The Conqueror's Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘Of course, my lady. I will go now.’

  He went with a dramatic slam of the door and it was quiet at last. Mathilda tried to drink her wine and saw she was shaking all over. It was too much – Queen of England, it was a ridiculous idea. However throneworthy William might be, she couldn’t match up. Had that crazy encounter with Brihtric not just proved it? And the higher she climbed, the higher there would be to fall.

  Should she just tell William about her brief entanglement, she wondered? The letter surely did not exist any more. It would be easy to say that Baldwin had misinterpreted it, or that Brihtric had got ideas above himself, but imagine William’s wrath? Best to stay quiet and pray for this all to be over tomorrow. She sunk to her knees, oblivious to the sounds of merriment drifting across the compound from the hall and the giggles of lovers seeking privacy in the snowflakes. Looking to God, she spoke the familiar, comforting words of the paternoster. Twice she spoke it, but it did not feel enough.

  ‘God grant me the strength to be a good wife,’ she said, her own audacity at so addressing the Almighty surprising her, but she needed help so badly. ‘Grant me the wisdom to understand my husband’s requirements and the grace to, to care for him as he sorely needs.’

  Nearly she had asked to ‘love’ him but the word had stuck in her throat. She had loved Brihtric. Despite her fear, his touch had set a fire in her belly but now it did not so much inflame as scorch. Love was for fools, not for rulers. William would be a good king to England, she knew he would. He would labour night and day to serve his subjects as he did in Normandy – if he got the chance. Tomorrow was to be their last day in England, the last day for Edward to make his promise. She must forget Brihtric with his angel-curls and his summertime eyes and steel herself to her true purpose here as William’s wife and, pray God, future queen.

  The hunt was done and William was in a fine mood after bagging a deer in the morning and a large hare in the fading light of the afternoon.

  ‘He has such energy, your husband,’ Edward enthused to Mathilda as he and William bounded into her chamber at dusk. ‘I remember him vividly as a child. I spent some time in the garrison at Falaise. Training, you know, to reclaim my damned father’s throne.’ For a moment Mathilda saw a flash of the angry exile William had described but swiftly Edward buried him back beneath the benign mask of kingship. ‘I swear he’s just the same as he was, your husband – always on the go and into everything. Drove his poor mother wild, he did. And oh, bedtimes! You could hear his protests from the hall even through the stone walls.’ Edward chuckled and looked around. ‘The Saxons don’t have stone walls, not really. I am going to build a new church though, you know, one just like Jumièges. Did I tell you?’

  He had but neither William nor Mathilda said so for now the stiff Saxon king had pulled a stool up to the brazier and suddenly it felt more like a time for discussing the future than the past. William hastily swept his tafel board from the little side table and Mathilda replaced it with a goblet of wine for their impromptu guest.

  ‘I want a stone palace too,’ Edward went on, drinking. ‘Like in Rouen – a residence fit for a king.’

  ‘Fit for you, Sire.’

  ‘And for my successor.’ Edward suddenly fixed William in his sights and Mathilda saw that, when he wished, this ageing king could be as sharp as any. ‘You know why you are here, do you not?’

  ‘I would presume to nothing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Though I might, perhaps, aspire.’

  ‘Aspire? Very good, William. You always were a cunning lad, like that Guiscard of yours, running around claiming half of Italy.’

  William shifted, half smiled.

  ‘A man should always look to better himself.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ Edward stared into the fire then suddenly said, ‘The throne is not, you know, mine to bestow.’ Mathilda saw William freeze and edged closer to take his hand. He did not look her way but his fingers closed tightly around hers. ‘The witan – our council – must approve the choice. They have the final say but a man’s worthiness counts for much and a dying king’s wishes for even more.’ William opened his mouth but no sound came out. Edward smiled up at him. ‘It is not easy, you know, being King of England. I found her confusing when I arrived back from Normandy and I’m of English blood. She is an ancient land, William, riddled with strange customs and practices, especially in the north. Northumbria is a law unto itself. The east too. A man can lose himself if he is not careful.’

