‘Of course not.’
‘You do. You want to fight me and you want to win.’
Judith’s cheeks flared. She had not wanted to come here. She had warned Torr how it would be and he had laughed at her but she had been right. Mathilda might look sweet and friendly but she was out for herself, as she always had been.
‘Can you blame me, Mathilda?’ she demanded, feeling words battering to get out. ‘Always you have come first. Always you had the best gowns and the highest place and the greatest titles but not any more. You are a duchess, I am an earl’s lady. You do not outrank me now, Mathilda, and neither will you do so by becoming queen. The Saxons will not have it.’
Mathilda stared up at her, stunned.
‘You have always felt this way?’ she asked when she could find words.
Judith turned for her horse, flustered by her own unaccustomed anger, but then forced herself to turn back. This was important. In London when the poor lost prince had died so strangely she had prayed Mathilda would have the sense to stay away from England’s proud shores, but now she had a chance to tell her to do so herself and she could not duck that responsibility.
‘I do not want us to be set against each other, Maud, but it seems it is always to be that way. You made it to Westminster before me back in ’51 but I am there now. Why can you and William not leave it alone? Why can you not be content with what you have here?’
Mathilda shook visibly.
‘It is William who wants England,’ she muttered but Judith had heard enough.
‘No, Mathilda, it is you both. You are alike, you and William.’
‘No!’
‘It is the truth. William is clever, ambitious and determined and you are the same, always have been, whether you see it or not. Thank the Lord poor gentle Lord Brihtric turned you down, for you were made for the bastard duke. But do not forget, Mathilda, you are a Lady of Flanders and he a Duke of Normandy and though they are both fine lands, they are not England. Do not reach too high, Mathilda, I beg you. Now, farewell.’
And with that, she leaped into the saddle, for once grateful to follow Torr, and rode away from Caen with her heart pounding. She felt a sharp sadness for she had never been one for arguments, but she had said her piece and felt the better for it. Let Mathilda battle for England if she must, but let her do it alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Tell me of Sicily, my lord.’
Hugh and Emeline were newly arrived in the busy them. hall to break their fast but already William was upon
‘Let them get some food, Husband,’ Mathilda begged weakly.
She was still shaken from last night’s encounter in her half-built abbey, not to mention from Judith’s harsh words in the stable. She was scarily aware that after five years of relative calm, everything was suddenly picking up pace again and she looked nervously around the men and women of Normandy who were chatting and eating and making noisy arrangements for the rest of their day.
‘Get some food?’ William queried, as if she’d suggested they lay down in the mud.
‘Yes, Husband. Our dear friends travelled a long way yesterday and you do not want them to regret returning, do you?’
It was a mean blow but she could not help herself. William sniffed but flung himself onto the nearest bench as servants hastily served the Grandmesnils pottage from the bubbling pot over the central hearth and they came to join him. There were still men curled up on pallets around the edges of the hall but, as if sensing action, they all began leaping up and turning their blankets back into cloaks, as if ashamed to be caught doing anything as indulgent as sleeping.
‘So, Sicily?’ Hugh said the moment he landed on the bench across the table from his duke. ‘What would you know?’
William leaned eagerly forward, his chagrin forgotten.
‘It is an island, yes?’
‘Yes, though a big one – nigh on the size of Wales. It has been seized over the years by the Moors. They build their infidel mosques in the cities and bring in their own people to fill them. The good Christians there look to the Pope for liberation but the Pope doesn’t have the army for the job.’
‘But the Guiscard does?’
‘Yes, though it is more his younger brother, Roger, who leads the way in Sicily.’
‘You met him?’
‘Oh yes. We met them both.’
‘What is he like, the Guiscard?’ William demanded, moving over a little as Roger and Della slid curiously in at his side.
‘Forbidding,’ Hugh said carefully. ‘And mercurial. You are never sure from one minute to the next what mood he will be in.’
‘That must be bad for his men,’ William said smugly.
