I, Lady Mathilda of Flanders, greet you, Duke William of Normandy, and assure you of my continued commitment to our betrothal. I see no valid opposition to our marriage and wish you to know that if you see fit to proceed to the altar, I will gladly meet you there. I believe my father agrees.
She signed it with the Jerusalem cross that she had practised under Judith’s keen guidance as an original mark. The signature looked fine but the letter felt stilted and formal and frighteningly to the point. There was no doubting its intentions and she could only pray it was well received.
For days she paced. Everard arrived, spent three days in Bruges with Emeline and left looking a little dazed but carrying the precious message. Almost the moment he had carried it away and its path was set, Mathilda regretted it. She went over and over the blank words, hearing them as forward and shameless. She paced again, Judith following anxiously after her, muttering of physicians.
‘I’m not ill, Judith,’ Mathilda assured her, ‘just impatient to hear from Duke William.’
‘Lovesick,’ Judith pronounced wryly. ‘Ah, poor Maud.’
Mathilda laughed. This was not love. She’d only met William once and was sure already that he was too hard a man for anything as frivolous as love, but she did want to marry him. And now he knew that. She paced again.
‘Perhaps he’s off at war,’ Emeline suggested.
‘Or at the far side of his duchy,’ Cecelia said.
‘Or,’ Mathilda snapped, ‘disgusted at my forwardness and even now sending an envoy to my father to call off our betrothal.’
Why had she written the dammed letter? Why was she so wretchedly impatient? William would tell Count Baldwin and he’d hit the roof and she’d be married off to some obscure lord from Hungary or Poland and sent into the darkness. And it would serve her right.
And then, days later, Mathilda returned to the palace from market to see a magnificent black stallion tethered in the yard. She clutched dizzily at Emeline’s arm, the sweet chestnuts she’d bought churning wickedly in her stomach.
‘He’s here, Em.’
‘As you wanted.’
‘I don’t want it now. To the bower, quick.’
But it was too late, for one of her father’s guards was rushing towards them.
‘Lady Mathilda, your father wishes to see you in his chambers.’
‘No,’ Mathilda gasped. ‘I can’t. I’m ill.’
‘You are not,’ Emeline said. ‘You must go, my lady.’
She was right, of course, but still Mathilda’s heart quailed. What if William was angry?
‘You knew this would happen when you wrote the letter,’ Cecelia pointed out reasonably but Mathilda did not feel reasonable.
She ground her teeth and looked over to the stallion, standing tall and proud, its dark eyes seeming to bore straight into her. Suddenly it stamped one black hoof down on the cobbles. The sound echoed round the palace yard like a command and Mathilda thrust her head up and made for her father’s rooms before her legs gave way.
Count Baldwin was sat in his great chair, Adela on one side and on the other, Duke William. It was the first time Mathilda had seen him in over a year and she had forgotten quite how handsome he was – and how imposing. The Norman was perched on the edge of his seat and as soon as he saw Mathilda he leaped up and bowed low before her. She offered her hand and as he took it he glanced up, his dark eyes gleaming. Her nerves steadied a little.
‘What a pleasant surprise, my lord,’ she said politely.
Again the look and now he straightened, close enough to touch had she so dared, but he did not speak and it was left to Baldwin to break the silence: ‘The duke is impatient to marry you, Mathilda.’
‘He is?’
She looked questioningly at William.
‘I am, for I see no valid opposition to our marriage, my lady.’ She gasped at the sound of her own words and he smiled. ‘None, that is, save the earthly machinations of a misguided prince.’
‘Several misguided princes,’ Baldwin put in heartily. ‘They are conspiring against us, Maud, and we must cement this alliance between Flanders and Normandy. Northern France is a cockpit. William feels we will stand stronger within it if we stand together, and I must say, I agree. It is time, my dear, to act.’
‘Act?’ Mathilda asked, as lightly as she could.
William took her hand.
‘If, my lady,’ he said, still looking straight at her, ‘you could see fit to proceed to the altar, I would gladly meet you there.’ Her own words again; he was taking them as his and she had to admit that it sent her pulse, if not her heart, racing. ‘Your father, I believe,’ he went on, word-perfect, ‘agrees.’
