Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘Maybe not, my lord Bishop, but I do know that drunk or sober, I have never since I surrendered in Northumbria entertained one thought of rebellion in any form. Seigneur,’ he turned to face William, ‘Seigneur, you know that is true. I placed my hands in yours, I swore to be your man, I said I would never expect your pardon a second time – so would I then play the rebel?’

  William’s brows were drawn together. ‘I thought I could rely on your word,’ he said coolly, ‘but can you tell me why you did not speak of the oath when you came to me in Normandy?’

  ‘Because the Archbishop had absolved me from the keeping of it, and it seemed less important than the threatened rising.’ Watching William’s face he saw no relaxing of the grim expression and in some despair went on, ‘Surely the Archbishop has told you how it was? And in the years since my marriage, have I given you any cause to doubt me?’

  ‘None,’ William agreed, ‘but as for this present matter it is what we are here to decide.’

  ‘Aye, and how did it happen,’ Ivo of Taillebois spoke silkily from his end of the table, ‘that these men took you into their confidence? They must have had some reason to do so.’

  Richard FitzGilbert nodded. ‘They would hardly trust so dire a secret to any man unless they were sure of him.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Waltheof said slowly, ‘they did so because I am who I am.’

  ‘Ah,’ Montgomery exchanged a glance with Odo, ‘you speak truth there, Earl Waltheof.’

  Waltheof stiffened, sensing the mistake he had made. ‘I soon dispelled that notion from their minds, my lords.’

  ‘It does not seem so from what Earl Roger told us,’ Geoffrey of Coutances spoke for the first time. ‘It appears you entertained the idea sufficiently to discuss the King’s claim to his throne. You spoke of Harold, did you not?’

  ‘My lord,’ he cast about for words, wishing that terrible evening was not so blurred in his mind. ‘Most of it was wine-talk and I never said . . .’

  The Bishop interrupted him. ‘It is clear you cannot remember what you did say. You have admitted to being too drunk to do so.’ He looked down his long nose. ‘Be that as it may, you took an oath, a solemn oath not to divulge what you had heard and this itself was an act of abominable treachery.’

  ‘My life was at stake.’ He wondered how he could make them understand. ‘They threatened to murder me there and then if I did not swear.’

  ‘Earl Roger has admitted that. Nevertheless,’ Geoffrey went on, worrying at the details, ‘you swore to conceal a plot that threatened a life of more importance than your own, that of your King.’

  ‘Only to get out of there alive,’ Waltheof said, relieved at least to have got this clear, ‘then I went to the Archbishop to tell him of it. He will bear me out. ..’

  ‘We have a letter from him,’ Mortain nodded, and Wulfstan spoke then quietly but with authority, addressing the King.

  ‘Sire, we all know the Earl made a full confession of the affair to Archbishop Lanfranc, who, knowing the oath to have been forced from him absolved him entirely from that keeping of it. We have the Archbishop’s word for that.’

  William inclined his head. ‘We also have his word for the day on which the Earl sought him out.’

  ‘Aye,’ FitzGilbert scowled, ‘you are right, beau sire. It took him three weeks and more to decide to go to my lord Lanfranc. The country could have been plunged into war while he made up his mind.’

  ‘Tell us, my son,’ Wulfstan addressed himself to the prisoner in a gentle tone, ‘tell us why you waited so long before journeying to London.’

  Waltheof turned to him in relief. ‘At first I believed it would all be forgotten, that it was just wine-talk, hot at the time, cool enough in the morning. And I did think my oath binding. I knew I was wrong to have sworn so solemnly but I have always been taught that an oath once taken is a holy thing and it was only when . . .’ he broke off. Not before this curious prying crowd could he speak of that experience in the chapel at his child’s burial, the certainty that gave him the courage to go to Lanfranc. After a moment, he went on: ‘It was only when I had had time to consider that I saw I must seek advice, and who better to give it than the Archbishop who was also in charge of the kingdom?’

