did not think that she was standing in the road for the purpose of gawping at the people on their way to the abbey.
She hesitated, then arriving at a sudden decision, addressed Rolf. Rolf knew that the woman must be aware that he spoke no English. Obviously she wanted to talk to Aubert, but since her master had declared the merchant nithing, she could not approach him directly. Playing along, Rolf looked over his shoulder at Aubert and raised his brows.
'She asks if either of us has seen Master Goldwin,' Aubert said neutrally. 'She thought perhaps he had come this way since he is not in his forge.'
'No,' Rolf said. 'Last time I saw him was yesterday morn in his workshop. Is there something wrong?'
She shook her head at Aubert's translation and made to return to the house.
'Wait,' Aubert called to her. 'Will you tell your mistress that Felice bore me a son in the early hours of this morning.'
Wulfhild gave him a glittering look compounded of unshed tears and loathing. 'I will tell her nothing,' she said, and turned her back.
Rolf whistled softly through his teeth and urged Sleipnir forward on the road. Aubert followed, his dejection tangible and tinged with anger. 'No more,' he vowed stiffly. 'I will try no more.'
Goldwin tilted the cup against his lips and in a single, angry gulp, drained the mead remaining in it. He had no appreciation for the honey-sweetness of the brew; he wanted only to buy oblivion from thinking. But the more mead he drank, the less control he had over his thoughts. They kept dragging him back to the lifeless little form on the bed. All the hopes that Goldwin had begun to nurture were mocked. He would never guide a small hand upon a blacksmith's hammer or watch a curly head crouch over a pair of bellows at the forge. It was all dust, his dreams as dead as the swaddled baby over whom Ailith was keeping such a fierce vigil.
He knew that he should be with her now, but he did not think that he could shoulder the burden of her grief on top of his own. Well-meaning neighbours would visit and tell them that they would have other sons in the fullness of time, but Goldwin was afraid that the injury he had sustained at Stamford Bridge had rendered him impotent. Not once since his return from the battle had his manhood risen and stiffened with desire. Even when his thoughts strayed down erotic paths, his organ remained limp and unresponding. Perhaps he ought to ask Hulda for one of her remedies; but what good were her simples when she had been unable to save his son?
The alehouse was becoming crowded with Englishmen seeking refreshment and courage on their way to bear witness to the coronation of the new Norman King at Westminster. It had not occurred to Goldwin in his grief that this was the day that Duke William was to be crowned, but he realised it now as another crowd of men surged into the alehouse and demanded a pitcher of mead from the harassed landlord.
Vacating his trestle, Goldwin stumbled outside. A conroi of Norman soldiers rode past, stirrup to stirrup. Goldwin scowled at the arrogant manner with which they forced themselves a path, but at the same time, his armourer's eye admired the quality of their mail and weapons.
More soldiers followed, and then a haughty-looking priest riding beside a magnificently clad Norman upon a superb golden-red stallion. The nobleman's hair was dark and thick, his features rugged and crude. It was a face that had been used time and time again to batter other men beneath its owner's will, and Goldwin realised that he must be looking upon the great William of Normandy himself. His gut churned with revulsion while his mind acknowledged that here was a power which would dominate all others and bring them subservient to the Conqueror's will.
The road home to Ailith was filled with the glitter and pomp of the conquering Norman army. The other drinkers were all emerging from the alehouse to watch the procession ride past.
'God curse him,' Goldwin heard someone mutter softly from behind. These sentiments echoed Goldwin's own, but he was enough of a realist to know that there was no Englishman who for one moment could match the abilities of the Norman Duke.
Goldwin was borne along with the tide towards the abbey, and after a brief struggle of body and conscience, he let his feet take the path of least resistance.
When Duke William entered the abbey, Goldwin stood outside with the crowd of English, waiting for the roar of assent which would announce that the crown had been placed irrevocably on a Norman head by an English prelate. The Duke's soldiers patrolled the crowd, their eyes hostile and uneasy. The Saxon who had uttered the curse outside the alehouse stood close to Goldwin, his legs planted apart and a belligerent expression on his face.
