The Winter Mantle (2 page)

A richly attired priest, whom Judith identified by the ornate cross atop his staff as an archbishop, was talking to two young men whose similarity of feature marked them as brothers. Mounted on a dappled cob was a yellow-haired youth with fine features and a slightly petulant air. He must be very well born, she thought, for his tunic was that rare colour of purple reserved for royalty and his hat was banded with ermine fur. She studied him until her view was blocked by a powerful chestnut stallion, straddled by a young man whose size and musculature almost equalled that of his horse.

He sported neither hat nor hood and the wind beat his copper-blond hair about his face in disarray. Outlining a wide, good-natured mouth and strong jaw, his beard was the colour of rose gold and made her consider Sybille's mischievous comment in a new light. What
would
it be like to touch? Soft as silk, or harsh as besom twigs? The notion both intrigued and disturbed her. He wore his costly garments in a careless, taken-for-granted way that should have filled her with scorn, but instead she felt admiration and a flicker of envy. Who was he?

In the same moment that she asked herself the question, Judith decided that she did not want to know. Her uncle's English hostage was sufficient to her needs. To think beyond that was much too dangerous. She lowered her eyes in self-defence and thus did not see the swift, appreciative glance that he cast in her direction.

Turning gracefully on her heel, she followed her mother and sister back within the sanctuary of the great stone tower and did not look back.

He was Waltheof Siwardsson, Earl of Huntingdon and Northampton. That he had retained his lands and titles was due to the fact that he had not fought against William on Hastings Field, It did not mean that the new Norman king trusted him or his companions, though.

'Whether or not William declares us his guests, he cannot disguise that we are prisoners,' declared Edgar Atheling, who was a prince of ancient Saxon lineage. His fine, almost effeminate features were marred by a fierce scowl. 'Even if our cage is gilded, it is still a cage.'

The English 'guests' were gathered in the timber hall that had been allotted to them during their stay in Rouen. Although the doors were not guarded, none of the hostages was in any doubt that an attempt to leave and take ship for England would be prevented - probably on the end of a sharpened spear.

Waltheof shrugged and filled his cup with wine from the flagon that had been left to hand. Captivity it might be, but at least it was generous. 'There is nothing we can do, so we might as well enjoy ourselves.' He swallowed deeply. It had taken him a while to adjust to the taste of wine when he was used to mead and ale, but now he welcomed the acid, tannic bite at the back of his throat. He understood Edgar's chaffing. There were many in England who thought that the youth should be king. His claim was stronger than either Harold Godwinsson's or William's, but he was only fifteen years old and thus more of a focus around which to rally men rather than a threat posed by his own efforts and abilities.

'You call drinking that muck enjoyment?' Edgar's light blue eyes were scornful.

'You have to grow accustomed,' Waltheof said and was rewarded with a disparaging snort.

'So you think that developing a taste for all things Norman will get you what you want?' This was from Morcar, Earl of Northumberland, his tone hostile and his arms folded belligerently high on his chest. At his side his older brother, Edwin, Earl of Mercia, was, as usual, absorbing all and saying nothing. Their alliance with Harold had been tepid, but so was their acceptance of William the Bastard as their king.

Waltheof pushed his free hand through his heavy red-gold hair and raised the goblet with the other. 'I think it better to say yes than no.' He met Morcar's stare briefly then strode to look out of the embrasure on the advancing dusk. Torches were being lit in the chambers and courtyards of the ducal complex. The rich smell of cooking wafted to his nostrils and cramped his stomach. It would be too easy to quarrel with Morcar and he held himself back, knowing how the Normans would feed upon their disagreements and take superior pleasure in watching them bicker.

'Have a care,' Morcar said softly. 'One day you might say yes to something that will bring you naught but harm.'

Waltheof clenched his fists. He could feel the burn of anger and chagrin flooding his face but he forced himself not to rise to the bait. 'One day I might,' he answered, trying to make light of the matter, 'but not now.' Deliberately he went to the flagon and, refilling his goblet, drank deeply of the dark Norman wine. He knew from experience that after four cups a pleasant haze would begin to creep over him. Ten cups and that haze became numbness. Fifteen purchased oblivion. The
Normans frowned on English drinking habits and King William was particularly abstemious. Waltheof had curbed his excesses rather than face that cold-eyed scorn, but still the need lingered - particularly with Morcar in the vicinity.

