The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings)

by Carol McGrath

  Gunnhild slipped out through the door in the palisade and followed the steps down into the sheltered cove. As she sat on a rock staring at waves lapping the stones below, listening to gulls cawing, watching distant fishermen cast out their nets from small coracles she remembered the figurines of female saints she had once possessed at Wilton. They had been her tenth name day gift from her mother. What had become of them? They were most likely placed in Wilton’s chapel now that she was gone. An idea came to her, one that was pleasing. That was it, their replacement, a connection between her and the mother she hardly knew now that she was far away in Canterbury, hidden in a cloister, safe from the world. She would make a book inspired by female martyrs, their name day saints. She felt bile rise. Surely it could not be the thought of martyred women, horrific as it was?

  Her hand hovered over her stomach. It lurched and bubbled again. For several days she had been queasy in the mornings and she had ignored it as resulting from her nervousness over Agenhart’s presence in the castle. Now she recognised what explained both her sickness and her restlessness. With joy and relief she ignored her queasiness, leapt to her feet and cried out, ‘Thank God, I am with child!’ She called out to the sea that swirled with a rhythmic gushing sound, sending fans of spay up around her. She held out her arms and shook her head defiantly. ‘I want a girl child. Heaven, grant me this wish.’

  Ann, usually so observant, clearly had not noticed that rags for her courses had lain untouched in the basket sent up by the laundresses over a month before, and Gunnhild had lost track of time passing. So much had been happening that she had not realised she was with child. Now that she knew that she was, she could settle down, lift her pen and create a book. Her book would be a gift that she could pass on to her daughters.

  Wandering aimlessly about the shore, she scooped up her skirts and collected periwinkles and butterfly-shaped shells into its folds. She would draw them into her work. She gathered her mantle up in her hands, anxious to protect her treasures and climbed the steps up from the shore and hastened into the bailey hall to tell Ann her news. As she climbed the steps she made another decision. There would be improvements made to Castle Fréhel whether Alan agreed or not.

  11

  Lammas 1076

  On Lammas day, the first day of August, Gunnhild was engaged in conversation with her new stone mason and a carpenter about a proper new kitchen area to replace the makeshift one, when, through the open shutters of her solar she noticed an outrider clattering over the bridge. She left the pair by her table looking at a drawing and leaned over the thick sill to peer down into the courtyard and get a better view. The rider leapt off his steaming horse and tossed his reins to a stable boy. Gunnhild turned to the mason. ‘Go down to the kitchen and see if your plans will work.’ She gave the mason his plan. ‘It seems a good drawing to me.’

  All summer messengers had ridden into Fréhel with regularity seeking news from Dol. They came from the women who dwelled in outlying castles hoping for news of husbands who had rallied to Count Alan’s call to arms. Hubert could deal with this one. Her new kitchen was much more important.

  The mason suggested building it in stone so they could have a bread oven and a fireplace built into the outside wall over which her cooks could more successfully use their spits and hang pots. He said that he had seen fireplaces set into the walls in Norman castles and he pointed out that there was already a wall-fire in the antechamber beyond the hall. A vent took smoke out through the walls, but if she had the kitchen alcove roof tiled the masons could create a chimney.

  Gunnhild now followed the mason and carpenter down to look but on seeing the rider enter the hall she stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Her heart thumped and her hand went protectively to her belly even though the rider who approached with Hubert was smiling at her. Hubert called out, ‘Never fear, my lady, he brings good news.’

  ‘In that case, Count Eudo can hear it, too.’ She climbed onto the dais, pushed the antechamber curtain aside, and when Count Eudo called out, ‘Who is outside,’ she opened the door and brought Hubert and the outrider into the chamber.

  Turning to Count Eudo, who was half rising from his armed chair, she said, ‘A messenger from Dol has ridden in, from your sons.’ The Count sank into his chair again.

  ‘My lady, you should sit, too,’ Hubert said.

  Count Eudo rose again and offered her his chair. She sank into the cushions on the comfortable winged chair that was drawn up close to the fire even though the day was already warm. Count Eudo took the bench by the window. His forehead was creased with concern. ‘Well?’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Please tell us the news,’ she said more politely to the outrider.

