“Ulfberht,” he replied, tapping his steepled fingers against his lips. “It’s an unusual and highly prized weapon of crucible steel. The manufacture of such a weapon is a skill few men can claim. The method originated in Persia.”
“Hmph,” she grunted, confident she still wouldn’t remember it, and what in the name of all the saints was crucible steel?
She rubbed her aching neck, and poked the needle into the linen, suddenly aware the unsettling shrieks of pain had stopped. She held her breath, listening. Was the battle for life over at last?
She filled her lungs again when she heard a babe’s strident wail, smiling as her brother stumbled to his feet and cocked his ear towards the sound. Their eyes met.
“Do you think it’s a boy?” he rasped.
He’d asked the same hopeful question on three previous occasions. Each time, knowing how desperate he was for an heir, she’d assured him the new babe must be a boy. Thrice, he’d returned from Adela’s bedside disappointed, but giving thanks for the safe delivery of his wife and a new daughter.
Better to say nothing.
Her brother’s feet seemed fixed to the stone floor of the Great Hall. The wailing went on.
Judith’s hopes rose. The three girls had quieted quickly after their arrival into the world. This child sounded like he had the lungs of a determined lad.
She put her sewing aside and rose from the comfortable upholstered chair their long dead father had brought from Paris a generation ago. Adela would have disposed of the well-worn piece of furniture if not for Judith’s entreaties that it was her only tangible connection with a father who’d died a month before she was born. Whenever she thought of the sire she’d never met, she conjured a vision of him sitting before a hearty fire in his favorite chair. In her mind’s eye he was an older version of her half-brother.
If the child turned out to be a boy, she knew whose name he would bear. Their father had been gone twenty years, but Arnulf missed him still. It was a lifelong regret she’d never known the man who’d insisted on his death bed she be treated as his legitimate child.
Smoothing one hand over the creases in her linen skirt, she linked arms with her brother. “I’m curious to see my new nephew, or niece. Aren’t you?” she teased.
He patted her arm. “I’m nervous,” he said softly. His hand was still warm, despite the fire having died in the long hours after midnight.
She tugged him away from the hearth. “I cannot imagine why. The babe obviously lives, be it male or female, and no dire news of Adela’s death has been brought, so—”
As they walked purposefully toward the lord’s bedchamber, Judith chattered on about babies and mothers and how wonderful it was that Adela had borne the rigors of childbirth yet again. But conflicting emotions swirled in her heart. Arnulf was eighteen years older than she, more like a father than a brother, but there’d been no prospect of a betrothal for Judith for a long while. She’d given up hope of children, of a family.
Eligible young Flemish men were in short supply, most of them either in the army, or dead, killed in skirmishes with one greedy neighbor or another. As for foreign noblemen, it was difficult to keep track of the warring factions vying for control of bits and pieces of Francia. It seemed everyone wanted to be king of this, or comte of that.
She’d been named Judith in honor of her grandmother, Judith of Francia, daughter of King Charles the Bald and a descendant of Charlemagne.
She sometimes wished she was more like her namesake grandmother. She chuckled whenever she recalled tales told to her of the French princess who eloped with Baldwin Forestier, after being previously married to two English kings. When her father insisted she leave Baldwin and return home, she refused. It took the intervention of the Pope to secure a reconciliation between the Frankish king and his son-by-marriage. Baldwin received the title of comte, and the territory of Flandres.
Judith had no father, but she would never defy Arnulf if he demanded something of her.
However, titles and lineage alone were of no interest to suitors. Land was what men wanted, and she had no legitimate claim to any of her father’s lands, though she supposed Arnulf would grant her some minor estate as a dowry.
“Indeed, why would anyone want to bring a child into the dangerous world we inhabit?” she mused, instantly regretting she had spoken out loud and without forethought.
Arnulf came to a halt and stared, but, to Judith’s relief, the breathless midwife waddled into view, a wailing bundle clasped to her copious bosom. “A boy, milord,” she exclaimed, thrusting the tightly wrapped shrieking infant into his father’s arms.
