The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

When a comet appears in the sky over England in 1066, Ailith, a young Saxon wife, feels sure that it can only bode well. Yet, within a year, Ailith's joy turns to heartache as her husband and her child are taken from her and the conquering Normans advance. Ailith's grief turns to love for a brief period with a handsome Norman invader. She bears him one daughter, but in the aftermath of the Battle of Hastings she discovers a betrayal she cannot forgive… Years later, the spirited Julitta is determined to find happiness. Her quest takes her on a pilgrimage to Compostella, to a colourful horse fair in Bordeaux, to the terrors of piracy on the open sea.

Release date: December 9, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 576

Sample

LONDON, DECEMBER 1065

Ailith, wife of Goldwin the Armourer, swept her gaze around her long hall, inhaled deeply of the rich, forest scent, and sighed
out with pleasure. Great swags of Yuletide evergreen garlanded the roof beams and the timbered walls. At spontaneous intervals
she had hung kissing bunches of the sacred white mistletoe and blood-berried holly. Above the place of honour near the hearth,
a magnificent pair of stag’s antlers had been nailed, and the reflected firelight stained the broad edges and polished tips
of horn a glossy crimson.


Tomorrow night her brothers had promised to find time from their duties as bodyguards of the great Harold Godwinson, Earl
of Wessex, to bring her the traditional Yule log and stay to dine. She was greatly looking forward to the meal, for apart
from Goldwin, Aldred and Lyulph were the only family she possessed, and their visits were precious.


A sudden commotion at the door heralded the return of her two serving women from the markets in the heart of the city. Braying
in protest at the weight in his laden panniers, the pack ass was led round the side of the house by the younger maid, Sigrid.
Wulfhild, puffing and plump, staggered into the long hall, her arms weighted down by two net bags of provisions.


‘God save us, Mistress Ailith, I’ve never seen such crowds!’ She dumped the bags on the new, thick floor rushes and pressed
her hands into the small of her back. ‘An’ all the stall holders charging what they like. We got the best bargains we could, but if it weren’t Yuletide, you’d say the prices was shameless robbery!’


Ailith’s generous lips twitched at her maid’s indignation. ‘I am sure I would,’ she commiserated gravely as Wulfhild handed
her a small drawstring pouch. It was considerably lighter than it had been at the outset of the excursion.


‘There would be less in it still if Brand the Fishmonger hadn’t got a soft spot for Sigrid,’ Wulfhild continued to grumble.
‘He let us have the pike and salmon you asked for at only half the price he was charging everyone else. And when we got to
the onions, you’d ha’ thought they was made out o’ gold the way …’


‘Wulfhild, I believe you!’ Ailith said a trifle impatiently. Over the maid’s shoulder she saw Goldwin enter the hall. Even
in the raw December cold his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing his brawny forearms. He was wearing a stained
leather apron over his old tunic and his face was smutty from the forge. His right fist was closed around the nasal bar of
an iron helmet.


‘Take those bags to the store and unpack them,’ Ailith commanded. ‘I’ll inspect everything later. And before you do that,
bring out some bread and ale for Master Goldwin.’


Wulfhild half-turned, saw Goldwin, and in consternation, picked up the bags and hurried from the hall, dipping the master
an awkward curtsey as she passed him.


Goldwin paused to watch her, then looked enquiringly at Ailith. His eyes were a warm reddish-brown set under prominent black
brows. Beneath his scrutiny, Ailith felt herself grow warm and begin to melt.


‘The markets are expensive today with Yule so close and the King and Court in residence,’ she told him. ‘The bargains were
few and Wulfhild has taken it to heart. You know how she loves to haggle.’


Goldwin took the purse she held up for his inspection. ‘I was warned that becoming a married man was expensive,’ he observed
with mock dismay.


‘Would you rather have remained in your bread-and-water bachelor state and amassed a solitary fortune then?’ Ailith challenged, jutting her chin at him and setting her hands to her
hips. She had large, regular features moulded upon a sturdy bone structure. A healthy mare was the way her father had described
her during the marriage negotiations before his death last year; a good worker, strong and buxom. Ailith knew that her father’s
words stemmed from his pride at how well she had coped with the burden of household duties in the eight years since her mother
had died, but it had not blunted the pain of the wounds he had so unintentionally inflicted. If she had not loved Goldwin
for anything else, she would have loved him for saying on their wedding night that her statuesque figure and wealth of corn-blonde
hair put him not in mind of a mare, but of a wild, fierce Valkyrie.


