A knight's tale - creative non-fiction
England - 1088
'A man, sire. And a man fights for what's his.'
The king had been thinking aloud and the thirteen year-old lad's unexpected reply to his rhetorical question caught him off-guard. It was a bold response but, rather than being angered, he felt chastened by it. It was profound coming from one so young and junior in his service though prompted, he knew, by genuine love and loyalty rather than impertinence.
At a moment of grave peril so early in his new reign he valued candour, a commodity in short supply at court. He had followed his father, the Conqueror, as King William II less than a year earlier and now faced widespread rebellion. At such a time he could ill afford self-pity, much less self-doubt. He blamed himself for allowing a brief moment of self-indulgence in front of his page.
Since receiving the devastating news at Eastertide of his brother Robert's challenge the lad had been his closest companion and he needed his respect in order to negotiate the trials that lay ahead. If he were to retain the throne won by his late father at such great cost he had to act swiftly and decisively.
'Well, until the battle is won - which, by God's grace will be very soon - you need not call me sire. It tempts providence.'
The king's piety was entirely transactional but he was highly superstitious.
'What am I to call you, my lord?'
'Between ourselves Rufus will suffice. In front of others you may maintain the formalities.'
'As you wish... Rufus'
Saying so, the lad fell to one knee, clasping his master's right hand and kissing it fervently. The nickname felt so strange in his mouth, almost presumptuous, but his master had explicity commanded it so he knew he must accustom himself to it. Rufus it would have to be until such time as his threatened lord restored himself to his rightful status and dignity. Please God let it be soon, he prayed.
Raising him up, Rufus clasped the lad's thin body to him in a bear-hug, silently acknowledging the act of fealty while relishing a rare moment of human warmth in his otherwise painfully bleak predicament. His page's unquestioning loyalty and devotion had rallied his flagging spirits and he responded to it positively.
He knew some malcontents at court referred to the lad as 'that accurséd catamite' but he cared nothing for that. It was an obvious canard; Tommy slept in his chamber, washed him, dressed him, shared a level of intimacy in the absence of a wife unparalleled in the court. That inevitably provoked resentment and jealousy. But, as God was his witness, his love for the boy was purely avuncular, not that he was impervious to the youth's epicene beauty.
Mounting his courser he pulled the lad up to ride with him.
'Come, then, young Tommy; there's a great deal to do and no time to lose.'
His rare moment of introspection had passed, now was the time for action. Spurring his steed he set off on his quest for justice and vengeance, unsure where, to what or whom he rode, but eager to venture whatever God might will for them both.
His ride took him to William de St-Calais, a trusted lieutenant and friend. After a brief conference the two men immediately set out together, with a body of loyal troops, to counter his uncle, Bishop Odo of Bayeux, Earl of Kent. But en route to the coast St-Calais suddenly got cold feet, deserting Rufus and riding north to take refuge in his castle at Durham.
This was a totally unforeseen setback and a further betrayal, which Rufus was simply unable to process. He had never thought St-Calais close to Odo so why he should desert his rightful king now, in his hour of need, was beyond his comprehension. Perhaps, like Odo, he questioned his father's wisdom in leaving his kingdom to his third rather than his first son. If that was the case, he was by no means the only courtier to do so.
Rufus understood their dilemma. He might be a king and Robert a duke but he had always considered Normandy, his father's dukedom, superior to England and much the greater prize. For one thing, the English were a troublesome people to govern, and the Welsh simply ungovernable. To add to his woes, Malcolm III Canmore, King of Scots, was a constant thorn in the side, as he had been during his father's reign. Whatever St-Calais' motives, one thing was clear, his desertion left Rufus perilously exposed and he had to seize back the initiative or risk ignominious defeat.
The best he could hope for was that St-Calais' desertion was not malign and would not lead him to launch his own attack from the north, perhaps in league with Malcolm. The fate that had befallen Harold Godwinson in 1066 provided a grim warning. In attempting to protect his new kingdom from invasion, north and south simultaneously, Harold had exhausted himself and his men, contributing to his own untimely death and the rout of his forces on Hastings' field. History may yet repeat itself. An act of divine retribution for the death of an annointed king was a distinct possibility.
