‘And you are a fine wife, Judith. I am proud of you, you know, and of little Karl too.’ He looked back to their three-year-old boy, squirming with the nursemaids in the wagon, desperate to ride his pony. ‘He is a good son.’
‘And a legitimate one,’ Judith sniped, unable to resist.
She had stuck to her side of their bargain, ignoring Torr’s numerous indiscretions with as much dignity as she could muster, but it was still hard sometimes. She had taken petty revenge by refusing to name their son Tostig, insisting on a solid North Saxon name instead. He hadn’t liked it but at least now Karl was all hers, even if Torr was not. To be fair though, he had also stuck to his promise and in Durham she could paint every day.
She had forged strong links with the monks at the White Church whose passion was manuscripts and whose bishop was proving a discreet and invaluable help with her gospel books. Already the first was finished and locked away for safe-keeping and she was working keenly on the second. It had been a wrench to have to make the journey south for King Edward’s Easter court but Torr had been most insistent.
‘Karl will enjoy being at court with us,’ he was saying now, gesturing towards the horizon where the roofs of London were cutting haphazardly into the misty sky. ‘He will have seen nothing so fine as Westminster.’
Judith prickled at the implied criticism of their new homeland. From the moment she had ridden into Northumbria she had known she’d found the place she was meant to be. She loved everything about it, especially along the coast. The light and colours were so strong, so assured. On a sunny day the sand often seemed to shine golden against the rich blue-green of the sea as if a half-crazed monk had slashed his inks boldly across a vast parchment and the vibrancy of the northern landscape had touched the artist in Judith as no place ever had before. She only wished her husband would share her love of his earldom.
‘Durham is a beautiful city,’ she insisted.
‘Beautiful, maybe, but quiet.’
‘Only because you are never there.’
‘Can you blame me? It is so far away from everything that is important.’
He waved imperiously up the road. They were drawing close to London and there were more and more people around them. Word had spread that the lost prince was due to sail in with Earl Harold at any moment and everyone was heading for the capital to see the much-talked-about new aetheling. Torr had been sniping about it for weeks so his sudden excitement jarred against Judith’s tired bones.
‘You’re an ungrateful wretch, Torr Godwinson,’ she told him. ‘You were desperate to be an earl. You twisted King Edward’s ear until he granted Northumbria to you and then poor Earl Alfgar lost his lands over it.’
Torr smirked.
‘That was funny – Alfgar blustering and shaking and then drawing his sword on the king. I couldn’t have forced a better reaction if I’d tried all year.’
‘You did try all year,’ Judith retorted. ‘Did you see them leave, Torr? Alfgar’s wife was beside herself and those children were too young to be cast out from all they know.’
‘It was his fault, not mine.’
‘It was both.’
He looked surprised at her boldness but she cared not. Taking this road into London recalled all too vividly the sight of Earl Alfgar’s family riding in the other direction in ’55, their heads low and their goods piled high in carts behind them. Lady Megan had been openly sobbing, the two younger boys skittish and confused, and the elder children – Brodie was it, and Edyth? – had sat rigid at the rear, the effort of maintaining their composure clear in the stiff lines of their young bodies. As Judith had watched, Edyth had looked back with such sorrow in her eyes it had torn at Judith’s heart.
They had ridden into Wales from whence Earl Alfgar had returned in the autumn with Welsh troops at his back to secure his favour with the king. The girl, however, had been left behind to marry King Griffin, a man known universally as the ‘Red Devil’. Judith thought of her often and prayed for her wellbeing but clearly her husband had no such compassion.
‘You are honoured to be an earl at all, Torr,’ she told him desperately.
There were travellers all around them now, on foot, in rough wagons and on tired-looking donkeys, and they would not like to hear him talk with such contempt of an office none of them could even dream of holding.
‘Honoured? It was about time, Judi. Harold snatched Wessex the moment Father died and Garth was quick to grab East Anglia from Alfgar. I deserved this.’
‘Why? Because you are a Godwinson?’
He looked puzzled.
