Julitta fingered them, rose and violet, marveling at the craftsmanship that spun and wove and dyed so flawlessly. She battled against temptation. The rose was not for her, but she considered the violet’s combination with her sables, and how her skill might enhance it if she dared afford silk and gold for embroidery.
“This is silk from Byzantium.”
It shimmered like water, the deepest blue-green of a peacock’s neck, and she exclaimed and caressed it. Then Erling swept clear a space on the bed to display the last. “Silk of Damascus, my lady, to do justice to your furs.” Reverently he folded back the canvas, and she could only stare.
Silk the color of a sun-flushed apricot was woven with golden yellow and flame in a pattern of formal flowers. With the black furs it would marry to a perfection a queen might envy. She had no beauty, but this would enhance her hair’s bright brown and flatter her fair skin. Nothing could become her more than this loveliness, and she gazed, rapt with desire.
Of course it could not be. Silk such as this was a queen’s extravagance. Even her uncle’s wife, who had ruled her household near forty years, had never dared purchase aught but the cheapest cendal, and had been rated like a thief for it at that. She touched the shining surface as one relinquishing a dream that flies with starlight, and shook her head.
“My lady, for you it is perfection. And this once you may surely count on your lord’s indulgence, new-married as you are.”
She looked blankly at him; he must know that hers was not that sort of marriage. “No, Master Erling.”
He folded the silks, and then gestured to the woolen cloth of Firenze. This was temptation indeed, for it lay within the limits of possibility. She remembered Red Adam’s candid admission that between muddle, embezzlement and a tenant-in-chief’s relief he was sorely impoverished. She looked at the cloth piled on the bed, recalled that she had two new gowns and a mantle in the making, more than she had ever had at once in all her life, and put temptation from her. “No, Master Erling.”
He parted his lips to expostulate, and then took up the huge curved needle and waxed thread to stitch up the bales.
Red Adam clashed aside the curtain and strode in. He had just been very angry; he was breathing fast and his eyes sparkled dangerously. Julitta thanked the Saints that prudence had ruled her; the thought of having her purchases repudiated by a furious husband made her blench. She waited warily, her experience of masculine wrath being that the handiest scapegoat served for its venting.
“Completed your business, I see,” he said, civilly enough. “What have you bought, my lady?”
Nervously she indicated the pile and began to account for each item.
“That’s no matter,” he interrupted. “For yourself, to do justice to your new furs?”
She stared. Erling came to her rescue. “My lady has chosen nothing for herself, Lord Adam.”
“That’s gracious, to let your husband have the choosing. Unpack your goods again, Master Erling.” He caught her wrist in an ungentle hold to draw her out of earshot. “What’s amiss? Do you detest me too hardly to accept anything from my hands?”
“No, not that,” she gasped.
He glanced about, hauled her behind a mass of drawn-back curtain that partitioned the bower at night, caught her shoulders and shook her so that her head snapped on her spine. “You’ll not shame me or your station!” he snarled in her ear. “Why would you not buy?” He shook her again, and she snarled back at him.
“The cost—you said you could not afford—”
“My poor sweet girl! Forgive me. I forgot you’d known only mean men.” He closed his arms about her, pulling her close; she set her hands against his chest to hold him off, and felt within his ribs his heart’s thudding. Her breath quickened, her own heart thumped. “Listen, Julitta. You are my wife. You spend as you will, unquestioned. If I can’t afford a mercenary company, I can yet clothe my lady. Understood?” She gulped and nodded, his face swimming in a blur of tears. He kissed her lightly on the brow, surprising her before she could duck. “Come, no tears! What took your fancy?”
She scrubbed her eyes childishly on her sleeve. “The—the violet wool, my lord,” she told him in a small voice. He put his arm about her and marched her back to Erling, under the interested scrutiny of the two seamen and the women sewing in the far window, and held her to his side while the merchant laid out his stuff again.
“The violet wool, yes, but not for black furs; you’re new-wedded, not widowed. What else?” He surveyed the blue silk with the knowledgeable air of a man at home in princes’ courts amid their splendid ladies. “Fair indeed, but it needs ermine, not marten.” But when the apricot silk blazed across the bed he caught up its end and flung it across Julitta’s shoulder.
