Wife to the Bastard by Hilda Lewis

Author:Hilda Lewis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The History Press
Published: 2011-11-08T16:00:00+00:00

XXVI

William, together with a great company, had left Pevensey, the same quiet beach that had seen his landing. Now he was returning glorious; the great men of England forced to wear the yoke of his friendship. In old Rome such men had been marched through streets as slaves; but a proud slave might wear his fetters proudly. These men wore fetters also; the heavier that they could not be seen. Forcing them to accept the fetters of his friendship he had reduced them to less than the stature of slaves.

Hourly his messengers rode into Rouen.

My lord’s ships are on the move; such a fleet has never been seen! The sails are white. Yes, every ship great or small hoists the white sails of victory.

The Mora leads them all. The golden boy looks towards his own land; he lifts the ivory trumpet in sign of victory...

He had landed. He had landed at St. Valéry whence he had sailed. As he rode the countryside, all Normandy came out to honour him—his comtes and vicomtes to bring him in triumph to the castles they held of him, the burghers to kneel with rich gifts, young girls and children to strew their flowers.

Rouen was crowded with Normans from every remote spot come to look upon their duke that was now a King. Several miles beyond the city processions came out to meet him—flying banners, fife and drum; music and garlands everywhere.

At the head of all the processions rode his wife and his children.

He had not fully remembered how fair she was; nor how small, how exquisitely fine. All these months of chastity—and this was his wife. Desire leaped in him. He could scarce take his eyes from her! By the Splendour of God he’d have her crowned, take her back with him; let all England look upon their queen!

His first sight of Robert brought at once the familiar pick of annoyance. The boy was too fat—too little exercise, too many sweet cakes. But, for all that, he sat the mare well; William was forced to admit it. In spite of his short stature and his plumpness he had a gallant air. Yet, as always, the boy’s looks must always annoy him; William knew it and regretted it. But the thing was beyond him.

He liked the look of Richard, the long, lean rust-haired boy so like himself when young; yet in his ways so different. He sighed a little. But in little William that was named for himself—his little Rufus—he could find no fault. Of all the children, the most loving, the most obedient; the one that did not fear his father. As soon as the processions met, Rufus sprang from his mare and came running to fling both arms about his father’s neck. William bent to lift the boy to the saddle. His youngest son riding high before him they entered Rouen together. Riding thus, William found himself wishing that this youngest was the eldest so that his father could give him Normandy and England and whatever else his sword might win.

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