Needle in the Blood

by Sarah Bower

  “You know the virtue of emeralds?” he asks. “They are for good fortune and constancy in love. They are the stone of Venus.”

  “Ah, that excellent saint,” she teases.

  “As you know, I am trying hard to master the variety of your saints.” He lightly squeezes her fingers. “The gold was mined in Wales. I thought you would appreciate that.”

  Perhaps, if she holds onto that knowledge, the necklace may come to seem like hers.

  ***

  This is a nightmare, a dream of excess of the sort you might fall prey to if you go to bed hungry. There is too much of everything, not a square inch of the bleached linen cloth spread over the high table that isn’t covered by a dish of food. Venison haunches marinated in red wine with cloves, fowls stuffed teasingly one inside the other, starting with swans and bustards, ending with ortolans and quails, squirrels’ legs fried in sweet batter, and pasties of songbirds crowned with tiny, gilded beaks. There are wild boars, and tame rabbits kept in cupboards in the kitchen, force fed herbs and corn. Dishes of peas in cream and parsnips stewed with saffron accompany them, dried figs and apricots from Acquitaine are washed down with sweet muscat wine from Provence. Everything is served on gold and silver platters, except the cheeses, displayed on slabs of marble so heavy it needed six little pages in Odo’s livery to carry them into the hall. The jewels in the wine cups wink mockingly in the light of hundreds of beeswax candles, all green and gold.

  And where is Odo? Gytha feels sick. Her skin beneath the layers of clinging silk is clammy, sweat trickling down her sides and between her breasts. She wonders, trying to count the weeks, if she is about to start bleeding again, or if, God forbid…No, forget it, it’s far too early to tell.

  Robert of Mortain, seated on her right, keeps leaning across her at the slightest provocation, belching stale wine in her face, grinning so she can see shreds of meat stuck between his teeth. Next to him, his thin, sour-faced wife is absorbed in poking a stick down her throat to make herself vomit. Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances regales her from the far side of Odo’s empty chair with accounts of the sexual prowess of his prize bulls. No doubt he considers this fit conversation for a mistress. Beyond him sits Sister Jean, but she cannot catch her eye, her slender, upright form completely obscured by Coutances’ jovial bulk. Every time she smiles at Countess Marie, the countess tilts her chin archly and looks away, so she gives up.

  He said he wouldn’t be long, that he wanted a quick word with Thomas of York in private, Thomas being so recently back from Rome where he had been with Lanfranc to receive his pallium from the hands of the Holy Father himself. He had bitten her earlobe gently and gone outside. Hours ago, it seems.

  “…covered the heifer from Charente five times between Sext and Vespers,” Coutances is saying.

  “So tell me, my dear,” says Mortain, almost dropping a handful of quail’s eggs down the neck of her gown, “this hanging of Odo’s. Am I represented in it?”

  Her beautiful gown. She could cry. “You are, my lord, twice that I can recall.”

  “And have you made me a great hero?”

  What she would really like to do is climb on the table, stamp her feet, and tell them all to go away. “You must ask Lord Odo if he will let you see it. Who am I to judge who are heroes and who are not?”

  “By Jove, no wonder he has taken to you so, you even talk as he does.”

  She nods and smiles and fixes her gaze on the far end of the hall, where the women are sitting, a soothing patch of grey and white, scarcely discernible beyond the forest of lights. If only she could go to them, sink back down among them as a fish drops to a riverbed, scooping out a rest for itself among sand and shale and cloudy water. But until the tables are moved for dancing, she is trapped, and that will not happen until Odo gives the word. She is a dragonfly in his net.

  ***

  “Just look at those sleeves,” says Judith. “Did you ever see anything like them? And it’s all silk, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a silk dress before. Twice its weight in silver, silk costs, you know.”

  “She looks a proper lady,” comments Margaret thoughtfully, remembering the odd comments Gytha used to drop regarding King Harold. “I always did think there was something about her, some reason she’d never tell us anything about herself. I wonder…”

  “Oh, really. Put a silk frock on a sow and you women would call it a lady. You know very well why milady Gytha has kept her past life a secret, and you’d do well to give a little thought to what she’s done to get a gown like that.”

