“I’ll rest when she’s recovered. I can’t leave her. I’d planned to ride to Ellesmere this week. Tybaut tells me the Earl and his family are back from Normandie, but I can’t go now.”
“No, I agree. Better to wait,” Lady Ascha replied. “I’ve told Cook to add thyme and chives to the broth we’re feeding Agneta, and we’ll try chamomile tea.”
“My eyes hurt,” Agneta moaned huskily.
Caedmon could see her eyes were red and inflamed and he clenched his fists, angry at his helplessness to ease her pain.
On the third day, when he woke, he noticed bright red spots inside Agneta’s mouth when she coughed. He fled the room, shouting urgently for Lady Ascha.
“That’s a relief,” Ascha sighed when she saw Agneta.
Caedmon wanted to strangle his mother. “A relief?”
Ascha smiled. “Yes, it’s rubeola. You had it as a boy. Agneta must never have had it as a child. She is ill but with care she’ll survive.”
Caedmon let out a sigh of relief and covered his face with his hands. He felt like sinking to his knees in thanks to the Almighty. “You’re sure?”
Ascha nodded. “If, on the morrow, she’s covered with a red rash, then I’ll be sure.”
By the following morning, Agneta’s face was indeed covered with an itchy red rash which gradually spread over most of her body. But her fever was down and the coughing lessened. The Brightmore ladies were not pleased. Coventina was feverish and coughing.
“I’m itchy,” Agneta complained.
Ascha thought for a while. “Caedmon, we need to trap mice. Ask Tybaut to help you.”
“Mice?”
“Yes, we’ll roast them.”
“Roast them?” Agneta asked weakly.
Ascha hesitated. “Roasted mouse takes away itchiness.”
Agneta struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. “I’m to eat them?”
Lady Ascha nodded.
“No, I refuse. I’d rather itch,” Agneta exclaimed, bringing on another bout of coughing. She fell back on the pillow, and Caedmon could see she was exhausted. It pained him to see her fair face so ravaged.
“I feel terrible, and I’m sure I look terrible,” she complained.
“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered, cradling her face in his hands.
Ascha had been thinking. “The only other cure I know of is to rub a wolf skin over the rash, but where will we get a wolf skin? We could try boiling some white willow and dabbing it on. I’ll talk to Cook.”
It took another sennight for Agneta to be fully recovered, and meanwhile the Brightmore sisters and Lady Ascha were busy taking care of Coventina. Caedmon often bumped into Leofric pacing in the hallway outside Coventina’s chamber.
“Don’t worry, Leofric, she’ll recover, like Agneta.”
“They won’t let me see her,” his friend complained.
“Leofric, about Coventina,” Caedmon began, not sure what he wanted to say. “I’d hate to see—”
“Caedmon, I love her. I can’t help it. Surely you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Caedmon replied sadly, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But sometimes we want what we can’t have. She may not—”
“You’re a fine one to tell me this,” Leofric retorted, shrugging away from Caedmon. “You couldn’t have Agneta, but she’s your wife now. I’ll find a way. I don’t have much to offer, but I love her.”
“I know you do. I’ve known it for a while. Look, Leofric, you do have a lot to offer. I’ll stand by you, whatever happens.”
Once Agneta recovered, Caedmon found it more and more difficult to make up his mind about Ellesmere. He’d been shaken by her illness and didn’t want to spend a single day away from her. He started making excuses about not going and suddenly time had gone by and Yuletide was upon them. Because they’d been unable to celebrate Yuletide properly the previous year, they planned to have a resounding celebration at Shelfhoc.
They decorated their home with ivy, holly, and boughs of evergreens. Tybaut procured ribbons in Shrewsbury and Agneta used them to embellish the garlands and wreaths and the Yule Tree. Morris dancers, mummers and sword dancers came from the surrounding communities to perform for them. Agneta clung nervously to Caedmon, her hand clasped over her mouth as she watched the dancers leap over the sharp swords and twirl intricate patterns in the air with them. The dance inevitably ended with a mock death, but the victim was revived by the physician who did the same for the dead hero in the Mummer plays.