His father's claim to the English throne, while legitimate, was contentious and the fact that Duke William was himself illegitimate had not helped strengthen his cause. Now it fell to the son to hold onto the legacy his father had bequeathed him - him, not Robert - the kingdom of England. He was a canny man, a pragmatist with a ruthless streak, he would find a way.
Like father like son, the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. He settled on a 'divide and rule' strategy - he could be charming and persuasive when it suited - which entailed making wide promises about fair taxes and respect for the rule-of-law to the nobility and people. Such promises were cheap and once they had achieved their object - buying him time - could safely be reneged on.
But he also had to take direct action and did so by attacking the rebels head on, mounting a six-week siege of Pevensey Castle in Sussex, where he captured his rebel uncle, Odo, seizing his land and property and sending him packing to exile in Normandy. He was assisted in his victory by the very divine retribution he had dreaded, though mercifully not directed at himself.
A sudden storm in the Channel had prevented his brother's invasion fleet from landing to assist Odo and his English supporters. Robert's failure to arrive on the scene allowed Rufus to take Rochester Castle in Kent, where the rebel holders were forced to surrender. The rebellion in England was effectively over and Rufus could now take the fight directly to Robert in Normandy.
But first he had to secure extra funds - war was never cheap, in blood or treasure. Ranulf Flambard, Dean of Christchuch at Twynham, Hampshire and keeper of the king's seal, was his most trusted confidant - and also his lover.* Following the defection of St-Calais it was to Ranulf that Rufus now turned for support and advice.
Ranulf was a tall, handsome man, nicknamed Flambard for his fiery temperament; something else he had in common with Rufus. A little younger than him, intelligent, witty and, above all, financially astute, he was an invaluable ally. As a senior cleric he had mastered the art of maximising the income from the ecclesiastical estates for the benefit of the crown, something the late Conqueror had come to rely on. This made his position unassailable - for the time being at least. He was also skilled in the amatory arts, which endeared him all the more to Rufus.
For his part, Rufus had never hidden his own sexual proclivities. He felt no need for a marriage of convenience - or inconvenience as he mocked it - to mask his true nature. In a court without a queen he chose rather to flaunt it by surrounding himself with good-looking men and pretty boys, scandalising his older courtiers and senior members of the clergy. His relationship with Ranulf provoked particular condemnation, but Le Roi s'amuse.
Though not exactly handsome, being stocky and with a good belly on him, Rufus had an undeniably magnetic presence, much-enhanced since becoming king. Prodigiously strong and holding himself with regal bearing, he had inherited the Viking yellow hair and had a ruddy complexion, which led to his soubriquet. His eyes, differently coloured and flecked with gold in sunlight, were widely remarked upon.
Bluff and impetuous by nature, loving riding and hunting immoderately, he had a fearful temper when roused but was quick to forgive once his anger had subsided. Taken for all in all, he made a good king for a fractious country, but now he faced the challenge of holding his throne against the ambitions of a vindictive elder brother.
The four Normandy brothers had always been rumbustious. Robert, known as Curthose, or short stockings, was mocked by his father as 'short boot'. Richard, the second eldest, died tragically in a riding accident in the New Forest aged sixteen. The youngest, Henry, known as Beauclerc, was a bookish boy intended for the church. Rufus was always his father's favourite, which led to intense sibling rivalry - and the incident of the chamberpot still rankled with Robert.
Those of Viking stock, and especially of the blood royal, knew how to harbour a grudge. Robert had never forgotton, much less forgiven, the humiliation of the prank played on him by his two bored and peevish younger brothers, William and Henry, emptying the contents of a pot de chambre over his head from an upstairs gallery. How the younger boys had laughed at their enraged brother's piss-soaked, shit-spattered state!
