The Bastard King by Jean Plaidy

fight them now. By God’s Splendour, Osbern, I long to go into battle.’
    â€˜A strong oath, my lord.’
    â€˜Strong men use strong oaths. I am done with childhood.’
    Osbern shook his head. ‘We can only enter manhood, my lord, when childhood has done with us. Let us face facts. You are too young to rule and you must be fitted to rule. You cannot be made so, roaming the country as a fugitive. This is what your loyal friends and advisers have decreed. Duke you are and Duke you must remain, but because of your tender years you must needs listen to those of maturer wisdom than your own.’
    Osbern could always defeat him in argument. And in his heart he knew he was right. Even Richard the Fearless had had to accept the advice of his counsellors when he was a boy. He had not done with lessons yet.
    They were on the way to Conteville, and stayed the night at the house of a man whom Osbern knew to be loyal. They supped and retired to the room which had been given to them. A large room full of shadows. Osbern went to the hangings, his knife in his hand as he always did – ready if any should be hiding there to despatch him without delay.
    All was well.
    They lay down to sleep, Osbern beside him, Osbern nearest to the door, to shield him: and so they slept.
    Something had awakened William. It was dark in the room. He lay still listening. A footstep on the stair? The slow stealthy opening of a door. Nay, all was quiet.
    He closed his eyes. He was mistaken again. It was always thus when he awakened in the night. He would think of ralvas entertaining his guests, of Alfred’s beautiful eyes, of Thorold who was lost to him; and then reassured by the bulk of Osbern beside him he would fall asleep. He dozed and dreamed that someone came and stood over the bed. In his dream he heard a voice. ‘Die . . . die, you bastard.’
    Half waking he thought: A dream! Another evil dream. He could feel Osbern beside him and comforted, he slept again.
    It was morning for a little light penetrated the narrow apertures.
    â€˜Osbern,’ whispered William, ‘it is morning.’
    Osbern did not answer, and after a few minutes William rose from the bed.
    â€˜Osbern. How sleepy you are this day. Wake up, Osbern.’
    William touched Osbern’s shoulder. His hand was sticky. He looked down at Osbern.
    â€˜Osbern! Osbern!’ he cried.
    That was blood on the bed . . . the blood of Osbern!
    â€˜Oh, Osbern, my dear, dear friend. Wake up. Speak to me.’
    But Osbern would never wake again. In the night he had been stabbed to death.
    William heard that word ringing in his head, triumphantly, maliciously spoken: ‘Bastard.’ And he knew that Osbern had been killed in mistake for himself.
    He was twelve years old and although still a child in years he had suffered the emotions of a man. Thorold dead. Osbern dead. He had loved these men. He wanted to go out and do battle with their slayers; he wanted to wreak a terrible vengeance on these murderers.
    This could not be. But there were still men who remembered their oath to him and to his father. He was their Duke and they would serve him with their lives. They would wage war against his enemies but it was too dangerous to have him roaming the country. Narrowly he had escaped assassination; both those brave men – Thorold and Osbern – had died in his service. He could not hope to escape every time.
    It was explained to him. ‘You are a figurehead. As yet you are too young to be the Duke in aught but name. You remember how important your father always thought it that you should be trained in every way to fit your position.’
    He knew what that meant – going back to the schoolroom, studying the arts of war not in practice but with his teachers.
    Of course they were right. He was but twelve years old. If only he had been born ten or even five years earlier. But what was the use of railing against that?
    He agreed to go back to