Judith, Twice Queen of Wessex Read online

  She knew Baldwin’s father, the Count, was her father’s most trusted adviser, and her grandfather’s before him. His authority was necessary to keep the other nobles in their place, and ensure that when it was necessary, sufficient fighting men were available to thwart the incursions made by the Danes.

  The retainer from Ӕthelwulf’s court was considerably younger, but no less noble for all his youth. His weapons were still attached to his belt, and his cloak was made of skilfully woven wool, a much finer garment than that worn by his master, in Judith’s opinion. He was never very far from the King’s shoulder, seemingly always ready for any request, but he listened to Count Audacer respectfully.

  After both kings had embraced, the Count bustled up and attended to the words from her father, glancing at the Wessex king and nodding sagely. He snapped his fingers for a clerk, and the thin, reedy man hurried to his side, a small writing desk slung around his neck. Quickly, a piece of parchment was covered in spiky black letters, and both Kings affixed their signature and impressed their seal into some hastily-melted wax.

  Judith couldn’t help but wonder what was so important that it had to be signed and sealed in the middle of a garden, until a sharp rap on the wooden lectern from Brother Pierre made her turn her gaze to the monk and try and remember the declension of the Latin verb he was demanding.

  Moments later, a tap on the wooden door announced the appearance of Demoiselle Elin, who beckoned to Judith urgently.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Brother, but the Princess’ father wishes to speak with her.’ Elin’s voice carried in the bare vaulted room, and the tutor nodded his dismissal wordlessly. The young princes began to mutter between themselves, their noise like a tide until Brother Pierre rapped again and they settled. Judith slipped quietly through the portal and gazed curiously at Elin.

  ‘Do you know why my father wishes to speak to me?’ Judith’s soft voice held a world of questions, but Elin vigorously shook her head, her veil drifting in the light breeze along the gallery.

  ‘No, Princess. Just that he wishes to speak with you immediately. He is in the great hall, and he is with the Wessex King.’ Elin bobbed her knee slightly, then led the way along the wooden gallery towards the main part of the palace.

  Judith took a deep breath and followed, wondering if her sudden summons had anything to do with the hastily-signed parchment from the garden. As she hurried along the pathway from the wooden steps into the gloom of the stone-built portico that marked the entrance to her father’s Hall, she stopped to calm her breathing. Elin adjusted the circlet on her head that held her veil in place, and straightened the shoulders of her fine velvet gown, smoothing the blue fabric and arranging the full skirt into gentle folds below the embroidered girdle. Elin nodded her head and Judith stepped forward as the guard opened the door.

  Keeping her eyes on her father, Judith walked the full length of the large room. She could see that the Wessex King was standing alongside her father, with some of his entourage gathered behind him. Count Audacer stood at her father’s shoulder, speaking in a low voice. Her father stood tall, his grey robe glowing in the shafts of light through the windows, the beams of sunshine sparkling on the milled and crenelated gold circlet around his forehead. Judith could see the blue of her father’s eyes glitter with approval as he watched her step confidently towards him, her head high as became a princess of Frankia.

  She also felt the gaze of the Wessex contingent on her as she walked, but she ignored them until she reached the foot of the dais on which her father stood. Judith dropped to her knees, folding her hands in front of her and waited for her father’s blessing; the familiar touch of his hand on the top of her head. Then she met his eyes and waited for him to speak.

  ‘Daughter. It has been decided that you will marry the Wessex King.’ Charles’ voice was commanding despite his slender appearance, and he swept his arm towards the large figure at the side of the dais. After a whispered word from the man at his shoulder, Judith watched Ӕthelwulf step forward and take her hand. Raising her up, he bowed over her fingers.

  ‘Princess, I am honoured.’ Judith heard the creak of age in his deep voice, and she flashed a brief look at her father, unsure of her response. Her father’s eyes were hard and determined, and he nodded imperceptibly, his mouth a tight line in his handsome face.

