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by Helen Hollick

  ‘Do you not think me the most fortunate of men, Lord Tostig?’ William went on. ‘Think on it, we might have each received the other sister in marriage – it could be you with a red-faced shrimp for a son and me saddled with the empty vessel! ’Tis just as well the fertile woman came to the better man, eh?’

  Closing the door after the last of the men to leave, Judith reddened and bit her lip to stem the hurt. As well that she did not hear her husband’s reply; Tostig was never one to put loyalty to kindred above the need to impress.

  After patting the baby between his shoulders to bring up his wind, Mathilda handed the child to his nurse. She would feed him herself for a few days only, to give him the benefit of a mother’s first nourishing milk. Then the wet nurse could have him. Motherhood suited Mathilda well, but not the inconvenience of swollen breasts, dripping milk and the constant demand of a baby’s hungry belly. She watched with a critical eye while the nurse clothed the baby in clean linen and swaddled his body tight to prevent any risk of misshapen limbs, then laid him in his cradle. The child snuffled, grunting a mild protest at being taken from the security of his mother’s warmth and smell, but within moments he slept.

  For Judith, the tug of longing became almost unbearable. She would do anything, anything at all, to be blessed with the joy of her own child. The potions and charms that she had tried, the remedies and draughts . . . the hours on her knees before God’s altar . . . nothing had worked.

  ‘Perhaps a pilgrimage to Rome may help?’ Had Mathilda guessed at the thoughts behind her sister’s stricken expression? ‘I have heard that many women pray direct to God for the blessing of a child at the altar of Saint Peter.’ Her suggestion was well-intentioned, but her next was less tactful. ‘You are so thin, my dear. You ought to put more weight on your belly and buttocks, give your husband’s seed something to feast upon.’

  Judith blinked rapidly, fighting the overwhelming desire to weep. She was behaving like some first-wed young maid. What with the birth of this child and her monthly flux just starting . . . two lonely tears trickled down her cheek.

  ‘Come, sit beside me.’ Mathilda patted her bed. ‘Have you considered’, she commented with a straightforwardness similar to that of her husband, ‘that your barrenness may not be of your doing? Tostig may be using a blunted spear?’

  Aghast at the absurd suggestion, Judith would have leapt to her feet, were it not for Mathilda reaching out to take her hand. ‘There is no fault with my husband!’ she declared, embarrassed. ‘He is a man of passion and strength. How dare you think otherwise of him? Why would he be any the different from his brothers?’

  Soothing the unexpected ire, Mathilda responded with calm. ‘I meant only that there is perhaps another of his kin who cannot produce children. Queen Edith is also unblessed.’ Mathilda shook her head with genuine dismay. ‘If it is God’s will for a woman to be barren, then so be it, but for a queen to fail in her duty? This is a dreadful thing.’

  It is a dreadful thing for any woman who desperately wants a child, queen or peasant, Judith thought swiftly and bitterly, but there was no point in saying so. Mathilda would not understand.

  Her sister continued. ‘There was something, I believe, about Edward claiming to remain chaste. Do you not think that rumour to be nonsense? A ruse to hide the truth of her barrenness or his impotence, I would wager. William says that when the time comes and the English are seeking a strong man to succeed Edward, they will offer him the crown.’

  Judith sat quite still, her mouth open, no words coming from her astonished lips. Had she heard right? Could her sister be a little deranged from the trauma of the delivery? ‘He cannot become king of England,’ she said with bewildered hesitancy. ‘He is a Norman. He would never be chosen by the Council or accepted by the people.’

  ‘I fail to see of what relevance his nationality is,’ Mathilda said with derision. ‘Queen Emma was Norman. Cnut was Danish. My husband is the strongest, the most politically astute leader. On those criteria alone, he is the most suited. He has quite set his mind on becoming a king.’

  Judith lifted herself from the bed. Her sister had indeed changed since her marriage. She had studied her politics well – but they were Norman based, Norman biased. She had no concept of differing views or laws, no idea that English might not run parallel with Norman. ‘Your husband is a brave and valiant man,’ she responded with courtesy, ‘but he does not carry Wessex blood. Besides, the boy Edgar is named ætheling. He is more likely to be England’s next king.’