  ‘You did right,’ Wulfstan agreed and turned to William. ‘My lord King, you will agree with that?’

  William nodded, but Odo said persistently, ‘Nevertheless, he waited too long. A broken oath is better than a country at war.’

  Before he could stop himself Waltheof said, ‘That, my lord Bishop, is what Earl Harold thought when he had taken the oath you asked of him at Bayeux.’

  A buzz of talk ran round the hall. Odo was angry now, his dark eyes glittering, and he brought his fist down on the table in a most unpriestly fashion. ‘By our Lady, are we to listen to such talk? Harold was perjured and so are you, Earl Waltheof. What we are here to decide is the extent of your treachery.’

  ‘My lord!’ Wulfstan broke in in a shocked voice. ‘Surely we are here to decide not the extent of it but whether he is guilty at all?’

  ‘Aye,’ de Warenne agreed and even Montgomery nodded.

  William leaned forward and whispered something to his brother. Odo subsided and Mortain continued.

  ‘Let it suffice then that you acted after three weeks. We know the Archbishop sent you into Normandy, but we do not know if this was a ruse on your part to distract my brother’s attention.’

  Waltheof stared at him in surprise. ‘If it was a ruse it was a very odd one. I do not understand you.’

  ‘It seems,’ Mortain explained, ‘that during your absence the Danish fleet came, led by their King Cnut, son of the man you called on once before.’ He hesitated, glancing at the King, as if something was expected of him, something he did not want to do. After a moment’s silence, William said harshly, ‘Bid my niece attend us.’

  There was a sudden stir in the hall, every man craning his head to see the door behind the dais for this was a most unexpected development and all were curious to see the Earl’s lady and hear what she might have to say.

  Outy Grimkelson, standing on tip toe for he was a little man, said to Thorkel, ‘Can you see? God’s mercy, is she come to do him good or ill?’

  Thorkel, glancing easily over other men’s heads, answered, ‘I wonder whether she ever did him good. And God alone knows what she is about now.’ He saw her enter, sleek and quiet, her eyes fixed demurely on the ground; he had never trusted her and some instinct told him that she was not now coming to her husband’s aid. He glanced across at Waltheof and saw him staring at his Countess as she came to stand before her uncle. He loves her still, Thorkel thought, God pity him!

  William leaned forward to question Judith himself. ‘We have heard your lord’s story, niece, and now we wish you to tell us what you know of the happenings last summer.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord King.’ She did not look round but kept her eyes fixed on William. ‘My husband was troubled and when he told me was journeying to London I questioned him closely. He admitted there had been plotting at the feast, though he would not tell me what was said – only that Normans could plot as well as Saxons.’

  Odo laughed harshly, ‘That we know – but to their cost. Proceed, my lady.’

  She turned her dark eyes on him and there was for a moment a strong family likeness between them. ‘It is hard for me to speak of these things. I thought my husband loyal to my uncle and I could scarcely believe he would listen to such evil men when he might turn to me and to my uncle in all things, but . . .’ she broke off, seemingly overcome.

  Thorkel said grimly to Outy, ‘Holy Virgin, if I ever saw such a piece of playing. When did she ever fear to speak her mind, or trouble to listen to him?’

  ‘Pray continue, Countess,’ Mortain said kindly, ‘we understand your position.’

  Judith gave him a swift smile of gratitude and Thorkel flung his glance heavenward in exasperation.

  Outy whispered, ‘Can you see our lord? Did he k
now she would speak?’

  ‘No,’ Thorkel answered, ‘no . . .’ He looked across at the Earl but Waltheof had a hand shading his face.

  He wanted no one to see then the emotion that he must show if he looked at Judith, and he listened with a kind of horrified fascination at the consummate way she appeared before the judges as the bewildered, deceived wife, while at the same time neatly putting the final seal on his guilt. What could have persuaded her to do this to him? Despite their last quarrel surely she knew him better than to believe the accusation? And if he had thought himself a Judas to betray the Earls who were guilty, what then did that make her?

