New Title 1

by Helen Hollick

  ‘Did she have a choice after you had abducted and raped her?’ Godwine snapped, adding, ‘The King is angry with you because you did not answer his summons to court – as for the other reason, it took you five years to decide you wanted her.’

  ‘I happened to be on the Leominster Road, it was an impulsive decision.’ Swegn had been watching Eadgifu attempting to suckle the child. Her milk-engorged breasts fascinated him. It had been weeks since he had lain with her. Those first few weeks had been idyllic, her slender, pliant body lying there next to him every night . . . The baby was crying again. Damn the thing. Everything had been all right before that baby was on its way. It was time she handed it over to a wet nurse.

  Godwine must have seen the thought cross Swegn’s mind, for he commented, ‘A mother needs time with her first babe. Give her a month or two and she will be your woman again.’

  Swegn stood up abruptly. ‘I expect a woman of my choosing to be with me all the time, not merely when it suits her.’

  In the early hours before dawn a woman’s screams woke the entire Hall. Godwine and Gytha were together on a pallet laid on the floor in their private living chamber, had slept for maybe an hour, for Edyth’s baby girl had been a long time in its coming. Gytha started, looked up the narrow stairway to the chamber above. Harold ran down, a lamp held high, sword in his hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Gytha asked, sleep heavy in her head. ‘Is something amiss with Edyth?’

  ‘No, that scream was not from us.’

  Godwine was crawling stiffly from his bed, reaching for a woollen cloak. Harold was at the door before him, several other men were on their feet, daggers in their hands, lamps and torches held high.

  ‘Where is the watch guard?’ Godwine commanded. ‘Are we under attack?’

  Another scream, desperate and frightened, rose in a crescendo. It came from the direction of the guest places ranged as lean-to buildings along the north wall. Few of them were occupied – one had been offered, for privacy, to Bishop Stigand and one to Swegn and Eadgifu.

  Men poured from the Hall, convinced the manor was in danger of attack. Countess Gytha, throwing a cloak round her shoulders, was running, her hand shielding a lamp, bare feet cold on the rainmuddied earth. She reached the doorway to her eldest son’s quarters a moment before her husband and opened the door. ‘Swegn? What is happening, what is amiss?’

  Then Gytha screamed too, her free hand coming to her mouth, the other almost dropping the lamp. Godwine pushed past her, Harold close at heel, both with weapons drawn. Beorn took the lamp from his aunt, stopped her from entering the small room.

  Eadgifu was cowering on the floor, her night shirt torn, blood streaming from her nose and forehead. Swegn stood naked over his son’s cradle, his hand covering the baby’s face, pressing down, smothering the life from its six-week-old body. As his father crashed into the room Swegn abandoned his grasp on the baby, leapt for his sharp-bladed, double-headed axe. There was not enough room in the chamber to raise it – Godwine had hold of Swegn’s arm, Harold, in almost the same instant, the other. Godwine’s fingers dug into the flesh, forcing his son to leave go of that death-bringer weapon, drop it harmless to the floor.

  Shrugging aside Beorn’s grip, Gytha ran to the child and lifted him to her breast, tears of relief descending her cheeks as she felt the small being shudder a breath.

  Stepping around the men, Beorn went to Eadgifu, wrapped his cloak around her shaking body. ‘What happened, lass?’ he asked, although the answer was perhaps obvious. The child had been crying for most of the previous day and through the night. Fractious babies often did so, but that fact did not stop the irritation, the tightening of temper, the sudden, uncontrolled urge to stop the noise.

  Godwine nodded to Harold, commanding he let go his brother, twisted Swegn’s arm up behind his back and shook the boy, bellowing his disgust. ‘This is beyond all belief! Attempting to murder your own son while under my roof? What ails you, boy? Are you moon-mad? Look at your woman, how dare you take your damned temper out on her?’

  Swegn struggled, breathing hard. ‘What?’ he shouted. ‘Have you never struck a woman? Never raised your hand to our mother?’

  Harold answered for Godwine, the venom and repugnance blatant: ‘Our father has more respect for a woman, especially one not long from childbed! You have respect for nothing, Swegn. You care only for what is inside your breeches!’

