‘What for?’
‘Oh, you know, lordly duties. He will not, will he, make me an earl if he forgets I am even there?’
‘I suppose not,’ Judith agreed reluctantly. ‘And you want to be an earl?’ He gave her a scathing look. ‘Of course you do. Sorry. So you will not stay with me in Herefordshire?’
‘Sometimes. As much as I can, obviously, but the court moves and I must move with it if I am to, to . . .’
‘Keep pace?’
‘Exactly. Fret not, Judith, I will see you well cared for, the little one too. And you will prefer it, will you not, in our own home?’
He was half on his feet now. The dancing was starting and his body was twitching as if the minstrels were pulling their bow directly across it.
‘I might be lonely,’ Judith objected, trying to imagine it.
She had always been surrounded by people; indeed, she had complained bitterly about it on many an occasion. Briefly she saw a blissful glimpse of long days, just her and her inks, and was tempted by it but something felt wrong.
‘Nonsense,’ Torr said. ‘You will have our son.’
‘Or daughter.’ He waved this away. ‘You, then,’ she asserted, ‘will you not be lonely?’
‘Me?’ He laughed and then cut himself dead. ‘I will cope,’ he said gravely. ‘Now, shall we dance? Oh no, you should not.’
‘It’s fine. I am perfectly well, Torr.’
‘No, no, no. We cannot risk it. You are too precious, Judi.’
She looked longingly at the gathering dancers.
‘But I would not want you to miss out.’
‘No? Very well. I will not be long.’
And with that, to her great surprise, he was gone, leaping the benches and scooping up the nearest girl as if she’d been placed there just for him. Judith rose to object but saw the restored Queen Aldyth’s eyes upon her and did not wish to make a fuss. Torr was probably right. She probably shouldn’t risk it and, besides, it was only a dance.
It was later, on her way to the latrines behind the hall, that Judith saw exactly how hard her husband liked to dance and what a risk that might be. It was the girl she saw first, up against the wall, head flung back and face caught in a grimace of ecstasy, her breath escaping in short, thrilled gasps. The man was nothing more than a shape in the darkness, hands buried in bunched-up skirts. Judith ducked away – such encounters were not unusual later at night and were best ignored – but as she scuttled round the pair she heard the girl call out, ‘Oh Torr, yes!’ and turning, she saw her husband burying himself in her with a cry of joy. He looked over as if sensing a watcher, but it must have been too dark for him to see more than the outline of her skirts for he gave a low chuckle and beckoned.
‘Room for one more, little one, if you like what you see.’
She should have said something, should have made some cold, dignified remark. That was what Mathilda would have done, but she was not Mathilda and she’d had nothing in her save a strangled cry.
‘Uh oh,’ she’d heard her husband say but she was gone, running for her funny wooden guesthouse, the rickety palace of Westminster swirling around her like a bad dream.
Torr caught up with her at the door, worming his lithe body into the frame before she could force the latch down.
‘This then,’ she threw at him, still striving to push him out, ‘is why you want me more “settled”? This is why you want me shut away in the countryside whilst you gad about court burying your sordid self in other women?’
He flinched.
‘It was a moment of madness, Judi. I . . .’
‘It was not.’
She saw it all so, so clearly now. It had been there throughout their awkward stay in Bruges – Torr in too-tight dance-holds, lurking in strange places, coming to bed late and smelling of sweat. Lord, she’d even caught him with that giddy Aileen before their wedding and had not recognised his excuses for what they were – lies. She’d taken his hastily proffered ring like a naive, blind fool but her eyes were open now.
‘I thought it was I who was “appetising” to you, Husband, but I see that it is all women.’
‘You’re just such beautiful creatures. And you are appetising, Judi. I just, just . . .’
‘Want more?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to . . .’
‘No you won’t, Torr. Or, at least, if you do you won’t succeed. You will not – cannot – be faithful to me.’