  The young messenger shook his long locks. ‘My lady, Count Alan is safe and he sends you his greetings. The danger to Dinan has been averted. King William landed in Normandy a week ago and he is besieging Dol. Your husband is planning strategy with the King and the Duke of Mortain.’ He turned to Count Eudo. ‘They will continue to fight until they break the Earl’s hold on Castle Dol.’

  Gunnhild stood up shakily. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will send a letter back with you for my husband.’ Count Eudo heaved a sigh of relief. She was happy for the old man but even happier now that she knew the count would return home. He should have gone weeks ago. There was no need for him to be at Frehel, none at all after Brian had left to protect their estates and towns. Count Eudo rose to his feet, knocking over a half-played out chess game that lay on the bench, scattering bishops and pawns over the tiles. Ignoring the fallen pieces he declared, ‘Then we must pack at once. We are returning to Dinan.’ His joy was almost childlike. ‘I have overstayed my welcome, my dear. The King of England will destroy the bastard Earl. I wish I was fit enough to fight, too, but I am past fighting now. My sword arm is useless. I never crossed the Narrow Sea … but then you should be glad that I didn’t. In my day, two decades ago, when I could ride like a winter gale into battle, I slew enemies in scores.’ He smiled jovially at Gunnhild and then thoughtfully tugged at his beard. ‘And your husband will no doubt be back in time to see his son born. We must thank our good Lord in heaven. Get Agenhart to order us up a feast to celebrate.’

  Gunnhild said with authority seeping into her voice, ‘It is Lammas. There will be a feast this evening. Agenhart is already busy with preparations.’ She said to the messenger. ‘Did my lord send me anything?’

  The messenger pulled a folded sealed letter from his gambeson. ‘My lady, forgive me. Here it is.’

  She took it from him and held it tightly, gazing down at the seal. Looking up she said to the messenger, who was diffidently waiting for her instruction, ‘You must stay for our Lammas feast. Hubert will show you a chamber where you can refresh yourself and rest.’ She turned to Hubert, ‘There is an empty store room with a pallet upstairs. Tell Agenhart to give him fresh linen, drink and food and water to wash off the dust of the road.’

  ‘But I need her to help us pack,’ Count Eudo insisted.

  ‘She will come after she has finished cooking,’ Gunnhild replied firmly.

  When the messenger had disappeared into the hall with Hubert, Count Eudo said, ‘Now, read me my son’s letter.’

  ‘My lord, please excuse me. I must read this in private. If anything concerns you I shall come back down to report it.’ She turned on her heel, leaving the Count with his mouth open like a frog’s about to catch a fly. Setting her back, she raised her head and, holding her letter tightly concealed below the drop of her wide, flowing sleeve, she marched out of the antechamber. He would be a good riddance and after he was gone they could get back to normal at Fréhel. Agenhart could go, too. Clutching her letter she ran up the stairway into the privacy of her own chamber.

  She sat in the cushioned seat by the window and broke the seal. Unfolding the parchment she ran her hand over it and smoothed it out. He wrote in English. Reading quickly she saw that he was well and that for the last two months his troops had stalked the borders of Bri
ttany and Normandy. Finally, they had pursued Ralph back to Dol where he was holding the castle. She raised her face and sent a prayer to St Brigit. Penthiévre was safe. The King had come to their aid and was laying siege to Dol. Alan wrote, ‘ It will be a lengthy siege. Earl Ralph has looked for support from the Angevins. The French might become embroiled in the struggle.’

  As she read further she learned that her husband and Niall, his brother, were both safe. Reading the next bit brought her joy. The King recognised Count Alan’s help against the enemy Earl Ralph, the traitors from Maine and Anjou and his loyalty to the crown. ‘ He gives us his blessing. He must give us your lands.’

