Sennight before Equinox, September 1067, Tutbury.
To my lord Alaric, from Johan de Vaux, your friend.
The fosse is nearly completed. The palisade surrounding the outer baileys continues to rise, the curtain wall for the inner bailey is finished. We have yet to rebuild the inner palisades circling High Tower. The drawbridge has been installed, and both the North and South Gate barbicans are fortified.
Only seven fires have erupted in the bailey since removing the tents. When completed, the hall will house the sleeping chambers you requested, a chapel, the treasury, dry stores, and a great room. We will move in before Christmas.
We are banking the river and building channels to capture the marshes for crops. Would the king grant you a charter for a mill? We will need one next year, and it would add coins to your coffers. I have written to the countess’s seneschal requesting his reports.
On your behalf, I have given the monks a bronze bell. The first knells jarred us, but now we are accustomed to the tolling, which can be heard throughout the valley. If necessary, we will use it to warn villagers of danger.
Your lady wife rides daily about the castle, accompanied by Jeoffroi d’Ardain, an officer in command of the knights. At sixty-four winters, he has experience and has served well in your ranks. He will not be lured from his duty. When she leaves, her aunt remains in the castle.
I have allowed her ladyship to tend the kitchen garden. She also makes rushlights and candles for the winter using the wax, wicks, and molds she brought with her. Under guard, she and her aunt gather tanning bark to prepare for the arrival of the freeman tanner you requested. I will, on occasion, allow her to pursue other small tasks. Perchance busy hands will prevent idle schemes if she is so inclined, although I cannot yet see vile intentions.
The countess received a missive from her sister who married recently and requests permission to visit Tutbury in the spring, with her husband Count de Rennes of Brittany.
September l067, Tutbury, Staffordshire
First, the truth,” Frigga said in Norman French, after Jeoffroi left them alone. She motioned Elise to sit beside the fire.
“I am old. I am dying. I was blessed with a mother who taught me ancient arts . . . arts which the Church would call witchcraft.”
Elise felt the color drain from her face.
“It is time to pass my knowledge on. I have but one granddaughter, the girl Serilda. She can no longer dwell with me. Besides, she is too young.
“I believe,” Frigga said, observing Elise carefully, “you are not only capable of learning these arts, but you are capable of using them wisely. I would like to pass my knowledge on to you.” She held up her hand to prevent Elise from interrupting and continued.
“I am no witch as you once thought,” Frigga continued softly. “I don’t know about talismans, or curses, or charms against the evil eye. I don’t know how to make someone love you, how to cause warts or how to protect you from elves. I don’t know how to bring someone back to life.”
Elise gasped at the words spoken so boldly.
“There are five things I can teach you: the art of coloring cloth, the art of savory cooking, the art of beauty, the art of healing, and . . . the art of killing.”
“Holy Mother, preserve us,” Elise whispered, crossing herself.
Frigga caught and held Elise’s eyes with her own. “Yes, I know how to kill with a potion—so I can cure a poison if caught in time. I know how to help women bear children and how to seal a gaping wound. The healing arts have been passed down from generation to generation from my people, and when I was young, I studied in Salerno among the great healers.
“But all these arts challenge Church doctrines. Prelates teach that affliction is proof of the devil’s possession or evidence of a godless soul, and the cure must rely on driving out the demons, on miracles or physical punishment. The Church deems it sinful to use certain plants to color, or flavor, or enhance one’s appearance, condemning these efforts as blasphemous insults to God’s perfection. Priests say doing so is the sin of arrogance committed by presumptuous, impious people discontent with God’s natural gifts.
“The Church falls hard on those who diverge from its teachings. And many people are quick to condemn those who practice these arts.”
Elise’s heart pounded, and she glanced around the circle, expecting someone to step forward and accuse them of heresy.
“You must tell me which of these five arts you wish to learn, for I will only teach you those and not the others. Take care in your choice, my lady, for there may come a time when your knowledge of any one of these arts will stand as proof against you.
“If you agree, it will be hard work. What took me years to learn, you must learn in months. It will take concentration, diligence and . . . secrecy.” Frigga paused. “Do you understand, my lady? Once this chest of knowledge is open to you, it can never be closed.”
Elise nodded. “And if I choose to learn none of these arts?”
