by Sarah Bower
***
On the Feast of the Annunciation, the entire household attends Mass at the convent church. Walking back from the service, under a canopy of uniform, pale grey cloud which seems to trap moisture in the air, so their clothes feel damp and the going is sticky, Margaret asks Gytha, “How long have we been here now?”
“Since soon after Valentine’s, I think. That’s,” she counts off the intervening saints’ days on her fingers, “more than a month.”
“Tom must be better by now.”
Glancing sidelong at the girl’s downcast profile, Gytha slips her arm through Margaret’s. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I send Fulk to Canterbury to find out for you?” Odo could be in Canterbury too.
Margaret beams at her like a child given a new toy. “Would you?”
“Of course. He can be there and back in less than two days and set your mind at rest. Tom is probably digging over Brother Thorold’s herb garden this very minute, happy as a lark.”
“Not this very minute,” laughs Margaret, jerking Gytha’s arm as she gives a little skip. “He’ll be coming out of church, just like us.”
***
A lad is walking two strange horses around the yard when they arrive back. The animals have been ridden hard; their heads are low, mouths foam-flecked, sides heaving like bellows. Though Gytha does not recognise them, the saddle on one, and the hilt of the sword protruding from its elaborately stamped and scrolled scabbard, are as familiar to her as the backs of her own hands. Dropping Margaret’s arm, she rushes indoors.
He is there alone, his short riding cape draped over one shoulder, spurs clanking as he prowls among the embroidery frames wearing a dark, mutinous expression.
“My lord.” Though the muscles in her throat and mouth stretch and contract to form the words, she is nevertheless surprised to hear her voice. “We did not know to expect you.” She yearns to run into his arms, but is impeded by the frames. Is that why he makes no move toward her either?
He glares at her. “What is going on here?”
“Have you no greeting for me, my lord?” She intends to sound indignant, but her voice is plaintive, querulous, thin with apprehension.
“You will answer my question, mistress.”
“I will not,” she retorts, stung to anger by his intransigence. “You must ask your sister. She is just outside.”
He hesitates. “This is not the homecoming I had looked forward to,” he says softly. He looks exhausted, his eyes dark ringed, his skin powdered with the dust of the road. She thinks he must have ridden all night and still been on the road while she was in church celebrating Our Lady’s Annunciation, one of his favourite festivals. Compressing her lips into a hard line to keep back the remorseful sobs gathering in her throat, she waves him toward the door. She refuses to carry the blame for his inability to keep control of everything, or for Sister Jean’s determination to behave as though she is a man, free to come and go as she pleases.
The chatter of the women in the courtyard, pushing back their hoods, straightening caps, shaking mud from their shoes, fades to silence as the earl emerges from the shadows of the doorway with a look like thunder on his face.
“Your Grace.” Sister Jean kneels, followed by everyone else except Gytha, and Thecla, who, catching sight of one of the piglets, starts running toward it.
“Get up,” says Odo with an impatient wave of his hand. “Sister, explain…” but as he approaches Sister Jean to demand her explanation, the piglet hurtles across his path at a determined gallop with Thecla in precarious pursuit, almost tripping him up. “Melusine!” he bellows, as though the piglet might be subject to the same discipline as a puppy.
“That’s not Melusine,” snaps Gytha from the doorway, “that’s Thor.”
How can he possibly do what William has asked, he wonders, adoring the defiant set of her chin. All right, his brother had said, bring her to court. It might do us some good to have one of Swan Neck’s women dancing to our tune. Odo had tried to explain: that Gytha loved him for himself, not his part in the overthrow of Harold Godwinson, that she would probably love him better, in fact, if he were merely the Vicomte de Conteville, unrelated to William other than by ties of vassalage, that she dances to no tune but the one in her own head. William had laughed at that. She’s living at your expense, brother, isn’t she, eating your bread, wearing your jewels? Sleeping and God knows what else in your bed? Hadn’t she better do as you say? He was right, but he didn’t know Gytha.
“Thor?” he queries, scooping up Thecla and balancing her on his hip where she fiddles contentedly with the clasp of his cape.
“You can tell by the black patch at the side of his nose. Like a beauty spot. And Melusine is fatter.”
He must be in Winchester the day after tomorrow. Even if he knew where to begin trying to persuade her, there is no time for it now. He will have to sort out this business of the tapestry before he leaves, and he does not want to waste the precious hours remaining to him quarrelling with Gytha. He will simply tell her he is taking her with him to Winchester and explain his reasons later. Besides, it will be harder for her to resist once she is there, at the heart of William’s court. Setting Thecla back down again, he holds out his arms to her.
She cannot make a scene in front of the women, under the glare of Judith or Sister Jean, so she submits to his embrace, laying her cheek against his chest, slipping her arms around his waist.
“And is my woman fatter?” he whispers, sliding one hand between them to pat her belly.
“Really, my lord, Rome wasn’t built in a day.” His hand seems to pass right through her flesh, and she dissolves in the heat from his palm.
“But if the builders had been as enthusiastic in their work as we are, it might have been.”
She laughs, a muted chuckle. “You have no shame at all, do you?”
