by Prue Batten
The swan flotilla had disappeared and there was something of bitterness in the air – a reminder that in six more weeks, autumn would turn the world to russet and bronze. Jesu, how De Courcey would love it. I wished he would don his autumnal colour and get irredeemably lost in the falling leaves.
The rose damask cascaded to the ground and Cecilia laced it. It made a shivering sound as I moved, as if it were telling me things I should know about being the wife in the marriage bed. But I ignored it because it spoke out of turn, instead giving my attention to my hair. I should have let the curls and strands fall in an unbound swathe, glorying in its unfettered status for the last time. Instead, I had Ceci plait a long tight braid that hung down my back. The rose veil lay atop with my mother’s twisted filet holding it in place. Like the damask, the veil spoke – a whispering admonition to behave and make my betrothed proud.
I couldn’t bear Cecilia to say a word. Not ‘Courage’ or ‘I love you, my dear’ or even ‘I shall say my farewells now’. I held my fingers up, shook my head and in this silent mode, walked on the longest yet shortest journey of my life to the church of Saint Agatha outside the walls of the castle as the bells rang for Tierce. Or perhaps they rang to celebrate marriage, except that Brother John knew my state of mind and I doubt he would wish to underline my agony.
Cecilia walked behind me holding up the dragging hem of the gown. I could hear her praying to the Virgin Mother, asking for protection for me. The villagers had gathered to cheer, calling blessings. Obviously their liege-lord had declared a holiday in order to honour the marriage but I doubted they approved of the nuptials – not the villagers I remembered.
The church was filled with rows of men. A smell hung low underneath the arched beams of the modest building – of leather and candle, incense and body odour. Nothing had been done to soften and improve the church’s harsh interior and its dour stone merely glowered.
Finish this. Have it done!
Inside, my soul shrieked.
I do not want this.
As I paced forward, I searched for Gisborne’s face, wanting not to find him and yet relieved when he turned as I passed. He looked but did not see.
Help me, cried my soul.
I hate you, condemned my mind.
I cannot remember the form of prayer, the actions of Brother John, my responses nor those of my husband. A torpour pervaded as I placed myself far from the situation. Far from what could hurt me – a place of little sensation and no thought.
It was only as a door clicked that my actual being clicked in response.
The nuptials were over. I was wedded. Without me being aware, the Baron De Courcey and his lady had walked back through the crowd of cheering villagers, had walked across the causeway, under the portcullis, through the bailey and into the Hall. From there, Cecilia had guided me into the Lady Chamber and she had quietly shut the door.
I turned at that clicking sound.
‘It is done then.’
‘Well yes, my dear, though you were like the walking dead. I am glad you are back with us. Such an odd thing but then you never would do things in the accepted manner.’
Odd? Perhaps. Convenient? Of course.
‘I put myself in a better place, Cecilia. It made it easier to bear.’
‘You are such an unusual girl and yet I can imagine following the same path myself if I had to marry such a man. Honestly, one wonders what sort of conscience the King really has. That said; the Baron seemed barely to notice your abstraction so you are lucky. Only those of us who know and love you would have seen any difference. Jesu, De Courcey is so full of himself … so arrogant. He struts like a cock. And my girl, they wait to begin the festivity. Do you intend to put yourself in your faraway place or do you plan to join them?’
Sadness tinged Cecilia’s comment as she, like me, counted the moments until her mount was saddled and she and her small retinue left for Upton – a definitive dismissal by my husband. I hugged her.
‘Oh Ceci, how shall I survive? When it is time to declare my condition, I shall demand you return and he must agree out of concern for his child.’
‘I confess I worry for you, Ysabel. I have heard so many things. Thank God you have Ulric. He is such a good boy.’
I smiled as I changed my boots for a daintier pair of slippers, remembering how Cecilia had flayed poor Ulric with her manner when I had first arrived. How things had changed.
Please let Ulric protect me. I am so frightened but cannot tell Cecilia.
‘I presume we must go then.’
