THE
CONQUEST
Elizabeth Chadwick
The year is 1066 when Norman womanizer Rolf de Brize saves the life of a Saxon woman, Ailith, who tries to kill herself after losing both her husband and her child following the Normans' invasion of England. Installed as chatelaine of Rolf's English estate, Ailith resolves to remain chaste, but her determination is sorely tried by Rolf, who is already married and has a child.
A Warner Book
First published in Great Britainn
in 1996 by Little, Brown and Companyn
This edition published by Warner Books in 1997
Reprinted 1998, 1999, 2001
Copyright © Elizabeth Chadwick 1996 The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, norn
be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on then
subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 0 7515 1177 3
Typeset in Bembo by M Rules
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic
Warner Books A Division of
Little, Brown and Company (UK) Brettenham House
Lancaster Place London WC2E 7EN
www.littlebrown.co.uk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are several people I would like to thank for their help 'backstage' while I was writing this novel. First of all my husband, Roger, who copes amiably with the domestic chaos engendered by my absence in my study, and brings me cups of tea at frequent intervals. Secondly, my parents, Robert and Joan Chadwick, for their support, child-care services, and baking of home-made cakes when there have been more chores in the day than I have had hands. I would also like to thank my agent Carole Blake and all the staff at Blake Friedmann for their support, enthusiasm and encouragement. I am grateful to Barbara Boote at Little, Brown and Warner, for giving The Conquest the chance to see the light of day.
A special thanks goes out to Kim Siddorn of Regia Anglorum, with whom I had several illuminating discussions concerning the Battle of Hastings and the Conquest period in general. I am indebted to him for his comments and suggestions. I must also thank Mark Knight of Ledecestrescise for the Norman battle commands, and members of Deoraby, Abbandum, and the Conroi du Burm for a general broadening of my knowledge.
PART I
AILITH
CHAPTER 1
LONDON, DECEMBER 1065
Ailith, wife of Goldwin the Armourer, swept her gaze around her long hall, inhaled deeply of the rich, forest scent, and sighed out with pleasure. Great swags of Yuletide evergreen garlanded the roof beams and the timbered walls. At spontaneous intervals she had hung kissing bunches of the sacred white mistletoe and blood-berried holly. Above the place of honour near the hearth, a magnificent pair of stag's antlers had been nailed, and the reflected firelight stained the broad edges and polished tips of horn a glossy crimson.
Tomorrow night her brothers had promised to find time from their duties as bodyguards of the great Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, to bring her the traditional Yule log and stay to dine. She was greatly looking forward to the meal, for apart from Goldwin, Aldred and Lyulph were the only family she possessed, and their visits were precious.
A sudden commotion at the door heralded the return of her two serving women from the markets in the heart of the city. Braying in protest at the weight in his laden panniers, the pack ass was led round the side of the house by the younger maid, Sigrid. Wulfhild, puffing and plump, staggered into the long hall, her arms weighted down by two net bags of provisions.
'God save us, Mistress Ailith, I've never seen such crowds!' She dumped the bags on the new, thick floor rushes and pressed her hands into the small of her back. 'An' all the stall holders charging what they like. We got the best bargains we could, but if it weren't Yuletide, you'd say the prices was shameless robbery!'
Ailith's generous lips twitched at her maid's indignation. 'I am sure I would,' she commiserated gravely as Wulfhild handed her a small drawstring pouch. It was considerably lighter than it had been at the outset of the excursion.
'There would be less in it still if Brand the Fishmonger hadn't got a soft spot for Sigrid,' Wulfhild continued to grumble. 'He let us have the pike and salmon you asked for at only half the price he was charging everyone else. And when we got to the onions, you'd ha' thought they was made out o' gold the way…'
'Wulfhild, I believe you!' Ailith said a trifle impatiendy. Over the maid's shoulder she saw Goldwin enter the hall. Even in the raw December cold his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing his brawny forearms. He was wearing a stained leather apron over his old tunic and his face was smutty from the forge. His right fist was closed around the nasal bar of an iron helmet.
