The Conqueror's Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  In one sat a boy, the six-year-old King Phillipe, his feet dangling off the great chair but his little head held high beneath a heavy crown of state. In the other was Queen Anne, a handsome woman with sharp brown eyes and startling rich blonde hair that glowed beneath a slender diadem set all around with rubies. To her right sat an old man and it took Mathilda a moment more to recognise Count Baldwin.

  ‘Father, what a surprise!’

  ‘I am grown old, Mathilda. You did not recognise me.’

  ‘Nonsense, Father. You are scarce changed.’ She kissed him hastily on both cheeks. ‘Where is Mother? Is she well?’

  ‘Very well. She must look after Flanders.’

  ‘Whilst you look after France?’

  ‘No. Queen Anne looks after France; I merely offer a little support.’

  ‘She is officially regent?’ Mathilda asked.

  She looked pointedly at William who had the grace to blush but before she could say more Baldwin was grabbing his hand and shaking it heartily.

  ‘Duke William, good to see you again.’

  William turned gratefully from her.

  ‘And you, Count. And Lord Bruno too.’

  Mathilda looked at him in surprise as he greeted her father’s chamberlain.

  ‘You know Lord Bruno, William?’

  Her husband looked disconcerted again but swiftly recovered.

  ‘I met him when I was courting you, Mathilda.’

  That must have been true, she supposed, but the manner of their greeting had seemed more familiar and Bruno’s thinning scalp had turned a very interesting shade of scarlet. Now, though, Queen Anne was with them and it was no time for dallying with a chamberlain.

  ‘Welcome, Duchess Mathilda,’ Anne said softly. ‘We are honoured by your visit.’

  ‘We are the ones honoured,’ Mathilda replied, curtseying.

  Anne laughed sweetly and raised her.

  ‘We are both, then, honoured, so I trust we can be friends. Come and meet Phillipe.’

  Phillipe stood and solemnly held out his tiny hand for Mathilda to kiss.

  ‘God bless you, Sire,’ she said and saw the boy colour.

  ‘I pray that He will, my lady, for my father has left me a fine kingdom and I must rule it as he would have wished.’

  Mathilda glanced to Anne who touched her son’s soft head.

  ‘He has grown old beyond his years. I suppose, as his regent, I must be glad of it.’

  ‘The French accept your rule?’

  She looked surprised.

  ‘Of course. Why should they not?’

  ‘I agree absolutely – but the Normans are not so liberal.’

  ‘Then they are fools, my lady. A woman’s mind is every bit as sharp as a man’s, though I will admit that it makes my heart ache to see him so serious.’

  Mathilda thought of her own boys racing around the yard with their toy swords and their pig’s bladders and felt for the tiny king. Then suddenly she realised she was looking at the child William must have been when, like Phillipe, he lost his father and took on the heavy weight of rule, and all thoughts of her own status left her. William had had no Queen Anne to stand guard over him, only gentle Herleva who had offered so much love but so little protection against a harsh world. She prayed it would be different for Phillipe.

  ‘You have our every support. I hope we can return to the happy days when France and Normandy stood as one.’

  ‘I hope so too.’

  Their eyes locked.

  ‘We have no quarrel with France,’ Mathilda said firmly.

  ‘Only with England?’ Mathilda jumped. ‘My sister Agatha, you know, is in England. She travelled there three years ago with her husband, Prince Edward, though she was sadly widowed just days after her arrival.’

  ‘That was sad,’ Mathilda agreed nervously, adding, ‘We have no quarrel with England either, my lady, as long as she has no quarrel with us.’

  For a moment the air between them shimmered and then Anne smiled again.

  ‘Such tedious things, quarrels,’ she said lightly. ‘Now, tell me, my lady, do you dance?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mathilda assured her, relieved the dread moment had passed. ‘I love to dance.’

