The Handfasted Wife

by Carol McGrath

  Ursula took a deep breath and said, ‘It was so strange, very peaceful.’ She looked shyly from Elditha to Gertrude and hesitated.

  ‘I am a stranger, my dear. You do not have to speak now if it is difficult,’ Gertrude said quietly.

  ‘No, I want to speak. As I prayed to the Holy Lady, I was bathed in her heavenly light. That is all, but I felt as if she was calling me to her.’ She looked at Elditha. ‘My lady, when we reach Ireland, if you permit it, I would enter a convent.’

  ‘Ursula, life may yet settle. One day you may long for a husband and children,’ Elditha said. ‘You must be sure.’

  ‘Women can never have a happy life and men are cruel,’ Ursula said bitterly. ‘They war and they cause wars. They dominate our lives or try to.’ She smiled at Elditha through tearful eyes.

  ‘Men are men, Ursula, no matter whose tune they dance to, and yet they are not all unkind. I would be sad to lose you. We have been close since your grandmother sent you to me. However, if you wish to become a novice, the abbess of the Convent of St Edmund at Bury is my old friend. I could make endowments on your behalf.’ She looked away. ‘But it may be long before I can make any more endowments.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady, and I can wait until it is time. It is a relief to speak my mind.’

  Gertrude reached out and wiped Ursula’s tears away with her napkin. ‘My sweet girl, no more sad talk tonight; what will be, must be. I pray that you will find your vocation. These are the worst of times. And now, I have cakes to tempt you.’ Gertrude bustled to the sideboard, and returned with a plate of almond cakes and a dish of dried figs.

  ‘Figs in winter,’ Elditha said, delighted at the sight of them.

  Ursula, now that she had spoken her mind, accepted the fruit. For a time they nibbled figs in comfortable companionship as Gertrude spoke to them of her embroidery. She was working on napkins which would have borders of intricate spirals. She had seen the design in a book of patterns that had been kept in a nearby monastery. It was a monastery, she confided, to which her husband had made generous donations and, in return, they had permitted her to copy the designs.

  She crossed the room to a chest, pulled open the lid and lifted out a napkin she had already completed and brought it to show Elditha.

  Elditha turned it over. The pattern was intricate, reminding her of the embroidery design that she knew existed in Irish workshops. She ran her finger over the geometric shapes. ‘Even Queen Edith, the greatest embroiderer at the old court, is not capable of such exquisite intricate work, though she prides herself on her fine stitching.’

  ‘I have a niece who can better my embroidery, my lady,’ Gertrude said. ‘The girl is in Wilton, training to become highly skilled with tapestry. I shall be making a journey there during Lent to see her. Her parents died of flux and I am her only remaining kin.’ For a moment she hesitated, before saying, ‘My lady, your youngest daughter dwells in Wilton. I could carry a message to her.’

  Elditha studied Gertrude’s face. There was no deceit there. She remembered the figurines she kept in her little chest. ‘Gertrude, it is her name day soon and she will be ten years old. I have something she would like. Give my gift to the abbess for her, and if you may speak with Gunnhild, tell her that her mother thinks of her every day.’ Elditha stood up. ‘The Normans killed my husband and stole my youngest child and I cannot forgive them. When my home was burned to the ground, I was taken prisoner and carried in a cart to William’s camp. I walked through a battlefield of the dead, where I found my husband’s mutilated body. I cannot and will not forget it. I want her to know that I live. I want her to remember her father.’ Gertrude opened her mouth to speak, but Elditha added, ‘Let me fetch that gift for my daughter.’

  She lifted a sconce and left the chamber. Moments later she returned with a linen bag. She placed the effigies of four female saints on the table. Gertrude examined first St Brigit, then St Margaret, St Cecilia and finally the Lady Mary, the Holy Mother herself, clad in blue, and smiling serenely. Each figure was unusually individual of feature and each was as real as any that stood in a church chapel. Gertrude traced her finger over the ivory and sighed at the beauty of the figurines. ‘I think your daughter will understand that the love you have for her flows through these effigies,’ she said.