‘But the Council of Rheims,’ she protested softly.
‘The Council of Rheims was so far up its pompous arse it couldn’t see anything clearly,’ Baldwin snapped. ‘Emperor Heinrich controls the Pope like a poppet and things are very unsettled in Rome. Nothing for you to worry about, my dear, save that neither William nor I believe a dispensation will be forthcoming for some time.’
‘You are suggesting, Father, that we risk being cut off from the whole church and marry without it?’
‘Before it, Daughter, that is all, is it not, William?’
‘Correct,’ William confirmed crisply. ‘The church will soon see the sense of it if we lead the way. So – dare you do it, Mathilda? Dare you marry me?’
His eyes were flashing secret signals to her. He knew she dared, knew, indeed, that she had instigated this, and he liked it. The risk had paid off. She lowered her eyes.
‘If you think that is best, my lord, then of course I will do as you and my father wish.’
Count Baldwin laughed out loud.
‘Do not be deceived, William, she is not, I’m afraid, as biddable as she sounds.’
‘Oh, I am not deceived,’ William said. ‘I know exactly what manner of wife I will marry.’
‘Good, good. Come then, let us drink.’
Baldwin turned to summon wine and William stepped a little closer to Mathilda, standing nearly a head taller than her and excitingly broad with it.
‘I know exactly what manner of wife I will marry,’ he repeated, pressing something into her hand, ‘and I welcome it.’ Mathilda looked down to see her letter. ‘I will let you burn it, Mathilda, but know this – we will do great things together, you and I, for you are a woman in my own mould.’
Then he was turning, accepting wine and pouring her a cup, and she could only stuff the letter into the dainty leather pocket at her belt and join the good cheer. She tried to concentrate as her parents talked dates and plans and the need for secrecy but William’s words ran round and round in her head. A woman in his own mould? She pictured him as she’d first seen him, a stiff-backed warrior in silver armour upon a dark-eyed stallion. Was this her mould? Of course not, but if it suited William to believe so, so be it. Her wedding date was set, with or without the Pope’s blessing. She had achieved her goal and there was no time left for misgivings.
CHAPTER FIVE
Eu, March 1051
Mathilda stared up at the great castle and her hands twitched nervously on the reins, sending her horse skittering and the escort behind into total confusion. The procession came to a chaotic halt, hooves clattering on the rough road and horses whinnying indignantly, but Mathilda was fixed on the fortress before her. So this was Normandy. All she had heard, then, was true. Duke William’s handsome bearing, clipped courtesy and bold defiance of the church had convinced her that his duchy could not be as austere as was whispered but she’d been wrong. All day they had ridden along flat, low roads until at last a valley had dipped below them and the castle had appeared like a wart above.
‘My lady, is all well?’
‘Look at it, Em – look at the castle.’
‘It is a little forbidding.’
‘A little?!’
Mathilda’s eyes roamed over the harsh grey walls of the Castle of Eu, sitting atop the hill like a brutal ex
tension of the scattered rocks. It cut off the horizon in a precise, stark line interrupted only by square turrets on which she could see guards pointing at her and calling down. She’d been seen; there was no escape.
‘It’s so dark,’ she murmured.
‘It is a border fortress, my lady, designed for defence not comfort.’
She was right. Mathilda drew in a deep breath and forced herself to sit taller in the saddle. Eu was an outpost, a martial station. And yet . . .
‘People do live here,’ she said. ‘Not just soldiers, Emeline, but a noble family. The Count of Eu is William’s cousin and an honoured member of his council. This castle is clearly considered a worthy dwelling so they must all be this way.’
She looked hopefully at Emeline, willing her to deny it. As she had been in Normandy for some time before she’d begged Adela to rescue her she was, in the absence of any other, Mathilda’s expert on the duchy.
‘Not in Rouen,’ was all Emeline could offer. ‘It’s very lively in Rouen and doubtless elsewhere too. It’s been years since I was here, remember?’
