The Winter Mantle (13 page)

Sybille chuckled and folded her arms. 'It is not often that your mother is bettered,' she remarked.

Judith sniffed and pretended not to hear.

The maid considered her charge with shrewd eyes. 'I wonder why you want to stay, mistress,' she murmured. 'I do not think it is out of consideration for your mother and stepfather, and you no more enjoy listening to bards than I'm the Duchess of Normandy.'

'You are impertinent,' Judith said haughtily.

Sybille shrugged. 'I speak the truth as I see it,' she said, not in the least chastised. She fell into step behind her mistress, her grey eyes mischievously sparkling.

Judith ignored her maid and glanced around the hall. Adela had darted off to join her royal cousins Agatha and Constance, who were in the company of Edwin of Mercia. Waltheof, by his height and the brightness of his hair, was easy to locate. He was standing beside Ralf de Gael, and his arm was around young Simon de Senlis as they listened to one of the several bards in the hall. Judith's brows twitched together at the sight of him with the boy, but her hesitation was a brief one. Drawing herself up, she went to join the group. As always she could not bring herself to take that final step but stood just a little aloof.

Waltheof must have seen her approach from the corner of his eye, for he turned with a widening smile of welcome and beckoned her closer. Judith stayed where she was and, fixing her gaze on the bard, pretended to give him her full attention, although she could not understand a word that he was singing. The English tongue was foreign to her, and the man's pronunciation was different again from the English she had heard Waltheof speak.

With the smirk of a conspirator Sybille stood aside, making room for Waltheof next to her mistress. He grinned at the maid and winked, then stooped to Judith's ear.

'What do you think of my skald?' he asked.

'Your skald?' His breath tickled her and the rumble of his voice set up a vibration low in her stomach.

'My bard,' he gestured to the singer. The man's hair was the dull gold of new pinewood and his beard was striped with the silver of early middle age.

'I did not know that you had such a man in your retinue.'

He shrugged his wide shoulders. 'I did not bring him to Normandy with me. Why should I clip his wings as well as my own? He is a free spirit and he serves me for pleasure, not duty.'

Judith eyed the man who was accompanying himself on a small but beautiful lyre. Whether or not the sound was true she could not tell for she had no flair for music. 'His accent is strange.'

'Thorkel comes from Iceland. He speaks English well, but it is not his mother tongue.' He looked at her. 'It is the same with me for French.'

They stood in silence for a while and listened. Waltheof seemed to be enjoying the ballad, whatever it was about. There was a gleam in his eyes, and his lips were parted in pleasure. 'It is the story of a great warrior who held a bridge single-handed against all comers,' Waltheof said. 'And through his action his country was saved, even though he died of his wounds.'

Judith was less than impressed. Most songs were of that ilk. She had nightmares sometimes about the tedium of the Song of Roland, which was a favourite of her uncle's own bards. The songs were all for men, she thought, and women of a martial frame of mind. But then she was not sure that she would have the patience for love ballads either.

The skald finished his lay on a haunting cry and a rippling shiver of notes. Judith guessed that the hero had tragically died, surrounded by a massed heap of enemy corpses.

Applauding loudly, eyes moist with a suspicion of tears, Waltheof drew a gold bracelet off his arm and presented it to the musician. 'Well sung, Thorkel,' he said gruffly.

'Your belief in my craft is worth more than gold, my lord, but I thank you for the gift,' the Icelander said graciously. His dark grey eyes flickered between Judith and Waltheof and he coaxed a gentle, stepping stone of notes from his lyre.

'Perhaps a tune for the lady?' he suggested.

Judith started to refuse, but Waltheof overrode her. 'Yes, Thorkel, a tune for the lady.'

The skald nodded and eyed Judith thoughtfully. 'A wood in springtime,' he announced. His gaze went past Judith to Sybille and he drooped his eyelid at the maid in what might just have been a wink. Then he started to play. No words, just sweet cords and cascades of notes that mimicked birdsong and the rill of meltwater down a hillside.

Judith surreptitiously moved her feet as they began to grow heavy with standing. She knew that many folk found music almost as essential as breathing, but she was not one of them. The skald's head was bent over his lyre but now and again he glanced up. His eyes pierced Judith as if he could see through her and she wanted to squirm, but after the first couple of looks he turned his attention to Sybille, and it soon became obvious for whom he was playing.

The tune ended on a clamber and fall of notes reminiscent of a skylark's song. 'That was beautiful,' Sybille sighed, her eyes misty. 'I could feel the leaf dapple on my eyelids.'

Thorkel smiled with pleasure. 'You have a rare imagination, mistress. It is not given to everyone to be so gifted.'

Judith narrowed her eyes, but the musician's attention was upon her maid and there was no sign of mockery in his expression. 'You are very skilled, Master Thorkel,' she murmured.

He bowed and she met a glint of ironic humour in his eyes. 'I am pleased you think so, my lady.' He excused himself to fill his drinking horn. Sybille lingered, obviously smitten.

