“Welcome home, wife,” he whispered to her several minutes later as she lay in his arms.
But she’d already fallen asleep.
Settling In
Their first Yuletide at Shelfhoc was a subdued affair, given the short amount of time they had to prepare. Nevertheless, the house was warmed by the atmosphere of relief and conviviality, and Tybaut made sure the larder was well stocked.
As the winter days went by and spring approached, Lady Pamela Brightmore and her sister, Lady Edythe Walwin lost some of the rigidity they’d maintained on the journey.
“Their fear is gradually leaving them,” his mother told Caedmon when he remarked on their change of attitude. They were enjoying a walk with Agneta in the garden on a warm spring day.
He agreed. “That will be good for Coventina. They are too strict with her. The poor girl can’t do anything without one of them criticizing her.”
“Yes, good for Leofric as well.”
Caedmon turned to face his mother. “You’ve noticed it too?”
His mother smiled. “I believe Leofric is in love with Coventina, but he hesitates, because of his injuries.”
Caedmon frowned. “We need to know how Coventina feels about him. I don’t want to see him hurt.”
“Hmmm. Does she confide in you, Agneta?”
His wife shook her head. “No. I could probably arrange to find out—subtly though.”
Caedmon winked at Agneta. His mother seemed happy to be back in England, something he’d wished for all his life. Yet, he sensed a nervousness. Whenever he mentioned going to pay his respects to the earl, she became morose and angry. He decided to return to the previous topic. “What do the Brightmore women intend to do? Will they seek out their relatives in Wessex, or is that a lost cause?”
Ascha shook her head. “Lady Pamela has already sent messages, but no reply. They’ll be here a long while. What about Leofric? Will he stay with us?”
“I’d like him to and I’ve told him so. I need men around me I can trust. I suppose it depends on what happens with Coventina.”
They found a stone bench and sat for a while in companionable silence before Caedmon spoke. “I’m satisfied with the progress we’ve made. Tybaut has introduced me to all the tenant farmers.”
“What’s your opinion of them?” his mother asked.
“Mostly hard working Saxons. I don’t foresee any problems. Tybaut and I have discussed increasing the provisioning of the manor house.”
“Definitely no problem there,” Agneta interjected. “He’s a good steward. Very thorough.”
His mother turned to look at Caedmon. “Have you seen the church?”
“Yes, Agneta and I went together. Some minor repairs needed, but nothing too serious. It’s a nice little wooden church.”
“Yes, I liked it,” his wife agreed.
“The Woolgars were proud of it. Several of their ancestors are buried in the churchyard,” his mother said wistfully, then suddenly glanced warily at Caedmon.
It was the first time he’d heard her say anything good about her husband’s family. He decided not to pursue the matter. “Tybaut has seen to most of the repairs of the fortress gate, and we’re in the process of improving the ditch and rampart.”
“It’s hard to believe all this labor is being provided free by a Norman earl,” Agneta commented.
Lady Ascha stood up. “Excuse me, I need to speak to Enid.”
Caedmon and Agneta watched her leave the garden, wondering what had caused her abrupt departure. He took his wife’s hand. “Aye, I’m getting more and more curious about this earl.”
Agneta hesitated, then remarked, “Your mother seems nervous when you mention his name.”
Caedmon had noticed, but chose to say nothing. He curled his fingers more tightly round his wife’s hand. “Tybaut and I have gone over the accounts and I have a good grasp on the income and expenses of the estate. While he and the stewards before him have done a surprisingly fine job, I have many ideas about how things can be expanded and improved.”
Agneta smiled. “I’ve been busy too, teaching the servants Tybaut procured. I’m pleased with the improvements in the kitchen, and we’ve aired out the linens and draperies. We’ll have to replace some of them that haven’t stood the test of time.”
Caedmon was gladdened by the optimistic sound in her voice. He put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll definitely have to recruit and train my own men, who’ll be loyal to me alone.” He smirked. “Tybaut introduced me to the men-at-arms provided by the earl. They looked at me as if I have two heads—typical Norman arrogance.”
