I Am the Chosen King (36 page)

Falaise

Judith, helping to tidy away the mess that always accumulated with a birth, bundled soiled linen into the arms of a servant and glanced with a mixture of adoration and jealousy at her sister’s new son. After all these years of marriage to Tostig Godwinesson, Judith’s womb had never quickened. She was barren, A fact she could normally accept with equanimity, but at times like this, when the cry of the new-born tugged at her emotions, it was a fact that carried much pain. She was a good woman, Judith, would have made just as good a mother as her sister Mathilda, Duchess of Normandy, She sighed, gathered the last of the linen and piled it atop the servant’s already cumbersome burden, giving instruction that it was to be taken immediately to be laundered, lest the stains became immovable.

The birthing had been an easy one, over within two hours, but then Mathilda, for all her lack of height, had wide hips and three previous children. Only by chance was Judith still here at Falaise to be of assistance, for a month already had she and Tostig been guests of her sister’s husband at this castle where William had been born. Falaise was the town where his mother had lived with her father the tanner; where Duke Robert had first set eyes on her.

They would have returned to England—to Tostig’s earldom of Northumbria—had travel to the northern coast of Normandy been safe. But William was once again at odds with Henry of France, the two men locked in bull-horned determination to be rid of each other, Henry had entered Normandy from the west, two weeks past, as a hot July smouldered into August and was busy making his presence known by ravaging and burning all in his path, pushing the destruction northwards towards Bayeux and Caen. William, intent on his wife’s confinement, appeared unconcerned by the outrage. He contented himself with summoning his forces to muster at Falaise and waited for the birth of his son. And for Henry to make a mistake.

Mathilda thought her third son perfect—his father, peering at the infant sucking greedily at her breast, grunted that he was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. Laughing, she amiably dismissed his rudeness. “Ah William, you have said that of all our
nouveau-nés
. Children are often like shrivelled little grapes when they first come into the world!”

“I do not recall the other three having such puckered crimson faces. This crab-apple appears overripened.”

Judith successfully masked her shock at her brother-in-law’s insults. She would have been devastated had Tostig said anything so callous about a child, but Mathilda was unperturbed. She had long ago realised that her husband possessed no paternal feelings for her babies. It would be different when the boys were men grown, when they could fight at their father’s side.

An uneasy silence had fallen among the group of men invited into the chamber to greet their duke’s son. Judith noted their discomfort; they too were dismayed at William’s apparent dislike of the boy. Someone had to say something.

“What are you to name him?” she asked, closing the door behind the last of the servants and casting a professional eye over the reconstructed order of the chamber. She expected her brother-in-law to answer, but it was Mathilda who commented.

“I think William would be suitable, do you not agree, husband?” She tipped her head at the Duke, who once more was bending over his son with an expression of acute repugnance. He straightened and shrugged with a gesture of indifference, replying that he was not certain he cared for the boy to be named after him.

“I am not suggesting we name him after you!” Mathilda responded indignantly. “Why, the poor mite will feel daunted enough as it is by your high expectations.
Non
, this is for our dear friend, William fitz Osbern.” She regarded the man standing a pace or so behind her husband and held her hand out for him to kiss. With a polite bow, fitz Osbern raised her fingers to his lips.

“Do you not consider that Will deserves such reward?” Mathilda asked her husband. “This tiny man sucking so strongly at my teat might not have been blessed with the good fortune of having you as his father, were it not for Will’s loyalty in protecting your back these past many years.”

Judith was completely stunned at her sister’s pert boldness, but then, Mathilda had always had a mind of her own. A woman’s duty, Judith had often reminded her, was to be obedient first to her father and then to her lord husband. That lesson had obviously fallen on muffled ears. Judith, however, was measuring her sister’s marriage against her own. Tostig was a strict, rigid, no-nonsense man who, although Judith would never openly admit it, was lacking in imagination and humour. Mathilda would have died of boredom were she wed to Tostig. He might offer stability but William offered the thing Mathilda had always yearned for and which Judith envied: excitement.

The Duke set a brief, chaste kiss on his wife’s cheek. “I shall consider your suggestion,” he said, a spark of amusement shining in his eyes. Though Rufus—red face—would suit him the better.”

Mathilda beamed at him. Perhaps she alone of all people, save for his mother, knew how William thought and why he acted as he did. To no other living person could he open the window into his heart and soul, for to the deceit and wickedness of the world he had to show unwavering strength. There was no room for weakness. None other save perhaps fitz Osbern could be permitted to witness any crack in his defences that could make him vulnerable. Too many in the past had turned against William, had traded trust and friendship for lies and hostility: guardians, uncles, vassals—Henry of France himself.

