Judith, Twice Queen of Wessex

by Lesley Jepson

  Keeping her eyes averted as Ralf helped the servants change her husband’s linens, she spooned the milk and honey into his mouth, and was rewarded by a dutiful swallow, although Ӕthelwulf had yet to open his eyes. Judith spooned more milk, and Ӕlswith cooled her father’s burning skin with the tepid water.

  ‘Osburtha.’ Ӕthelwulf’s voice was thin and cracked from lack of use, but he grabbed Ӕlswith’s hand and squeezed. She stayed silent, but Judith noticed tears well in her eyes as her father again mistook her for her mother.

  ‘Don’t speak, Lord. Just swallow this.’ Judith spooned more milk between the King’s lips, taking care not to drip any into his beard. He swallowed and then opened his eyes and smiled at her.

  ‘My littlest girl,’ he breathed, blinking slowly and looking around the room, his eyes settling on Ralf at the hearth, trying to bank the fire so it wouldn’t smoke so badly. ‘Ralf!’ he smiled and Judith paused in her ministrations.

  ‘Majesty,’ Ralf dipped his head in a bow and then tipped his head with a slight grin. ‘Welcome back, Lord. We were worried.’

  ‘Women worry, Ralf,’ the King tilted his chin at Ӕlswith as she clutched his hand, ‘we men know better.’

  ‘You have been ill, Lord. We were all concerned for you.’ Ralf moved closer to Ӕthelwulf and Judith set the spoon aside. The broth wouldn’t be long, and she didn’t want the King too tired to eat when his food arrived.

  ‘Aye. My damned chest, I couldn’t shift this cough.’ He blinked again and shifted his eyes to Ӕlswith, seated in the chair, ‘but I’ll be up and about before Osburtha delivers me another son.’ He nodded to his daughter’s belly with a proud smile. ‘Kings need sons, Ralf, even with daughters as pretty as this one here.’ He tipped his head to Judith and smiled broadly, and she beamed back at him.

  ‘They do, Lord. And you have many sons.’

  Ӕthelwulf patted her hand just as the door opened and a servant brought in a steaming bowl of thick chicken broth, the meat shredded and tender, and a loaf of soft, golden bread. Ralf took the tray and set it beside Judith, who smiled her thanks and then slid a sideways look at the King.

  ‘And now you’re going to build up your strength, Lord, and eat all this for me.’ Judith spread a piece of linen over her husband’s chest and Ralf assisted the older man to sit up, stuffing pillows behind his shoulders. Judith brought a spoonful of broth to the King’s lips and he tasted it hesitantly. His eyes widened and he smiled tiredly at Judith.

  ‘I could sleep again, child, but by God’s beard, I’m hungry.’ Judith spooned some more broth and grinned at him conspiratorially.

  ‘Eat this bowlful, Lord, and then you can sleep. And while you’re asleep, I’ll go and make sure there’s plenty more for when you wake, yes?’ She nodded encouragingly, and Ӕthelwulf eagerly nodded back.

  ‘Remind me of your name, child. I know your pretty face, but your name escapes me.’

  ‘Judith, Lord. I am Judith.’

  ‘Judith! That’s the one. A lovely name.’ Ӕthelwulf smiled at her and then looked affectionately at Ӕlswith, clutching his hand and blinking away tears. ‘Osburtha always chooses such lovely names for our children, don’t you, my love?’

  Ӕlswith nodded, unable to speak, and Judith calmly continued to spoon broth into her husband’s mouth, and thought about swans.

  ***

  Chapter 48

  'I had no idea he was so……vague,’ declared Ӕlswith as they returned to Judith’s solar. Ӕthelwulf was sleeping soundly, having eaten all the broth and even some of the softest part of the bread. He had finished his milk, and Ralf was overseeing as the servants quietly cleaned the room, sweeping the ashes from the hearth and trying to clear the miasma of the sickroom as quickly as they could. Ӕthelberht had been to see his father, and was pleased that he had been able to eat something. Of Emer Cuikishe there was no sign.

