The Winter Mantle

CHAPTER 1

Tower of Rouen, Normandy, Lent 1067

‘I wonder what Englishmen are like,’ mused Sybille as she laced the drawstring on her mistress’s embroidered linen shift.

‘Judging by the few we’ve seen before, more hair and beards than a flock of wild goats,’ Judith said disdainfully to her maid. As niece to Duke William of Normandy, now King of England, she was intensely conscious of her own dignity. ‘At least with our men you can see what lies beneath, and the lice are easier to keep at bay.’ She glanced towards the window, where the sound of the cheering crowds swished through the open shutters like a summer wind through forest leaves. Below the lofty tower walls the entire population of Rouen crammed the streets, eager for a sight of their duke’s triumphal return from England and his defeat of the crown-stealer, Harold Godwinsson.

Her maid’s interest in Englishmen – and her own if the truth were known – was due to the fact that her Uncle William had returned to his Duchy laden not only with Saxon booty but accompanied by highborn hostages – English lords whom he did not trust out of his sight.

‘But it is nice to run your fingers through a man’s beard, don’t you think?’ Sybille pursued with sparkling eyes. ‘Especially if he is young and handsome.’

Judith frowned a warning. ‘I would not know,’ she said loftily.

Not in the least set down, the maid gave a pert toss of her head. ‘Well, now you have a chance to find out.’ Fetching Judith’s best fitted gown of blood-red wool from the coffer where it had been lying amidst layers of dried rose petals and cinnamon bark, she helped her into it.

Judith smoothed her palms over the rich, soft wool with pleasure. From the corner of her eye she was aware of her sister Adela being fussed over by their mother, who was plucking and tweaking to align every fold.

‘God forfend that there should be a single hair out of place,’ Sybille muttered and facetiously crossed herself.

Judith hissed a rebuke as her mother approached. Sybille immediately swept a demure curtsey to the older woman and busied herself with binding Judith’s hair in two tight, glossy braids. A silk veil followed, held in place by pins of worked gold.

Adelaide, Countess of Aumale, studied the maid’s handiwork with eyes that were as hard and sharp as brown glass. ‘You’ll do,’ she said brusquely to Judith. ‘Where’s your cloak?’

‘Here, Mother.’ Judith lifted the garment from her clothing pole. The dark green wool was lined with beaver fur and trimmed with sable as befitted her rank. Adelaide leaned forward to adjust the gold and garnet fastening pin and swept an imaginary speck from the napped wool.

Judith restrained the urge to bat her mother’s, hand aside, but Adelaide must have felt the intention for she fixed her daughter with a frosty stare. ‘We are women of the ducal house,’ she said. ‘And it behoves us to show it.’

‘I know that, Mother.’ Judith was wise enough not to expose her irritation, but behind her dutiful expression she was quietly seething. At fifteen years old, she was of marriageable age with the curves and fluxes of womanhood, but still her mother treated her like a child.

‘I am glad that you do.’ Adelaide frowned down her long, pointed nose. Beckoning to her daughters, she swept to join the other women of Duchess Matilda’s household who were preparing to go out in public and greet their returning menfolk. Not that Adelaide’s husband would be among them. He was part of the Norman force left behind to garrison England during the new king’s absence. Judith had not decided whether her mother was pleased or relieved at the situation. She herself was indifferent. He was her stepfather and she scarcely knew him for he had seldom visited the women’s apartments even when at home, preferring life in the hall and the guardroom.

A blustery March wind tumbled around the courtyard, snatching irreverently at wimples, mocking the meticulous preparations of earlier. Bright silk banners cracked like whips on the tower battlements and above them the clouds flew so swiftly across the blue sky that watching them made Judith dizzy.

Sheltering in the lee of the wall, she wondered how long they would have to wait. Her male cousins, the Duke’s sons Richard, Robert and William, had ridden out to greet their father in the city. She rather wished that she could have joined them, but it would not have been seemly, and, as her mother said, when you were an important member of the highest household in the land, seemliness was everything.

The roars of approbation from the crowd had become a storm. Judith’s heart swelled with fierce pride. It was her blood they were cheering, her uncle who was now a king by God’s will and his own determination.