  Swegn twisted harder, almost escaped his father’s hold, would have sprung at Harold had he been able. Godwine clenched his grip tighter. ‘I have never raised my fist to my wife.’

  Angry, tired from lack of sleep, his body aching for the release of a woman’s touch, Swegn’s temper was ablaze, like a fire-torch touched to oil. He thrust his rage-tormented face near his father’s. ‘What, never? Not even when you discovered Cnut to be my father, not you?’

  Silence slammed around the little room, echoing from wall to wall. Even the child ceased its whimpering. Godwine released his hold, stepped back a pace in a mixture of astonishment, blind, cold rage and abhorrence.

  ‘He was here often, wasn’t he, Mother?’ Spittle bubbled on Swegn’s lips. ‘All those long days hunting on our marshes and in our woods when Father was conveniently away on king’s business? Spending all those long nights here at Bosham – but where, specifically, Mother?’

  The rumour was an old one and untrue. Swegn knew full well it was one spread by Godwine’s enemies to discredit the Earl when first he had begun his spectacular rise to authority. Knowing the truth made his vicious slander all the more hurtful.

  The Countess handed the child to his silently weeping mother. She moved slowly, deliberately, her face expressionless, her hands by her side, stopped before Swegn her first-born son, who stood taller than her by almost a full head of height. The sound of her palm striking his cheek reverberated through the chamber. ‘Get out of my house,’ Gytha said, her voice quite steady. ‘Get you gone from my Lord Godwine’s lands, from the earldom of Wessex and from England. Do not, ever, dare show me your vile, lying face again. I gave you life, and for the insult you have spread upon me this night, I claim the right to take back that life, should ever your shadow darken my hearth place again.’

  For a long, silent moment Swegn stared back at her, meeting her seething hatred head on, then he shrugged, turned and, snatching his discarded clothing from the floor, strode from the room, the men and women outside parting without a sound to let him through.

  Suddenly gathering her stunned wits, Eadgifu ran after him. ‘Wait! What of me?’ she cried. ‘Where am I to go, what am I to do?’

  Ignoring her, Swegn walked down to the quay to where his ship was moored. The crew would have to wake, haul her out into the flood tide. No matter that they were probably drink-sodden, that their ale-filled stomachs would retch and heave from the exertion of pulling at the oars.

  ‘Swegn, please!’ Eadgifu shrieked. ‘What is to become of me?’

  He paused, but he did not turn round. ‘You have two choices,’ his voice hissed into the rain-spattered darkness. ‘Go back to your cursed nunnery or join the sluts in a brothel. It makes no difference to me where you go.’

  Bishop Stigand stood in the open doorway of his own small chamber, a bed fur pulled tight around his body. He caught Godwine’s eye as his host stepped from the flickering lamplight into the circle of gathered people, shook his head. ‘The King, my Lord Earl,’ he said ruefully, ‘is not going to enjoy hearing of this.’

  22

  Val-ès-Dunes As king it was Henry’s duty to provide support for his vassals in time of need. Although the degree of need and honour of duty was always a king’s prerogative of choice.

  Henry’s army had marched into Normandy, advancing towards Caen via Mézidon, meeting with Duke William beside the Laizon. The King’s host was far greater than the few sparse levies that William had managed to raise in Upper Normandy – were it not for Henry, William would have been lost. He might still be, for the rebels had crossed the river Orne an
d were waiting to join battle on the bleak and featureless plain of Val-ès-Dunes, a handful of miles south-west of the sprawling, rugged village of Caen.

  The encounter was the young Duke’s first experience of battle, his initiation into the bloodied, vicious world of the warlord and fighting men. He was enjoying every moment of it. This was what duke and overlord was all about, this was why he had learnt how to handle lance, shield, sword and horse. This was his first real chance to prove his worth and ability, to confirm to his many enemies and those who doubted him that his intention was to become the undisputed master of this small territory within France.

  Maybe the rebels were over-confident, or perhaps the lesser men were not as dedicated to their cause as were their ambitious lords. Fighting Duke William, an arrogant, untried young whelp, was one thing, going against the royal host and the King of France himself another matter entirely. Val-ès-Dunes became not a battle but a rout; isolated fighting between groups of cavalry, man against man. There were no archers employed, no infantry; no use of the supportive war machinery or the disciplined deployment of arms that was, later, to characterise William’s renowned and ruthless fighting skill.