‘Well yes, I suppose so.’
‘So you “deserve” an earldom because of your family name?’
‘Why else?’
‘Maybe because of your valour or your good works or your wise counsel?’
Torr laughed.
‘This isn’t a scald’s tale, Judith. This is real life. My family is firmly back in power and I was a part of that.’
‘Because of my family.’
‘Well yes, but I was wise enough to marry you, wasn’t I?’
She rolled her eyes, infuriated. They were close enough to the city now for many people to be pitching their tents on the open meadowlands either side of the road. Within a candle-notch they would be in the heart of Edward’s court where such talk would be not just foolish but dangerous.
‘Torr, please,’ she begged. ‘You are Earl of Northumbria. You must learn to love your land.’
He pouted.
‘You’re right. I know you are. It’s just so empty, Judith. Not like here.’ He waved eagerly around the bustling masses who were forcing them to slow to a walk. ‘A man can ride for hours across Northumbria without seeing another soul.’
That was one of the things Judith loved the most.
‘Durham is a fine city,’ she insisted, ‘and York too, and very ancient, you know – older, perhaps, than Winchester or London. Yours must be the most deeply rooted earldom in England.’
He ran a hand thoughtfully through his hair, washed especially for the Easter gathering and shining like new oak, then gave a little nod of pride.
‘That’s true. It must. That’s good, Judith. It’s still a bloody long way from the king though.’
‘But you don’t need the king now.’ Judith fought to keep the exasperation from her voice. ‘You have the earldom you wanted and you can rule it as you wish – as Earl Ward did.’
‘Bloody Earl Ward. All I ever hear of my onetime foster-father is how wonderful he was.’
‘So be more wonderful.’
Torr considered this but not for long.
‘It’s just such hard work, Judith. The men up there are not like these men of the south. They are so crude, so direct, and I can barely understand half of what they say. They may as well be Scots for all . . .’
‘Torr, hush!’ Judith looked round guiltily, grateful that they were on horseback where most others were on foot and, she prayed, out of earshot of his foolish conversation. ‘You cannot speak that way. It is offensive and unworthy. You are privileged to rule and must do well by Northumbria.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I will, Judith, of course I will. I’m just saying – it’s not Wessex. How come bloody Harold gets Wessex?’ Judith did not even try to answer this. No logic would touch Torr’s bitterness at being a younger son. ‘Still,’ he said suddenly, ‘at least Harold is off fetching back Edward’s damned imported heir now that my dear sister has failed to provide a homegrown one. Or, rather, the king to plant one in her.’
‘Torr, please . . .’
‘And who knows what dangers he has met on the road back from bloody Hungary. People are always dying out there.’
‘Torr!’
At last he had the decency to look shamefaced, but not for long.
‘It’s a fool’s errand anyway,’ he said petulantly. ‘This precious prince won’t be safe until he’s landed over there on Thorney Island. Or maybe even then. There are plenty of men not happy to see a royal he
ir in England, Judith, and even with his precious royal blood he will be no Saxon. I doubt he’ll speak the language and he will know nothing of our ways. Why does Harold condone this madness?’
‘Perhaps,’ Judith dared to suggest, ‘he thinks a foreign prince would be easier to control.’
Torr smiled slyly.
‘Easier to control than whom, Judi?’
‘Than any candidates closer to home.’
They did not ever speak of William, not openly. Now the Godwinsons were back in power in England they were working hard to prevent the much-whispered Christmas promise ever coming to fruition and Judith, God forgive her, was doing nothing to stop them. It was only fair, she told herself fiercely, for she had enough to worry about trying to keep Torr in the north without fretting over anyone else’s concerns. The awareness of her mean complicity against her cousin and onetime friend was a dull, nagging pain in her conscience, but what could she do? She was Saxon now and Saxons did not wish to be ruled by Normans. This Hungarian import surely proved that and she hoped William and Mathilda would have the sense to listen to what it meant and stay away.
‘Can I ride now, Mama?’
