The Conqueror's Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘William FitzOsbern,’ William told Mathilda. ‘Known to all as Fitz.’

  ‘Because Duke William is William,’ Fitz supplied cheerily.

  Close up she could see that he wasn’t the tallest man in the boisterous crowd but he had broad shoulders and naturally springy limbs and held the rest back with assurance.

  ‘Exactly,’ William agreed easily. ‘It would be too confusing otherwise. Fitz and I were raised together. His father, Lord Osbern, was one of my guardians until . . .’

  The ghost flitted behind William’s eyes again but Fitz leaped in: ‘And now I take care of him.’

  ‘Does he need taking care of?’ Mathilda asked, as lightly as she could.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Fitz agreed, his eyes suddenly solemn. ‘I’m afraid, my lady, our duke ever puts himself in the path of harm.’

  ‘And yet never,’ William countered, ‘does harm find me.’

  ‘That much is true. He has the devil’s own share of luck but he needs us all the same.’ Briefly Fitz looked sad then he visibly shook himself, his messy blonde hair flying out around his open face, and produced a broad smile. ‘Now, let me present this fine troop to you, my lady. Firstly – Fulk de Montgomery.’

  A huge man with shoulders as wide as hawk-perches pushed easily through the crowd and bowed before her.

  ‘You are welcome to Normandy, Lady Mathilda.’

  ‘I thank you. I . . .’

  But already Fitz was pulling forward someone new – a wiry man with a kind face and intelligent eyes.

  ‘Hugh de Grandmesnil,’ he introduced him. ‘And his cousin, Arnold de Giroie, though you need not worry about him for he is off to Italy any day, following many of Normandy’s sons to glory in that land.’

  Cousin Arnold bowed.

  ‘I delayed to be here for your wedding, my lady,’ he said with a grating obsequiousness.

  ‘You’re too kind. Italy?’

  ‘That’s right. I have family already established in Calabria and they write that there is much land ripe for the taking. Rich land, sewn with corn and vines.’

  ‘You wish to farm vines?’

  A roar of laughter from Fitz made her jump.

  ‘Farm! Brilliant. You have hit it exactly, my lady. His family would have you believe they are brave adventurers, conquerors even, but the brave ones were in Italy ten years ago and have made it safe for all. Farm! Oh, yes. You must remember your plough when you leave, Arnold!’

  He laughed again, the others joining in. Arnold looked furious and Mathilda rushed to appease him.

  ‘The land must be won, though. That cannot be easy.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Arnold agreed bullishly. ‘A man needs a strong sword-arm to thrive in Italy. Look at the Guiscard.’

  William sucked in a sharp breath and Mathilda looked anxiously at him but to her surprise he was smiling widely.

  ‘Robert Guiscard was my hero when I was a lad,’ he told her.

  ‘Guiscard?’ she questioned, the Norman word unfamiliar to her.

  ‘It means cunning, my lady – a fine trait. The Guiscard made his fortune as a robber baron in the hills.’

  ‘A robber baron?’

  ‘Turned great prince, yes. He has taken half of Italy – proof that a man can rise as far as his desire will take him.’

  The silver in William’s eyes was steel now, sharp as a blade. A crown can be won, Baldwin had told Mathilda when she’d first objected to this marriage. She had thought it idle talk, persuasion tactics, but maybe it was more. Did William have his eye on southerly lands?

  ‘You would like to go to Italy, my lord?’

  ‘Me?’ William laughed indulgently. ‘I would have done, perhaps, if my fate had taken a different path. I even, perhaps, should have done.’

  ‘In what way?’ Mathilda asked, intrigued, but Fitz leaped in again.

  ‘But praise God your path has brought you to marriage instead, William.’

  ‘Praise God indeed,’ William agreed easily. ‘We must get you all wives – it might calm you down.’

  Fitz put up both hands.

  ‘I am ready to be “calmed”, my duke, if that’s what it takes but Fulk here is first in line, are you not, friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He is,’ Fitz told Mathilda firmly, as if the big man were a child, ‘save that his intended is not so well disposed towards him as he to her.’

  ‘And save,’ added Hugh de Grandmesnil quietly, ‘that his intended is a venomous snake. Beg pardon, my lady, but Fulk is fool enough to have his eye on Mabel of Belleme.’

