Rufus, who had already begun to pull off his leather shoes, chewed his lip, a wail of protest hovering. ‘You stay there on guard,’ Richard advised hurriedly, ‘watch that no one steals our fish or we’ll have nothing to eat for supper tonight.’
It worked. Padding, one shoe on, one shoe off, over to the bucket, Rufus squatted down before it, intent on his important task. He was not certain that he could eat these wriggling fish for his supper, but if his elder brother wanted fish, then he would defend them valiantly against any thief.
The eldest boy, Robert, still sat on the bank. He shook his head. Mama had said the water was deep and he was not enthused by the thought of cold, clammy fish brushing against his skin. He shivered. What if there were other things in the river – eels, for instance? He was frightened of eels; they looked too much like snakes. At seven, and as the eldest, he thought perhaps he ought warn his brother of his foolishness. Rivers were dangerous places – Mama had told him so. ‘You come out, before Mama sees. She’ll not be pleased that you are in the water, it’s dirty.’
‘You’re scared!’ Richard taunted. ‘Frightened of getting wet, are you?’ He scooped water into his hands and sent it splashing over his brother. Tunic, hair and legs soaked, Robert ran to Mathilda, thrust his arms around her stout waistline and buried his face in her skirt.
‘What is the wretched boy weeping about now?’
Mathilda looked up at the sound of the voice approaching through the trees and squeaked her joy. Thrusting the baby into the nurse’s hands while disentangling herself from Robert’s distraught clutches, she ran to meet William, her arms outstretched, happiness lighting up her face.
‘Oh, blessed Mary, you are returned! How long have you been back?’ The questions came fast as she embraced him, her hands exploring his chest and arms – ‘You have come to no harm, there is no injury? Oh, but I have worried these months while you have been away at Thimert. Is the siege ended? Tell me it is and that Henry has ceded your rights to the castle!’
William took hold of both her hands to still their fluttering over his body, grinning boyishly at her. He was thirty-two years old, but felt and looked ten years younger.
‘ Oui, it is over, but more than that, this bickering between Normandy and France is ended. Completely and totally ended!’
Mathilda’s eyes widened. ‘Then you have made peace? Oh, I am so delighted!’
William clamped his strong hands to her waist and twirled her around as if she were one of the children. ‘Non, ma belle, I have not had to make peace – Henry is dead. His boy son, Philip, is king. There will be no more fighting, Normandy is independent. A child could never threaten me!’
Her hands on his shoulders, her feet dangling several inches from the ground, Mathilda stared at her husband in disbelief. Could this be true? Was it all, really, over? ‘No more fighting? No more wars?’ A smile of sunburst radiance spread across her face. ‘Oh, William, I need no longer fear for your life!’
Her husband set her down and scratched at his ear. It would not quite be like that; Geoffrey d’Anjou still prowled along the borders but, according to rumour, he was ailing. Brittany too was never a safe entity. He said nothing, though, allowed her the small pleasure of revelling in the thought of a peaceful future.
16
Gloucester – December 1062 On behalf of the King, Harold stepped out from the warmth of the Hall to speak to the messenger. Within, the Christmas revelries were under way, a chance for feasting, dance and song, trials of strength, games of wit or cunning. Out here, in the quietness of the courtyard three hours after dark, the frost was setting hard, the rim of ice in puddles and hollows cracking beneath Harold’s boots as he ran down the steps and crossed the courtyard. The messenger was a Mercian man, wearing the badge of Ælfgar at his shoulder.
‘Where is your lord?’ Harold enquired brusquely, eyeing the heaving breath of the man’s mount, the way it was not resting weight four-square on its offside foreleg. He bent down, lifted the hoof. No shoe, the nail holes torn, the wall of the foot ragged and the sole bruised. ‘Ælfgar ought to have arrived yester-evening. The King is vexed that his Earl of Mercia has not appeared at his Christmas Court.’ Ælfgar. That whore-poxed man was trouble. If he was contemplating running off into Wales yet again . . .
