How impractical that would be. She couldn’t hide a babe away after his birth.
“My lady, we should perhaps try to procure an abortifacient for you. I could—”
“Never, Enid,” Ascha cried. “I want this child desperately. But Lord Rambaud must never know. We need a miracle.”
Roussel was perplexed. The lady of Shelfhoc Hall looked worse every day. Should he mention this to Lord Rambaud? He decided against it. His explicit instructions had been to take care of the house and estate. Nothing had been said about the welfare of the Saxon woman who lived there. The whole arrangement was strange as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t understand why the Norman earl had taken on responsibility for this remote manor, far from his own lands.
“You’re to administer the rents and the estate, and take care of the house,” Gervais had told him. “And you’re to provision the men-at-arms left there to safeguard the manor. All accounting and revenues are to be given to the lady of the house. The earl doesn’t want to be bothered with it.”
“Am I to take a commission on behalf of milord?”
“Non. You’ll be recompensed directly by me, and then by the Ellesmere steward, Bonhomme, when he arrives.”
Oui, the whole arrangement is very strange.
In the early spring, three riders were challenged by the Earl of Ellesmere’s men as they approached the rampart protecting Shelfhoc. “State your business, Saxons,” the captain sneered.
“Who are you to demand I tell you my business?” a burly nobleman replied angrily.
“I am captain of the guard assigned to protect this manor, and you will not pass until you tell me who you are, and what your business is with Lady Ascha Woolgar.”
The visitor urged his mount forward. “I am Sir Gareth Bronson and she is my sister. I am accompanied by my son and my squire.”
Seemingly satisfied, the soldiers gave way.
The three rode into the courtyard. Sir Gareth dismounted and rapped with his fist on the door of the manor. “Ascha! It’s your brother. Open the door.”
Gawain and Edward dismounted; Edward took the reins of the three horses then handed them over to a man who had emerged hurriedly from the stables.
“Gareth,” Ascha exclaimed as she flung open the door, throwing herself into her brother’s arms. She had not seen him in the two years since her marriage to Caedmon Woolgar.
“How do you fare, Ascha?” he asked as he strode into the manor, his arm around his sister, Gawain close behind. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. It’s impossible for Saxons to travel now with these cursed Normans everywhere. The Conqueror boasts about the Peace of God and safety for all, but—”
“Never mind, Gareth, you’re here now.”
“I should have come before, my dear, as soon as I received your message about Caedmon’s death at Hastings. I suspected he may have fallen there. You look pale. Are you well?” He embraced her. “How are you coping with his death?”
“As well as can be expected. I was never happy with him. He wasn’t an easy man to live with.”
Gareth took a good look at his sister. “No. But a woman can’t survive alone these days here in England, especially a Saxon woman. Who is the Norman who took our horses? And you have Norman soldiers guarding Shelfhoc?”
Has he guessed?
“He’s a steward assigned here by the Earl of Ellesmere who has generously provided me with protection, and a steward to help me manage the estate. He furnishes an accounting of the revenues.”
“Why would a Norman earl do that?” young Gawain asked, his voice laced with suspicion.
Ascha fidgeted nervously with her hair. “There’s the ever present danger of attack from the Welsh here in the Marches. This is a valuable but vulnerable estate. He’s protecting his own interests.
“Gawain, why don’t you go to the kitchen and see what Cook can find for you? You must be hungry after your journey.”
She was relieved when he smiled and left.
Her brother waited until Gawain was out of earshot, then continued, “Nevertheless, Ascha, you can’t stay here alone. I’m getting the feeling you’ve already suffered at the hands of these Norman invaders.”
Ascha’s betraying hands went immediately to her rounding belly.
“As I thought.”
She clenched her fists. “But where would I go, Gareth?”
He didn’t hesitate. “You’ll come with us to Scotland.”
Her hands flew to her face. “Scotland?”
“King Malcolm Canmore hates the Normans as much as we do. He has made it clear he welcomes to his court in Edwinesburh any Saxons who don’t wish to remain as subjects to the Normans. We’ll make a new life there, free of Norman tyranny. Many of us have made the decision to follow the hundreds who’ve already fled.”
Ascha pressed her fingertips to her temples. “But what about Shelfhoc Hall?”
Gareth considered, steepling his hands. “I’ll speak to this steward and inform him you’ll be traveling to my home for a while. He needn’t know you’re never coming back.”
It’s the answer to my prayers—but Scotland?
“As you have rightly guessed, Gareth, I’m with child but without a husband. Will such a woman be welcomed in the court of King Malcolm?”
Gareth put a reassuring arm around her shoulders. “You’re my sister, Ascha. Many Saxon women have fallen victim to the rapacious appetites of these murderous Normans. You’ll be under my protection. Gawain’s mother died years ago. You and I will be good companions for each other. I’ll safeguard your secret.”
Ascha chewed her lip. “And you’ll speak with Steward Roussel?”
Gareth thought for a while. “I’ll instruct him to continue taking care of things as usual. I see no reason why he can’t send you a yearly accounting, if we send back word of where we are once we arrive. Normans are obsessed with form and order. He’ll probably be happier to be in charge of a manor where there’s no-one to constantly look over what he’s doing.”