Goldwin rubbed his jaw and pretended to consider. ‘Would I rather have remained in my bread-and-water state?’ Without warning
he pounced on her and drew her beneath one of the mistletoe kissing bunches. ‘What do you think?’ he breathed. His lips pressed
down on hers. She felt the silkiness of his beard, the forge heat still upon his skin, and tasted salty sweat. Running her
hands over his naked forearms and across his broad, blacksmith’s shoulders, she buried her fingers in his hair and returned
his kiss with enthusiasm. Against her hip she felt the clumsy bump of the helmet he was still holding.


Wulfhild returned from the stores with a pitcher of ale and a loaf of new bread which she placed on the trestle near the hearth.
Ailith and Goldwin broke their embrace and looked at each other, making a silent promise for later. Lightly slapping her rump,
Goldwin sat down at the trestle and Ailith ladled out two steaming bowls of onion pottage from the cauldron suspended over
the hearth.


‘You’re in a fine good humour.’ She put the soup in front of him and sat down at his side. ‘Is it because you’ve finished
this?’ She lifted the helm off the board and turned it delicately over in her hands. It was a beautiful piece of work, its
austere lines tempered by the details of bronze brow ridges and decorated strengthening bands.


Goldwin grunted and spooned pottage into his mouth. ‘I’ll be in a better humour still when the mail shirt to go with it is
done. Earl Harold wants it for the New Year and it’s not but two thirds completed yet.’


Ailith was not deceived by his complaint. Goldwin’s work was going very well indeed. If he had not been extremely pleased
with the helm, he would never have brought it from the forge to show her, feigning nonchalance, but seeking her approval.
Looking at his hands as he broke bread and ate soup, she marvelled anew that their rugged ugliness could create a thing of
such simple, but intricate beauty. And then she thought of their gentle touch on her body and a little shiver ran through
her. She tried the helmet on.


‘Do I look like a Valkyrie now?’ she asked mischievously, and was amazed at the loudness of her own voice in her ears.

Goldwin chuckled. ‘Not unless such women are cross-eyed and wear old homespun kirtles.’

Ailith stuck out her tongue at him and removed the helm. Immediately her focus restored itself to normal. She wondered how
men managed to keep a clear vision in battle with a nasal bar between their eyes. She looked at the helm and imagined it gleaming
on the leonine head of Harold of Wessex, and again she shivered.


‘I’m not really complaining,’ Goldwin said as the hot soup and fragrant fresh bread mellowed him. ‘I owe your brothers a great
debt for putting Earl Harold’s custom my way. Without their recommendations I might still be struggling in that poky little
workshop at Ethelredshithe.’ He gazed with pride at the thick timber walls of the spacious hall, clothed in their festive
evergreen.


So did Ailith. It was not every bride could boast a brand-new house, light and roomy by the standards of the wattle and daub
dwelling in which she had grown up, and situated within sight of St Peter’s and the new palace and abbey on Thorney Island.


Three years ago Goldwin had repaired a dented helm belonging to her brother Aldred. Aldred had been so impressed by the work that he had recommended Goldwin to all his soldier acquaintances and custom had flourished. So had the friendship
between the two young men. It had seemed only natural that Goldwin should offer for Ailith when his reputation and fortune
had grown to the point where he felt secure enough to support a wife. The match had been made to mutual satisfaction all round.
Ailith had always known that she would have no say in the choosing of a husband and had been mightily relieved when her father
and brothers had mooted Goldwin.


He was short of stature and slightly bow-legged, his hands permanently darkened from working the steel, but his warm smile
and his diligent, amiable nature, made him the most handsome of men in her eyes.


‘Aldred and Lyulph are bringing the Yule log tomorrow eve.’ Ailith returned her attention to Goldwin, taking pleasure in seeing
him enjoy the food. ‘I’ll have to neck those chickens before dark, I suppose.’ She pulled a face. Although she was competent
at all domestic tasks, killing the yard fowl was the one she disliked the most. It seemed such a betrayal of trust. You offered
the birds corn from your hand day in, day out, talking to them, caring for them. Then you stole their eggs and wrung their
necks at the whim of the cooking pot. She could have bought freshly killed poultry from the booths in West Chepe, but to her
housewife’s conditioning, that was a shocking price to pay for squeamishness.