Agneta remembered Caedmon’s love of vegetables and had the kitchen prepare lots of winter chard and onions to accompany the venison. For their sweet they enjoyed marzipan and custard.
Lady Pamela fashioned a large Yule Wreath from cedar boughs. Everyone made a wish on it as they celebrated Epiphany gathered around a bonfire outside the house. Their faces reflected the glow of the flames and their breath on the cold air vanished quickly in the fire’s heat. As lord of the manor, Caedmon had the first wish. He rubbed his hands together and put his right hand on the fragrant fronds of the boughs. “I wish for health and prosperity for us all,” he proclaimed.
I wish for Agneta’s love.
Agneta placed her hand on the wreath. “I wish for a babe,” she whispered, blushing, her eyes downcast. Caedmon squeezed her cold hand. He’d hoped Agneta would be with child before this.
“I wish for a wife,” Leofric said loudly, when his turn came.
Coventina reddened and cast a furtive glance at Leofric.
“I wish for a husband,” the shy girl murmured, looking back at her toes.
The Brightmore women exchanged indignant glances that worried Caedmon.
“My turn,” Lady Pamela said. “I wish the Normans had never come.”
“No, Lady Pamela, you’re supposed to wish for something in the future, not the past. We can’t change the past,” Lady Ascha said, and a wistful look stole over his mother’s face as she looked at him.
I wish I could be sure she’s happy. What is it that preoccupies her?
His mother took a deep breath. “I wish for an end to the enmity that divides this country.”
“I echo that wish, Lady Ascha,” came the sentiment from Lady Edythe.
They gathered closer to the flames to watch Caedmon laid the wreath on the bonfire. “I have one more wish, before this oath ring burns up completely,” he laughed as the sparks flew. “I want to stop delaying my visit to Ellesmere and get it over with. I’m sending Tybaut to tell the Earl I’ll be there two days hence.”
Despite the heat from the flames that reddened everyone else’s cheeks, the colour drained from his mother’s face. “Are you all right, mother? You look pale.” He reached for her arm, to steady her and felt her tremble.
“I was too close to the flames,” she stammered. “Or perhaps I have eaten too much over the last few days. Please excuse me. Time for me to retire to my bed. Goodnight. Thank you all for a wonderful Yuletide.”
“Should I go with her?” Agneta asked. “She certainly seems to have no love for the Earl. When you mention his name—”
Caedmon clenched his fists. “Yes. I’ve noticed. If I found out he’d done anything to harm her all those years ago, I’d kill him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England, Yuletide 1095
Rambaud, First Earl of Ellesmere, and third Comte de Montbryce, didn’t ride out on patrols to defend the Welsh Marches often nowadays. His favourite horse, Fortis, the steed that had helped him survive at Hastings, had died several years ago. Brindis, though a good horse, didn’t have the same temperament.
He was content to visit the local market towns, continuing to promote trade and immigration from Normandie, and kept close track of the accounts of his various properties in the Marches and in Sussex, spending hours in sometimes tedious meetings with various stewards.
“I’ve decided I’m getting far too old to keep chasing Welsh rebels,” he confi
ded to his wife, Mabelle, as they relaxed in their comfortable solar. “Nine and twenty years is too long. Will the hatred and conflict between our peoples ever cease?”
His wife looked up at him. “Ram, don’t be despondent. As our sons Robert and Baudoin have grown to be adults, they’ve developed an appreciation for the Welsh language and culture, despite the fact they were boys when they underwent their kidnapping ordeal at the hands of Welshmen. Our daughter, Hylda Rhonwen has a great fondness for the land of her birth. She often boasts of being born in the fortress of Cadair Berwyn in Wales.”
Ram smiled. “C’est vrai. She likes being called Rhoni because it sounds more Welsh.”
“Remember too that Rhodri ap Owain has made a point of not attacking your lands, since his marriage to Rhonwen, and she has visited us frequently, with her children. These are small steps. Change takes time.”