  Elditha returned the figurines to the linen bag and with a quick gesture placed it in Gertrude’s hands. Gertrude selected one of her household keys, unlocked the doors of her sideboard and pushed the bag into the back of it, behind tableware, knives and boxes of spices. ‘For now they are safe from prying eyes. When I leave for Wilton, I shall conceal this gift among my possessions.’

  From the hall beyond the chamber, the strains of Padar’s harp had paused. Benches were scraping over tiles as people began to claim sleeping places. From the many churches of Oxford, bells began to ring out the midnight Angelus. It was time for them to retire as well.

  ‘There will be no opportunity to talk tomorrow, so let us part now. I shall pray for you and for you too, Lady Ursula.’ She touched Ursula’s hand. ‘I shall pray, my dear, that you find your true vocation,’ she said as they parted. ‘May the Queen of Heaven grant all of us courage,’ she added, holding Elditha’s hands in her own. Her warm-hearted clasp filled Elditha with hope.

  22

  Lent

  We strew ashes upon our heads to signify that we ought to repent of our sins.

  Ælfric’s Lives of Saints in A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse edited and translated by Richard Hamer

  They marked their foreheads with ash since they were travelling on Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. Padar led them down to the bridge where the boat was moored and dismissed Alfred’s guard with a few coins from his own purse. A linen bag with their clothing, a small sack with food and a bow and sheaf of arrows were already stowed on the boat. Thick, purple-hued clouds hung on the margins of the sky. There was snow on the way. Elditha and Ursula huddled deeper under their skins and Padar put all his effort into guiding them into the middle of the river.

  The water was quiet, apart from a sluggish lapping against the skiff. At first, nearer the town, a few coracle ferrymen were conveying a number of godly inhabitants from hamlets upstream into the town. A large craft passed them, packed with monks on their way to services. After that they were alone on the river.

  Elditha pulled a mittened hand from beneath the furs and pointed. ‘Look, Ursula.’

  Two swans were floating past close to the bank, one long neck looped around the other, entwined. Padar stopped rowing, and as he allowed the boat to drift towards the bank, they watched the swans glide back down towards Oxford. They did not immediately see a craft with a dragon figurehead appear from the cut to the left. It moved in front of them into the midstream. Padar looked away from the swans and took a sharp intake of breath. He began to row, increasing his pace. Elditha saw why. Five soldiers wearing leather hauberks sat silently watching them pass. Although their heads were bare, unlike Normans they were not shaven. All five had long locks and untrimmed beards. Padar nodded to them and called, ‘God bless you.’ One said something back to him in a language she did not understand.

  ‘Not French or Norman,’ she remarked.

  ‘Mercenaries,’ Padar said through his teeth. ‘Russ, maybe, and vicious-looking bastards too.’

  Elditha could feel the mercenaries speculatively sizing them up. Padar rowed steadily towards the next turn in the river, then slowed to steer their small craft around the bend and then another and another, ploughing upstream against the current. He pushed all his strength into his rowing until they had covered a half-dozen miles in the space of an hour. There was no church, mill or home within sight on this stretch of river. Thick woodland straddled the banks, and exposed tree roots reached their frosty beards down into the water, their straggled treetops appearing as sinister watchers guarding the woods beyond. Waterfowl swam past with the current. A flock of geese flew overhead in a strict formation. At times heavy reeds edged out into the river, co
ncealing dark and secret pools. Far off in the trees a hawk screeched and an unseen bird rustled among the bare branches that scratched the skyline.

  Then, as ominously as it had first appeared, the dragon boat was behind them. Its rowers shouted with gleeful whoops on seeing their prey. Their small boat shook as the undertow from the larger craft caught it. Padar tried to row farther on, but the mercenaries rammed their long craft into them, pushing them into the reeds. Two of the mercenaries pulled out knives while the others worked the oars. Padar steadied their skiff, drawing it close to the river bank. He shouted at Elditha and Ursula, ‘Get up onto the bank.’

  Elditha clambered over the side and grasped tall reeds. She pulled at tree roots and managed to scramble to the top of the bank’s incline. She reached down to help Ursula up, but Ursula couldn’t catch hold of the bearded roots to get leverage and slipped. Elditha watched with horror as she slid down into the river, clinging onto rushes as she went.

