The Conquest
Elizabeth Chadwick
When a comet appears in the sky over England in 1066, Ailith, a young Saxon wife, feels sure that it can only bode well, in spite of her husband's fears. With a child on its way, the couple are prosperous and content. Yet, within a year, Ailith's joy turns to heartache as her husband and her child are taken from her and the conquering Normans advance.
Ailith's grief turns to love for a brief period with Rolf de Brize, a handsome and womanising Norman invader. She bears him one daughter, but in the aftermath of the Battle of Hastings she discovers a betrayal she cannot forgive . . .
Years later, the spirited and strong-willed Julitta is determined to find happiness, and yet her life has been filled with pain: from surviving life in a brothel in Southwark to suffering the pain of a forbidden love and a bitter, loveless marriage. Her quest takes her on a Pilgrimage to Compostella to a colourful horse fair in Bordeaux, to the terrors of piracy on the open sea.
From Library Journal
The year is 1066 when Norman womanizer Rolf de Brize saves the life of a Saxon woman, Ailith, who tries to kill herself after losing both her husband and her child following the Normans' invasion of England. Installed as chatelaine of Rolf's English estate, Ailith resolves to remain chaste, but her determination is sorely tried by Rolf, who is already married and has a child. These are not simply modern characters dressed in medieval garb but very clearly men and women of their time, and their fascinating story is completely involving and believable. Chadwick (The Wild Hunt, St. Martin's, 1991) is a prize-winning historical novelist who does not romanticize what was often a dangerous and brutal time, particularly for women. Intelligent, enjoyable, and entertaining, this novel will be appreciated by readers of Sharan Newman's medieval mysteries (e.g., Strong as Death, LJ 8/96).?Elizabeth Mary Mellett, Brookline P.L., Mass.
Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Booklist
A young Saxon woman suffers the harsh consequences of the Norman invasion of England in this epic melodrama. After both her husband and brothers suffer violent deaths at the hands of the conquerors, Ailith temporarily loses her wits and attempts to take her own life. Thwarted by Rolf de Brize, a lusty, sympathetic Norman, Ailith agrees to assume the position of chatelaine of his English estate. Though she bears his child and spends many contented years as his mistress, she reluctantly realizes that the fundamental gulf that separates them is too wide to sufficiently bridge. When she discovers that Rolf has betrayed her both physically and spiritually, Ailith flees, bequeathing her young daughter a bitter legacy of love and loss. Historical romance on a grand scale.Margaret Flanagan
THE CONQUEST
By Elizabeth Chadwick
PART I
AILITH
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, DECEMBER 1065
Ailith, wife of Goldwin the Armourer, swept her gaze around her long hall, inhaled deeply of the rich, forest scent, and sighed out with pleasure. Great swags of Yuletide evergreen garlanded the roof beams and the timbered walls. At spontaneous intervals she had hung kissing bunches of the sacred white mistletoe and blood-berried holly. Above the place of honour near the hearth, a magnificent pair of stag's antlers had been nailed, and the reflected firelight stained the broad edges and polished tips of horn a glossy crimson.
Tomorrow night her brothers had promised to find time from their duties as bodyguards of the great Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, to bring her the traditional Yule log and stay to dine. She was greatly looking forward to the meal, for apart from Goldwin, Aldred and Lyulph were the only family she possessed, and their visits were precious.
A sudden commotion at the door heralded the return of her two serving women from the markets in the heart of the city. Braying in protest at the weight in his laden panniers, the pack ass was led round the side of the house by the younger maid, Sigrid. Wulfhild, puffing and plump, staggered into the long hall, her arms weighted down by two net bags of provisions.
'God save us, Mistress Ailith, I've never seen such crowds!' She dumped the bags on the new, thick floor rushes and pressed her hands into the small of her back. 'An' all the stall holders charging what they like. We got the best bargains we could, but if it weren't Yuletide, you'd say the prices was shameless robbery!'
Ailith's generous lips twitched at her maid's indignation. 'I am sure I would,' she commiserated gravely as Wulfhild handed her a small drawstring pouch. It was considerably lighter than it had been at the outset of the excursion.
