As Elise’s daily rides continued into mid-August, the number of her guards had steadily decreased. With only five guards, Elise rode at an easy walk along a rutted track edging the woods, glad for the shade that cooled this hot day. Encouraged that a reticent Jeoffroi d’Ardain had answered her morning greeting with one of his own, she ventured to converse.
“My aunt tells me you hail from Mortemer.”
“Yes. I served in the garrisons.”
“What?” She turned in her saddle, startled. “Why did you not tell me?”
“There was no reason, my lady. When the land passed to another, I had leave to join the duke’s men.”
“Were you there . . . during the attack?”
“I witnessed the attack from a hill. I was one of your guards on the hunting expedition. Do you not remember me?”
Elise studied Jeoffroi, remembering that cold February day when she was eight years old. She and Marie, six, were hunting with their brother when they saw the village burning. She vaguely recalled someone trying to restrain her. But she followed her brother and fled toward blood and death, and the terror that had bound Roland and Marie, Elise and Hortense together.
“No, I do not remember you, Jeoffroi.”
“A long, bloody time ago, my lady,” Jeoffroi said. “When we failed to keep you from danger, my companions and I rode toward Rouen to alert the duke. We intercepted his forces coming to Mortemer. By the time we returned, it was too late.” He shook his head. “Young Roland, who fostered with your family, protected you. I still remember his ferocious yell when we found you. He charged us. The duke snatched the boy by his tunic and dangled him at arm’s length until Roland realized we were friend, not foe.”
She nodded, missing Roland, and recalling her mother’s lifeless body, her brother’s final shriek. “Did you lose family in the attack?”
“My wife, all my sons and their families.”
“I am truly sorry, Jeoffroi.” She reined in her horse and pulled an arrow from her quiver. With great solemnity, she placed the arrow across her palms and offered it to him. “I thank you for your vigilance then, and now, Jeoffroi d’Ardain. I am privileged to have such an escort.”
From his smile, she knew he had recognized the gesture, a simple imitation of the ritual honoring a brave knight with a new sword. As his soldiers watched curiously, Jeoffroi took the arrow with equal solemnity, accepting her tribute.
“How did you come to serve Black Wolf?” she asked when they resumed their journey.
“The invasion gave many of us a chance to find new lords who could support us. I was among the first group of soldiers assigned to your husband at Hastings. I have been with him to this day, and if God grants me, I shall continue to serve him.”
During the last days of the meager harvest, Jeoffroi became her sole escort. He allowed her to hunt small game with her bow or explore the river ford, the marshes, and the narrow valley along Burton Road. Often they began their ride as usual, but when they left the small coppice beside the village, Jeoffroi abandoned the well-used tracks, each time taking a circuitous route leading her a little deeper into the thickets than before.
Just after dawn near August’s end, they rode single-file, following a narrow path into the tangled woods. Elise cherished the expectant hush among the oak, alder, hazel, and ash as giant trees faded into the cool damp mist and the glorious scents: damp bark, moss, mulching leaves, the wondrous aromas of peppery smoke and resin.
Mesmerized by the sound of hooves thumping a hollow rhythm on the thick woodland carpet and the occasional snap of brittle twigs, she listened to the soft jingles of the harnesses, the swish and rustle when dry leaves brushed against her linen veil. The dappled light and the air soothed something within her, and yet Jeoffroi’s silence and their slow movement farther into the dense, ancient trees unsettled her. He stopped at the edge of a creek and tilted his head as if to listen.
“Are we far from the castle?” she whispered, sensing his caution.
“Not far,” he said softly, motioning her with his hand to silence. Giving his horse a nudge, he jumped the creek. Elise followed. They entered a small meadow. He reigned in, whistled, and waited.
An old woman stepped out from behind a tree. “So, this Norman pup brings you to see his sweetheart!” she said, in French.
“Now, Frigga,” Jeoffroi said as he dismounted. “You need not insult Lady Stafford.”
“Lady Stafford? Of the castle?” she asked, looking startled at Jeoffroi. He nodded. “You’re more fool than I thought,” she chided. She studied Elise a long moment before speaking to Jeoffroi. “Scat, old man. Her ladyship and I have business.”
Jeoffroi helped Elise dismount. Then, with an impudent grin, he remounted and slowly rode away, taking Elise’s horse with him.
Frigga tipped her head, a silent invitation, turned, and walked around the base of an oak tree the size of six men abreast.
Elise followed through a grove of wych elms, slipping around one, around another, and another until they reached a clearing, where she found the woman standing beside the entrance of a dwelling built into the hollowed base of a tree. Beyond a drawn curtain of wolfskins, Elise saw an ingenious shelter, about the size of a wagon. A carved ledge covered with sheepskins served as a bed. She saw folded blankets of animal fur, several baskets, a large closed chest, a small brazier, a bench, and clothing rod.