  ‘The honour is mine, Lord,’ whispered Judith through bloodless lips. She tried to take another deep breath without anyone noticing so she could speak again, but the Wessex King dropped her hand and stepped back to his supporters, making further words unnecessary. She turned back to her father, whose expression had softened somewhat.

  ‘Go and visit you mother, child. Share your news with her.’ Charles’ tone was gentler now, and a small smile played around his lips. Judith dipped her head towards her father, and towards Ӕthelwulf, then turned and walked back across the stone floor of the hall to the huge studded door. Her shoulders were set and her head was high, and inside, her heart was breaking.

  ***

  Chapter 4

  Ralf watched the slight figure of the princess retreat. In spite of the uneven floor of the hall, Judith never once gazed downwards to see where she stepped, her light tread making it seem as if she walked on air. Her shoulders were straight and her chin high. A light breeze as she walked caused her diaphanous veil to drift behind her, the fabric as light as a cobweb. Ralf had never seen such filmy material before, and he knew his sister Ghislaine would adore a veil like that of the princess. As she would adore all the young girl’s attire, he thought. The richly woven wool, the smooth linen and the jewel-bright silks and velvets that were worn by the Frankian court had awed the whole Wessex contingent. They had nothing similar in Wessex, and even the ladies of their court wore nothing as fine.

  That she had kept her eyes on her father as she walked towards them had touched Ralf’s heart, and he contemplated the courage shown by such a young girl in the face of a fate she can hardly have wanted. He knew his Lord would be kind to her, but she herself didn’t yet know the manner of man she was marrying.

  The fact he had to prompt his King to speak to her hadn’t worried him. Ӕthelwulf could be overwhelmed by court etiquette at his own court, let alone a foreign one. His was a warrior king, with warrior sons. It was the attitude of those sons to this new marriage which gave Ralf a bolt of trepidation up his spine, and he knew the child would need to take care.

  ***

  Judith tilted her head towards the window of her mother’s solar, high up in one of the towers. The sun shone through the tiny panes of glass in the window, casting stripes of different colours along the stone floors, the rough walls and the dusty tapestries which adorned them. Judith scowled at her embroidery, casting envious glances at the straight, even stitches her mother used to fashion garments for the newest addition while hers, embellishing a girdle for herself, leaned every which way but the way they were supposed to go. Even in the sunlight, her stitches looked childish and she knew her mother, famed for her own needlework, wouldn’t be pleased.

  One of her mother’s demoiselles sat in the farthest corner, reading in Latin from a religious work suitable for ladies to hear, but Judith let the recitation pass unheeded through her mind. She slid her gaze over to her mother, reclining on a couch and clad in a soft woollen gown, with a silken veil over her hair and silk stockings on her feet. The swell of her pregnancy was very apparent beneath the fine blue fabric, and the length of linen she stitched was bunched up over her knees so it didn’t get soiled by touching the rough boards of the floor. Judith took a huge breath.

  ‘Papa has arranged my wedding to the Wessex King.’ Her words hung in the room, and she perceived the attention of the other demoiselles, all busily sewing as they listened to the story, turn to her and wait for her mother’s response.

  �
�That will be a very good match for you, my dear.’ Her mother’s calm words fell into the silence, and Judith stabbed her hated needle back into the fabric of her girdle, irritated that her mother could accept this event with such serenity. She took another breath.

  ‘But I don’t want to marry the King, Mama.’

  She waited, wondering if her mother would reply. Judith had been brought up to realise that life didn’t always give you what you wanted; sometimes other people’s wishes had to take priority. But the Wessex King was an old man, and she didn’t want to marry an old man.

  ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it was to persuade your father to entertain any thought at all of your marriage?’ Queen Ermentrude regarded Judith with wide, impatient eyes. ‘He wanted to carry on the tradition of Carolingian princesses, daughter. So make no mistake, if you do not marry this man, you will be given to God, as is the custom.’

  ‘I don’t want to be given to God either, Mama,’ she whispered, her eyes on her stitching. She thought that would be a terrible fate, immured in a convent for the rest of her life in sanctity and prayer. Judith heard her mother sigh, and she risked another glance. The look of irritation had left the queen’s beautiful face, and Ermentrude regarded her daughter with sympathy.

