Book Read Free

Death and the Maiden

Page 5

by Samantha Norman


  “It’s only the wind, darlings . . . ,” Hawise said, hugging baby Eva closer while Arthur and Cecelia nestled into the pooling hem of her skirt like puppies. “Now, if you’re comfortable . . . we must decide what sort of story I should tell you this evening.”

  The children exchanged glances and began whispering among themselves. This was not a decision to make lightly—and when, a moment or two later, they reached their consensus, Arthur announced it:

  “A scary one,” he said solemnly.

  Hawise laughed and ruffled his hair. “A good choice,” she told him.

  It was. Nights like these were perfect for the sort of harmless fearmongering she was so very good at. Besides, her imagination had been piqued earlier on the short walk through the garth to the cottage door, when she caught a whiff of something indefinably treacherous in the air. A scent of something wicked . . .

  She shivered pleasurably at the memory and took a deep breath, ready to begin.

  “Hmm. Let me think . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, I know!” she said, opening them wide again. “I think I’ll tell you the story about the curse of the Plantagenets . . .” She broke off, looking quizzically at Arthur and Cecelia. “You know who they are, don’t you?” she asked. “The Plantagenets, I mean?”

  But they stared blankly at her, shaking their heads.

  “Oh,” said Hawise. “Well, never mind . . . Plantagenet is the family nickname of the king of England. And you know who he is, don’t you?”

  This time they nodded. Everybody knew about King Richard.

  “Good,” said Hawise. “Well, this story goes back to the very early days of that family, almost into the mists of time before they ever became kings, or thought they might . . .”

  “Even older than King Arthur?” interrupted Cecelia.

  “Even older than him,” said Hawise. “You see, this story happened a very, very long, long time ago when the rich and handsome Count of Anjou met a beautiful young woman and fell madly in love.”

  “Eeeugh!” This time the interruption was Arthur’s. He stuck out his tongue and clapped his hands over his eyes. “I hate love, it’s disgusting.”

  Cecelia rounded on him. “Shut up, you pillard!” she hissed. “You’re going to spoil it and then Hawise will have to go home and Mama will come back and we won’t hear the story.” And before Hawise could do anything to prevent it, Cecelia punched him hard on the arm.

  Hawise saw the boy’s bottom lip quivering, his small hand balling into a fist, ready to hit back.

  “Now, now!” she said, aware that unless she was suitably stern with them the skirmish might escalate and the evening would end in chaos. “Do you want to hear the story or not? Because the truth is I know it off by heart and I don’t need to hear it . . . or tell it, come to that.”

  “But I want to hear it,” Eva piped up, turning in her lap to admonish her siblings with a chubby finger. “So shhhh.”

  “Sorry, Hawise,” said Cecelia.

  “Sorry, Hawise,” muttered Arthur.

  “I’ll forgive you, but just this once,” said Hawise. “Now, where was I? . . . Oh yes, the handsome Count of Anjou and the beautiful, mysterious woman . . . I did tell you that she was mysterious as well as beautiful, didn’t I? . . . No? . . . Oh, well that’s probably because you were being so naughty . . . But anyway, she was, very, very mysterious. Otherworldly, some said. Peculiar, according to the women who were jealous of her, but magical to the men whose hearts she captured—and she was so beautiful and so mysterious that she captured them all, even the hardest, the moment they saw her.

  “And yet, no matter how many suitors she had, it was the Count of Anjou she had eyes for, and since he only had eyes for her, they were soon married and had children and for quite some time lived happily.” She broke off, raising her finger portentously. The children caught their breath: the raising of the finger invariably heralded an exciting twist in the tale.

  “Happily, that is . . . ,” she continued, pleased that the gesture had lost none of its potency, “until the fateful day when the count—who was so in love with his wife that he was nearly blinded by it—discovered a strange thing, which was that whenever they went to church, the countess left before the consecration, and whenever he asked her why, she would make up some excuse or another, which, try as he might, he could never quite believe.

