‘It was a nasty affair. Men died – though less than might have done. And now the south is subdued. The Bellemes too.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Have you the strength, my sweet, to meet Fulk’s new wife?’
‘Wife?’
‘Odo married them at Domfront the very night it surrendered. Spitting fury, she was, but Odo covered it up with some fancy sermonising and Fulk did not seem to mind.’
‘Mabel de Belleme is here?’
‘Fulk will not let her out of his sight and quite right too. If he can tame her, Mathilda, he will do me a great service.’
‘Must a man tame his wife?’
‘This one must. Fulk! Bring your lovely bride to meet mine, will you?’
Mathilda glanced behind her and was glad to see Emeline and Cecelia at her shoulders as Fulk pushed through the crowd, cheerfully dragging a battling woman as if she were no more than a poppet.
‘Let me go,’ she spat, tugging furiously on her new husband’s huge arms but Fulk did not even flinch as he bowed to Mathilda.
‘My duchess, may I present to you my lady wife, Mabel of Belleme.’
Mabel stopped pulling and drew herself up tall – very tall. Mathilda was glad she was seated for the woman would dwarf her. And she was stunning. Mathilda could see now exactly what held Fulk de Montgomery in her spell. Her hair was dark, her cheekbones high, her eyes oak-brown and narrow as a cat’s. She wore an elegant dark green gown, cut impossibly tight around her slender frame and her fingers, caught in Fulk’s, glittered in the candlelight. Mathilda leaned forward and saw that each nail was set with a diamond, embedded deep into the flesh. Goodness, that must have hurt!
‘Duchess,’ Mabel said coldly, inclining her head the smallest possible amount.
Mathilda felt the insult prickle in her blood and dragged her eyes from the newcomer’s diamond-studded nails.
‘Welcome, Lady Mabel,’ she said, every bit as coldly. ‘You must be glad to be free.’
‘Free?’ Mabel cast a scornful look at Fulk, still clasping her hand.
‘Why, yes. The shackles of marriage are surely lighter than those most rebels must bear?’
Mabel gasped but then gathered herself.
‘I am no rebel, my lady. I am but a woman who must do as she is bid.’
‘Come now. I’m sure you have ways of persuading your new husband?’ Just behind Mabel, Fitz laughed. Mabel jumped and looked around, confused. ‘If you are unsure,’ Mathilda went on, ‘we can perhaps talk further in the bower.’
She laid a hand lightly on her belly to more laughter. Mabel looked furious.
‘Well done, my lady,’ Emeline whispered in Mathilda’s ear and Mathilda gave a small smile.
Some part of her was still trembling in the trees at Alençon but she was a ruler now and she could not allow that part of her to win. Let William battle as he saw fit on the field; she would do so at court. She threw the rug off her knees and rose.
‘Fitz, you look well. Not too fat.’
He chuckled and bowed low.
‘Swollen only with pride in our victory. Not so goodly a bulge as your own, my lady. You look more radiant than ever though no doubt you have been bored without us?’
Mathilda’s eyes slid to Roger de Beaumont.
‘Very bored,’ she agreed. ‘Thank heavens you are returned. You have, I trust, been practising your dancing?’
‘Of course. It is all we have done around the campfires.’
He snatched at Hugh’s hand and together they did a funny little jig, Fitz playing the lady to the slimmer Hugh’s lead, flicking his wild hair as if it were three times the length and kicking up his feet with mock delicacy. This time Mathilda’s smile was genuine. It was not just William who had punished the rebels but all these hard-working Normans. Even ever-smiling Fitz and quiet, gentle Hugh had been a part of it. They did what they had to do and then they got on with life, as must she.
‘You lie, Fitz,’ she said.
‘Dissemble only. Come, you can teach us now.’
But William put up a hand.
‘In a moment. First I need you. Fitz, Fulk, Hugh, Roger – here, please.’
They edged forward, confused.
