William turned his sharp stare on Fulk, who shifted like a youngster caught scrumping apples.
‘I don’t know how it happened, Duke. He just caught a fever.’
William looked alarmed.
‘Why has no one mentioned this before? What if it spreads? I cannot march on the French with a vomiting army.’
‘It will not spread, Lord Duke. I think it was perhaps something he ate.’
William’s eyes narrowed and he looked down the table to Mabel. She was also pregnant with her second child, having dutifully given Fulk a son barely nine months after their wedding, but was irritatingly elegant with it and was sitting serenely picking a piece of food out of one of her nail diamonds.
‘You are caring for my captain of the cavalry, my lady of Belleme?’
Mabel gave a slow, thin smile.
‘Of course, Lord Duke. It is sad that Hugh is ill but he is receiving the very best attention. I will have him slaying invaders for you within the week.’
William held her gaze for several heartbeats but then nodded.
‘Do so. The rest of you – muster your troops. We will rout the French before Easter, I swear it!’
Fitz, Roger and Fulk bowed themselves out, plucking their men from the benches like ripe plums, and William turned back to Mathilda.
‘I told you there was always treachery, and you can wager the Bellemes will have a hand in it. It is too damned wearisome. Perhaps I should let Henri have Normandy and the damned Godwinsons have England and take my sword to Italy where it is, at least, warm.’
‘You would join the Guiscard, William?’
‘Why not? Would he have me, do you think?’
He reached out a hand towards Robert, who seized at it delightedly and, relieved, Mathilda addressed their son: ‘What think you, Robert? Would the famous robber baron take on a man who has defeated more rebels than there are Moors in Sicily? A man who can pull a longer bow than any other, who can fight for hours on end without tiring, and who can break a siege with ruthless efficiency?’ She looked at Robert, who had cocked his little head on one side as if he might genuinely have the answer, and then supplied it for him: ‘We think you might squeak into his lower ranks.’
William gave a grunt of amusement.
‘And you, my Mora, how would you like Italy? You would have a “villa” with sun terraces and vines and, and . . .’
‘And a husband who was ever out fighting. It would be little different, William.’
He sobered.
‘That is true, Mathilda. We fight too much. Why must they oppose me? First Edward and his damned Godwinson pets and now Henri. Have I angered the Lord? Is it us, think you? Is it because our marriage was not sanctioned by the Pope?’
‘Of course not. God believes in our marriage, William – see how he blesses us with children.’
William smiled and ran a gentle hand over the swell of their second child within her.
‘You are right, of course you are. I will send more letters to Rome about our marriage and pray that God continues to favour us. I am just wary. When I was younger I worried that everything was a punishment for my mother’s low status but I have grown out of that. Nobility, Mathilda, is in bearing, not in blood. Look at Mabel – she is of the finest pedigree and she is a poisonous witch.’
‘I will find out what she plots, William.’
‘You?’
‘Why not? I will ask Emeline to . . . delve.’
Both their eyes slid to Emeline, chattering to Lord Bertrand. William looked her up and down.
‘She is French, your attendant, is she not?’
‘By birth, William, yes, but she has been with me since she was ten years old.’
‘Almost a woman.’
‘Hardly . . .’
‘And definitely a spy.’
Mathilda’s heart picked up a beat at the harsh insistence of his voice but she was determined to stand up for her attendant and dear friend.
‘Not a spy, Husband,’ she insisted, ‘just a well-informed messenger.’
And, thank the Lord, he smiled.
The sun was barely over the horizon the next day before clangs of steel ripped through the air as men sought to sharpen up their fighting skills. William had been up late despatching messengers all across the duchy with a call to arms but he was still gone from their bed before she woke and when Mathilda looked out of the window she could see him at the centre of the sparring men. Odo was at his side, his bishop’s tunic tucked up beneath a mail coat, happily wielding a huge spiked mace. As a cleric he was forbidden to spill blood but God did not, apparently, mind him crushing flesh and he clearly planned to ride to war with the rest.