“Then,” Frigga smiled, “we shall make music!” She walked to her treehouse and ducked inside. When she emerged, she held three instruments—a partially strung lyre, a flute, and a small drum.
Elise laughed, but when she stood up and walked around the circle, she sobered. She looked at the trees sheltering this place, and at the odd figures hung in the branches. Her eyes lingered on a white mask carved of wood that sat within the hollow of a tree, resembling an ass, with a red snout, long blue ears, and acorn eyes. Not the face of a saint, she thought.
Medicaments and dyes were familiar to her. The abbey grew herbs. With the nuns, Elise had foraged for curative plants. The nuns used walnuts to dye wool for the monk’s robes and to make ink for the scribes.
She glanced at Frigga, who held the lyre upright between her knees as she restrung it. What if she were to learn these arts? Surely not all priests thought dyeing cloth was against God’s will, for they often wore many-colored cloths. She could hardly complain about the boiled gruel and vegetables they ate during this year of scarce food. But one day they might have plenty of food, and a savory dish would be pleasing. Was it truly a sin to have flavorful food?
As Frigga strummed the instrument, Elise’s fingers stroked the sharp, elongated features of a man’s face, etched in the bark. “Who is this?” she asked.
Frigga looked up from her instrument and shrugged. “It was the way the bark grew. I merely deepened the lines with my knife many years ago.”
Witchcraft? Elise wondered. Was it devil’s work to ease a woman’s birth pangs? She shuddered. Someday she might face childbirth herself. She remembered her mother’s ordeal with one child, where her servants repeatedly lifted and dropped her onto the bed to hasten her labor. To the Church, childbirth pain is God’s punishment for Eve’s sin. Yet, the Church faults obstinate, devilish infants for prolonged labor and instructs cutting these demonic creatures from the womb—in pieces.
“Why does the Church condemn these arts?”
“The Church proclaims itself the arbiter of all Christendom. It praises war, wealth, and power. At various times, it has condemned music, women, marriage, and hunting. The Church determines what things are godly and what things belong to Satan, and no king or villager will disagree. I have traveled to far lands and seen many things.” Frigga strummed the lyre, stopped to tune a string before continuing.
“I have seen the Church sanction an herb in one place, forbid it in another and there, burn to death any who merely possess it. Many priests cannot read scripture, much less the texts of wise people who lived long ago. My own people have forgotten the ancient arts, and from fear, they cleave to inexplicable mysteries.”
“You speak as though the Church was corrupt.” Elise sat down across from Frigga.
“The Church is corrupt, and I do not fear the saying of it.” She paused, leveling her gaze at Elise. “I know the Church better than most. I was, once, an abbess.”
Elise inhaled sharply, fighting an involuntary impulse to kneel as she did before her abbess at Clarion. She studied Frigga. Only those who stem from the highest nobility could ever hold such a position: a king’s daughter, the emperor’s niece.
“Look around you,” Frigga said. “Although the Church preaches against fornication and adultery, many an archbishop or priest has both wife and concubine, or illegitimate child, like your husband’s father, the illegitimate son of an Archbishop. Yes, I know much about the men who rule the Church,” she said. “Even monks have women to service them in the priories. Have you ever known a fat priest who did not take a meal from the poor? Demand coins for a burial or seize a farmer’s tools? Or a priest who wears silks and furs when his flock wears rags?” Frigga shook her head.
It was dangerous, Elise thought, to speak so of the Church. The pope had blessed William’s invasion. Yet, if not corrupt, the Church was easily corrupted. King Philip, Eustace, and many others swore to uphold God’s laws and gave rich endowments. Yet, they often pursued corrupt ends and received sanctions from clergy who understood the advantages of having important and wealthy friends.
She studied the four red posts. What secrets did these carvings hold? Elise wondered, feeling the powerful lure of forbidden knowledge. She could bring harm to Hortense. She had already harmed Hortense by bringing her, for she, too, was imprisoned at the castle. Elise faced a bleak future. How long could she live in forced idleness and boredom, subject to the whims of Johan or Marguerite? She watched Frigga tilt the lyre upright on one knee and strum a few notes.
“I . . . I wish to learn . . . all the arts,” Elise said. “And especially the art of music.”