  Those days in the French court were as giddy for Mathilda as the looping, floating reels that Raoul’s band of highly talented minstrels played with tireless energy for the excitable court. Her only regret, as they feasted on rich foods and elaborate entertainment, was William’s evident discomfort. He kept insisting he was pleased that his old alliance with France was back in place but it was hard to see it on his sombre face. If the court went hunting he excelled, leading the pack with confidence and grace, but as the boy king was not yet old enough for the rigours of the hunt, the court was often at lawn games which he found pointless. Usually he took refuge in a corner with Lord Bruno, the pair of them huddling over the tafel board William had brought with him, ignoring everyone else.

  ‘How do you know Lord Bruno?’ Mathilda quizzed him one day as they stood together half-watching a noisy skittles game on the rich lawns behind the palace. ‘Was it before you met me?’

  ‘I may have had dealings with him,’ he said tightly.

  ‘He’s one of your spies?’

  ‘Spy is a very crass word, Mathilda.’

  ‘Well-informed messengers then. You never said.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘How long has he been working for you, William? How long has he been spying on my family – on me?’

  He did not answer, leaving her with painful questions – had it been before or after Lord Brihtric? Had Bruno told him how she’d danced in the arms of the handsome Saxon? Had he told him how she’d written asking him to marry her? Had William even seen the letter? Surely not; surely her father had destroyed it. Guilt itched at her, inflamed by an aching awareness that Lord Brihtric with his easy charm and light feet would have prospered far more in Raoul’s elegant French court than William did.

  ‘I hope,’ she flung at him, ‘that his information was good.’

  ‘I married you, did I not?’

  As usual with William it was truth, though perhaps not the whole truth.

  ‘You are enjoying yourself here?’ she needled.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It does not look that way.’

  ‘What does it matter how it looks?’

  ‘It might matter to your hosts. Visiting people is meant to be fun.’

  ‘Meant to be?’

  She gritted her teeth but now a messenger was threading around the noisy game and bowing low before them. She recognised a young Norman, saw from his sweaty hair that he had hurried and her heart seemed for a moment to collapse in on itself. They had only been out of Normandy a few days – surely there had not been rebellion already. But the messenger, for once, was smiling as he pushed a parchment roll towards them.

  ‘What is this?’ William demanded.

  ‘It comes from Italy, Lord Duke, from Emeline de Grandmesnil.’

  ‘Emeline?’ Mathilda asked eagerly, all quarrel with William forgotten. Della had kindly stepped in as her attendant but although she was solid and efficient she trod too regularly on Cecelia’s delicate toes with her bluntness and had none of the teasing fun of the French girl. ‘What says she?’

  ‘I know not, my lady, only that the rider said it was of great importance and that I must guard the parchment with my life, so I hastened here.’

  ‘You did right, thank you.’

  He smiled shyly as Mathilda took the message and cracked the seal. There were two parchments, one within the other. She unrolled the first and read it slowly to William and as the words unfolded out loud they seemed to swell and grow between them:

  Greetings from Italy to our dear Duke and Duchess. We pray that you and all your children are well and we hope the enclosed pleases you both. Hugh was invited to Rome, for the Pope is a fine judge of horses and a man very much in favour of the Normans. We had a convivial time with His Holiness an
d he assured us of his goodwill to the duchy.

  He was kind enough to look at the verdict of the Council of Rheims on your marriage and was swift to see that it was poorly grounded. The objections were unsubstantiated and he, therefore, grants you this retrospective dispensation and asks only that you raise a church to God’s great glory in penance for running ahead of the bishops. This dispensation matters little to you, I am sure, as you already know your marriage to be true and blessed in God’s sight but earthly confirmation is still, I hope, welcome.

  Mathilda looked at the second roll in wonder, then, trying to control a strange tremor in her hands, broke the seal. It fell apart to reveal, as promised, papal sanction of their nine-year marriage. She and William both stared at it, awed, as the court tapped balls unheedingly through hoops behind them.

