He gave a little sigh and turning went slowly up the spiral stair to his chamber. There he found Thorkel in the act of changing his sodden tunic. He flung the stained one from behind him as Walthof entered.
‘My lord, I meant nothing – I swear it.’
‘I know,’ Waltheof answered heavily. ‘But I beseech you, in future, choose your verses with more care.’
The Icelander was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘I sing what I feel. But you are the last man I would offend.’
‘It was not me that you offended,’ Waltheof told him and left it at that.
There was a tap on the door and William Malet came in, looking anxious. ‘I came to be certain that fool, Ivo, had caused you no hurt, my lord,’ he said and when Waltheof assured him that the Norman’s knife had not even scratched him, Malet’s honest face relaxed.
‘I am glad. Few understood your song, Messire Skallason but a battle song is a battle song in any tongue.’ He turned at the door and then as an afterthought added, ‘It was a pity about that dish of mortrewes. I had a mind to some.’
After the emotions of that scene in the hall and the drawn steel, the unconscious banality of this remark struck Waltheof and Thorkel at the same time. They caught each other’s eyes and collapsed into helpless laughter.
Malet stared at them perplexedly but as they appeared incapable of speech and as he saw no cause for mirth, he went huffily out.
CHAPTER 3
The summer came and with it more occupation out of doors giving release to energies pent up by the long, cold winter.
Richard de Rules extended an invitation to the Earl of Huntingdon to spend a few weeks on his demesne near Falaise, and Waltheof accepted. It meant being away from the proximity of Judith for a while but it would have been churlish to refuse, nor could he think of any good reason for doing so, quite apart from the fact that his friendship with Richard was growing.
Richard’s mother welcomed him, almost embarrassing him with her gratitude for sparing her son’s life, and throughout the long, light June days he and Richard hunted and hawked together, practised with spear and bow, and swam in the river. One day, splashing in a pool below a small waterfall, he said suddenly, ‘William made no bones about my visit here. Suppose I should ride to the coast and take a ship for England?’
Richard trod water, his face brown in the sun, his body gleaming white in the greenish pool. ‘Is our hospitality so poor that you wish to leave us?’
‘You know it is not. But I must go home some time.’ Waltheof turned on his back and lay floating, staring up through an overhanging willow to the blue sky above. Yet – yet I think if I did you would, stop me.’
‘I?’
‘Yes.’
‘By common consent they swam towards the bank and scrambling out, lay naked in the warm sun to dry.
Richard glanced at his companion, uncertain what to say, and after a moment Waltheof went on.
‘William has told you, has he not, that none of us are to be allowed to leave. He would not have permitted me to come here otherwise.’ Still Richard did not speak and he went on: ‘Your silence answers for you.’
The Norman sat up abruptly, clasping his arms about his drawn up knees. ‘You are right,’ he said honestly, ‘but I hoped friendship and loyalty need not be in conflict. I thought you liked it here – and in Normandy.’
‘I do,’ Waltheof answered at once. ‘I like it very well indeed. But I have land at home, people who look to me for help, for justice, for all their needs. I cannot leave others in charge indefinitely.’
‘I’m sure William will go back to England soon,’ Richard said cheerfully. ‘I know he was talking to the Archbishop about his lady’s coronation just before we left.’
‘Maybe.’ Waltheof sat up too so that he might face his companion. ‘But you cannot deny that we are prisoners – – not that we are treated as such, but in that if I chose to take a horse this very day and ride for the nearest harbour you would have to stop me – to try to stop me,’ he added after a moment’s thought.
Richard smiled. ‘Your words are well chosen – I should not care to meet you in battle, my friend. Your man, Hakon, was telling me of some fight in the north of your country.’
‘Stamford,’ Waltheof said automatically, though it meant nothing to Richard. ‘He talks a great deal of nonsense. And please God we shall never meet thus.’
A silence fell. Waltheof stared at the sunlit water, the delicate willow leaves dipping into the still surface of the pool – it seemed impossible on such a day with this man who had become his friend, to think of such a thing, yet it was not inconceivable that Englishmen might try to throw off the Norman yoke. If that happened, might he not find his sword turned against Richard, against Roger FitzOsbern, William Malet and the other men he had come to know and to like. It was an intolerable thought and yet – he knew that if it came to the choice, his sword would be drawn against them and for England. He would have no choice at all.
Abruptly he said, in a tone harder than he meant to use, reflecting his private thoughts: ‘You have not answered my question.’
Richard said stiffly, ‘Of course I would have to stop you. But I thought – no matter.’ He paused. ‘Do I need to put a guard on your door at night?’
Waltheof saw at once that he was nettled. ‘I’m sorry. You know I would not put you in such a position that you would have to answer to the King for my absconding.’ He felt a sudden need for violent exercise and dived into the pool again; there was a splash behind him and Richard came up a few feet away.
‘Thank you for that,’ the latter said, shaking the water from his eyes. ‘We have to learn to be one people – and I for one do not want you to leave.’
