by Sarah Bower
***
He has commissioned two ships, one to carry their luggage and the horses, one, smaller and deeper keeled, for themselves and Turold who, Odo says, will help to distract him from the nausea sea voyages always induce in him. How can a descendant of Rollo the Viking suffer from seasickness, she teases. Perhaps he is a changeling. They hand their mounts over to Fulk and board the smaller ship; two sailors with their shirts kilted up to their thighs link hands to make a lift to carry her through the idle waves. She remembers how, as a little girl, she would swim out to the fishing boats wearing only her chemise, alongside the men and boys who were tall enough to wade and carried her dress for her, holding the bundle high above the spray. She looks at Odo, sitting on a bollard, fastening his shoes. A sailor hovers nearby with a coil of rope, but he appears oblivious.
She turns to watch Fulk, soaked with sweat and sea water, coaxing the horses into the other boat. It lies broadside to the shore, the shore side gunwale tilted until the water is just beginning to lap it, enabling the animals to step on board without jumping. Most of them look as though they have done this before, needing little more than a few words and a slap on the rump to encourage them, but the roan mare shies, whinnying and kicking out at the side of the boat. By the time Fulk has calmed her, with his French nonsense and a handful of oats from a pouch on his belt, and she is standing in the hull with the others, her head poking just above the deck, the sun is nothing but a rosy fingertip above the western horizon, staining the sea pink and violet between furrows of indigo. The thrashing, whinnying chaos gives way to a litany of orders and responses as anchors are weighed and the two ships get underway.
Gytha does not like the set of their sails; with the wind from this quarter, just east of northeast, she thinks, it will bring them too close to the mill. But Odo already has the inward expression of a man preoccupied with the question of whether he is going to vomit, so she watches the Kent coast recede in silence. Already most of the town is in darkness, only the cliffs glimmering pale green in the twilight and the silhouette of the castle dark and sharp above them. It is a long way from the coastline she used to know, flat and shifting, the iron grey sea ribbed with sandbars, the boundary between sea and water always uncertain.
***
Odo’s stomach feels like a wineskin turned inside out and scraped with a blunt knife. Lying propped against the gunwale somewhere near the stern of the ship, cursing William for having chosen to conquer an island rather than France, or Burgundy, or Anjou, he watches Gytha moving among the seamen, clambering over coils of rope and stacked oars, ducking under the boom, twisting around sheets tautly angled from masthead to cleat. He marvels at her knowledge of fishing lines, hooks, net gauges, the surest bait for cod or bass, how you must never eat a petrel because they carry the souls of the damned down to hell, and keep silent near herring gulls because they are gossips. She talks to the men about tarring and sail mending and the best way to season hemp for rope-making. When the wind veers further to the west, it is Gytha who tells him, sparing the captain, that they may have to spend a second night at sea or put ashore before reaching Arromanches.
Dipping the hem of her skirt in a bucket of seawater, she mops his face as though he were a small boy being made ready for an important visitor.
“Why did you come?” She sounds exasperated. “You could have sent me with one of your officers, or even just Freya. She has your interests well at heart.”
“Gytha, what are you talking about? I’m in no condition for riddles.”
The captain gives the command to go about. Odo groans and shuts his eyes.
“Don’t close your eyes, it’ll only make it worse. I’m afraid we shall be in for a lot of this. It looks as though the captain’s decided to make short tacks into the wind to try and make headway west.” She glances up at the sky, the map of the heavens flawless with neither moon nor cloud to obscure the spheres and the fixed stars, not glimpses of heaven, or dead gods, or the light in lovers’ eyes, but a tool, a fine, functional part of God’s creation.
“Even your words make me feel sick. Couldn’t we dispense with the seafarer’s jargon?”
“Sorry.” She sits beside him silently, her knees drawn up to her chest for warmth; the temperature has dropped sharply since sunset. The sailors bring the ship about, the rattle of loose canvas and the slap of the sea against the hull momentarily overwhelming the delicate notes of Turold’s lute. On the other side of the ship, Osbern, who appears to know better than to try to do anything for his master, is grinding the oyster shells left from dinner with cardamoms to make tooth powder. The breeze carries the minty scent of the spices, and she parts her lips to catch the familiar, beloved taste on her tongue.