She spoke it calmly for the clear truth it was and he looked intently at her.
‘And you . . . you are content with that?’
‘Content?’ She rolled the word around her tongue. ‘Not content, Torr.’ His face fell but her mind was working fast now. ‘But I could, possibly, find consolation elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere?’ His eyes widened. ‘Now Judith . . .’
‘Oh, not with other men,’ she said impatiently and stood back to let him into their guesthouse at last. He sidled nervously past and faced her across the clutch of seating that formed the receiving area below their bedchamber. ‘I wish to commission a set of gospel books, Torr.’
‘How many is a set?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Four.’
‘Four?! Could we not start with one?’
She tipped her head to one side, pretending to consider.
‘One for this transgression, Torr? That seems fit, yes.’ He smiled but she wasn’t finished with him. ‘And then, of course, another for every future . . .’
‘Four is a good number.’
‘I think so.’
‘It will be expensive, Judi.’
‘I carry your child, Torr.’
‘Which is obviously priceless to me. But there will be parchments, inks, an artist . . .’
‘No artist.’
‘But . . .’
‘That will be my consolation, Torr. I wish to illuminate these books myself.’
‘You? But you’re . . .’
‘Moderately skilled with a quill. We all, Husband, have our favourite pastimes . . .’
She looked pointedly at him and he shuffled his feet.
‘And if you pursued yours . . .’
‘Then it would be only fair for you to pursue yours, yes – discreetly.’
‘Of course.’ His eyes had lit up almost boyishly and he seized her, pulling her up against him. ‘I can see you will make an even more excellent wife than I first thought, Judith of Flanders.’
Judith smiled tightly. This was not exactly what she might have hoped for but the moment her mother had chosen God over herself, she had learned to be realistic about her chances in life. She had made her way as a half-daughter up until now, so a half-wife should be easy. It had been a hard year since Mathilda had tried to cut off her wedding to Torr with news of the Godwinsons’ imminent fall but miraculously it was all turning around. Mathilda was back in Normandy and it was she, Judith, who was in England at last with the Godwinson fortunes on the rise. She would be a fool not to enjoy that as best she could.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rouen, October 1052
‘Bloody Godwinsons,’ William roared, striding into the ladies’ bower and sending the weaving frame rattling. ‘God damn them all.’
‘William!’ Mathilda admonished him as Cecelia dropped her shuttle and the carefully worked pattern collapsed.
William had the grace to look ashamed but did not retract his curse. Mathilda went towards him, taking her son from the wet-nurse as she did so in the hope of calming his father. Baby Robert had been born in the spring and was now a bouncing child, crawling everywhere with an energy that gave William great pride. His young heir usually made him smile on even the toughest of days in the bickering ducal court but today he barely even glanced at him.
‘What’s happened?’ Mathilda asked, jigging Robert on her hip for fear of him crying and riling his father further – if such a thing were possible.
William was almost visibly crackling with rage as he paced the length of the long bower above
the Tour de Rouen’s great hall. It was a sunny day and light flashed across him with every window opening he passed. Robert, thankfully, seemed fascinated but Mathilda watched nervously.
‘The bloody Godwinsons have sailed back to England,’ William told her. ‘The onetime Archbishop of Canterbury had to flee for his life like a common criminal, not God’s own anointed. He has been to see me to beg to return to Jumièges. He is a broken man. Years of service to King Edward and he is stabbed in the back the minute Earl bloody Godwin marches back in.’
Mathilda flinched. It was clear from the tight line of William’s jaw that he felt the wound in his own spine and, indeed, it felt like a terrible betrayal of their close conversation in Westminster just last year.
‘But how did the earl manage it?’ she asked.
‘How? With ships, Mathilda. They’re mad on their ships, the English, Lord knows why. Nasty, unstable, unpredictable things. Useless for horses – not that such refinements bother the fool Saxons.’