Caedmon, Leofric and Tybaut went to Ruyton to buy horses. They chose a magnificent roan gelding for him and a sweet white palfrey for Agneta.
“I love her,” Agneta gushed when she saw the horse’s ambling gait. “I will name her Abbey.”
Caedmon was pleased to have given his wife something she loved. “Wyvern saved my life at Alnwick, but he’s never recovered fully from that experience and the long ride from Scotland to Ruyton. I’ll let him retire and enjoy his oats. With Tybaut’s expert guidance, I bought myself this fine new gelding.”
“He’s a beauty,” she agreed, looking at the splendid roan chomping at the bit.
Caedmon grinned. “I’ve named him Abbot.” He was disappointed when Agneta seemed unimpressed.
Tailors and seamstresses came from Ruyton, took measurements and returned with new clothing made from the bolts Caedmon and Agneta had chosen from the selections they brought. Her hair had grown quickly and was now to her shoulders. She looked like the lady of the manor. Caedmon felt a surge of pride at the sight of her. It was plain to see she’d been born to a good family.
They learned what pleased the other when they made love. However, while Agneta welcomed him to her bed with unbridled passion, he sensed an invisible barrier between them the rest of the time and he wondered if she would ever forgive him his role in the raid on Bolton. He sometimes felt she lavished more love and attention on her palfrey than on him. Leofric seemed to merit friendlier treatment.
“It was my plan to ride to Ellesmere soon,” Caedmon announced to the ladies of the household and Leofric one day at the midday meal. “It’s May already and I need to convey my thanks to the earl and come to some arrangement about Tybaut and the men-at-arms. It’s my obligation to offer to serve him in some capacity, though I hate the idea of serving a Norman.”
“So you’ve said many times,” Agneta retorted, banging her goblet down on the table. “You want me to forgive the Scots and the Saxons who aided them, including the two of you, for the murder of my family and destruction of my home, yet you can’t bring yourself to forgive and build bridges with the Normans.”
“I don’t want to argue with you,” he replied, trying to keep a rein on his emotions. Leofric shifted nervously in his seat, and he wondered if his friend and his wife had ever discussed Bolton. Agneta evidently knew it was Leofric who’d stood at his side as he looked at the barn. “I’m willing to swallow my pride and serve the earl, but I’ll never have any love in my heart for the Normans. Leofric and I both know what it is to lose a parent to an invader. Anyway, I won’t be going.”
His mother’s head jerked up, face flushed and shoulders tense.
Caedmon watched her as he explained. “Tybaut tells me the Montbryces have gone off to Normandie, for the summer. They apparently go every year. Won’t be back until September at the earliest.”
“Oh well, you’ll get to meet the famous earl eventually, I suppose,” Agneta said with a degree of sarcasm, her face still showing traces of anger.
“Yes, I suppose,” his mother whispered.
Sickness
Time seemed to go by quickly and soon autumn painted the countryside with reds, golds and browns. They celebrated the equinox, but the next day Agneta suddenly fell ill.
“We must get her fever down,” Caedmon’s mother whispered as she wrung out the cold compress and placed it on Agneta’s forehead. “
And for goodness sake, stop pacing.”
“I don’t know what else to do,” her son replied, running his hand through his hair. He came over to the bed where Agneta lay in a stupor and took hold of her hand. “What’s wrong? She was well yesterday at the Harvest Festival, but during the night became delirious. And she’s too hot.”
His mother chewed her bottom lip. “It could be any number of things. Perhaps she ate something.”
“I ache all over,” Agneta moaned.
Speaking seemed to irritate her throat. She sat up and coughed uncontrollably.
Caedmon was afraid to touch his wife. “Do something,” he pleaded, feeling useless. “She’ll choke.”
If anything happens to her.
His mother looked at him with irritation. “She won’t choke. Be calm. Getting upset won’t help. We must be patient and concentrate on getting the fever under control. I’ll instruct Enid to make mint tea for the cough. Go to the garden and get a sprig of rosemary to hang around her neck.”