The resulting altercation required their father's intervention but Robert's wounded pride had been further aggravated when his father took the youngsters' part, laughing at his elder son's undignified plight. Robert responded rashly, taking arms against his father - a treasonable act - and, after unhorsing him in the ensuing battle, he fled to take refuge from his ire at the court of his maternal uncle, the Count of Flanders.
His father, unsurprisingly, cut him off without a sou but a reconciliation was eventually brokered through the patient diplomacy of his mother, Matilda, though there was never any love lost between the two men thereafter, not that there had been much to start with. As Robert was fond of saying, his father was Bastard by name and bastard by nature. Families! - particularly royal ones.
Their lady mother, Matilda of Flanders, Duchess of Normandy, Queen of England, ensured that her four sons were well-educated by Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury. A devoted wife and mother, her maternal attention was necessarily focused on her six daughters while her husband struggled to curb his four unruly boys.
She was fond of her sons, though, and her husband was furious when he discovered she had been sending money to Robert while he was exiled in Flanders. But William and Matilda remained loyal to each other throughout their marriage, with no bastards attributed to either of them. Theirs was indeed a love match and William was grief-stricken when Matilda died, aged fifty-two, after thirty years of marriage. He was present at her death and forswore hunting, his great passion, as a sign of his devotion to her.
Rufus' meeting with Ranulf was as much for business as pleasure, although Rufus always valued the latter, particularly with Ranulf. Their sex was rough and passionate - Rufus enjoyed vigorous buggery - but Ranulf's treasure chests, overflowing with the church's gold and silver, were an added bonus with a war brewing. Ranulf had cut back the number of canons at Christchurch from twenty-five to thirteen, creaming off their stipends for his own coffers. Notwithstanding, there was a genuine bond of affection and mutual admiration between the two men which worked to the advantage of both.
Tommy noticed it immediately and was sufficiently schooled in the ways of the court to realise that their intimacy went further than mere friendship. (A body servant always knows such things, often being called upon to clear up the physical evidence of it.) But, despite Ranulf's rumoured penchant for boys, he was punctiliously correct with him, perhaps out of deference to his lover, who was, of course, also his liege lord. Indeed, he treated Tommy with impeccable kindliness and courtesy whenever they met, aware of how loyal he was to Rufus, and how valued by him in return.
As it transpired, their trip to Twynham was not needed to help fund the planned invasion of Normandy, or not immediately at least. Rufus' successful policy of placating the English nobles, coupled with his resounding defeat of his uncle Odo, had been enough to secure a temporary suspension of hostilties. However, three years later Rufus finally did invade Normandy, delivering the coup-de-grace to Robert's ambitions in England.
The two brothers eventually patched up their quarrel and Rufus aided Robert in recovering family lands formerly lost by him to France. Rufus' position as king of England was thus assured beyond peradventure while Robert spent much time in penury and finally, with Rufus' assistance, joined the First Crusade to the Holy Land in 1096.
Rufus died in 1100 while hunting in the New Forest, shot by an arrow in suspicious circumstances. His hunting companions rode off, abandoning the body, which was later discovered (ironically by an arrow-maker, Eli Parratt) and taken to Winchester on a cart for burial in the cathedral there. The indecent haste with which Beauclerc rode to Winchester, not to visit his brother's tomb but to seize the royal treasury housed there, led to the widely-held belief that he may have had a hand in the death. Beauclerc took his brother's throne as King Henry I.
It was an inglorious end to a turbulent reign but what of young Tommy? Well, he grew into a man in his king's service, beginning his squire's apprenticeship the year following the Rebellion, aged fourteen. Six years later he was dubbed a knight, Sir Thomas de Brockenhurst, by Rufus. At the ceremony, Sir Thomas, quite properly, addressed his king as sire.
* Author's note: contemporary sources vary on Rufus' sexuality but in a story almost one thousand years old a lack of consistency is inevitable. There is no consenus amongst chroniclers on the year of his birth, the number of his sisters, or even the exact manner of his death. So when it comes to his sex life you takes your pick, alongside all the other historical inconsistencies. I know which version I prefer.
© Tim Bennett-Goodman 2024