  ‘His periods of lucidity are becoming rarer, even before his illness. He knows he is the King, and always recognises Ralf, but everyone else is effectively a stranger.’ Judith put her hand on her friend’s arm in a show of sympathy. Despite the fact that she might never see her own father again, she couldn’t imagine the sadness of seeing him like that, not recognising members of his family.

  ‘I imagine he recognises Emer Cuikishe,’ snapped Ӕlswith bitterly, ‘even if he thinks she is my mother.’

  Judith sighed. She didn’t know if Ӕthelwulf knew who Emer was or not, and she didn’t much care, but she was sorry that Ӕlswith was upset. ‘He always thinks your mother is somewhere else in the palace, Ӕlswith. He often tells me to go and find her, even when Lady Emer is in the room, so I doubt he thinks she is Lady Osburtha.’

  They reached the solar, and as they opened the door, Judith saw little Frytha sat in the centre of a heap of fabric, clutching something to her neck with a beaming smile. Her ladies sat around the child, holding up pieces of material, to which the child imperiously pointed.

  ‘What do you have there, my lovely?’ asked Ӕlswith as her daughter grinned up at her in triumph. Frytha held out her hand to show them, and Judith laughed merrily.

  ‘Une poupée, Chèrie! A doll.’

  ‘My mother showed me how to make them, Lady,’ said Ghislaine with an uncharacteristically shy smile. ‘We have stuffed the head and arms with fleece, and stitched eyes and a mouth,’ Judith gazed at the doll’s features, wide blue eyes and a distinctly lop-sided smile, ‘then Lady Frytha insisted that she have brown hair, like yours, not fair like hers.’ Ghislaine grinned at Judith, who turned the doll over in her hands, marvelling at the simple construction.

  A plain piece of linen had been gathered and stuffed, with facial features embroidered on one side and long strands of brown thread worked into the top for hair. Then, on either side the hanging fabric had also been stuffed and gathered to form ‘hands’. Elin snipped a thread on the piece of velvet she had been stitching and handed it to Ghislaine, who took the doll and pushed the head through one opening, and pulled the hands through at the sides. With a smile, she danced the doll, now clad in a sumptuous bronze velvet tunic, through the air towards a delighted Frytha.

  ‘Alys is threading beads onto a piece of wire, Lady. The doll has to have a coronet, you see. To wear over her hair, like yours.’ Ghislaine giggled, and Judith beamed at the little girl, happily talking to her new doll as her mother stroked her curls.

  ‘I know you’re unlikely to have a child with my father now, my dear,’ whispered Ӕlswith, ‘but when you marry again, you’ll make a wonderful mother.’

  ***

  Chapter 49

  It was four weeks into Ӕlswith’s visit when King Burgred came to collect his family, accompanied by Ӕthelstan of Kent, who wished to see how his father’s recovery was progressing. By this time, Frytha had garnered a considerable family of ‘poppets’ as she called them, unable to get her tongue around the French ‘poupée’. Ӕlswith’s boys had enjoyed a wonderful time with the two youngest princes, practicing sword-craft with wooden weapons and riding the smallest and most gentle of the ponies. Emer Cuikishe had kept to her own rooms, avowing that she had developed a chest complaint after nursing the King, and that she didn’t want to pass it on to the pregnant Ӕlswith. Without her presence, the solar had become a hive of fashion, music and gossip.

  Judith was touched by the solicitous concern Burgred showed towards his wife, whom he obviously deeply loved. Her heart pounded in her chest when she saw him greet Ӕlswith with not just a formal brush of his lips on her knuckles, but that he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. The gesture made Judith blush and veil her eyes lest someone observe the flare in them. She wondered if she would ever be loved by anyone as dashing as King Burgred, and that thought unexpectedly summone
d a picture of Baldwin in her mind so vivid it made her gasp.

  King Ӕthelwulf made a huge effort to eat in the great hall with his family, and Judith made sure that Adal ordered food her husband could enjoy, well-cooked beef and tender mutton. The kitchen also produced a number of chickens slowly poached in wine, with carrots and onions and buttered mushrooms. Pears baked in honey until they were soft, and accompanied by freshly whipped cream were offered for dessert, along with honey-glazed plums and slices of apple. Ӕthelstan was amazed at the change of fare and complimented Judith on it.

