The Winter Mantle (31 page)

'It is treason!' A cold knot tightened in the pit of Judith's stomach.

'I know.' Waltheof groaned. 'Roger has gone home to assemble his troops, and Ralf is mustering his. I am supposed to gather my huscarls and join them.'

Judith could not help herself. So great was her anger that she lost control. Snatching up her cup, she dashed the sour wine in his face. 'You fool!' she shrieked. 'You stupid, stupid fool! What in the world possessed you? What is going to happen to us now?'

He had recoiled instinctively as the wine splashed over him. Now he looked at her, pinkish runnels streaming down his face and throat, dark droplets trembling in his hair. 'I thought…' his voice cracked and she was horrified to see tears glittering in his eyes. 'You are the strong one. I thought you would know what to do…'

The urge to hurl the cup after the wine was almost overpowering. With unsteady hands she set it down on the coffer. Her stomach ached as if he had punched her in the soft part beneath her rib cage. 'Just what did you promise?' she asked in a voice tight with revulsion.

'I do not know…' He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, leaving a grubby smear of tears.

'You do not know?'

'I… I was drunk.'

Judith closed her eyes and swallowed. She could imagine the scene. A raucous wedding feast. Copious amounts of wine and ale. A gathering of men possessed of similar interests. Amongst silver-tongued plotters such as Ralf de Gael and Roger of Hereford, Waltheof was as well armed as an infant amidst a pack of wolves. She should have prevented him from going. But 'should have' was too late.

He sniffed loudly. 'I believe I said I would not stand in their way… and that if that way went well, then I would join them.'

'So another attempt is to be made on wresting my uncle from England's throne, and you have implicated yourself in it.'

Waltheof nodded. 'It was against my will. I tried to argue against it, but they would not listen.' He gave her a pleading look. 'If I had not agreed to their plan, then Hereford at least would not have let me leave the feasting alive. I was trapped.'

'If you had ridden out the moment that the talk began, you would not be in this predicament,' she snapped. Her upper lip curled back from her teeth in a white snarl. 'Or perhaps you liked the idea. After all, you colluded with the Danes last time, did you not?'

'It wasn't like that!' His complexion darkened with anger and chagrin.

'Then what was it like?' she spat, knowing that she had hit the mark. 'You have always been obsessed by your father's people. We lie in a pagan bed because of it, and you wear that damned cloak all the time as if it is a second skin. It matters not all the honours and greatness that my uncle has bestowed upon you. You would yield it all for some Viking pirate because of his Dane blood. And… and for a scheming Breton who has tangled you up in the silken threads of his spider's tongue.'

He had put his head in his hands as she lashed him. Now he sprang to his feet. 'Hold your venom you bitch!' he roared, raising his clenched fist.

She winced and flinched, but the blow did not descend. In the silence that fell as the ring of his voice faded, a look of pure horror crossed his face. His fist opened, extending instead in supplication. 'Judith, please…' He whispered. '
Deorling
, I did not mean…"

She stepped away, whisking her gown aside as if his merest touch on herself or her clothing was anathema. 'I wash my hands of you,' she said hoarsely. 'It is finished between us. I may be your wife, but I no longer wish to live as such.' She folded her hands firmly in front of her like a nun at her devotions. 'On the morrow I will go to my manor at Elstow and you will not follow me.'

'Judith, don't leave me… I need you…'

She tightened her lips and drew herself up. 'You left me first, when you went to Ralf de Gael's wedding in order to plot treason. Go to him for your succour. Doubtless he will furnish you with some willing Danish or Breton whore to slake your lusts. If you are plotting treachery then the last thing you need is a Norman wife.' Her voice trembled and for a terrible moment she had to fight hysterical tears. Unable to face him any longer, she went to her coffer, threw back the lid and began sorting through her gowns, as if choosing those that she would take to Elstow. But it was a ruse. Hand and mind were not coordinated.

'I am not going to join them, I swear it.'

His tone was pleading, like a child's begging forgiveness for a prank that had gone wrong. But this was more than a prank.

'If you do not go to my uncle immediately and tell him what is afoot, then you are damned,' she said without looking round. Her hands crumpled a veil of light gold silk, uncaring of the delicate fabric.

'I… I gave my word to De Gael…'

'You gave your oath to the King!' Nausea churned her belly, rose up and surged. She only just reached the slop pot in time and hung over it, retching until she thought her gut would tear. 'Go away,' she gasped. 'Go away, you make me ill. I loathe you!'

She heard him stand up and the slow drag of his feet across the chamber rushes, as if they were bound by shackles. Then, mercifully, he was gone. Judith huddled over the slop pot, gagging and weeping. There was pain in her stomach, pain encircling the base of her spine in a tight girdle, and then a sudden gush of water and blood. She had rejected Waltheof. Now her body was rejecting his child.

As she screamed for her maids, Judith found herself hoping that she died.

'What do I do?' Waltheof asked of Ulfcytel. It was a fine autumn morning and they were sitting in the Abbot's parlour, drinking ale and watching the white clouds scud past the open shutters.

