Judith, Twice Queen of Wessex

by Lesley Jepson

  That the Danes had claimed the high ground had disappointed Gaston, and a ream of curses had issued from the mouth of the grizzled old warrior. But there was nothing to be done, so he had made sure his men were fed and caught a few hours’ sleep. The battle wouldn’t begin before dawn, and he had the time to discuss tactics with King Charles and his brother King Pepin. Their scouts had told them that there looked to be only a couple of hundred Danes, and Pepin alone had brought more warriors than that with him. Added to the troops commanded by King Charles and the contingent of Wessex soldiers led by Ӕthelbald, the battle should be easily won and the audacity of the raiding party routed.

  As Baldwin strapped on his armour, he felt relief that his father would be well behind the battle lines, with the two kings and the three young princes. Count Audacer tried to persuade Baldwin to stay with him, and that he need not fight, but the young warrior was eager for combat.

  The page assisted him with his breastplate and greaves, and did the same for Gozfrid. They both wore metal sewn into the chausses strapped to their legs, so the Danes could not cut through their ankles and cripple them in the midst of the battle, and they had metal cuffs around their forearms. Their helmets they would put on last, so they could see where they were setting up the shield wall. The helmet restricted their vision, so they could only see the man in front of them; the one they had to kill.

  Baldwin fastened his cloak over his armour, and watched as Gozfrid did the same, then he eased both his sword and his seax in their scabbards, making sure that the draw was smooth. Grasping his shield onto one arm, and gripping his helmet in the other, Baldwin strode towards the milling soldiers, hearing Gaston’s loud voice spitting orders and curses intermingled with different languages, French, Latin and a halting, guttural speech that Baldwin presumed the Wessex contingent understood.

  Still the boom of the war-cry echoed though the mist, and Baldwin stood with Gozfrid as Gaston barked the shield wall into place.

  ‘When do we charge?’ A voice to Baldwin’s left, speaking accented Latin, attracted his attention, and he turned his full face towards the speaker so that he might see him through the eye holes of his metal helmet.

  ‘Charge? We don’t charge.’ Baldwin replied in the same language, trying to see to whom he was speaking. The man also wore a visor and closed cheek-pieces.

  ‘Then how do we fight?’ whispered the man.

  Baldwin tried not to gape at the question; from the armour alone he knew the soldier was from Wessex, and he wondered how they fought, if not in a shield wall.

  ‘Have you never been in a shield wall before?’ The young man beside him shook his head. ‘We step. One pace forward, keeping our shields locked. They step forward, and you will hear their boom of a war cry with every step. That’s how they fight.’ Baldwin tried to keep his explanations short and simple; he would be relying on this fool to keep him alive, and he didn’t want him throwing down his shield and running away in terror.

  ‘Then we kill them?’ Baldwin heard the tightness in the man’s throat as he turned away and spoke to the man on his left. Baldwin heard him repeat the explanation he had just given, and his stomach clenched. Were these troops from Wessex any use against the Danes? Had any of them fought before, or was it just his misfortune to stand beside a complete novice. He thanked God that Gozfrid was on his other side; they would protect each other.

  The man turned back to Baldwin, ‘Will the battle take long, do you know?’

  Baldwin wondered why the young man had asked such a question; he had never timed a battle, but everyone fought until there was a clear winner, or until they couldn’t see their opponent. Absently he wondered if the moon would be bright enough to continue the fight, and then he let go of all the thoughts and worries.

  Gaston had given the order to step forward.

  ‘Watch me. I am Baldwin D’Audacer and I have fought in a shield wall before,’ Baldwin spoke urgently to the man beside him, trying to make himself heard over the Dane’s battle cry. ‘You hook his shield down from the top, and I’ll stab the pagan Danish bastard. But keep your shield tight to mine, because he’ll be trying to do the same.’ Baldwin nodded further along the line, ‘Tell your friend what I just said, because he’ll also have to do that. Hook and stab, step forward, hook and stab.’

