The Conqueror's Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  ‘That’s true, but . . .’

  ‘But nothing, Brother. Earl Godwin has been the senior earl in England since King Cnut’s day, you told me that yourself. He is the court of England.’

  ‘Yet here he is scrabbling for a match with Count Baldwin’s sister,’ Mathilda said.

  ‘Oh, and that is so poor a deal, is it? Am I so paltry a prize compared to you, Mathilda, that it must mean he is desperate?’

  ‘No. Oh, Judith, no.’

  Mathilda tried to take her arm but Judith yanked away with more strength than she’d known she had.

  ‘I am honoured, Duchess, by your presence here for my nuptials to Torr Godwinson but if you wish to stay for the ceremony please do so to support me, not to oppose me.’

  ‘Oh, Judith, I do not oppose you. I just seek the best for you.’

  ‘And Torr Godwinson is it. How can we judge English politics on the say-so of some archbishop we have never met before? It’s ridiculous, Mathilda. You are just bored or lonely, or, or jealous that I am marrying into England, not you.’

  Mathilda gasped and Judith saw tears spring to her eyes and felt a sharp stab of guilt but Mathilda couldn’t do this to her. She’d had such a lovely few days. She’d felt so happy, so wanted. They couldn’t take that away on some whim.

  ‘Please, Brother,’ she said to Baldwin, ‘don’t stop the wedding.’

  Count Baldwin gave a deep sigh.

  ‘She speaks some sense,’ he said to Mathilda.

  Mathilda put up her hands.

  ‘She does. And I’m sorry, Judi, but tell me something – why are all the Godwinsons not here? Why is Earl Harold not with his brother for this happy occasion? And why not their sister, Queen Aldyth, or indeed her husband, the king?’

  ‘They are busy people.’

  ‘Too busy to spare a week for the first earl of England’s son? Too busy for a visit that could heal the diplomatic breaches between our countries in one go – if that is what they want?’

  ‘Why does it have to be about what they want? What about why I want, Maud?’

  ‘It is, in a way. You know I only seek . . .’

  ‘The best for me? Yes, I know, so come out of this dark room and into my wedding celebrations.’

  And with that, Judith turned on her heel and made for the door before they could drag her down further. To her gratification Torr came rushing over.

  ‘Judith, there you are. I missed you.’

  ‘You did? Well, in two days’ time you need never miss me again. Tell me more of this bed we will order.’

  He was all too happy to do so, and as Godwin and Gytha and the younger of their children crowded round as well, Judith basked in their attention. If there was even a grain of truth in these ravings from the archbishop then this family, her new family, would sort it out. Mathilda was just jealous because she, Judith, was on her way to England. Well, tough. Mathilda had chosen Normandy and now she would just have to put up with it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Rouen, September 1051

  Mathilda paced the great hall of the pretty Tour de Rouen, half-chasing a stray leaf across the floorboards as a group of petitioners were ushered out of the morning’s hearing. She was weary and out of sorts and even the golden pastries being laid out on the side table for her midday meal could not cheer her up. She had come home from Bruges to find William about to ride out to put down a rebellion in the south and had found herself left behind in the care of La Barbe.

  ‘Why can he not be in my care?’ she’d demanded, but William had just laughed and said Normandy would not tolerate a female regent. He was sure she could keep the chamberlain in line, he’d said, riled, she had determined to assert herself in ruling but it had not proved as satisfying as she had hoped.

  The rebels were being led by the Bellemes, primary amongst them Fulk’s precious poisoner Mabel, and William was apparently laying siege to her border towns of Alençon and Domfront. William had put Fulk in charge at Alençon and for a while Mathilda and Emeline had been diverted by the idea of wooing by the sword, but the fun of it had soon paled. A siege, it seemed, took forever and the summer had been lonely and arduous – a bitter contrast to her first weeks in Normandy.

