Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  Sir Giles sighed. “I sent your husband to bring you to dinner, but he seems to have forgotten.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Bruno said. “We were talking about other places to visit and I did not realize how the time was passing. Would you like to accompany us? I am sure Melusine will make a reliable guide.”

  “In this season there will not even be the wildflowers you praise, Lady Melusine,” Sir Giles remarked, lips twisted in contempt, “and I have seen enough bare stone. I thank you, but in weather like this, I prefer the fireside—such as it is. I will allow you to enjoy the beauty of Cumbria alone.”

  We did enjoy it; the stark beauty of this country is not, at least to my mind, diminished by a cloudy sky. There were no flowers, of course, but some red and gold leaves clung to the trees on the lower slopes, bright against the grey-green hills, and the lake glowed like a burnished helm. I took Bruno around the head of the lake. Bird calls preceded us, some from birds that I knew had flown away for the winter, and the stubble fields showed only a few cows. A few sheep were scattered on the low knolls that stretched south and west.

  Bruno must have known that the land would carry more sheep than what he saw, but he did not ask where they were and I leaned from my horse to kiss him as he turned north to ride the east shore of the lake then inland past Silver Hill and around Lough Crag to climb the Dod. We did that on foot, leaving the horses at a shepherd’s hut below. It was no great height, but the land ran away in folds, and Scalehow Beck lay like a silver ribbon below us.

  The next day the wind was all from the lake and the high clouds moved slowly with large breaks that sent lances of sunlight down upon the hills. I was sure there would be neither rain nor much wind inland, and I told Bruno that it would be a good day for riding. To my horror, while we broke our fast, Bruno repeated his invitation to Sir Giles to ride with us, telling him that we intended to visit the other manors. Sir Giles only laughed scornfully and refused again, saying he had been at each several times during the summer, had ridden through the hills, and had seen nothing of enough interest to take him out on them on a cold November day. If we discovered anything, we were welcome to it. I had raised a foot to step on Bruno’s toe, good and hard, if he tried to say any more but it was not necessary.

  Later, on the road, he told me he had asked Sir Giles to come because he felt the man deserved another chance. “If he had questioned you and watched you as we rode and examined the manors, he could have learned a great deal that you did not mean to tell him.”

  “That was just what I feared,” I exclaimed. “Do you or do you not want to recover Ulle?”

  For some reason the angry question seemed to please Bruno, who smiled at me. “I want to recover it honestly,” he said, then laughed at my snort of contempt. “I am sorry, but I do not have a woman’s single-minded way of looking at problems. I suffer from a man’s tender conscience, and must assuage it.”

  “And daring a disaster has patted and oiled your tender conscience into smoothness? I am surprised that you did not force Sir Giles to come at sword point, rub his nose in every bramble closing off a cart track, and help him to count each stubble stalk so he could know how many grains of corn were lacking.”

  He laughed again. “It was the knowledge that I would have to do so if he came along that convinced me to let the stupid dog lie. But his repeated refusal to accompany us can, I think, be used to imply to the king that he is not an assiduous steward.”

  I drew breath to point out that his entrapment of Sir Giles, who he must have already known was lazy and stupid, was no less unscrupulous than my concealment of Ulle’s worth, but that would have been idiotic. Bruno was, in fact, far too honest for his good or mine. He would have pointed out the oddities in Ulle’s management if Sir Giles had shown any interest; why should he not use that lack of interest if he could? Bruno was also far too honest to tell me outright that he would conspire with me to keep Sir Giles in his present state of ignorance and then betray my confidences. This gave me the freedom to talk seriously with him about the value of the land and the freshwater fish that could be caught in abundance in our lakes and tarns.

  “For now,” I summed up, “there is little above what we would need to live in comfort, but over the years as the other manors begin to yield profits instead of needing support, Ulle could be rich.”

  “Not if there is war,” Bruno said.