Despite her situation, she feels a deep contentment, a sense that everything is in order. It is the way she always feels at sea, underlying whatever else may be in her mind the way the sinews of water flex and twist beneath the boat. Perhaps she is really a mermaid. Perhaps she will jump overboard, and her legs will fuse into a muscular, silvery tail, bearing her into the depths, far below the reach of men’s nets.
“Are you serious?” he asks suddenly. “Do you really think I intend to imprison you in Normandy?” She gives a sheepish laugh but says nothing. “Because I was, when I said to know is to love. You only know half of me, not even that. I want to show you where I was for the first thirty years of my life. You know this…king’s brother. But until I was about eleven, I didn’t even know I had an older brother.”
William, he remembers, his big hands gripping Odo’s shoulders. “Your father tells me you know Caesar, lad.” “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres, your grace.” That anxious, eager treble. “It’s a damn sight more than that nowadays, Odo.”
“I expected to become vicomte when my father died,” he resumes, coming back to the present. “Marry. Farm. Have children. Campaign for my overlord when needed. I thought my years would turn on seedtime and harvest rather than Advent and Easter. But William had other ideas. Gytha, look at me.”
She turns toward him, and he takes her hands, prising them from around her knees. They are freezing cold. Pulling her close, he tucks them inside his cloak, and she slips them up under his arms, his ribs ridged like plough furrows under her fingers.
“I had never been on a battlefield before I came to England. And I’d never…I belonged to God and William, and now I belong to you as well. My trinity.”
“Oh, so John was your immaculate conception, was he? Perhaps he was born out of your mouth like a crocodile.”
“Eggs.”
“What?”
“According to Isidore of Seville, crocodiles lay eggs, though I don’t know if he ever actually saw a crocodile, so…”
She starts to shake, her chest heaving, her breath coming in a series of small, hot explosions against his skin beneath his clothes. Afraid she may be crying, he tilts her face up into the fitful light of the ship’s lamps. Seeing his earnest, troubled expression she can restrain herself no longer and breaks into fits of laughter, kneeling between his legs to cover his face with kisses between convulsions. At first he is tense, then he starts to kiss her back, mouth seeking mouth in the dark, the muscular dance of tongues, and she does not care that he tastes of sickness as he tugs at her clothing, rocking her back against the deck, covering her with the dark wings of his cloak. She reaches for his sex, but he takes her hand away.
It is his turn to unwrap her, peeling away layers of wool and linen and silky, slippery skin, and as he does so, and finds what he is looking for, he watches her face. There is no treasure more precious to him than what lies between her thighs, nor any map more perfectly executed than that of her face, every flutter of her eyelids and flare of her nostrils, every gasp that escapes her parted lips, swollen with kissing, showing him the way to possess her. As the waves gather and break inside her, tossing her body against his, fearing she may cry out, he puts his free hand over her mouth and she bites into the soft mound of flesh at the base of his thum
b, then falls away from him with a long sigh, stretching, pressing her thighs together as though closing her lips on a secret.
“What are you thinking?” She has such a grave expression as he smoothes her hair out of her eyes. She catches hold of his sticky hand and draws it to her face, breathing in fish and onions, rosemary, sandalwood, salt and iron.
“That I’m not a mermaid,” she says, licking his palm where her teeth have left their imprint.
“I might be, though. Turold’s disappeared and even so, I don’t feel sick anymore.”
“Then I am good physick?”
“I shall become a quack and hawk you round markets. Odo fitz Herluin’s universal remedy.”
She smiles, acknowledging his reference to their last conversation at Winterbourne, though it seems to her that it cannot have taken place between these same tired, tender lovers, swaddled in the intimacy of his cloak, their private world bounded by the dark and the indifference of the stars. “I wonder how you would look without a tonsure?” She runs her hand over the dome of his skull, stubble grazing her palm.
