Crowns are better than love, she reminded herself fiercely, but it did not feel so convincing today and she crawled gratefully back into her bed and prayed for the blissful oblivion of sleep.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Falaise, August 1056
‘England defies me!’
William’s roar of anger shuddered through the soft willows above the heads of the court, making Mathilda want to jump up and apologise to their hostess. Herleva, however, was smiling as sweetly as if William were speaking poetry. She had invited the court for a few ‘relaxing’ days at her beautiful estate at Falaise and might justly be expected to feel aggrieved that her plans had been thwarted by the arrival of William’s ever-vigilant messengers, but if so she gave no sign of it.
‘The news is not good,’ she agreed gently, rising from one of the lovely riverside benches on which she had been serving the noonday meal to her guests, ‘but you will deal with it, William, as you always do.’
Such trust she had in him, Mathilda thought guiltily. Such absolute faith. Had she even truly heard what the messengers had said? The English were looking for some other royal – Edward, the grandson of a past king who had been exiled in the east his entire life. That could only mean one thing – they wished to give him the crown. Him and not William.
All the duke’s worst fears were coming to pass, for his spies reported that the Godwinsons had a stranglehold on the king. Earl Godwin himself was dead but his sons were ruling most of England. The eldest, Harold, held powerful Wessex and ran the king’s army so well that he was indispensable to him. And now it was he who had gone off across Europe to seek out a puppet prince of nominally royal blood.
Even Judith’s husband Tostig was apparently an earl now, in control of the vast province of Northumbria in the north. In a quiet moment Mathilda had been glad that Judith would have a good home for herself and the single son she had apparently borne and hoped this Northumbria was a pleasant place. She’d recalled King Edward muttering something about it being ‘a law unto itself’ and prayed it was not dangerous and that it had enough pretty churches to suit her cousin. She had known better, however, than to discuss it with her husband.
Normandy’s duke growled low in his throat and his courtiers cowered back, suddenly fiercely interested in the fish in the soft-flowing river behind them. Mathilda moved a little closer to Emeline who was lying luxuriously stretched out on a blanket with her pretty head in her husband’s lap. Three years of marriage had done little to dampen the ardour between them and Emeline was forever extolling Hugh’s virtues. Just the other day even quiet Cecelia had told her to ‘go wrap your tongue around the wretched man if he’s so delicious or I will cut it off.’ Mathilda giggled at the memory but William’s next words pulled her back to the harsher realities of her life.
‘Not good news, Mother? It is dreadful. Why has King Edward sent his precious Earl Harold to find this lost prince? Why does he seek another heir when he already has one – when he already has me?’
‘Because he is a fool, William.’
William looked up through the willows to the cornflower-blue sky above and gave a brief reluctant smile.
‘Perhaps so,’ he conceded, kissing his mother’s cheek. ‘Or perhaps he’s just grown too old to know his true mind any more, or his true friends. The real question, however, is what do we do about it.’
For this, he looked to Mathilda.
‘Earl Harold will not necessarily find this lost prince, William,’ she said hastily but it was a poor response and she was not surprised when he glared at her.
‘The very fact that he has gone looking is bad enough. Why has Edward turned his back on us? Why is he reneging on his promise? I would be his heir, he said, in recognition of our family connections and my strong reputation as a leader and my kindness to him when I was a youth. He said all that, did he not, Mathilda? Why, why, why did we not insist he wrote it down, swore to it?’
Mathilda bit back a reminder that she had suggested as much at the time.
‘We were young, William, and on their soil. And Edward gave us his royal word.’
‘Edward’s word, royal or not, is apparently worth nothing. Nothing! He would choose some fool exile over me – his cousin and onetime protector, great-nephew of a Saxon queen and a proven ruler. We should have killed the Godwinsons when they were this side of the Narrow Sea in ’51, Mathilda – when they were with your father.’
She knew better than to rise to that one and instead asked, ‘What will you do now, William?’
‘Do?! I will keep track of this “lost” prince.’
‘And if they find him?’
‘I will send someone for a look.’ He cast his eyes around the assembled nobles fidgeting on their marble benches and crushing their dainty delicacies between their nervous fingers. ‘Fulk perhaps? No doubt my high commander’s lovely wife would like a trip to England.’
Fulk rose reluctantly, motioning for Mabel to join him, but before the lady of Belleme could do so Mathilda pulled William aside, leading him out of the shade of the willow trees and into Herleva’s pretty garden beyond. The sun was glaring down and even the lavender seemed to be wilting beneath its relentless heat but, despite being pregnant again, Mathilda barely noticed.
‘You would send Mabel de Belleme to, to . . .’
‘To pass on our best wishes to the new heir, Mathilda, yes. It is time she did something to redeem herself.’
Mathilda stepped closer.
‘Redeem herself for poisoning one by poisoning another?’
‘Hush! Who said anything about poisoning?’
