Of the Ring of Earls (Conqueror Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  For himself, each day that might bring a meeting with Judith was bright enough; he was plunged deep into love for the first time and all that mattered at the moment was to be near her. She was generally with the Duchess’ ladies or with her mother and though he often exchanged a few words with her it was always in company. That she felt something for him he was sure, for every time she came into a room he noticed that her eyes first sought and found him.

  At night before he slept he would lie thinking of her and what it would be like to kiss her mouth, to hold her body in his arms. Jesu, but he wanted this girl as he had never wanted anyone or anything before! Waking or sleeping she filled his thoughts.

  He began to long to speak with her alone but the opportunity never seemed to hand until at last when Easter came and the whole court moved to Fécamp. Here there was a ducal palace built beside the monastery founded by Duke Richard the Fearless, and the abbey church was one of Normandy’s most beautiful buildings. Quarters were cramped and he found himself, with his attendants, allotted two small chambers of the gallery encircling the hall. He took the smaller room and called Thorkel to share the bed with him, leaving Hakon, Ulf and the rest to fight over the two small pallets in the outer one.

  Thorkel surveyed their apartment, almost filled as it was by the bed. ‘Considering the size of this great stone palace our lodgings would be better suited to a pair of rabbits.’

  The Earl laughed. ‘Give me our homely wooden halls for warmth and comfort.’

  Thorkel shot him a quick amused glance. ‘Nevertheless, my lord, I think you have found something here to make your stay acceptable.’

  Waltheof, who had been looking out of the narrow slit that served for a window, swung round surprised, saw Thorkel’s expression and then flung up his hands in a gesture of acknowledgment.

  ‘I hoped none had noticed.’

  ‘I know you better than most, minn hari. She is very beautiful.’

  ‘Is she not!’ His face lit and Thorkel, seeing it, was aware of a swift loneliness, that his manner of life had left no room for wife and children. Still with his eyes on his lord’s face, he said, ‘Is she heart-free this lady?’

  ‘Her betrothed was killed at Hastings fight, but she barely knew him. I’ve had no chance to talk with her yet, but I think . . .’ he broke off.

  Thorkel said ‘Take care Waltheof, my friend. I would guess that only William may dispose of William’s property.’

  On a tide of confidence, unable to envisage any obstacle, Waltheof answered, ‘When the time seems right I will ask the King for her. Why should he refuse me? Did you not hear yesterday that he has offered Edwin his own daughter, the lady Agatha, in marriage?’

  ‘Aye, I heard. But I beg you, do not be in a hurry, or William will think you envy Edwin and would have your share of his favours. If you wait a while he is more likely to think you in earnest.’ Thorkel paused. ‘For you are, are you not?’

  Waltheof leaned against the embrasure of the window, looking out towards the grey buildings of the monastery and blue April sky beyond. ‘Yea, I am in earnest.’

  The Easter Mass was sung by Lanfranc, assisted by Fécamp’s own abbot and Archbishop Stigand. William had brought rich gifts for the abbey, gold and silver, fine cloth for vestments, vessels for the holy offices, and as he laid his offerings at the steps before the high altar he knelt and a shaft of early sunlight fell on his dark head and lit the gold of his bracelets.

  The church was packed with the great throng that had come here from Rouen, every man decked in his best for Easter morning, as if he would do honour to the risen Christ. Lanfranc preached to them, urging brotherhood between all men, begging conquerors and conquered alike to be at peace together. His words were cool, logical, yet filled with an austere compassion. Waltheof thought of Wulfstan and the latter’s overflowing warmth and single-hearted love for all people, but there was something in Lanfranc’s very cogency that was stimulating.

