Free The Winter Mantle by Elizabeth Chadwick Page A

for one am tired of the sight of them, and their habits are a bad influence on our own young men.'
    Judith bent her head over the needlework so that her mother would not see the irritation in her expression. 'When is my uncle to leave?'
    'As soon as he can gather troops and ships,' Adelaide said. 'Your stepfather has heard a rumour the Northerners have been appealing to the Danes… The English cannot be allowed to join with them.'
    Waltheof was half Danish. Judith wondered where his loyalty would lie if it came to the crux. With the rebels, or with her uncle at whose feet he had knelt in homage. Was he aware of the news, and if so what would it mean to him. A chance to raise rebellion, or the opportunity to prove himself a loyal vassal and then mayhap ask her uncle for a Norman bride? She did not know which way he would step, because despite their meetings at Simon's bedside in Fècamp she did not know him.
    The rumours of a return to England received a mixed response from the hostages. There was pleasure at the notion of going home, furtive hope that the rebellion would succeed, and continued resentment at the knowledge that they would be bound closely to William's side and watched like naughty children.
    'If William does not give me Agatha to wife by the end of the year, then I will find a way to join the rebels,' Edwin muttered, sloshing another measure of wine into his cup and passing the flagon along. 'I am not a tame dog to constantly trot to heel for the promise of a bone that is never produced.'
    Waltheof refilled his cup with wine. No one was sober and the talk had turned dangerous. He had no doubt that whatever was said would get back to William, but for the nonce no one seemed to care.
    'You think you can fight William?' he asked. "You think you are a better warrior than Harold Godwinsson?'
    Edwin's pale complexion darkened. 'I am still alive,' he slurred. 'Harold chose the wrong time and the wrong place.'
    Morcar nodded in vigorous agreement, as did Edgar Atheling, who had been listening to the fighting talk with bright eyes.
    'All of the North Country will rise up,' he declared, striking a pose. 'William has never set foot across the Humber. If Sweyn of Denmark sends a fleet then we can shake off the Normans like a dog shakes water from its pelt.'
    Waltheof had held aloof from the fighting talk thus far, but the mention of the Danes brought him into their circle. He was half Dane himself and the tie of blood was strong. What would he do if Sweyn of Denmark sailed into the Humber —join him, or profess his allegiance to William? The wine buzzing in his head made it difficult to think. Kinship and belonging were important. Often he felt that he possessed neither. Parents and a brother he had scarcely known before death took them, lands that had been snatched from beneath his boyhood feet. All he had were the tales of his father's great deeds, and in strange contrast the quieter chanting of monks, drawing him through simple faith into the heart of their community. The way of the warrior or the way of peace: he had a foot in each territory and knew that he was in danger of falling down the chasm between.
    He staggered to the coffer and picked up a fresh flagon, knowing that if he could down it to the dregs he would find the comfort of oblivion. He would not have to listen to the plans of his companions or the contradictory voices arguing back and forth in his mind. He gulped the potent red brew, felt the overflow trickling through his beard, and thought of Judith. If he took the cowl she was lost to him, the same if he chose the Danes. Only by becoming William's man did he stand a chance and that was a slim one.
    He knew that everyone liked him because he was good-natured and always prepared to laugh at his own expense. Never angry, always patient, even when bedevilled by such trials as small children, vicious dogs and cantankerous old folk. Unfailingly polite despite his rustic English manners and his propensity