  Baldwin waited until the young man had passed on his instructions and then said, ‘Your name, Lord? So I know whom to praise when you save my life and we are singing songs about your bravery.’ He knew this was flattery. If anyone would save his life, it would be Gozfrid. But he didn’t want the young man to run before the fight, and if he happened to die, Baldwin would tell his family that he had fought bravely in his first shield wall.

  ‘Ӕthelbald of Wessex, Lord,’ shouted the young man above the huge reverberating battle cry of the Danes, and Baldwin whispered ‘Merde’.

  Then the Danish shield wall loomed up through the mist, and Baldwin didn’t have the chance to say anything more.

  The battle had begun.

  ***

  Chapter 42

  It proved not so much a battle as a rout. The two hundred or so Danes proved no match for the couple of thousand Frankian troops, and although there were many dead soldiers who wouldn’t be returning to their homes in Frankia, no Danes survived.

  The stench of the battlefield, the blood and urine and excrement from all the disembowelled bodies caught Baldwin in the back of his throat, but it didn’t stop him and Gozfrid from joining the other soldiers in the pursuit of booty from the dead Danes. His back and arms ached from the fight as he helped Gozfrid take booty from a headless Dane. He had stabbed and slashed at the enemy, smelling the stench of the wine on their breath and seeing the hairs in their beards as he had cut them down. Gozfrid had done the same, and in fairness, the Wessex Prince on his other side had acquitted himself well in the battle, despite a brief pause for him to vomit. At least they hadn’t died.

  Pouches of silver, as well as arm-rings, belt buckles and brooches were stripped from the bodies, along with any armour that might prove useful for the next battle. Shields that had survived without the gouges or splits from Frankian axes were prized, as was mail and stout leather boots. The dead no longer needed them, so the living had their pick.

  Then, laden with silver and gold, the survivors wanted to celebrate, so the troops descended on the nearest town to spend their hard-won booty. The publicans and inn-keepers of Ballon were happy to exchange barrels of ale and flagons of wine for pieces of Danish hack-silver, and the whores were pleased to earn more than a copper coin in the celebrations.

  Baldwin and Gozfrid laughed at the soldiers from Wessex. Unused to the golden ale of Frankia and deeming it weaker that the brew they drank, they consumed gallons of the alcohol then realised too late that it was stronger than they had thought. Baldwin lost count of the soldiers staggering outside for a call of nature, and then collapsing in a drunken heap once the fresh air hit them.

  He drained his cup of ale, and gestured to Gozfrid that he was going outside to relieve himself. ‘Ask that sweet little thing to fill us up again, Goz, while I go and take a piss.’ He gestured to the daughter of the landlord who was staggering around the room weighed down with jugs of foaming ale to replenish empty cups and goblets.

  ‘No problem, Win. When you come back, I’ll go outside myself, but I don’t want to lose these stools.’ The room was packed, and seating was at a premium. Gozfrid flexed his shoulders, aching from the battle, and Baldwin stood, rolling his own neck ruefully.

  ‘When we return to the castle, I’ll bribe my father’s servants, Goz, and see if we can get some hot water for a bath.’ He winked at his friend and strode out of the door as Gozfrid beckoned the serving girl.

  Baldwin walked around the perimeter of the b
uilding, stepping over sleeping bodies as carefully as he could, the flickering light from the tavern windows casting large shadows in the gloom. He smelled the latrine pit before he saw it, and decided that a convenient tree would do, if he could find one in the dark.

  Keeping the whitewashed walls of the tavern in sight to his right, Baldwin followed the building around until he knew he was in the rear yard. No windows were illuminated, but he could hear the bleating of goats in the barn, and the sleepy clucking of chickens in their coop. He trod lightly towards the shed, feeling the building pressure of his bladder; he didn’t have much more time, so the side of the barn would have to do. Baldwin unlaced his breeches beneath his leather jerkin and sighed in relief.

  Low voices attracted his attention, so when he had finished and re-laced his breeches, he moved quietly around the far corner of the barn, expecting to see one of the soldiers with a girl from the tavern enjoying a little privacy.

