The Handfasted Wife

by Carol McGrath

  The ship that she had seen in the harbour had sailed from Cornwall’s south-western coast transporting a trinity of nuns who intended to pass the winter teaching English embroidery in the House of St Hilda in the hills. They had brought precious gold and silver threads from Countess Gytha for the convent and two letters for the Lady Elditha. One was from the Countess, the other from a novice who had recently joined their orders.

  Elditha seized the small scrolls and broke the first seal. ‘This,’ she said, overjoyed, ‘this is from Ursula.’

  ‘Ursula?’ asked the Queen, clearly puzzled.

  ‘My waiting lady; we left her at St Margaret’s Priory in Mercia.’ She pulled open the parchment. Ursula had travelled to Exeter because the nunnery in Mercia was no longer safe. Wadard, the Bishop’s servant, and Brother Francis had been sighted at the neighbouring monastery. When the prioress found out that they intended visiting St Margaret’s, she had sent Ursula into the south-west to Exeter with a lock of St Margaret’s hair held in an ancient golden casket. Ursula was sheltering in a convent patronised by the Countess Gytha.

  Elditha set the parchment aside. ‘Ursula is with the Countess.’ She lifted the letter with Gytha’s seal. ‘Permit me to read my mother’s words in the privacy of my own chamber.’

  ‘Go, Elditha,’ said Queen Sinead. ‘And God bless you. The servants will light your way home. Oh, I have a gift for your hall. Another ship has arrived today from the East with spices and silk and ginger in its cargo. Tomorrow, I will send you some of the root.’

  After calling a brief goodnight to Magnus and Padar, who were playing a game of chess near her hearth, she climbed the steep ladder to her small loft chamber. Pulling the heavy curtain behind her, she closed herself in, sat in her chair and broke open Gytha’s seal. The Countess’s letter confirmed much of what Elditha had heard and more that she suspected.

  My daughter, my Council has decided that we challenge the King’s taxation. I am preparing for our resistance. Thea will be safer with you in Dublinia. How can we live our lives in peace and dignity if he takes what is ours? I await your reply and for news of my grandsons …

  Gytha also wrote of how when he came to visit, Count Alain had been enchanted with Thea. Having lost the mother, he was wooing the daughter. No Norman was good enough for a Godwin, and certainly not the one who had burned down the mother’s home and then offered her marriage.

  As big a bastard as the one he serves, Elditha thought to herself; destroyers of kingdoms and violators of women; Normans, Bretons, Frenchmen – all bastards, the pack of them. She would bring her daughter to safety and Gytha too, if she could be prised from her dower lands.

  33

  Twelfth Night 1068

  This time there was no Earl Connor to help her. She stayed awake all night wondering what to do. By dawn she realised that she had no choice. She must ask King Dairmaid to send for Thea. If he refused then she would think of another way. She unlocked her box and looked at the three gems left to her. The following day, Elditha discussed her fears with the King. She said that she had need of a ship to retrieve her daughter before winter set in.

  The King shook his head. ‘Winter has already gripped the land. Elditha, it is not necessary. The women must seek sanctuary within abbey walls, safe there until the spring brings the sailing season. There will be no attack on Exeter. We must wait.’

  Later that day, in the privacy of her waiting room behind the hall, Elditha spoke with Padar. ‘And they will not go into sanctuary. The Countess will never leave her palace. We must fetch Thea here now.’

  Padar pointed out to her, ‘There will be the cost of a ship, horses, bribes. In winter, this journey will cost you too much.’

  ‘I can raise coin.’

  He tugged at his beard and set his cup of wine on the low table. In a quiet voice he said, ‘When you do, then I can find a ship captain willing to sail in winter.’

  Elditha summoned a jeweller to her hall. She showed him her remaining three pale sapphires, one of them a deeper blue than the others – the best of all, the one she had hoped to keep. She asked him for their worth in coin and, greedy for the beautiful gems, he gave her their value in silver. Next, she divided her hoard of silver into three purses. One purse was for Padar to hunt out a ship and a crew for her. Another purse she put aside for Magnus in case she never returned. The third she kept with her. She thanked God that Harold had had the foresight to give her this gift. It was a small miracle.