Noting her precious pastry pyramid stood on a stool to one side, ravaged by hungry soldiers, Mathilda turned wearily away just in time to see Emeline creeping into the chamber, dark smudges beneath her pretty eyes.
‘Long night?’
Emeline grimaced ruefully.
‘Something about war makes men randy and Bertrand can be a bit . . . odd. But it was worth it. Mabel did poison Hugh.’
‘I knew it,’ Mathilda said, ‘but why?’
‘She didn’t mean to. That is, she meant to poison someone, just not poor Hugh. She was after some cousin of his returned from fighting in Italy and trying to steal land from her borders.’
‘Arnold de Giroie?’
‘That’s the one.’
Mathilda remembered inadvertently teasing the man about farming vines at the wedding. Clearly the Italian lands had not been kind to him and he had decided to try and claim some back home, though it would seem he’d made a poor choice.
‘And Mabel thought it would be best if he was disposed of?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Yes. She made him a “special” cup of wine for his return from a hunt with Fulk the other day but he said he wasn’t thirsty and all would have been fine, save that Hugh burst in and downed the damned drink in one. Apparently he fell to the floor within moments, frothing and flailing like a mangy cur. Bertrand was quite shocked.’
‘Not as shocked as Hugh, I imagine,’ Mathilda said dryly.
‘No. He’s coming round though, thank God. Of all the men to hurt, Hugh is surely the worst.’
‘Why, Emeline?’
‘He’s so kind, that’s all. Have you seen him with his horses? He treats them like men. Nay, like women – stroking them and soothing them and coaxing them to his will. It is magic to watch.’
‘You sound almost jealous, Em.’
‘I do, don’t I? Who’d have thought it – jealous of a horse!’ She laughed, then sobered just as swiftly. ‘It seems Mabel moved quickly to purge the poison and now she is doing all she can to keep Hugh with us.’
‘As she should.’
‘Yes. By all accounts Fulk was furious and that seems to have upset Mabel in turn. Perhaps she likes her conquering husband more than she’s letting on?’
‘I hope so – for his sake. Poor Hugh. She cannot get away with this, Em. I’ll speak to her.’
Emeline looked horrified.
‘No! Oh, my lady, please don’t or she will know where our information has come from.’
‘I will not speak of Bertrand.’
‘She’ll know all the same.’
‘Even so, I must speak. This is my household now and I will not have men poisoned within it. Fetch Mabel to the hall.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. Cecelia will go. You rest, Em. You’ve done well and I’ll see you rewarded.’
Emeline escaped to her antechamber as Cecelia ran to find Mabel and Mathilda headed to the hall and settled herself into her great chair. The babe rolled and turned inside her as if limbering up for the confrontation ahead and Mathilda put a hand to her belly to try and calm it. She was nervous enough already.
Mabel entered a little time later, a hassled Cecelia fretting behind her like a shepherd’s dog.
‘You wanted me, my lady?’
‘I did. I wish to know a lit
tle more of Hugh’s health.’
‘It is improving.’
‘It will need to. I hear he was laid very low.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes. Fulk believes it was something he ate. What could that be, do you think, when he dined with everyone else?’
Mabel thrust her chin up high, standing stiffly proud before her duchess, her hands hooked under her neatly bulging belly.
‘Perhaps it was when he was hunting? Perhaps he picked a mushroom?’
‘A mushroom? I wasn’t aware Lord Hugh normally sustained himself with fungi.’
‘Perhaps it was all there was available?’
‘You did not arrange food for them, my lady?’
Mathilda’s fingers twitched.
‘Of course I did, but I do not know if it was eaten for I was not there.’
Mathilda stood up suddenly and approached Mabel.
‘But you were there when they returned, yes? You were there when poor Hugh fell ill?’
‘Well, yes, but these things can take time.’
‘Or they can be very fast. He was thirsty, I hear?’
Mabel jumped.
