Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  The fact that it was full dark by the time I topped a small rise not far from Wark keep saved me. Though I was half asleep, my hands instinctively pulled back the reins to stop Barbe. It took a minute longer for my tired thoughts to fix on what was wrong—and then I saw there was a yellow glow beyond the shadow of the keep. I had been looking straight ahead above the level of the ground on which Wark’s motte rose, seeing nothing in my weariness and heartsickness, trusting Barbe to find safe footing as we went. Now I looked down the slope to ground level and saw the cause of the glow. Wark was ringed with campfires. The keep was besieged!

  Then, as I turned away southward, I nearly ran into a troop of men who were not intent on raiding but seemed to be searching for someone. I escaped partly because I knew the territory from the years I had lived in Jernaeve and fought for Sir Oliver and partly because, as tired as he was, Barbe was a better horse than any the troop rode. Yet Barbe was my greatest danger too. I might have escaped more easily on foot, slipping through the woods while the pursuers followed Barbe, for I was well within walking distance of Jernaeve, but I never considered leaving him. I loved my stallion; still, it was not that which bound me to him. Barbe was a knight’s destrier, and it was unlikely that I could ever afford another if I should lose him. It was only my fine sword and mail and Barbe—mostly Barbe—that raised me above a common man-at-arms, and though perhaps I should have overcome selfishness and considered Jernaeve’s danger more important than my horse, I did not.

  I need not dwell longer on the horrors of riding and hiding in the icy rain. For me, they shrank to insignificance in the warmth of the welcome I received from Audris. Sir Oliver said no word of blame over my leaving Alnwick and he was glad of my news, for he had heard nothing about the Scots being so near as Wark, but I could see he was troubled by my coming. For Audris—and for me also, though I tried to hide it—it was a pure and utter joy. Knowing that we must soon part again and that she was now a woman grown, I tried at first to keep a distance from her, but Audris was no more manageable now than she had been as a little girl. She had her own way—sweetly and with laughter, but her own way nonetheless. I have often wondered how many besides myself realize how stubborn and willful Audris is, and how successful in gaining her ends.

  But that day I was only too glad that she succeeded in obtaining her desire. She insisted on taking me to her own chamber, to which Sir Oliver agreed at once; that surprised me at first, but I will credit Sir Oliver for never harboring any suspicion of the love between us nor wishing to lessen it. I realized later that he only wanted me out of the way, and in Audris’s tower no one would see me, but at that time I thought I would burst with joy. My heart had been cold and still for more than twelve long years, for there was not one person beside Audris that cared for me or desired me to care.

  And to complete my joy, nothing in the south tower had changed. Oh, Audris had grown a few inches since I last saw her, but only a few; she was still a tiny, faerylike creature with silver-gilt hair, the merriest laugh, and the kindest heart of any child born of woman. The loom standing by the window had grown a great deal more than Audris, and from the display of yarn it seemed that her weaving had become a serious business, but there was also a table on the other side of the window on which lay a heap of scrolls. Plainly Audris’s abnormal taste for the written word had not faded.

  To see the writings brought back to me how near I came to murdering Audris when she insisted I learn to read and write when she did. For what, I had asked, does a man of war need to know such arts? If Audris wanted to addle her brain with those mysteries, well and good, but why drag me into the morass also? How I suffered! Audris learned as she learned to weave, as a bird learns to fly. Though she was seven years younger than I, it seemed she need see a letter only once to know it forever, and in her little hand the quill flew over the page forming graceful symbols. My hand, already hard and callused with handling bow and sword, resisted. The ink sprayed from the quill, forming blots and streaks with no meaning; I broke the point ten times in each lesson from sheer clumsiness, and my brain was as clumsy as my hand. I learned at last, for my love was stronger than my rage, and the skill has proved useful to me. But I never took joy in it, and to this day I use a scribe unless what I must put on parchment is so dangerous or so near my heart that it is worth the effort to take quill in hand myself.