  ‘I would not lose myself, Sire.’

  ‘No? No, I think not. But be warned, Cousin – crowns sparkle far more from a distance. Gold is a cold metal, whatever they might say of it. But there now, you will not take my word for that. I was the same, so desperate to claim the throne my father lost. But beware what it might cost you.’

  Mathilda held her breath. She leaned forward and felt William do the same. Edward looked solemnly at them both.

  ‘What is said here is between us, for now at least. The court is unsettled. The Godwinsons prowl our shores and cannot be dismissed. But we must look to the future all the same.’ William’s fingers, still in Mathilda’s, closed so tightly she had to dig her toes into her boots to stop herself crying out. And suddenly here it was, the promise: ‘It is my intention, Duke William of Normandy, in recognition of our family connections, and your strong reputation as a leader, and your kindness to me as a youth, to nominate you as my heir should I die without issue.’

  ‘I am honoured, Sire.’

  ‘You are, William, but I think you are worthy of that honour.’

  ‘You are too kind.’

  Edward smiled complacently and patted William’s shoulder. Already though, he was turning away, reaching for wine.

  ‘Will you announce this?’ Mathilda asked and Edward looked back, frowned a little.

  ‘No, Duchess Mathilda, I will not. We Saxons do not declare an heir until death is close and I pray it is not.’

  Mathilda flushed.

  ‘Of course. I pray not also.’

  ‘I doubt that, but thank you all the same. Let us look upon this as a statement of intent. We can maintain relations and work together to a greater closeness as the years unfold.’

  ‘Of course,’ William said.

  ‘You will, then, write it down?’ Mathilda pushed but Edward just laughed as if she had suggested they might embroider it into a tapestry.

  ‘No need, Duchess. You have my word; it is enough.’

  His voice hardened, signalling the end of the conversation, but it seemed to Mathilda that this was a promise weighted with too much secrecy and concern. Surely an oath, at least, was needed. But now William’s hand was slipping from hers to clasp his royal cousin’s as they clunked their cups together.

  ‘I have wine,’ William said eagerly to Edward. ‘Two barrels of the finest claret from Bordeaux, gifted to me by my overlord King Henri.’

  ‘He will not be your overlord for England,’ Edward shot back, his quiet voice suddenly sharp enough to slice under Mathilda’s skin.

  She had not thought before how her French uncle would view this rise in William’s status and she looked nervously to her husband but he was too taken with King Edward to have noticed.

  ‘Of course he will not. We will be equals.’ He was all but singing. ‘This claret is a glorious vintage for a glorious night. We must share it with your court, Sire.’

  ‘We must,’ Edward agreed and Mathilda could swear she heard relief in the king’s voice.

  He took William’s arm and led him out into the cold, the snowflakes losing themselves in his white hair even as they stuck to William’s darker locks. Mathilda had no choice but to follow them across the white yard and into the great hall. Once safely within, she did not, as she had every time these last few days, check for Brihtric in the crowd for he was in her past now and must stay there. Instead, she looked up to the two thrones, set on the dais at the top end of the hall, and to her future.

  One day it wo
uld be William and her sitting up there. One day the very same chairs, carved in wood and gilded with beautiful patterns, would sit empty, waiting for them to take their place. Those English thrones were now set upon the horizon of their lives and all they must do was keep on the path towards them so that, when the time came, they were ready.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Thames, September 1052

  ‘England – see how she rejoices to welcome us home!’ Earl Godwin flung his golden arms wide to the Thames spray. The motion threw water into Judith’s face but she welcomed it for this time the ship was heading back towards England and not even the blackest of storms could have dampened the Godwinson spirits. All week Torr had been leaping around like a hare in spring as they sailed along the south coast to cheers in every port. Earl Godwin had stood at the prow, arms aloft to his people, gold bands glowing as if he were the figurehead himself. And, indeed, so he was proving to be, for the men of Wessex were flocking to him.