  The next afternoon, Elditha rode with Padar beyond Dublinia’s walls. She laid her plans as winter light played on the water and the wind bent the tall grasses that were growing thickly all along the shoreline. For a moment she huddled into her cloak and watched their graceful movement. She had come to a decision – one she knew carried great risk, but a risk which she felt compelled to take. ‘If the wind holds like this,’ she said aloud, ‘we can cross the winter seas.’

  Padar raised his black eyebrows. ‘My lady, you would go yourself to rescue your daughter from the wolf’s paws and get trapped by him once more? There is no sense there.’

  ‘I was not trapped. I escaped.’ She knew that he knew that she would not change her mind. ‘Here, Padar, buy us whatever we need for such a journey.’

  Padar scratched his beard and reminded her, not that she needed reminding, ‘King Dairmaid will not allow this. You cannot disappear for long. This is no fishing trip.’

  ‘My two women have returned to their families for Christmas. Magnus will be hunting birds with the King’s sons and I shall say that I am visiting the Wicklow nuns.’

  Padar said again that he had not rescued her from Wessex to have her recaptured by Count Alain. Elditha countered this with her best argument. ‘Gytha has a great treasure. My sons need Wessex gold for a rebellion. They must not be dependent on the good-will of those who will seek rewards and alliances.’

  ‘Or land,’ agreed Padar. ‘The north-men sought it once and they will want it again.’

  ‘I intend to persuade the Countess to help us,’ she said firmly.

  Padar shook his head and looked over the water. ‘If the sea remains calm, we can cross in a fishing craft. We can slip into a port, travel upriver for miles and then ride to Exeter. The fishing vessel will wait for our return. They smuggle things: swords, knives, all sorts of things – even people in winter. That is, if you can seek the smugglers out.’

  She nodded. The wind gusted about her cloak. If the wind rode high out at sea, or if a winter storm blew up, a winter sea journey would be hazardous. ‘I know this will be difficult but we must try,’ she said. She pulled the purse from her mantle. ‘Take this. It is more than enough for our purpose.’ Grumbling, Padar took the purse and concealed it inside his cloak. Elditha climbed back on her horse and galloped off with a lighter heart, leaving Padar to mount the scraggy mare he had acquired and plod back after her into the town.

  She announced to anyone who might be interested that after Christmas she would seek instruction in Irish embroidery at the convent of St Brides. First, she organised a great entertainment in her own hall to be held on the eve of the Epiphany. It would be a distraction. Padar went down to the Wood Quay in the afternoon and completed his arrangements. He returned to find her supervising the laying of trestles. She left her work and walked with him to the back of the hall, where she gave him a small harp to tune. As he fiddled with the strings, he told her that the fishermen would sail up the coast and meet them at the Bay of Curlews. The wind was auspicious since it blew from the north-west. Once they were out on the open sea it would help them across, and no one would be looking for a ship from Ireland, not at Christmas.

  As the Epiphany feast drew to an end, Padar told stories. Elditha grew restless, anxious for them to be on their way. She prayed to St Cecilia that her guests would not linger too long. They had complimented her cook on his meat pies, the saffron cakes, the goose and the partridge and especially the great confection of marzipan – a longship that was not unlike the Sea Serpent. T
he Queen broke off a sail, sucked at it and whispered to her, ‘It is delicious. It is a pity its master was not here to see it.’ Elditha looked down and blushed. ‘He has been missed,’ she whispered back.

  King Dairmaid had laid his own plans for the following day. To her relief, as the Angelus bells rang out, the King and Queen, their sons and Magnus made ready to cross the orchard to their hall. Yet still Magnus lingered. It was as if he knew. The boys would leave early in the morning for their bird-netting trip, and that night Magnus said he would sleep by the King’s hearth. Slipping him a small purse of silver, she said, ‘Magnus, it is my New Year’s gift to you. Use it well and I shall return soon.’ Elditha held him close in an embrace and whispered her goodbye. He thanked her, kissed her and tucked the small purse in the folds of his mantle and then he was gone, her slim dark child, the gentlest of her brood.

