She made for the guardrobe on the other side of the central antechamber. Adela had commissioned this several years back, complaining to Baldwin that her gowns were getting crushed in their tight chests. Baldwin, intrigued, had allowed the innovation and now he proudly showed it to all his finest guests. It was a simple room, hung on all four sides with rails as tall as a man, studded with hooks from which gowns could be hung to keep as loose as if they were being worn. Adela’s gowns ran along the longest wall, Mathilda’s down one side, the younger girls’ down the other and Judith’s tucked behind the door.
She moved inside but seeing Mathilda she hesitated, for her cousin had been in a hideous temper ever since Count Baldwin had returned from the Council of Rheims a month back, choked with rage.
‘Prohibited,’ he’d spat at Mathilda, almost as if it were her fault. ‘The damned match is “prohibited”.’
‘But why, Father?’ Mathilda had demanded, clearly dismayed.
‘They’re insisting on consanguinity. The Pope has some up-his-own-arse churchman with a fancy chart that “proves” – his word, not mine – that you and Duke William are too closely related to wed. All it proves, I can tell you, is that the Pope is as bitter and politically twisted as the rest of us. It’s a den of iniquity, Rome. His “Holiness” is doing this entirely because Emperor Heinrich secured him his office and Heinrich hates me and fears Normandy. Consanguinity be damned, it’s a finger up at me and at William, that’s what it is.’
Judith’s heart had quailed at such blasphemous talk but Mathilda’s response had been more practical.
‘So what now, Father?’
‘I don’t know, Maud. We must bide our time. Popes die regularly so let’s hope this one does so soon.’
‘Father!’
‘What? He’s no more God’s representative on this earth than I am. He’s just a prince protecting his lands and I’d respect him for it if he did it with sword in hand like a decent man, but this underhand manufacture of false prohibitions curdles my blood. Ah well, William has sent a delegation to appeal, so we’ll just have to hope it is persuasive. And it’s not as if you liked him that much anyway, did you, Maud?’
But the prohibition had, to everyone’s surprise, sharpened Mathilda’s appetite for a Norman husband far more than any blessing might have done. She had been stomping around with more curses than her father for weeks and it was therefore with some trepidation that Judith slid in next to her now.
‘Trouble choosing?’ she said lightly.
‘I just don’t see the point of going to any effort,’ came the grumbled reply.
Judith hid a smile.
‘But Maud, you have such beautiful gowns. What about this one – the lilac is so pretty. Or this – the yellow. You look stunning in the yellow.’
‘I look like a flower in the yellow.’
‘A beautiful rose, perhaps?’
Mathilda rolled her eyes.
‘Fine, I’ll wear the yellow but if there are bees all over me I’ll blame you.’
‘Perhaps the honey will sweeten you up,’ Judith retorted and Mathilda, after a shocked glare, gave a rough laugh.
‘Perhaps it will, Judi. Something has to.’
Judith laid a hand on her arm.
‘Duke William has a great reputation for achieving his goals, Maud.’
‘He does,’ Mathilda agreed stiffly, but then, to Judith’s astonishment, her composed little cousin seemed almost to crumple against her. ‘But how?’
Judith pulled her close.
‘With diplomacy, I suppose.’
‘Diplomacy has failed.’
‘With might then.’
‘We can hardly take up swords against the Pope, Judi.’
‘Cunning?’
‘Cunning?’ Mathilda cocked her head. ‘Perhaps. I suppose I must trust William’s delegation will be successful, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Judith squeezed Mathilda tight, feeling her small and unusually frail in her arms. ‘You must trust to that and keep content so that you stay beautiful for him.’
‘How, if he is not here to see it?’
‘Word carries.’ Judith struck a pose and adopted a rough attempt at a man’s voice: ‘Oh, my lord duke, I was at the court of Flanders the other day and the Lady Mathilda shone in her yellow gown. I swear she is the prettiest flower in all the rose gardens of Europe.’
Mathilda let out a laugh, a reluctant one perhaps, but a laugh all the same.
‘Nay, Judi, you jest.’
