‘You have heard it said, “thou shalt not perjure thyself,” but I tell you that you should not bind yourself by any oath at all’
At once he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. No answer could have been plainer – for answer it was, he was sure – and his hands fell from his face so that he might look again at that painted Face above him.
The final prayers were being said now and he brought his gaze back to the gaping hole in the floor; taking the bowl from the priest he cast the first grains of earth on the tiny coffin, praying for the soul of his child. Despite the sharp grief for her passing, he was aware that it had somehow been the means of directing his way, and before he left the chapel he knelt for a long while before the grave, his hands clasped, his eyes on the altar and the painting.
He thought again of Harold whose life had been wrecked by the swearing of an oath, of Richard too, clinging to an oath because it was taken on a holy thing. Had they all been wrong to so bind themselves?
But at least now he knew what was required of him, hard though it might be and he had only to decide what course to take to free himself from the swearing. Should he go to Ulfcytel or to Wulfstan as Harold had done? No, it was too perilous a matter for any man but one to receive it. He must go to London, to Lanfranc.
He communicated his intention to Judith in their chamber where she lay in bed, fully recovered now and up about her duties for some part of each day.
‘To London?’ she asked. ‘Then I will come too. I have not left this place for months.’
‘I am not going to court,’ her husband told her, ‘and anyway the King is in Normandy.’
‘I do not mind that. At least I can visit some Norman ladies and if my uncle is away Gundrada de Warenne is sure to be with her lord in London. And I need some silk for a gown. There is a merchant who . . .’
‘No,’ he interrupted. After the grief, the turmoil, the emotional relief of the last hour, her talk of visiting and silks irritated him beyond measure. ‘No,’ he said again, ‘I go alone with Thorkel, and at once.’
‘Oh, of course,’ her eyes snapped angrily. ‘You can go nowhere without your shadow. But why can you not wait a day or two until I am ready to travel?’
‘My business is urgent.’
‘Urgent? There is nothing I know of that needs such attention.’
‘You do not know everything.’
‘Then tell me . . .’ She sat upright in bed. ‘What is it? It must be a serious affair to send you headlong to London. I have seen ever since you returned from Exning that you have something on your mind.’
He got up and walked about the room. ‘It is nothing that I can discuss with you.’
‘I am your wife,’ her tone was sharp. ‘Did something go amiss at that bride-ale?’ She sent him one swift glance. ‘I can see that it did. Tell me, my lord.’
He turned his back on her, looking out through the opened shutters. ‘I cannot break the confidence of men who gave me their trust.’
‘In God’s name what is this? What but folly could be afoot if they bound you to keep their confidence? If there were not Normans present I would fear you had been swayed into another plot.’
‘Holy Virgin!’ he exclaimed, ‘do you think none but Saxons ever plot?’ And then he wished he had not said it, had not allowed this conversation to develop along such dangerous lines, for her shrewd mind was quick as always to seize his words.
‘Then it is . . .’
‘I did not say that.’ He came back to stand facing her. ‘But you never appear to see any evil in your own countrymen for all they’ve inflicted more suffering on this land than ever the Danes did.’
‘I suppose you would rather have a Danish King in London?’ she asked bitterly, and sitting down on the bed he seized and held her wrists.
He longed to lay his head on her breasts, to pour out all his fears, to tell her of that ghastly bride-ale, implore her sympathy, her courage to help him in what he must do, but he could not. Five years of marriage and the knowledge he now had of her made him sure of what response she would make. There would be no sympathy, of that he was certain, and this, coupled with bitter grief for his lost dreams made him harsher than he might otherwise have been.
‘What I wish has precious little to do with it,’ he said, ‘nor is this matter anything to concern you. I must go to London alone, that is all, and this time you will obey me. Do you wish me to order my men to prevent you leaving if necessary?’
Her face flamed. ‘You would not dare!’
‘If you force me, yes.’ He tried to lighten his voice. ‘Stay at home and tend Maud and Alice, and leave me to my affairs – you once said the babes were yours and the earldom was mine.’
She looked sulky, her underlip thrust out, her dark eyes still angry, but his tone told her clearly that this time there was no baulking him. ‘Very well. You need not order your men. I shall not leave.’
He bent and kissed her forehead lightly. ‘There is nothing for you to fear, my dear.’ Once, he thought, they would have been in each other’s arms at the thought of parting, but now she made no move to hold him and he felt as far from her as when the sea had lain between them. As he bade her farewell it occurred to him that as she sat up in bed, her hair unbound about her shoulders, she had never looked more lovely. Oh beauty, he thought, and the deceptiveness of it!
In the hall Maud ran to him, her arms outstretched. She was four years old now, sturdy, fair, her cheeks rosy, in every feature resembling her father. He swung her up into his arms and she flung her own about his neck, holding him tightly.
‘Father, you are not going away again?’
‘I must, little one,’ he kissed her soft cheek, ‘but not for long, I hope.’
