Edith returned Champart’s gaze, would not let him see that she feared him. All she need do was ride this storm and hope, pray, that her father intended to make a great fight for honour and earldom. And that Champart could not, before that time, invent too much of a plausible lie against her to whisper into the King’s ear.
33
Bruges
Mathilda was aware that tears blotched the face and puffed the eyes, but she cared nothing for her looks or complexion. The uglier the better, then perhaps that hateful, uneducated man would not want her. She lay face down on her bed, arms over her head, sobbing. They would be coming soon, to take her down for her betrothal—she would not go, she would rather die than be forced into marriage with an illiterate bastard-born monster. Her mother had berated her foolishness, a variety of aunts and cousins too. No one seemed to care about her fate; all they were concerned for was how bad it would look if she continued to be so wilful.
She had at least expected her sister Judith to come to her aid, but she had changed since her own marriage, cared only for Tostig Godwinesson, had treated her younger sister almost with contempt. “We all need to marry, child. Take your fate and make the best of it. You may end up as happily settled as I.” It was all right for Judith, her husband was as besotted with her as she was with him. Duke William did not care a tinker’s dented begging bowl for his prospective bride.
He had arrived yester-eve, coming by sea direct from England where he had spent ten days with the king, Edward. Dishevelled, smelling of sweat and shipboard tar, he had not bathed or changed before demanding that she be brought to him for inspection—as if she were a horse or hawk that he had purchased unseen from a travelling merchant. The introductions had been frosty and reserved. He had not been over-pleased by her appearance—well, neither was she taken with him. She would never forget, or forgive, those first words that he had exclaimed as she had come down into her father’s Hall.
“Is it likely that she will grow any taller? Or am I to wed a stunted shrub?”
Mathilda was dwarfed by his own comparative tallness. William of Normandy stood, stocky and broad-shouldered, at five feet and ten inches; she, slight and more than one whole foot shorter, had answered him with pert anger. “The smallest bush, sir, can bear the most perfect blooms.”
“Then you had better bear a brood of strong sons and prove your worth to me, girl.” With that the Duke had turned away from her to talk with his friend, another odious man who had resided at Flanders this past month, Eustace de Boulogne.
Mathilda tugged the pillow from beneath her head and hurled it across the room. She would not marry him. Was there no one else to lay claim to her—Swegn Godwinesson was here with his father and brothers, why could he not plead for her? Or the absent brothers who were in Ireland, Harold or Leofwine? Harold had no official wife, would it not grant the family higher strength by taking another of Baldwin’s daughters? Yet perhaps that was being foolish. The Godwines, while not poverty-stricken, were in disgraced exile. Their vehemently proclaimed intention to regain everything the English king had unjustly taken might be nothing more than pride-injured boasting.
The situation was hopeless. Mathilda leapt from the bed and ran to a small side table, snatched up the fruit knife, short bladed but adequate to open a vein…she laid its edge over her wrist, steeling herself to slash the thing downward…gasped as the door was unexpectedly flung inwards with no warning. He stood there, alone, silhouetted against the smoking torches that illuminated the narrow corridor outside: William, Duke of Normandy.
“I am told that you refuse to come to your wedding.”
Her throat ran dry and her hands shook. He had attended to his appearance, his hair shorn up the back of his head in the Norman manner, his chin clean-shaven. Had bathed, changed into clean and elegant robes. Was so much taller and more dominating now he was well groomed. Somewhat frightening, but alluring.
Mathilda found the courage to stand square before him, her head tilting upwards to meet his narrow stare. “I do not wish to wed you,” she said with bold impertinence, although a high-pitched squeak entered into her voice halfway through the sentence. “I do not like you.”
“I do not like you, but that makes no difference to me.” William entered the small chamber, taking in its comfortable furnishings and the clutter of feminine trinkets with one hasty sweep of his assessing gaze. “You are insulting me with this childish behaviour. Were you a man, you would learn that I do not take insults lightly.”
“Were I a man, I would have cut you down for the insult you offered me!”
