by Tracey Warr
‘Sister?’
Benedicta, her back to Amaury, slid the letter smoothly back into the saddlebag, putting it down next to the cloak. ‘I was just tidying your cloak and bag,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Do you need water?’
Amaury was regarding her in a horribly alert manner. He did not look sleepy at all. ‘Wine would be very pleasant,’ he said, slowly.
Benedicta cast about the room. She knew Bertrade often kept a tall, silver jug of wine here, and finding it, she was relieved to see that the engraved lid was on so that the wine did not spoil overnight. She poured a beaker and handed it to Amaury.
‘Won’t you join me?’
She hesitated but then poured a little wine for herself and sipped at it quickly. Had he seen that she was reading the letter from de Bellême?
If Lord de Montfort would sleep, she could take the letter. He must be weakened by his injury. She poured another beaker of wine for him and for herself, smiling at him. He asked her about herself. ‘You are Flemish, I think?’ She told him about her childhood in Bruges, how she had been at Almenêches since she was six, was the library nun now, here at Fontevraud. The wine tasted very pleasant and they took some more. ‘I enjoy Ovid,’ she heard herself saying and bit her lip to suppress a giggle, when Amaury clapped a hand to his mouth to smother his laughter at this statement.
‘Of course you do,’ he said, ‘I am beginning to see that nothing about you should surprise me, Benedicta.’
‘Oh!’ Benedicta was surprised to find that the tall, silver jug was empty.
One side of Benedicta’s face was flushed hot as she knelt in front of the fire, regarding the man. Gently, he pushed her veil and wimple down from her hair and ran his hands over the golden stubble of her head, smiling. ‘A beauty, beneath these black folds then, Sister? A brilliant butterfly emerging from its dull chrysalis.’
She felt the pull of the man as the sea feels the pull of the moon. She could berate him, push him away, but then the dangerous secrets he held that she needed for the King would remain hidden. More of her must be revealed, she thought valiantly, to get at them.
15
After Winter
‘Lady Nest, you have a visitor in the hall.’ I assumed it was my brother, but when I reached the bottom step and glanced into the hall I was shocked to see Richard de Belmeis standing waiting for me, looking very overdressed in lavish bishop’s attire amidst scruffy hounds and scruffier soldiers. Over a pale yellow alb, he wore a richly embroidered darker yellow chusable with a high collar. The cincture at his waist was a thick twist of gilded cord. I felt a momentary disgust at the sight of him, at what I knew of his self-serving hypocrisy, and that he now took the status of a pious man.
‘My dear Lady Nest!’ he exclaimed. ‘How glad I am to see you well.’
‘Master … Bishop Richard!’ The servants had already offered him water to wash his hands and now a maid set a jug of wine and beakers down for us. I indicated a seat to the bishop and took my own beside him, keeping some distance between us. He slung one leg over the other and I was astonished to notice that he wore one green shoe and one red. I had never known him to be scatterbrained.
‘You look well. Are you well? Unharmed?’
I did not know how to answer him. ‘Do you come from … my husband?’ I asked hesitantly.
‘From the King, my dear. I have been negotiating on his behalf with your,’ he hesitated, ‘your friend, Prince Owain.’
I suppressed my irritation at that description. ‘Tell me your news, Bishop Richard, do,’ I said, in no mood to be toyed with.
‘You must prepare yourself for a voyage, my dear, and a homecoming.’ He beamed at me. I looked down the length of the hall where Owain was standing with the houndsman. He stared moodily in our direction.
‘Owain has agreed to release me?’ I asked, not taking my eyes from Owain.
‘He has!’ Richard patted my hand. I moved it from his reach. ‘I had to threaten him that bribes would be going to all his competitors in the other branches of the ruling house of Powys to encourage them to attack him and his father else, but yes, finally I have succeeded in persuading him.’
I never imagined that I could be overjoyed to see Master Richard, yet I turned to him now, smiling, but remembering to temper my pleasure under Owain’s stare. ‘When will we leave? I can be ready quickly.’