To a fanfare of trumpets the first riders clattered into the courtyard. Sunlight glanced on their helms and mail; silk pennons billowed from the glittering hafts of their spears. Under the rippling colours of the Papal banner, her uncle William rode a Spanish stallion, its hide the deep black of polished sea coal. He wore no armour and his powerful frame was resplendent in crimson wool, crusted with gold embroidery. His dark hair blew about his brow and his hawkish visage was emphasised by the way he narrowed his eyes against the buffet of the wind. A squire ran to grasp the bridle. William dismounted and, landing with solid assurance, turned his gaze on the waiting women.

The Duchess Matilda hastened forward and sank at his feet in a deep curtsey. Adelaide tugged at Judith’s cloak in sharp reminder, and Judith knelt too, the ground hard beneath her knees.

William stooped, raised his wife to her feet and murmured something that Judith did not hear but that brought a blush to the diminutive Duchess’s face. He kissed his daughters, Agatha, Constance, Cecilia, Adela, then he gestured the other women of the household to rise. His eyes flickered over them, a smile in their depths, although his mouth out of long habit and severe self-control remained straight and stern.

The courtyard was growing ever more crowded as William’s entourage continued to ride in. Flanked by guards the English ‘guests’ arrived. Beards and long hair, Judith noted; her words to Sybille had been right. They did resemble a flock of wild goats, although she had to admit that the embroidery on their garments was the most exquisite she had ever seen.

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 Waltheof 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, Fécamp 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.

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.

CHAPTER 2

A week later Duke William’s court prepared to depart Rouen and celebrate Easter to the north at Fécamp. 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 Fécamp. 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 pup 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 Garnier 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 Fécamp 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.’

Dismounting with fluid grace for a man so large, he tied his own horse to the low branch of a tree. Softly, he approached Jolie from the side.

‘Be careful.’ Judith’s voice rose, despite her attempt to keep it level and free of panic. ‘she will attack.’

‘No, no no,’ he answered, his voice a low croon that set up a vibration in the pit of her belly, ‘she will not. I like horses, and they like me. Ever since I was a small boy I have had a way with them. Prior Ulfcytel always said that I could have been a groom.’

He took a firm grasp on the mare’s reins and stroked her sweating neck with his open palm. Judith had watched him swing a battleaxe with those hands, his precision and control deadly. Now she watched him gentle her horse, and felt her limbs melt. He murmured soft love words and breathed his own breath into the mare’s nostrils as she had seen the stable hands do on occasion. Slowly but steadily he moved to the mare’s hindquarters and eased his hand down her injured leg. Jolie flinched. So did Judith, fearing that Waltheof would be kicked and trampled, but after that single recoil the mare stood quietly for him.

‘She will not be carrying you to Fécamp,’ he said without altering the timbre of his voice so as not to startle the horse. His dark blue eyes were troubled as they found Judith’s. ‘There is much damage to the leg, I think.’

Judith moistened her lips. She looked from him to the horse. ‘She will not have to be killed?’

He shrugged. ‘Likely not, my lady. Even if she stays lame, she can be used for breeding.’ His lips twitched. ‘Of course, if it was a stallion it would be a different matter – especially with a hind leg.’

Judith’s face flamed. She knew that a stallion could not mount a mare unless he had two sound hind legs to take his weight in the act of mating. Suddenly she was intensely aware of her vulnerability. She was Duke William’s niece and she had committed the cardinal folly of being unchaperoned. How easy it would be for him to throw her down on the carpet of violets around their feet and rape her in retaliation for his captivity and her uncle’s winning of the English crown.

‘You need not be afraid of me, my lady,’ he said, as if reading her mind.

‘I am not afraid of you,’ Judith answered boldly, although in truth she was terrified.

The curve of his lips became an outright grin. ‘You are like me,’ he said. ‘It is impossible for you to lie, because your face betrays you.’ His gaze dropped to her bosom. ‘I am no ravisher of women,’ he said softly. ‘Much as I am tempted.’ Turning away he untethered his horse from the tree, swung astride, and held his hand down to her. ‘Best mount up, Lady Judith, if we are to catch up with the baggage train before it arrives in Fécamp.’

She stared at his hand while her stomach churned so hard that she thought she was going to be sick. ‘What about my mare?’

‘You can send a groom back for her once we reach the others,’ he said. ‘She will have to be rested up in the nearest village until she’s fit.’ He beckoned persuasively. ‘Come, you cannot stay here, and I promise to restrain myself.’