Judith turned gratefully back to see Karl leaping up and down so hard that it looked as if he might fall out of the wagon. She laughed.
‘Of course you can. Torr, stop a moment and let Karl mount.’
Torr clucked in impatience but called their already slow-moving train to a halt, clearly keen to see his son ride into the court in style. The groom brought Karl’s pony round and within moments the boy was in the saddle and trotting up between his parents.
‘Where’s that?’ he demanded, eyes wide and little finger pointed eagerly up the crammed road to where the houses built on either side of London Bridge rose tall against the sky.
‘That’s London, Karl,’ Torr told him. ‘You will love it.’
And Karl did, though he kept close to Judith when the crowds thickened still further as they finally crossed the bridge and made their way into the city proper. His little eyes were as wide as full moons as he took in the town houses, packed wall to wooden wall along the narrow streets, most with people hanging out of every window opening, shouting to friends or advertising their wares. Durham was not, whatever Torr said, a little place but never had Judith seen it as full as London was today and she kept a tight hand on Karl’s lead rein as they crept slowly forward towards the royal palace.
Suddenly a hand caught at her ankle. She flinched away but then saw that her captor was but an old lady, holding up a piteously thinly woven basket with a bunch of wizened apples in the bottom.
‘Apple, my lady?’ she suggested with a gappy smile, looking as hopeful as if she were selling the finest fruit, though Judith saw the misery behind her eyes and noted that her skin was as thin as her basket.
‘That would be lovely,’ she agreed, reaching for her purse. They would do for the horses at least.
‘Oh, thank you, kind lady. Thank you.’
Torr looked impatiently around but Judith took her time finding a silver penny. The woman’s eyes widened as much as Karl’s as she handed it over.
‘For me?’
‘With my blessing.’
‘Then please, take them all – and news besides.’
‘News?’
Torr was tutting impatiently but the lady was caught by a wracking cough and it would have been rude just to leave her. Judith put up a hand to keep him back and waited, praying she would use some of the money to buy herself a salve. Eventually she recovered and stood on wobbly tiptoe to get closer to Judith. Her breath reeked but her words, when they came, were worth the wait: ‘The prince is ill.’
‘The prince?’ Suddenly Torr was at her side, all attention. ‘What prince?’ The old woman looked at him and, sensing his desperation, went slyly silent. Torr leaped down and pressed a second penny upon her. ‘What prince, woman?’
‘The Hungarian prince, Edward the Exile, who is to be the king’s new heir.’
‘He is here then?’
She grinned even more slyly and held out her hand. Karl was happily feeding his pony one of the apples that had, until now, been her only source of income but news, she was rapidly discovering, paid far better than fruit. Torr tossed his head, but gave her another coin.
‘That’s your last. I doubt it’s a secret.’
‘Oh, but it is, Lord. The king does not want it known, does he, but my sister works in the kitchens at the palace and she says the poor exile has taken to his chamber. Sick from the journey, they say, but who knows . . .’
Torr looked back to Judith.
‘We must get to Thorney Island, Wife, and fast.’
The woman put a scrawny hand on his arm.
‘Only the topmost nobles allowed in there, Lord, for there are so many visitors it is full to bursting with fancy folk. The king has guards on every bridge.’
Torr drew himself up tall and glared at her.
‘I am the Earl of Northumbria,’ he said haughtily.
‘Northumbria?’ she cackled. ‘Good God – it’s no wonder, then, that you do not know the news.’
Judith feared Torr would hit her and was glad when the woman, with new nimbleness, ducked away and was gone. Her husband’s face had turned as dark as a storm and he began pushing his way fiercely through the indignant crowds, leaving her to follow as best she could, her mind whirring. It seemed, then, that Harold had found the aetheling and brought him home but that not everyone, as Torr had suggested, was glad to see him. Already she feared the slimy tentacles of the court and longed to be back in Durham.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Caen, April 1057
‘We bring news, Lord Duke.’
