The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  'Enter and be welcome,' Aubert said formally, and extended his hand in an ushering gesture.

  The armourer stepped forward, ill at ease, but dogged. 'Peace be on this house,' he responded with equal formality. His wife followed, her eyes modestly downcast.

  With a pleasant smile and welcoming words, Felice set about being a good hostess.

  Mistress Ailith remained aloof throughout the courses of the meal which Felice had so carefully planned. While the husband began to relax and genially respond to Aubert's conversation, devouring with relish the chicken broth with saffron dumplings, the coney ragout, tiny pickerel in ginger sauce, and apple comfits, his wife pushed her food around on her trencher as though it had come from one of the dubious cookshops attached to the city shambles. And yet, judging by her ample proportions, she must have a good appetite on other occasions.

  'I hope your hens are none the worse for their escape the other day?' Felice was driven to enquire by her exasperation.

  Her guest turned a deep shade of pink. 'My hens, no,' she said and looked down at her trencher. 'I'm sorry I cannot do your food justice. I know you have gone to a great deal of trouble.'

  Felice murmured a disclaimer. 'It does not matter; the men have enjoyed more than their fair share, and what is left can be used tomorrow.'

  'You must think me very rude and ungrateful.'

  Seeing the defensive colour in Ailith's cheeks and the rigid set of the full lips which should have held a natural, soft curve, Felice was moved to compassion. Having found an opening, she took full advantage. 'I think nothing of the sort,' she said untruthfully.

  Ailith sighed. 'If Goldwin had not dragged me to your door, I would not have come tonight. I still feel so embarrassed.'

  'Oh, but you mustn't!' Felice touched Ailith's arm. 'It could have happened to anyone. I think you managed the situation very bravely. I was going to come and tell you so earlier, but I was unsure of my welcome.'

  Ailith reddened again. 'Probably I would have run and hidden, I'm not brave at all,' she admitted and pushed her mauled trencher to one side. A spark of reluctant humour kindled in her eyes. 'Still, I found it easier than usual to neck three chickens for the pot.'

  Felice laughed. 'Then you are more accomplished than I. Last time I killed a chicken, it ran one way with its head on one side, and I ran the other, screaming, in front of my maids. You are not the only one to bear a cross of embarrassment!'

  Ailith smiled and Felice realised how attractive she actually was. Perhaps they could be friends after all. Admiring Ailith's garments, she asked her about the particular sewing techniques she had used.

  Ailith's response was hesitant at first, but she rapidly warmed to her theme, and soon the women were deeply involved in needle sizes and fabric weaves, stem stitch and couch work.

  Goldwin heard the warmth and confidence begin to flow back into his wife's voice, saw her hand raised in animated description of an embroidery style, and relaxed a notch. He found Aubert's company stimulating, and the food excellent beyond compare. It would have been a great pity to leave early because Ailith and Felice were not compatible. Part of the problem he knew was the incident with those dratted hens. Ailith's chagrin was still raw and she was very much on her dignity. At least now she appeared to be thawing into the true Ailith he knew and loved. He heard her laugh and saw the gleam of her teeth between the fresh, warm pink of her lips. His loins twisted pleasantly and he had to ask Aubert to repeat what he had just said.

  'I wondered how well you knew the Earl of Wessex?' Aubert refilled Goldwin's cup almost to the brim and poured considerably less into his own.

  'Not very. Ailith's brothers are members of his bodyguard and it's through them that I got the commission to make the armour.'

  'But you have met him?'

  'Of course. I had to take his measurements and check the fit.' Goldwin took a swallow of the wine. At first he had drunk it to be polite, much preferring ale, but the taste was insidious. No matter that its tang on his palate caused him to shudder, he found himself compelled to repeat the experience.

  'What is he like?'

  'Why?' Goldwin regarded Aubert curiously. 'Are you hoping to sell him some wine? He drinks it when he's around King Edward, but he drinks ale when he is with his own men.'

  'A man of expedience then,' Aubert said lightly, his mouth smiling, his eyes cool and watchful.

  'He inspires great loyalty. Ailith's brothers worship the ground he treads. All his men would die for him. And I doubt any man would stand up and die for King Edward.' Goldwin was aware through a growing haze of wine fumes that perhaps his tongue was running ahead of his mind.