'Take those bags to the store and unpack them,' Ailith commanded. 'I'll inspect everything later. And before you do that, bring out some bread and ale for Master Goldwin.'
Wulfhild half-turned, saw Goldwin, and in consternation, picked up the bags and hurried from the hall, dipping the master an awkward curtsey as she passed him.
Goldwin paused to watch her, then looked enquiringly at Ailith. His eyes were a warm reddish-brown set under prominent black brows. Beneath his scrutiny, Ailith felt herself grow warm and begin to melt.
'The markets are expensive today with Yule so close and the King and Court in residence,' she told him. 'The bargains were few and Wulfhild has taken it to heart. You know how she loves to haggle.'
Goldwin took the purse she held up for his inspection. 'I was warned that becoming a married man was expensive,' he observed with mock dismay.
'Would you rather have remained in your bread-and-water bachelor state and amassed a solitary fortune then?' Ailith challenged, jutting her chin at him and setting her hands to her hips. She had large, regular features moulded upon a sturdy bone structure. A healthy mare was the way her father had described her during the marriage negotiations before his death last year; a good worker, strong and buxom. Ailith knew that her father's words stemmed from his pride at how well she had coped with the burden of household duties in the eight years since her mother had died, but it had not blunted the pain of the wounds he had so unintentionally inflicted. If she had not loved Goldwin for anything else, she would have loved him for saying on their wedding night that her statuesque figure and wealth of corn-blonde hair put him not in mind of a mare, but of a wild, fierce Valkyrie.
Goldwin rubbed his jaw and pretended to consider. 'Would I rather have remained in my bread-and-water state?' Without warning he pounced on her and drew her beneath one of the mistletoe kissing bunches. 'What do you think?' he breathed. His lips pressed down on hers. She felt the silkiness of his beard, the forge heat still upon his skin, and tasted salty sweat. Running her hands over his naked forearms and across his broad, blacksmith's shoulders, she buried her fingers in his hair and returned his kiss with enthusiasm. Against her hip she felt the clumsy bump of the helmet he was still holding.
Wulfhild returned from the stores with a pitcher of ale and a loaf of new bread which she placed on the trestle near the hearth. Ailith and Goldwin broke their embrace and looked at each other, making a silent promise for later. Lightly slapping her rump, Goldwin sat down at the trestle and Ailith ladled out two steaming bowls of onion pottage from the cauldron suspended over the hearth.
'You're in a fine good humour.' She put the soup in front of him and sat down at his side. 'Is it because you've finished this?' She lifted the helm off the board and turned it delicately over in her hands. It was a beautiful piece of work, its austere lines tempered by the details of bronze brow ridges and decorated strengthening bands.
Goldwin grunted and spooned pottage into his mouth. 'I'll be in a better humour still when the mail shirt to go with it is done. Earl Harold wants it for the New Year and it's not but two thirds completed yet.'
Ailith was not deceived by his complaint. Goldwin's work was going very well indeed. If he had not been extremely pleased with the helm, he would never have brought it from the forge to show her, feigning nonchalance, but seeking her approval. Looking at his hands as he broke bread and ate soup, she marvelled anew that their rugged ugliness could create a thing of such simple, but intricate beauty. And then she thought of their gentle touch on her body and a little shiver ran through her. She tried the helmet on.
'Do I look like a Valkyrie now?' she asked mischievously, and was amazed at the loudness of her own voice in her ears.
Goldwin chuckled. 'Not unless such women are cross-eyed and wear old homespun kirtles.'
Ailith stuck out her tongue at him and removed the helm. Immediately her focus restored itself to normal. She wondered how men managed to keep a clear vision in battle with a nasal bar between their eyes. She looked at the helm and imagined it gleaming on the leonine head of Harold of Wessex, and again she shivered.