  Alan added that he had to do penance for his violation of a postulant of Wilton and it would cost him much. ‘ Archbishop Lanfranc demands that we donate a coffer of silver to Wilton Abbey. Now that I have heard that you are with child, Gunnhild, take good care of my unborn son …’

  How did he know? She had not written because she had not known where to write to. Who had known how to find him. Agenhart? Surely not. Then she remembered how three merchants had stopped at Fréhel on their way to Alan’s cloth warehouses in Rouen. Perhaps Alan had departed Dol and had been in Rouen, too. But a son, he could not possibly know that. Sweeping her hand over her belly, she felt in her heart that she was carrying his daughter. Perhaps though, she considered wickedly, the wish for a daughter lay in the hands of the sea gods.

  On a hot, dry day in the middle of August, followed by his baggage train, Count Eudo of Penthiévre rode away from her castle. Before he climbed on to his stallion, he gave Gunnhild a gift from his coffer, a golden oval-shaped brooch with a great ruby in its centre. ‘For your mantle, my dear,’ he said gruffly, ‘And with my gratitude for your hospitality.’

  ‘This is too valuable, my lord Count, are you sure?’

  He had a tear in his rheumy eye. ‘It will remind you of me after I am gone,’ he said as he pressed it into her hands. Then with great grunts and puffs he was hoisted by a groom on to his waiting horse.

  As she stood clutching his gift, watching him trot from her bailey, she felt guilty for resenting him. She turned back to the pathway up to the keep. Now he was gone she would reduce her household servants. There was no need of extra servants and their place was with their families making ready for winter, slaughtering animals, salting pigs and preserving fruit. And though she had grown used to Agenhart she would always find her presence in the castle a threat. Agenhart must return to her own hall that very week. The assistant she had trained would take over.

  Gunnhild climbed back up to the keep feeling light-hearted for the first time in weeks. Now he was gone the castle was quiet. At Wilton she had enjoyed much peace, though never did she regret her choice to leave the abbey, not even with Agenhart in the shadows of her new life. In her bed-chamber she would stumble upon maids busily folding linen, cleaning the privy set into the wall beyond her door, beating her feather mattress, changing her linen sheets or freshening up the garments that hung on her clothing pole. It was her castle, though here she was rarely alone. She sank into a chair by the window and sighed contentedly. Her seamstresses had returned to Rouen promising to come back nearer her time, to loosen her gowns and make swaddling for the child. If I am still here, she thought. Now the King has forgiven us perhaps we shall return to England for Christmastide.

  She contemplated Eudo’s gift. Was it a precious heirloom or should she sell it to a jeweller for silver to contribute to that coffer for Wilton Abbey? It might bring her enough to pay for her building work. She turned it over and over, examining it closely. It was finely crafted but she preferred her own simple cloak pins fashioned like animal heads with their jewelled eyes and garnet-studded enamel work.

  She glanced about the solar. Soon she must bring a painter from Rouen to paint scenes on the walls, and painters cost money. Tapping her fingers decisively on the table, she realised that the ruby itself could buy her a great deal of needed work in the castle. Fréhel was her castle, her dower castle, and it should be beautiful.

  ‘My lady.’ Ann hovered in the doorway. ‘Do you wish me to sweep out the antechamber behind the hall now that the Count is gone? Shall I put things as they were?’

  Gunnhild stood up. ‘Yes do, and Ann, I shall eat dinner there.’ She took a few steps towards Ann. ‘Can you tell the village servants that we have no more need of them now Count Eudo is gone. It is harvest. They can go home and I expect they will be glad to.’

  ‘Agenhart? What about a cook?’

  ‘Especially Agenhart. She has trained up our own kitchen servants to cook for us. She is free to return to her family.’

  ‘As you wish. I shall tell her.’ Ann thought for a moment and added, ‘My lady, do you intend to pass the afternoon here or in the still room?’

  ‘Neither. I intend to ride out on Shadow this afternoon. A stable boy can use the roan and accompany me.’

  Ann’s face contorted into a frown. ‘Is it wise in your condition that you ride over the countryside?’

  ‘Do not fear for me. I need the exercise.’