Despite the cruelty that she knew was within him, Mathilda had no fear of her husband, for she had given him her body and her heart. Whether he reciprocated with love, she was uncertain. If love meant treating her as his equal, not abusing her verbally or physically in public or private, sharing passion in the intimacy of their bed and never having need of another woman, then she was content.

“Come, my friends,” the Duke said, clapping his hands together and rubbing the palms in a familiar gesture that signalled his desire to apply his mind to work not relaxation. “Let us leave the ladies to their women’s business and be about our own.” He clamped his broad hand on fitz Osbern’s shoulder as they passed through the door. “Of course, I shall expect the compliment of naming my son after you to be returned when your own wife is safe delivered of her first child.”

Fitz Osbern guffawed outright. “It is already decided so, my Lord! William be it a lad, Mathilda if a lass.”

“Outright fawning will get you everywhere, my dear friend!” The Duke’s laughter echoed back up the winding steps, amplified by the slabs of stone. This castle at Falaise was impregnable, one of his best-fortified.

“Do you not think me the most fortunate of men, Lord Tostig?” William went on. “Think on it, we might have each received the other sister in marriage—it could be you with a red-faced shrimp for a son and me saddled with the empty vessel! ’Tis just as well the fertile woman came to the better man, eh?”

Closing the door after the last of the men to leave, Judith reddened and bit her lip to stem the hurt. As well that she did not hear her husband’s reply; Tostig was never one to put loyalty to kindred above the need to impress.

After patting the baby between his shoulders to bring up his wind, Mathilda handed the child to his nurse. She would feed him herself for a few days only, to give him the benefit of a mother’s first nourishing milk. Then the wet nurse could have him. Motherhood suited Mathilda well, but not the inconvenience of swollen breasts, dripping milk and the constant demand of a baby’s hungry belly. She watched with a critical eye while the nurse clothed the baby in clean linen and swaddled his body tight to prevent any risk of misshapen limbs, then laid him in his cradle. The child snuffled, grunting a mild protest at being taken from the security of his mother’s warmth and smell, but within moments he slept.

For Judith, the tug of longing became almost unbearable. She would do anything, anything at all, to be blessed with the joy of her own child. The potions and charms that she had tried, the remedies and draughts…the hours on her knees before God’s altar…nothing had worked.

“Perhaps a pilgrimage to Rome may help?” Had Mathilda guessed at the thoughts behind her sister’s stricken expression? “I have heard that many women pray direct to God for the blessing of a child at the altar of Saint Peter.” Her suggestion was well-intentioned, but her next was less tactful. “You are so thin, my dear. You ought to put more weight on your belly and buttocks, give your husband’s seed something to feast upon.”

Judith blinked rapidly, fighting the overwhelming desire to weep. She was behaving like some first-wed young maid. What with the birth of this child and her monthly flux just starting…two lonely tears trickled down her cheek.

“Come, sit beside me.” Mathilda patted her bed. “Have you considered,” she commented with a straightforwardness similar to that of her husband, “that your barrenness may not be of your doing? Tostig may be using a blunted spear?”

Aghast at the absurd suggestion, Judith would have leapt to her feet, were it not for Mathilda reaching out to take her hand. “There is no fault with my husband!” Judith declared, embarrassed. “He is a man of passion and strength. How dare you think otherwise of him? Why would he be any the different from his brothers?”

Soothing the unexpected ire, Mathilda responded with calm. “I meant only that there is perhaps another of his kin who cannot produce children. Queen Edith is also unblessed.” Mathilda shook her head with genuine dismay. “If it is God’s will for a woman to be barren, then so be it, but for a queen to fail in her duty? This is a dreadful thing.”

It is a dreadful thing for any woman who desperately wants a child, queen or peasant
, Judith thought swiftly and bitterly, but there was no point in saying so. Mathilda would not understand.

Her sister continued. “There was something, I believe, about Edward claiming to remain chaste. Do you not think that rumour to be nonsense? A ruse to hide the truth of her barrenness or his impotence, I would wager. William says that when the time comes and the English are seeking a strong man to succeed Edward, they will offer him the crown.”

Judith sat quite still, her mouth open, no words coming from her astonished lips. Had she heard right? Could her sister be a little deranged from the trauma of the delivery? “He cannot become king of England,” she said with bewildered hesitancy. “He is a Norman. He would never be chosen by the Council or accepted by the people.”