William laughed at her audacity. Despite what he had said, he liked this girl, she showed courage and determination, qualities he admired. She was also, as they had promised, fair of face. A pity they had not told him of her limitations of stature, but of what consequence was small height? As long as she was capable of breeding him a son or two…He was not a man who was used to being defied, however. Once his mind was made up to something he would have it and he had decided to forge an alliance with Baldwin of Flanders, have Mathilda as his wife. Whether it was her wish or not, and whether the Pope gave or withheld his blessing.
“You will complete your dressing and accompany me to swear our wedding vows.” William picked up the wimple that Mathilda had flung there and tossed it at her. “Dress yourself and come.”
Mathilda stamped her foot. How dare this man enter her room when there was no chaperone or servant present? And then order her to do his bidding? “Get out of my chamber!” The fruit knife was in her hand; she raised it and awkwardly lunged for William’s stomach. He merely side-stepped and, chopping with his hand, sent the little blade spinning across the room. She fell forward, wincing at the pain in her bruised wrist—and he was bending over her, pulling her to her feet, shaking her as if she were a rat caught by a dog. She tried to strike out, screaming defiance and a simultaneous plea for help. Dodging her flailing legs, he set his arm around her waist and hoisted her across his shoulder.
“I take it then, madam, that you are content to be wed as you are dressed. So be it. I care nothing for fripperies and niceties. I am here to take you as wife because I require an alliance with your father. And as I have stated, no one defies my will.”
He marched from the room, descending the narrow stone stairwell two steps at a time. They were all there, gathered below in the Hall, ready to leave her father’s house and walk in procession across the cobbles of the courtyard to the great doors of the cathedral that stood opposite.
There was laughter and much ribaldry as William threaded his way through the crowd. Her mother fluttered nervously among her women, but Baldwin ordered her to be still. The Duke knew what he was doing and the Count of Flanders approved wholeheartedly. In truth, he would be content to be rid of his most vexing daughter.
***
William sipped his wine, his eyes roving the Hall, his ears monitoring the occasional overheard snatch of conversation. There were men here who did not care for him or his ambitions, papal supporters who would take every advantage of the interdict that would now be placed on his shoulders by Rome. Who was this Pope to say what a leader, a warlord, could or could not do in order to safeguard the security of his duchy? Normandy would be the better armed under Baldwin’s friendship—would Rome send aid when that damned Geoffrey Martel, comte d’Anjou, finally discovered the strength and courage to attack? Huh, the Pope was too busy defending the wealth and influence of his own friends, Germany and the like, to bother with Normandy. One day, however, one day, the Church would take note of William.
William’s eyes rested on Godwine and his eldest son, his expression puckering with contempt. Had William found himself standing in Godwine’s expensive red leather boots, he would not have run like a whipped dog, he would have gone to war. Would now be King of England, or have died in the attempt. To be a king, to wear a crown, sit on a cushioned throne, supreme above counts and dukes, equal to other king
s. He liked the idea.
He had not much cared for England, the weather had been damp and foggy much of the time, and Edward profoundly irritating with his constant grumbling that he could not hunt in adverse conditions. Nor had he met his great-aunt, the Lady Emma. She would not come from Winchester to Westminster, Edward had explained, for she was unwell. As an excuse, William thought it a poor one. He had particularly wanted to speak with her, to reestablish their family connection for his own purposes. Perhaps it had not mattered? Edward had been ingratiating, professing his debt to Normandy for the years of shelter he had enjoyed beneath her protection. And he had admitted that as he had no expectation of his wife producing an heir, William was a cousin of potential worth.
A half-smile of amusement lifted William’s mouth in memory of that particular afternoon. Fog had rolled, belligerent, across the murk of the river Thames, obscuring the far bank. Damp seeped into the walls of that idiotically sited palace—on a marsh-mired island? If the foundations did not sink, then the bordering rivers would undoubtedly flood it. And so opulent in its attempt at grandeur, useless for the purpose of defence. He would have built a castle nearer London, with high, stone outer walls, square, imposing towers to each corner, ramparts, ditch, drawbridge and iron-grilled gateway—not a feeble arch with wooden doors dividing track road from courtyard.
