Conquest II

by Tracey Warr

  She smiled and wished she and Orderic were in the same room, conversing, but this letter was nearly as good as that.

  So it seemed that Amaury was out in the cold, in terms of the wealth that many Normans had reaped from the invasion of England. He was dependent instead on what the French King might choose to throw to him, and Louis had many other supplicants. De Montfort’s only other choice would have been to eat his own gorge, to go cap in hand to King Henry, turn coat, as Robert de Beaumont and William de Warenne had done, and they had benefited so greatly from that. But Amaury had decided he would not do that. His enmity was fuelled by pride then? He felt that King Henry should treat him as kin. He saw others raised up to earldoms and counties, while he remained a plain seigneur and saw injustice in it since he was close kin to the dukes of Normandy, the counts of Évreux and a queen of France besides. He believed he was due more and that Henry was of a bastard line and an upstart. He is too proud that he has made a mistake with his allegiance and will not change it, Benedicta thought. How complicated men were. So she had reasons in plenty, but her question felt unanswered. He was still a most perplexing man.

  At the Bear Inn in Candes, Benedicta was glad to see Breri’s rotund form and cheerful smile as she entered the inn. She sat down opposite him. His cheeks were fat and stuffed like a hoarding squirrel. The innkeeper set a small jug of ale between them and two wooden goblets, and Breri poured for her. ‘Sister Benedicta,’ he said, ‘I hope you are well.’

  ‘Well enough.’ She was impatient to get the business dealt with and return to Fontevraud, to her prayer and labour in the library.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘It’s quiet today. We can talk here if we’re quick about it.’

  The year had been relatively calm until the summer. King Henry had been away in England for months seeing to matters in that part of his realm and leaving the administration of Normandy in the capable hands of Bishop John of Lisieux. However, the real defence of Normandy was entrusted to the King’s sister, Countess Adela, to the network of spies that laced the duchy, including Benedicta and Breri. The situation for King Henry appeared to Benedicta to be quite positive. His daughter Maud had been betrothed to the German King at Easter in Utrecht and then she was crowned Queen in Mainz Cathedral in the summer. Eustace of Bologne had renegotiated the Anglo-Flemish Treaty with Count Robert of Flanders on behalf of the King.

  Benedicta had felt some qualms when she heard that King Henry exiled William Malet, William Baynard and Philip de Briouze for treason. He had acted on information she had supplied from conversations overheard at Fontevraud. It was the first time she had seen a direct consequence of her spying. William Baynard’s command of Baynard’s Castle had been given over to one of the de Clare family. Her deceit had directly led to the injuring of those three men – and based only on an overheard conversation. It had been bad enough acting as an informer at Almenêches with her friend, Abbess Emma, unaware of her treachery, yet now that seemed trivial. Now she must report on her friends and companions at Fontevraud, who were in many ways admirable and who had done nothing to injure her. Her spying was driving a wedge between Haith and herself since there was so much in her life she could not write to him about. She wished she could know for certain whether her spying was doing good or evil, whether she was simply seduced by her own need for stimulation or her vanity, a need to be of some importance.

  William Clito, whose supporters upheld his claim to Normandy in defiance of King Henry, had survived childhood. In August, the King had sent Robert de Beauchamp, vicomte of Arques, to Saint-Saëns with orders to arrest the boy, but William Clito had been spirited away and nobody knew to where.

  Countess Adela, through Breri, had asked Benedicta to try to find the whereabouts of William Clito. To betray three adult men to Henry’s anger was one thing, but now she was asked to do something that might injure a child, a child who did indeed have the right to rule in Normandy, which his uncle Henry had usurped. She had overheard something pertinent, but should she tell it? She had debated with herself long into many dark nights, and often wished that she could simply return quietly to Almenêches and have nothing more to do with any of it.

  ‘Sister Benedicta?’

