Danish raiders. They were seeking news of the outside world and Alan repeated the information he’d given to Anne, although omitting any reference to spying or his own travels and actions. The two men had arrived together in the late morning, soaked and cold from the wet ride from their own halls. Alan had their cloaks drying in the kitchen as they sat at table near the roaring fire in the Hall.
“It always seems so warm and pleasant here, not like my own cold Hall,” commented Bernard, eying the fresh rushes on the floor strewn with sprays of rosemary. The rare glass windows were closed against the bitter wind, but still allowed sufficient light not to require torches or lamps to be lit, unless one wished to read. Cene, the wolfhound who had been a gift from Anne to Alan, lifted his large head from its position on Alan’s boot and scratched himself behind the ear.
“I had the advantage of building from new and with the substantial funds that the king’s favour had given me,” replied Alan, with apparent modesty but less than complete honesty, deliberately failing to mention that most of the large cost had been funded by the financial empire that Anne had built, as mercantile activity was not popular with the ‘noble classes’ and their financial success was hidden behind a series of ‘front-men’.
“So the kingdom is in jeopardy?” asked Geoffrey.
“Not really. There’ve been a series of small revolts in the south and south-west. The main problems are the Welsh and the Danes. If Edgar had planned it properly, if indeed it’s been planned at all, there would have been a general uprising in the south-west with a large army being raised, properly led and marching on London. The Welsh would have attacked Gloucester while the Mercians attacked Shrewsbury and Stafford, which they have done, and the Danes and Northumbrian marched south on Lincoln and then London. If they’d done their work properly they could have cut the kingdom and King William’s forces into pieces, gathered a huge army and crushed us Normans.
“Instead, their disorganised approach and the inactivity in the north is letting King William put out the fires one by one. I’m sure that he’ll have things under control and have retaken York before Christmas, depending on what the Danes do. If they leave their ships and march south in force, along with 7,000 Englishmen, then the king has a real fight on his hands. So far the situation has been controllable- barely. Indeed the activities by the rebels haven’t met with favour by most people south of York. The people of Exeter joined with the Norman garrison to fight off the rebels attacking the town.”
“We haven’t seen much dissent locally,” commented Geoffrey.
“There are probably several reasons,” replied Anne, to the surprise of the guests, who weren’t used to erudite political comments by women. “Locally, the controlling hand has been of iron, but covered by a velvet glove. In Tendring Hundred at least, relatively few thegns were able to travel to Hastings in time to die, so there hasn’t been a large change in local politics. Yes, there are Normans, French and Flemings present, but the changes haven’t been great. The local landholding system remains unchanged and the Hundred Court still dispenses justice based on traditional West Saxon law. The Heriot charged by the king for the local thegns to retain their land was largely able to be paid.” Anne didn’t mention that this had in some part been due to the loans made by her and Alan to help pay this significant financial impost. “Most of all, based on their recent experiences, the locals see the Danes as being their enemies, not the Normans- or at least more of a direct threat as the Normans don’t kill, torture and rape indiscriminately.”
“No, we are discriminate in our killing, torture and rape,” commented Alan, as food and wine was placed on the table.
Bernard took a sip of the wine and said, “Wonderful.”
“Life’s too short to drink bad wine if you don’t have to,” replied Alan as he cut up a roasted chicken on the bread trencher he shared with Anne.
“You’ve done well for yourself, my lord,” commented Geoffrey.
“God helps those who help themselves,” said Alan, with a pause before he continued. “I was fortunate enough to assist the king on the battlefield at Hastings, which drew me to his attention and provided significant reward. I’ve since provided him with further assistance, which the king has also seen fit to reward. Not all of the assistance has been entirely conventional, but it has worked.”
“Tell us how you saved the king’s life,” urged Geoffrey.
