The Winter Mantle (3 page)

The chamberlain looked wary. 'She is the King's niece, Judith - her mother is his full sister, Adelaide, Countess of
Aumale,' he said. 'I would advise you not to become interested in the girl.'

'Why?' Waltheof clasped his hands behind his head. 'Is she betrothed?'

De Rules looked uncomfortable. 'Not yet.'

The wine was buzzing in Waltheof's blood, making him feel light-headed. 'So she is available to be courted?'

The Norman shook his head.

'Why not?' To one side an arm-wrestling contest had noisily begun and Waltheof's attention flickered.

'The Duke is her uncle, so her marriage will be of great importance to Normandy,' De Rules said, emphasising each word.

Waltheof's eyes narrowed. 'You are saying that I am not good enough for her?'

'I am saying that the Duke will give her to a man of his own choosing, not one who comes courting because the girl has caught his wandering eye. Besides,' he added wryly, 'you are probably best to keep your distance. Her mother has the Devil's own pride, her stepfather is prickly on the matter of his honour, and the girl herself is difficult.'

Waltheof's curiosity was piqued. He would have asked in what way Judith was difficult, but at that moment Edgar Atheling seized his sleeve and dragged him towards the wrestling contest. 'A pound's weight of silver that no one can defeat Waltheof Siwardsson!' he bellowed, his adolescent voice ragged with drink.

Men roared and pounded the trestles. Banter, mostly good-natured, flew, although there was some partisan muttering. Coins flashed like fish scales as they were wagered. Waltheof was plumped down opposite his intended opponent, a knight of the Duke's household named Picot de Saye. The man was wide-chested and bull-necked, with hands the size of shovels and a deep sword scar grooving one cheek.

His grin revealed several missing teeth. 'They say a fool and his money are soon parted,' he scoffed.

Waltheof laughed at his opponent. 'I do not claim to be a wise man, but it will take a stronger one than you to separate me from my silver,' he said pleasantly.

Hoots of derision followed that statement, but again they were amiable. Waltheof leaned his elbow on the board and extended his hand to the Norman's. The younger man's tunic sleeve gave small indication of the power of the muscles beneath. His hands were smooth, unblemished by battle, for although Waltheof had been taught to wield axe and sword with consummate skill he had never been put to the test.

Picot grasped Waltheof's hand in his own scarred one. 'Light the candles,' he commanded.

Either side of the men's wrists stood two shallow prickets holding short tallow candles. The aim of the contest was for each man to try to force his opponent's arm down onto the flame and extinguish it. In this particular sport Waltheof did have experience, although there was nothing to see. The evidence of his talent lay in the unblemished skin on the back of his wrist.

Waltheof kept his arm loose and supple as Picot began to exert pressure. Resisting the first questing push, he studied the almost imperceptible tightening of Picot's neck and shoulders. Humour kindled in Waltheof's eyes. The smile he sent to Picot was natural, not forced through teeth that were gritted with effort. Picot thrust harder, but Waltheof remained solid. Men began slowly to pound the tables. Waltheof heard the sound like a drum in his blood, but was only distantly aware of the watchers. Focus was all. The pressure grew stronger, and Picot's grip became painful. Waltheof started to exert his own pressure, building slowly, never relenting. He relaxed his free hand on his thigh and held his breathing slow and steady. Now shouts of encouragement pierced the drumroll of fists. Waltheof poured more strength into his forearm and slowly, but inexorably, started to push Picot's wrist down onto the flame. The Norman struggled, his face reddening and the tendons bulging in his throat like ropes, but Waltheof was too powerful, searing Picot's hand upon the candle and extinguishing the flame in a stink of black tallow smoke.

The roars were deafening. Picot rubbed his burned wrist and stared at Waltheof. 'It is seldom I am defeated,' he said grudgingly.

'My father was called Siward the Strong,' Waltheof replied. 'They say he could wrestle an ox to the ground one-handed.' He opened and closed his fist, the marks of the other man's grip imprinted on his skin in white stigmata.

'Cunningly played, Waltheof, son of Siward,' a gravelly voice said from behind his left shoulder. Waltheof turned to find King William standing over him, darkening the light with his shadow. Obviously he had been watching the end of the match and Waltheof reddened at the notion.

'Thank you, sire,' he muttered.

'A pity there is not much call for ox wrestling in my hall.' Despite the smile on William's lips, his eyes were dark and watchful. Here was a man who did not let down his guard for a moment, and who judged others by his own harsh personal standards.

Although Waltheof had just won the contest, suddenly the taste of victory was not as sweet as it should have been.

A week later Duke William's court prepared to depart Rouen and celebrate Easter to the north at Fecamp. Countess Adelaide, suffering from a head cold, had opted to ride in one of the covered baggage wains, its interior padded with feather bolsters and thick furs to cushion the jolting of the cart and keep the occupants warm.

Judith hated travelling in such a fashion. The bumping and jarring was always wearisome, and the company no better. Her sister's voice had an irritating tendency to whine and their mother's constant scolding was enough to challenge the patience of a saint — and Judith did not possess such fortitude.