  “And so, eventually, he started to worry, and the worry built and built and built, the way worry does, until one day he decided that enough was enough and he must get to the bottom of this strange behavior for once and for all.

  “So, the very next day, before the family left for church as usual, he took two of his trusted knights to one side and, when the countess wasn’t looking, whispered to them.

  “And then, that morning, just before communion, when the countess, as was her habit, started backing toward the door, the count gave a signal to the knights to follow her and, this time, when she tried to open the door and escape, they trod on the train of her dress with their great heavy boots so that she couldn’t get away.

  “Well, at first the countess simply smiled, thinking, perhaps, that they had done it by mistake, but when she saw the look in their eyes she began to panic and struggle to free herself until . . .

  “Well, a very strange thing happened . . .”

  Hawise paused, looking down at Arthur and Cecelia.

  “Can you think what it was?” she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. The children swallowed nervously, shaking their heads.

  “Well then, I shall tell you . . . Outside the sky grew as black as hell and the walls and roof of the church began to shake as if God’s own wrathful hands were upon it and it was filled with the sound of demons shrieking—terrible, terrible screams they were, too, wicked enough and loud enough to wake the dead. And the countess started screaming, too—a sound no mortal soul had ever been heard to make—tearing at her clothes until there she stood, naked as the day that she was born! And when the congregation dared look at her, they recoiled in horror, because beneath her clothes, she had sprouted wings, great, black, fingered wings like a fallen angel’s, and as they watched, those wings began to beat, lifting her high above the ground, until with one last dreadful shriek, she flew out of the window, never to be seen again!”

  The children gasped and Hawise took a deep, satisfied breath. It was quite the best rendition of the story she had ever given.

  “That fritchoo me!” said Eva, twisting in her lap, flinging her arms around her neck and burying her face in her chest.

  Arthur’s eyes had grown even larger than usual. “And was she really never seen again!?” he asked. “Vanished into thin air? Did she really!?”

  “Oh yes.” Hawise nodded gravely. “She vanished into thin air all right.”

  “Vanished!” Cecelia murmured quietly. “Like Martha!”

  At the mention of the missing girl the room fell silent, and for a moment, the only sound to be heard was the rattling of the window shutters in the stiffening breeze.

  “Yes.” Hawise nodded sadly. “Just like Martha.”

  It was months now since Martha’s disappearance. She had vanished like the Plantagenet countess, as far as anyone could tell, into thin air, yet Hawise’s memory of that night was still vivid.

  She remembered waiting for her with the others on the riverbank for what felt like an age, grumbling about her thoughtlessness, until it got dark and the cathedral bells sounded for vespers, and they turned for home, assuming that, at some point, she would come to her senses and follow them.

  But she hadn’t.

  And later that evening, unable to sleep for worry, they had each stood vigil at their cottage windows watching the torch-lit procession snake through the labyrinthine pathways of the marsh, looking for her.

  Hawise remembered standing there long enough to see the rosy glow of the dawn breaking, and the summons, with the others, to take Martha’s parents to the place where she had last been seen, and the sense of futi
lity as they all stood staring out over the frozen waste.

  When more than a week had passed and there was still no sign of her, no one dared say so, of course, but hope began to fade for her safe return and everyone assumed that somewhere downriver that night the ice had cracked under her and she had drowned. It was, after all, the most likely explanation. Fenland water was treacherous in all its forms; even the creatures that issued from it weren’t all they might seem. Even the eels, on whom so many livelihoods depended, were really, as everyone knew, the multiplied mutations of the once-sinful monks and priests whom St. Dunstan, in a holy and miraculous rage one day, had consigned to eternal penance. Perhaps, the rumor went, one of those had taken her in bitter revenge for its own miserable, slithering fate.

  Hawise shivered as the unbidden image of Martha’s Medusa-like corpse, writhing with eels, came into her mind.

  “You fritchood, too, Hawise?” asked Eva, wide eyed.

  “No, darlin’,” Hawise said, clutching her tightly. “Not frightened. Just sad is all.”

