The Winter Mantle (26 page)

Averting her head from the axe, she sat gingerly on the bed with its coverlet of silver fox pelts and summoned one of her other tiring maids to help her disrobe.

Waltheof arrived a short while later, slightly loquacious with drink but almost sober. She heard him stop in the curtained off antechamber and knew that he had paused by the cradle. He never passed it at night without looking upon his daughter. Judith felt the familiar pang of jealousy, followed by one of guilt. With an irritated gesture she dismissed the maid and sat up in bed, her chemise firmly laced at her throat, her hair combed and smoothly rebraided.

Waltheof parted the door curtain and entered the room. Judith gazed upon her husband and her breath caught with that strange fluttering of panic and desire that she had never been able to reconcile. How could she be so attracted to him, and feel such impatience at the same time?

'Ulfcytel sent me,' he said with a smile. 'He said that I should not be spending my last night before a campaign in the company of an old priest but in the warm arms of my wife.'

Judith raised her brows. 'So you could not come to that conclusion yourself?'

'Well, yes, I was preparing to be polite, but his perception was the swifter.' Waltheof sat down on the edge of the bed and began removing his clothes. 'Besides,' he added softly, 'sleeping in the warm arms of my wife when I cannot make love to her has been a bind almost beyond endurance these past weeks.'

Judith fiddled with the neat lacing of her shift. There was an immodest throbbing in her woman's parts. It was lust, she thought. No matter how she battled to subdue it, her need was always the stronger.

'Some priests say that a woman is not clean to lie with until eighty days have passed from the birth,' she procrastinated.

'Eighty days!' Waltheof looked at her in consternation. 'I have not heard that one before!'

'It happens if the child is a girl. I think it is to do with the sin of Eve.'

He snorted down his nose. 'I would say that "some priests" must hate women beyond all charity,' he said curtly. 'But if the notion of coupling with me disturbs you, I can always fetch Ulfcytel to bless our bed. I am sure he will be delighted to do so.'

Judith shook her head. 'That will not be necessary,' she said in a slightly choked voice. She could imagine nothing worse than having the small, earthy abbot with his ragged tonsure blessing their union. 'I too think that forty days is sufficient.'

'I think it is too long,' Waltheof's voice was heartfelt. He finished undressing and turned to her. Already he was magnificently erect and straining as if he would burst out of his skin. 'Ah, Judith,' he said softly. He reached to unpluck the laces of her chemise. 'You cannot know…'

But she did know, and whilst a part of her was shocked another part welcomed him with open arms and wide-parted thighs, and as he lifted her buttocks and thrust into her she coiled her legs around his hips and dug her nails into his broad back. The bed became a Viking ship, rocking on a stormy sea, and she was a slave, tied to the mast and ravished by its sea-wolf master. The imagery tore through her, heightening her lust. She was helpless; what was happening was not her fault, and she was not to blame. When she climaxed she muffled her scream against the polished curve of his shoulder and heard with fierce pleasure the roar of his release and felt the pulse of his seed within her. The next child would be a boy. No girl could possibly be born of such a wild and vigorous mating.

Simon's jaw cracked as he did his best to conceal a yawn. The dawnlight was a low flush on the eastern horizon, but he had been awake and on duty for more than two measures on the time candle. He wondered how the King could be so indefatigable. William had not retired until well past midnight and had risen long before prime. Simon had staggered blearily around the campaign tent, fetching him a ewer of warm water to bathe his hands and face and assisting him to dress. He had attended mass with William in the chapel tent, had knelt among the other battle commanders, barons and squires to receive the body and blood of Christ. Waltheof had been present, looking as bleary as Simon felt, his coppery hair in need of a trim and his stubble thickening into a corn-coloured beard. He had managed a wink at Simon and by swift, silent gestures had intimated that too much ale the night before was the reason for his malaise.

Now Simon was burnishing William's helm. He could have delegated the task to one of the junior squires, but ever since entering the King's employ the duty had been his and it had become a ritual that he guarded jealously. Helm in one hand, cloth in the other, he went to the tent flap, where his gaze was met by ranks of canvas shelters. Soldiers stood around the haze of their morning fires dining on flat bread and ale, and through the wreaths of smoke there was a heather-scented nip in the air. The grooms were readying the horses and Simon could hear the snap of the banners in the stiff breeze that had risen with the dawn.

