Ailith saw Rolf grimace at the industry as he swung into the saddle and caught up the leading reins of the two destriers he was taking to the royal stables at Winchester, three days' ride away.
'It will be finished before you return,' she told him irritably. He would soon complain if she left the rushes as they were to harbour all manner of pests and stinks in the summer heat.
'That's a relief.'
Ailith compressed her lips.
Rolf made as if to ride on, but changed his mind, and bringing his horse around, drew rein in front of her. He looked her up and down, from the frayed edge of her kerchief, to the cuffed toes of her old shoes. 'I remember the first time I saw you, standing over your cabbages with a besom in your hand,' he mused. 'You were angry then too.' Impulsively, he leaned down to stroke her cheek.
Ailith felt the bitter-sweet touch of his fingers. 'And you were the most handsome man I had ever seen, and still are,' she responded with a wounded smile.
They stared at each other, as if trying to peel back the accumulated layers of familiarity that had been laid down season after season, tarnishing and obscuring.
Ailith held her breath, waiting for him to fling down from the horse, take her in his arms and tell her that Winchester could wait, that 'forever' still remained. But he did not move. Locked to the ground by her own doubts and fears, neither did she, and the moment passed, becoming another layer upon the debris.
'God be with you,' he said, and turned his horse around.
'God speed you,' she responded. The feel of his fingers on her cheek lingered like an echo as he rode out of the gate.
Ailith returned to work, venting her emotions in vigorous sweeps of the besom. Julitta came running from her lesson with Father Goscelin. The priest was the younger brother of one of Rolf's knights and Rolf had been persuaded to take him into his household as a chaplain until Goscelin could be recommended to a parish of his own. The young priest had been given the task of teaching the castle children their letters. Only boys were to benefit from his lessons, but Julitta had whined and demanded so persistently that at last she had been given a place among the sons of her father's retainers, and was proving more adept than most of them.
This morning, however, there were tears on her lashes and her face was flushed with temper. From the corner of a vigilant eye, Ailith saw seven-year-old Hamo run to his mother, bawling loudly. A stubby finger pointed accusingly at Julitta.
'What have you done now?' Ailith sighed.
'Hamo told a lie, and when I said it wasn't true and his tongue would drop off, he said it was so, and I was a stupid little bitch. So I kicked him.' Julitta's face was red with indignation.
Ailith eyed her daughter with a mingling of love and exasperation. Hamo's mother was cuddling her fat, pasty-faced son and glowering across the hall at Julitta. 'You should not have done that.'
'He deserved it!'
'Still, you should not have struck the first blow.'
'But he called me a name and he told a lie!' Julitta cried, beside herself with fury. 'He said that Ben was going to marry someone in Normandy. It's not true, he's going to marry me!'
Ailith winced and bit her lip. The child had been bound to discover the truth sooner or later, but she had not bargained for quite so much vehemence. 'Julitta, it was wrong of Hamo to call you names, but he told you no lie. Benedict de Remy has been betrothed to someone in Normandy, a girl of his own age.'
Julitta stared at Ailith with huge, stricken eyes. Her lower lip trembled and she shook her head from side to side with gathering speed.
'Sweetheart… ' Ailith reached for her.
Julitta threw down her slate and stylus and ran away down the hall, her red curls flying and her sobs trailing behind her like a ragged banner. Ailith hastened in pursuit. As she did so, one of the hide thongs securing Rolf's battle axes to the wall gave way, and both weapons clashed down onto a small trestle holding jugs of ale and trencher loaves. One axe landed harmlessly on its side, but the other sank into the table as if the wood was made of moist butter.
Ailith halted. A feeling of dread raised the hairs on her nape and seeped through her pores, chilling her to the marrow. The luck of Ulverton was down, and the way the axe had sundered the wood was an omen. She stared at the still quivering haft and tried to shake off the notion. The thongs were rotten after more than ten years aloft, she told herself; it had been bound to happen. But as she hurried on beyond the exclaiming witnesses to find Julitta, her heart was pounding with fear and the dread remained.
The little girl had thrown herself down upon her small pallet in the main bedchamber, her entire body shaking with grief. It's not fair, it's not fair!' she sobbed.
