Sennight after the Feast of St. Valentinus.
To Alaric, Seigneur de Tutbierrie:
King William’s couriers delivered a royal summons to your lady wife, commanding her attendance at the queen’s coronation. Although William has invited his nobles and their ladies, this summons may signify the end of your marriage. The coronation and feast days of Pentecost will occur in May. Couriers informed us that you will remain in York over the festivities.
If William does not send Royal Guards to take the countess into custody, Gilbert, Marguerite, and I will deliver her to Westminster. Jeoffroi d’Ardain will maintain the castle’s security in our absence. Unless William imprisons her, we will attend the countess at all times and see that she comports herself with the obedience and reverence worthy of your position. Anticipating your wishes, I will send you a report of her conduct, especially her meeting with the king and queen.
Here are the particulars I failed to include previously. The countess and her aunt share a small solar between their quarters. Lady Stafford wears a large mantle of thick cloth over her long tunics, thus, it is not easy to perceive either her visage or the features of her form. She appears to be thin as she slips easily between the farthermost back column and the wall in the great room. She comports herself with discretion, is deliberate in her speech, answering with few words. Not knowing Saxon, she turns to her aunt for understanding. Servants have reported hearing laughter between the countess and her aunt. This I cannot verify, for when their solitude is breached, she presents a demure countenance, speaking few words, eyes lowered, and with reverence, honor, and obedience to all.
She and her aunt are inseparable except when she rides with Jeoffroi d’Ardain as weather permits. The villagers, though suspicious of her, seem to enjoy her passing. She often purchases items such as ale, bread, or a ball of cheese. With assistance from a few servants, she is making gifts for the king and queen and spring gowns from the wool and linens she brought with her. She selects modest hues, unlike those sewn for Marguerite, made from the rich cloth and furs you have sent her. Your wife does not seek to compete with Marguerite.
The winter on this stony rise is bleak. Daily, we send out hunters, for we had a meager harvest, and strive to conserve the grain purchased at Derby. The icy wind blows across our flat plane, gusting against our shelters, howling like women finding their dead on the killing field. We sit in the clouds. The valley is rarely visible from our precipice, and when the clouds lift it appears gray or white, dusted in new snow. The path winding around the castle is so deeply rutted we must walk our horses. The villagers toiled to fortify their huts before true winter arrived. Methinks the village, shielded by the woods, fares better than us atop this barren flat.
After losing some sheep and villagers to wolves, we moved your flock. Unlike Ewyas, the sheep have yet to begin shedding. I partitioned the fields and established your lordship’s boundaries, leaving the inferior land for villagers. Last fall, livestock grazed on your fields to crop the weeds and dung the land for the spring planting, which began when villagers broke the soil after Plow Monday with Brother Derrick’s blessings. Your fields are furrowed. The fishers will build two fishponds and set traps, and drying sheds will preserve food for winter months.
The new tanner and his family are pleased by the tanning implements the countess provided. Derrick’s monastic cell has grown to nine. The newest, a Norman, Herluin de Lessay, neither speaks nor hears. I have allowed the monks to charge the villagers fees for using the village well, and have arranged support for Father Pierre’s family.
Gilbert sends small companies out to harass the villages to the West. His agents surveyed your new holdings and will situate garrisons as needed. I have found reliable tenants to secure your knights service.
Gilbert and I thank you for your endowments. I serve you as always.
February 1068, Tutbury, Staffordshire
Alone in her chamber, Elise teased out another pinch of fibers and twirled the spindle, letting the whorl draw the fleece into yarn. She played out more wool and gave the spindle another twist, though her sticky fingers felt clumsy. Steam accompanied each breath, and she shivered, despite wearing three woolen tunics and a fur-lined mantle. An icicle hung in her chamber, where the plaster had cracked beneath the window, shuttered since Christmas. Without a hint of the weak midday sun, the burning wick beside her gave little light. It seemed a precious gift, even when a draught quivered the delicate flame of her last candle this winter.
Everyone else huddled around the central hearth in the great room, wallowing in the lethargy of Lent. Servants and soldiers slept on pallets, ignoring the smell of sheep occupying the pens. The more people and animals in the room, the warmer, but they foolishly burned green logs and she had fled the thick, black smoke.
She wound the yarn on the spindle and notched the thread. Setting her work aside, she paced the room trying to release the talons clutching her heart. How would the king punish her for Eustace’s deed? Imprisonment? Worse? She had time to prepare, and used it well. But today, she felt neither the calm she presented to Hortense nor the courage to face the king. Too late, she regretted the letter she’d sent secretly via Frigga to her sister. Knowledge of such correspondence would surely condemn her. Ah, well, that was before the king’s summons. Now, her primary concern was Hortense.
She had to trust that Johan would keep his vow. Although he had been kind to her from the beginning, last December, he had questioned her harshly about Eustace’s treason, accusing her of collusion and foreknowledge. Although they had not spoken to each other since their angry exchange, she’d sensed that his regret had turned to affection. He’d buried it well—until the Royal couriers arrived.
In the privacy of his antechamber, he gave her the king’s summons. She read it. Suddenly, Johan grabbed her arm, perhaps to steady her when she felt the ground beneath her vanish.
