‘It is for Cecelia, who has ever been loyal to me.’
‘An admirable quality.’
Steel cut along the edge of his voice and Mathilda felt nervousness shudder through the ranks of his soldiers. The horses had all been led away to the stables but the poor men were still standing awkwardly in the yard, though they must surely be fainting with tiredness.
‘Shall we go within?’ she suggested.
‘In a moment.’ William looked to Hugh, still fussing over Emeline and his surprise clutch of children. ‘I am told, Mathilda, that many letters have issued forth from your chambers.’
‘They have?’
‘You did not write them?’
‘No, my lord, of course I did not. Not after . . .’ She stopped herself from reminding him how he had previously suspected her of treachery with her uncle, the defeated King Henri.
‘I know you did not,’ he said and it was all she could do not to snap at him, then, for asking.
Still he had not touched her, had not even kissed her hand. And she, the mother of his fifth child. Anger budded within her.
‘Must we stand here, William? Your men must be cold and tired from their journey and ready for wine to toast your great victory. Come within.’
There was an eager shuffling amongst the men but their duke again put up a hand and it stopped instantly.
‘Tell me who wrote those letters.’
Mathilda shrivelled back against solid Cecelia who held her firm, though she was quivering too.
‘Cecelia?’ she asked, looking over her shoulder. ‘Do you know something of this?’
‘It was not me, my lady, truly.’
‘That is not what I asked. Do you know something of this?’
Cecelia seemed frozen but now Emeline was coming forward, her loose hair blowing in the low breeze and her hands crossed over her chest to hold her tiny babies on her shoulders like living brooches. For a moment she looked almost like some mystical warrior of old but then she spoke and the spell was broken.
‘She knows that the letters were written by me.’
‘You?’ Mathilda gasped. ‘But you cannot write, Emeline.’
‘I can, for I made Cecelia teach me. But it was with no evil intent. I merely wished to send words of, of . . .’ She faltered but then stuck her head up proudly. ‘Of love to my husband, who was taken from me by war. Is that so wrong?’
‘Of course not,’ Mathilda assured her and turned keenly back to William. ‘See, my lord. Love notes, no more. Nothing to suspect.’
‘And yet, every time there has been trouble I have found your lady – your French lady – at the heart of it. First I hear that she is consorting with Raoul, then he betrays me at Mortemer. Next I hear that she is bedding a Belleme and they are found to be working against me.’
‘Not against you, William,’ Mathilda protested, driven to bravery by her fear for Emeline, standing fresh from her childbed before the whole court. ‘But against Hugh.’
‘Hugh whose cousin Arnold was at the heart of this latest rebellion. Hugh who she manipulated to wed.’
‘Manipulated? He asked her himself. You are not being fair.’
The glare he gave her would have turned lesser women to stone and, indeed, Mathilda felt her little limbs lock as if his cruel suspicions had clamped around them, but she refused to give way. The soldiers were all looking uncomfortably at the ground but they could hear every word and Mathilda’s anger grew at being subjected to this humiliation. ‘You have evidence for Emeline’s treachery, my lord?’
‘I will have. People will soon speak out.’
‘You think so? And what of me, your wife, Emeline’s mistress. Am I – again – under the cloud of your suspicion as well?’
‘Should you be?’
Mathilda wanted to scream.
‘How could you even think it?’
‘Because I would be a fool not to. Do not be so naive, Mathilda. In Flanders, where all is fashion and architecture, such pretty trust may serve but Normandy is a dog pit where anyone could bite you at any time. People turn, Mathilda; always they turn.’
‘That’s not true. Why must you always think the worst? Why must you always search for blame and search hardest in those closest to you? You think everyone is against you, even the Pope.’
‘The Pope is against me.’
‘He is not. He is simply playing games like everyone else. You accused me once of fostering the papal prohibition to give me a way out of our marriage but maybe, William, it is you who fosters it to pander to your damned need to have all against you.’
William sucked breath sharply in through his teeth and the reluctant crowd took a nervous step backwards.