Ailith gathered Julitta in her arms. Life never was, she thought as she smoothed the unruly hair and kissed the hot temple. 'Benedict is like a brother to you,' she murmured. 'Girls do not wed their brothers.' She half-expected Julitta to be awkward and demand to know why, but the child said nothing. Her sobs diminished to sniffles and the occasional body-shaking hiccup.
'So Hamo was telling the truth,' she said in a quavering, forlorn voice.
'Yes, sweetheart, I'm afraid he was. It doesn't mean he is a blameless innocent,' she added grimly. 'I can imagine the pleasure he took in telling you. Ah, Julitta, why is it so easy to make enemies and so hard to make friends?'
Julitta sniffed loudly, and sitting up, dried her face on the kerchief that Ailith gave her. 'What's a whore?' she asked.
Ailith's blood turned to ice. 'Who told you that word?'
'Is it a bad one?'
'Who told you, was it Hamo?'
Julitta swallowed. 'He said that I would never make a good marriage because you were nought but Papa's stupid English whore and that Papa had another proper wife and little girl somewhere else.' Julitta twisted the kerchief viciously in her fingers. 'He said that Benedict was betrothed to her. I didn't believe him. Mama, what's a whore?'
'Merciful God,' Ailith whispered and turned her head aside, her lips pressed tightly together and her eyes closed. Was this what it had come to? Rolf had been more cruel than he had known that frosty morning in the forge when he had prevented her from cutting her own wrists.
'A whore is a woman who lends herself to a man for money,' she said, forcing herself to speak for the sake of the bewildered child. 'I gave your father everything for love, and we made a pledge to each other.'
'But does he have another, proper wife and a little girl somewhere else?'
How did you explain such things to a precocious six-year-old, Ailith wondered, when you could not explain the wherefores and whys to yourself? The bedchamber walls seemed to be hemming her in, stifling her. With sudden decision, she stood up, tugging Julitta by the hand. 'Come,' she said, 'we're going out for a ride. Elfa needs the exercise, and the fresh air will make us both feel better.'
'But, Mama…'
'You can ask me things as we ride along, and I will do my best to tell you.'
In the hall there was no sign of Hamo, or his mother. Ailith wondered where the boy had picked up his notions and prejudices. Did the other Normans at Ulverton look upon her with resentment as Rolf's 'stupid English whore'? Surely she would have felt such hostility.
Someone had pulled the battle axe out of the trestle and laid it to one side. Ailith gave it a wide berth, issued brief instructions to the servants to continue the spring cleaning, and went outside. But despite the soft spring warmth, she was cold.
'Yes, your papa does have a wife,' she told Julitta as they rode their mounts down the coast path and came to the long expanse of shoreline, bordered by the hissing suck and murmur of the sea. 'But she lives in Normandy and he does not see her often.'
Julitta stared over the glittering plumes of spray to the line where the blue of sea merged hazily with the blue of sky. 'Does he love her?'
'I do not know. It was a marriage arranged by their parents when they were both very young.'
'Like Ben's, you mean?' Julitta looked at her mother, t
he sea-sparkle reflecting in her blue-green eyes.
Ailith saw the trap waiting to swallow her. If she said yes, then she was condoning the breaking of marital law. If she said no, she was a hypocrite. 'Every arrangement is different,' she fenced. 'If my husband had not died, or your tiny half-brother, I would never have given myself to your father. So much depends on chance.'
As they rode along the beach, Julitta held herself to a listening silence that was unusual for her bright, impatient nature, and Ailith found herself talking to the child as if she were an adult.
She told her about the past, about Goldwin and the forge for which he had nurtured such plans; about Aldred and Lyulph, Julitta's dead uncles, their stature and prowess. About the baby she had lost, and her eyes filled with tears.
Julitta was only just six years old and did not understand all that Ailith told her, but she sensed that her mother had suffered greatly, and that the thin, often broken thread-of-gold which her father had woven into her mother's life had been the reason for her survival. She still did not really understand what a whore was, nor why her beloved papa should go and betroth Benedict to his other little girl. Perhaps he loved the other one more. The thought frightened her, and suddenly Julitta did not want to understand. She kicked her heels against her pony's sides, making him canter, and then gallop, as if she could outrun her fears.