‘Who from? Who have you been talking to?’ Mabel cast a wild-eyed look around the hall as if she might spot the miscreant hiding in the fresh floor rushes.
‘Mabel,’ Mathilda said quietly, forcing the other woman to look at her. ‘I will not have it. Not here. You may choose to poison people down in the south amongst your own kind but I will not have such behaviour up here. It is not just.’
‘Just? Is a man coming back from Italy and trying to steal lands from his neighbour just?’
‘Hugh has been to Italy?’
Mabel ground her teeth.
‘You know he has not. The drink was intended for his cousin Arnold. He is an unpleasant man, my lady, and would be no loss to anyone.’
‘Is that not God’s place to decide?’
‘God is very busy. Sometimes it is better to relieve him of some responsibility.’
‘How very Christian of you, Mabel.’
‘You question my faith?’
Mabel stepped forward, so close their bumps almost touched and Mathilda was forced to look up at her haughty subject, but she refused to be cowed.
‘I question your interpretation of it. You may have done as you wished here in Normandy whilst women were so sparse you could easily dazzle the men into turning a blind eye to your bitter potions, but that time is done. I am duchess now.’
‘And don’t we know it.’
‘As you should, my lady of Belleme. William is on the alert for treachery and fears it in you.’
‘No, I . . .’
‘You were merely being selfish, I see that, but William may not for Hugh is very dear to him. Please tend our cavalry captain well, my lady. If he rides safely to join the army we will say no more of it, but that is by my mercy and not your power.’
‘You are too gracious,’ Mabel spat and then she was gone, swishing out of the hall at pace, sending rushes flying and sentries leaping to open the doors.
Mathilda watched her go, frozen, and when finally the doors were shut again she sank into her chair and reached for her wine, taking a long draught to steady herself. She was shaking all over with rage and nerves and a rich, heady thrill. She’d done it – she’d confronted the serpent and, for now at least, she’d won. Taking another gulp of wine she reached for Cecelia’s arm and headed gratefully back to her chamber. The screech of steel still tore up the air but now it seemed only to scratch at the back of her weary mind and she sank onto the little stool in the window embrasure to watch the men below, rubbing at her bulging belly as Cecelia fussed around her.
‘My lady, do you feel unwell? You should eat.’
‘No.’
‘For the babe at least.’
‘I can’t.’
She leaned forward, looking for William down in the yard, but the movement cramped in her belly. It felt larger this time than the last. The babe was several weeks away yet but she could feel it straining at her skin already, pulling it so tight she feared it would not stretch any further. Her dress felt sticky and itchy and she was warm, so very warm.
‘It’s too hot in here,’ she complained.
‘It is not hot, my lady. Indeed, it is a rather cool day, though you do look a little flushed. Perhaps . . .’
But Mathilda, feeling restless and achy, stood up to ward off any fussing. Cecelia gasped and, turning back, Mathilda saw her pointing in silent horror at her skirts. She looked down and there, seeping through the beautiful fabric, was a thick red stain: blood.
It was an ugly fight and Mathilda was aware of every single moment. This babe was impatient, keen to come before its time, and Mathilda’s little body picked up the rhythms of childbirth as quickly as it had with Robert, despite her best efforts to resist.
‘You must not fight it, my lady,’ Emeline told her, roused from her nap by Cecelia’s cries for help.
‘It’s too soon,’ Mathilda wailed.
‘The babe does not think so,’ Della said, ever practical.
‘The babe does not think at all.’
‘Perhaps not but it knows what it wants all the same and that is to see the light.’
None of them spoke the dread thought that though the light might fall on the babe it was unlikely to see it.
‘You must push, my lady,’ Cecelia told her and though Mathilda longed to disobey, her body was in control and she had no choice.
In the end, it barely hurt at all. The babe slid out and Della caught it. It made no sound. Cecelia and Emeline clutched Mathilda close as she raised herself to see and then, before all of their astonished eyes, Della held it high, dangling it by its tiny feet, and slapped it three times.
