The Bastard King Read Online Free Page B

was because his father was the Duke of Normandy and he was his only son.
    Richard the Fearless must have felt this when his father William Longsword came to visit him – for fathers it seemed rarely lived in their castles with their families; they were always away on other business which invariably involved fighting. Now he, William, awaited a visit from his father, Robert the Magnificent. He wondered what they would call him when he was a man, William the . . .? What should it be? He would like William the Brave, he thought.
    Now they had forgotten him and were whispering together. He heard the name Count Talvas de Bellême. Yes, they had gone back to the Devil.
    â€˜No one is safe on the roads. If you’re found you’ll be taken to the castle of Domfront Alençon. And there you will be thrust into a dungeon. And they say that he then asks his friends to a feast and when they have drunk their fill and beyond, the prisoners are brought up from the dungeons . . .’
    â€˜And then . . . what then?’
    â€˜Then they make sport with them.’
    â€˜They kill them?’
    â€˜It could come to that in time. But there’s no hurry about it. ’Tis a slow matter. Nails are torn off, eyes put out . . . hands and feet cut off and made sport with.’
    William put his hands to his eyes; he looked at his hands.
    They went on whispering together; he wanted to stop his ears but he had to listen. He could see it all so clearly; the hall at Domfront Castle which would be like that at Falaise, the cowering prisoners – young men and old ones too who had been unwise enough to be caught by the Count of Bellême’s men who prowled after dark in search of the unwary.
    He could not bear it. He ran out crying: ‘No, no. It is not true. It is wicked. Only traitors should be treated thus!’
    The varlets stared at him; the face of the chief cook even redder than before.
    â€˜The little master!’ he said.
    One of the women came forward and said: ‘What then, little master? Was it a bad dream then, a nightmare?’
    He stood facing them, his grey eyes flashing. Did they think he was such a baby to be put off with tales of nightmares. Had he heard them, or had he not? He might be only five but he would remind them that although five might be very young for some, it was a different matter with the son of the Duke of Normandy.
    â€˜â€™Twas no nightmare,’ he said. ‘I heard you talking of Bellême.’
    There was a gasp among the company. One of the women knelt down beside him. ‘Listen to me, little master. We did talk, but you listened and to listen is sly, you know. The Lady Arlette would not be pleased to know that you hide in corners to spy.’
    â€˜I did not spy. I heard . . .’
    â€˜What you were not meant to hear! Now go out into the courtyard, go back to your play and forget what you heard here. For we did wrong to talk so, and you did wrong to hide yourself and listen. And what’s done and can’t be mended is best forgot.’
    He nodded slowly. There was wisdom in it.
    He walked out into the courtyard but he could not get outof his mind the thought of the hall of Domfront Castle and the cruel things that were done to the innocent . . . such things which should only be done as punishment for great crimes such as disloyalty to one’s sovereign Duke.
    He would go to see his sparrow-hawk – always a heartening matter, but before he could cross the courtyard he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs and the clatter of arrival.
    William forgot everything but that his father had come. He did not stop running until he came to the porch. Across the drawbridge rode his father, a little ahead of his escort. He wore the purple robe which proclaimed his rank and on his head the velvet cap edged with ermine; William was aware of the sword in its ornamental scabbard at his side, the steel which covered his legs and feet. Jewels glittered in his