  ‘This might be your only chance to have a life and a family, Judith. You should grasp it with both hands.’

  ‘But he is so old, Mama.’ Judith blinked at her mother, and saw the rueful twist of her mouth before she smiled and held out her arm for her daughter. Judith hurried across to the chaise and sat on the edge. Her mother pulled her down and settled her head on her breast, stroking her hair as she used to do when Judith was a tiny girl.

  ‘And you are very young, my dear. You will have the chance of your own life when he meets Our Lord. I managed to convince your father that it was part of a divine plan that you were our first child, and could marry the Wessex King to strengthen God’s support of our campaign against the Danes.’

  Judith felt her mother’s hand tremble as she stroked her dark hair, and she tried to imagine the arguments her mother had used to convince her father, knowing that if she were successful, her daughter would make her life far from her side, married to a man they did not know. Ermentrude patted Judith’s back, and the girl sat up, clinging to her mother’s fingers and regarding her solemnly.

  ‘But if you do not marry him, daughter,’ the Queen continued, ‘you may have to go into the convent at Senlis. It is to your advantage that your father has decided to dedicate Lothaire to God in your stead.’

  Judith felt the tears well up in her eyes and clog her throat. Lothaire. Poor little Lothaire, with his infectious giggle and his sense of fun, shut up in a monastery with only the monks for company. She felt the hot tears track down her cheeks as she gazed miserably at her mother’s face, cold now in its beauty.

  ‘But, Mama, he is such a mischievous little boy. He will not want to take holy orders.’ Judith did her best to keep the sobs from her voice. Her mother’s demoiselles were openly listening to every word, sewing unheeded in their laps. Even the reader had paused, and her mother’s cold, modulated tone carried through the silence.

  ‘He is a cripple.’ Her mother’s voice was harsh. ‘He is of no use to your father, and he has no choice.’ Ermentrude took a deep breath and looked evenly at Judith, voice steady and eyes hard. ‘I pray I carry another strong son.’

  ‘He has Louis, Mama, and he has Charles. He doesn’t need to send Lothaire away, and a new babe will be welcome, regardless of gender, surely?’ Judith dashed the tears from her cheek and tried to smile encouragingly at her mother. Ermentrude waved her back to her own seat and resumed her stitching.

  ‘Life is precarious, daughter, and the Danes continue to attack us. This alliance with Wessex will strengthen us while the princes are young.’ Her mother looked up from her needlework and Judith watched her deliberately soften her expression into an approximation of sympathy. ‘Don’t be afraid, child. The Wessex King has many sons, some of them grown. And I made your father insist you be allowed to remain a maid for a good while yet. Until you are at least fifteen.’ Ermentrude dropped her gaze to her needle. ‘It is the alliance we need.’

  Judith considered her mother’s words in silence, and the demoiselles all resumed their own sewing. From her eye corner, Judith could see they were flashing wide-eyed looks at one another, scandalised by what they had heard. She had no doubt that it would be common gossip all around the palace as soon as they were dismissed to their own rooms. Their princess was being bartered into a marriage she didn’t want. She wondered which piece of information would be considered the most inappropriate; that she was being married to an old man, or that she was being married at all.

  After long moments of silence, Judith found the courage to speak again.

  ‘But I don’t want to leave…..you, Mama.’ She looked hopefully up at her mother, and saw a pleased smile pass over the Queen’s face, before her usual regal calm returned. But when she answered, Ermentrude’s tone was kind.

  ‘That is the fate of princesses, my child. To bring peace, and alliances to their families.’ Ermentrude paused in thought for a moment, then nodded sagely, ‘I shall allow you to take Elin and Alys with you to Wessex, Judith. They will be used to serving Queens, and judging from the appearance of the King, you will all bring a much needed modicum of culture to his court.’

  Judith heard the amusement in her mother’s voice, touched with a little pride in her daughter.

  ‘Shall I be a Queen then?’ she whispered, hiding her blush at the hard determination in her mother’s reply.

