This revelation explained why he was dressed so finely. He had been with the King. With realisation she knew that she was married to a more calculating man than the one she thought she had known when she had run away with him from Wilton.
‘My brother, Niall, agrees to dwell with us. As I hoped, he will help me train the new knights that King William intends billeting on us. It will be a great expense.’
She returned his hard look with a questioning one of her own. ‘Why, Alan, is King William billeting knights on us?’
‘King William intends that there will be no more rebellions. He does not want to bear the cost of the mercenaries himself. He is placing soldiers in every great castle in the land.’
‘I see. So, when do we depart?’
‘As soon as we are ready. I have appointed a new man to look after Fréhel. Hubert will accompany us to Richmond. I have need of him there.’
‘You have done all this without coming first to me and your daughter. Where have you been, Alan, as well as Rouen?’
‘With my father in Dinan.’
She felt her stomach heave and somersault as if she was tossed around in a basket at sea. There was no need to ask. She knew in her heart that he had been with Agenhart and maybe intimate. ‘There will be much to pack,’ she said with brusqueness. ‘I must go and tell Ann.’
She called for a maid who had occupied herself with sewing on a bench by a distant apple tree, far away enough to give Gunnhild privacy but near enough should her mistress have need of her. ‘Take Maud to the bower,’ she commanded. ‘Then order hot water for my lord. He will want to bathe.’ Gathering her cloak about her, clutching her basket, she excused herself and went to seek out Ann who was busy brewing that day.
On a fine day with a blue sky and fleeting wispy clouds, Gunnhild, Count Alan, Dorgen, Baby Maud, her nurse and Ann and Hubert gathered in the bailey. They, and a small group of retainers, made ready to mount their horses. Carts of clothing and provisions waited in an orderly line for their departure. Alan had prepared for the first part of their journey home to England, even down to the finest detail of how Fréhel would prosper during their absence.
He climbed onto his stallion, twisted back towards Gunnhild and said, ‘Come on, get up on your mount. I want to see you seat the new sidesaddle. Give Maud to her nurse. They will travel in the wagon. You and my son will ride beside me so that all our villagers can see their lord and lady depart for England.’
Gunnhild gave Maud over to her new wet nurse, Dame Elizabeth. Although Gunnhild liked her and trusted her, she felt sad to lose Maud into her care.
‘My dear wife,’ Alan had said calmly and persuasively some weeks previously, after he had sent to Rouen seeking a reliable wet nurse. ‘It is the way our nobility behave, just as you must now learn to ride sidesaddle. Besides, we must set about providing Maud with a brother.’
She had looked askance at the cumbersome cushioned saddle with a seat which looked as if it would hinder rather than facilitate her freedom of movement, just as a husband tries to limit a wife’s freedom. She was supposed to hook her right leg around the pommel. She practised but it was uncomfortable even though she had a platform at the side on which she could rest her left foot.
She said, ‘My lord, I shall do my best with that saddle but if I find it delays my riding or holds us up, then I do not care what way the nobility of Normandy behave. I shall ride as I find comfortable.’
‘You are competent. You must not hold us up,’ was his firm response.
With the help of her groom, Gunnhild mounted Shadow, sat awkwardly in her new saddle. She let her knees grip the pommel, trotted a few clattering paces forward and took her place beside her husband. She knew that in this saddle every bone in her body would ache by nightfall. Dorgen already had his legs thrown over his prancing pony and he trotted to the other side of his father. Alan spoke warmly to Dorgen. ‘Ready?’
On his return to Brittany he had told Dorgen that he was his father and Dorgen was even more in thrall to him. Was it that now Alan had some of her mother’s lands she was of no more importance to him than a brood mare? He did not speak warmly to her as he did to his son. As she rode out through the gates of Castle Fréhel her heart felt heavy and she wondered when again she would see her gardens, the cove which she loved, the kitchen she had added, the solar with its painted walls and her airy bedchamber that looked over Fréhel’s walls towards the sea.