  I blessed Sir Oliver again and again during that first quarter hour while Audris and her mute maid made me comfortable and in the next quarter hour did him a grave disservice, I fear. I did not intend it, but I could not help feeling concern because Audris was still unmarried. It may have been because we came near to quarreling over my belief that she must take a husband, and soon, that fixed it into Audris’s mind and some months later led her into mischief. In the end, all was well, so I did no harm, but Audris gave Sir Oliver much grief, and I never meant that to be.

  Even while we argued, my heart sang with joy. To be caring and cared for again was like a resurrection to me. It was the more bitter then that my joy was so short. The very next day Sir Oliver bade me ride south to tell King Stephen that most of Northumbria had fallen into King David’s hands. That morning Sir William de Summerfield had come to the north wall of Jernaeve and commanded Sir Oliver to yield the keep to him in the name of Empress Matilda. I would have laughed in Summerfield’s face; Sir Oliver, being wiser, answered softly—but the sense was the same. He would yield Jernaeve to no man or woman. Then, having made an open refusal of King David’s terms, no matter how civilly, Sir Oliver realized he had placed himself by default in King Stephen’s party, and he might as well make a virtue of a necessity by warning the king of the Scots’ coming.

  I knew why he chose me as messenger—to be rid of me the sooner, and that was for Audris’s sake, not his own. Nonetheless, it hurt me. I needed to sun myself in the warmth of Audris’s love, only realizing when I was touched by it again how cold and heavy my heart had been all the time I had no one to care for. I felt that if I were with her for a little while, I could carry away that warmth with me; and I did not think my lingering a few weeks could have endangered Audris’s hold on Jernaeve. Moreover, I believed my strength in arms would be welcome if there should be an attack. I knew, too, that the probable fate of a bearer of ill tidings was to be made scapegoat for them. Sir Oliver knew that also, for his eyes fell before mine when I looked him in the face after he ordered me to go. He did not take back the order, but he did offer me a shelter from the utter helplessness of one without friends or family by telling me to seek Walter Espec’s protection if I had need and say any kindness to me would be a favor to Sir Oliver.

  Audris came down at dawn the next morning to see me on my way, carrying a magnificent hooded cloak—a dark, rich red, lined throughout with thick, soft fur—and a heavy purse. My first parting from her and the purse she had given me then, which weighed so heavy on my conscience, leapt into my mind. I had taken it then because I feared to expose to Sir Bernard, who was waiting for me, the fact that Audris had raided her uncle’s strongbox. This time there was no Sir Bernard, and I got down from Barbe and hugged her and said, “You naughty girl, where did you come by such a cloak and such a purse?”

  She hugged me back and laughed, though tears stood in her bright eyes. “Both are mine by right, the fruit of my weaving. None questions what I take from Jernaeve’s coffers, for I put back ten times the value, at least.”

  I stroked the cloak, knowing that its richness would have far greater benefit than warmth alone among the people I would meet around the king, yet I was reluctant to take more from Audris. The purse I pushed aside. “I do not need that. My own is as heavy.”

  While I spoke, she had raised her arms, unpinned the clasp that held my cloak, and pushed it so that it fell to the ground. “There,” she cried, “it is all muddied and you cannot wear it until it dries and is brushed clean.”

  I shook my head, but she had the other cloak around me and I saw she truly d
esired that I take it, so I kissed her forehead and agreed. Then I hugged her tight once more, caught the old cloak from the ground, and swung myself into the saddle, knowing we would both begin to weep in another moment. It was not until I stopped to eat a bite at midday that I found the purse tied to my own at my belt. That little devil’s quick fingers had fastened it to me either while she diverted me with fond talk or when I embraced her that last time. As I have said before, it is seldom that Audris does not get her own way. I could not help chuckling as I undid it to stow it more securely, and it crackled when I touched it. There was a bit of parchment within that said: “Do not send it back, beloved brother. Use it for the scribes and messengers to bring me news. I can no longer send to you, for I cannot know where you will be, and I will be sick with worry if I have no letters.”

