The Winter Mantle (33 page)

Waltheof exhaled harshly. 'Because he was my friend. Because his company was better than my wife's. Because he knows what it is to have English blood and be a stranger in your own land…" Waltheof shook his head. 'I knew he was ambitious, but I did not realise how high he was aiming until it was too late. He asked me to help him… and in my friendship and folly I did not refuse him straightaway. Now I am trapped in a noose of my own coiling and I do not know how to escape.'

Simon said nothing. He admired and liked Waltheof, but not for his political abilities, which were dire.

'Has the King said anything about how long he intends keeping me here?'

'No, my lord. Only that I am to serve as your squire in all things.'

Waltheof studied him closely, as if seeking the truth behind the words. 'And I'm glad to have you,' he said, but his voice was flat and he drank his wine with the swift desperation of a man eager for oblivion. 'I only wish that the circumstances were happier.'

'I too, my lord,' Simon said uncomfortably.

Waltheof rested the cup on his knee. 'I do not think that there has ever been a time when I have not been someone's hostage or prisoner,' he said wryly. 'Save perhaps when I was very young and my father intended me for the Church. After he died I became a ward of the Godwinssons, and when they fell in battle your king took their place.

It was telling to Simon that he said 'your king'. He frowned at Waltheof.

'Why do you look at me like that?'

'I wondered why you did it… why you became embroiled in a plot with Ralf de Gael?'

'I was a prisoner trying the door of my cell.' Waltheof smiled humourlessly. 'Someone offered me a key and I took it, only to find that it led to another cell, deeper and darker than the first.' He grimaced at Simon. 'I do not expect you to understand what it is like to live every day of your life like a yoked ox — to have the power of an earl, which is no power at all when versed against that of Norman sheriffs and officials. To be an unwelcome stranger in your own hall.'

'But you are kin by marriage to King William himself,' Simon pointed out. 'Surely that must count for something.'

Waltheof sighed. 'My marriage is like the great battle of Hastings, with no mercy shown and no prisoners taken,' he said bleakly.

Simon shook his head. He had been a party to the clandestine courtship between Judith and Waltheof. Mayhap their marriage had soured, but he knew that they had once been desperate to be lovers.

'Although, I admit I have my daughters,' Waltheof added softly and looked into his cup. 'I would never regret giving them life. And in truth, I once loved their mother, and still do after a fashion, although I doubt that she has anything left in her heart for me but contempt. Ah, enough.' He made an impatient gesture. 'I do not want to talk of the ruin I have made of my life. What of you lad? How soon will you be a fledged knight?'

Simon politely spoke of his own life, but not as eagerly as he would once have done with Waltheof, and although the earl appeared to be listening with eagerness Simon could tell that his inner ear was closed.

In December William prepared to return to England to keep the Christmas feast at Westminster. Simon was buried under a mountain of preparations; there were errands to run, itineraries to organise, chests to pack. In between dealing with William's demands, he had Waltheof to attend. The Earl was allowed from his chamber but confined to the Tower precincts. The nearest he came to the outdoors was to stand in the window splays and breathe the wind. Simon saw how he bridled at the constraint and sympathised with him. He could still remember with painful clarity how it felt to be hemmed in for weeks on end.

He played chess and dice with Waltheof and advanced his rudimentary knowledge of the English tongue until he was moderately fluent. He brought Guinevere to Waltheof's chamber and let the Earl perch her on his wrist. They spoke of the art of falconry and the beauty of the prized white Norway hawks whose price lay in the realm of kings.

Simon no longer had time for dalliance with Sabina and in his absence she transferred her affections to a young serjeant from the Vexin who was remaining behind in Rouen.

Sometimes the Conqueror's sons and their cronies would visit a brothel in the city, but on the rare occasions that Simon was free of duty he chose not to accompany them, for Robert de Bêlleme was always among their number. The youth baited him at every opportunity, calling him 'lameleg' and 'clodhop'.

Simon refused to show how much he was wounded by the taunts, but shrugging them off became increasingly difficult.

On the day that the court embarked for England, De Bêlleme made one of his barbed remarks and stuck out his foot as Simon was bearing a dish of hot frumenty to the high table. This time, however, Simon was prepared. He avoided De Bêlleme's boot but pretended to stumble and deliberately tipped the steaming dish of stewed wheat over De Bêlleme's head and down the back of his immaculate tunic.

De Bêlleme roared and shot to his feet. The hot, glutinous grains clung to his hair, skin and clothes, making it look as if he were being devoured by maggots, and he danced and flailed as the heat scalded his flesh. Blobs of wheat porridge flew everywhere and the other diners cursed. 'You crippled son of a whore, I'll kill you!' De Bêlleme howled and whipped his knife from its sheath.

Simon flashed his own blade from its scabbard. 'You tripped me. It is your own fault!' he snarled, and knew that although revenge had been sweet it was also short. There was not a chance in hell that he could match the physical prowess of Robert de Bêlleme. Nor could he run.