A month passed during which they rode with pennants flying and carts rattling up the great North Road. They made many stops on the way, to visit Alan’s sister, Matilda, and to show her the daughter who took her name, to allow time to rest, and to break the journey in abbeys and great castles on the way to Yorkshire. Finally they rode through the gates of Richmond on a late August afternoon fat with the promise of a ripe and glowing early autumn. There was a dry breeze on the air and a sky above which crossed the Dales with puffy scudding clouds tinged with gold and pink. Gunnhild had finally mastered the sidesaddle on their long yet interesting journey. With her head held high she trotted through Richmond’s great gates on the high-stepping Shadow, past waving servants and the people of the small town about the bailey gates. She caught a posy of Michaelmas daisies thrown by a child.
As they rode under the new portcullis, she looked up at the grandeur of Richmond’s stone keep and surveyed the great paved courtyards below. When they reached the tower she thought to herself, I shall be mistress of one of the greatest castles in the land. It is my right, my destiny as a Godwin princess to rule my kingdom here in the north with care. She turned to Alan smiling. ‘This is more than I expected. I think I can be happy here, my lord.’ Alan reached out to her and as he placed his gloved hand over her own he said, ‘We must make many heirs to inherit my lands.’
She buried her head into her little posy of late daisies and for a moment smelled their dry elusive scent. ‘And what if there is not another child?’ It was her fear because the midwives had hinted that she might not conceive again.
His brow darkened. ‘Then my brother has all, even though we had different mothers and after that Stephen who is still with Brian in the south.’
‘Why?’
‘It is the way our wills are made. All follows through the male line so long as my father recognises his sons, and he did. So, Gunnhild, provide me with a son.’
She gritted her teeth at that thinking to say, my womb is unfit. But she held her silence. He might think that it was God’s punishment and send her to the convent.
She heard a shout and looked towards the great entrance to see Niall striding across the cobbles. He was so handsome, laughing and carefree, that she forgot her present anxiety and had to suppress an urge to stare at him.
‘Welcome to Castle Richmond, welcome home, my lord brother,’ he said as he bowed to Alan. He reached up to Gunnhild. ‘My lady, my mistress of the castle, what a cumbersome saddle; may I help you down off your horse?’
15
Castle Richmond, March 1079
Two years slipped by. Alan was always away fighting for King William in Normandy or patrolling the borders with Scotland or seeing to his many mercantile interests. He left his brother, Niall, to watch over the Honour of Richmond, reminding her that if he had no son by her, his legitimate wife, Niall would inherit.
Niall dwelled in the gatehouse alone with a few servants to care for his small though towering abode. He was kind and he made Gunnhild laugh, so that she often thought if it was not for Niall and the company of the two children, life at Richmond could be bleak as life in an abbey. At times she found herself longing for his company, looking forward to his presence at her table, admiring his tall, agile figure as he leapt onto a horse or down in the bailey or was showing a youth new manoeuvres with his sword. His quick movements matched his quick wit. She was glad, too glad, she sometimes thought, of his care of Richmond during Alan’s absences. She would catch herself sighing, thinking if before long he would decide to remarry. He never spoke of his dead wife and
she never broached the subject. It would be bold to do so, though she wondered if he ever compared them. In truth, she wanted Niall to admire her for herself and not as a duty to a brother’s wife.
She was alone again and had been so for many long months. If it had not been for Alan’s younger brother she might have despaired. She sensed he warmed to her, even liked her more than a little. Sometimes, when she found herself in conversation with him, seated before the pale linen napery at dinner time, she would catch herself not listening to his words but watching his countenance. His eyes fascinated her. They were extraordinarily dark, a deep, deep brown that was almost but not quite black; they were magical eyes, a moor’s eyes, rich and soft like that rare and valuable cloth they called velvet. She quickly looked away thinking, but I am a married woman. I chose my destiny and this is wrong. I have no business admiring my husband’s brother’s eyes, nor anyone else’s eyes. It is a sin, and indeed more than once a sin since I have admired them too often. She prayed in the chapel for forgiveness and for weeks cast her own eyes to the earth whilst in his company and concentrated better on listening to his words, a resolution which was also difficult since the sound of his voice was lighter on the ear than Alan’s harsher cadences.