  As the solemn Mass proceeded the strangeness of the fact that he was here in the spring of ‘68 instead of at home in England seemed to make the lights, the colour, the singing all assume an unreality – but as he watched the King at his prayers he saw that William’s renowned piety was no sham put on for the benefit of the Christian world in general and the Holy Father in particular but a genuine devotion. He saw William receive the Sacrament with complete and unconscious absorption, and when his own turn came and the Host lay on his tongue he knew a fresh rapture – as if all that men had made and given in this holy place reached fulfilment on this April morning, as if Christ Himself had come among them, newly risen in the spring sunshine.

  After dinner, still wanting to hold his secret joy he went out into the garden of the palace. It was no more than a square of green with a few shrubs and stone benches, but spring flowers had broken through the grass and he turned his face into the sun as he walked, savouring its returning warmth. He passed between a thick clump of evergreens, hardly aware of his surroundings, when he was brought back to them, riveted to the spot where he stood, for there, seated on a bench with some embroidery in her hands, was Judith, alone.

  For a moment he did not move, hardly able to believe this miracle. Then he saw her look up, saw the surprise reflected in her face, and something else, hard to define, but he thought it might be a similar reaction to that which she must see in his face.

  He sat down beside her. ‘Perhaps, lady, like me, you could not stay within doors on this first warm day.’

  She shook her head, smiling. ‘No, indeed. I escaped from my mother and the ladies in the Duchess’ bower. It was too confined and there was much silly chatter. Girls can be so stupid and I wanted to think.’

  He half made a movement to rise. ‘If I am disturbing you . . .’

  ‘Oh no – no, indeed. I had wondered . . .’ she stopped abruptly and with a leap of the heart he guessed at her unsaid words.

  ‘I am trying to learn to embroider in gold thread as your ladies do in England,’ she went on. ‘My uncle brought me a gown from London and the work on it is very beautiful. We have nothing like it here.’

  ‘I hope you will come to our country and see much more than our women’s work.’

  She smiled. ‘There is talk of my mother and myself accompanying the Duchess when she goes to her coronation next year.’

  ‘I shall count on that,’ he said. ‘Do you like to ride?’

  ‘Of course,’ she answered eagerly and put her sewing on the bench between them. ‘I like anything that takes me away,’ she gave a low laugh, ‘away from the bower.’

  ‘Then I shall beg to be allowed to take you riding, up on the hills above Winchester perhaps, for I heard the King say that his lady should be crowned there.’

  ‘You have land near, what is the place, Winchester?’

  ‘Only one manor, a few hides of land. My earldom is further north and east in what we call East Anglia.’

  ‘Land is what matters,’ she said with sudden intensity, ‘gold and silver are nothing compared to it. I would like to ride all day and never set foot off my own land.’

  He glanced at her in surprise for he had never heard a woman talk like this and for some reason found himself telling her of his father and of the Northumbrian lands that might have been his.

  Judith appeared to understand immediately. ‘I see,’ she said, ‘the Earl Morcar holds the land your father once ruled, and if you should ever hope to regain them, it would be at his expense.’

  She had put her finger neatly on the heart of the matter and he nodded, his surprise increasing. This girl was utterly different – he had known no one like her – and it was with her that he wanted to share his bed and his board, and all his waking thoughts.

  ‘Land is what matters,’ she was repeating, ‘I hope you regain yours, Earl Waltheof.’

  Before he could answer, he saw to his annoyance a cassocked figure coming towards them down the path and cursed the intruder for appearing at such a moment. But it was the Abbot of St Stephen�
��s himself who greeted them, a pale smile on his thin features. Judith made her reverence but she almost immediately withdrew, and Waltheof was to discover later that she had no love for Churchmen, resenting their interference in so much of life.

  He stayed for a while talking with Lanfranc and, even though his interview with Judith had been broken off, he could not long feel annoyance, for it gave him a chance to talk to this man whose learning and wisdom were renowned. They paced the path in the sunshine speaking for a while of desultory matters, but Lanfranc’s manner and the questions he asked reminded the Earl so much of Abbot Ulfcytel that he found himself conversing as easily as if he had been at home at Croyland.