“Oui, I was surprised Rhodri agreed to her visits.”
“He loves Rhonwen deeply and is grateful that she agreed to marry him and share his life as a warrior, though she’s a woman of peace.”
Ram shook his head. “It’s difficult to believe that eighteen years have passed since the kidnapping. You’re a remarkable woman, Mabelle. It was only your strength that helped everyone survive that ordeal. I still keep your love letter close to my heart.”
He patted his doublet, smiling at the memory of first reading the letter Mabelle had written on the last day of her captivity, avowing her love for him. He reminisced a lot these days.
I’m getting old.
He rubbed his knees. “I’m not as young as I was and my body isn’t as capable of action as it used to be. And a pox on this cursed rheumatism.”
Mabelle crossed the room to where her husband was seated, stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, kissing the top of his head. “Ram, be content. You and I share an intoxicating and erotic passion and our lovemaking is still a thrilling joy for us both, after all these years.”
He reached up and took hold of her hands, drawing them around his neck, leaning his head back against her, inhaling the scent that was uniquely her. It had intoxicated him for nigh on thirty years. For as long as he’d known her, they’d been drawn to each other, the mere sight of her enough to arouse him.
His abilities as a diplomat and administrator had brought growth and prosperity to Ellesmere and the extensive lands to which he held title. Years ago, he’d been afraid his deep love for his wife and family would interfere with his ambitions and abilities, when in fact it had enhanced them. It had made him whole. He loved and was loved in return and had become one of the wealthiest and most influential men in England, with the help of his wife.
“You make me feel like a youth, Mabelle.”
“You’re still my stallion, Ram.”
They remained locked together for several minutes until he drew her down on his lap, needing to feel the light friction of her body on his growing arousal. She leaned into him, cradled in his arms.
He kissed the top of her head. “My biggest regret is that we’ve never been able to return to Normandie to live. It’s where we belong.”
“We go at least once a year to see Robert, now that he has moved there permanently. I know he’s a grown man of three and twenty and that, as the future Comte de Montbryce, he has to live in Normandie, to learn to administer the castle at Saint Germain, but I miss him and I worry about him.”
“He must remain there. Those estates are of primary value,” Ram replied. “Our second son, Baudoin, will inherit the lands in England, as well as the title of Earl of Ellesmere. Don’t forget, my brothers, Antoine and Hugh, both now happily wed, are close by, controlling Belisle, Domfort and Alensonne. They are strong allies for Robert.”
Mabelle chuckled. “It’s hard to believe both your brothers have grown families of their own now.”
“Harder still to believe Rhoni’s eighteen. A woman.”
“Soon, you’ll need to look for a husband for her. In fact we’ve put it off long enough.”
Ram wasn’t looking forward to that prospect. Rhoni could be independent minded when she wanted to be—like her mother. Thoughts of his daughter reminded him of one of their visits to Normandie. They had gone to Bishop Eude’s cathedral in Bayeux to see the magnificent embroidered display of the conquest of England. The boys were tremendously interested in the panels and the episodes they depicted, and Ram did his best to appear detached as he explained the events and phases of the Battle of Hastings. His sons were bursting with pride that their father had fought at Hastings and played a decisive role in the Norman victory.
Surprisingly, it was Rhoni who’d seemed to sense his unease. He continued to be haunted by the ghastly images of Hastings and feared he would be for the rest of his life. Several times he felt like rushing away to retch as the vivid scenes of the horror he’d witnessed, and participated in, assailed his memory. He relived the moment when he believed his own head had been severed from his body. He’d never told any of them about that terrifying episode.
“I can’t believe it’s been eight years since our beloved Conqueror died,” he said. “It’s incredible how much has changed since we were at his Coronation.”
Mabelle nodded. “I remember that near-disaster well. Seems like only yesterday.”
He laughed. “Those nervous Norman soldiers almost burned down Westminster Abbey.”