  'So you think he will make a good king in the future?'

  'Better than anyone else.'

  'And he desires that for himself?'

  'Of course he does.' Goldwin narrowed his eyes. 'Why are you asking all these questions?'

  Aubert laughed and rubbed the side of his short, bulbous nose. 'I am seeking the lie of the land – finding the best place in the market from which to shout my wares. If I pushed you, I'm sorry. Once a merchant with an eye to a profit, always a merchant.'

  Goldwin grunted, somewhat mollified, and took another sip of the wine, rolling it round in his mouth, trying to pin down the fruity, acid taste. 'Your Norman Duke wants England's crown,' he said, deciding to turn the tables upon Aubert. 'Have you ever met or seen him?'

  Aubert looked slightly taken aback, but then he shrugged. 'Only the once. I have a good friend who breeds horses. I was visiting his stud when Duke William arrived to choose a war stallion.' The wine merchant nodded to himself at the memory. 'A huge fire-chestnut caught his eye. Late autumn it was, the blood-month, and I would have sworn that it was not breath but smoke that came from the beast's nostrils. It threw the Duke three times, but in the end he mastered it. Anything that defies him is either tamed or broken.'

  Goldwin thought about the axes which Aldred and Lyulph had asked him to carve. 'Breaking Earl Harold will not be the same as breaking a horse,' he said.

  Aubert inclined his head. 'Oh indeed not,' he acknowledged. 'I pray it will never come to such a conflict.' Tactfully he changed the subject. He told Goldwin more about his friend Rolf and the stud that had been built up from a small nucleus herd two generations ago, to a breeding stock of three stallions and sixty mares of the highest quality. 'My wife's chestnut is one of Rolf's – a gift before we left Normandy. I gave Rolf a tun of wine in thank you, but I would like to send him something else, something personal perhaps.'

  Before he knew it, before he could refuse, Goldwin had been inveigled into making a hunting knife for Aubert's friend. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what name he should carve on it, but the quantity of wine he had consumed was making speech difficult. And he could only manage slurred yeses and nos to Aubert's overtures.

  Indeed, after that, he had only the vaguest recollections of being aided to his feet; of Ailith's half-anxious, half-amused attentions as he was helped outside and to his own door; of fond farewells; then the blessed comfort of a goosedown mattress and sheepskin coverlet and the weight of Ailith settling beside him, the scent of her hair, her lips on his cheek.

  He woke late in the morning, not of his own volition, but because Ailith was shaking him vigorously and shouting in his ear. Head pounding, he parted gummy lids and fended her off with a growl of protest.

  'At last,' Ailith declared impatiently. 'I thought you'd never wake up!'

  The hammer beats of pain in Goldwin's skull sent spears of nausea jabbing into his gut. He started to sit up, then changed his mind and fell back against the pillows, his forearm bent across his eyes. 'Leave me alone,' he groaned.

  There was a brief silence, but he knew she had not gone away. He could feel her exasperated gaze hard upon him. 'Has the drink affected your ears too?' she asked. 'Don't you hear the bells?'

  Goldwin listened. Beyond the miasma in his head, the pounding continued, clear and relentless; toll, toll, toll. He lowered his arm
and looked at her.

  'King Edward is dead.' Ailith went to his clothing pole and found him a shirt, chausses and warm tunic. 'Earl Harold has been chosen as his successor and they are crowning him tomorrow.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Aldred told me. He's come to collect the hauberk and helm. I've given him bread and ale while he waits, but he's in a hurry.'

  Goldwin swallowed. His mouth tasted foul and his throat was parched. He began to dress, half-fearing and half-hoping that his head would fall off. Against the shutters he heard the spatter of rain.

  Ailith's eyes sparkled as she helped him with the laces and leather toggle fastenings that his fingers could not manage this morning. 'You are now the King's personal armourer, Goldwin, just think!'

  Goldwin managed a wan smile in response. Thinking, however, was beyond him for the moment. His skull was like the hollow cave of a bell with an enormous clapper striking from side to side. Or perhaps it was just the abbey bell in his ears, tolling the soul of King Edward to heaven, and hammering his own into the ground.

