The Bastard King (40 page)

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.

Rufus was clever in his way. He had a certain wit; but
William did not care for the companions he chose. Unlike Robert he was not interested in extravagance and women. He surrounded himself with young men like himself. They might be effeminate. Rufus was certainly not. His great passion in life was the chase and in this he and his father at least had something in common. Even Richard enjoyed the chase. It was the great relaxation. To ride after the deer, the wild boar, the stag with the dogs yelping at the horses' feet was the complete joy. While he was thus engaged William could forget the disloyalties of his first-born; his dissatisfaction with Rufus, his longing to be home with Matilda. Nothing could soothe him as the chase.

It was said of him: ‘The King loves all wild beasts as though he is their father.'

He was determined to preserve the forests. He had made new ones, in particular one in Hampshire which was called the New Forest. In order to make this humble people had been turned out of their homes.

The fact that the people of England had fought against him and that he had had to conquer them over many years had hardened him against them. Had they accepted him after the battle of Hastings he would have treated them more leniently. Much blood had been shed, much treasure wasted in the conquest of England and he grudged that.

He was hated. He was always the conqueror. Therefore he retaliated with harsh laws. Any man who killed a wild beast was punished by having his eyes put out. As many of the peasants had lived by what they could catch, this was a hard and cruel rule.

Because the people would not accept him he was determined to show them who was master. He displayed a blind indifference to their dislike. Let them beware. If they broke any of his laws, he would have no mercy.

His New Forest was his delight and he had special laws to protect the animals. If any man kept a dog within a certain radius of the forest that dog must have its hind leg clipped that it might not chase and possibly kill the precious hares. To hunt in the forest it was necessary to get the permission of
the King. But the New Forest, which the King so loved, was regarded by the people with misgiving; it represented so much that was cruel and harsh.

There came a day when William went hunting in the New Forest with his sons Richard and Rufus.

Richard had gone off in one direction with Rufus, leaving William with his own party.

William gave himself to the joys of the chase and as he was contemplating one of the finest stags he had ever seen lying dead on the grass, a forester came galloping up with news that there had been an accident.

The hunters left the stag and rode off.

Richard was lying on the grass, bleeding to death. He had fallen from his horse and been gored by a stag.

By the time they could carry him from the forest he was dead.

A hush had fallen over the land. Richard, the King's son, who was destined to be King of England, had been killed in that forest, the construction and preservation of which had caused such misery to so many people.

‘It is a curse on the King,' was the whispered comment.

People began to think of all those who had been turned out of their homes to make a happy hunting ground for the King; they thought of those poor men who had always hunted the wild boar and lived on its meat who, following their usual custom, had been caught by the King's foresters and now lived in sightless misery. They thought of all those who had not survived the King's savage punishment.

They thought of harsh rules, of taxes levied, of the curfew and all the harshness of a conqueror's rule, and they said: ‘This is a judgement on the King.'

Matilda in Bayeux, heard the news.

Richard, the good one, the one they had trusted to be a credit to them, the son who lacked Robert's arrogance and the crudeness of Rufus, Richard, the one of whom they had been so proud!

How William must be mourning. His son Richard whom he had loved best . . . to die. Robert working against him. Rufus? Who could be sure of Rufus? Henry, little more than a child. Richard, the flower of the flock, dead, killed by one of those stags for whose sake peasants had lost their eyes.

William should be with her now. They should be sharing this grief. She alone would know how to comfort him.

But even while he mourned he would be thinking of the effect this would have on the people. God was against him, they would be saying. One son a rebel, another slain by God's hand in that very forest of which he had been so proud.

She was right, William mourned deeply. There had been something saintly about Richard as there had about little Adelisa.

Were they too good for the world?

He had felt so happy in Richard. There was a son in whose hands he would most happily leave his crown.

Richard would not have been a harsh king. Nor had William wished him to be. The harsh laws had to be made by the man who had conquered the land. The people would have loved Richard.

And now what was left. Rufus. Rufus for King of England!

I must perforce make him into a King, thought William.

And he admitted to himself that that would not be an easy task.

WILLIAM READ THE
despatches in his hand. He could not believe it. It was not possible. Roger de Beaumont had made a terrible mistake. His anger rose up against the man. How dared he! He could not believe and yet . . .

‘I am greatly disturbed,' Roger had written. ‘Robert has risen against your rule. This was expected and our defences are strong. What I feel it my duty to tell you is this: He has
been receiving help which has enabled him to equip men to fight against you, and this aid has been supplied to him by the Queen.'

Matilda! She could not work against him. She could not side with his enemy!

Yet for Robert . . .

Nothing had ever touched him as deeply as this. The death of Richard, the death of Adelisa, the slurs he had suffered in his youth when he was called a bastard, the loss of good and faithful friends, none of these had ever touched him as deeply as the treachery of Matilda.

He would not believe it. He dared not believe it. If he had to accept this hideous accusation there would be great emptiness in his life from which he would never recover.