In March a great gale blew in from the north, sweeping through the dales, rattling shutters and felling branches. Outside, anything not tightly pegged down banged around with a fearsome noise. On the third morning of the storm Gunnhild ordered fires to be made high in the two vast fire-places that were built deep into Richmond’s walls.
Both children had taken chills a week earlier. Maud had made a full recovery. Not so Dorgen. He had picked up something new and Gunnhild had wondered if the cause had been his insistence on playing sword fighting with a family of mercenary boys who dwelled in the bailey. She would have forbidden it but during a brief afternoon of sunshine she had taken pity on his longing to be free of the keep and allowed him out. Dorgen had sickened on the following morning after Prime and had worsened by Compline. Her night-time vigil had brought no change in his condition. His fever had not abated, his eyes hurt, his small child’s head was sore and by daybreak his chest, trunk, arms and legs were smothered with a rash.
After cock-crow she could bear it no longer. She sent Niall to the House of St Cuthbert on the road to York, with orders to bring back a leech-man. Given the storm’s ferocity it was unlikely that he would return before dawn of the following day, and she fretted that Dorgen might not hold on that long. By now he had all the symptoms of the spotted fever.
Ann insisted that the measles had come into the castle with a new troop of soldiers from the continent. If it was not contained it would cause panic inside their fortress which since the previous autumn had been filled to overflowing with the King’s mercenary soldiers, their wives and children.
When Dorgen sickened she sent two-year-old Maud into quarantine up in the solar with orders to the nursemaid Elizabeth that Maud was not to leave it, not for any reason. Her ladies, too, were banished into quarantine until the danger of infection had passed. Only she, Ann, who had had the disease as a child and had recovered, and Dorgen’s nurse, Amelia, would tend the sick child.
Determined to stop the disease spreading she unlocked the storerooms. Stored there since last summer, were small sacks of strewing herbs with rue and camomile scattered amongst them. The servants must spread them amongst the floor rushes. These herbs would keep infection at bay.
Then fighting the wind and rain she struggled through the courtyard and into the brewery where she ordered small beer to be sent across to the hall. She fought the wind all the way round the yard to the dairy and demanded a pail with fresh milk for a posset for Dorgen. Returning to the hall, she shook off her sodden mantle, selected a small key from her great household ring, and climbed the steps to the dais where she unlocked a squat oak-wood chest.
She fumbled amongst neatly coded pots and jars of ointments until she found what she needed. Lifting a candle to see better she drew out a stone jar which had a purple thread around its wax stopper. It contained a salve of burdock that might sooth Dorgen’s angry spots.
She called down to Ann who was preparing his posset by the fireplace, ‘Bring this up to his chamber too. Can you take over from Amelia? She must go down and check on the bailey children.’
Ann hurried over to Gunnhild. Wearily she pushed a stray lock of hair under her wimple. ‘The posset is ready, my lady. I am on my way. I shall fetch you if there is any change.’ There were dark circles around her eyes. At first Gunnhild had tried to forbid her to nurse Dorgen, but Ann had insisted, ‘I cannot catch it again. I may be pregnant but I am safe.’ As she took the salve she grasped Gunnhild’s arm. ‘When the leech-man comes, he will know what to do. My lady, get rest while you can.’
Gunnhild feared that only a miracle could save Dorgen. I am tired, she thought as she dragged herself up to her chambers. I am exhausted by everything, this castle, a husband who is never by my side, soldiers tramping around the bailey, two long winters and these storms and now this terrible illness. If he dies … she shook her head. I will never forgive myself.
She glanced into the solar on her way up to her chamber. Her women, four ladies, sent to her from minor noble houses for their education, were hugging what paltry warmth they could get from the central brazier.
