Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  He had taken no woman since he had given Elfgive to Osgood, a marriage that seemed to be particularly pleasing to both, but he felt his solitariness when he lay in his great bed at night under the white bearskin. Judith survived only in a hidden secret place that had nothing to do with reality, but even at the height of loneliness and desire he could not bring himself to put another woman in her place. He no longer spoke of her, even to Thorkel. With his usual perception the Icelander made no comment but unrolled his pallet at the foot of the Earl’s bed more often than before.

  Then in June had come a summons to attend William at his court in London. William was building a great tower there with stones brought all the way from Caen in Normandy, and he rode frequently from King Edward’s palace near the West Minster to study its progress. Arriving in London Waltheof had found him standing on the knoll above the river, watching the masons at work, the men hauling the stones from ships anchored there, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the work.

  ‘They make good progress,’ William had said.

  ‘It will be a fine tower, Seigneur.’

  ‘Yes,’ William said, ‘it will watch over this city and none will be able to storm it – but it will take time to complete.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Always, Earl Waltheof, I see the finished task in my head before it is even begun and I am anxious to see it in reality.’

  ‘If we did not plan a thing completed, would we ever begin?’ Waltheof had queried and William shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps not, but impatient or not there is only one way to build, slowly and carefully from sound foundations. This has always been my policy but,’ he added wrily, ‘I find it more difficult to put into practice in my lessons.’

  ‘Lessons, sire?’

  ‘Aye,’ William was still smiling. ‘I am trying to learn your language, my friend. In fact, at this moment, I should be with the good monk who is endeavouring to teach me, but I must confess to playing truant. I find it excessively difficult to go to school at my age.’

  Waltheof laughed, shaking his head. ‘I fear our tongue is not the easiest.’ William would never cease to surprise him, he thought – he might treat his subjects with a sternness that was almost beyond bearing, but the next moment he was endeavouring to understand them better. What he said next gave the Earl the greatest surprise he had yet received.

  Satisfied with the work, William had then taken his arm and led him aside, telling him without preface or warning that he proposed to bind the Earl to him even more closely.

  Waltheof had felt a chill of apprehension. William was going to offer him a bride, he guessed it at once, and this time – this time he dared not refuse. He could not go on offending the man who had given him back his life and to whom he had sworn a fealty he meant to keep. He had also sworn to take no bride other than Judith but that oath he must now break, cost what it might. He looked at the King, wishing he would say it and get the wretched moment over.

  ‘You have kept yourself clear of the troubles in the Fen country this summer,’ William said, ‘and you have shown me that warfare between us is over. Now I will show you that I can be generous. You shall have her.’

  Waltheof had not known what to say, what to do. It was so utterly unexpected that he did not think he could have heard correctly, that William could have meant what he thought he had meant.

  But the King repeated it. ‘Judith is yours. Arnulf of Flanders is a sickly fellow so that plan came to naught, and I’ve had no time to think of the wench lately. But you shall have her and we shall be kin, you and I.’

  It was a miracle and how did one express oneself adequately at such a moment? Since then he had moved as if in a dream. Clerks had worked on the marriage settlement; all his lands south of the Trent were to be her morning gift, her marriage portion, and he in turn was to receive her large dower, with gold and plate and jewels. From being a man defeated and with everything seemingly lost, he had become rich again, favoured by the King, with a royal bride and a position anyone might envy.

  But more than that – after all his vain dreams, his broken hopes and bitter sorrow, Judith, his love, his heart’s beloved, was to be his. Small wonder if now, he could be aware only of gratitude to William. Why the King had suddenly changed his mind, he did not know. Ruthless William might be but he was given to flashes of generosity; perhaps too it was mingled with a desire to achieve political unity in England. Whatever the reasons might be, he had now a growing respect for the King and friendship, despite all that had gone before.

  He had not yet seen Judith and he wondered if she was as transported with joy as he was. Free at last to dream of her again, she had filled all his thoughts these last weeks and he had submitted to the work of the clerks and the tailors, to all the preparations for a royal wedding with only half his mind on the business in hand, while the other half dwelt on dark eyes and shining plaits, on a wide mouth and skin like white silk.

  Tonight she would be here. Even now as he lay on his bed she was riding north from Chichester were she had landed yesterday with her mother and her escort. He wished he could have gone himself to meet her, but this was unheard of, and it was William FitzOsbern and Roger of Montgomery who had been sent to Chichester to bring her here. Had she changed in nearly three years? She would be a woman full grown now. Did she think of him still as she had then? He was changed in some ways, he knew, by all that he had lived through since they had met, but not in his love – that had grown deeper, fined down by adversity, all the dross cast away. Would it be the same with her? He knew very little of women, nothing of the workings of their minds, but that she loved him still, he was sure. Nothing else was possible.

