The Conqueror's Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Good,’ one guard said.

  ‘Wear it tomorrow,’ the other instructed and then, with a curt bow, they were gone.

  Mathilda watched the dark space they’d left behind then her eyes went back to the gown and from there to her original dress, hanging almost apologetically behind the creation in the centre of the room.

  ‘I will not even have my own dress,’ she said forlornly.

  Emeline put an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘You will have it still, just not tomorrow. But look, Mathilda, have you ever seen such beauty? Or such expense? William must treasure you indeed.’

  ‘But a dress? From a man? Who, here in this court without even a musician, could arrange such a dress? And why did William not warn me?’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘Well, he did that.’ Mathilda turned and clambered into bed. ‘Remember when Brihtric crept into my chamber and sprinkled rose petals between my sheets so that I would dream of him. That was a good surprise.’

  Cecelia pursed her lips.

  ‘That was a foolish surprise and a reckless one besides. You would both have been in trouble if your father had found out. William’s gesture is far more appropriate to a lady of your stature.’

  She was right, Mathilda supposed. She looked for Emeline who would always, she was sure, prefer the petals but for once the wilder of her ladies was avoiding her gaze. Sighing, she burrowed down into the soft covers but she could still see the dress, hovering like a spectre at her feet. So this was the wife she was to be – this was the queen bee’s costume. It was beautiful, yes, but with all those jewels it looked heavy and that first night in Normandy she slept uneasily in its shining shadow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mathilda stepped out onto the top of the wooden staircase leading down the side of the hall from the upper chambers and gasped to see the myriad people gathered below her. Word of her nuptials had clearly gone out to the folk of Eu yesterday and it seemed that every local family was here to sneak a privileged first peek at the new duchess. They filled the big yard within the castle’s high walls, save where William’s crimson-cloaked guards were holding them back to create a pathway to the small stone church on the far side.

  Mathilda blinked, feeling even smaller than usual before this vast crowd, and strove to gather herself. The morning had been lost in frantic preparations, for the new gown had been a little wide and only Cecelia’s lightning needle had ensured she was not stood here looking like a costly sack of flour. She was glad of it now though, for as she stepped down the exposed stairs the radiant garment drew all eyes away from her face and was as much armour as ornamentation.

  Her father was waiting at the bottom to lead her through the crowds. Taking his arm, she fought to keep her head high and tried to smile on those clamouring for a sight of her. But the myriad hands reaching out between the burly guards caught at her nerves, and she was grateful when she finally saw William waiting on the rough-hewn steps up to the chapel door.

  Her groom matched her in almost every detail. His tunic was of identical fabric to her gown and was worn over light hose and beautiful leather boots polished so highly they shone almost as much as the golden threads. He was, again, wearing the glittering helmet he had greeted her in yesterday, its heavy shine shading his eyes, but as she approached he swept it from his head and fixed her in an appraising stare. Almost she stumbled and her father had to tighten his hold on her arm.

  ‘You are doing well, Mathilda,’ he whispered and when she looked up she could see his eyes shining with a pride that buoyed her confidence.

  Holding the hem of her gown very carefully, she joined William on the church steps and his uncle Mauger came forward in his rich archbishop’s robes. This was it then. This was her wedding. She should try and take it all in to remember later at some future point of calm but it was happening so fast for already the archbishop, with Norman efficiency, was moving straight to the exchange of vows.

  Mathilda gave her answers as prompted and suddenly Mauger was placing her hand in William’s and lifting them for all to see. Mathilda could feel the sword-calluses of William’s huge hand against her fingers, the archbishop’s sweaty grasp as he forced their hands up so high she was raised onto tiptoe, and the warm gold of the ring William had placed on her finger digging in as he gripped her tight.

  ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife in the Lord’s sight. May God bless you and shine His light upon you.’

  Obligingly a low cloud completed its journey across the sun and they were flooded in light. Mathilda tipped her face towards it, feeling the warmth like a blessing.

  ‘It seems God is not displeased with this union,’ William said, the first words he had spoken directly to her.