  ‘As you know, Breri, I am scribing for Bertrade de Montfort, and I have done my best in sifting through her correspondence, listening to conversations, but I can find no news of the Countess’s nephew.’ There, she had told the lie. She had no way of knowing whether her lie would protect the life and liberty of an innocent boy, or whether it would lead to more war and bloodshed.

  Breri’s cheerful expression fell. ‘Nothing? No whiff?’

  ‘There has been a great deal of talk of William Clito and his tutor, Helias de Saint-Saëns, of course, and Helias’s betrayal of the King, but none of that talk has hinted at where they might be.’

  Benedicta had heard Bertrade say, on at least three occasions, that they were fled to Flanders. Yet here Benedicta sat, those comments erased from her mind, presenting the sharpeyed and razor-minded Breri with professions and expressions of ignorance.

  ‘That is disappointing, Sister,’ he said, holding her gaze, his face expressing a sour dissatisfaction.

  She pressed her lips together and her eyes traced the meandering grain of the table.

  ‘There is another matter we need you to look out for,’ Breri said.

  She raised her eyes to his face.

  ‘We need proof of de Bellême’s treachery – written proof. We think you are our best hope for gaining that, Sister.’

  ‘I can’t think how,’ she said.

  ‘I trust to your ingenuity, Sister. As does the Countess.’

  12

  Fire and Ash

  Owain said nothing of our destination but there was a new purpose now to our ride. His father had clearly sent orders. I suspected that we were on the road to Gaer Penrhôs and only a few miles out from Cadwgan’s castle. Owain directed us off the road and into the trees. ‘We could ride hard and make Gaer Penrhôs before it is full dark, lord,’ one of the soldiers called ahead to Owain. ‘No. Something I have to do first,’ Owain shouted back. ‘We’ll make camp at the lodge and ride into Gaer Penrhôs in the morning.’ Again, I sensed disgruntlement from some of the men. We dismounted before another hunting lodge. Four men disappeared into the trees in search of supper. This lodge must be in frequent use since the hall was well-stacked with firewood and a good cooking fire was soon burning in the hearth. Owain took me by the wrist and led me into a chamber curtained off at one end of the hall where one of the men rose swiftly from lighting another fire in the small hearth there. He bowed to Owain and walked out without looking at me.

  ‘Time for the ransom payment,’ Owain said, smiling.

  I had began to hope that the orders from Cadwgan would lead to my reprieve but clearly Owain had diverted from the direct route simply to take my promise from me. My stomach felt like jelly.

  ‘It grows too hot in here already,’ he said, throwing off his cloak. He whisked the cloak from my shoulders and I grabbed vainly at it, too late. He threw it on top of his own. He stepped behind me, making me anxious that I could not see the expression on his face, the gestures of his hands, and could not prepare myself for what I might read of his intentions. ‘Too hot by far,’ he murmured behind me, his breath brushing the nape of my neck. Swiftly, he lifted the overlarge man’s tunic up by the hem and pulled it over my head, leaving my hair in disarray. My nightgown beneath was unlaced and barely covered my breasts. I had left it so, while I had been feeding Angharad. I hugged my arms to me and began to pull the laces together with the shaking fingers of one hand. Owain reached over my shoulder and put his hand on mine as I fiddled with the laces. ‘No need for that.’ His voice was husky with desire.

  My heart beat furiously beneath my arm as I held the nightgown closed across my breasts. I could see the dark patches of my nipples and the dark triangle of my pubis showing through the thin material. He stepped in front of me again, reached a hand to my
cheek, stroking a lock of hair from my face. ‘So beautiful,’ he said. ‘Nest?’

