‘I do not think,’ she said in the end, ‘that you came just to admire our architecture?’
‘No. In truth, the finer points of design are lost on me. I am a crass man, Duchess Mathilda, a mere soldier.’
Mathilda looked the big man up and down, taking in his rich tunic, patterned with hunting hounds around the hem, his intricately worked gold cloak clasps and the artistic bands around his muscled forearms – this was no ‘mere soldier’.
‘You do yourself a disservice, my lord.’
‘Call me Harold, please. And you may be right. A Saxon does not like to sing his own praises.’
‘Surely that is foolish, for who else will do so?’
‘Poets.’
‘Who praise only for coin.’
‘Or for their own praise.’
‘Too true. You like poetry?’
‘If it is well written and the subject interests me.’
‘And what subjects interest you, Earl Harold?’
‘Hawking, horses, fair women . . .’
‘Legends?’
‘I prefer to make my own tales. But you, my lady, what interests you?’
Mathilda stared at him, her mind suddenly blank. She could hear the chatter of the court as the first dishes were served, see the steam rise from the capons and smell their rich, earthy juices. She could hear the glug of wine into goblets and see the tapestries, newly beaten into brightness, above the faces of the great and the good of Normandy, but she could not think.
‘What interests me?’ she repeated stupidly.
‘Yes. Is it so strange a question?’
‘Of course not. Many things interest me. Normandy interests me.’
‘Normandy?’
‘The fate of Normandy. I am her duchess, after all.’
‘You are and a fine one, I am sure, but I am talking of you – what interests you?’
Mathilda flinched.
‘What interests your wife, Earl Harold?’
‘Svana?’ His voice softened instantly. ‘Svana likes nature. She loves all creatures, though the smaller ones most of all. There is forever an injured mouse or hedgehog in her kitchens at Nazeing. She likes walking and riding – usually too far for her own safety, I am always telling her off for it – and she likes flowers, especially the sweet-scented ones. She likes the children . . .’
‘I like my children,’ Mathilda interrupted, seizing on this.
‘Of course. And is this your daughter now?’
Mathilda looked over as Cecelia brought a pouting Adela to the table.
‘This is Adela, my eldest girl, yes. Adela, come greet our guest.’
Adela looked at Harold.
‘Does that scratch?’ she demanded.
Harold looked taken aback.
‘Does what scratch?’
‘That hair on your face. It looks scratchy.’
‘Adela!’ Mathilda admonished, horrified, but Harold laughed.
‘It is quite soft, I assure you. Would you like to feel?’
‘No!’ Adela squealed, though her fingers twitched. ‘I don’t like men,’ she added rudely and then whirled away to fling herself, glowering, into her seat.
‘My lord, I do apologise,’ Mathilda said, mortified.
‘No matter. I have daughters too, my lady. They are mercurial creatures at times.’
‘As are women.’
He put up his hands with a charming smile.
‘You said that, not I. But come, what interests you?’
Damn – he had not given up on that.
‘Music,’ she blurted, catching sight of the minstrels tuning up in the far corner.
‘You play?’
‘I dance.’
It was out before she could stop it. Why had she said that? Fool.
‘Dance? Excellent. I love to dance. Perhaps you will partner me later?’
Memories skidded across her skin like flames. She had danced with Brihtric. Danced too often and too close.
‘I . . . I’m not sure. I do not dance much these days. Now look, your capon grows cold.’
She took her eating knife from Cecelia and set on her own little bird with determined focus. Who was this Saxon to ask her, Duchess of Normandy, to dance? It was hardly fitting, hardly right. Let him kick his feet up with others; she would keep to her chair – however much her treacherous feet itched.
‘What do you think of him?’ William demanded later, much later, when finally they had retired.
Mathilda had hoped he would wish to withdraw early, for the minstrels had been in fine tune and every note had seemed to tug her out of her chair until she was worn down with the effort of keeping to it. William, however, had lingered, eschewing the tafel board for once and even taking a rare glass of wine after dinner, though whether from genuine enjoyment or a desire to keep a close eye on his guest, she was not sure. If the latter, Harold had not seemed aware of it, dancing with all who chose to, and many did. He’d even led Cecelia out though Adela, clamped even more fiercely into her chair than Mathilda, had refused his advances.
‘He is very lively,’ Mathilda managed as William untied her laces.
Ever since their first night together he had preferred to do this task himself when he could, dismissing her ladies before they even retired.
‘He is. He quite liked you, I think.’
‘He is all politeness.’
‘Yes. You must encourage him, Mathilda.’
‘What?’
‘Gain his confidence. You are better at this conversation business than I and if he is relaxed he might say something of use.’
‘Oh. I see. Yes.’
‘That will not be too arduous for you?’
For a moment she thought he was teasing but then she remembered this was William – he said only what he meant.
‘I will manage, William.’
‘He is entertaining enough, is he not, and a handsome man, surely?’
Mathilda, halfway through removing her shift, yanked it off and dived, confused, for the bed.
‘He is very . . . Saxon.’
