Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘By God, I’ll rid my earldom of such scum.’ He mounted, set one of his own men to drive the wagon, and rode on south, keeping a wary eye on the open moors to either side. But there was no other place for an ambush and presently they left the wild country, dropping down into the vale of the Wharfe. Here there was much wasteland, and dried and burned soil without life – no seed time and no harvest, the blackened trees gaunt against the sky, only occasional ruins proclaiming where once a prosperous manor had stood.

  Late in the afternoon they came in sight of the city of York and he shaded his eyes, looking towards the capital of the ancient kingdom of Deira, and his own birthplace.

  Impatient with the slowness of the cart he left most of his men to escort it into the city and himself rode off with half a dozen to the north-east to Aldby where he would spend the next month or two. This house, that had once belonged to Harold Godwineson and had been seized by Harald of Norway before the battle at Stamford Bridge, was now his as the King’s representative in the north and it was here that he would meet Judith.

  This last year, after accompanying William on a campaign to Scotland where the two kings made a peace, he had spent trying to set his new earldom in some sort of order. He built a castle for Bishop Walcher of Durham, to protect him from the unruly mobs that roamed the moors, and finding a liking for the new bishop, dined with him every day during the raising of the castle.

  He had been home to Northampton only once during the past fifteen months but now at last there was more order here and he had sent Thorkel to fetch Judith and the children – Matilda and the new daughter whom he had not even seen. He wondered how Judith had taken the arrival of another girl. It was disappointing for they had both wanted a boy this time, but he did not see that it did any good to repine over it. Maud – his own diminutive for Matilda – was an adorable child and had brought him a new kind of happiness he had not expected.

  He spurred on his horse. In a day of two they would be here. But as he rode in under the gateway of Aldby he saw Thorkel’s bay horse and a busy air about the whole place. He flung himself down and went hastily into the hall. Judith was there, supervising the unpacking of her household articles.

  He swept her into his embrace. ‘My love, you are earlier than I expected. I thought it would be the end of the week at least.’

  She smiled and released herself from his arms. ‘Oh, Messire Thorkel was so anxious to return that we travelled most uncomfortably – no, no, that chest is to be taken to my own chamber.’

  ‘My lady,’ Thorkel came forward from the shadowed aisle of the hall, nearly colliding with the serving man scurrying to do his lady’s bidding. ‘We journeyed faster because there was no litter to carry.’

  ‘No litter?’ Waltheof glanced round. ‘But the children – where are they? I must confess I am impatient, my heart, to see our new daughter.’

  Judith directed two serving girls whom she had brought with her to take her sewing boxes to the bower. Then she said, ‘I have not brought them. I thought the journey too long and hazardous. They are better with Athelais in Northampton.’

  ‘But we agreed . . .’ Waltheof began and then stopped. He was bitterly disappointed, nor could he understand her reluctance to bring them. The roads at this time of year were good and with such an escort as he had sent there could surely be no danger? He left her to settle her belongings and took .Thorkel out to the stables.

  ‘Well, my friend,’ he asked when they were alone. ‘Is there more that I should know about this journey?’

  Thorkel’s lips were folded tight. ‘No, my lord. I said that you expected the little ones and that all possible provision had been made, but the Countess was adamant. Who was I to argue?’

  Waltheof suppressed his rising irritation. ‘And my new daughter? Who does she favour?’

  ‘She is dark, smaller than the lady Matilda was, but the women say she will do well enough. I think she is like the Countess.’

  ‘And my little Maud? How does she?’ He realised suddenly how much he had longed to swing her up into his arms and kiss her downy cheek.

  ‘She runs about now, as strong and sturdy as you could wish, and her hair has grown thick with curls. She is a true daughter of the house of Siward.’

  Waltheof had his arm about Balleroy’s neck, listening eagerly and seeing his expression Thorkel had a desire to shake the Countess, had indeed longed to do so since their stormy argument over the matter at Northampton. He did not tell his lord of this for he had overstepped his position, but Judith’s high handed manner of rejecting her lord’s arrangements angered him. The result of this was the speed with which he had brought her north.

  ‘What else?’ Waltheof asked abstractedly. ‘Is there any trouble in the earldom?’

  ‘None, minn hari, except that the lord of Holland makes himself objectionable to every Englishman. He harries and hunts and cares nothing for our laws.’ He wanted to add that Ivo had made free with the hospitality of Waltheof’s hall during the latter’s absence but he had a feeling this would send his master headlong south with his sword loose in its scabbard. He held his peace.

  Waltheof said: ‘Does any man of mine suffer because of him?’

  ‘There are one or two small grudges, but I said you would deal with them when you came home – perhaps for the court at Michael’s Mass.’ On an impulse he went on, ‘My lord, do you remember the tumblers at your wedding? They walked on a rope held taut between two poles.’

  ‘Aye, I recall,’ Waltheof said in surprise, ‘what of it?’