  Mathilda regarded her elder sister with amusement. Poor woman, did she so little understand the drive of an ambitious man? Perhaps that was indeed the case. Tostig was a dullard when it came to the pursuit of power – and undoubtedly also in the passion of love. ‘Edgar?’ she said with condescension. ‘He is of but tender years. My dear, even your staid husband would be more suited to wear the crown than such a child! William will be England’s choice.’ Mathilda gave a single, sharp nod of her head; the matter was settled. She stretched. Her back and shoulders ached; so, too, did her head. ‘I think I shall sleep for a while, birthing is wearisome business. You are fortunate, you know, not to suffer all this tawdry mess and pain.’

  Hurt, tired, dispirited and still stomach-queasy from the beginning of her menstrual flow, Judith reacted to her sister’s patronising with uncharacteristic outrage. ‘Why could Tostig not be considered? He is a much respected earl. He has brought law, order and justice to Northumbria. And I might remind you that, unlike your William, he carries some blood of the Wessex line in his veins.’

  Mathilda retorted sharply, ‘He also has an elder brother – or have you forgotten Harold? William considers that Ædward’s death three days after arriving in London was no jest of nature.’ She stared meaningfully at Judith. ‘To a man who has a secret ambition for a crown, Ædward’s going to England would have been most inconvenient.’

  Malice suddenly flared into Judith’s mind. How supercilious her wretched younger sister had become! She walked swiftly but with dignity towards the door, her rose-coloured wimple fluttering behind like a wind-filled sail. ‘Except your hypothesis is fundamentally flawed. Neither my husband nor brother-in-law harbours such ambition. If anyone had a reason to arrange Ædward’s murder, as you imply, madam, then it would be the man who would suffer most at his continuing existence. I would suggest that we look no further than your husband. It is he, after all, who lusts for a crown that will never be offered him while an English candidate lives.’ As a final parry she added, ‘Besides, he has Henry of France to deal with before he can look across the Channel Sea.’

  Varaville Burdened with plunder and far inside William’s territory, Henry of France made his way towards the Dives, reaching the wide tidal river at the ford near Varaville, north-west of Caen. His contempt for Duke William was complete. Did the man have no care for the well-being of his land or its people? To save his own hide, was he prepared to cower behind his castle walls and allow an invading army to lay waste all this western area of Normandy without making a single move to stop it? Not one arrow shot from a bow, not one spear sent with its bite of death. No barricade, nothing. That William was soon to concede that the power of France was too much for him was becoming more apparent as each day passed.

  Once Henry had crossed this river, the whole of Normandy lay before him and William would have lost his chance to put up a fight against him.

  The French army numbered in their thousands, their rapaciously collected loot an extra burden to carry on the supply carts together with all the necessary baggage and war machinery. Crossing a river took time, for the fording places were few and the logistics of transferring so many people and so much equipment in safety, and quickly, across deep water was a headache for any commander.

  Only half the French army had successfully reached the far side when the tide turned and began to flood, making the ford impassable. It was then that Henry realised his mistake.

  William was not afraid, nor had he been hiding. He
had been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity to use his few resources against Henry’s many. The King in his pride and greed had marched direct into the Duke of Normandy’s trap.

  With merciless ferocity, William attacked those who were left with inadequate defences on the western side of the river. Few escaped. The waters ran red, and when the tide turned once more, the dead and dying were swept out into the loneliness of the open sea.

  Defeated and broken, Henry fled, and neither he nor his ally Geoffrey d’Anjou would dare bring an army so far into Norman territory again.

  William was almost his own man. Now he could begin building his strength even further to a degree none expected. With no one to oppose him the Vexin, Mantes, Pontoise and the vast, wealthy territory of Maine could become his. He was undefeated – but not yet satisfied; ambition was a difficult lust to conquer.

  Rhuddlan – January 1058 Alditha, only daughter of Ælfgar, the English Earl of Mercia, could not understand why she was here. Wales, the people, the beauty of the mountains, she loved. Prince Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, who had murdered her grandfather and taken Gwynedd – Wales – for his own greed, she detested. Why, then, had she pledged to him her marriage vows?

