Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  Perhaps the fortunate, if lamentable, weakness in the moral fiber of the women was partly my fault. It was not possible for me to spend much time in my lodging until the king came because of my role as deputy to the king’s chamberlain, and I did not trust my hostess—after all, it would be natural to wish to make as much profit as possible from an event that took place only once in a few years. So I bade my men stay at the house to make sure she did not rent it to several other people, despite our arrangement, and insist that we share the place. I bade Merwyn and Cormi make themselves agreeable and useful so that she would not suspect their true purpose, so perhaps I led to her downfall—but why should I regret something she enjoyed so much?

  My work was not so pleasurable. Glympton had given me a list of the men who were to be lodged in the castle, their names written in the order of importance they had to the king. Did this mean the most important should be lodged closest to the king or in the grandest state, I had asked, whereupon Glympton had shown his teeth at me—it was not a smile. Part of our trouble was that in Oxford nearly all the great nobles had to be lodged in the keep or the town, unlike Westminster, where many of the barons had their own houses.

  A further complication was that we had several foreign visitors, among them Alan, count of Brittany, and a man called Hervey de Lyons—that one was so haughty that he never deigned to see me, and his lips curled and nostrils flared every time Stephen put a hand on my shoulder or asked for a service from me with a “please.” I am not certain why Stephen was so eager to please Lord Hervey; he was not a man the king would ordinarily have welcomed as a companion. Looking back and considering the fact that King Louis of France betrothed his sister Constance to Stephen’s eldest son, Eustace, the following year, I have come to think that this Hervey might have been a secret envoy sent to determine whether the English court was a fit place for Constance. Whether he was or not, he was so dainty in his ways that Robert de Vere and I decided he must have his own house, not lie in the common hall, no matter that he be closest to the door of the king’s chamber.

  Forty-two of the houses in Oxford were Crown property, and four on the south side of the road that led to the drawbridge were very fine. Sir Robert and I bade those living there to remove and set their servants to cleaning and furbishing. Just opposite Saint Peter’s church I found one house that seemed perfect for Lord Hervey and Lord Alan. It had a luxurious solar for Lord Hervey, whose small escort could occupy the lower floor, a large hall attached, and a yard with plenty of stabling for horses. I asked Sir Robert if he would approve having men screen off a chamber to the rear for Lord Alan, so his men—God knew why, but he had brought thirty men-at-arms as well as servants—could be housed in comfort in the hall. Sir Robert pointed out that the hall was really too large for the purpose and could serve the escorts of four or five noblemen, but after looking at each other—and bursting into laughter at one another’s expressions—he approved my plan.

  Day by day as my mind moved the queen’s cortege and with it my Melusine closer and closer to Oxford, I thought less and less of the troubles that might befall us. I was busy and a little concerned lest I make a mistake and cause offense among the king’s great vassals, but that did not worry me deeply. I was not an official, only a deputy pressed into service. I was sure Glympton could find an excellent reason for the need to use a deputy, at least a better reason than that one of the king’s knights wished to be sure of sleeping with his wife. And as an ignorant deputy I could be used as a convenient scapegoat and yet escape punishment. From time to time a chill would pass over me as I remembered that there might be a confrontation between Salisbury and Stephen, but it was easy to divert myself here in Oxford. I only had to look in the market and see a small, pretty, hammered brass bowl to hold flowers for Melusine, or any other toy I thought would please her, and I was warm and happy at once buying it.

  I never had a doubt about how Melusine would feel or whether she might have met some charmer among King David’s men who would have been more to her father’s taste—and thus perfect in her eyes—until the very last. When I rode out with the king’s retinue to meet the queen and her people, an honor I suspect few kings paid their wives and a mark of Stephen’s eagerness to see Maud, I suddenly recalled how cool and indifferent my letters must have seemed to her. Would she know that I could not write what was in my heart because I knew the queen would also read the letters? Would she believe me when I told her that? Now I remembered that I had wasted no words on my desire for her in the one private letter I had sent either. I had been too worried and angry. Nor would that letter have pleased her in any other way. Had she obeyed me? She had not answered, neither in the queen’s packet nor in any private message.

  Barbe danced and fretted as the fore riders came into view, responding to my unsteady hand on the rein, and someone cursed me; however at that moment Stephen started forward along the road, which was only wide enough for three horses abreast and was lined with thick hedges. Because of that it seemed years to me before I was able to work my way around the more important folk who were greeting each other and reach the mounted ladies. Then, like a fool, I reached for Melusine before I turned Barbe and that accursed Vinaigre nipped me on the thigh. In jerking my left leg away, I pressed against Barbe, who obediently danced aside, ramming another horse to my right, which surged ahead into the hindquarters of the preceding animal; that beast, turned left somewhat by the impact, also started ahead, bumping into the mount of a gentleman riding beside the lady one down the line from Melusine.

  I am not a coward. I have faced death and injury and the rage of my superiors without flinching—at least outwardly—but there are some things for which my courage is not sufficient. One of those was admitting responsibility for the growing chaos ahead of me, full of plunging horses, shrieking women, and the shouts and curses of infuriated men. Perhaps if I thought my confession that it was all my fault would have done some good, I would have confessed. I say perhaps; I am not at all certain.