I linked my arms with hers and we opened the door where Ulric waited to take us to the so-called festivities.
Course followed course and I picked around the edges, managing to quaff quite enough unwatered wine to soften my outlook. I almost disappeared to that place far on the other side of my soul until my heavy-lidded eyes spotted Gisborne. His black-clad frame leaned in toward another man, the intensity of their discussion arousing interest.
To others it might seem they debated the lute the other man held as he turned it over for Gisborne’s inspection, the latter reaching out and stroking the bowl with gentle fingers. But I had a different view of what they did. Gisborne’s nature, his subtle fact-gathering ability, caused me to wonder if he sought and stored information.
The man was middling height and slim with shining, blonde hair that fell to his shoulders in a wave. He had a sensitive face, even and attractive, and his manner was neither bullish nor forward. His eyes were dark and framed by sculpted eyebrows that a woman would envy and in fact there was much about the fine appearance of the man that many a woman would covet. He trod a fine line between male and female.
‘I see you looking at the King’s favourite,’ the odious Halsham whispered in my ear.
‘Already a favourite and in the King’s presence for such a short time.’
My words were weighted.
‘You think I mean Gisborne? Ah, but of course you do. My lady, you must try harder to hide your interest or your husband shall find out.’
My teeth snapped together and I quickly switched my attention to the pustule before me.
‘You forget yourself, Sir Robert. You must learn to show the Lady De Courcey more respect.’
He bowed his head with his hand on his chest.
‘My apologies, my lady, of course you are right. I just remember his arm round your waist when you were so charmingly dressed as a boy. Ha! It is of no account. But talking of boys … the perennial youth who speaks with Gisborne is the King’s favourite. He is the troubadour de Nesle whom the King lovingly calls Blondel and who has been sent to sing a song to celebrate your wedding and your beauty. What a highly regarded person you must be.’
I wanted to slap his insolent face but instead turned away just as my husband called to Blondel to urge him to sing.
‘You are honoured, my love,’ De Courcey picked up my hand and kissed the fingertips, his hand squeezing to the point of pain. ‘To have Blondel fête you is a miracle most women would die for.’
‘Then I am honoured, husband, as you say. I would hate to die before my time.’ I spoke quietly and smiled at Blondel de Nesle.
He sat on a coffer by Moncrieff’s enormous hearth and as he tuned his lute, humming, the noise of the Hall gradually subsided and looking directly at me, he began.
‘Your beauty lady-fair,
None views without delight;
But still so cold an air
No passion can excite;
Yet this I patient see
While all are shunned like me.’
There were more verses to follow, each identifying an apparent coolness in my manner and the power and pain of unrequited love. My boorish husband squirmed in his chair; how he would love to have stopped the song and consigned Blondel to a punishment – but he could not. This man was the King’s favourite and a gift into the bargain. De Courcey must endure and I silently begged de Nesle to change tack and introduce a song that might laud my husband’s good fo
rtune at marrying me.
He began another chanson; a more gentle, less pointed one…
‘This is what joy is all about.
To love sincerely
And when the moment comes
Give generously…’
At which De Courcey began to subside and I thanked the Lord. Other chansons followed. Less courtly, more rustic and bawdy with rebec, tabor and flute joining in and presently the Hall rang to many male voices in lusty choruses. Ceci signaled to me and I leaned toward De Courcey to beg his indulgence to retire and when his gaze met mine as he licked his lips, I shivered.
Guy of Gisborne loved gently and with consideration. That at least I would admit. A virgin found herself carried carefully along an unknown road so the journey was memorable for many wonderful reasons of discovery.
But I now had a point of comparison in an otherwise limited experience.
Benedict De Courcey took what he wanted on his journey with brutal violence, plundering the landscape and leaving a welter of scratches and bruising behind, fulfilling my fears and concerns. But I cared most deeply for the safety of my babe and that required submission to such treatment; for in so doing I protected the infant and myself for another few months. I turned my head to the side at one point as he cut and thrust and saw his strong hand pinioning my own, the auburn hairs catching the candlelight and mocking me with their softly silken look.
