‘And you’d know that, would you? How often have you been to sea, William?’
‘Once, as you well know – once to England in 1051.’
The memory silenced them both. Mathilda pleated her skirts forlornly. She didn’t need William to tell her the risks or to remind her of the import of this mission. She knew it all but it made it no easier to accept. Over three years she had gone without a child and she’d thought that perhaps her time was done but now, when it mattered most, God had tied her firmly to Normandy by her womb.
‘It’s not fair.’
His arms went around her.
‘We have our roles, my sweet.’
‘But must we be constrained by them? I wanted to sail with you, William. I wanted to be there for your victory.’
‘And I wanted you there too. I want you crowned at my side, Mathilda, but I can wait. Your safety is the most important thing.’
‘Mine?! What of yours, William – you are the one riding to battle.’
‘Beneath God’s holy banner and with half the mercenaries of Christendom at my back. I will not die, I promise you.’
‘I might.’ It came out small, squeaky.
‘Mathilda?’ William was puzzled, as well he might be. ‘What’s this? It’s not like you, my love, to worry so. You give birth as easily as I defeat rebels.’
‘But I am old, William.’
‘Nonsense. You are every bit as trim and pretty as you were the first day I saw you.’
‘The day you swept me onto your horse?’
‘And nearly dropped you in the process. What was I thinking?’
‘You were, I believe, trying to impress me.’
‘And have been trying ever since.’
‘And succeeding. I’m so proud of you, William, and I so wanted to be there.’ Her voice rose, petulant again. ‘I even had a cabin and . . .’
She caught herself, horrified.
‘A cabin? Where, Mathilda? What do you mean?’
She put her head in her hands. Months of secrecy blown in one slip of the tongue. It was the babe; it fuzzed her brain and made her foolish.
‘You had better come with me,’ she said wearily.
They rode out together, Mathilda side-saddle for the babe and grumbling about it all the way up the riverside to the boatbuilder’s shed. But there, at last, excitement swallowed up her bad temper and she glanced to William who was staring wide-eyed at the great doors before them.
‘What have you been up to, Wife?’
‘Come and see,’ she said coyly and rapped three times at the door.
There was a scuffle within, a rattle of locks, and the head boatman’s weather-beaten face peered anxiously out of a tiny crack in the doors.
‘My lady?! And, and my lord duke. What an honour. But you shouldn’t . . . That’s to say, I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘No,’ Mathilda agreed. ‘This wasn’t planned but we are here now. May we see her?’
‘Her?’ William asked.
‘No more questions,’ Mathilda told him. ‘You will see soon enough.’ William subsided obediently and the boatman stared, astonished. ‘May we see her?’ Mathilda prompted and he jumped.
‘Of course, my lady, of course. Would you wait a little and I can have all the window-drapes drawn back to let in more light. We are just working at the stern today.’
‘Stern?’ William said as Mathilda nodded at the man and he scuttled away. She smiled at him.
‘I have not ordered you a horse, William.’
‘A sea horse perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’ A great clatter arose from within as the drapes were pulled and the workshop, no doubt, hastily tided. ‘Ah, here we go.’
Two young lads came out and grabbed at the doors, thrusting all their weight behind them to fling them back with as much drama as they could muster. It was not quite the public unveiling Mathilda had imagined, all trumpets and cheer, but suddenly it felt so much better.
The morning sun was still low and cut into the shed from the east side in shafts of light that caught on the silver trims and lit up the reds and blues of the child figurehead and the bold gold of the name – Mora – on the prow before them. The Viking-style ship looked almost mystical, like a modern-day dragon ready to be released, and when Mathilda slid her gaze to her husband she saw he was indeed staring up at his gift with all the wonder of a man facing a legend.
‘I thought,’ she said, suddenly shy, ‘that you should have a craft worthy of you.’
He looked at her, tears shining in his eyes.
‘Worthy of me?’
‘Absolutely. Now, come and see.’
