‘And?’
Mathilda knew she should not ask. ‘Ladies of royal blood should not gossip,’ Adela always insisted, though, Lord knows, she was often enough forehead to forehead with her own friends. Mathilda had challenged her on that once and Adela had insisted haughtily that they weren’t gossiping but ‘sharing information’. It had been one of the more useful lessons of Mathilda’s whole education and now she looked expectantly up at Emeline.
‘It was good at first,’ she admitted with a coy smile that fooled no one. ‘He was very attentive and very . . . grateful.’
‘At first?’
Emeline sighed dramatically.
‘He lacked . . .’
‘Energy?’ Cecelia suggested.
Born of a solid Flanders family, Cecelia had already been in Mathilda’s service when Emeline came along and had at first resented her. As square as Emeline was curvy and as quiet as she was loquacious, she had struggled to understand the French girl but Emeline had persisted in drawing her into her confidence and Cecelia had swiftly grown fond of her. These days she, like Mathilda, lived vicariously on Emeline’s adventures.
‘No, not that – stamina!’ Emeline giggled. ‘I need a younger man again. But perhaps this duke will bring some nice Normans with him.’
Mathilda grunted, her bad mood instantly recalled.
‘Normans are not “nice”, Emeline. You, of all people, should know that.’
Emeline’s mother’s eventual second husband had been a Norman count and it was because Emeline had hated Normandy so much that her mother had offered her to Adela. Now, though, she just shrugged.
‘I don’t want them nice any more.’
Mathilda groaned and looked to Cecelia.
‘You’ll be on the pallet bed again tonight, I fear.’
Cecelia nodded, unperturbed. Mathilda’s two ladies were meant to sleep in a small chamber adjoining Mathilda’s but frequently Emeline had someone more entertaining with her and Cecelia retreated to the pallet at the end of Mathilda’s big bed. If Adela ever came in they had to claim Mathilda had been restless in the night and Mathilda feared her mother had very misplaced concerns for her sleep.
‘At least marriage will tire you out,’ she had pronounced the other day, making Mathilda curl away in embarrassment.
It was all very well discussing the bedroom with Emeline, who treated such matters as lightly as if they were hunting or dancing, but not with her mother.
‘What if I don’t like him?’ she’d snapped, to which Adela had offered a wry smile that hadn’t suited her.
‘You will learn to put up with it. You must produce heirs after all.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
Adela’s eyebrows had risen painfully and Mathilda had gratefully abandoned the conversation.
‘Are you done yet?’ she asked now, putting a hand up to her hair.
‘Nearly,’ Emeline said, slapping it gently away. ‘You will look beautiful, Mathilda. See how the bronzes in your hair glow like ancient mysteries. See how the dress trim brings out the blues and greens in your sea-eyes?’
‘Sea-eyes, Emeline!’ Mathilda scoffed but Emeline just gave a pretty shrug and held out the little hand mirror.
‘Just so, ma cherie. The duke will be dazzled by you.’
‘Oh, good,’ Mathilda said dully, though glancing in the glass she had to admit that her two ladies had done a fine job.
Her long plaits were strung through with threads of gold and tiny rosebud jewels and shimmered in the sunlight spilling in through the window opening, drawing out the bronze and copper shades in her hair.
‘This will be a fine rejection,’ she said bravely but as she rose she felt her wretched knees quake and had to put out a hand to her carved oak dressing table to steady herself.
The truth was that though she had striven to hone her wit in these last days, Mathilda could find no clever way to talk her father out of this match and could only pray negotiations would go poorly. Every time she thought of being sent out of Bruges, with its elegant buildings, exotic markets and vibrant court, and into Normandy where, from all she’d heard, everyone hid in gloomy, high-walled castles and considered killing each other prime entertainment, she felt her very heart hesitate to beat.
She couldn’t understand it. All her life her father had shown her such favour. He’d lavished money on her gowns and horses, funded her extensive education and encouraged her to come into society from an early age, so why would he now shut her away in Normandy with a duke who’d inherited his title aged seven and had apparently been fighting off rebellions ever since? There must be a high chance her new groom would be killed before the marriage was weeks old.
