Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

Ailith looked down at her son in exasperation. He had fallen asleep at her breast scarcely before he had drawn any sustenance, and now both of her nipples were dripping with milk of which she seemed to possess an over-abundance. Hulda had shown her how to express the surplus, and frequently she had to, feeling like a prize milch cow.

Little Harold, as Goldwin had insisted he be christened, was almost two weeks old. Ailith had recovered magnificently from the birth, and despite being scolded by Wulfhild, who was of the opinion that no woman should rise from childbed for at least a month, she was picking up the threads of her household activities. If she had stayed abed any longer, Ailith knew that she would have died of boredom. Harold was such a quiet baby and spent so much of his time asleep that she was scarcely aware of his existence. Sometimes she worried about his lack of response, about how tiny and frail he was. Even the act of feeding at her breast exhausted him. Hulda had been taciturn in her responses to Ailith's anxious queries, merely saying that it took some infants longer than others to recover from the ordeal of being born.

Goldwin adored his son and would sit by the cradle, a doting look on his face as Harold closed a tiny fist around his scarred blacksmith's forefinger. During the brief occasions when Harold was wide awake, Goldwin would carry him down to the forge and show him everything that would one day be his.

Sighing deeply, Ailith checked the baby's swaddling. It was still clean and she put him down while she bound up her heavy breasts with a linen band and shrugged up her chemise and undergown.

Below the sleeping loft, the hall was silent. Sigrid had gone to visit her old mother in the town with instructions to buy a bundle of kindling on her way home, and Goldwin was absent purchasing supplies for the forge. Harold's birth had jolted him out of his depression. Now that the Londoners had accepted William of Normandy for their king — he was to be crowned at Yule — Goldwin anticipated a return to stability. Even his battle wound seemed to be healing at last.

Ailith left Harold with Wulfhild, who was sewing in a corner by the light of two horn lanterns, and went outside to visit the privy. Ten paces later she stopped and stared, her eyes widening.

A large, dappled-grey horse was trampling her carefully tended winter cabbages. Now and then it lowered its head and snatched at an outer leaf with powerful yellow teeth. Where on earth had it come from? It was wearing a leather headstall from which trailed a frayed length of rope, and there were faint saddle marks on its back. Iron shoes glinted as it pawed the soil, deliberately trying to uproot one of her cabbages. Then it paused from its endeavours to urinate. Ailith's stare was drawn in reluctant fascination to its elongated penis, and the equipment behind. It was a stallion, entire in every way. In her knowledge, the only male horses that kept their testicles were either for breeding or for war. None of her neighbours owned such a beast, therefore it must belong to a stranger, and the only strangers in the city were Normans.

The grey ripped one of her plants out of the ground and tossed it up and down in its mouth. Ailith's temper sparked, replacing astonishment. Norman-owned or not, she was not about to stand here like a ninny and watch the beast destroy her winter vegetables. Marching into the storeroom, she grabbed Sigrid's birch besom from the corner and stalked back outside to do battle.

'Shoo, go away!' Waving the broom, she advanced on the stallion. It regarded her with pricked ears and its jaws circled, loudly crunching her cabbage leaves.

'Shoo!' Ailith waved the broom more vigorously. The horse skittered sideways and trampled two of her young leeks. Its hind hooves sank into the soft earth and clods of soil flew everywhere as it gouged itself free and friskily bucked.

Ailith was on the verge of abandoning the besom in favour of a Dane axe from Goldwin's forge when a piercing whistle and a masculine shout caused the horse to abandon its frolics. Nickering joyfully, it trotted away down the garth, its crest arched and its tail foaming high.

Ailith stared at the ruin of her garden, at a full year's work gone to waste. She felt like crying, but when her eyes did fill, the tears were of blazing fury. Tightening her grasp on the broom, she marched down the garth, determined that she would have reparation even if the culprit was the Norman Duke himself.

In her orchard, a man had caught the stallion's rope and while tethering him to a pear tree, was remonstrating with the animal in French. Ailith had learned a smattering of the language from Felice, but the Norman was speaking too quickly for her to understand most of what he said. He was long-limbed and auburn-haired with clean, strong bones. There was a sword at his hip and a knife in his belt. He wore a quilted gambeson over his tunic, but that was probably as much for warmth as military protection. Blue trousers, grey leg-bindings and ankle-high boots fastened with a strap and leather toggle kept his lower limbs warm.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he suddenly raised his head and she in her turn was rapidly appraised by a pair of shrewd eyes the striated green of moss-agates.