Lady Edythe poked her head in the door, holding a linen over her nose and mouth. “I suggest burning juniper berries. It will ease the cough and ward off evil spirits.”
They tried all these remedies, but for three days Agneta hacked and her nose ran. Her fever worsened. “I’m dying, Caedmon,” she moaned.
He sat by her bedside throughout the ordeal, his head resting on the bed beside her, her hand in his. Despite his protestations to the contrary, he was convinced his beloved wife’s death was imminent and had never felt such helplessness.
“You must get some rest,” his mother cajoled, her hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll rest when she’s recovered. I can’t leave her. I’d planned to ride to Ellesmere this week. Tybaut tells me the earl and his family are back from Normandie, but I can’t go now.”
“No, I agree. Better to wait,” Ascha replied. “I’ve told cook to add thyme and chives to the broth we’re feeding Agneta, and we’ll try chamomile tea.”
“My eyes hurt,” Agneta groaned.
Caedmon clenched his fists, angry at his inability to ease the pain of her red, watery eyes.
On the third day, when he woke, he noticed bright red spots inside Agneta’s mouth when she coughed. He fled the room, shouting urgently for his mother.
“That’s a relief,” Ascha sighed when she saw the spots.
Caedmon wanted to strangle her. “A relief?”
Ascha smiled. “Yes, it’s rubeola. You had it as a boy. Agneta must never have had it as a child. She is ill but with care she’ll survive.”
Caedmon exhaled slowly and covered his face with his hands. He sank to his knees in thanksgiving to the Almighty. “You’re sure?”
Ascha nodded. “If, on the morrow, she’s covered with a red rash, then I’ll be sure.”
By the following morning, Agneta’s face was indeed covered with an itchy red rash which gradually spread over most of her body. But her fever was down and the coughing lessened.
The Brightmore ladies were not pleased. Coventina was feverish and coughing.
“I’m itchy,” Agneta complained.
Ascha thought for a while. “Caedmon, we need to trap mice. Ask Tybaut to help you.”
“Mice?”
“Yes, we’ll roast them.”
“Roast them?” Agneta parroted weakly.
Ascha hesitated. “Roasted mouse takes away itchiness.”
Agneta struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. “I’m to eat them?”
Ascha nodded.
“No, I refuse. I’d rather itch,” Agneta exclaimed, bringing on another bout of coughing. She fell back on the pillow, obviously exhausted. It pained Caedmon to see her fair face so ravaged.
“I feel terrible, and I’m sure I look terrible,” she complained.
“You’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he whispered, cradling her face in his hands.
Ascha tapped her chin. “The only other cure I know of is to rub a wolf skin over the rash, but where will we get a wolf skin? We could try boiling some white willow and dabbing it on. I’ll talk to Cook.”
It took another sennight for Agneta to be fully recovered. Meanwhile the Brightmore sisters and Caedmon’s mother were busy taking care of Coventina. He often bumped into Leofric pacing in the hallway outside Coventina’s chamber.
“Don’t worry, Leofric, she’ll recover, like Agneta.”
“They won’t let me see her,” his friend complained.
“About Coventina,” Caedmon began, not sure what he should say. “I’d hate to see—”
“I love her. I can’t help it. Surely you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Caedmon replied sadly, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But sometimes we want what we can’t have. She may not—”
“You’re a fine one to tell me this,” Leofric retorted, shrugging away. “You couldn’t have Agneta, but she’s your wife now. I’ll find a way. I don’t have much to offer, but I love her.”
“I know you do. I’ve known it for a while. You do have a lot to offer. I’ll stand by you, whatever happens.”
Once Agneta recovered, Caedmon found it increasingly difficult to make up his mind about Ellesmere. He’d been shaken by her illness and didn’t want to spend a single day apart. He started making excuses about not going and suddenly time had gone by and Yuletide was upon them. Because they’d been unable to celebrate Yuletide properly the previous year, they planned to have a resounding celebration.
