‘Beautiful,’ William had pronounced. ‘Definitely fit for a . . .’
But she’d shushed him even as he’d silenced himself and they’d exchanged a look full of excitement and awe and fear – fear that this would come to naught, that they might be making fools of themselves by daring to believe it at all. Preparations for this great visit had brought them closer and they had lain in their bed together in the cold weeks leading up to Yule, huddled beneath furs whispering the words ‘king’ and ‘queen’ on candlelit breath until they almost hung there in a little cloud above them. It had not been the giddy connection of love but had felt every bit as potent and Mathilda was unendingly glad to be here at his side now.
‘Shall we go?’ William said, sitting high in his saddle.
Mathilda nodded and lifted her chin to raise her little form as tall as it might go as William’s select band of men, led by Fulk, Hugh and Fitz, fell into step behind them. Fitz had married his Adelisa just a few weeks earlier and insisted on bringing her and she was alongside Mathilda now, eyes wide as she took in the great crowds lining the packed-earth streets. Mathilda knew how she felt and had to stop herself gawping too as they crossed the huge bridge and turned east along the far bank towards the West Minster.
The church stood tall and grand on the horizon, though to Mathilda’s great surprise it was made of wood and as they grew closer she could see that both the church and the royal palace, sat at its side on a pretty island carved out by two tributaries of the Thames, looked worn, almost splintered. Both were shabby in comparison to the dainty elegance of Bruges or the soaring splendour of Rouen but they stood proudly all the same. Perhaps it was because they had been there so long in comparison to the buildings in the far younger Normandy or Flanders. The Saxon kings could trace their line back to Roman times, even beyond. These people’s roots were so far into the ground that no one, surely, could dig them away. And Mathilda might be a part of that.
Might, she reminded herself sternly – the next few days would tell.
The crowds thickened as they approached Thorney Island and they had to slow to a walk to cross a much smaller bridge into the royal compound. There was a flurry of fanfares and Mathilda kept her horse tight at William’s side. She tried to keep her eyes forward but then noticed that the nobles were gathered in front of the hall and decided sideways was better, just in case Lord Brihtric were here. She prayed desperately that he had made his excuses, for seeing her onetime beau would be agony now.
‘Where’s Edward?’ William whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Mathilda cast around but could not see the king anywhere and then suddenly, to her left, there was a commotion. A serving boy darted from a building and all but ran under one of the Norman horses ahead of William and Mathilda. It reared and a woman screamed. Mathilda felt a bolt of panic as Mercure shied back but the next moment one of William’s guards had somehow reached down and scooped the helpless woman onto his own horse out of danger.
‘Did you see that?’ William asked. ‘That guard – Heriot d’Argences I think it is – did you see how effortlessly he lifted that girl? That’s how I wanted it to be with you in Bruges, Mathilda.’
She reached out a hand to touch his leg.
‘It was something like.’
‘It was nothing like. He was so smooth, so elegant, and look how the girl is staring up at him as if he were a god. I should have done that.’
His brow creased and his eyes grew grey and Mathilda squeezed his leg tighter, forcing him to look at her.
‘He was not seizing a count’s daughter, William. All eyes were not upon him as they were on you.’
‘All the more reason why I should have got it right.’
‘But you did, truly. It convinced me to marry you, did it not?’
‘You were unsure before?’
She drew in a breath.
‘I was not entirely sure about marrying a duke, William, no, but our time on your horse, short as it was, showed me the man and him I was sure of. I still am.’
He put his hand over hers.
‘Thank you, my Mora. And I might not, you know, remain a mere duke.’
His eyes lit up a little, the grey turning back to the silver of Mercure’s hooves as the commotion settled.
‘We cannot live as normal men, William,’ Mathilda said to him. ‘We must lead our lives as much for others as for ourselves.’
He looked around the excited crowd and nodded.
‘That is true, Wife, and it is why I am grateful to have found you. With each other, at least, there need be no performance, no secrets. That is of great value to me.’