‘It is, and for his brother. They are forever falling out. It is foolish – they could achieve far more stood together.’
‘Loyalty,’ William said firmly.
There was an awkward pause until finally Hugh said, ‘Last spring, for example, working together they took Messina, the capital of Sicily. It is a great prize.’
‘They fight on foot?’
‘No, no.’ Hugh had taken a spoonful of his pottage and spluttered in an effort to swallow it. ‘They are Normans, William – they fight as cavalry.’
‘So where do they find the mounts?’
‘In Italy. You have seen the horses I’ve brought back with me, Lord Duke. You would not, I’m sure, choose from anywhere else.’
‘No.’
William leaped up suddenly and leaned across the table, banging his hands keenly down in front of Hugh. Mathilda looked at her husband – his eyes were glowing silver with a fierce interest that was surely more than politeness towards his returned lord and she feared his intent. Fitz, who had been showing a couple of lads the best way to sharpen their swords, detached himself and came over. And now Fulk, too, was drawing close, pulled by William’s energy.
‘But how do they get these fine Italian cavalry onto the island of Sicily?’ the duke was asking.
‘Ah!’ Hugh smiled and rose to meet his lord’s eyes. ‘They do it by boat.’
‘Boat? All of them?’
‘Yes. Last May the Norman forces transported more than five hundred warhorses over the Strait of Messina to take the city.’
William’s eyes were like arrowheads now – sharp and dangerous and hooking into his men in a way they seemed to welcome. Mathilda felt her stomach curdle as much as Hugh’s neglected pottage and crept closer to Emeline.
‘How, Hugh?’ William demanded.
‘They have special carriers, wide and strong with stabling divides to keep the horses calm.’
‘And this strait is how big?’
‘I believe the sail was several hours and the currents are tough.’
‘I see.’ He dropped his voice so that the group were forced to lean close to hear. ‘So such a boat could, then, cross the Narrow Sea?’
No one spoke. Mathilda gaped at her husband, her brain smoking as much as the hunks of bacon the men were cooking over the fire behind. Boats full of warhorses – it was madness, wasn’t it? It couldn’t be done.
‘You don’t like boats, William,’ she said huskily.
‘There are many things, my dear, that I don’t like but sometimes it is necessary to get on with them anyway.’
‘But why?’
He looked slowly around his men. They were grinning. Every one of them was grinning.
‘You know why, my Mora,’ he said calmly. ‘I might wish one day to take a trip across the sea.’
‘A trip?’
He shrugged.
‘An invasion then.’
The word shuddered around his closest advisors. Glancing behind, Mathilda could see others in the hall had stopped what they were doing and were looking their way, sensing their future being shaped in the hands of their silver-eyed duke.
‘You think it will come to that?’ she whispered.
He detached himself from the men and came round the table to her, catching her waist and pulling her
close.
‘I hope not, Wife. Truly I hope not for you know that I have never sought war. But I do seek the crown I promised you on our wedding night, the crown King Edward promised us in good faith on Christ’s own mass in ’51, and if war is what it takes then we must be ready. It is good, indeed, that Hugh has come home for it seems we may need him.’
The men, always eager to fight, cheered raucously but Mathilda could not share their enthusiasm and could only hope King Edward would remember the promise he had made in ’51 as vividly as did the man to whom he had made it. Then, to her surprise, Fitz put up a hand to quieten them, before dropping it onto William’s broad shoulder.
‘None of us seeks war, however it may seem.’ He gave a brief nod to Mathilda, who coloured. ‘But you should know, Lord Duke, that we all of us believe that you are the best choice to be the next King of England. That you are, indeed, the rightful choice. I pray justice will be done but if it takes swords to ensure it, you have ours.’
His fellows nodded, solemn now, and chorused: ‘You have ours. Always, you have ours.’
William looked almost overcome at this quiet show of loyalty.
‘I know it,’ he said, looking round them all, his eyes lingering on Hugh. ‘And I thank you for it, for it means the world to me.’