A sudden memory swiped, unwelcomed, through William’s complaints. Had Brihtric not ordered a boat made so that he could take her out on the river? She flinched at the recollection. No wonder her father had been furious, for she had been running around like a hoyden with that man and all in the name of love. Thank heavens she had grown up. She stroked Robert’s rapidly growing hair fiercely, pushing away the past and focused again on William.
‘The wretched earl took some sort of motley fleet round the south coast where he was hailed by his damned Wessex subjects who all scrambled to join him. Then they sailed right up the Thames and King Edward simply lifted London Bridge and let them back in, as if he had not proclaimed them traitors, as if he had not told the whole world that Earl Godwin murdered his brother, as if they were his friends and not the Normans who harboured him when none else would. They are reinstated in their earldoms, all of them, and the damned queen is back in Edward’s bed.’
Mathilda swallowed. She was painfully aware of Della and Emeline squabbling over the tangled weft behind her and drew William to the far end of the bower.
‘Edward did not seem a man fit to make heirs,’ she told him in a low voice. ‘The crown could yet come to you.’
‘It could,’ William allowed, ‘but those Godwinsons will do everything they can to be sure it does not.’
She knew he was right for she had seen at Judith’s wedding how the whole family sparkled with intent.
‘Is Judith with them?’ she asked.
‘Judith? Your sister?’
‘Cousin.’
‘Oh. I suppose she must be, for Lord Tostig most certainly is.’
‘That is good then.’
She said it without thinking but he was upon her in an instant.
‘In what possible way is it good, Mathilda? Why would you say that? Whose side are you backing?’
‘Yours, of course. William, please . . .’
‘Do you know where they sailed from, these fancy ships?’ Mathilda shook her head wildly, though she feared she did. ‘Flanders,’ William spat. ‘Your father has been harbouring our enemies. What make you of that?’
‘I am not my father, William.’
‘And yet who went back to Flanders when first we had news of Edward’s favour? You did.’ He stuck a sharp finger in her face and Robert reared away with a terrified wail that, thankfully, made William step back a little. He collected himself with an effort. ‘We are struggling, Wife. It is not just the ex-archbishop who is in trouble. All the Normans who crossed to England with the king ten years ago have fled, some home to us here and some north to Scotland. They know England is not safe, for Edward has forgotten his past and caved before these impudent Godwinsons and they will rule him now. It is wrong. Wrong for England and wrong for God’s blessed office of kingship and wrong for us.’
His voice had risen again. It rattled in her ears and his anger hit her and the now-weeping Robert in a burst of furious spittle.
‘I’m sorry, William. I rode to Bruges to warn Judith, that is all.’
He stared down at her for so long that she felt like a mouse caught in a hawk’s fierce intent but then Robert reached out a beseeching hand and, with a heavy sigh, William took it in his own and lifted the child into his arms. Robert quieted instantly.
‘You are right. For Judith it is indeed good, but as she rises so we fall.’ He took deep breaths, sucking in calm. ‘It is kind of you, my Mora, to think of your cousin in that way, but I’m afraid we cannot afford kindness in this matter.’
He took Robert to the nearest window, looking intently down at him in the light spilling in from the high arch. Mathilda saw hurt silver-bright in his eyes and felt foolish for being afraid of him. This was her husband, the father of the child he now held and, if she was not much mistaken, of another already in her belly. This threat to him was a threat to her too and they must stand together against it, however hard that might be. She moved over and leaned in against him to look out over the bustling palace yard and the roofs of Rouen beyond.
‘We were promised England, Mathilda,’ William whispered. ‘We were promised the throne. People should stick to their promises. I stuck to my father’s promise to give Edward safe shelter when England was against him, so surely now he should hold firm to his?’
‘He should, William, truly, but not all men are as honourable as you.’
William growled low in his throat.
‘Maybe not, but if so we must force them to it – for ourselves and for Robert.’
Mathilda nodded fiercely.
‘And we will, Husband, I swear it.’