Waltheof's father, Siward the Strong, had once held the great earldom of Northumbria, but he had died when Waltheof was a small boy and such a turbulent border earldom required a grown man's rule. First there had been Tosti Godwinsson, who had proved so unpopular that the people rose in rebellion, and then Morcar of the line of Mercia, because Waltheof, at nineteen years old, was still judged too young and inexperienced to be given control of such a vast domain. Two years had passed since that time, and Waltheof's sense of possession had matured sufficiently to leave him resentful of Morcar's ownership - and Morcar knew it.

Further into the room, Archbishop Stigand was seated with Wulnoth Godwinsson, who was King Harold's brother and who had already been a hostage in Normandy for many years, A youth of Edgar's age when he had come into captivity, he was now a young man, with a full golden beard and sad, grey eyes. Quiet and unassuming, he was an insipid shadow of his dynamic brothers Leofwin, Gyrth and Harold, who had died beneath Norman blades on Hastings field. He was no more capable of rebellion than a legless man was of running.

Waltheof downed his wine to the lees and was contemplating refilling his cup when there was a knock on the chamber door. Being the nearest, he reached to the latch and found himself looking down at a slender boy of about nine or ten years old. Fox-gold eyes peered from beneath a fringe of sun-streaked brown hair shaved high on the nape. His tunic was of good blue wool with exquisite stitching, revealing that the sprogling was of high rank, probably someone's squire in the first year of his apprenticeship, when fetching and carrying were the order of the day.

Waltheof raised his brows. 'Child?' he said, suddenly feeling ancient.

'My lords, the dinner horn is about to sound and your presence is requested in the hall,' the lad announced in a clear confident tone. His gaze travelled beyond Waitheof to examine with frank curiosity the other occupants of the room. Waltheof could almost see his mind absorbing every detail, storing it up to relay later to his companions.

'And we must give "King" William what he desires, mustn't we?' sneered Edgar Atheling in English. 'Even if he sends some babe in tail clouts to escort us.'

The boy looked puzzled. Waltheof set a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. 'What is your name, lad?' he asked in French.

'Simon de Senlis, my lord.'

'He's my son.' William's chamberlain Richard de Rules arrived, slightly out of breath. 'I gave him the message and he took off ahead of me like a harrier unleashed!'

'Aye, we must make good sport,' said Edgar, speaking French himself now.

De Rules shook his head and looked rueful. 'That was not my meaning, my lord. My son may be as keen as a hound, but it is his passion that drives him, not his desire to make sport of valued guests.'

Waltheof admired De Rules' way with words — smooth without sounding obsequious. The Norman's face was open and honest with laughter lines at the corners of the grey eyes and he had the same sun-flashed hair as his son.

'Ah, so he has a passion for all things English, like most of your breed?' jeered Morcar.

The polite expression remained on De Rules' face, but the warmth faded from his eyes. 'If you are ready my lords, I will conduct you to the hall,' he said with stiff courtesy.

Waltheof cleared his throat and sought to lighten the moment with a smile and a jest. 'I am certainly ready,' he announced. 'Indeed, I am so hungry that I could eat a bear.' With a flourish he swept on his cloak, its thick blue wool lined with a pelt of gleaming white fur. He winked at the wide-eyed boy. 'This is all that's left of the last one I came across.'

'Hah, you've never seen a bear in your life unless it was a tame one shambling in chains!' Morcar snapped bad-temperedly.

'That shows how much you know of me,' Waltheof retorted and flicked his glance around the gathering of English nobles. 'I am going down to the hall to eat my dinner because, even if I am proud, pride alone will not nourish my bones and it would be churlish to refuse our Norman hosts.' And foolish too, but he did not need to say so. No matter how much they grumbled at their confinement, they dared not openly rebel whilst hostage in Normandy.

As they were escorted to the great hall, the boy paced beside Waltheof and tentatively stroked the magnificent white pelt lining the blue cloak. 'Is it really a bearskin?' he asked.

Waltheof nodded. 'It is indeed, lad, although you will never see one of its kind in a market place or at a baiting. Such beasts dwell in the frozen North Country, far away from the eyes of men.'