  CHAPTER 4

  BRIZE-SUR-RISLE,

  NORMANDY, JANUARY 1066

  Stinging sleet borne on a vicious cross wind hit Rolf de Brize as he stumbled down the wooden steps between the motte and bailey, and crossed the lower courtyard. The torch he carried did nothing to alleviate the pitch darkness of the January night for the flame guttered this way and that on the whim of the wind, sending acrid streamers of smoke into his face. He skirted the midden and the snapping lunge of the gatekeeper's mastiffs as they surged on their chains, and entered the stone stable block.

  A blood bay mare threshed on the floor of the first stall, and uttered small grunts of pain. Her hide was dark with sweat, her nostrils distended, and her eyes showed a white ring of fear.

  Tancred de Fauville, his overseer, was kneeling in the straw at the mare's head. 'I thought it best to summon you, my lord. She's having a bad time of it – been labouring four candle notches now and no sign of her delivering. I'd say there's a foot stuck.'

  Rolf extinguished his torch in a puddle outside the door, and as it spluttered out, crouched beside the horse. She had Arab blood in her veins and had cost him a small fortune at a horse fair in Paris two summers ago. Her first foal was now a leggy yearling and showing promise of excellence, but to recoup her value, he needed at least four out of her. That was why Tancred had sent for him. It was too great a responsibility to rest on his overseer's shoulders.

  Rolf laid his hands upon the mare, stroking her cheeks, whispering in her ears. Beneath his soothing touch, she calmed a little and the white ring diminished around her liquid, dark eye. She had the heart and courage that would breed greatness into her offspring. Rolf knew that he could not afford to lose her.

  Still patting and soothing, he coaxed the mare to her feet. Her tail swished; a hind leg jerked up, hoof pointed, to strike at her distended belly.

  'Easy, lady, easy,' Rolf murmured, rubbing her soft, black muzzle. To Tancred he said, 'Has the water bag broken?'

  'Aye, my lord, just after midnight. She's been working hard ever since.'

  'Right, get a groom to help you hold her, and I'll take a look.'

  Rolf tethered the mare to a ring in the stable wall, and kindled another covered horn lantern to add to the one shining down from a ledge above the manger. The light flickered on his hair, revealing it to be as dark a red as the mare's hide and bearing a ripple of unruliness, a characteristic that frequently spilled over into his temperament.

  The mare stamped again and uttered a long groan as another fruitless contraction tightened her abdomen. Rolf watched her effort and decided that Tancred's prognosis was probably correct. The foal was lying in the wrong position and could not be born unless it was turned.

  Petting the horse, he persuaded her to stay on her feet, and when he was sure of her, he stripped off his tunic and shirt, revealing a wiry, muscular body.

  Tancred returned with the groom who bore ajar of grease and a rope.

  'Hold her,' Rolf instructed. 'Keep her as still as you can.' He slathered his left hand and arm in a thick coating of goose fat, then, muttering a prayer between his teeth, drew aside the mare's bandaged tail and eased his hand into her vulva. He probed gently in search of the obstruction. Compared to the winter cold of the stable, the mare's flesh was like a furnace. He hoped that the rope would not be necessary. If the foal had to be pulled from her body by force, rather than being naturally pushed out, there was the dangerous risk of its ribs being fractured by the pressure.

  His questing ringers encountered a small bump. Careful investigation revealed a slippery little leg folded under at the knee, and the other leg caught beneath it at an awkward angle, effectively forming a barrier. The foal could not be born without his intervention, but the problem was relatively simple to correct. He waited until the next contraction had shuddered away, and then quickly pushing and manipulating, straightened out the bent leg, taking great care that the tiny hoof did not scrape the side of the birth passage. With the next squeezing contraction, he drew the freed leg forward. The mare grunted and tossed her head, obviously in great discomfort. Tancred and the groom struggled to hold her. Rolf murmured soothing words, patting her rump with his free hand. When the contraction eased, he grasped the second leg and tugged it into position.

  'All right, let her go,' he commanded, and retreated, his arm slick with bloody grease and birth fluid.

  Free of restraint, the mare folded onto her side and within moments had pushed out the foal's forelegs and head. Rolf dropped to his knees and helped her deliver the rest of her baby. Working quickly, he stripped the birth membrane from the foal's face and body, and cleaned out its mouth and nostrils so that it could breathe.

  'A colt,' he announced with pleasure to Tancred and the groom.