  Gently he took my wrists, unprying them from their hopeless attempt to protect my modesty, holding my arms away from my body, staring at my breasts, my belly, through their thin covering. He dropped my hands, swiftly unbuckled his swordbelt, letting it fall to the ground with a clatter behind him. He untied the laces on his shirt and braies and pulled the clothes from him. I was breathing in and out swiftly, my breasts pushing at the fabric of my gown. I took in the unfamiliar details of his body. He was beautiful: young and lithe. A small scar followed the curve of one of his hips. His belly was flat and hard, his chest hairless. His skin was so white, it was almost translucent, except where he was heavily freckled on his arms and across his shoulders. His whiteness made his body look cold, like something blanched, found beneath a stone. He gripped me around the waist and pulled me to him and I gasped feeling the warmth of his unfamiliar body through my shift. He smiled, slid the loose nightgown from my shoulders, down to bunch at my waist, his mouth hungrily grazing on my milky breast. He pushed the nightgown further till it slid to my ankles, exposing me. He pulled a cloak from the pile where he had flung them, spread it on the floor, lifted me up as if I were a feather, set me down on the silky fur and entered me. I felt a kind of numbness, my mind trying to catch up with what had happened. His cries of pleasure were muffled against my neck and hair. My eyes were screwed tightly shut and a tear squeezed through at one edge and trickled coldly down the side of my head and into my ear.

  I did not sleep. The fire was low and almost dead when pale light at last seeped through the window. Owain was sprawled naked on his belly on the fur-trimmed cloak he had spread on the ground before the fire; Gerald’s cloak, I realized. I looked at the freckles spattered across his shoulders. His buttocks were firm and rounded. There were red raspberry patches on my breasts and sides where he had sucked at me. I was wet between my legs with him. I saw the shadow of a man cross behind the curtain and reached for my nightgown to cover myself. Owain mumbled, rolled over slowly, opening one eye and smiling slowly. ‘Well …’ he said.

  ‘Yr wylan deg,’ I said to him in a voice that sounded dull in my own ears. ‘O sea-bird …’ I expected him to take up the refrain, to complete the poem he had sent to me at Pembroke Castle, but he looked blankly at me.

  Not him. He had not sent it. Then had it come from Gerald after all?

  He reached for my breast but I moved out of his reach and stood. ‘I need some proper clothes, Owain.’

  He sat up, the rack of his stomach muscles rolling him easily from his sprawled position and he shook his head, laughing at me. ‘As you wish, my lady. Your desire is my command. Soon, you shall have clothes.’

  We rode into Gaer Penrhôs where Cadwgan stood waiting on the steps. His face was grim, but he greeted me courteously, glancing at my attire and then frowning at his son. A maid stood beside him. ‘Gwen here will see to your needs, Princess Nest.’ Should I demand my return to Gerald from Cadwgan? I did not know if the theft of me was Owain’s sole initiative or the orders of his father.

  An hour later, I walked down to the hall and took my seat between Cadwgan and Owain. It was a relief to be bathed and wearing decorous clothing. Gwen had brushed my hair, sniffed at the smell of sex on me, and stared at the red marks on my body as I stepped from the lemon-scented bathwater. There was nothing I could do about that. Everyone would know I had lain with Owain, had dishonoured my husband. I would not weep in front of her, but I longed for the security of Gerald and knew I had lost him now for sure.

  There was strain on Cadwgan’s face, a scowl on Owain’s, and tension in the air. We ate and made inconsequential and spasmodic conversation. I was famished. After the meal, Gwen led me to a cushioned seat by the fire. A bard strummed gently on a harp. Owain and Cadwgan remained in conversation at the table, and although I could not hear their words I could see what they spoke of Owain’s gestures were dramatic. He threw his arms wide. Cadwgan looked coldly at his son. I surmised Cadwgan had not approved Owain’s actions. Nevertheless, I supposed he would not undermine his heir, make him look a fool. Owain had put us all in an impossible situation. King Henry would be insulted, at least for Gerald and little Henry’s sake, if not for mine, and he would not let the insult pass. Gerald was compelled to attempt to get me back and to take reprisals against Owain and his father. Cadwgan’s position with his Norman neighbours, which he had played so carefully for so many years, was ruined.

  After an hour of heated discussion, Owain rose and left the hall. Cadwgan came and sat close to me. ‘I must apologise, Princess, for the inconvenience you have been put to.’

