Winter Song

by Roberta Gellis

  Alys watched him go, waiting until the sound of his steps died away. Then she swung back toward the cluster of men and women and gestured them toward her. “What is the meaning of this disgrace?” she called.

  The group, which had been advancing slowly, hesitated. A few heads turned nervously as if seeking an escape route, but Alys was sure there was no other exit from the hall, except the steps that led to the floor above and the floor below, and those were only traps.

  “Come you hither, and quickly,” she commanded, “or my men will fetch you with bared swords.”

  Several of the women began to weep, and all fell to their knees as soon as they were within normal speaking distance, babbling of Master Ernaldus, the bailiff. Alys silenced them with a single furious word.

  “All of you deserve to be well whipped,” she snapped, “and cast out masterless to die in the cold. I do not care that no orders were given. It is your duty to keep all clean and fresh.” Actually what the servants had said was that the bailiff had forbidden them to clean, but Alys simply could not believe such a wild unlikelihood. She assumed that the difference in dialect between her Anglo-French and this southern version of the language had caused her to misunderstand, or simply that the servants were lying. But such a silly lie seemed unlikely, too. She decided to ignore the problem for the moment. It was more important to get the hall clean than to punish the pathetic scarecrows trembling before her.

  “There is one path for you to escape your just deserts,” she continued. “If this hall is swept, washed, and garnished forth as fitting a nobleman’s place before the sun drops in the west, I may reconsider your punishment. Now get out of that muck. You are filthy enough without further smearing yourselves.”

  They rose at command, and were quieter now. Although some still wept, most seemed quite confused, addled with fear and weakness. Alys had to ask where the rush-rakes were, and when they were found, she ordered that a path be cleared for her to walk to the fireplace and to the stairs to the floor above. This done, she lifted her skirts so that the hem would not be sullied by the mess on either side of the cleared path, and passed to the next floor. At the stairs she paused to say sharply that she expected to see a good clearance made by the men, water to be brought up, and the women to have scrubbed clean the area around the hearth before she came down again.

  Above, the situation was considerably better, in that the area was simply dusty and unused. Alys sent Hugo to fetch Arnald, bidding him to bring up a pair of stools, if he could find usable ones. When the master-at-arms arrived, Alys began to laugh at his appalled expression.

  “We are landed in a pretty mess, are we not?” she said.

  “I have never seen the like,” Arnald replied, sitting down at her invitation and looking around curiously. “And I will say this, my lady. Had we not been so many and armed, I think the men-at-arms would have done us a mischief. They are ugly and sullen, and one loudmouth threatened that Master Ernaldus would see us turned out.”

  “Master Ernaldus, eh? That is the second time I have heard his name, and I dislike it already. We will come to him betimes. Now all I desire is to make a clearance here. Ugly and sullen, are they? Then you think it unsafe to use them to clear the bailey? How many are there?”

  “Twelve. It is safe if they be watched by enough of my men to prevent a surprise,” Arnald said after a moment’s consideration.

  “And what of the grooms and other servants?” Alys asked.

  “They are like these in the hall. Never have I seen such miserable creatures. Not even those at Ilmer, where I went once with your father, were so bad.”

  That remark lent conviction to what Alys had been thinking. The people of Ilmer had been long misused by Lady Elizabeth’s first husband and by that man’s father. But this keep had no direct master in constant need of money so that he starved the people to wring a few more pence from the land. The king was not that kind of master. What was more, Alys knew he had not a penny’s profit out of Blancheforte. Thus it must be the bailiff whose neglect or dishonesty made the men-at-arms insolent and the servants quivering lumps of fear. Alys vowed she would make certain that bailiff made no more profit, but first things came first.

  “Leave Hugo in charge of about eight men, and let him see that those men-at-arms do the filthiest work. Meanwhile, do you and the remaining nine men go out on the demesne and bring in what men and women can be snatched. They will be unwilling, but pay them no mind.”

