May 1067, Cricklade, Wiltshire
Elise stood at the prow shivering. It had rained every day since leaving London, and despite an overcast sky, it seemed to have finally stopped. Absent the midday sun, the damp, chilled air enveloped her and her companions in grim silence.
The River Thames had narrowed. A cool breeze rippled the water, lapping against their hull. Roland had told her they would dock at the next village within the hour. Now, watching merchants through the trees, traveling in groups, pulling their packhorses on a trail following the banks, she realized that leaving the ship was another step farther from Marie, from her home in Fontenay. To combat her trepidation, she helped Hortense prepare for their departure.
After packing their belongings, Elise and Hortense left their shelter. An astonishing sight greeted them. Brilliant purple and white mottled flowers skipped across the green meadows, nestled against stones and swept over low hills, rippling like waves. The blossoms reminded her of guinea fowl as they bounced on tall thin stalks, and she wondered if they had curative uses. Closer to shore, mixed among the reeds, she watched them bob and dip in response to the ship’s wake. Her embroiderer’s eye studied the petals as delicate as butterfly wings, and a single long greenish-blue leaf, poised like a sword above the bell-shaped flower.
As they rounded a bend, Elise spotted a walled village. One manor house was situated outside the village along with a mill and a few storehouses. Every other structure sat within a peripheral stone wall. Beyond a few rowboats, no other ships were moored, and she could not see any people on the dock, no watchtower or sign of a Norman garrison.
“Tristan,” Roland called. “Take a handful of men and reconnoiter the village before we disembark.”
“Are you worried?” Elise asked.
“I am a careful man,” he said, scanning the riverbanks. “I like to make sure things are the way they seem before finding out they are not.” He turned to Brian, whose frown mirrored his and to Tristan, who had joined them.
“We’ll wait for you to tell us what you’ve found.” Roland sent him off with a cuff on his back. Tristan strode quickly across the ship and called for Bertrand. Roland shouted an order to his soldiers on the second ship. A message spread to the third vessel as well. In response, the soldiers donned their helmets and readied their swords.
Elise wondered what they would do if English warriors pounced on them, and before fear gripped her, she heard horns from ashore and saw colorful banners and pennons. In moments, a contingent of Normans appeared on the landing. Roland ordered his flags raised and received a welcome banner tilted before them. Tristan grinned broadly at Roland.
Relieved, Roland turned to Brian, her uncle’s man. “Will Lord Stafford be here to meet his bride?”
“Perhaps,” Dubec said, his expression sliding into a scowl.
On the wharf, a group of villagers watched, warily, silently, daring to snicker when, seduced by those purple flowers, Elise plucked a bouquet and found they released a foul smell. They sobered quickly when the captain-of-arms shouted at them, and they shrank from the whip. Still, those English eyes glistened with hostility, and their lips curled in insolent snarls until soldiers pushed or knocked them aside where they lay like submissive dogs. Elise shuddered, seeing the murderous stare of one young woman who had watched her. With her head high, Elise walked past her, sure a knife would plunge into her back. In that instant, Elise understood that these people had not yet been conquered and doubted they ever would be. Furthermore, they despised her because she was—Norman.
That afternoon, the captain of Cricklade’s garrison entertained her, Hortense, Brian, and Roland. He occupied the largest house in the village from which he had a commanding view of the river and thus had no need for a tower. After nearly nine months away from Normandie, he was hungry for news. Roland answered all his questions and gave him a keg of French wine. He opened it immediately, telling them how much more he preferred wine to mead.
“Is it safe to travel now?” Elise asked.
“No route is safer than others,” the captain told them, launching into colorful tales of rebels seeking shelter in the woods, of bands of robbers, and of his own forays to suppress the brigands. He embellished his tales with such lively heroic detail that Elise wondered if he exaggerated.
At the captain’s query, Roland answered. “We are taking Lady de Fontenay to her husband, Alaric of Ewyas, lord of Staffordshire, awaiting us at Tutbury.”
Elise caught a sudden flash in his eyes and the nearly imperceptible rise of his eyebrows.
“Blackwolf,” he said. His eyes glanced warily to her, to Roland, and Brian.
“You know him?” Elise asked, smiling softly.
“Not personally. He is well known among us.” In a subdued, formal manner, he returned to their journey, explaining that recent flooding had destroyed the Roman Road near Tewkesbury. He suggested an alternative well-traveled road, which would take them through the woods and open fields, onto Watling Street.
“You will travel faster. It is a main route, filled with travelers now after Easter. Although it is unlikely your party would be ambushed, my lady, I suggest you travel on ahead and let your goods follow.”
