Osbern, those two giants who arranged that always one of them should be with him.

Then one day Thorold was no longer there.

Never had William felt so desolate as he did on the day they told him that he would never see Thorold again. This was worse than going to France, than leaving his mother, even than the death of his father, for when Robert died it had been more than two years since they had seen each other.

And now Thorold, big powerful ever-watchful Thorold, was dead . . . lost to him for ever.

No more would that rough voice bid him lie still or be silent. No more would that great protective body stand between him and his enemies.

Thorold was dead. They had poisoned him. These wicked cruel men who were determined that they would not be governed by a young bastard had killed Thorold.

William was no longer a child from that moment. A fierce hatred burned in his heart. He had loved Thorold. There had never been such a strong man, such a brave man as Thorold. He loved Osbern too but Osbern was gentler, a squire rather than a warrior. These two men had been to him what no one else had ever been since he had left for France. They had replaced his parents. And now Thorold was dead.

‘So help me God,' said William. ‘I will be avenged on those who killed Thorold.'

In the quiet of his bed at night he wept for Thorold. He hoped his ancestors did not see the tears. What would Rollo say of a Duke who wept? Had Richard the Fearless wept when he lost his father? Perhaps in secret and tears might be forgiven if no one saw them.

I wish I were a man, thought William, so that I could go forth and smite the murderers of Thorold – ay, and every man who dares call me bastard.

Osbern never left him now. He even slept in his bed. Osbern missed Thorold too.

Osbern talked to him often, not attempting now to hide the truth. ‘We have many enemies,' he said, ‘as you now know. But we have friends too. There are too many who wish to wear the ducal robes and they are suspicious of each other. In this lies our strength. We cannot go on like this. I heard that many of those who wish you well believe that you should go to your mother and stay with her. There you will be safe.'

‘My enemies could come there for me.'

‘Nay. We would have Conteville well fortified. You would be among those who love you. Your stepfather is a man of some power and
he
has faithful friends. Your mother would make sure that everything was done to safeguard you. You would continue with lessons and live the life natural to a boy of your age.'

‘I am the Duke, you forget.'

‘I could not forget it – even if you would allow me to,' said Osbern with a smile. ‘But we cannot go on like this. One day our enemies would catch us. You have to live . . . as a symbol. We have to get through these difficult years of your minority and when you are of age you can step into your rightful place. There are four or five years to be lived through but if we can keep you safe during those years and your loyal friends can keep your enemies at bay, then you can take over your duties when the time is ripe.'

‘I am ready to fight them now. By God's Splendour, Osbern, I long to go into battle.'

‘A strong oath, my lord.'

‘Strong men use strong oaths. I am done with childhood.'

Osbern shook his head. ‘We can only enter manhood, my lord, when childhood has done with us. Let us face facts. You are too young to rule and you must be fitted to rule. You cannot be made so, roaming the country as a fugitive. This is what your loyal friends and advisers have decreed. Duke you are and Duke you must remain, but because of your tender years you must needs listen to those of maturer wisdom than your own.'

Osbern could always defeat him in argument. And in his heart he knew he was right. Even Richard the Fearless had had to accept the advice of his counsellors when he was a boy. He had not done with lessons yet.

They were on the way to Conteville, and stayed the night at the house of a man whom Osbern knew to be loyal. They supped and retired to the room which had been given to them. A large room full of shadows. Osbern went to the hangings, his knife in his hand as he always did – ready if any should be hiding there to despatch him without delay.

All was well.

They lay down to sleep, Osbern beside him, Osbern nearest to the door, to shield him: and so they slept.

Something had awakened William. It was dark in the room. He lay still listening. A footstep on the stair? The slow stealthy opening of a door. Nay, all was quiet.

He closed his eyes. He was mistaken again. It was always thus when he awakened in the night. He would think of ralvas entertaining his guests, of Alfred's beautiful eyes, of Thorold who was lost to him; and then reassured by the bulk of Osbern beside him he would fall asleep. He dozed and dreamed that someone came and stood over the bed. In his dream he heard a voice. ‘Die . . . die, you bastard.'

Half waking he thought: A dream! Another evil dream. He could feel Osbern beside him and comforted, he slept again.

It was morning for a little light penetrated the narrow apertures.

‘Osbern,' whispered William, ‘it is morning.'

Osbern did not answer, and after a few minutes William rose from the bed.

‘Osbern. How sleepy you are this day. Wake up, Osbern.'

William touched Osbern's shoulder. His hand was sticky. He looked down at Osbern.

‘Osbern! Osbern!' he cried.

That was blood on the bed . . . the blood of Osbern!

‘Oh, Osbern, my dear, dear friend. Wake up. Speak to me.'

But Osbern would never wake again. In the night he had been stabbed to death.

William heard that word ringing in his head, triumphantly, maliciously spoken: ‘Bastard.' And he knew that Osbern had been killed in mistake for himself.

He was twelve years old and although still a child in years he had suffered the emotions of a man. Thorold dead. Osbern dead. He had loved these men. He wanted to go out and do battle with their slayers; he wanted to wreak a terrible vengeance on these murderers.