‘No sense of loyalty, it seems,’ William said lightly. ‘Well, we will show them.’
‘Yes, and the Viking too.’
They were all returned to battle rhetoric, the concern gone in the anticipation of glory ahead, but for Mathilda the thought of Hardrada was a daunting one. Raoul knew a little of the Viking, for he was married to Elizaveta of Kiev, sister to Anne, and Anne had known him as a child. He was a giant of a man, he’d told her, with white-blonde hair and a sword-arm as wide as a tree trunk. But at fifty-one he was old, and he did not know England.
‘We do not know England,’ Mathilda had replied.
‘Maybe not, but William has plenty of men who do – they have lived there for years.’
‘Since ’51?’
‘And before. They know every curve of the land, every turn of the roads and every plan of every soldier. If we are lucky, the Harolds will fight each other first and the victor will come to us already battle-weary.’
‘And if they do not?’
‘Then we will defeat one and meet the second buoyed by our victory.’
Mathilda did not point out the clear flaw in his masculine logic – how would the enemy be wearied by a first battle, but their own men buoyed by it? Rhetoric again, but they needed it. Belief and heart were almost as valuable weapons as axes and must be sharpened with just as much care.
Mathilda rode back into Caen, full of the joy of her secret ship, to find William waiting for her.
‘Where have you been, Mathilda?’
She flushed.
‘Women’s business, William. Cloth you know for, erm, clothing.’
‘Oh, right. Well, I’m glad you’re back. You must come into the hall – now. Messengers are here with news from over the Narrow Sea and the clerics are returned from Rome.’
‘From the Pope?’ Mathilda’s stomach clenched. ‘What says he?’
‘You’d best come within,’ William said but Mathilda saw a smile twitch at the edges of his mouth and felt a surge of hope.
Sure enough, as she walked into the new hall, the greatest now of all their halls, she saw it – a papal banner, held aloft by a barrel-chested young soldier. Her hands flew to her mouth.
‘His Holiness approves our cause?’
It was only now that she realised how much she had feared that he might not.
‘He does, Wife. He sends us his holy banner to fight beneath and an edict besides that condemns Harold as an oathbreaker and declares our cause just. All men who fight for William fight for God!’
He raised his voice to the people gathered in the hall and the cheer that greeted his words seemed loud enough to reach the Lord himself. Mathilda felt joy suffuse her body and longed to let it out in a roar with the rest, but she was a duchess so she must be decorous – on the outside at least. Inside, though, she was whooping. They were right. Their cause was just – the Pope said so. The throne of England was theirs to take with honour and fairness and decency and now all men would see that. They would see that William was an instrument of God’s justice and they would back him. Maybe, indeed, if word of this reached Harold he would stand down, bow the knee to William and beg pardon and there would be no war, save perhaps with the Viking who would surely be easy to see off with the might of Saxons and Normans and God combined.
‘Praise the Lord,’ she said, looking round the room as men and women cheered and clapped and cried praise with her. ‘We must order masses all across Normandy, Husband. We must send word to all our monasteries to pray for us, and coin too to furnish their altars to God’s honour. We must . . .’ She dried up for he was looking at her strangely. ‘Must we not?’
‘Yes, Mathilda, absolutely we must and more, I think, besides.’
‘More?’ He took her hands. She glanced around awkwardly and tried to pull away but his grip was too tight. ‘What is it, William? What do you plan?’
‘We must do something, Mathilda, to show our personal commitment to this holy war.’
‘Personal?’
‘I wish, my sweet, to give Cecily to God in sacrifice.’
Mathilda felt faint. She saw William the tarman, lifting a dagger to her precious daughter’s heart.
‘No, William, not Cecily. She cannot die. She . . .’
‘Die? Mathilda – what do you think I am, a barbarian? I thought we had talked of this?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. I was just confused.’
‘I mean, Mathilda, that Cecily should be sworn to the nuns as a novice. At La Trinité, I thought? It is your own foundation, so fitting, and of course you will often have reason to visit . . .’