They had sat together before the hearth fire, sharing a jug of French wine. Somehow, William’s sister Adelaide had come into the conversation—he could not recall how.
“Her husband is ailing,” William had remarked. “He has almost reached his sixtieth year.” He had leant forward, touched his goblet against Edward’s. “Such is the frailty of our human existence. We are born, we grow, we die. Whether we can achieve all we hope within that short span of time depends on the will of God. We can but pray that our sons, and their sons, shall continue that which we began.”
Edward had glowered, had drunk of his wine, made no answer.
“I shall seek a new husband for Adelaide immediately she is widowed.” William had casually stretched his legs, pursed his lips as if in perplexity. “I shall need to find a man of integrity and honour, a man whom I can trust.”
And Edward had answered as William had so hoped he would. “Were I not married, I would wed her myself.”
During those few snatched days in England, William had studied Edward’s queen, and found her a woman of modest looks and high intelligence. Edward and Champart had made a mistake there, in assuming they could bend Godwine to their will through her. Beneath his charm and pleasant banter, Godwine was arrogant, conceited and ambitious. Not that they were qualities William despised, but he disliked men who disguised their true motives. There was nothing wrong with ambition, but it was effete to conceal it.
William had lowered his voice so none other than Edward might hear. “Your father, I believe, set aside his wife in order to secure my aunt, Emma, your mother.”
Edward had studied the last dregs of wine in the bottom of his goblet. The circumstances for that marriage were entirely different from his own and irrelevant. “Godwine would never permit it,” he mumbled, not wishing to conduct a prolonged conversation on the technical variants of English marriage customs.
“Godwine,” William had pointed out, with a laconic smile, “is in exile and could do nothing about it.”
Remembering how Edward had looked up at him, eyes alight with eagerness, William’s thoughtful self-indulgent smile increased.
Edward had hoped to be rid of Edith along with Godwine. As yet, Champart had not managed its legal doing. Did he seriously want another wife in her place? He disliked women, bossy, fussing creatures. They were all right as little girls, but girls grew up to become domineering matrons. It would drive the dagger deeper into Godwine were he to wed Adelaide of Normandy, though. He ought to have thought of it before—damn Champart, why had he not suggested it? The man was too preoccupied with his own affairs now that he was made Archbishop of Canterbury, had no care for Edward’s problems and needs.
Watching the thoughts swirl and churn over the King’s so readable face, William had dangled the bait, snared the catch and wound it in. “Normandy can help rid you of your boils.” His voice had been low and comforting, so like his father’s. “All I ask in return,” he had added, “is that, as your close kinsman, you perhaps consider me as your heir.”
Edward had shaken his head. “We do not follow the law of primogeniture here in England.” Had added bitterly, “Although you would not think it so from my earls with their poxed sons. It is for Council to appoint the king, not me.”
“Ah, but a kinsman is always considered, n’est-ce pas?”
“Not necessarily. The most suitable man is chosen.”
William had frowned at the first part of Edward’s answer, smiled at the second. “Then it is settled! I am your cousin—perhaps soon, even your brother—and I am, without doubt, the best man. I would be honoured to be chosen as your heir.”
Later, Edward would puzzle how this young and vibrant duke had managed to proclaim himself as his heir, but did it matter? With the Godwines gone, there was a need for new alliances, for fresh blood to come into England, and Edward did owe much to Normandy, especially to the previous duke, William’s father. Robert, Edward liked. He had been kind and attentive, had even attempted to help regain the throne from Cnut—although the attempt had failed, resulting in Alfred’s death. Godwine had been responsible for that, and Emma, may God rot them both.
“I admired your father,” Edward had said to William as they had clasped hands in friendship, “loved him, he was a good man. You have his eyes, and the same firm hand.”
