‘Perhaps he is a messenger.’
‘I do not know, my lady,’ Weylin said, shaking his head again. ‘We did ask, of course, but he says he is just a troubadour sent in return for your beautiful gift.’
‘Ah.’ She tried to conceal her disappointment by poking her head into a sack where she smelled currants. She moved on and examined fine white flour, allowing it to sift through her fingers, praising its quality and then she bent over a small white bag with sticks of cinnamon and inhaled a pungent heady smell. ‘Good quality, too, Weylin. You have done well.’
Trying to keep disappointment from her voice, she told Fulk to make a new tally of everything. She turned to the cook again. ‘So his name is Ranulf. It is odd that Archbishop William sends us such a person.’
Weylin shook his head. ‘The archbishop’s man delivered him to the very house, Count Alan’s big place …’ He stopped short. ‘Sorry, my lady, I meant Count Niall.’
‘You can speak of Count Alan. It is an understandable mistake. Go on.’
‘He arrived the day after we delivered your gift and letter, my lady, saying that Archbishop William was sending him to Fréhel with us to see Lady Gunnhild. He is pleasant enough company, always playing a flute or that odd stringed instrument he carries. Though, I would rather he made us laugh as the old gleemen did.’
‘What does he sing, Weylin?’
Weylin scratched his thinning hair. ‘Truthfully, it all is gibberish to my ears, though tuneful enough. He sings his songs in a language of the south. Why, we asked him, do you sing songs in a foreign tongue, and he said he learned them from a man of Aquitaine called Guilhem de Peitieus. We told him to sing in Norman-French and he did, pure sounding as a nightingale, too.’ Weylin scratched his balding head. ‘My lady, where is Aquitaine?’
‘South and west of Brittany. What songs did he sing?’ she repeated.
Weylin looked abashed, colour spreading from the neck of his brown tunic up into his face.
‘Weylin, answer me please. Of what did he sing?’
‘Love.’ Weylin spat out the word with great difficulty and looked at his flour-splattered boots. He peeped up through his strands of hair. His face was crimson. She could not hide her smile.
‘He sings songs no archbishop would wish to hear!’ Weylin added.
Gunnhild began to laugh. ‘So …’ She wiped her hands on her apron, a length of linen cloth tied at the waist to protect her gown, and turned again to Weylin. ‘You finish this. I must go and meet our troubadour. I am puzzled as to why an archbishop, who sees women and carnal ways as both sinful and foolish, would send us one who sings of love.’ She repressed a snort of laughter. ‘Especially at Christmastide.’ She tossed her apron into a basket. ‘We shall have an interesting feast.’ She set off across the hall for the antechamber.
The young man scrambled to his feet as she entered, knocking over a cup from the side table with his elbow, causing it to splash wine red as blood too close to a new Eastern carpet. Gunnhild called back through the opened doorway for a maid to clear the mess.
‘A clumsy gleeman, I see,’ she said. ‘That carpet cost me much silver coin.’ She narrowed her eyes, opened them wide again and stared at him. ‘Have I met you before, gleeman?’ There was something in the young man’s mischievous face, something uncannily familiar that she could not place. She raised her voice a decibel, ‘Speak, I said, do I know you?’ The maid came and began to collect broken shards of pottery and mop up the mess. The troubadour moved neatly out of the servant’s way and with his dainty side-step, Gunnhild recognised that he was delicate in his movements. The servant slid back through the curtain into the hall.
The young man apologised and with great grace bowed low. ‘My name is Ranulf. Archbishop William sends thanks for your gifts and greetings. He has sent me as a Christmastide gift for your castle, good lady.’
Gunnhild waved for the young man to sit again. ‘So I am told.’
The troubadour sat on the edge of the stool studying her.
‘Do you have a message for me?’ Her voice was sharp.
The troubadour shook his head. ‘I carry no message, just my harp and my pipe.’
She took the great chair. ‘Then, perhaps you can explain why they send you here,’ she said.
‘I come because my lord has no need of me this Christmas. He says the Lady Gunnhild has grieved enough, that she will desire songs of good cheer and should be heartened by simple entertainment after the loss of her husband.’