  She thought for a moment, then went on. “Do as little hurt as you can. Take no women heavy with child or with small babes, and leave at least one woman in each house to care for whatever children there be. Of the men, choose out the strongest. I would bid you promise them no harm will befall them, but they would not believe you. Say what you think best to them or nothing at all.”

  “How many will you need?”

  ‘Twenty of each, if so many can be gleaned. But do not spend more than an hour or two searching. Oh yes, let your men who watch the keep guard take the carters’ whips and lay on freely for any slowness in labor or sullenness in looks.”

  “That will be a pleasure, my lady.”

  “Do you know whether there are any stores at all in the keep?” Alys asked next. “Is there a cookhouse and cooks?”

  “A cookhouse, yes. I saw the fires. Whether the creatures around them are cooks, I cannot say. As to the stores, I will set one of the men to looking. I could do with eight to bring in the people, and if you give me leave, I would rather that two men stayed by you. It was Lord Raymond’s order, and if you should need one to run a message, I would not like you to be alone, my lady.”

  “If it was my lord’s order, it must be done. Now, as soon as you return with the serfs, lock up the keep men-at-arms if there is a prison room on the lower floor. If none is there, you will have to chain them, or perhaps there is a storage room you could bar in some way. I would say put them to the sword, except that my lord may wish to question them.”

  “Most wise, my lady.” Arnald was relieved. He did not if think the labor that could be extracted from the rebellious men-at-arms was worth the danger they represented.

  “Oh, yes. Send Edith and Bertha up, and the carters may begin to unload my bed and the chairs and cushions for my bedchamber. Nothing else at this time. I will send word when I desire the other things to be unloaded.”

  The maids arrived with eyes as big as saucers. Having been born and brought up in Marlowe, neither had ever seen such dirt and disorder. Both were older than Alys and could remember that when Alys’s mother was alive, Marlowe did not run with the snap and crackle it had under Alys’s hand, but it had been nothing like Blancheforte.

  “How do they do below?” Alys asked.

  “They have the windows open and are throwing out the foul rushes. Also, the place near the fire is scrubbed clean. I took the liberty of sending two men for clean water. The whole floor will need to be washed.”

  Bertha answered in fair French, since her mistress had spoken that language to her. Both women spoke far better French than their husbands, a natural result of being indoor servants with much greater contact with the upper classes. Before Alys could reply, Aelfric, one of the older, steadier men-at-arms, who was Edith’s husband, called out for permission to enter. Alys gestured to him, but held up a hand to prevent him from speaking while she finished her business with Bertha.

  “Did you have any sour looks or grumbling?” Alys asked the maid.

  “No, my lady.” Bertha seemed surprised. “I do not think those poor, starved creatures could give a sour look to a worm.”

  “Good. If you are not afraid and can bear the stink down there, go down and make sure the work is well done, and send up two women to clear this room. Edith will tell them what to do.”

  Privately Alys felt like laughing at Bertha’s expression, in which pride and eagerness mingled with distaste, the men and women who had elected to follow Alys to France had done so out of ambition or, for the youngest of the men-at-arms,
a spirit of adventure. For the two women, it meant a chance to be personal maids—which might be a curse or a blessing, depending on the character of one’s mistress. But Bertha and Edith knew Alys. She might slap them when she was out of temper, but she was fair, would protect them and their children from everyone else with vigor, and was generous, within reason, with gifts of clothing and trinkets. Moreover, the work was much lighter and more enjoyable. No more scrubbing or carrying. Their only duties were to care for Alys’s clothes, jewelry, and person, all of which was a pleasure.

  Now it seemed there would be even more advancement. In this keep, at least, Bertha and Edith would be the chief women, directing the other servants. Alys was both pleased and amused by her maids’ reactions, complimenting herself that she had chosen well among the many who wished to accompany her. Bertha seemed to draw herself up taller as she went out to the stairs, and Edith looked around at the rooms with a suddenly possessive eye. Then she hurried out after Bertha, and Alys could hear her calling down the stairs that the women should bring up kindling and firewood so that their lady’s chamber should be warm.