  ‘I sometimes think that is how we walk in this divided land. I beg you – trust no man too easily.’ He nearly added, ‘nor woman’ but restrained himself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ his lord asked sharply. ‘Have I cause to distrust any one?’

  ‘Men like Ivo always.’

  ‘I think,’ Waltheof said perceptively, ‘you had more on your mind than him.’

  Thorkel turned away to lay a hand on his own mare’s rump. ‘Nothing of moment, lord. But do not leave your old earldom too long for the new.’

  Waltheof straightened. ‘I shall go south before the end of the summer. I expect my lady is right about the children – I know little of their needs.’

  But when he was at last alone with her that night in their chamber, he said, ‘I wish, my love, that when I send men with express commands to you that you would obey them.’

  Judith was sitting on a stool, a loose mantle about her shoulders, combing her hair. ‘My lord, the earldom is your province, the babes are mine.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He came to kneel beside her and taking the comb drew it through her hair. ‘But do you not know how much I longed to see our new daughter as well as Maud?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said at once, but there was no softening in her voice. ‘If it had been a son I would not have left him behind.’

  So she was more disappointed than before, he thought. ‘They say she favours you, my love,’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes,’ Judith agreed and turned to face him. ‘Can we not go south again later in the summer?’

  ‘I think I shall have to.’ He laid down the comb and rose. ‘Thorkel tells me that Ivo has been making a nuisance of himself as usual and there are matters I must settle.’

  ‘Ivo’s people are rebellious and surly. They cheat him any way they can.’

  ‘They are the same as the people on my lands and I am not cheated or rebelled against,’ he said rather sharply. ‘The fault, my dear, is in the lord in this case, not in the people. Come, you know what Ivo is like, and Thorkel says . . .’

  ‘Oh, Thorkel, Thorkel!’ she snapped in exasperation. ‘He does not like me and runs to you with every tale.’

  ‘He is my man.’ Waltheof left her and began to pace about the room, littered with her possessions. ‘But he does not carry tales, he speaks only the truth. As for not liking you, my heart, I fear it is you who do not seem to want to like him. But we were talking of Ivo. If half of what I hear is true . . .’<
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  ‘The truth is that the serfs and tenants will not realise he is their master. Why he told me of a tenant, a freeman who . . .’

  She stopped abruptly for her husband had swung round to face her.

  ‘He told you? Has he been visiting you in my absence?’

  ‘Naturally.’ She rose and made an elaborate business of spreading out her gown for the morrow. ‘It would be most unneighbourly if I did not . . .’

  ‘How often has he come?’

  ‘Oh . . .’’ she had her back to him now, her hesitation perhaps due to the fact that she knew he would hear the truth even if she did not say it. ‘He often rides over on a Sunday to see that all is well with me.’

  ‘Each week!’ He exploded into anger. ‘Judith, how could you allow it, knowing that I would not? The man has been my enemy since I first set eyes on him, and you know what he did in Normandy. I have to tolerate him on my boundaries but by God I’ll not have him on my hearth-step, and certainly not when I am absent.’

  Judith shrugged. ‘What a pother about nothing. He may not be the best of Normans, but at least he is a countryman and beguiles my time when you leave me alone.’

  ‘But you know I could not bring you here when I first came. I thought you rejoiced to see me Earl of more land. Northumbria is the greatest earldom in the country.’

  ‘So you say.’ She shrugged her shoulders again in a manner that was beginning to irritate him, ‘But from what I have seen so far it is waste and burned land.’

  ‘And if it is?’ he retorted angrily, ‘who made it so? By God, Judith, you cannot blame Englishmen for that. If our earldom is spoiled it is your uncle who is responsible.’

  ‘He is not,’ she flared up. ‘It was those who rose in rebellion, the traitors who . . . she stopped, her face flaming, and for a moment they stared angrily at each other.

  ‘Aye, the traitors,’ he said bitterly, ‘finish the sentence, my lady – of whom I was one.’

  ‘I did not mean that,’ she answered and her tone was sullen as she plucked at the fringe of the gown still lying in her hands.

  ‘But I was,’ he broke in. ‘I fought for this land and if I had to do it again, no doubt I would act as I did before. At least William respected me for that.’

  ‘Oh, my uncle respects a fighting man, I grant you,’ she retorted, ‘but the end was the same.’ She flung the gown away from her in a crumpled heap. ‘I do not think I want to stay here. It is a barren place.’

  ‘We,’ he laid emphasis on the word, ‘we will stay until I am ready to return south.’

  ‘And if I wish to go before you do?’

  ‘You will not go.’

  ‘If the children need me . . .’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you left them behind.’ He heard his own voice unbelievably harsh, he saw her face, defiant and in a curious way surprised, as if she had not expected such firmness from him. ‘You know nothing of this northern land yet,’ he went on. ‘You always wanted more – here you can ride all day and never set foot out of my earldom. You said that day at Fécamp that was what you wanted.’

