I Am the Chosen King (33 page)

Rouen—August 1056

Normandy was not at peace, but nearly so. While tempers rumbled over a miscellany of border quarrels, there was never any doubt now, after Val-ès-Dunes, Mortemar, Alençon and Domfront, that William’s position and title of duke could not be challenged. The great families who controlled the estates of the duchy might still vie for land, but were almost all entwined into William’s net of vassalage. He had not lost a single battle: to have the “luck of the Bastard” was already a common-used phrase. To share in that luck by being one of his sworn men was rapidly becoming the prerogative of many an aspiring noble.

One issue remained to irritate William, one that was beyond his control to rectify. No manner of siege or warfare was going to set it aright; this required diplomacy, patience and tact, three traits that were notably absent from William’s authoritarian personality. Ralph de Tosny, while on a fashionable pilgrimage to Rome, had tried to help his lord, but he too had failed.

Duke William’s marriage to Mathilda of Flanders had been emphatically forbidden by Pope Leo, ninth of that name. He had married her anyway, through sheer obstinacy. The Pope was interfering in politics for reasons of his own and William liked it not.

Negotiation to lift Rome’s interdict moved with cumbersome slowness. De Tosny, a dutiful man of God, had attempted to contrive an interview with the Pope, but he had come from William and had not been granted audience.

With the toe of his boot, William kicked a log back on to the fire before it tumbled with a crackling belch of sparks and smoke from the edge. He had hoped that his new-found credibility after the victory at Mortemar might have influenced matters for the better. Apparently not.

“So,” he asked of Ralph, “in all other respects, your pilgrimage was successful?”

“It was indeed, my Lord. Rome is a magnificent place. I could not begin to describe the splendours, the buildings, the history—”

“Yet no doubt you will!” Mathilda interrupted with a delightful laugh. “Your anecdotes will bore us grey-haired throughout the years to come. Whenever a wet day or deep snow keeps us confined to the hearth you will clear your throat and tell us of Rome.”

Eighteen years of age and Mathilda had blossomed into a wife any man would be eager to take to his bed. Short and inclined to plumpness—caused by an enjoyment of foods sweetened with honey and a dislike of exercise—she was nevertheless a handsome woman, with straight white teeth, fair skin and hair, and a quick, pleasing wit that flashed as bright as her sparkling eyes. The bearing of three children and the carrying of a fourth had accentuated the thickening of her waistline, but William had often expressed, in the privacy of their bed, that he preferred a woman to be well-covered. “Give me an oak tree to build a sturdy barn, not an ash for flimsy fencing.”

Some thought Mathilda to be haughty, others admired her for her fortitude, fairness and loyalty. That she was devoted to William, and he to her, was never doubted. Unusually William never strayed beyond the marriage bed, not in body, mind or eye. Some were adamant that such a ruthless man was incapable of any gentle emotion. A few jeered that his loyalty to the lady Mathilda was for her own ill-temper! Others made cruder references to his capabilities or inclinations…whatever the reason for his faithfulness, the marriage was successful and no damned Pope in Rome was going to rule otherwise!

William sipped thoughtfully at his wine. What more could he do to influence this implacable obstinacy? Already churches were being built, money pouring like wine from a cracked pot into the monasteries. The word of God was final in the law of the Church, and within Normandy William took care to ensure strict and direct control over the clergy.

Bishops—by coincidence, the Duke maintained—were appointed from the families of his more loyal vassals. His own half-brother Odo, though young, held Bayeux; Hugh, Bishop of Lisieux, was the son of the comte d’Eu; John, son of comte Rodulf, was Archbishop of Rouen; Bishop Geoffrey de Coutances was a Mowbray; and Yves, Bishop of Sees, stood at the head of the mighty de Bellême family. Patronage for founding religious houses had reached a new height of enthusiasm—Fontenay; the abbey of Lire; Saint Victor-en-Caux; the nunnery at Almenèches. All tactics designed to impress the Pope.

William glanced through the narrow windows of the great Hall of his castle at Rouen. The sky outside was clearing. Come the winter oiled linen would be placed over the openings, allowing in light but keeping out the worst of rain and wind. “The rain has ceased, I do believe,” he said, the weight of depression lifting suddenly. “Come, de Tosny, I would see those horses you have brought me all the way from Rome!”

Sending a servant running ahead, de Tosny proudly conducted his duke, and the inquisitive company of men and women who had been thronging the Hall, to the stables, where waited three fine horses for William’s inspection: two bay mares and a pale chestnut stallion with a mane and tail as golden as Mathilda’s own hair. He was beautiful!

“They are from the desert land of Arabia,” Ralph explained. “Such horses are prized more highly by the desert men than their women.”

“They are not as much the unintelligent infidel as we think, then!” someone jested, causing laughter to swirl through the close-pressed company.

