'If you do not remain still, my lord, you will go to your marriage with a missing ear and a resemblance to the Earl of Norfolk's dogs,' he said, referring to Earl Ralf's deerhounds, which had recently been affected by a serious attack of mange.
Waltheof laughed, then, because that made him shake too, swallowed the sound.
'You're going to feel the cold,' Toki warned as he started on the beard.
It was a statement already borne out by the truth. Waltheof's bare neck did indeed feel the draught from an ill-fitting shutter. His beautiful golden beard, which had grown stronger over the last two years, had caused him more agony of decision than his hair. As an Englishman it was an immediately identifiable sign of his manhood, something to toy with in times of anxiety, to hide behind, and a symbol of authority. With it gone, his face was naked to the world.
Toki stepped back and eyed his handiwork dubiously. He stroked his own thick beard as if for reassurance. 'Splendour of God,' he declared, using King William's favourite oath. 'You surely do look like a Norman, my lord.'
Waltheof ran his hand over his smooth jaw and then through his cropped hair. Toki had sheared it in the Norman style, baring the entire back of the neck and up the scalp so mat trie hair began on a level just up from Waltheof's earlobes and was shaped above the ears and round to a fringe. 'I want to do Judith proud,' Waltheof said softly. 'I want to surprise and please her.'
Toki clucked his tongue. 'You'll do that for certain,' he said.
Waltheof looked hard at Toki but the manservant's expression was bland. He wondered if he had done the right thing. It was too late to worry.
The bath was the next order of proceedings, to remove the tickle of cut hair and ritually cleanse himself for the coming marriage. The wooden bathtub was somewhat small for his large frame and he had to bend his knees and keep his elbows in. Although the water was hot, it quickly began to chill and Waltheof did not linger at his ablutions.
He had just stepped from the tub and another manservant was drying him with linen towels when there was a knock on the chamber door and Simon de Senlis entered the room. The lad wore a tunic of russet-coloured wool that enhanced his fox-gold eyes and dark tawny hair. A beautifully tooled sheath hung from the belt at his waist and a hilt of cunningly worked antler stood proud of the top.
Waltheof flashed a grin at the sight of him. 'You're not supposed to outdo the bridegroom!' he remarked.
Simon did not respond to the jest for he was staring at Waltheof in open-mouthed astonishment.
'What do you think?' Self-consciously, Waltheof ran one hand through his hair. 'Do you think Lady Judith will approve?'
'You look very different,' the boy said.
Waltheof made a face. 'You're as diplomatic as your father.'
Simon frowned. 'No… It suits you, but you no longer look like yourself. But I think that Lady Judith will be very pleased indeed… and Countess Adelaide too.'
Waltheof snorted at the observation, admitting to himself that young Simon was as sharp as a bradawl. 'Come, help me dress,' he said. 'I presume that your father knows where you are.'
'Yes. He said not to linger if you wished to be alone.'
Waltheof shook his head. 'No, lad. I like my solitude for prayer, but I need company as some men need bread.' He tousled the boy's hair. It was slightly longer than his own new crop, the rich-brown strands nudging the boy's brow-bone.
While Toki set about emptying the bath water Simon helped Waltheof to don his wedding clothes. First came the shirt of soft embroidered linen, then braies of the same, held up by a waistband of plaited cord. Chausses of dark blue wool were fastened to the braies with leather ties. Kneeling at Waltheof's feet, Simon carefully wound decorative braid from ankle to knee. Filaments of gold thread twinkled amidst the red and white wool. Waltheof's tunic was of a lighter blue than his chausses, a summer-sky colour with the same red and white braid trimming the hem, cuffs and deep neck opening, the latter pinned by a large gold brooch. The sword belt came next, the solid gold buckle cunningly worked in the shape of a serpent coiling round to swallow its tail.
Waltheof hesitated over donning the several gold bracelets that adorned his wrists. The fashion was somewhat outmoded, but his father and brother had always worn them, using them as gifts for songs well sung and services performed. The Normans, he knew, saw the habit as barbaric and outmoded. 'Yes, or no?' he said to Simon.