“I can’t imagine.”
***
It is too hot in the atelier to concentrate, the urine and lanolin stench of the wool unbearably pungent. Some of the dyes have not set properly because of the unusually hot weather, and smudges of madder and woad appear like bruises around recently worked figures. Tempers run short and mistakes are frequent as the women struggle to keep control of their needles with sweating, slippery fingers. The work is getting behind; Agatha has been unable to replace Alwys and Gytha because she is reluctant to leave Canterbury for the long period needed to find embroiderers good enough, and now Margaret has failed to return or send word about her father. Nevertheless, at None she dismisses the women, irritated by their interminable carping and twittering, like being shut in a cage of finches.
Remaining behind to inspect the day’s work and note corrections to be made in the morning, she nevertheless sits on at her work table, doodling listlessly. A tall priest dancing with a small woman, a man with a sad clown’s mouth perched in a grapevine. She knows, if she does look at the embroidery, all she will see is the last piece of work Margaret did before she left, a scrolling figure of leaves and vines, repeated to form the borders above and below the scene in which Odo blesses the feast at Pevensey. Borders full of symbolic beasts in balanced pairs, gryphon speaking to gryphon, lion to lion, a pair of cranes fishing symmetrically among letters instructing the literate that, after the feast, William ordered the building of a fortified camp. Her own designs, elegant, neat, predictable, a hymn to the order of God’s universe.
Who will ever bother to look at them? She throws down her charcoal, suddenly annoyed with the image of the dancing priest and the woman. Merciful heaven, she has even begun to write a legend for it. Ubi unus clericus et Aelfgyva…Where a priest and Aelfgyva what? She stands up, wilted as the seedlings of tender herbs some of the women have been attempting to grow on the window sills, now burnt by the sun. A coffin, she thinks, running her fingers under the edges of her headcloth where it is bound tight around her forehead and beneath her chin, a glass coffin. Life goes on outside, but in here is nothing but an old tale of dead men.
Looking down into the courtyard she sees a party of men at arms filing through the gate and is about to turn away for want of any distraction in that, when she is overcome by a powerful sense of déjà vu. She crosses herself and mutters an ave, but rather than passing, the sensation crystallises into a memory, so vivid she shivers with cold, feels her wet clothes clinging to her skin and Odo’s heartbeat pounding through her shoulder. She knows it is Margaret she is looking at in the midst of the new arrivals, and that she is alone in the saddle, and her clothes are not soaked with moat water, yet it is herself she sees, the same unformed, girl’s features registering nothing but blank incomprehension, the aura of waiting, as though the explanation must surely come. Life cannot be determined by random accidents.
As she makes for the stairs, she hears spurred feet running up them. A messenger appears and hands her a scroll bearing Odo’s seal.
“Where have you come from?”
“Dover, madam. We left before Terce.”
“I had understood my brother to be at Winchester, for the council of bishops.”
“He has been at Dover for several days, madam. Perhaps the council is over.”
“Perhaps.” But she knows it is not, for Lanfranc is still in Winchester. No doubt his letter will contain an explanation. She breaks the seal and unrolls it. “Does his lordship expect a reply?”
“I was not told so.”
“Then you may leave me.”
The messenger bows, but hesitates on the threshold. “What about the girl, madam?”
“I will come down directly.”
So this is a pretty kettle of fish, she reads in conclusion, after skimming the rest of his letter to get the sense of it. The girl clearly cannot be betrothed to Guerin, or anyone else, now, without a dowry far in excess of her value. I suppose we must consider giving her to God, who forgives all, and I fancy Abbess Clothilde would be happy to take her for the right sum, compensation, perhaps, for the fact that you came to Saint Justina’s without any dowry. Though, Agatha, if this is my decision, as indeed seems most practical, I caution you as Paul cautioned the Romans (1:26) and refer you for elucidation to Saint Ambrose’s commentary, also Theodore of Tarsus and, now we are good Englishmen, the Venerable Bede himself.