The next day he took his guest to see Wulnoth Godwineson, thinking to please him, but it turned out for Waltheof to be a sad disappointment. Wulnoth was thoroughly Normanised, living contentedly with his Norman lady. He received his visitors courteously, but he did not seem to want to talk about the past, having come to terms with his long banishment. He reminded Waltheof, not of Harold but of Tosti and only once, when Wulnoth turned his head swiftly to answer a question did he get a glimpse of any similarity to Leofwine. For a brief moment he saw the beloved friend live again, but then Wulnoth spoke and was not in the least like his elder brother. The Earl was glad when it was time to leave and he was very silent on the ride back. Richard, guessing that the visit had been something of a disappointment, kept the silence and Waltheof was grateful for the unspoken understanding. He did not ask to see Wulnoth again.
But for the most part it was a golden summer for him, absorbed as he was in his love for Judith. Whenever they rode out he contrived to urge his big Spanish horse, Balleroy, a gift from William, close to her palfrey and, as often as not, oust Ivo of Taillebois from her side. Since the confrontation at the Easter feast Ivo went out of his way to annoy the English Earl, but Waltheof ignored him and told Morcar in no uncertain terms to keep Magnus in check. Morcar swallowed this command with surprising docility – possibly Edwin, who did not want his chances of marriage with William’s daughter jeopardised, had urged him to compromise.
Edwin petitioned William to set a date for his wedding, at the same time pointing out that they all had lands and people at home and would be glad of the chance to see how they fared, but the King always turned aside these requests, remarking that there was time enough, with the result that the Earl of Mercia grew sulky and his brother, as always, reflected his mood.
Waltheof began to wonder how he would fare if he asked for Judith’s hand. He knew her a little better now. He discovered that she had for all her youth very definite, surprisingly independent ideas of her own, with little time for the usual female occupations. Often her dark eyes would stare broodingly into the distance as if she lived in a hidden world of her own, and he wanted to find a way into her thoughts, to share the things that seemed to absorb her. Only there was little privacy in this teeming court and since the meeting in the abb
ey garden, there had been no more than a few casual moments together.
So matters drifted on until one October afternoon when the King and all his household and guests were returning from Bayeux to his capital city. They had crossed the Dives by the ford at Varaville and were on the road to Lisieux, strung out in a long procession; it was a sultry day, thunder rolling constantly about them, and surprisingly warm for the lateness of the year. Suddenly a jagged flash of lightning split the sky, almost immediately there was a loud clap of thunder overhead and Waltheof, riding as always close to Judith, saw her little mare rear in terror and bolt for the trees at the side of the rough road. She grabbed hard at the reins but the mare, terrified, with distended nostrils and wild eyes, paid no heed.
The rain came then, a solid drenching downpour that caused the whole company to break up, some making for the cottages and small church of the village they were approaching, others scattering beneath the trees for shelter, and in the confusion only Waltheof saw Judith’s mare gallop wildly away into the forest. He dug in his spurs and went after her, ducking to avoid the branches that threatened to knock him from the saddle. He caught up with her at last in a clearing near a rough dwelling where, gasping and dripping wet, she had managed to bring the frightened animal to a standstill.
He caught at the reins, glancing anxiously at her. ‘Are you all right, my lady? You have taken no hurt?’
‘None.’ But she was trembling as he set his hands about her waist and lifted her down from the saddle.
‘My poor girl, you gave yourself a fine scare, and me also.’ He felt her mantle. ‘You are soaked. Come, there will probably be a fire in this peasant hut.’ He tethered the horses and led her to the dwelling which was no more than a rough lean-to set between two solid beech trees. He pushed the rickety door and went in first to ensure that it was a safe place for her. Inside there was a fire of sorts set between stones and burning fitfully on the trodden earth floor, it was smoky and none too pleasant smelling, but there was a rough table and two stools and in one corner a bed of straw. A goat was tethered in the other corner and a woman stood by the table in the act of pouring milk into a bowl.
She looked up, startled but not frightened until she saw the unusual appearance of the stranger. Then she gave a little gasp, a hand to her mouth, and backed away from him.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘I am a guest of Duke William and this lady is his niece. We would take shelter from the rain.’
She recovered a little then, pushing the grey wisps of hair under her veil and wiping her hands on her soiled dress. She bobbed to Judith and indicated the stool. Waltheof pulled it to the fire and kicked the sticks to make them burn more brightly. Judith sat down, holding out her hands and shivering.
‘You are very cold,’ he said anxiously, and took the dripping mantle from her shoulders, holding it out to the woman with an injunction to hang it up to dry by the fire. Then he swung off his own fur-lined cloak that the rain had not penetrated and wrapped it about Judith’s shoulders.
There was a pot on the fire and the woman dipped a vessel into it pouring some of the contents into a bowl. It was a watery soup of sorts, not very appetising but hot, and Waltheof begged Judith to drink some. She held the bowl to her lips, her teeth chattering, but after a moment the warm liquid did its work, the shivering stopped and she handed the bowl back with a smile and a word of thanks.