  I raised my eyebrows at such a description, but said nothing.

  ‘I am organising your return to your husband. As soon as I can,’ he said, although there was an air of doubt about him as he said it.

  ‘Was my husband injured in the attack on Cenarth Bychan?’

  ‘The unfortunate … the unfortunate incident at Cenarth Bychan ….’ Cadwgan reached for the right description. ‘No.’ He looked at me earnestly. ‘I believe that Sir Gerald was not injured … physically.’ He looked into my face. So, he knew. Owain had told him, or Gwen, or the soldiers accompanying Owain last night. I blushed and looked down at my hands. ‘Your children are safely back there, I assure you, and you will soon follow them.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He rose and left me.

  I worried at the question of whether I would be able to convince Gerald that nothing had occurred between me and Owain. I had not slept the night before, and the heat of the fire and the heavy meal made me doze. I woke with a start. I must have been asleep at the hearth for hours. The windows were dark and the day had fled. Owain crouched beside me, shaking my arm, Gerald’s fur cloak slung across his shoulder. ‘Quickly, silently,’ he whispered to me, pulling me to my feet and wrapping the cloak about me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sshh.’ He led me to the door and a view of two saddled horses in the midst of a small band of mounted men.

  ‘But –’

  ‘Sshh.’ He hoisted me into the saddle. I looked up and fleetingly saw Gwen’s face at the window above me, her mouth open, before Owain hauled my horse’s head around. ‘Grip,’ he hissed at me. Automatically I did so, grasping the stiff leather of the reins between my fingers, bracing my legs tightly against the horse’s flanks, just in time, before it lurched forward and we were thundering out the gateway and across the drawbridge at speed.

  We rode away from the castle with the sea at our backs, up towards the foothills and then up, up into the mountains. There was no opportunity for conversation. The ten men who rode with us were amongst those who had raided Cenarth Bychan. The moon was a thin crescent sliver and the horses picked their way carefully along the steep paths in the dark. Black trees rose thickly on one side, and a sheer drop was barely visible in the gloom on the other side. After several hours of riding, I saw the outline of a few buildings ahead. We rode into a village, but many of the houses were in ruins, abandoned. A light shone in the window of only one small house, and we made for that.

  Owain lifted me from the horse and I stumbled against him, every limb aching with the fatigue of the ride. ‘Steady, Nest.’ He took my arm and led me into the building. An old man and woman stood bowing a greeting to us. A fire blazed in the hearth and the woman set out wine and bread for us and for Owain’s men. Outside, the men were stabling the horses. I heard the occasional neigh, a hoof striking the cobbles, men calling softly to each other in the dark. The old woman looked at me with shining eyes and patted my arm. She looked up into Owain’s face with adoration. ‘Gilda, my old nurse,’ he said, laughing at her evident love for him. The old man, her husband, I noticed, did not seem so enamoured. Doubtless, if Cadwgan pursued us, they would suffer his displeasure.

  ‘Owain, you need to tell me what is going on.’

  ‘Sit,’ he said to me brusquely, and pushed me unceremoniously down into a chair by the fire. ‘Dri
nk and eat.’ He thrust a wooden beaker and a hunk of bread at me, and then reached for his own. ‘No,’ he said, after eating and drinking for a moment. ‘I don’t need to tell you anything.’ He stood and went to speak to his men. The old woman smiled and nodded her head at me, her wrinkled upper lip slipping inwards to the cavern of her toothless mouth. After ten minutes, Owain returned and pulled me from the chair by the arm. His grip was hard and bruised me. ‘Owain, you’re hurting me.’

  ‘Well this whole escapade is hurting me, I can tell you. In here.’

  He thrust me through the door into a small room with a small bed. Evidently it was the sleeping place of the elderly couple. There was an unpleasant smell. ‘I can’t –’

  ‘Stop whining,’ he said. ‘It’s just for one night.’ He pulled me towards the bed and began to undress me.