November 1067, Eashing, Surrey
Alaric fought a brooding desolation. A year ago, he had discovered his family murdered here in Eashing. He stepped outside his tent and gazed at the gray sky, feeling the crisp mid-November wind. He scanned the ruins of what had once been a hill fort and village. His eyes slid to the ruins of the church.
Would I have followed William had I known the cost would be so great?
His men prepared for another march, and Roderick hovered nearby as if his presence could ease the bitter memory. “Get Father Pierre,” Alaric said softly, as much to send Roderick away as to summon the priest.
Father Pierre had presided over Martinmas and, in a private service with Alaric, prayed for the souls of his family. Afterward, they talked quietly, stirring memories of good times past. His irritation with the priest eased with Pierre’s tender blessings and the priest’s own confession that he sorely missed Alaric’s father. With his soldiers and entourage, they had shared a rare feast: fresh meat, dried fruits, ale and grain from the recent harvest, a celebration before fasting in advance of Christmastide.
Waiting for the priest, Alaric thought how quickly everything changed. Last month, he had shared a rare camaraderie with William’s regents, Bishop Odo and Guillaume fitz Osbern, as their combined forces chased Edric through the Herefordshire borderlands. They’d appreciated Alaric leading them along the old trails, mountains, and ravines he knew so well—until he mentioned William’s prohibition on rape. Now, with news of Eustace’s exploits, the regents challenged Alaric’s loyalty anew. He expected William would do the same when he returned from Rouen. And no matter how many castles he had built and garrisoned to protect William’s kingdom, nothing would protect Alaric from William’s violence.
Father Pierre lumbered toward Alaric’s tent and ducked inside. Alaric followed and said to Marguerite, “Go to the baggage train.”
“Must I go again? It’s so cold!”
“For a short time. Here, take the furs. Roddy!” he called. When Roderick appeared, Alaric told him to escort Marguerite to her destination. Grabbing her fox-trimmed mantle, she barely glanced at Alaric as she left the tent to await his summons.
“My son?” Father Pierre said his writing implements readied.
To Johan de Vaux:
Roddy and I celebrated last year’s victory near Hastings. Long may our holy King William live! Praise the glory of God’s will.
You might have heard that the Welsh princes, rarely aligned with the English, have joined one Edric of the Wilds, a Shropshire thane, said to be living in the great woods abutting Staffordshire. In September they attacked Hereford, inspiring rebellion throughout the shire. With well-armed forces, strong, unmarred horses, and ample supplies, Edric delivered the most severe blow to William’s reign since Hastings. The frequent and well-planned strikes took place over three weeks and kept the regents’ forces on the western border. We routed them, only to discover that these assaults diverted us from the eastern coast, where Eustace de Boulogne invaded Dover. Dreux countered the attack. His garrisons retook the village and captured members of the invading party, which he now holds hostage until the king returns. Eustace abandoned his followers and escaped.
The king and his regents are enraged by Eustace’s treason. No one knows how far William will go to assuage his anger. Any and all involved with Eustace, especially the clerics and villagers said to have invited him, are deemed traitors. Joined to Eustace by unholy matrimony, I, too, am suspect.
Interrogate the countess. Discover if she had foreknowledge of her uncle’s exploits. Had her sister’s correspondence revealed this plot? Had she intended to aid Eustace–or Edric?
Father Pierre has prepared my annulment petition. I will take it to William’s Christmas court. After Eustace’s treason, he may see the wisdom of severing this marriage. Keep my annulment in confidence, for such knowledge might spur the countess to reckless enterprise, and Marguerite might expect me to wed her when this marriage is nulled.
When you move the countess to Tutbury Hall, note the state of her rooms, her habits, where she dines, and her manner about the castle grounds. Mark and know well her stature and the features of her person, for evidence of debauchery, excessive drink, dissipation, and cuckoldry will be useful. Marguerite tells me she is querulous. Record her tempests, for any vitriolic outburst is proof of her treasonous disposition and shall aid my petition.
The woman’s request for visitors is denied. I need not further jeopardize my position with William by hosting the powerful count of Rennes—especially now when Brittany is restive.
William gave me a new holding near Monmouth. Add this charter to my estates. My builders are erecting a small fortress above a woodland said to be full of fairies.
With this missive, I return Marguerite to your care.