Mathilda stared at her husband. He was right but Cecily was her brightest, most affectionate, sweetest daughter.
‘Sacrifice?’ she repeated, recalling William dismissing her suggestion of sending Adela into the church. ‘It would be little sacrifice, Wife,’ he had said then and he’d been right, but this would. ‘Why not Rufus?’ she demanded. ‘He could be a monk.’
William just looked at her and she saw the foolishness of the suggestion in a moment. Rufus would be driven insane by the quiet of monastic life but clever Cecily loved learning. She might enjoy the cloister, even flourish there and, after all, Mathilda would have Maud and Constance still at home with her.
‘I would visit often?’ she whispered, fighting tears.
‘Very often, my Mora.’
She swallowed. It was a sacrifice indeed, yet every man in Normandy was preparing to invade a foreign country to fight for her. Cecelia and Emeline were bracing themselves to sail at her side. The Pope had put his name to this, and the mercenaries had signed their swords to it and the nobles had provided untold ships and men and horses and all for her. She may have been bred to be a queen but thousands would have to risk all to make her so. She owed something in return.
‘So be it,’ she said, though her heart tore at the words.
William drew her close.
‘God will care for her, Mathilda, as He will care for us all.’
She prayed he was right but surely, in England, in Norway, even in Flanders, others were looking to God for protection and, in the end, He could only bless one of them. Who could say which it would be?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Bruges, May 1066
Judith balled her hands into fists, scrunching them furiously into the soft fabric of her best gown. It would make nasty damp creases in the wool but she didn’t care. Count Baldwin was calling this ‘her day’ but he had taken that from her at Easter when he’d snatched her last gospel book away.
She looked at it now, set upon the altar of St Donatian’s church with the other three, a supposedly perfect set. Only she, in this whole octagonal nave full of her half-brother’s sycophants, knew how imperfect it was. Three and a half books had been worked with care and love by Judith and the last half had been completed by a paid artist with little concern save for his fee.
That’s not kind, Judith berated herself. She had met the artist, a neat monk of about her own age who had praised the project and told her the book would be an honour to complete. He’d even praised the artist who had gone before him, believing it to be a Saxon monk left behind when Judith had fled. Little did he know that the artist had not been left in England; only her dreams.
‘Such fine work, Lady Judith,’ an elderly woman said now, fluttering up at her side. ‘You must be very proud of your commission. It honours God greatly.’
Judith smiled tightly. The books did honour God and surely that was more important than the trifling matter of who had daubed the ink onto the pages. She should stop being so self-seeking.
‘I am glad you like them, Lady Agnes,’ she said smoothly.
‘Oh, they’re beautiful. Is England full of such talent?’
Less full than it was, Judith longed to say but she dared not. She was here by her brother’s kindness and she could not betray that, not even with truth.
‘They have many excellent scriptoriums,’ she said instead.
‘And many rich churches and lords to make use of them, I believe?’
‘Some,’ Judith confirmed tightly.
People were always trying to talk to her of England. At first she’d thought it was kind of them to be so interested but then she’d learned where the conversation always led – ‘And William prepares to invade, does he not, to claim his right to the throne? And Mathilda with him – your sister?’
‘Cousin,’ she’d correct them, not out of spite to Mathilda – she was done with that now – but simply to confuse them and offer a chance of escape.
‘You must be sorry to have left,’ Lady Agnes probed unsubtly. ‘You hope to return?’
‘I know not. We must see what God sends for me.’
‘Or what your husband wins?’
Judith’s smile strained at the edges and with a nod that might have been agreement, she moved away. She doubted Torr would win her anything, though he had thrown his lot in with the infamous Harald Hardrada, so who knew? He had no connection whatsoever to the King of Norway and she’d heard the man was a mighty warrior and a fine ruler, so what he wanted with Torr she had no idea.