‘What I need,’ he said, his voice like ice, ‘is to have all with me, most especially my wife and her loose-tongued attendants.’
The court froze. Mathilda heard Cecelia whimper and saw Emeline shift her babies fretfully on her shoulders. She fought for words to answer her raging husband but then someone stepped in front of her and blocked him momentarily from her sight.
‘How dare you, my lord?’ It was Hugh, his usually quiet voice ripped through with ferocity. ‘How dare you accuse my wife of treachery and me besides, for as her husband all that she is, I am too.’
‘You would defy me, Hugh, after all I have done for you?’
‘As you defy me, my lord. I am your loyal servant and gladly but you must be loyal in return. We are not all waiting for a chance to stab you and you do yourself a disservice to think so – and us too. Emeline is a good woman, my lord, and you have cast a slur upon her. I cannot let that stand.’
William stared at him, nonplussed.
‘You are challenging me?’
Hugh paled.
‘Is that what you want?’
‘No, Hugh.’
‘Nor I but it would be best I think, my lord duke, if I took my wife away. She is weary after birthing two babes and needs peace. We will leave. Now.’
‘Now?’ Mathilda gasped. ‘But Emeline is newly from her childbed. She cannot travel.’
‘I can,’ Emeline insisted, ‘if Hugh thinks it best.’
‘No. The babies . . .’
‘Will be well with us.’
‘But where will you go?’
‘We will head for Italy,’ Hugh said. ‘Where else is there for a lost Norman?’
‘You are not “lost”,’ Mathilda cried. ‘Tell him, William. Emeline is not a spy but a woman – a wife and a mother. She has no interest in war, save in its conclusion and the return of her husband.’ He did not respond and she ran to him and grabbed at his arm. ‘Tell Hugh not to leave, William, please. This is a madness. You are tired, that is all and no wonder. Tell him, I beg you!’
But William just shook her off.
‘He will do as he chooses,’ he said, breaking from them all and striding for the palace door.
As if released, the soldiers scattered and within moments Mathilda was left with Emeline. Behind them, Hugh ordered fresh horses and a carriage brought from the stables and sent his own servants running to pack clothes. Emeline looked shocked but resolute.
‘Do not go,’ Mathilda begged her. ‘I will talk to William. I will explain. He has too often been cursed with treachery and sees it everywhere but I will make him understand his error. Stay, please.’
Emeline smiled sadly.
‘I think it is best if we do not for he seems very certain.’
Mathilda felt her heart tear. She looked at Emeline, tousled in her loose gown, and remembered her on the night of her own wedding when she had clasped her tight and told her that she would never leave her – ‘never, never, never’. How had it come to this?
‘You cannot go. I cannot let you. It is not safe.’
Emeline, however, simply looked back at Hugh as he led the horses from the stable.
‘It is totally safe, my lady, for Hugh will care for me.’
Her eyes shone. Even as she stood there in a hastily thrown-on cloak with he
r babies of just one day clutched to her milky chest, her eyes shone. She had not questioned his decision, not even for a moment. She was a better wife than Mathilda by far; or perhaps it was simply that Hugh was a better husband. Either way, there was little left to say bar Godspeed before Hugh was there and she was handing the babies to him and climbing into the carriage as servants rushed up with blankets. And just like that, as if a whirlwind had spun through Rouen, they were gone.
Left alone, Mathilda turned miserably to the chapel to seek some comfort in God. Her prayers, though, were slow to come for all she could truly think was damn war for poisoning men’s souls, and damn William for trusting no one, and damn her wretched uncle King Henri for proving him right to do so.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Rouen, May 1060
‘King Henri is dead.’
The news rippled excitedly around the palace yard. The men had been preparing to ride out to hunt but all sport was forgotten with the arrival of the messengers. William came across to Mathilda who had been fussing over Robert, glad to spend some time with him after birthing a third daughter. Her eldest boy, now eight, had been preparing with great excitement to ride out with the hunt and would be the one member of the court disappointed to have his afternoon disturbed by news from France. His father’s eyes, however, were shining.