  ‘Would it have stopped you if He was?’

  ‘Would it you?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Nor I neither. I will continue to fight for the papal blessing, Mathilda, and I will secure it but I believe we can proceed firm in the belief that this is meant to be. We were designed for each other by the Lord himself.’

  Mathilda thoughts leaped instantly to Lord Brihtric. She had believed God had intended him for her husband for it had felt so very perfect between them, but she had been wrong. She could only hope that this time she had judged correctly. She prayed that her father had burned the letter she had sent to the Saxon suggesting she would welcome his advances, for William, miraculously, seemed to have no knowledge of the incident and she intended to keep it that way.

  ‘We will do much together, Mathilda,’ William was saying. ‘We must go within to pray in a moment but first . . .’

  He looked almost shyly at the crowd, all eyes turned expectantly their way, and suddenly Mathilda realised what was coming. Her heart raced and she planted her feet firmly on the stone step to steady herself as she tipped her face up to her new husband. Their eyes locked in sharp understanding that this, their first kiss, was for show, but even so, when William put a gentle hand on her waist and bent low to press his lips to hers, she felt the touch jolt between them and gave way gratefully to his confidence.

  She was pleased to see a few more women when finally they made it to the great hall for the feast. They were mainly the sisters of William’s core men and they fell over themselves to tell Mathilda how pleased they were to have a duchess in Normandy. There was, Mathilda learned, no formal ladies’ bower in any of William’s key fortresses save at Herleva’s Falaise and in Rouen, and she made many a promise to help ensure one was set up in various castles whose names she knew she would not afterwards remember.

  ‘We should write all this down,’ she found time to say to Cecelia.

  ‘I shall secure some parchment tomorrow, my lady.’

  ‘Good. There is much, it seems, to be done here.’

  But before that, she must greet all the wedding guests, first amongst them a dark, elegant man.

  ‘Raoul d’Amiens, my lady,’ he introduced himself with a graceful bow. ‘I come from the French court to bring you the good wishes of King Henri, Duke William’s overlord and your own dear uncle. And with them this gift.’

  He clicked his fingers and two servants rushed forward carrying a beautiful casket of dark wood, carved all over with leaves and flowers and woodland creatures. The lid was inlaid with pearl and bore, in gold lettering, the words: Mathilda of Normandy. Mathilda heard Adela exclaim in pleasure at this costly gesture from her royal brother, but she was fixed on her new title.

  ‘It looks well, does it not?’ William said at her side then, louder, ‘King Henri does us much honour. He is a gracious and generous overlord and I am honoured to become his nephew.’

  He took Mathilda’s hand, rubbing his thumb proprietarily across the jewelled wedding band.

  ‘Thank you, Lord Raoul,’ Mathilda said and the man smiled at her, his dark eyes twinkling before moving aside to bow to a flushed Adela.

  Mathilda watched him go. He w
as lithe and graceful and something about him drew you. It certainly, Mathilda noted with some amusement, drew Emeline. Her attendant was watching him intently as he conversed with Adela, her head tilted slightly to one side in a way Mathilda knew from long experience meant trouble for the subject of her attentions.

  ‘What about Lord Everard, Em?’ she whispered to her.

  ‘Lord Everard is busy,’ Emeline said, not taking her eyes off Raoul for a moment.

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Guarding.’

  ‘Funny,’ Mathilda said mildly, ‘that never stopped him before.’

  Emeline frowned.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m attendant to a duchess now; I should set my sights higher.’

  Cecelia groaned.

  ‘Raoul d’Amiens is married, Emeline.’

  ‘But for too long and not happily, I hear.’ Clearly Emeline had been busy with her enquiries. ‘The lady is not even here.’

  ‘That does not mean he is free,’ Cecelia said primly but Emeline waved this lightly away.