Alan waved a hand, holding a chicken drumstick, in negation. “No. Somebody else can do that. I don’t blow my own horn. I just happened to be standing in the right place at the right time and hit a few people with a sword. I’d have done the same for anybody, as would you. In fact it wasn’t until he extracted himself from under the horse, with some assistance from others standing near, that I even knew it was the duke.”
After the visitors had departed Alan commented to Anne, “That was surprisingly… genial, considering past problems.”
“They’re coming to realise who is important and that pursuing Bishop William’s political campaign against you may not be in their own best long-term interests,” replied Anne.
In the early hours of Tuesday 2nd of November, All Souls’ Day, Anne nudged a snoring Alan in the ribs. “It’s time,” she announced calmly.
Alan grunted and came awake with a start. “Why is it always in the middle of the night? Is it because the baby’s bored because you’re lying there doing nothing? Synne! Rouse the household! My lady’s time is come! Send somebody to fetch that incompetent old bat of a midwife from the village!”
Because of the problems associated with Anne’s first labour, on this occasion there was no question of his being excluded from the birthing-room. What was apparently a well-practiced procedure was followed by the midwife, encouraging Anne to stand and walk about slowly for several hours until she was fully dilated, when she was instructed to lie down with legs apart and to push and breathe deeply with each contraction. The baby’s head crowned and over the next hour was satisfactorily delivered with no complications and no unusual blood loss. The midwife tied off the umbilical cord, turned the child upside down and gave it a slap on the bottom to make it cry, sucking air into the lungs. As she gave the child a quick wipe with a clean wet cloth she commented, “Congratulations on the birth of your son, my lord and my lady. A fine strapping lad of about seven pounds,” before handing the now swaddled bundle to his mother.
The placenta was delivered without tearing and without problems about fifteen minutes later. The midwife was dismissed and left carrying a small but heavy purse of silver for her efforts. It was nearly dawn and Alan went into the next room to collect their daughter Juliana from her nursery and to introduce her to her brother.
After the bed linen had been changed and all except Synne dismissed, Alan lay on the bed next to Anne, with little Juliana lying between them and gurgling happily while her brother took suck. The bells of the village church began to toll, not in celebration of the event, but for the morning service of All Souls. Alan hoped that the birthday would not prove inauspicious, being the day of the Feast of the Dead when the village folk would attend at the graveyard to pray at the graves of departed relatives and leave food at their tables for them.
“I didn’t want to tempt providence and discuss names before,” commented Anne. “But do you have any thoughts on a name for our son and heir?”
“I thought a name that is common in both English and French,” replied Alan. “Certainly not William, Roger or Robert. The Lord knows that there are enough men of those names about! I thought either Gilbert or Simon”
“Hmm…” mused Anne. “What do they mean?”
“Gilbert means ‘Trusted’ in English, and ‘Bright lad’ in French. Simon means ‘Listens’.”
“Well, I’d hope that our son would have all those qualities. Let’s think about it for a day or so. I’d thought perhaps Gerald, which means ‘Ruling Spear’, but all three are good names. Who do we ask to be god-parents? I’d though Roger and Alice Bigod again, and possibly my brother Garrett.”
“I agree with Roger and Alice. They would care for him, and as sheriff of Sussex Roger is a very influential man. Garrett would certainly care and love him, but… perhaps somebody with greater influence would assist him later in life. Perhaps thegn Thorkel of Arden, who owns enough land as tenant-in-chief directly from the king to qualify as an earl and is sheriff of Warwickshire.”
“Thorkel is a nice, trustworthy and God-fearing man, and not too old,” agreed Anne. “Again, let’s think on it. In the meantime let’s all get some sleep. Oh! Make sure we get a better wet-nurse this time, even if we have to get somebody all the way from Ipswich. I’m not going to put up with such a dirty, surly and bad-mannered bitch as last time. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’ll give suck in the meantime!”
Over the next few days a suitable young girl from Dovercourt, who had lost her own child, was chosen by Anne as the child’s wet-nurse and by mutual agreement the name ‘Simon’ was chosen. Messages were dispatched
