The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Ailith had watched Rolf and Tancred drinking together, had seen their camaraderie and the way each man reacted upon the other until they degenerated into silly little boys. She had also heard them discussing horses and bloodlines in the yard with a fluid expertise that left her a baffled outsider.

  'If it is important to you, I will do my best,' she said.

  He eyed her thoughtfully. 'Fetch your cloak,' he said suddenly. 'I want to see how good a rider you are these days.'

  Ailith shook her head. Since arriving at Ulverton, she had been coaxed by Rolf into learning how to ride on her own instead of going pillion behind him or a groom, or taking a seat in the baggage wain, but she knew herself an indifferent horsewoman. 'I haven't the time,' she excused lamely.

  'Then make it.'

  Before she knew what was happening, Ailith found herself down in the lower courtyard outside the stables. A groom led out a small chestnut mare with sharply pricked ears, a bright eye, and a high-stepping action.

  'She won't be mated until the spring.' Rolf gave Ailith a gentle push in the mare's direction. 'She is yours until then.'

  Ailith swallowed, not at all sure that she desired such a splendid gift.

  'Do not you dare to say that she is beyond your station or moralise on what people will think of you,' Rolf forestalled her protest. 'You will not shame me before everyone here by refusing.'

  Ailith smiled nervously. 'I fear that I will shame myself. 'How will I stay in the saddle when I am only accustomed to the plodding paces of that old brown cob?'

  'You'll learn between here and London,' he said cheerfully, and cupping his hands for her foot, boosted her into the saddle. The young mare shied and almost unseated Ailith. She clung grimly to the reins, gripped with her thighs, and after a few fraught moments, managed to bring the horse under control. She glared at Rolf. He just grinned.

  'You will never see anything but the ground unless you lift your eyes to the horizon,' he told her. 'Live a little, Ailith, cast yourself into the wind.'

  Ailith drew in the reins as tight as she could. 'At the moment,' she retorted, 'I am more concerned with not casting myself beneath the hooves of this horse.'

  CHAPTER 23

  Whistling to himself, Rolf came in from the cold and sat down at the fire beside Aubert. The wine merchant was recovering from an attack of winter ague, and although over the worst, was cosseting himself before his hearth, using his blocked nose as an excuse to drink hot, cinnamon-flavoured wine.

  Rolf rubbed his hands and held them out to the flames. 'Tell me I am mad,' he said.

  'You do not need me to tell you that!' Aubert snorted. 'What have you done? Wagered your fortune on the throw of a single dice? Courted another man's wife beneath his very nose?'

  Rolf laughed. 'Neither of those, although they were both possibilities. No, I'm going north next week with Robert de Comminges. The King has granted him the lordship of Durham — it's a city close to the Scots border.'

  'Ah, your incurable wanderlust.' Aubert looked at him sidelong. 'I did not know Robert de Comminges was a friend of yours.'

  'He isn't, but he pays well for his horses. I've seen nothing of England north of the Trent, but I have heard that they breed fine, sturdy ponies in the north parts of the old Danelaw.'

  'You intend breeding ponies?' Aubert lifted a curious brow.

  'There are plenty of buyers for good sumpter beasts. Think of all the English wool that has to be carried to the ports for shipping to Flanders.'

  Aubert nodded at the sense of the statement and stroked his bristly jaw. 'You talk like a merchant,' he said dryly.

  'I am, although not as adept as you if what I hear of your business ventures is true.'

  Aubert shrugged modestly. 'I invest in vessels and cargoes, and thus far, they've all had the good fortune to return me a profit,'

  'A handsome profit. I understand you've invested in property too.'

  'Here and there, mere dabblings to provide security. I want to leave Benedict well provided for when it comes his turn to inherit.'

  Rolf doubted the veracity of Aubert's claim to 'mere dabblings', for that was not Aubert's way. He suspected that his friend's ventures were making him a very rich man. Before he could decide how to fish further, however, the door was flung open and Felice and Ailith bustled into the room, their arms loaded with Chepeside purchases.