“That’s perfection,” he said, tossed the priceless stuff aside, gathered her under his arm again, and nodded to the merchant. “Both silks, and the violet wool, Master Erling.”
Julitta squeaked like an agitated mouse. “B-but my lord—the cost—”
He grinned. “Will the woolclip cover it, Master Erling?”
“At present prices, likely enough, my lord.”
“B-but all three—”
“My pleasure, so don’t dispute it,” he murmured in her ear, and she subsided, her wits in chaos at his extravagance. It behoved her to speak her thanks, but no words would come, and neither her husband nor Erling seemed to find anything lacking in her silence. She gathered her senses at last to purchase needles, thread and silks for embroidery, Red Adam insisting on a couple of skeins of gold for the violet gown, lest any mistake it for a widow’s.
“Now for the woolclip,” he said briskly, as the last item joined the pile. “Coming, lady wife?”
“I—these must be—be bestowed behind locks, my lord,” she excused herself, imagining Brentborough’s undisciplined strumpets clawing at the cloths.
“Join us when you can.” He sauntered out with Erling and the two seamen, who bore greatly diminished burdens. Hodierne left her cradle and came to help and to murmur awe over the silks. While she and Avice laid away the common stuffs, Julitta tenderly gathered up her own and bore them to the chest that had been Constance’s. On her knees beside it she smoothed the apricot silk and blinked away a rush of silly tears that had a two-fold source; the irony that her unloved husband should be the first man to lavish generosity upon her, and memory of the hurt in his eyes and voice as he laid hands on her. The welts on her shoulders still smarted where his fingers had gripped, but that was no matter. Red Adam was vulnerable, not armored in villainy.
“What a surly whelp you are!” a harsh voice spoke in her ear. She leaped to confront Adela.
“What—”
“Your husband gowns you like a queen, and has no word of thanks for it. Are you soured to the core?”
Julitta was too astounded to do more than gape in bewilderment. “But—I was not—” she stammered like a chided child before the force that was in Adela’s gaze.
“Don’t whine that you were constrained to wed him; every maid of your station is constrained, and you could have fared a deal worse. He’s kind and gay and generous. Lord of Hell, if he’d been a cross-grained brute like the husband thrust on me, you’d have reason for sour looks.”
“You?” she asked involuntarily.
“Oh, I was wedded in youth. But the only free woman in this world’s the whore with a dagger in her hand.”
“I’d die first!”
“Easily said. It’s not so bad a life if you keep a sharp blade handy.” So she was Adeliza Dagger-hand, no doubt of it. “But if that’s not for you, you must bear with your yoke-mate a lifetime, and by God’s Death, you sulky brat, you’ll fare a deal better if you show a pleasant face.”
“That is between my lord and me alone.”
The woman snorted. “If you’ve wit you’ll heed me. You’re luckier than most, but one man is much the same as another. You’ve yet to learn it, but the core of a woman’s life is the sons she bears.” And
she glanced aside, with fierce yearning, at the cradle where her deaf-mute child slept.
Julitta’s hands folded on her slight belly. “If God wills it I shall bear children—”
“Children? It’s the son bears the name and carries the blood. What’s a daughter but a she-thing that goes to another’s house? Her sons are a woman’s life, and her husband matters little enough so that he gives her them.”
“I should hate to think,” said Red Adam’s voice, amused yet sharp edged, “that my wife valued me solely for my prowess at stud.”
Adeliza Dagger-hand turned and challenged him. “Do you not desire sons, Lord Adam?”
“Very greatly, but I have observed that God disposes such matters at His will, not man’s. “ He uttered the pious sentiment lightly, yet Julitta recognized his sincerity.
She snorted again. “So you will not be enraged if the first brat your wife bears should be a girl?”
He smiled at Julitta. “I should name her Annora, and love her with all my heart.”
“Annora?” Adela repeated, disconcerted.
“I had once a little sister who was very dear to me.” He put his arm about Julitta’s shoulders. “You take a gracious interest in my wife’s affairs, Mistress Adela, but I assure you it is needless.”