‘My lady, what news?’ Elaine, a young girl, rose to come to her.
‘None yet. The leech doctor is on his way from the monastery.’
‘St Cuthbert’s?’
‘The same. Stay back. I may carry infection,’ she said as Beatrice came closer. ‘And keep Maud away from the hall.’
‘She is fast asleep, my lady, and well.’ Elizabeth put down her sewing and called over. She pointed to a curtained alcove. ‘She has her poupées for comfort.’
She longed to hold Maud close, to go to her pallet, gather her into her arms and smell her living, healthy smell but she dared not endanger her. ‘That is good,’ she said turning back to the stair that went up the castle’s heart. She bent over, feeling old beyond her years with anxiety, and climbed the stairway up into her own chamber.
Stretching out on her coverlet she fell into an uneasy sleep. It felt as if only a few heartbeats had passed when she woke up in a panic from a dream in which Dorgen was swimming through a dark deep pool. Already the chapel bells were ringing for Vespers. The leech-man must not have come yet or they would have sent for her. Too early of course, she remembered, her mind dimmed by lack of proper sleep. She scrambled to her feet and hurried down to Dorgen’s bedchamber behind the hall.
She pressed a compress against his forehead but he was tossing and turning, muttering words that made no sense. Gently she examined his small body. He was covered from head to toe with the rash and he was hotter than ever. He burst into coughing but when she took him in her arms and tried to hold him up, he did not seem to know her.
Dorgen had loved her as if she were his true mother and since they had come to Castle Richmond she had returned his affection, treating him as if he were her own child, trying not to feel broken-hearted that she had not yet conceived again. From time to time she wrote to Dorgen’s mother. Alan took her letters with him to Normandy but never brought replies. She began to wonder again about the true nature of his relations with Agenhart. Did they renew their old affection when Alan travelled to Dinan to see old Count Eudo?
Lightning flashed through the narrow window embrasure, so close it seemed to light up the small room. Dorgen twisted away from her again.
‘Hush’, she whispered. ‘Sweeting, the doctor will come soon.’
Around midnight Dorgen’s breathing became shallow. She reached down to press a compress on his forehead again and felt someone slip into the chamber beside her. Ann had returned. She looked at Ann with tears gathering in her eyes. She felt the child’s forehead. ‘He is burning up, Ann. It is as if the devil and all his demons are seizing him from us.’
Ann was breathless and her mantle was dripping r
ain. She must have run all the way up from the bailey. ‘The doctor has arrived,’ she said catching her breath and removing her sopping cloak. ‘Just now, as the midnight bell rings. He will be on his way up in a moment.’
‘I pray to holy St Cuthbert that there will be no one else with this contagion. Has Amelia returned from the bailey?’
‘Not yet. Hush, don’t fret, my lady.’
At that moment, the doctor, a leech-man known as Brother Matthew, pushed through the curtain into the chamber. He took one look at the boy, shook his head and lifted the leather satchel he had dropped by the foot of the narrow bed. Opening it he said, ‘If I can bleed him, it brings down the fever.’
‘What if it weakens him further?’ A sense of despair washed over Gunnhild because she could not think of an alternative. She had tried everything to reduce the fever, even bathing him with cool water. The rosemary she had hung about his bed, the worm-wood tonic she had tried to get Dorgen to sip that afternoon, the milk, cowslip and honey possets; the meadow-wort she had strewn amongst the rushes and the amulet of betony that she had hung about his neck had not taken away the heat; nor had they dispersed the evil that hung about the boy. She shrugged and said, ‘Do what is necessary. What can I do to help?’
‘You can pray,’ the leech doctor said, quiet-voiced, ‘and hope that in bleeding him the devil spirits within his disease will leave him be.’ He gazed into her face and she felt he was looking into her soul. ‘And pray that the infection does not spread throughout your household. Have you sent for Lord Alan? The boy is his son, is he not?’
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 18