‘Years in which everyone has done little but fight each other and raise their walls higher as a result.’ Mathilda was struck by a sudden thought. ‘Is your mother still here, Emeline? We might find a friend to . . .’
‘She is not here, my lady. She went running back to France the moment she wore her poor husband into his grave.’
‘Oh. You did not wish to go with her?’
Emeline shrugged.
‘I could hardly leave you with just Cee, could I?’ She grinned as her friend yelped in protest, then added, ‘Besides, I liked it in Flanders. If I’d known where we were heading, however . . .’
She looked sardonically up to the stark walls and Cecelia nudged crossly at her.
‘Don’t be mean, Emeline. I am sure it is very comfortable within.’
‘Well, we’re about to find out,’ Mathilda said. ‘The gates are opening.’
Count Baldwin had noticed this too and rode forward, Adela in his wake.
‘Come, Mathilda, let us go to meet your betrothed.’
Mathilda nodded and took the reins firmly in her hands. She thought of her beautiful wedding gown, carefully packed in layers of linen. It was a glorious midnight blue, embroidered all over with silver stars, and when she had tried it on back in Bruges she had felt like a duchess indeed. Now it was time to prove she deserved that role and she would not show nerves, not even if the castle walls seemed to hang over her and the thick-set guards forming a sombre welcome either side of the road looked like angels of death.
‘Stop imagining things,’ she told herself sternly and moved forward to Eu as, with a fanfare, Duke William rode out of the gates. He looked magnificent. He was in his silver armour again, this time topped with a gold-trimmed cloak. He wore a helmet, making Mathilda wonder if they were like to be attacked, but a closer look revealed that it, too, was silver and was worked with intricate patterns that caught the weak sun in shimmers of light. He was clearly keen to impress again and this time it worked.
Mathilda’s breath caught and she put up a hand to smooth her hair, wishing that she’d thought to pause in the trees to arrange herself. She was in her finest travelling cloak of dark green wool but it was spattered with mud. What if her face was too? She looked around for Emeline but Count Baldwin had guided her forward and it was too late to do anything but smile and hope.
‘Welcome, my lady, to Normandy. My duchy has keenly awaited your arrival and is eager to embrace you as her duchess.’
His words, so loud that Mathilda had to force herself not to cover her ears, carried around the plain before the castle and bounced off the walls above: ‘duchess, duchess, duchess’. Mathilda felt the title shiver deliciously through her.
‘I thank you, my lord. I am delighted to be here and hope I will make Normandy proud.’
Their eyes met and Mathilda saw, to her relief, approval, even pleasure in his. Maybe she wasn’t muddy after all.
‘You will. Do come within. My family are gathered to greet you, my nobles also. You are not too tired?’
It was framed as a question but sounded more like an order.
‘No, my lord,’ Mathilda agreed, despite having been half the day in the saddle.
She let herself be led up between the dark walls, across a rough earth yard, and into an imposing stone hall. This, thankfully, was as opulent as its exterior was stark. Rich tapestries hung on every wall, dancing in the lively flames of big rush lights on the wide columns supporting the high wooden roof. More light came from a hundred candles burning in elegant holders on two tables draped in cloth and laid all along with silver plates and goblets that winked and glittered as if hiding glorious secrets.
Some twenty or thirty people were gathered between them, chattering intently, though they stopped as she entered. For a moment the world was suspended, then from the richly dressed crowd a woman came forward, slim and elegant with skin as smooth as marble and startling blue eyes bright against her mahogany hair. She carried her beauty with ease and grace and her smile, as she moved to Mathilda and extended her hand, was sweet and open. This must be the infamous Herleva.
‘Lady Mathilda, welcome. It’s so very lovely to meet you at last. William has talked of little else for many months.’
‘This match is of great import for both our provinces,’ William said stiffly but Herleva just laughed.
‘Of course it is, William, and the beauty of your future duchess is vital for this, is it?’
‘It is, Mother. Normandy deserves a jewel.’ His tone was flat but he was almost smiling and Mathilda saw his eyes shine as he looked at his mother.