  Eventually William spoke: ‘I turned Hugh away and he repays me with this great gift. He is a good man, Mathilda.’

  ‘He is. And his wife is a good woman. You should not have doubted her.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Still you do not see it, my sweet. I should have doubted her but I can still be glad to be proved wrong. She understands that even if you do not.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But nothing, Mathilda. The past is gone and life is easier if you can accept that. Hugh and Emeline are content and our marriage is truly sanctified at last.’

  ‘This is cause for celebration, Husband.’

  ‘It is. All these years we have lived under a shadow. All these years we have feared someone might snatch this marriage from under us – have even, God forgive us, accused each other of doing so – and now it is lifted. We are in the light, Mathilda, and is it not glorious? The Pope asks for a church – we will give him two. One each to show how blessed we both are.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, William.’

  ‘It would. We will build them in Caen and if we leave space between we can fill it with fine houses such as we have seen here in Paris. We can encourage artisans and traders – develop the area and stamp our authority upon it at the same time. It is a fine idea, is it not?’

  ‘It is,’ she forced herself to agree, for she had neglected her duty to Caen for too long, and would be nice to do something more personal too. It had been so exciting to be in Paris and maybe now more was possible. ‘We could, perhaps, make a pilgrimage to thank the Pope ourselves?’

  ‘A pilgrimage?’

  Mathilda’s mind was racing now.

  ‘Why not? Think of it, William – a pilgrimage to Rome. We could pray at St Peter’s own altar. We could thank the Pope for his intervention and we could visit Hugh’s horses on the way back.’

  ‘And bring him home with them – his wife too?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  He pulled her close, crushing her against his chest.

  ‘It is a nice idea, Mathilda.’

  ‘It is a good idea,’ she corrected him but already she’d heard the steel in his voice and remembered, too late, that his father had died on pilgrimage. ‘And it is safer now, William. I hear there are well-trod routes with inns and monasteries and many willing to ease the way for a traveller, especially a duke.’

  ‘Mathilda . . .’

  ‘And many rulers are doing it. Did not King Cnut himself ride to Rome? And Macbeth, King of the Scots. If they can journey so far, surely we can?’

  ‘I do not doubt it, but . . .’

  ‘And I hear tell that Judith’s husband proposes a pilgrimage, perhaps as early as next year. We could maybe travel in her party?’

  ‘With Godwinsons?!’ he asked, stepping back.

  ‘It could be useful.’

  ‘It could be suicide. We cannot do it, Mathilda.’

  ‘They cannot be that dangerous . . .’

  ‘No, no. I mean simply that we cannot go that far. The journey would take months. Normandy will turn.’

  ‘No, William. Why must you always think that?’

  ‘Because it is true.’

  She hung her head. Norman truth seemed always to be so hard. On the lawns the game had finished and someone had called for wine and minstrels. A pipe suddenly picked out a pretty tune, a lute following its lead, and giggling courtiers fell over themselves to form an impromptu set. Mathilda closed her eyes against their joy and prayed for patience. She felt William take her hands softly, almost apologetically, but could not force her eyes open for him.

  ‘Maybe, my dear, this Tostig would appreciate somewhere convivial to rest on his way home, and your dear sister too.’

  ‘Cousin.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She forced her eyes open.

  ‘Judith is my cousin.’

  ‘Of course. And mine too for that matter. Either way, it would be a chance to see her, would it not?’

  ‘And for you to pick their brains on England.’

  He did not deny it.

  ‘Invite them for a visit, Mathilda.’

  ‘A visit?’

  ‘Yes, a visit. They are meant to be fun, are they not?’ He had turned her own words upon her, as he had always done so well. She sighed and he tugged her closer. ‘It is not the same as travelling to the Holy City, I realise that, but it is surely something? I’m sorry, Mathilda, that I cannot be as, as impetuous as you would like me. I know it makes me dull.’