'Your horse,' Ailith said in laborious French. 'He has destroyed my garden.' She gestured over her shoulder. His reply was too rapid and she shook her head. 'Speak more slowly, I do not understand.'

'I am sorry. He has learned how to untie his rope.' He spread his hands in a disarming gesture. There was an apologetic half-smile on his lips, but she was determined not to let it sway her unless it was accompanied by hard proof.

'And he likes cabbages,' she said, returning his stare unflinchingly.

'Cabbages?' The man's eyebrows rose in alarm. 'He has been eating cabbages? How many?' His glance flickered to the horse with concern and he set one hand on its flank. The stallion swung his head and gave his master a loving nudge.

Ailith shrugged. It was beyond her French to say that the horse seemed to have sampled indiscriminately without recourse to any one plant. 'Come and see for yourself,' she invited.

He followed her through the garth to her desecrated vegetable plot. His left hand rested lightly on the semi-circle of his sword hilt, and although she knew it must surely be from habit, she still felt uneasy. He was so tall, so fluid of movement. Her brothers were tall too, but their tread was bear-like, and this Norman walked as lightly as a cat.

'See,' she spread her arm to encompass the devastation. 'My leeks too.'

He folded his arms and stood with his legs apart, a frown knitting his brows. 'Sleipnir adores cabbages.' He paused, seeking for easy words to help her understand. 'Horses, they should not eat such things, but he does not care. He had very bad colic in Winchester when he raided a market stall. I was worried that he would die – if he did I would be unable to replace him.'

Ailith had picked up enough of the gist to be further angered. 'I lost my brothers to your butchery at Hastings!' she snapped. 'They were irreplaceable too. Do you think I care about your stupid horse?'

He unfolded his arms. She saw him inhale to speak and then suddenly think the better of it. Instead he rummaged in the pouch at his belt, and withdrew a handful of small silver coins. 'Will this pay for the damage?'

She wanted to dash them to the ground at his feet and screech that she would not touch money that had been dipped in blood. Quivering, she fought off the impulse. It was what she wanted, wasn't it? Compensation? 'For the damage to my garden, yes,' she muttered gracelessly and took the silver from him. All fingers and thumbs, she struggled to place it in her own small pouch.

He watched her in silence. After a time he said gently, 'I too suffered losses at the great battle. Many good friends I will not see again in this life… including his former owner.' He looked over his shoulder at the horse.

Ailith made to return to the house.

'No, wait, please.'

Against her better judgement, the urgency in his voice made her turn round.

He grimaced and pinched the end of his fine, straight nose.' I am not the most tactful of men,' he said. 'I offer you a full apology for the damage my horse has caused.'

Ailith nodded stiffly. 'It is accepted,' she replied, her tone cold and far from gracious.

'My name is Rolf de Brize-sur-Risle,' he continued. 'Aubert de Remy is my friend and I am billeted with him for the moment. From what he has told me, you must be Ailith, and your husband is a master armourer?'

Ailith did not understand all that he had said, but she understood enough to be much taken aback that he should know who she and Goldwin were. It was an uncomfortable thought that a Norman stranger should own such knowledge. Mutely she nodded.

The Norman drew the knife from his belt and showed it to her. 'Aubert asked your husband to make this for me. It is the best work I have ever seen. Aubert says that he made armour for Harold Godwinson himself.' His attention suddenly cut towards the house.' And this is your husband coming now?'

Ailith turned and saw Goldwin moving stiffly towards them.

'Yes,' she said, 'this is my husband. He speaks no French at all.'

Goldwin reached them and Ailith saw his gaze travel grimly over the ruined vegetable garden before coming to rest on the powerful grey horse tied to the pear tree. 'He has made recompense,' she said quickly. 'His name is Rolf de Brize-sur-Risle, and he's a friend of Aubert's.' Hastily she explained the rest of the situation and finished by saying that the Norman had praised Goldwin's craftsmanship. 'You made his knife apparently.'

Goldwin looked the handsome stranger up and down, then fixed his eyes on the scramaseax in the man's hand. 'And where is Aubert now?'

Ailith translated, and the Norman shrugged. 'He should be here soon. I think he is visiting his wife. She is great with child.' He sheathed the knife. 'Duke William has need of craftsmen. It may well be that Aubert and I could put some useful business your way.'

Goldwin drew himself up as Ailith explained what she believed Rolf had said. 'Norman business?' he growled.