  ‘If it brings profit, but this place . . .’

  ‘Land means people as well as profit,’ he retorted, ‘and while I am Earl the people will come first. And you, my lady, will obey me even if I have to . . .’

  ‘Beat me?’ She laughed in his face, her dark eyes snapping. ‘Why don’t you? I’m sure my mother told you to,’ she added tauntingly.

  ‘By God, Judith . . .’ he caught her by the shoulders and shook her so that her fair hair fell loose over his hands.

  ‘Beat me!’ her voice was derisive, ‘beat my body if you wish, but I have a mind and a will that you cannot coerce by your brutish ways.’

  Brutish! The word slapped him, seeming to sum up all she thought of his race, and holding her thus, angry and bitterly hurt by this their first quarrel and the things they had both said, he was silent for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath and putting up a hand touched her cheek.

  ‘If I should beat you,’ he said unsteadily, ‘I would be naught to myself ever again.’

  A little smile came into her face as she looked up at him, and sure now of her power over him, she leaned slightly towards him.

  He flung his arms about her. ‘Judith – Judith, never never would I hurt you. My heart, what are we about, quarrelling so?’ His mouth was on hers hungrily, all the pent-up loneliness of the past months, all the tension of the past minutes finding release, and he crushed her to him, not caring if he bruised her lips or her flesh against the rings of his mail tunic. She was his, and somewhere in his subconscious mind he sensed that something, he knew not what, was entering into their relationship, something that might take her from him, that nothing was as simple as he had once thought long ago in Normandy. There was love and desire and all that was good, but there were too elements of darkness, spectres of some unknown evil that filled him with foreboding, and in his mingled fear and desire he lifted her, carrying her blindly to the bed. He flung off his clothes and held her again with nothing between them, flesh to flesh, shaking in the onslaught of an intolerable emotion.

  ‘Judith, my love, heart of my heart – I will not bear it – never, never must it happen’ – he did not know what he was saying, nor did she, swept away by his overwhelming passion, understand the flood of words. His hunger and his fear drove him, wild words tumbling out with his kisses until he was half sobbing with love and terror.

  Only when that passion was spent at last, when he lay quiet beside her, his head on her shoulder, drawing every now and then deep shuddering breaths, when he felt her arms holding him, soothing him, did that hidden, unnamed, terrifying fear recede.

  * * *

  As the summer days passed Waltheof took Judith from one end to the other of his earldom. He showed her Durham where the Lorrainer bishop entertained them lavishly, and took her to Monkwearmouth, and to see the monastery at Jarrow, but Judith preferred the gentler dales where the river Wharfe flowed and the countryside about York for all its devastations, and they came back to Aldby after a few weeks.

  Only once did he refer to the cause of their quarrel and that was not to mention the children but to speak of Athelais.

  ‘I would have wished her here for the summer,’ he said, ‘at home she thinks too much of Deeping.’

  ‘She should have wed Richard de Rules,’ was Judith’s answer.

  ‘So I think, but I swore I would not force her to a marriage. How could I,’ he smiled fondly down at his Countess, ‘when I wed for love?’

  They were alone in their chamber and Judith laid her hands on his brawny arms where the golden hairs grew thick. ‘We wed for love,’ she agreed, ‘but we were only permitted to do so because my uncle judged it politic.’

  ‘He said it was to bind me to him, and to show he could be generous.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Maybe, but he does nothing without consideration and together we served his purpose – you as the only high-born Englishman left to hold the people together and I to satisfy Norman interests.’

  He felt uneasy. ‘You think that is why . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ She slid her hands up his arms, her mouth inviting him, but for once he kissed her absently.

  ‘Perhaps I am acting no differently in wishing to see Athelais wed to Richard.’

  ‘She wants him. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘I thought she hated him?’

  Judith laughed and shook a finger at him. ‘My lord, you know little of women. Where we hate we are nearest to loving, and loving can turn to hate as easily. When Messire de Rules is with us her eyes watch him covertly, and when she looks away he watches her. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘If that is so, and I believe you, my heart, for as you say I am ignorant in these matters, then I will speak to Richard again when we go home.’

  But there was so much to do that it seemed it would be a long time before they could return south. He busied himself visiting all the religious foundation
s in the earldom, and did what he could for the impoverished people, for the starving and homeless and now, wherever he went, the people blessed his name, calling him their benefactor and their love for him touched him profoundly. It gratified his men too – Hakon and Ulf as always prouder for his honour than their own, and when he was cheered in the streets of York Thorkel glanced sideways at the Countess as if to say ‘This is what he is!’ There was less enthusiasm for the Earl’s Norman wife, but the people paid her deference.

  Once Ulf said to Hakon, ‘Must she always be so proud? She has changed since we were in Normandy.’ He was a solid young man now with legs well set and a broad chest.