Death and the Maiden

by Samantha Norman

  Allie nodded, sighing with relief when, after another awkward silence, he turned to leave. She watched him walk away, feeling her heart sink when, halfway across the lawn, he stopped and turned around to her.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to go hunting this afternoon, mistress?” he asked. “It’s a perfect day for wildfowling.”

  Allie smiled politely but shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Ah well, another time, perhaps,” he said, and this time disappeared through the archway.

  Chapter 24

  When she got back to the solar it was full of several people she recognized from the hall earlier that morning, all of whom had taken advantage of their summons to see how Gyltha was getting on.

  Jodi was leaning listlessly in the doorway with a broom in her hand.

  “What’s the matter?” Allie asked.

  “I was going to change them rushes today,” she sighed, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Don’t reckon all the dust is good for Gylth’s chest, but what with all these comin’s and goin’s, I can’t get on with it.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Allie said. “I think she can cope with a bit of dust. Besides, the visitors are doing her a power of good. Look at her!”

  Jodi poked her head around the door to see Gyltha holding court with an adoring assembly and smiled, until the sound of footsteps echoing up the stairwell behind them wiped it away again.

  “God’s eyes!” she said, raising her own to the heavens. “There’s bloody more of ’em.”

  That afternoon another visitor came to Elsford, a messenger, one of the fleet-footed young men employed in the Fens to perform carrier services, thanks to their youthful ability to leap the many bogs and dykes with the aid of long ash poles.

  Gyltha, who had indeed been invigorated by her visitors, eschewed her usual afternoon nap and sat at the window instead, elbows resting on the sill, amusing the others with a commentary on the young man’s progress through the marsh.

  “Oh, look, bless ’im! Oop, there ’e goes . . . Wheeee! Come on, lad, another jump! . . . Go on, bor, you can do it! . . . Aw, that was a big splash! . . . Poor little love’s poor little boots is all wet!”

  “Is he coming here, do you think?” Hawise asked, leaning over her to see for herself.

  “Where else would ’e be going, daft bugger?” Gyltha snapped, pushing her away. “Bringin’ a letter for someone, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Hawise turned to Allie and grinned knowingly. “There you are, mistress,” she said. “It’s probably a message for you from Lord Peverell declaring his undying love or something.”

  Allie refused to admit it, least of all to Hawise, but the thought had crossed her mind, too. She tried to banish it but it kept coming back, so that when—after what felt like years of waiting—Jodi came up to the solar with a scroll for her, her heart started jumping like a sack of frogs.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say, although her mouth felt very dry all of a sudden.

  “Well?” said Gyltha. “You just going to stand there, gapin’ at it, or you going to open the bloody thing?”

  Allie blushed and turned it over to break the seal, then almost collapsed in dismay.

  It was from Wolvercote.

  “It’s from Ma,” she said, hoping her disappointment hadn’t shown. After all, a dutiful daughter should be pleased to receive a letter from her mother, and she was, really she was, it was just that . . .

  Oh dear.

  She took a deep breath and went to a quiet corner of the room to read it in private.

  My Dearest Allie, it began.

  I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you; it feels an age since you were here, and although I know it hasn’t really been all that long, I have been so bored without you, my darling, that it’s making my teeth itch. (Thank you, by the way, for your message. Such a relief to hear that you arrived safely and that Gyltha is feeling better. I do hope you explained why I haven’t come yet. Give her my deepest love, won’t you, and tell her that I’m longing to see her.)

  I must say, though, darling, you’re so much better off there than here. It turns out that I’m the most dreadful invalid, impatient and irritable—or so Emma tells me. It also turns out that this wretched ankle wasn’t sprained after all, but actually broken! I hadn’t realized quite how badly I’d injured it until you’d left, and it started swelling monstrously—by that afternoon my foot was the size of an inflated pig’s bladder. Emma—whose ministrations, though thorough, are awfully brusque—consigned me to bed immediately and I’ve been at her mercy ever since. Poor me!

