The Conqueror's Queen

by Joanna Courtney

  Her father had granted Torr the castellany of St Omer. It was more than he deserved and it had delighted Judith. St Omer was peaceful and quiet and the light was good. Not as good, perhaps, as Northumbria but Northumbria was gone. Judith had known that the moment she’d seen the twisted faces of the rebels.

  Don’t think of it, she told herself, but it was impossible. The faces leered in on her again, friends turned to foes, smiles to threats.

  ‘It is not you, my lady,’ one man had told her amidst the chaos. ‘You have done your best for Northumbria and it is appreciated but your lord has treated us with contempt. He has ripped much-needed money from his loyal servants to feed his fun in the south and it cannot be tolerated any longer. He must go and you with him.’

  It had felt so unfair. Why should she be condemned for her husband’s failings? Why should her good work be drowned in his poor dealings as if it were of no account? But they had leered still, their daggers sharp and determined, and then news had come of men dead at York and she had known their compassion would only last so long, so she’d taken the boys and fled.

  She’d gone to the only place she’d ever felt truly safe, the priory at Durham Cathedral, and the monks, God bless them, had taken her and her sons into their guesthouse. She had spent a strange, almost blissful fortnight there, the boys mainly in the herb gardens and she mainly in the scriptorium. As news had trickled in that rebels had seized the treasury at York, that they had taken young Morcar as earl, and that they were marching south gathering support everywhere they went, she’d poured herself into the last of her gospel books, looking to its vibrant colours to paint over the dark shades of real life. But however hard she’d worked, real life had persisted and in the end an escort had been sent to accompany her to Torr at Dover and from thence to Flanders – her only use, it seemed, in her birthright.

  She’d longed to refuse, to insist on staying behind the doors of the priory but she was a woman and could not outstay her welcome as a guest or endanger the monks with her presence. Even so, it had felt as if she were being ripped from the womb and she’d cried much of the journey south, grateful for the autumn winds to blow her tears from her face before they upset the boys.

  She’d pulled herself together on the sea journey, so reminiscent of that other dread trip back in ’51. This time, too, Torr had raged at Edward and sworn revenge, but this time he’d been alone, his rage as much at his brother as at the king. The best they could do now was to settle gratefully into the castle at St Omer and live quietly. But living quietly was not something Torr had ever done well.

  ‘You need me more than you think, Duke William,’ he insisted now, jabbing a reckless finger at his host.

  William, however, just looked him up and down and finally said, ‘No, Torr, I do not,’ before adding, ‘I trust your horses are fresh?’

  ‘But . . .’

  Judith ran forward, letting go of Karl to tug on Torr’s arm.

  ‘We should leave, Husband.’

  He looked scornfully at her.

  ‘Already? I thought you wished to spend time with your sister?’

  ‘She’s not . . .’ Judith started but caught herself. Mathilda was all the sister she had and she would deny it no more. She looked to Mathilda. ‘I do. Have you time, Mathilda, for a walk whilst Torr sees our horses readied?’

  Mathilda rose slowly and for a terrible moment Judith thought her cousin would refuse her, but then she came forward and held out her arm.

  ‘I would like that.’

  Judith smiled. She passed Skylar to a startled Torr and urged Karl towards him too.

  ‘Help your father, boys,’ she said and then took Mathilda’s arm and moved with her towards the door.

  The last thing she heard as they left was William saying to Torr, ‘Don’t hold him like that, man’, and then she was out.

  ‘We don’t have long,’ she said to Mathilda.

  ‘No and I’m sorry for it. I do not wish to part as we did last time, Judi.’

  ‘Nor I. I was hasty, rude even. You have done better in life than I, Mathilda – though that is little surprise.’

  ‘Nay, Judi, you could not help your husband’s poor character.’

  ‘You warned me against him.’

  ‘Not firmly enough and what could you have done anyway? All his family were in Flanders for the wedding. Cancelling it would have been a disaster and I think I knew that. Maybe you were right and I was just gloating. Have you been very unhappy with him?’