'I'm not really complaining,' Goldwin said as the hot soup and fragrant fresh bread mellowed him. 'I owe your brothers a great debt for putting Earl Harold's custom my way. Without their recommendations I might still be struggling in that poky little workshop at Ethelredshithe.' He gazed with pride at the thick timber walls of the spacious hall, clothed in their festive evergreen.
So did Ailith. It was not every bride could boast a brand-new house, light and roomy by the standards of the wattle and daub dwelling in which she had grown up, and situated within sight of St Peter's and the new palace and abbey on Thorney Island.
Three years ago Goldwin had repaired a dented helm belonging to her brother Aldred. Aldred had been so impressed by the work that he had recommended Goldwin to all his soldier acquaintances and custom had flourished. So had the friendship between the two young men. It had seemed only natural that Goldwin should offer for Ailith when his reputation and fortune had grown to the point where he felt secure enough to support a wife. The match had been made to mutual satisfaction all round. Ailith had always known that she would have no say in the choosing of a husband and had been mightily relieved when her father and brothers had mooted Goldwin.
He was short of stature and slightly bow-legged, his hands permanently darkened from working the steel, but his warm smile and his diligent, amiable nature, made him the most handsome of men in her eyes.
'Aldred and Lyulph are bringing the Yule log tomorrow eve.' Ailith returned her attention to Goldwin, taking pleasure in seeing him enjoy the food. 'I'll have to neck those chickens before dark, I suppose.' She pulled a face. Although she was competent at all domestic tasks, killing the yard fowl was the one she disliked the most. It seemed such a betrayal of trust. You offered the birds corn from your hand day in, day out, talking to them, caring for them. Then you stole their eggs and wrung their necks at the whim of the cooking pot. She could have bought freshly killed poultry from the booths in West Chepe, but to her housewife's conditioning, that was a shocking price to pay for squeamishness.
Goldwin wiped his lips on a napkin, poured himself a mug of ale from the pitcher, and stood up. 'It'll be good to see Aldred and Lyulph again,' he commented. 'Now Earl Harold's almost sitting on the throne, they're in attendance of him all the time.' He took a long drink, topped up his mug, and stifling a replete belch, walked to the door. On the threshold he turned round.
'Aili, I forgot to tell you; old Sitric's house next door, it's going to be occupied. I saw the abbey steward this morning and he told me.'
Filled with curiosity, Ailith raised her brows. Their elderly neighbour Sitric had retired to St Peter's at Martinmas, bestowing all his worldly goods upon the monks in return for board and lodging until he should die. His house had stood empty these past four weeks, checked over now and then by the abbey's lay steward, but otherwise forlorn. 'Did he say by whom?'
'Apparently it has been rented until next hogtide by a wine merchant.' Goldwin looked down into his wine. 'A Norman wine merchant, from Rouen.'
'Oh.' Ailith did not quite know how to respond. There were plenty of Normans in London. King Edward had spent his youth across the narrow sea and his preferences were for all things French. Rumour said that he even desired to bequeath his childless crown to Duke William of Normandy, when every decent-thinking Saxon knew that it ought to go to Harold of Wessex. She grimaced. To speak of Normans in front of her brothers was to invite a tirade of abuse. But it did not follow that a person was to be spat upon just because they were foreign. Harold of Wessex himself was half-Danish.
'Don't mention it to Aldred and Lyulph,' she said. 'Leastways not tomorrow. I don't want the feast to be spoiled.'
'Why should I tell them when it is none of their business?' Goldwin answered bluntly. 'I only told you because you keep saying what a disgrace it is to have that house standing empty and unused.' He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. 'I would lief as not have Normans for neighbours myself, but I trust I can keep a civil tongue in my head. And while Aldred and Lyulph are under my roof, I will expect them to do the same.'
Ailith nodded, but looked uncertain, knowing how hot-tempered and impetuous her brothers could be. 'Is this merchant alone or does he bring a family?' she asked.
'A wife, I think the steward said, and the usual household clutter of servants.' His tone bore mingled amusement and irritation. 'You'll see when they arrive.' He left the hall. Moments later Ailith heard the clang of his hammer in the forge. Her optimistic mood somewhat dampened, she cleared the trestle and went to inspect the fruits of the shopping expedition.