  Silence fell again and they sat gazing into the fire until a loud knock at the door made them jump.

  “We’re being silly,” Hawise said, lifting Eva off her lap to open it. “It’s only your mother, I expect! And you know what that means, don’t you? . . . Time for bed.”

  The children groaned and began the early murmurs of dissent as Ediva came in.

  She looked exhausted, too weary even to stamp the frost off her boots, and any hope Hawise may have had that she would return with good news was dashed.

  “It ain’t good,” she said as Hawise helped her off with her cloak. “They’ve started that business of tying things to her . . . The infirmarian come this afternoon with ’is bag of relics, St. Etheldreda’s fingers or summat, who knows; but whatever it was it was no bloody use. The poor old girl’s just lying there, burning up and struggling for breath like she’s been the past few days.” She shook her head. “I tell you, ’less the mistress comes soon, I don’t think there’s much hope, I really don’t.” Then, seeing the look of despair on Hawise’s face, she mustered a smile and patted her cheek tenderly.

  “Thank you for sittin’,” she said. “But best run along now, your father’s waitin’ and it’s not just the cold he’s sufferin’ with tonight, bless ’im.”

  When Hawise climbed into the cart, Ulf barely acknowledged her, and as she settled herself in beside him, she cursed herself for having dared hope that either he or Ediva would come back announcing a miracle, that by God’s grace their beloved Gyltha had been cured and the happy equilibrium of their lives restored.

  But it was stupid. She realized that now. Strong as Gyltha was—and she knew none stronger—she was too old, too frail for those fierce adversaries, the Fenland agues and fevers, and very soon they would have to come to terms with life without her.

  She glanced at her father, his head still bowed, and cursed herself anew for being so selfish.

  If the prospect of a life without Gyltha was unconscionable for her, she couldn’t imagine how dreadful it must have been for him, for whom she was all the family he had ever known.

  Closer than close, the two of them, always were . . .

  “Don’t you worry,” she said brightly. “Mistress’ll be here soon. She’ll make her right, you’ll see.” And she hoped to God that, as he flicked the reins across the oxen’s rump, he hadn’t noticed her make the armor of Christ as she said it.

  Chapter 8

  Wolvercote

  When she awoke the next morning Adelia was bad tempered—but couldn’t remember why.

  Though still half-asleep, she was conscious enough to realize that her surroundings weren’t familiar, that she didn’t recognize the heavy curtains pulled around a bed that was obviously not her own and that, for a reason she couldn’t fathom, her ankle hurt. Not only that, but beside her, enveloped in a hummock of sheets and blankets, a body was snoring loudly.

  She sat up, squinting curiously at the cocoon until she remembered . . .

  “Oh, Rowley!” she said, clapping her hand over her eyes, groaning at the memory of the previous evening. She flopped back onto her pillows, remembering the fall, the supper, the argument and finally her protest—futile, as it turned out—at being put to bed in Emma’s guest chamber . . . And, last but not least, Gyltha.

  She lay, for a moment, staring miserably at the ceiling, listening to Rowley’s snores and the distant murmur of the servants in the hall below as they roused themselves for the infinite business of preparing Wolvercote Manor for another day.

  Gyltha!

  She sat upright. This was no time for lying around, there were things to do and plans to make, but as she swung her legs over the side of the bed to get up, a swingeing pain in her ankle reminded her that she couldn’t. Cursing loudly, she turned to Rowley in frustration.

  “Get up!” she hissed, pummeling his shoulder with her fists. “You have to get up. Now! You have to leave! You promised. You promised me! Remember?”

  “God’s teeth!” Rowley groaned, stirring reluctantly from a deep and pleasant sleep and wondering why it was with women that, however much you did their bidding and acquiesced to their every whim and command, you somehow always ended up wrong-footed and on the sharp end of their tongues? If he remembered correctly, and he thought he did, Adelia had been fine when he put her to bed last night; more than fine, in fact, once he’d soothed and wooed her—which, admittedly, had taken some doing; she was furious with him, after all—but he had won her round eventually and been rewarded with an act of love both tender and passionate; he certainly remembered that! And yet now, inexplicably, here they were again—the dawn not yet even broken properly—and her mood had turned full circle.