‘A little,’ Judith allowed, ‘but there is truth in it too. You are William’s prize, Mathilda, and must remain so for him. You are a lady of Flanders after all.’
‘As are you. What will you wear, sweet one?’
Judith looked at her own more limited choice of gowns.
‘The blue perhaps.’
‘Good idea. It matches your eyes.’
Judith blinked at this unexpected compliment.
‘Will I be a flower too, then?’ she asked.
‘Of course – a beautiful cornflower.’
Judith smiled ruefully. That would be right – she was a cornflower to Mathilda’s rose. She was pretty enough, she knew, but with her sky-blue eyes, pale blonde hair and soft, peachy cheeks, she was so obviously so as to be almost unremarkable. Not like Mathilda. Mathilda’s hair was shot through with shades of copper and bronze that made it glow mysteriously in even the lowest light. Her eyes were part blue, part green, like a shifting sea, and despite being nearly a hand’s breadth shorter than Judith she walked into any room as if she were the tallest one there. No wonder all eyes followed her; no wonder Duke William wanted to fight for her.
‘The blue one,’ Judith agreed determinedly but a cough in the doorway stopped her and she spun round to see her brother’s chamberlain shuffling in the antechamber. She looked the balding little man up and down, trying to imagine him with Emeline and gratefully failing, before remembering her manners. ‘Lord Bruno, can we help you?’
‘Beg pardon, my lady, but the Count asks you to attend him in his chamber before dinner.’
‘Me?’ Judith looked at him, astonished. ‘Not Mathilda?’
Mathilda looked surprised too but Bruno nodded firmly.
‘He asked specifically for his sister, the Lady Judith.’
His sister! Baldwin rarely called her that, despite the truth of it, for she had always been brought up more as a daughter, or, at least, a sort of favoured niece. She sat awkwardly with him, she knew, just as she sat awkwardly with Mathilda – half aunt, half sister.
‘But Mathilda must come too?’
‘If she wishes, I suppose.’
‘She wishes,’ Mathilda said firmly, curiosity burning in her green eyes.
‘Then you should hurry. The count seemed very keen to see you.’
He was looking pointedly at Judith again and she blushed under this unusual attention.
‘Oh! Oh, yes, of course. Thank you.’
In as short a time as possible, they were at Count Baldwin’s door. Judith was glad of Mathilda’s company for she had never been entirely at ease with her half-brother, but as she entered the chamber she was surprised by the count leaping from his elegant chair and rushing towards her.
‘Judith, come in, come in.’ Judith let him lead her forward, looking warily to Adela, sat on her own chair with her hands primly in her lap. ‘Take a seat, my dear. Drink?’
Baldwin clicked for his servant who rushed forward with a jug of wine. Judith accepted but did not take a sip for fear that her throat might close up. She was aware of Mathilda behind her but for once Baldwin gave his favourite daughter little more than a cursory glance.
‘Is all well, my lord?’ she asked nervously.
‘Well? Oh, yes, indeed, all is very well, Judith.’
‘Has Duke William succeeded in securing the Pope’s blessing?’ she hazarded, looking again for Mathilda.
‘Duke William? Oh, him! No, no, nothing like that. This is about you, Judith.’
&n
bsp; ‘Me?’
Judith decided maybe she would take a little of her wine after all. The count was looking at her very intently. Oh please, God, don’t say he was going to take her illumination away from her. Was he cross? He didn’t seem cross.
‘You, my dear sister, have received a proposal.’
Judith nearly fell off her stool. Wine sloshed onto her dress and she put the cup down abruptly on the side table. Baldwin chuckled.
‘Don’t be so surprised. It is well deserved.’
Judith still couldn’t find her voice but Mathilda had no such trouble.
‘A proposal for Judi? From whom?’
Baldwin steepled his fingers together and looked to Adela who sat up a little straighter. Judith drew in several deep breaths and tried to compose herself as her brother rose and spoke straight to her.
‘From England, Judith.’
Judith heard Mathilda gasp and, remembering her cousin’s heartbreak over the Lord Brihtric’s departure, prayed her brother was not cruel enough to have come to an arrangement with her lost love.