The Norman army had been on the march for several days, prepared for war but progressing unhindered. No Scots army came raging from the heather to prevent William from entering Lothian, crossing the Forth and marching on into King Malcolm's domain.

Hooves thudded outside the tent and a large chestnut stallion blocked his light. 'I have just been speaking to the King, and he says that you have his permission to ride out awhile,' Waltheof leaned down from the saddle to announce. He looked more awake than he had done an hour since. He had obviously dunked his hair in the burn, for it was sleeked back from his forehead and gleamed like wet rust. His grizzle of beard remained; he had not seen fit to barber it off.

Simon gave the helm another polish. The notion of riding out was a lure too tempting to resist. 'If you but wait a moment while I finish this. It has to be right.'

'Of course it has,' Waltheof said with a straight face, although Simon was sure he detected a twinkle in the deep-blue eyes. 'It would not do for King William to greet the King of Scotland in anything less than royal splendour.'

Simon finished burnishing the helm and set it carefully to one side on a wadded linen cloth. Telling the junior squire to check over the other equipment and make sure that the wine pitcher was full and fresh bread to hand, he left his post and approached the horse line where his roan cob was dozing. Waltheof followed, his huscarls Toki and Siggurd riding a few paces behind with swords at their hips and round shields slung at their backs.

Untethering his mount, Simon grasped a handful of mane and vaulted nimbly across the saddle, showing off a little in front of the men. Waltheof's lips twitched.

'Not only a trusted messenger, but a fine horseman, I see,' he teased.

Simon gave him a self-conscious grin. Then he sobered. 'There was a time when I thought I might never do such a thing,' he said.

'I never doubted it. You have a will the equal of my wife's -formidable.' Waltheof tugged on the reins and set his heels to the chestnut's flanks.

They rode past the sentries and away from the Norman camp, following the rutted cart track through the hardy sheep pasture - although no sheep grazed the turf. All livestock had been spirited away by the locals so that it would not end up as dinner for Scots or Norman soldiers. The nearest settlement was the town of Abernethay, which their scouts had reported as three miles distant and where the Scots army was mustering behind its defensive palisade.

The wind gusted. Waltheof's sleek hair turned wild as it dried and beat around his face. Simon's brown-gold cap ruffled like the layered feathers of a bird. Their horses climbed away from the Norman camp, muscles straining, ears pricked. Simon opened his mouth and let the air blow into him until he felt as if he could take off and scud across the sky like a cloud.

On the crest of a hill they drew rein to let their horses regain their breath. Below them the land was spread out like an elaborate embroidery, moors and mountains, russet and purple, clean scented with heather. Here the bones of the land felt close to the surface, no padding of well-fed flesh to conceal their beauty. The ride and the wild scenery exhilarated Simon, but after a moment he found himself wondering what the blue smudge of the horizon concealed. What lay beyond the ability of the eye to perceive? If only he could climb and see all with the eyes of an eagle.

'The King said to me earlier that it will not come to a fight,' Waltheof murmured, gazing into the distance. 'We are too strong for Malcolm.' He smiled sourly. 'Men begin to think that William of Normandy is unstoppable.' The wind breathed life into his cloak, the white bearskin ruffling as if with a spirit of its own.

Simon said nothing. He heard a great deal, being William's squire of the chamber, but he never spoke of the matters discussed therein. His discretion was a matter of pride, discipline and honour; no one would ever accuse him of braying confidences abroad. Representatives from King Malcolm had arrived shortly after mass bearing messages for William. Simon already knew what was going to happen. He glanced at Waltheof, wanting to speak, constrained not to.

'It isn't true,' Waltheof said softly into Simon's silence. 'We could have stopped him in York if only we had acted together instead of squandering our advantage. I am not advocating treason,' he added quickly, as Simon drew a sharp breath. 'The Danes have gone home and there is no one who possesses the same skills of leadership as William. Edgar Atheling is a weak reed, the sons of Harold are pirates, and after York I know that my own abilities are not up to the task.' He gave a self-deprecatory smile. 'A man should know his own weaknesses. Besides, a child of my blood is William's own great-niece.'