Waltheof shook the rain from his hair and dried his face on his sleeve; his hose were clinging to his legs, but his tunic, protected by the fur was dry enough. Judith’s long skirts, however, were very wet and she still looked chilled, so he knelt beside her and taking her hands began to chafe them between his own for warmth. The chance to do something for her, to care for her, was so great a joy to him that he could not keep it from showing in his face.
‘You are very kind,’ Judith said in a small voice. ‘I thought I could manage my palfrey better than that.’
And suddenly he stopped rubbing her hands and held them close to his chest, lifting first one and then the other to his lips.
‘I would do anything for you,’ he said unsteadily, ‘anything.’ He had no right to speak to her thus, no right without her mother’s consent and William’s too, to say what he was going to say, but he could not – would not – halt the words now, all the longing of the past months welling up in a tide that would have its way. ‘My lady – Judith – I would spend the rest of my life caring for you. But you must know it – you must have known it for a long time.’
He kissed her hands again and again, pressing them to his lips, oblivious of the peasant woman standing half in the shadows, gazing in astonishment at the doings of this man and woman who had so unexpectedly invaded her mean dwelling.
Judith was not in the least discomposed by his declaration. She did not blush or withdraw her hands in maidenly modesty, even if she could have extricated them from his strong warm grasp. Instead she sat very still, a smile creeping into her face.
‘Yes, I know,’ she said, and now that it was out in the open, looked straightly at this large young man at her feet, at the fair bearded face and grey eyes alight with love for her. She had met none like him; furthermore her cool head, inherited from her uncle, told her that though many of her admirers had had lands to offer her, this man had an earldom and that in a new exciting country won by that uncle whom she admired above all others. Her smile widened. She leaned forward so that one plait brushed his cheek.
He drew in his breath sharply, touched her hair, trembling. Then, hesitating as if he would approach this moment with awe, as if he would defer the sweetness to taste it the more, he took her in his arms and set his mouth to hers.
All his life he was to remember that kiss, given in a peasant’s hut, with the rain dripping on the thatch above and the smoke of the mean fire eddying about them. He felt Judith’s arms go round his neck, her mouth cling to his, warm and alive, so that his body throbbed with desire.
They had both forgotten the presence of the woman whose hut this was, but at that moment, embarrassed by their lovemaking, she stepped backwards and knocked over a cooking pot.
Waltheof and Judith both sprang up, and then, seeing the pot roll across the floor, they looked at each other and laughed. He took her hands in his again and stood smiling down at her.
‘I will speak to your uncle,’ he said. ‘God knows what he will say to me. And you mother, will she . . .’
Judith gave a little shrug. ‘I do not know. She is very – Norman. I think she would have me wed a Norman or a Fleming at least.’
‘And what of you?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I would make you Countess of Huntingdon.’ Judith barely reached her lover’s chest and her head was bent so that he could not see her face nor the look that came into it as he spoke. ‘You shall have land,’ he added, his love overflowing into generosity, ‘as your morning gift on our wedding day. Judith, my love, tell me – tell me you want that day as I do.’
She stood on tip toe, setting her hands about his face. ‘I want it.’ She gave her low laugh. ‘Those silly girls in the bower would think me most unmaidenly if they could see and hear me now, would they not?’
He held her close, looking down at her. ‘You are not like them, and only honesty will serve between us.’ He kissed her again, lingeringly. ‘My heart, I have known from that first day that you are the woman for me. I will share my marriage bed with no other, this I swear.’ Now that she was in his arms, his by her own word, nothing else seemed possible.
‘There may be difficulties,’ she said slowly. ‘We are not burghers to fall in love and marry as we will.’
‘Maybe not, but our births match. I have land and my earldom to offer. I think William will look with favour on my suit and if he does then your lady mother will not refuse. Even if our path is not easy, I will wait, though,’ his arms tightened, ‘please God it will not be too long.’
‘Amen to that,’ she agreed. ‘But, my lord, no one must know what has passed between us until
you have spoken with my uncle. If he thought . . .’
‘If he thought I had held you and kissed you,’ he said smiling, ‘he would say that I am a villain to steal your affections without his consent, and so I am. Ah, Judith, how is it possible that this should come to us? I little thought when I sailed for Normandy that I should find you – nor that I should take a mistress for my hall home with me when I go,’ he broke off, ‘only God knows when that will be.’
‘If my uncle consents to our marriage,’ Judith said acutely, ‘I would think you might ride home whenever you chose. I will be a surer treaty between you than any promise.’
‘Of course! I cannot wait to show you Ryhall and Huntingdon and Connington.’ He wanted to lay all his possessions, everything he had at her feet, to show her the best that was his. ‘I want to see you there as my Countess.’
Her eyes were glowing now. ‘How proudly I shall bear that title,’ and it was she this time who reached up to his mouth.
Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1) Page 14