Since the summer of 1058, the peace had more or less lasted across the borders between Wales and England. Four years ago Ælfgar had turned traitor to England and joined with Gruffydd by marrying his daughter to him. Hah! But for how long had the two whoresons run together? Six months? Seven? They had not discovered, in England, exactly what had happened to break the union but they could guess. Ælfgar had quarrelled with his son-inlaw – Gruffydd being overpossessive with spoils of war. Typically Ælfgar had jerked his fist in the air at Wales and returned to Edward’s court pleading for another pardon. And, typically, Edward, soft-livered fool that he was, had granted it. Harold would have told Ælfgar to go sail a leaking ship. He sighed as he examined the horse’s injured foot.
So peace, aside from minor raiding, had held. Mind, that was probably more because Gruffydd had been busy fighting among his own kind, trying to keep his head attached to his shoulders. Once he had sorted out the differences between those of the Celtic blood, he would be dipping his greedy paws into England’s wealth again, no doubt. And no doubt Ælfgar would again decide Wales offered him a better profit than did England.
‘So?’ Harold repeated, standing legs spread, arms folded. ‘What is Ælfgar’s excuse for failing to attend the Christmas summons? I trust it is good enough to warrant laming a decent horse.’
‘My Lord Wessex,’ the messenger stammered, ‘Ælfgar is dead. Three days ago his horse stumbled and he fell. His neck was broken.’
King Edward’s shocked cry of disbelief brought the boisterous game with the water-filled pig’s bladder to an abrupt halt. Gyrth Godwinesson, in possession of the ‘pig’, had been about to attempt to toss it through the willow hoop dangling from the central roof beam. He paused, his arm upstretched, his head, like everyone else’s, swivelling towards the King.
A moment before Edward had been cheering and clapping, urging his chosen team, captained by Tostig and winning by four goals to three. Gyrth’s opposing players had captured the trophy, had manoeuvred their way with ducked heads, shoving elbows and kicking feet through the rough jostle of players to the hoop, unaware of Harold bending to whisper in Edward’s ear.
Something was wrong; silence ripped through the Hall to hang suspended and expectant, like that willow hoop. Unashamedly, tears began to flow down Edward’s wrinkled cheeks, his fingers automatically reaching out for the comfort of Edith’s hand as she sat, as often she did of late, on a stool at his feet. Harold was whispering to both of them; she shook her head, patted Edward’s hand. The news was bad, that was plain.
Edward, too shocked to speak, motioned for Edith to break the news. A speculative rustle was creeping across the Hall like a spreading marsh mist. Edith stood, her eyes drawn to the two young men frozen in their stance marking Gyrth. Eadwine and Morkere, Earl Ælfgar’s sons. A pair of most handsome lads, Eadwine the elder at fifteen, Morkere a year younger.
She stepped down from the dais and walked across to them. ‘News has come. Your father is dead.’ And she told them of how and when.
Stirred so easily by joy or sorrow, Edward had stumbled, weeping, after her. Unexpected death ever shocked him, particularly now he was nearing his fifty-third year on this earth. He caught hold of Eadwine’s shoulders, embraced him. ‘My dear boy! I am devastated for you. It is such sudden, tragic news!’
How could Eadwine answer? With a lie, the truth?
Morkere, standing a step or so behind his brother, saved him the trouble of deciding. ‘Thank you for your condolence, but my father was a dog turd who ought to have been thrown on the dung heap at birth.’
Edward’s tears ceased; his mouth opened, appalled.
Glowering at his brother’s tactlessness Eadwine hastily interrupted.
‘My father had no love for us, Sir, nor we for him. He was only concerned with furthering his own interests. We – myself, my brother Morkere and our sister Alditha – were nothing to him except useful stepping stones if he needed to cross a river.’ The lad looked around at the men and women of the English court: nobles, merchants, guildsmen and revered elders; the two Archbishops, Ealdred of York and Stigand of Canterbury; the lesser clergy of the Church. He snorted his contempt. ‘I doubt there is one man or woman present in this Hall who will grieve for his going.’ He indicated his brother who came forward to stand beside him. ‘At last we are free of him to serve you, my Lord King, as we wish, and as our grandfather wished. With honour and loyalty.’
Spontaneous applause began to ripple, then spread like a boretide from hand to hand. Edward was weeping again – he truly had no control over his emotions – was, in a choking voice, ushering the two young men to come join him on the royal dais.
Tostig appeared at Harold’s shoulder. ‘So Mercia’s earldom falls vacant. I doubt Edward will give it to Leofwine or Gyrth.’