The boy considered. 'You cannot give up everything of you that is English,' he said. 'Everyone will be too busy looking at your naked face to have time to notice your wrists.'
Waltheof grinned at the lad's perception. 'Aye, you're right.' Waltheof slid the bracelets onto his arms, but all the same pushed them a little beneath his sleeves. The final touch was the bearskin cloak. He had thought about discarding that too, but had swiftly quashed the notion. More than anything this was his heritage, a symbol of who he was. No one else owned a cloak lined with the fur of an Arctic bear.
'So,' he said, 'will I do?'
'You look magnificent, my lord.'
There was more than just diplomacy in the boy's tawny eyes. The gleam of admiration bolstered Waltheof's courage. Turning to a coffer, he took his battleaxe from its waxed wrappings and presented it to Simon.
'Here,' he said. 'You were my weapon bearer when I surrendered to William. Now be so again in pride as I go to my marriage with his niece.'
Simon flushed with pleasure and he took the weapon reverently.
With heart beating fast, Waltheof went to the door. For a moment his hand seemed stuck to the latch. He had deliberately made his men wait outside while he took the traditional bath and the less than traditional drastic barbering. He knew there would be consternation. What he hoped would carry him through was the approbation of his bride. It mattered that
Judith should be proud of him and show to all that she was marrying a man worthy of her love.
Jutting his naked chin, he raised the latch and stepped outside. The gold bracelets jingled on the movement and slipped down over the bones of his wrists.
Seated in the great hall, granted a place at the head of the high table because it was her wedding feast, Judith glanced between her lashes at her new husband. She could not believe the transformation that the barber's shears had wrought. He had been handsome before, in the unkempt way of the English, but now his features were clear and sharp, etched in Norman austerity. So changed was his appearance, she was unable to keep her eyes from him; quite simply, he was stunning. Women, who had ignored him before, now cast him languishing glances. Men, who had disapproved of his English abundance, clasped his hand in gruff approval. Even her mother had been impressed by Waltheof's changed appearance. Since his French was so fluent, she said, one could almost mistake him for a true Norman. If only it weren't for those vulgar bracelets jangling on his wrists.
Judith had noticed them too, and dismissed their presence as a matter of small importance. She would have care of his clothes and his dressing now that she was his wife. It would be a simple enough matter to persuade him to set them aside.
Some of the English guests had been less fulsome in their praise of Waltheof's shaven looks, but they were common thegns and counted for little. Any Saxon with a pitkin of sense these days was doing as Waltheof had done and adopting Norman ways.
Waltheof caught her looking at him and smiled. It was an open expression, full of honest joy. Judith blushed, unable to return the emotion before so many onlookers, all assessing and judging the couple's every response.
'I am the most fortunate of men,' he said huskily, laying his hand over hers, his thumb caressing the two bands of gold that now sat side by side on her middle and ring fingers.
'And I am the most fortunate of women,' she replied, her voice barely audible.
Ralf de Gael noticed Waltheof's gesture and raised a rowdy toast. Judith pursed her lips at his conduct. He behaved like an Englishman, she thought - always the first to disappear under the table, but not before making himself sick and objectionable with drink.
'Then our children will be doubly blessed,' Waltheof leaned closer to murmur, his breath scented with the spiced wine that had been served with the last course of honeyed figs, cheese wafers, and small crisp, flat cakes cooked on a griddle.
The mention of children made Judith's breath catch. She was trying not to panic about the wedding night, but with little success. She was not ignorant about the act of procreation. Her mother could not confine her to the bower all the time. She had seen dogs in the hall, cats in the stables, and had once come across one of the grooms taking a kitchen maid in the heaped straw beyond Jolie's stall. At the time she had stared at the heaving white buttocks and straddled thighs with a mingling of shock and fascination. Sybille, on being told of the incident, had chuckled knowingly and assured Judith that the groans she had heard were of pleasure, not pain. Now, tonight, she and Waltheof would adopt that same position and she would find out. The notion of crying out beneath him was one that filled her with shame and curiosity, eagerness and fear. She shivered slightly.
'Are you cold, my heart?' Waltheof asked, "or does the notion of our children unsettle you?'