'There would be less in it still if Brand the Fishmonger hadn't got a soft spot for Sigrid,' Wulfhild continued to grumble. 'He let us have the pike and salmon you asked for at only half the price he was charging everyone else. And when we got to the onions, you'd ha' thought they was made out o' gold the way…'
'Wulfhild, I believe you!' Ailith said a trifle impatiently. Over the maid's shoulder she saw Goldwin enter the hall. Even in the raw December cold his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing his brawny forearms. He was wearing a stained leather apron over his old tunic and his face was smutty from the forge. His right fist was closed around the nasal bar of an iron helmet.
'Take those bags to the store and unpack them,' Ailith commanded. 'I'll inspect everything later. And before you do that, bring out some bread and ale for Master Goldwin.'
Wulfhild half-turned, saw Goldwin, and in consternation, picked up the bags and hurried from the hall, dipping the master an awkward curtsey as she passed him.
Goldwin paused to watch her, then looked enquiringly at Ailith. His eyes were a warm reddish-brown set under prominent black brows. Beneath his scrutiny, Ailith felt herself grow warm and begin to melt.
'The markets are expensive today with Yule so close and the King and Court in residence,' she told him. 'The bargains were few and Wulfhild has taken it to heart. You know how she loves to haggle.'
Goldwin took the purse she held up for his inspection. 'I was warned that becoming a married man was expensive,' he observed with mock dismay.
'Would you rather have remained in your bread-and-water bachelor state and amassed a solitary fortune then?' Ailith challenged, jutting her chin at him and setting her hands to her hips. She had large, regular features moulded upon a sturdy bone structure. A healthy mare was the way her father had described her during the marriage negotiations before his death last year; a good worker, strong and buxom. Ailith knew that her father's words stemmed from his pride at how well she had coped with the burden of household duties in the eight years since her mother had died, but it had not blunted the pain of the wounds he had so unintentionally inflicted. If she had not loved Goldwin for anything else, she would have loved him for saying on their wedding night that her statuesque figure and wealth of corn-blonde hair put him not in mind of a mare, but of a wild, fierce Valkyrie.
Goldwin rubbed his jaw and pretended to consider. 'Would I rather have remained in my bread-and-water state?' Without warning he pounced on her and drew her beneath one of the mistletoe kissing bunches. 'What do you think?' he breathed. His lips pressed down on hers. She felt the silkiness of his beard, the forge heat still upon his skin, and tasted salty sweat. Running her hands over his naked forearms and across his broad, blacksmith's shoulders, she buried her fingers in his hair and returned his kiss with enthusiasm. Against her hip she felt the clumsy bump of the helmet he was still holding.
Wulfhild returned from the stores with a pitcher of ale and a loaf of new bread which she placed on the trestle near the hearth. Ailith and Goldwin broke their embrace and looked at each other, making a silent promise for later. Lightly slapping her rump, Goldwin sat down at the trestle and Ailith ladled out two steaming bowls of onion pottage from the cauldron suspended over the hearth.
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'You're in a fine good humour.' She put the soup in front of him and sat down at his side. 'Is it because you've finished this?' She lifted the helm off the board and turned it delicately over in her hands. It was a beautiful piece of work, its austere lines tempered by the details of bronze brow ridges and decorated strengthening bands.
Goldwin grunted and spooned pottage into his mouth. 'I'll be in a better humour still when the mail shirt to go with it is done. Earl Harold wants it for the New Year and it's not but two thirds completed yet.'
Ailith was not deceived by his complaint. Goldwin's work was going very well indeed. If he had not been extremely pleased with the helm, he would never have brought it from the forge to show her, feigning nonchalance, but seeking her approval. Looking at his hands as he broke bread and ate soup, she marvelled anew that their rugged ugliness could create a thing of such simple, but intricate beauty. And then she thought of their gentle touch on her body and a little shiver ran through her. She tried the helmet on.
'Do I look like a Valkyrie now?' she asked mischievously, and was amazed at the loudness of her own voice in her ears.
Goldwin chuckled. 'Not unless such women are cross-eyed and wear old homespun kirtles.'