He tilted her chin towards him and looked hard into her eyes.
‘We will have a fight on our hands.’
She looked hard back. He was right, there was no space for kindness here.
‘Then it is a good job, William, that you fight so well.’
At last he smiled.
‘It is. It truly is.’ He turned and began pacing again, bouncing Robert up in the air as if he weighed little more than a fool’s juggling ball. ‘We will send to my cousin Edward asking for ratification of his promise.’ He stopped in a window opening as if basking in the sunshine of his new purpose. ‘And we will send to France too. King Henri will support us in this, I know he will.’
Mathilda looked back up the bower to the oaken casket Henri had sent her on their wedding day. It was stood next to the now re-set loom to hold all the wools for her weaving and on the pretty pearl lid she could see the golden words Mathilda of Normandy shining in the sun. She had long treasured it as a symbol of France’s regard but now they needed more. It was time, it seemed, for her royal uncle to come to William’s aid and she could only pray he would do so.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bonneville, March 1053
‘Invasion!’
The word ripped through the happy crowds in Bonneville’s great hall, cutting off laughter and chopping conversations dead. This quiet seaside castle had swiftly become Mathilda’s favourite of the ducal residences and she had made so many happy plans to celebrate Robert’s first birthday here but now her dainty feast was halted by the all too familiar cry of war.
‘By whom?’ she demanded.
‘By France.’
The word roared through Mathilda’s mind – France? This was certainly not the response they had been hoping for when they had sent word of the forsaken promise last year. She looked nervously to William and found him already glaring at her over the great pyramid of spiced pastries that formed her carefully planned centrepiece.
‘Your uncle turns on us, Wife,’ he snarled.
‘And your overlord, Husband.’
William’s eyes turned black as new-mined coal.
‘My overlord indeed, to whom I have ever sworn loyalty. Why is it only I who hold to such vows?!’ He slammed his hand into the wall in fury, making the candles tumble from their holders and everyone scurry to be as far away from him as possible. ‘Invasion? Why?’
He glared around, h
is eyes probing every last man and woman for the source of this betrayal. All cowered back and it was only Fitz who dared to answer: ‘It will be England, my lord.’
William looked as if he would roar even louder at this but then something passed between him and his ever-faithful lord and instead he nodded grimly.
‘It will, Fitz, it will. It seems Henri does not wish me, his sworn and ever-obedient vassal, to have a throne of my own.’ He pushed the table aside, sending several pastries toppling to the floor where the hounds pounced delightedly on them. ‘Can he not understand that if we stood side by side in this we could make France great? Is he so petty-minded that he cannot see past his own tiny borders?’
‘It would seem not,’ Fitz said. ‘But he will not get the better of us Normans.’
He gestured around the men, already grabbing for their swords as if battle might be joined this very evening. Mathilda looked at Odo nudging a pretty girl off his knee to grab his shield from the wall, and La Barbe talking eagerly to Della, and Fitz now clowning around, flexing his muscles with little Adelisa hanging from his arm, her belly as rounded as an apple on the tree. For a glancing moment she despised these Normans, dressed as courtiers but still little more than soldiers beneath. Her carefully planned dinner was forgotten in the news of war and Robert forgotten with it. Irritated, she shifted her son forward on her lap where he was wriggling against her swollen belly.
‘Surely we could parley?’ she pleaded.
William barely even gave her a glance.
‘Parley will count for nothing for he would not have turned on me lightly. There will be someone at the bottom of this, working treachery. There always is.’
‘Always, William?’
‘Always. Now, where are my captains?’
Fitz shot forward, Odo too. Fulk, however, was slower to rise as if, for once, his big body was too heavy for him and there was no sign of William’s fourth man.
‘Where’s Hugh?’ William demanded.
‘He’s ill, Lord Duke,’ Fitz said.
‘In what way?’
‘I’m not sure. Ask Fulk. He was part of his hunting party when he sickened.’
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