‘God has punished Henri for opposing us, Wife. We are blessed.’
Mathilda shifted uncomfortably. Was it Christian to crow at another’s death, especially a member of one’s own family? Many times in the long wait whilst the men had been at war she had sadly traced the patterns in the casket Henri had gifted her. She had considered burning it as a show of loyalty to her husband but it was so pretty and so useful that in the end she had simply covered the beautiful lid with a cloth. And now it was Henri himself who would be so covered. She shivered.
‘God is on the Norman side!’ William was shouting delightedly to his supporters who were roaring approval, thankfully swallowing Mathilda’s petty fears in their clamour.
‘Who rules now?’ he demanded of the messenger.
‘His son, Phillipe, Lord Duke.’
‘But he is a child.’
‘Just six years old, my lord, yes. His mother stands as regent alongside Count Baldwin of Flanders.’
‘Regent?’ Mathilda asked sharply but William brushed her aside.
‘This is better and better. Your father is in charge, Mathilda, and Queen Anne too, who is, of course, closely allied to Raoul, who is closely allied to us. This is fine news indeed. We must celebrate.’
The men needed no second asking. Handing their unhappy horses back to the grooms they poured into the Tour to toast their enemy’s demise. Robert howled in frustration but was whisked up by Fitz who threw him on his back, promising to be his mount for the afternoon, and the lad was soon laughing with the rest. William held out an imperious arm to Mathilda.
‘You will come and celebrate with the court, Wife?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, though she heard her own reluctance.
So did William. He leaned in, sweeping an arm around her waist.
‘Would you rather we celebrated alone?’
She jumped.
‘It is afternoon, Husband!’
‘Even better, for we grow old, my Mora, and sleep beckons us earlier these days. Come, it has been a long time – too long.’
‘I am but newly churched, William.’
‘It was three weeks hence.’
‘It was?’
‘Three weeks and four days.’
‘You are counting?’
He looked sheepish.
‘As I said, Wife, it has been too long.’
Mathilda buried her sigh. He was right, she supposed, and she did not object, not really. She might not have lost her heart to her husband but her body still leaped at his attentions and she was recovering well from her sixth birthing. It had taken longer than the others, though still, as the midwife had tactlessly pointed out, less time than for most women.
‘Most women do not have a duchy to get back to,’ Mathilda had snapped. It had been rude of her, and not really true either for there had been no war for three years and William was in full control, but she had been in pain and not thinking straight. All had felt better again once she’d held her third daughter in her arms, though she had cried like a fool. William had laughed and kissed her over and over and insisted on naming the child Mathilda.
‘Why not?’ he’d demanded when she’d protested. ‘We have a William, do we not, in our fiery little Rufus, so why not a Mathilda too? I would like the world to have another you in it, for you make it so much better a place.’
That had set her weeping once more, out of gratitude and guilt and some slippery jumble of other emotions that had made her long for Emeline, now safely in Italy and, to Mathilda’s great distress, enjoying it hugely.
The true spy had been flushed out within days of the Grandmesnils’ departure and executed in front of the court. William, for once humbled, had sent letters begging Hugh to return but his jaunty reply had said that he was much in demand for his knowledge of horses and that he and his family should, in Norman interests, stay for a ‘breeding season at least’. Mathilda had wept even more at that but she was, thank the Lord, finding her equilibrium at last. That did not, however, mean that she was ready to go through the stormy ride of childbearing again.
‘Do you not desire me any more, my Mora?’ William asked with a frown.
‘Of course I do,’ she said hastily. ‘I just think that for now we should be with your men. There is much to consider.’ She seized his arm as a new thought occurred to her. ‘We should go to Paris, William.’
He looked at her for so long that she feared she had truly offended him, but then suddenly he swooped her into his arms.
‘You are right, my Mora. You are so right. We will go to Paris and we will swear allegiance to the little king and restore good relations with France. And then if we should ever need their support . . .’