  The dragon-prowed craft moved alongside the skiff. Two of the mercenaries climbed aboard. The first one came at Padar with his knife raised. Padar lurched forward and pushed an oar up against both assailants. They fell backwards, the one in front knocking into the other who was just behind him. Padar lifted up the oar for a second time and, putting all his strength behind it, shoved it towards them again. He caught the first mercenary, a stocky creature who was even smaller than he, in the chest. As the man doubled over, gasping for breath, Padar rammed the oar at him again and tipped him over the river side of the craft out into the current. He sank below the water. Despite the craft’s rocking motion Padar immediately pushed the oar with such renewed force that the second man caught its thrust in his groin and doubled over, cursing. Before he could rise, Padar lifted the oar high and slammed it onto his head. As the foreigner fell back into the boat’s cradle, Padar seized the knife from him, turned it into the man’s chest and drove it home. He turned towards the others who had manoeuvred their boat into a position in front of the smaller craft, blocking any forward drift.

  One of the men plunged into the reeds. He tried to catch hold of Ursula, who was desperately scrambling up the bank again. He could not quite reach her. She reached out and clung to the roots. Elditha slid down the bank a little way. Now she caught Ursula’s hand and held on to it. She was still half in water. ‘Try to hold on. Try to pull yourself up,’ she shouted above the noise of the water and the echoing shouts of men.

  Padar climbed out into the river, waded forward and plunged his knife into the soldier’s neck, but now two more soldiers had clambered out of their craft, dropped into the reeds and were wading towards him. Padar was so quick, Elditha hardly saw it happen. He pulled himself back into the boat, dragged the bow and arrows from the prow of the craft, withdrew an arrow and set it. Taking aim he released it. With a loud hissing sound his first arrow caught the mercenary who was tying up the boat. The other two soldiers had almost reached Elditha and Ursula. Although the boat was rocking Padar spun round like a dancer and repeated his performance. One after the other his arrows flew home. Both men went down into the river, screaming and cursing. Neither of them struggled back up.

  Padar threw himself into the water again. He half-swam and half-waded back to the women. Ursula was gasping for air. Elditha caught her fingers but they were slipping from her. Padar called, ‘Let her go now. The mud drags and she will pull you in. I have her.’ He pulled Ursula away from the bank and struggled with her, as he waded the few yards back to lift her into the boat. Then, he leaned her over the side and pounded her back until she retched. Clambering over the body lying in the cradle of their craft, he gently laid her in the stern.

  Elditha slid back down into the river and waded towards their skiff. She grasped hold of the boat. Padar shouted, ‘Hold us firm.’ Elditha steadied the craft as Padar dragged the mercenary’s body up to the boat’s rim and tipped it over into the water. He climbed back into the river beside Elditha. ‘Now, push.’ Together, half-swimming and half-wading, they pushed the boat upriver, out into midstream and away from the mercenaries. With a joint burst of strength they lodged it farther upstream among tree roots and reeds. She leaned back gasping.

  Padar called out, ‘Get in.’ He helped her back into the boat and threw her a blanket. He pointed at Ursula. ‘Cover her and yourself.’ Elditha sat shivering in the prow, with her arms about Ursula, who had paled to the shade of bleached linen. Padar glanced back. ‘They may all not be dead.’

  He half-treaded water back down to the dragon boat. A body was still slumped over the boat’s rim, tilting the craft into the bank. Padar’s arrow was protruding from his back but he was breathing. Padar reached round and sliced his throat. A pale red mess gathered and swirled among the reeds. When he tried to put the body into the water it was so heavy that he could not get it out of the boat. Instead, he pulled it back in and threw a wolf-skin mantle cover it. There was a stock of weapons in the dragon boat too: axes, swords, knives, but no bows or arrows. He would have to send somebody for these. He pushed the boat among the willows and left it only partially concealed.

  Anxious minutes passed as he waded about checking bodies, his knife poised in his hand. There was no time to do any more here.

  Ursula’s skin was green as the algae that floated between the reeds. She was shaking with shock. ‘Try to vomit, my love,’ Elditha said. ‘You swallowed the river. It will make you feel better.’