‘Della, no . . . !’ Mathilda choked but she was interrupted by a cry – a small, frail but determined cry.
‘It lives!’ Cecelia breathed.
‘She lives,’ Della corrected her. ‘You have a princess, my lady.’
She placed the child gently in Mathilda’s arms. She was tiny, barely bigger than her mother’s hand, but perfect in every way.
‘Will she survive?’ Mathilda dared to ask.
‘Only God can know. You should feed her.’
Mathilda looked down and sure enough the baby was rootling, her tiny lips pouting frantically. She pulled her shift aside and, like an arrow to the target, her tiny daughter latched on. She drank hungrily but after only a few moments she lolled back, exhausted.
‘She can’t do it,’ Mathilda said, panicked.
‘She can,’ Della insisted. ‘And she has. It will just take time. We must keep her very warm, feed her very often and massage her little limbs to be sure her blood is flowing.’
Mathilda felt a sob rise in her throat. This had all been so sudden, so unexpected, especially on top of the earlier sorrows. She had a sudden, stark picture of Mabel of Belleme stood so very close to her in the great hall earlier. Her wine had been nearby. Had she . . . ? Surely not? Surely even Mabel would not dare poison a duchess. She focused on the child.
‘She’s so little.’
‘As are you, my lady,’ Cecelia said gently, ‘but it’s never stopped you doing anything.’
Now Mathilda’s tears flowed.
‘William,’ she gasped. ‘William should see her.’
They sent a maid running and very soon footsteps rapped out along the stone floor and William swung into the room at a half-run.
‘My dear, my Mora, what is this?’
Mathilda looked at the babe.
‘This, William, is your daughter. It seems she feared you would go to war without seeing her.’
He crept closer, reaching out a tentative hand to the blanket in which the babe was swaddled.
‘She is . . .’ He hesitated. ‘She is all there?’
Mathilda tipped her outward so he could see her tiny limbs, complete with minuscule fingers and toes.
‘She is all there, Husband.’ He sat slowl
y down, his eyes wide at this unexpected miracle. ‘I thought perhaps we could call her Herleva?’
William flinched.
‘No. That is, I think that for this, our first daughter, we should honour her royal grandmother. She will be Adela. You will like that, Mathilda, will you not.’
It was not a question.
‘I will like that.’
‘Good. It is fit. My mother is a wonderful woman but not a ruler. My father chose her for her sweetness, her simplicity, her empty-headed adoration.’
‘William!’
‘It’s true, Mathilda.’ Of course it was. ‘And she has given me the same. I adore her, you know I do, but she is so much . . . so much smaller than you.’
‘Not smaller, William.’
‘Oh, I have not the words for it but you know what I mean. I can trust you to rule.
‘But not to be your regent?’
‘Not to be named as such but we both, surely, know the truth of it?’
Mathilda considered this. Perhaps she should step back as William’s precious Normans expected. Perhaps she should stay in the bower and confine herself to being his wife rather than his fellow ruler. But she knew already that she would find that impossible.
‘My mother raised me to sharpen my wits,’ she said ruefully.
‘Maybe, my Mora, but the wits are all your own. They scare me a little for I do not always know what you will do but I take pride in them too. I did not know before that women could be so fierce, or so intelligent. I have ruled this unruly duchy alone for so long and I cannot explain how much it means to me to share the burden with a like-minded partner.’
Mathilda swallowed.
‘Are we so very alike, William?’
‘In all the essentials, yes.’
She moved to protest but at that moment Adela gave a little cough and then a strange splutter and her tiny body spasmed. Mathilda panicked but William just took her and put her over his big shoulder, rubbing her back in circles until, with a funny little gurgle, she quietened.
‘Where did you learn that?’ Mathilda asked, astonished.
William shrugged self-consciously.
‘Odo was a sickly baby.’
‘You helped look after him?’
‘Sometimes. At first. But then . . .’
He paused, almost as choked as the baby had just been.
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