The Winter Mantle (23 page)

Summer 1072

Simon rode into Huntingdon on a warm evening in June. He passed townspeople hoeing their garths, women gossiping as they worked distaff and spindle at lightning speed to weave thread from fleece. Others were eating their suppers over outdoor fires. The smell of food and smoke mingled with the green scents of summer and an underlying but not overpowering whiff of midden pits and latrines.

People glanced up as he passed and then ignored him. Simon wondered if they would scowl in hostility behind his back, but he thought not. There was nothing to mark him as overtly Norman unless he opened his mouth. A hood of green linen hid his cropped hair, and his tunic was a sober russet colour with only a narrow trim of decorative braid.

At fourteen years old, Simon was as slender as a birch twig. No matter how much he ate, none of it remained on his wiry frame except by way of stretching his length. His father had jokingly commented that someone must have put manure in his shoes to judge by the speed of his growth. His features were changing too, his nose and jaw lengthening and a smudge of hair downing his upper lip.

A patrol of soldiers came towards him from the direction of the new castle and he turned his roan cob aside to let them pass. Their mail glinted in the evening sun and he heard the rapid French and Flemish of their speech. One of them drew rein and glared at him from beneath the brow ridges of his helm.

'Soon be curfew, boy,' he growled. 'What are you doing out?' He eyed the horse and Simon felt a jolt of fear. He knew that good animals such as this were targets for requisitioning. After the inroads that Hastings and the Northern campaign had made on saddle horses, demand for remounts was ferocious.

'I am travelling to the hall of Earl Waltheof of Huntingdon with messages from the King,' Simon answered more boldly than he felt. 'My name is Simon de Senlis and I am a royal squire and the son of his chamberlain.'

The soldier's eyes narrowed slightly. 'You are young to be entrusted with so important a matter.'

Simon shrugged. 'The King has entrusted me with letters before.'

'Let me see your messages.'

For a moment Simon thought about rebelling, but decided that six against one was not fair odds. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the soldier, he reached in his saddle pack and drew out the vellum packet. The man took it, turned it over in his hands, studied the dangling red seal and, with a grunt, thrust the documents back at Simon.

'On your way,' he said gruffly and wafted his arm as if batting at a fly.

With clammy hands and thundering heart, Simon dug his heels into the roan's flanks and made haste to put distance between himself and the soldiers. He knew how intimidated the English must feel with such a watch on their activities. Prisoners in their own land.

In passable if not fluent English, he asked directions to Waltheof's hall of a man returning from the fields, his hoe over his shoulder, and was pointed towards a long building with a roof of wooden shingles and a stockade of pale ash stakes. A soldier guarded the gateway, the westering sun shimmering on the rivets of his hauberk. Seeing Simon approach, he stood to attention.

'Toki,' Simon greeted him with a smile. 'It's good to see you.'

The warrior shaded his eyes with his palm and a sudden grin spread over his face. 'Master Simon! I didn't recognise you!'

'I've brought letters for the Earl. Is he here?'

'Aye, he's here.' Toki held the cob's bridle while Simon dismounted. 'Saint Winifred's bones, you've grown!' He gave the boy an exaggerated head-to-toe scrutiny.

'I know. I have to duck under the stable lintel at home,' Simon laughed. As he took the weight on his left leg, the familiar pain struck through him, but he had learned not to flinch or grimace. He wanted neither pity nor gentle handling: the less reaction he gave to his pain, the more men treated him as one of their own. Toki summoned a groom to take the horse and Simon told him about the knights he had encountered on the town street.

The smile fell from the Saxon's face. 'They'll be the sheriff's men from the castle,' he growled. 'And the bane of Earl Waltheof's life. King William might have given my lord his own niece to wife, but he has saddled him with a Norman keep and a Norman sheriff who has about as much notion of fair play as a starving wolf has of compassion for a tethered sheep.'

Simon gazed at him, but Toki compressed his lips. 'I've said too much, lad. Go on to the hall. The Earl will be right glad to see you… and his lady too,' he added as a diplomatic afterthought.

Simon forced a smile. He was looking forward to seeing Waltheof, but Lady Judith was a different prospect. Nor did he think that she would be overjoyed to greet him.

