Chapter 1
Tower of Rouen,
Normandy,
Lent 1067

‘I wonder what Englishmen are like,’ mused Sybille as she helped her mistress to don an embroidered linen shift.

‘Judging by the few we’ve seen, more hair and beards than a flock of wild goats,’ Judith replied with disdain.  As niece to Duke William of Normandy, now King of England, she was deeply 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. Beyond 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 chamber lady’s interest in Englishmen – and her own if the truth were known – was because her Uncle William had returned to his Duchy laden with booty and 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.’

‘I would not know,’ Judith said disdainfully.

‘Well, now you have a chance to find out.’ Not quelled in the least, Sybille fetched Judith’s best gown of blood-red wool from the coffer and helped her into it.

Judith smoothed her palms over the rich, soft wool with pleasure. In the corner of her vision 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, facetiously crossing 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 as hard and sharp as brown glass. Her expression remained tight and judgemental but obviously Judith’s attire had passed the test of her exacting standards for she nodded brusquely and said,  ‘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 adjusted the gold and garnet pin and plucked an imaginary speck from the napped wool.

Judith restrained the urge to bat her mother’s hand aside, but Adelaide had clearly sensed the intent. ‘We are women of the ducal house,’ she said icily, ‘And it behoves us to show it.’

‘I know that, Mother.’ 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 her mother treated her like a child.

‘I am glad you do.’ Adelaide gave her another hard look, and then, beckoning her daughters to follow, 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 was 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 barely knew him for he 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 at wimples, and billowing cloaks. 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 would have liked to join them, but it would not have been seemly, and, as her mother was constantly saying, 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 and 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 helms and mail; pennons rippled on the glittering hafts of spears. Under the silks 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 and jewels. His dark hair beat 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 stallion’s 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 peremptorily at Judith’s cloak  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 dark gaze assessed them, perhaps with pride in its depths, although his mouth out of long habit and harsh self-control remained straight and stern.

The courtyard was growing ever more crowded as men  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 petulant air. 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 that bordering on 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 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 because he had not fought against William on Hastings Field. It did not mean that the new Norman king was willing to trust or favour him though.

‘It does not matter that William calls us his guests, we know very well that we are his prisoners,’ declared Edgar Atheling, who was a prince of ancient Englissh lineage. His fine, almost delicate features were contorted by a fierce scowl. ‘Our cage is gilded, but 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 any attempt to leave and take ship for England would be prevented on the end of a sharpened spear.

Waltheof shrugged and filled his cup with wine from a flagon standing on an oak chest. Captivity it might be, but at least it was generous. ‘There is nothing we can do, so we might as well enjoy ourselves.’ He took a long swallow. It had taken him a while to adjust to the taste of wine when he was accustomed to mead and ale, but now he welcomed the acid, tannic bite at the back of his throat. He understood Edgar’s chaffing. Many in England thought that this youth should be king. His claim was stronger than either Harold Godwinsson’s or William’s, but he was only fifteen years old and 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 replied 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 raised his goblet. ‘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, but forced himself not to rise to the bait. ‘One day I might indeed,’ he answered, trying to make light of the matter, ‘but not now.’ He returned 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 a man who had been a hostage in Normandy for many years. A youth of Edgar’s age when he had entered 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 again when there was a knock on the chamber door. Being the nearest, he reached to the latch and found himself looking down at a 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 of good blue wool with exquisite stitching, revealed that the sprog 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!’

‘Yes 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 being obsequious. The Norman’s face was open and honest with laughter lines at the corners of his 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! 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.

‘That shows how much you know,’ Waltheof retorted and cast 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.

‘It is indeed, boy,’ he said with a smile, ‘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 from the eyes of men.’

‘Then how did you come by it my lord?’

‘Morcar’s right,’ Waltheof grinned over his shoulder at the scowling Earl of Northumberland. ‘I have never seen other than the mangy creatures that entertain folk at fairs. But when my father was a 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, hinting at 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.

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 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,’ replied the Archbishop with a smile 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 with deliberate pleasure. 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 young woman 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 though she was studying a caged lion at close quarters. That same look filled her gaze now. She was raven-haired and attractive in an austere sort of way, her nose thin and straight, her eyes deep brown and thick-lashed. Her mouth, for all that it was set in a firm, unsmiling line, held 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 confinement.

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. Perhaps it was as well he thought, 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 to leave well alone.’

‘Why?’ Waltheof clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Is she betrothed?’

De Rules looked uncomfortable. ‘Not yet.’

The wine buzzed in Waltheof’s blood. ‘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 because he is at a loose end. 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 retorted.

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. Waltheof’s hands were smooth, unblemished by battle, for although he 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, suddenly uncomfortable

‘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 had been.