  ‘And why not?’ Fulk demanded. ‘She is heiress to the largest of Duke William’s estates.’

  ‘Largest and most rebellious,’ Hugh agreed, his voice harsh. ‘Besides which she has also inherited her family’s talent for treachery and villainy. No one brews poisons like Mabel de Belleme.’

  ‘That’s a little harsh, Hugh,’ Fulk protested, though not, Mathilda noted, with any great conviction. ‘Mabel is just high-spirited.’

  ‘Is she here?’ Mathilda asked, looking around and noticing for the first time that the milling crowd in the rich hall was made up almost entirely of men.

  ‘Sadly not,’ Fulk said.

  Fitz laughed.

  ‘There’s nothing sad about it. She’s holed up in the south, Mathilda, concocting poisons.’

  Mathilda felt her eyes widen foolishly and was glad when William stepped in with a low, ‘Easy, Fitz.’ He put up a hand to separate him from Fulk whose ham-hock fists had clenched. ‘Lady Mabel could not make it, Mathilda, but she sends her regards and fine gifts.’

  ‘Pray they’re not edible.’

  ‘Fitz!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Fitz looked anything but sorry. Mathilda scanned the jostling group of young men and felt like a little queen bee in the hive as they buzzed around her, their energy palpable. She wasn’t sure she wanted to meet Mabel of Belleme but some female company would be nice.

  ‘Are there no women in Normandy?’ she asked Herleva quietly, glancing to Adela and Judith, huddled nervously behind her.

  Herleva grimaced.

  ‘Very few. The court has, for too long, been a martial one. I pray that may change now.’ She looked around. ‘Ah, but here is Della!’

  She waved and Mathilda saw a large hand wave back. The next moment the group of men was parting and a woman – if woman it was – strode into the gap. She wore a pretty gown of deep pink trimmed with delicate silver leaves, but she was as broad as a man with a face over-filled with features.

  ‘This is Della,’ Herleva told Mathilda. ‘That is – Lady Adela de Beaumont.’

  Mathilda heard her mother splutter behind her at this unlikely namesake and smothered a smile.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Della – may I call you Della?’

  ‘Lord, yes. Everyone does. Delighted you’re here, my lady, truly. This place needs a feminine touch. The damned duchy is full of savages.’

  ‘And you the most savage of us all, Della,’ Fitz countered.

  ‘Nonsense. All you men do is hunt and drink and play tafel.’

  ‘Tafel?’

  Mathilda knew the game vaguely. Lord Bruno had a board and was always trying to find opponents but most people avoided it like the pox.

  ‘They are very keen on it here,’ Della said wearily.

  ‘It is a game of great tactical skill, Della,’ William told her.

  ‘Too great for ladies, clearly,’ Fitz teased and Della stiffened.

  ‘I’m sure I could master it if I chose to waste my time that way but I very much hope that Duchess Mathilda will refine the court with more gentle amusements.’

  ‘With sewing perhaps?’ Fulk suggested.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘And music maybe, or dancing?’

  ‘Dancing?’ Mathilda seized on this eagerly. ‘Do you like dancing, Della?’

  Della shuffled her wide feet.

  ‘It is not perhaps one of my finest talents.’ Uproarious laughter
. ‘But I see the joy of having it. All civilised courts have dancing.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mathilda agreed. ‘Will there be dancing tomorrow, William?’

  William looked as perplexed as if she had asked for a dragon.

  ‘I had not considered it. Would you like to dance?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’d love to. So would Judith.’

  She seized her cousin’s arm, forcing her forward. William looked from one to the other.

  ‘I see. Well, then, we will have dancing. Fitz – sort it out.’

  ‘Dancing? For tomorrow?’

  ‘Exactly. Come, man – how hard can it be?’

  Now it was Fitz who looked perplexed.

  ‘It matters not,’ Mathilda said hastily. ‘Truly, my lord, I do not wish to put anyone to any trouble.’

  ‘It is no trouble, is it, Fitz?’

  Fitz shook his head mutely.

  ‘But if there is no music . . .’ Mathilda said unhappily, noticing for the first time the lack of any minstrels in the hall.