‘As soon as you wish, my dear.’ He swung his green shoe gleefully back and forth beneath the folds of his yellow robes and I frowned down at it. ‘It’s all the rage at the English court,’ he told me smugly, jerking his head towards his parti-coloured shoes, ‘but I don’t suppose you have been able to keep up much with the fashions here, eh, Lady Nest?’
I gave no reply but made to rise, impatient for my escape. He touched my arm and nodded me back down to my seat. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘You must be clear about the terms, the account of things we will give.’
‘Tell me ….’
‘If your sons had lived,’ he made a brief grimace of sympathy in the direction of my face. ‘My sincere condolences. But since that is not the case, we are able to take a different tack. It would be best, in law, and for the good repute of your husband, Gerald FitzWalter, and your king, Henry, if you are returned home intact as it were.’ He paused and looked at me.
‘Intact.’
‘Yes. I understand that compensation has been paid to your brother. But if a suit of rape and abduction were brought against Prince Owain, for instance, in the court at Pembroke, this would be in nobody’s interest, dear Nest. Least of all your own. That is the advice from King Henry.’
‘I see.’ I stared expressionless at him. ‘I understand. I will ready myself to depart and swiftly.’ I rose and left him, pressing my lips together, pressing my fingers to my temples.
An hour later, I stood before Owain, waiting for his deliberately delayed attention. ‘I am leaving with the Bishop, Owain. Will you promise that you will see our sons’ graves are tended to? Candles are lit for them?’
‘They were my sons. Of course I will,’ he said petulantly.
I stared at him, searching my mind for any words of farewell I should say to him, but I found none. I turned and walked back to the Bishop. I had to move quickly, without thinking, or I would fall down with the grief of leaving my babies cold in the ground here. ‘We can go now,’ I told Bishop Richard.
He looked surprised. ‘No …’
‘Tears?’ I shouted at him.
‘Baggage?’ he offered timidly.
‘No baggage,’ I whispered, and moved to the door with him trotting behind in his rustling robes and stupid shoes.
‘Certainly, well, let’s see if the ship can be ready for us right away. Should we say some further farewells to the Prince, to our host? No …. I see.’
On the journey from Dublin to Pembroke, I ached for Llewelyn and Einon. A girl on the boat held a tarpaulin over us to conceal me from the men and helped me bind my breasts to soak up the leaking milk. We swayed and gasped at each dousing. The constant struggle to stay upright, not to be washed overboard, to still our chattering teeth, was exhausting. I took a bleak pleasure in watching Bishop Richard spew repeatedly over the side of the ship, and once, not getting to the side in time, over his red shoe.
Spring had arrived in Deheubarth. I looked for Gerald amongst the group of men and horses waiting for us on the beach, but did not find him. These were all unknown faces to me. One of the men dismounted to help me into the saddle. At my urging, we rode swiftly.
At Pembroke Castle, the household was out in force for my return, the courtyard full of avid faces, pushing and straining bodies crowded close together. At first it seemed as if they were all strangers, greedy for sight of me as if I were a baited bear, but at last my gaze alighted on a dear face. ‘Lady!’ Haith stood with his long arms open wide to me, his dense butter-colour hair, the laughing creases of his brown face creasing now for me.
‘Haith!’ I longed to walk into the welcome of those arms b
ut over his shoulder I saw a small space cleared in the press of people, a space around my husband. ‘I am so glad to see you,’ I said to Haith in a low voice, brushing past the quick touch of his hand, to move to stand before Gerald. ‘Husband,’ I began, but was interrupted by the shriek of Amelina’s voice.
‘Make way! Get out of my way!’ Her small hands levered apart the crammed shoulders of two people in the crowd like a blinking mole breaching a mound of soil. Her body wriggled with furious frustration behind her hands and face. Suddenly she was released from the press, bowling at speed towards me, colliding with my chest, her face burrowing into me. ‘Nest! Oh, Nest!’
I kissed the top of her head. ‘Dear Amelina.’