She laughed, rubbing her face where his beard had tickled her. ‘Will you bring me a gift?’
‘When do I ever come home without something in my saddle-bag?’ he asked, teasing a little, but suddenly he held her close. If other things had gone sour Maud at least never failed to enchant him. She was flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone and all his need to love had become centred in her.
The Archbishop was at the palace at Westminster, being in charge of the nation’s affairs, and there in the King’s solar he received the Earl of Huntingdon.
‘Good-day, my son,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I had not expected to see you in London before the autumn,’ he searched his visitor’s face with a quick glance and went on, ‘but I see it is a matter of some importance that has brought you. Pray sit down and tell me how I can serve you.’
All the way south Waltheof had rehearsed what he would say, but now that he was here he was struggling for words. At last he said, ‘It were better done on my knees, my lord, for I can speak of it in no other way.’
‘Very well.’ Lanfranc reached for his stole to place about his neck and waited patiently, noting the tense figure, the gripped hands.
And then, once he had begun, it became easier than Waltheof had thought. The story came flooding from him, of the bride-ale and the plot in which he had been expected to concur, the way in which his life had been threatened, the forced oath, the binding nature of the words.
‘Is not oath-breaking a sin, Father?’ he asked at last, ‘and treachery too? It seems I must commit one or the other.’
Lanfranc’s face was grave, his mouth pursed, his alert mind grappling with two problems – a possible rebellion in the land left in his charge, far-reaching in its consequences, and the more immediate needs of the spiritual son kneeling by his chair. At the moment the latter must have first call on his attention, and when he spoke his voice was kind. ‘There are degrees of sin, my son. But I would say to you the thing I believe Bishop Wulfstan said once to Harold Godwineson – your sin was in the taking of the oath. I very much doubt, if you had stood out against them, whether the Earls would have dared to murder you.’
‘Perhaps not, but at the time it seemed . . .’ he broke off. ‘If I had not been so wine-sodden . . .’
/> ‘It is easy to be wise afterwards,’ the Archbishop sighed. ‘I grieve for you, my child, that you had need to hide your sorrows in such a way. Sometimes when we gain our heart’s desire it is too much for us, and not the good we expected.’
‘I know,’ Waltheof said wretchedly, but his love, torn apart as it was, still would not let him be disloyal to Judith.
Lanfranc went on, ‘There is a great deal at stake here.’
‘My life,’ Waltheof answered in a low voice. ‘When I submitted to the King in Northumbria he said that what he had forgiven once he would not forgive again, and I told him I would not expect it.’
The Archbishop was silent for a long time. He seemed to be withdrawn, absorbed in prayer. At last he said: ‘As I see it the most you have been guilty of is a moment’s folly, and that owing more to the wine than anything else. I think you must go to the King, to Normandy, and tell him what you know of these men’s plotting. He will not hold it against you that they have tried to involve you.’
‘Are you sure, my lord? I fear his anger.’
‘His anger is very terrible,’ Lanfranc agreed, ‘but I have seen him more merciful than many princes, and you, my son, have received that mercy in the past.’
‘I have.’ Waltheof had his chin on his clasped hands, staring beyond the Archbishop to the tapestry hanging on the wall. It showed St Lawrence on his grid-iron, the flames embroidered in vivid scarlet and orange thread. Could I be a martyr? he wondered. An involuntary shiver shook him. No, he loved life too well and there was nothing to die for. ‘I thought the King might have my head for this,’ he said at last.
Lanfranc smiled faintly. ‘I doubt it. He has never yet sent a man to death other than in war. Will you go to him?’
‘Of course, Father. I must trust myself to him. And you will absolve me from keeping the oath?’
‘I think, from what you have told me, Our Lord Himself has already done that, but for the sin of taking it I must lay heavy penance on you.’
Listening to the quiet spoken ‘Ego te absolvo a peccatis tui in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti’ Waltheof felt that any penance would be worth those words.
When he had risen from his knees Lanfranc said, ‘Now we must turn to the other side of the matter. I was not entirely unaware that something was afoot. Word had reached me of a movement of men, of secret meetings. I shall not stir for the present, but I will set Bishop Geoffrey to watch Earl Roger in Hereford and William de Warenne can keep a wary eye on Ralph of Norfolk. We must let them come into the open before we move. Maybe even now they will think better of it.’
‘I wish I could believe it.’ He had had his days of battle, now all he wanted was peace for his people to tend the land, peace for himself to mend his marriage. He felt swift resurgence of his love for Judith – surely even now he could piece together what had been broken? When he went home he would be more the master in his own house and then – he sighed, no, he did not deceive himself into thinking he could change Judith’s character, but perhaps as her mother had once said, if he mastered her she might respect, even love him for it. For surely she had loved him once?
Yes, he wanted peace and as he turned back to face the Archbishop the latter felt a swift pity for him, understanding him better than he knew.