  The disorganisation began before even the first drop of blood was shed. Ralph Tesson decided against further perjuring his oath of allegiance to King Henry, took his horses, men and arms, and rode over to Duke William’s side. The fighting that followed was haphazard, without formation or direction. In the early stages Henry found himself unhorsed, but the man who had felled him had no chance to finish the King, his conscience – or his cowardice – causing him to hesitate a second too long. He met instead his own death, his head ripped off his body by a single sword stroke from Duke William, a man fighting in earnest for the first time in his life.

  As the macabre dance of battle swayed and turned, William found himself engulfed by a group of enemies. He had no time to experience fear, would not contemplate the possibility of defeat, but struck out at the nearest wild-eyed horse, his bloodied sword blade slicing into the animal’s face, removing an ear and gouging out an eye. The bay stallion screamed and reared, toppling his rider beneath the thrashing hooves, his skull crushed as if it were a ripe grape set beneath a mallet.

  The iron chain links of William’s hauberk rang as, not raising his shield swift enough, someone else’s sword struck against his shoulder. The jarring shudder that rattled his body dazed and winded him, but his stallion, resenting the close presence of another blood-heated animal, reared and, as he dropped down again, William was able to strike out with his own weapon. A lucky blow, aided by the momentum of the horse plunging forward. The honed edge of the blade ripped deep through the chain-mail of Hardez de Bayeux, slicing through his lungs and heart. The man was dead before his body tumbled from the saddle.

  Horses suffering terrible wounds were running loose, screaming their fear and pain. Many dragged their riders, dead or dying, their feet caught in the wide, leather-bound wooden stirrups. The rebel army was beginning to disperse, the hearts and courage of the men faltering, failing.

  Somewhere amid the confusion Guy de Bourgogne – or Guy de Brionne as he now styled himself, having claimed his inheritance of the strongholds of Vernon on the Seine and Brionne on the river Risle – fought as valiantly as any man could. His desire to see William gone and the ducal coronet on his own head had initiated this battle. How many long years had it taken to prepare? To pay, to bribe men to back him? How much gold had he spent and how many sweet words had he uttered to see this day’s dreadful defeat? For defeat it was; victory was going to Henry of France. There was only one cheering thought: Duke William could never have managed this on his own.

  A spear thrust under the guard of Guy’s shield thudded into his belly. The pain was as if fire were consuming his body – but his life was not taken. If he could get away, reach safety, there might be another chance to fight for that coronet of gold, for a duchy that ought, he considered, by right be his. If Henry had not heeded William’s plea for help, if he had only remained as indifferent as often he did . . . Guy wheeled his horse and galloped south, away from the bloodshed and carnage. If only Henry had not come; if only he could reach his stone-built, impregnable castle at Brionne...

  Panic spread like wind-fanned fire among the rebels; there was no escape to the north or east. Men rode haphazardly, seeking a way off the battlefield, finding only the cruel thrust of a sword and spear to end their desperation. Escape to the Bessin was tempting, but the deep, muddied waters of the river Orne lay between Val-ès-Dunes and sanctuary. Few of those who drove their horses into the water, or those who attempted to swim, hastily discarding their heavy mail, reached the other side. The river ran red with blood and the mills of Borbillon downstream stopped turning, their paddled wheels clogged by the broken bodies of man and horse.

  The victory was William’s but peace in Normandy was not yet to be. Many men paid heavily for their part in the rebellion, suffering exorbitant fines and public humiliation. Nigel de la Cotentin was forced into exile. Guy de Brionne, despite the severity of his wound, reached his castle and closed the gates to his duke who, within days, laid siege to its stout, high-built stone walls.

  William, the man they called the Bastard, had, however, shown his indomitable strength and his unwavering determination. He was undisputed Duke of Normandy and, for a while, none would dare challenge his iron-willed rule of authority.

  Some months after the battle at Val-ès-Dunes, when the spring rains had washed away the blood and the carrion crows had picked the flesh from the bones, leaving them to bleach through the days of hot summer sun, Duke William ordered the prelates of all Normandy to gather less than one mile from the site of his first great victory.