  Judith smiled.

  ‘No. Truly. He is a fool at times and far too lustful and greedy but he has been kind to me in the main and we have had some happy times. He can be fun, Mathilda.’

  ‘I am glad of it.’

  ‘Though he is fun no more. I wish he would settle to a lesser life but I know he will not.’

  Mathilda squeezed her arm.

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘William wants England?’

  ‘Does everyone know?’

  ‘Is it a secret?’

  ‘No. No, I suppose not. He was promised it, Judi, in ’51.’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘True, but Harold confirmed it last year and really, who else is there?’

  ‘Harold.’

  ‘You say that too? I thought it was just Torr bluffing. The Saxons would choose a mere earl over a proven ruler? Are they fools?’

  ‘They are . . . inward-looking and very protective of their own. They have not the flexibility of the continental peoples.’

  Mathilda looked around her nervously and pulled Judith close.

  ‘Is it a good country, Judi?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I have been very happy there – as will you be.’

  ‘You mean that?’

  Did she? Judith thought about it closely. She pictured Mathilda when she’d first heard she was to marry William, sixteen years ago. ‘I have been bred to be a queen,’ she’d told her furious parents, and it was true.

  ‘I mean it. You will be a good queen, Mathilda.’

  ‘Thank you. I pray that when the time comes Edward sees it that way too for William does not want to fight. Indeed, he has fought far too much already. You were right, Judith, you know, about how similar William and I are. I did not wish to see it. I did not wish to be so hard as he, but I am.’

  ‘Oh, Mathilda, you are not hard at all.’

  ‘And neither is he.’

  Judith blinked, considering, but now the horses were coming out of the stables.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Will you be well, Judi?’

  ‘I will. I have my boys and I have my art.’

  ‘You paint still?’

  ‘Every day if I can. Count Baldwin will be horrified.’

  ‘Count Baldwin,’ Mathilda countered fiercely, ‘married you to an oaf so he cannot complain if you find solace where you are able. Anyway, a civilised man should appreciate art.’

  With a sharp pang, Judith thought of Lord Wulf of Bavaria her kind friend in Rome. He had loved her third gospel book every bit as much as she, begging leave to read it and praising the illuminations in a most earnest way. His company had been hugely welcome to Judith, a comforting contrast to the drunken sycophants around Torr, and she had been saddened more than her uneasy conscience felt she should be when he’d had to return home before them.

  She looked anxiously around but Torr was not yet here. She had time. Swiftly she drew her gospel book from her bag. It was the fourth and last one of the set and only partly completed but she thrust it at Mathilda, who opened it and gasped.

  ‘You did this, Judith?’ She turned the pages with care. ‘All of it?’

  ‘All of it and three other books besides. Are you shocked?’

  Mathilda looked up at her, then reached out a hand to touch her cheek.

  ‘Not shocked, Judi, of course not. Impressed, astonished. They are beautiful. Whatever else may have happened to you, if you leave these in the world you will have made a glorious mark upon
it.’

  Lord Wulf had said something similar and Judith felt tears well in her eyes again but not, this time, of sorrow.

  ‘Thank you, Mathilda.’

  She took the book back and tenderly replaced it in its leather covering, then suddenly Mathilda was hugging her, her arms wrapping fiercely up around Judith’s back, and Judith found herself hugging her in return as if, by clasping each other close enough, they could travel back to their girlhood when all had been so simple.

  ‘Be safe, little sister,’ Mathilda said into her ear.

  ‘And you, big sister,’ Judith whispered back and, with Mathilda barely as tall as Judith’s shoulder, they both laughed.

  Now, though, Torr had emerged with the boys and shouted impatiently for Judith. Mathilda walked with her towards him, taking her time as only Mathilda could.

  ‘Good luck in St Omer,’ she called up to Torr but he just snorted and Judith knew that they would scarce be back before he’d be off again, perhaps this time to his Danish relatives in his endless quest for Wessex.