A little cheered at the prospect of a swift widowhood, she smoothed down her wine-red dress just as the door flew open and Judith tumbled inside.
‘He’s here.’
All Mathilda’s new courage seemed to run down her limbs and away in an instant and she moved nervously to the window, cursing her lack of height for it was hard to see those immediately below. Even so, she could tell that the whole court was gathered outside, stood in desultory groups, chatting in low voices and fanning themselves in their finery as the sun burned mercilessly down. The gates on the far side of the large yard stood welcomingly open, guards alert on either side, but no one yet approached over the myriad bridges that led travellers over Bruges’ many canals to the comital palace at the heart of the city.
‘There’s no one here, Judi.’
‘Not here here,’ Judith corrected herself, ‘but at the outskirts of the city. A rider just came in. The count says you are to go down immediately. We must all be before the palace to welcome the duke.’
‘I see.’
Mathilda peered at the carved oak fencing surrounding the elegant palace yard. Whenever Adela gave birth to another ducal child Baldwin would order a panel replaced with one bearing the name of the new prince or princess. Mathilda loved them and if she was ever feeling lost or unsure of herself she would stroll out to look at her elegant oaken name marking her place in the busy Flanders court. She searched for it now but it was obscured by crowds.
Judith tugged on her arm.
‘Now, Maud, please, or the count will be angry.’
‘And the duke?’ Mathilda asked, resisting stubbornly. ‘Will the duke be angry?’
‘I imagine so. They say he is very fierce. Oh. That is . . . I’m sure he won’t be with you, Mathilda.’
‘You’re sure of nothing, Judi, none of us is. If he is angry, though, he may not wish to marry me. Tell Father I am not ready yet.’
‘Mathilda, no!’ Beyond the palace came a faint sound of cheering. ‘You must come.’
Judith tugged again but, despite her cousin being almost a head taller than petite Mathilda, and stronger with it, Mathilda resisted still. Finally, Emeline placed a hand in the small of her back and gave her a firm push.
‘You cannot reject him from up here, my lady,’ she whispered.
Mathilda forced herself to smile. Fleetingly – and not for the first time – she wished she might be Emeline, free to do as she chose, but instantly she remonstrated with herself. She was a lady of Flanders; it was a privilege and a joy, even now.
‘Come then,’ she said crisply and, with Judith panting gratefully in her wake, she strode from her chamber to greet the man she would do her utmost not to marry.
Mathilda took her place at her father’s side on the marble platform before the palace as the rising cheers in the streets beyond heralded Duke William’s imminent arrival. Baldwin had had this magnificent block of stone imported from Byzantium several years ago for just such parades and occasions. It stood in front of the palace, elegant in its stark white simplicity, and set them half a man’s height above the rest of the crowds. In honour of today’s proceedings Mathilda had been granted precedence over her smug older brother Baldwin and she could not resist a teasing smile at him as she took her place. He was not, however, easily cowed.
‘Mak
e the most of it, Sister – you’ll soon be under the bastard duke after all.’
Mathilda itched to push him away but an unseemly family tumble would not please the count so she contented herself with words: ‘At least someone wants to marry me, Baldwin. You’re too ugly for a bride.’
Baldwin grinned easily.
‘But I’m heir to Flanders, Maud dear. I could be ugly as sin – which I’m not – and still take my pick of the ladies.’
Mathilda ground her teeth at the truth of it and glanced over at her other siblings, gathered around their mother and chattering away as if this were just a normal state occasion. She patted self-consciously at her gold-studded hair and steadied her stance on the raised wooden heels designed to give her just a little more height. She was used to joining her father on display but never before had she felt so exposed. Everyone knew why Duke William was here. Every finely clad member of the court, every servant scuttling to prepare the feast and every dark-skinned market trader knew and she felt all eyes looking at her as if assessing her worth for this honour.