  But what Gytha has done, what she and Lord Odo do, is a source of fascination rather than revulsion to Margaret, a hazy tableau, seen through veils, of featureless nakedness and long, chaste kisses. She yearns for a lover of her own, not the squire, Guerin, with his clumsy hands and kisses like being licked by an affectionate dog, nor like Lord Odo, of course. He will soon be old and looks as though he might run to fat if he did not spend so much time hunting and jousting and fighting wars, and she could not possibly make love to a man with a tonsure. She wonders if perhaps the Church requires its servants to shave their crowns to make them less attractive to women and therefore less a prey to temptation. Tonight, though, by the light of more candles than there are stars in heaven, full of rich food and unwatered wine, the earl, in the short tunic which flatters his long legs, seems to her to be a prince worthy of his princess.

  “Oh, don’t be bitter, Judith. I think they’re lucky to be so in love.”

  “Love, if that’s what you want to call it, doesn’t put the pot onto boil. Never did. It can’t last. He’s a charmer, the earl, cold as charity, I’d say. I wouldn’t want to lie in Gytha’s bed.”

  “Well, she doesn’t, does she?” retorts Margaret, giggling, not a little pleased with her wit and sophistication.

  ***

  Agatha feels as though she has been split in two. She is one half ears, listening gravely to the man on her left, the steward of one of Odo’s estates in Essex, complaining that he cannot persuade his wife to come to England for fear of drowning in the Channel, and one half eyes, straining to see to the far end of the hall where Margaret is sitting. It is easier now the last carcass has been lifted off the spit and the fire at the center of the room is being allowed to die down so the revellers will not burn themselves when dancing. Perhaps it is the heat; sweat prickles her scalp beneath her close-fitting headrail, making her wonder if she will have to cut her hair again this year after all. Perhaps, she thinks, with a sharp stab of something which may be hope or desolation, she will have Margaret cut it for her.

  There he is, the boy Guerin, seated opposite the women, leaning at full stretch across the board, his forearms resting either side of his plate, fingers outstretched toward Margaret. She only has to pick up her cup to brush their tips with the back of her hand. As she watches, Emma has one of her convulsions, knocking over a cup of wine and sending its contents flooding across the board to soak Guerin’s sleeves. He starts back, laughing as Margaret jumps to her feet, takes one arm and then the other and dabs at them with the front of her skirt.

  “What do you suggest, Sister?” asks the man from Essex.

  Swimming? “Prayers to Saint Elmo. He is the patron saint of sailors.”

  Margaret’s full, round breasts sway in front of Guerin. Scarlet creeps up his neck like the spreading pool of wine on the table. Agatha’s eyes suddenly start to play tricks. She can see under the table, the glimpse of Margaret’s creamy flesh between her garters and the raised hem of her skirt, the hard mound in the boy’s groin. Her stomach knots. She pushes her plate away, swaying forward slightly as she does so, catching sight briefly of Gytha around Geoffrey of Coutances’ embonpoint. Their eyes meet. Now you know, Agatha tells her with her eyes, now you really know what it means to depend on Odo. Then they are distracted by the Countess of Mortain vomiting over a hound chewing bones at her feet. The countess smiles. Gytha looks relieved as Robert pours himself another drink. He deserves better, thinks Agatha, William owes
him more. It would not occur to him to petition William himself so she will speak to Odo. Tonight, as soon as he comes back in. She will not look at Margaret, or even think about her, at least not until she is alone in her room with the consolation of her scourge.

  ***

  Odo gazes up at the white moon veiled by the haze of his breath, stars glittering in a perfectly clear sky the colour of his mistress’ eyes. Though he has eaten little, he feels as though he may burst with joy. Everything is coming together as he wishes. On his desk lies a letter from John, in a round, hesitant schoolboy hand from which he sees traces of his own emerging. John tells him of his delight in the wit of Horace and his admiration for the stoic wisdom of Cicero; that he has found a manuscript of the Song of Roland in his school library and wonders, is it really true that his uncle the king had his minstrel perform the song to the troops before they went into battle on Senlac Ridge? Oh yes, the wretched man managed a couple of stanzas before an arrow hit him in the throat. William felt it had the desired effect on morale. But he will not tell John that.