‘For years,’ William said, his voice rising so that all turned to look, ‘I have been told to rely on my elders for guidance and, recognising the value of experience, I have tried to do so. But this rebellion has taught me that experience is not necessarily a substitute for courage and it is certainly no match for loyalty.’ Mathilda shivered but William was looking at his men with such pleasure that warmth stole back through her. ‘These young men have proved in this campaign that they are the best advisors, supporters and fighters I could possibly have and I wish to honour them with titles that befit their service to me.’
Mathilda saw the men look to each other, embarrassed but pleased, and had to admire William. He was so stridently earnest but so very strong in his belief of what was right.
‘William FitzOsbern, I wish you to take on the office once filled by your dear father – I name you my steward.’
Fitz’s eyes widened even more than usual and he dropped into a stumbling bow, glancing delightedly over to little Adelisa de Tosny who looked suitably impressed. Mathilda remembered William’s tight mention of Fitz’s father that first night in Normandy and her own sense that Fitz had battled to fill his shoes ever since and was glad he now had recognition of that. She determined that the next big occasion would be his wedding.
‘Hugh de Grandmesnil, you are my finest and most diligent horseman and so I wish you to be my cavalry captain.’
Slender Hugh flushed scarlet and beamed around as if he might see his precious warhorses at the back of the crowd, clapping their hooves in approval.
‘Fulk de Montgomery, you have proved yourself brave indeed in subduing the south . . .’ The crowd allowed themselves a small titter as Mabel growled audibly at Fulk’s side ‘ . . . so you will be my high commander.’
‘My lord duke, you are too good . . .’
‘I am not. I reward as befits service. You are all of great value to me and should know it. And lastly, Roger de Beaumont. You have kept my government safe and my wife besides.’ Roger and Mathilda exchanged another nervous glance. ‘I wish you to be my chamberlain.’
‘I, I thank you,’ Roger stuttered, stroking furiously at the ends of his moustache as he blinked back an emotion that would not be approved of in this fiercely martial court.
‘And I you. I will see the appointments ratified in the morning and my dear brother Odo can, I’m sure, devise a suitably grand service to see you all blessed, but for now – let us celebrate!’
The men needed no second urging and the evening passed in banter and teasing and laughter, a blanket of civility to keep the chill of war at bay. Fitz whirled Adelisa de Tosny non-stop around the dance floor and quiet Hugh, flushed with his new title, let a laughing Emeline draw him out alongside them. Even big Fulk seemed boisterously happy, despite Mabel’s scathing repulsion of his attentions and everyone else’s merry teasing. Mathilda, stuck in her seat at William’s side, watched the queen of the rebels uneasily and when Emeline finally paused for a rest, she sought her out.
‘See anyone who catches your eye in this fair company?’
‘I’ve scarce had chance,’ Emeline grumbled. ‘I made the mistake of asking Hugh de Grandmesnil what is better, a mare or a gelding, and he hasn’t shut up since. He is very passionate about his subject. It’s sweet but, heavens, he does go on, even when dancing! Did you know it was the Romans who first crossed our native ponies with larger mares to make these fine creatures we ride now?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither. Am I the richer for that knowledge? No. Have I lost half the night to it? Yes!’
‘Well praise be, then, that there is still the other half left. Do you see that man there – is he not handsome?’
Mathilda pointed to a long-limbed young man who she’d seen following Mabel around as if chained to her.
&nb
sp; ‘He is handsome enough,’ Emeline allowed. ‘Why him?’
Mathilda smiled at her.
‘I thought you were lonely, Em, now that Raoul D’Amiens has resisted you?’
‘I am often lonely, my lady, but you have never before seen fit to solve the problem for me.’
‘He seems athletic, does he not?’
‘Perhaps. Who is he?’
‘Bertrand de Belleme.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. You think he has secrets in his bed?’
‘It would not hurt to find out . . .’
Emeline licked her lips.
‘It would, I think, annoy your new friend Mabel.’
‘Shame.’
Emeline grinned and with a swish of her hair, moved purposefully into the crowd. Poor Bertrand would not know what had hit him and Mathilda watched, intrigued, as Emeline sidled round behind the young Belleme lord and then, with a little gasp, seemed to catch her toe in a floorboard and fall. Bertrand’s arms shot out and he caught her and, just like that, she’d caught him.