  Alys did not wait, but followed Edith out. “Then I will leave to you the care of these chambers, and whatever else can be accomplished to make this place livable,” she said.

  She turned to Aelfric and had to bite her lips at the smug expression of pride he was wearing. Edith and Aelfric had not been married long, and he was patting himself on the back for his choice. A woman who had her lady’s ear could help her man advance, also.

  “Well, is there food?” Alys asked him.

  “Yes, my lady, and good quality, also. There is a fresh-killed sheep hanging and salt pork and beef and fish, turnips in plenty, and barley and corn.”

  “Then why do the servants look like bags of bones?” Alys wondered.

  “The men-at-arms are well fed, and the cooks and their helpers, also,” Aelfric remarked.

  “Oh? So. They will soon be leaner,” Alys promised. “Very well, let us go down and set the cooks to work.”

  A glance around the great hall showed that progress was being made. The mess was nearly cleared off the floor, and the women were cleaning away the more liquid and sticky film with brushes and sand. Although she said nothing, Alys gave Bertha an approving nod. Apparently she had set some of the men to fetching water and emptying the dirty buckets in regular relays now that few of the rushes remained. The floor could be left bare to dry overnight, Alys thought, and the next day she would discover where rushes could be obtained to cover it. Fortunately no more than sweeping was necessary in the women’s quarters and the main bedchamber, and there were rugs in the baggage she could use to cover the bedchamber and anteroom floors.

  The musing had brought her to the cookhouses, and here things were not nearly as horrible as in the remainder of the keep. Although the place would take no prizes for cleanliness or neatness, there was no question that the kitchens and bakehouse could function. Alys ordered that potage and stew for a hundred be made at once and said what should go into the dishes. She was surprised to see the cooks’ terror mount as she recounted the ingredients.

  “Do you understand me?” she asked at last, remembering that Arnald had commented on the different accent with which the men-at-arms spoke.

  “Yes, yes,” the cook she was addressing quavered, “but…”

  “But what?” Alys asked, keeping her tone even. She thought that any sharpness or impatience would only reduce the man to silence, and she wanted to know what was frightening him.

  “To feed so many so richly…there will not be enough…” His voice trembled into silence.

  “My man says there is a whole sheep and barrels of salt meats. How can there not be enough for soup and stew?”

  “For—for the soldiers. It is for the soldiers.”

  “It is for whom I say,” Alys snapped. “But you can tell me who has ordered the stocking of the keep in the past.”

  “Master Ernaldus, the bailiff.”

  Master Ernaldus again, Alys thought. She should have known better than to ask, for the fear was plain in the cook’s face and voice. Alys made no comment, however, merely adjuring the man to get on with his work. She noted also that the cook’s helpers, the only well-fed servants in the place, were all young and handsome, the boys as pretty as the girls. Obviously they were the favorites of the men-at-arms. Alys glanced over them without favor.

  “Use only the best and cleanest,” she ordered. “You will all taste what is set before me and my men-at-arms, and if even one of us should suffer the smallest disorder of stomach or bowels, I will have each of you whipped bloody front and back, those I do not have the heads off. Is that understood?”

  That time her voice cracked like a whip, and a dead silence fell where there had been the soft sibilance of whispers. Obviously it would be necessary to have a completely new staff in the kitchen, but there should be no difficulty in that. For this one day her threat and seeing their protectors cast into the lowest level of the donjon should be enough to control them.

  There was so much to do that it seemed mere minutes instead of hours before Arnald was back with his gleaning of serfs. These poor creatures looked little better than the servants in the keep. Alys burned with rage. From what she had seen, although it was winter, the land looked as if it should be as rich and fertile as Marlowe, yet the pinch of hunger showed in every man’s and woman’s face. There were bad years when crops failed and hunger came even to Marlowe, but the dull resignation of these people implied years of semistarvation. Then apathy was so deep that they had hardly responded to the fear of being seized.