The arched windows along the length of the great hall were thrown open to admit spars of evening sunlight, gilding the floor rushes and trapping filaments of smoke from the central hearth. Simon caught glimpses of retainers busy assembling trestles for the evening meal and his mouth watered at the tantalising aroma of some kind of meat and onion stew.

On entering the building, he saw that the walls had been recently daubed with white limewash and as yet there were no layers of smoky residue to darken the brightness. Painted Saxon round shields were arrayed down the length of the hail, interspersed with crossed spears and battleaxes. At chair height, several narrow panels of embroidery colourfully divided the expanse of white wall. A lively young soldier by the name of Hrolf escorted him to Waltheof. Although the Earl had no private chamber separate from the hall, there was an area screened off by heavy woollen hangings that served as both apartment and bedchamber.

'Lady Judith likes to keep the curtain across,' said Hrolf. 'She would rather stay at Northampton because they have a private hall of their own, but my lord prefers Huntingdon - he says it is more homely.' Pausing, he raised his voice and craved admittance.

Waltheof answered in a cheerful bellow and, parting the curtain, Hrolf ushered Simon into the private chamber.

Waltheof was seated at a table, poring over a chessboard. One hand was braced on his thigh, the other rubbed his jaw. Judith sat opposite him, her dark braids glossy in the light from the window embrasure, her brow marred by a slight frown that Simon suspected had been caused by his intrusion.

'Simon!' The Earl sprang to his feet in a surge that made the table shake and knocked over several pawns. Beaming from ear to ear, he strode to Simon and swept him into a bone-crunching embrace. 'What brings you to Huntingdon?'

'I have letters from King William, my lord,' Simon replied. 'I asked if I could take this duty.'

Waltheof released him with a hefty slap on the shoulder that almost sent Simon to his knees. 'I'm glad that you did. Judith, look who's here!'

She did not rise but gave a thin smile from her place at the chessboard. 'You are welcome,' she said, her tone holding none of Waltheof's warmth.

Waltheof laughed broadly. 'Pay no heed. My wife is annoyed because she was beating me and you have spoiled her pleasure!'

Dutifully Simon made his obeisance to her. Earl Waltheof's jest had caused Judith's frown to deepen. Simon thought she was lovely, but petulant. He bowed over her shapely, ring-adorned fingers and saw that the hand she did not offer him was laid upon the ripe curve of her belly.

'Our child is due on the feast of Saint Cuthbert,' Waltheof announced, gazing proudly at his wife.

Simon looked blank. He knew many of the saint's days, but he was not familiar with all of them, especially English ones.

'In about two months' time,' Waltheof said with a wave of his hand. 'My lady desires the babe to be born at Northampton, so we are travelling there for the lying in.' Although he spoke with a smile, there was a certain tension at his eye corners, which suggested that the decision was not entirely of his making.

'You said you had letters,' Judith prompted, a flicker of impatience in her tone.

'Yes, my lady.' Simon delved in his satchel and, although Judith was nearer, handed the vellum packet to Waltheof in a show of masculine solidarity.

A look of amusement on his face, the Earl broke the seal and, unfolding the vellum, went to the window where he could read by the light of the westering sun.

'What does my uncle say?' Judith demanded. Her fingers twitched as if longing to snatch the missive from him.

Waltheof shrugged. 'William desires my pledge of assistance in his campaign against the Scots. I am to join him as soon as I may.' He handed her the vellum.

Judith took it and scanned the lines with an almost avid expression.

Waltheof stroked his beard and sighed. 'This comes at a bad time. I had hoped to be with you for the birth of our first child.'

Judith raised her head from the vellum and gave him a narrow look. 'You must do as my uncle requests. If you show reluctance, then you will displease him. There is nothing you can do at the birthing except pace outside the chamber door and get underfoot. It is not as if your presence will affect the outcome.'

Simon felt the tension coiling in the atmosphere, invisible but potent as the heat from a brazier.

'You would rather I went to war?'

'I would rather you did your duty to my uncle,' she said stiffly.

'What about my duty to you and the child?'

