A goat – it was in fact a young kid – was carried over to him. A knife was handed to him. He slew the kid with the blade across its throat and in the blood he baptised Young Chenna and the Maiden. ‘Take her hand,’ said the King, ‘and stand by my throne until the dance begins. I will join it tonight. Remember that our seed renews the corn and that if your union is fruitful then will our fields be blessed, free of blight and ill-weather. May the God of the Wood show us mercy in this year to come. One more thing. We have with us tonight a stranger to our forest though not to our observances. May he too plant a seed and leave something of his strength among us to be nurtured. Herne Huntsman, Lord of the Forest, hear us! Take your places!’
The gathering rose. The King joined it. It formed a double circle, men outermost, facing an inner ring of women. A second drum began. A pipe joined in. The beat quickened. The two circles began to revolve in opposite directions. The music quickened yet more. Someone began to chant: someone else cried out, in excitement. Swifter still grew the rhythm; feet stamped, the dancers sang, flinging out their arms. There was yearning in the music. If any had feared the embrace of a faceless partner, the drums and the dance overcame it now. Moonlight, flamelight, flowed over sliding muscles, sweat-beaded skin, matted chests and polished young breasts, swinging used dugs, shoulders wide or sloping, bellies flat or heavy. The dancers whirled, swaying. Suddenly the circles closed together and became a single ring of wildly gyrating pairs.
The pairing was not quite left to chance. There were evasions and attractions. But there were no rules. Brother had met sister and parent had met child in the dance before now, and would again.
By the throne, Young Chenna caught up the Maiden and half-running, bore her to the clearing’s edge where the light did not follow. Still spinning, the other pairs danced away from the firelight also and vanished among the trees.
Round the fire, the old people who no longer danced or coupled exchanged chuckles and a ribald jest or two and set food to cook. The lovers would come back hungry.
Four times a year they met and three times a year the ritual was of this fashion. At these feasts, the act of love was sacred and with whom one coupled did not matter. If children were born of such unions, they were blessed. Tonight, the normal world was left behind. They had withdrawn to their origins when they were part of the wild wood themselves and there were no marriages, only matings.
The Feast of Beltane, 1079, had begun.
CHAPTER FIVE
Beyond the Curtain 1080
‘…and so,’ said William of Normandy from behind the white-draped table in the hall of Rouen Castle, ‘we call on you to rise for a toast. At this Eastertide, the traditional season of peacemaking, our son Robert Curthose has mended his quarrel with us and comes under his father’s roof once more in love and amity. We in turn confirm him our firstborn son, heir to our dukedom of Normandy. Raise your goblets.’
He raised his own, to a face as harsh as a hatchet. The assembled guests stood up obediently and drank but few ventured to smile, least of all Robert Curthose.
‘Listen to him!’ he muttered to Rufus under cover of a minstrel who now stepped forth to sing a syrupy lyric in praise of family solidarity. ‘You’d think I’d come bareheaded, suing him for peace. He sued me. It took,’ growled Curthose, ‘the King of France, half the Norman baronage and His Holiness the Pope to get me to agree. I fought a battle with Father and personally unhorsed him. And still he sneers! He’s even still using that damned nickname.’
‘You’re saddled with that for life,’ said Rufus cheerfully. ‘The whole world uses it.’ His sympathies were with the duke. What father took kindly to being unceremoniously shoved off his horse by his own son, after all? He also knew how much William had resented having to spend good money buying Rotrou off in order to concentrate on Curthose and the Norman vassals who had regrettably chosen to side with him. Fulk of Anjou, having lost his bid for Rotrou, had withdrawn his threat to Maine but it had been a near thing. ‘Once lose territory that used to be yours,’ the Conqueror had said to Rufus, on this very subject, ‘and your reputation’s dented. Every restless lord in your domains will start to wonder how to evade his own obligations. What you have, you must hold.
Never forget it. Believe me, I’ll never forget that Curthose endangered that policy for me.’
Yet he had also said to Rufus, earlier that day: ‘Be pleasant to your brother. I know you gained a scar fighting against him, and fighting your own brother’s a bad way to get your first wound. But he’s still your brother, and my son. I want this peace to stick.’