  'There's no mistaking old Orage's blood,' Tancred grinned, as relieved and delighted as his lord. 'Look, he's even got the same star marking between his eyes.'

  Orage, the foal's sire, was Rolf's prize stud, a striking golden-chestnut stallion of stamina, mettle and intelligence. Almost every foal born to his siring was chestnut, and this trait had become an identifying mark of the stud at Brize-sur-Risle.

  Already, despite the difficult birth, the foal was struggling to coordinate his spindly legs and rise. His mother swung her head towards him and uttered a low, encouraging nicker. Rolf gathered the damp baby in his arms and placed him under the mare. She snuffled at her foal, drinking in his scent, and then began to lick him vigorously with a muscular pink tongue.

  Rolf swilled his arm, donned his shirt and tunic, and stayed to watch the foal take his first drink from the mare's dripping udders. Satisfied that all was well, he left mother and son to Tancred, and returned to the keep.

  At the top of the wooden stairs bridging the slope between the castle mound and the lower courtyard, he paused to watch the dawn break over the lands of Brize-sur-Risle. Veiled in sleety rain, they yielded a vista of dull greenery to his eyes. He could see the thatched roofs of the village and the grey stone curves of the church where his father was entombed. Full of sluggish power, the iron ribbon of the river Risle flowed away from him towards the port of Honfleur. Staring at the water, he felt a sudden stab of poignant longing that possessed neither rhyme nor reason. This was his home, his inheritance. Why was it not enough? Or perhaps the pull of the river was stronger than the pull of the land to the fierce Viking blood in his veins. The icy air was cauterising his lungs. He stared for a moment longer, then, shaking his head like a man shaking off a dream, went inside his keep.

  Berthe, the wet nurse, was suckling his infant daughter before the fire in the great hall. As Rolf came to warm himself, the woman lifted the baby off her breast, shrugged up one shoulder of her gown, and yanked down the other side. Rolf stared, mesmerised by the enormous blue-veined globe, the wide areola and fat brown nipple. His daughter bobbed her head frantically from side to side, found what she sought, and attached herself with a s
ingle, voracious gulp.

  Berthe looked up at Rolf with sly, knowing eyes. He remembered her heaving, hot body beneath his in the straw, her enormous breasts slippery with leaked milk and sweat, the tight sucking of her lower mouth. His loins coagulated and his stomach jerked. It was too early in the morning to be contemplating such images.

  Avoiding her avid gaze, he prowled to his chair at the high table and directed a servant to bring him bread and wine to break his fast. His steward approached with a query, and then the priest, Father Hoel, wanted to ask a favour. Rolf dealt summarily with both, impatience crawling through his bones. The servant returned with a dish of hot, new bread, a crock of honey, and a jug of watered red wine.

  'How's the mare?'

  Rolf sucked honey off his thumb and glanced at his wife as she took her place beside him. She was as pale as a moth, as elegant and insipid. Two long, thin braids of silver-brown hair fell over her flat bosom to her narrow hips. Her face was smooth, her features pretty, falling just short of beauty. Her eyes were a striking clear grey with a darker, smoky rim between iris and white.

  'Well enough. The foal's forelegs were stuck, but once they were free, she delivered without a problem — a fine colt; should fetch a good price if I decide to sell him.'

  She broke a morsel from the loaf in front of Rolf and nibbled at it. 'You might keep him, you mean?'

  'One day I will need to replace Orage. I have to look at every colt born and assess whether this is the one.' He watched her toy with the food. Their suckling daughter was almost five months old now, but it had taken Arlette all that time to recover from the birth. She never carried well. Before Gisele, there had been three miscarriages and one stillbirth. In Rolf's opinion, she did not take enough care of herself, scarcely eating enough to sustain a sparrow. Small wonder that she had been unable to feed the infant and they had had to employ a wet nurse. He often entertained the disloyal thought that if she were a brood mare, he would have disposed of her long since despite her illustrious bloodline. But she was a superb chatelaine, possessed of formidable domestic skills. Tidiness and industry were the codes by which Arlette ruled her world. The hall was well ordered, food was never burned or undercooked; his clothes were kept clean and in a good state of repair. If she had been more fruitful and of a less prim nature, he would have had no complaints. As it was, he tolerated his lot, but without any gut-sparking surges of love or joy.