Goldwin wiped his lips on a napkin, poured himself a mug of ale from the pitcher, and stood up. ‘It’ll be good to see Aldred
and Lyulph again,’ he commented. ‘Now Earl Harold’s almost sitting on the throne, they’re in attendance of him all the time.’
He took a long drink, topped up his mug, and stifling a replete belch, walked to the door. On the threshold he turned round.


‘Aili, I forgot to tell you; old Sitric’s house next door, it’s going to be occupied. I saw the abbey steward this morning
and he told me.’


Filled with curiosity, Ailith raised her brows. Their elderly neighbour Sitric had retired to St Peter’s at Martinmas, bestowing
all his worldly goods upon the monks in return for board and lodging until he should die. His house had stood empty these
past four weeks, checked over now and then by the abbey’s lay steward, but otherwise forlorn. ‘Did he say by whom?’


‘Apparently it has been rented until next hogtide by a wine merchant.’ Goldwin looked down into his wine. ‘A Norman wine merchant,
from Rouen.’


‘Oh.’ Ailith did not quite know how to respond. There were plenty of Normans in London. King Edward had spent his youth across
the narrow sea and his preferences were for all things French. Rumour said that he even desired to bequeath his childless
crown to Duke William of Normandy, when every decent-thinking Saxon knew that it ought to go to Harold of Wessex. She grimaced.
To speak of Normans in front of her brothers was to invite a tirade of abuse. But it did not follow that a person was to be
spat upon just because they were foreign. Harold of Wessex himself was half-Danish.


‘Don’t mention it to Aldred and Lyulph,’ she said. ‘Leastways not tomorrow. I don’t want the feast to be spoiled.’

‘Why should I tell them when it is none of their business?’ Goldwin answered bluntly. ‘I only told you because you keep saying
what a disgrace it is to have that house standing empty and unused.’ He shrugged and looked uncomfortable. ‘I would lief as
not have Normans for neighbours myself, but I trust I can keep a civil tongue in my head. And while Aldred and Lyulph are
under my roof, I will expect them to do the same.’


Ailith nodded, but looked uncertain, knowing how hot-tempered and impetuous her brothers could be. ‘Is this merchant alone
or does he bring a family?’ she asked.


‘A wife, I think the steward said, and the usual household clutter of servants.’ His tone bore mingled amusement and irritation.
‘You’ll see when they arrive.’ He left the hall. Moments later Ailith heard the clang of his hammer in the forge. Her optimistic
mood somewhat dampened, she cleared the trestle and went to inspect the fruits of the shopping expedition.


When everything had been put away on the storeroom shelves, she set the women to making a bacon and pease pudding for the evening meal, together with fried fig pastries for the morrow’s Yule feast. Then she took herself down the
garth to the chicken run, intending to neck three victims to honour the pot.


Immediately outside the door, within easy picking distance, were Ailith’s herb garden and vegetable plot. She lingered among
her plants, twitching stray late weeds out of the soil, admiring the fat, white stems of her leeks, and frowning over a slug-chewed
cabbage. But she could not procrastinate forever. Reluctantly she walked among the slender trunks of the young apple orchard,
paused at the pig pen to scratch the sow behind her floppy grey ears, and came at last to the killing ground of the chicken
run where she had intentionally kept her hens this morning. Not a bird was to be seen. Even Alaric, the indolent rooster who
never did anything but eat corn and make love in a bored, absent-minded fashion with his wives, had taken advantage of the
freedom offered by the latch which Ailith had failed to secure in her haste to be about other tasks.


‘Bollocks!’ Ailith swore, and, hands on hips, stared round the empty garden. Soon it would be dusk, and they were close enough
to the countryside for foxes and stoats to be a real threat. ‘Chook, chook, chook,’ she called, then held her breath to listen.
A light drizzle drifted down, grey and cobweb-fine. Shivering, rubbing her arms, Ailith called again.