  The lady immediately behind Melusine had pulled up her mare in surprise and alarm and turned to look at the confusion. There was now a clear space ahead of me wide enough to turn Barbe. I did so at once and brought my stallion beside Vinaigre, who was standing like a rock, so completely unaffected by the noise and excitement behind her that she could butt her head affectionately against Barbe’s neck. How I resisted drawing my sword and cutting off that mare’s head I will never know.

  There was a choked sound beside me, and Melusine’s voice, low and shaking, followed. “I am very sorry.”

  “It is time for me to buy you another horse,” I said.

  I heard Melusine gasp and I tore my eyes from Vinaigre’s head, where I was imagining a large, large hole. There were tears on Melusine’s cheeks and she was shaking, getting out between gasps, “She likes you. She bites much harder when she does not like someone.”

  “Why are you weeping?” I snarled at her. “You know I will not harm your accursed mare.”

  Melusine sniffed and hiccupped, then bit her lip. “I was not weeping.” Her voice was very small and meek. “I was laughing. I am very sorry but—but that”—she gestured behind us, where the chaos near us was quieting while farther down the road it was growing—“that is a very large result for one little affectionate nip.”

  I drew a deep breath, now considering whether Melusine’s head would not look better decorated with holes. I do not know what showed on my face, but she lowered her head and looked at me sidelong. I could see her swallow and then swallow again and I knew she was fighting an impulse to giggle. I was balanced on a sword edge between rage and laughter when the lady behind urged her horse forward and said, “What in the world is going on?” and then continued ahead without waiting for an answer.

  That was fortunate because Melusine’s face turned puce in her effort to restrain her laughter and I gave up and burst into guffaws, leaned from the saddle, and bussed my wife soundly on the cheek.<
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  “God knows this was not how I intended to greet you,” I gasped. “I cannot tell you how much I have missed your company and how glad I am to have you back, but I did not mean my celebration to take the form of a public riot.”

  Melusine started to laugh with me and then stopped and asked, “Will we be together? Queen Maud said this court will be as well attended as the one at Christmas, and Oxford is smaller than Westminster if one counts the lodgings in London, so there will be less accommodation.”

  Her voice sounded eager to me, but she did not meet my eyes, and I thought her smile was strained when I told her of the chamber I had rented for us—it was later that she teased me about our hostess’s weakness for my men. Then she reminded me that she could not come until her work for the queen was finished, and that would be late, she feared, because Maud and Stephen would be living in state—which meant that all the queen’s richest gowns and every hanging, rug, and ornament would have to be unpacked and recorded separately. I pressed her hand and assured her that no matter how late, I would be waiting by the stairs that went to the women’s quarters—or, if the king had some duty for me, which I did not expect because I was sure he would be with the queen, Merwyn would be waiting.

  It was fortunate I had made that arrangement. After idling away hours after the evening meal, I was sent for into the king’s private closet. Maud was, as I expected, with Stephen, but I was surprised to see that even the squires of the body had been dismissed. As soon as I came to the two chairs in which they sat side by side and bowed, Maud said to me, “Did you know Melusine was a favorite with King David?”

  My heart sank at the words. I had hoped to hear no more of Melusine’s feelings and connections with the Scots, and was disappointed. The particular question made my dismay worse. From it, I could only suppose that Melusine had ignored my instructions and approached King David with an appeal for the restoration of Ulle.

  “I knew she had been presented to him,” I replied warily. “I cannot see how she could be a favorite. King David could not have known her well enough for that. I do not believe her father ever served David—her brother did, but she would not have been sent to court then, she was too young.”

  “You are very hot in her defense,” Maud snapped.

  There was a weary pettishness in the remark that made me feel much better. If Maud had a real complaint against Melusine, she would have stated it. This attack seemed to owe more to Maud’s being tired and worried in general than to any real anger at me or at Melusine, and the king smiled at me behind Maud’s back and made a little gesture of apology. Then I realized he must have told Maud—possibly as a small, cheerful item of amusing gossip to relate among many troublesome matters—about my desire to come ahead and reserve a chamber, and that must have reminded her that I was no longer indifferent to my wife and, to her mind at least, not capable of controlling her.

  “I beg pardon, madam,” I protested, smiling, “that was not a defense but the facts as I know them. Will you tell me what Melusine has done wrong?”

  “She told David she had been disseised.”

  “She just walked up to King David and told him that?” I asked incredulously. “Right before your face? Or did she seek him out privately?”

  Maud looked a little ashamed and Stephen began to laugh and patted her on the shoulder. “I think my dear wife is annoyed because for once I have seen deeper into a person than she.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then spoke to me again. “Melusine did not approach David at all. He approached her and asked her to dance. The rest followed from that. I said she was a sweet, gentle girl.”

  “I am not so sure of that still,” Maud insisted. “Even Bruno admits she wants Ulle back. Now that she has established that David owes her a debt…Just you be sure, Bruno, that she does not ask Prince Henry for those lands. Treaty or no treaty, they are not his to give.”