  As his eyes adjusted to the deeper gloom, he saw a figure leaning against the wall of the barn, sighing with pleasure and tangling his fingers in the woman’s long hair, pressing her face further into his crotch as he trembled and groaned with his climax. Baldwin’s lips twitched in amusement, and just as he turned, the moon peeped from behind a cloud and illuminated the scene before him.

  He recognised the man as the one beside him in battle, Ӕthelbald of Wessex, and he couldn’t help but think that Judith would be less afraid if she saw this man as he was now, eyes closed in ecstasy and replete with satisfaction. Then the woman rose to her feet and Ӕthelbald grabbed her hair and crashed his lips onto hers in a hot, passionate kiss.

  Except that the person wasn’t one of the tavern wenches. Baldwin recognised the person kissing the Prince; he had been introduced to Eanwulf, Ealdorman of Somerset, by his father.

  Baldwin spun on his heel and picked his way across the yard, back to the tavern, his mind in a whirl. He had no interest in the Prince’s sexual proclivities; that he frightened Judith was a cardinal sin far graver than the one he had just committed.

  ***

  Chapter 43

  Baldwin strode back into the tavern and dropped onto the stool Gozfrid was jealously guarding. He picked up his tankard of ale and swallowed every drop, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his shirt, then he uncharacteristically banged the cup loudly on the table to attract the serving girl. Gozfrid raised his eyebrow at his friend.

  ‘Something has vexed you, Win?’ Gozfrid asked him with a questioning frown, and Baldwin’s mouth compressed into a tight line. He waited until the girl had poured him another cup from her ale-jug and he had paid her a copper coin, then levelled a glare at Gozfrid.

  ‘I have just seen the Prince from Wessex being serviced against the privy wall by his companion.’ Baldwin’s voice was tight and Gozfrid frowned, giving thought to the statement he had just heard.

  ‘That lad, you mean? The one that was next to him in the battle?’ Baldwin nodded slowly, this time sipping at his brew while Gozfrid snorted a laugh and shook his head in silent disbelief.

  Baldwin regarded his friend with a hard look. ‘That damned mignon is upsetting Judith. Making her life a misery, while he brings his….his..companion here and then gets his pleasure in the middle of a field! Has the man no self-respect? He is a Prince, for God’s sake. He has his own apartment where he can act however he wishes. He doesn’t need to make such a public display of his preferences.’ Baldwin’s voice rose with irritation and Gozfrid patted his hands into the air to try and make him lower his tone.

  ‘So, are you angry that he prefers men, or are you angry that he is outside, preferring men?’ Baldwin heard the laughter bubble in Gozfrid’s throat as he asked the question, and he scowled at the bottom of his almost empty cup. He sighed and replaced the cup more gently on the table.

  ‘I am angry that he upsets Judith, Goz. I don’t care if he likes men, women or goats in his bed, as long as it stays private. But if he upsets her too much, he might wish he had been more circumspect. The Church takes a dim view of sodomy, both here and no doubt in Wessex. He had better be careful.’

  Gozfrid looked around the tavern, at the soldiery getting determinedly drunk in celebration of the victory over the pagan, their laughter and raised raucous voices drowning out their conversation. He leaned forward and spoke quietly.

  ‘What can we do, Win? She is in Wessex, married to the King. Once we sober up, we shall be back at the palace with our own King. Upset or not, she is a long way away from us.’

  ‘A boat-ride away, Goz.’ Baldwin swallowed another mouthful of ale and closed his eyes, frowning at the headache that had sprung up from nowhere. ‘Perhaps a lengthy boat-ride, but nevertheless, if she needs me, I can be with her in a few days.’ He opened his eyes and glared at Gozfrid. ‘And if ever she does need me, that mignon bastard had better beware, Prince or not.’

  ***

  Chapter 44

  Following Ӕlswith’s departure, the weather in Wessex seemed to get worse. Apart from the odd day of cold, bright sunshine, Judith found the climate damp and depressing. The view from the window of her solar was of brown bare earth and grey skies, with a pernicious drizzle that clouded everything and never seemed to allow light to penetrate the palace, even at noon.

