The Winter Mantle (7 page)

'Lord Waltheof.'

He turned at the imperative note in the woman's voice and found himself looking down at Judith's mother, the formidable Adelaide of Aumale. The dragon guardian.

'Countess,' he inclined his head and regarded her warily. Judith had a darker version of her eyes and similar autocratic features. In Adelaide the bone structure was almost hawkish and he could see how Judith might look twenty years from now.

'I have heard what happened in the stableyard this morn,' she said stiffly. 'It seems that yet again I must thank you for coming to my daughter's aid.'

'I am glad I was present,' Waltheof replied graciously. 'I hope that she has taken no harm?'

'None - although I understand that it might have been different without your intervention.'

Waltheof thought that her face might crack if she smiled. He could see that she was doing her duty by thanking him - and hating every moment. He had often heard married companions make wry jests about their motherin-laws, and had thought them rather harsh. Now he began to understand.

Adelaide inclined her head and moved on, her spine as straight as a mason's measuring rod. Her husband, Eudo of Champagne, was in England, keeping the peace. Waltheof wondered, rather uncharitably, if Lord Eudo had chosen to remain there above returning to his icy marriage bed.

One of the maids attending her paused at Waltheof's side for the briefest instant. She had a rosy complexion and merry grey eyes. 'Lady Judith is in the abbey chapel praying for the boy's recovery,' she murmured, giving him a meaningful look through her lashes before following the Countess.

Waltheof gazed after her in frowning bemusement. Then, slowly, he began to smile. Turning on his heel, he left the hall and walked purposefully towards the Abbey Church of the Holy Trinity.

The decorated arches had a pleasing symmetry and the pale slabs of Caen stone possessed a warm, butter colour in the sunshine. Tonsured holy brethren in their dark Benedictine robes were everywhere, their air proprietorial. Pilgrims crowded the front porch, their dusty appearance and travelling satchels marking them out from the general population. Some were here because of the Duke's presence in the town, but most had come for Easter week and to view the miraculous phial of the Holy Blood of Christ.

Waltheof joined their number and entered the incense-soaked greatness of the abbey's nave. He had worshipped here before at Easter Mass, but still the beauty of the carved and painted pillars filled him with delight and awe. He loved churches in all their forms, from the small wooden edifices no more than huts that served many of his Midland manors, to the towering dignity of great cathedrals such as Westminster, Canterbury, Jumièges and Fècamp. He could find God in any of them and tailored his worship to the surroundings. In the small churches he was humble and reflective; in the cathedrals he praised God in pleasure through the rich colours and ceremony. At Crowland in the Fens he yielded himself completely and received peace in return.

But today, although he was aware of God's presence, his seeking was of a different kind. Leaving the pilgrims, he walked down the great nave of the church, his calfhide boots making a gritty sound on the stone floor. Votive candles burned by the hundred on prickets and candelabra, tended by monks from the abbey. Before the alter knelt yet more pilgrims, praying, paying their respects, reverently touching the ornate box containing the phial of the Holy Blood of Christ that was held by a watchful priest.

Waltheof sought among the gathering of bowed heads and found her kneeling at the edge and just a little apart. Self-contained as always. Her head was bent towards her clasped hands and her eyes were closed, revealing a smoothness of lid lined by thick dark lashes. Squeezing amongst the pilgrims, Waltheof knelt in the space that she had left between herself and them.

She opened her eyes at the intrusion. The haughty stare she had been about to give him widened into one of recognition and then grew wary. Waltheof responded with a smile and bowed his neck, attending to the letter of worship if not giving the task his full concentration.

For perhaps a quarter candle notch they knelt side by side. Several pilgrims rose and departed, their places taken by others. The sound of suppressed coughs, of shuffling footsteps and the murmur of worship echoed against the stone vaulting.

'One of the maids told me where you were,' Waltheof said to his clasped hands.

'I came to pray for the recovery of Simon de Senlis,' Judith said stiffly.

'Indeed, that is my own reason for being here,' Waltheof replied, being selective with the truth. He was sure that God would understand.