  At length, encouraged by Lanfranc’s manner, he asked a question that had long puzzled him. ‘Tell me, my lord, how is it that you, who I hear, have refused high office and for whom worldly pleasures obviously have no charm, how is it that you should have so laboured to help your master gratify his ambition by seizing our land? We never wronged him.’

  Lanfranc pursed his lips and glanced up at his tall companion. ‘You speak openly, my son.’

  Waltheof smiled. ‘It would not honour you, Father, to do otherwise. I count Bishop Wulfstan among my friends, and I speak only the truth to him.’

  Lanfranc inclined his head. ‘I know Bishop Wulfstan and his reputation – your point is made. To answer you, I can only say that William is my temporal lord, and that I believe his claim to be just. He brings order where he rules and a devotion to Holy Church. His ambitions may be worldly, but they are not out of harmony with my office.’

  ‘What of us?’ Waltheof asked. ‘We were a free people with a land and a way of our own. Now – we are nothing.’

  ‘You are what you are,’ Lanfranc said cryptically, ‘and God who sees all, will judge you thus. William has been a good Duke and will be a wiser King. Only do not disobey him, my son, for that he will not brook. I had my differences with him once and in the end we compromised, but that is rare.’

  Waltheof gave a little shrug. ‘I’m afraid, my lord Abbot, you do not know the temper of Englishmen.’

  ‘Then that I shall have to remedy.’ He gave his half smile, his cool eyes veiled. ‘I wonder how well you have judged Normans – or their Duke.’

  ‘Forgive me if I have been too frank,’ Waltheof said abruptly. He suspected that his words might be repeated to William.

  But Lanfranc said merely, as if in answer, ‘I think you spoke to me as you might have wished to confide in Wulfstan were he here. I shall respect that confidence – only I would warn you, my lord Earl – for I would not see you in conflict with my master – do not try his clemency too far.’

  With that he bowed slightly and walked away, leaving Waltheof brooding over his words. How little he did indeed know of the Norman temperament was borne in upon him at the Easter feast that evening. The supper was rich beyond his imagination; the austerities of Lent were over and dish after dish was brought to the table, each more sumptuous than the last – peacocks carved and redressed in their plumage, swans lying on silver dishes surrounded by water lilies, marchpane coloured in the shape of flowers and leaves, and the boars’ heads glazed and shining.

  After the feast William asked Thorkel to sing to them and he came to the centre of the hall with his harp, setting his foot on a stool that he might rest it on his knee. He plucked the strings, his face grave. For him this visit to Normandy held no charm; he saw his young master swept away by Norman talk, Norman tastes, Norman friends and a Norman woman and he wished to God that they were back at Ryhall or Connington or Croyland. In a sudden mood of melancholy and sad regret he sang to them of the battle of Maldon, of how Bryhtnoth the Earl had defended the land of East Anglia against the Danes and died with his hearth-men beneath his standard. It was an heroic tale, but when he had finished there was an odd silence. Few men understood it, but those who did saw all too clearly the similarity between it and the fight on Telham ridge, and Magnus Carlson, who was three parts drunk, jumped up, a horn in his hand, shouting ‘Wass-hael to William the soldier.’ Perhaps he sensed the danger of the subject, perhaps he wanted to distract men from the story, but in either event the effect was spoiled for he lost his balance, stumbled, and fell across the table.

  Gallet the jester skipped across the hall and poked his bauble in Magnus’ ribs. ‘Ha, another defeat for our brothers over the water. Is our wine too strong for you, little Saxon? Oh fie, that you should set the King’s table at naught. Do you know that our William loves an honest fighter but will send a drunkard to spend the day in a pigsty?’

  There was a roar of laughter at this, to the discomfiture of the Englishmen present, and to cover up the awkward moment and to vent his own annoyance at Magnus’ stupidity Thorkel began to sing a war chant, a song that had carried the English into battle at Stamford Bridge, and which he hoped might cheer his own friends while its implication was unknown to their hosts.