  Although I did not need it and would have sent news to Audris even if I went hungry for it, I would not send it back, I decided, smiling as I chewed my bread and cheese. Let her think she had bested me again, and when she had all but forgotten, I would find some rare trinket, something for a faery princess, and send that instead. My spirits lightened after that. Audris’s cloak was so warm around me that I felt enveloped in her love, and as if it was a shield for me, no ill came of the bad news I carried.

  I am sure it was the glowing richness of the red cloak with dark fur in the torchlight that completed the impression made by my tall stallion, the silver glinting on the stock of my crossbow, the bluish sheen of the steel of my axhead, and the worn leather of the hilt of my sword. The sword, ax, bow, and horse named me soldier; the cloak named me rich. It needed the two together to open the small postern gate of Oxford in the middle of the night when I cried to the guards that I had a message for the king. But it was the king’s own kindness that refrained from punishing the bearer of ill tidings and instead took that bearer into his service, into a place of great honor as a Squire of the Body.

  When that place was offered me, I thought King Stephen was the equal of all the gods and heroes of legends. He looked the part, broad and well muscled of body, his face not of breathtaking beauty but handsome, framed in light brown hair, high of brow, with greyish blue eyes, a strong nose, and well-formed lips. But it was not the king’s appearance that impressed me; it was his response to my birth. I had told him at once that I was no more than a whore’s son trained in knightly skills by the charity of Sir Oliver, and he laughed and said it was all the better for him as I would give him my undivided loyalty.

  He had that always—even if he did not always believe it, and even though I soon learned I had been mistaken in my first judgment. Not about the king’s kindness; many of Stephen’s troubles came from his generosity of heart, for he promised too lightly what he could not perform. Worse, for me, was that his sense of honor was not what I had learned from Sir Oliver. I learned to hold my tongue, but not before I came close, a few times, to prison or exile. Indeed, it was the king’s kindness that saved me from his own wrath. Is it then any wonder that I loved Stephen and love him still?

  It was the day I took service with the king that I met Hugh Licorne. I liked him at once, despite his strange face, and we soon became fast friends. I learned that he had been the first to bring news of King David’s invasion, but it was my confirmation of the news that enabled King Stephen to set aside other demands upon him and take his army north to drive out the Scots. I had no chance then to show the king my abilities as a fighter. The Scots fled before us, and Stephen took the opportunity to prove himself a ruler wise, just, and of good will. Because I knew the land and the customs, I was able to help him and he showed his pleasure in me openly and told me more than once that he had been wise indeed to take me into his household.

  Only one slight shadow marred those clear and sunny weeks in my life—I can hear laughter for all know that Stephen made peace with David in Durham in February and that month is mostly wet and sometimes snowy and bitter cold in the northern shires. I do not recall the weather. I only know for me the skies were clear and the sun shone. After the treaty was sworn, Stephen made a progress around the keeps of the northern shires, and where he could do it without grave offense, he found husbands for heiresses and guardians for orphans among his own men. The little cloud I mentioned began to gather when I realized that Stephen intended to add Audris to the heiresses for whom he had found husbands.

  The cloud was soon dissipated, however, when Audris called me “brother” before the king and flung herself into my arms as soon as she laid eyes on me, like the heedless creature she is. That made the king lose interest in getting her married because, Hugh told me to my horror, Stephen believed he could rule Jernaeve through me if necessary. But when my first distaste for the idea that I could be induced to take Jernaeve from Audris had passed, I became satisfied to allow the king his mistake. Should the situation ever arise, I thought, I could see Audris well married and happy and then find service elsewhere.

  In any case, I need not have worried about that matter at all; Hugh and Audris settled it by themselves. All I saw, with a mild gladness, was that Audris took to Hugh, just as I had. She showed not a touch of her usual indifference to strangers but displayed to him her warmth, her laughter, and the sweetness of her nature, which is like a perfume that drowns the senses. I could see that poor Hugh was drowning, but I said nothing to him; he did not need me to tell him that an heiress like Audris was not for such as he—or so I thought. I did not speak to Audris about Hugh at all, assuming that her kindness to him was for my sake.