  ‘There will be music,’ said a new voice from behind her. ‘I shall see to it personally.’

  She turned to see a dapper man with a warm smile. He looked older than the rest, only by a few years but it showed in the soft lines in his face and the poise in his bearing, despite a very slight limp. His hair was light and unlike all the rest of William’s men he wore a beard cut in an impeccable egg-shape on his chin, topped with a matching moustache curled at the edges with oil so that he seemed to perpetually smile.

  ‘Roger de Beaumont,’ he introduced himself. ‘I believe you’ve met my lovely wife Della and somewhere amongst the rushes are our two sons, Robbie and Henry.’

  Mathilda looked instinctively to her feet as Della hit at her husband, a fond blow but one delivered nonetheless with considerable force.

  ‘Nonsense, Husband. The nurserymaids have them quite safe – look.’

  She gestured to a pair of chubby-faced lads fighting to escape the arms of their slender nurses.

  ‘Oh, they’re lovely,’ Judith said.

  ‘Are they?’ Della squinted at her babies. ‘They’re healthy,’ she allowed, ‘and I daresay they’ll get more interesting as they grow.’

  Mathilda exchanged a look with Judith, and Herleva, seeing it, took her arm.

  ‘We have a fine nursery in Rouen,’ she told her, ‘though of course you may wish to make alterations before . . .’

  Her eyes drifted to Mathilda’s belly and Mathilda clutched at it nervously, feeling it taut and slender and struggling to imagine it swelling with a babe.

  ‘Time enough, Mathilda,’ William whispered into her ear. ‘We have not, after all, even begun yet.’

  Mathilda’s belly spiralled and the room seemed to spin a little. It was all very well thinking of William as a partner in rule but they must share a bed as well as a throne and the boundaries must, surely, blur between the sheets. She blinked furiously. So many people, such a swirl of conversations. All she could see were faces leering in at her as the castle’s grim walls had done earlier. She swayed and held tighter to William, willing herself not to faint. Not here, not now. He would think she was weak. She staggered.

  ‘Give her space!’ Della commanded, harsh and loud but oh so welcome. ‘Poor girl, she doesn’t need you lot crowding her and surely to God it must be time to eat?’

  Herleva took the cue and signalled to the doors and to Mathilda’s great relief a low gong sounded around the hall, shivering through the beautiful tapestries and shaking the rushes at their feet.

  ‘Shall we dine, my lady?’ William asked and gratefully Mathilda let him lead her through the crowd of men parting before them as if William were Moses himself.

  At the top, beside a large chair that was clearly William’s, was a smaller one, still grand and carved with intertwined leaves and flowers. Mathilda reached out a hand to trace the lovely patterns.

  ‘It was my grandmother’s,’ William told her. ‘Lady Gunnora, the last duchess of Normandy.’

  ‘She is dead?’

  ‘Has been some twenty years.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘There has been no duchess since, Mathilda, and as you can see we are ready for one. You are still glad you came?’

  Mathilda saw anxiety in William’s eyes and it melted away all the heat and confusion and tiredness. There was much to learn of this man and his boisterous male court but there would be time enough to do so in the years ahead.

  ‘I am very glad,’ she confirmed as she lowered herself onto the padded cushion. She placed her hands along the broad arms of the Duchess of Normandy’s chair, trying to ignore the fact that her feet, even in their raised shoes, did not quite reach the ground. ‘Very glad indeed.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Phew!’

  Emeline sank onto the wide wooden bed and stretched herself out across the feather mattress.

  ‘Emeline!’ Cecelia admonished. ‘That’s not your bed.’

  Emeline leaped up.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, my lady. I forgot myself.’

  Mathilda was too weary to even answer. She waved her attendant’s apologies away and lay down in Emeline’s place, gesturing to the others to join her. Cecelia perched her substantial frame on one side but Emeline flung herself down again, curling naturally in towards Mathilda.

  ‘What do you make of all these men then, Em?’ Mathilda asked.

  ‘Rich pickings! That Fulk is impressive – have you ever seen so much muscle? He’s like a Grecian statue.’

  ‘He’s taken,’ Cecelia warned.

  ‘By some witch in the south – hardly much of a rival.’