  Ursula moaned, leaning over the rim of the boat, heaving and choking. Elditha tried to pull off her outer garments and dry her with what was not drenched. She wrapped her in the blanket, but she was still shuddering. At last Padar was beside them. ‘How is she?’ He handed her a water skin. ‘Here, it was in their boat.’

  She held the water skin to Ursula’s mouth. ‘Drink and spit. It will help.’ She looked up at Padar. ‘What about their boat? Will no one come looking for them?’

  ‘I’ve pushed it into the willows and tightened its mooring. Tomorrow I’ll arrange for monks who dwell near St Margaret’s to come down river with coracles and clean up. Monks from Mercia fought at Hastings and lost many of their own.’ Padar laughed. ‘They can strip the craft and then pray for the bastards’ souls.’

  Elditha took an oar and began to help Padar row. A cold damp seeped through her drenched clothing but she ignored it. She rowed, knowing that their lives depended on every stroke they made. Flakes of snow fluttered out of a darkening sky. The weather was turning.

  The large stone nunnery of St Margaret stood out white against the tall, dark poplars surrounding it. Padar pulled the craft into the landing, as snow floated above the river, melting when it touched the water.

  ‘Just in time to avoid another drenching,’ said Padar, and helped them from the boat. ‘Wait here on the jetty.’

  Padar scrambled up a pathway, through a wicker gate set into a wattle fence and vanished. Elditha sat patiently holding Ursula until a group of nuns carrying torches appeared down the pathway leading to the bank. Their prioress, her great black mantle flapping behind her, hurried forward to the boat. Padar held up a lantern. She cast her eyes sharply over Elditha and then Ursula. ‘You need food, warmth and bed-rest. The sisters will carry your belongings for you.’ She looked closely at Ursula again and placed a long, pale-fingered hand on the girl’s forehead. ‘It’s the infirmary for you, my child.’

  The prioress reached for Elditha’s pack. ‘No, I can carry this one,’ Elditha said quietly and held it close under her cloak, praying that the precious book had come to no harm. She remembered her promise to Brother Thomas to protect it.

  ‘As you wish,’ the prioress said, turning to two large, strong-looking women. ‘Winflaed, Ann, see that the lady is made comfortable in the infirmary.’ The women gently helped Ursula from the boat.

  Following the prioress they made their way up the path and into the sanctuary of the priory, Ursula helped by the sisters and Elditha wearily following with Padar. The skald left them when they reached the buildings, muttering that he h
ad business to attend to, and the nuns would care for them now. He disappeared into the cookhouse.

  The prioress said, ‘He will sleep by the bread oven; it’s the best sleeping place in the priory.’ Her smile was amused. ‘Sustenance and sleep, both are there.’ She led Elditha to a small guest chamber. She showed Elditha how to open the narrow and ancient window shutters and ordered her to rest. With a flurry of cloak and skirt she abruptly announced that she had to hurry to prayer with her novices. Elditha watched from the narrow window of her chamber until the prioress vanished into the snowy cloisters below.

  She drank the posset the prioress’s servant brought her. It smelled of honey and poppy and she drank it all. As her head began to nod, she tumbled onto her cot and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  The bell for Lauds was ringing. Mysteriously, the gown she had left lying by the bed had been aired and brushed. She dressed hurriedly and pushed through the heavy fleece door curtain. It was a short step into the prioress’s hall. A nun standing by an alcove pointed to a leather curtain that hung to the back of the hall and whispered, ‘She is there.’ Elditha hurried on, pushed the hanging aside and found herself standing in the prioress’s private chamber.

  The prioress glanced up from her tall desk. ‘Ah, there you are, Lady Elditha.’ She studied Elditha for a moment and raised a very mobile eyebrow. ‘Your countenance is improved this morning. Let us hope it is so with your companion. Come with me and we’ll find out.’

  She led Elditha outside and through the slippery cloisters to the infirmary. She could barely keep up with the prioress. Pushing its wooden doorway open, she ushered Elditha into a wide hall with a central hearth and many alcoves off it. Sisters criss-crossed the floor, lightly treading on rushes, carrying pots covered with linen, bed sheets and bowls of food. On each pillar, before every alcove, small bunches of dried lavender were tucked in below the candle brackets. It was an organised and spotlessly clean infirmary.