His emotion touched Mathilda but the men’s tight shared intent also scared her. She tried to recall the thrill the prospect of being a queen had set alight inside her on her wedding night eleven years ago but it was hard. If it took an invasion to seize the English throne, all these men happily singeing their breakfast and fighting in the latrine queue and smoothing their bedtime hair as their favoured women entered the hall would be drawn into it.
Hers would be the crown, but theirs would be the lives on the line to win it. Could she ask that of them? Could William? Should she have stopped his grand plans right back at the start? All she had really wanted was a man to offer her a dance or two, maybe a poem, a few petals in her bed – how had she ended up with one who thought romance was a flotilla of warships?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Rouen, March 1064
‘Shipwreck!’
‘Shipwreck?’Mathilda asked the messenger, astounded. Despite her worst fears after Tostig Godwinson’s visit, Normandy had remained quiet, as had France and indeed England. There had thankfully been no need for any shipbuilding but now, it seemed, ships had somehow come to them. She looked the man up and down. William was training in the yard, trying out cavalry drills with Hugh’s Italian horses, so the messenger had been shown to the bower. He wasn’t one of William’s usual riders though, for he was bedraggled and torn and spoke in a thick, awkward accent.
‘Where was this shipwreck?’ she asked him.
‘At Ponthieu, my lady. The count there, Guy, has claimed wrecking rights and taken the men prisoner. I was amongst them but I escaped and am come to you begging aid.’
‘Aid for whom?’
The man bowed low.
‘For Earl Harold Godwinson, my lady.’
William was delighted.
‘’Tis a gift!’ he cried, boyish in his joy. ‘’Tis a gift from God, Mathilda – a second Godwinson and the greater one this time. Prepare a feast, my sweet, the finest ever seen. Let’s show this grand Saxon the riches of his future king.’
He went riding off to Ponthieu to rescue his ‘noble guest’ from the clutches of Count Guy and Mathilda dutifully slaved to ensure all was ready. She sent messengers out across Normandy and nobles came pouring into Rouen, panting with curiosity after several unprecedentedly quiet years. With the rebels, it seemed, finally reconciled to William’s rule, the single event of any real note since Tostig’s unsettling visit had been yet another ducal child – a daughter whom they’d named Constance, William’s choice for the constancy of Mathilda’s support, though to Mathilda it seemed more because she was constantly pregnant.
The only other tidings worth the hearing had come from France. Raoul had, so it was said, ‘chanced upon’ the queen at a small chapel in the Forêt de Montmorency whilst conveniently riding with the Bishop of Mantes and they had seized the God-given opportunity to marry. Mathilda had sent messages of congratulations and tried to ignore Emeline’s contented raptures over the ‘romance’ of the event. It had hardly been news, after all, but now there was finally something of real excitement happening and the court was agog.
Mathilda could only be grateful for the last year of peace and fruitfulness for, despite the long winter, the barns were still part full and the cattle fat. She sent orders out to grocers, bakers, brewers and slaughterhouses. La Barbe and his sons organised great hunts, offering rich prizes for venison and boar, and word went out that the palace was paying well for coney so that a constant stream of local lads arrived with beasts caught in the woods. The kitchens were soon so strung with meat that the chefs could hardly move and Mathilda had to order a store built behind to keep it all. Anticipation mounted and it was a relief when, at last, word came that the duke and his guest were on the way.
‘What will he be like, this Harold?’ Emeline pondered as she chased her children around trying to get them into smart clothing. ‘I hope he is nicer than his brother was.’
‘We will find out soon enough,’ Mathilda said crisply, and indeed barely had they dressed her than horses clattered into the yard to a great rush of noise from the myriad pavilions pitched in the gaps between the houses around the grand Tour de Rouen.
Mathilda smoothed her gown. It was her original wedding dress, the one she’d brought from Flanders and not, in the end, worn. William’s gift was too grand, for she did not want to give this Harold illusions of his own importance, but this gown felt right. Pushing her head up high, she went forth to greet her guest but no fine gown would ever have been enough to protect her from the sight of him.
