Inside the long refectory hall, tables were laid with white napery and wooden platters, cups and spoons. All was hushed except for the rattle as servants set jugs of water and panniers of bread on the snowy cloth. Talk was forbidden here, as at Wilton, so she silently slipped into a position of her own choosing before Christina caught her up and bade her sit beside her and the abbess. She found she had seated herself amongst a group of nuns directly across from Count Alan, his six knights and the pilgrims. She was thankful when Christina sat by the abbess, flanked on both sides by dark-gowned priests. There was no room there for Gunnhild.
After a long grace was intoned from the corner lectern, Gunnhild broke her hunk of bread and ate ravenously, mopping the juices from her bowl of pottage as if she had not seen food for a week. It still being Lent, dishes of baked eggs, custards and plates of cheese arrived in succession on to the table. She thankfully ate all placed before her.
Gunnhild’s sense of anticipation mounted as the meal progressed. What had he to say to her that was so urgent and secret? From time to time her hand flew to the golden chain and the jewelled cross that Count Alan had brought to her months earlier. Her hands twitched nervously and her spoon seemed to make an exaggerated scrape. The suspense was excruciating and the wait terrible, especially as he never looked her way but ate in the required silence slowly and deliberately, not dropping a crumb on the cloth. Glancing towards Christina, she saw the nun’s head was bowed as if in prayer. Gunnhild turned to the nun by her side and whispered her need to go to the privy. The nun never spoke but pointed to a side door halfway along the refectory wall.
Gunnhild climbed over the bench, slipped out of the door and without once looking back passed safely through the refectory’s back porch into a muddy yard behind. She hurried towards a row of wattle and daub huts that had been erected over a running stream. There was usually a stink about such places but these were obviously kept clean since the usual evil smell was absent. She hovered amongst a clump of withies by the stream hoping he would come soon and find her. Christina might note her absence and send someone to look for her. Moments later she heard strong footsteps tramping over the cobbles by the refectory wall. Holding her breath she retreated into the shelter of an elm tree. She recognised his russet mantle as he made his approach. She breathed freely again and stepped out onto the path. Moments later he was by her side.
He lifted her hand to his lips and she felt a new sensation shiver through her as his touch lingered on her hand. He spoke softly. ‘My lady, there is little time so I must be brief.’ Her eyes widened as he said, ‘It is clear to me that your vocation is not strong.’ He paused. She suddenly felt overcome with modesty. He continued, ‘But I can save you from the cloister.’
‘My lord count, I am to be taken into the household of Matilda of Mortain. Though, perhaps she will be kind and help me. What do you think, my lord?’
‘It is all a plot. I think that Robert of Mortain will have plans for a Godwin heiress and if you do not agree to his schemes you will be swiftly returned to the abbey cloister.’
‘What might be Lord Robert’s plans for my future?’
‘He will give you to one of his sons as a husband. And if you refuse you will indeed find yourself returned to Wilton where you will take vows and live your life out behind convent walls. Clearly that fate is not one you desire?’
‘Perhaps I might agree. Perhaps, my lord, I would welcome marriage with a great-nephew of King William.’
He took her hand, bent down and kissed it. ‘Would you? He has a mean reputation.’
He held her hands, enclosing them with his, a strange sensation, indeed, but, though she felt she ought, she could not pull away. She caught her breath and swallowed. She breathed again, slowly. He continued, ‘Would you find me acceptable, my lady, because I can save you from either fate? There are many who will take what they can always, but a good man would marry you for love.’ His words sounded truthful. Momentarily her mother’s image flitted past her eyes. He would have married her and not for love. She glanced up into his eyes. They contained an aloof look, not reflecting the love of which he spoke. They lacked passion. Yet love her he must. He had to if he said a good man would marry her for love, and she was longing for love, so in that moment she decided that he did and sealed her fate. She gathered her courage and matched his cool look with a bold one of her own. ‘What are you suggesting, Count Alan? Is it that I marry you?’