The monk sighed and shook his head. 'I wish I could tell you, my son,' he said. 'Doubtless others have already told you how foolish you have been.'

'Only my wife. I have spoken to no one else. A few of my men are aware, but I trust them without reserve.'

Ulfcytel gave Waltheof a severe look. 'Trusting without reserve appears to be part of the reason for your predicament,' he said. 'Only the Lord God is worthy of such faith.'

Waltheof grimaced. 'I know that, Father.' Sighing he rubbed one hand over his face. 'I gave my oath to William, I married his niece, and my own children carry the blood of Normandy in their veins… but…" He did not complete the sentence.

Ulfcytel sighed too. 'But you let a distant dream, the weakness of drink and the power of another man's tongue lead you away from reality. I know you better, lad, than you know yourself.'

'I should have remained in the cloister and taken holy vows,' Waltheof muttered. 'I do not think I have ever been as content in my life as I was here at Crowland.'

'Yes, perhaps you should have stayed with us,' Ulfcytel said gently, and laid a compassionate hand on Waltheof's shoulder. 'But since you did not, you have to face the storm you have conjured.'

Waltheof tugged at his beard. 'How?' he asked. 'What should I do?'

Ulfcytel was silent for a time. 'It is a matter for your own conscience. I cannot choose your direction.'

'Then advise me.' He gave the Abbot a pleading look. 'I know that my weakness lies in indecision and lack of foresight. What would you do if you found yourself in my position?'

Ulfcytel's grip on Waltheof tightened. 'I would ask myself what mattered most to me in the world. And then I would ask myself how I could best serve and protect it.'

'My children. They are what matter.'

'And how will you safeguard their future?'

Ulfcytel's voice was gentle, but its power was like the smash of a war axe. How indeed was he going to protect his daughters? Already he had lost one. In the aftermath of their argument four nights ago Judith had miscarried of a third little girl. He had seen it before they took it away and buried it - a scrap without a soul, but already its transparent little body perfectly formed. He thought of all the oaths he had given to different men. All of them under duress. And the unspoken promise he had given to his little daughter. That was more important than any oath.

'I… I will go to William,' he said. 'I will ask his mercy -beg if necessary.' His expression twisted at the thought.

Ulfcytel's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh of relief. 'It is your decision, but I am glad you have made it,' he said. 'But I would counsel you not to go directly to William of your own accord. You need a mediator. Seek out Archbishop Lanfranc, make your confession to him, and ask him to intercede.'

'You think me incapable of stating my own case?'

The Abbot gave him a steady look beneath which Waltheof was humbled. 'Aye, you are right,' he said. 'I do not have the subtlety of mind to find my way safe.'

'I will write to the Archbishop and tell him of your plight -remind him that you were once intended for the Church and that you have no evil in you - only folly.'

'Great folly,' Waitheof concurred. 'I should have remained in the cloister.' It was not the first time he had said so. At every crisis of his life the cry went up, and he had never meant it more than now. He rose to his feet, but only then to kneel at Ulfcytel's.

A surge of great tenderness and apprehension swelled within Abbot Ulfcytel as he laid gentle hands upon Waltheof's head. The young man was too vulnerable for the wider world, and he feared greatly for him.

Matilda was in her garden examining the small shoot of her apple tree when her papa returned. She heard the creak of the gate, and turned to see him striding towards her. His expression was grim and she thought that he was going to deliver a scolding, but as he drew closer his lips stretched into something that looked like a smile and she realised that he was not angry. Matilda hesitated for a moment and then ran to him, as she had always done. He swung her up in his arms and hugged her so tightly that her breath left her body and she began to struggle with fear. He let her go then and crouched to her level.

'Why are you crying?' She touched the wet streaks on his face. Are you sad?'

'A little.' Taking her hands in his, he rubbed his tears off her fingertips. 'I have done something foolish, and now I have to try and set it to rights.'

She frowned at him.

Ah, you do not understand, and perhaps it is for the best.' He smoothed her tangled curls.

'Do you want to see my tree?' she asked, wanting to break his strange mood. Curling her grip around his thumb and first two fingers, she tugged him to the bed where the small green shoot was growing sturdily.

He admired it, but his eyes filled again and he had to turn away to wipe them on his cuff. 'It will grow into a fine, strong tree, even as you grow up into a fine and beautiful woman,' he said. 'I am proud of you, and always will be.'

Matilda looked up at him. Something was definitely wrong, but as with most of adult behaviour she was at a complete loss to understand.

'Tomorrow I have to go and visit an important churchman, and then I have to journey to Normandy to see King William, your great uncle. I may not be home for some little while. I want you to think of me when you tend this tree. And when your mama and Sybille bring you to church, I want you to remember me in your prayers.'

Matilda nodded. 'I always pray for you, Papa,' she said solemnly. This time she did not scream and throw herself on the ground in a drumming of heels. Tomorrow was as far away as the stars and she had his attention and company now. 'Can we go and throw a com to the water elf?'

'Yes, why not,' he said tremulously, and engulfed her small hand in his, a great and tender pain bursting within his heart.