The Lion of Justice - Plaidy Jean - Страница 4

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Like his father he loved possessions and looked in all directions in order to add to his wealth, but unlike his father he could be extravagant on occasions. That was in pursuit of his own pleasure. When he wanted something he wanted it fiercely and he was determined to get it.

Life had not been easy since his accession. There was certain to be trouble in the family. When he looked back over his childhood and remembered the stormy scenes in their various schoolrooms he laughed aloud. Robert would have run him through on one occasion but for the intervention of their father. Robert and he would always be enemies, because naturally Robert believed that he, as the eldest son, had more right to the crown of England than William Rufus had. It was true Robert was Duke of Normandy but it was a far better thing to be King of England than Duke of Normandy. And then there was Henry. Poor young Henry who was left without land—only five thousand pounds of silver and his father’s prophecy that one day he would be richer than either of his brothers.

Following this train of thought Rufus sighed and said: ‘It was unfortunate that our father had too many sons. It is a common failing that kings either have too many or not enough. You see what a wise man I am, my friends, for I have no sons— not even a bastard or two. If all men were as I am how much more comfortable the world would be.’

‘It would not be over-populated, my lord.’ said his favourite friend.

‘Oh, we’d keep a few studs for that purpose.’ laughed Rufus.

‘My lord’s young brother might be of use.’

The young man laughed.

‘What then?’ asked Rufus. ‘Has he added another to his tally? I hear he was giving a good account of himself with the Lady Nesta of Wales.’

‘Exceeding good, my lord, and they say the lady grows larger each day.’

‘It keeps the young rake out of mischief.’ said Rufus. ‘But I have to keep my eyes on master Henry. It may surprise you, my friends, but he occasionally takes his thoughts from the ladies’ bedchambers and dreams of the battlefield.’

‘As my lord knows to his cost.’

‘We could have finished him at St. Michael’s Mount but for my elder brother. Robert is a fool. There was not a drop of water in the castle; they were dying in the fortress for lack of it, and what did my chivalrous brother Robert do? He sends him water—and not only water, but wine for his board. I could have killed him when I heard. ‘This is our brother.’ he said, and he looked at me with those rather mournful eyes of his. He is very beautiful and he was my mother’s favourite you know. He was always vain and hates the fact that his legs are too short. My father used to jeer at him. Cur those he called him. My father thought there was only one perfect man in the world—himself. And those of us who did not resemble him were poor things in his opinion. But when Robert rebelled against him and Richard died he turned to me. Richard was

the first favourite. He looked like a Norman, you see. The rest of us had the Flanders touch...except Henry. He has a Norman look—tall and with that fine curly hair. I doubt not it is that which brings him so much favour in the ladies’ bedchambers. But I was telling you that we could have been rid of Henry but for Robert. And what has he ever done but bring trouble and bastards into the realm?’

The young man laughed obediently.

‘Come, my fine friend, what is there to laugh at? I am a man beset by brothers, and now Henry has squandered his patrimony and roams the countryside seeking consolation in robbing ladies of their virtue since he cannot rob me of my throne, and I doubt not his soul is stained purple with the sin of fornication. Listen.’

There was a commotion below the window. Riders were approaching.

‘Messengers mayhap. What now?’ said Rufus. ‘No evil news I trust to spoil the pleasant evening I had planned for us.’

The messenger was brought into his presence.

Rufus dismissed the man with the customary command: ‘Go and refresh yourself.’ and read the dispatch.

Then he said: ‘Edgar Atheling has arrived in England with his sister’s brood.’

‘What will you do, my lord?’ asked his favourite friend.

‘That, my dear, remains to be seen.’ he answered. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Rest assured I shall have them under close surveillance.’

* * * * *

William Rufus opened his eyes and sleepily surveyed his bedchamber. It had been a riotous night and as usual after such festivities morning came too soon. Sunlight filtering in through the narrow slit of a window shone onto the stone recess seat cut into the wall, but because this was a royal bedchamber it contained some modern luxuries such as the faldestol on which he sat when he entertained guests in his bedroom, letting them make do with the wall seats or the floor. A velvet drapery was thrown over it at this moment. His eyes went to the chest with its fine carving; in this were kept his clothes, and although he slept on a bag of straw this was placed on a bed the frame of which was elegantly carved.

In the early mornings he let his mind wander over state affairs. He was thinking at this time about the Atheling who had taken refuge in his country. Edgar had always amused him —pretty youth. He would never be a king though. He was not made of the right stuff. Still the people could rally to the Atheling if they hated the Norman enough, and he must face the truth: there had always been animosity towards the Normans.

Yet they could be persuaded, or could they? He had persuaded them once. That was when Robert had tried to take the crown from him. He had expected it. Naturally the eldest son wanted the greater prize.

But their father had nominated him, William Rufus, as his successor. What had he said to him on his deathbed, stern as ever? ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not claiming your kingdom?’

Rufus laughed. One had to admire the old man. He was the greatest they would ever know, and if he was without humour he was the finest soldier of his day and for most of that which was his and his family’s today they had to thank William the Conqueror who had given it to them.

They could never be like him—any one of them. And did they want to? Not Rufus. He knew how to enjoy life—which he was sure his father had not—and he intended to go on doing it.

But now his mind was straying from Edgar Atheling because that fellow’s being in the country reminded him of the early days of his reign when Robert had come against him. Robert was a fool; he could be relied upon to fail in any military exercise.

Rufus laughed to think of those days when the Norman barons who owned estates in England had declared that they would not accept Rufus as the King of England and prepared to set up Robert in his place.

Their uncle Odo had been Robert’s general. Odo! That Bishop who had been in disgrace with the Conqueror because he had passed over much English treasure to Rome. The old fool had had a fancy to become Pope and believed that by bribing the Cardinals he could persuade them to elect him. Fortunately William had discovered this, and sent him back to Normandy where he had languished in a dungeon until his brother Robert of Mortain (like Odo, the son of their grandmother’s marriage after their grandfather’s death, to Herlwin de Conteville) misguidedly persuaded the Conqueror, on the latter’s deathbed, to set him free.

Free to come against the King whom William himself had chosen!

Rufus had been in danger then and he prided himself that he had acted with extreme astuteness. He had asked the people of England whether they wished to put their necks in the Norman yoke. This amused Rufus for it struck him as highly amusing that he, the Norman son of a Norman father, should be pleading thus. But there was some truth in it for while Robert had remained entirely Norman, he, Rufus, had to some extent become Anglicized.

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