  If Judith looked back now she could see a ragged but determined flotilla following in their wake – fishing boats, trading vessels, small raiders, and every one filled with cheering Saxons willing their favourite earl back into power. There seemed to be no resistance – no ships in the mouth of the great Thames, no soldiers along its bank, no arrows or stones to challenge the Godwinsons’ readied shields. It was as if the Saxons sat passively awaiting restoration of the natural order. Judith placed a hand on her belly, looking for signs of the new life she was certain was forming inside her, and thanked God that this child would be born where he was meant to be – in England.

  ‘I see Thorney Island,’ someone called from the prow. ‘We are close.’

  Everyone on the boat stiffened and Judith felt a momentary fear pulse through the family she was still learning to call her own.

  ‘London Bridge,’ Queen Aldyth breathed at her side.

  The banished queen had joined the rest of her family at a place called Portland, riding there in secret with Harold’s handfast wife, Lady Svana. Svana was a beautiful willowy lady who had arrived with two little lads and a tiny babe in arms, and had fallen upon Harold who had welcomed her with such love in his eyes Judith had had to put up a hand to shield herself from it. Torr would never look at her that way. Starting their marriage under the strain of exile had taught her that all too fast. He saw her with lust, maybe even with a little pride, but never with the soft, helpless devotion Harold clearly had for Svana. But it mattered not. Judith was here with Torr, with all the Godwinsons, and already they could hear cheers from the bridge.

  ‘Are those for us?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Aldyth said. ‘The Saxons love my father. They have missed him.’

  ‘And he them,’ Judith suggested as she saw the elderly earl look about him, tears openly shining in his clouding eyes.

  ‘Oh, yes. He would do anything for these people and this land. And he certainly doesn’t want to see it seized by creeping Normans.’

  ‘Why do they not fight us?’

  ‘Maybe Edward realises it is hopeless. A good king must listen to his people and Edward’s people are telling him they want my father back.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Perhaps. I hope so, though Edward may not agree. His Norman advisors have long worked to poison him against me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think? If we have no heir the way is clear for another.’

  ‘Duke William?’

  Judith thought of Mathilda coming to warn them the Godwinsons’ power was on the wane. She’d been so sure her husband would be offered the throne and, indeed, they had been in England at Christmas. Baldwin’s spies had brought news of a very ‘convivial’ few days but not, crucially, of any announcement. Word had it that King Henri of France was enraged by the rumours and doing his best to track down any evidence of an arrangement but so far none had been found. And now Edward was, if not welcoming the Godwinsons back, then certainly not resisting them, and Godwin would never allow a Norman to take the throne. Judith hoped Mathilda would not be too disappointed.

  Earl Godwin called the vast flotilla to a halt before London Bridge and Judith looked up at it with awe. The city was spread before her, an exciting sprawl of houses and churches, lacking order but rippling with as much energy as the Godwinson men in the boat. She moved forward to stand with Torr as a small rowing boat was sent out to the guards with a leather sack.

  ‘What’s in that?’ she asked nervously but Torr just laughed.

  ‘Money, Judith. Simple but effective.’

  And indeed already the men were taking the sack and, with a crank that rent the afternoon air and sent the cheers to a new volume, the central portion of the structure before them began to slowly rise and separate to create a welcoming gap for the ships to sail through. Judith cowered, expecting an ambush, but none came. It was almost a disappointment. Even Earl Godwin looked slightly deflated but he soon gathered himself as the rowers heaved back on their oars and the great flagship moved in state through the bridge and approached Westminster. Judith’s heart fluttered as she saw the ships of the royal navy along the far bank but they were tethered and empty.

  ‘The king,’ Gytha called suddenly. ‘There’s King Edward.’

  She pointed to a slim figure in such a long gown that Judith mistook him for a priest until she saw the crown on his pale head. Aldyth wrapped her arms protectively around herself, her eyes fixed upon her husband but his, Judith noticed, were also upon her. Maybe an heir would yet be made on Saxon shores.