‘I’m so glad to see you safe, my lady.’ She drew a quick breath, readying to launch into her next speech.
‘I am more than delighted to see you, darling.’ I bent so that my mouth was close to her ear. ‘But I must greet my husband first.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She relinquished me, stepping back, grinning irrepressibly, smoothing down the skirt of her dress, pulling at her bodice where it was threatening to reveal a great deal more bosom than was seemly.
I stepped close to Gerald, seeking for some privacy in the melee. ‘My lord.’ There were threads of grey in the blond curls at his temples. I lowered my eyes from the blank of his face.
He took my proferred hand, kissed it briefly, let it drop. ‘Dear Nest.’ There was no warmth in his voice.
I glanced up to his perfunctory smile. He kissed me softly on the forehead. I remembered the softness of his mouth on mine, on my neck, in love, when he had loved me. I looked into the dullness of his pale blue eyes. So, I had lost him then, at last.
‘Amelina will make you comfortable,’ he said. He bowed slightly and walked away. I stood looking forlornly after him.
‘The boys are desperate to see you. Come on, Nest.’ Amelina tugged at me, her eyes looking after Gerald too. ‘He will come around,’ she whispered.
William and Maurice ran to greet me, and I dropped to my knees to embrace them while they chattered excitedly against my shoulders and hair. I held them close, looking over their shoulders to where a shy little girl with fair hair stood with a rather grubby doll in one hand and a scopperil, a spinning top, in the other. ‘Who is that poppet?’ I asked her softly. I reached out my hand to her and she toddled, smiling, to bump against her brothers’ backs. She held the poppet up for me to kiss. ‘You must be Angharad,’ I said, as her tiny fist curled around my finger. I wanted to burst with tears at the thought of my lost baby boys, but I knew it would frighten the armful of children I had here. ‘But where is Henry?’
‘Gone away,’ William told me.
I looked up in panic at Amelina. She gestured calmly with her hands. ‘He has gone to train with Gilbert FitzRichard de Clare’s household. Not far from here. Just up the coast near Cardigan. We can go and visit him. He is fast becoming a little man.’
I bit my lip to stop my welling tears. Two years lost with my children. The last two years I would have had with Henry as my boy still, rather than a fledgling warrior.
For my first few days back, I pled exhaustion and avoided dining in the hall with Gerald and the household. Instead, I luxuriated in the company of my children and Amelina and she caught me up with the news at Pembroke. ‘So what happened?’ she asked me eventually, when the children had left for their lessons.
How much was known? Bishop Richard had been the one to see me in Dublin with Owain. He knew about my lost baby sons and I could assume he would not keep this information to himself. He was not known for his discretion or loyalty. I sighed. ‘What rumours filtered here?’
‘We heard that you and Owain were wildly in love. The bards all sang of it if there were no Normans by. The Welsh Princess at last wrested from the invaders by the dashing Welsh Prince.’ She looked at me expectantly.
‘Did Gerald hear this?’
‘He will have,’ she said bluntly, shrugging.
‘And is it known that I bore Owain twin sons?’
‘No!’ Amelina’s eyes widened, but I knew I could not rely on her surprise at this information. Bishop Richard would certainly convey the news to anyone he thought should know it and that would include the King and my husband.
‘They did not live,’ I said baldly.
She stroked my dry cheek. ‘And now?’ she said, softly.
I looked at my lap. What was the truth of the matter? ‘I love Gerald,’ I said looking up at her, ‘but I’ve lost him for sure.’
She said nothing. Gave me no reassurances.
‘I was abducted!’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘It’s not as if I left my husband willingly. I saved his life and my children’s by my actions.’
‘He knows that,’ she said, grasping at anything that might help me.
I hung my head. ‘I had no choice in the matter. A little part of me thought briefly what the bards sing – that Owain might be a romantic Welsh Prince, what I had longed for all my life, what I deserved, but I was wrong, Amelina.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘I was disappointed in him. Gerald is a hundred times more a prince than Owain will ever be. And this is where I belong, with Gerald, but now it’s ruined.’