She took his hand and tugged him forward, taking him round every detail: the silver oar-holes set into the top strake; the fine oars, made to the latest design to cut the waves most efficiently; the solid rowing benches, their lids sealed with wax so the men could stow their weapons with no fear of the salt water eating into their edges. She showed him the figurehead with no need to explain its significance for he saw it right away. She showed him the name and he showered her in kisses as the boatmen nudged and chortled from the shadows and finally she showed him the cabin – a fine structure towards one end of the open boat, containing little more than a bed, not grand but elegantly carved and just big enough for two.
‘Oh, Mathilda,’ William said as she ushered him inside. ‘It’s perfect.’
‘And look,’ she said, pointing to the floor, painted with squares.
‘Our very own tafel board!’
‘With a king at the centre, William.’
‘And a queen.’
‘Not now.’ She pouted. ‘Now you will be in it alone – or with Fitz.’
William chuckled.
‘I pray not. Fitz snores far worse than you.’
‘I do not snore at all.’
‘You do a little, my Mora, especially when you are . . .’ He looked to her belly and stopped himself.
‘When I am fat as a barncat in spring?’
‘Gorgeously rounded with little princes and princesses,’ he corrected, grabbing her. ‘But come, it would be a shame to let this cabin go to waste, would it not, now that we are here?’
‘William!’
‘We must christen the Mora, my Mora – we must play our tafel game.’
‘The babe . . .’
‘Is in there now. Come,’ he kissed her neck, ‘I want to show you my appreciation . . .’ He untied her laces and loosened them, moving his lips lower . . . ‘for this magnificent gift.’
Mathilda squirmed but more in pleasure than embarrassment.
‘This,’ she protested weakly as her gown fell to the floor of the tiny cabin, ‘is why I am forever with child.’
‘And why I am the happiest, luckiest man in the world. Now hush . . .’
They emerged a little later, flushed and, despite Mathilda’s best efforts in the tiny copper mirror on the wall, dishevelled. The boatmen grinned knowingly and William tossed them a bag of coins, making them grin even wider.
‘Outstanding workmanship,’ he said. ‘She is stunning and will lead us to England in true style.’
They bowed so low that their noses almost touched the sawdust at their feet as William led Mathilda back out into the sunshine.
‘Ever, Wife, you surprise me,’ he said as he helped her into the saddle.
‘I’m glad.’
‘And I wish you could be in the cabin with me when we sail but you would, you know, rather distract me.’
‘Nothing distracts you if you do not wish it to, William.’
‘Ah, but with you I would wish it. But seriously, my love, although this may be my loss, it could be Normandy’s gain.’
‘In what way?’
‘I need you to keep the reins of government tight here.’
‘As I always do, with La Barbe at my side.’
‘La Barbe is sailing with us.’
‘Of course. Well, with Della then.’
‘And perhaps Robert?’
‘Robert? W
illiam, what are you thinking?’
But at that he just smiled and kicked his horse into a canter.
‘You will see, my Mora,’ he called back over his shoulder as he went. ‘You will see soon. You are not the only one who can do surprises.’
A month later, they gathered at Bonneville, as they had done two years ago to hear Harold of Wessex swear the oath he had never meant to keep. Mathilda was tired, for she and William had been on progress all around the duchy, urging all men to valour. Everywhere they’d gone, even in the once-rebellious west, they had been cheered. Normandy was united at last in her support of William and in her excitement at the venture ahead.
The talk was all of England and men flocked to the papal banner wherever they went. Copies of the edict blessing those who took part in this holy war against the oathbreaker had been distributed to all the major churches throughout northern France and William’s vast army was growing every day. The men were mustering on the rich open plains either side of the mouth of the Dives river, north of Caen. William had ordered the Mora to be sailed in splendour up the river and it was now moored prominently in sight of the Narrow Sea, a glowing call to arms for the excited soldiers who arrived there daily.