She forced a smile. 'A little of both,' she admitted. 'Last night I slept in the women's hall, as I have done for all the years of my life. Tonight I must lie in a different bed and perform the duties of a wife.'
Ah,' said Waltheof. A smile lit in his eyes making them shine lapis blue. 'So bedding with me is going to be a duty?' His voice was warm and teasing as he signalled the attending squire to refill his horn.
'That depends upon how drunk you become,' Judith said with a pointed look at the brimming vessel. 'What price your dignity and my pride if you have to be carried to your wedding bed?'
Waltheof's smile broadened into a white grin. 'Not twelve hours wed and already you are scolding me.'
Judith blinked and bit her lip. 'You make light of the matter, but everyone's eyes are upon us. If you are drunk they will remember and think less of you.'
'And that matters to you?' The humour left his face.
'Of course it does.'
Waltheof shook his head gently. 'You have enough pride for both of us, my love,' he murmured. 'But you may rest assured that I will not tumble it in the mire. I sheared myself close as a May sheep for you this day. Remaining sober is small enough coin compared to that. Besides,' he added, his smile returning with an incorrigible glint, 'I have no intention of ruining my wedding night with a surfeit of wine. I want to remember this occasion for the rest of my life.'
The couple had been allotted a line chamber on the upper floor of the hall, with thick arched windows looking out over the moonlit glint of the River Thames. Fresh rushes had been strewn on the floor and scattered with aromatic herbs so that each footfall aroused the scent of lavender, rosemary and cinnamon. Charcoal braziers burned in each corner of the room, keeping the cold at bay, and a jug of wine had been set on a cover over one of the braziers to warm through.
Judith sat in the bed where the women had placed her and watched Waltheof bolt the door after the last guest, predictably Ralf de Gael, who at one point in the merry jesting had offered to take Waltheof's place in the great, fur-covered bed. The notion had nauseated Judith. Once she and Waltheof were more familiar with each other she thoroughly intended discarding certain of his friendships along with those garish bracelets.
There were small, damp spots on her chemise where Archbishop Lanfranc had sprinkled her with holy water as he blessed the union between her and Waltheof. Waltheof's shirt was damp too. At least they had not been made to strip totally naked, as sometimes happened. She could not have borne the thought of standing before the entire court clad in naught but her hair.
Waltheof turned from the door he had just barred. 'I would not put it past Ralf to listen outside and then burst in on us at the crucial moment,' he said with an embarrassed laugh and rubbed the shorn back of his neck, which had turned a rich pink.
'Neither would I,' Judith replied somewhat grimly, 'although I think that my uncle and my stepfather will keep him in hand.'
'I suppose so, or your mother will know the reason why,' Waltheof grinned wryly.
Judith did not want to talk of Adelaide. The closing of the door marked a barrier between her former life beneath her mother's roof and her new one as Waltheof's wife and countess in her own right. No longer was she subject to her mother's rule, although she knew that there would be some struggles on that score. Adelaide was nothing if not tenacious. 'Do you remember your own mother?' she asked to divert her thoughts.
Waltheof went to the heated jug of wine, poured a scant measure into one of the cups set to hand, and came to the bed. 'Only a very little,' he said. 'She died when I was small. I remember that she wore her hair in long braids twined with red ribbons. She was very fond of her garden and would spend hours tending the plants. She was much younger than my father - she was his second wife, and it was not a match made for love.'
'Matches never are.'
Waltheof looked at her and the expression in his eyes melted the flesh from her bones. 'Maybe not,' he said softly, 'but sometimes the spark is there. Sometimes men and women are fortunate enough to make an arrangement that brings them their heart's desire.'
Judith swallowed. Her throat was dry. As if sensing her need, he handed her the cup of wine. Their fingers touched and he raised his index one to rub it gently along her knuckles until she shivered at the sensation.
'I desired you from that first night in the hall at Rouen when I asked Richard de Rules who you were,' Waltheof murmured. Folding his hand around hers, he brought the cup to his own lips and drank from the place where hers had touched. 'And now I have you and I swear that for the rest of my days I will want nothing and no one else.'
'You are not ambitious, my lord?'