Cover portrait - ‘The Rosary’ by Beatrice Offor (1890)
This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.
© W L Sutton 2018
Also by Lesley Jepson
The Secret
In the Midst of Madness
The Last Howard Girl
On the Altar of England
Mollie, Duchess of Nona
A Tangled Web
With huge affection as always, to Carrie,
for all her help, support, advice and patience.
And to
Mary
without whose initial suggestion and continual encouragement this book would never have been written,
I send enormous gratitude and endless love
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Epilogue
Afterword
Other Titles
Chapter 1
The late summer sky was a perfect robin’s egg blue without a wisp of cloud. Birds squabbled in the branches of trees lining the pathways, and the kitchen cat lazed in the dust, keeping a wary eye on the noisy birds. Even the dogs, usually trotting around and wanting to play when the children were about, lay panting in the sun, tongues lolling in an effort to keep cool.
Judith ran over the grass with her mallet in her hand, waiting for her brother to send the wooden ball in her direction.
‘To me, Louis. Hit it to me.’
Watched by Demoiselle Elin, the royal children had been allowed away from their lessons for a short while to amuse themselves in the sunshine while their elders attended a sermon in the royal chapel. The Queen was resting, her newest pregnancy proving tiring in the heat, so Judith and her three brothers played on the lush grass of the palace garden with the two small sons of the visiting Saxon king, hitting the ball with a wooden mallet through hoops spiked into the grass.
Elin sat on a cushion with her stitching, keeping an eye on the youngsters and making sure the middle boy, Charles, didn’t trick his other siblings out of their turn at the game. The other two princes, Louis, blond, athletic and his father’s favourite and Lothaire, quiet, subdued and with a pronounced limp from a malformed foot, hit the ball with more enthusiasm than accuracy.
Charles would often cheat to make sure the game went his way, and it took all Elin’s diplomacy to make sure the other children also had a turn at winning. Judith always sided with Louis against Charles, and with Lothaire against everyone else. Th
e two small Saxon princes, eight year-old Ӕthelred and six year-old Ӕlfred, seemed overwhelmed by the boisterous nature of the game, and Elin wondered if they were unused to the frivolity of roquet.
A sudden whoop interrupted the game, and two leather-clad youths ran onto the sward, laughing and shouting as they joined in the game. The taller of the two grasped six year-old Lothaire by the elbows and swung him towards the ball, much to the child’s delight. The other young man grasped the smallest Saxon prince and between them, the older boys dominated the game, to the others’ amusement.
‘My mallet is more accurate, Princess,’ called the youth to Judith, who was almost collapsing with giggles at her little brother being used to hit the ball.
‘Again, Baldwin. Swing me again.’ Lothaire clamped his ankles together as Baldwin swung the slender child like a mallet, knocking the ball through the hoop with ease, then setting the boy onto his feet.
‘God’s blood, Lord. You’re getting heavy. Your father will have to have a broadsword forged for you soon.’ Baldwin flexed his shoulders and winked at the slight, fragile child who grinned back. Charles, whose ball had been knocked from the area by Baldwin’s greater strength, glowered at the camaraderie that excluded him.
‘Shouldn’t you be at your own sword practice, Baldwin? Or assisting your father? Count Audacer has a lot of negotiations to complete before the King of Wessex departs.’ Charles’ voice was dripping with scorn, despite the fact he was only eight years old. Baldwin smiled unconcernedly and shrugged, blocking with his foot the ball that his friend had sent through the hoop, using the giggling Saxon as his own mallet.
‘Sword practice has finished, Lord. And my father has not yet exited the chapel. Gozfrid and I thought we would enjoy the sunshine for a while.’ Baldwin nodded towards his friend, now busy tickling little Lothaire and making the child shriek in amusement.
Charles’ face darkened again, and Elin stood quickly. ‘Princess, Lords, your tutor is looking for you.’ She tipped her head, relief obvious on her face at the appearance of the monk, Brother Pierre, clad in a heavy woollen habit and sweating in the sun, making his way towards them.
Charles hurled his mallet onto the grass and stalked away alone, as Louis and Lothaire solemnly handed theirs to Elin. Baldwin walked up to Judith and bowed with an amused smile.
‘Allow me to take your mallet, Princess.’
Judith blushed and handed Baldwin the stick, adjusting her head-rail straight on the crown of her hair in an attempt to tidy herself before resuming her lessons. She smiled shyly up at Baldwin, easily a head and shoulders taller than she.
‘Thank you, Baldwin. And I apologise for my brother’s rudeness.’ She stepped away and he bowed again.
‘There is no need for apology, Princess. He is the son of the King, and can behave as he chooses.’
‘It is because he is the son of a king that he should behave better, Baldwin. Nobility is no excuse for bad conduct.’ Judith smiled at Baldwin and followed her brothers, trailing after the monk towards the castle door. The two Saxon boys stood helplessly gazing after them before turning and bringing their own mallets to Elin with wide eyes at the less than noble behaviour they had observed.
‘Thank you, Lords,’ smiled Elin at the young boys. ‘Perhaps we should go and find your father?’
‘He is at prayer, Lady,’ said Ӕthelred, the older of the two, ‘but perhaps….’ he shot a shy look up at Baldwin, ‘we could practice sword-craft with you, Lord?’
Baldwin bowed, then nodded towards Gozfrid with a smile. ‘It would be our honour, Lord. But I would beg a favour?’ Ӕthelred gave a puzzled assent.
‘Let him win,’ Baldwin tipped his head towards Gozfrid, who shook his head and grinned, waiting for his friend to finish the joke, ‘or he will hurl his sword to the ground and sulk for a week.’