Simon wondered uneasily if there was a crumb of bitterness festering within Waltheof. It was likely, but then from what he had also heard that morning William had a possible cure for it. 'The Scots are coming to parley,' he said, pointing towards a party of horsemen who had appeared on the track below. The new morning sun slanted over their armour and spears, making a brave glitter. A standardbearer carried aloft the banner of King Malcolm of the Scots and close behind him, riding a white horse, was a thickset man of middle years who resembled a peasant but wore a crown at his brow.

Simon reined his horse around. 'I'll be needed for chamber duties, and King William will want you present, my lord.'

Waltheof gave Simon a thoughtful look. 'Will he, indeed?'

'Yes,' Simon answered. 'I can say no more, save that it will be to your advantage.'

Malcolm of Scotland was a little over forty years old with sandy hair turning silver at the temples and narrow light blue eyes.

Last year he had set aside his first wife and married Margaret, the sister of Edgar Atheling, thereby binding his own house of Dunkeld to that of the ancient West Saxon line.

The fact that Margaret desired to enter a nunnery had been ignored. Margaret herself, after some protest, had finally agreed to the marriage. It seemed that she had swiftly become reconciled to her change of direction, for she was already great with child. It was rumoured that her fierce, rambunctious husband doted upon his faery-blonde wife and that he was warm clay in her hands. It was also rumoured that she had embarked on the task of taming and civilising the Scots court. If she was not going to be a nun, then at least she could dwell in an atmosphere conducive to harmony.

There was, however, small sign of that harmony in William's campaign tent. Malcolm of Scotland, known as Caen Mor or Big Head by his own people, was bullish and opinioned. Even if he had come to yield to William of Normandy, he had small intention of doing it with grace.

Simon poured wine and unobtrusively handed it around. Malcolm took the proffered goblet, sniffed suspiciously and then drank. His lips twisted. 'I've tasted better cat's pee,' he said, speaking French but in such a mangled, guttural accent that although the meaning was clear the words themselves were difficult to decipher. Simon was fascinated. Waltheof looked both amused and bemused. William's face wore its customary blank expression, giving nothing away.

'Is ale more to your taste, Lord King?' Simon asked politely.

Malcolm's shrewd warrior's eyes met his. 'Aye,' he snapped. 'Give me ale, although I doot that any o' your Sassenach muck will taste good on my palate.'

'And yet you have put aside your first Scots wife to take a "Sassenach" bride,' William said with deceptive mildness. 'And I understand that congratulations are in order now that she is with child.'

Malcolm scowled and dug his fingers into his beautiful, gilded belt. 'Ye'll nae mock me,' he growled.

'Far from it,' William said smoothly. 'I was merely pointing out that a ruler must act on expediency before instinct - or why are we both here?'

Malcolm continued to glower. Simon returned with a brimming stone cup. 'It is heather ale, Lord King,' he said, 'of your country's own brewing.'

'Hah, and stolen by Normans,' Malcolm sneered, but he took the cup and sank a long mouthful. 'Och, it will dae,' he said with an irritated wave of his hand.

Simon bowed and retreated. Ever curious about the ways of other peoples, he had sampled Scots fare in the form of a sort of meat and barley pudding boiled in the membrane of a sheep's stomach and served with a thick bread cooked on an open griddle. Compared to the fare of the Norman court it was coarse and strange, but it had been hot and nourishing and had kept out the bitter evening chill. He had to agree with Malcolm that heather ale was preferable to their Norman wine, which had not travelled well. Waltheof seemed to think so too, because he was eyeing Malcolm's cup with a covetous eye. Simon poured another measure of the ale and unobtrusively exchanged it for Waltheof's wine, thereby earning himself a quick smile of gratitude.

The negotiations went forward in fits and starts, mostly caused by Malcolm's mangled accent and his determination to be cantankerous even though he was here to surrender. He had with him his eldest son, a twelve-year-old who was to be given as hostage for his father's good behaviour. The lad, quiet and dark-haired, was a slender contrast to his thickset overbearing father.