'Attending my uncle is that duty,' Judith replied tersely. 'You would not want him to seize your lands for your failure to perform your obligations.'

'No… but I care about you first…"

'Then do as my uncle bids. He is, after all, the King.'

Waltheof glowered and bit the side of his thumb. Judith stared back, her implacable will beating his down.

'Women.' The Earl gave a forced laugh and clapped his hand across Simon's shoulders. 'You never know whether you're going to burn or freeze when you go near them, only that either way you'll lose your ballocks.'

Judith averted her head and Simon could tell by the thrust of her jaw that her teeth were clenched.

Waltheof propelled Simon from the chamber and into the hall. 'Best to let the dust settle,' he murmured. 'My lady can be difficult to handle, but I would not change a hair on her head.'

'Only your own, my lord,' Simon said.

Waltheof ran his hands through his severe crop and smiled rather sheepishly. 'Aye, well, that's of no matter,' he said. 'Tell me what you have been doing.'

So Simon told him about his duties as a squire, about his training and how it was developing apace. Waltheof listened with the genuine interest and concern that made him so well liked by his soldiers, his retainers and the ordinary people of his earldom. Pride he might possess, but unlike his wife there was not an arrogant bone in his body.

'And the leg?' Waltheof glanced down.

Unconsciously, Simon had been putting his weight on his right side to ease the ache. 'It pains me sometimes,' he admitted.

'When I have been standing awhile, or when it is late at night and I have been on duty the day long.' He looked quickly at Waltheof. 'I am not complaining, my lord.'

'I know you are not. It was I who asked.'

'Mostly I do not notice.' It was both the truth and a lie. Simon was always aware of the injury. He was determined that he would not be different, but the path that was straight for others was often more hazardous for him because of the very nature of his handicap. Sometimes he felt bitter and resentful, but he tried to keep such feelings in check. A squire who was surly and uncommunicative received far more kicks and blows than one who was cheerful and swift to please, To avoid the subject of his leg, he told Waltheof about his meeting with the sheriff's men in the centre of Huntingdon.

Waltheof's expression clouded. 'The sheriffs of my lands,' he said in a voice that was now devoid of charity, 'are a thorn in my side. Why the King should give the offices to such wolves as Robert Ilger, William de Caghanes and Picot de Saye is beyond my understanding.'

Simon frowned. A vague memory came to him. He had been a junior squire collecting empty wine jugs in the hall at Rouen on the first night that the English hostages had arrived. He remembered the arm-wrestling contest and Waltheof's prowess against one of William's favoured mercenaries. 'Picot de Saye is a sheriff?' he asked.

'Of Cambridge,' Waltheof bared his teeth. 'And the worst of them, although they are all painted with the same brush. They line their purses at the expense of the people and come down upon them with a mailed fist for the slightest transgression. I may as well not be earl here for they treat me with the utmost contempt.'

'Can you not speak to the King?'

Waltheof shook his head. 'I begin to think that William knows very well how his sheriffs behave and that it is his personal intention to hem me around with such men.'

'I have heard nothing at court,' Simon said, frowning.

'I do not suppose you would. Even you are not permitted into every corner of the King's life.'

Simon shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. At court no one was ever open about their motives or thoughts. 'I think he is pleased to have you for a nephew,' he said diplomatically.

Waltheof smiled bleakly. 'He is pleased to have me where he wants me.'

Simon was spared from finding another reply as Judith's maid Sybille came towards them. A tiny baby was bound in a linen sling at her shoulder.

'Simon!' She embraced him with the side not occupied by the infant and kissed his cheek. 'Saints, boy, you are taller than me now!'

'And you seem to have acquired a baby,' Simon nervously eyed the rosy little face within the depths of the bundle.

'This,' said Sybille proudly, 'is my daughter, Helisende, born on the feast of Saint Winifred.'

Simon murmured congratulations, not quite sure of his ground. He could not ask outright if Sybille had a husband now. Her affections had always been peripatetic in the past and he could think of half a dozen candidates. He was also wary of small babies. For creatures that looked so innocent, they had the ability to make a fearsome noise and even more fearsome smells.

'Do you want to hold her?'

Simon wondered how to decline without seeming churlish.