‘Really?’ The Saxon princes were doubtful as they looked between the youths.
‘His mother dropped him on his head when he was but a babe.’ Baldwin shook his head gloomily at the two boys, who were wide-eyed at his tale, and Elin tried to keep her face straight. ‘Sadly, since then, he has thought himself a prince of Frankia, Lord. And you have seen how they behave.’
Gozfrid punched Baldwin on the arm, making him yelp with laughter before he shepherded the boys towards the courtyard, beginning yet another tall tale to entertain the Saxon princes at his friend’s expense. Elin made her way back to the castle, giggling at the youths’ boisterous antics.
***
Chapter 2
The tightly packed congregation in the chapel collectively hauled itself to its feet, the groans from the older soldiers audible as they stood amid the sound of clinks from mail and the creak of leather. The few women present sighed in satisfaction at the end of the sermon. Dust motes hovered in the air, illuminated by slices of sunlight piercing the gloom. They danced in the atmosphere disturbed by the populace crowded into the wooden pews, gleaming with colour from the stained glass newly fitted in the window openings by the masters from Chartres.
Ralf Edric watched the bishop genuflect at the altar, and then turn to speak to both kings kneeling at the rail. His own King, Ӕthelwulf of Wessex knelt beside King Charles of West Frankia and neither dare get to their feet before they were given divine permission by Archbishop Hincmar. As he watched, the bishop blessed both monarchs, and they kissed the ring on his hand before struggling to their feet, each weighed down by the trappings of their office.
Ralf thought that the sermon, if that’s what it could be called, was more a rant against the heathen than any devout request for God’s aid in their quest to rout the pagan from their land. He could accept a prayer of thanks: for good food, or pretty women, or a strong sword arm in battle. But the Archbishop had seemed to exhort God to their cause and question His divine wisdom in allowing anyone who didn’t believe in Him to draw breath. Ralf had no doubt that the Danes prayed to their own gods for victory, just as they did, and he wondered vaguely what happened to such prayers.
He was watchful for the summons from Ӕthelwulf to assist him as he stood. The King was fifty-one years old, and they were returning to Wessex from a year-long pilgrimage to Rome to ask Pope Benedict’s blessing in their struggle against the pagans. Ӕthelwulf had the aching knees and shoulders of an old soldier, and it was Ralf’s task to offer an arm, or an opinion, or whatever the King demanded of him; even his life if necessary, on the pilgrimage.
The Pope had sanctified their cause, and they had stopped at the court of Frankia to arrange a peaceful co-operation between their forces against the Viking hordes raiding both their lands. Charles’ brothers were kings in surrounding territories, and they wanted to join together with Wessex to secure their borders against the Danes. To this end, Charles wanted Ӕthelwulf to take his daughter as a wife, to ensure the success of the treaty.
Marriage to secure an alliance was a common occurrence amongst royalty, and many dynasties had been founded this way. Ralf accepted that it was the way of Kings, but he was uncomfortable with this particular match as Judith was of an age with his own sister.
And in his opinion, regardless of custom, twelve was too young to be married.
***
Chapter 3
Judith leaned her head on the window of the room where she and her brothers took their lessons. It was sparsely furnished; simple tables and chairs lined the walls, with shelves full of texts. Rolls of parchment tied with silken threads jostled for space alongside heavily bound books with tooled leather covers. Some of the covers still had short hairs from the animal skins in which they were bound.
The room smelt dusty and cold, although a mean fire was banked in the grate. Pots of ink, made with soot and tallow ranged around the room, with feathers waiting to be fashioned in
to quills and sharp knives ready for that purpose. Her brothers paid attention to their lessons without too much chiding from Brother Pierre, and she was usually a good student, but today she stared out of the window and watched her father walk with the Wessex king along the path leading from the chapel.
Her father was a tall man, thirty years old and with the shoulders of a swordsman. But by the side of the warrior king of Wessex, he looked a mere youth. He was attired in a beautiful grey robe of the finest wool, over linen trousers, and with leather chausses bound around his legs. The frogging on his robe was of costly silk, and his blue cloak was fastened on one shoulder by a huge golden brooch. On his hair, fine and wispy and so fair that in some lights it looked transparent, he wore his customary circlet. Not the heavy, jewel-encrusted crown of state that he wore to the council meetings, but the golden crenelated band he wore as a matter of course. He was the king, and no-one would forget.
Beside him, the king of Wessex looked like a wealthy merchant, or a fighting warlord. His full beard was streaked with grey, and his hair fell past his shoulders, fanning out on the bear-fur collar of his cloak. Beneath the heavy woollen garment, appearing to Judith’s eyes as if woven by a blind person, he wore a leather tunic, with buckles and metal bands. His rough woollen trousers were laced to his lower leg, and his feet pushed into leather boots. There were no gems on the king of Wessex, and even though his sword and seax were strapped to his side, their scabbards weren’t jewelled, nor were their hilts.
Judith watched the two men walk, deep in a conversation she couldn’t hear. From their body language, she deduced that her father was making demands to which the Wessex king was closely attending, and then explaining why they couldn’t be met. Again her father put his case, and the shake of the head seemed, to her at least, less vehement than previously. Her father spoke once more, nodding his head and extending his hand. The other king stopped for a moment, and Judith could see he was scrutinizing her father’s face for any hint of deception. Then with a brief, hard nod, he shook her father’s hand and clasped him in a tight embrace, much to her father’s surprise.
Scurrying after the two monarchs were the clerks, courtiers and clergy that formed the entourage for both men. Count Audacer kept pace with one of King Ӕthelwulf’s attendants, and Judith watched the two men carefully, ignoring the lessons going on around her.