  I am very glad I had not the smallest suspicion that Audris had found a new fixed purpose. My warnings would have changed nothing and added to the difficulties she and Hugh had to surmount—and would have been a grave mistake too, for I have never seen a better matched pair. Not that they married soon. It took them two years to bring their desires to fruition, but I knew nothing of that. Audris, little devil that she is, never hinted of her purpose in any letter to me; and, although Hugh and I served together later that year at the siege of Exeter, he said nothing either. That was not to deceive me. At that time he had no idea that Audris desired him as he desired her, and anyway, we were both too taken up, first with the joy of fighting and then with the growing disaffection and tension among those who had just sworn to support the king.

  I think Stephen hoped the yielding of Exeter would put a stop to any further rebellion and permit him to strengthen his grip on his throne and his barons. Exeter’s lord, Brian de Redvers, was one of the very few who had not come to swear fealty and do homage to the king at the great Easter court of 1136. Although Stephen had pleasantly and without penalty pardoned those who had failed to come when summoned to his coronation in December 1135, he had made it clear he expected all to attend him at Easter. In the end, even Robert of Gloucester, Empress Matilda’s half brother, had done homage. After Stephen had ordered Redvers to yield up the royal keep at Exeter, Redvers had offered to do homage but Stephen refused, delighted to have one man he could defeat and hold up as an example of the fruit of rebellion.

  It is pointless now, so many years later, to describe the foolish mistakes made at Exeter. All I need say is that Robert of Gloucester’s influence caused King Stephen to offer too-generous terms to Redvers to yield his keep. This caused a bitter quarrel between Stephen and his brother, the bishop of Winchester, during which the bishop said the one thing Stephen could not forgive—that he was like his father, a coward. In addition, I think the fact that the king seemed so fearful of offending Gloucester started William of Ypres thinking of being rid of Lord Robert once and for all, and that led to Ypres’s attempt to assassinate Gloucester, which in the end caused the loss of Normandy.

  I am sure that the king blamed the failure of our campaign in Normandy on Ypres and that Waleran de Meulan kept green both that memory and the insult Winchester had uttered. I did not like the strength of Waleran’s influence. He was a fine soldier, but I could not forget how he had betrayed King Henry and he was too
ambitious, too single-minded about his own advantage. I know that most of those who surrounded the king thought primarily of their own fortunes—and I, to my shame, was as guilty as any other—but Waleran was both short-sighted and arrogant, which often made his advice dangerous. However, I think it was Waleran who convinced Stephen to return to England to prepare a defense of the northern shires against a new invasion by the Scots.

  He may have guessed the king would not be free to go himself and wished to defeat the Scots to raise himself still further in Stephen’s esteem. The king had appointed Queen Maud as regent, but Waleran had no great opinion of women and may have assumed—what never occurred to me—that Roger, bishop of Salisbury, the king’s justiciar, and the other high officials would ignore her and hold for the king’s return all the business they dared not complete themselves.

  Salisbury was well able to rule the nation for he had acted as regent for King Henry, but Stephen never had the same trust in him—I suppose because the bishop had been Henry’s man and Stephen feared Salisbury hid a secret leaning to Matilda. And ignoring Maud as he did, which was made plain from the amount of business Salisbury had to present, angered the king. Stephen had all my sympathy. I too felt it was wrong for him to be bound to Westminster when he should be marching north to meet King David’s offensive.

  No loss came of Salisbury’s insistence that Stephen attend to the acts and grants that had been pending for months. Waleran took the footmen of the king’s army west into Cumbria and drove the Scots east into the arms of the Northumbrian barons, who did not love them. The king intended to follow in a few days with the mounted troops, but it was actually closer to three weeks before we were able to leave.