  Felice looked as beautiful as always, her cheeks rosy-bright, her dark eyes sparkling, but it was Ailith who held Rolf's eye – and tugged at his heartstrings. The alchemy of laughter transformed her entire face and made of it a bewitching new territory that he longed to explore with a wanderlust almost as powerful as that which drew him towards the north.

  'You know,' murmured Aubert, 'Felice and I were deeply concerned when you took Ailith to Ulverton, but I can see now that we were wrong. Ailith needed to break away from the life she was leading with us, and from what I have seen and heard, she is very happy in her new position. I misjudged you, Rolf.'

  Rolf slowly shook his head. 'You did not misjudge me at all,' he said softly, watching Ailith as she removed her cloak and hung it on a wall peg. 'Sometimes I am hard pressed not to fling her down on the nearest mattress and fill her to the hilt. The only thing that prevents me is the thought of what would happen afterwards, and I am coming closer and closer to saying be damned to the consequences.'

  'So that is why you are going north — because you cannot scratch your itch?'

  Rolf pursed his lips to consider. 'No,' he said after a moment. 'Whether I had bedded her or not, I would still take the road to Durham.'

  Aubert grunted. 'Then you are not as much in thrall as your body thinks.'

  'And there are bound to be willing women along the way,' Rolf added with a self-mocking grin. He rose and stretched, his glance meeting Ailith's across the room. Benedict in her arms, she smiled and hastened over to him.

  'Have you spent all my money?' he teased.

  'Do not judge me by your own standards,' she retorted smartly. 'I have brought you home a full bag of silver.'

  'Hah, then what did you buy?'

  'Linen for shirts and shifts, needles and threads and herbs. A loaf of sugar.' She ticked off the items on her fingers while Benedict rested in the crook of her arm and grinned at Rolf as if he was party to a great jest. 'Some pottery cups for the high table. They stack one inside the other, according to size, so they'll be easier to store than the ones we've already got. I bought myself a new belt since my old one is almost worn through, and two dozen weaving tablets. Oh, and this.' She gave him Benedict to hold and delved into the pouch at her waist. 'For you,' she said, reddening a little as she presented him with a silver cloak brooch in the shape of a six-legged horse.

  'It is bought with my own coin from the sale of Goldwin's forge. It is to thank you for all you have done for me, and to bring you good fortune. I know you set score by your talismans.'

  Rolf looked at the token in his palm – Sleipnir, the legendary mount of Odin the all-father. He was touched and proud. He also felt more than a little unworthy. Stooping slightly, he kissed her cold cheek. 'It is more than I deserve,' he said.

  Felice joined them, taking Benedict from Rolf's arms. 'Is it not pretty?' she asked, nodding at the brooch. 'The moment Ailith set eyes on it, she was determined to buy it for you.'

  Pretty was not the word Rolf would have used to describe the stark, spartan lines of the clasp, but he nodded all the same.

  'While we were discussing the price with the silversmith, we saw Wulfstan and his new wife,' Felice added.

  'His new wife?' Rolf looked up in surprise. He touched his throat, remembering Wulfstan's fist squeezing there and the spittle of rage on the Saxon's beard. 'He recovered from his disappointment soon enough.'

  'The damage was to his pride, not his heart,' Felice said darkly and wagged a salutary forefinger. 'Do not think he has forgiven and forgotten? He hasn't spoken to us since you took Ailith to Ulverton.'

  'Small loss,' Aubert grunted f
rom his seat by the fire.

  'And you say he's married now?' Rolf asked.

  'In the autumn to the daughter of another goldsmith. Wulfstan must have got her with child on their wedding night because she is showing as round as a barrel and he is at pains that everyone should see the results of his prowess.'

  Rolf pinched his upper lip between forefinger and thumb. 'Did he speak to you?'

  'He didn't see us,' Ailith said quickly. 'We hid our faces until he had passed. I felt sorry for his poor wife. She was dressed in so much finery that it was weighing her down, and I could tell that she was longing to be sick. When I think that it could have been me…" A little shiver ran through her.

  'But it isn't,' Rolf soothed. 'You are safe forever from such as he.'

  Aubert spoke up, trying to dispel the sombre atmosphere that had suddenly settled, 'Out of the frying pan and into the fire, I would say.'