Harold’s low laugh was mocking. ‘That he will not. We already hold all else of England between us!’ Through narrowed eyes he watched the King making a fuss of Ælfgar’s sons, ensuring they had wine, were offered food. A moment before he had hardly noticed their existence. ‘No, my brother, Eadwine has just seen to it that he gets Mercia for himself. That was quick thinking neatly done. The eldest lad appears to have more of a brain in his head than his damned father ever had.’
The disrupted game set aside, the occupants of the Hall turned to other entertainment. The mead barrels still contained much of their honey-sweetened amber liquid, the jugglers and acrobats began performing at the far end of the Hall. Gyrth and Leofwine Godwinesson pushed their way through the tumble of gossiping groups to join the two elder brothers. When Leofric had died and Ælfgar had claimed Mercia, Gyrth had been content with the giving of East Anglia and Essex, but Leofwine, who had been awarded Hertfordshire, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire, had always hoped for more.
‘How ambitious is he, I wonder?’ Leofwine asked Harold. ‘And what is there for Morkere? I am not prepared to give up land for his benefit, I hold next to nothing as it is.’
Gyrth solemnly nodded his head. ‘We must not forget their sister. Ælfgar gave not a bent coin for her, but his offspring are close. I wonder what they think of alliance with Gruffydd, their brother-inlaw?’
‘Aye,’ Tostig agreed. ‘And what contemptible advantage will that poxed Welshman try to take of Ælfgar’s death? Cheshire and Shropshire are temporarily without an earl to rally the fyrd. The simple-minded land-folk will be confused as to whom they are to follow. You cannot tell me that Gruffydd will miss any opportunity to make mischief.’
Wetting his fingers with spittle, Harold smoothed the lay of his moustache. That trail of thought ran similar to his own – for how long had they been waiting for a God-given chance to strike at Gruffydd? ‘I wonder’, he said ponderously, ‘if the daughter has yet been informed of her father’s unfortunate accident? How long will it take Gruffydd to react to it? A few days? A week? Two?’
Gyrth allowed a slight lopsided grin to trip across his right cheek. ‘You are planning something, big brother. I recognise that gleam in your eye. You are hoping to go into Wales.’
Leofwine’s grin was broader. ‘Would this planning have anything to do with rescuing a fair-faced maiden from a Welsh dragon’s lair by any chance?’
Harold slapped his younger brother between the shoulder blades. ‘Hah!’ he chortled. ‘You remember the Lady Alditha also!’
‘How could I forget such a beauty?’ Leofwine answered.
Tostig took a moment to follow the ribald implication of his brother’s remarks and dampened the jocularity by saying gruffly, ‘Alditha, the sister of those two lads, is wed to Gruffydd.’
Harold patted Tostig’s arm and began walking away towards the King. ‘Not so, brother. I intend to make her Gruffydd’s widow.’
17
Rhuddlan This time, there was to be no waiting. Strike hard and fast. Unexpectedly. They left Gloucester soon after midnight, Harold riding north with those of his housecarls who had accompanied him to the Christmas Court, mounted on sturdy British ponies bred for their intelligence and endurance. Setting a steady rhythmic pace, they alternated a stout walk with a jogtrot that covered the miles easily as night lightened into approaching dawn. Once every hour the men – and Harold too – dismounted to lead the horses for ten minutes, reaching Shrewsbury, a distance of almost one hundred miles, by noon.
For one hour they rested the horses, watering them from the river Severn and feeding them corn dampened with ale. The animals rested, but not the men. A lame or sore-backed mount was of no use to anyone. Hooves needed tending, worn shoes must be replaced or clenches that had risen hammered in. Goose fat rubbed into any saddle or girth gall. The men ate their saddle-bag rations of cold meat and wheaten biscuits where they squatted beside their ponies. No time to waste on cooking.
Edward had been against a raid into Wales – Tostig had urged caution. Wait, they had both said. Spring would offer a better time for fighting – or summer, when troops could live the more easily off the land and daylight allowed for easy travelling. ‘Aye,’ Harold had answered with impatient anger, ‘if by summer Gruffydd has left us anything on the land.’