‘And me,’ Mathilda agreed faintly, trying not to look into the group of Saxon nobles ahead of them.
Please God Brihtric had had the sense to stay away. She dared a quick look, just to prepare herself, but the crowds were too thick to see anyone clearly and at last, in another run of trumpet notes, a man was stepping out of the great hall and all eyes were turning his way. It had to be King Edward for he wore a rich crown and all men dipped to their knees at his arrival. Yet, but for that, Mathilda would not have known him for a monarch.
He was thin with wispy grey-white hair and a lined, almost drooping face. He wore a sombre robe of coarse wool almost as long as a monk’s and, even with frost thick on the ground, simple sandals. Yet, like the minster behind him, he stood proudly and his hand, when he raised it for silence, was assured and certain of obedience.
‘Welcome William, Duke of the Normans – Cousin. You honour my court with your presence.’
‘And you mine with your kind invitation, Sire.’
William dropped from his horse and knelt before Edward, who raised him instantly and clapped him on the back with surprising strength.
‘Good to see you again, William. It has been too long. And with such a lovely wife too! Duchess Mathilda, welcome.’
Mathilda put her hand in Fitz’s as he rushed to lift her down, though she would willingly have stayed in the saddle. On Mercure she felt tall and commanding, but on foot she was all too aware of her lack of height. She was used to William standing head and shoulders over her but King Edward, though slim, was taller yet and his narrow eyes were fixed upon her as she curtseyed. Her gown was cut to disguise her thickening waist and her bump was neat yet but she could swear he saw it immediately. Well, let him, she thought defiantly. Edward wanted an heir and in William he would find two – one for now and one to follow, and all thanks to her.
‘I thank you, Sire, for your gracious invitation.’
‘And I you, Duchess, for accepting it. We will get on very well I am sure.’
Mathilda prayed that was true. He did not, at least, seem angry. Perhaps his years on the throne had dulled his pain – though not, she hoped, his memory of the young duke who had sent him to claim it. They had five days in England, five days to make her their own. They could not fail in this, not now they were so close, and Mathilda went into Westminster’s hall with her heart feeling as frail as the palace’s proudly rotting walls.
Two days later and she was no more confident. Edward was all courtesy. He fed them the finest dishes, housed them in the most luxurious rooms, and was an attentive host. He spoke at length of his time in Normandy, of his plans for a stone church based on the beautiful one at Jumièges, and of his desire to set up ‘neighbourly relations’, but he did not speak of the throne. Instead, they all trod on the thin ice of pretence and Christ’s mass was rung in on creaky but glorious bells with William and Mathilda still unsure of their place in England’s lively celebrations.
It was a wonderful day all the same. Snow had fallen at first light, coating all the buildings in the royal compound and covering their rotting edges in soft, crystalline white. They’d gone out to the Yule market where children had been playing in the snow and adults picking their way happily through it seeking gifts for their loved ones. William had bought Mathilda a beautiful pendant in an intricate Celtic design with a ruby at its centre an
d she wore it proudly to church that night. The psalms, sung by a myriad plain-clad monks, were beautiful and although the church was old, the shining altar treasures and the array of bishops in ceremonial robes gave it an aura of grandeur. Flanders had only three bishops, Normandy six, but the Saxons had fifteen and they looked like a painting of heaven itself grouped around the altar.
‘Judith would have loved this,’ Mathilda thought sadly as the communion was prepared.
Her thoughts had flown often to her cousin, whose poor feet, it seemed, had barely touched Saxon soil before being kicked off it again. Deep in her heart, Mathilda wasn’t certain that she and William deserved to stand in Judith’s place but, then, however unchristian it might sound, what people ‘deserved’ was rarely of much consequence. You had to go out and take what God was offering and that was exactly what she and William were doing.