The court looked up eagerly as the doors at the back of the rough hall burst open and Fulk de Montgomery strode in, his wife swishing behind him. Both held their heads high and were grinning like well-fed wolves. Mathilda, already uneasy out here in Caen, William’s starkest and least welcoming of cities, felt a shiver of dread run right down into her belly where her fifth child was just starting to make itself felt.
‘Fulk!’ William leaped up from the big table where they had both been signing charters and rushed to shake hands with his commander. ‘And your lovely lady wife, too. Mabel, welcome.’
Almost he kissed her and Mathilda blinked, astonished. William hated holding a quill rather than a sword and was always looking for distraction from paperwork but this was more than that. She looked enviously at the Lady of Belleme. Mabel looked more stunning than ever in a dress of purest scarlet belted with huge links of silver. Her eyes glittered as brightly as the diamonds in her long nails and Mathilda felt ridiculously small and dumpy with her ever-rounded belly straining at her tired gown.
The courtiers who had been ranged around the edges of the room chatting and niggling at each other as they waited for the business of the day to be concluded seemed to lean in, as if pulled towards the glittering pair, and Mathilda could see why. Fulk and Mabel were exchanging wickedly complicit glances, their quarrelsome ways clearly a thing of the past, and it was evident they had tidings worth the knowing.
‘News, my Lord High Commander?’ William prompted loudly, enjoying the theatre of the moment.
‘Sad news.’ Fulk de Montgomery’s eyes were afire, though not with sadness. ‘Sad news of the poor lost Saxon prince.’
‘He is dead?’
‘I am afraid so.’
William masked his intake of breath.
‘That is very sad.’
‘Yes. A great loss, for he looked a fine man. Forty-six years old but sprightly and alert. He spoke the Saxon tongue well and knew something of their customs and he had not forgotten his heritage. He was eager to rule, they say, and capable too, and he came with a fine wife, Lady Agatha – a bright-eyed, curly-haired beauty from Kiev – and three bonny children besides. A perfect choice he was, my lord duke, hailed as a true solution to the Saxon succession crisis, and there was much cheering in the streets of Lo
ndon. Much cheering. So sad.’
He glanced at Mabel, who put both hands dramatically to what passed as her heart.
‘He was weakened, they think, by the sea voyage. Some men do not sail well and being raised in Russia he had never been on the open sea. It did not, it seems, agree with him.’
‘Is that so?’ William asked, a weird thrill in his voice.
Mathilda felt her blood curdle and looked down at her fingers, wrapped around each other in her lap. She wondered if Judith had been there with the Saxon court and if she was suspicious. Was she right to be? For Mathilda had not prevented this, had not insisted Mabel stay at home. She looked at the beautiful Lady of Belleme, unable to resist the biting memory of Adela’s early birth, and felt nausea rise in her gullet.
‘He sickened, my lord,’ Mabel said, almost as if she could see Mathilda’s struggle and was taunting her. ‘He was frail to start with but he went downhill fast. Saxon food was, I fear, too rich for him.’
She was loving this, stroking her own sharp-boned cheek with one of her damned diamond nails as she looked around the funny little hall that made up the heart of the rough fortress of Caen. The royal residence here was just a clutch of simple buildings in one corner of a vast enclosure above the handful of shacks that passed as the town and was in desperate need of improvements but Mathilda felt little inclination to spend more time here than was necessary to keep the rebellious west at least partially tame. William said he liked its simplicity and the views out over the Narrow Sea, but for a sight of the waves Mathilda much preferred pretty little Bonneville and she resisted travelling to Caen whenever she could. Today’s encounter was doing little to endear the city to her.
‘You met him, Mabel?’ William was asking, the poor charters gleefully abandoned for another day.
‘Only once.’
‘Once, it seems, was enough. And the king? Did you talk to King Edward?’
‘We were introduced. He looked old, especially after the sad passing of his cousin, frail even . . .’
‘She did not meet him again, my lord,’ Fulk said firmly.
‘Good. King Edward will go to God in his own time and amongst Saxons. But these exile children, one of them is a boy, is he not?’
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