‘Your attendant is incorrigible.’
‘William! You made me jump.’
‘I’m sorry but really, Mathilda, is it seemly for her to parade herself that way?’
Mathilda swallowed.
‘She’s French.’
‘But she’s part of your household so it reflects poorly on you, does it not?’
‘I’m sorry, my lord.’
‘William. I am not a tyrant, Mathilda.’
‘Of course not. I did not think it.’ The room felt crowded suddenly, though not too crowded to miss Emeline fluttering her eyelashes up at a helpless Bertrand. ‘It’s my fault. I just thought . . .’
‘Thought what, Mathilda? You can tell me. You can tell me anything.’
Mathilda hung her head.
‘I thought it might be helpful to have someone who is close to me, close to them.’
William bent down slowly, so slowly, until his face was level with hers. He looked deep into her eyes and she forced herself to hold his gaze, though her knees quivered with the effort. She saw the silver in his pupils glow like moonlight and then, without warning, he kissed her hard on her lips right there, in front of everyone.
‘We are so alike, you and I,’ he said huskily as he drew back. ‘So very alike.’
‘We are?’
Mathilda’s mind raced; he was wrong, she knew he was. How could she be anything like this tar-black husband of hers? But then, she told herself sternly, she need not be like him for this marriage to work. She need only be his inverse, like the pastry letters of their wedding feast. And she need not love him either, only accept him for what he was – a ruler who would make Normandy great. And maybe England besides. She could only pray William was right about King Edward’s favour, for if the people of Normandy knew their duke would one day be a king they would stand behind him with all the loyalty he so craved and there would be no further horror.
‘Shall we to bed, William?’ she murmured.
She was rewarded by a broad smile and a hand that clasped her with utmost certainty. Enough certainty, surely, for them both. Alençon was behind them and they must shake off its bitter clutches and move forward together.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The North Sea, October 1051
‘Oh, sit down, Wife, and stop snivelling. At least now you get to see your precious father again.’
‘Brother.’
‘Sorry?’
Judith glared at Torr.
‘Count Baldwin is my brother.’
‘Oh yes, of course. You’re the misfit. Well, we’re all misfits now, my sweet – all caught on the wrong tide. Now do sit down.’
Judith retreated to the far side of the boat, staggering as the waves tossed her sideways and catching her already bruised legs on the sodden rower’s benches. This had looked a beautiful ship on land but out here on the open waves its luxurious trims and fancy figureheads were little use. The skies over the North Sea were black and the mood in the boat even blacker.
Torr’s mother, Gytha, sat in the stern, her arms around her pretty daughters whilst his brother, Garth, restless at twenty-one, was taking a turn on the oars as the men battled to steady the craft against the vicious waves. Torr himself stood at the prow bickering with his older brother Harold, the grim mist clinging to their hair, Harold’s the blonde of corn, Torr’s the warmer colour of ripe hazelnuts, but both now dark with the pervading damp. Earl Godwin himself stood dead centre, arm around the mast, face frozen, and all his glittering gold hidden beneath a plain, dark cloak.
Why had Mathilda said he wore all that gold? ‘So he has it with him if he needs to flee.’ That had been back at Judith’s nuptials just a few short months ago when all had seemed golden and she’d thought her cousin was making trouble to spoil her big day for no other reason than because she could. Judith had compared Mathilda’s dour Norman husband to her own sparkling English one and believed she might be jealous but, oh no, Mathilda had just been right. Mathilda was always right.
Even before Judith had sailed into Dover with her new family, the Norman faction at court had successfully fed the king’s antipathy to his longest-serving earl to such an extent they had landed to riots. The Godwinsons had fought back, rallying support all over the south but finally, under threat of civil war, the people had crumbled and allowed the family to be exiled. All Judith had seen of England had been the inside of the fortified hall at Dover before, with the first winds of autumn, she’d found herself forced to leave a country into which she had not travelled more than a hundred steps.