  Tomorrow they would go to the great church and be joined in wedlock by Lanfranc. He was glad it would be Lanfranc, for Stigand had at last brought about his own end by his devious ways, and the Abbot of St Stephens, somewhat against his will, had been universally acclaimed as the new Archbishop. No better man, Waltheof thought, could sit in Augustine’s chair. This morning he had confessed himself to Lanfranc in preparation for his nuptial Mass and afterwards the Archbishop had blessed him and added, smiling, ‘Do you remember, my son. I once told you that you might yet come happily to your marriage bed.’

  Lanfranc was pleased, he saw that, in fact Lanfranc’s affection for him was something that surprised and humbled him.

  Now, lying on his bed, remembering Lanfranc’s words, he thought of the morrow and how, when the feasting was done, he and she would lie here together beneath this white bearskin that he had brought with him as always, that had covered his father when he himself had been begotten.

  He found he was trembling, his forehead drenched in sweat, and he got up to sprinkle it with water from a ewer. But the water was tepid on this warm evening, and he leaned against the stone of the window embrasure to cool his face, wishing that he could see the south road from this vantage point. The waiting was beginning to fray his nerves, but at last Thorkel tapped on the door and came in.

  ‘She is here, my lord, I told your page I would help you dress – he will come when you are summoned to the hall.’

  He had brought a jug of water and poured it into a basin. It was fresh from the well and ice cold, and Waltheof bathed his face and hands thankfully. He dressed then in his Earl’s robes embroidered with silver and gold entwined and put on his gold arm-bracelets. His mantle was of matching cloth lined with silver and fastened with a brooch of amethysts that was a gift from William himself. And when the summons came he went down to supper, attended by his household, as magnificently apparelled as any man there.

  The great hall was filled to capacity and many ladies stared at him in undisguised admiration as he walked between the ranks of courtiers topping every man there by several inches. Then, at last, came the moment for which he had waited so long – Judith herself, walking down the hall attended by her mother and her young half-brother, Stephen of Aumale.

  Along the length of the hall their eyes met and he wanted to shout his joy alou
d. She had not changed, she was the same, fulfilling his memories of her, and yet more beautiful, surely more beautiful than he remembered. Her figure was more rounded, less girlish, her dark hair unbound about her shoulders, signifying her virginity, and she moved with the grace he remembered as so much part of her, her saffron silk dress falling in folds about her. There was a little smile about her mouth as she came to the dais.

  William took her hand and gave it into Waltheof’s, speaking the customary words, and for a moment, feeling her fingers cling to his, their hands together after so long, Waltheof was aware of no one else in that hall. He made the formal avowal, heard her repeat it, and then they were surrounded by laughing friends.

  At supper they sat one on either side of the King. The Queen was in Normandy so on Waltheof’s left sat the lady Adeliza. She was courteous but stiff and he had the impression that she did not like this match. Neither he thought did Earl Edwin who sat at the high table, his handsome face less smiling than usual for he still waited in vain for his promised alliance with the King. Morcar ate, staring down at his food, sharing his brother’s humiliation.

  Towards the end of the long meal, Waltheof turned to the lady Adeliza with whom he found conversation difficult, and said: ‘My lady, I may not be the son-in-law you would have chosen but I love your daughter as not many men love before marriage. Will that not reconcile you to me a little?’

  Used to the formality of the Norman court, she was startled by this plain speaking, but after a brief pause she inclined her head.

  ‘I cannot deny that I wished to see her wed in her own country, but I see that this is now to be our land too. My brother wishes it so.’ For the first time she smiled faintly at him. ‘God give you joy, my son. She is a wilful girl, or she’d not have refused to obey her uncle these last years.’

  So she too had clung to their hope, Waltheof thought . . .

  ‘Keep her on a tight rein,’ Adeliza advised, ‘she’ll rule you else.’

  He said lightly, ‘Lady, she ruled me from the moment we met.’

  ‘That is lover’s talk, and you will be a fool if you allow it when you are wed. You must be her master or she’ll not thank you.’

  He shook his head, smiling. ‘I think I am at her feet.’

  Judith’s mother pursed her lips gravely as if she doubted his wisdom. That she might be right, that she had more truly assessed her daughter’s character than he had, never entered his head at that moment. He turned to answer a remark of William’s and saw Judith looking across her uncle towards him. He longed to speak with her alone. What had she done, where had she been since that golden summer?

  But there would be no opportunity for that until tomorrow night when the door would close on their bridal chamber. At the thought of that his colour rose and he had to force himself to attend to the lady Adeliza. He was glad when supper was over and she and her ladies swept Judith away to their apartments.

  Towards dawn, lying wakeful, Thorkel saw that his master was not sleeping either. He had that familiar ache again, knowing himself for a kinless man – for now that his lord was to take a wife, never again would he, Thorkel the scald, share his bedchamber.

  He said suddenly: ‘In all these years, there is no other master I would have served.’