A single, speckled biddy came running from the direction of Sitric’s empty garth and began pecking hopefully in the grass
around Ailith’s feet. She stooped, grabbed the indignant hen, and tossed it into the fowl run, this time making sure that
the door was properly latched behind it. Then she heard Alaric’s unmistakable harsh crow from Sitric’s side of the wattle
fence. Swearing again, Ailith hitched her gown through her belt for ease of movement, marched down her own garth, round the
back alley, and entered Sitric’s property.


Some of her hens were pecking in the long grass of his orchard. One actually sat in the branches of a gnarled pear tree and
watched her with a beadily cocked eye. The others had ranged as far as the stable buildings adjoining the house and were scratching with great gusto in the heap of old dung and straw beside the stable door.


Ailith sighed heavily and smothering the urge to scream, said instead, ‘Chook, chook, chook,’ in a soft, encouraging voice.
The greedier, less canny ones fell for it, but the others kept their distance, revelling in their illicit freedom. Abandoning
the gentle approach, Ailith waded in with grim determination. Amidst a squawking flurry of bright eyes and beaks, scaly legs
and a snowstorm of detached feathers, she managed to grab two hens by their feet and toss them across into her own garth.
Shouting for Wulfhild and Sigrid to come out and catch them, she made a grab for two more. Alaric, in an unaccustomed display
of temper, pecked her hand and flapped to the top of the midden. Ailith looped another swatch of her kirtle through her belt
and began scrambling up the damp straw after him. If she could catch Alaric and throw him over the wattle boundary, she reasoned
that his wives would probably follow.


She had reached the top of the heap and was about to throw herself upon the rooster when the first rider guided his mount
around the side of the building and, reining to a halt, stared at her, his mouth gaping in astonishment. Horrified, Ailith
scrambled down from the dung heap, frantically tugging her gown out of her belt and shaking it down to conceal her smeared
white legs.


‘I beg pardon,’ she stammered, gesturing at Alaric who was belligerently fluffing out his feathers at the top of the midden.
‘The hens have escaped and I’m trying to catch them!’ Even through her panic she assumed that the rider was a representative
of the abbey, for he was dressed in the sober, good-quality garments typical of an administrator. Her notion was disabused
even before he spoke by the appearance of a second rider who certainly had no connection with the church. It was a young woman,
her oval face possessed of symmetrical, delicate features, her eyes soft and dark beneath plucked, Romanesque brows. Slim,
beringed hands competently checked her high-stepping chestnut mare. Her cloak and overgown were richly embroidered.


The man addressed the woman in rapid French and her elegant eyebrows rose to meet the fluted edges of her immaculate wimple.
She answered him briefly, but with a bubble of laughter in her voice. Ailith wished that it were possible just to vanish from
sight. She was painfully aware of every stalk of straw, every smear of dung on her working kirtle and tattered apron. These
people were quite obviously the new Norman neighbours, and what must they think?


The young woman addressed Ailith in English, heavily accented but understandable. ‘I see you have a problem. My hens also
have strayed before. Let my husband’s men catch them for you.’ Turning in her saddle, she issued a command in Norman to two
youths who had just jumped down from a laden baggage wain to stretch their legs.


‘Thank you,’ Ailith muttered with chagrin as the young men set about the pursuit and capture of the wayward birds, succeeding
with insulting ease. Alaric was fetched in high dudgeon from the top of the dung heap and presented to her with a cheeky flourish
by the younger of the two youths. Ailith tucked the rooster under her arm, her broad freckled face as red as fire.


The man leaned over his saddle to address her. He too spoke English. ‘Perhaps you will ask your master and mistress to call
on us?’ he said with a warm, wide smile. ‘We would like to meet and be friends with our neighbours.’


Ailith swallowed. Her shame was so deep that she knew she would never be able to hold her head above it again. ‘I am the mistress,’
she said stiffly.


The Norman stared her up and down, nonplussed. Then his mouth twitched and he quickly raised his hand to cough.

His wife stepped courageously into the breach. ‘We should not have jumped so swiftly to conclusions,’ she soothed. ‘It is
only natural to go about household tasks in old clothes if you are not expecting to meet anyone.’


Ailith only felt worse. The man’s face was dusky with suppressed laughter.

Please, you will still come?’ Anxiously the woman extended her hand.

‘I will speak to my husband,’ Ailith replied, raising her chin a notch, but refusing to look at either of them. ‘Thank you
for your help.’ And then she fled, certain that she could hear the sound of their laughter in pursuit.