  But before he had sung more than a few stanzas, Magnus, pushing aside restraining hands, leapt on to the table, sending the wine cups flying. ‘Be silent, you Godwine’s man,’ he roared. ‘Will you have us all slain?’ He bent down, seized a wine jug and flung its contents wildly at Thorkel. The wine splashed in the latter’s face and drenched his tunic and, normally slow to rouse, the Icelander lost his temper. Picking up his stool by one leg he thrust the seat of it full into Magnus’ chest, tipping him backwards off the table to fall into a huddle among the rushes with two of his neighbours who had tried to catch him.

  One of these, Ivo of Taillebois, scrambled to his feet, his fine clothes streaked with the remains of a bowl of mortrewes, a soupy mixture of meat and sauce and herbs. Furiously he pulled a knife from his belt and scrambled over the table, his arm raised to strike at Thorkel.

  All this had happened so quickly that the assembled company were all staring, in astonishment, the Normans in disgust at the drunken Englishman. Waltheof, sitting at the end of the Kings’ table as usual, was the only man near enough to intervene, and with one swift movement he was off the dais and had seized Ivo’s arm. With a deft twist he forced him to release the dagger; it fell to the ground and he stamped on it hard, snapping the steel.

  ‘In England we do not draw at a feast,’ he said in a low angry voice, ‘remember that, Norman dog!’

  He saw Ivo’s dark face turn mottled with rage. ‘I would you were all back there,’ Ivo snarled, ‘you most of all, my lord Earl.’

  He struggled to free himself, his other hand reaching uselessly for Waltheof’s throat, but at that moment William, who had been watching silently, his lips drawn in a thin line, rose to his feet.

  ‘Splendour of God, is my court to be made a blood shambles?’ he demanded in ringing tones. ‘Ivo of Taillebois, if you have a desire for blood-letting, go out and spear a boar. Earl Waltheof, bid your minstrel watch his tongue – and take that man,’ he indicated Magnus, who was now struggling up, ‘take him from my hall.’

  Waltheof went abruptly round the table and with young Hakon, who had come from his place when he saw his master threatened, managed to propel Magnus out through the door.

  Morcar, on the far side of the ducal table, had not been able to make an unobtrusive exit but at a swift signal from his brother had perforce to rise and beg William to excuse him. When he joined them outside, Waltheof had flung a handy bucket of water over the drunken man to sober him; he was so furious that Magnus should have shamed them all before the court and even more before Judith, that he could scarcely bring himself to speak civilly to Morcar.

  ‘Can you not control this fool? If he must get drunk send him into the town to a swill house which would be more in keeping with his manners.’

  ‘Keep your castigations for your own men,’ Morcar retorted, ‘and tell that scald Skallason not to ask for trouble. Magnus – get up, get up, for God’s sake.’

  Magnus, dripping from head to foot, got unsteadily to his feet and half pushing Morcar aside, glared with bloodshot eyes at Waltheof. ‘I will kill you,�
�� he said in a slurred voice that throbbed with loathing. ‘One day, by the living God, I will kill you.’

  The Earl looked at him contemptuously. ‘There will be a reckoning between our houses, I grant you, but it is more likely that I shall kill you, being better able to command myself.’

  ‘Is this a time for private enmities?’ Morcar broke in irritably. ‘Waltheof, for the love of Our Lady, go and deal with your own man and leave me to mine.’ He seized Magnus and marched him away, still muttering vituperations.

  When they had gone, Waltheof stood for a moment, drawing deep breaths of the cold night air to calm his anger. It was a clear starlit night, and as he looked up at the sky he thought of England, of the brief days when there had been very different feasts with Harold, crowned, at the head of the board. Why, he wondered, did God have to take away so soon the joy they had all had that such a man should rule them – and equally he wondered why God had given him such joy this morning only to snatch it away tonight?