‘He’s just a bastard duke,’ she wanted to tell them, but whatever had previously been whispered about William, the occasion was now gathering its own momentum and the crowds were in a mood as festive as if King Henri of France himself were riding in.
‘He’s here!’
It was Judith again, squeaking excitedly from her lowly position at the rear of the family pedestal. Mathilda felt her heart quicken and forced her weight down into the smooth marble to keep her legs steady as the Norman delegation turned in through the gates. Duke William had asked for her, she reminded herself. She did not have to impress him in any way, save to make him sorry for what he would miss out on. Glancing to the window of her chamber high above, she saw Emeline and Cecelia leaning eagerly out and wished they were at her shoulder but the guests were approaching and she must stand tall and do this alone.
The crowds were thick and the new arrivals, mounted on huge horses, were moving carefully round the edge of the yard, giving Mathilda time to take them in. They were a sombre group, dressed in mail as if afraid of being set upon by Flemish peasants. The only colour was in their cloaks, which were all a uniform red, the same red, she was horrified to note, as her dress.
‘You will fit right in, Maud,’ her brother whispered in her ear.
She did not flinch but stepped carefully back, grinding the raised heel of her shoe into his toe. Hearing him muffle a cry of pain she felt better – though not much. How on earth was she meant to know which of these matching men was the duke? They all looked the same, their dark hair close-cropped beneath stern helmets, their chins as bare as boys’. They had told her this duke was a soldier first and foremost but she had thought he would at least stand out as a leader. And then, as they turned the bend of the pathway round the yard and drew towards the comital family, the front riders parted and she saw him – unmistakeably him.
Duke William was riding on a jet-black stallion several hands higher than his fellows’. The beast’s saddle was scarlet and it wore a ceremonial hood of the same that drew your eyes into its dark gaze, though only for a moment for the rider was even more mesmerising than the horse. Duke William wore armour like his men but his was silver and gleamed as if he were the sun. His cloak was scarlet too but embroidered all over with golden crosses and around his helmet was a simple but shining diadem studded with rubies. He sat rigid in the saddle as he reined in his magnificent horse several paces back from the marble block, his eyes sweeping over the family and settling with fierce certainty upon Mathilda.
‘Greetings, Duke William,’ Count Baldwin called, raising his arms wide. ‘You are most welcome to my humble palace.’
‘It is magnificent, Count, and does you great credit – as does your daughter.’
Mathilda jumped. Already he spoke of her. Had he no manners?
‘I thank you,’ Baldwin said easily.
‘I look forward to a fruitful alliance between us,’ Duke William went on loudly.
The noble ladies of Flanders giggled as if they were closeted in the bower and Mathilda glanced to Adela who looked, she was pleased to see, as uncomfortable as Mathilda felt. Count Baldwin, however, was taking it all very genially.
‘May I, Lord Duke, present the Lady Mathilda.’ He took Mathilda’s arm and pulled her to the front of the platform like some slave girl on sale. Mathilda resisted furiously and felt her father’s hand tighten. ‘My daughter,’ he said quickly to the duke who was watching without a word, ‘is a little nervous.’
Nervous! Mathilda opened her mouth to protest but before she could even draw breath, Duke William had spurred his great stallion forward. It pounded across the short space towards her, its nostrils flaring and its dark eyes intent beneath its dark red hood. Mathilda felt locked into the advance, like a mouse beneath a falcon’s dive. She heard the gasps of the crowd, felt her father fall back, half-saw her mother gather the younger ones against her skirts, and then a mailed hand shot out and clasped her waist, catching clumsily at the fabric of her dress to yank her like a poppet onto the horse.
It was still moving at pace and for a moment she dangled, her little body bumping against the stallion’s powerful flank, her legs dangerously close to its flying hooves, before William hefted her, like so much straw, into an ungainly embrace before him. Her golden diadem flew off and bounced across the cobbles in a spin of light, and her plaits caught in his silver mail, bringing tears of pain to her eyes.
‘What on earth!’ she finally gasped out as they gained the far side of the yard.