Now the chalk cliffs of Dover were fading into a low mist and they were adrift on a growling sea, returning to Count Baldwin with the bitter aftertaste of failure cutting through the sweetness of her marriage. It had all gone so wrong. Even her wedding night, despite all Torr’s extravagant promises, had been a disappointment – a perfunctory, fumbling affair whose only real virtue had been its speed.
Torr, to be fair, had apologised in the morning pleading too much mead and excitement, and had tried again but that time too Judith had been left with a depressing sense of let-down. From all those years of Emeline’s breathless tales and insinuations she’d expected more. Maybe she was doing something wrong; or maybe Torr was? Not that she’d ever dare suggest as much. Torr’s sexual prowess seemed to be, as well as his main topic of conversation, his primary source of personal pride and she could not take that from him.
He had been kind enough at first. On the boat towards England – an altogether different journey from this one, sunny and full of song and laughter – he had repeatedly told her he wanted her to be happy. The king regarded him very highly, he’d insisted, and the queen, his sister, would be certain to see him promoted. She would have halls, he’d promised, and bowers and chambers. She would have a kitchen full of all the best equipment and the finest chefs and a stable packed with beautiful horses. She would have looms and embroideries and music.
‘Will I be able to paint?’ she’d asked.
‘Paint?’ He’d squinted at her. ‘Like the monks do? Don’t see why not, if that’s what you’d like. Paint? Really?’
He’d still looked puzzled but he hadn’t objected and to Judith that was all that mattered. She’d so looked forward to having her own household and being free to do as she wished once they reached England but now it seemed she was heading back into Baldwin’s choking control.
‘Is it a good idea to return to Flanders?’ she dared to ask. ‘Perhaps . . .’
Torr’s hand caught her chin, so hard her words felt as if they were being forced back down her throat.
‘Of course it’s a good idea – why do you think I married you?’ She gasped and he sent his olive eyes skyward before, with exaggerated patience, releasing her chin and kissing her. ‘Just sit down and stop snivelling. Set your back to England, sweet one, for she has set her back to us.’
Judith twisted away and hunkered miserably down into her sealskin sleeping sack, looking neithe
r back to England’s lost cliffs, nor forward to her childhood shores. No doubt even now Mathilda was nursing an invitation to the English court. It would be Mathilda, not Judith, who rode into Westminster; Mathilda who was fed at King Edward’s table and taken out around precious Wessex; Mathilda who was introduced to all the fine ladies; and Mathilda who would be promised a future in England. Normal order, it seemed, was restored and Judith felt a fool for ever believing it could be otherwise.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Westminster, Christ’s Mass 1051
London glowed beneath the low midwinter sun and Mathilda drew rein to take it all in as the guards approached the huge bridge over the great Thames River. She could hardly believe they were actually here. The long-awaited letter had arrived just a few weeks after the terrible news of Judith’s exile, offering King Edward’s warmest greetings and a cordial invitation to spend Yule in England with ‘your cousin who has ever esteemed you greatly’. William had gone into a flurry of preparations and Mathilda, thankful for the distraction after the still-lingering horrors of Alençon, had followed his lead. The sail across the Narrow Sea, William’s first time in a boat, had been a nervous one, but the grey waters had been thankfully calm and now here they were, approaching Edward’s palace at last.
The city of London was vast – at least three times the size of Rouen. The soft wooden houses seemed to sprawl in every direction, some even being built on the marshier south side of the river as people clamoured to be a part of the capital. Boats of all sizes moved up and down the Thames, loading and unloading goods from all the markets of the world, and the cries of sellers and crews filled the frost-bright air. Mathilda had heard much of England’s riches but to see them before her was something else.
And you might be her queen.
She bundled the thought nervously aside and glanced at William. He, like her, was stiff with anticipation. They had dressed for the occasion in their costly wedding clothes for William had been determined they should look ‘throne-worthy’. Even their precious horses were apparelled in state, William’s stallion, Caesar, in scarlet and gold, and her own, Mercure, a beautiful bay gelding Hugh de Grandmesnil had chosen for her, elegant in silver. They had paused at a place called Southwark to don their finery and one of William’s men had produced a pot of molten silver and painted it on Mercure’s dainty hooves so that Mathilda almost felt as if she were riding a unicorn.
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