Arnulf’s upturned face glowed as he lifted the boy in triumph. “Welcome, my son. Welcome, Baldwin, future Comte of Flandres.”
CALL TO ARMS
Rouen, Normandie
Magnus would have preferred to ignore Duke Vilhelm’s summons to Rouen mere sennights after his wife’s death. Aleksandra’s frozen heart was thawing, but he’d been called away. Though it was too soon, he had no choice. A member of the Kriger family was obligated to go, and the journey to Rouen would have been a hardship for his aging father. Aleksandra refused to come to the courtyard to see him off. Brynhild kissed him farewell, but said nothing. He worried about her. His youngest daughter didn’t exhibit her sister’s anger, but she’d barely spoken since her mother’s death.
Hopefully, whatever news the duke wanted to impart wouldn’t take long and he’d be back at Montdebryk in a few days.
In Rouen, he glanced around the Council chamber that his father had told him had been built in the style of the communal Ringhouse in Norway. He stared hard at the dozen pillars supporting the rafters. They were made of wood, yet the casual observer would believe them solid stone. He had a sinking feeling the vocal presence of the other stern-faced councilors meant a quick return home wouldn’t be the case, and his hopes foundered completely when Vilhelm entered. The rhetoric ceased. The chieftain’s scowl betrayed his anger as he abruptly waved his ten advisors to their seats.
Vilhelm, second Duke of the Normans, remained standing with long legs braced, his hand on the hilt of the legendary sword given to him by his father, the great Rollo. Magnus had apparently witnessed the ceremony as a babe in his uncle Alfred’s arms, but had no memory of the occasion. In her telling of the event, his mother described Vilhelm as a lanky youth, which was hard to believe of the bulky giant who stood before them now and declared in a booming voice, “Arnulf of Flandres has attacked Montreuil.”
The news was met with grunts and groans.
“It’s no big surprise,” Sven Yngre said. “He’s a land grabber. We expected he would move to extend his southern border, especially now he has an heir.”
Vilhelm glared. “Ja. But not so soon and not with such a large force. His son, Baldwin, is only two months old. The town has fallen and Comte Herluin of Ponthieu expelled.”
“This gives Arnulf control of the territory between the Somme and the Bresle,” Sven shouted amid the growing anger. “I’ll wager he had the support of his father-by-marriage.”
Vilhelm confirmed it. “Herbert of Vermandois is his ally in this treachery. Herluin fled to Hugh the Great, but the Comte of Paris has refused to aid him because he has an alliance with Arnulf.”
Apprehension flared its way up Magnus’s spine. He feared what might come next, and sure enough Vilhelm declared, “Herluin has asked for our help in recapturing Montreuil.”
The nodding councilors had expected this pronouncement. Magnus wasn’t yet a full member of the Council, only allowed to be present as his father’s representative, but he itched to advise caution. Bryk Kriger had often repeated his opinion that too much meddling in the affairs of Francia might prove dangerous to the Norman province. Many Frankish magnates still looked upon the Norsemen as undesirable intruders though nigh on thirty years had passed since they’d come to the valley of the Seine.
However, it was plain from the set of Vilhelm’s jaw he’d already made his decision. “I
have given Herluin my assurances. We will take back Montreuil and restore him to his rightful lands. Montreuil is too close to Rouen for my comfort.”
His eyes bored into Magnus. “Kriger, you will muster your army and they will be joined by our troops from the Cotentin. I trust all are in favor.”
There was mumbling and grunting, but no voice raised in dissent.
“Good,” the duke exclaimed. “Now, let’s discuss the details.”
BETROTHAL
Judith was aware Adela was jealous of her close relationship with Arnulf, and the haughty daughter of Herbert of Vermandois made no secret of her disdain of Judith’s illegitimacy.
However, since the two women were often thrown together for long periods of time while Arnulf was absent fighting one skirmish or another, they developed a polite tolerance. Adela eventually allowed her daughters to call Judith tante.