“None.” And as if to prove it, he tilts up her face, cupping her chin between thumb and forefinger, and kisses her, his tongue pushing against her teeth, his erection pressing into the pit of her stomach, until her will to resist is undermined. Winding her fingers among the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling his face to hers, she kisses him back. Greedily. In full view of them all. Unpleasant? You might as well describe Noah’s Flood as a slight change in the weather.
When he opens his eyes, the yard is deserted, thank God, except for the groom walking the two blown horses.
“We have melted them all away,” he murmurs, stroking her flushed cheek.
“I have almost melted away myself. Whereas you…” She brushes his cock with her fingertips; he shivers.
She takes his hand and leads him toward her bower, where the great bed awaits them like a procuress and they tumble together among the fur and feathers, a sweating, salivating chaos of hands scrabbling at buckles and laces, of twined limbs and mingled fluids, prayers and obscenities, all the tangled threads and tender violence of lovers.
***
Dusk is falling before he dresses, slowly, with many delays and false starts due to his mistress’ hands straying as she helps him with his clothes. He resents the precious time he will squander talking to his sister, but she must be ordered back to Canterbury as quickly as possible. It horrifies him to contemplate his tapestry set out in the smoky hall of this undefended house, with dogs and children, even piglets, it seems, weaving their games among its panels and logs spitting on the open hearth. And the journey, dear God, it is a miracle they met with no accidents or highway robbers. Crossing the yard toward the hall, he shouts for Fulk, who appears from behind the kitchen with an axe in his hand, cooking smells clinging to his clothes.
“I want you to go to Canterbury, Fulk, and collect an escort sufficient to get all the women safely back there. Come with me now, and I’ll write an instruction to Lord Hamo. I don’t suppose there’s a scribe in this house, is there?”
Fulk looks around as though a scribe might be found in the cattle byre or the brewhouse. “No, my lord,” he concludes.
In the hall, work has finished for the day. The women stand in little groups, stretching, rubbing tired eyes, chattering in low voices. Odo notices Turold the dwarf among them, his head resting against Emma’s hip, a serene, foolish expression on his face which irritates his master, who does not keep a dwarf for his gentle heart but for his sharp wits and the ease with which he can walk on his hands. He will take Turold to Winchester, away from the influence of women. Looking sidelong at Fulk, he wonders if he might detect evidence of any similar softening. They take our hearts and pound them as though they are tenderizing meat, he says to himself.
“I might do better to take one of the horses you brought with you, my lord. They’re both better than anything we have here save Mistress Gytha’s roan.”
Odo slaps Fulk heartily on the shoulder. “Can she ride it yet?”
Fulk shrugs, caught between tact and honesty.
“Like that, is it?” Odo laughs. “Take which horse you like, though for myself I’d favour the bay. He has an ugly eye but his wind is good.”
Agatha, engrossed in putting her worktable in order for the night, looks up in response to the draught from the door sifting through her parchments and the abrupt hush of the women.
“A word, Sister, if you please.”
She straightens up, but remains behind the table, contemplating her brother’s florid, well-fed handsomeness, his big hands and easy manner.
“But first,” he adds, “do you have a clean piece of parchment to write on, and a pen?”
“How clean?” She offers a slightly irregular square, pumiced on one side but with a sketch on the back. Odo nods, smoothes the parchment over a vacant patch of table as Agatha pushes an inkwell with a quill sticking out of it toward him. “Does the ink need slaking?”
Shaking his head, he begins to write, standing at the table, one leg stretched behind him, the other bent at the knee, his left forearm holding the parchment steady. Watching him, Agatha is transported back to the summer after the Conquest, scenes in fields and tents and half built keeps, following one another the way the scenes in the embroidery do, comings and goings of men and horses, Odo writing, dictating to his scribes, consulting with his officers. Daylight, candlelight, voices raised or lowered, groups on foot or on horseback, Odo’s distinctive hand gestures, the sign language of the monastery liberated, expanded to fill the great spaces in the outside world.
“Damn,” says Odo, straightening up and stretching his hands in front of him. “Fulk, my seal is on its way to Winchester so I mean to give you a ring Lord Hamo will recognise, but I think I must have left it in the bower. Go and ask Mistress Gytha to find it. Now, Agatha,” as if he has not noticed Fulk’s blush or the determined way in which Agatha resumes her tidying up. “The letter to Hamo orders him to send you an escort. As soon as they arrive you will pack up and return to Canterbury. Honestly, woman,” casting a dismayed glance around the hall, “what were you thinking of?”
“There were rumours of plague. I thought it safer.”
“But you did not think to consult me?”
“I tried, but no one knew where you were. I did not want to waste time sending messengers to chase you round the country.”
“Well, there is no plague in Canterbury. We’re scarcely into spring yet, hardly the season for plague.” Softening his peremptory tone to one of mild enquiry, he continues, “As a matter of fact, what would you have done if you had brought the infection here? To Gytha’s house?”
“I weighed the risks. As you would have done.”
“Not quite.”
“Oh, I think so. You have courted fame a lot more assiduously than Mistress Gytha.”