‘William, you cannot,’ she protested desperately. ‘Mabel has only just birthed her third babe; she won’t want to leave.’ William raised a disbelieving eyebrow and Mathilda had to concede this was unlikely for Mabel, though every bit as fertile as Mathilda, did not share her interest in her offspring. That did not, however, mean she could be dispatched to England like a secret weapon. ‘Well, then, you cannot, William, because what you are suggesting is wrong. It’s too harsh.’
He reached for her, pulling her close despite the others just a leaf-screen away.
‘I have had to do many things in my life, Mathilda, that have seemed too harsh but when you are a ruler you must think of the greater good above your own scruples. Already France has turned upon me and now we look sure to be losing England too. I cannot allow it!’ She flinched back at his anger, hotter than any sun, and he visibly controlled himself, drawing a deep breath into his broad chest and unclenching his fists to take gentle hold of her arms. ‘Fret not, my sweet one, I will take care of it. You are providing future rulers for us; let me ensure they have lands to rule.’
Mathilda folded her hands over her swollen belly and leaned gratefully against William. She had birthed him a second son, Richard, at the start of last year and this fourth child would soon be with them too. William had ordered the nursery at Rouen extended and Mathilda loved spending time with her little ones, though she sometimes wished there might be time between them for her body to recover for longer than it took William to plant his seed once more within it. Still, she could not complain. Look at the poor English queen – unable to produce even one heir for her country. If William were to be king, he already had sons enough to ensure the security of the throne and yet . . .
She glanced back to the court, gathered so gently here in Falaise enjoying the peace and prosperity of a year without war. Mathilda and Cecelia had worked with all the ladies of the duchy so that every residence had a warm, watertight ladies’ bower and fine kitchens, and every hall a placecard order to prevent scrambles to table.
There had been grumbles at first but the system was settling and it was amazing how little people truly cared where they sat when the tables were bursting with rich harvests, gathered on time. And it seemed that the people in villages all across the duchy were similarly content. On their route to Falaise Mathilda had seen the crops ripening in the sun-kissed fields and, with the men stil
l secure in their homes for once, it would be a bumper harvest in Normandy. Was a throne worth risking such prosperity?
‘Could we not just let England go, William,’ she suggested into his chest. ‘If the Saxons are so keen to keep it for themselves then let them. We have much to love on this side of the Narrow Sea.’
‘Normandy is just a duchy.’
‘But it’s your duchy, William.’
‘However hard it tries not to be. They have opposed me from the start, Mathilda – right from when I was seven years old.’
‘But they do not oppose you now.’
‘Which surely means that it is time to move on to more. I promised I would make you a queen, Mathilda, and I am not a man to renege on my promises.’
‘It would not be reneging, simply making a new tactical decision.’
For a moment he looked almost as if he might believe her but then he just laughed.
‘I owe you a throne, my Mora.’
‘I do not ask it.’
‘All the same, I wish to win it for you, for how else am I to prove my love?’
And with that he was gone, striding back through the willows leaving her stunned. Love? He did not truly mean love. He surely wanted England for himself and this was merely a knightly excuse. And yet, when had he ever said anything he did not truly mean? Confused, she snatched a linen square from her pocket to dab at her overheated face and headed reluctantly back to the court. Perhaps she could talk to Herleva about this; she, surely, would help her to understand why William was so desperate for a crown.
Her chance came later that day. The court were dressing for dinner in their various rooms on the new upper storey of Herleva’s gracious manor house when Mathilda heard a soft voice commanding the servants below. She slipped down the stairs and found her mother-by-marriage overseeing the finishing touches to beautiful flower arrangements along the centre of the trestle tables.
‘Mathilda. All is well? You are in need of something?’
‘Not at all. Everything is perfect, thank you. I just wished to talk to you.’
‘There is more trouble?’
‘No. No, truly. I just felt we should get to know each other better. Whenever we are in the bower the children are always climbing all over you.’
‘I am more than happy to be with them. Robert is such a lively child, is he not? And Adela so inquisitive. I wonder, sometimes, at the amount of questions she can fit in that tiny head.’
Mathilda smiled, though she often wondered the same herself. Adela, now a small but resilient three year old, was forever asking odd things and, to her shame, Mathilda found herself preferring the company of bumptious Robert and little Richard who was just learning to walk and very pleased with his newfound legs.
‘You are right, Herleva, but it is nice, sometimes, to be able to at least finish a sentence to each other, is it not?’
‘It is, my dear. Shall we take a seat?’
Herleva gestured to a wicker bench in the shade of the east wall and Mathilda nodded grateful assent, though when they reached the bench she realised it was not solely for her comfort that her hostess had suggested it. She noted Herleva steady herself with her hands as she sank onto the soft cushions and saw too that those hands shook a little.
‘I’m sorry. You are tired. You’ve had much to do to entertain us these last days. I should not keep you.’
‘Nonsense. There is always time for my duchess. Is all well?’
‘At the moment, yes, but I worry that this matter of England is too much for William.’
‘Too much? He is a strong man, Mathilda.’
‘I know. But you told me once not to forget his finer emotions.’
Herleva smiled and took her hand.
‘I did. And you do not. He seems very happy with you.’
‘He does?’ Mathilda flushed, unexpectedly flattered. ‘But then surely I should advise him in this matter of England?’