  She touched a hand to her own stomach as Godwin manoeuvred cautiously before Westminster. She had not felt the sickness so many complained of, not even on the ship, but she was always hungry and her breasts seemed to have swelled. Torr had even commented on it, rubbing them boisterously as if their growth was some sort of response to his crude attentions. Judith hadn’t disillusioned him. She’d wanted the secret for herself until she knew she was safe but maybe now that was close.

  She looked longingly to her wooden chest, sealed up with wax against the damaging seawater. Inside were her inks and parchment, buried beneath her gowns in their own little casket. She’d had little chance to paint back in Baldwin’s disapproving care, but perhaps very soon she would have a home of her own and blessed privacy in which to do as she wished.

  She had been talking with the monks at St Donatian’s church in Bruges and conceived of an ambitious plan to create a set of four gospel books. So far it had proved impossible but maybe at last God was rewarding her patience. For Earl Godwin was ashore now and bowing before his king who was raising him and kissing him on both rough cheeks as if he were his own son. And then, suddenly, a roar rose amongst the men on the banks: ‘The Normans! The Normans have fled. The Normans are gone!’

  The news was confirmed within moments. The Norman archbishop and his fellows had ridden out of the city, taking the back gate to the east at a panicked gallop. No man went after them, for all, it seemed, were glad to see them gone. Judith looked around the assembled court, flustered that their own arrival meant another’s exile, but then Torr took her hand and squeezed it and the panic stilled.

  ‘Welcome, at last, Wife, to England.’

  Judith determined to tell him her news that evening, as the Godwinsons were feasted with raucous, near-hysterical cheer in the rather shabby great hall of what was apparently the royal palace. Torr had told her the Saxons favoured wood, not stone, for their buildings but she had not realised he meant their royal residences as well. Count Baldwin would have scoffed at a ruler who was happy to entertain in a ‘hut’, more like the Viking halls than the castles of continental Europe, but Judith thought it pretty. She loved the elegant painted carvings on the timber uprights and cared little that they were rotting in places, so long as they kept the roof up. She felt she could easily get used to English life, save that Torr was restless and fidgety, bored of all the overly polite chatter and staring intently at a group of young men and women tryi
ng to drag the minstrels to their instruments.

  ‘Torr,’ she said then, when he did not respond to her, ‘Torr!’

  ‘What?’ he snapped and she flinched back. He softened immediately. ‘Can I help you, Wife?’

  ‘Maybe you already have?’ She raised an eyebrow archly but he was clearly in no mood for such teasing. ‘I believe, Husband, that I am carrying your child.’

  That broke his strange mood and at last he angled his lean body fully towards her.

  ‘You are? You are! Of course, your breasts. I should have realised.’

  ‘How could you? It is as new to you as to me.’

  His green eyes slid away.

  ‘Yes. Yes, exactly. How could I?’ He grabbed his ale cup, drank deep, and then suddenly leaped to his feet. ‘My wife is with child,’ he called wildly along the table. ‘I will have a son!’

  ‘Or daughter,’ Judith said but her voice was lost in obliging cheers and suddenly Torr was kissing her and toasting her health and his joy seemed to make the evening spin delightfully.

  ‘You must rest,’ he insisted when he finally sat again. ‘You must take care of yourself.’

  ‘It will be nice to be settled.’

  ‘Settled. Ah yes, settled. A home, drapes, all that.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Not drapes, Torr – I like the light. But a home, yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed keenly. ‘That will be best. Settled, yes. You need not always be travelling about with me.’

  ‘Nor, surely, will you need to travel once you are on your own lands?’

  King Edward had already promised the whole family restitution. Godwin would regain Wessex and Harold East Anglia, much to the disgruntlement of Alfgar, Earl Leofric of Mercia’s son, who had been holding it in his absence. Torr was to regain his lands in Hereford which he had assured Judith over and over were ‘beautiful’ but now he seemed less certain.

  ‘Me?’ He looked around the hall, everywhere but at her. ‘Oh, I have to keep pace with the court. The king needs me.’