  When she had ridden into Rouen a week after her wedding it had been to cheers and joy and a palace filling up with nobles keen to join the reinvigorated court. Women, in particular, had seemed to be coming out of holes in Normandy’s fertile ground, blinking in the light of day and giddy with the novelty of life in the open. Fitz had keenly introduced her to a dark-skinned girl with huge brown eyes called Adelisa de Tosny and she had hoped to plan her first Norman wedding, but once the rebels had struck all such activities had ceased as if fun, too, were under siege.

  It was all so wearisome and for the first time in her life, Mathilda was struggling to sleep. To her surprise she missed William’s attentions in their bed at night and his warm form against her own in the mornings. Despite being bone-tired, she could not make it through a night without waking at least twice and she had lost her appetite for all but the strangest foods. All the signs suggested that she was with child but she did not know if it was that making her feel so poor, or the grind of life in an empty court.

  ‘You should send word to the duke of his impending heir,’ Cecelia told Mathilda every day but Mathilda didn’t want to ‘send word’ to William, she wanted to tell him herself. She wanted to see his eyes light up at the news and fill with pride in her, and she wanted to hear him tell her, in that funny, stiff way of his, that he was ‘pleased with her’. She put off sending messengers in the hope the siege would be won and William would return but every day the horizon remained as resolutely empty as the last.

  The leaf caught a breeze coming in through the high window opening and whirled itself to safety behind a side table. Obscurely frustrated, Mathilda paced back to La Barbe, organising witness statements on the dais.

  ‘Did you want to go to war, Roger?’ she demanded.

  ‘Me?’ La Barbe stroked at the upturned ends of his moustache. ‘Not really. My leg hampers me.’

  ‘A battle wound?’

  ‘Nothing so glamorous. I was simply born with one shorter than the other. Some default in my hip. It aches at times but it would not stop me fighting if I wished. The truth is, Mathilda, that I am quite happy here. I can hold my own on a battlefield but I’m not a natural killer. I haven’t the stomach for it, have I, Della?’

  His bumptious wife, helping stack the stiff parchments, shook her head fondly.

  ‘Useless with blood he is. He had to carry little Robbie all the way back from the woods with his eyes closed when the poor lad cut open his thigh on a snare once.’

  ‘That was different,’ Roger protested. ‘Robbie is my son so his wounds are like my own. I can cope with enemy blood.’

  ‘But what about the time . . .’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re here,’ Mathilda leaped in, before the argument could progress. ‘Now, come, what news from camp today?’

  She didn’t really want to know, for it seemed as if all news from the southern front was bad. Roger kept insisting that the troops had ‘settled into’ the sieges, William at Domfront and Fulk in Alençon, but it sounded horribly unsettled to Mathilda with regular reports of raids and sorties and ambushes. This morning’s messenger had brought an almost gleeful tale of how William himself had been trapped with no more than twenty men and had only escaped by means of a daring ride down a steep bank.

  ‘It could have killed him!’ Mathilda exclaimed, horrified.

  ‘But it didn’t,’ Roger said. ‘William is lucky.’

  ‘William is skilful,’ Mathilda corrected loyally, adding, ‘Has he always been this way?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. It depends if you think inheriting a dukedom at seven is lucky.’

  ‘It must have been very hard for him.’

  ‘It was very hard for everyone. He lost three guardians in the first year.’

  ‘Lost?’

&nb
sp; ‘They were killed, my lady.’

  ‘Fitz’s father amongst them?’

  ‘No, he was later. Much later.’ La Barbe’s brow darkened and suddenly he said, ‘William has not spoken to you of this?’

  ‘There has not been time.’

  ‘Maybe not, but there will be. You should ask him about Lord Osbern, my lady.’

  ‘He is not here to ask!’ she cried in frustration, whirling away again but not before she’d spotted the look that passed between husband and wife – the sort of look she used to see her parents exchange when she was being difficult as a child. She sighed.

  ‘You should go to the Lady Herleva at Falaise,’ Roger said kindly. ‘It is much closer to both Domfront and Alençon and the duke may well go there once victory is secured.’

  Mathilda considered. There was sense in the idea and, besides, she liked Herleva and imagined her home as a place of peace and contentment – both things she sorely needed at present.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Good. I will accompany you myself.’