Twelve-year-old Henry, speaking across Rufus, said: ‘You hurt Father’s feelings, quarrelling with him, Curthose. But he means it when he says he wants to mend things.’
‘I know. I said, he sued for peace. I also know why. A rift with me puts him at risk. I took a lot of his vassals with me.’
‘He minds about you as well,’ said Rufus, and respectful of his father’s wishes, he rose as the minstrel finished and proposed a toast of his own, to the future accord of father and son. He was rewarded by a grimly approving glance from William. Belleme, further along the table, murmured: ‘Well tried,’ in his malicious way, and young Meulan of the bright round eyes and bright front teeth, observed: ‘You’re an optimist. I give this peace two years at most. If I were you, I’d just enjoy the food and get drunk.’
On the whole, Rufus suspected that this was good advice and he therefore took it although he went on trying, albeit in a manner increasingly fuddled, to make polite conversation to Curthose. As a result, although he could never quite remember afterwards how it came about, he found himself, after the feast, outside, actually arm in arm with Curthose, with Belleme and Meulan on his other side, in the midst of an amiable argument as to whether Henry was or was not old enough to accompany them where they were going.
‘No. S’only twelve.’ Curthose was fairly drunk, too. ‘He can watch, can’t he?’ said Belleme.
‘No, not decent,’ said Curthose reprovingly.
Rufus shook a woozy head, remembered that to please his father he ought to side with Curthose and agreed that Henry was too young to go to… ‘where are we going, anyway?’ Belleme answered, but his reply was lost in the clatter as their horses were brought to them. The flank of a horse complete with saddle and stirrup was presented to Rufus. He mounted arid rode out of the gate with the others.
It was a mild April dusk with the stars coming out as the sky dimmed between the rooftops. They rode through a number of streets and round several corners and then under an archway into a courtyard where they dismounted and the horses were taken by shadowy, obsequious grooms. Curthose, who seemed to know his way, led them up some steps to a door which he simply pushed open, clearly certain it would not be locked. Inside was a vestibule paved with black and white and lit by candles in what looked like gilded candelabra, attached to walls covered with murals in soft colours, pink and gold and powder blue. Their subjects were explicit. Small lit tapers, also in wall brackets, perfumed the air. The scent was pleasant but obscurely worrying. ‘It’s sandalwood,’ said Curthose, amused, as Rufus’ nostrils visibly twitched. ‘Exotic, isn’t it?’ Belleme, who seemed to have been here before as well, went to a small gong which stood upon a table, and sounded it.
A curtain hung across an arched doorway opposite them. The curtain rings rattled and Rufus concluded that he was even more drunk than he thought because the woman who stood there was apparently a giantess and he didn’t believe in them.
She was as tall as his father and much fatter. She billowed. Thick plaits of unnaturally black hair hung for-ward over mountainous shoulders. The latter were clearly visible because although her sanguine-coloured dress swept the floor, its upper regions left astonishing and unconventional acreages of flesh exposed. Her bulging breasts were going to escape from it altogether, at any moment. There was no guessing her age for her large round face was painted, thick as enamel. But there was brown mottling on the backs of the flesh
y hands she extended as she came to meet them.
Curthose was introducing those of them who were strangers. The giantess, in a voice that boomed like the gong, was overwhelmed at finding two of Duke William’s sons in her house. She swept them a colossal curtsey, which put Rufus instantly in mind of an undermined castle wall collapsing.
Rising, she beckoned them to follow her beyond the curtain. Two minutes later they were in a small stuffy chamber with more inflammatory murals, sitting on wide padded couches of a kind he had never seen before.
Two more minutes and they were being introduced to girls. The wine-mist parted. He knew now where he was and why.
If he hadn’t been afraid that the others would laugh at him for evermore, he would have leapt to his feet and run.