  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, and of course, I would only ever say this to you, but all that efficiency can be rather overwhelming at times. We’ve had words, of course, more than once—you, of all people, won’t be surprised to hear that—and I’ve had to apologize to her more times than I care to remember when I’ve lost my temper with her, but oh, darling, love her as I do, the woman could try the patience of a saint!

  Anyway, today, at long last, she has agreed to review the situation and might even allow me to go back to the cottage, where at least I’ll have some peace—apart from Lena, of course, but at the moment I prefer her company to Emma’s.

  Well, there we are. Enough of me.

  In other news, your father came back the other day—he was exhausted though, poor darling.

  I can’t remember if I told you—because, I say, it seems so long since I’ve seen you—but when he left you he was on his way to a meeting to sort out that Longchamp business. Well, it got quite nasty apparently—armies assembled and the like—but thanks to the great wisdom and hard work of good men like your father and dear Hugh (bishop of Lincoln) and the ever-faithful William Marshall, of course, a civil war was averted by the skin of its teeth. Anyway, Longchamp was deposed at last and has fled to France, but the manner of his leaving was so funny that your father almost forgave him everything and invited him back.

  Apparently Longchamp was waiting on the beach at Dover for his rescue boat, disguised as a woman, when an amorous fisherman approached and turned very nasty indeed when he realized that this damsel in distress wasn’t really a damsel at all! Oh, Allie, you should have heard your father telling the story! I thought he was going to die laughing.

  Well, my darling, I haven’t much more to add. Although you may be interested to know that Richard—who’s still on Crusade, of course—has made Walter of Coutances chief justiciar, a much more popular choice than Longchamp, although the Count of Mortain wasn’t best pleased. Your father thinks he wanted the title for himself and says that his hunger for power—the throne especially—is becoming troublesome. But you know—and it’s such a funny thing—I rather liked him when I knew him as a boy. He was always Henry’s favorite, and so bookish and shy, and cut such a lonely little figure at court that I always felt rather sorry for him.

  I hope you’re well and happy. All that’s left for me now is to say that I will be with you as soon as I can.

  When she had finished reading, Allie put on a brave face and turned to the others.

  “It’s good news!” she said. “Longchamp’s left the country!”

  Everyone in the room gave a jubilant round of applause.

  “Well,” said Penda, “read it out to us, then.”

  Allie did so, and, as they insisted, read the Longchamp excerpt twice, to even more cheering and hugging. Jodi, with tears in her eyes, made the sign of the cross and blew a kiss heavenward.

  “God be praised!” she said.

  “Amen,” said Hawise.

  “Well that’s the end of it, then,” said Penda . . . “’Ope the bastard rots in hell.”

  Allie folded up the letter and took her place on the bed beside Gyltha. “Perhaps you can stop worrying now,” she said. “And perhaps you’ll let me stay after all . . .”

  Gyltha gave her a sideways look. “We’ll ’ave to see ’bout that,” she said.

  At supper that evening, Allie received
so much attention from everyone about Adelia’s letter and was persuaded to read it out so often that she barely had time to think about Lord Peverell. It wasn’t until the end of the evening that she remembered her disappointment.

  “You’ll hear from him,” Hawise whispered as she left for the night. “You’re too kind, too beautiful, to be ignored, mistress. You’ll see.”

  Chapter 25

  But she was wrong. She was ignored, and as the days passed and there was still no news from Dunstan, her spirits sank again.

  It wasn’t just her disappointment that she hadn’t heard from him; she was also increasingly anxious about the horse and was still wrestling her conscience about not having pursued the insolent groom when she had the chance to make sure he poulticed her hoof properly. God’s teeth! The poor animal might be suffering the torture of an untreated abscess, and when all was said and done, it would be her fault.

  Her listlessness didn’t go unnoticed.

  Gyltha—who was by now well enough to spend her days in a chair weaving her beloved bird baskets—noticed how often she drifted to the window overlooking the causeway, gazing at it for hours on end.