“I fail to see of what relevance his nationality is,” Mathilda said with derision. “Queen Emma was Norman. Cnut was Danish. My husband is the strongest, the most politically astute leader. On those criteria alone, he is the most suited. He has quite set his mind on becoming a king.”

Judith lifted herself from the bed. Her sister had indeed changed since her marriage. She had studied her politics well—but they were Norman based, Norman biased. She had no concept of differing views or laws, no idea that English might not run parallel with Norman. “Your husband is a brave and valiant man,” she responded with courtesy, “but he does not carry Wessex blood. Besides, the boy Edgar is named ætheling. He is more likely to be England’s next king.”

Mathilda regarded her elder sister with amusement. Poor woman, did she so little understand the drive of an ambitious man? Perhaps that was indeed the case. Tostig was a dullard when it came to the pursuit of power—and undoubtedly also in the passion of love. “Edgar?” she said with condescension. “He is of but tender years. My dear, even your staid husband would be more suited to wear the crown than such a child! William will be England’s choice.” Mathilda gave a single, sharp nod of her head; the matter was settled. She stretched. Her back and shoulders ached; so, too, did her head. “I think I shall sleep for a while, birthing is wearisome business. You are fortunate, you know, not to suffer all this tawdry mess and pain.”

Hurt, tired, dispirited and still stomach-queasy from the beginning of her menstrual flow, Judith reacted to her sister’s patronising with uncharacteristic outrage. “Why could Tostig not be considered? He is a much respected earl. He has brought law, order and justice to Northumbria. And I might remind you that, unlike your William, he carries some blood of the Wessex line in his veins.”

Mathilda retorted sharply, “He also has an elder brother—or have you forgotten Harold? William considers that Ædward’s death three days after arriving in London was no jest of nature.” She stared meaningfully at Judith. “To a man who has a secret ambition for a crown, Ædward’s going to England would have been most inconvenient.”

Malice suddenly flared into Judith’s mind. How supercilious her wretched younger sister had become! She walked swiftly but with dignity towards the door, her rose-coloured wimple fluttering behind like a wind-filled sail “Except your hypothesis is fundamentally flawed. Neither my husband nor brother-in-law harbours such ambition. If anyone had a reason to arrange Ædward’s murder, as you imply, madam, then it would be the man who would suffer most at his continuing existence. I would suggest that we look no further than your husband. It is he, after all, who lusts for a crown that will never be offered him while an English candidate lives.” As a final parry she added, “Besides, he has Henry of France to deal with before he can look across the Channel Sea.”

Varaville

Burdened with plunder and far inside William’s territory, Henry of France made his way towards the Dives, reaching the wide tidal river at the ford near Varaville, north-west of Caen. His contempt for Duke William was complete. Did the man have no care for the well-being of his land or its people? To save his own hide, was he prepared to cower behind his castle walls and allow an invading army to lay waste all this western area of Normandy without making a single move to stop it? Not one arrow shot from a bow, not one spear sent with its bite of death. No barricade, nothing. That William was soon to concede that the power of France was too much for him was becoming more apparent as each day passed.

Once Henry had crossed this river, the whole of Normandy lay before him and William would have lost his chance to put up a fight against him.

The French army numbered in their thousands, their rapaciously collected loot an extra burden to carry on the supply carts together with all the necessary baggage and war machinery. Crossing a river took time, for the fording places were few and the logistics of transferring so many people and so much equipment in safety, and quickly, across deep water was a headache for any commander.

Only half the French army had successfully reached the far side when the tide turned and began to flood, making the ford impassable. It was then that Henry realised his mistake.

William was not afraid, nor had he been hiding. He had been waiting. Waiting for an opportunity to use his few resources against Henry’s many. The King in his pride and greed had marched direct into the Duke of Normandy’s trap.

With merciless ferocity, William attacked those who were left with inadequate defences on the western side of the river. Few escaped. The waters ran red, and when the tide turned once more, the dead and dying were swept out into the loneliness of the open sea.

Defeated and broken, Henry fled, and neither he nor his ally Geoffrey d’Anjou would dare bring an army so far into Norman territory again.

William was almost his own man. Now he could begin building his strength even further to a degree none expected. With no one to oppose him the Vexin, Mantes, Pontoise and the vast, wealthy territory of Maine could become his. He was undefeated—but not yet satisfied; ambition was a difficult lust to conquer.