Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  In a sense he had begun to pay, for the death of Ulf had taken Judith from him, or he from her. She was his Countess, the mother of his children, the sharer of his bed, but it had dispelled once and for all the illusion in which until then he had lived. Judith had wanted his title, his position, his lands, but he wondered sadly how much apart from his love-making she had wanted himself. Once when he had made a gift of money to a poor priory on his lands, she had said, ‘You give over-much to Holy Church. I wonder you did not take the tonsure yourself.’

  He had answered lightly, ‘I am too much a man of flesh for that.’

  She had smiled, almost pityingly, and added, ‘You are right there, my husband,’ as if her passion had not equalled his own. Or as if she could use it or put it aside at will.

  He sighed and threw a stick in the water watching it float away down stream. He had been a fool, he thought, to have looked for so much from life; many a man would envy what he had now and if he had not the intimate happiness he had once dreamed of, that was no more than to be expected.

  He stood and a partridge, disturbed by the sudden movement, rose screaming into the air. The scream, the swift beating of wings, somehow intensified the tension that was in him these days, the burden of memory that he carried, the weight of the slaying that had been done that was his sole responsibility.

  He began to walk back towards the house. Ah, the ache of it, that on such a day in May there should be black memories. He paused to watch a hare capering on a strip of land, ploughed and sown. The creature ran, tail bobbing, and then sat, ears alert, the little head lifted, listening. He stood quiet, watching, holding the moment, the stillness of the evening, and the tension eased. If only one could hold such a moment, when all the earth was rich in blossom and growth, saturated in scented air. But at last the hare ran off, and he walked on.

  Entering the hall and leaving the last of the light behind, he saw Richard and Thorkel and went to them, his hands held out in welcome, for they were his friends and he needed such.

  That night he and Richard sat long over their wine together. He said, ‘I am bidden to Ralph of Norfolk’s bride-ale next month. Do you go?’

  ‘No. There’s not much love lost between myself and Roger FitzOsbern. He’s a fool and only Lanfranc’s intercession saved him from losing his earldom last year.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I have known Ralph all my life so I must go.’ He leaned over to fill Richard’s horn. ‘His father was King Edward’s Staller, and a friend to my father. But I doubt if Judith will come, she will not be recovered enough from her lying-in.’

  Richard smiled. ‘And you are praying for a son. I shall add my prayers to yours.’

  ‘A man needs an heir.’ Waltheof sat back in his high seat, his own horn in his hand, and sent a veiled glance towards his friend. Richard had become graver and more laden with responsibilities since he had held the post of Chamberlain, he thought, and in him there seemed to be summed up the best Norman qualities, the discipline, the order that was needed and which must attend prosperity. Richard’s blue eyes reflected his honesty and because of it Waltheof felt free to speak as he did now. ‘My friend, you too need an heir for your lands.’

  Richard kept his gaze on his wine. ‘That is what the King was saying to me before he left. I suppose it is time and more that I took a wife, but . . .’ he broke off, studying the silver work on the rim of the horn.

  Waltheof decided to use a little guile. ‘Now that Ulf is gone, his mother must find a husband for her elder daughter, a man to rule at Gelling. Gundred is a pretty wench and must be sixteen now.’

  Richard still did not look up. ‘I think not.’

  ‘Then who?’ After a pause Waltheof queried, ‘Athelais?’

  Richard’s mouth was set hard. ‘I swore, an oath I cannot break.’

  ‘God’s wounds, do you mean to say that all these years you might have wed her but would not because of some foolish oath?’

  ‘An oath is an oath. I swore and will not break it. If she wants Deeping, and me, she has only to come.’

  Waltheof leaned back in his seat and gave a sudden shout of laughter. ‘Upon my soul, Richard, you astonish me. I know you are scrupulous, but that is carrying it too far.’

  There was a bleak look in the blue eyes. ‘You may think so. I am as I am.’

  ‘I will speak to Athelais,’ Waltheof said, shaking his head over what seemed nonsensical to him, and as soon as he arrived at Northampton a few days later he sought out the girl and drew her on one side.

  ‘You cannot spend your life caring for my children,’ he told her. ‘I would see you wed this summer that you may bear your own.’

  She glanced up at him. She was twenty-three now, a great age to be unwed, she knew, and she was only surprised he had not brought up the subject again before this. ‘And if I do not wish it? You promised me you would not force me.’

  ‘And I will not. But you must see that it is time and more that you were settled.’

  ‘I am useful here.’

  ‘I won’t deny that, and the Countess would find you hard to replace.’

  ‘I stay because of you.’ There was an odd look in her eyes. ‘I have no one else.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to seek a husband to care for you'. You are a woman, Athelais,’ he smiled, touching her cheek lightly, ‘and a beautiful one. It would be a waste if no man were to possess that beauty.’

  Colour leapt up under his fingers and he went on, ‘I would still rather give you to de Rules than anyone else.’

  ‘Has he asked for me?’ Her face was flaming now.