Mother and daughter returned by way of the village, where they were greeted cheerfully by those folk not absent in the fields. The carpenter's wife gave Julitta a drink of milk fresh from the cow and a piece of bread smeared with honey from her own hives.
At the end of the village they came to Inga's house. It stood a little apart from the other dwellings and was surrounded by a palisade of stakes to contain her flock of geese when they were not out grazing on the common. Julitta craned her neck nervously, but there was not a single goose, gosling or gander to be seen. Inga's door was open, and as Ailith and Julitta rode past, the little brown terrier came hurtling out to bark at them, its stumpy little legs almost leaving the ground with the force of the noise.
Elfa flickered her ears and sidled. The dog made several dashes as if to attack the horses, but stopped short each time, barking ever more frantically.
Then, faintly, Ailith heard a woman's voice calling for help. For a single, appalling moment, she was tempted to ignore the voice and ride on. So strong was the urge that she actually heeled Elfa's flanks, although her hands remained firm on the reins. The confused mare snorted and turned in a circle.
Julitta watched her mother with wide eyes. After last autumn's incident with that horrible gander, she had privately christened Inga the 'goose witch' and would lief as not go anywhere near the cottage — although sometimes she dared herself just to prove that she wasn't really afraid. The cry came again, thin with pain and terror.
'Stay here,' Ailith commanded, and rode Elfa towards the stockade. Still yapping, the terrier ran ahead of the mare. Julitta deliberated between being adventurous and remaining obedient, and, after a moment, inevitably chose the former.
Ailith dismounted at the door of Inga's cottage and went inside. It was dim within for all the shutters were barred. The hearth in the centre of the room was cold and the sweet reek of blood filled her nostrils. Inga lay on her bed of skins against the side of the room. She was wearing nothing but her shift and this was bunched up around her waist. Her thighs and belly were smeared with blood and there was a glistening red puddle on the beaten earth floor. In her arms she held a tiny baby, and in her eyes there was the terror of a stricken animal. 'Help me,' she croaked.
'Merciful God!' Ailith gasped. Her legs threatened to give way and her stomach heaved. The baby was dead; she could see that it had been born with the cord wrapped tightly around its neck. Its head lolled, its eyes half-open. Its scalp was covered by a fuzz of dark red hair. Between Inga's thighs, she saw the cord of the afterbirth quivering like a bluish-white tail. 'Where's the midwife?'
'No-one knew I was with child. None of their meddling business.' Another spurt of blood reddened Inga's thighs and spilled down the sheepskins to increase the puddle on the floor. 'The afterbirth's stuck.'
Ailith heard a muffled cry from the door and whirling, saw Julitta standing there, her eyes as huge as moons. 'I told you to wait outside!' she shouted at her daughter and moved rapidly to blot the scene from the child's sight. 'Go back into the village. Fetch Father Godfrid and tell him that it is urgent. Hurry now!' She gave Julitta a sharp push. White-faced with shock, Julitta scrambled to untether her pony.
Ailith found a jug and went outside to fill it with water from the well. She poured a beaker for Inga and helped her sit up to drink it. And all the time the blood dripped from between the woman's legs. Ailith pulled the blood-soaked shift down over Inga's belly and took the baby from her to wrap it in a shawl. Images of her own son flashed through her mind, and then, more disturbingly, images of Julitta.
Inga watched her from the bed. The woman's breathing was rapid and shallow, her skin beaded with cold sweat. 'Are you not going to ask me who fathered him?'
'It is none of my business,' Ailith said in a stiff parody of Inga's earlier words.
An arid smile twisted Inga's lips. 'Oh, but it is,' she said, 'or at least it would have been your lord's business had the babe been born alive.'
Ailith looked at the soft red down on the baby's head, at the shape of his cold little hands as she tucked them inside the shawl. She laid him down beside his mother, her mind frantically calculating. Nine months ago it had been autumn. She remembered Rolf saying that he would speak to Inga about the gander, his furtiveness around that time, his sudden absences and the way his moods had been more mercurial than usual. It seemed that he had done more than just speak. 'I suppose he swore you undying love,' she said in a choked voice.
