Free The Bastard King by Jean Plaidy Page A

many pilgrims were grief-stricken because they had not the money to pay for entry. It was discovered that Robert had won their undying gratitude and respect by paying their fees for them. For this and his extravagant gifts, which he had scattered in all directions, blessings had rained upon his head.
    William was glad of that. Whatever his father’s sins they would surely have been forgiven for all he had done since setting out on his pilgrimage.
    It was on his way home that he had died. There must have been poison in his wine cup, for both he and his friend, the Count d’Arques, who had been with him since the beginning of the pilgrimage and who drank with him, died too.
    William pictured it all so clearly. His father having recovered from that sickness which had forced him temporarily to take to a litter, having made his pilgrimage, his mind at peace. He would have been thinking of Normandy, and Normandy for him was Arlette and his children. William knew that chiefly he would be thinking of his son, asking himself how he had grown in two years, what new attainments were his . . . and then he had drunk of the cup and that was the end.
    It was sobering to think how many people were struck down in the prime of their lives – removed as one would remove a tiresome insect that plagued one.
    Then the awful realization came to him that he would never see his father again.
    He must see the King. He must talk to him. He must tell him that now it was imperative for him to go home.
    The King listened gravely. ‘I promised your father,’ he told him, ‘that I would care for you as long as he was not here to do so.’
    â€˜But I must go back to my Duchy now. I am the Duke.’
    â€˜You are a boy yet. You are ten years old. A boy of ten cannot govern a country. Your father set up able men to do that for you.’ The King eyed him obliquely as though wondering what he might tell him. He hesitated. Nay, he was often misled into thinking the boy was a man. It would be cruel to burden him with the truth. How could he say to such a boy: ‘Your dukedom is in revolt. It is naturally so. The lords of Normandy do not want a boy to govern them . . . and that boy a bastard.’
    William’s eyes were fixed on the King’s face, but the King said: ‘You are young yet. You must stay here because I have my duty to discharge.’
    â€˜I must go back to Rouen,’ insisted William. ‘I
must
know what is happening there.’
    â€˜You will know fast enough,’ said the King.
    William was riding with his fellow pupils when he heard the cavalcade making its way into the courtyard. He hurried to the embattled porch and there he saw a party of men. He gave a cry of joy for among them he recognized his old friend Thorold and with him Osbern de Crépon.
    â€˜Osbern!’ he cried. ‘Thorold!’
    They had seen him; they leaped from their horses and there on the stone they knelt to him. How proud he was! For the first time since he had come to the Court of France he felt indeed their Duke.
    â€˜Osbern, what means this? You have come to take me home?’
    â€˜We have come to persuade the King of France that it is necessary that you return.’
    William was too full of joy to reply. Then he remembered that his father was dead and was ashamed that he could feel so.
    â€˜But I want to go home,’ he cried. ‘Oh, Osbern, Thorold. You cannot know how I have wanted to come home.’

The Dangerous Journey
    IT WAS A bitter-sweet journey home. How well he remembered riding this way before – but then his father had been with him. Nothing, however, could mar the relief and happiness he felt to see Normandy again.
    â€˜Why do our fields look more green?’ he asked Osbern. ‘Why do our forests seem more grand?’
    â€˜Because they are Norman fields and forests, my lord.’
    Osbern riding beside him – fine handsome Osbern – had changed. He seemed