  It reminded her of Adelia and the early days of her courtship with Rowley, which, because of the unusual circumstances from which it evolved, had been an equally anxious affair even though it was a privilege to witness. And now, here it was again, history repeating itself, the unmistakable signs of early love manifest in the progeny of that unlikely union: the same wistful gazes and longing sighs, the same weight of unbearable expectation hanging over the room whenever Allie was in it—all so reminiscent of her mother and just as exhausting to watch.

  She indulged it for a while and kept her mouth shut, but one day her patience ran out and she decided that enough was enough and, apart from the fact that it was getting on her nerves, all this mooching about was doing Allie no good. She put down the basket she was working on, picked up a surplus willow frond and threw it at her.

  “Now then, bor,” she said when Allie spun around from the window, rubbing the back of her leg where the frond had struck her. “’Stead of moonin’ about there all day, why don’t you run along to the village with Hawise?”

  It was mid-December; a distinct waft of Christmas was in the air, and today a beautiful, clear blue sky hung over the village like a freshly laundered sheet.

  “Go on,” she insisted when Allie seemed reluctant. “I don’ need you here a while. Bit o’ fresh air’ll do you good, I reckon.”

  For the first time in a long time, Allie smiled. “And that’s your medical opinion, is it?” she asked.

  “Yes it bloody is,” Gyltha said, taking up her basket again. “Now get on . . . It’s wearin’ on me nerves, watchin’ you in that state.”

  Affecting reluctance and sighing a good deal as she got herself ready, Allie was secretly pleased for an excuse to get out and do something at last.

  It wasn’t that she was unhappy at Elsford—far from it—it was just that now that Gyltha was so much better there was little to distract her, and with boredom setting in, she had developed a tendency to think about a certain person rather too much.

  Ulf, bless him, had tried his best to keep her busy but was anxious that if the news of her medical skill reached the wrong ears, the inevitable accusations of witchcraft might send her to the village stocks or worse, so he was wary of advertising them beyond the confines of the manor. After all, unlike Adelia, she didn’t have a Mansur to deflect suspicion, and also unlike Adelia, who was plain enough to melt into the background when she needed to, Allie stood out like a sore thumb; besides, while she was at Elsford, he was responsible for her.

  “I can’t have you going about like your ma used to,” he told her brusquely when, in desperation one day, she asked him if he knew of any maladies she might treat.

  “Nothing too complicated or anything; just an outbreak of the ague, perhaps, or a broken arm or two?”

  But he dismissed the idea so resolutely that Allie assumed the matter was closed and was pleasantly surprised when, a few days later, he summoned her to the hall to treat a young swineherd who had dislocated his shoulder trying to wrestle one of his sows out of a bog.

  Allie was so delighted to have a patient at last that she set about helping him with alarming enthusiasm.

  “Come back in a day or two, won’t you? . . . To make sure it’s mending properly,” she called after the boy when he ran off in a hurry. No one was entirely surprised when he didn’t.

  After that she was redundant again, bored almost to distraction, so that Gyltha’s suggestion that morning was more than welcome.

  A little while later, marching along the track to the village with Hawise, she felt content for the first time in ages, and if her gaze flickered to the causeway every now and again—just in case a certain person was riding along it—she was confident Hawise hadn’t noticed.

  Allie glanced at her fondly and, linking her arm through hers, gave it an affectionate squeeze.

  Hawise beamed at her. “You haven’t been to our cottage yet, have you, mistress?” she said. “I can’t wait to show it to you.”

  “And I can’t wait to see it,” said Allie, squeezing her arm again, because this was just the sort of morning for squeezing Hawise’s arm and bestowing affection on her.

  “Only thing is,” Hawise added, “I promised Father I’d check on the mole traps on the way, if you don’t mind. I haven’t been down there lately and it’s not fair to leave ’em there too long, poor things.”

  Allie said she didn’t mind in the least and followed her happily along a narrow, rush-lined path leading to a bend in the river where, like a confused traveler, the current paused, turned back on itself and then, with its sense of direction miraculously restored, rushed off in a hurry toward the forest.