  Embroidery became impossible, as candles and rush lights were unable to illuminate the murky gloom that hung heavily in every room, so Judith asked Adal if he could find a weaver in the town who might come and show her ladies his skills. A huge loom was brought into her solar and a craftsman was escorted into the Queen’s chamber to teach those who wished to learn the skill of weaving the fleece they spun into cloth.

  Many of the ladies who tried to learn simply had no aptitude; it was difficult, strenuous work, pulling the warp-weighted frame and threading the weft, but Sibyl, niece to Lady Emer, proved an apt pupil, and when the weaver had shown them all his abilities, Judith had Adal purchase a small loom at which Sibyl worked diligently.

  Reading also proved difficult in the uncertain light, but the language lessons continued and soon Judith was able to communicate with the servants in their own language, and a few of her ladies could speak a little conversational French.

  The cold, damp weather suddenly got even colder, and snow blew in from the north, bringing a stinging wind and carpeting the earth in sparkling white. Judith, unused to such endless chill, huddled in layers of clothing and moved her chair nearer the fire. Adal ensured there was a plentiful supply of logs, hauling and stacking them himself, despite his missing hand.

  As suddenly as the snow came, it disappeared almost overnight, leaving the ground a sodden morass of mud not helped by violent rainstorms. Judith and her ladies were tired of being indoors and longed for dry weather so they could walk outside and not get wet through and freezing cold in a matter of moments.

  Then, much to her delight, Judith spied the first green shoots springing from the wet earth. The sun began to shine with a little warmth and the branches of the trees began to mist with the green buds that would burst into leaf with a little more encouragement. Lenten lilies bloomed in the hedgerows and the early morning birdsong returned. Spring was on its way.

  Chère Baldwin, le temps rend l’hiver si ennuyeux ici

  Dearest Baldwin, the weather makes winter so tedious here.

  We have had rain, then snow and then rain again, and the ground is boggy with water. It seems an age since we have been able to walk out of doors as there are no stone or paved paths here. I long for my father’s gardens, where we could walk in all but the most inclement of weather.

  Adal has promised to find me a pony when the spring comes, so I can ride and see something of the surrounding countryside. My husband gifted me some parkland and an abbey, and I look forward to being able to go and view my
properties.

  Prince Ӕthelbald retreated to Western Wessex almost as soon as he returned from assisting you fight the Danes. If I write that it was a sad day that he wasn’t vanquished by them, I shall have to confess it to Archbishop Ceolnoth, so I won’t write that at all, Baldwin. Not at all.

  My husband has ridden frequently, despite the bitter cold and relentless rain, and as a result, has taken a chill. We can hear him coughing throughout the night, and Ralf and the physicians take turns sitting by his bedside. I have suggested a few remedies that my mother taught me, but these have been dismissed as too foreign for a King of Wessex. So despite my recommendation of a tincture to soothe his throat, he continues to cough.

  His daughter has said she will come and visit soon, and I look forward to seeing her. She was very kind to me last time she came, and might order that they try at least one of my remedies. I am afraid Lady Emer has taken over the duties of nurse, and I have allowed it. At least it keeps her away from my solar, and we can speak more freely. Her niece Sibyl is still in attendance, but doesn’t bear me any malice, I think.

  I look forward to your next letter, Baldwin, with news of my family. My mother writes occasionally and tells me some things, but you can tell me the interesting gossip. Are my brothers still training with you and Gozfrid, and do the other soldiers still knock Charles on his back? I would love to see that. Do describe his face to me, I beg you. How is Lothaire? Remind him of his promise to write.

  I still miss you and think of you often, riding your horse or practising your swordsmanship. Making us laugh when you interrupted our games. Making me laugh. I might smile here, even chuckle sometimes, particularly at Ghislaine, who says the most incorrigible things about people, but I can’t remember that last time I truly laughed, except with you.