That courteous rebuke achieved the distinction of silencing Adela; she stared at the cool lad with jaw ajar, and then a flush mounted to her brow, her mouth snapped shut and she stalked back to the cradle. Julitta, suppressing an urge to giggle, locked the chest and inquired demurely, “You required me, my lord?”
“You have the key to the undercroft.” His gaze followed the mercenary’s woman with odd intensity, and a slight frown gathered his brows. “Timely returned—don’t heed her effrontery, Julitta.”
“I can heed nothing except your—your generosity,” she began awkwardly, and he shook his head, smiling, and seized her hand.
“My pleasure. Come, Master Erling awaits us.”
Out in the bailey they stood beside Erling while the bales were loaded on a cart, and the blond lad, presented as Erling’s son Hakon, notched up the tally on a hazel rod and gazed on Julitta. One bale lay open for inspection, and the merchant twisted a lock of wool in his horny fingers.
“It’ll fetch its price, with half the looms in Flanders idle, but it’s not first quality, Lord Adam. Coarse and hairy, and your hill sheep are miscolored beasts. It dyes ill, and is only fit for peasants. It’s the fine white fleeces from the south fetch the good silver in Flanders.”
Red Adam frowned at the gray and brown masses bulging from the bale. “I doubt the southern breeds would thrive in our hills, Master Erling.”
“Might be worth your while to try bringing in a couple of rams to tup your best ewes, Lord Adam. If they breed true for fleeces, maybe you’d have to coddle them more through the winter, but it would double, triple the value of your woolclip.”
“There’s rough graze without limit on the fells,” Red Adam said thoughtfully, “and wild hay for the cutting. Shepherds are cheap enough too. War to wage on wolves and foxes. Yes, I’ll try it.”
“Moreover, there’s a market in Flanders for stockfish and salt herring could profit your fishermen and you, Lord Adam.”
“You’re most anxious to see me profit,” he remarked, grinning.
“So that I profit with you, my lord.”
“It’s a deal less chancy than meddling with rebellion, and we’ll look to our mutual benefit.”
“My ship is old, and so am I,” said Erling. “I’ve a new one building for my lad Hakon here.” He clouted his son lightly. “Dreaming of her, lad? If you’ve missed the tally, Lord Adam will doubtless hang us both for thieving outlanders! Aye, he can sail next spring on far ventures; my gray hairs will be better suited to small traffic and safe gains between here and Flanders.” Julitta glanced up at him, reckoning his gray hairs too scanty to warrant such consideration, and his eyelid flickered in the smallest of winks. Red Adam cocked a quizzical eyebrow, and nodded to the waiting seaman to lash up the open bale. It was heaved on to the cart, and Hakon cut the last notch with a flourish, deftly split his rod from end to end, and presented the halves to Red Adam and Erling.
The cart lurched towards the gate, and they strolled behind it. Julitta made known her requirements for wine, and inquired as to her chances of procuring such drugs as opium, camphor, cardamoms, aloes and rhubarb. Red Adam put in a word for pepper and spices, and she, emboldened, suggested foreign delicacies like dried fruits, sugar and olive oil, so that by the time they reached the gate and parted with expressions of esteem, Erling could have small doubt of their association’s profits.
With a word of excuse Red Adam left her and made for the stables, while she stalked zestfully back to the kitchen. As she reached its door she glanced past the corner, and observed that Godric had company in the stocks. The redheaded groom shared his discomfiture and his puddle, his feet ridiculously upturned, and the girl Thyra was leaning on the upright post, her face tear-blubbered and her hair starggling from its plaits. Red Adam’s reactions to slovenliness and disobedience matched her own.
On her way up to her chamber to wash and change her gown before supper, she checked on the hall landing. Adeliza Dagger-hand’s voice came hard and clear through the curtain: “… break my marriage vows for a cur?”
“Marriage! God’s Death!” snarled Reynald de Carsey. “You’re a penny whore with a bastard whelp, and no marriage alters that.”
“My price was never as cheap as a penny, and I could always afford not to lie with swine.”