When everything had been put away on the storeroom shelves, she set the women to making a bacon and pease pudding for the evening meal, together with fried fig pastries for the morrow's Yule feast. Then she took herself down the garth to the chicken run, intending to neck three victims to honour the pot.
Immediately outside the door, within easy picking distance, were Ailith's herb garden and vegetable plot. She lingered among her plants, twitching stray late weeds out of the soil, admiring the fat, white stems of her leeks, and frowning over a slug-chewed cabbage. But she could not procrastinate forever. Reluctantly she walked among the slender trunks of the young apple orchard, paused at the pig pen to scratch the sow behind her floppy grey ears, and came at last to the trilling ground of the chicken run where she had intentionally kept her hens this morning. Not a bird was to be seen. Even Alaric, the indolent rooster who never did anything but eat corn and make love in a bored, absent-minded fashion with his wives, had taken advantage of the freedom offered by the latch which Ailith had failed to secure in her haste to be about other tasks.
'Bollocks!' Ailith swore, and, hands on hips, stared round the empty garden. Soon it would be dusk, and they were close enough to the countryside for foxes and stoats to be a real threat. 'Chook, chook, chook,' she called, then held her breath to listen. A light drizzle drifted down, grey and cobweb-fine. Shivering, rubbing her arms, Ailith called again.
A single, speckled biddy came running from the direction of Sitric's empty garth and began pecking hopefully in the grass around Ailith's feet. She stooped, grabbed the indignant hen, and tossed it into the fowl run, this time making sure that the door was properly latched behind it. Then she heard Alaric's unmistakable harsh crow from Sitric's side of the wattle fence. Swearing again, Ailith hitched her gown through her belt for ease of movement, marched down her own garth, round the back alley, and entered Sitric's property.
Some of her hens were pecking in the long grass of his orchard. One actually sat in the branches of a gnarled pear tree and watched her with a beadily cocked eye. The others had ranged as far as the stable buildings adjoining the house and were scratching with great gusto in the heap of old dung and straw beside the stable door.
Ailith sighed heavily and smothering the urge to scream, said instead, 'Chook, chook, chook,' in a soft, encouraging voice. The greedier, less canny ones fell for it, but the others kept their distance, revelling in their illicit freedom. Abandoning the gentle approach, Ailith waded in with grim determination. Amidst a squawking flurry of bright eyes and beaks, scaly legs and a snowstorm of detached feathers, she managed to grab two hens by their feet and toss them across into her own garth. Shouting for Wulfhild and Sigrid to come out and catch them, she made a grab for two more. Alaric, in an unaccustomed display of temper, pecked her hand and flapped to the top of the midden. Ailith looped another swatch of her kirtle through her belt and began scrambling up the damp straw after him. If she could catch Alaric and throw him over the wattle boundary, she reasoned that his wives would probably follow.
She had reached the top of the heap and was about to throw herself upon the rooster when the first rider guided his mount around the side of the building and, reining to a halt, stared at her, his mouth gaping in astonishment. Horrified, Ailith scrambled down from the dung heap, frantically tugging her gown out of her belt and shaking it down to conceal her smeared white legs.
'I beg pardon,' she stammered, gesturing at Alaric who was belligerently fluffing out his feathers at the top of the midden. 'The hens have escaped and I'm trying to catch them!' Even through her panic she assumed that the rider was a representative of the abbey, for he was dressed in the sober, good-quality garments typical of an administrator. Her notion was disabused even before he spoke by the appearance of a second rider who certainly had no connection with the church. It was a young woman, her oval face possessed of symmetrical, delicate features, her eyes soft and dark beneath plucked, Romanesque brows. Slim, beringed hands competently checked her high-stepping chestnut mare. Her cloak and overgown were richly embroidered.
