The Winter Mantle (9 page)

'Anyway, Edwin said that Waltheof should have stayed in the cloister because he hasn't got the wit to be out in the world. He's a big, dumb ox.'

In and out went Judith's silver needle, stab and draw, stab and draw, filling in the marigold brightness of her horseman's hair. 'A dumb ox who can read and write and cipher,' she said quietly. 'A dumb ox whom our Norman courtiers like well, and who has proved his worth twice over. I have yet to see Edwin do more than pose in his fine clothes and show off.'

Agatha scowled. 'You won't be allowed to have him,' she said.

Judith shrugged as if she did not care. 'I may sew his image in an embroidery, but that does not mean I am ready to become his wife.'

'Are you not?' Agatha's gaze was hard and shrewd. 'I have heard it whispered that your mother keeps you closeted in the bower because you grew too familiar with him in Fècamp.'

Judith drew herself up. 'Then you must listen to whispers in some foul corners,' she snapped and set her needle aside, afraid that her anger would cause her to spoil her stitches. 'I have done nothing to cause reproach.'

It was Agatha's turn to raise a knowing eyebrow. 'You have never been so charitable towards the sick before,' she said. 'You seemed very concerned for the wellbeing of Simon de Senlis.'

'He was injured in my sight. Of course I was concerned for him,' Judith said irritably. 'I still am, for I do not think he will ever walk a straight course again.'

'And it had nothing to do with the English earl's visits to the boy.'

Judith sprang to her feet, unable to bear being near Agatha a moment longer. Her cousin was a bitch. 'Of course it didn't.' Her sudden movement dislodged the silk basket and spilled a riot of colourful hanks on to the floor. With a hiss of exasperation she stooped to pick them up and untangle them.

Agatha was silent for the course of several stitches but there was a satisfied curl to her lips. 'Waitheof has a mistress in
Fècamp you know,' she announced spitefully. 'She's a brothel whore from Madame Hortense's near the harbour.'

'I suppose Edwin told you that too.' Judith kept her back turned so that she would not have to bare her expression to her cousin's scrutiny.

'No,' Agatha said. 'It was my brother Robert. He went there with some of his friends and saw Waltheof with her. He says she's got the reputation of being willing to consider all manner of unnatural deeds for a silver coin… and that she has hair just like yours.'

Very carefully indeed, Judith set the basket of silks back on the bench. 'And I think that you would say anything just for the pleasure of casting a stone in a pool and watching the ripples,' she said glacially. 'The Earl of Huntingdon's private affairs are of less interest to me than they are to you, Agatha. You weary me with your prattle, and I will listen to no more.' Head held high, she walked across the room to join her mother and sister who were sewing a tunic for her absent stepfather.

Adelaide gave Judith a thoughtful look but said nothing and merely handed her a seam to stitch. Judith was glad of the silence, which gave her time to compose herself. Agatha's gossip was unsettling. Men seldom made permanent mistresses of girls they met in brothels, she knew that, but they did make regular assignations. The mention of Waltheof's whore having dark braids had been made deliberately by Agatha to disturb her, but Judith wondered if Waltheof's choice had been deliberate too. Did he imagine that he was bedding her when he paid for the whore's services? She reddened at the thought, torn between embarrassment, anger and a shameful melting between her thighs.

The silence was broken by Adelaide, who sighed and laid down her sewing. 'You may as well know that a messenger arrived from your stepfather this morn,' she said. There was anxiety in her light brown eyes. 'I was wondering whether to tell you, but I can see no point in keeping it to myself. It will be common knowledge soon enough. There is trouble in England.'

'Mother?' Judith's needle poised between stitches. Adela looked up. Neither girl was particularly close to her stepfather, but he was family, and they both felt a jolt of fear.

'Lawless thieves and rebels are banding together and causing dissent. Your stepfather says that the men your uncle William left to govern the country are hard pressed to keep order. He says it is like sitting on the lid of a boiling cauldron.' Adelaide pressed the palm of her hand over the fine linen fabric of the garment she was stitching as if by smoothing it she could make everything well. She would not say aloud that she feared for her husband's life, but Judith could sense her alarm.