‘He needs me to show him around England,’ he’d told her defensively when he’d returned to Flanders, prancing around in his Viking furs and boasting about his fearsome new ally.
‘You told him you could do that?’ Judith had asked, unable to hide her scorn, for Torr had regularly got lost in Durham, a peninsula city of few streets in which their residence, alongside the soaring spires of the White Church, could be seen from every one.
‘I have men to do that, Judith. A leader leads.’
‘Right. Did you tell him that you know the northern lords too?’
‘I do.’
‘And that you’d bring them to his cause?’
‘Some were loyal to me – the older ones. It was the upstarts looking for a way into power who broke me.’
‘And these “upstarts”, having found their power, will welcome you back with your Viking friend, will they?’
‘The men of the north are very close to their Norse neighbours, Judith, as well you know.’
He’d had her there. The people of Northumbria were very close to their Norse heritage. There was much trade across the Northern Seas and many men had Scandinavian wives and bore Scandinavian names. They might welcome Harald Hardrada as they had once welcomed King Cnut and if he won with Torr at his side then Judith might be summoned back to a court ruled by a Norwegian king and a Rus queen. She didn’t want that but neither did she want to stay in St Omer – not since the dread day that Count Baldwin had paid her a surprise visit and found her at her painting frame.
Oh, he had been angry. He’d kicked the frame away, sending her scrabbling after it like a peasant after coins.
‘Is this what you’ve been doing in England, Sister?’ he’d spat, as if she’d been whoring herself in the streets.
‘It is to God’s glory,’ she’d defended herself, clutching the parchment to her chest.
‘It is to your own vanity, Judith.’
That had hurt.
‘How can it be vanity in me and not in a monk?’
‘Because you are a woman.’ There’d been no sense to it, no logic, but also no way of making Baldwin see that. ‘Give it to me,’ he’d demanded.
‘No.’
‘Give it to me, Judith, or I will rip it from you.’
He would have done, she’d seen it in his eyes. He would have ripped it from her and quite possibly ripped it to pieces besides. She’d had to give it up, for its own safety, but if doing so had saved her precious pages, it had ripped out her heart and she’d wept like a child for days.
‘See,’ Baldwin had yelled, jabbing the book at her. ‘See how it has possessed you? It’s not natural, Judith, not right. Thank the Lord I caught this in time to save you.’
Then he’d marched off, thrusting her precious manuscript at a soldier – a mere soldier – and sending more to hunt the castle for the rest. He had been gone before nightfall, all four books in his saddlebags, and she had been left more alone than she’d felt since first arriving in England.
The only blessing had been that Baldwin had seen the value of the gospel books once back in Bruges, possibly under the influence of the ageing but still formidable Adela, and had them safely stored. He had commissioned the artist to complete the last one and even invited Judith to meet him. She had gone, because she couldn’t bear not to, but it had been painful and when Torr had come back to beg ships from Count Baldwin she’d pleaded with him to demand her book back as well.
‘Book?’ he’d said, squinting at her.
‘My gospel book, Torr – the last one in the set.’
‘Oh. Why has Baldwin got it?’
‘He’s given it to an artist – a man.’
‘Why?’
For a moment this had given her hope but Torr’s tolerance of her art had always been more out of lack of interest than support and so it had proved this time. She’d explained Baldwin’s unreasonable opposition to her work and he’d patted her hand but only said, ‘I can’t afford to anger your brother, Judith, not when I need his ships so badly. It can wait, surely? And when Hardrada and I have the victory we will return to England and you can paint all the pictures you wish.’
It had been a kindness of sorts, she supposed, but he hadn’t understood. For ten years she’d worked on this set and she’d so wanted to complete it. She moved towards the altar now, gazing on the books and trying to love them as she once had.
‘They are exquisite,’ a voice said at her shoulder, soft and low and rich with an echo of happiness she couldn’t quite place.
She looked back and a pair of warm brown eyes met hers.