“God’s Blood, when a gentleman condescends to favor you—”
Julitta peeped circumspectly round the curtain in time to see Adeliza spit in his face. “Lay hand on me again,” she said coolly, “and I’ll spill your guts across the floor.” She started for the door, leaving him sleeving his eye and gobbling curses, and Julitta caught up her skirts and fled noiselessly to her own chamber, hoping that neither might know that she had witnessed the dispute.
She shed her riding dress, washed hands and face and assumed the detested scarlet, her frown quelling Avice’s whines to silence. The problem of Reynald de Carsey gravely perturbed her. If no woman in the castle were to be safe from his drunken advances there would be disaster. Adeliza Dagger-hand could very efficiently protect the remnants of her virtue, but she reflected uncharitably that it was a pity she had not strewn his entrails over the rushes and removed an incubus. There was only one person she could consult, and she grimaced into the silver mirror at the thought that she would welcome an hour alone with her husband.
The thought sent her memory spinning back to the accusation that had stabbed her that afternoon, and with a queer qualm at her midriff she wondered if she did indeed appear sour and surly, if she had inherited the unlovely temper of the Montrigords that had ruined her father and made her uncle detested by all who knew him. Her resentment was righteous, the Saints knew, but the idea that folk might thereby reckon her as detestable as her uncle made her scowl into the mirror.
“I—have I displeased y-you, my lady?” whispered Avice, halting the comb.
“I was not thinking of you, silly girl.”
“And—and you’ll let me stay up here, m’ lady, out o’ th’ way, and sew for you? To be safe from him? You—you knows I sets good stitches, m’ lady, and none o’ t’other wenches wants to do it.”
“Mary Mother, girl, don’t whine! What harm can come to you when you’re attending on me?”
“So’s he don’t see me, m’ lady, and—and lay for me—”
But Julitta too was weary of her apprehensions’ ceaseless drip. “He’ll not drag you from my side, so find a little courage! And don’t weep into my hair!” She caught the comb from her hand and briskly completed the task, heedless of Avice’s sniffles. She was beginning to share her husband’s contempt for the girl, and it came to her suddenly that, though she had a deal to say about her own miseries and fears, Avice had yet to utter a word of conce
rn for Ivar’s fate.
9
When Julitta reached the hall she found Red Adam conversing with Sir Brien and Sir Giles, while Reynald sulked at his elbow. She looked at him with foreboding; his company was a particular hazard at mealtimes, when household and guests assembled. He was in truculent humor, replying to her civil greeting with a surly grunt, and as Adela and Baldwin approached the dais he growled, “A brave sight, a whore and her pimp at a lord’s high table.”
“Curb your tongue!” Red Adam snapped, too late.
“The lady’s my wife,” said Baldwin, his face deadly.
“Wife? If she wedded, it was but to give her bastard a name.”
Baldwin mounted the two shallow steps. “How else should I have won her?” he demanded, with a pride that invested his squat figure with majesty. “And I’ll challenge the man who misnames her to the death.”
“My peace holds within my walls, and while you’re both my guests you’ll maintain it,” Red Adam said flatly. He gestured to the avid audience to take their places, and murmured quickly in Odo’s ear. The asking of God’s grace, the bustle of seating and service, provided some cover for the ugly incident, but Julitta’s apprehension mounted.
Reynald was restored to his place at his host’s right hand, and divided his resentment between his one-time comrade and the mercenary pair. His appetite and temper were both impaired by his dinner-time indulgences, but not his capacity for wine, and his offensiveness grew sourer with every cupful. Red Adam, very white about the mouth, recounted tales of the tourney circuit, crumbled the edge of his trencher and scarcely swallowed a morsel. Julitta prompted and abetted him as best she could, with an angry sympathy for his mortification that should have surprised her. Twice he overrode the mumbled beginnings of some squalid reminiscence aimed at Adela’s hurt, and Odo replenished Reynald’s cup until at last his chin dropped on to his chest and he slumped over his trencher, soused to the eyeballs.
A faint stir and sigh told how the whole company relaxed, as though all had been holding breath. Red Adam, his story unfinished, lay back in his chair and ran a hand that was not quite steady through his hair. He looked directly at Adela, his urbane mask discarded.
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