‘Is that so? Well, I hardly ever saw my husband at Christmastide; he was so often with the King. I am used to entertaining in my castles without him.’ She leaned closer to him, scrutinising him. The young man’s cloth smelled of jasmine warmed by the fire into a pleasant odour. ‘So, then, Ranulf, how can you entertain us at our Christmas feast?’ By St Bride, the young man was bold. This was no ordinary messenger. He was too finely dressed and overly familiar, a nobleman perhaps by his bearing. He was fair. His eyes were as green as hers. At this thought a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Could her suspicion be correct? She would make him wait. After all, she could be mistaken. She must be sure. ‘In any case, you had better earn your keep here’ she said, ‘I shall arrange a sleeping space for you. You will have your food for Christmastide if you can prove your voice …’
He interrupted, ‘My lady, I promise you I shall more than earn my keep here.’
‘Who are you? You are not a poor man.’
‘But I am a poor knight, also one who sings of knightly feats. I know many stories and songs of Armorica. You will not regret my presence here.’
She heard the swish of the curtain as the maid entered with a fresh jug of wine and cups. She decided that for now this interview was over, stood up and said to the maid, ‘Grete, take his wine to the cupboard chamber by the kitchen.’ Turning back to the troubadour she said, ‘We shall try you out, troubadour.’ She liked how this new-fangled word tripped off her lips. ‘And be prepared to sing for us tonight. I hope that since you know of Armorica you can sing to us of Tristan and Iseult? My ladies have a liking for that story.’
‘My lady, tonight then. I know the story.’ He scrambled to his feet, bowed, picked up his satchel and made ready to follow the maid.
‘And, I too, so tell it well, ’she called after him.
That evening the candles seemed to burn more brightly than was usual. Gunnhild saw to it that the trestles were laden to overflowing – the cooks had been busy all afternoon creating wonders with their fresh ingredients. Those servants who could be spared from serving, clearing, cooking and housekeeping, knights and noblewomen, feasted together on desserts of pastries stuffed with preserved fruits, dishes of wafers, honey cakes and suet puddings. At last the troubadour stepped forward from his lowly bench into the centre of the hall. He bowed, raised his flute to his mouth and played his first tune so perfectly that a hushed atmosphere began to circulate around his audience. His haunting melody seemed to touch the hearts of all. They fell silent.
Ranulf began his story. He told of how the Breton knight, Tristan, had killed a terrible beast of a dragon and as a consequence won a bride from Ireland for his uncle King Mark of Cornwall. This noble lady was known as the fair Iseult. On their journey from Ireland to Cornwall the ship was becalmed. The poet told how Tristan and Iseult were playing chess to pass time, when Tristan called for a drink. By mistake, Iseult’s maid brought them a flask of wine intended for her bridal night. Tristan drank and passed it to Iseult. Neither knew that it held for them a lifetime of suffering and hardship. ‘After some hesitation Tristan and Iseult confessed their love, and it was soon consummated.’ He said the words quietly, so quietly it seemed to Gunnhild that even the candle flames bent in to listen.
Thinking of her love for Niall, Gunnhild allowed a sigh to flit from her lips. When Tristan fell in love with Iseult it was because they had mistakenly drunk a love potion prepared by a dwarf for her wedding night with King Mark, and then the pair were so deeply enamoured wi
th each other they could not bear to be separated. She had not even the excuse of a love potion, but she loved Niall just as passionately.
‘Woeful it was,’ Ranulf was saying. ‘When they reached the shores of Cornwall, King Mark claimed his bride.’ A soft groan ran around the hall. Then there was a chuckle when he said, ‘But Tristan and Iseult met in secret. They managed to avoid the King’s wrath through deception.’ For a moment Ranulf played a little lilting tune, then paused and said. ‘A few years passed as Tristan and Iseult continued to deceive King Mark, loving each other so deeply that they could not help their love. Meanwhile, the bad dwarf was determined to trap them. When Tristan climbed in through her window he saw the little meddling dwarf scattering the flour and slip out through the door, and when he realised that their footsteps would be revealed, Tristan put his feet together and jumped the distance to the King’s bed. But he had taken a hunting wound that day and now it bled. “You are guilty,” the King said to Tristan when on the following morning he discovered Tristan’s blood on his wife’s chamber floor. ‘ “You may be sure that you will be put to death tomorrow.” ʼ
‘ “Do what you will with me but, sire, for God’s sake, have pity on the queen.” ’ The troubadour bowed his head as he said the words spoken by Tristan.