  ‘God’s beard, Lady, you must have taken the cooks to task.’ He savoured a piece of beef that almost fell apart on his plate.

  Judith smiled and ate her chicken quietly. ‘Not really, Lord,’ she beamed, ‘I asked Adal to explain to them what I wanted, and after a few days when everything was either burnt or raw, they seemed to grasp the idea. And as the vegetables and fruit were growing in the gardens in any case, it was just convincing them of a different way to prepare them, that’s all.’

  Ӕthelstan grunted approval as he chewed. ‘I shall have to ask my wife to try and persuade our cook not to boil everything. If she can travel with me to the Witan this year, you can meet her. Show her how the Frankians cook meat without incinerating it, and vegetables without them collapsing into a heap of coloured slop.’ He looked across at his father and raised his voice.

  ‘Good beef, Lord.’ He nodded at his plate, and that of the King.

  ‘It is. My littlest girl manages the kitchen, my son. She spares your mother much work, don’t you, my dear?’ He gazed at Judith fondly and she nodded at him with a smile. They were all aware that the King couldn’t keep track of his children any longer, and they simply smiled and nodded as the old man used the wrong name for each of them.

  ‘Will he be well enough for the Witan, do you think?’ asked Ӕlswith in a whisper to Ӕthelberht, and her younger brother shrugged.

  ‘The nobles will attend, sister, as will you and my other brothers. We will discuss the Danes, and how to keep them from raiding our borders, but as for decisions, I am sure Ӕthelbald will insist on making them.’

  Judith’s heart sank at the Prince’s words. With Emer Cuikishe remaining in her rooms, and Ӕthelbald staying at his own court at Sherborne, her life had become far easier, particularly as Ӕlswith had determinedly taken charge of her father’s recovery. But once her friend had gone back to Mercia with her family, she probably wouldn’t see her until the Witan, as she would be recovering from the delivery of her child. Judith hoped the summer was long and the autumn golden; there were many months before the next Witan, and she was determined to enjoy them before the dark days and long nights began again.

  ***

  Chapter 50

  The cacophony of the battle washed over Baldwin like waves; the clash of steel weapons, the shrieks of the wounded, the groans of the dying and the shouted war cries ebbed and flowed around him. His own movements became part of the death dance, his motion unconsciously inexorable amid the blood and gore and stench of the battle.

  Hook the shield, allow Gozfrid enough space to stab with his seax, watch the Dane sink to the ground, step over the corpse and hook the next shield. Hook, stab, step, hook, stab, step. Baldwin’s world had narrowed to those three tasks, ignoring everything else around him except the tightness of his shield to the men on his right and left and the next Dane in front of him.

  He fought automatically, his body familiar with the movements drilled into it by the endless hours of practice and the yells of Gaston. The war-band of Danes had crossed the border into Northern Frankia that morning, and he had been fighting since dawn, but he didn’t feel any fatigue.

  King Charles’ brother Pepin had been suffering the effects of the Danish raiding parties on his land in the North; the enemy flooding over the border, raiding villages, killing the men and taking the women, children and livestock back to their own enclaves. So Pepin had asked Charles for help, and Charles had reluctantly sent only a token force to the brother he didn’t like and never trusted. Baldwin and Gozfrid had volunteered, much to Count Audacer’s dismay.

  Now they fought in the closest of combat. They could see the individual hairs in the Dane’s beards, see the inked pictures on their faces of dragons and serpents, smell the alcohol on their breath as they screamed.

  Hook, stab, step, hook, stab, step.

  Abruptly, the shield-wall of Danes thinned and then cleared, and Baldwin looked about him quickly. Drawing his long sword, he crouched with his shield before him, and with Gozfrid on his right, ready for an attack. Some Frankian soldiers were still in hand-to-hand combat with the remaining Danes, but their shield-wall had done its job. Behind them were a hundred or more dead Danes, in front of them perhaps a dozen who realised their defeat.