Herleva looked surprised.
‘I had not really thought of it that way. I am glad he has you to care for him, Mathilda, but I have always felt a man should make his decisions for himself. But then, my dear, I am not as intelligent as you.’
‘That’s not true. You . . .’
Herleva gripped her fingers and she quieted.
‘It is true. Why deny it?’
Mathilda shook her head.
‘You Normans and your obsession with truth – even you, Herleva.’
‘Truth is best. It is dissembling that will lead you into trouble. Fret not, Mathilda. Whatever William decides, your future is an enticing one.’
She sounded wistful and Mathilda looked at her more closely.
‘You are well?’
Herleva did not answer immediately and Mathilda felt her head start to buzz as much as the bees over the nearby lavender.
‘I am content,’ the older lady said eventually.
‘But not well?’
Herleva placed a quiet hand over her own.
‘Do not tell William, not yet.’
‘How long . . . ?’
‘Ask God. I have made my peace with life, Mathilda. And William has you to care for him now.’
‘He does but, Herleva, he will want to talk to you. He will have things to say.’
‘William? No. He is secure in my love and I in his. We do not need words – indeed they would be painful to us both. Now look, the others are coming down. Shall we go to dinner?’
And with that she rose, all her being concentrated on pushing herself up without outward show of discomfort as William strode towards them between a limping La Barbe and a red-faced Della, resplendent in a mauve gown.
‘Della, my dear – you look beautiful,’ Herleva said, clasping her hands and drawing her kindly into the shade.
Mathilda watched, humbled. This was love, she thought, hefting her own ungainly body up far less graciously than her hostess. This was selfless love and she feared she was learning from it far too late.
Herleva took to her bed some weeks later, just three days after Mathilda gave birth to her third son, named William at Mathilda’s insistence, but instantly nicknamed Rufus for his flame of red hair, a more startling version of his mother’s copper locks. When they took the baby to his grandmother on her sickbed, she was delighted and, Mathilda detected, relieved.
‘She is ready,’ Herluin confided sorrowfully as he watched his frail wife cradle the baby.
‘But you are not?’
‘No, but I never would be. Herleva has brought me such light and I will miss her every day that is left to me.’
‘Which is many, I hope, for William looks to you still for guidance.’
Herluin laughed softly.
‘Nonsense. William looks to no one for guidance save perhaps yourself, my lady, but it is kind of you to say so and I will not let go. There is much, I sense, of young William’s life still to live and if Herleva cannot see it then I will see it for her.’
She died peacefully that night, with no one at her side save Herluin. She left no messages, asked no promises, just slipped away leaving even loquacious Odo shocked into subdued silence and William, her greatest legacy, devastated.
‘Why her?’ he asked Mathilda as they lay in bed that night, his arm tight around her shoulders and little Rufus curled up on his chest like a bird in a nest for he had insisted on keeping his new son close. ‘Why leave the likes of Mabel in the world and take someone as sweet as my mother?’
‘I know not, William. Maybe she loved so strongly that she wore her heart out?’
‘Maybe.’ He stroked a gentle finger down his new son’s burnished hair. ‘I was lucky in her. Men do not see that. They call me “bastard” as if it is the only point of note but I would have Herleva as mother over any countess or duchess or queen, for she taught me nobility is in your bearing, not your blood. Have I told you that?’
‘It is a good lesson.’
‘It is, Mathilda. I am the duke I am thanks to my father, but I am the man I am because of
her. People think me hard and I am hard but without Herleva’s care I would have been granite. She did not teach me how to fight, but she did teach me what to fight for – fairness and justice and loyalty and stability. She should have been a queen.’
Mathilda looked at his lean profile in the low light from the stars beyond the window, curtain drawn back to let a breeze into the warm chamber, and felt a fool. It was so simple. She should have seen this, should have understood that it was less the throne William sought than the affirmation of royalty – for himself, for her and, above all else, for their children.
‘Maybe the lost prince will stay lost,’ she said softly.
‘Maybe he will.’
‘And then England will see sense and acknowledge you as the most worthy man to rule.’
‘Worthy,’ he echoed. ‘Throneworthy.’
He filled the word with a raw longing that cut at her heart and she was grateful when Rufus’s tiny eyes suddenly shot open and his lips pursed hungrily so she could busy herself gathering him to her breast. William lay at her side and for a moment, in the warmth of their bed and the bittersweet threads of their shared grief, they felt like any family. But that was an illusion, she knew. Or perhaps the tiny kernel of truth beneath the illusion of the rest of their lives. For England was ever on their horizon, the only change being that where once she had glittered with promise, now she sparkled with danger.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
London, April 1057
‘Are you proud, hey, Judith? Proud of your husband the earl?’
Torr puffed out his chest and sat high in his saddle, the movement unsettling his horse so that he had to grab at the reins to stay on. Judith did not bother to hide her smile. Torr had been Earl of Northumbria for two years but still he seemed to crave praise for the appointment.
‘Very proud, Torr – you are a fine figure.’
He looked suspiciously at her but chose to believe her words.
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