  He sighed and stretched out a placatory hand.

  “No time for that, Rowley!” she snapped, pushing it away. “Where’s Allie?”

  He groaned and turned over, and as he did so, the sheet slipped off him, exposing the livid scar on his back that was both a symbol of his undying love for her and an eternal reproach.

  “Oh, Rowley,” she whispered softly, chastened by the sight, pulling him closer and pressing her lips into the puckered flesh. “I’m so sorry.”

  He opened an eye and, for a moment, considered exploiting her contrition; indeed, he might well have done so if, at that very moment, Allie’s face hadn’t appeared through the curtains.

  “I’m ready,” she said, glancing disapprovingly at her father, who obviously wasn’t.

  God’s eyes! They were both against him this morning! He thought he’d resolved his differences with Allie last night, too, and had gone to great lengths to reconcile with her when she returned from her sulk. Indeed, if he remembered correctly, he had even agreed to let her go to the bloody Fens if she so pleased, and with his blessing. If he’d neglected to mention Lord Peverell—the discovery of whose existence had been the deciding factor—he refused to feel guilty about it . . . A little disingenuity—particularly when it came to matchmaking for obdurate daughters—was, he felt, forgivable under the circumstances.

  Beside him Adelia’s taut little body started bristling with efficiency as she reeled off a terrifying list of instructions punctuated every so often by either a lament about not being able to attend to Gyltha herself, or her increasing frustration with her “bloody” ankle . . .

  “Now go back to the cottage,” she told Allie, “and fetch my medicine bag . . . Make sure you pack at least one of those bottles of the marsh cudweed—it’s on the right-hand shelf at the back, I think—oh, and, while you’re at it, some of the comfrey concoction; knowing Gyltha it’s probably her lungs that are bad and that’ll help her breathe.”

  She paused for a moment, biting her lip.

  “Oh! And when you get to Elsford, make sure nobody bleeds her! Her poor old blood’s thin enough at the best of times, she can ill afford to lose any, especially in the winter . . . And, as soon as you can, get some watercress down her, and plenty of it.”

 
When Allie left she turned once more to Rowley, her earlier contrition apparently forgotten.

  “Now help me up,” she said brusquely. “You ought to be going and I want to see you off.”

  The courtyard was already busy when they got there.

  Under Emma’s direction, an army of grooms was hard at work saddling horses and loading large packs onto the sumpter ponies while various scullions, laden with provisions, dashed to and from the pantry. In the middle of it all Emma and Penda were arguing.

  “We ain’t going to need all this!” Penda had her hands clamped to the sides of her head in despair. “It’ll slow us up. I can’t be doing with it . . . I’ve told you . . .”

  But it was clear to all the onlookers that in this encounter, Greek had met Greek. Emma refused to listen to her.

  “’Delia! Thank God!” she cried, dashing over the cobbles toward her. “You have to do something! Please! . . . I simply don’t understand how that woman can even think about traveling with so little. Look at the food she’s refusing to take, and apart from that she has almost no retinue! Only two men-at-arms, as far as I can see . . . Not even a confessor!”

  “Oh, Emma!” Adelia put a soothing hand on her arm. “They’ve got Rowley, darling! They won’t need one.” But she thought it best not to mention—for the sake of Emma’s already ragged nerves—that he would probably only be accompanying them as far as London because he was expecting a summons, at any moment, to attend another assembly about the Longchamp business . . .

  “But what about a lady’s maid!” Emma wasn’t assuaged. “Where’s that Lena?”

  Adelia shrugged. “It’s no use,” she said. “Allie won’t take her. Besides, she doesn’t travel well, and, actually, she’ll be far more use here with me until my ankle improves . . . Don’t worry so, darling . . . They’ll be fine.”

 

‹ Prev