Turning from the shelter, she walked slowly around the clearing. She had never seen anything like this place. Three concentric rings of ancient elms, obviously tended through the years, shielded the clearing from all sight beyond, and the overhead branches provided a sheltering canopy. Faces, animals, and peculiar markings were carved into each tree’s trunk. A small circular fire pit had been dug deep into the center. A ledge made of flat stones ringed the pit, providing low seats so one could sit in the circle sheltered from the wind. Four red posts carved with strange symbols from their base to the pointed tops, stood like sentries beside the pit. A little taller than she, each bore an odd-shaped crown. One, a crescent moon, like worshiping arms raised to the sky. Another held a diamond-shaped plate balanced on one point. An oval ring with a dagger angled through sat atop the third post, and the fourth pillar had three rusty spikes splayed horizontally like a flag.
Elise turned to study Frigga, who looked decades older than Jeoffroi. Her sun-bronzed face was completely wrinkled, and laugh lines accentuated her eyes: tiny black beads gazing speculatively at Elise. Her uncovered brilliant-white hair, the color of spring clouds, fell to her waist in thick waves, uncovered like a maiden. Despite shaking, gnarled hands and an ancient body, she stood with a straight, proud back. She stepped down into the seating area of the fire pit and sat—deliberately—as if testing Elise somehow.
“Thaer beon a flor,” Frigga said, in Saxon, “that grows in the woods. It is rare, and few people have ever seen it, but the memory of its aroma sends men to endless years of hunting for it. The small flower, white with a pale red center, grows in the soft, thick moss of tree hollows. It is lonely. Sometimes, you can hear the flower singing. It raises its head and looks through the tree branches and leaves for the blue sky. Mostly, the flower cries silently. It is shaped like a bowl and gathers its tears in the base of its blossom. They say the man who drinks this nectar will have wealth beyond gold, health beyond a sound body, and love beyond the passion of the bed. They say the man who worships the flower will know laughter.”
“Es no a . . . synn?” Elise asked, her Saxon, thickly clouded with a French accent, “to worthscipe othur than Gott?”
“Ye spacan the Anglisc toung. Do ye synn agan yer Franc-spacan kyng? Do not be afraid,” she cautioned in French at Elise’s stiffening. “You are safe here, my lady.”
Safe? Hardly, Elise thought, looking around the small clearing with its crude shelter. It was all so odd: things hung from the tree branches, drying strips of meat, clay masks, herbs and such. And it was almost too quiet. She wondered if Frigga lived alone here in the woods.
“I do,” Frigga said in French, startling Elise.
“Are you a witch?” Elise asked, watching Frigga’s eyes widen in surprise.
“No. I am a squatter. ’Twill be but a matter of time before I am found out and my home destroyed.”
“Why do you stay? Why do you not come to the village?”
Frigga laughed. “Death lives where there are people. Have you not found this so?” she asked.
Elise thought about it and nodded.
Silence fell between them as Frigga studied Elise, who listened to the tinkling sounds of the wind brushing bits of hardened clay, strung together and hanging in the trees.
“They say you are imprisoned upon the great stone rock.”
Elise looked directly into Frigga’s eyes. Perhaps this woman was one of her husband’s spies. She answered carefully. “Do they?”
Frigga laughed. “They will never imprison your spirit, my lady.”
“What else do they say?”
Frigga lowered her head, rubbed the knuckles of one hand, and as if deciding something, she lifted bold eyes to Elise.
“They say the usurper Norman king does not speak our language, that he cares nothing of our court, our laws, or our customs. They say he gave Totta Burh, as we call it, to a vicious warrior. Our new master and his Frankish men are said to believe nothing existed here before they came. They desecrate the seat of our Mercian kings, ignore our village gerefa, our rights, our markets, mill, and quarry. They say whether their Frankish master is good, bad, indifferent, kind, cruel or demonic, he rules over the people greedily. He takes the best land, forces the people to build his castle, to pay geld to keep what they always had. Worse, they say, is that his men gloat when they invade the humblest huts, making the people quake in fear and the children believe they were born enslaved.”
Elise saw no hostility in Frigga’s eyes, merely an honest response to her question. “I suppose it does not matter that Lord Stafford was born in this land, speaks Saxon, and knows something of English ways.”
“No,” Frigga said. “He is not from the blood of Angles, neither Saxon nor Mercian nor from among the tribes that held the land through mutual consent. That matters.”
Elise turned her head when the priory bell, a muted, distant sound, announced the third hour of the day.
“Terce,” Frigga said. She placed her palms on her knees and pushed herself up. “It is decided.” With her fingers in her mouth, she blew a shrill whistle. “You shall come to me at least once a week, and more when the weather allows it. I will send my granddaughter Serilda to you.”
Elise heard the sound of hoofbeats and followed Frigga as she slipped between the trees. Jeoffroi rode toward them. She was confused. What was decided? Why would she come here again? Why did Jeoffroi bring her to begin with?
Frigga shook her head. “You will know everything soon enough, my lady.”