She closed her eyes as the ‘Te Deum’ soared up to the creaking rafters of the old minster. Lord Brihtric was here. He had not, thank the Lord, asked to be introduced but kept in the rear of the turning court, yet she was as aware of him as if he were right at her side. Someone, surely, in this gossipy gathering would tell William of her entanglement with this handsome lord? Or at least tell someone who would tell William. His network was too efficient to miss it and what then? She heard his voice bouncing off the walls of Alençon and into her heart: ‘Loyalty is steadfast. It chooses its allegiance and holds to it and does not sway on the lightest of breezes.’
She reminded herself that she had not known William when she danced with Brihtric but it was small comfort. He wanted them to have no secrets. She’d said she wanted that too but it wasn’t true and Brihtric’s presence at this Yule court felt almost like a treason to her husband. Luckily, though, William had only thrones on his mind.
‘The king is teasing us,’ he grumbled to Mathilda when dinner was finally concluded and a huge group of minstrels struck up a lively tune. ‘There will be no parley tonight. Look – he is half-asleep.’
It was true. Edward was dozing on his throne. At forty-six, he wasn’t an old man but he looked weary, certainly too weary to make an heir of his own even if he’d had his Godwinson queen in his bed. An inheritance might not be that many years coming – if it were offered.
William leaped up impatiently, making Edward jerk awake, wiping a line of drool from his thin mouth.
‘I’m for bed,’ William said.
‘But my lord duke, the evening is just beginning.’
The king gestured vaguely down the hall where trestle tables were being cleared away to open up a dance floor all the way to the great doors. William did not even look.
‘Not for me. Mathilda!’
He held out his arm with such determination that she had no choice but to rise and take it. She cast a longing look around the hall as the dance began. Fitz had his new wife tight in his arms and the guard, Heriot, was dancing with the girl he had rescued on their arrival. Even Hugh had taken to the floor, partnering Cecelia, though his eyes, she noted, were all for Emeline, sparkling in the arms of a lively looking young Saxon.
‘My wife is tired,’ William was telling Edward. ‘She is, as you know, with child and I must care for her and my future heir.’
It was a heavy-handed hint but Edward just smiled and nodded absent agreement.
‘Quite right, quite right. I shall retire myself soon – leave the revelry to the youngsters, hey?’
Mathilda bristled. She was twenty, William only twenty-three. She looked to her husband but if he was riled by this too, he gave no sign.
‘I hope, Sire, that we can talk again tomorrow.’
‘I hope so too, William, though tomorrow we hunt.’
‘Hunt?’ Despite himself William’s eyes lit up.
‘Of course. We always hunt the day after Christ’s mass – clears heads and replenishes store cupboards. You will join us?’
‘I will.’
‘Good, good, and after that we can talk. Sharpen your spear, Duke, and you should bag a goodly prize. Good night.’
William and Mathilda left the hall as they were becoming accustomed, by sneaking out of the side door. It had started snowing again and the earlier scuffle of courtly footprints was covered so that their own treads were the only ones in evidence as they picked their way towards the cluster of wooden sleeping huts on the far side. They had been honoured with separate bowers as a mark of their status but, as was their custom, had spent every night so far together in Mathilda’s. She headed that way now.
‘A goodly prize,’ William kept repeating. ‘Did you hear that, Mathilda? A goodly prize. What does he mean by that, do you think?’
‘I think,’ Mathilda said carefully, ‘that this king does not like to truly mean anything. He much prefers obscurities.’
‘He does, he bloody does. Do we even want his promise if it is so begrudged?’
He looked at her, serious for a second, and then they both burst out laughing, a pure, blissful release. Mathilda clung to William and together they shook with mirth at the peculiar, almost ridiculous nature of their situation. William sobered first.
‘I think, my Mora, that I will be of no use to you tonight. I will not sleep with all of this in my head and I will only disturb your rest.’
‘I mind not.’
‘That’s kind but your health is precious, you know, especially with the babe, and besides I would like a little time to consider where I have come from.’
Mathilda looked at him, surprised. It was a curiously thoughtful suggestion for a man usually so eager to avoid introspection.