“Why?” Elise asked the now guarded captain.
“From the size of your ships, you are transporting a great deal of cargo. It will take your wagons weeks to get to Tutbury, prolonging your journey,” he said. “A smaller party with a few packhorses and carts could travel more quickly. I would be honored to augment your retinue with fifty men and deliver your goods safely.”
With Roland and Brian’s advice, she accepted the captain’s offer. Elise left her heavy wagons with Brian’s men and began the overland journey. She and her retinue traveled quickly. On Fosse Way, she saw few merchants, but many small groups of men, women, and children with hopeless faces, walking dazed, some hostile, others injured. With bundles on their heads or strapped to their backs, they traveled in wary silence, moving off the road when Elise’s party appeared. Some groups were accompanied by soldiers using whips to move them forward.
They passed several burned out villages and hamlets with cowering people. Although they could appropriate food along the way by right-of-might, Elise insisted on purchasing food instead, thinking her largess would be appreciated. But one villager sneered at the silver dropped into his palm. Offended, she turned away, assuming him ignorant that Norman coins were superior to English coins. When one of the soldiers joked that the man would give his children equal portions of the silver penny for their meal, she remembered seeing dirty children barely peeking out from behind the thatched hut. She wondered if they had anything else to eat before dismissing the uneasy thought. It was not her concern. God had made them English, and if it were his will, they would be hungry. She glanced at Hortense and found her staring ahead, her lips pressed together.
Afterward, Elise no longer sought food from local inhabitants and felt relieved when they entered the woodland, avoided by unarmed travelers. With plentiful game and water for the horses, she no longer saw the villagers’ silent, accusing stares nor heard their guttural phrases uttered softly—curses, she supposed, or worse.
May 1067, Staffordshire
Nearly a week later, Elise sat on her white mare, praying for patience. Small groups of Roland’s soldiers stood beside the road talking, some relieved themselves on the grasses or nearby trees. Many more pushed and shoved and lifted the carts stuck in deep mud. She clenched her teeth at every sound Hortense made: her cajoling, her grunts, her impatient sighs, her shouts intending to aid the soldiers in their task. Her constant chatter—like the sound of cawing, belligerent ravens roosting at dusk—accompanied every move they made.
They had left Burton Abbey this morning, expecting to reach her new home today. Shortly after leaving the main road, they took the narrow, rutted track. Watching the struggling men, she thought it might take another day or more to go even a short distance.
An unbearable tension crept up Elise’s spine. She hated being between things. She wanted to get settled. Yet, each step pulled her farther from home, from Marie, and closer to the unknown. After her wedding, everyone but Hortense and she would leave. Alone in this strange land. And as much as she loved Hortense, at this very moment, Elise wished she had not come. She winced at her wicked thought, for she could see the toll this trip had taken on her aunt.
Regaining her composure, Elise looked at the land this glorious mid-May morning. Her gaze traveled across the expanse of bluebells sweeping far into the woodland beneath the dappled canopy on one side of the track. Eased by the spectacular color, she saw pink-blossomed plants she did not know, nestling in the wooded shade. They’d passed hazel trees with mossy trunks, oak, ash, birch, brambles, and wild berries. Green rolling hills flanked the other side of the road and stretched for miles into the distance. Dent-de-lion raced across the fields. She spotted the cowslip, whose sweet nectar helped her sleep, and another plant used for snakebites. Here in this somewhat familiar place, she would live among the most foreign creatures: the Mercians, Angles, and Saxon peoples.
At Cricklade, she had found them crude, primitive, brutes. Their language, a jumble of harsh, grunting sounds, had grated and clashed in her ears. Their dirty, coarse tunics and rough tools bespoke their backward ways. Glancing back at her entourage, she hoped the Mercian monk from Burton Abbey would be less so. Sitting awkwardly on his palfrey, Brother Derrick talked to Bertrand. Rather appropriate, she thought, for when she greeted him, he sputtered and blushed and seemed as shy as Bertrand, sans stutter. The monk would serve as Tutbury’s clerk and scribe for years. There was time to befriend him.
Brian Dubec hollered from atop his mount, and the soldiers began to move into a crude, irregular formation.
“We are ready to continue, my lady,” he said, reining in beside her. He had removed his helmet and thrown his mail back from his head where it hung like a monk’s cowl. She watched him gaze down the track and over the landscape surrounding them and felt again that he hid something from her. Perhaps about her husband. Often during their journey, she’d caught him watching her. She could not be sure, but she sensed . . . sorrow? Reluctance? She hoped she did not discern compassion seeping from his iron soul. That would truly frighten her.