He stammered, “Let . . . let me hold—”
“—No need, good sir,” she said curtly, forcing her trembling legs to hold her upright.
He released her immediately and stepped back.
“This summons may have lasting consequences,” she said, gathering strength. “I beg you now, Johan, to use all the resources you have as seneschal to see Hortense returned safely to Normandie if . . . if I am detained.”
“It may not—“
“Your word, Sir! Nothing more.” She pinioned him with her gaze. Spurned by his silence, she turned toward the door.
“You have my word, Lady.”
Her back to him, she nodded and left the room.
She had been very careful since. For she had longed to crawl into someone’s arms to feel safe for just a moment. One word from her, one look, would be misunderstood. In these close confines, with their lives interwoven atop this barren rock, everyone knew all that transpired. Gossip bred of boredom spread like the wind. Innuendo twisted the most innocent encounters into salacious rendezvous. And Marguerite waited, like a vulture, for Elise to stumble.
If Elise survived William’s court, if William lost his kingdom, or if Alaric betrayed him, Johan would help her and Hortense flee—but only if he remained seneschal, only if he retained access to Alaric’s treasury. She must do nothing to jeopardize his position, yet she understood him.
Like most knights, men without women of their own, Johan was quickly enamored by one woman after another, believing each love truer than the one before. He does not know his own heart, she thought. To turn his attentions away from her, Johan needed his own woman. A wife.
Marguerite came to mind. Elise hoped nothing but rivalry lit the spark that crackled between them.
Perhaps, Elise thought, she could shift his attention to Serilda.
April 1068, Tutbury, Staffordshire
Do you think to frighten me?” Hortense asked Marguerite amid a tumultuous hall filled with servants preparing for the journey. Guards opened the doors to let a trio of servants carry a large bundle out to the wagons. An icy April wind swirled into the great room, billowing Hortense’s fur mantle.
“You have something to fear,” Marguerite said, burying her hands in her cloak. “Your niece may soon feel William’s lash, and you will no longer dwell here.”
“If so, his lordship will have no more use for you.”
Marguerite smiled. “His lordship will keep me for a long time.”
“Even when he learns of your involvement in the English girl’s death?”
“Clare disobeyed orders and jeopardized the castle. She was duly punished.”
“Truly?” Hortense said. “I wonder who told the girl her sisters were with the rebels?”
“I’ve wondered myself,” Marguerite said.
“And who killed Johan’s wife? Did you hope he would turn to you for comfort?”
Marguerite knew better than to deny these charges. “Johan’s wife was known for witchery. Perchance she died by her own spell. Hardly a concern after all these years.”
“Witnesses say otherwise,” Hortense said.
“Witnesses? Lecherous soldiers? Aggrieved servants? Perhaps you repeat the drunken charge of a man I refused to bed. Lord Stafford will slice off his tongue. See to your niece, old woman, and disassociate yourself from idle whisperings.”
“Ah, Marguerite,” Hortense said, “your devilish deeds condemn you, and your fickle heart will hasten your ruin.”
“Curb your reckless speech!” Marguerite said, her heart pounding. “All know the devil accuses the just. The finger that points belongs to Satan. The Pope has said so.”
“Tell that to the bishops,” Hortense said, turning toward her chamber.
“Oh,” Marguerite said, causing Hortense to pause and turn back. “I believe some items were stolen from Lord Stafford’s treasury. As you know, the penalty for such a crime is—severe. It would be easy to search everyone’s quarters. I wonder why someone would hide stolen goods in their rooms where they could be so easily found.”
Hortense smiled. “I and her ladyship would welcome a search. I’ve been told a torc belonging to the girl, Clare, was stolen. An attentive search would reveal the thief and recover the item.”
“If a torc exists, it could be found anywhere.” Marguerite parried. “You know how servants are. They misplace things and spread tales. The truth is so hard to discover, is it not?” She laughed and swept out of the great room and into the chapel.
In the dim small room lighted by a single candle, Marguerite walked toward the altar inhaling a faint, resinous aroma. She cursed that spiteful archer again. She would not sleep with him, even if he continued to spread rumors.
Long ago, she had learned that moral fortitude would not keep her safe—or alive. It was no surprise people believed the worst of her. People could not abide the truth. They would certainly never believe that Clare gave her the torc for safekeeping.
Marguerite was angry at herself for being careless, for letting her past surface the other morning when she had cradled a servant’s newborn. The tiny infant, warm and soft, had provoked uncontrollable anguish and tears for the loss of her own murdered babe. Now, Marguerite recalled Hortense’s sudden appearance. She’d dispersed the hostile, jeering crowd and took Marguerite to her quarters. Had Hortense followed her that day? Marguerite bristled, baffled and infuriated by Hortense, who had witnessed her unguarded moment, who hinted that she knew Marguerite’s heart.
She knelt before the crucifix, clasping her trembling hands together, too frightened to pray, listening for sounds behind her. She hoped the old screeching bat would follow her into the chapel. She imagined it would be easy to dispose of Hortense here. I heard a sound, I was frightened, I thought I was being attacked. She envisioned her tearful plea to Johan and Gilbert as she stood over Hortense’s fallen body, holding a bloody dagger in her hand. No, she thought, poison was more expedient.