  His defeated enemies were to swear an oath on the holy relics brought for this purpose from St Ouen and a Truce of God declared. Its effectiveness depended on the Church’s ability to enforce its code, but as ecclesiastical penalties consisted of excommunication and a denial of all spiritual comfort, the Truce seemed likely to hold, at least long enough to contain successfully the dissident families of Normandy, while William undertook his siege on the castle at Brionne and replenished his strength.

  The terms? The making of war was prohibited from Wednesday evening until Monday morning; forbidden completely during the seasons of Advent, Lent, Easter and Pentecost.

  To augment the Church’s powers of enforcement, two men were excluded from swearing the pledge, were granted permission to maintain armed forces against any who might break their given oath to the agreed Truce. Only two men, therefore, could, without fear of excommunication, effectively make war on their fellow countrymen: Henry, King of France, and William, Duke of Normandy.

  23

  Bruges – April 1049 A sharp wind was blustering across the harbour, catching at cloaks and the wimples and gowns of the ladies. The ship was already fifty yards from the quay, the crew pulling the oars against a boisterous tide. As it lowered, her single, square sail rippled and cracked, flapped once then filled, releasing the ship forward as if it were a horse kicked into a gallop.

  The girl, Mathilda, stood on toetip waving, the tears streaming down her face. ‘Goodbye!’ she called. ‘Take care!’ She doubted her sister had heard. Not that it mattered: they had said their sad farewells last night in the privacy of their mother’s arboured herb garden and then again this morning, clinging to each other on the quayside while the servants loaded the last of the baggage aboard.

  ‘Do not snivel, child,’ her mother reprimanded, catching hold of the girl’s wrist and effectively putting an end to her frantic waving. ‘It will ruin your complexion and is not becoming. Whatever will Count Eustace think of you?’

  We must pursue this child’s own marriage , the Countess thought, frowning at her daughter. She is running wayward of late, the firm hand of a husband ought set her mind to her expected duties.

  Mathilda did not much care what the fat and balding Comte de Boulogne thought of her. He had a wife and daughte
r, was of no interest to a bored young lady. The other man, Swegn Godwinesson, though, was a different matter. He was young, with thick, fair hair and deep, blue eyes. Was handsome, with a quick wit and a passion for laughter and dancing. Swegn was an adventurer who had sailed the seas, defied the King of England and fought alongside great men. Mathilda was convinced she loved him, although he was one year short of thirty and she a young-budded eleven.

  The ship was almost out of the harbour, about to turn into the open sea. She was bound for England and the port that nestled beside the seven white cliffs at Dover, taking her two important passengers away from Bruges for ever. Mathilda had never imagined that she would be parted from her beloved sister, although Judith was three years her senior and wed to another Englishman, Swegn’s younger brother, Tostig Godwinesson.

  When he had first come to her father’s court, openly seeking a wife in the year of Our Lord 1045, Mathilda had not seen him as a threat to her personal happiness. She had been seven years old, Judith ten, Tostig himself entering his third decade. Both girls knew of the importance of marriage, their elder sisters were the wives of noblemen, their unions bringing alliances to their father’s domain of Flanders. They had been too young to worry when their father agreed that Judith should become Tostig’s wife and life for the two girls had barely altered. Until eight weeks past, when Judith had turned fourteen and finally gone to her husband’s bed.

  Swegn settled his arm companionably around Mathilda’s thin shoulders – although he had to stoop, for he was tall, she no higher than a hand-span above four feet.

  ‘My brother may be a serious-faced, sententious bigot, but that may work in your sister’s favour. She will be kindly treated and well respected. Added to that, unlike myself, Tostig is highly favoured by our sister Edith. I would wager Judith will spend much of her time as the Queen’s companion.’

  Mathilda sniffed and attempted a pale smile; he was trying to cheer her and she was grateful for that. What she could not understand was why Tostig had so suddenly had to leave Flanders. He had appeared well settled here, with little inclination to return to his family or the service of the English King. It had, perhaps, something to do with politics and Swegn? An eleven-year-old child, a girl, did not bother her head with the see-sawing of government manoeuvrings – nor the petty squabbles of one man with another, although watching that ship take her sister away to England, Mathilda wondered whether she ought to. She could read and write, was intelligent, had just not bothered with such subjects before.