She could feel all eyes upon them as people dived out of their way and she scrabbled to sit more decently for her ankles were showing and there was a tear in the waist of her beautiful dress. She twisted in the saddle to glare at her captor.
‘How dare you?’
He looked taken aback. He was handsome, close up. Unnervingly so. His shaven face was lean, the strong line of jaw starkly evident with no beard to hide it, and his surprisingly full lips prominent. His eyes were as dark as his horse’s but they were flecked with a silver that, this close, brought them to life. She forced herself to keep glaring. She ached from his unceremonious grab and one of her plaits was still caught in the rings of his mail so she dared not try to jump free, even had the horse not been so very tall or the arm at her waist so very determined.
‘I am a lady of Flanders,’ she spluttered, ‘not some common wench to seize at will.’
He frowned.
‘I’m sorry you see it that way.’
Mathilda blinked.
‘What other way is there?’
He shrugged and suddenly seemed, for all his imposing looks, very young.
‘I meant,’ he told her, his voice low, ‘to impress you with my strength. I take it I did not achieve my aim?’
‘I feel more bruised than impressed,’ she admitted.
‘I’m sorry. My mother told me to sweep you off your feet.’
Mathilda tensed at the mention of Herleva, the beautiful concubine who had captivated Duke Robert and given him the bastard who now held her against him in front of the whole of her father’s glamorous court.
‘You certainly did that,’ she said and to her surprise he smiled.
‘I will endeavour to do better next time. I want you as my wife, Mathilda of Flanders.’
‘Why?’
‘I have scoured the noble houses of Europe for someone strong enough to match me. I am told you are the one and from what I see now I believe that to be correct. We will work well together, Mathilda.’
Mathilda blinked. What he said was almost ridiculously blunt but she could not deny a strange flattery within it. William was not what she had expected at all but it was clear he was a man of purpose and determination and that she had to admire.
‘My father says the church may forbid our match,’ she said cautiously.
‘Not with good reason. My best men have studied every chart and see no just cause for prohibition.’
He smiled grimly.
‘I cannot speak for that but we must trust to God to see that the truth prevails. And to our own ability to ensure that men see it also.’ He looked intently into her eyes, fixing her in his dark stare. ‘So now you know what I look for, Lady Mathilda, I must beg the same question of you – what do you wish for in the man you will spend your life with?’
It was a good question – too good. She looked down.
‘Right now, my lord, to free my hair from his mail.’
‘His mail? You will marry me then?’
Mathilda glanced up at him. They were coming back round to the platform so she had but a moment before they were engulfed in ceremony. She owed him an answer – she owed herself an answer. She looked straight into his dark eyes. She had always thought that what she wanted in a husband was charm, impetuousness, joy – romance. That is what she had known with Brihtric, but she had been young then and foolish. She was not just any girl, free to dally with whoever had the prettiest words, but a princess with a duty to rule. And this man, she felt sure, would rule well.
‘Yes, Duke William of Normandy,’ she agreed. ‘I will marry you.’
CHAPTER THREE
Bruges, November 1050
Judith glanced anxiously to the window opening and, seeing the first tell-tale scraps of pink in the sky, groaned quietly to herself. Already the sun had sunk to the level of the Bruges townhouses and its light seemed to run as if molten along the elegant lines of the slated roofs, pouring off in golden streaks and streaming along the crisscross canals in between. It was a glorious sight but an infuriating one too. She’d only had the chance to sit down a little time ago and already the wretched light was fading.
All day she’d been longing to get to her art and all day – as most days – she’d been prevented. She daren’t work on her illumination when Baldwin was in the palace for he didn’t approve of her doing ‘monk’s labour’ so she had to snatch time where she could. She looked longingly at her half-formed picture of the Virgin and wished she were brave enough to paint it in public, but she wasn’t made to cut a new path and it was easier just to keep it to herself. With a resigned sigh she rolled it up, stored it away in her oak casket, and headed to choose a dress for dinner.
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