They were silent for a while. He twirled his fingers absent-mindedly in her hair and stroked her leg, holding her tightly to him, his lips pressed to her temple. “We Normans have become the new English nobility, the new ruling class. We’ve lived in England close to thirty years. Thirty years! Castles are being built everywhere it seems. The church I commissioned for Ellesmere is a grand building. When I gaze up at the intricate rib vaulting, my heart swells with pride.”
“But,” Mabelle cautioned, “The Conqueror began his reign with words of conciliation, allowing those English who swore loyalty to him to retain some of their lands, but within ten years, he’d obliterated many of the higher echelons of the English nobility.”
Ram agreed. “Some of our fellow Normans believe themselves invincible, and there’s an inherent danger in that. After these many years, there’s still tension between the conquerors and the conquered.”
“But,” she interjected again, “Your friend William kept good order, so that men of substance could travel about unmolested. If a man lay with a woman against her will, the King decreed he should have those parts of his anatomy with which he disported himself removed.”
Ram glanced at her, a peculiar chill running up his spine. Then he saw the expression on her face. She had spoken in jest. His erection swelled and she raised her eyebrows and smiled, grinding into him.
“You look worried, Ram. I’m only playing with you and I love to do that.”
She stood and took his hands, drawing him up from the chair. She fondled him, pressing her hand against the straining fabric of his hose and her breasts to his chest.
She was unaware that his serious demeanour was caused by the sudden unwelcome memory of what was really his biggest regret in life—he’d been unfaithful to her, during their betrothal. It was an infidelity that had bothered him since the aftermath of Hastings when he’d been taken, injured, to the manor house of a Saxon widow at Ruyton, in the Welsh Marches.
What bothered him most about the episode was that he hadn’t had the courage to tell Mabelle about it. There never seemed to be a good time to bring it up. He was passionately in love with his wife and didn’t want to hurt her. Yet he felt a compulsion to tell her. What a fool he was. He and Mabelle weren’t married at the time, but he still felt he’d betrayed her. He only hoped she loved him enough to forgive him. It was the desire for her forgiveness that drove him to tell her. He was like a penitent thirsting for the Sacrament of Forgiveness.
“Much as I would love to stay here with you, I have to go speak with Bonhomme,” Mabelle said.
He held on to her hand. “How long wil
l you be?”
She kissed his fingertips. “Not long.”
He couldn’t bring the matter up in their private chamber. It wouldn’t be appropriate in the room where they’d shared such fulfilling intimacy for many years. “Meet me in the gallery. I’ll wait for you there.”
As soon as she entered the gallery a short time later, his body responded in the usual way. He could tell by the suggestive smile and the fire in her eyes that she too was aroused at seeing him. He embraced her and kissed her on each cheek as he carefully took her hands in his. She broadened her smile and moved to arch her body to him, but he held her away, touching his fingers to the silver streaks in her beautiful hair.
“What’s wrong, Ram?”
“I’ve something I need to tell you, Mabelle,” he replied as calmly as he could. “Something about an occurrence at Ruyton, many years ago.”
There was a tap at the door, and the steward entered.
“Sorry milady, I forgot—”
“Not now, Bonhomme,” Ram said curtly, regretting, as the steward nodded and left quietly, that he’d been rude to the man whose family had served his for generations.
Mabelle’s belly clenched. She’d wondered about Ruyton, suspecting that her husband had bedded another woman there in the period after Hastings, and before the Conqueror’s coronation. She knew he’d been taken to the manor house of a Saxon noblewoman. At first rage had consumed her, but the more she thought about how anguished he must have been, and how little support she had provided him, the more inclined she was not to judge him. He’d never mentioned it and she sensed that, if it had happened, he regretted it.
We weren’t married. I had released him from our betrothal. Why does it torment him?
Now she sensed what was to come. “You can tell me, Ram,” she said, hoping she would meet this challenge with grace.
Ram took hold of her hands, but his head was bowed as he admitted, “It was after Hastings—I was—I’d been injured, as you know, in the skirmish with Rhodri.”
He raised his head and looked at her face. “Mabelle—I broke my betrothal vows to you. I bedded another woman.”
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