Goldwin did nothing to soothe her mortification by guffawing loudly when later she told him what had happened.

Ailith ceased combing out her thick, slightly coarse hair and glared at him. He was reclining on their bed in the sleeping
loft, a cup of mead in his hand. ‘It is not funny,’ she snapped. ‘They want us to call on them!’


‘Yes, I know.’ Goldwin’s voice was husky with laughter. ‘You were still shutting up the hens when the Norman came to the forge
to introduce himself. He said that you had been very embarrassed and he was sorry if he had offended you. He was also insistent
that we dine with them soon.’ His eyes sparkled.


‘Goldwin, I can’t!’

‘Nor can you skulk indoors for the rest of your life in the hopes of avoiding them.’ Laughing, he refilled his mead cup. ‘They
seem decent enough people, for Normans. His name’s Aubert de Remy and he’s hoping to make a fortune selling wine to the English
court being as King Edward’s so fond.’


As Goldwin spoke, Ailith’s initial panic faded into dismay. She resumed combing her hair, tuning her mind to the orderliness
of the strokes. Goldwin was right. She could not hide from her neighbours indefinitely. It would be best to make a jest of
the whole incident. Laughter was supposed to break down barriers of reserve and suspicion – but she would rather that the
laughter was not at her expense. ‘Did you meet his wife?’ she asked casually.


‘No, she was busy with her maids, but he told me that her name was Felice and that her old nurse was English, so she speaks
the tongue quite well.’


‘She is very beautiful.’ Ailith put down her comb and removed her grey woollen gown. Conscientiously she folded the garment
over the end of her clothing pole. What she really wanted to do was throw it on the floor and burst into tears. Her expression screened from Goldwin by her unruly hair, she plucked at the stray stalks of straw still embedded in the dress.


Goldwin set his mead cup on the floor and left the bed. She felt his rough hands upon her shoulders, his breath animal-warm
at her throat. ‘I have all the beauty I need here,’ he murmured, turning her in his arms until she was facing him. ‘Come to
bed; take me on the white lightning to Valhalla.’


Despite herself, Ailith smiled at his blandishments. He obviously desired her – if the growl of playful lust in his voice
was not evidence enough, then the hard bulge in his braies certainly was. Even above her need to love and be loved, was Ailith’s
compulsion to be needed. Garlanding her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, and felt the power surge in
her loins as he softly groaned her name.


As their passion mounted, she discarded the thought of the Norman neighbours in the same way she had discarded her clothes.
Tomorrow she would clad herself again with both, but for the moment they had no place in her world. She was a Valkyrie riding
the storm.


Ailith’s brother Aldred took a hearty bite out of a roasted chicken thigh and complimented his sister on the excellent flavour
of the meat. ‘Better than anything we get served at court, eh, Lyulph?’


A younger man, less broad in the shoulder, brushed crumbs from his luxuriant corn-coloured beard and nodded vigorously, his
mouth bulging with bread and meat.


Ailith laughed with pleasure at their praise and their vast appetites. To watch them eating now made keeping hens worthwhile,
whatever her earlier thoughts on the matter. It was wonderful to see her great, blond brothers in their finery. Her hall seemed
almost too small to contain them. Aldred’s red wool tunic was banded with silk braid, and around Lyulph’s throat was a heavy
silver cross and a necklace of amber and garnet beads. Their strong, axe-wielders’ hands were bare of rings which might foul
a blow in a moment of crisis, but both men’s wrists were adorned with gold and silver bracelets, gifts from Harold Godwinson,
the man they served.


‘What do you get at court then?’ asked Goldwin, and stretched his legs in contentment towards the enormous Yule log burning
upon two iron props in the firepit. His mead cup rested lightly on his gilded belt buckle and his own tunic was fine tonight,
bordered with Ailith’s skilful embroidery.


Aldred snorted rudely. ‘Custards and curds for King Edward’s ailing belly. Chicken blancmange and sops in wine.’

‘Oh come now, I don’t believe that!’


‘Well, not all the time,’ Aldred grudgingly conceded. ‘But most of the food is mashed up and smothered in fancy sauces.’

‘It’s the Norman fashion, a murrain on the bastard,’ Lyulph sneered, his brilliant blue eyes full of contempt. ‘When Earl
Harold’s on his own estates, we get to eat decent, English fare.’