‘My son,’ Herleva told Mathilda, ‘is trained in keeping his finer emotions hidden, but it does not mean they are not there.’
It was spoken lightly but Herleva’s blue eyes burned with sudden fierce intent.
‘Dukes must stay ever on guard, I am sure.’
‘But not with their duchesses.’
She smiled at Mathilda who felt a sharp urge to live up to this welcoming woman’s quiet appeal. She would be William’s helpmeet in the rule of this stark duchy. It would not be love but it would be so much more. She watched as he moved aside with Count Baldwin, men following eagerly after, and felt a thrill at the thought of what that future might hold for them, but now her mother was coughing pointedly at her side and she turned reluctantly back.
‘Lady Herleva, this is my own mother, Countess Adela.’
She ushered Adela forward, noting her stiff bearing as she approached the lady who had once been northern France’s most renowned mistress.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ Adela managed with studied politeness.
‘And you, my lady,’ Herleva agreed with quiet grace. ‘We are honoured by your presence in our humble duchy. I wish we could have received you at Rouen for it is so much more elegant than Eu but William thought a little privacy would be best at this stage.’
‘Very wise,’ Adela agreed, still stiff. ‘We do not want unwelcome intrusions at our celebrations.’
Mathilda shifted uneasily at this reference to the continued lack of papal dispensation. They were to marry in the castle chapel she’d been told and now she could see why – Eu’s high walls would keep them safe from the public eye until the marriage was completed and, indeed, consummated. She swallowed and Herleva took her arm.
‘There will be no such problem, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘These objections are just a part of men’s endless petty war games and we need not let them trouble us, especially not today. Come, let me introduce my other son, Odo, Bishop of Bayeux.’
Odo came forward – slim and sharply made with an intensity in his narrow eyes.
‘Welcome to the family, my lady,’ he said, bowing low. ‘You make a most beautiful addition.’
‘Odo,’ Herleva warned in a low voice, adding dryly to Mathilda, ‘my second son is yet to embrace the sterner strictures of his office.’
‘Your second son,’ Odo said easily, ‘does not see that they are necessary. Celibacy helps no man.’ A laugh burst unexpectedly out of Mathilda and she clapped a hand to her mouth. Odo grinned wolfishly at her. ‘I’m glad the new duchess agrees.’
‘I . . .’ Mathilda started but thankfully Herleva was turning to Judith now and she was spared finding a response.
‘Lady Judith, welcome. We invited your mother to join our celebrations but I’m afraid she is frail these days and sent word that God wished her to stay in the cloister.’
‘No doubt,’ Judith said tightly.
‘But William is keen to meet his cousin and over there is your shared uncle, Mauger, Archbishop of Rouen, who will marry William and Mathilda tomorrow.’
Mathilda jumped.
‘Tomorrow?’ she burst out.
‘Does that not suit?’
‘Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, it suits very well. I’d just . . .’ She glanced nervously to Judith but then caught herself. She was here to be Duchess of Normandy, so why wait? ‘It suits very well,’ she said more firmly as William rejoined them.
‘Cousin,’ he said, taking Judith’s hand and kissing it. ‘Welcome. It is good to have another of the family here in Normandy and, of course, tomorrow Mathilda will join us.’
Judith looked a little stunned to be an ‘us’.
‘That will be lovely,’ she stuttered out. William smiled.
‘It will. Family is very important to me. My kin have been my rock when all else has, at times, felt like quicksand.’
Mathilda looked up at him and saw the silver in his eyes flicker as if a ghost had passed behind them but before she could ask more he was taking her arm and turning her to face the room.
‘And now,’ he called out sharply, ‘my nobles!’
He gave a nod to the guards either side of a large internal door and they leaped to open them, revealing a multi-coloured crowd who crushed into the hall like animals released from a pen. They surged forward, pouring around the stone pillars like springwater, every one of them looking huge as they tumbled in on Mathilda’s little form so that it was all she could do to stand her ground. Foremost amongst them was a bright-faced man who thankfully skidded to a stop just before reaching Mathilda with a triumphant, ‘I won!’
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