Waltheof laid his hand on Judith's sleeve. 'Thorkel is not the only man of my retinue here at Westminster,' he said, and proceeded to introduce her to some of the other warriors who had been listening and whom she had earlier seen seated at one of the lower benches in the hall. Their names all ran one into the other, harsh and guttural: Hakon, Toki, Guthrum, Siggurd, men of Huntingdon and York, whose grandfathers had been Danes, tall and square-boned with the same vital air as their lord. She felt engulfed by their presence and was glad when Waltheof drew her out of their company and into a quieter corner.

'Your uncle released me to my lands after Exeter fell,' Waltheof said. 'And for that I have been grateful.'

Judith's gaze sharpened. 'He truly let you go?'

Waltheof nodded with enthusiasm. 'He said that he put his trust in me to return to court for this feast, but otherwise I have been my own man, free to deal with my estates as I see fit.'

The implications of his words sent a jolt of excitement through her. 'But he did not release Edwin of Mercia or his brother,' she said, determined to be practical.

Waltheof looked almost smug. 'He released neither of them. They and Edgar Atheling have been held in London ever since our return from Normandy.'

'So, he favours you.'

Waltheof pondered. 'I hope he does,' he said, 'because after the coronation I am going to ask him for you in marriage.'

'You said you were going to ask him before.'

He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. 'I know I did, but I could not. Your uncle confirmed me in my lands on the feast of Stephen. After Exeter, he let me return to them. To have asked on top of that would have seemed greedy.' His expression brightened. 'Now I have brought the men of Huntingdon to court and fulfilled my vow to come to him at the feast of Pentecost I am in a better position to make an approach. My loyalty is proven.' He stroked her cheek and his voice softened. 'I want you, Judith. I ache at the thought of you.'

She smiled, but drew away, aware of how many eyes there were to see and report. 'You have been spending too much time in the company of your bard.'

'And you in the company of your mother,' he retorted.

'My duty is to her… until you make it differently. I must go.' She made to push past him and he caught her hand in his.

'Is that all you want? If I gain the consent of your uncle, you will be content to wed with me?'

She was aware of the danger of his hold, that people would see and she would be compromised. The urgency in his voice spoke to her, the language exciting, dangerous and frightening.

Giving him a stiff nod, unable to dare further, she snatched her hand out of his and hurried away.

In the great abbey church of Westminster, William's duchess Matilda was crowned Queen of the English before a vast array of witnesses, both Saxon and Norman. At William's coronation two winters since the English had rioted outside the church, resulting in the burning of several houses and many English deaths. This time all was peace and decorum, if not love and harmony.

Waltheof had been present at both ceremonies, the first time as a full hostage, his breath emerging as white vapour in the stark winter chill and his blood freezing as the houses burned. Now, still under Norman scrutiny but free of his leash, he witnessed the transformation of William's duchess into a queen. The green scent of May filled the air and touched his heart with optimism. Spring was burgeoning around him. Matilda herself was fecund, her belly swelling with the child conceived in Normandy shortly before William's departure. Perhaps now all would be well. He imagined Judith as his wife, her own womb ripe with a child of their mingled blood, English, Dane and Norman. The thought warmed him and he glanced sidelong to where she stood in attendance behind the new queen, her eyes modestly downcast. Her dark braids were glossy, reflecting the candle flicker, and crowned by a veil of gossamer silk. She would be his queen, he thought, and he would cherish her all of her days. She would lack for nothing, least of all his love.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she looked up. The slightest flush tinged her cheeks and the almost curve of her lips sent a flash of desire through him. His own smile in return was bright with the warmth of his love.

'You seek audience with me, Waltheof?' William beckoned his visitor to enter his private chamber and with another flick of his fingers dismissed the guard.

'Sire.' Waltheof bowed and advanced into the room, his footfalls crackling softly on the new green rushes that strewed the floor. William was seated in a curule chair before a charcoal brazier that had been lit to take the evening chill from the room. Two large fawn hounds lay at his feet. Both had been dozing, but now they raised their heads to watch Waltheof's approach.

Matilda sat across from him, some embroidery in her lap. Here in the private chamber she had removed her wimple and her sandy-blonde hair hung to her waist in two thick braids woven with ribbons of blue silk. Her rounded belly pushed against the fabric of her gown.

'Sit.' William indicated a folding stool with a leather seat.

Waltheof did so. The stool was slightly too small for his great frame and he hunched over uncomfortably. Matilda looked at him and he thought he detected a gleam of sympathy in her gaze, perhaps even a twitch of humour. He fondled the head of the nearest dog and it beat its tail on the rushes.

'Wine.' A clap of William's hands brought a lad from the corner of the room where he had been burnishing the Duke's helm.

'Sire.' With a show of great dignity Simon de Senlis poured wine into two drinking horns and offered the Queen a daintier goblet.