  ‘Hardly worth making an enemy of,’ Cecelia corrected sternly. ‘Besides, he’s too big. What about Hugh de Grandmesnil – he’s much lither than Fulk. Quieter too.’

  ‘Too quiet,’ Emeline retorted. ‘And he smells of horses – though I’ll warrant he’d ride well.’

  She giggled dirtily and Cecelia’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Fitz seems fun,’ Mathilda said quickly.

  ‘Fitz is fun,’ Cecelia agreed, ‘though I’m sure he could be as fierce as any, especially if his duke was threatened. His eyes follow him all the time.’

  ‘Like a hound at heel.’

  Mathilda shushed Emeline, though she had to admit that there was something of a bouncy, big-eyed dog about William’s liveliest companion.

  ‘We all need faithful servants,’ she said lightly, squeezing the hands of her own long-time companions.

  Cecelia smiled at her.

  ‘You should get to bed now, my lady. It will be an important day tomorrow and you need rest.’

  ‘Can I not just sleep like this?’

  ‘No. You’ll crumple your lovely gown and you will need it again. It sounds as if William has many celebrations planned. We go to Rouen next week.’

  ‘Rouen?’ Emeline leaped up. ‘Oh, that is good news. You will like Rouen, Mathilda. It is a lively place, far more like Bruges than this stark fortress. Come on – up you get and we’ll have you tucked in as quickly as we can.’

  Mathilda let them heave her to her feet and loosen her laces then stepped out of her gown, glancing as she did so to her wedding dress. Someone, Cecelia no doubt, had taken it from the casket and hung it from a wooden ceiling beam to let the creases drop out. She moved over and put out a hand to the full skirts, watching as the blue of the fabric shifted hue with the light and the miniature stars winked knowingly.

  Her eyes moved to the real stars through the slit of a window opening. Her room was in one of Eu’s four turrets and she could see the opposite one standing squat against the misty light of a low half-moon as if tensed to pounce. She shivered. All was quiet in the castle save for a murmur of male chatter from the hall. Fitz and his fellows had been drawing stools to the fire as she’d retired and clearly they were not yet abed. William had not, though, been amongst them.

  ‘You will not drink with your friends?’ she’d dared to ask as he’d come to the hall door
with her.

  ‘No, my lady. I see little merit in late-night ale.’ There was little merit in late-night ale, though that rarely seemed to stop most men. But then William was not, she was swiftly discovering, most men. ‘Besides,’ he’d added, taking her hand and kissing it, ‘I wish to be rested for tomorrow. It will be a big day for us – a big night too.’

  Mathilda had been unable to find any response to this statement, spoken not as flirtation but fact, and had been hugely grateful when he’d released her hand and she’d finally escaped. Now she leaned her head against the stone wall, seeking comfort in its coolness. She could feel rogue tears gathering in the back of her eyes and, on an impulse, threw her arms around Cecelia, surprising her so much that she staggered and Emeline had to catch them. All three stood there for a moment, wrapped together.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re staying here with me,’ she told them, looking from one dear face to the other.

  ‘Of course we’re staying with you,’ Cecelia said. ‘We’ll never leave, will we, Em?’

  ‘Never,’ the other girl agreed solemnly. ‘Never, never, never.’

  She held Mathilda so tight it squeezed a smile, at last, onto her lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly and made for her bed but she was stopped again by a sharp rap at the door.

  She stared at it in fright as Emeline went cautiously to answer.

  ‘Gift for the Lady Mathilda,’ came a gruff voice from outside and they all watched, stunned, as Emeline pulled back the door and two guards entered carrying, most incongruously, a gown.

  They set it down and it seemed to stand there all by itself as if waiting to be introduced. Mathilda took an uneasy step back.

  ‘’Tis on some sort of stand, my lady,’ Cecelia whispered.

  ‘I knew that.’

  Feeling foolish, Mathilda approached again. The dress was cream, though not the unbleached colour of a linen undershift but a richer, deeper hue like milk fresh from the cow. Even in the flourishing textile markets of Flanders, Mathilda had rarely seen its like and she put out a hand to touch it. It was wool but wool so fine it felt almost like silk and it was studded all over with pearls and jewels, sewn in with golden thread that laced across the surface like a delicate spider’s web.