The white mare she had bought at Cricklade seemed as anxious as she to resume the journey. She pranced sideways, dipped and raised her head, pulling on the reins. “How much further?” Elise asked, biting her tongue, having sworn to herself she would not ask that question.
Brian wheeled his horse and waved at Roland, seeing to the last cart before turning back to her. “We should reach Tutbury well before dark, my lady. The road leads through open fields, and it should be dry after we leave the woodlands.” He looked toward the sun, shading his eyes. Curling his lower lip inward, he whistled. A rider spurred his horse, passed them, and headed down the track. “A messenger to tell Stafford we’re near.”
Roland joined them and, at his signal, all began to move again. Elise’s irritation vanished instantly. Perhaps it was the breeze, she thought, as welcome gusts rippled through the grasses and unfurled their banners.
A little after nones, Roland stopped the party with a raised arm. “Riders coming,” he said tensely.
Dubec quickly rode back among the soldiers giving orders. Elise steadied her horse as Tristan, Giles, Yves, and Bertrand surrounded her. She looked over the fields and saw something flickering in the distance.
Soldiers pulled the carts and packhorses together and formed a defensive wall around them. Although Dubec had expected sporadic attacks, they had traveled without ambush. Clad in armor, the soldiers settled into an alert calm. Roland and the others put on their helmets and fingered the hilt of their swords. Dubec returned, leading Hortense’s horse and Brother Derrick’s mount to Elise. They waited for what seemed like a long time before the riders neared.
The men approaching them were also dressed for war. Beneath the spring sun, they shimmered and glittered, and the pounding of their horses’ hooves on the hard-packed earth was threatening. Brian said to Elise, “Stafford’s banners. He comes to meet us.”
Her heart fluttered, and she glanced at Hortense, who smiled encouragingly. Suddenly she felt hot, dirty, and sticky. A thin line of perspiration snaked its way down between her breasts, reminding her that the wolf pendant hung there. She swallowed thickly and watched the riders come nearer as she sat taller and straighter upon her mount.
A young man rode at the lead, rocking in a smooth canter. She looked at him carefully, vexed that the nose guard of his helmet hid the planes of his face. She felt herself tremble and held her reins tightly so her hands would not shake. The lead rider raised his hand, and the ten men behind him reined in. Roland moved forward. The leader removed his helmet. The two men exchanged greetings. The stranger’s eyes swept to her.
She saw a handsome man with sandy hair, warm brown eyes, and an easy smile. The Black Wolf? Elise wondered, trying to reconcile the tales of a ferocious, ruthless warrior with this seemingly friendly young man, not much older than her own twenty-one winters.
He urged his horse forward to greet her. “Countess de Fontenay?” he asked incredulously, reminding her of Dreux who asked the same at her betrothal, with the same voice. She saw his quick glance at Dubec, and Brian’s mocking smile.
“Welcome, welcome,” the stranger said, nearly stammering. “I am your servant, Johan de Vaux, seneschal to my liege, Lord Stafford. He . . . he is unable to greet you personally. I have come in his stead.”
Elise felt Roland’s sudden anger. One did not entrust this initial greeting to an underling. She knew it, but she also knew this was a time of war. Her fiancé had not attended the betrothal negotiations because the king had sent him elsewhere. He held the king’s confidence and might find it necessary to have a proxy for the wedding as well. This was not the beginning she had hoped for. Nevertheless, it was her beginning to make of it what she would.
Elise gave Johan a radiant smile. “Your welcome is most appreciated for it means we near our destination.”
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat, “it is only another hour’s ride.” His gaze flitted over the fleur-de-lis on her green and blue pennons, her cavalcade. Anticipating his question, she told him that the rest of her chattel would arrive in a few weeks.
He looked at the monk, “Are you the scribe sent to me from Abbey Burton?”
“Yes, my lord. I am Brother Derrick.”
“Good.” Johan turned his horse and rode beside Elise. Asking her about the journey and the weather, he glanced at her frequently, almost surreptitiously. She learned that Johan and the men with him had all been mercenaries a few months ago. Now, liegemen to her betrothed, they served him loyally. To ease Johan’s awkward attempts to converse with her, she asked about the area. His answers sparked a series of questions from Tristan and Giles, which diverted Johan’s attention from her.
As the travelers reached the crest of a hill, they paused.
“Tutbury,” Johan said.