‘With whom?’ she squeaked, feeling Mathilda leaning over her shoulder like a dark angel.
‘Lord Tostig Godwinson,’ Baldwin announced delightedly, not even noticing both girls shaking in relief. ‘His father, Earl Godwin, has sent envoys asking for you.’
‘For me?’
Baldwin shifted.
‘He may,’ he allowed, with only the slightest of backward glances, ‘have spoken of Mathilda at first but I told him she is betrothed already and he is content to take you in her stead.’
Judith’s heart sank a little; who would be content to take her instead of Mathilda?
‘Mathilda is not truly betrothed though. The Pope . . .’
‘The Pope will come round. William is most certain his delegation will arrange matters, is he not, Mathilda?’
‘Well yes,’ she heard her cousin stutter. ‘That is . . .’
But Baldwin was not to be put off.
‘I know he is. This is an excellent match for you, Judith. Lord Tostig is a fine man, very handsome they say. That will be nice for you, will it not?’
‘Er, yes, Brother. Thank you. But you have truly asked him if he is happy to have me?’
‘Of course. You are a lady of Flanders, are you not?
‘I am and Flanders is of course worth much, Brother, but you said King Edward has Norman advisors. What if they are set against the Godwinsons? What if Mathilda and I find ourselves with husbands who are opposed to each other?’
‘Why, then,’ Baldwin shot straight back, unblinking, ‘it will pay to have one of you on each side.’
‘But would that not mean Mathilda and I would have to stand against each other?’
‘That would be up to you. Come now, women are more subtle than men so you two can surely manage any minor conflicts?’
Judith looked at Mathilda as Baldwin began nudging them towards the door. They had had their little disagreements over the years – mainly when Judith dared to challenge Mathilda – but they had always sorted it out. They had not before, however, had whole nations at their backs.
‘Come, Judi,’ Mathilda said with a laugh, taking her arm. ‘What dispute can Normandy and England possibly have with each other? They are divided by a whole sea.’
‘A narrow sea,’ Judith pointed out but no one seemed to be listening.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘It’s not that I begrudge Judith her happiness,’ Mathilda said, stepping thankfully out of her gown and diving for her bed at the end of an excruciating night of drinking her cousin’s health.
‘Of course not,’ Emeline agreed archly, shaking the creases from the gown and examining it for marks.
‘I don’t. I love Judi. She’s all but my sister and I want to see her happy.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘I do. Why must you question me so?’
Emeline handed the gown to Cecelia.
‘I do not question you, my lady. I think, perhaps, it is more that you question yourself.’
Mathilda sighed and pulled the covers up to her chin.
‘Maybe you’re right, Em. I admit, I am a little jealous. I should be marrying, not Judith.’
Cecelia busied herself with hanging the gown but Emeline sat down on the end of the bed.
‘You will, my lady.’
‘When?’
‘When God wills it.’
‘And the Pope – what is his will? Because that’s what this is all about.’
‘Perhaps,’ Cecelia suggested from across the little chamber, ‘he fears an alliance between Flanders and Normandy, especially with Judith marrying into England. If you went to Normandy your father might have control of the Narrow Sea.’
Mathilda looked over at her.
‘So Judith’s marriage is costing me mine?’
‘No, Mathilda!’ Emeline chided. ‘Don’t be churlish.’
Mathilda bit her lip. She longed to remonstrate with her attendant, but Emeline was right – she was being churlish. It was just so frustrating. It was over a year since William had ridden into Flanders and convinced her to become his duchess and yet here she still was, stuck in Bruges, unwed and unable, it seemed, to do anything about it.
Everyone was busy but her. Even Baldwin had new plans for the future. There had been German architects at court tonight and they had demonstrated how some neat little baked-clay blocks they called bricks could be made into a wall in no time at all – had built it right there between the dining tables. Baldwin had been nearly as full of it as he had of Judith’s damned engagement and was already ordering huge supplies. Everyone was moving forward – everyone except her. She flung back the covers and leaped out of bed again, sending Emeline sprawling on the floor.
