The Siege of Norwich Castle: A story of the last struggle against the Conqueror — John Shaqi
The Siege of Norwich Castle: A story of the last struggle against the ConquerorBlake, M. M. (Matilda Maria)
General
The Siege of Norwich Castle: A story of the last struggle against the Conqueror
Blake, M. M. (Matilda Maria)
Historical fiction; William I, King of England, 1027 or 8-1087 -- Fiction
'Sorceress! I believe, in sooth, thou art leagued with the devil!'
quoth Waltheof furiously, and his expression was no metaphor. He was
superstitious by nature, and his sharp-witted wife had done her utmost
to impress him with the notion that her intellectual gifts were
replenished from supernatural sources. Hence her power over him. 'But I
tell thee, thou hadst better never have been born than meddle in this
concern of thy husband's. For this concern, is the concern not of my
poor unworthy self, but of my country, of my people! And I tell thee,
foreign harridan, I had liefer strangle thee with mine own hands than
be frustrated!'
''Tis pity,' quoth Judith calmly, 'since the matter is marred already.'
'What meanest thou, viper?' shouted Waltheof, fully aroused and
springing to his feet, and advancing towards Judith with a threatening
gesture, his mighty fist, which could have struck the life from her
frail body at a blow, clenched into an iron ball, and the knots in his
massive throat working with nervous excitement.
But Judith faced him unmoved, her proud face flashing with scorn. For
the blood of Robert the Devil and Arlète of Falaise was hot in her
veins, and perhaps she opined, also, that even in his wrath her heroic
lord was too generous to hurt her. She did not quail before him but
stood looking at him with her defiant, steadfast eyes.
'Slay me if thou wilt,' she said, without a falter in her tone. 'That
which is done cannot be undone. My death will not hinder the stout
messenger that sped through the night, ere thou hadst reeled from the
banquet to thy chamber, from bearing the news of thy treason to
Lanfranc. In vain wilt thou seek to overtake him, for he hath nigh a
twelve hours' start, and he is mounted on thine own Spanish destrier,
the swiftest steed in England--William's gift!'
The oath with which Waltheof answered was too terrible for repetition.
He sprang at his wife, and clutched her slender throat with his strong
fingers, as if he were in very truth about to execute his threat and
strangle her.
She stood like a statue, though the weight of his hands upon her
shoulders almost bore her to the ground.
'My people are as dear to me as thine to thee,' she said, expecting the
death-grip to follow her bold speech. 'Thou hast sworn fealty to
William, nay, thou hast done him homage, and put thy hands between his
and vowed to be his man; thou hast married me, his niece! The struggle
and the bloodshed are over, the Normans and Saxons should be one, and
thou wouldst renew the strife and divide them again!'
With a moan like that of a wounded bull, the son of Siward cast the
grand-daughter of Robert the Devil from him, and, covering his face
with his hands, threw himself back on his couch in an agony of thwarted
and impotent rage.
'Hadst thou been a man!' he muttered,--'hadst thou been a man, that I
could do battle with thee hand to hand!'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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