‘Lord Wulf!’
Judith felt herself colour in delight to see the quiet pilgrim from Rome again.
‘You remember me? I’m so pleased, for you made a great impression upon me.’ She looked bashfully down and he hurried on. ‘I remember your book too. It was the third one, was it not? I remember the picture of the resurrection especially – such a fine piece, glowing with light as if Christ Himself was within it.’
Judith felt tears well dangerously; he truly did remember.
‘You are too kind,’ she managed.
‘No, you are too modest.’
‘But it is not me who . . .’
‘Must we pretend, Judith?’
She’d wondered if he had guessed when he had quizzed her closely on the designs in Rome but they had not spoken of it openly. Now, looking around the church full of empty-headed courtiers, a flare of anger cut through her distress, making her bold.
‘Apparently we must, Lord Wulf.’
‘Count Baldwin is not, perhaps, as forward-looking as he would like to think?’ Judith spluttered, fighting to hold back not tears this time but laughter – glorious, delirious, dangerous laughter. She looked to Wulf and saw amusement in his lovely eyes too, but something else – concern? ‘We have fine artists in Germany, you know, my lady,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Some are women.’
‘Truly?’
‘I would love to show you sometime if you were ever . . . free.’ He was looking at her intently now. She knew she should avert her gaze but could not pull away. ‘Your husband goes to war, I believe?’ She nodded dumbly. ‘That can be . . . hazardous. I don’t wish him ill but if anything were to happen to him might you, perhaps, look to me for protection?’
‘I . . . I have sons,’ Judith stuttered.
‘Fine boys. I have met them. Your youngest challenged me to swordplay this morning in the yard. They would, I am sure, be happy in Bavaria if their mother was. Do you think, Judith, that you could be happy in Bavaria?’
Now Judith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘I cannot, Lord Wulf, hope for my husband’s . . .’ She stopped, flustered. ‘But were I ever to be widowed . . .’ She looked around again. This felt so risky but she had taken precious few risks in her life, save for her books
, and maybe this warm, kind, generous man deserved one. ‘Were I ever to be widowed,’ she said more firmly, ‘I would be honoured to come to Bavaria.’
‘And happy?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, throwing caution to the sharp Flanders winds, ‘I think I would definitely be happy.’
‘Good. Very good.’ He smiled at her. ‘Shall we go and talk with your brother? I would like to praise the fine art on display, though the latter pages, I fear, are not quite as skilled as the rest. I would like to recommend that he sticks with the former artist for any future work – much more delicate and careful, do you not think?’
‘As a woman I could not presume to say,’ she said but felt laughter well inside her again and saw it mirrored in Wulf as she took his arm, as warm and steady as his gaze, and moved quietly forward at his side. Let Torr and Harold and Mathilda scrap for England; it mattered little to her now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Caen, June 1066
‘Mathilda? Mathilda, whatever is it? Whatever’s wrong?’ William rushed forward into their chamber and Mathilda scrubbed, too late, at her tears. ‘My dear one, my Mora, what’s happened?’
The pet name set her going again. Mora: it was the name she had given her ship. Only last week she had seen the letters carved, tall and bold, onto the side of the beautiful craft and painted with gold for all to see. It would mean little to most but William would see it and know that this ship was them, carrying them both forward to England. Only not now.
‘It’s all spoiled,’ she said, tugging at the bedcovers beneath her. ‘All my plans are all spoiled.’
‘Why? Mathilda, please, you’re frightening me.’
‘I am?’ She looked up at him and saw he was, indeed, pale with concern. She sighed. ‘I’m with child, William.’
‘But that’s wonderful. That’s . . . oh.’ He understood suddenly. ‘You cannot sail?’
‘I could. Why should I not? A ship is surely no less safe than a carriage?’
‘Unless there is a storm.’
‘We won’t sail in a storm.’
‘No. Absolutely right but, Mathilda, at sea storms can come up out of nowhere.’
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