I Am the Chosen King

by Helen Hollick

  ***

  Lying in the middle of the great bed, Mathilda stifled her tears. It had hurt when he had taken her, forcing himself into her as she had struggled beneath him. If this was the pleasure Judith had spoken of, then Mathilda thought little of it. “Will it always be like this?” she asked into darkness. William had rolled from her, was settling into sleep. “Will it always be so uncomfortable?”

  The Duke grunted. “A man faces pain and possible mutilation and death on the battlefield. Is it too much to ask a woman to suffer something for him in return?” He lay quiet, feeling the trickles of perspiration roll down his naked back. He had taken few women to his bed for he had rarely found any to be pleasing, either in looks or intelligence. Nor had there been much opportunity for dalliance when there were always daggers aimed at your back and traitors plotting to steal your duchy.

  “It is possible,” he said with detachment, “to gain some form of pleasure from the act of sexual union. It comes with the sharing of mutual trust, I should imagine.”

  Mathilda thought on that as she listened to his breathing slow and regulate into the calmer pace of sleep. Judith’s ambiguous allusions to her intimacy with Tostig had given her quite a different impression of the delights of the marriage bed. She appeared to enjoy the experience. Mathilda had seen Tostig slide his arm around Judith’s waist, whisper in her ear and kiss her cheek—had witnessed the coy flutter of lashes and blushing response of eager anticipation. There had been something wrong, then, this night. Did the problem lie with the fact that Judith wanted Tostig, while she, Mathilda, found William disagreeable?

  She thought back to Judith’s marriage. Surely she remembered hesitation and anxious fear? Oui! Had Judith not shed tears the night before going to a husband’s bed? She had been pale and quiet those first few days after. Mathilda stretched. She was sore between her legs, but not badly so. If the privacy of marriage was to be endurable—was to become enjoyable—then there must be something missing from the experience. It did not take a Wise Woman to realise that the pleasure for William, too, had been minimal.

  William was asleep. Mathilda moved her arm to encircle his body, felt him stir as her fingers brushed against his warm skin. He was a large man, well-muscled but not running to fat, his stomach was firm and solid beneath her light, explorative touch. Without intending to, her hand slid lower as he moved; she was surprised to feel that his manhood was rising beneath her fingertips.

  “If we are to be man and wife,” she said hesitantly, “ought our partnership not be one of shared trust?”

  “You have altered your opinion of me, then?” he answered sardonically. “I am no longer disgusting to you?”

  “You are an illiterate, illegitimate barbarian and your mother’s breeding is wholly beneath my family, but if I must endure your presence in my bed for the rest of my life, I can at least determine to enjoy it as best I may.”

  William snorted his amusement. Few men spoke to him so frankly, let alone women. But how could he allow himself to trust this woman—this child? Dare he set aside the armour of self-protection that he had worn all these years, let someone through his defence? He had only felt comfort and ease with his mother—her alone, and perhaps her brother, his uncle Will, had he been able to trust implicitly. This girl, Mathilda,was a stranger, an unknown quantity.

  He rolled over, kissed her mouth, his hand moving to fondle her breast. Was he capable, after surviving such violence, of allowing someone to unmask the inner, deliberately concealed person?

  Mathilda had never seen him laugh or smile with genuine happiness. The skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled pleasantly, like the tracings of bird prints on fresh snow; his touch was light and gentle. There were two sides to this man, she realised suddenly. The outward hardness, the iron will, the indomitable persistence, and hidden on the inside, desperate need, vulnerability, insecurity. She was only thirteen years of age but astute. Duke William, she realised, that night of her marriage, was a man who had never felt or shown the raw nakedness of love. Harshness, death and blood had filled his upbringing, his life. He had never found opportunity to participate in the unguarded delight of pleasure and passion.