After much argument she finally persuaded Adelaide to let her ride her black Friesian mare instead. 'There will be more room in the wain,' Judith pointed out. 'I promise to ride where you can see me.'

Adelaide sneezed into a large linen napkin. 'Oh, go, child,' she flapped a weary hand. 'You make my head ache. Just have a care and do not give me anything with which to reproach you.'

Smiling with triumph, Judith curtseyed to her mother, and with a light heart instructed Sybille to tell the grooms to saddle her mare.

Outside there was chaos as the court prepared for the journey to Fecamp. Baggage wains were piled with household artefacts - beds and hangings for the ducal chambers, chests of napery, chairs and benches, cushions, candle stands, all the rich English spoils. Hawks from the mews, hounds from the kennels, a basket of flapping, squawking hens destined for her uncle's table. So saturated was the bailey with noise and smell that Judith nearly returned to the suffocating confines of her mother's chamber.

And then she became aware of his presence on the sward. Waltheof Siwardsson, Earl of Huntingdon and Northampton as she now knew he was named. She had seen him most days among the English party and had studied him circumspectly through her lashes, both fascinated and disturbed by the glow of his vitality.

As usual the chamberlain's lad, Simon de Senlis, was glued to his side, eyes filled with the boundless adoration of a nun for its new master. Waltheof's heavy copper-blond hair was bound back by a braid band and he was showing off with an enormous Dane axe for the boy's benefit and a gathering audience.

Judith gazed upon the effortless whirl and turn of the great blade. This was the weapon that the Norman soldiers had faced on Hastings field - that had held them at bay for hour after punishing hour and almost destroyed them. Watching the grace and power of Waltheof's movement, she had no doubt that God must have been on her uncle's side that day, for how else could he have prevailed against such a weapon?

Waltheof's laugh rang out, as huge and exuberant as the man himself. The axe blade glittered and was still as he grasped the shaft near the socket and presented the weapon to Simon's older brother Gamier to try. Judith felt a shiver ripple down her spine and centre in her loins. Filled with a longing that she had no point of reference or experience to identify, she walked swiftly away, distancing herself from danger.

They set out for Fecamp as the sun toiled towards its zenith. Approaching Easter, the weather was fine and the roads much improved from their winter mire so that the carts travelled dry shod. Judith enjoyed the gentle warmth on her skin and the pale green tints of spring covering winter's drab blacks and browns. Her mare bucked friskily and pulled on the reins, eager for more than just a sedate trot. There were plans to hunt along the way and Judith was looking forward to giving Jolie her head, for she too felt a quickening in the blood, a certain skittishness born of the spring warmth and the need to stretch out after winter's confinement.

A kennel keeper released the Duke's pack of harriers and the large golden dogs snuffled along the wayside, seeking scents to pursue. With one eye on the hounds, Judith did her duty and rode at a sedate pace at the rear of her mother's travelling wain. From within came muffled sounds of coughing and sneezing. Her sister said something in a petulant tone and Adelaide snapped curtly in reply. Judith was greatly relieved that she had been given her freedom. She could not have borne to sit within the stuffy confines of the cart with only a limited tunnel view of the passing spring day.

One of the harriers started a hare out of the lush grass growing beyond the rutted road. Uttering halloos of joy, blowing on their horns, the men pulled their mounts out of line and spurred in pursuit. Judith hesitated, but the temptation was too great. Ignoring the belated cry from her mother, she reined Jolie around and dug in her heels. Full of oats, keen to gallop, the mare took off like a crossbow quarrel. Throwing caution to the wind, Judith let her have her head.

She overtook several riders, including her cousin Rufus, who shouted an obscenity, his plump face flushed scarlet beneath his mop of straw-blond hair. The spring breeze filled her open mouth with its cold, pure taste and fluttered her wimple like a banner. There were other women riding with the hunt and their high-pitched cries of encouragement spurred her on, although she suppressed her inclination to yell at the sky. That would have been testing the bounds of seemliness.

The hare vanished into a sloping thicket of alder, ash and willow. Judith's mare took the incline in two strong strides but suddenly her gait chopped and shortened, almost jarring Judith out of the saddle. Clinging to the reins, the girl struggled to regain her balance while the hunt crashed on through the thicket and into the field beyond, leaving her far behind.

Hampered by her skirts, Judith struggled from the mare's back and saw that Jolie was favouring her offside hind leg. Without thinking she placed her hand on the injured limb. The mare's skin rippled, and she lashed out. Judith dodged and was fortunate only to receive a grazing blow from the iron shoe, although even that was sufficient to rip the soft wool of her gown and expose her linen undershift. Jolie plunged away then halted, reins trailing, leg held up off the ground.

'My lady, you are in difficulty?'

She looked up in surprise, and saw Waltheof Siwardsson riding back through the thicket towards her, his expression concerned.

Judith's heart began to pound and her mouth was suddenly dry. She glanced around but there was no one else in sight. 'My mare,' she said with a stilted gesture at the horse. 'She took the slope too hard.'