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into his mind, he found himself wondering if he was investing far too much hope on what must surely be no more than an old tale whispered in the dark. He forced himself to ignore his misgivings. There was, when all said and done, nothing else . . .
    He had been so excited when he first heard about the amazing thing. To begin with, it had stirred his blood simply for its own sake and it was only later, when he realized that the bright future he had envisioned for himself was going to be blasted apart, that it had occurred to him how he might use his discovery to his own advantage.
    He needed help, for if this thing in truth had substance and was not just a wonderful myth, he had to track it down. Disguising the growing urgency of his need with his usual charming smile and the mild, slightly puzzled manner which, as he well knew, made people believe he was slow-witted if not actually simple, he had asked some very careful questions. And, eventually, he found out where he must go and to whom he must speak.
     
    He had made the journey – of some fifty miles across East Anglia, over farm land, scrubland and, on occasion, through the wild, desolate and dangerous parts of the region – the previous September. He had been at pains not to be observed, travelling under cover of darkness. For one thing, he had not sought permission for his pilgrimage. He could not have done, for when the inevitable questions as to the purpose of his journey had been asked he would have had no creditable answer other than the truthful one, and that was secret. For another thing, the Conqueror had just died and the whole country was uneasy. It was really no time to go off on a clandestine mission but, with the king’s death, time was running out and he no longer had a choice.
    As he trudged through the darkness, thankful that at least the weather appeared to be on his side, he tried to take his mind off his many anxieties by speculating on what sort of a king the Conqueror’s son would be.
    Normandy had gone to the eldest brother, Robert, and the second, Richard, was dead, killed while hunting in the New Forest. Henry, the fourth son, had, or so they said, been left a huge sum of money. With some difficulty, Romain turned his mind from the thrilling, tantalizing prospect of what he could have done with a huge sum of money. Life was so unfair  . . .
    England had been left to William, the third son.
    So, William was to be king and not Robert. Well, it was what Romain had been led to expect. He moved in circles where such matters were a frequent topic of conversation and he was well aware that the Conqueror’s relationship with his plump and lazy eldest son had been tempestuous. The king had used a variety of nicknames for the boy, his favourites being Short-Boots and Fat-Legs, and this disparaging attitude had, as Robert frequently complained, robbed him of the respect that he felt was his due. His resentment of his powerful parent broke out into open rebellion. On one occasion bitter fighting ensued, in the course of which Robert personally inflicted a wound on the great Conqueror’s hand. Father and son were later reconciled but it seemed unlikely that, given his ruthless nature, the king either forgot or forgave. William the Conqueror had died from an injury sustained as he fought the French in the Vexin, that troubled and perpetually strife-torn area between Normandy and neighbouring France to the south-east. On his deathbed he dictated the necessary letter that nominated his namesake as his heir and, together with the royal seal, dispatched it to England.
    The dying king had probably hoped that his carefully thought-out solution – Normandy to the first-born, England to the younger brother – would be appreciated as fair and therefore accepted meekly by all concerned. He ought to have known better. Apart from the main protagonists, every other Norman lord with a plot to call his own seemed to have a loud and forceful opinion. Particularly