Amelina heaved another sigh. ‘Give him time.’
I could not hide and avoid people forever. I went through the routine of dressing listlessly, putting on my best dark red gown, having Amelina brush my hair and plait it with slender pale red ribbons woven through it. My couvrechef was short and gossamer thin. My hair was visible beneath it and, treacherously, still black. It should have turned white with grief for my lost sons, for the trial of my time with Owain, for the knife cut through the love between myself and my husband. I took a deep breath and walked down to the hall. A hush fell on the clattering plates and chattering voices as I appeared at the foot of the stairway. I walked to the dais. Gerald stood and offered me his hand as I took my seat next to his. Before we sat he looked for a long time into my eyes, but he did not smile. ‘Welcome, Nest.’ We sat, and after a disappointed second to see if anything more would transpire between us, the clattering and chattering resumed. A servant poured wine for us both.
‘Are you well?’
‘I am, my lord. I am very glad to be home. And are you well?’ I looked at him, trying to force him to stay in eye contact with me.
‘Yes. All is well, now you are returned.’
But these were merely formal, empty words. I felt no warmth from him, and we struggled to continue further conversation. At least we had broken the ice.
Weeks passed. Gerald did not come to my bed, and I did not dare invite him for fear of rejection. He went doggedly about his business and was merely polite to me. The sun shone on Pembroke, on the river, and on the sea I could spy from the top of the walls, but between Gerald and I there was only perpetual winter, which would never be warmed again by the amber heat of long summer days.
The Norman power block in southern Wales had changed during my time away, with only Gerald and de Neufmarché now remaining from the Normans who had arrived while my father was still alive. Gerald told me that de Neufmarché was well past his prime and held his lands peaceably now. The King’s new men in Wales, the new generation, were his son, Robert Fitz-Roy, who held Glamorgan; Gilbert FitzRichard de Clare, who held Cardigan; and his brother, Walter FitzRichard de Clare who held Striguil.
‘I have to watch my back with these young men,’ Gerald told me. ‘They see Pembroke, Carew, Llansteffan, Cenarth Bychan, and they see castles and lands they would like for themselves.’
‘You are not past your prime yet, husband,’ I told him. ‘There are plenty of wily strategems left in you.’
He smiled at my compliment. Sometimes it seemed there was no need for the Welsh to contend against the Normans, because in time they might devour themselves. Gerald did not speak directly of it to me, but I learned he had lost face over Owain’s attack on Cenarth Bychan a
nd the stories circulating of his escape through the garderobe. Henry had bolstered the Clare family in the region to shore up the disgrace Gerald had suffered, and they now inched their way into lands where Gerald had hoped himself to gain command and win title from the King. As if Owain’s actions had not already done enough damage to the kingdom of Powys, Richard de Belmeis’ ‘negotiations’ on the King’s behalf, had wreaked further havoc in Powys. I feared that yet another swathe of Wales might fall into the Norman grip.
I decided to visit my son, Henry, at Cardigan Castle, with Amelina, and Gerald agreed to come with us since he had business with Gilbert FitzRichard de Clare. The busy days of harvest were in full force as we rode past the fields. Everyone was out working, young and old, striving to bring in the corn before too much rain or too much sun should beat them in the annual race and make them starve this winter. But the weather was temperate, and it looked as if they would win the contest this year.
We paused to look at the scene and rest our horses for a moment. We listened to the sound of threshing in a nearby barn, and the excited barks of dogs. Two peasants, a man and a woman, approached us. He was wearing tight breeches and a belted smock and held a wooden beaker to me. ‘It’s frumenty, lady, to celebrate the harvest. Would you take some? It’s made by my wife, here. My new wife,’ he added, speaking in Welsh and hugging the smiling young woman to his side. The frumenty was made from milk, wheat, raisins and spices and tasted delicious, as I gratefully told her. I took half and passed the beaker to Gerald and his eyes crinkled his thanks to me over the rim of the cup. He passed the beaker to Amelina and thanked the couple in Welsh. We set our horses on towards Cardigan.