Girls. He had hardly ever met any. There were few women at court, since his mother was no longer there. Those who were to be found there were mostly humble, maidservants and the like. Like his friends, he had made a few experiments with them, but only because the others did and because they kept boasting about it. He had made two experiments, to be precise, and both had been embarrassing failures. One of the girls was sorry for him and the other had been amused and he didn’t know which was worse.
He sat stiffly, still fully clad when the others had cheerfully disrobed and were briskly establishing intimate relations with partners now equally unclothed. Belleme was buried in the cushions with his girl, who was emitting sharp little cries which sounded as though they were more of pain than pleasure, which was probably the case. For Belleme, all his life, the best enjoyment was founded on someone else’s suffering.
Meulan was running his hands through the honeycoloured hair of his girl and Curthose had balanced his companion on his knee and was asking where her Madam had got the idea for these couches.
‘Pilgrims bring back other things from the Holy Land besides relics,’ she told him. ‘Folk sit on these in outlandish places and not only sit on them, either.’
‘Really? I’m so ignorant, you must show me,’ said Curthose, and rolled over on to the couch, taking her with him. Everyone but Rufus seemed perfectly at home. Yes, he said desperately to the young woman who was nestling against him with professional languor, yes, I like you. She felt over-soft – squashy was the word that sprang to mind – and what on earth was the blue stuff round her eyes? Curthose would know; he knew all about this sort of thing. He was said to have a regular, well-born mistress already. Belleme’s girl suddenly shrieked out loud and the line of his back, just visible amid the cushions, undulated serpent like as a great shuddering spasm seized him.
Rufus’ girl glanced at him sidelong and said encouragingly: ‘I think you’re nice.’
‘Th… thank you. What’s your name?’
‘La Belle.’
‘The Beautiful. And it’s true,’ said Rufus awkwardly, ‘but…’
‘You ain’t comfortable,’ said La Belle, with perspicacity. ‘Some aren’t, not when they’re among others. You want us to go somewhere by ourselves?’ Rufus nodded. At least, alone with her, he could make a fool of himself without the rest knowing. Even Meulan, who had advanced on his objective more slowly than the others, was now nothing but a pair of briskly rising and falling haunches. He let La Belle take his hand and lead him out.
In private, he felt better. She was kind. She did not show pity, or scorn, or impatience, but gave him skilful help. After all he did not disgrace himself although it was all oddly unreal as if his body were a machine. For La Belle herself he felt only a little gratitude: he had no curiosity or desire for conquest. And she was not deceived. ‘You’re the duke’s son,’ she said concernedly, lying at his side. ‘I want to look after you right and I don’t think you’ve had your money’s worth. Would you like a different girl? I’m fair, maybe you’d like someone dark, or with red hair…’
‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It isn’t that. You’re very sweet.’ He couldn’t say outright that he hadn’t the faintest idea what to say to a woman, even her sort of woman, and that every time she looked at him he was sure she was hiding her distaste for his reddened skin and unnatural white eyelashes. He said feebly: ‘What if I get you with child?’
‘You won’t,’ she said, amused. ‘And if you did, it ’ud be my problem and Madam’s. Would you like some wine?’
‘Yes.’ The wine he had had at the feast was wearing off rapidly and he yearned for its anaesthetic properties. Thank the saints – if there were any saints who protected whores’ clients – that the others hadn’t witnessed the way she had had to help him. If they had, he would have crawled out of this place on hands and knees and drowned himself in the Seine.
She was ringing a handbell. Presently, robing herself, she answered a tap at the door and spoke softly to someone outside. A few minutes later the tap was repeated and La Belle admitted a boy of about sixteen, with a tray. ‘This is Rayner,’ she said. ‘Rayner, this is my lord William Rufus, son of the Duke. Entertain him for a while. I must leave you for a few moments, I think my lord will excuse me.’ She gave Rufus a smile and a curtsey, girdled her robe more firmly about her and was gone. Rayner set the tray on a little table and said: ‘This is an unexpected honour. I welcome the chance of meeting you, my lord.’ His accent was more educated than La Belle’s. ‘May I pour for you?’ he enquired.