  Hawise stopped at the small landing stage and put down the sack she had been carrying. Allie sat down on a nearby hummock of sedge and watched her work for a while until she decided that mole slaying, however expertly performed, was boring and wandered off unnoticed. In fact, by the time Hawise looked up from her digging again she was already some distance away, heading toward the forest, idly swiping at the rushes on either side of the track with an alder twig as she went . . .

  Hawise thought about going after her—after all, it wasn’t safe to stray too far alone these days—but Allie looked so happy, and since there didn’t seem to be anyone else around, she decided to let her enjoy a rare moment of freedom. She had just resumed digging when a cacophony of hunting horns, excited male voices and the deep belling of hounds crashing through the forest undergrowth rent the air.

  It stopped Allie dead in her tracks, and a moment later two riders broke the cover of the trees and came galloping toward her.

  For an awful moment she thought they wouldn’t see her and that she would be trampled to death, but at the very last moment, one of them did and, calling urgently to his companion, stood up in his stirrups, sawing frantically at his horse’s mouth, and brought it to an abrupt halt.

  When Allie opened her eyes again—a reluctance to witness her own death had made her close them very tightly indeed—two men in hunting leathers were staring down at her from two sweat-lathered horses, the bloodied muzzle of a dead wolf slung over one of their saddles, sneering at her.

  “God’s teeth!” said a familiar voice. “Mistress Allie! What in God’s name are you doing out here alone! You could have been in danger.”

  Allie let out the breath she had been holding. “Strange as it may seem, the same thought just occurred to me, too,” she said, grinning up at Lord Peverell. “But, God be praised, I wasn’t . . . And, actually I’m not alone . . .” She turned, pointing at Hawise, now a tiny speck in the distance, and immediately wished she hadn’t. When she turned back Lord Peverell was still smiling down at her but Sir William was standing up in his stirrups staring at Hawise. Something in his expression made her uncomfortable . . .

  “Come, Will.” Perhaps Lord Peverell h
ad sensed it, too. “How do you suggest we recompense this good lady after frightening her half out of her wits?”

  Sir William grunted something neither of them could catch but was spared the repetition of it by the sudden appearance of a young man as he was dragged toward them behind four enormous wolfhounds.

  “Got ’em back, my lord,” he shouted triumphantly, his feet whirling over the ground without seeming to touch it. “Bugger of a job though! They’d got their noses to another spoor but I was quick as lightnin’ greased both sides and managed to grab ’em before they took off again!”

  As he got closer Allie recognized him as the young man who had reared up out of the marsh at them and felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising.

  “Good work, Danny,” said Lord Peverell. “That’s a relief. Those are good dogs; it’d be a pity to lose them. But hold them hard, now, we don’t want to frighten Mistress Allie any more than we have already.”

  The boy’s jubilant expression crumpled to a scowl the moment he saw Allie, but Lord Peverell didn’t seem to notice.

  “Well, Mistress Allie,” he continued, “you must allow me to atone for this somehow. One way or another, it seems, I have put you to a great deal of trouble lately.”

  Allie smiled and shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “No harm done and no atonement necessary . . . All I ask, though, is that perhaps you would tell me how Matilda is. I often think about her.”

  “Do you?” He looked delighted. “What a lucky creature she is to have such a place in your thoughts! I shall pass on your good wishes! She is doing very well, thank you. Nearly sound, in fact. Another day or two and I expect to be riding her again.”

  “That is good news,” Allie said, hoping he hadn’t noticed that she was blushing. “But if you’ll excuse me, I must . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at Hawise. “Well, I ought . . . ought to be getting back, I suppose.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Peverell replied, gathering up his reins and, Allie thought, or perhaps hoped, looking a little crestfallen. “But . . . before you go . . . perhaps you would do me the honor . . . well, you and Lady Penda, of course . . . of attending a feast I shall be hosting soon . . .”