  Thomas is nervous. Odo knows it from the way his piss comes in fits and starts, so he is still at it minutes after Odo himself has finished and rearranged his clothing. Odo has been informed of everything that transpired in Rome; he has a sharp man in the Vatican, a minor clerk in the office of the Papal Vice-Chancellor, well placed to observe but remain unnoticed. He is content with the outcome, though it will do no harm to string Thomas along for awhile, to remind him where power lies in their relationship.

  “Well, Tom,” he says as Thomas finally finishes his business, smoothing his new purple cassock back into place. The wool is very fine, hardly in accordance with the sumptuary laws for the clergy, a small matter in Odo’s view, but he lets nothing go to waste. “Will you walk with me a little way?”

  “As Your Grace wishes.”

  “Please, Thomas, less formality. We are not in council this evening, and besides, you are an Archbishop now.”

  Thomas clears his throat, a strangulated gargle. “Not yet consecrated, Your Grace.”

  Odo says nothing. It is quiet here, after the roar of conversation in the hall, no sound but the hunting whistle of a barn owl and the occasional footfall or murmured exchange between the guards on the Roman wall. He slips his arm through Thomas’ and leads him toward the wall, whose flints gleam like fishscales in the moonlight. He can feel Thomas shaking.

  “You seem nervous, Thomas.” His voice is full of concern. “Why should this be? Is there something you know that I don’t?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “And you are right. I make it my business to know everything. And what I don’t know doesn’t come to my attention because it has no importance. Do you understand me, Thomas?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  They walk along the wall, Odo exchanging a word with each of the guards. Thomas stops as Odo mounts a firestep and stands, arms leaning on the parapet, looking out into the darkness. A light wind is blowing in from the east, smelling of frost and the sea. No lights are visible beyond the city walls; no sound reaches him but the breathing of the wind and a sudden bark of laughter as two of the guards exchange a joke.

  “Join me,” he says, shifting his position to make room for Thomas. “Over there, on the hill,” Odo continues, pointing to his left, “is Saint Martin’s Church, where the blessed Augustine stopped to pray before entering the city to begin his ministry to the Angles. Nearly five hundred years ago, yet there is still so much left for Christian men to achieve in this land.” He smiles warmly at Thomas’ profile as Thomas strains his eyes into the darkness, though his mind is wrestling with images of Odin and Sleipnir, blood and feathers, mud that breathes and a man with dry eyes but weeping wounds. “And you and I, brothers in Christ, fellow countrymen in a foreign place, old friends, are in danger of falling out over a form of words.”

  Thomas shifts uncomfortably.

  “I will choose to believe that you intended all along to tell me about your oath to Lanfranc, Thomas, or perhaps you assumed I would already know? You did not intend to keep it from me, did you? No, of course not. And indeed, why should you? What have you to be ashamed of? You have done well.”

  “Well, Your Grace?” Astonished, relieved, wary, grateful.

  “Well, Thomas. You have sworn allegiance to Lanfranc’s person. You have not suborned York to Canterbury nor bound yourself to Lanfranc’s successors. Lanfranc is a lot older than us, Tom. He can’t last forever. I am well pleased.” He brushes Thomas’ back with the flat of his hand. He is well pleased indeed, recalling his conversation with Lanfranc last February. It would be most presumptuous to exact such an oath to my person. Lanfranc’s very words.

  “There is still the matter of the three bishoprics, Your Grace.”

  “But our Holy Father is sending us a legate to guide us in that matter, and I am sure, when Cardinal Deacon Hubert sees the evidence I have assembled to support York’s claim, he will agree with me that Archbishop Stigand seized control of those bishoprics without any legal justification. Don’t worry, Tom, we shall see off Lanfranc yet. Join me at Prime tomorrow morning, will you, and let us pray for God’s continued guidance in the matters before us.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  “Come, then, let us go back indoors.”