A lush narrow valley spread out before them. In the distance, Elise saw a natural crag that seemed to rise abruptly from the vale. A timber tower crowned the top. On the left, a woodland spread from north to south, hugged the hill, and extended west as far as she could see. Beyond the escarpment, a river meandered and arched to the right, curving east through the valley, disappearing from her view as it entered more woods spreading eastward.
“River Dove,” Johan said, “flooded this last spring, and the marshes are still boggy.”
At her questions, she learned the area was sparsely populated, that although the land appeared rich in red marl, there were few crops. Johan told her the river’s fish should sustain them until they could plant more, and the woodland was full of berries and game. She smiled. At the very least, she and her husband might enjoy hunting and hawking together.
He pointed out the sheep. “We brought those with us to settle the land.”
“In Cricklade, I purchased long, wooly ringlets,” she said.
“I’ve seen such sheep. It was a good purchase,” Johan said. “Lord Stafford’s sheep have coarse, tight fleece, and we do not yet have enough to supply the castle.”
“Tell me about the woods and the woodland dwellers.”
“It is very thick, dense, with a heavy canopy. We’ve found some huts tucked among the trees, and the people scatter and hide when approached. Their language is Welsh.”
“Are we close to the border?” She’d heard blood-chilling stories of Welsh raiders, especially how they steal women.
As if he had forgotten what they were talking about, Johan blinked and looked away. Clearing his throat, he said, “Not too close, my lady. But the Welsh have hunted here for years, and over time, some have settled the land.”
“Who chose this site for a castle? The king?” she asked.
“Lord Stafford.”
“He chose well, did he not?” She was too far away to see the details but knew the tower would have an unobstructed view of the surrounding land for miles. Since it was difficult to move an army through dense trees, the castle would not fall easily to surprise attack from any challenger. Her husband’s sensible decision impressed her. If the castle were attacked in his absence, she, like any lord’s wife, must defend it, and the advantageous position would help.
They descended into the valley, and when they reached a small stream in the valley’s center, they stopped to water their horses.
“My lady,” Johan said, “I beg leave to return to the castle ahead of you. I have matters to attend, and if it gives you no offense, Castellan Gilbert fitz Gilbert will remain with you.” Johan glanced quickly at Gilbert and away. “He will answer any other questions you may have.”
Elise glanced at Roland’s still-angry eyes and said, “No offense taken. Your men,” her smile encompassed them all, “will guide us to the castle directly.”
Seeing Gilbert’s jaw clench as Johan galloped away, Elise sought to divert his irritation. She asked Roland what he could tell about the two large groups of soldiers occupying the fields beside the woods.
“Both are large armies, each with several companies,” Roland said. “They are preparing to march.” Nodding at the red and black pennons, he continued, “Stafford is a rigorous commander.”
“How do you know?” Elise asked.
“Only a well-disciplined army will safeguard their armor and weapons as these have.” Roland and Gilbert seemed to assess each other before Gilbert nodded.
Looking the troops over, she hoped the size of Stafford’s force was as much a testament to the king’s trust as to her betrothed’s ability to command. Elise gestured at the green and brown pennons, marking the other troops. “They belong to Dreux Marchand de Ville?”
Gilbert nodded.
“We met Lord Norfolk,” she said to Roland, “at the betrothal.”
“So we did,” he said, coolly, reminding her of the tension between the two men.
“Will you leave with the others?” she asked Gilbert. Unlike Johan, who had removed his helmet, Gilbert wore his. Despite the nose guard, she saw hard greenish eyes measuring her and lips thinned with resentment. She knew men disliked the changes a wife brought to their world. Each member of her betrothed’s household, all his servants, his liegemen, and his friends would pass judgment on her. It was an important moment. She did not shrink from his gaze.
“No. I will remain to command the garrison and oversee our defenses,” Gilbert said.
“A great honor. I am sure Lord Stafford would entrust Tutbury to only his most worthy and capable men. Perhaps he will grant you estates as well,” she suggested.
“He has.”
“Excellent,” she said, pleased her betrothed understood that good relations between a lord and his vassals demanded mutual rewards, a factor often disregarded by those new to the nobility.
When they resumed their journey, Hortense, though visibly exhausted, smiled cheerfully at her. Elise looked for the pleasures she would share with her husband despite feeling a sudden, hollow foreboding. This new place, she thought, might one day become a large village, with a church, a market, a mill, or a mint. The possibilities stirred her confidence.
As they neared the village, her gaze traveled to the timbered tower rising above, nearly oppressive in its size. She wondered if her betrothed were there, looking down at the valley watching her party, thinking about her.