  ‘Your father won’t allow you to leave without the crown.’

  ***

  Chapter 5

  The autumnal sun beat down on the heads of the soldiers in the courtyard, the occasional flash of light reflecting back from a buckle or the turn of a blade. The troops practised in pairs, sweating as they lifted shields and blunt swords to the shouts of Gaston, the Master at Arms who was assessing their readiness for battle.

  ‘Yes, lads. I know you can fight one on one, but you won’t be fighting like that in a shield wall. God help you if you try.’

  Baldwin heard Gaston’s loud, gravelly voice shouting at him and Gozfrid as they practiced with their swords. For them, it was merely exercise, to strengthen their swing and harden their muscles. There was no finesse involved, simply swing and block, swing and block. They were waiting for Gaston to organise the others into a shield wall, after which they could practice their battle strategies.

  There was nothing that compared with fighting in close combat, relying on the men at your side to protect you, and you them. The man behind you would cover your back, you would guard his front. It was hard, dirty, smelly work yet all the troops looked forward to the chance for battle.

  ‘Dieu, Win! That was a bit heavy,’ gasped Gozfrid at a blow from Baldwin’s sword which he parried with his shield.

  ‘Sorry, Goz. My mind was elsewhere.’ Baldwin breathed heavily, parrying the next strike from his friend’s blade. The crash of metal on metal and shouts from the others practising in the yard made a cacophony of sound, combined as it was with the neighing of the horses being put through their paces in the nearby paddock. All the men sweated beneath studded leather jerkins and woollen breeches, with greaves strapped to their calves in preparation for the shield wall Gaston would organise.

  When he heard a child’s voice shout his name, Baldwin glanced over towards the fence, wiping sweat from his brow with his wrist. Lothaire was seating himself on the top rail of the fence, watching his father’s soldiers practice their swordsmanship.

  ‘Good day, Lord,’ smiled Baldwin, reflexively parrying a blow with his shield that Gozfrid had thought he would not see. Baldwin turne
d his body slightly and swept the flat of his sword towards his friend, knocking him sprawling onto his back.

  ‘Your muscles must be so strong, to knock Gozfrid down like that!’ Lothaire spoke in wonderment as Baldwin held out his hand to help Gozfrid to his feet. ‘They must be made of iron,’ whispered the boy.

  Gozfrid burst into laughter as he stood up, and he punched Baldwin on the arm as the other man looked ruefully at Lothaire. ‘That’s your warrior name, Win. When we go into battle, you will be ‘Baldwin bras de fer’, my friend. Baldwin Iron Arm.’ Gozfrid doubled over in amusement, and Lothaire began to giggle at the dark look Baldwin gave him.

  ‘Thank you for making me so amusing, Lord,’ he said, giving Lothaire a mocking bow, then tipping his head towards the still-chuckling Gozfrid. ‘Now he’ll be too busy laughing to fight.’

  ‘Right, you load of branleurs, form two lines. Those without shields, hurry up and find one, then take your places.’ Gaston strode the line, knocking shields into place with his staff and growling as some of the men weren’t as swift to follow orders as he would have liked.

  ‘For those of you who don’t know what you’re doing, listen to me,’ yelled the gnarled old warrior, resplendent in oiled leather with straps and buckles securing the breastplate, modelled on an old Roman one, in place over his massive chest. His grizzled beard rose and fell with every word, and from the corner of his eye, Baldwin saw the other two princes climb quietly next to Lothaire, eyes wide at the spectacle.

  ‘The Danes are the masters of the shield wall. They have used this to overcome everyone they have ever fought, and you lot need to learn how it works if we are to have any chance of victory.’ Gaston strode up to the start of the line and knocked his stave against the shield, tipping his head at the next man in the line.

  ‘Make sure your shield overlaps the man on your left.’ There was a shuffle of noisy movement, and a yell from Gaston. ‘Sigram, your other left, imbecile,’ he roared at one hapless recruit, who had the grace to look shamefaced at his companions before he moved his shield.