The man addressed the woman in rapid French and her elegant eyebrows rose to meet the fluted edges of her immaculate wimple. She answered him briefly, but with a bubble of laugh-ter in her voice. Ailith wished that it were possible just to vanish from sight. She was painfully aware of every stalk of straw, every smear of dung on her working kittle and tattered apron. These people were quite obviously the new Norman neighbours, and what must they think?
The young woman addressed Ailith in English, heavily accented but understandable. 'I see you have a problem. My hens also have strayed before. Let my husband's men catch them for you.' Turning in her saddle, she issued a command in Norman to two youths who had just jumped down from a laden baggage wain to stretch their legs.
'Thank you,' Ailith muttered with chagrin as the young men set about the pursuit and capture of the wayward birds, succeeding with insulting ease. Alaric was fetched in high dudgeon from the top of the dung heap and presented to her with a cheeky flourish by the younger of the two youths. Ailith tucked the rooster under her arm, her broad freckled face as red as fire.
The man leaned over his saddle to address her. He too spoke English. 'Perhaps you will ask your master and mistress to call on us?' he said with a warm, wide smile. 'We would like to meet and be friends with our neighbours.'
Ailith swallowed. Her shame was so deep that she knew she would never be able to hold her head above it again. 'I am the mistress,' she said stiffly.
The Norman stared her up and down, nonplussed. Then his mouth twitched and he quickly raised his hand to cough.
His wife stepped courageously into the breach. 'We should not have jumped so swiftly to conclusions,' she soothed. 'It is only natural to go about household tasks in old clothes if you are not expecting to meet anyone.'
Ailith only felt worse. The man's face was dusky with suppressed laughter.
Please, you will still come?' Anxiously the woman extended her hand.
'I will speak to my husband,' Ailith replied, raising her chin a notch, but refusing to look at either of them. 'Thank you for your help.' And then she fled, certain that she could hear the sound of their laughter in pursuit.
Goldwin did nothing to soothe her mortification by guffawing loudly when later she told him what had happened.
Ailith ceased combing out her thick, slightly coarse hair and glared at him. He was reclining on their bed in the sleeping loft, a cup of mead in his hand. 'It is not funny,' she snapped. 'They want us to call on them!'
'Yes, I know.' Goldwin's voice was husky with laughter. 'You were still shutting up the hens when the Norman came to the forge to introduce himself. He said that you had been very embarrassed and he was sorry if he had offended you. He was also insistent that we dine with them soon.' His eyes sparkled.
'Goldwin, I can't!'
'Nor can you skulk indoors for the rest of your life in the hopes of avoiding them.' Laughing, he refilled his mead cup. 'They seem decent enough people, for Normans. His name's Aubert de Remy and he's hoping to make a fortune selling wine to the English court being as King Edward's so fond.'
As Goldwin spoke, Ailith's initial panic faded into dismay. She resumed combing her hair, tuning her mind to the orderliness of the strokes. Goldwin was right. She could not hide from her neighbours indefinitely. It would be best to make a jest of the whole incident. Laughter was supposed to break down barriers of reserve and suspicion – but she would rather that the laughter was not at her expense. 'Did you meet his wife?' she asked casually.
'No, she was busy with her maids, but he told me that her name was Felice and that her old nurse was English, so she speaks the tongue quite well.'
'She is very beautiful.' Ailith put down her comb and removed her grey woollen gown. Conscientiously she folded the garment over the end of her clothing pole. What she really wanted to do was throw it on the floor and burst into tears. Her expression screened from Goldwin by her unruly hair, she plucked at the stray stalks of straw still embedded in the dress.
Goldwin set his mead cup on the floor and left the bed. She felt his rough hands upon her shoulders, his breath animal-warm at her throat. 'I have all the beauty I need here,' he murmured, turning her in his arms until she was facing him. 'Come to bed; take me on the white lightning to Valhalla.'
Despite herself, Ailith smiled at his blandishments. He obviously desired her – if the growl of playful lust in his voice was not evidence enough, then the hard bulge in his braies certainly was. Even above her need to love and be loved, was Ailith's compulsion to be needed. Garlanding her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, and felt the power surge in her loins as he softly groaned her name.