‘I’m going to write to William,’ she said, pacing to the window as Cecelia rushed to help Emeline up. ‘I’m going to say that we are fools to bow to a council who plot against us. If politics are our only obstacle, we should proceed anyway and trust in God’s mercy to ratify our marriage once peace is established.’ Her ladies gaped at her. ‘What? Can you fault my logic?’
‘Not your logic,’ Cecelia said, ‘but perhaps your wisdom. Marrying in direct defiance of a papal edict could mean excommunication from the whole church.’
‘He wouldn’t dare.’
‘He dared pass the edict in the first place.’
Mathilda tossed her head angrily.
‘Tell her, Em,’ Cecelia urged. ‘Tell her it’s madness to suggest such a thing.’
Emeline considered.
‘It is madness,’ she agreed. ‘But not because of the Pope for he is just a man, and a fallible one too if Count Baldwin is to be believed. No, the madness is in writing such a forward letter after what happened with Lord Brihtric.’
Mathilda flinched.
‘Brihtric was a fool. He preferred to court my father rather than me. Duke William is not such a man; he agrees with what I say.’
‘Then why has he not come to claim you already?’
Mathilda’s heart bumped. She had wondered that herself, many a time. Had he maybe found a better bride? There was only one way to find out.
‘I will send to him,’ she said again, more firmly. ‘Emeline – you are still courting your Norman beau, are you not?’
Emeline had, true to form, found herself a new lover from amongst William’s entourage and the man was forever riding into Flanders to see her. All too often it had made Mathilda guiltily bitter to see her attendant with a Norman at her beck and call when her own suitor was kept from her, but at last it might be useful.
‘Lord Everard remains attentive,’ Emeline agreed coyly.
‘Good. Then you can write to him and I can conceal my letter within yours.’
‘Write?’ Emeline said, horrified. ‘I cannot write and anyway, what on earth would I say?’
‘I don’t know. Whatever you say to the man when you are together.’
Emeline laughed dirtily.
/> ‘I can just picture the poor scribe who had to write that down.’
‘We don’t need a scribe,’ Mathilda pointed out, determined now. She was sick of waiting, sick of being stuck in limbo before a misty altar. ‘Cecelia can write.’
Emeline looked over at her friend.
‘So she can. Well, that will spare the scribe’s blushes.’
‘I don’t want to transcribe her filthy thoughts, my lady,’ Cecelia protested. ‘They’re not worth wasting ink on.’
‘Oh, come on, Cee,’ Emeline said. ‘I’ll make it sweet, I promise. And I’m not filthy, men are just my weakness. It could be worse – I might have fallen for pastries instead and then I’d be all fat and wobbly and you’d have precious little room in our bed.’
‘I’m hardly ever in “our” bed,’ Cecelia grumbled but now Emeline was leaping forward again.
‘All is well, my lady. I’ve just remembered that Cecelia need not write down my “filthy thoughts”, for Everard said he would be visiting soon. He can take William’s letter to him in person.’
‘Perfect!’ Mathilda said. ‘Is that not perfect, Cee? We will write my letter and Everard will carry it.’
‘And William will show it to your father and we will all be confined to the bower for months like last time.’
‘No,’ Mathilda said. ‘This is not like last time. Brihtric was weak.’
Her heart prickled with the treachery of criticising her Saxon love but it was true. He had written her beautiful poetry but what use was being the ‘only star in his velvet night’ if he ran away at the first hint of trouble?
‘Brihtric saw sense,’ Cecelia corrected briskly. ‘Your father would never have sanctioned such a match. You were bred to be a queen, Mathilda.’
‘And now I am struggling to even secure a duchy. We must do something, whatever the risk. Cecelia, fetch a quill. Emeline, sharpen your wit. This must be good.’
It took long into the night to compose the letter and by the end, Mathilda was still unsure. She’d considered every possible approach – arcane allusion, courtly flattery, hidden meaning – and, in the end, remembering William’s own direct style, settled on three short sentences:
The Conqueror's Queen Page 3