'Uncle William will send aid,' Judith said quickly.

Adelaide nodded. 'He is already making plans to cross the water and put an end to it once and for all.' Fierceness glittered in her eyes. 'He will make them pay dearly.'

Judith moistened her lips. 'Will my uncle take the hostages with him?'

'That I do not know, although I hope so. They do naught but drink us dry and live lavishly off our tables. I for one am tired of the sight of them, and their habits are a bad influence on our own young men.'

Judith bent her head over the needlework so that her mother would not see the irritation in her expression. 'When is my uncle to leave?'

'As soon as he can gather troops and ships,' Adelaide said. 'Your stepfather has heard a rumour the Northerners have been appealing to the Danes… The English cannot be allowed to join with them.'

Waltheof was half Danish. Judith wondered where his loyalty would lie if it came to the crux. With the rebels, or with her uncle at whose feet he had knelt in homage. Was he aware of the news, and if so what would it mean to him. A chance to raise rebellion, or the opportunity to prove himself a loyal vassal and then mayhap ask her uncle for a Norman bride? She did not know which way he would step, because despite their meetings at Simon's bedside in Fècamp she did not know him.

The rumours of a return to England received a mixed response from the hostages. There was pleasure at the notion of going home, furtive hope that the rebellion would succeed, and continued resentment at the knowledge that they would be bound closely to William's side and watched like naughty children.

'If William does not give me Agatha to wife by the end of the year, then I will find a way to join the rebels,' Edwin muttered, sloshing another measure of wine into his cup and passing the flagon along. 'I am not a tame dog to constantly trot to heel for the promise of a bone that is never produced.'

Waltheof refilled his cup with wine. No one was sober and the talk had turned dangerous. He had no doubt that whatever was said would get back to William, but for the nonce no one seemed to care.

'You think you can fight William?' he asked. "You think you are a better warrior than Harold Godwinsson?'

Edwin's pale complexion darkened. 'I am still alive,' he slurred. 'Harold chose the wrong time and the wrong place.'

Morcar nodded in vigorous agreement, as did Edgar Atheling, who had been listening to the fighting talk with bright eyes.

'All of the North Country will rise up,' he declared, striking a pose. 'William has never set foot across the Humber. If Sweyn of Denmark sends a fleet then we can shake off the Normans like a dog shakes water from its pelt.'

Waltheof had held aloof from the fighting talk thus far, but the mention of the Danes brought him into their circle. He was half Dane himself and the tie of blood was strong. What would he do if Sweyn of Denmark sailed into the Humber —join him, or profess his allegiance to William? The wine buzzing in his head made it difficult to think. Kinship and belonging were important. Often he felt that he possessed neither. Parents and a brother he had scarcely known before death took them, lands that had been snatched from beneath his boyhood feet. All he had were the tales of his father's great deeds, and in strange contrast the quieter chanting of monks, drawing him through simple faith into the heart of their community. The way of the warrior or the way of peace: he had a foot in each territory and knew that he was in danger of falling down the chasm between.

He staggered to the coffer and picked up a fresh flagon, knowing that if he could down it to the dregs he would find the comfort of oblivion. He would not have to listen to the plans of his companions or the contradictory voices arguing back and forth in his mind. He gulped the potent red brew, felt the overflow trickling through his beard, and thought of Judith. If he took the cowl she was lost to him, the same if he chose the Danes. Only by becoming William's man did he stand a chance and that was a slim one.

He knew that everyone liked him because he was good-natured and always prepared to laugh at his own expense. Never angry, always patient, even when bedevilled by such trials as small children, vicious dogs and cantankerous old folk. Unfailingly polite despite his rustic English manners and his propensity for drink. Oh yes, he knew his worth in the eyes of other men. But tonight, in the murky light of dark plans and sour wine, the laughter had deserted him and he felt dangerously close to tears.

'I've brought you another gift,' Waltheof said, his breath steaming in the dank November air.

Simon watched Waltheof produce a walking stick from beneath the bearskin cloak. It was made of ash wood - a cut-down spear haft by the look of the thickness and length, fantastically carved with a sinuous design of hunting dogs pursuing a stag towards the smoothed and polished top. He and Simon were seated on a bench in the courtyard of the palace at Fècamp where King William was making final preparations to sail for England.