She closed her eyes against the treacherous image of Lord Brihtric so many years ago – the same cheery blondness, the same lively eyes, the same teasing manner. No one teased her these days, save maybe Fitz. She had forgotten how to deal with it but she would learn. If William wished her to be his conversational spy she would do so.
‘You like him?’
Still the questions. Mathilda’s head ached and she longed for him to stop.
‘He seems nice enough.’
‘You would like to be close to him?’
‘William, what are you saying?’
He slid into bed beside her.
‘He might, do you not think, my Mora, make a fine son-in-law?’
Mathilda gasped.
‘He is married, William, to a lady called Svana. He talked of her with great warmth.’
She remembered the way Harold’s blue eyes had lit up as he talked of his wife nursing woodland creatures in their kitchens and felt a prickle of some rough, dangerous emotion. Not jealousy, nothing so foolish, but an awareness, perhaps, of some other way of being.
‘Lady Svana is his handfast wife only – his mistress. He is still free to wed.’
‘I do not think he would wish to.’
‘Nonetheless . . . Adela is eleven. Have her courses started?’
‘William!’
‘It is just information, Mathilda. Have they?’
Mathilda shifted awkwardly.
‘I know not.’ He stared at her. ‘She’s very secretive, William, and always at her books. She is not like the others – she avoids me.’
‘Well, seek her out then. Ask. Such an alliance would bind Harold to us nicely.’
‘But William, Adela hates men. She told Harold so to his face. She will not do it.’
William’s face darkened.
‘She will, Wife, if I tell her so.’
‘Harold does not seem a man to take an unwilling brid
e.’
‘Harold is a politician, my dear. Do not let his geniality fool you; he is as sharp as a spear.’
‘Do you like him, William?’
‘I believe I do. He is a little brash for my taste but despite that I warm to him. He is a man of honour, I think, and that is all to the good. I might take him fighting. But not yet, Wife. You may work your charms on him first and maybe we can coax him to the altar.’
So Mathilda set herself to try, though her time with the Englishman always left her feeling strangely fragile. Harold was so charming and so good at turning the conversation away, moving it forever onto her concerns and interests – newly rediscovered interests. She found herself discussing astronomy with him, a subject she had not touched on since the schoolroom, though she had loved it then. She discussed the benefits of educating women and exchanged thoughts on music.
She even, just once, found herself talking of Westminster but she stopped the conversation instantly, scuttling to bed before she could be drawn further. William had entrusted her with extracting information from Harold but too often it seemed to be the other way round. And always the Saxon resisted any talk of marriage, though Mathilda had not found a way to admit as much to William before he broached the subject with his daughter. Not that, in the end, it mattered.
‘I will not marry him!’ Adela shouted when the match was put to her, stamping her foot and glowering at her father who glowered back.
‘You will do as you are told, Adela.’
‘Not in this.’
William gaped and looked crossly to the door of the antechamber beyond which his court could be heard buzzing excitedly around the Saxon guests. He was not used to such defiance from anyone, least of all his slip of a daughter.
‘It is your duty,’ he said. ‘And it is for the good of Normandy.’
Adela looked him straight in the eye.
‘I care little for Normandy. Why should a political entity control my personal happiness?’
William went puce with rage and spluttered so hard Mathilda feared he might choke. She stepped forward, uncomfortably aware of her own confrontation with her father over William back in ’49. She had been determined, yes, but Adela was something else. She was as stubborn as a devil and her wits were so damned sharp they cut in an instant.
‘You are a princess, Adela,’ she told her. ‘Your happiness is not a priority.’
‘You do not want me to be happy?’
‘Of course I do, we do. But we want you to be happy in a suitable role.’
‘Wife to a Saxon earl more than twenty years my senior – that is suitable, is it?’
‘Eminently,’ William roared, finding his voice at last.
‘And Harold wishes this match?’
Mathilda shifted, avoided William’s eye.
‘Harold sees the wisdom in it, yes – as should you.’
‘For what, Mother? What am I to do in this marriage? Be your vanguard? Forge ahead into England to prepare the way for you?’
William moved as fast as an arrow from his own longbow. He seized Adela’s chin, lifting her almost off the ground.
‘That is exactly what you should do, yes, and the fact that you realise it proves you are perfect for the role. Do you not wish to further your family?’
Tears sprang to Adela’s eyes.
‘I wish to give myself to God,’ she choked out.
‘God?’ William let go of her so suddenly that she flopped to the ground, her dress like a pool around her. He stared down. ‘You wish to be a nun?’
Adela nodded miserably.
‘I suppose we could give her to God as a sacrifice?’ Mathilda said hesitantly.
William snorted.
‘It would be little sacrifice, Wife.’ He leaned over Adela. ‘Very well,’ he snarled. ‘You will not marry Harold.’
‘Truly?’
‘No. I will find you someone else, someone less important and a lot further away where you cannot embarrass us with your churlishness.’
‘No. Oh please, Father, I . . .’
‘Get out of my sight, Adela. Now!’
She ran for the door and yanked it open. For a moment the hubbub of the court rushed in on them, then she slammed it shut and they were alone again. Mathilda longed to pity her daughter but felt only relief that she had gone.