  Gruffydd’s Hall at Rhuddlan was crowded, mostly with Welsh, but there were fifty or so of her father’s English followers present who, like him, had no qualms about taunting Edward. Ælfgar had disagreed with his king – again – not two months after Leofric his father had died last autumn. The old man had belligerently fought his debilitating illness, some said to make his son wait the longer to receive the earldom of Mercia – and like a charging boar, heedless of the consequences, Ælfgar had almost immediately quarrelled with Edward and been outlawed for treason. Without hesitation, knowing he would be welcomed by Prince Gruffydd, he had crossed into Wales, planning an ultimate gesture of defiance against England and Edward while assuring an alliance with the Welsh.

  At Holy Well, before the doors of the reed-thatched chapel, Ælfgar, without consultation with her or more than a handful of hours of warning, gave his only daughter in marriage to Gruffydd of Wales. Through her the two men were to be linked as more than friends and allies, they were to be kin. Seated, arms linked around each other’s shoulders, Ælfgar and Gruffydd shared yet another jug of barley ale and shouted their ribald comments that denigrated Edward and all his nobles. They were drunk, the pair of them, as were most men in the Hall and a good few of the women.

  Alditha sat beside her husband at the Prince’s table set upon the dais at the high end of the Hall, her head erect, hands folded in her lap. She had spoken barely a single word since Gruffydd had placed that wedding band on her finger. Her skin was pale, eyes fixed, unseeing. She felt nothing at the Holy Well as Gruffydd had lifted her up before his saddle bow and ridden off with her here to Rhuddlan, his men and her father’s galloping after them, whooping and yelling as if they were on the scent of the chase. Had lain rigid in Gruffydd’s bed that first night and those following, not caring what he did to her body, thinking of nothing but the black, despairing scream that echoed silently round and round her mind.

  She had adored her mother, a slender and serene woman who had told her of her homeland of Wales: of its soaring, dragon-breathed mountains, verdant valleys plunging with the white gush of waterfalls, its mood-changing skies. Told her too of its legends, its tales of heroes, magicians and poets. Alditha had cherished her part-Welsh blood, despite the other tales her mother had told, the more sombre stories of treachery and deceit, of lies, hatred and murder. Of the emptiness of an unhappy marriage and a life passed by without love.

  She understood, now that her father had abandoned her into Gruffydd’s iron-hard ownership. Understood how her mother had been traded to make an alliance. Understood how she too must once have fought the tears and the desperate wanting to take a dagger blade to her wrist . . .

  Although often frightened of her father, Alditha had loved him as a daughter ought to love her parent. More – she had adored him with the unquestioning innocence of a child – until that hot summer’s day when she had met and talked of horses with an Englishman called Harold beside the river Severn. She had scorned Earl Harold’s disrespectful ridicule of her father, had defended his honour – how stupid she had been! How naïve and trusting – or had she been deluding herself? Not wanting to admit the truth that her mother had suffered the loneliness and despair of a forced marriage? Had borne children to an opinionated, deceitful and arrogant man?

  In the hour before her marriage at the Holy Well, the deep pool of water sprung from the shed blood of Saint Winifred, Alditha had knelt and made her prayers to that blessed woman. But either she had not heard or had ignored the seventeen-year-old girl’s desperate plea: Alditha had become wife to Gruffydd.

  Her only hope, now that she could not escape, was that she might bear a son or daughter to whom she could pass on those tales of the heroes of Wales, of her mother’s – her – ancestors. Of Hywel Dda – Hywel the Good and Rhodri Mawr – Rhodri the Great. Through a son of hers their blood would return to Wales. She would tell, too, of others from further into the past – of Cunedda who had come, exiled, from Scotland during the time of the ending of the Romans; and of King Arthur and Gwenhwyfar his wife. Only those thoughts kept the will to endure alive in her mind.

  ‘Lady?’

  She flinched, jerked her head to look quickly at the man who had come up behind her, looked into a weather-browned and wrinkled face. He smiled, apologising for startling her. Ednyved ap Davydd, seneschal to Gruffydd. They had met when first her father had come to Wales in exile and then again at that wedding ceremony four days past. Ednyved was an old man, as craggy and worn as the hills. The Snow Mountain carried a crest of white; so too did he.