Against her better judgement Judith gave him her hand, set her foot over his in the stirrup, and let him pull her up. After an initial clumsiness and flurry of skirts, she managed to perch sideways on the chestnut’s rump and clutched the saddle cantle to stop herself from falling off.

He glanced over his shoulder, amused that she should sit astride her own horse without a thought but consider it improper to straddle his. ‘Warn me if you think you are going to fall,’ he said through a grin. ‘I would hate to bring you to your uncle across my saddle like a slaughtered hind.’

‘I know how to ride pillion,’ Judith snapped, stung by his teasing.

‘Then that is well,’ he answered, ‘for otherwise I should have to dismount and walk at the bridle.’ He clicked his tongue and, with a flicker of its ears, the chestnut broke into a smooth walk.

Judith gazed at the farmland and resisted the temptation to glance sideways at her rescuer’s broad back. Her mother would be furious. She chewed her lip. It was not her fault, she told herself – or at least only in the sense that she had pushed Jolie too hard and caused the mare to overreach and strain her leg.

Waltheof Siwardsson was whistling softly through his teeth. She thought of him swinging that great axe in Rouen’s courtyard. ‘Did you fight my uncle in the great battle?’ she asked.

‘On Hastings field you mean?’ He twisted slightly in the saddle to look at her. ‘No, my lady, I did not.’ His smile developed a sour edge. ‘Mayhap I should have done.’

‘What prevented you?’

‘Ah, now that is a long tale, and I am not sure that I know the answer myself.’ He was silent for a time, guiding the horse across the field where the wheat was beginning to form a shallow green carpet. Then he sighed. ‘I owed neither allegiance nor loyalty to the Godwinssons. They had done nothing to advance my family. They took Northumbria from my bloodline and gave it elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not expect you to understand.’

‘But I do,’ Judith said, thinking of her mother’s constant lecturing. ‘A man’s birthright is his pride.’

He smiled. ‘Well, I never thought that I had much pride, my lady, until I was led in silken fetters to board a ship for Normandy. And now it burns me and I wonder if I was wrong to hold back from Harold’s last battle.’

Judith said nothing, for she knew she was out of her depth, but Waltheof answered the question himself with a shake of his head that sent a sparkle of light through the coppery tones of his hair. ‘Even if I had fought, your uncle might still have won. And if by chance Harold had taken the victory, I doubt that I would be any closer to having my desire of Northumbria. Morcar is its earl, and Harold was his brother-by-marriage. There is no one to fight for the house of Siward, lest it be Sweyn of Denmark.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Sometimes I think that it would be better had I remained at Crowland and become a monk.’

‘Indeed, I had heard you were trained for the Church,’ she murmured.

He nodded. ‘I was, but my older brother was killed in battle, and I was taken from the cloister to be educated as befitted the warrior son of a great earl. I had scarce been home two years when my father died too, and his northern lands were given into the hands of Tosti Godwinsson.’ He crossed himself and suddenly he was not smiling.

‘Would you have liked to take holy vows?’

‘Sometimes I think I would.’ He relaxed again. ‘There was peace at Crowland and you could feel God’s presence. It is harder out in the world to hear his voice – too many temptations.’ He gave her an appraising look. ‘Richard de Rules said that you were difficult, but I do not think you are.’

She raised her chin. ‘I speak as I find. Surely that is being honest, not difficult?’

He inclined his head, conceding the point. ‘Indeed, you are much like your uncle, my lady,’ he said, giving the horse a gentle dig in the flanks so that it quickened pace.

They reached the main baggage train and a groom was sent back for Judith’s mare. Waltheof delivered Judith to her mother’s wain. The Countess Adelaide eyed him narrowly as he helped Judith within the stifling interior, aromatic with the smell of horehound and sage.

‘Fortunate that you were on hand to come to my daughter’s aid, Earl Waltheof,’ she said, but not as if she were pleased at the notion.

‘Indeed it was, my lady.’ Waltheof gave her a broad smile and bowed. Adelaide inclined her head in frosty acknowledgement and then looked away, indicating that both her gratitude and the conversation were at an end.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Judith murmured, feeling that she had to add something and that her mother’s response was scant recompense. She was aware of the avidly staring maids, and of her sister hiding a giggle behind her hand.