  Ailith reddened and excused herself to the safe stowing of her purchases. She heard Rolf say something reproachful to Aubert, although she did not catch the words, and then Aubert's hearty laugh, which terminated in a bout of coughing.

  Moments later, Rolf joined her in the corner of the hall where her pallet and belongings lay. 'I'm going north for a few months,' he announced.

  'North?' Ailith stopped what she was doing and stared at him. 'Where?'

  'To Durham with Robert de Comminges. He's been appointed earl in Gospatric's place. I have heard that there are good sumpter ponies to be bought in Mercia and Northumbria.'

  She was gripped by a cold feeling of dismay, 'The north has not been tamed. My brothers used to say that the peoples beyond the Humber saw King Harold as a foreigner. They look to the Norse for their succour. Their language and their ways are different.'

  'I know,' he said without concern. 'My own family were once Vikings. I am told that my great-grandfather was as fluent in Norse as he was in French.'

  She shook her head. 'You will be putting yourself in great danger.'

  'No more than I ever did by joining the English expedition in the first place.'

  Her lips tightened. She turned away and began folding the yards of bought linen into a coffer. 'You have responsibilities that you take as lightly as your care for your own life,' she said without looking round.

  Rolf snorted. 'I know my responsibilities. Christ, you sound like my wife!'

  'Then follow your whim up the great north road,' she retorted stiffly, 'and pray that your gains outweigh your losses.'

  'What is that supposed to mean?' He grasped her arm and dragged her round to face him.

  Ailith shook him off. 'You fool. Do you never stop to think that the green on the other side of the hill might be nothing but a quagmire?' She glared at him, banged down the coffer lid, and stalked away.

  Rolf had not bargained for such a hostile response. Several emotions assaulted him at once. He was angry at the manner in which she had spoken to him, and that in turn made him all the more determined to travel north. He had wanted to take her in his arms and brutally cover that furious mouth with a kiss. Lust, frustration, the need to possess. Most unsettling of all, as he stood staring at the coffer and the empty pallet, a treacherous thread of reason told him that he should heed her opinion and bide here in the south.

  A sharp pain in his clenched fist caused him to look down and see that the pin on the silver cloak clasp had come unfastened and stabbed his palm.

  CHAPTER 24

  North of York, two days' ride from Durham, Rolf took his leave of the Norman army and its arrogant commander Robert de Comminges. Partly this was because Rolf desired to investigate the types of horses and ponies that these northern climes bred, but the other part of the decision was caused by Rolf's irritation at the attitude of his fellow Normans.

  They treated the lands through which they rode as conquered territory, not asking, but taking what they wanted with a rough hand. Any who made complaint or resisted found themselves looking down the blood gutter of a war sword. In their wake, de Comminges' army of mercenaries left a smouldering resentment, and the further north they rode, the brighter grew the embers and the less cowed became the people. Here, the majority of the local lords were still of the native Anglo—Danish blood. They owed their allegiance to the English earls Edwin and Morcar, and to Waltheof, son of the great Siward of Northumbria. These powerful English lords might have bent the knee to William of Normandy, but what they really wanted to do was spit in his face.

  'We have to show them with an iron fist that we are the masters,' Comminges said to Rolf. 'If they think for one moment that we are weak, they will be upon us like a pack of wolves.'

  Rolf grunted and tightened the cinch on his chestnut's girth. Dawn had broken a hole in the slate-coloured sky, and a half moon was lingering to greet it. 'I have no doubt you are right,' he replied, thinking of the dark scowls they had received along their way.

  'You should not be leaving us to ride alone.' Rolf raised his brows at de Comminges. The man had a florid complexion that was threaded with a hard drinker's broken veins. The upright stubble on his scalp, short-shaven at the back, gave him the look of a man who spent all his time in fights, most of them disreputable. But Robert de Comminges, for all his brutality and arrogance, was no mindless vandal. He had a brain when he chose to use it. 'You have your horses,' Rolf said to him, 'and I have my money. I doubt that Durham will be any safer than the villages round these parts.'

  'Yes, but there are more of us.'