  She looked to the skies, heavy with the threat of snow. 1065 was almost at an end and who knew what 1066 would bring for them all.

  ‘Pray God, Mathilda,’ she said as the carriage was brought forward, Karl and Skylar hanging out of the window looking for her, ‘that we are not set against each other in the year ahead.’

  Mathilda shook her head, as determined as she had ever been.

  ‘We will not be. Remember Father telling us, way back when Tostig first came asking for you, that “women are more subtle than men”. He told us we could “surely manage any minor conflicts”, and though it pains me to say it, he was right. We should not have forgotten ourselves. Our husbands may fight and there is little we can do to prevent that, but we will not. Never again.’

  Judith drew strength from her assurance. This trip to Normandy had not, after all, been a waste of time. Torr might be angry but these days Torr was always angry so that made little odds, and for herself seeing her cousin had brought new peace. She leaned out of the window, despite the first flakes of snow, and waved madly at William and Mathilda, stood together in the yard of their brave city of Caen, until they were just dots in the corners of her eyes.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Forest of Quevilly, January 1066

  Mathilda lifted her cup high, sending steam curling eagerly up into the thatch of the hunting lodge as if heading for an illicit encounter with the clouds.

  ‘A toast,’ she proposed, ‘to our fine princes who rode so well today.’

  The gathered men and women roared their approval and Mathilda felt more warmed by their cheers than by the fur lining of her cloak, or the roaring fire in the central hearth, or the heady spices in her mulled wine. It was the end of the festive period. Twelfth Night had been four days back and they should all have been dispersing to their own castles, but a heavy snowfall had kept them confined in Rouen and now that it had settled William had seized the chance for one last big hunt in the game-rich Forest of Quevilly before the ducal family were left in the usual end-of-winter quiet.

  The boys had been delighted and begged to be included and William had agreed. Robert, now nearly fourteen, was a strong young man, taller than Mathilda and well able to keep pace with the older riders. Richard was finer-boned and more studious. He was the only person in the court close to matching William at his beloved tafel but he was very fond of Hugh and, having spent a lot of time with him in his stables, was an excellent horseman. Rufus was only nine and should not really have been allowed along in such weather but what he lacked in years he made up for in fire and determination and his father indulged him.

  It was never openly spoken of but Mathilda could see that, much as she could not help a certain preference for clever little Cecily, William’s red-haired namesake was his favourite. The boy was similar to William in his determination and straight-talking single-mindedness but Mathilda also wondered if it went back to those first days of his life when William, grieving for Herleva, had carried him close to his chest. Certainly today Rufus had repaid his father’s belief in him for it was he who had successfully shot a small boar and he was making the most of it, swaggering about the lodge like a hero whilst the other two glowered. She chose not to mention this in her toast but sat again, leaning against William as he put an arm around her shoulders and kissed her.

  ‘I am glad it snowed,’ he said, ‘or we would have missed this.’

  ‘It has been a happy day,’ she agreed.

  ‘And will be a happy night, my Mora.’

  His eyes blazed and she giggled self-consciously.

  ‘William! You know that out here there is nothing but curtain separating us from the others.’

  ‘So? Who will complain? I am their ruler.’

  ‘Maybe, but are you mine?’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘I fear not. You are the one person, my dear wife, who can command me.’

  ‘Then,’ she said as Fitz lifted a little pipe and struck up a jaunty jig, ‘I command you . . .’

  But her words were cut off by a banging at the outer door. All eyes turned and Fitz’s tune dribbled into nothing. At a second bang, William rose.

  ‘Open the door,’ he bellowed at the guards.

  They jumped to do his bidding and a heavily cloaked figure stepped in on a swirl of cold dusk air. Behind him stood a horse, a fine creature, steaming in the snow.

  ‘Roger?!’ William cried out as the man threw back the hood of his cloak.