  Mathilda looked closely at him.

  ‘You’re bored too!’

  He laughed.

  ‘A little restless maybe and we all want news. Once I see you safe with the lovely Herleva I might take a ride over to Domfront to see how the siege progresses.’

  ‘You might?’ Mathilda’s mind started racing. ‘Is it far, Roger?’

  ‘A day’s ride.’

  ‘I see. Is it dangerous?’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Oh no, Mathilda. Oh no, no, no – you are not coming.’

  ‘It’s a siege, yes, so the enemy are shut inside their castle?’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’

  ‘And our men are camped outside?’

  ‘It’s not quite like that, Mathilda.’

  ‘I think it’s exactly like that. My father talked of warfare to me, Roger; I am no innocent. William will be as bored there as we are here. He would welcome a visit from his duchess, especially if she brings news.’

  She placed a hand on her belly and Della rushed to her.

  ‘It’s true then? I was sure I’d seen the signs. I said to Roger just last week, did I not, Roger?’

  Roger rose too, smiling.

  ‘You did, you did. This is joyous news indeed, Duchess.’

  ‘And how much more so for the duke?’

  ‘Indeed. I will tell him myself.’

  ‘No, Roger, I will tell him myself.’

  Now though, La Barbe put his foot down.

  ‘No, Mathilda. I’m sorry but I cannot permit you to ride into danger in your condition.’

  Mathilda howled in frustration.

  ‘But there’s no danger!’

  ‘That’s not true. You’ve heard the tales of ambushes and warrior bands on the loose. I cannot let you ride out into such territory – you must see that.’

  Mathilda ground her teeth. She did see, but it was so infuriating.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said eventually, ‘by the time we get into the south William will have won anyway.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Roger allowed but neither of them really believed it for this siege seemed interminable.

  Just two days later, however, as their party made camp on the road from Rouen to Falaise, they were met by messengers.

  ‘Great news, my lord. William routed the last of the rebel bands on the loose so ’tis only the Bellemes lasting out now.’

  ‘Which they won’t do for long,’ Roger laughed. ‘They are probably already killing each other holed up in Domfront for so long.’

  ‘So it’s over,’ Mathilda said, joining him as the astonished messengers sank to their knees before her.

  ‘Not over,’ Roger said.

  ‘But safe.’

  ‘No, Mathilda.’

  ‘You said I couldn’t ride to Domfront because of the threat of rebel bands and now that threat is gone.’

  ‘True, but . . .’

  Mathilda saw Roger look desperately around for help and felt a little sorry for him – but only a little.

  ‘God saw us coming,’ she told him confidently. ‘He wishes me to have free passage to William so I can bear him my news and lift him to finish off the rebellion.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so. Which way is Domfront?’

  She squinted up the road. Just ahead was a crossroads. The nearest path led west to Falaise but the others must go south – to William.

  ‘That way,’ Roger said wearily, indicating the right one of the two lower roads, but Mathilda caught the messengers exchanging looks and ordered them to rise.

  ‘Is William still there?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but he may not be. Domfront is a formidable fortress and there is little action before its walls. The duke was talking, now that the countryside is clearer, of a strike on the more vulnerable Alençon.’

  ‘Alençon? That is further within the duchy, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘So safer for me then?’

  The messengers looked helplessly to Roger, who shrugged.

  ‘The lady is determined to see her husband.’

  ‘I am,’ Mathilda agreed.

  ‘Then you should take the road to Alençon.’

  ‘That one?’ Mathilda pointed down the left-hand path.

  ‘That one, my lady.’

  ‘Good.’ Mathilda clapped her hands together, relieved at last to be doing something purposeful. ‘We ride at dawn.’

  The sun rose clear and bright over their party as they headed south the next day, casting a cheerful light over the ripe corn in the fields, and Mathilda felt a warm pleasure in her new duchy as she rode through it. Her sickness was gone and her belly was swelling. It was just a little so far but she could feel it and she knew that when William put his strong hands around her waist he would feel it too. He would be so delighted. She urged her horse forward, willing the others to lift their pace to match.