  ‘Apparently he plans to marry his daughter to Lord Evelin of Mortemer, so perhaps he will be visiting Normandy more in the future. Don’t worry, Cee. Marriages are just for political advantage – most people look elsewhere for fun.’ Mathilda raised her eyebrow at her and had the pleasure of seeing Emeline for once flush in confusion. ‘Some marriages,’ she corrected herself quickly. ‘I’m sure yours, my lady, will be both.’

  Mathilda looked to William, talking earnestly with slender Hugh de Grandmesnil, and wasn’t sure that ‘fun’ was quite the right word but what did that matter? She was a duchess, not a loose-living attendant. Just then William turned as if he had caught her thoughts and in three long strides he was at her side.

  ‘Shall we take our seats, my lady?’ he asked, proffering his arm and adding, in case she was under any illusion that she had a choice, ‘Come.’

  She laid her hand on his and together they moved up to the wooden dais at the top end of the hall. Spotting the move, the court swiftly scrabbled to take their own seats, scrapping for precedence along the side benches.

  ‘Like cats in a barn,’ William moaned, glaring round. ‘Why do they not know their place?’

  ‘This is not battle, my lord. The ladies, in particular, have no clear rank.’

  ‘The ladies!’ William echoed almost wearily and Mathilda felt suddenly nervous that her new husband was not as keen on a civilised court as he’d made out.

  ‘Perhaps we could arrange for placecards,’ she suggested, ‘to tell people where to sit.’

  William looked at her admiringly.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ he said. ‘Do so.’ Mathilda glanced to Cecelia who nodded discreetly; placecards would be first on Mathilda’s list once parchment was found. William took her hand. ‘I am very pleased with you so far, Mathilda,’ he said earnestly.

  Mathilda spluttered her thanks and cast around for something to say in her turn.

  ‘I must thank you, William, for my gift. The dress is truly beautiful.’

  ‘Good. I’m so pleased that it fits.’

  Mathilda resisted looking at Cecelia.

  ‘Perfectly. How did your tailor know my size?’

  William shrugged.

  ‘I told him you were as high as my heart and as wide as my shield.’

  ‘That’s beautiful, William.’

  ‘Is it? Oh. Good. It’s certainly true.’

  ‘And now I can shield you.’

  He looked puzzled.

  ‘I had thought of it more the other way round – that I must shield you.’

  ‘That too,’ Mathilda agreed. ‘It should work both ways, should it not? We are to be a partnership after all.’

  ‘We are,’ he said thoughtfully, then more definitely, ‘we are.’

  ‘What, then, can l shield you from?’

  He thought again and eventually said, ‘Perhaps, Mathilda, you will shield me from myself. I am a rough-edged warrior. If my father had not died I might have had chance to become more . . . polished. But then I might not have had chance to be duke. My father would have married, had other sons. I would have been pushed down the ranks.’

  ‘Left to adventure in Italy?’ Mathilda suggested, suddenly understanding his words yesterday.

  ‘Like the Guiscard, exactly.’

  ‘You would have liked that?’

  ‘Maybe. But we must take the path God chooses for us and this is mine. Being a warrior has kept me in Normandy but it does not, perhaps, enable me to govern her in a civilised way. You will help me do that, Mathilda, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, my lord, in whatever humble fashion I can.’

  William laughed and leaned closer.

  ‘Come, Mathilda, this is you and I now. We are a – what did you say? – a partnership. We need not be falsely modest with each other. I do not think you are any more humble than I am and I like you for it.’

  Mathilda was lost for words. Such frankness was disarming. William was right of course. ‘Humble’ was not a word she could in all honesty associate with herself but to have that spoken aloud was disturbing.

  ‘I shock you, Mathilda?’

  ‘Not shock. I am just not used to people so openly saying what they mean.’

  ‘Surely all else is a waste of time?’

  ‘You are right,’ Mathilda agreed. ‘The truth should be enough but maybe it is just that, at times, a little honey coating is nice.’

  William laughed and Fitz looked over.

  ‘Your wife entertains you, my duke?’

  ‘She would have me coated in honey, Fitz.’

  ‘A glorious idea, Duchess, but would we not, then, stick to him?’

  ‘Do you not already?’