Obstinately, the King had refused financial support, declaring, with what he had intended to be the final word on the matter, that if Harold wanted to waste his time and the lives of his men, then he could do so at his own expense.
Riding onwards from Shrewsbury, with a man who held a grudge against Gruffydd willing to guide them into Wales – the horses were tired but, brave, stout creatures that they were, had more miles in them yet – Harold recalled his terse answer to his king.
‘Then it is agreed. Within four and twenty hours I shall be at Rhuddlan, outside the door of Gruffydd’s stronghold. When his castle falls, all of value will be for myself and my men.’
‘Even my sister?’ Eadwine had challenged.
‘Aye, even your sister, were I not already married!’ Harold had answered.
They doubted he could do it! Those poxed, cushion-using, courtly simpletons. Ride from Gloucester to North Wales within four and twenty hours? Your horses will be lamed, your men exhausted, they had jeered. Yet the Great King, Alfred, had once pursued the Danes one hundred and forty miles across land to Chester in such a time. Harold, his men and their horses, were muscle-fit and eager. Why could it not be done? All it required was determination and a worthy goal at the end of it all.
The English crossed into Clwyd and left behind the Saxon roadways, following instead rough, steep and twisting hill tracks that wound through closely wooded valleys. The pace slowed, the men dismounting often to lead their ponies in single file, their way, once darkness fell, lit by the wavering, tree-dappled light of a half-moon that sailed bright and clear in an unclouded, star-sprinkled sky.
Alditha lay awake, watching the narrow strip of moonlight lancing through the gap in the window shutters. Beside her, Gruffydd lay on his back, snoring; at the end of the bed his favourite hound scratched at a flea. Alditha disapproved of the dogs in their bedchamber, but Gruffydd always had his way and besides, at least the animal kept her feet warm. She could not sleep because she was cold and because her two-year-old daughter was ill.
Several times during the night she had gone to see Nest, padding in slippered feet down the wooden stairs, across the corner of the frost-frozen courtyard to the roundhouse outbuilding that was the place where the children slept. Gruffydd would not have the girl in their own chamber for fear of catching her fever, nor allow his wife to sleep curled with the children around the hearth fire because of his own needs. On her last visit, the girl’s sweating had eased, thank the Holy Mother, the swelling to her throat not so pronounced. Alditha had sat a while, the little girl cradled on her lap, while her nurse spooned more of the honey-sweetened mixt
ure of feverfew, rue and coltsfoot into the child’s mouth; had cuddled her close until she had fallen asleep.
So cold! Alditha wriggled her toes beneath the weight of the dog, snuggled the bear fur tighter around her shoulders. From somewhere outside a wolf howled. There were not so many wolves wandering in the mountains as once there had been, nor bears. The fur for this bed had come from the wild highlands of Scotland. In the frozen islands out in the western seas there were great white bears, she had been told. Creatures that could knock a man’s head from his shoulders with one swipe of a paw. Gruffydd turned over in his sleep, grunting. She wished a white bear would come to take off Gruffydd’s head.
Sighing, sleep still refusing to come, Alditha slid from beneath the covers and, wrapping her thickest woollen cloak around her shoulders, went to the single narrow window, easing open the shutter to allow an inch or so of new-come daylight to peep through. As the pink and gold of dawn strengthened, the crisp silver-white rime of frost that clung to roof, wall and courtyard began to shimmer and sparkle. Tomorrow would be the first day of January. Another year gone, another mid-winter and yuletide festival finished and done with.
Looking out across the wooden rampart walls to the rise of the winter-bare, snow-topped mountains, Alditha could almost believe that spring would never return. Leafless branches of tree and bush, flowerless, frost-glimmered, bracken-dead grass. A smell of smoke on the air, a rustle of noise and movement from the wattle-built settlement clustered against the stronghold’s outer wall.
A glint of light on something that shone . . . she did not realise what she was seeing . . . a standard lying limp at its pole in a breathless new morning, a man’s helmet, horses . . . fire crackling along the thatch of a house place, a woman screaming . . . And the night watch were running along the walkway, the warning bell clamouring its alarm. Men tumbling from the Hall, sleep-blearied, half-dressed, hopping on one foot while pulling on boots. Gruffydd pushing her away from the window, flinging the shutter wide, leaning out, cursing virulently.
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