A tiny splinter of bone was all that was needed to create the trail of the blood required to fool De Courcey into thinking he tupped a virgin wife. Reeking of wine and ale, he collapsed to snore loudly and it was a matter of a quick prick and drag to paint the picture and to then throw the bone into the blazing fire. The rest I would leave to his imagination, if he remembered anything at all.
But he did remember and the next morning rolled me over to examine the stain of blood between my thighs and on the bed. He smiled, took me again and as he imprisoned me once more, said in menacing tones.
‘Mine now, little Moncrieff. Defy me and you shall be punished. I am your liege-lord.’
He finished and wiped himself, washed and changed and left the room without a backward glance. No glance at the face of his wife which was swollen and bruised and was a reminder to her to love and obey.
Ulric gasped when he entered at my call.
‘Lady Ysabel…’
I shook my head.
‘Let it be, Ulric. It is the way of it. But procure some arnica please; it might help. Did I hear a departure?’
‘Yes, milady. The Baron has left with a force of men for London.’
God be praised.
‘For how long?
‘Until after the coronation.’
‘And our guests?’
‘Departed with him.’
‘All?’
His expression could have sweetened honey.
‘Guy of Gisborne rode out in the company of Blondel de Nesle and Halsham.’
‘Ulric, I…’
‘Madame, I know Gisborne is the father of your child. You are no profligate and seeing you now, I wish that he knew.’
‘He must not. Ulric, he must not. I beg of you.’
‘I will not tell him, even if I disagree with what you say but…’
‘Just the arnica, Ulric. And the Lady Cecilia?’
‘Was provided with a guard and left after you had retired.’
I stood at the window, the door closing quietly, and wanted to cry for the injustices and for my grim future. But it would be no good for the babe and so I sponged my face, scrubbed my body to erase the scent of De Courcey and threw the wedding gown and veil on the fire. I opened a chest and unfolded another of my mother’s gowns. A pale grey wool bliaut embroidered with a filigree of silver and I pulled it over a fine linen chemise. And because there was no one but myself and a few men and the servants I knew and trusted from former days within the castle, I left my hair in plaits. Convention meant nothing because this was no meaningful marriage and I’d be damned if I’d pretend it was.
Ulric returned with the arnica and bless him, sat holding a looking glass whilst I smoothed the ointment onto the contusions. Nothing would scar, it could be worse. And the consolation was a month alone without the presence of a violent man.
‘Lady Ysabel?’
‘Yes?’
‘I have something to tell you.’
I looked up. Ulric’s expression was heavy with concern.
‘I am ordered by the Baron to travel to London and stay with his men. Half of the legion he took is to head to Cyprus after the coronation and I am to provide the necessary cipher for messages to and fro.’
No!
‘Ulric.’
I reached out and grabbed his hand.
‘I have told Brother John and he will be even more stalwart and I believe you will find the villagers loyal to Moncrieff’s daughter. They know what you did for Wilfred and Harry and that you saved Gisborne’s life.’
‘How can they care about Gisborne? He is full of cunning…’
‘He served them well as your father’s steward and they remember.’
‘Ulric,’ I whispered. ‘He sold me.’
‘I think you are wrong but it is of little matter, you have said what you feel. All I am saying is that there are people who will care for you and you have only to send for Dame Cecily…’
‘Lady Cecilia,’ I corrected without real care.
‘Lady Cecilia,’ he added, not at all chastened. ‘I have had an idea for which I may needs beg your pardon because it transgresses our separate positions in life.’
I shrugged my shoulders indicating he continue. I was intrigued after all.
‘You and I seem to get on well,’ he explained. ‘You know I don’t like my lord but that I am in need of coin so I shall stay in his employ. But should you ever need me you have only to send a note.’
‘What if the Baron sees it?’
‘I have an easy code for you to use and I can reply in that same code. You can send a commonplace message and I can interpret it for my purpose and you likewise. You won’t be so alone.’