The handsome beasts, with their graceful head and tail carriage, exquisitely shaped faces and wide, bold eyes, pleased William immediately. He strode forward to run his hand down their legs, across shoulder and rump. The mares should breed some fine foals. He stood back, arms folded, to watch the stallion prance and preen; a horse as fine as any he had ever seen.

He pursed his lips, nodded approval. “I would ride him!” he announced, slapping his hands together, rubbing the palms. “Fetch saddle and bridle.”

Mathilda stood to the forefront of the onlookers with her eldest son Robert settled in her arms, his legs straddling her hip. The girl Agatha and the baby Richard were within doors.

“
Regarde le cheval, comme il est beau
,” she said to the boy, pointing at William as he mounted. “Does Papa not look handsome?”

Robert ducked his face into her shoulder. A quiet, shy boy, he rarely strayed far from his mother or nurse. Strangers and tall men with their deep voices frightened him. Women with their fluttering wimples smothered him. Already upset by the thunder that had raged overhead this past half-hour, he did not want to watch his father, for he scared him almost as much as this enormous, breath-snorting, hoof-clattering dragon of a horse.

Applause rippled through the admiring spectators as William put the stallion through its paces. “He is superb.” William dismounted and patted the animal’s neck. “He is certainly a king among his kind—I shall call him Solomon I think.”

“For a stallion he also possesses an agreeable temper.” De Tosny beamed. “He is gentle enough for a child to ride.”

“Indeed, he is!” On impulse William swung towards Mathilda, his arms outstretched to take his son from her. Robert yelped as his father lifted him, the sound rising into screams as he felt himself set on to the great beast’s saddle.

“Take care, husband, he is a boy of delicate health.” Mathilda’s hand reached forward to reclaim the lad, but William brushed her aside. She did not care for this harshness in her husband, a side to him that was unpleasant and distasteful, but rarely did she personally witness his deliberate cruelties.

“He is delicate, madam, because you coddle him. Hush, boy! Do not make such a fuss.”

From the day of his birth William had not much cared for his scrawny son. His daughter, though a mere two years of age, had more mettle than did the lad. Mathilda spoilt the boy.

The stallion snorted and began to prance at the unfamiliar noise. The terrified boy struggled, arms flailing and legs kicking. His foot caught William’s mouth, sending his father staggering, blood bursting from a dislodged tooth. Robert, no longer supported, tumbled from the saddle as the horse skittered sidewards, the scream of fear rising as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Mathilda also screamed as she darted forward, distraught. She knelt on the puddled gravel, gathering him to her, stroking his hair as Robert flung his arms tight around her neck and clung to her? “
Mon petit
, my precious! Hush, hush.”

“Damn the boy!” William cursed, dabbing at his mouth. “Is he hurt?”

Through her streaked tears, Mathilda shook her head. “I think not, my Lord.”

“Then why in God’s name does he squeal like a piglet about to have his throat cut? Has he no backbone in him, madam?”

Furious with her husband, Mathilda glowered up at William’s great height from where she knelt. “He is but a child,” she scolded, “a small child who is afraid of such a big horse. Do you not remember being afeared of anything as a boy?”

William was disappointed in his son and embarrassed at this contemptible performance. He needed a son with the heart of a lion, the strength of an ox. Not this mewling mother’s-weed. “I was never afraid,” he bragged. “I saw blood and faced death too often to offer heart-room to a woman’s weakness of fear.” He turned away from his wife and walked abruptly back to his Hall.

He had not met Mathilda’s eyes. He had left her with the boy because she had looked at him and had known that he had lied.

Dives-sur-Mer

The morning had begun warm and fine, with the tinge of late summer touching trees bearing the faintest traits of approaching autumn. The day’s hunting had been most enjoyable and rewarding for Duke William and his friends.

“I would have a hawk such as yours.” William de Warenne said in open admiration as the bird perched on the Duke’s wrist spread his wings in a flutter of annoyance. “My own bird is somewhat aged now. I have had her almost three years.”

“Then you are fortunate—many good birds become lost or ensnared.” William ran his finger down the bird’s soft breast feathers to soothe her. “She hunted well for you—the way she took that wild coney was a superb example of breeding and training.”

Will glowed at the praise. Some found the Duke difficult, but he had always found him congenial; quick-tempered,
bien sûr
, but what man of worth was not?

The second-born son, Will had soon realised that the family estate would pass to his elder brother and took the chance to improve his none-too-hopeful prospects by altering allegiance from his father direct to his duke. He was young, bold and daring, the sort of man that William was deliberately courting. Having distinguished himself in battle and shown especial loyalty, de Warenne had been rewarded with the castle of Mortemar and had become an especial friend to his namesake the Duke.