As they had each day since Arnulf’s latest departure, they sat by the hearth after the last meal of the day. Though it was early summer, a fire was still necessary to chase away the evening chill creeping into the hall. Servants had bustled the girls off to bed as usual. If they were her daughters, Judith would let them stay up longer.
It irked when Adela quickly handed Baldwin off to the wet nurse when he fussed. Mothers should nurse their own babes. Her nipples tingled at the notion of a babe suckling at her breast—or perhaps it was simply the dampness in the air. She gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
As the babe’s wailing trailed away, Adela picked up her sewing. “I’ll never understand men,” she complained. “My husband thirsts for a son and then rides off to war barely two months after his birth.”
Judith took up her own embroidery. She found solace in her sewing. The refrain never changed. Adela had no time for her children but expected Arnulf to remain home with them. While Judith might fret over her brother’s capture of Montreuil, she would never criticize him to Adela. No one would have censured him for casting out her pregnant mother after his father’s death, but he hadn’t. She loved her brother and would always defend him. “But it is his duty to protect and expand the borders of his territory.”
Adela shrugged. “It’s also his duty to take care of his family in Bruggen.”
Resentment seethed in Judith’s heart. Adela enjoyed every luxury the prosperous town offered. “The missives from Montreuil contain only good news. There is no threat to Bruggen. Herluin has fled and, according to Arnulf, no one will come to his aid. There is talk of expanding into other parts of Ponthieu.”
She defended her brother’s actions, but a knot of dread still writhed in her belly, a specter of the terror that had swept through Flandres when the Vikings had attacked and burned towns and villages. It had happened long before her birth yet townsfolk still spoke in hushed tones of the barbarity.
Was Arnulf baiting a bear by snubbing his nose at the Normans?
The women sat in silence until a polite cough caught their attention. The monk scrivener bowed to Adela as he came to stand before them, a parchment in hand. “Your pardon, milady Comtesse, a missive has arrived from the comte.”
They’d expected this. It had been several days since Arnulf’s last letter.
“Read it to me,” Adela commanded in a voice that betrayed her lack of interest in its contents.
The monk cleared his throat again. “It is addressed to milady Judith,” he said hoarsely.
Adela glared at him, stretching her neck in indignation to the point Judith feared it might snap. Waving a dismissive hand as if swatting a fly, she yawned as she rose and swept out of the hall.
Judith had a fleeting thought it was a pity Adela hadn’t died in childbirth, but then uttered a prayer of contrition under her breath for the unchristian wish. “What has my brother written to me?” she asked nervously, aware this particular monk had come to Bruggen as part of Adela’s household.
The scrivener arched an eyebrow as he unfurled the parchment, leaving no doubt in her mind he had already read the contents.
“To Judith of Valognes, etcetera, etcetera. Sister, good news. You are betrothed to Theodoric of Abbatis, gentleman of Ponthieu. I have lent my signature to the betrothal documents in your stead. The marriage is to take place upon your arrival in Saint Riquier. Make haste. Your brother, Arnulf, Comte of Flandres, etcetera, etcetera.”
The hearty fire still crackled, yet a bitter cold seeped into Judith’s bones. “Saint Riquier?” she whispered.
“North of Montreuil, in the county of Ponthieu,” the cleric replied, as if giving a lesson in geography to an ignorant child.
“I know where it is,” she retorted a little too loudly. The truth lay like ice on her heart. Arnulf had sold her off to a nobleman from Ponthieu to tighten his hold on the newly conquered province. This alliance would ensure Theodoric’s compliance and fealty.
Was she to have no voice in the matter? “Does he say anything of this man I am to marry?”
The monk didn’t give the parchment a second glance. “I have read the missive in its entirety,” he declared, obviously offended.
She trembled from head to toe, but resolved not to allow the monk to see her distress. Adela would be the first to learn of it. “Thank you. You may go. Leave the letter with me.”
He hesitated before giving up the document and bowing out of her presence. She stared at the elegant script for several minutes before throwing it into the flames. Fists clenched at her sides, she watched the fire consume it, blaming the tears in her eyes on the smoke from the burning parchment.