I looked up from the explanatory parchment he pressed into my hands and found his image swam.
‘Thank you,’ I whispered again. ‘I would like to know how you get on and when the Baron might return. You can give me warning. And…’
No, silly woman. Do not.
I sucked in a breath to swallow the tears that stuck in my throat.
‘I should like to know how my child’s father does, Ulric.’
He said nothing, just reached over my hands with his ink-stained, bony writer’s fingers and patted me as if I were a little lapdog that is loved and cared for.
Thus did my married life become an odd one shared with a growing unborn babe, the villagers of Moncrieff who seemed to see something of Alaïs in their new lady of the manor, and with the remaining legion of De Courcey’s army, fifty men in total and who gradually became approachable, deferring to me, even laughing with me. A more relaxed existence to be sure.
After three weeks, I saw fit to send a message of my condition to De Courcey and received back a long chain to wear around my waist and which was studded with topaz the colour of the leaves that were beginning to tint the Moncrieff forests. Rather apt – the chain and the autumnal stones, but I chose not to wear it, it was ugly and cumbersome.
I received a message from Ulric and took delight in sitting in the Lady Chamber to decode it. I had taken possession of a puppy, a hound with pretensions to a gracefully long body and even longer legs. At this point it was sturdy and comfortable, showing little of the type it would grow to and sat on my lap chewing the edge of the parchment on which I worked.
I had also employed a girl from the village whom I was training to be my maid and companion. She was friendly and a pretty, intelligent child with strong Saxon traits and who was already betrothed to the blacksmith’s son. Gwen idolized me and it had its benefits. She sat on the other side of the chamber folding laundry and layin
g it in the chests with bunches of lavender as I read and deciphered Ulric’s note.
‘Court, royal attention,’ by which I knew he meant the babe’s father. And then something that bore into my heart. ‘Sicily.’
And it was then I knew that Guy of Gisborne was irrevocably lost to his child and that he truly had succeeded in his search for status and power. He was patently to leave for the Middle Sea for King Richard. What I could not understand was why it should matter to me? Why else would I ask Ulric to inform me of his doings? Whilst consciously I believed he was as cunning as Halsham, unconsciously the tiny doubt that I was wrong sustained me. Now, with the news that he left for Sicily, I felt he was well beyond his child and myself and it pained me so that I threw Ulric’s note in the fire and cuddled Sorcia the pup close.
The following week at Westminster, on the third of September, 1189 Anno Domini Iesu Christi, Richard was crowned King of England. To celebrate, my villagers had a day of feasting and bonfires, Brother John holding a service of blessing and Saint Agatha’s bell ringing cheerfully on and off throughout the day. I wandered in and out of the small crowd wishing Ceci was with me, that we could share the roasted pig, fresh cooked fish and the eel pies with each other and with Ulric, that we could laugh at the children playing hide-a-seek and we could huff on the hot crisp pastry of an apple pie. Instead I was accompanied by Gwen dressed in a cut down bliaut of my mother’s, and who cast blushing glances at Peter, the blacksmith’s son.
I watched with envy and interest, wondering why my own parents had not betrothed me to some ordinary but acceptable noble at an early age, thus avoiding this terrible heartache. Pointless to wonder. I was married to a baron who held the King’s ear. Short of him dying in an unforeseen circumstance, I could only watch Gwen vicariously.
A week or more after, an encoded note arrived from Ulric, telling me of a dreadful event in London at the coronation banquet. It seemed that a number of the nobility were superstitious of the Jewish merchants who came to do homage to their new monarch. Whisper and accusation spread like a plague and within a short space of time, Jews within Old Jewry were attacked and burned in their homes. Ulric made mention of the lack of punishment for the offenders and I remembered what Gisborne had said about De Courcey, that he would commit murder and go to a banquet afterward and I knew without fear of correction that my erstwhile baron had been at the forefront of such appalling misdeeds in the knowledge that he would be entirely protected by the King’s goodwill. The despair that I should be connected with such a brute darkened the day. The fear that came with it darkened the night.