He looked up again. ‘But there was no mercy. The King’s barons bound the queen. Tristan escaped into the woods whilst Iseult was sentenced to burn as her punishment.’ Ranulf revealed how Tristan had escaped through the window of a chapel on to the cliffs below, a feat no one else would dare for fear of breaking their bones. But Tristan had nothing to lose. He leapt and God’s angels protected him. He hid in the forest and rescued the princess by snatching her from her guards as they led her to her trial. ‘He led her into the forest where for a time they hid, safe from harm.’ As the troubadour said these words he looked straight at Gunnhild.
She looked down at her clutched hands and could not meet his gaze. Her earlier suspicions were correct. She knew him. ‘Enough for tonight and it is a good place to stop,’ she called out. ‘My ladies will dance for us.’ How could he take on such a guise? Why would he?
The troubadour laid aside his flute, bowed to great applause and took his place at the very farthest end of the servant’s long trestle.
Gunnhild stood, and rising to her full height commanded in a clear loud voice, ‘Sir Ranulf, I would speak with you a moment. You sing well. Come and sit with me whilst my ladies are dancing.’ Musicians struck up a tune at her invitation. Cymbals clashed, flutes were raised, strings plucked. Led by Hilde, Gunnhild’s ladies took up positions beyond the high table. They began to weave in and out, making an interlaced chain around two long tables, daintily stepping the length of the hall, moving at first with great grace, then faster, disturbing the neatly laid patterns of floor reeds as they twisted and turned. As they had become absorbed in the dance others from her household joined them. When Gunnhild knew that no one was watching her she turned to the waiting young man now seated by her side. ‘I have observed you closely tonight, Sir Ranulf. By the Lady Mary’s grace, I am convinced more than ever that you are not who you say you are. Tell me who are you, in truth.’
The troubadour sighed. To her surprise his eyes welled with tears. For a moment she remembered her mother – those eyes, that hair so flaxen and thick.
He spoke softly, so quietly she had to lean closer to hear. ‘My lady, do you recall the skates of bone, the winter at Reredfelle and your brother from whom you were separated so that you could have an education at Wilton Abbey?’ He grasped her hands. ‘Do you recall our grandfather’s great window of green glass and our mother who read riddles to us, and the day the priest found us dressed in chasubles and chastised us because we asked him to wed us?’
‘Ulf, Ulf, Ulf.’ She whispered the name over and over. ‘You are my brother, Ulf, but why this curious concealment?’
‘I am indeed Ulf, sister. Let us step into the alcove behind and I can explain.’
They slipped away from the emptied trestles and behind a thick pillar. He took her hands again and held them tight. ‘One reason was that I needed to savour your presence and see the person you are now. I have been a captive almost all my life. There is much in my heart that is missing, a father, a mother, a sister and my grandmother, whom I never really knew. Grandmother Gytha is just a glimmer of a memory, a blurred shadow on the very edges of my vision. It hurts to think of the childhood I lost. The second reason for my deception is that Duke Robert thinks I am with the archbishop’s cousin in Rouen. My freedom is hard-earned. I am the Duke’s man and he will fear that if I associate with you I shall give my allegiance to his brother, William of England. I beg you, Gunnhild, to permit me to continue my deception here as Ranulf the troubadour.’
She drew him further into the depth of the alcove, threw her arms about him and hugged him. He clasped her close. ‘Oh, Gunnhild, I never thought to see you again.’
‘Yes, Ulf Godwin,’ she whispered. ‘I know you well and I shall keep your secret. There is much to say in private.’ She felt overcome with emotion. ‘Our mother has long desired to find you again. She is old now.’ She untangled herself from his embrace and peered into the hall. It was as if they were children again creating mischief, secretly watching the world of adults as they had once done on feast days. The music had slowed. Her ladies gathered in knots, mopping their brows with discarded veils, chattering to young knights who had come up from the castle’s lower bailey for the feast. She returned to him and lifted his hand to her lips. ‘Oh, my dearest brother, clearly I cannot see you alone now. That is if you wish us to keep your secret, but perhaps I can allow my trusted ladies with it. Come to our solar in the hour before Vespers as we embroider and we can withdraw to a private corner and talk. You can tell me what you have heard of us all these long lost years at the Norman court. And, I, well we can talk of the others, our sister, brothers and of our mother.’ She smiled through tears. ‘I shall show you my books. Now, dearest brother, go back to the servant’s table and tonight, sleep well, knowing you have made your sister happy.’
