THE WINTER MANTLE

THE WINTER MANTLE is a two generation work, telling the story of Waltheof the Anglo-Danish Earl of Huntingdon, his Norman wife Judith, and their daughter Matilda who married a Norman baron, Simon de Senlis. The story, based on fact, but told as fiction could outdo a modern soap opera for juicy dramatic content!

A vailable from Amazon.co.uk in hardcover and in softcover and in hardcover from Amazon.com

To give you a taster, here's an excerpt taken from the middle of the novel. On the surface it's boy meets girl, but beneath that surface, all is not so sweet and tranquil...

To set the scene:

The year is 1087 and William The Conqueror is recently dead, leaving his son and namesake William Rufus to claim the kingdom. Armed with instructions from the new ruler of England, courtier and soldier Simon de Senlis comes to Northampton where he receives a frosty welcome from Judith, the dowager Countess. Having governed her own lands for the past eleven years, she is not receptive to the commands that Simon brings from the king. However, Judith has a daughter of seventeen, Matilda, whose nature is more malleable…

At the garden gate, Matilda hesitated. The need that had carried her thus far suddenly flickered and threatened to turn into a feeling of foolishness. She should not become embroiled. She should be a dutiful daughter of the house and do her mother's bidding. What was she going to say to the man who was occupying the shade of her apple tree?

However, the double measure of stubbornness and courage she had inherited from her parents proved stronger than her misgivings. With resolute expression, she opened the gate and firmly fastened the latch behind her, thereby barring her ease of escape.

Her tread was purposeful, but it was also quiet, for she desired the advantage of observing him before he should notice her. She brushed past the lavender bushes, leaving a trail of astringent scent in her wake and followed the paths to a second, smaller gate leading to the inner garden with its turf seats and colourful showers of rose trellis, honeysuckle and columbine.

Simon de Senlis had not stirred from the bench in the shade of the apple tree. His arms were folded on his chest and his legs were stretched out in front of him. She noticed that the waxed thread on one of his shoes was coming unstitched and that his chausses, although of excellent quality, bore the gritty, dusty appearance of long days in the saddle. Whatever had happened between him and her mother, the Countess had not seen fit to offer him the courtesy of refreshing himself.

Dense, golden-tipped lashes lined his closed lids. Matilda could not tell if he were asleep or just resting but she took the opportunity to examine the thin, clever features. His jaw was outlined in dark bronze stubble and there were barley-blond streaks in his brown hair, revealing that he had spent the summer months outdoors. Unlike Sheriff Picot and the blunt men of his garrison, he did not resemble a Norman reaver. There was evidence of neither bulk nor breadth. A courtier, perhaps, she thought. But he was not dressed like a courtier either.

It was only after she had perused him thoroughly, that she noticed he was sitting on his cloak and belatedly realised at what she was looking. The lustre of white fur against a background of blue wool trapped her eyes and filled them until they overflowed. Through a blur of moisture, she remembered being wrapped in the warmth and security of that cloak - remembered being encompassed in her father's love. It was a memory as sharp as it was distant, and made all the more powerful in her life by the fact that it was one of the few she had of him.

She must have made a small sound, for de Senlis stirred and opened his eyes. His arms unfolded and he instinctively groped for his sword, then relaxed as he realised there was no danger.

Matilda swallowed against the tightness in her throat. De Senlis stood up, and through her tears, she caught the hint of pain in his expression before it was schooled to a careful neutrality. A trifle hazy, but clearing fast, his eyes were a lucent fox-gold.

'My lady, you surprised me,' he said. Given the slightness of his build, his voice was deeper and more certain than she expected - like sable or dark wine. One hand rested on his swordhilt, but she thought it was a customary gesture rather than that he was about to draw it on her. However, it spoke oceans of her mother's reception that he had not removed it. She saw that he leaned on one hip, slightly favouring his left leg.

'Your men are wondering where you are, my lord,' she said rather breathlessly.

He raised a thin, interrogative brow. 'They sent you to find me?'

From the way he was studying her, Matilda knew that he was trying to place her within the household hierarchy. Maid or mistress. 'No, my lord. I was seeking my mother for the keys to the linen chest when I looked from the embrasure and saw you seated here.'

'Ah.' He gave the faintest curve of a smile. 'Would I be right in assuming that your mother is the Countess Judith?'