  She strove to deny it but the words stuck in her throat and still the notes of the pipe and lute swirled around them.

  ‘Dance with me, William,’ she said instead.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because I want to hold you, to hold on to you. Our marriage is blessed at last and we have done so much together, do you not think?’

  ‘And can do so much more yet, yes – but why need it include shuffling around like fools?’

  Mathilda felt her blood rise.

  ‘This dance is very simple.’

  ‘For you perhaps.’

  ‘I could show you.’

  ‘I doubt it. Can you draw a bow, Mathilda?’

  ‘You know I cannot.’

  ‘But it looks easy, does it not?’

  ‘It looks elegant, certainly, when you do it, William.’

  He looked a little surprised.

  ‘Thank you, Mathilda. But believe me, if you tried, it would not.’

  ‘Thank you, William,’ she said dryly.

  ‘It would be no fault of your own, my dear. It is simply that it needs much practice to do it well.’

  ‘I am sure that is so, but dancing is not nearly so skilled. It is a matter of feel, that is all.’

  ‘Feel?’

  ‘Feel for the music, in your body.’

  He tipped his head to one side, considering, but then shook it furiously.

  ‘All that the music makes me feel, Mathilda, is irritation. Dance with someone else.’

  ‘But I want to dance with you.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘That will not happen. I go to seek the chapel, my lady, to give thanks for the Pope’s blessing on our marriage at last. You need not accompany me.’

  ‘I do not mind. I am your wife.’

  ‘I release you.’

  ‘As your wife?’

  ‘No, Mathilda. Now you are being foolish. Today. I release you today. You may go and trade pretty steps with someone else for I am no use to you. Good day.’

  And with that he was gone and Mathilda was left to be pulled into the dance by six-year-old King Phillipe, standing stiffly in his solemn little hold and wishing someone had done the same with William when he was first duke, instead of forever leading him to war.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Caen, May 1062

  Judith pulled back the flap at the side of the covered carriage and peered out – Caen. It looked stark and forbidding after the glories of Rome and she felt a rush of something deliciously like pity for Mathilda, stuck here whilst she had been in Italy adventuring. She’d heard tell her cousin had been to Paris but, really, that was nothing to Rome and for once she considered he
rself lucky in her husband.

  Their recent pilgrimage had perhaps just been another way of escaping Northumbria, which Torr still found stark and dull, but she had not complained. All her life she had yearned to see the Holy City and it had not disappointed. Finally she felt that she had seen such glories as would make life worth living, for Rome had opened her eyes to the possible scale of art and made her own ambitions to illuminate her gospel books – now half completed – seem modest.

  Sadly, though, they were heading home and Judith felt as if the sun were fading on her back with every mile they’d ridden north. This stopover in Normandy was only making things worse. Torr had seized on the unexpected invitation from Mathilda, picking at the sparse words for meaning and making plans straight away. He had been edgy recently. Everyone was edgy, for King Edward was ill and with no heir named, save the tenuous and never-mentioned promise to Duke William, the future was a frightening place. Some people were talking of Torr’s brother Harold as the Saxons’ future king and Torr did not like it; he did not like it at all.

  ‘You would like to see your sister, would you not?’ he’d urged, shaking Duke William’s wretched invitation in her face.

  ‘She’s not my sister.’

  ‘Words, Judi, no more. She is clearly keen to see you and it will be excellent to see her too, will it not? And Duke William. And perhaps you could visit your mother too.’

  The latter had only made her dread Normandy more but, fresh from a visit to the holiest of cities, she had felt duty-bound to call. The visit had not been a success. Eleanor had been thin and frail and interested only in her prayers. Even Karl, now a quiet and courteous lad of eight, had not been able to incite in her any interest in God’s physical world and Judith had left as soon as she was able without any sense of peace or blessing or even anger. Her overriding emotion had been a fierce determination to be a good mother to Karl and, if she were not much mistaken, to the new babe finally growing in her womb.