‘You are thinking still of England?’
He took her hands.
‘Always. Are you not?’
And God help her, she was. For now, though, France would be a blessed relief.
Mathilda stared in awe at the elegant spires on the horizon. They were approaching Paris down the dusty old Via Jules Cesar, built in the time of the great Roman emperor and, as far as Mathilda’s jarred body could tell, repaired little in the thousand years since, but the French capital was a sight to ease all pains. The outer wall curved in a semi-circle towards their approach and the great Seine, silver in the half-sun creeping through the mist, cut into it to their right and then out again far over to their left, like an arrow through a heart.
‘We are almost there, my lady,’ Raoul said, riding up at her side. He had been delighted to arrange this visit and ridden out to the border between Normandy and France to personally secure their safe passage to the new king. ‘Once within the walls all will be comfort, I assure you. The royal palace is newly refurbished and very fine. There are feathers in all the beds and glass in many of the windows and such fabrics and frescoes as you have never seen before.’
‘I come from Bruges,’ Mathilda reminded him haughtily.
‘Of course, my lady. For a moment I forgot, for you are every inch Normandy’s duchess. In that case, such fabrics and frescoes as you have not seen for some time.’
Mathilda smiled her thanks, though she felt a stab of guilt. She had brought little of Flemish culture to Normandy. Judith would have done more. She had an eye for beauty, Mathilda only one for order. Maybe, as William always said, she was more like him than she knew. Or maybe she had just been lazy. She looked to Raoul.
‘You occupy a good place at court, my lord?’
‘A very good place, thank you. I am, shall we say, at the heart of the French administration.’
‘So you will marry the dowager queen?’
‘Ah.’ Raoul grimaced. ‘That is trickier. The ch
urch is not so eager to see us together. But that matters little. Anne and I know the truth of our love and the French court is not troubled by it. The rest will come. But you understand, do you not? The church tried to block your love, but you did not let it stand in your way either.’
Mathilda nodded dumbly, happy to be equated to Raoul though she was troublingly aware that the circumstances of her own defiance had been rather less romantic than his. She and William had pushed their marriage for politics, not for love.
But love grows, she reminded herself; love has grown. Surely that was true? She admired William, respected him, and if those feelings were more like a warm milk than the spiced wine of her giddy dalliance with Brihtric, then so what? Milk was far more nourishing.
‘I am glad you are happy,’ she said hastily, ‘and I look forward to meeting the queen.’
‘She is a wonderful woman,’ Raoul replied simply and led the way up to the gates of Paris.
The outer walls, close up, were rather derelict. Raoul explained that they were from Roman times but that he and the queen and of course the little king had great plans to restore them. Raoul and Queen Anne, it soon emerged, had great plans for restoring many things. As they traced their way through the streets towards the palace Raoul spoke of architects and builders and great projects and William was rapt.
‘We can learn from this,’ he told Mathilda eagerly. ‘We can build too.’
‘Rouen is beautiful already,’ she objected.
‘Rouen is, yes. It is not Rouen where we need work.’
‘Where then, William?’
‘Caen.’
‘Caen?’ Mathilda looked at him in horror. ‘But Caen is in the west, William, where . . .’
‘Where all rebellions take seed. Exactly.’
Mathilda’s heart sank. She could see the sense of what he proposed but could not like it. She loved Rouen for it reminded her of Bruges with its tight, pretty buildings, but Caen was as stark and foreboding as Eu and she did not relish spending any more time there. Still, for now she was in Paris and must make the most of it.
They were approaching the French king’s palace and it was a beautiful residence, made in stone as pale as a woman’s skin with turrets and arches and elegant, soaring detailing. The floors were marble, smooth and easy to walk upon, the ceilings high, the windows tall and frequent so that the palace seemed flooded with light. In the main hall they even had rough-woven fabric in a wide band along the middle of the floor and Mathilda felt it bounce and give beneath her feet as they were shown along it towards two grand thrones at the top end.
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