  There was a moment’s pause in which Mathilda feared she had overstepped the decidedly faint mark of manners in this strange Norman court but thankfully Fitz was not one to offend easily and he just laughed again. And now, at last, people were settling, some more contently than others, and the meal could begin.

  It seemed to last forever as course after course was brought out – light fish in buttery sauces, rich rolls of pork stuffed with wild mushrooms, soft-fleshed peacock with sweet onion – until even Count Baldwin, a man who loved his food, pronounced himself ‘as stuffed as a boar at Christ’s mass’. William smiled in satisfaction and waved in one final course – a giant pastry braid, studded with nuts and dripping with honey and elegantly twisted into the joined initials: WM.

  ‘Look,’ William said happily, ‘we are each other’s inverse.’

  The proud chef demonstrated this for all by turning his great confection both ways to show it still read the same.

  ‘That’s so clever,’ Mathilda said, delighted. ‘My compliments, Chef.’ He bowed low as everyone clapped and Mathilda turned to William. ‘And see, my lord, we are honey-coated.’

  William laughed.

  ‘So we are, Mathilda, so we are. Is it time, do you think, for your dancing?’

  He pronounced the word as if it were somehow foreign but already Roger de Beaumont was hurrying lopsidedly to the far end of the hall to usher in a troop of three minstrels he had conjured up from somewhere.

  ‘See,’ Fitz said, ‘La Barbe has it all sorted.’

  ‘La Barbe?’ Mathilda queried but then, looking at Roger pulling at the ends of his fine moustache as he marshalled the musicians, she saw the reasoning for herself. La Barbe – the Beard. It suited him.

  La Barbe glanced awkwardly around, then Mathilda saw Raoul d’Amiens move to join him and understood – the minstrels were French. Perhaps Raoul travelled with them as a matter of course; he seemed the sort of man who might. The Norman court were looking at each other, William’s men with uncertainty, their sisters with delight though, too late, Mathilda realised that without partners versed in the basic steps there might be little to enjoy in the dances.

  ‘You will lead them out, my lord?’ she asked William.

  ‘I will not. I cannot dance.’

&nbs
p; ‘It’s not hard. I could . . .’

  He put up a hand and she bit her lip to silence herself.

  ‘I cannot dance. I have always been a man for the tafel board after dinner, so I have no skill. I will dance, if you wish it, but only once I am competently trained. Let Raoul do it – he’s French. Raoul!’

  The Frenchman turned, bowed and approached. He looked at Mathilda, clearly unsure what William intended, but she shook her head firmly and his eye was thankfully caught by Emeline, bobbing eagerly up and down along the table.

  ‘Would you do me the honour, my lady?’

  She was up like a frog in springtime, taking one of Raoul’s hands with a pretty blush as he waved for more dancers with his other. Adela rose and Count Baldwin, rolling his eyes to William, let himself be led into the space between the tables by his wife. Herleva was next on her feet, led by kind-faced Lord Herluin, the noble husband William’s father had found for her before he went away on his fatal pilgrimage. Roger de Beaumont dragged a protesting Della into the line on Adela’s other side and Odo, in full bishop’s dress, pulled a startled but delighted Judith into place beyond them to complete the scrappy set. Then, with a flourish from Raoul, the dance – if dance it was – began.

  Raoul and Emeline were naturally graceful, Baldwin and Adela more formally so. Mathilda was delighted to see Herleva and Herluin matching them easily but the rest were less smooth. Roger and Della threw themselves into the moves with enthusiasm if not with much style, Roger’s limp giving them a certain sideways skew. Odo had some natural ability and, had he let Judith guide him, would have danced well, but instead he took the lead with a certainty that was admirable if misplaced. The overall effect was chaotic.

  ‘So this is dancing?’ William said curiously to Mathilda.

  ‘This is a form of dancing,’ she corrected him. ‘Try and imagine it with all dancers mirroring each other.’

  ‘Like a tafel board?’

  Mathilda glanced to the symmetrical pieces on the neglected boards at the side of the hall.