‘Yes, my dear lady, and I would willingly come to Wilton Abbey seeking your hand but you know that the nuns will not agree. None the less, our marriage can be arranged.’ He let go of her hands. ‘Before morning we can be on board my vessel at Southampton and by mid-morning we can be far away from here, sailing across the Narrow Sea. I am set for Brittany on the king’s business. If we are married by a priest in God’s House it does not matter if Christina objects. She cannot undo it.’ He reached down and plucked up the hem of her dowdy gown. Below it a hem of gold embroidery and seed pearls glowed in the moonlight. He pulled her plain gown over the hem of her silk dress and let her mantle fall back over it. His face lines creased with laughter. ‘This tells me much about you, though I am puzzled by its provenance.’
‘It belonged to my aunt. Now it belongs to me.’ He moved so close to her again that she could feel his breath on her cheek and his touch on her arm. He was the answer to her prayers. She would disappoint so many. And could she trust the man who had only eight years ago pursued her mother? Still, it only took her a heartbeat to whisper, ‘How can we marry, my lord?’
‘You agree.’
She nodded. ‘I do.’
‘Come to the Abbey’s chapel. I know Romsey Abbey well. There is a latch gate in the garden wall behind the infirmary. Follow the pathway through the pear trees behind the abbey buildings until you are by the chapel. Another gate will lead you to a side porch. The door will be ajar. After the midnight bell rings I shall be there, waiting for you inside.’ There was a rattle close by. Breaking off, he glanced about. She followed his eyes. It was only a blackbird rustling through a clump of withies. He turned back to her. ‘There is a priest here who is from Brittany. He will do as I tell him. I shall bring witnesses. Do you pledge me your troth, Gunnhild?’
He lifted her fingers and kissed them one by one and as he did she whispered, ‘I do, my lord, it is what I want.’
He clasped her hands and said, ‘I, too. I pledge my troth to you.’ He took her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on her lips. ‘Return to the table and act as if nothing is amiss. I must see to my horses.’ He stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Gunnhild, you will not regret this.’
As if an invisible thread had broken leaving no trace, Count Alan had gone. It was as if he had never been with her, except that he had left on her lips the imprint of a kiss and in her heart hope for a new life. For a candle flame’s flicker she felt the enormity of what she was about to do. She could still go to Christina and confess her sin, but as she slid back on to the bench to sit beside the dark brooding nuns of Romsey she dismissed any sense of regret.
Gunnhild lay wakeful under a coarse blanket on her lumpy cot. She had put aside her plain gown and unbound her hair. When the bell rang she found herself moving and dressing as if walking through sleep. She wore her aunt’s undergown and rich overgown. With haste, she stuffed her ordinary garb into her sack. Pulling on her cloak, and clutching her linen bag she slipped out of the infirmary into the herb garden. She picked her way through pear trees that lined the garden wall until she discovered the latch gate which led to a path behind the abbey buildings. Moments later she was passing the guest house where Count Alan’s soldiers slept. She paused, glanced up at the curved sliver of a moon and stopped, starting at an unexpected sound and nearly dropping her bundle. It was only an owl’s hoot. She caught a breath of chill night air and steeled herself. Hurrying on, thankfully she reached the church without meeting anyone. When she pushed the side door open she found herself again in the narrow nave. Count Alan was
kneeling by the altar where earlier the relic had sat, now gone. The priest must have locked it away. She tiptoed to the rail and knelt down beside him. His armour glinted below his russet cloak. Bare-headed in the candle-light he looked noble and honourable.
He reached out for her hand. ‘My lady, I thought you might not come.’
‘I am ready,’ she whispered.
‘There is little time. We must go into the porch.’ She turned her head towards him. He was smiling at her. He had called her ‘ my lady’ again. No one ever called her ‘my lady’ except Count Alan. It had always been simple Gunnhild or the girl or Swan-Neck’s daughter. This man, who had once wanted to wed with her mother, and who was fifteen years her senior, surely had gentleness in his heart.
Count Alan took a deep breath and looked down at Gunnhild. He stared at the gap caused by the falling back of her mantle and smiled. ‘Christ’s holy bones, that dress is indeed suitable for a princess to wed in.’
Gunnhild stood, letting her mantle hood fall back. Her hair was loose and it cascaded around her shoulders, rippling into a golden fall of waves. ‘I am ready, my lord.’