  Their lovemaking was inexperienced and fumbled, with no great burst of giddy, shattering joy; but it was not painful this time, and if William turned from her immediately it was over to sleep, then perhaps that was what men always did. Providing he treated her with respect and offered her no further public humiliation, then she would be content with him. After all, she was now the Duchess of Normandy and William had told her, when they had been most intimate, that one day she might be more.

  “How would the queen’s crown of England suit you, madam?”

  Well, she thought as sleep and contentment lulled through her body and mind, it would suit most well.

  34

  Winchester—March 1052

  Death waited in the shadows of the hot and fugged bed-chamber. Emma could see it, feel its patient, waiting presence, yet it was not an unwelcome guest. She was tired of her bed and her life, of the fussing of her servants, the senseless weeping of her women. Death came for everyone, only those who feared it shunned its inevitability. Emma had never feared anything or anyone, except perhaps Cnut before she had met with him. Her only fear had been of dying before her ambitions had been accomplished. What had she to finish, now that she was old and frail, confined to her bed with the aching pain that was devouring her body from within? She would have liked a grandson for England. Ah, Harthacnut would have been the better king than Edward.

  Emma drifted into sleep. She dozed often these last few days of life, because of age, illness and the bitter-tasting tinctures they made her swallow. She did not shun sleep, for she would often dream of riding across the heather moors with a wind blowing through her hair, her laugh soaring like an eagle in flight. Cnut rode beside her. She had loved Cnut, as he had undeniably loved her.

  Waking, she watched the girl lighting the candles. Dusk was falling early; the day outside had been grey and rain-laden, the spatter of hail rattling against the tiny window panes. The girl went to close the wooden shutters, but Emma bade her leave them.

  “I like watching the night turn its slow dance,” she said, “and I welcome the lightening of the sky come morning.” What else was there to do in this dreary, lonely room?

  She sipped spoonfuls of the broth they had brought her, to please the servants more than sate her appetite. There were voices below, men talking, but Emma paid no heed. It was probably the good brother from the monastery come with more of his wretched herbs and potions. Footsteps on the stairs beyond the solar, the door of her bed-chamber creaking slowly open. Emma feigned sleep; she wanted no visitors.

  “Mother?”

  Harthacnut had looked so much like his father. Red-haired, strong-jawed. He had possessed the same quick laugh, the same passion for life, Emma was glad she would soon be reunited with them, with Cnut and his son, in heaven.

  “Mother? Are you sleeping? It is I, Edward.”

  The pleasant illusion vanished, Emma opened her eyes, looked straight into the face of her first husband Æthelred, that limp-livered, mithering incompetent. If Cnut’s son had been the image of his father, then so was Edward, even to the effeminate curl at the tip of his beard.

  “So, have you come to gloat? To witness the end of the woman who has plagued you all these years? If you wish to know what piffling amount I have left you in my will, then you need wait only a few more days to discover it. The doctors say I have not long.”

  “You sent for me. Do you not recall? I was tempted to ignore you, but decided to pay my last respects, for though you never once offered me love or encouragement, you did give me life, for which I am grateful. Though, I suspect, had you choice in the matter, you would not have birthed me.” Edward beckoned for a stool to be brought for him and sat at the top end of the bed where he could see his mother’s withered fac
e the clearer. His sight was not as sharp as once it had been, a matter that rarely troubled him, save when the chase was at full cry. Annoying not to be able to see clearly the glory of a pack of hounds running.

  A blue tinge touched Emma’s cracked lips as she formed a weak, amused smile. Yes, she had sent for him, knew he would come, for Edward was a man with a conscience. It was that which made him a poor king. Men who ruled well could not indulge in the luxury of listening to self-doubts. Of pandering to their guilt or curiosity.

  He did not take her hand, nor was he alarmed or dismayed at the sunken hollows of her eyes and cheeks. She was three and sixty years of age; Edward reckoned that time had already been more than generous to her. Archbishop Robert had counselled against visiting her here in Winchester, but he was tiring of Champart’s incessant interferences. He was turning out to be worse than his mother for nagging, poking and prying.