Ascha shivered. “True, perhaps, though he’ll still be ultimately responsible to the earl, a powerful man I prefer not to cross.”
Her heart was heavy as she remembered her brief but fulfilling liaison with Rambaud, a man she could never have. Would he be angry if he ever found out she had borne his child and not told him?
Three sennights later, Lady Ascha Woolgar left the land of her birth, fearful of what the future had in store for her and her unborn child. Gareth had taken care of the arrangements as promised.
A score of souls made the harrowing journey in ten grueling days. Upon their arrival, they were greeted warmly by the Scottish king and his queen Ingibjorg, and provided with help and support by other Saxons who had fled before them to make a new life.
By the time her son was born a short time later, Gareth had procured a house for himself, his son and his sister, along with their squire Edward, and her maid Enid. She named her son Caedmon. The name of her dead warrior husband would be perpetuated, if not his bloodline, and would make it easier to conceal the babe’s parentage.
She could not choose a Norman name for him but gave him the second name Brice, which in her language meant son of a nobleman. She took satisfaction in knowing she would be the only one who knew the true significance of the name. But she vowed never to tell her son of his true father. It was a noble thing to be the son of a martyr of Hastings, whereas the bastard of a Norman—
In thanksgiving for her miracle, she swore an oath to devote her life to this precious child.
Ellesmere Takes Shape
The castle at Ellesmere gradually took shape. Ram decided it was at least habitable and Mabelle could move there after spending six months at the Palace. He missed her unbearably and suspected she missed him, but then Westminster was a lonely place for a Norman woman alone with only a loyal maidservant. Each time he came to visit she rushed into his embrace.
“How long are you staying this time?” she asked shyly on his third visit.
“As long as it takes to pack.”
“I’m returning with you?” she asked happily. His nod was the assurance she needed. She rushed off to get Giselle started on readying the baggage.
Ram had seen little of William during his previous visits to the Palace. Once, however, when he did manage a brief audience, he was amazed to hear the king remark on how useful he’d found some of Mabelle’s intimate knowledge of Normandie. “It’s astonishing, Ram, what people will say when they think they’re speaking to someone unimportant.”
The king was away often, riding extensively throughout his new kingdom, confiscating lands and building fortified wooden castles. Then he’d appointed his half-brother Eude and William Fitz-Osbern as co-regents, and gone back to Normandie.
Catching up with his wife, Ram told her, “We’ve been delayed by the rebellion that broke out in Fitz-Osbern’s earldom shortly after he was named Regent. It took him away from work on our castle. However, he has suppressed it—with great brutality, I might add.”
Looking around furtively he whispered, “I’m getting increasingly worried about the capacity for cruelty of some Norman lords.”
Mabelle coped well with the long journey north, assuring Ram that she was used to traveling. He didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm, but feared her reaction when she set eyes on the unfinished castle.
It touched his heart to see her struggle to conceal her dismay.
However, little by little, she added her personal touches to the castle. La Cuisinière sent a young Norman woman from Saint Germain, whom she had trained in the finer arts of cuisine.
“Trésor is proving to be the treasure her name implies,” Mabelle remarked to Ram one evening after they had supped in the half-finished hall. “She brooks no nonsense from the Saxon and Welsh servers and scullery maids, and her rule in the kitchens is supreme.”
Ram patted his full belly. “I agree, and visitors speak highly of the fine food we serve here.”
Mabelle dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Giselle is relishing her role as head of the household, selecting and training the maids and houseboys to meet her rigorous Norman standards.”
Ram felt well-pleased. “Oui, now we have Fernand’s son, Mathieu, here as our steward, it seems like home.”
Haunted by the memories of the pestilence that had swept through the Calvados, Mabelle suggested to Ram they should have a healer on hand in their home, and he agreed.
They augmented their household staff by inviting to the castle a local Welsh healer recommended by the village midwife.
“Myfanwy has a special healing touch, your ladyship,” said the stout, red-faced Saxon midwife.
Mabelle was reassured that, when she did conceive, she would be in good hands.
The Welsh woman was amenable, and Mathieu Bonhomme allocated her a small chamber within the castle.
Mabelle spent much of her time supervising the menus, preparing herbal remedies and salves under Myfanwy’s supervision, and doing embroidery and weaving. She made wimples, chemises, shifts and dresses, and shirts for Ram, though most of her husband’s clothes and the fancier items were made by local tailors.
Myfanwy debated long and hard when she was offered the place at Ellesmere. A position at the castle would ensure not only her future, but more importantly that of her daughter. However, she feared the earl might not approve of a woman with a bastard child. She decided to say nothing of Rhonwen.
“I am amenable,” she finally told the countess. “It will be my honor to serve you and Arglwydd Montbryce.”
The small chamber she was given was in a remote part of the castle. If they were careful, Rhonwen could come with her, and be hidden away. But what would the girl do? She was already becoming known in her own right for her healing skills.
It was safer for her to stay in the village.