  La Barbe’s famous beard was icy and his moustache lacked its usual curl. William’s chamberlain had, as usual, stayed with Della in Rouen to oversee any chance business and as his leg ached badly in the cold these days, it must be sore news to bring him out – or great news. Mathilda’s heart pounded so loud it was as if it were knocking on the wooden floor of the lodge. Surely only one event would bring La Barbe deep into the forest at nightfall. She stood up at William’s side.

  ‘Speak,’ he urged as the lords and ladies pulled back to let Roger approach.

  The laughter had leached out of the gathering and everyone watched in silence as Roger crunched forward, ice shaking from his boots with every step.

  ‘Is it news from England?’ Mathilda asked, unable to bear it.

  ‘It is, my lady, my lord duke. King Edward is dead.’

  The packed room held its breath, the only noise the crackle of the fire. William grasped for Mathilda’s hand and she clutched it tight as Roger bowed low. He did not drop to one knee, as was the due of a king, but maybe his sore leg did not allow it.

  ‘King Edward is dead,’ he repeated, ‘and Harold of Wessex is declared king. He was crowned the same day, Duke, that your royal cousin was sent into God’s care.’ William’s fist slammed so hard into the table that plates and cups were sent clattering and bouncing across the floor. Sauce splattered over Roger’s boots like blood and he looked down at them. ‘I beg pardon, my lord, to be the bearer of such news, but I knew you would wish to be informed as soon as possible.’

  William fought to control himself.

  ‘You are right, Lord Chamberlain, and I thank you for it but these are poor tidings.’ He looked round the room. ‘You all rode with Harold, knew him for a good man, an honourable man, but where is his honour now? He is an oathbreaker and a cheat. He has stolen my crown and your rights. Which of us, I ask you, is the bastard here?’

  His voice was rising, his eyes growing silver-pale as he stared around what had been, before Roger’s arrival, a joyous crowd but that now felt foolishly detached from reality.

  ‘Rouen,’ William blurted. ‘I must go back to Rouen.’

  ‘Now?’ Mathilda asked, horrified.

  He rounded on her.

  ‘Yes, now, Wife. Informants may be arriving from all over and there are plans to be made.’

  ‘What plans, William?’

  ‘Plans,’ he repeated bleakly. ‘I know not what. I have not prepared. God in heaven
, I have not prepared for this, despite all the warnings. I trusted Edward would name me as he said he would. And I trusted Harold would back him. Why?’ He yanked on Mathilda’s hand. ‘Why did I do that, Wife? Why did you let me? In 1051 we were promised the throne and every year that has passed has taken us further and further from it. We have been stupid, arrogant, ill-prepared. Even Torr, snivelling, wretched little man that he is, said this would happen and I did not listen. And now see how we are repaid!’

  ‘But William . . .’

  He jerked away.

  ‘Rouen,’ he said again and then he was gone, pushing past Roger and heading for the door, throwing himself onto the poor heated horse and wheeling it round.

  Mathilda ran after him, begging him to stop but he was deaf to her – to everyone. She spun back.

  ‘He’s not safe alone,’ she said, a sob catching at her words.

  ‘I’ll go.’

  Fitz leaped up and made for the stables. The next minute he emerged, bareback on his horse, and shot after William.

  ‘He’ll catch him,’ Roger said. ‘William’s mount will be tired. Fitz will catch him; he’ll see him back safe.’

  ‘Safe?’ Mathilda laughed, a bitter sound like the crackling of the fire. ‘How can he be safe now that England has been denied him? I must go too.’

  ‘But, my lady, it is near dark and it is an hour’s ride to Rouen in the snow. You are better here.’

  ‘No.’ Mathilda drew herself up. ‘I am better with my husband. Take me to him, Roger, please. Take me to him now.’

  It was a hard, terrifying ride. Roger went first with Mathilda behind him and Fulk and Hugh behind her, all with swords drawn against any creatures of the night, animal or human. Mathilda focused hard on Roger’s hunched back, recalling another ride, years ago, to Alençon where she had first seen what William was truly capable of. That had been just a border town, though, a handful of peasants driven to action by a jealous lord. Now that they faced a whole country, what would William do?