  “God forbid!” I exclaimed. “King Henry came once and never again. King Stephen has been here already. I pray God that once will suffice him also.”

  Bruno had been watching me so closely that I began to feel uneasy, but he burst out laughing at my last remark. “I hope so too, from the heart. I do not want ever again to creep with an army over your roads.”

  Then he put out his hand and touched mine as we came out on the crest of a hill. The thin soil had been washed away to bare rock and the wind was like an icy steel blade against the skin, but the sun made every stream into a jeweled ribbon and gilded the crags beyond us to the west. He stopped and I reined in Vinaigre.

  “You need not fear that I will try to obtain some richer land,” Bruno said firmly. “I do not desire riches. I am accustomed to a hard land called barren by others.” His lips twisted wryly as he let his eyes sweep from the glint of Ullswater away in the distance to the mountains we still had to climb. “Not so hard as Ulle, perhaps, but not so beautiful either.”

  We rode on then and I was happy. To say the truth, I had forgotten all about Sir Gerald being at Wyth. I did not even think of him when we came out of the wood at the top of a rise and were able to look down into Wyth’s bailey for a few moments. I could see movement and faintly hear voices, but they struck no fear into my heart, and when Bruno looked at me, I smiled and said, “There are few visitors to Wyth. Perhaps they think it is Sir Giles. But if they are running about hiding kegs of fish at this late hour, I will have their skins.”

  I was a little annoyed when Bruno did not answer; I felt that to pretend now, after I had confessed all and he agreed with me, that it was wrong to conceal most of the catch from Sir Giles was pompous and silly. It was not until we had passed the narrow fields and saw a few men and women standing by the gate of the palisade that I felt a prick of anxiety. Would Bruno realize that they already knew I was at Ulle? They cried out on seeing me, and one woman clung to my skirt, weeping and thanking God that I had come back. She was the chief weaving woman and used to a small house and servant of her own and the comforts of life in an established manor. I think she liked me, but her fervor was for regaining her old life.

  As I explained that I had only come for a visit but that my husband, Sir Bruno, would listen if they had any complaints of ill-usage and do what he could, I dismissed the anxious qualm. So what if the people of Wyth knew I had come? There need be no reason besides natural interest to send the news from Ulle to all the other manors. And since I had told Bruno the truth, I asked openly for the tally sticks. The headman—Wyth was not large enough to dignify the man with the title of bailiff—was out fishing, but his wife knew where the sticks were, and I sat down in a patch of sunlight in what might someday be the manor garden to read them, leaving Bruno to look about as he pleased.

  He came directly from the hall, waiting while I cut the M with a U under its arches that was my mark into the stick that summed the whole year ending the last day of February. I was slow about it, not noticing that Bruno was looming over me because I was thinking that it would not be long now until the sticks marked the end of 1138—and I could remember none of it, except the last two months.

  “The hearth is warm,” Bruno said.

  “Warm?” I repeated blankly. “What of that? I think the servants who fled from Ulle are living here. I suppose they settled into the hall—they are used to living in a hall. Besides, there are few houses here and no one would be fool enough to build more and give away that there were new folk here. And they have no right to build more.
”

  “Only the old servants live in the hall?”

  I almost burst out and told Bruno the truth, hoping that if I pleaded with him not to betray my father’s old friend that he would keep secret Sir Gerald’s escape from the battle where my father died. But how could I dare take such a chance with a friend’s life? I knew Bruno’s devotion to what he believed his duty. Neither pity nor mercy would stop him from dragging Sir Gerald to the king to suffer whatever punishment Stephen decided was proper for a man who had done no more than obey his overlord.

  “I do not know who lives in the hall,” I replied, lowering my eyes to the tally stick in my hand and cleaning a splinter out of one leg of the M.