'Leave him Rob!' cried the Conqueror's son, also named Robert. 'It was an accident.'

'Accident my arse!' De Bêlleme bared his white teeth and made a slashing movement with the knife. By leaping violently backwards, Simon was able to avoid being gutted, but he landed on his unsound leg and went down.

De Bêlleme kicked him, landing him a blow in the ribs hard enough to crack bone. The breath tore out of Simon's lungs on an agonised whoop of air. He told himself without much conviction that he was not going to die. Surely De Bêlleme would not murder him before a hall full of witnesses.

He saw the foot draw back for another assault and prepared to roll away, but the blow never descended. De Bêlleme was lifted off his feet and the knife twisted out of his hand by a furious Waitheof.

'You shame your knighthood!' the Earl roared. 'You so much as go near the lad again and I will rip your head from your neck and use it to kick around for sport on the sward!'

'Hah, since when have you had the right to speak of shame?' De Bêlleme sneered, wrenching himself out of Waltheof's grasp. The brawl had smeared the frumenty deep into the weave of his expensive tunic.

Waltheof rammed the young knight's knife into the trestle. 'Since I witnessed your own shameful behaviour towards one of your own,' he said harshly. 'I meant what I said. Touch him again, and you will reckon with me.'

De Bêlleme's fists opened and closed. He said nothing, but the intensity of his gaze on Waltheof was worth a thousand words.

As the men faced each other there was a flurry at the dais end of the hall and William arrived to break his fast. Amidst the rising and bowing Waltheof dragged Simon to his feet and bore him out of the hall.

'Are you all right, lad?'

Clutching his ribs, Simon nodded. 'I should not have done what I did, but I lost my temper,' he said with self-reproach. 'And you should not have intervened my lord Robert de Bêlleme is a bad enemy to make.'

Waltheof shrugged as if ridding himself of an irritation. 'One more will make no difference,' he said with a bitter smile. 'He will not touch you again while I am by, I promise you that.'

Simon shook his head. 'No,' he agreed. 'He will bide his time. Robert de Bêlleme does not care whether he sticks a knife in his opponent face to face or in the back.'

'But at least you ruined his tunic,' Waltheof said.

'Oh yes,' Simon said, and suddenly, despite or perhaps because of the shock he had just received, he began to grin. 'I struck him in his vanity, which is his most vulnerable part.'

The sea crossing was cold and uncomfortable, but although the waves were choppy the voyage was swift. From their landing in Southampton, the court rode on to Winchester and the prospect of good hunting in crisp air.

Once they were in England, though, William's mood changed. Before he had only had access to tales of the thwarted revolt against him through letters and messengers. Now he could see and hear for himself, and what he saw and heard was not to his taste. Those of his barons with English interests whispered in his ear, speaking of the need to guard against further treachery and punish wrongdoers. Waltheof was kept under close house arrest, all hopes of returning to his earldom dashed, although the King relented enough to say that there was no reason why the Countess Judith could not come to him at court. To that end Simon was despatched to fetch her.

The weather was sharp and clear, and the roads hard with frost. Simon made good time, arriving in Northampton on the third afternoon of his journey.

He was welcomed to the hall, given food and drink while he waited, and presently was summoned to the Countess Judith's private chamber.

She was seated at a tapestry frame, two vertical lines set between her eyes as she attempted to sew by candlelight. Her daughters sat with her, Matilda labouring over a piece of simple stitchery using a large needle threaded with brightly coloured wool. The child's tongue peeped out from between her teeth as she strove to coordinate hand and eye. How old was she? A little beyond three years old, Simon thought, and Waltheof's paternity evident in every curve, line and nuance of her body. Her little sister was occupied in sorting scraps of material into piles of different colour under the watchful eye of Sybille and another maid.

'My lady.' Simon bowed.

Judith beckoned him forward and he came into the ring of candlelight. She was sewing a scene from the life of Saint Agnes, who had chosen martyrdom above marriage. Not an encouraging sign.

I understand you bear a message for me?' Her tone was formal, warning him not to expect to be treated as a guest, and her lips were pursed, revealing that she was not delighted at her uncle's choice of messenger.

'The King requests your presence at Winchester,' he said, 'and Earl Waitheof asks that you come also.'

She bent her head to her embroidery, sewing the stitches with a steady hand. 'My husband does not return to Northampton then?'

'No, my lady,' Simon said in a neutral voice. 'The King prefers to keep him by his side.'

'You mean he is a prisoner?' She looked up. 'Wrapping the truth in silk will not make it any prettier. Tell me the whole.'

Simon managed not to recoil at her peremptory tone. 'The King is undecided what to do about the Earl,' he said. 'I think he is keeping him hostage while he makes up his mind. There are those who say that he should be restored to favour, and others who counsel His Grace to have a care. They say it but takes mention of a Danish invasion to send the Earl hurtling into rebellion.' He did not add that those against Waltheof's release had the loudest voices, chief amongst them her own stepfather, Eudo of Champagne, and Roger de Montgomery, who was the sire of Robert de Bêlleme.