Inga laughed. The sound had a harsh rattle to it. 'Undying lust perhaps. My husband was a vigorous man; I wanted to prove to myself that a Norman could not better him, but I was wrong. I told your man that his kind did not care what they destroyed, and I was right, was I not?' The laugh became a sob. She drew her knees towards her belly as her womb cramped in a vain spasm to evict the afterbirth.
Ailith swallowed, fighting her nausea, her world shattering around her. The dog barked and she heard the sound of running feet. A breathless Father Godfrid hurried through the door, and just as Ailith had done, stopped short in horror.
'Quickly,' Ailith commanded him. 'Shrive her before she dies so that her soul may have peace – more peace than mine.' She pushed past the priest and ran round the side of the cottage where she was sick beyond anything that lay in her stomach. How could Rolf betray her like this? It was unbearable, a waking nightmare.
'Mama?' Julitta's frightened small voice pierced through her soul-sick misery. Swallowing and swallowing again to prevent herself from retching, Ailith straightened and turned to face her daughter. How easily it could have been her own self lying in that hut, she thought. How easily it could still be.
'Mama, is Inga going to die? Is that why you sent me for Father Godfrid?'
Ailith hesitated. Julitta's gaze, although scared, was steady. 'Yes, sweetheart. Sometimes a birth can go wrong, and Dame Osyth wasn't there to help her.'
Julitta nodded and chewed her lip. 'Does that mean the gander can be necked now?' she asked.
Ailith did not know whether to laugh or weep in despair at her daughter's remark which revealed how close in nature Julitta and Rolf were. 'It means,' she said, 'that it is finished.'
Julitta gave her a puzzled look, but before she could speak, Father Godfrid emerged from the hut, his face grim. Ailith did not have to enquire if Inga was dead.
'She should have sought aid in the village,' said the priest. 'But she always held herself aloof. I believe that her heart was still in the north lands.'
Ailith bit back the comment that to leave a heart you had to have one in the first place. What did she know about Inga? Very little, save that she had lain with Rolf and the act
had finally destroyed her.
After arranging with the priest for the decencies to be observed concerning washing and shrouding the bodies of mother and child, Ailith took Julitta back to the castle. The spring-cleaning she had left in such haste was still underway, but her heart was no longer in seeing a thorough job done. From the kitchen sheds there wafted a delicious aroma of meat and onions. Ailith's stomach turned over and she had to clench her jaw. Julitta's hunger was unaffected by the traumas of the day and as soon as she had dismounted, she skipped off to cozen a griddle cake and a beaker of buttermilk from the cook.
Wearily Ailith entered the hall. She parried Wulfhild's two-pronged assault concerning how well the servants had worked in their mistress's absence, and her complaint that Hamo's mother should be rebuked for the rudeness of her revolting son. Ailith was too tired and heartsick to care. 'It doesn't matter any more,' she cut across her vociferous maid and sat down heavily at the trestle where Rolf's battle axes had fallen. Ignoring the food that Wulfhild tried to set before her, she requested instead a cup of mead. Tight-lipped, muttering to herself, the woman retreated.
The weapons still lay on the board. Someone had cleaned and oiled them in preparation for their return to the wall. The luck of Ulverton; the misfortune of some poor English warrior on the field of blood. Wulfhild returned with the mead and lingered anxiously until Ailith gestured her to go away with a sharpness unusual to her character.
The mead was sweet and strong with an underlying clover tang to the honey. It slipped down Ailith's throat and warmed a delicate trail to her Belly. She turned the axe over. Rolf's pride and joy. Perhaps if he had loved her enough to make a talisman of her, he would have kept the faith. Salt burned her eyes even as the mead burned in her stomach. She blinked fiercely, and as her focus returned through the tears, saw several markings incised upon the socket of the axe. It was unmistakable. Beneath some letters which she could not read, was cut the shape of a swan, Goldwin's mark. The weapon was of her former husband's making.
The Conquest Page 28