Rufus nodded and watched as Rayner filled a goblet. The boy had graceful movements, which looked as though he had practised them for years. Just, Rufus thought fascinatedly, as a young knight might practise swordstrokes. He was self-possessed and very clean. His brown hair was longer than most men wore it but it was glossy as though he washed and brushed it often. Within his smooth red wool tunic and his russet hose, the lines of his body were hard and male.
He handed a goblet to Rufus with a little bow. The fingers round the goblet stem were long, with a boy’s broad knuckles. Rufus took the wine and Rayner’s released hand went up to rest on the other’s naked shoulder. In the act of drinking, Rufus stopped.
It was what he had wanted, without knowing it. This hard body, this smooth flat chest devoid of squashiness, these deeper accents, speaking to him in a way he could understand because the mind behind them was masculine like his own. It was a kind of homecoming, reviving memories of Brother Philip. But Rayner, in his youth and candour, had more to offer than Philip. He could initiate without patronising.
And he knew more, far more, than Philip had. He knew all the gates to Paradise, it seemed.
Afterwards they lay talking. Rayner was interested in the details of the war against Curthose, able to ask the right questions. Rufus was emboldened to ask questions too. ‘Rayner, how did you come here? Where were you born?’
‘God knows, I don’t,’ said the boy casually. ‘In Maine, I think. I was found there when I was tiny, crying in a street in Le Mans, lost. There was fighting going on at the time. There often is, in Maine. Some people took me in. Then Madam came by. She travels a lot, looking for likely girls and boys. I think the people I was with sold me. I must have been about seven by then. I can just remember coming here. She had me educated and I used to put out seat cushions and whatnot and run errands till I was old enough to earn. She’s been good to me; I’ve had a chance to save. That’s important. One can’t work for ever. One’s youth doesn’t last. But if I go on as I am, I’ll be able to open my own place one day.’
‘Tell me,’ said Rufus, aware that the wine was talking but unable to stop it, ‘am I attractive?’
Or am I only a job of work? He wished he hadn’t asked Rayner about his past. Till then, they had been talking like friends who had chosen each other out of all the world. Now Rayner, with that word working and that other, mercenary, little word, save, had spoilt it. And didn’t even seem to know there was anything to spoil. ‘Well?’ he demanded, suddenly aggressive.
‘My dear!’ said Rayner, startled, and propped himself on an elbow to examine his client’s face. His own was like a picture Brother Philip had once shown Rufus, of a mythical ha
lf-human being called a faun; wide mobile mouth, ears a little pointed, eyes almond-shaped. But he was taking the question seriously. ‘How can I answer? You are…’
‘A client. Forget I asked.’
‘Yes, a client. So if I say yes, you are attractive, you will think perhaps I’m only saying that to please you. My lord…’
‘Yes, well?’ He knew he sounded surly.
‘You have no need to ask that question,’ Rayner said earnestly. ‘You are the son of Duke William of Normandy, King of England. You can take what you desire from the world. Few will refuse you. If I were you, my lord – and believe me, I wish I were you – I’d simply enjoy it.’
‘And enjoy you, you mean?’
‘My lord, it’s what I’m here for.’
Yes, thought Rufus, out of a sudden puerile anger born from the disappointment of a puerile hope, this boy was as cold as one might expect a half-human creature to be.
But he was excellent at his work and he did it most graciously, when Rufus took him at his word.
CHAPTER SIX
Daughters and Brothers 1081-2
Edith of Scotland was born in the January of the year 1081, in a stifling chamber in her father King Malcolm’s fortress at Inverness.
The room was stifling because the weather outside was bitter, the sky full of snowflakes spinning horizontally before the east wind that men called the black wind, because a night in which it blew seemed blacker than any other kind of night, and because there was something in its vicious edge which darkened all one’s senses. To offset it, the room where Queen Margaret bore her daughter had been thickly hung with curtains and tapestries, and the bed piled high with the best and softest furs: beaver, seal and marten. There were two braziers. The effect in the end was that the heating had been overdone. Even the child seemed to think so, for when she was wrapped in the white woollen cloth the midwife had ready, she became scarlet in the face, and screamed.
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