  Arnald confirmed Alys’s immediate deduction. The serfs had tried to hide, but when caught had neither struggled nor tried to escape, he told her. Nor, she saw, did they make any attempt to escape now. They stood like worn-out oxen, waiting to be driven by the pain of the goad until they dropped dead. It was the grossest stupidity, Alys thought furiously, to misuse the serfs to this degree. It would take three of them to do one healthy man’s work, and at that, they would have to be watched every minute, having become so stupid out of fear and hunger that even if they had wanted to complete a task, they would not be able to think how to do it.

  With the substantial increase of the work force, the cleaning process accelerated. At an hour past noon, the hall was clean, if damp. Huge fires burned in each of the two hearths, and trestle tables and benches had been found and set up. This last order caused puzzled looks among the servants, and the setting of thick slices of large rounds of bread at each place by the baker and his assistants caused one wretch to fall on her knees before Alys and beg for a small piece of the heel of the bread. The others watched hopefully.

  “You may have it,” Alys said, “but we will all sit down to dinner in a few minutes. My men are just bringing in those who are working outside. Aye, yes, here is the cook.”

  All stood still, gaping, even when Alys waved them toward the tables, and she told them again to sit so that the cooks’ helpers, staggering under the weight of caldrons of stew, could serve without hindrance. One ladleful of stew was dumped on each round of bread. It seemed very little to Alys, who was accustomed to the well-fed servants of Marlowe putting away soup and roast and greens as well as stew at every meal, and a good deal more on feast days. However, she knew that if these starved beasts ate too much, they would only be made sick. The thick potage, rich with salt pork and barley, would be served to each late in the afternoon. That should carry them through the night and, hopefully, bring them back voluntarily to work the next day.

  Nonetheless, there were endless problems still to be solved, how to find clothing for those who were to remain in the keep, what they were to sleep on—Alys had ordered the pallets they had been using burned—whether there was grain enough for bread for the next morning, a million details. Alys was hardly aware that several more hours had passed and was just directing that straw be brought from the stables for the servants to sleep in, when Raymond walked in on h
er.

  “My God, what have you done?” he exclaimed.

  “Is something wrong?” Alys asked.

  Raymond laughed. “I almost rode out again, believing myself to have come to the wrong place. Had I not heard our men’s execrable French, I would have done so.”

  Alys smiled at the compliment, but there was a sharpness in her husband’s voice that warned all was not well. Since she could not believe he could be displeased to find his residence considerably improved, she assumed that he had discovered more trouble in the town.

  “Come above where we can sit in comfort,” she suggested, immediately abandoning all other problems.

  He glanced around at the scurrying servants and nodded. In the main chamber of the women’s quarters, there was equally frenetic activity. Raymond frowned, but his expression cleared when Alys led him into their own chamber and closed the door. Here was peace. A lively fire burned in the hearth, which was flanked by two cushioned chairs. There was a table with a candelabrum ready to be lit and a flask of wine with two cups. Alys took his cloak and gestured toward a chair.

  “Will you drink, my lord?” she asked.

  “No. I have had enough, although not so much as Rustengo would have poured down my throat if he could. You were right about bringing attendants, but it would not have helped if I had the whole troop. My mother’s cousin still thinks me a child to be told to go hither and yon and repeat speeches like a witless puppet.”

  “Then he will be the more surprised,” Alys said calmly.

  “But not the more pleased. Matters are worse than I had thought, and possibly worse than Henry believed. I fear Rustengo intends to call in men from La Réole and Langdon, which the king specially forbade, and wrest back the government of Bordeaux while de Molis is engaged in the south.”

  “Does Rustengo think he can fight the seneschal?”

  “I doubt he believes it would go so far. For one thing, if de Molis and Navarre come to blows, de Molis may not be strong enough to attack Bordeaux; if he should be beaten and his army destroyed, that would end the threat. And even if de Molis should come in strength, I believe Rustengo thinks he could make easy terms, retiring from office himself, but having a kinsman empowered. He did not say it in plain words, but I think he was offering me that place.”