They decorated their home with ivy, holly, and boughs of evergreens. Tybaut procured ribbons in Shrewsbury and Agneta used them to embellish the garlands and wreaths and the Yule Tree. Morris dancers, mummers and sword dancers came from the surrounding communities to perform for them. Agneta clung nervously to Caedmon, her hand clasped over her mouth as she watched the dancers leap over the sharp swords and twirl intricate patterns in the air with them. The dance inevitably ended with a mock death, but the victim was revived by the physician who did the same for the dead hero in the Mummer plays.
Agneta remembered Caedmon’s love of vegetables and had the kitchen prepare lots of winter chard and onions to accompany the meat. For their sweet they enjoyed marzipan and custard.
Lady Pamela fashioned a large Yule Wreath from cedar boughs. Everyone made a wish on it as they celebrated Epiphany gathered around a bonfire outside the house. Their faces reflected the glow of the flames and their breath on the cold air vanished quickly in the fire’s heat. As lord of the manor, Caedmon had the first wish. He rubbed his hands together and put his right hand on the fragrant fronds of the boughs. “I wish for health and prosperity for us all,” he proclaimed.
I wish for Agneta’s love.
Agneta placed her hand on the wreath. “I wish for a babe,” she whispered, blushing, her eyes downcast. Caedmon squeezed her cold hand. He’d hoped Agneta would be with child before this.
“I wish for a wife,” Leofric said loudly, when his turn came.
Coventina reddened and cast a furtive glance at him.
“I wish for a husband,” the shy girl murmured, looking back at her toes.
The Brightmore women exchanged indignant glances that worried Caedmon.
“My turn,” Lady Pamela said. “I wish the Normans had never come.”
“You’re supposed to wish for something in the future, not the past. We can’t change the past,” Caedmon’s mother said. A wistful look stole over her face as she looked at him.
I wish I could be sure she’s happy. What is it that preoccupies her?
His mother took a deep breath. “I wish for an end to the enmity that divides this country.”
“I echo that wish, Lady Ascha,” came the sentiment from Lady Edythe.
They gathered closer to the flames to watch Caedmon lay the wreath on the bonfire. “I have one more wish, before this oath ring burns up completely,” he laughed as the sparks flew. “I want to stop delaying my visit to Ellesmere and get it over with. I’m sending Tybau
t to tell the earl I’ll be there two days hence.”
Despite the heat from the flames that reddened everyone else’s cheeks, the color drained from his mother’s face. “Are you all right, mother? You look pale.” He reached for her arm, to steady her and felt her tremble.
“I was too close to the flames,” she stammered. “Or perhaps I have eaten too much over the last few days. Please excuse me. Time for me to retire to my bed. Goodnight. Thank you all for a wonderful Yuletide.”
“Should I go with her?” Agneta asked. “She certainly seems to have no love for the earl. When you mention his name—”
Caedmon clenched his fists. “I’ve noticed. If I find out he did anything to harm her all those years ago, I’ll kill him.”
Confession
Ellesmere Castle, Salop, England, Yuletide 1095
Relaxing with his wife in their comfortable solar, Ram de Montbryce suddenly exclaimed, “I can’t believe it’s been eight years since our beloved Conqueror died. It’s incredible how much has changed since we were at his coronation.” He stared into the hearty fire. “I’m getting too old to ride out on patrols to defend the Welsh Marches nowadays.”
His thoughts went to his favorite horse, the steed that had helped him survive at Hastings; Fortis had died several years ago. “Brindis is a good horse, but he doesn’t have the same heart as Fortis.”
Mabelle smiled. “But you’ve continued to visit the local market towns, promote trade and immigration from Normandie. You keep close track of the accounts of our various properties in the Marches and in Sussex.”
“And I spend hours in sometimes tedious meetings with various stewards,” he complained. “Let’s face it, nine and twenty years is a long time to keep chasing Welsh rebels. Will the hatred and conflict between our peoples ever cease?”
Redemption (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 3) Page 11