‘You could tell me,’ she suggested. ‘I would like you to, William. I would like to know of your past and I could, could . . .’
‘Could what, Mathilda?’ he demanded, though gently. ‘Could you change it?’
She blew out her breath in an icy cloud.
‘Not change what happened, but perhaps alter the way you view it.’ He tipped his head curiously on one side and, encouraged, she moved closer. ‘Tell me of Lord Osbern, Husband.’
But at that he reared back as if she had stabbed him, leaving her flailing to keep her footing in the snow. He took several strides away and looked to the sky for an agonisingly long time before finally turning back to her. His eyes were black as charred wood but his voice, thank the Lord, remained calm.
‘One day, sweet one. One day I will. The words are hard to find.’
‘I could help you.’
‘Oh, but you do, my Mora, more than you can know. Tonight, though, I will sleep in my own chamber.’
His voice had hardened all too familiarly and she wanted suddenly, desperately, to get away. Standing on tiptoe she placed a swift kiss on his lips then turned and ran, burning with a mixture of fury and tenderness. This was an important time for William and she respected that but she wished he would talk to her, would share his past with her. Then again, she had not shared hers.
At her chamber, she glanced back. William was standing by the door of his own, watching her, but now he gave an apologetic wave and went inside. She leaned back against the wooden wall to look gratefully up through the kiss-light snowflakes to the stars above. They were the same stars that she could look upon in Flanders or in Normandy for all were beneath God’s skies. What difference really, if she were a duchess or a queen? But she wasn’t naive enough to believe that one. She’d been raised in Flanders, the marketplace of Northern Europe, so she knew that everything had its value and titles more than most.
‘Mathilda.’
The man was upon her before she could catch breath to cry out, clasping a hand over her mouth and pulling her into the dark alley beside the bower. ‘Ssh. Do not scream. I won’t hurt you. I want to talk, nothing more.’
‘Brihtric,’ she whispered between his fingers. ‘What are you doing?’
Slowly he unpeeled his hand.
‘I had no choice,’ he said. ‘The letter, I mean. Someone else saw it. They would have told and I thought it better from me.’
/>
‘How did someone else see it?’ she hissed, pulling him further back into the shadows though the snow was high and wet between the walls.
Brihtric swallowed audibly.
‘I, I showed it to them. I’m sorry. I was proud, Mathilda – too proud. You were so beautiful, so clever, so important. I couldn’t believe you might want me.’
‘I didn’t,’ Mathilda snapped nervously. ‘You read it wrong, my lord. It was but courtly pleasantries.’ There was a pause. He would be looking sceptically at her, she knew, but it was thankfully too dark to see more than a hint of Saxon blonde in the ghostly starlight thrown up by the snow. ‘You must go,’ she said. ‘This is madness. William has spies everywhere.’
‘He spies on his wife?’
‘Maybe – and maybe with good cause.’
‘You feel it too then?’
His hands suddenly reached out, fumbling for her in the darkness, and she jerked back, banging against the wall of the bower.
‘No! Go, Brihtric.’
She pushed blindly against him and stumbled out of the gap. No one, as far as she could see, was there and she leaped for the door, scrabbling at the latch, desperate to get inside before Brihtric tried anything else stupid. She all but fell onto the young server, Marcus, who leaped up in a panic.
‘My lady. Come in, come in, you’re covered in snow.’
Mathilda looked down and saw her beautiful gown was, indeed, thick with cloying clumps of white.
‘I paused to look at the stars,’ she said. It sounded foolish but the lad did not seem to notice.
‘Wine, my lady? Come, seat yourself by the fire to warm up.’
His voice seemed loud and harsh, as William’s had been, and suddenly Mathilda had had enough of such strident sounds.
‘No need to shout,’ she said, taking the drink gratefully and sinking onto the chair. She was weary, lonely, confused. ‘I am tired. Fetch Emeline and Cecelia please.’
The Conqueror's Queen Page 12