The silence fell between them again, but it was communicative. Waltheof felt as if there was a high wall separating him and Judith, but that somehow he had managed to pull a slab out of the centre and could now glimpse her through the ensuing gap.

When she rose to leave he rose with her and escorted her out, one hand lightly beneath her elbow. It was indicative of the breach in the wall that she accepted his touch and did not draw away, but in the wide sunlit porch she turned to him. 'What you said earlier today, about God's will,' she said, 'you made me feel ashamed.'

'I am sorry, my lady, that was not my intention.'

'I know it was not. You were trying to offer comfort.' Her lips curved in a rare smile. 'And in a way, you did — after I had the time to think.'

Waltheof wanted nothing more than to pull her against him and kiss her, but he clenched his fists at his sides and reminded himself that he wanted to live. 'I suppose that is mete since I often speak my mind without thinking at all. Abbot Ulfcytel always told me that it was my greatest failing and my saving grace.' He fell into step beside her, reluctant to let the moment go. He sensed a similar mood in Judith, for as they left the abbey precincts she did not attempt to distance herself from him, although there were many witnesses to see them walking together.

'There has been one matter I have thought about ever since that first day in Rouen, though,' he murmured. 'And I have kept it inside my head until sometimes I feel my brains will burst with the effort of holding back.'

She lifted her head to him and he saw that she took his meaning, for her cheeks grew pink. 'If it is so important to your wellbeing, then you must approach my uncle and my stepfather for guidance,' she said adroitly.

'That I know,' he sighed. 'But perhaps it is better to bide my time until my feet are on more solid ground.' He paused in the shadow of a wall, aware that they were almost at the palace and in a moment he would lose her to the public space of the great hall. 'And before I make my bid, I need to know that I am not embarking on a fool's errand.' The hand that had been at her elbow now slipped down the inside of her forearm and sought her hand. Her skin was cool and dry, but he felt the sweat spring suddenly and heard her intake of breath.

'I want you to wife,' he muttered and turned her hand to look at the palm and narrow, smooth fingers. 'Are you willing?' Lust pounded through him; heat pulsed at his groin, as fiercely as if he had not lain with a woman for a year instead of only that morning. One gentle push and her back would be against the wall. One swift coil of his arm and her body would be pressed to his.

She was breathing hard. He could sense the response within her, wild as his own, and the control, pushing it down. 'I can give you no encouragement without the consent of my family.'

'But if your family were to give their consent - would you have me?'

Her throat worked as if she was parched. 'I do not know,' she said and pulled away. For an instant he tightened his grip, but before panic had time to flare in her eyes he let her go. She had not refused him, and he knew that she too was scorched by the reaction between their bodies. If she did not know, then it was up to him to persuade her until she did.

Simon stared at the wall beyond the end of his bed. It was a sight to which he had grown accustomed over the past fortnight. He knew every flake of plaster, every line of stone. He played games, making pictures out of the marks, a dog, a tree, a castle, until his eyes blurred with strain and he had to look away. The window embrasure yielded a cool draught and a narrow column of sky. Sometimes there would be the distraction of passing clouds, but today his window was the blank blue canvas of a perfect spring day.

What he would give to be able to throw aside the covers, leap out of bed and hurtle down the twisting stairs to the glorious morning outside his prison. But he suspected that he would never hurtle anywhere again. When people came to see him they smiled and said loudly that he would soon be better, but their eyes told a different story. And he had heard them mutter among themselves when they thought they were out of his hearing.

The break was bad. Even without the overheard conversations of his visitors, he knew that. The chirugeon had dosed him with syrup of white poppy before setting the limb, but the agony had been terrible - like white-hot teeth biting into his shin. The limb was now held rigid with ash splints bound tightly to his leg with linen bandages soaked in egg albumen. His task was to lie abed and allow the bone to knit.

The searing pain had been replaced by a dull and steady hrob. For the first few days he had been feverish and he knew that they had feared for his life. However that stage had passed and it was evident that whether the limb healed straight or crooked he was going to live. Thus he lay on his bed and waited out minutes, hours and days that seemed like years.