Ailith stuck out her tongue at him and removed the helm. Immediately her focus restored itself to normal. She wondered how men managed to keep a clear vision in battle with a nasal bar between their eyes. She looked at the helm and imagined it gleaming on the leonine head of Harold of Wessex, and again she shivered.
'I'm not really complaining,' Goldwin said as the hot soup and fragrant fresh bread mellowed him. 'I owe your brothers a great debt for putting Earl Harold's custom my way. Without their recommendations I might still be struggling in that poky little workshop at Ethelredshithe.' He gazed with pride at the thick timber walls of the spacious hall, clothed in their festive evergreen.
So did Ailith. It was not every bride could boast a brand-new house, light and roomy by the standards of the wattle and daub dwelling in which she had grown up, and situated within sight of St Peter's and the new palace and abbey on Thorney Island.
Three years ago Goldwin had repaired a dented helm belonging to her brother Aldred. Aldred had been so impressed by the work that he had recommended Goldwin to all his soldier acquaintances and custom had flourished. So had the friendship between the two young men. It had seemed only natural that Goldwin should offer for Ailith when his reputation and fortune had grown to the point where he felt secure enough to support a wife. The match had been made to mutual satisfaction all round. Ailith had always known that she would have no say in the choosing of a husband and had been mightily relieved when her father and brothers had mooted Goldwin.
He was short of stature and slightly bow-legged, his hands permanently darkened from working the steel, but his warm smile and his diligent, amiable nature, made him the most handsome of men in her eyes.
'Aldred and Lyulph are bringing the Yule log tomorrow eve.' Ailith returned her attention to Goldwin, taking pleasure in seeing him enjoy the food. 'I'll have to neck those chickens before dark, I suppose.' She pulled a face. Although she was competent at all domestic tasks, killing the yard fowl was the one she disliked the most. It seemed such a betrayal of trust. You offered the birds corn from your hand day in, day out, talking to them, caring for them. Then you stole their eggs and wrung their necks at the whim of the cooking pot. She could have bought freshly killed poultry from the booths in West Chepe, but to her housewife's conditioning, that was a shocking price to pay for squeamishness.
Goldwin wiped his lips on a napkin, poured himself a mug of ale from the pitcher, and stood up. 'It'll be good to see Aldred and Lyulph again,' he commented. 'Now Earl Harold's almost sitting on the throne, they're in attendance of him all the time.' He took a long drink, topped up his mug, and stifling a replete belch, walked to the door. On the threshold he turned round.
'Aili, I forgot to tell you; old Sitric's house next door, it's going to be occupied. I saw the abbey steward this morning and he told me.'
Filled with curiosity, Ailith raised her brows. Their elderly neighbour Sitric had retired to St Peter's at Martinmas, bestowing all his worldly goods upon the monks in return for board and lodging until he should die. His house had stood empty these past four weeks, checked over now and then by the abbey's lay steward, but otherwise forlorn. 'Did he say by whom?'
'Apparently it has been rented until next hogtide by a wine merchant.' Goldwin looked down into his wine. 'A Norman wine merchant, from Rouen.'
'Oh.' Ailith did not quite know how to respond. There were plenty of Normans in London. King Edward had spent his youth across the narrow sea and his preferences were for all things French. Rumour said that he even desired to bequeath his childless crown to Duke William of Normandy, when every decent-thinking Saxon knew that it ought to go to Harold of Wessex. She grimaced. To speak of Normans in front of her brothers was to invite a tirade of abuse. But it did not follow that a person was to be spat upon just because they were foreign. Harold of Wessex himself was half-Danish.
'Don't mention it to Aldred and Lyulph,' she said. 'Leastways not tomorrow. I don't want the feast to be spoiled.'
'Why should I tell them when it is none of their business?' Goldwin answered bluntly. 'I only told you because you keep saying what a disgrace it is to have that house standing empty and unused.' He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. 'I would lief as not have Normans for neighbours myself, but I trust I can keep a civil tongue in my head. And while Aldred and Lyulph are under my roof, I will expect them to do the same.'
Ailith nodded, but looked uncertain, knowing how hot-tempered and impetuous her brothers could be. 'Is this merchant alone or does he bring a family?' she asked.