  'And a greater native population in Durham,' Rolf pointed out. 'Do not worry about me. I can take care of myself.'

  De Comminges looked sceptical. 'There are bound to be refugees from Hastings up here.' He scowled. 'You'll be dead before you're even out of the saddle.'

  'The sword is a language that every man understands,' Rolf answered. 'But so is trade. Wherever one goes, so does the other.' Catching up the reins, he swung across the chestnut's back. 'I will see you in Durham town, within a seven day.'

  De Comminges snorted. 'I'd wager on that boast if I ever thought I'd see the colour of your coin.'

  'How much?'

  De Comminges pursed his thin lips and rubbed the back of his shaven neck. 'The price of a good warhorse.'

  'Agreed.' Rolf reached down from the saddle to seal their bargain with a handclasp. De Comminges had a meaty palm and solid, fleshy fingers. Even now, in the chill dank of a winter dawn, they were moist and slightly warm.

  Rolf's were cold. As he rode out of the Norman camp, he pulled on his sheepskin mittens. They were proof that, despite the difficulties, trade was possible with the natives of northern England. He had bargained for the mittens in York with a shepherd's wife. While she had made her contempt of all Normans obvious, she had not scorned his silver. It was in York too that he had learned of a horse-trader who might be willing to deal with him.

  The sounds from the Norman camp dwindled. Soon, when he looked over his shoulder, Rolf saw nothing but bare, black trees and the dull green and brown of a dormant winter countryside. The sky lightened to a uniform, dreary grey with a heavy border of darker cloud menacing the direction in which he and his men were heading. The road was well used, for tracks had been laid upon tracks, and picking out one particular set from the morass of trampled mud was impossible.

  They came to a wayside shrine, but it was not a Christian one. The rain-weathered features of the Norse god Odin glared out at them from an oak-wood effigy. At the feet of the crude representation, there were offerings of bread and mead. One of Rolf's men made the sign of the cross and muttered a Christian charm against the evil eye. Rolf, however, fingered the hammer of Thor at his throat and, dismounting, took a chunk of bread from his saddle bag and laid it beside the other offerings. He might believe in Christ, but he believed in the power of the old gods too, and if the people here were pagans, then he was quite willing to respect their ways.

  His groom looked at him askance.

  'For luck,' Rolf said, and smiled.

  'But, sir, it is
blasphemy!'

  Rolf twitched his shoulders, which were aching beneath the weight of his hauberk. 'One day the priests will come and set a cross in Odin's place. Do not tell me that there is only one door to heaven.'

  'But, sir…'

  Rolf held up his hand to silence the man, for he could hear the sound of a masculine voice raised in song on the track ahead of them. A moment later, a swineherd rounded the bend, driving perhaps a dozen pigs towards them. His large fawn hound saw Rolf's troop first and gave warning by darting towards the Normans, its black gums bared and savage growls rumbling from its throat. Rolf tightened his hand on the reins as the chestnut backed, coiling its haunches to shy. The swineherd saw the Normans and stopped. His eyes widened and he gripped his staff in both hands, holding it horizontally across his body.

  The pigs meandered from side to side of the track, snuffling and rooting, advancing unconcernedly on the horsemen.

  'Call off your dog,' Rolf said in Saxon, hoping that the man would understand. 'We come to trade, not to plunder. I seek Ulf the horse-dealer.'

  The swineherd swallowed, and his eyes darted over the rank of glittering mail and casually held spears, the slung shields. His dog snarled and made a rush at Rolf's horse. The stallion reared and whinnied. The dog avoided the pawing forehooves and nipped at the chestnut's hocks.

  Rolf strove to control his horse. Normally he would have slackened the rein and let the stallion kick the brute, either that or draw steel and strike it himself, but he was here to trade and he had only six men at his back.

  The swineherd turned and fled back down the track. Untended, his pigs strayed hither and yon. The dog, after a final sally, abandoned the fray and raced after its master.

  'For luck?' the groom muttered sarcastically under his breath, but not quietly enough, and Rolf glared at him.

  'How else do you expect to be greeted?' he snapped. 'With smiles and open arms?'

  'No, sir, I…'