  Edward had no fear of Emma: she was dying and he was full of life. How that must irritate her!

  “I suppose I ought to ask where you wish to be buried,” he said with callous mockery. “My abbey of Westminster is not yet half completed, but even were it finished it is to be my mausoleum. I would not share it with you. Perhaps you wish to be returned to Normandy?”

  Not having the strength to raise her head, Emma turned her face to stare at him. Was he being deliberately obtuse? “I have already made arrangements,” she stated. “The Bishop is to lay me beside my husband Cnut and our son, here in Winchester.”

  Edward laced his fingers. Of course Stigand would have been consulted, he and Emma had always been close. How close? There had been the rumour, once, that they had been lovers. What was she leaving Stigand in her will? How much of her estate was to go to her paid supporters…oh, let her bones rot here. Winchester would be of no significance once his Westminster Abbey was built.

  Talking for any length of time was difficult, for her body burnt with the effort. But what she needed to say was essential. “You will soon have no more of me, a few days at the most, they say. I have achieved much with my life, Edward, most I am proud of, some of the things I have done shame me. A few I shall answer to my Maker for.” She closed her eyes, was silent a long while.

  Edward sat, fidgeting with his cloak pin, the laced ties of his tunic, his finger rings. Was she intending to confess to him? Admit all the tales? There were a few allegations he would dearly like to know the truth of. He thought she had fallen asleep, but Emma snapped her eyes open.

  “I have never held much liking for you, Edward. That fact is not your fault, but your father’s. It is difficult for a woman to show affection to the sons of such a brutal and worthless man. You have some traits that far improve on Æthelred’s, however. Do not lose those few good qualities to the grubbing desires of mischief makers. Look to advisers who offer you wisdom for its own benefit, not for their own.”

  “To where is this lecture leading, Mother? I have no interest in all the things you had meant to achieve during your shabby life of murder and adultery.”

  Emma had expected no sympathy from Edward. She said blandly, “You and I were ever intolerant of each other. Of all the things I have disliked in you, I have never thought you to be deliberately cruel to those who have done you no wrong.”

  Edward shrugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, drawing his head down, like a snail into its protective shell. “I pride myself on my justice,” he mumbled, wounded.

  “Just? You are punishing someone who has never wronged you or meant you harm. You have shut someone away who has committed no crime. You are weak and shallow. You allow others to tweak you by the nose and lead you where they may. You are as worthless as your father.”

  Edward’s expression scrunched into an almost childish scowl.

  “Release Edith from the despair that you have created for her. You have shut her away, for no reason save that you dislike her father, within the austerity of Wherwell in dismal loneliness, with no one to speak for her reprieve. It is not a convent for a young woman who cherishes life and learning.”

  Even with Godwine’s family removed in their entirety, the repercussions of their exile were still rippling, like the wake of a distant, full-sailed ship slapping against the shore line. “She was unfaithful to me,” Edward grumbled, his defiance muted.

  Emma laughed, causing a racking catch of agony in her chest. “You ever were a poor liar! Did Champart obtain undeniable proof that Edith had a lover? Do you think the girl would be so foolish to place herself in a position where you could use such a potent weapon against her?” Emma breathed slowly, battling the rise of dizziness and nausea. “Above all else she wishes to be queen, she would not jeopardise that for any man—lover or kindred.” Emma stared at Edward, forcing him to meet her eyes. “As did I. A crown, Edward, carries more weight to its wearer than gold and precious rubies.” She sighed, closed her eyes, energy slipping from her. “More than the wasted pleasures of a bed. Wherwell is such a dour place. Set her free.”

  Rising, Edward shuffled towards the door. Robert had been right, he ought not have come. It had been Robert who had suggested Wherwell for Edith. Edward had objected to the choice, but had given in to the Archbishop’s persuasion. He clamped his teeth together in annoyance. Archbishop Robert made many of the decisions that he would have preferred to make. There was always someone deciding for him, ordering him, pushing him. His mother, Godwine, Champart.