  ***

  At last. Is it Gytha’s imagination or do even the candles seem to burn brighter as Odo re-enters the hall? Perhaps it is only the current of cold air from the door, dispersing the fog of smoke which has accumulated under the roof, only the wind making the little flames flicker. His eyes seek her out as he claps his hands for the servants to clear the tables and drag them aside to make room for dancing. He is her anchor, the focal point at the center of the milling confusion of guests and servants, dogs, musicians, a man with a large spotted cat on a chain which makes the ladies scream and hoist their skirts out of reach as it passes, snarling, a singer gargling noisily to prepare his voice. She feels like the cat herself, exotic and strange, a transitory entertainment. What is a bishop’s mistress but an anomaly as bizarre as a bearded lady or an air-breathing fish?

  Striding up the hall to take his place beside her in his high-backed chair, skirting a gaggle of pages struggling to bear away one of the great marble cheese platters, past the spotted cat as though scarcely aware of its existence, he looks flushed and well pleased with himself.

  “What dance shall you have, sweetheart?” he asks, taking her hand and bowing over it.

  She meant to chide him for deserting her, but she is too relieved at his return to be angry, and besides, it is his saint’s day they are celebrating, and he has given her this beautiful gown and the stones so cool against her throat in the steamy heat of the hall. And he calls her sweetheart in front of all these high born folk, counts and countesses, knights and bishops, and Sister Jean. “A circle dance,” she says, “as it’s close to Saint Catherine’s day, and I know no dances associated with Saint Odo.”

  “No, nor do I. He was a bishop and a statesman; I suppose he didn’t dance much.”

  “It doesn’t seem to stop you, my lord.”

  “I have such a beguiling partner. History doesn’t record that Saint Odo was so lucky. Come now, let us stand up or the others will get impatient. Jump at the Sun,” he calls to the musicians, and the drummer begins to strike the beat as the dancers form themselves into circles of six.

  They dance circles and lines, fours and pairs, until Gytha is dizzy, the hundreds of candle flames blurred to a single pulse of light behind her eyes, her feet in the new shoes burning as though she is dancing on coals. Then, seeing how tired she is, Odo sweeps her up in his arms and carries her to his great chair, where he sits her on his knee while they watch the man with the spotted cat make it juggle with a ball, then hear a long tale of King Arthur’s war against the Emperor of Rome, during which she falls asleep with her cheek against his heart.

  ***

  It is almost dawn before the party breaks
up, and then only because Odo, longing for a little time alone with Gytha before he has to go to Prime, dismisses the musicians, the storyteller, the dwarf, the jugglers, the man with the cat, and the man whose dogs can walk on their hind feet, saying there will be no one fit for feasting the next night if they do not get some rest. The hint is taken, and the guests dispose themselves for sleep, some in the hall, some in the great bedchamber, one couple among the flour sacks stored behind the bakery where it is warm and secluded. Odo tells Osbern and Freya they will not be needed. He and Gytha will be one another’s body servants.

  But she does not come to his arms as he expects, setting her agile, embroiderer’s fingers to work on his clasps and buckles and laces. She sits on the edge of the bed, removes her shoes and begins to massage her feet.

  “I’ve become unused to dancing,” she says.

  “Then we must remedy it.” He holds out his arms to her. “Come here, dance with me now. There is still music in my head.”

  She gives a tight, sad smile. “There is nothing but throbbing in mine, my lord.”

  “Then shall I let your hair loose?”

  In reply she reaches up to unpin her veil herself, then pulls her braid over her right shoulder and begins to undo it.

  “All right,” he says with a resigned sigh. He folds his arms across his chest and rests his weight against the dressing table. “Tell me.”

  “How could you go off and leave me like that?” She fiddles angrily with her hair.

  “Leave you? I told you I had to speak to Thomas. It was important. I wasn’t gone so long, and surely my brother waited on you.”

  “Oh, he would have done, if his wife hadn’t been sitting next to him. They despise me, Odo. The men think they can use me for sport, and the women won’t speak to me. It’s no good.” She has stopped trying to unbraid her hair and sits staring at her hands, lying palm up in her lap. “Just look at my hands!” She jumps to her feet and crosses the room toward him, holding them up in front of his face. “I could soak them in milk and almond oil from now till kingdom come, but I’d still have these scars.”