He called out, ‘Father Adolphus, we are waiting.’
An aged priest appeared from a curtained enclosure beyond the altar and was followed by a small woman in a dark cloak and a man clad in armour. The priest led them into the alcove by the porch. It opened into a small side-chapel to Our Lady.
Alan made the introductions in a low voice, ‘Gunnhild, Father Adolphus and Hubert of Ridgley. Hubert is the commander of my troop. The lady is Hubert’s woman, Ann.’ He nodded at the priest and said in a firm tone, ‘Father, there is no time to spare.’
The ceremony was brief. They plighted their troth and Alan placed a narrow silver ring from his smallest finger onto the third finger of her right hand. To Gunnhild it was exquisite. As she looked closely she saw that it was engraved with tiny curling flowers. Ann produced pale linen ribbons and tied her hands to Alan’s. The priest gave them his blessing and it was done. Alan of Richmond was her husband, handfasted to her as her mother had once been handfasted to her father. However, it was different because she was also wed in a church porch by a priest of the Church and no one could change what had passed.
Count Alan towered over her. ‘Draw up your hood. Your hair and gown would attract a praying monk. Keep your mantle close,’ he warned. ‘Listen carefully to what I say to you.’
As the priest merged into the church’s shadows, Alan took her arm and walked with her back through the nave to a side door. ‘Wait with Ann and Hubert for me behind the church. My men must get out of the guest house and into the stable before that fool Edward of Winchester wakes up, comes prowling and puts two and three together. With luck and stealth we can be on the road south well before Matins. With fortune on our side we can be on my ship before anyone misses you.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘God forgive me for this.’ He traced his finger along her face. ‘You are a beauty and a trusting beauty. When we are in Brittany I shall write to the King. He owes me much, including peace in his northern kingdom. But let us pray that his half-brother does not object and attacks my castles, not forgetting that the Lady Christina wants your inheritance for Wilton.’ Lowering his voice further he said, ‘You are wise to trust in my protection, Gunnhild.’ He removed the linen bands from her hands where they still dangled loosely and handed them back to Ann. ‘Now wait.’
With a sweep of his mantle he hurried back around the church towards the guest house, leaving Hubert to watch at the gable corner. Ann watched from the further end of the church. Gunnhild was alone again. Folding her cloak about her she leaned into the wall, glad the moon was not bright. If she kept very still, nothing could find her. She remembered that when she was a little girl her father had told her about Brittany’s castles, about marshlands and a great abbey on a rock dedicated to St Michael. He had recounted tales about dragons and magical creatures that lived by the shore and sirens that lured sailors. She prayed silently to St Brigit that she would soon see those shores. Footsteps approached, a cloud crossed the moon and Hubert disappeared.
The cloud passed, the sliver of moon glowed again, the stars shed light over the brooding trees beyond her stony refuge and he returned. ‘My lady Gunnhild, come. Our horses are in the lane.’
Ann hurried from her post by the bell tower, took Gunnhild’s arm and guided her behind the building. Once they were amongst trees, someone reached out for her. Alan had come to meet them. She allowed him to hold her close and lead her past a stand of dark elms, along a track and through a large gap in the hedgerow into a meadow where a score of shadowy men and horses waited. Alan took his horse from a soldier and gently pulled the stallion forward by its reins. ‘Can you ride pillion behind me?’
‘Yes, though I have not ridden in years.’
‘Hubert, lift her up into the saddle.’
Moments later she was clinging to Count Alan’s sides, her gown bunched up about her thighs, heels close in to the stallion’s withers, and they were cantering along trackways southwards over the Downs. Gunnhild experienced sublime exhilaration as they flew south, as if ancient dragons had awakened and were in pursuit. She was not a postulant now, not even a companion to Matilda of Mortain’s daughters. She was the wife of Count Alan of Richmond and Penthiévre.