  ‘Lady, the hour grows late and I am too ancient a man for carousing into the small hours of the night. The heart is willing, but . . .’ With a wry smile he indicated the staff he leant upon to aid his walking and rubbed at the joint-ache that swelled his knee. ‘Merry-making with wine and song is, alas, a pastime for those with a younger spirit. I am away to my bed, I bid you a good night.’ His crinkled smile reached into his speedwell-blue eyes as he took up her hand and placed a light, respectful kiss on her fingers. And then he said, so quiet that she barely heard, ‘I served under your grandfather. I, and many of my kind, loved him well. You have the look of your mother about you, but you have your grandfather’s eyes too, lass. There are those of us who are hoping you have also his spirit and his courage.’ His solemn, insistent gaze met with hers as she realised his meaning. ‘We need one of his line to rid Wales of the traitor who killed him.’ He let go her hand, bowed and was gone, walking, despite his age and world-weary bones, with dignity from the Hall.

  Gruffydd, sitting next to her, had not noticed Ednyved take his leave, nor had anyone else, for a new barrel of barley-ale had just been opened. The wise old seneschal had timed his exit well.

  She rose from her seat, dipped a reverence at Gruffydd. ‘I am weary, my Lord, I shall await you in our bed.’

  He waved his hand at her without pausing from relating a lengthy tale of bravado to her father, barely noticed her leaving.

  With fortune, Alditha thought, he will be too drunk to find his way to the stairwell, let along the chamber above.

  A calm had settled over her, coupled with an iced hardness that had wreathed itself around her heart. There were others, then, who remembered and who despised Gruffydd for what and who he was. Who were waiting their opportunity for revenge, to be rid of him.

  The emptiness of isolation evaporated. That opportunity, she vowed as she climbed the wooden stairs to her bed-chamber, would come. She would make it come.

  15

  Falaise – August 1060 On such a hot and humid day, Mathilda had elected to take herself and the children out beyond the castle walls and sit beneath the shade of the trees beside the river. The baby went too. Stripping her of her close-wrapped linen, Mathilda laid the three-month-old girl on her back on a blanket
, let her kick and gurgle, her little fists waving at the glittering patterns of sunlight that flickered through the leaves. Cecily was perhaps the sweetest of all her children, but then the youngest always was. Three boys and two girls – if their next child were a girl also, that would balance the way of things so nicely.

  Rufus – ‘red-face’ – had remained as a family nickname for young William, three years old now and a sturdy lad, determined to help his two elder brothers catch the tiny fish that darted through the water reeds along the river edge. They already had plenty in their bucket, every so often carrying it over to their mother to show her their prowess.

  Mathilda was a content woman. Beautiful children, a loyal husband – she rarely thought of his darker side, his ruthless streak. To crown her contentment, the silly squabble with the papacy about the legality of their marriage was at last ended. Mind, for the past few years the interdict on Normandy had paled into insignificance beside the backbiting in Rome itself over the election and reelection of a new pope.

  ‘Mind you do not lean too far over, chéri!’ Mathilda called to fiveyear-old Richard with an indulgent smile. ‘The river runs shallow here at the edge, but is deep to the centre.’ She turned her attention back to Agatha, kneeling beside her, the tip of her tongue peeping from between her lips as she sewed a few more stitches of embroidery along the two-inch-wide strip of braiding. The pattern was simple, but demanding for a six-year-old not yet dextrous with her fingers. For a second time Mathilda helped her daughter unravel a knot in the thread, and then the baby, Cecily, began to cry. Mathilda picked her up, cradling her in her arms, rocking her and crooning a lullaby.

  Richard was the intrepid one of the three brothers, ever eager to explore, to seek adventure. It was he who would be found trailing in the wake of soldiers patrolling the castle walls or taking close interest in the men-at-arms’ archery, sword and lance practice. Already he had demanded his own pony and a wooden sword. Bored with kneeling on the grass beside the river, Richard pulled off his shoes and stockings and, tucking his tunic high into his belt, slid into the water. He waded in a few feet and beckoned to his brother. ‘Come on, Rob, come on in. Look, the fish think my legs are reed stalks! No, not you, Rufus, you’re too little.’