  “I do not want her freed. I am to divorce her and intend, when the time is right, to take a new, more appropriate wife.”

  “Duke William’s sister, Adelaide.”

  Edward gasped—how in hell’s fire had she known?

  Emma allowed herself a small, satisfied chuckle. Ah, the efficiency of amply paid spies!

  “Are you as willing as my great-nephew William to become excommunicated? The Pope, Edward, will never allow such a marriage. Neither shall I, or Godwine.”

  “Godwine is removed and you,” her son hissed maliciously, “will soon be dead.”

  “Godwine will be back—and my letter is already written to the Pope informing him of your intention, though you are not divorced and she is not yet widowed. I have suggested to his Holiness that he might care to investigate, with thorough regard, should anything untoward happen to either Edith or Duke William’s elderly brother-in-law. The accusation of murder, no matter how much of a fabrication, can cling like mud, Edward. But you know that. A rumour of murder, deliberately spread, were it to be aimed at you, would not affect the sanctity of your mausoleum, I trust?”

  “God’s breath but you are a bitch!”

  Emma did not waste effort in replying.

  35

  Alençon

  The domination of the rudimentary Angevin empire had expanded east and south, at the expense of the comtes de Blois. A mere three years before Duke William’s resounding victory at Val-ès-Dunes, King Henry had been forced to cede Anjou recognition over Touraine. By holding Tours, Geoffrey de Martel, comte d’Anjou, held a key route into the Loire valley and could blockade the road from Paris to Orleans. With his southern borders strongly contained, it was hardly surprising that a forceful, unprincipled man such as Geoffrey would soon begin to look northwards, and once secured in the region initially controlled by the family de Bellême itself, six roads were linked, crossed by the old Roman Way that passed through Alençon on its way to Falaise. With the approval of Henry of France, William moved his army to contest possession of the two main fortresses: Domfront and Alençon.

  Fierce fighting at Domfront had not resolved the contentious issue and the long winter’s blockade took its toll from both sides of the dispute. Geoffrey Martel himself had retired from Maine, but his captains and troops held firm in his name, despite the heavy falls of snow on the hills and Normandy’s siege works of ditches and wooden towers. Men perished from lack of warmth and food, but William was determined to stand firm until the fortress fe
ll into his hands. For three long years he had besieged Guy de Brionne in the same way. He was prepared to do it all over again at Domfront, if he had to.

  At Easter, Mathilda was to come from her home in Flanders to join her husband at Eu, on the Normandy border. She had been outraged that William had left the day after their wedding to return to his blockade—not believing his excuse that for the present, Normandy was unsafe. He was obviously more interested in warfare than in his bride.

  In fact, William had not lied. The scent of rebellion was in the air and Domfront was proving obstinate—he had too much on his mind to worry about settling his bride into her new home.

  With Easter approaching, and no solution at Domfront materialising, he elected to alter tactics by withdrawing half his men to attack Alençon without warning. Mathilda was his duchess and he wanted her with him. What better way to prove to her that she had married a man of substance? The fortresses were going to fall before the spring snow-melt clogged the roads with mud and before she entered Normandy. He would give them to her as a wedding gift.

  Under the cover of darkness, William moved up his engines of war, the mangonels that could reduce walls of stone to rubble, and the ballistas that fired javelins and spears with deadly accuracy at human targets, or brands of fire that set light to the thatch of buildings.

  William sat on his horse, a handsome beast that was as black as a midwinter’s night, silent, tight-lipped, watching the proceedings. The dry-ditch moat had been filled with cut timber and dead bracken—and the broken bodies of those who had already fallen from the battlements of Alençon. Dawn had come several hours ago, pink light that heralded a day of frosted pale-blue, cloud-patched sky. The fortress had panicked, their cries of alarm had risen with the strengthening light—but even William had to concede that the defenders were holding firm with spirit and fortitude.