  She was continuing in a voice calculated to stir up sympathy on her behalf. ‘He made me think he regretted that Normans had ever come into England. He told me that you, my uncle, had brought more suffering on this land than any of her other enemies.’

  His head jerked up at that. ‘It was said in a moment of anger. It meant nothing . . .’

  Judith did not look round at this interruption but went on as if he had not spoken, ‘And he said that he would rather have seen a Danish King on the throne.’

  Waltheof sprang up. ‘No,’ he shouted furiously, all the hurt at seeing her there finding expression at last. ‘I swear, as God hears me, that is a lie. My lady asked me if I wished that, but I did not say it, nor, my lord King, did I wish it then or now. And I was not drunk then,’ he added bitterly. Before anyone could stop him he strode across the space between them to face Judith. ‘Tell them! For God’s sake, tell them that was how it was.’

  For a brief moment they faced each other. He was trembling, every ounce of his old love for her imploring her not to do what she was doing. He wanted to seize her in his arms, to put back the clock, to remind her of what had been between them, but he saw no answering love in her face and remembered she had once said that love could turn to hate. Jesu, he thought, Holy Jesu! Did she hate him now? And why? Why?

  His guards had run forward and laid hands on him, leading him back to his stool, and he went passively, stunned by what he had seen in her face.

  ‘You do not help yourself by such outbursts,’ the King said harshly, ‘sit down and be silent, my lord Earl.’

  ‘Lying bitch!’ Thorkel muttered furiously, and at that moment there was a scuffle behind him and Hakon, hot and breathless, pushed through the crowd to join him.

  ‘I could not keep away,’ he said in a low voice. ‘When the Countess left Northampton to come here I rode south myself. That Jezebel is worse than we ever thought her.’ He cast and anguished look at his lord. ‘I knew she would hurt him, but I never dreamed . . .’

  ‘Quiet, boy,’ Outy said for all as if Hakon were still a lad and not the father of three children, ‘he is not lost yet.’

  But Waltheof himself, sitting on his stool again, his guards close and watchful, had seen his own end in William’s face. Never, now, would he escape this net. If Judith twisted his words, betrayed him, whom in the last analysis would William believe? He knew the answer to that and sat rigid, his hands gripped together, trying to prepare himself for what must come. Only a blank horror lay over him and shame that it was his own wife who stood there damning him before all men.

  She was not so calm now. Her husband’s outburst had shaken her and her hands were twisting in the belt of her gown, but her will, inflexible as her uncle’s, drove her on to finish what she had set out to do. ‘When my lord left for London he forbade me to go with him. I was suspicious then and although I know now he went to the Archbishop, I believe he may have sent a message to the Danish King by one of the trading ships in the city.’

  He looked at her aghast. How could she fabricate such a tale? He was so astounded that this time he said nothing and when Ivo of Taillebois joined in the attack he only felt the more helpless, seeing his enemies now solid against him.

  ‘Aye,’ the Lord of Holland was saying, ‘when we drove off the Danes several of the prisoners we took said clearly that they had come at the express wish of Earl Waltheof?’

  ‘Prisoners?’ Wulfstan queried sharply. ‘Where are these men then? Let them come forward and tell us so themselves, for I for one do not believe it.’

  ‘My lord,’ Ivo shrugged, laughing, ‘they lost a hand or a foot and were sent back to their homeland as a warning. But the Earl of Surrey will bear out my testimony.’

  The King bent his dark gaze on William de Warenne as the latter rose reluctantly to his feet. ‘Well, my lord?’

  ‘Seigneur, they did say so but I doubt whether what they said could be called evidence of any sort. They were seeking to justify their plundering of your realm.’