She slipped back into her carved chair and Ulf discreetly returned to his place. Calling for Hilde to come with her she left the merry-making. As they walked to the stairway she told Hilde she had to speak to her.
‘What have I done, my lady?’
‘Nothing wrong, Hilde. I have something to tell you. It is a secret that concerns my brother. Come with me up to my chamber now. None of what I say must be repeated’
‘My lady?’
‘Oh, cover your hair, at once. The priest is already horrified by my ladies tonight. He will condemn our troubadour and accuse him of bad influence.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Hilde said with contrition in her voice as she fumbled with her veil and her silver fillet.
Gunnhild glanced back from the turn in the stairway and saw that her ladies had descended on Ulf and were, she realised, begging him to sing them one last song. He looked up, caught her eye and winked at her.
Each afternoon as Gunnhild and Ulf talked of their lives, her ladies protected him and no one was any the wiser about his true identity. They sank into recollection, often weeping, clasping hands, sometimes laughing and at other times asking questions of each other. Their lost years fell away like leaves from an autumn tree and grew afresh once again, as spring yields new flowers.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, Ulf examined her manuscripts concerning St Brigit. ‘It is a work of art, Gunnhild. But when it is finished you must write down the story of Tristan and Iseult. That tale has words that twist and change like a dance, a story embroidered in poetry.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘But, tonight after I tell the final episode I must return to my lord duke.’
She clasped him to her. ‘I wish you could stay.’ She swallowed. There was one more secret to tell him. She lifted a pen, laid it down again and looked into Ulf’s eyes. ‘I have something I must confess.’ Through that long wintery afternoon she recounted the story of
her own love. When she was finished she said, ‘Love between a widow and her husband’s brother is forbidden by the Church. Yet, I cannot help my love for my lord Alan’s brother. You are a story teller. Can you understand what it is to really live such a story as they sing, to have lived with such deception in your heart?’
He enclosed her in his arms and held her close. ‘God will forgive you. Love is complex. I do not judge you, my sister.’
‘Thank you.’ She gave him a half smile that reflected her sorrow but also it held for her the relief of unburdening. ‘Ulf there is something else.’
‘Yes.’
‘You must go to our mother, even if you must do it secretly. It broke her heart to lose us all, but especially you. She is in a nunnery attached to St Augustine in Canterbury.’
‘I have never forgotten her. My sister, I shall cross the Narrow Sea this summer and we shall be reunited. This I promise you.’ Ulf knelt and lifting Gunnhild’s hand kissed it. Looking up at her, he repeated, ‘I swear it.’
Ulf rode away on a day sprinkled with a first snowfall. Gunnhild sat by her table, with her inks and brushes in front of her and thought of Tristan and Iseult. Night after night, during the darkness of deep winter, she drifted into sleep dreaming that one day Niall would become her Tristan, and that he must come for her, to ask her to return to Castle Richmond.
Epilogue
‘Every good story has its ending,’ I say. ‘This tale has a happy one.’ The hall, already hushed, becomes so quiet that even a candle’s slightest splutter can be heard. I have touched their hearts with my tale.
‘It was a summer’s day, early in the morning of the feast of St John, and Gunnhild was decorating the chapel at Fréhel with flowers and shells for the midsummer mass. She needed a great conch shell for a window embrasure, so leaving the chapel she hurried down into the cove below the castle. After a careful search amongst the great rocky outcrop she found the perfect shell. Cradling it in her hands she took pause, stood on the highest rock and looked out across the sea. The waters were still as if a spell was cast, though in the distance a sailing ship marked the horizon like a thin miniature, a line drawing, not yet filled in. She studied it, thinking to commit the watery grey image to memory. It grew larger and closer, and as it moved into the bay, it seemed to her that a craft was being lowered over the ship’s side. She fled, gathering up her skirts, climbing fleet of foot up the steps, back up into the safety of the castle bailey. Hurrying back into the small chapel carrying her shell, she pondered who was about to land on her shore. Brittany was at peace. The ship could not bring an enemy, not on the Mass of St John, but perhaps a merchant ship had lost its way. She must tell her steward, though Fulk was visiting the village and would not be returned yet. Her guard was alert to any intruders. They would take care of the ship’s crew.
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 34