'Yes, she is.'

'And yet you diverted to talk with me rather than going directly to her?' He spoke as much to himself as Matilda and seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

'My sister was with me. Our mother will give her the keys.' She licked her lips, suddenly feeling nervous beneath his scrutiny.

'And which sister are you.'

'I am Matilda. My sister is Alais.'

He nodded, as if she had confirmed something that he already knew. 'You were named for King William's Queen, God rest her soul,' he said and crossed himself. 'I saw you once when you were a small child - little more than a babe in arms. I was a squire in the King's service then.'

Matilda's gaze darted to the cloak on the bench and her stomach turned over. 'Your men said in the hall that you knew my father.'

He shrugged. 'I thought I did, but now I believe that only God truly knows any of us and what we will or will not do.' His coppery gaze was assessing. 'You resemble him.'

'I remember him wearing that cloak,' she said in a choked voice. 'I always wondered what had happened to it…'

'He gave it to me when he was imprisoned in Winchester,' de Senlis said.

Matilda lowered her eyes from his probing stare and fought the wave of jealousy that swept her. This man was a link with her father. It should not matter that he had been given the cloak not her. Even had it been returned to Huntingdon, she knew that her mother would never have allowed her to keep it. She longed to reach out, to thrust her hands into the thick, white pelt, to press her nose against the tickly fur and be four years old again. But not in front of de Senlis, its custodian.

'Why are you here?' she asked brusquely.

If he was taken aback by her tone he concealed it well, although he did hesitate before he spoke. 'King William Rufus has bid me take the earldom of Huntingdon and Northampton into my custody.' He glanced towards the embrasure of the Countess's apartments. 'Your mother has no choice but to yield.'

Matilda stared at him. The words played across the surface of her mind, too new and strange to be absorbed on the instant. 'You are to take my father's lands?' she heard herself ask.

'His Midland shires, yes,' he said. 'I am under royal orders to do so…and I will brook no resistance.' His voice grew harsh on the last statement.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what resistance he expected to receive from mere women, but from his manner, it was obvious that he had not emerged unscathed from the meeting with her mother.

'What is to become of us?' she asked. 'Are you under royal orders in that matter too?'

He gave her a brooding look. 'Yes, I am under orders,' he said curtly, 'and in truth I am of half a mind to disobey them.'

Wide-eyed she stared at him, fearing to ask what he meant.

He inclined his head to her in the barest deference and without clarifying his statement, left the garden, his hand clasped around the grip of his sword.

Matilda gazed after him. His walk was slightly lop-sided and she could see that he was striving not to limp heavily in her sight. He had left the cloak strewn on the bench and she wondered if it had been deliberate. She sat down upon it, and as she had been longing to do, filled her hands and buried her face in the cool, glossy fur.

The feel brought the distant memories of her father flooding back. She could see the laughter in his dark blue eyes and sunlight sparkling on his ruddy hair. She could hear the rumble of his voice, speaking in English, and feel the delight tingle through her body as he swung her aloft in his arms. Tears burned her lids. Wrapping herself in the folds of the cloak she was both comforted and desolated. An odour clung to the wool - of sun-warmed fabric and dust, and something else. The individual scent of the man to whom the cloak now belonged. The hair rose softly on her nape and she gazed in the direction of the garden gate, her lips slightly parted.

Hearing the click of the latch, she thought for a moment that he had returned to claim the cloak, but it was Sybille who came hurrying down the path with flushed cheeks and wimple askew.

'Your mother wants you immediately,' the maid panted.

Matilda rose and the older woman's eyes widened at the sight of the blue cloak.

''Sir Simon left it behind,' Matilda explained. 'I was about to return it to him.'

Sybille shook her head. 'No time for that, sweeting. And best not take it into your mother's presence,' she counselled. 'She's already fit to burst.'

'Sir Simon told me that he is here to take the earldom into his hands.' Matilda removed the cloak and draped it over her arm. It was almost as heavy as a mail shirt.

'Did he tell you anything else?'

Matilda smoothed her hand over the soft, midnight-blue wool. 'Should he have done? Is there more?'

Sybille gave her a dark look. 'Enough to shake the walls to their foundations,' she said with a certain grim relish. 'I won't say more. The mood your mother's harbouring, one word out of place would be cause for a whipping.'

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