  Wulfstan spoke again, more firmly than he had done so far. ‘Sire, I believe this to be a fabrication to involve Earl Waltheof. We have the Archbishop’s word that the Earl came to him in great distress, wishing to save the country, our country, from further bloodshed and I, for one, am more disposed to believe the Archbishop than a few reiving Danes.’

  There was a murmur of approval at this speech, but Ivo interrupted loudly: ‘You mean Earl Waltheof decided the game was not worth the prize and he did not want to lose his rich living?’

  ‘My lord Ivo,’ Wulfstan answered severely, ‘perhaps you will accord me the courtesy of allowing me to finish what I have to say.’ Ivo subsided, for there was not a man, English or Norman, who did not respect Wulfstan.

  He went on: ‘What more natural than that the rebels and indeed the Danish invaders should pretend they had the support of the man whose lands they must over-run. He has a great following in men and that they coveted.’ He glanced round the assembled judges, ‘My lords, they used his name – that is all.’

  Slowly and deliberately Odo- of Bayeux said, ‘And may do so again.’

  Wulfstan sat down. He had done his best, but in those last words he knew what damage had been done. An expression of great sadness came over his face as he looked across at the prisoner. Waltheof tried to smile, to thank him, but they both knew there was little hope now.

  Hakon, standing by Thorkel and Outy, was gripping his sword hilt. ‘God’s wounds if I could get my hands on Ivo . . .’

  ‘It is not only him,’ Thorkel said in bitter impotency, ‘it is all of them.’

  ‘But the Countess,’ Outy muttered, ‘I never thought – how could she?’

  ‘She wants everything, she always did, and the Normans covet his place,’ Hakon was nearly in tears. ‘How can they not see what he is?’

  ‘No man’s goodness ever made his riches less desirable to his enemies,’ Thorkel remarked drily. ‘Jesu, what next?’

  Judith had risen and making a deep obeisance to her uncle left the hall without a backward glance. Waltheof watched her go, staring at her back and seeing, perhaps for the last time, that grace of movement that had first attracted him to her. He saw her cross the hall, her dress sweeping the rushes, her hair bound in fillets half hidden by her veil. Was she the same woman who had kissed him in the forest hut, who had crossed the sea to wed him, lain with him at night under the white bearskin, sharing moments of ecstasy with him, who had borne his children? She was gone through the door now, gone from his life – a betrayer, a woman without heart, and he sat there in anguish that all men should know it.

  There was a stir among those sitting at the table and a few words of talk, and in this interval every man in the hall began to speak to his neighbour so that the Count of Mortain had to call again for silence. When the noise had subsided, William leaned forward, looking intently at the prisoner.

  ‘Earl Waltheof, you have heard the charges against you and the evidence. What have you to say?’

  Waltheof rose. He felt numbed now, cold and without hope. They would take everything, probably even his life, but at the moment none of this seemed significant beside the awful tearing pain of Judith’s perfidy.

  ‘Seigneur,’ he began and then stopped. He did not know what to say. He saw their faces, stem and unyielding, only Wulfstan now gazed sorrowfully at him. He glanced at
Richard and their eyes met. He saw that Richard was very pale, his fingers pulling at the gold chain that hung about his neck. He began again. ‘Seigneur, I can only say this. I never for one moment renounced my fealty to you, I never agreed with the plotters, I never called the Danes to come into this country, nor did I ever wish to raise a rebellion against you. You gave me back my life once, and never would I betray you.’

  He sat down again abruptly, conscious that his words meant nothing to most of the men facing him. Only William seemed moved, a heavy frown on his face.

  Odo said: ‘We have heard enough. By the living God, the man’s guilt is plain and no smooth words can gloss over that.’

  The King rose. ‘You may retire to discuss the matter, my lords.’ He left the hall, going up the narrow stair to his own apartments, while the barons and bishops went through the door in the screen. There was a little silence after they had gone and then wild talk broke out, everyone proffering his opinion on the outcome.