  There were many folk in the fields taking advantage of the sunshine to bring in the harvest. At first, hearing the horses, they would hide, but once word was whispered around that this was not a war band but their very own duchess, they came rushing to the roadside, calling out blessings. Mathilda begged pennies from Roger and distributed them where she could. In return the peasants pressed bread and butter and soft, rich cheeses upon them and they feasted on this simple fare beneath the trees as the sun curved low across the blue sky.

  ‘How far now?’ Mathilda asked Roger, who was pacing the road as they ate.

  ‘Not far. I have sent scouts. We will await their report.’

  ‘Wait? But I want . . .’

  ‘Wait, my lady, please.’

  He looked nervous and Mathilda tried to understand. This was rebellious territory and however pleased the peasants were to see her, a Belleme band would not be so welcoming.

  ‘We’re so close,’ she moaned to Emeline and Cecelia.

  ‘And so hot,’ Emeline moaned back. ‘I hear Herleva’s residence at Falaise is beautiful. There is a river running right through the estate with willows dipping into the water and marble seating within their shade.’

  Both her ladies sighed and Mathilda shushed them crossly.

  ‘Time enough to cool ourselves once we have seen William and his men.’

  Emeline perked up visibly at the mention of men. She’d been moping around empty Rouen every bit as miserably as Mathilda, for Raoul d’Amiens had dared to resist her advances. He had successfully married his daughter to Lord Evelin of Mortemer, in northern Normandy, but then fled back to France. He was, it seemed, so in love with someone at the French court (not, to Cecelia’s disappointment, his wife) that he could not bring himself to even dally with any other.

  ‘Not so much as a kiss,’ Emeline had wailed. ‘Am I getting old, Cee, is that it? Am I losing my charms?’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ Cecelia had said and then relented, throwing her arms around her friend and covering her pretty face in
kisses. ‘Is it not admirable of him, though, Em, to save himself for this lady if he truly cares so much for her?’

  ‘Amazingly admirable,’ Emeline had agreed faintly. ‘He is quite the most gorgeous man I have ever met.’

  She’d been sighing after him ever since but now, at the whiff of soldiers, she seemed at least a little revived.

  ‘I bet they’ve all been horribly lonely stuck out here with only each other for company. Will we stay the night, do you think?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ Mathilda said. ‘We can hardly ride back in the dark, can we?’

  ‘No,’ Emeline agreed gleefully. ‘And the longer we wait here, the more likely that is. I might just have a little sleep to refresh myself.’

  She drew her cloak around her and settled back but barely a soft snore later the scouts returned. The way was clear, they reported, and William was just riding into camp.

  ‘Did you tell him we were coming?’ Mathilda asked anxiously.

  ‘No, my lady. Sorry, my lady.’

  ‘Don’t be. I wish to surprise him. Roger, shall we go?’

  ‘We shall,’ he agreed, though he still looked nervous.

  ‘Fret not,’ Mathilda said, patting his arm. ‘William will reward you well for this happy day.’

  ‘I pray so, my lady, but we must still be cautious.’

  And they were. Scouts rode ahead all the time and they stopped endlessly to await their return. The journey took twice as long as it should have and Mathilda’s hands twitched on her horse’s reins, so desperate was she to kick him into a gallop. But at last they came out of a shady route through a low forest and saw Alençon before them. The town sat on a slight rise on the far side of a gentle river which was diverted around it to create a substantial moat. On the near side of the water a huge gate guarded the single bridge, sending long shadows towards them in the dipping light. The Norman camp was strung out across the plain a mere thirty paces from Mathilda’s little group in the edge of the trees.

  ‘Where’s William?’ she asked, eagerly scanning the men.

  Her husband was easy to find, not because he was taller or grander than anyone else but because the whole camp seemed to revolve around its newly arrived leader. He looked well, his face weather-tanned and his hair a little longer than at their wedding, and Mathilda felt a stirring of desire. Her powerful husband might not write her poetry but he did, at least, make her pulse race. She clicked her horse forward but Roger grabbed her bridle.