***
Fulk remains just outside the entrance to the bower while Gytha, dressed now, but with her hair still unbound, rummages among tousled bedclothes for Odo’s ring, finding it eventually wedged under the lip of a candle holder on the floor, half under the bed.
“Really,” she teases, handing him the jewel, which is set with a large ruby, “it’s just the same colour as your face.” And winks at him, but will not permit him to flee to the hall as he is inclined to do, pleading Lord Odo’s impatience. “Fulk, there is a commission you can do for me in Canterbury as well.” Briefly, she explains her promise to Margaret. “And Fulk,” she adds as he turns to go, “there is no need to tell Lord Odo about this.” He nods, though whether in agreement, or mere acknowledgement, she is unsure. “And Fulk,” she calls finally, interrupting his retreat, “be sure we shall take good care of Thor in your absence. By the time you return, he will be bigger than Melusine.”
***
Odo should not have let Agatha’s last remark go. By calmly folding his letter to Hamo, saying nothing, he has demeaned himself and insulted his mistress. But the fact remains that Agatha spoke truly. And if he now orders Gytha to accompany him to Winchester, without telling her why, letting her believe he is prepared to defy William on her account, he will have compounded the insult.
“I will do your hair,” he tells her, returning to the bower and finding Freya there, her mouth full of pins, combs, and ribbons arrayed on the bed, now tidied, discreet as a loyal servant, which the two women sort through like torturers choosing their instrument. Freya leaves them, and Gytha, with a sigh of contentment, submits herself to her lover’s ministrations. For a little while he works in silence, seated beside her on the bed, her back turned to him as he lifts and separates the heavy ropes of hair, combs out knots, divides, braids, smoothes. From time to time he pauses, kisses her shoulder or the nape of her neck, breathes in the salty warmth of the skin beneath her hair, knowing that what Agatha said is both true and not true, that it is complex, many stranded, but there is a way of plaiting it together.
“Which ribbon?” he asks when he is ready to bind the single, fat braid he has made.
“You choose.”
He selects a gold one; he always likes to see her dark hair set off with gold. “You know,” he says, “there may be a way around William.”
She laughs. “As though he is a wreck in a harbour mouth.”
“A wreck sometimes,” admits Odo. “He ails greatly in his belly.”
“It is his greed.”
Odo gives an exasperated sigh, but having begun, he might as well continue. “I mean, I might take you to court, if you could be…if it could be seen that you were not unfriendly toward us.”
“I don’t understand. When have I ever shown myself unfriendly to you, my lord?”
“Not me, Gytha, us. The Normans. William.” Absorbed by the elaboration of his new notion, he does not notice a change in the quality of her stillness, a tensing of muscle which squares her shoulders and sets her jaw. “There are a number of Englishmen at court, you know, perhaps people you knew once. My brother Mortain is to get an English wife. I signed his request to the Pope for an annulment myself while I was in London, the present countess being clearly barren.”
“Poor woman,” she says, with an intensity which catches him off guard.
“She will not go empty-handed. I didn’t think you cared for her.”
“I don’t, except that she is a woman, as I am.”
He shrugs. He has no time now to embroil himself in the contrary business of women’s likes and dislikes. “So will you do it? Come to court with me? Give William a chance?”
“William,” she says with icy deliberation. “Let me see what I can recall of my one and only encounter with your noble brother. But on second thought,” turning to face him, letting a note of dawning revelation enter her voice, “I don’t have to, do I, as you have reviewed it so often in your dreams? Perhaps you are better equipped to remind me.”
“It is possible my brother regrets…certain of his actions.” He fiddles with the ribbon, weaving it between his fingers, then drawing it out and starting again.
“You mean,” still that false dawn in her tone, “that, although he is quite content to have defeated King Harold, usurped his throne, and let him be chopped into pi
eces like dog meat, he is now very sorry he declined to let Lady Edith have what pieces could be found to give them Christian burial. Surely, my lord bishop, I do not have to tell you that there can be no forgiveness without genuine remorse.”
“Gytha.” Discarding the ribbon, he tries to take her hands, but she twists them out of his grasp and stands up. “All I want is to find a way for us to be together. I love you, I’m proud of you, I want you to be acknowledged as my, what do you call it? My handfast wife, as your precious mistress was to Godwinson. Surely a form of words…if that’s what it would take. Surely my love is worth that much. And it would be your chance to help put an end to the strife between our peoples.”
Now she laughs, a harsh, strident sound, without humour. Though her cheeks are flushed, the skin around her mouth and at the corners of her nostrils is white as bone. “So now I am to cry your wares like a market trader, am I? Roll up, roll up,” she assumes the dipping and rising, singsong notes of a peddler, “Odo fitz Huerluin’s universal dispensations, only three a penny…I tell you, my lord, there was no such bargaining between my lady and King Harold. They didn’t weigh love in a scale.”
“I had no idea you were so unworldly, mistress. I hadn’t noticed you refusing any of my gifts to you.” He picks up the pearl and ruby necklace from the nightstand, but she dashes it out of his hand then swipes at the stand, sending everything flying. Jewels shower the floor, a water jug smashes, its contents darkening the oat straw from white to dull yellow.