Ripping off the bulky seal, she stuffs the letter in her sleeve. She will destroy it as soon as she has the chance, but for now will keep it close. Though it is as clear as day the men who have brought Margaret from Canterbury know what has happened. There is an insolence in their manner toward her as infuriating as it is hard to define. Nothing is said or done out of order, but Agatha notices they do not keep their eyes averted as they should, and the one who helps her to dismount holds onto her arm a fraction longer than necessary. Dismissing them abruptly, she then wishes she had not for, left alone with Margaret, she has no idea what to do or say. It would be easier if the girl were to cry, or look remorseful, or show signs of pain. She has a bruise across one cheek, but it does not seem to trouble her. Agatha feels like an actor stranded without a cue.
“My brother has told me what happened to you, Meg,” she begins, taking Margaret’s arm and guiding her toward the atelier, “and I grieve for you, but if you pray, God will forgive you for He knows you did not act of your own will.” Margaret looks at her strangely, almost contemptuously. Puzzled, she goes on, hoping her talk will smother her confusion. “But for now, you must rest, and…” Suddenly, with the sensation of a fist closing around her bowels, she thinks, what if there is a child? Conceived in such a welter of sin? There are ways, she knows, but how can she find out? Who can she ask? Freya would be able to help her, but Freya is not here. Juniper. She thinks juniper may be involved, but how? Taken internally or applied to…? “And I will get whatever physick you need, if you feel…unwell.”
“I feel perfectly well, thank you, Sister.”
Dare she consult Brother Thorold? She wracks her memory for innocent medicinal uses of juniper. Worms. Hemorrhoids? Oh God, prevention against plague. If she asks Brother Thorold about juniper without giving straightforward reasons, he will think there is plague in the castle after all.
At the dormitory door, Margaret turns to face her. “I shall be all right now. A short sleep and I’ll be back to work as if I’d never been away.” Her smile is brightly formal.
“Of course you will. You won’t be disturbed. The others have gone out walking, to escape the heat. Rest now, and I will pray for you.”
“Thank you,” says Margaret, still barring the doorway.
“Yes, well.” Agatha clears her throat uncomfortably and turns to leave. Margaret closes the door behind her, the wind of its passage lightly disturbing Agatha’s hood and habit.
She is unable to pray. Odo’s letter presses against her arm, trapped beneath t
he sleeve of her chemise, the creases in the parchment digging into her flesh. When she tries to contemplate the cross, all she sees is a juniper bush, though perhaps, she tells herself in a wry attempt at consolation, it might be possible to see the spiky leaves and white flowers as emblematic of the Crown of Thorns and the purity of Our Lord’s spirit.
Purity. She’ll give Odo Saint Paul’s Epistle to the Romans, and Saint John Chrysostom’s gloss on Ambrose, and Saint Augustine’s letter of instruction to his sister on taking holy vows. Does he imagine she has not pored over, studied, meditated upon all these texts and more over the years? But what armour are words against the world? As long as men govern it, and as long as men keep their brains somewhere lower than their heads, there is no recourse for women like her other than to shut themselves away. Odo should have known that; he did know it once. He could not give her hope, but he had, at least, given her his protection.
Oh, the relief of arriving at Saint Justina’s and being handed, numb with cold and shock, into the care of the novice mistress there. She had been stripped of her soaked clothes and bathed in warm water, the colour gently sponged back into her lips and feet and finger ends.
Women with assured, capable, loving hands had dressed her in her novice’s habit, brushed and braided her hair, laced her shoes. They had wound the black headcloth around her face and neck, and with it the aspiration to the white worn by the sisters who had made their full profession. So safe had they made her feel that she did not realise until morning that Odo had left without saying goodbye or giving her a chance to thank him. She had asked for writing materials, only to be told that the sending and receiving of letters by novices was permitted only at Christmas and on Saint Justina’s feast day. To help you sever your attachments to the outside world, explained the novice mistress. As, later, her sisters severed her connection with her womanhood by shaving off her hair.