  “Why do we not give Ulle to Bruno?” Stephen suggested, laughing again, but I thought only half jesting. “The lands are worthless. Not a penny over the livelihood of the steward can be wrung out of them. Then you could stop worrying about it.”

  “Not now!”

  Maud spoke so sharply that the smile I had given the king, part gratitude and part acknowledgment that he was only teasing his wife, froze on my face as I turned to look at her.

  She laughed then and said lightly, “Melusine is too useful to me now. I cannot spare her—and you cannot spare Bruno, my lord.”

  I could have promised that Melusine and I would serve as willingly after we had Ulle as before, but I knew Maud would not believe that, and I was not sure I believed it myself. Instead, I bowed and said, equally lightly, “I am not yet very hungry. The promise of the carrot on the stick will serve very well.”

  “A hope you may have, not a promise,” Maud replied before Stephen could speak. Then she looked down at her hand enclosed in her husband’s and added softly, “I will not promise what may be impossible to perform.” She turned her hand in Stephen’s and gave his a squeeze. “It is late, my lord, and I am weary.”

  The king put his arm around her shoulders and nodded dismissal at me as he murmured some apology to her for not taking her to her chamber earlier. I was out the door before they rose, but had only to look across the nearly empty hall to see that Merwyn was gone from the foot of the stairs. That meant that Melusine must have come down from the queen’s apartments and gone ahead with Merwyn to our lodgings. I hurried down the stair in the forebuilding, but they were not in the courtyard or the outer bailey, so I moderated my pace, guessing that Melusine must have come down only a minute or two after I was summoned and I would not be able to catch up.

  When I came softly into the solar, I caught Melusine in the act of undressing, wearing only her shift. The way she cried out and clutched to her the tunic she had just removed enchanted me completely. “I adore you,” I muttered, striding across the narrow room and embracing her. Her arms were caught between us, and for an instant I thought she was pushing me away, but then she dropped the tunic to the floor and laid her head on my shoulder.

  “Beloved, I am sorry my letters were so indifferent, but the queen—”

  “I understood,” she murmured huskily.

  I hesitated, but she did not say in turn that she had written like a gossiping friend for the same reason. It occurred to me just then that Melusine had never said she cared for me. I was tempted to press her for a few sweet words, which I had never had from any woman except my sister Audris—for I was not so foolish as to ask a whore to call me beloved—but I did not. If she refused, even out of shyness, the sweetness of this moment would be lost, and the moment was sweet, for her arms had crept around me, one stroking my back and the other clinging to my waist. I tilted her face up and kissed the full red lips; her eyes closed.

  “Are you cold, dear heart?” I asked softly after a moment. “Do you want to get into bed?” I should not have kissed her, for I was aching with need already and the feel of her mouth made it worse.

  “No, I will help you undress,” she whispered.

  I was glad of it. She could have called Edna to help me, but her willingness to serve me herself was precious to me. My grip on her had relaxed while we spoke, and she let herself slide down my body. The way she went down, her arms still around me, her whole body pressed against mine, nearly brought me to a premature spilling of my seed. Yet, I was not sure she had intended to raise desire in me. If she wished to hide her face or her body, she might have done the same thing. A small uneasiness drifted about inside of me and shadowed Melusine’s actions. Ever since she had yielded her body to me there seemed to be two Melusines, one warm and eager and the other reluctant and doubting—but at that moment it would have taken a far stronger chill to divert me than the moth-wing brush of doubt I felt. Sword and belt, tunic and shirt, were off and cast away anywhere before Melusine had both my cross garters untied. As the second loosened, I ha
d the tie of my chausses undone and could rid myself in one sweeping push of all my nether garments.

  Then I bent to lift Melusine from the floor, to strip off her tunic, to sup the sweetness of her body with my mouth and take in the strong woman-smell of her. And when my mouth was not busy with kissing I praised her. I do not remember everything I said—all of it was silly beyond measure, like calling her my sun and my moon—but it was true. I was spilling out all the need to love that had been buried in me all the years I had been parted from Audris. But this was a far fiercer caring, far stronger, a need so great that though it was all joy it was like torture. Caring for Audris was a glow of warmth and a sweet tenderness. The tenderness was there for Melusine also, but it was like a honey that bound together a burning ginger concoction of passion in the body and the soul.

  Later, after we had loved—and that was better than ever with Melusine’s strong legs urging me deeper and her body rising to meet mine; there was no reluctance there nor did I fail to bring her, crying out, high and sweet, like a bird’s song, to a rich joy—but later, when the soft words and small tired kisses of repletion had been exchanged and she lay quiet against me, I thought she looked sad. And I wondered then whether there had been just a moment of resistance when I first lifted her up to caress her before we joined bodies. If there had been, I know it melted with my first touches and sweet words.

  Again it was a moth-wing brush of doubt and I flicked it away as one brushes at a moth. But it was there, and perhaps to avoid the far greater pain of doubting Melusine’s affection for me, I turned to a faint renewed irritation about her leaning toward King David and mentioned the queen’s remark that she was a favorite with him. She pushed herself up on the pillows, away from me, and frowned, but I saw at once that she was more anxious than angry.