Jolting back to the present, William realised someone was addressing him—Godwine. Mentally he shook himself and acknowledged Godwine’s congratulations.
“She is a handsome young woman,” Godwine remarked. “I wish you good fortune and many sons.”
“A man’s fortune depends on his own determination, but for the sons I thank you. No man, if he is not to waste all he has achieved, ought be cursed with a woman who cannot provide him with the means to continue his line.”
Godwine calmly returned this arrogant young pup’s stare, eye to eye, as a group of dancers whirled past, feet stamping, heads tossing as the rhythm of drum and lute quickened the pace, their shrieks and laughter heightened by the headiness of the wine, cider and barley-ale that had poured so freely from jug and barrel throughout the afternoon. One, a Flanders man, knocked against Godwine’s arm, sending his own wine splashing over the gold-embroidered thread of his tunic sleeve. The dancer called a quick, brief apology, but Godwine, laughing, waved him on his way. The distraction had given him a few seconds to think. What was this Norman whelp hinting at? “There are some women who are cursed with a husband who cannot—for whatever reason—sow ripe seed.” Godwine said, a smile sitting easy on his lips. “Do you not breed horses, young sir? If mares do not produce foals, it is the stallion who is taken away to be gelded, not the mares slaughtered for meat.”
Conceding, William nodded brusquely. “I agree, but if a stallion is removed, a replacement of equal breeding must be found, a younger, more virile colt.”
So that was it! This Duke of Normandy was scenting out higher stakes for himself! Godwine allowed his shoulders to lift and fall. There was much that he could have said in answer, but he let the words lie silent. Cnut took England because Æthelred had proven an incompetent fool. A useless stallion replaced by the virile colt? All the more reason for Godwine to return to England, for Edward was too much like his father.
A knot of men and women obscuring the view of the high table parted momentarily, and William caught sight of Mathilda sitting there, her shoulders hunched, head dipped forward. All others were merry and enjoying the festivity. Damn her, why did the wretched girl appear so miserable?
“Your bride seems none too overjoyed at becoming Duchess of Normandy,
my Lord Duke. Perhaps she is timid of the privy part of the ceremony?”
William swung his head towards the speaker who had approached to stand beside his father. Swegn Godwinesson, Godwine’s eldest. A swaggering coxcomb, or so William had heard said. Flicking his eyes disdainfully up and down the man, the Duke could not reason why. Thin-boned, with dark bruising beneath his eyes, he looked pallid and ill, as if death shadowed his footsteps. Or was it that he had partaken of too much wine?
“Then her modesty becomes her.” William answered with scorn. A man who allowed drink to override his senses was not a man to heed. “Unlike some men, I would not take a wanton to my bed as wife.”
The Duke’s thrust was direct, but Swegn, his skin grown too thick to feel such a harmless pinprick, ignored it. He was drunk because wine dulled the pain that was stifling his lungs, which spotted bloodied phlegm whenever the coughing fits came upon him. Drink took away the fear of knowing that unless his father attempted to return to England soon, he would not be going with him. Not unless it was within a coffin.
Disdainful of the company, William strode across the room, parting the jostling crowd of guests with his hands as if they were sapling branches overhanging his path. He reached the table, leant across and boldly lifted the girl up from her chair and over the table. She screamed her indignation and he laughed along with others in the Hall. “It is time we completed these nuptials,” he announced. “We will away to our chamber!”
Mathilda beat her fists on William’s back as he tossed her over his shoulder. “I have never known such a willing maid!” he jested, masking his anger by making a pretence of humour.
Gathering tight-packed at the bed-chamber door the guests tossed their ribald advice at the groom. Within the chamber, the women were preparing the bed, scattering rose petals and setting out wine and wafers upon a side table. William roared at them to leave, sending them scurrying away, squeaking and twittering. Unceremoniously dumping Mathilda on to the bed, he turned to the door, slammed the wood shut in the faces of those outside and thrust the bolts home. He was alone with Mathilda and she would, whatever her objection, become his wife.
I Am the Chosen King Page 26