La Barbe had been a busy man too. With Della as his self-proclaimed right-hand woman and his two boys as his runners, he controlled a vast team of officials stationed at Troarn to coordinate supplies into the growing camp and the removal of waste to keep bodies strong and spirits high. William had sworn not one farm would be ransacked to fund this mission and the chamberlain and his family were making good that promise with wagons travelling incessantly in and out of Dives. Decent prices were being paid for grain and game and every man not fit to fight, and many women besides, were keeping food supplies topped up. In return, in addition to their pay, they received mountains of manure from the fields of warhorses Hugh was gathering further up the coast at Fécamp.
There had been concern about how to load the new horse ships. The horses could hardly leap into the boats from the shallows as the men did. It might have been possible for one or two but far too risky for the three thousand horses needed for all the knights of Normandy and beyond. In Italy, Hugh had told William and Mathilda, they used the deepwater ports created from stone by the Romans as the horses could be led aboard directly from the walls at the waterline. For some time his engineers had puzzled over how to mimic this until Fulk had recalled a port seen when riding with William to rescue the oathbreaker from Ponthieu. St Valery, it emerged, still retained its neat Roman structure and was perfect for loading the horses.
A deal had been struck with William’s avaricious neighbour, Count Guy, and the problem was solved. The deal, Mathilda knew, revolved around land in England, as did many such deals William had brokered as 1066 had unfolded and she prayed there was land enough in England to honour them. For now, though, all was set fair and the lords and ladies of Normandy were in high spirits as William stepped up to address them from a dais, built in the open air before the palace of Bonneville so that the Narrow Sea might sparkle invitingly behind him as he spoke.
Mathilda looked around the company, letting William’s familiar words wash over her. She was sat on her seat of state with her children all around her and her eighth swelling lightly within her belly and she wished Count Baldwin could be here. He had sent messages of support as well as ships and men but personally he was keeping his distance. It was perhaps because of his brother-in-law, Torr, now lurking somewhere in the Northern Seas where he had reportedly sold himself into the service of Hardrada, but more likely because Count Baldwin had always excelled on the sidelines of political crises. He was not a man to plunge into anything and Mathilda felt a renewed swell of pride that William, although not as smooth-tongued or cultured as her father, was at least prepared to stand up for what he believed in and face opposition head on.
She smiled over at him as he spread his hands wide to a roar of appreciation from the crowd. He was getting good at speeches, she reflected, remembering his almost cut-throat use of pure fact when she had first known him. Suddenly, though, she realised he was speaking words she had not heard him speak before.
‘And that is why,’ he was saying, ‘it is my very great pleasure to formally designate my son Robert as heir to this great dukedom of Normandy.’
So this was William’s surprise. She looked to her son who did not seem as startled as her, but was stepping calmly forward, his hand on his sword and his head obediently bowed to his father and his people, already every inch the duke. He was up to William’s shoulders, she noticed as if through a mist, and his own were broadening nicely. He had more swagger than his father – a result of a youth spent in contentment, not fear – but he stood well and the appointment was met with eager cheers.
Had William’s been so greeted, she wondered, when, aged seven, his own father had presented his bastard to his nobles before he went off on pilgrimage? She doubted it and felt a swell of joy that William could do this for their son. It was a mark of how very far he had come and she prayed he was enjoying it. He seemed to be, for he was smiling widely.
‘Robert will rule Normandy in my stead whilst I am away securing England.’ Another roar. William put up a hand for silence. ‘But as he is yet young he needs guidance and as La Barbe sails with us . . .’ more cheers ‘ . . . I leave him ruled in his turn by the one person who holds Normandy as dear as I and who can keep her steady and strong until we return. I name as Normandy’s regent my wife, Duchess Mathilda.’
‘What?’ Mathilda stuttered indecorously but William was still speaking.
‘It has not been the usual custom in Normandy to name a woman but there are not many women in Normandy like my duchess – our duchess. I trust her absolutely to hold our homeland firm whilst we sail forth to claim more and ask that you do so too.’
There wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation. The roars of approval were deafening, the faces a blur of open mouths. Gradually the sound coalesced into a steady chant: ‘Mathilda, Mathilda, Mathilda!’ Mathilda felt Emeline prod her and rose, moving forward as if in a dream. She looked up at William and saw his grin, wide and delighted with himself, and all came back into focus.
‘This is your surprise, Husband?’
‘It is a good one, is it not? And well deserved, Mathilda, as the people clearly acknowledge. We have done this together, you and I, and we will keep doing it together and if England fails . . . If England fails, Wife, we will have Normandy still. She is our heartland and you, my Mora, are her heart. Take good care of her.’
‘I will,’ she promised, putting an arm around Robert, though she had to reach up to do so, and feeling William’s bigger, stronger arm enfold them both. ‘I will, William, and she will be here, secure, when you return.’
She looked out across the cheering crowd and then back to where the Narrow Sea, as intended, sparkled its promise. Praise God that the sun was shining, she thought, for the effect would not have been as dramatic in the rain. She remembered Fitz, way back at the start of their marriage, solemnly telling her that William had ‘the devil’s own share of luck’. It had proved true so far and now she could only pray that it would hold.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
St Valery, September 1066
The rain lashed across the camp, riding high on fierce onshore winds which tugged viciously at tents, blew out feeble fires, and pulled mercilessly at men’s spirits. William strode from one group to another, his beaver-fur cloak thrown back so he could suffer with his men and endless words of encouragement on his lips. Half-running behind him, though, Mathilda could see him glance endlessly to the fishermen’s weathercock atop the church of St Valery and knew how much this storm pained him.
All had been well at Dives. The weather had been fair, still warm though the days were shortening, and the mood had been high. Many had been eager to sail there and then but William had held them off, waiting for the end of the forty days of service that he knew the Saxon king could legally demand of his
subjects. The decision hadn’t been popular.
‘Why wait?’ Fitz had demanded, impatient as ever, but William had just put a calming hand on his arm and hushed him.
‘It is sensible, Fitz. Why throw our men into the jaws of a fully armed battle camp if we do not need to? Why waste lives and weapons and even our chance of victory just because we’re a bit bored? Come, this is how we have always succeeded, with information, cunning and patience. Think of this, my dear Fitz, as a siege. Just because we cannot see the enemy does not mean it is any less effective. Their corn will be rotting in their fields, their men fretting to be home, and the fighting season is almost done. They will believe we do not mean to attack this year.’
‘Why would they believe that?’
‘Because some of their spies are actually my spies,’ William had told him with a wink.
He’d been enjoying the game then, using the chosen delay to train up his disparate groups of soldiers into a combined force, confident in the knowledge that the moment Harold disbanded his troops he was ready to strike. And it had been a good plan – until the storm.
It had blown up as they were sailing out of the shelter of the Dives and into the open sea, flinging rain and spray against the sides of the boats as they struggled east, as close to the shore as they dared, towards their meeting point at St Valery. Boats had been lost, more than anyone dared admit to, and although most of the fleet had finally battled their way into the relative calm of the Somme’s mouth, Mathilda was sure that low tide all along that stretch of Normandy must reveal the skeletons of lost craft to the locals – hardly an inspiring omen for invasion.
She shivered and slunk lower into her own cloak, feeling no need for any show of defiance. Her boots were more mud than leather, her hair, rust-red, hung like rat’s tails beneath her limp headdress, and every one of her gowns was sodden. The smell of wet wool hung permanently in the air, fusty and foul, and those lucky enough to have beds found them nearly as soggy as the earth. It was almost impossible to keep the grain dry so it was rotting before it could be ground and La Barbe’s troop of waste-removers could hardly tell dung from mud in the swampy fields. Nothing, it seemed, was clear or dry or wholesome and the men were muttering louder and louder with each drear day.
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