William the Conqueror: Autobiography

They called me William the Bastard, for that was what I was –a William and a son of two lovers. My father, the Duke Robert of Normandy, used to tell me he met my mother dancing by the stream. They fell in love; I was the result, born in 1027, anno domini.

Normandy is a rather small bit of land on the coast of Northwestern France that my ancestors had managed to haggle out of the French king some generations ago. I know almost nothing of what really happened (history has always bored me), but somehow or rather my father became duke, and got all the smaller lords and barons in Normandy under his thumb.

That’s me in the picture! When I was seven, my father Robert decided to go on a pilgrimage. Perhaps he had done a great deal of wrong things, and felt a need to make up for those before he died. He explicitly said in his will I was his heir, and I was to take control if he didn’t return.

He didn’t return.

So when I was seven years old, I became William, Duke of Normandy. The problem was, though, that the other lords and barons that had been controlled by my dad weren’t happy with me in power, and war broke out in the region. Suddenly almost everyone was out to get me, so my few loyal relatives kept me in hiding. It was a rough childhood. I hardly understood during the first few years why I had to leave my comfortable castle for dank caves and cooped-up cottages. I learned much and saw much during that time, and swordfights and quick-wittedness became ingrained into my mind and heart.

By the time I was nineteen, I had finally managed to get the military help of the French king, and with that I proceeded to crush the mutinous barons at the town of Caen. Now I, like my father, had got all Normandy under my thumb. I sat down to rule Normandy. Some would say I had an iron grip, but I doubt there was any other way to rule this unruly land. I was harsh, and I was a fierce warrior. That kept me as Duke.

Perhaps it might be important to mention a little of my family relations in order to explain this part of my life better. You see, I was related to the king of England through my great-aunt Emma (May she rest in peace). So when the King of England died (May he also rest in peace), I discovered I had a better claim to the throne than the heir the king of England wanted: Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex. I wanted England for myself. Yes, I had Normandy, but why shouldn’t I have Normandy and England with it?

I also reminded Harold of a promise he made some years ago before the English king’s death. By a wind of my good fortune (and a wind of ill-fate for Harold), King-to-be Harold’s ship got wrecked on my coast, and I decided to play a little game. I brought the heir to my palace, and treated him to good meals and good soft bedding. Then I promised Harold that I would bring him back safely to England, if he swore to give me the crown of England upon his king’s death.

Poor Harold did not refuse the bargain. My ancient ancestor had haggled Normandy out of the ancient French king’s lands, and I had haggled England out of Harold’s hands. Notice the resemblance?

However, when Harold returned, and the old English king died, Harold refused to just hand me the crown. He made himself king, and dared me to come over and take the crown off his head. I prepared Normandy for war. England was to be mine!

While I was getting ready and waiting for the right time to strike, Harold was fighting other people who also envied his throne. Harold bravely defeated them all, with the exception of me.
In 1066, we met in battle, for the first and last time. I had already landed on Hastings, southern Britain, with seven thousand knights, footmen, archers, and mercenaries. Harold had an army of spearmen, and a few archers.

The Battle of Hastings lasted all day, but my horsemen and knights overrode and crushed Harold’s line of infantry. Harold got shot in the eye, and died. I had fought King Harold Godwinson and won. I conquered Britain and had myself crowned King. I was ruler of two whole countries!

People no longer called me William the Bastard. Now they called me William the Conqueror, as I am known in those pieces of tree-scrap parchment you call “books”.

I proceeded to set up my government in Britain, established a stable tax system, put down all the little rebellions around my new lands, built brand-new castles, and returned back to Normandy to supervise both of my kingdoms. Now, after all the excitement of victorious conquest, I felt bored. So I continued going into wars and getting out of them; I suppose I never felt whole without at least some form of fighting every now and then. Some might say it is in every Norman duke’s blood instinct to go to battle (and hopefully, win).

Alas, in one such battle, I got wounded. An arrow got stuck in my shoulder, dangerously near my heart. My physicians tried to pull it out, but to no avail. Now, at my deathbed, in the year 1087, I have gotten a solid, stout priest to write for me this brief account of my life, so somebody in the far future may read and be inspired.

And I’m so vain.





.