Simon's gaze was solemn and questioning. 'Then how came you by it?'

'Morcar's right,' Waltheof grinned over his shoulder at the glowering Earl of Northumberland. 'I have never seen other than the mangy creatures that entertain folk at fairings. But when my father was a very young man, he went adventuring and hunted the great bear that once dwelt inside this fur. Twice the height of a man it was, with teeth the size of drinking horns and a growl to shake snow off the mountain tops.' Waltheof spread his arms to augment the tale and the pelt shimmered as if with a vestige of the fierce life that had once inhabited it. 'He had it fashioned into a cloak and so it has come down to me.'

The boy eyed the garment with wonder and a hint of longing. Waltheof laughed and tousled the child's hair, the gesture boisterous and familiar.

Attired in their finery for the homecoming of their duke, the
Norman nobility packed the trestles set out in the Tower's great hall. The English hostages were placed to one side of the high table with William's kin and the Bishops of Rouen, Fecamp and Jumièges. A cloth of sun-bleached linen, richly patterned with English embroidery, covered the board. There were drinking vessels made from the horns of the wild white cattle that roamed the great forests of Northumbria, the rims and tips edged with exquisitely worked silver and gold. Goblets and flagons, decorated candleholders, gleamed in the firelight like the spangled pile of a dragon's hoard. All of it spoils of war, plundered from the thegns and huscarls who had fallen on Hastings field.

Surrounded by such trophies of conquest, Waltheof felt ill at ease, but he was sufficiently pragmatic to know that this was a victory feast and such display was to be expected. He and his companions were here because they were the vanquished and they too were part of that plunder. He supposed that in a way they should be grateful for Duke William's restraint. The legends of Waltheof's ancestors told of how they had toasted their own victories from the brainpans of their slaughtered foes.

Waltheof had an ear for languages. His French was good, if accented, and he was as fluent in Latin as he was in his native tongue, courtesy of a childhood education at Crowland Abbey in the Fen Country. He was soon engaged in conversation by the Norman prelates, who seemed both surprised and diverted by the ease with which he spoke the tongue of the church.

'Once I was intended for the priesthood,' Waltheof explained to the Archbishop of Rouen. 'I spent several years as an oblate in Crowland Abbey under the instruction of Abbot Ulfcytel.'

'You would have made an imposing monk,' said the Archbishop wryly as he broke the greasy wing joint off a portion of goose and wiped his fingers on a linen napkin.

Waltheof threw back his head and laughed. 'Indeed I would!' He flexed his shoulders. There were few folk in the hall to match his height or breadth, and certainly not on the dais, where even Duke William, who was tall and robust, seemed small by comparison. 'They are probably glad that they did not have to find the yards of wool necessary to fashion me a habit!' As he spoke he chanced to meet the eyes of the girl who sat among the other women of William's household.

He had noticed her in the courtyard on his arrival. Her expression then had been a mingling of the curious and the wary, as if she was studying a caged lion at close quarters. That same look filled her gaze now and made him want to smile. She was raven-haired and attractive in an austere sort of way, her nose thin and straight, her eyes rich brown and thick-lashed with deep lids. Her lips, for all that they were fixed in a firm, unsmiling line, held more than a hint of sensuality. For an instant she returned his scrutiny before modestly lowering her lashes. He wondered who she was: it might be interesting to find out. Certainly it would be a diversion to while away the tedious hours of captivity.

Following the various courses of the feast the women retired, leaving the men to the remainder of the evening in the hall. Waltheof watched them depart with interest. In her close-fitting gown of deepest red, the young woman was as lissom as a young doe. Waltheof imagined cornering her in the darkness of a corridor between torches. Thought of those dark eyes widening as he lowered his mouth to hers. The notion was unsettling enough to make him shift on the bench and adjust his braies. Perhaps it was as well that fate had not led him to monastic vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He doubted that he would have been able to keep any of them.

Now that the women had departed the atmosphere grew more relaxed and, although Duke William was morally abstemious, he slackened the reins and allowed his retainers a degree of leeway. Under cover of raised levels of noise, Waltheof took the opportunity of asking Richard de Rules the identity of the girl in the red dress.