‘Think nothing of it, my lady. I enjoyed the pleasure of your company.’ He bowed, regained the saddle with swift grace and reined away to greet the first of the returning huntsmen.

Adelaide gave her daughter a hard stare. ‘The pleasure of your company,’ she repeated in a voice nasal with cold. ‘I hope that you did not encourage him, daughter.’

‘Of course not!’ Judith glowered at her mother. ‘I have done nothing wrong. Why should I not converse with him when he is my uncle’s guest?’

‘Converse by all means, but do not encourage,’ Adelaide warned. ‘He is more and less than a guest, as well you know. You had no choice but to accept his aid just now, but I would rather that it had not happened. And I do not know what your uncle will say.’

‘It is no concern of my uncle’s!’ Judith felt a quiver of apprehension.

Adelaide shook her head. ‘Everything is a concern of your uncle. If you seem to favour one man above others, it complicates matters when it comes to settling a husband upon you. Granted, Waltheof of Huntingdon is handsome and pleasant, but he is not of high enough rank or quality to make a match with our house.’ Her lip curled on the words handsome and pleasant, making it clear that she did not view such attributes with favour.

Judith flushed. ‘Even though my grandmother Herleve was a laundress and the daughter of a common tanner?’ she retorted.

Her sister gasped at the blasphemy. Adelaide reared like a serpent – no mean feat given the deep cushions and the rocking of the cart. ‘I have not raised you to show such disrespect for your blood,’ she said icily. ‘My mother, your grandmother, God rest her soul, whatever her origins, died a great lady and you will not refer to her in such terms – is that understood?’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Judith compressed her lips and contained her resentment, knowing that if she continued to argue she would be whipped. Her mother was inordinately sensitive that Herleve de Falaise was indeed a tanner’s daughter whom Robert of Normandy had encountered pounding washing in a stream and brought home to his castle. She had borne him two children out of wedlock, one of them Duke William, the other Adelaide, and when the attraction had paled she had been married out of the way to one of Duke Robert’s supporters, Herluin de Conteville. Adelaide had set out to distance herself from all mention of laundering and tanning. As far as she was concerned, only the noble bloodline existed, and it was to be enhanced. Judith knew, although it went unspoken, that her mother considered matching her daughter with an English lord a step backwards for the family name – even if Waltheof Siwardsson’s pedigree was better than their own.

Until her mother’s outburst Judith had not really considered the notion of a match with the English earl, but now she did. Sitting in the oppressive cart, beneath her mother’s disapproving scrutiny, she thought of the journey she had just made on the rump of his horse. The copper flash of his hair against the soft dark blue wool of his cloak. The warm good humour. What would it be like to live in a household with a lord who would rather smile than frown? The thought was enticing and filled Judith with a feeling of restless excitement. She was accustomed to a regime of stern words and duty. Would it not be strange and wonderful to throw back her head for once and laugh with abandon?

*   *   *

‘He won’t give her to you,’ scoffed Edgar Atheling, shaking his head at Waltheof in disbelief. It was the second day of their journey to Fécamp and they were close enough to see the smoke from the city hearth fires and inhale the occasional eddy on the sea-salt breeze. ‘Not when he has as good as promised his own daughter to Edwin of Mercia. He is not going to marry off all the virgins in his household to English captives.’

‘William has not said that he will give his daughter to Edwin, only that he will consider it,’ Waltheof responded. ‘It is as likely that he will give his niece to me as it is that he will give his daughter to Edwin.’

Edgar snorted. ‘Mayhap you are right, Waltheof,’ he said. ‘Mayhap neither of you is destined for a Norman bride.’

Waltheof twitched his shoulders irritably and wished that he had not said anything to Edgar about his interest in Judith. He was annoyed at Edgar’s scoffing, which reinforced the warning given by Richard de Rules that William the Bastard’s niece was out of reach. She had not been out of reach yester afternoon, he thought. He could have abducted her across his saddle and forced a marriage by rape – a marriage that would have lasted about as long as it took the Normans to spit him on a lance. Waltheof grimaced. Perhaps Edgar and De Rules were right. Perhaps he should forget her and look elsewhere for a bride – a flaxen-haired English or Danish girl who would bear him enormous Viking sons. But it was not what he wanted. What he wanted was travelling fifty yards behind in a covered wain, guarded by her mother like a dragon sitting on its precious treasure. What he wanted was to melt the ice and discover the