  Early in the morning and wrapped in a thick woollen cloak lined with fur, carrying only her saddle-bag, Elditha departed her hall. She had told her servants to sleep late, that Padar was the only escort she needed. They mounted their horses, walked them down the hill to Dublinia’s eastern gate. The watchman recognised Padar and waved them through. Then they followed a track from the town wall to the Bay of Curlews, where they would board a fishing craft which would run across to the Devon coast, drop them off and continue farther south to unload a delivery of swords. They rowed a skiff to the sturdy fishing vessel that was at rest out in the bay. As the oars splashed, she scanned the heavens where a blue moon rode through the wintry dawn sky, haunting and pale. The water was still. Moments later they climbed up the rope ladder and safely onto the vessel that was to carry them over the swelling waves. As her oarsmen navigated their boat into the open sea, she gripped the saddle-bag that held a change of linen. At the last minute she had brought her bone-plated silver box with the Godwin christening gown and a slither of mugwort root. These were the only treasures left to her, apart from the box itself, though she found herself twisting a silver ring around on her tiny finger. As the boat moved into the open sea, she watched the coast of Ireland grow smaller and smaller, turned her ring and prayed to St Cecilia for a safe crossing.

  34

  Exeter

  January 1068

  Queen Edith sent the women of Exeter generous New Year gifts – spices from her store cupboards at Wilton, silk cloth, gold and silver thread. Her presents came with a warning that King William had returned from Normandy and he intended to quell resistance to his rule. So then, she mused as she set aside her goose feather, sprinkled sand on the ink, rolled and sealed a letter to her mother, if they were all to survive, Gytha must negotiate with King William as Edith, herself, had negotiated. She must pay his tax. Her lands no longer belonged to her.

  On the first day of the New Year, Gytha visited Bishop Leofric. ‘They will not steal my gold and silver, nor will they claim my lands.’ After a moment during which the Bishop was clearly faltering, she growled at him, ‘The Bastard will not marry off my granddaughter to one of his own.’

  Bishop Leofric tried to soothe her. ‘Thea cannot be forced into any marriage with a Norman.’

  She snapped at him, ‘Don’t be naïve, Bishop. They tried to marry off the mother, a king’s widow, whilst she was grieving for the husband they slew.’ She paused before ramming her message home. ‘The thieves are bedding and wedding our women, our daughters and their mothers wherever they discover them. And you priests are doing nothing to stop them.’ She glanced around the cathedral’s nave and her eye settled on the tall, golden candlesticks that graced the altar. She remembered the Bishop’s collection of books and manuscripts, his gorgeous copes, the cathedral’s richly embroidered altar cloths and the marvellous relics kept there. ‘Just wait until they come and steal from this cathedral. You’ll squawk like a wounded sparrow then, Leofric.’

  Leofric’s brow furrowed as he too glanced around his magnificent cathedral. He placed his plump ringed hand on Gytha’s arm. ‘Then, Countess, send the girl to a convent – the Abbey of our Lady and St Ronan, for instance. There is a delightful priory there. The prioress is your good friend, I believe.’ Gytha leaned heavily on her stick. Surely Leofric, who smacked of Norman sympathy, could not have discovered the business she had with the prioress? The Bishop continued to smile in a honeyed manner. ‘And, Countess, the good Lord will protect my cathedral. All is God’s will.’

  The moment had passed. She breathed again and rang her bell to summon her women. ‘Come and dine with us tomorrow, Leofric,’ she said pleasantly. ‘And we shall have a roasted duck for supper.’

  Gytha was not so sure that placing faith in a Lord who had permitted their defeat at Hastings was wise, but she took Leofric’s advice anyway. On the day following the Feast of St Stephen, accompanied by her granddaughter and a small guard, she rode with Thea into the woods.

  ‘I don’t want to live away from the town,’ Thea grumbled.

  ‘The nuns will teach you Latin. You will learn how to be a useful wife.’

  ‘I don’t like the word “useful”, Grandmother.’

  ‘Too much freedom; times too unsettled; nothing in its right place any more,’ Gytha muttered as she watched a robin flit from one frosty branch to another. ‘You are to learn needlework from Gertrude and devotion from my lady prioress. You will not return to Exeter until I send for you …’

  ‘Embroidery,’ Thea interrupted, ‘was never my talent.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it is to prepare you for marriage.’

  ‘I was to be married to the Earl of Northumbria once.’

  ‘Not any longer. I hear he is to marry the Bastard’s niece.’

  ‘Then, Grandmother, I must do better and marry a prince. Perhaps my mother will find me one.’