  I was not lying. I had seen several open, half-filled barrels of salt fish standing in one of the outbuildings that I thought had been a house rather than a storage shed. In fact, it seemed more likely that Sir Gerald would live in one of the common folk’s houses because it would be much easier to conceal his identity if he should be surprised by a search party or a visit. Most people would not realize that one barrel had been set where it would conceal the fire pit and all had been left open so the smell of fish would be stronger than any lingering trace of smoke.

  There was a brief silence after I spoke and I felt Bruno staring down at me, but I hurriedly began to carve my mark on a second tally stick so I would not have to lift my head. If that one was incorrect, I would have to accept the loss. I was growing frightened wondering whether Bruno could somehow have heard about Sir Gerald, when he remarked that he saw no sign of stores except salt fish. That made me look up at him with a frown.

  “That would be right since Sir Giles must have taken lord’s share of what little came from the fields already. Wyth does not harvest enough grain to feed even these few folk. They trade fish for produce. The pigs are still in the woods. Slaughtering has not yet begun, except for a single animal now and again for food. What would you expect to find here?”

  I felt another stab of fear; Bruno was not looking at me, and his face was set like stone. But in another minute he said, “You are right. There is nothing here. Let us go on to Rydal.”

  “Let us eat first so I can finish with these tally sticks,” I protested.

  “Very well,” Bruno said flatly. “I will go down to the mere and look about for a few minutes.”

  That reply seemed very peculiar, for we had brought our food and could sit down and eat in a sheltered sunny corner any time. Nonetheless, my fear diminished. There had been no threat in Bruno’s voice or manner. Instead he seemed very disappointed. I could not imagine why; I had told him that Wyth was the poorest and least developed of the small manors my father had founded. And disappointed or not, I still had to make sense out of Bruno’s deciding to take a walk by the lake when all we had to do was open a pair of saddlebags and eat. All I could think was that perhaps Bruno wanted to sit in greater comfort at a table or felt it to be below the dignity of the lord of the manor to perch on a log or sit in the dry grass.

  In a few minutes a table and two stools were brought out and I sent a man after Bruno. I laid out the small cloth I had expected to set on the ground, and one of the women who had been a maidservant came running with wooden bowls and spoons and a large pot of hot fish stew. It was delicious, the perfect addition to the cold roast venison, cheese, bread, and wine we carried. Perhaps the food made Bruno more cheerful, but he seemed happier after we were on the road to Rydal, and he certainly approved in every way of that manor.

  The bailiff there had wanted to take me aside, but I explained that Bruno was my husband and would not betray him. He did not seem entirely comfortable—and for an instant I was terrified over giving so broad a command, fearing that some other rebel folk might be sheltering at Rydal—but the fear was baseless The bailiff was only worried because he had been less successful than Tom in hiding the arable land from Sir Giles, and that greedy sloth had taken nearly half their crop. If they gave full lord’s share to me, they would starve.

  I acknowledged that it was more difficult to conceal the arable land around Rydal. The hills here were all low and much of the forest had been cleared. He addressed most of these remarks to Bruno, but it did him no good because Bruno shrugged, said he knew nothing of the crops in this area, and wandered away to inspect the hall and outbuildings, leaving me to ask for the tally sticks. I assumed Bruno’s actions implied that I should settle the matter and I did. The bailiff did not get what he wanted, but the folk of Rydal would not be more than lightly hunger pinched—and with my father and brothers absent they could hunt more freely and fill any empty corners in their bellies with game.

  It was just as well we had visited both manors that day because it poured rain and blew a gale on the next. I barely ran from Winifred’s house to the hall without being blown away. On the second day there was only a light drizzle and the wind seemed less, but it came off the mountains out onto the lake. Bruno said, as we broke our fast, that he would ride to Thirl with any guide who knew the way, since I did not want to visit that manor. He did not understand that the wind would be worse in the hills, and it would sweep through the passes in a roaring fury that could easily lift a horse and rider and toss them over the side of a trail—but I dared not tell him that. There might come a day when I would have to send him out in such weather to rid myself of him. A great hand seemed to clutch at my chest and squeeze the breath out of me at the thought so that I gasped for air.