Ailith exchanged a wry, pleading glance with Goldwin. Responding, he valiantly sought to close the crack before it could become
a chasm. ‘So the King still sickens?’ he enquired.


Aldred wiped his lips and smoothed down his moustaches between forefinger and thumb. ‘Daily,’ he said to Goldwin. ‘He’s not
attending the consecration of his precious abbey tomorrow because he’s too weak. Our lord Earl will wear the crown before
Candlemas, mark what I say.’


Goldwin tactfully guided Aldred and Lyulph into talking about Earl Harold, and then conducted them from the table to the forge
to show them the armour he was making for the lord of Wessex. They were much impressed by the helm and the almost completed
hauberk.


‘The Normans often use archers,’ Lyulph said, fingering the triple-linked rivets. ‘Will this stop an arrow?’

‘Not at close range, but at medium- and long-distance, yes, depending on angle, of course.’ Goldwin looked sharply at the
two young men. ‘Are you expecting to be fighting Normans then?’ He added wryly, ‘Other than the usual?’


Aldred plucked a hunting knife from Goldwin’s workbench and examined the blade. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, his voice soft and bitter.
‘Normans, Flemings, Brabants, the dross of all Europe.’


Goldwin frowned a question.

‘Is it not obvious?’ Aldred tossed the knife end over end and caught it deftly by the wooden haft. ‘Even if Earl Harold is
named king on Edward’s death, he will have to fight for the right to sit on the throne.’


Goldwin began to feel queasy and wished he had a clearer head. As well as the gift of the Yule log, Ailith’s brothers had
brought a keg of sweet, strong mead. The honey brew was Goldwin’s particular weakness and he had consumed more than was wise. But then wisdom was not usually a prerequisite of Yuletide feasting. He tried with limited success to focus his
mind. ‘Duke William of Normandy, you mean?’


Aldred’s face reddened and he stabbed the point of the dagger viciously into Goldwin’s workbench. ‘The whoreson says that
Edward promised him the crown fifteen years ago … but it was never Edward’s to promise. The High Witan decide who shall be
king!’


‘What if the High Witan decide upon Duke William?’ It was a facetious question, but Goldwin was annoyed at Aldred’s cavalier
treatment of a very fine langseax, not to mention his bench. Carefully he eased the weapon out of the wood.


‘The counsellors back Harold,’ Aldred said shortly. ‘They don’t want a Norman backside on our throne.’

Lyulph, ever Aldred’s shadow, growled assent. At only twenty years old he was the youngest member of Earl Harold’s bodyguard,
but his fighting abilities were as precocious as his luxuriant tawny beard.


Goldwin shook his head. ‘Surely invading England will be too great an undertaking for the Norman Duke?’

Aldred jutted his fierce jaw. He was big-boned, with a fighting man’s loose-knit grace. Like Ailith’s, his eyes were a clear,
deep blue, but more closely set with downward corner creases. ‘Perhaps it will be so, but if not, I’ll be waiting on the shoreline
to kiss him welcome with my axe!’ Aldred had been sitting on Goldwin’s bench, but now he rose, and fishing in the pouch at
his belt, brought out a fistful of silver pennies.


‘I want you to fashion me a new axe,’ he said intensely, ‘and I want you to inscribe Duke William’s name on the blade.’ He
banged the silver down on the bench in punctuation. Several coins rolled to the edge and spilled over, landing hard and gleaming
on the beaten earth floor.


Goldwin stared at the coins, his queasiness becoming the cold squeeze of fear. ‘God save us, Aldred, you truly want me to
do this?’


‘I do. Is there enough silver here to pay for your work, or do you want more?’

‘Nay, I don’t want any at all!’ Goldwin fanned his hands back and forth in denial.


‘I want to pay.’ Aldred narrowed his eyes. ‘I must pay. It will make the charm more binding.’

Lyulph jerked open his own pouch and spilled yet more silver onto Goldwin’s bench. ‘Make me one too, the same!’

Goldwin could not refuse his own wife’s kin, but he had a real feeling of dread as he scooped up the coins, still warm from
their touch, and put them in his pouch. He had made Aldred and Lyulph weapons before. Their mail shirts were of his fabrication,