Waltheof was studying him from beneath his lids with an expectant expression.

Simon hated the stick, but he managed to smile. 'It is very fine, my lord, thank you.' Very fine if you were an old woman, but not a boy of ten years old desiring to run across the sward with the fleetness of a wild deer.

Waltheof nodded and looked pleased. 'I thought it would help you now you are able to bear weight on the leg.'

Simon nodded. 'Indeed it will,' he said tonelessly. To prove it he took the stick, levered himself to his feet and walked several steps across the courtyard. Fog was rolling off the sea and smothering the town. Heavy, damp, clinging. Waltheof's coppery hair was hoar-grey and a cobwebby mist dewed his cloak.

There was biting pain every time Simon set weight on the leg. The break had healed reasonably well, considering the seriousness of the original injury, but the limb was still twisted out of true. His walk was no longer an unthinking bounce but a slow, lopsided progression. The situation was not helped by his weakness. Lying abed for weeks on end had caused his muscles to waste and he had no strength to support the damaged limb.

He had seen the beggars at the abbey gates with all manner of wounds and deformities, had watched men pity them and toss a coin, or walk past in the arrogance of their own power and manhood. He had observed them beg crusts and other leavings from the monks who came to dole out food at vespers. Now, but for the grace of his noble birth and his father's position at court, he would be one of their number.

Waltheof studied his progress with folded arms and a slight frown. 'You should do this every day,' he said. 'And go further each time. Only then will you build up your strength.'

'It hurts,' Simon answered, knowing that he sounded churlish but unable to prevent the all too familiar black misery from flooding over him.

'I know.'

'But you don't feel it,' Simon snapped. His fist tightened around the carved stick. Suppressing the urge to cast it across the bailey he continued to limp towards the open ground where the squires did their training. It was empty this morning, the straw archery sheaves standing like ghosts beyond the quintain post that reared out of the mist like a gibbet.

'Perhaps not, but I see it,' Waltheof said and walked beside him, shortening his own long stride to blend with Simon's. 'If you do not fight, lad, it will destroy you.'

Simon said nothing, but his lips compressed petulantly.

'I have never thought you short of courage,' Waltheof murmured, 'But it will be to no avail if your self-pity is the stronger.'

Simon had been about to stop but Waltheof's words goaded him across the practice ground until he stood at its centre. The pain stabbed through his damaged leg in excruciating waves and he clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw began to ache too.

'Much better.' Waltheof clapped an approving hand on Simon's shoulder. Simon staggered, as the accolade almost felled him. The man did not move to steady him, but left him to find his own balance.

'Come the spring you'll be walking three times as fast, riding a horse, and back in full weapons training - I mean what I say. I am not feeding sops to an invalid - or at least I hope I am not.'

Simon jutted his jaw. Waltheof's words had stung his pride. Even if he died of the pain, no one was going to accuse him of wallowing in self-pity. Pivoting on his good leg, he made his way back towards the hall. Half smiling, Waltheof accompanied him.

They were halfway across the courtyard when Ralf de Gael joined them, his thin features bright with the relish that always lit them when he had gossip to impart.

'You're doing well,' he said with a pleasant nod to Simon.

Simon nodded gravely back. He knew many folk disliked Ralf de Gael. They said that he was smooth and shallow and not to be trusted. But then Normans frequently disparaged men of Breton birth. Simon liked De Gael because he was amusing and he took the time to speak to him without patronising. That De Gael was a good friend of Waltheof was also no small part of the boy's approval.

'Very well, considering the severity of the break,' Waltheof said with a wink at Simon.

The gesture warmed a smile from Simon. He strode out a bit more, showing off despite the increased pain.

'There's news from England,' De Gael said as they walked.

'Oh yes?' Waltheof's tone was suddenly cautious.

'The trouble has escalated. Exeter is in full revolt and there is a rising in the West Country that has spilled beyond containment. We're sailing on the morrow's tide. You had best hone your battleaxe — for whichever side you choose.'