  They rode in silence ahead of their guard into the thick woods that surrounded the abbey. Then Thea said,repetedly ‘What if he comes looking for me? That count who wanted my mother.’

  ‘He won’t dare.’

  Before long they trotted through the opened wooden gate. Gytha waited a moment, caught her breath and, looking about her, remarked, ‘How could he find you in this secret place? Now, get me down, Thea.’

  Thea slipped from her mount and helped her grandmother off her horse. By the time their guard caught them up, Gytha was leaning on her stick and Thea was greeting the prioress.

  Elditha’s ship arrived on the north Devon coast on the eighth day of January. Disguised as a fisherman and his wife, Elditha and Padar travelled east. Two days later, just after Prime, Padar drove their cart, filled with sacks of dried cod, into the palace yard at Exeter. The cook came out to collect his fish and Elditha, every part of her seemingly a fishwife – apart from her ermine-trimmed mantle – announced that she had business with Countess Gytha.

  ‘Where does a fishwife get herself a cloak trimmed with white fur?’ the cook asked, scrutinising Elditha as she climbed down.

  Padar stretched up and whispered into his ear. He opened his hand and gave him something. The cook nodded, looked at Elditha strangely and told her to come with him. She drew her hood over her head and walked close to him into the hall, past servants who were tending a cauldron and weaving through children who raced about chasing a scrawny puppy. Her eyes widened when they approached two ladies who were weaving on a large flat loom at the end of the hall. The cook spoke to an older woman and opened his hand. Elditha drew in her breath. In his palm lay the seal ring she had given Padar long ago. She had forgotten it. How, by the rood, had he kept it hidden when they held him captive on the Severn?

  The woman looked at Elditha with utter surprise. ‘Are you Elditha, King Harold’s wife?’

  ‘Indeed, I am Elditha, Lady Margaret. I am she whom you last saw at Westminster two years ago when my husband was crowned.’

  ‘My dear Lady Edith, I remember that only too well.’

  Other women were seated on benches beyond the weavers. One of them, younger than the others, dressed in coarse plain linen, jumped up from her stool and rushed forward
, knocking it over in her haste.

  ‘My lady, you have come?’

  ‘Ursula!’ Elditha took Ursula’s hands and then embraced her.

  Freeing herself, Ursula turned to Lady Margaret. ‘Permit me to take Lady Elditha to the Countess.’

  ‘My dear, of course. You will find her in her apartments.’

  Murmuring wonder at Elditha’s presence, the women returned to their weaving.

  Ursula swept tapestries aside and led Elditha through chambers that lay behind the hall.

  ‘My lady, I thought never to see you again,’ she said, as they crossed through a large draughty antechamber.

  ‘Ursula, I thought to seek you out in the convent,’ Elditha said, as they moved into a narrow passageway.

  ‘The Countess admires my needlework. I come to her house most days.’ Ursula stopped walking. ‘Will you remain with us here now?’

  ‘I have come for Thea, with Padar. He will be filled with joy to see you.’ She bent over laughing. Their arrival now seemed so amusing. ‘Sorry, it is the relief of having arrived here without incident,’ she said, as she recovered herself. ‘And Padar is in possession of a cart of salted cod. I suspect the cook has him tucked away in the kitchen.’

  ‘Padar and fish. Don’t you remember Abingdon?’

  ‘I do, and you will be pleased to hear that Brother Thomas’s lapidary is safe.’

  ‘Praise the Holy Mother for that,’ Ursula said. She became thoughtful. ‘The Countess will explain about Thea.’

  What about Thea? But there was no time to seek an answer. Ursula had pushed through yet another heavy tapestry into a room where the floor was covered with glazed green and blue tiles. Charcoal filled half-a-dozen braziers. The large chamber breathed warmth, and then Elditha saw Gytha, who was leaning against thick cushions in a winged chair, dozing.

  Ursula melted back through a doorway, leaving her with Gytha. Elditha crossed the tiled floor, touched Gytha gently on the arm and murmured, ‘It is Elditha come to see you.’ Gytha sat straight up and peered straight at her from out of a great veiled wimple. ‘Why, so it is; Elditha, you have come at last.’ She sniffed. ‘And you smell dreadful. Did you fall into a vat of fish?’