5
‘Then a sail, a great sea-garment was fastened with guys to the mast …’
Beowulf, a verse translation by
Kevin Crossley-Holland, 1968
Shortly before dawn they rode off the hills to the shores of the River Itchen where an assortment of small craft was waiting for them by a jetty. Hubert helped Gunnhild to drop from the stallion. She struggled to her feet, stiff and exhausted. Count Alan threw his leg over and slid down with ease. He lifted her into his arms and carried her on to a waiting skiff where he sat her down beside Ann, Hubert’s woman. The small boats would take them out into the deeper water of the sound where Alan said his ship was anchored.
‘We’ll have a north-westerly, so we are fortunate,’ she overheard Count Alan say to Hubert when he climbed back on to the landing stage and called for two of his men to come and row them out to his ship. He leaned down from the jetty to Gunnhild and touched her shoulder. ‘My love, may I call you that?’ He paused as she nodded. There was merriment in his countenance as, rocking the craft, he clambered back in and on to the side bench, abruptly gesturing to Hubert to sit opposite him. ‘Well, my love, you will soon see the ship.’ His voice sounded animated. To match his enthusiasm, her feeling of excitement increased. When he added, ‘And when we reach my homeland you will have your own castle,’ she thought she would swoon with delight. He was her prince.
It was a fairy-tale coming true. Their two soldiers rowed them along the River Itchen and into Southampton’s sound. The others followed in a small fleet of rowing vessels. Alan pointed out his ship to Gunnhild, saying his was called the Mermaid. It was taller and bigger than the others that seemed to crowd about it like miniature painted beasts. As dawn broke over the sound, Gunnhild saw that the ships rocking on the sea all possessed brightly decorated sails and carved animal heads at their prows. So many vessels were gathered there that it was difficult to know how they could possibly navigate their skiffs through them. Yet she watched thrilled as Count Alan’s men wove their tiny rowing boats effortlessly around lesser ships, all smaller and squatter than the Mermaid until, at last, they reached it.
‘Can you climb, or shall I hoist you up in a net as we would a sea creature?’ Count Alan said to her. In front of them all he chucked her under her chin as a parent would a child. She was embarrassed by this overly familiar gesture in front of his men. They had known each other for less time than it takes for an hour candle to burn from top to stump.
‘I am perfectly able to climb,’ she responded and considered the knotted rope ladder.
‘Then up you go.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes as he added, ‘If Christina and her pack of hounds including that low creatu
re Edward of Winchester are not to catch us you had best make it quick.’
She looked up again at the dangling rope and remembered how she and Ulf had climbed trees years before at her father’s estate of Nazing. As she stood up in the rocking skiff to seize the rope she felt Alan’s hands on her waist. Before she could protest he had lifted her up and she did what came naturally to her. She grasped the rope ladder tight with both hands.
‘Climb carefully, my lady, I am behind to catch you.’
He reached up and pushed her gently from behind and she began to move. Though this ascent was undignified she could not complain of his hand on her backside or the way he guided her legs. It felt firm and secure. A shiver ran through her as his hand momentarily crumpled up her gown and creeping up touched the naked part of her above the ties that held her leggings closed. If she had not been so terrified of falling or others noticing, though he was so close behind her he was completely shielding her back, she would have quite enjoyed the physicality of his hands on her thighs. She must hold on and move her hands upwards one after the other. Remember the tree climbing. No hesitation. She must not look down. She could not look up. Her dress fell back again. He allowed her to climb on ahead. She concentrated on her arms, moving her hands up the knots one after another, catching the shaky rope cradles with her feet until a sailor leaned over the side of the vessel, grasped her wrists and hauled her on board.
Moments later Alan was up behind her. He placed an arm about her shoulder to steady her on the rocking deck, held her close and turned her around to look back to shore. ‘Look how small the land seems now. Once we are all of us on board we can catch the wind.’ He touched her face. ‘Don’t look so scared. I thought you wanted this.’
She nodded and said earnestly, ‘Oh, yes, I do.’ She did want this. She had won her knight and nothing could change it. She felt his strength as he squeezed her arm and was pleased when he said, ‘Then, no return, my love. Let us get you comfortable.’ Before she could reply he turned her round again and pointed to a wooden shelter in the poop end of the ship. ‘That will be your bower. Later Ann will serve you, but for now you should try to sleep whilst the water is calm.’
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 5