The Montbryces enjoyed their first Yuletide in Ellesmere, and celebrated in the chapel with the usual religious observances, but also enjoyed the Festival of Fools. A jester was elected to be a mock bishop. He dressed in fake vestments and led people to church, where he delivered a service in gibberish nonsense and sang rude songs. It gave them a sense of being back at home in their beloved Normandie, and relieved some of their homesickness.
“I miss our beautiful Calvados,” Mabelle confided later when they were in bed. They had laughed heartily at the festival and it had relaxed them.
“As do I, but as long as you’re here, I can bear the homesickness. When the weather improves, we’ll return home for a visit.”
He turned her so her warm back was tucked into his body, and enfolded her in his arms, cupping her breasts.
“When I hold your breasts, I’m in Normandie. I hold my homeland in my hands.”
She felt his erection against her back.
“What is this spell you weave around me?” he whispered, nuzzling her ear. “I’ve only to touch you and I become insatiable.”
They made love, pleasuring each other, until they tumbled together into mindless oblivion, calling each other’s name, drugged by the overwhelming feelings of sensual rapture.
“You’re my lifeline in this sea of foreign hostility,” he murmured sleepily.
Rebellion
Ascha Woolgar wondered what the commotion was about when her nephew Gawain burst into the room where she was playing with her son.
“Have you seen father?” he panted.
She frowned. “I believe he’s in his chamber.”
“I must find him and tell him the news. Edgar the Aetheling’s ship has foundered in a gale off the coast of Fife. He and his sisters have been rescued and brought to King Malcolm’s court.”
Ascha’s mouth fell open. “The Aetheling? Our rightful king? Sailing off the coast of Scotland?”
Gawain nodded his head so vigorously, Ascha worried it might fall off. “He was part of Earl Morcar’s rebellion in Northumbria against the Normans but was defeated. His plan was to flee to Hungary, the land of his birth, when the ship went down.”
“The hope for ridding England of the Normans is still alive?” Ascha asked excitedly, stooping to pick up Caedmon, who had struggled to his feet, clinging to the folds of his mother’s skirts.
Gawain swallowed and took a deep breath. “The other astounding news is the newly widowed King Malcolm is smitten with young Margaret, Edgar’s sister. Apparently he rode from his residence in Dunfermline to welcome the royal refugees.
“Imagine if he marries her. What a political coup. It would bring Malcolm an alliance with the old royal house of England, and a large dowry from the King of Hungary. Edgar would benefit enormously from having a brother-by-marriage who is already a formidable opponent of the Norman usurpers. I’m confident Malcolm would support Edgar if he attempted to claim the throne again.”
He stared wide-eyed as if he couldn’t quite believe the words he’d uttered.
Ascha planted a kiss on Caedmon’s nose, then put her hand on Gawain’s quivering shoulder. “Your father will be delighted with this news. I’ll help you find him.”
As Gawain and the whole Saxon community in Scotland hoped, King Malcolm Canmore, the Great Chieftain, became besotted and soon married Princess Margaret. He agreed to support her brother Edgar in his campaign to claim the English throne. When a serious rebellion broke out in Northumbria early the following year, Edgar returned to England with other rebels who had fled to Scotland, to lead the revolt. Gawain and Gareth Bronson were among those who went with him.
After early successes the rebels were defeated by King William at York, and Edgar again sought refuge with Malcolm. Gareth was wounded, bowshot in the arm, but Gawain managed to get him back to Scotland safely. Ascha took care of him and he recovered.
In late summer that year, the arrival of a fleet sent by King Sweyn of Denmark spawned a fresh wave of English uprisings in various parts of the country. Edgar and the other exiles sailed to the Humber, where they joined with Northumb
rian rebels and the Danes. Their combined forces overwhelmed the Normans at York and took control of Northumbria.
Edgar then led a seaborne raid into Lindsey which ended in disaster, and he escaped with only a handful of followers to rejoin the main army. Gawain was among them, Gareth was not. He died instantly, felled by an arrow through the heart.
Ascha grieved for her dear brother, her protector and champion. Gawain, his heir, assured his aunt she and little Caedmon could remain in the house.
Late in the year, King William fought his way into Northumbria and regained York, buying off the Danes and devastating the surrounding country. After Yuletide he moved against Edgar and other English leaders, who had taken refuge with their remaining followers in a marshy region, and put them to flight. Edgar returned once more to Scotland. Gawain drowned in the marshes. Since he had no heirs his property devolved to Ascha.
Ram seethed with anger as he strode out of the recently furbished Map Room at Ellesmere into the corridor, where he bumped into Mabelle who was accompanied by a servant.
“What is it, Ram?” she asked.
“The news from Northumbria and York is dire. I hope we can resolve the Welsh problem without having to resort to the tactics William is using in the north,” Ram replied, running a hand agitatedly through his hair. He glanced at the servant, whom Mabelle promptly sent away.
“What’s he doing? Hasn’t the rebellion been quashed?”
“It has, but he’s bought off the Danes and is harrying the whole region. The devastation includes setting fire to the vegetation, houses and tools to work the fields. It’s inevitable anyone who escapes slaughter will starve. Walk with me to our chamber. I feel safer talking there.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 17