'A wife, I think the steward said, and the usual household clutter of servants.' His tone bore mingled amusement and irritation. 'You'll see when they arrive.' He left the hall. Moments later Ailith heard the clang of his hammer in the forge. Her optimistic mood somewhat dampened, she cleared the trestle and went to inspect the fruits of the shopping expedition.
When everything had been put away on the storeroom shelves, she set the women to making a bacon and pease pudding for the evening meal, together with fried fig pastries for the morrow's Yule feast. Then she took herself down the garth to the chicken run, intending to neck three victims to honour the pot.
Immediately outside the door, within easy picking distance, were Ailith's herb garden and vegetable plot. She lingered among her plants, twitching stray late weeds out of the soil, admiring the fat, white stems of her leeks, and frowning over a slug-chewed cabbage. But she could not procrastinate forever. Reluctantly she walked among the slender trunks of the young apple orchard, paused at the pig pen to scratch the sow behind her floppy grey ears, and came at last to the killing ground of the chicken run where she had intentionally kept her hens this morning. Not a bird was to be seen. Even Alaric, the indolent rooster who never did anything but eat corn and make love in a bored, absent-minded fashion with his wives, had taken advantage of the freedom offered by the latch which Ailith had failed to secure in her haste to be about other tasks.
'Bollocks!' Ailith swore, and, hands on hips, stared round the empty garden. Soon it would be dusk, and they were close enough to the countryside for foxes and stoats to be a real threat. 'Chook, chook, chook,' she called, then held her breath to listen. A light drizzle drifted down, grey and cobweb-fine. Shivering, rubbing her arms, Ailith called again.
A single, speckled biddy came running from the direction of Sitric's empty garth and began pecking hopefully in the grass around Ailith's feet. She stooped, grabbed the indignant hen, and tossed it into the fowl run, this time making sure that the door was properly latched behind it. Then she heard Alaric's unmistakable harsh crow from Sitric's side of the wattle fence. Swearing again, Ailith hitched her gown through her belt for ease of movement, marched down her own garth, round the back alley, and entered Sitric's property.
Some of h
er hens were pecking in the long grass of his orchard. One actually sat in the branches of a gnarled pear tree and watched her with a beadily cocked eye. The others had ranged as far as the stable buildings adjoining the house and were scratching with great gusto in the heap of old dung and straw beside the stable door.
Ailith sighed heavily and smothering the urge to scream, said instead, 'Chook, chook, chook,' in a soft, encouraging voice. The greedier, less canny ones fell for it, but the others kept their distance, revelling in their illicit freedom. Abandoning the gentle approach, Ailith waded in with grim determination. Amidst a squawking flurry of bright eyes and beaks, scaly legs and a snowstorm of detached feathers, she managed to grab two hens by their feet and toss them across into her own garth. Shouting for Wulfhild and Sigrid to come out and catch them, she made a grab for two more. Alaric, in an unaccustomed display of temper, pecked her hand and flapped to the top of the midden. Ailith looped another swatch of her kirtle through her belt and began scrambling up the damp straw after him. If she could catch Alaric and throw him over the wattle boundary, she reasoned that his wives would probably follow.
She had reached the top of the heap and was about to throw herself upon the rooster when the first rider guided his mount around the side of the building and, reining to a halt, stared at her, his mouth gaping in astonishment. Horrified, Ailith scrambled down from the dung heap, frantically tugging her gown out of her belt and shaking it down to conceal her smeared white legs.
'I beg pardon,' she stammered, gesturing at Alaric who was belligerently fluffing out his feathers at the top of the midden. 'The hens have escaped and I'm trying to catch them!' Even through her panic she assumed that the rider was a representative of the abbey, for he was dressed in the sober, good-quality garments typical of an administrator. Her notion was disabused even before he spoke by the appearance of a second rider who certainly had no connection with the church. It was a young woman, her oval face possessed of symmetrical, delicate features, her eyes soft and dark beneath plucked, Romanesque brows. Slim, beringed hands competently checked her high-stepping chestnut mare. Her cloak and overgown were richly embroidered.
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