  ‘Come on then, you pagan bastards,’ shouted Gozfrid, hefting his own long sword in his hand. A large Dane took up the challenge, running towards them with a yell distorting his face and a huge war axe in his hand. The earth seemed to shake beneath his pounding tread and he raised the axe, taking aim at Gozfrid’s neck with the iron blade. As it arced downwards, the Dane’s eyes opened wide and a guttural croak emanated from his throat as Baldwin thrust his long sword into the man’s ribs. The blade slid upwards, the Dane’s forward motion pressing him further onto the steel in Baldwin’s hand, then his knees buckled and blood poured from his throat.

  Swiftly, Baldwin withdrew the blade before the collapsed corpse trapped it beneath its falling weight, and Gozfrid grinned his thanks. Baldwin saw his friend turn quickly and dispatch another Dane who was moving swiftly towards them, a slashing, sideways blow that almost took the man’s head from his shoulders. Catching his breath, Baldwin looked around. There were no Danes left upright. A few Frankian troops were delivering their final blows over on the flank, but the clash of weapons and screams of battle were stilled.

  And they still lived.

  Baldwin rolled his shoulders and then wiped his blade on the cloak of the nearest dead Dane, sliding it back into the scabbard with a whisper. His blades would need cleaning and oiling before he found sleep, but before that, there was treasure to be collected. He stepped between the corpses, removing the silver arm-rings and brooches from the dead. Across the battlefield, all the Frankian soldiers were doing the same thing; their reward for a well-fought battle.

  ‘D’you think more will come, Win?’ called Gozfrid from his task of wresting a particularly thick arm-ring from a headless corpse. Baldwin nodded, and shrugged.

  ‘Not today, my friend. Today we have done enough, but yes, I think more will come.’ Baldwin unpinned a finely-wrought brooch from the body at his feet, a circle of heavy silver with leaves and long-necked birds pricked into the pattern. Unbidden, he thought how much Judith might like the design, and his mouth twisted ruefully as he gave a heavy sigh.

  Straightening his back, he gazed across the horizon towards the west, where the sun was continuing its journey over the sky. Judith was to the west of him, and he wondered if she, too, was watching the sun’s progress.

  He would write and tell her about the battle, and perhaps enclose the brooch with his letter. He was sure she would like it.

  ***

  Chapter 51

  'Ma dame, Lord. Ma because she is female, like ‘ma soeur’ for ‘my sister’. If Ghislaine was a brother, it would be ‘mon frère’ because a brother is masculine, like it is ‘mon signeur’ for Lord.’ Elin laughed at the puzzled expression on Ralf’s face, ‘Do you see?’

  Ralf was sat on a stone bench watching the two princes at their riding practice, while the King dozed in the sunshine. Judith’s ladies had come outside to enjoy the fresh air, and Elin had taken the opportunity to speak with Ralf in French. He was finding the logic of the lang
uage difficult to comprehend, and he chuckled.

  ‘If Ghislaine was a brother, my life would be easier, I see that!’ he muttered, tipping his head at his little sister chatting and squealing with laughter amid some of the Queen’s ladies. He turned to Elin with a smile. ‘Perhaps we could practice simple things first. Greetings and farewells, yes and no, please and thank you.’

  Elin’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘Bon means good, and the word for day is jour, so ‘good day’ is ‘bonjour’. Though that is a greeting, Lord, not a farewell. A farewell would be ‘au revoir’.’

  ‘Which means?’ Ralf liked a translation for the words, so he could fix them in his mind.

  ‘Literally, it means ‘until we see each other again’. A less formal farewell, which I think would mean ‘until a better time’, would be ‘à bientôt’. But that would only be used between friends, Lord. If you are speaking to one whom you address as Lady or Lord, you would use ‘au revoir’.’

  Ralf nodded, trying to remember her words, even though watching her speak was proving a distraction. He dragged his eyes away from her lips and watched Prince Ӕthelred try and take his horse over a low jump, applauding when the boy reached the other side safely.

  ‘Please and thank you?’ he asked, and Elin smiled at him with a shake of her head.

  ‘’S’il vous plait’ is ‘please’, translating to ‘if you please’, and ‘merci’ is ‘thank you’.’ Elin spread her hands with a shrug, ‘and the word for yes is ‘oui’, and no is ‘non’.’

  ‘At least those are easy,’ said Ralf with a sigh of relief, and Elin chuckled at the way he blew out his cheeks.