  After Count Eudo departed, life at Fréhel fell into a gentler rhythm. Gunnhild took regular exercise on Shadow and as her body thickened she wore wider skirts so that she could comfortably ride astride. There would be no hunger this winter. The harvest was already being stored away in great barns about the estate. This efficiency was all due to Hubert. Hubert not only kept an eye on the castle guard, regularly supervising their training, keeping them primed for attacks, but he also acted as a reeve, ensuring that the castle’s crops were brought in, the mills operated efficiently and the fisheries close to their part of the coast paid Count Alan’s dues. He operated a successful system by which he delegated responsibility to experienced loyal men. Yet he kept close watch over them, and over the castle’s own store houses and barns. He put Ann in charge of the fish salters and the drying of cod. For days that autumn the bailey smelled of fish. Gunnhild found herself repelled by the stench. On those days she took herself down to the small bay beyond the palisade where she collected shells to decorate pathways about her herb garden. As September moved into October she felt her baby grow in her womb and soon the emerging bump necessitated the loosening of the laces on her dresses.

  One evening in October she asked Hubert if he could send for a jeweller from Rouen.

  ‘My lady, do you want a jeweller to make you a jewelled cup for your baby?’ Hubert asked, politely laying down a scroll concerning the religious properties on Count Alan’s lands.

  ‘No, I want to raise money to fund the decoration of the solar. Then there are kitchen improvements. I owe the mason and the carpenter coin. The new kitchen is almost complete so I thought to sell one of my jewels.’

  ‘I see. We can send for such a person. But, Count Alan might not be happy if you sold one of his gifts.’

  ‘Not one of his gifts, Hubert, I promise. It is something else.’ She considered. Should she tell him she might sell a Penthiévre ruby? No, it might be best to speak with the jeweller first since all might come to nothing. She fingered her best brooch, a sapphire pin she was wearing on her short mantle. This had been the only valuable jewel she had herself owned before her marriage to Count Alan, a gift from her aunt. It might be better to sell that.

  12

  Christmas 1076

  The jeweller arrived from Rouen on a blustering day in October. He was a wizened elf-like man who reached to Gunnhild’s shoulder. His face was puckered like the skin of a dried apple and his eyes were as sharp as needles. Gunnhild opened her exquisitely carved, bone-plated jewel casket and laid her two treasures on a trestle. He asked that a cushion was placed in the chair to raise him up. For a moment his eyes moved over the casket and his long fingers traced the leaf tendrils and the flower carvings along the sides of the small chest. ‘Lovely craftsmanship,’ he sighed with longing in his voice. He wriggled about in his seat and flipped his mantle under his tunic. He became still as the statues in a cloister as he examined first
her sapphire pin, then the ruby brooch. Laying the silver stick fastener aside he turned the elaborate ruby brooch over and over, holding it up to the table sconce. He jumped down from his cushioned seat with the agility of a man of younger years, rushed to the window with it and held it up, exposing it to the rays of sunlight that poured into the chamber. Nimbly, like a dancer at a feast, he spun around and studied her. She remained by the hearth and raised a quizzical eyebrow, waiting for him to speak.

  At last he said with a gleam in his astute little eyes, ‘It is an exceptional jewel. I can offer for the ruby brooch, that is, if you are selling. I know of an abbot who might like to purchase it as a gift for his German bishop. He has been seeking such a thing for a finely engraved silver crozier.’ She leaned forward to hear him. ‘Blood of Christ,’ he lowered his voice. ‘The ruby will remind him of Christ’s passion.’

  Gunnhild crossed to the trestle and put her sapphire pin back into the casket. It would have to be the ruby. Then the haggling began. After the first offer she deliberately lifted up the glinting jewel from where he had laid it on the table between them and returned it to her casket. After this form of negotiation occurred twice the jeweller offered more and she raised her eyebrow again. ‘Not enough,’ she repeated. He lifted a second bag of silver from his leather satchel and added it to the first. She lifted the jewel, considering putting it away, but thought of her debt to the stone mason, replaced it and said that she was satisfied. She did not think he would offer a fourth time as his eyes had narrowed and his mouth was set into a determined purse. Looking at her thoughtfully he said, ‘You strike a hard bargain, my lady. I hope whatever you need this silver for it is worth the loss of that ruby.’

  She opened her hands, palms up, allowing her trailing sleeves to fall back. ‘Master jeweller, look about you. I need much work done here. It is certainly more important than a ruby for a German bishop’s crozier,’ she said.