  ‘He says he swore and will not break his swearing, but he wants you for all that.’

  ‘Then he must come to me.’

  ‘And if he came would you take him?’

  She did not answer, her eyes veiled suddenly, but her mouth quivered.

  Waltheof set his hands on his hips and shook his head, laughing. ‘God defend me if I ever came across such a foolish pair. For the love of heaven, girl, go and tell him so, if that is how he must have it. I will ride with you.’

  ‘No.’ She sprang away from him. ‘I’ll not humble myself thus to any man, let alone a Norman.’

  He felt suddenly irritated by her pride and what seemed to him sheer stupidity in both of them. ‘He is the best of Normans and the best of friends – and I swear this, you foolish girl, if you will not take him it will be a nunnery for you.’

  She gave a gasp. ‘Oh – you would not!’

  ‘No? I will give you a little time to think it over.’

  He left her and to Thorkel said in a moment of exasperation, ‘I don’t know what I have done that I should have two such wilful women under my roof.’

  ‘Most women are wilful,’ Thorkel answered cynically, ‘and those that are not are generally no more than bedworthy. Will you go hawking today, my lord?’

  ‘I will,’ the Earl said. ‘At least there are no women in the forest!’

  Two weeks later, the day before he was due to leave for Ralph of Norfolk’s marriage feast, Judith’s pains came upon her and when at last she was delivered it was a third daughter, a little waxen thing that cried fretfully from the moment of birth.

  He heard the news from Athelais and strove to hide his disappointment, but for a moment before going in to Judith he turned away to lean his head against one of the wooden pillars of the aisled hall. Oh God, if only it had been a son! He was aware that behind him stood his expectant household; Osgood with two sons of his own that he would see serving the third generation of the house of Siward, Outy who would have given his knowledge of the woods and all wild things to his old master’s grandson, Hakon who also had two sons and who wanted the same joy for his lord – they would all be watching him, pitying him for his lack of an heir.

  He did not turn to face them but went abruptly to his wife’s chamber.

  Judith lay beneath the white bearskin, her eyes stormy as he entered. ‘Another girl,’ she exclaimed in a brittle voice. ‘Holy
Mother, can you not sire a boy, my lord?’

  He had meant to kneel by the bed, to offer her comfort, perhaps be comforted himself, but her words, even more their tone, hurt too much. He wanted to protest at the injustice of it, to cry out that Elfgive had borne him a son and that if there was any fault it was not his, but he could not say that, not now.

  ‘Do you not think,’ he said heavily, ‘that I too wanted a son for my lands?’

  She turned her head on the pillow, away from him, and barely noticing the little creature in the nurse’s arms he went out, through the hall to the bailey. At the door Athelais came to him, running to lay her hand on his arm.

  ‘My lord – I am so sorry.’ And then the words came out in a rush, ‘How could she speak so to you? She is not worthy of you.’

  ‘Athelais!’ He swung round, his hand raised to strike out, to hit at anything to ease his own pain, but almost immediately he let it fall. ‘Never let me hear you say such a thing again.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated, and her eyes filled with tears. With an effort she controlled them and went on, ‘Ought not the child to be baptised at once? She is so small and weak?’

  ‘See to it,’ he said and ran down the steps into the bailey.

  It was raining slightly, a soft misty summer rain and he lifted his face into it, glad of the coolness on his heated cheeks. God in heaven, what had happened to him and to Judith? What had led them from the love born in a forest to this miserable estrangement that was even dividing his own household?

  He began to walk, not caring for the rain, down the rough road, past the cottages that straggled either side of it. As he strode by Osgood’s dwelling he heard Elfgive’s voice and a child laughing. He had made a son once, and the ache within him grew intolerable. He thought of Elfgive’s amulet that she had made with love and fastened on his arm – Judith had taken it from him and thrown it away on their wedding night, and he wondered if that moment had begun his misfortune, if Elfgive had made it a more sacred thing than he knew. He began to see a chain of events, back to the time when Harold was King and he wished that England had been left to Englishmen, that William had been content with Normandy, that his friends and kin had not fallen at Hastings fight, that he had never set his hands between William’s, that he had never gone into Normandy, never held Northumbria, never slain the sons of Carl. And if none of this had ever been, he would never have set eyes on Judith. He stopped abruptly, his hands to his face. What was he thinking? Was he going out of his mind even to contemplate such a possibility?

  The rain was dripping silently through the trees and the air was cooler now. He was in the forest beyond the village and he lifted his head, listening. It was so still and he was so alone that he might for a moment believe that nothing had changed after all, for the woods were as they had always been, beech and oak, ash and holly, just as when he ran free here as a boy.

  But he was no longer a child and those days were gone.

  He wanted to get drunk, so drunk that none of this would matter so much, even if only for a little while. It was then that he recalled that he ought to be on his way to the bride-ale – at least there he could justifiably drink himself into temporary oblivion.