  All I could do was to plead with him not to go. I saw his eyes go to Sir Giles—I think he had had enough of that one’s company—and he argued a little, but he yielded to my pleading much more readily than I expected and he was much easier to amuse than Papa or Magnus when they had been thwarted. I ran back to Winifred’s house to fetch another item the maids had packed in my chest because it was clearly meant for traveling—a small chess set wrapped in a cloth that served as a board. I had taken it along when Bruno and I left Winchester, and we had used it a few times. I knew Bruno took pleasure in the game, though neither he nor I had much skill. We played for an hour or two, and then began to gamble for silly stakes with marked bones, which I unearthed from beneath a slab of stone bordering the hearth. Sir Giles stared at me, but I only laughed when he tried the other hearth stones, and the bones, although painted with symbols and very old, were worthless. I had often wondered where Papa had found them and why he kept them buried by the hearth, for they were the bones of a man, but I had never asked, and it was too late now. We hardly noticed when the wind died.

  The next day dawned clear, with hardly a breath of breeze from either lake or mountain. It was almost warm, and when Bruno asked if I would change my mind and ride to Thirl with him, I nearly said yes. Then I thought of the unchanged state of Thirl—of Donald’s chair by the hearth with the cushion Mildred had embroidered and the stool by it on which she sat. Perhaps Thirl had been stripped by some raiding party—but what if it had not? Would I see Donald lying back in the chair, laughing at me? Mildred with her hand outstretched to draw me to her? I swallowed hard and shook my head, my voice beyond control.

  Bruno’s face hardened, and I looked quickly away. Rage struggled with grief and fear in me until I remembered that for him nearly a year had passed while for me it was only a few months. I looked up, but he had already turned away, saying over his shoulder that he would see to Barbe’s saddling as well as horses for his men and a guide and asked whom he should ask to lead him.

  “Tom Bailiff would be best, if he has not left the manor,” I replied. “I will walk down and tell him.”

  It took me a few minutes to find the man; he was outside the gates talking to the swineherd about bringing in an animal to slaughter to honor my arrival, and I told him sharply not to be a fool, since Sir Giles would want to know from where an extra plump, healthy pig had come if he had not ordered it to be slaughtered. We must eat from Sir Giles’s table, not from my hidden stock, I reminded him. Then I told him I would lik
e him to guide Bruno to Thirl. He looked startled, then said that Peter Huntsman would be a better guide for the party and shouted to a passing boy to fetch him to us.

  I was not pleased by Tom’s resistance to my order, but by the time the shepherd had been sent off, the huntsman was in sight and it was too late to insist on my own way. Besides, I was not sure how to make Tom obey if he would not. Everyone had always obeyed me because Papa and my brothers would have enforced my orders, right or wrong. I was not at all certain Bruno would do so—and in any case, he did not have the right; Sir Giles was legally master here. So I swallowed my pride, nodded a greeting to Peter, and explained that he was to guide my husband and his party to Thirl and home again.

  “There can be no danger in riding in the hills on so still a day,” I said to Peter finally, “but remember the men are riding English horses, not mountain goats, so go through the pass of the Stick, not over White Side. I wish to ride White Side with Sir Bruno myself.”

  “I will look forward to that,” Bruno said from behind me, but he did not look at me, gesturing Peter toward a horse one of his men was holding.

  His face was blank and there had been a peculiar note in his voice, almost like longing, that made me wonder whether he had been disappointed rather than angry when I refused to go with him to Thirl. I had noticed that Bruno was much more desirous of my company since we lay together as man and wife. But we had not coupled last night because my flux had begun. Surely the man could not be so silly as to add my refusal last night to my refusal to go to Thirl and believe I was angry about something? I almost started after them, and just barely choked down a cry for Bruno to return when Tom said, “I will bring Sir Gerald to the hollow as soon as the party is out of sight.”