'Should be an Englishman who sits on England's throne,' he muttered, and there were growls of assent from his companions. Goldwin started to feel hemmed in and sick from the quantity of mead he had consumed. Two Normans halted their destriers close to him and spoke to each other rapidly in French. One man was heavily mailed and carried a stout iron mace with a flanged head. The other sat astride a dappled stallion and was more lightly armed, although his equipment was of no less calibre. The soldiers finished their conversation and the one on the dappled horse made to ride on. Then, by chance, his eye caught Goldwin's, and with a smile of greeting, he raised his hand.
Goldwin nodded brusquely at Rolf de Brize and turned aside. Laughing with the man in the privacy of the forge was one matter, but publicly acknowledging him in this volatile situation was quite another. To Goldwin's horror, de Brize pursued him through the crowd, and when Goldwin would not heed him, shouted out in very rough English, 'Saxon, you are sought at home!'
Reluctantly Goldwin turned round. He knew that the other people in the crowd were watching him. 'I know!' he snapped. 'Go away and leave me alone!'
'Aye, Norman pig, go home!' spat the Saxon from the alehouse. 'Crawl back to your French sty!'
De Brize could not possibly have understood the rapid English, but the explicit tone made the sentiments all too obvious. The Norman gave the troublemaker a hard, contemptuous stare, and turned the grey around.
'Friendly with the bastards, are you?' the Saxon sneered, and the moment de Brize was gone, shoved Goldwin's shoulder.
'No, he's billeted close to us, that's all,' Goldwin responded. He was shoved again. Angrily he thrust the man away, the slow burn of anger kindling within him to a brighter flame. 'It is no concern of yours. I was the personal armourer of King Harold himself and my wife's brothers died on Hastings field. I'll not be insulted by a loud- mouthed empty brain such as you!'
The man raised his fist to strike Goldwin, but was diverted by the enormous shout of approbation that rippled outwards from the abbey. 'Fiat! Fiat! Long live King William!' The first cries were in Norman French, but soon the English took up the cry in their own tongue.
Beside Goldwin, the Saxon lowered his fist, took a deep breath, and bellowed forth the English war chant from Hastings field. 'Ut! Ut! Ut1' It was taken up by his companions and the contagion spread like fire. Goldwin knew beyond doubt that it was time to make his escape.
'Ut! Ut! Ut!'
The Norman soldiers spurred through the crowd, bludgeoning with maces, striking with shield and sword, creating panic. The small core of troublemakers were targeted and ridden down.
Goldwin tried to run, but there was nowhere to go, he was trapped on all sides. He saw the steaming nostrils of a bay stallion, the decorated chest band, the sharp glitter of a spear before it plunged. The Saxon who had originally started the chant made a bid to escape by slamming the heel of his hand into the middle of Goldwin's spine. Goldwin was catapulted forward, straight beneath the hooves of the oncoming warhorse. He saw the steel curves of the horseshoes and the short overlaps of white hair on the bay's pasterns. And then the weight striking down. Goldwin screamed and struggled until his voice was cut off by the blood filling his lungs. The horse plunged through the crowd. Panicking Saxons leaped or tripped over Goldwin in their efforts to flee. Time and again his body was kicked and buffeted, but he did not feel the blows. His last sight was the banner of a raven on a blood-crimson background raised in the distance above the multitude, his last thought that his turn had come to feed the carrion birds of the battlefield.
Order was swiftly restored, but not before the coronation ceremony had been marred by the violence of several English deaths and the burning of some nearby buildings by an over-zealous conroi of Norman mercenaries. To placate the English, and because his own sense of justice dictated it, the new king had the bodies brought to a side room at the abbey, where their relatives could come and claim them, and he ordered recompense to be paid for the accidentally burned houses.
