Aubert's mobile features creased into a frown. 'I am concerned about her,' he admitted. 'I should never have left her in London, but events moved so swiftly that I had no choice but to do so at the time. I was hoping to return for her in May or early June and bring her home to Rouen, but there hasn't been an opportunity. Duke William is a hard taskmaster, as well you know.'
'So what will you do?' Rolf dug a shell out of the sand and cast it towards the gentle shush of the waves.
Aubert sighed. 'Fetch her when I can. She has never said anything to me, but she knows that my trade has certain irregularities.'
'How long do you have… before the invasion, I mean?'
Aubert narrowed his muddy hazel eyes and looked Rolf over very carefully, as if by assessing his companion's physical form, he could see into his mind. 'I do not know which is more dangerous,' he said, 'your curiosity, or your thick-skinned refusal to leave a subject alone.'
Rolf grinned. He knew that the only way to win Aubert's approval was to persist. Sometimes, if the merchant was in the right frame of mind, Rolf learned things. If not, then the repartee still helped to sharpen his mind and stave off boredom. 'Tell me what I want to know and I'll buy you a haunch of mutton and a wheaten loaf in yonder hostelry.' He indicated one of the dwellings clustered beyond the dunes.
Aubert's mouth curled in a sardonic smile. 'Now I see the value you set upon my word.'
'Very well, I'll throw in a dish of buttered worts and a flagon of cider too!' Rolf added flippantly.
Aubert snorted, and with a shake of his head, stood up. 'Your generosity overwhelms me into acceptance!' He dusted golden grit and scraps of mussel shell from his short tunic.
Rolf gestured to one of the grooms, and the youth tossed him a crumpled shirt and tunic from a saddlebag.
Donning the garments as they toiled up the soft sand of the beach towards the houses, Rolf said, 'We are summoned to muster in two weeks at Dives-sur-Mer, but I suppose you know that.'
'I had heard it was so.' Aubert pursed his lips. 'But do not expect to sail before harvest time.'
Rolf frowned. 'Most of the Duke's men are hired warriors; they don't need to take time away to cut the corn.'
'But Harold's do,' Aubert said smugly. 'His army has only a small core of permanent soldiers. The rest have estates and farms to tend. He cannot keep them stood to arms indefinitely.'
'So William is going to wait until the Saxon coast is unguarded and strike then?' Rolf made a face. 'Sooner rather than later, I hope, or else the provisioning of our army will kill us before we set out.'
'It will be a difficult task, I grant you, but easier than for Harold. And our Duke has the edge on him when it comes to being ruthless. Harold has a heart, he's courageous and impulsive. Those are the chinks in his armour and William knows it.'
The two men entered the hostelry. Rolf ducked just in time to avoid being brained by the top of the door. At a little above two yards in height, he dwelt in permanent danger of injury from apertures made for smaller men. 'You have met Harold then?' he asked as they seated themselves at a trestle bench and the proprietor hastened to bring them a jug of the locally brewed potent cider.
The walls gleamed with new whitewash. A wooden statue of the Virgin and Child beamed down on the men from a recess.
Aubert glanced at it and piously crossed himself. 'Briefly at court when King Edward was alive, but I know all about him from my neighbour where I rent my house in London. Goldwin's an armourer and he does much work for the Godwinsons. His wife's brothers are huscarls of Harold's. The information I have gleaned from that quarter has been invaluable. Speaking of which…' Unlatching his belt, he slid a knife sheath off the decorated strap end. 'This is a gift for you — a thank you for the chestnut mare you gave to Felice. I commissioned it from Goldwin at Yuletide.'
Rolf took the weapon from Aubert and examined it with pleasure. The length of the tapered blade spanned his hand from fingertip to wrist and a haft of polished antler fitted his grip perfectly. The craftsmanship was superb. He tested his gift on the haunch of mutton that the hostelry keeper set down on the table before them.
'Slices keener than your wit,' Rolf pronounced to Aubert as he speared an oozing pink morsel and draped it on his tongue.
'You had better warn the Duke if this man is making armour for Godwinson.'
Aubert smiled, but the humour did not reach his eyes as he refastened his belt and drew his own knife so that he could eat. 'He has become a friend,' he said, 'and in my trade that is less than wise.'
CHAPTER 7
The August night was so sultry that the air itself felt like a hot, oppressive blanket lying on Ailith's chest. She stretched her legs, trying without success to find a cool spot in the bed. Beside her, Goldwin snored, and stale mead fumes wafted her way each time he breathed out. She was worried about the amount he had been drinking of late, but had said nothing to him in the hope that once the uncertainty of imminent war had passed from their lives, he would become his usual, amiable self.
Ailith turned restlessly and as she tried to settle, felt the tiniest fluttering throb in her belly. Laying her hand over the place, she was rewarded again, and smiled. Felice's baby had been kicking and churning vigorously for over a month now and her belly looked huge. Ailith, on the other hand, was scarcely aware of being pregnant. Her breasts had swollen and were tender to the touch, but her waist had scarcely thickened, and the mound of her belly was no bigger than a small cloth pudding. Nor had she suffered any of Felice's debilitating sickness or spotting of blood. Hulda, the midwife, said cheerfully that she expected Ailith to deliver her baby as easily as shelling a pea from a pod. Asked about Felice, Hulda had admitted that the fit was going to be tight, but being as the husband was not a man of large proportions, with the blessing of God, and the excellent care of the nuns at St Aethelburga's, the Norman woman would be all right.
Indeed, she would be all right if that ne'er-do-well husband of hers would return, Ailith thought angrily. He had been absent since late April and it was August now. How could he abandon his wife in a hostile land for nigh on four months?
The baby did not kick again. Ailith sighed and rolled onto her back, her mind somersaulting like a butter churn, her body sticky with sweat. Two days ago Aldred and Lyulph had set out with the English fyrd to defend the south coast against a possible attack from Normandy. They had come to the forge to collect the weapons that Goldwin had made for them, and they had said their farewells in stiff and formal fashion. When Ailith had offered them ale and honey cakes in the house, they had declined.
'The only Normans I will love,' Aldred had said, 'are the ones who die on the blade of this axe.' He had run his fingertips over the edge of the steel. 'And before you tell me that the bitch in yonder convent is innocent, it might interest you to know that her husband is a Norman spy.'
Ailith's stomach had contracted. As so often in childhood, she stood up to her brother, jutting her chin at him in bravado. 'I do not believe you.'
'The King himself told me.' Aldred's eyes were filled with scorn. 'The little arsewipe wasn't selling wine at court in January, he was buying information. 'Why do you think he hasn't been back?'
'I don't know, I…' Ailith had found herself floundering.
Aldred had nodded with triumph and again stroked his axe. 'So I tell you that the only Normans I will love are those whom I kill.'
'But Felice is innocent, she doesn't know!'
Aldred had just looked at her and stalked off. Lyulph had hesitated, staring between his older brother and Ailith. Then he had put his arms around her in a brief, but powerful bear hug. 'Your heart is too soft,' he said, 'and Aldred's is too fierce, but I love you both.' Then he too had turned and left, the steel tip of his spear sparkling at the sky, his stride long and proud.
Ailith tossed and turned. She was sure that Felice was not involved in any of Aubert's more questionable activities, although as his wife for more than four years, surely she must have some suspicions. More and more