  Ralph de Gael was half Breton but he was English born and bred and celebrated his marriage in the true Saxon style. The great hall at Exning, near Cambridge, was crowded with guests, every bench packed tight with sweating eager humanity, so close that elbows had to be tucked in and many a man shouting ‘Wass-hael!’ to the bridal pair slopped his ale over his neighbour’s finery.

  Waltheof sat at the high table with the bride and groom and the bride’s brother, Roger FitzOsbern. The lady Emma, he thought, looked a redoubtable girl with much of her father’s personality and she was obviously well satisfied with her brother’s choice for her. But for him this feast held a bitterness, a loneliness despite the guests, the food, the wine, and gaiety. He thought of his own wedding feast, the singing in Winchester church, and the joy – and he could not see how or why it had gone. It was as if he had caught a will-o’-the-wisp in his hand only to find it disintegrate into the air, and he held out his cup to the wine server again and again that he might forget for a little while.

  Thorkel sang to them, a song of the young man beginning his life, telling of the arms he would bear, the things he would treasure, the love he might seek. Then, plucking the strings of his instrument, he glanced across at the high table. He saw the Earl’s face, the hands clasping the wine cup, and a most melancholy strain came from his fingers.

  ‘Why is the fire gone out on the hearth?

  The hearth-men sit in the cold.

  Joy is gone out of the morning,

  The night is black beyond the hall.’

  When he had finished he raised his head and saw Waltheof staring at him. In that one naked look he plumbed all his lord’s wretchedness and took his own share in it.

  ‘God’s body!’ Roger shouted. ‘What song is that for a bride-ale? Give us a different tune, minstrel, to wash the taste of your gloom from our mouths.’

  Thorkel laughed, but the laugh had a hard sound. ‘Willingly, my lord. Let no man say the scald has not a song for every occasion – whether the fire is burning bright or turned to ashes.’

  He broke into a wild tune that soon had the guests banging on the tables in time with the rhythm. Waltheof banged with the rest, aware that the wine was going to his head now, and when the bride and her ladies rose to leave he found himself standing a trifle unsteadily.

  When they had gone those at the high table drew closer together, Ralph and Roger, Waltheof and two others – Herluin de Poissy, a knight from Caux, and one of Roger’s cousins, a surly baron from the Vexin named Chalon de Guitry, whom Waltheof had never seen before. The wine cups were filled again, and quite suddenly he sensed an atmosphere, an odd pregnant silence that told him something unusual was in the wind. Ralph and Roger were both looking at him. He moved up into the empty place vacated by the bride’s aunt.

  Roger drained his cup. ‘How stand matters in your part of the world, Earl Waltheof?’

  ‘Well enough.’ Some instinct warned him to be guarded but because of the wine he took little heed of it.

  Roger sprawled in his chair. ‘Well, my people are restive. We groan, all of us, under burdens too heavy to bear. What do you say, my new-made brother?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ the bridegroom’s square, highly-coloured face was flushed. ‘I have little satisfaction today but in my marriage.’

  De Guitry, the baron from the Vexin, grunted. ‘Tactfully said, my friend, but the time is past for tact. Your marriage must bind us to a further enterprise.’

  Waltheof glanced across at him, wondering what he was talking about, but not really caring. He refilled his cup and drank, spilling some of the wine down his beard. Taking a napkin to wipe it away he saw Thorkel looking at him from his place down the hall, but for once he did not meet that glance.

  Roger leaned forward, his voice lowered so that no one but those few intimates at the high table could hear. ‘Earl Waltheof, there is a matter on which we must speak with you, and concerning which we are certain of your support.’

  ‘Aye,’ Ralph agreed. There was a reckless air about him as if the man were drunk with more than wine and anticipation of his bridal. ‘You knew my father when he was Staller for King Edward and we have been acquainted all our lives. For all I’m half Breton, I am English too and I believe that you like what has been done in England as little as I do.’

  ‘Whether we like it or not it is a fact.’ He was still not sure what they might be after, for what they could possibly need his support, but the heat in the hall, the fumes of the wine he had drunk, the weight of his own problems, numbed his mind.

  ‘Things as they are can be changed into things as they might be,’ Roger said. ‘With better government by a better man . . .’

  Waltheof stared at him. ‘You cannot mean . . .’

  ‘William is a tyrant,’ Ralph put in. ‘We all kno
w that. He levies gold until all our pockets are emptied to line his treasury. The poorer men cannot live at all under the weight of the taxes. The land groans as never before.’

  ‘And no man is safe,’ Chalon de Guitry went on, ‘not even you, my lord Waltheof, for all you are married to his niece. They say he murdered Walter of Mantes who was King Edward’s nephew, and he poisoned Conan of Brittany for defying him.’

  Waltheof was listening now in stunned astonishment. “You cannot believe such tales. Good God, William never had need to recourse to such methods to beat his enemies.’

  ‘However that may be,’ Ralph shrugged, ‘you of all men cannot deny he took the Crown of England having no right to it. if Harold were living, would William wear it?’