'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 Ailith found herself pitying the young Norman woman, and despite Goldwin's dark looks, she continued to visit her regularly at the convent.
She fell into a restless doze and dreamed that a flock of ravens flew over London and settled in such numbers on the roof of her house that the thatch collapsed and buried her beneath it. She awoke with a gasp, her heart thundering in her breast. Grey fingers of light were prying through the cracks in the shutters and she could hear Alaric's relentless crowing. Goldwin still snored. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, Ailith left the bed and donned her shift and undertunic.
Below stairs, Wulfhild was scratching herself and yawning as she coaxed last night's banked fire to life and prepared the soup cauldron. Sigrid was clattering about in the storeroom behind the screen. Ailith joined her and collected a shallow, wooden bowl of chopped up scraps from the previous evening's meal, then went outside to feed the hens. The birds were able to find most of their own food in the summer months, but a small supplement ensured a reliable supply of eggs. Frequently there was a surplus and Ailith would trade these with a neighbour for cheese or butter.
Entering the garth, she let the hens out of confinement and scattered the scraps for them to peck at while she set about collecting the eggs, warm and damp from their straw. She gathered eight in her wooden bowl, and was deliberating whether to serve them scrambled and piled in a buttered, scooped-out loaf, or hard-boiled, when she caught sight of a man sidling cautiously into her garth from the house that she still thought of as Sitric's.