Early in his convalescence Lady Judith had brought him a box containing a sweetmeat made from crushed walnuts boiled in honey. She had sat with him for a while, doing her duty, assuaging her guilt. Then Lord Waltheof had arrived, bringing a tafel board and gaming pieces and Lady Judith's face had grown as radiant as a sunrise. Since then they had visited him regularly. One would appear and the other would follow like doves homing to the cote. Simon had swiftly realised that they were meeting each other rather than comforting him, but he had been glad of the company and enjoyed being a party to their conspiracy. Sometimes too Waltheof would send his personal skald, Thorkel, to entertain Simon with sagas of faraway lands inhabited by fierce Vikings, giants and trolls.

All that, however, was finished. As from today he was alone. Apart from affording him a glimpse of sky. the window embrasure also yielded up sounds from the courtyard below. The rumble of cartwheels, the shouts of soldiers and drivers, the clatter of hooves told him that William was preparing to leave Fècamp. By noon the last of the baggage wains would have rolled ponderously out of the gates, leaving the palace to its garrison and resident retainers. A fortnight ago he had been part of that vast, energetic tide; now he was debris, tossed above the water line. The thought made his mouth tighten with pain and misery. A lump came to his throat and his eyes began to sting.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and he hastily wiped his eyes on a corner of the coverlet. It would not be manly to be caught crying, and he did not want any of them to think that he was a snivelling infant.

Waltheof flourished aside the chamber curtain and ducked into the room, his height and vitality immediately diminishing the small space. In the spring warmth he was wearing a linen tunic and had tied back his abundant copper hair with a strip of leather. Simon could smell the freshness of the outdoors on his clothes and wanted desperately to be able to go there.

'You've come to say farewell, haven't you?' he demanded.

'Yes lad, I have.' Waltheof looked slightly uncomfortable, but did not shirk the question. 'Where William goes, unfortunately I must go too.'

Simon scowled glumly at the coverlet, utterly miserable at the thought of Waltheof's leaving. Even if the Saxon earl had conducted his courtship with Lady Judith in this room, he had still stayed to play tafel once she had gone, had still made time to talk.

'I promise I will visit as often as I can while we are within riding distance,' Waitheof said, clasping his large, warm hand over Simon's on the coverlet. 'I won't forget.'

Simon gazed at the rings flashing on Waltheof's fingers. One was of gold wire, twisted into a rope, the other bore a large, blood-red stone and looked a little bit like one of the rings that he had seen Bishop Remegius wear. The lump of misery grew and solidified in his stomach until it was as heavy as a small boulder.

'As soon as you're better I'll take you out riding,' Waltheof said.

'But that's weeks away!' Simon burst out, unable to contain his disappointment and anger. 'And I might not get better!' He thumped the bedclothes and felt a sharp pain stab through the centre of his broken leg.

'Of course you will.' Waltheof fixed him with a piercing blue stare, forcing Simon to meet his eyes and not look away. 'It was a bad break, I know it was, and I would not belittle your suffering, but you will not be confined for ever.'

Simon eyed him mutinously. 'It seems like for ever,' he muttered.

Waltheof sighed. 'Yes, if I were your age I suppose that it would feel like for ever to me.' He gave a rueful smile. 'Indeed, I think that I would feel the same now. I cannot bear to be cooped up.' Ferreting beneath his cloak, Waltheof flourished a bone flute carved from a goose's wingbone. 'Thorkell fashioned this for you,' he said. 'We thought that perhaps you would enjoy making music'

Simon thanked him, trying to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. It was not that he did not appreciate the gift, but it was no compensation for being left on his own for days on end.

Waltheof also produced several sheets of parchment bound in a roll and tied with a ribbon. This was followed by a leather pouch containing the ingredients for making ink, a small, sharp knife with a bone handle, several goose quills, and a small wax tablet and stylo. 'You can lessen the distance by writing to me,' he said cheerfully.

Simon flushed. 'I… I'm not well lettered,' he mumbled.

Waltheof spread his hands. 'Do you have anything else to do except lie here and mope? Duke William himself can do no more than read and write his own name with the greatest labour, but he values greatly those who are literate. It would be much to your advantage to learn, and besides, I would like to send you messages and receive them in return.'