PLANS LAID
In fields outside Montreuil
Magnus blew his nose for the hundredth time, afraid he might topple off the uncomfortable campstool into the darkness of the surrounding forest. He threw the soiled linen square Ida had fashioned into the bushes, wishing he was in his bed at home in Montdebryk. It had been a lonely place since his wife’s death, but at least it was warm.
“What ails you, cousin?” Bendik asked.
“This endless rain,” he replied with a sniff, deeming it unfair his friend looked hale and hearty. “My nose hasn’t stopped running for two months.”
Bendik shifted his weight on his campstool. “Since the burial,” he whispered, holding out his palms to the cold brazier. Vilhelm had forbidden fires. “Mayhap you caught a chill.”
“Mayhap,” Magnus replied hoarsely, fearing whatever plagued his nose was moving into his throat. He fished inside his gambeson and took out the small flask of Montdebryk apple brandy. He uncorked it and inhaled deeply before taking a swig of the fiery liquid. The fumes soared into his nostrils. “Your mother says this stuff is good for blocked noses.”
Bendik smiled. “She reckons it’s good for naught else, much to your father’s disgust. His apple brandy is his pride and joy.”
“For good reason,” Magnus replied, breathing more easily. “The sooner we get this campaign over with, the better. I worry for my daughters.”
Bendik rubbed his hands together, as if the cold brazier had warmed them. “They have your mother, and mine,” he rasped.
It was true, but Magnus needed to be with his girls, to help them cope with their grief. It was his duty, and here he was stuck in Ponthieu with hundreds of fellow Norsemen, waiting for Duke Vilhelm to give the word to commence the offensive to retake Montreuil.
“I can’t see the point of not lighting a fire,” Bendik complained, apparently realizing the brazier wasn’t giving off heat. “I’m sure Arnulf knows we’re here, though it’s five miles to the town.”
Magnus shook his head. “Now we’re in position, I can better understand Vilhelm’s concern. I had no real notion Montreuil was only half a day’s ride from Rouen.”
They sat in silence for long minutes. Magnus cleared his throat in an effort to put an end to the incessant tickle that had survived the apple brandy. “Nothing is likely to happen this night,” he said between fits of coughing. “I’m for bed.”
He got to his feet slowly and stretched his
arms wide. A camp cot awaited but it was preferable to sleeping on the ground. It was the most dismal spring in his memory. “This weather doesn’t bode well for the apple crop,” he mused.
Bendik stood quickly when Duke Vilhelm emerged out of the darkness accompanied by a handful of soldiers Magnus recognized as his usual bodyguard. He stuffed the flask back into his gambeson.
“Kriger,” the duke barked. “Gather your men, but quietly.”
Magnus stared at his chieftain. “Now?”
Vilhelm tightened his scowl. “Comte Herluin and I will attack Montreuil at first light with my troops and the army from the Cotentin. You and your knights will proceed north to Abbatis and lay waste to everything between here and there. If Arnulf has reinforcements en route from Flandres, they must find nothing to sustain them. Abbatis isn’t a large community, but it’s close to the border with Flandres, and to the abbey at Saint Riquier. You will secure both.”
He disappeared as quickly as he’d come, swallowed by the night. Magnus wondered if he’d dreamt the whole episode, but the scowl on Bendik’s face convinced him otherwise. He wished he hadn’t tossed away the linen square as his nose dripped again. He had others, but his servant had them in his safekeeping, and only Odin knew where the lad was at this moment.
The coughing worsened. He fingered the silver Thor’s hammer pendant he’d worn around his neck since the day of his baptism. Nothing for it but to comply, and he would need Mjölnir’s strength to make it through the night. He was tempted to take another swig of the apple brandy, but better to keep a clear head. “Wake my brothers,” he told Bendik, “and yours. They can help round up the men.”
THEODORIC
Near Saint Riquier, Ponthieu
Judith shifted her weight in the uncomfortable saddle. “Seems ridiculous,” she confided wearily to her maid. “I was heartbroken at leaving Bruggen, but excited to see new parts of our country.”
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