‘Will you really, William?’ she whispered.
‘Of course. Why would I say it if I did not mean it? There is an ambassador from Spain out there looking for wives for the noble men defeating the Moors in the south. The “reconquista”, they are calling it – a holy war, a crusade to God’s glory. Maybe that will appeal to our choosy daughter? And I trust, Madam, that the others will grow up more pliable?’
‘They will. I will see to it. And Harold?’
‘I will take Harold to Brittany. Lord Riwallon is threatened by Duke Conan in his stronghold at Dol and needs my aid. Harold can serve as my right-hand man. It will be useful for him – for us both.’
‘Will he go with you?’
William smiled.
‘His ships, sadly, are not yet ready. The weather has been too poor for fast work.’
Mathilda glanced towards the small window where a bright spring sky was punctuated by only the lightest of clouds.
‘I see.’
‘Fret not, Mathilda. We will not be long and when we return we will get to the meat of Harold’s visit, I promise you. He is a good man and a valued friend.’
‘You think he is a friend?’
‘I pray so, Mathilda, for with him behind us we cannot fail in England. We will go to fight and soon. Nothing binds a man like standing side by side on a battlefield and after this he will see I am a worthy ruler.’
Mathilda looked at William, duke of a thriving Normandy, and saw a seven-year-old boy twitching to prove himself to the world. Her heart quaked for him.
‘He will, William,’ she said, taking his hand in hers. ‘I am sure that he will.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Rouen, May 1064
The men rode into Rouen to even louder trumpets than those they had ridden out to, crying victory on the bright air. Conan had been sent scuttling back up his precious peninsula and Dol was free and loyal to Normandy. Bishop Odo, always ready to carry God’s word into battle, had excelled and been left in full control of the borderlands and several Breton treasures would now be adorning the already bulging altar at Bayeux. The men were in high spirits, including the Saxons.
William and Harold leaped from their horses as one and landed before Mathilda laughing and outdoing each other in the depth of their bows. Mathilda played along before William suddenly seized her around the waist and, lifting her almost off her feet, kissed her hard. Harold stepped back and she struggled free.
‘Welcome, lords, you are victorious?’
‘Of course,’ William said. ‘Am I not always?’
‘You are.’ She looked to Harold. ‘He is.’
Her senses were quivering. She’d had word from Bonneville that the Saxon ships were finally repaired and now the men were back it was time, it seemed, to test the mettle of this ostentatious new friendship. William seemed very certain of it.
‘Harold excelled,’ he told her, leading them both into the great hall as servers ran to prepare food and those ladies who had lingered in Rouen hastened to greet their men. ‘He rescued two of my soldiers from the quicksands at Mont-St-Michel, when everyone else had given them up for lost. He is a worthy general.’
‘As are you, William,’ Harold countered. ‘Your husband is a horseman like no other, my lady.’
‘He is a Norman,’ Mathilda said. ‘They are bred on horseback.’
‘So it seems. We Saxons rarely fight with cavalry. It has been most interesting.’
‘Took to it like a pig to mud,’ William said proudly. ‘And he’s even a half-decent tafel player. Pushed me right to the edge one time and not many do that. A fine right-hand man.’
Harold looked away and Mathilda moved h
astily forward.
‘Your ships are ready, Harold.’
‘They are?’
Both men squared their shoulders.
‘Then it seems our time together is almost done,’ William said, ‘for now.’
‘It does.’ Harold looked around the hall. ‘A shame but come, let us not overshadow our victory with partings. We must celebrate. William, let me toast you!’
And he did, repeatedly, though Mathilda saw her husband tip half his wine into the rushes and did not know whether to be proud or ashamed of his caution. Harold seemed to throw all his back but lost none of his reason. Were all Saxons like this, she found herself wondering, so assured, so calm in their authority? Were their roots, like England’s own, so firm in the soil that they were able to grow straight and unwavering? And if so, how would William, so unsure of his own worth, stand over them?
He was a warrior, her brave husband, not a politician. He had no guile and though that was a great strength in him, it could also, in a more subtle land, be a great weakness. He would need Harold and others like him if he were to succeed as King of England and she could only hope the great earl saw it that way too.
‘So, you must leave us,’ she said softly to him as the sweetmeats were passed around.
‘It seems so.’
‘And yet you have not told us your original business here.’
‘Must there be business, Mathilda?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘A visit of friendship, no more. King Edward wished me to assure you of his goodwill.’
‘He did?’ William was upon them, leaning across Mathilda to eyeball Harold.
‘He did. And to ask me to promise you as a token of such, Lord Duke, lands in Dover.’
‘Lands? In Dover? In England?’
‘As a token of goodwill in recognition of your family connections and your strong reputation as a leader and your kindness to him as a youth.’
William beamed at the familiar words but Mathilda was not satisfied.
‘You mean as a token of his promise?’
‘Promise?’ Harold said lightly, giving William a slow wink.
‘Yes,’ Mathilda tried to insist but William was shushing her, calling for order. ‘William,’ she hissed, ‘you cannot leave it like that, not this time.’
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