He beckoned for a servant to bring up a wineskin. The day had been long and hot. He offered the skin to William first, who shook his head. Will put the spout to his lips, drank, some of the liquid spilling down his tunic as his horse unexpectedly side-stepped.

Duke William bellowed with laughter. “By God, boy, are you so wet behind the ears that you cannot find your own mouth! It is the opening under your nose and above your chin. What a waste of a fine grape!”

Grinning, Will passed the skin back to his servant and brushed ineffectually at the spreading red stain. “No matter, my Lord.” He chortled. “It will give me a good excuse to watch the laundress. They remove stains by covering them with sheep-fat soap and rubbing them against their bare thighs, did you know?”

William’s next guffaw was louder than the first. “My friend, I am not in the habit of wasting my time beside the laundry tubs!”

“Oh, it is no waste of time, sir. I regard it as expanding my education.”

The party drew their horses to a halt at the crest of the hill, looking down along the wide beach that stretched mile upon mile along the coast. The sea, a lazy, uninspiring steel grey, ruffled against the shore. A fishing boat was making way into the estuary of the river Dives, the silver flash of her catch quivering in the laden baskets on her deck.

Watching the boat, Will tried to imagine the feel of the deck as it rose and fell against the motion of the sea.

“What is it like, out on the sea?” he mused.

“Cold. Wet,” the Duke answered. “Out there, the Channel Sea can be master or friend; frightening enough to scald the shit from your backside, or so exhilarating that you feel like shouting your immortality to the four winds.”

Will nodded, watching the gulls wheeling and screaming in their intricate patterns behind the frothing wake of the boat. Would he enjoy taking a ship out into those churning waters? He thought not, for his stomach had once tumbled with fear when crossing the Seine in wild weather.

“England lies across there,” the Duke said with precision. “A country rich in wealth but poor in ambition.”

“What is it like?” Will again enquired with interest. He knew little of England. That the king was named Edward and William’s aunt had been that same king’s mother. Beyond that only gossip. “They say the men wear their hair long, as a woman would, and that they are rowdy and prone to profanities, murder and drunkenness.”

William glanced away from the horizon where clouds were gathering. Rain? As well he had decided to hunt today, then. Mind, he would have ridden out anyway, whatever the weather. Mathilda was still in a disagreeable mood because of that damned boy’s tumble. William had barely spoken to her this past week—he ruled all of Normandy yet had no authority in his own household. Ah let her coddle the boy as the poxed English did their weakling children!

“They wear their hair long,
oui
, and do not shave the upper lip. Prefer ale to fine wine, ride shaggy ponies and, more often than not, fight their battles on foot. They have no stone castles or fortresses, their churches and cathedrals are wooden built, but their forests are green and abundant with game, the land rich for the growing of corn and the grazing of livestock. English wool is of the best quality. Even for the poor, the wool trade can make a reasonable living.” William stared out at that distant horizon. “England, Will, has much that I could put to a great deal of good use.”

Without William the Bastard as its duke, Normandy’s fledgling aristocracy would still have acquired status, land and wealth, but the duchy would have remained under the control of the French King. Under William’s ambitious leadership Normandy was poised on the brink of autonomy. Opportunity was there for those who sought to win power and prestige by the use of the sword; all they need do was commit their loyalty to their duke and his ambitions.

Those who rebelled against him fell rapidly by the wayside, starved of favour. His friends were becoming the great and noted Houses of the future. The trick was to bind their fealty. A man was more likely to remain loyal if his accumulated wealth were to stay within his own family, passing from the one generation to the next. William had diplomatically extended the granting of titles and, simultaneously, created hereditary rights. It was always possible for a dog to turn and bite his master, but if the dog was fondled occasionally, allowed to sleep by the hearth and fed well…The structure of a feudal society that was still, as yet, in a state of development, was, under William’s policy of securing loyalty, beginning to solidify. Serve William as sworn liegeman, receive in return his patronage and protection, and hold his land. The problem: Normandy was but a small corner of France and land was already in short supply. England’s acreage would solve the problem.

England. “I will never forget the debt I owe Normandy for the shelter and kindliness she gave me,” Edward had said. He had promised to consider William as his heir. Part of the agreement had been for Edward to wed his sister—but that was immaterial now, for the King had not, after all, set aside his wife. There was some nonsense that a new king had to be elected by agreement, the most worthy man being chosen…William had discarded that trifling detail. He would be the most worthy when the time came.

The Duke gathered up his stallion’s reins, turned for home. The hunting had been good, now his belly announced that it was time for dinner and he fancied lying with his wife this night. She might be angry with him, but would not say no. No one said no to William once his mind was set.

He flipped his hand towards the English coast that lay somewhere beyond the cloud-grumbling horizon. “You may one day take that ship to England, Will, my friend. When Edward has gone to God and I am asked to take his throne.”