  Startled, Waltheof leaned on one elbow that he might see the Icelander’s face.

  ‘You are not leaving me?’

  Thorkel smiled. ‘Is it not rather the other way about?’ And then, seeing Waltheof’s expression, he added hastily, ‘Do not think I grudge you your happiness. I rejoice for it. But your lady will share now, and rightly, what perhaps I have shared in the past – the most secret of your counsels. It must be so.’

  Waltheof lay down again, staring up at the stone vaulting, grey now in the first dawn light. ‘She is the heart of my heart. Yet, my friend, you will never be other than you are to me, and you know it. We have done and fought and suffered too much together for it to be otherwise.’

  Thorkel said nothing more, but there was a warmer colour in his cheeks. In his head he plucked an imaginary harp, a tune shaping there, a song of friendship, to men who had sat together by the camp fires at night and recounted the times when they were mood-glad and rich in victory. He lost himself, as always in his verses. If he must be a man alone, then he thanked God who made all things, for making him a scald.

  In the morning bride and groom rode through the gaily decked streets between the cheering crowds and in brilliant sunshine to their nuptials. Flowers were thrown at their feet so that they went on a carpet of colour, and Waltheof could scarcely keep his eyes from his bride, brighter than all the flowers on this brilliant day. Her bridal gown was of cloth of gold studded with jewels, and a jewelled belt hung from her waist to the hem of her dress, while a coronet of flowers was set on her unbound hair.

  He himself was in chainmail today, his sword at his side, his helm on his head, a mantle of rich blue over all, and men and women turned to each other, speaking of the beauty of the bride, the tall and handsome figure of the groom. Winchester had seen no such marriage in anyone’s memory.

  As soon as they set out, the nearest moment to privacy so far, he said, hardly able to keep his voice steady: ‘My heart, my love- – did you think this day would ever come?’

  Her slow smile, that he had almost forgotten, lit her face. ‘No – yet I would not bow to my uncle’s will.’

  His love, burning in his face, leapt to greet her, to show his gratitude, but he could say no more for the cheers were deafening and flowers fell on his hands and thighs, as he guided Balleroy slowly through the crowded street.

  In the porch of the church they were met by Lanfranc in his rich robes, followed by a procession of clergy and choristers, and there they were married. His ring was set upon her finger and then they moved up the aisle for the Mass; the piping choristers led the way, their fresh faces scrubbed and shining, their young voices sweet, and four knights bore a canopy above Judith’s head. There had been no moment in his life, nor ever would be again, to touch this for in it he sang his own Te Deum Laudamus.

  The feasting and festivities went on all day. There were minstrels to play; scalds, of whom Thorkel was one, to sing ballads in honour of the bride’s beauty, the groom’s prowess; tumblers to make the company laugh with their antics, and a dancing bear and performing dogs. For the young men there were leaping and running and wrestling matches, and in the hall the feasting went on late into the night so that Waltheof, sitting now beside his bride, wondered if the elaborate meal would never end. There were all sorts of meats, peacocks roasted and re-dressed in their feathers, swans set in pools of water-lilies, glazed boars’ heads, dishes of salmon and eels, and every kind of pastry device as well as dishes of marchpane fashioned into flowers and birds. Wines from France and Italy and home-brewed ale filled the cups and toasts were drunk again and again to the young couple.

  But at last, when Waltheof’s head was beginning to throb and a surge of impatience rising in him, Adeliza rose and took away her daughter and the ladies.

  A flush rose in his face as he watched them go. There were more toasts and more drinking and then William took him by the arm and led him, with his own friends and the noblest of the barons, to the royal chamber. There they helped him undress and then, with only his mantle about him they escorted him with laughter and joking to his own room.

  Judith was already there, in his bed, surrounded by a smiling crowd of ladies who fell back as they entered.

  William set both hands on Waltheof’s shoulders and embraced him. ‘God give you much happiness, Waltheof my nephew. You are welcome in my family.’

  One by one they all wished him well, FitzOsbern smiling warmly, his son Roger clapping him on the back, de Warenne quietly sincere, Montgomery more cheerful than usual – possibly because he had left his wife Mabille in Normandy – and Richard de Rules, his delight in the match undisguised. Last of all came Thorkel who said in a low voice, ‘May this night begin your joy, minn hari.’ H
e was smiling, but there was, hidden well, a hint of unease. He hoped he had not betrayed it for he could not have given it a name nor said why it should be there at all.

  Then Lanfranc sprinkled the bed with holy water, prayed that the marriage would be fruitful with many children and blessed them. Gradually the room emptied, the door closed, the laughter and the footsteps died away.

  Waltheof heaved a great sigh. ‘I thought they would never go.’ Crossing to the door, he shot the heavy bolt. ‘There are a-many jesters here,’ he said, smiling, ‘we’ll not have them playing tricks on us tonight.’