‘Duchess Mathilda, an honour.’
Harold of Wessex swept a low bow before her, dropping a kiss on her hand and glancing up as he did so through thick blonde lashes. Mathilda stood frozen, fighting the giddy sensation of falling through time, for the damned man looked just like Lord Brihtric.
‘You are welcome, Earl Harold,’ she managed eventually, pulling her hand away before his touch could suck her any further into the past.
She supposed she should have expected some similarity to her early suitor but Earl Torr had been thinner and more brown than blonde. This brother, however, had eyes like a summer pond, a shock of corn-ripe hair and a rich, full beard. The lower reaches of Mathilda’s heart pulsed treacherously within her breast and for a moment she fought to breathe.
‘I trust you are well after your harsh experience at Ponthieu?’ she choked out.
‘Very well, thank you,’ Harold agreed in a butter-soft voice, his Norman near perfect. ‘Your husband has been a most gracious rescuer and I am greatly indebted to him for my freedom.’
‘You are,’ William agreed cheerily, ‘but I trust you will repay that with friendship? You will stay a while.’
It was an instruction and Mathilda winced at the lack of subtlety but Harold just smiled.
‘Nothing would please me more, William. I have heard much of Normandy’s beauty and it seems it was all correct.’ He was looking at Mathilda. She shifted as a strange heat rushed over her, but then he went on: ‘I have been lucky enough to rest at several of your abbeys on our journey – such beautiful architecture. We have little like it in England.’
‘What about your new abbey at Westminster?’
‘Yes, that is very fine – modelled on Jumièges, I believe?’
‘Indeed,’ William agreed loudly. ‘King Edward was very inspired by Norman art in the many years he spent here as a young man.’
Harold smiled again.
‘I’m sure he was. Oh, are these your sons, Duchess? What fine young men.’
He bent over to solemnly shake hands with Robert, Richard and Rufus, asking them their names and admiring their swords. Even Rufus, now seven, had his own blade and the boys wer
e soon proudly showing them to their guest as if they had known him for years.
‘I have three sons, too,’ Harold told them. ‘They are a little older than you but I’ll wager you’d give them a run for their money in the yard.’
‘Are they with you?’ Rufus asked eagerly, as if he might give it a go there and then.
William placed a steadying hand on his red head.
‘Sadly not, Rufus, but maybe you will meet them one day.’
‘Here?’
‘Or in England. Shall we dine?’
Mathilda waved hastily for the gong to be sounded.
‘Where’s Adela?’ she hissed to Cecelia as everyone flocked to table.
Cecily, Maud and baby Constance had been confined to the nursery, much to the disgust of Cecily who, at six, thought herself every bit grown-up enough to join the adults. Mathilda was inclined to agree for Cecily was as sharp as a needle-tip and as pretty as a tapestry – certainly far more so than her eldest daughter who, having just turned eleven years old, had been instructed to present herself for dinner.
‘She is inside some manuscript, no doubt,’ Cecelia replied and hurried off to find her.
Mathilda took her seat at William’s right side with Harold on her other. She glanced nervously between them. They seemed to have made friends on the journey from Ponthieu but there were big issues at stake here and she did not want a moonlit standoff with this Godwinson. Why was Harold here? What did he want? As duchess it was down to her to find out, so, despite his discomfiting appearance, she angled herself determinedly towards the Saxon.
‘Are your ships ruined, my lord?’
‘Not ruined, just damaged. Duke William has kindly offered me the use of his shipyards at Bonneville to have them repaired. My men are patching them up to move along the coast.’
‘That will take some time?’
‘I fear so. You are stuck with me, my lady.’
‘It’s our pleasure. We are neighbours, after all. Where were you headed?’
He leaned in a little.
‘Here.’
‘Oh.’
He offered no more and she somehow dared not ask. He had an open, generous face, this Saxon, but his big beard made his ready smile hard to read.
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