As their passion mounted, she discarded the thought of the Norman neighbours in the same way she had discarded her clothes. Tomorrow she would clad herself again with both, but for the moment they had no place in her world. She was a Valkyrie riding the storm.
CHAPTER 2
Ailith's brother Aldred took a hearty bite out of a roasted chicken thigh and complimented his sister on the excellent flavour of the meat. 'Better than anything we get served at court, eh, Lyulph?'
A younger man, less broad in the shoulder, brushed crumbs from his luxuriant corn-coloured beard and nodded vigorously, his mouth bulging with bread and meat.
Ailith laughed with pleasure at their praise and their vast appetites. To watch them eating now made keeping hens worthwhile, whatever her earlier thoughts on the matter. It was wonderful to see her great, blond brothers in their finery. Her hall seemed almost too small to contain them. Aldred's red wool tunic was banded with silk braid, and around Lyulph's throat was a heavy silver cross and a necklace of amber and garnet beads. Their strong, axe-wielders' hands were bare of rings which might foul a blow in a moment of crisis, but both men's wrists were adorned with gold and silver bracelets, gifts from Harold Godwinson, the man they served.
'What do you get at court then?' asked Goldwin, and stretched his legs in contentment towards the enormous Yule log burning upon two iron props in the firepit. His mead cup rested lightly on his gilded belt buckle and his own tunic was fine tonight, bordered with Ailith's skilful embroidery.
Aldred snorted rudely. 'Custards and curds for King Edward's ailing belly. Chicken blancmange and sops in wine.'
'Oh come now, I don't believe that!'
'Well, not all the time,' Aldred grudgingly conceded. 'But most of the food is mashed up and smothered in fancy sauces.'
'It's the Norman fashion, a murrain on the bastard,' Lyulph sneered, his brilliant blue eyes full of contempt. 'When Earl Harold's on his own estates, we get to eat decent, English fare.'
Ailith exchanged a wry, pleading glance with Goldwin. Responding, he valiantly sought to close the crack before it could become a chasm. 'So the King still sickens?' he enquired.
Aldred wiped his lips and smoothed down his moustaches between forefinger and thumb. 'Daily,' he said to Goldwin. 'He's not attending the consecration of his precious abbey tomorrow because he's too weak. Our lord Earl will wear the crown before Candlemas, mark what I say.'
Goldwin tactfully guided Aldred and Lyulph into talking about Earl Harold, and then conducted them from the table to the forge to show them the armour he was making for the lord of Wessex. They were much impressed by the helm and the almost completed hauberk.
'The Normans often use archers,' Lyulph said, fingering the triple-linked rivets. 'Will this stop an arrow?'
'Not at close range, but at medium- and long-distance, yes, depending on angle, of course.' Goldwin looked sharply at the two young men. 'Are you expecting to be fighting Normans then?' He added wryly, 'Other than the usual?'
Aldred plucked a hunting knife from Goldwin's workbench and examined the blade. 'Oh yes,' he said, his voice soft and bitter. 'Normans, Flemings, Brabants, the dross of all Europe.'
Goldwin frowned a question.
'Is it not obvious?' Aldred tossed the knife end over end and caught it deftly by the wooden haft. 'Even if Earl Harold is named king on Edward's death, he will have to fight for the right to sit on the throne.'
Goldwin began to feel queasy and wished he had a clearer head. As well as the gift of the Yule log, Ailith's brothers had brought a keg of sweet, strong mead. The honey brew was Goldwin's particular weakness and he had consumed more than was wise. But then wisdom was not usually a prerequisite of Yuletide feasting. He tried with limited success to focus his mind. 'Duke William of Normandy, you mean?'
Aldred's face reddened and he stabbed the point of the dagger viciously into Goldwin's workbench. 'The whoreson says that Edward promised him the crown fifteen years ago… but it was never Edward's to promise. The High Witan decide who shall be king!'
...
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