‘Well, we shall see in the next few weeks whether they will act,’ Lanfranc went on. ‘Will you take a letter to the King for me, my son?’
Waltheof left him busily writing and finding Thorkel told him they were to go to Normandy and now, at last, was able to explain the reason why.
‘God save us,’ the Icelander exclaimed, ‘greed makes strange bedfellows. Ralph and Roger must be mightily puffed up in with their own conceit to think they can deal a death blow to William. What fools!’
‘You say nothing of my part in it.’
‘You, minn hari? You had no part but what the wine gave you and those schemers seized on. They set a trap, but thank God you are clear of it.’
‘I pray so,’ Waltheof said soberly, but he was still troubled. ‘Yet they must have been sure of me.’
Thorkel answered stoutly, ‘Forget them and their plotting, they are worth nothing. All they wanted was the name of the house of Siward to lend weight to their schemes and that, praise the Saints, they have not got.’
‘Maybe not; but I can’t deny I was a fool and a drunken fool at that.’
They were walking through the gatehouse of the palace and in a sudden gesture of familiarity Thorkel slid his hand through his lord’s arm. ‘The swill-pot again, eh?’
The Earl laughed, but he felt the colour hot in his cheeks. It shamed him that any man should know how things stood between him and Judith. ‘When I come back from Normandy I will set many things right,’ he said.
But when he did return the chance had gone for ever.
Rouen was full of memories, memories of Judith in her girlhood, of his own green days and the love that had blossomed there, when he had fallen so deeply into love that it had burned the very heart out of him. Yet he regretted none of it. Whatever had come to him now he had had more joy with Judith than many men received or even expected. Perhaps in a year or two they would have the longed-for son and then that joy might live again.
In the market place he bought her a necklace of amber; it was neither precious nor expensive but it went with his memories of her yellow dress and he tucked it into his pouch, visualising himself lifting it over her dark head and placing it about her neck. Ah, Judith, ‘there is not such a woman from one end of the earth to the other’ – and not even she herself could kill his love for her.
He bought a long, jewelled Norman belt for himself, thinking also to please her, and presents for the children, ribbons for Maud and a little carved ship for Alice who was disposed to romp like a boy.
William had received him affably. He listened with attention as his clerk read Lanfranc’s letter and then gave a bark of laughter. ‘Ha! The Archbishop will deal with those hotheads. I shall not lose sleep on their account nor need you, Waltheof. I expected something of this kind from Roger who is eaten up with a sense of his own importance. Tell me of that bride-ale.’
Waltheof did so, describing the scene, the men who were there and the plans they made. Despite Lanfranc’s absolution he felt like Judas. He told of their astonishment when he would not join them, but somehow could not bring himself to speak of the oath they had forced from him, drunk and beset as he had been. It would have shamed him to recount that which after all was now a matter between himself and Lanfranc and from which Lanfranc had cleared him. Nor did he consequently say how long it had taken him to make up his mind what to do – it did not seem to matter, the fact that he was there was, surely, enough? Once he had omitted these things there was no going back, and sitting there in the warm sunshine with William making light of the whole affair, it did not seem important.
They went hunting presently, falcons on their wrists, in pleasant companionship. Watching his bird fly, Waltheof relaxed in the saddle, his eyes raking the blue sky. What was there to fear? Nothing on so bright a day.
William kept him the rest of the summer and autumn in Normandy. Letters came frequently from England, apprising the King of what was happening. Ralph and Roger went ahead with their plans but the rising came to nothing. No man, it seemed, wanted a war which might be worse than William’s heavy hand and hard taxes. In the west Geoffrey of Coutances moved swiftly, aided by Bishop Wulfstan who, peaceful man that he was would not countenance an unjustifiable rising, and between them they prevented Roger crossing the Severn river or marching to join his fellow conspirators. In East Anglia William de Warenne met Ralph and his men in a brief pitched battle and sent them chasing back to Norwich. Ralph took ship and fled to Brittany where he still held lands and there he joined William’s enemies who were threatening the borders of Normandy. His bride for a while defended his castle at Norwich with great success but eventually she surrendered and was allowed to join her lord.
‘Splendo
ur of God,’ William said when this news reached Normandy some time in October. ‘She has more of her father in her than her brother, and more courage than Ralph and Roger put together. The women in my family were ever of independent mind.’
Thinking of Judith, Waltheof reflected with rare cynicism that William would give that independence a different name in lesser circles.
News came that the Danes, under their new King Cnut, Sweyn Estrithson’s son, were plundering all along the coast but Richard FitzGilbert and William de Warenne chased them off; finally they had as usual departed with what plunder they had taken. If Ralph and Roger wanted them for allies, Thorkel told his lord caustically, they must have been out of their senses.
It was not until late November that William had matters in his duchy sufficiently in hand to return to England, taking the Earl with him. Waltheof was thankful to be going home. Perhaps the separation would help him and Judith to forget their last stormy scene, and he was longing to see his little Maud again.
Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1) Page 33