Matilda and he were as one person. He was not an affectionate man, but from the first days of his marriage with Matilda there had been one in his life who was as necessary to him as all his dominions. He could love possessions rather than people, the hunt rather than the company of men; he could be a ruler, a good one though a harsh one and he cared passionately for his kingdom and his dukedom; but he cared as passionately for Matilda.

And she had betrayed him. She had been forced to take sides and she had not chosen his.

Clearly he must return to Normandy.

The evidence was in his hands. He would trust no one with this but himself. He had captured her miserable agent. He had read the letters in Matilda's own hand. She had robbed her coffers for the sake of Robert; she had supplied him with money and jewels. She had enabled him to equip an army that he might stand against his father.

He rode to Rouen. She was not expecting him but her delight in his arrival was obvious.

He said: ‘I must speak with you alone.'

She knew immediately that something was wrong.

‘What ails you, William?' she asked.

‘Trouble in my realm,' he said, keeping his eyes on her face
as he thrust a letter into her hands. ‘Your handwriting,' he added.

‘Why yes.'

‘So you are in league with my enemies.'

‘I write to my son.'

‘You . . . traitor!' he cried, and there was anguish in his voice. ‘You deceived me. A woman who deceives her husband destroys her house. Oh, my wife, whom I have loved as my own life, where could you have found a husband as faithful as I have been, so devoted to you in my affection? Yet you have deceived me. You have joined my enemies against me. I have given you riches and treasure and these you have passed over to my enemies. You have squandered my wealth on those who work against me. I have confided my government to you, believing that I could not leave it in more faithful and loving hands. Yet in secret you have joined my enemies against me.'

Matilda faced him, her anger matching his. ‘Should you be surprised at a mother's feelings for her son?'

‘Yes. If that son be an enemy of her husband.'

‘He is my son, my first-born son. I love him, William, even as I love you. You are rich and powerful. He is in need. I gave to him yes, and would give again. If I could give my life for him, most cheerfully I would do so. And for you. You know this well. You are my husband but he is my son.'

‘You had to choose between us,' said William.

‘Yes,' she said defiantly. ‘I had to choose and because he was in need I chose him.'

‘You chose him because you love him the better.'

She was silent.

A wave of such jealousy overtook him that he seized her by her plaits and threw her to the ground.

It was almost as though he were back in that street in Lille years ago when incensed because she, who was so beautiful, so royal and had declared that she would never marry a bastard, was for him the only woman he wanted. Now he was conscious of a fierce hatred that was born of love and was in some measure love. He was wounded as never before; he was hurt and angry; he was jealous of that short-legged boy
whom he had never liked and who now had taken first place in Matilda's affections. He beat out his misery on her with heavy hands. He bruised her body as he had on that other occasion, but she was no longer young and had borne many children.

‘William,' she cried, ‘you will kill me.'

‘Ay,' he said, ‘as you have killed my love for you. By God's Splendour, I have been foolish in my devotion for you. But it is over. You are my enemy. You, who were my wife and bore my children! I will be revenged on you . . . and your agents. Your man Sampson shall not see his way to the enemy's camp ever again.'

‘Nay, William, the fault . . . if fault there be, is mine. He but obeyed orders.'

He smote her again and he saw that she had fainted.

‘Oh God, Matilda,' he cried. ‘Have I killed you, Matilda, my love?'

He lifted her tenderly and carried her to her bed.

He sat beside her until she recovered consciousness.

‘Matilda,' he said, ‘speak to me.'

‘Oh, William,' she said, ‘is it you?'

‘I will send your servants. They will tend you but first I must speak to you.'

‘Your hands have lost none of their heaviness,' she told him with a wry smile.

‘How could you do this to me?'

‘I can say no more than that I am a mother.'

He bent over her and kissed her.

‘Whatever happened,' she said, ‘whatever you did to me or I to you . . . we are as one. We know that, William.'

‘'Tis true,' he said. ‘Rest now.'

She did not rest. She sent for one of her most trusted servants.

‘Sampson is on his way here with letters,' she said. ‘He must not come. They are waiting for him. The King will put out his eyes. He must go to the monastery and ask for sanctuary. Tell him to do this on my orders.'

She lay in her bed waiting. William was no longer angry with her, it seemed, only hurt and deeply wounded. He was
anxious now because of any harm he may have inflicted on her.

But he was waiting for the return of Sampson. There would be no mercy there. She knew William. When his violent temper was aroused it must be assuaged. He would wreak his revenge for her treachery on Sampson.

He came to her, his anger no longer blazing, but smouldering still.

He looked down at her sadly.

‘Still unrepentant,' he said.

‘Still always ready to help my son.'

‘Against your husband?'

‘Nay, I would die for them both.'

‘Oh, Matilda,' he said, ‘I would he had never been born. To think that my tall good son Richard should have met his death in my forest while Curthose lives.'

‘What has happened,' replied Matilda, ‘is God's will.'

She was weak and as the days passed it was clear that she was still suffering from William's onslaught. The beating had been less severe than that suffered in the streets of Lille but she was less able to bear it now. Then it had been an exhilaration; now it was humiliation. She knew – and surely he must know – nothing could be quite the same between them again.