April 1067, Hereford, Herefordshire
In the dim chapel beside the old castle’s ruins, Alaric leaned against the crumbling plaster, its gray coldness seeping into his shoulder. He stood because he could no longer kneel, the cloak he had used for a cushion hung over his arm. As he had daily since Easter, he had come to the chapel at dawn this mid-April morning. Here, he kept a solitary vigil, bearing the agony of knees on hard earth until he finally stood, asking forgiveness for his weak body.
He listened, glad for the simple space of this small room and the thick walls shutting out the world beyond. Wind whistled through the thatching above the timbered beams, the candle flame quivered, making the painted figures on the wall appear to dance. I hear God, he thought of the wind. He hisses in the rafters. His fingers brush against my chin. I give Him my heart, an offering for my family, for their salvation.
Divine presence, he knew, gave him the stamina to pray. He sacrificed his body, ignoring hunger and thirst from his self-imposed fast so his family would be released from eternal sufferings, for they had died without benefit of confession and divine forgiveness.
When he had first learned of their deaths five months ago, he had tried to rein in his emotions as he went from one village to another. Yet, every day, his family traveled with him in his heart, in his mind. They saw what he saw. They spoke to him in remembered words, a gesture, a scent of days past, and every remembrance renewed his anguish.
Shifting his weight, his boots scraped against the floor. He remembered last Easter here in this very chapel. He had not known how to tell his father he would join Duke William. Alaric tipped his head and looked up at the notched trusses. He would never again carry the cross with his brother, kneel beside his father in vigil, or share his mother’s awe. He had not known their solemn feast would be their last meal together.
One year. So much had changed. He lived, a victor. They died, the vanquished. He had relinquished his mercenary sword with a vow putting him in liege to the king. A commander of the king’s forces, he carried a royal banner. Now he had land, titles, and a castle in Staffordshire. Yet all these honors and riches were tainted by his family’s death, and a marriage forced on him as reparations.
Alaric looked at the burning candles that accompanied his prayers for the souls of his family. He pushed away from the wall and, wanting to take God’s grace within, he inhaled the resinous scent.
Leaving the chapel, he thought about Johan, who had nearly lost his leg, and Father Pierre, whose concubine had another child. The only thing that had not changed was Marguerite, he thought, approaching the hall. At the beginning of their liaison, he had told Marguerite he would not marry her. He’d never loved her, and more often than not, he found her tedious. But since resuming their affair, she’d eased his body’s hunger, and Marguerite would plague Eustace’s niece until Alaric had time to deal with the woman. He felt entirely absolved from the sin of fornication. Rumored to mirror her uncle in all things, his bride was likely as unchaste as Eustace—a man known for his sins.
Marguerite d’Hesdins, nineteen years old and terrified, stood beside the fire pit in Hereford Hall, warming herself. The door opened, and the wet, cold, blustery day followed Alaric inside. Without a glance at her, he gathered his men around a table. One of them pulled a handful of dry sand from a bag and scattered it onto the boards, and, as a servant took his wet cloak, Alaric began sketching a map. She turned her face away from the smoke swirling up to the louvers and looked over the crowded room. Merchants stroking their beards, monks with hands hidden in their habits no doubt rubbing their members, and smug soldiers—all measured her with furtive glances.
Merchants like these had left her to die, bloodied, discarded like chicken innards beside a road. Monks had revealed their evil, disguised as piety, and soldiers had given her safe passage—for a price. She knew what these men thought, what they wanted. Today, at least, Alaric shielded her.
Watching him, she recalled his surprise at finding her still in Hereford, where he had abandoned her to join William. She had remained here, near the border, close enough to flee if necessary. In desperation, she had sought refuge in a cloister to await the results of William’s invasion. A mistake, for amid the familiar prayers and fasts, the false devotion and hushed manners, she relived the torment of the last time she’d sought refuge—when the nuns who should have helped her in childbirth mutilated her womb.
Beside her, now, a burning log broke into pieces and crumbled. Marguerite stared as the sanguine embers pulsed like her grieving heart. Finding Johan among the wounded had saved her from despair. When Alaric had returned to Hereford a few days ago to take Johan away, she could hardly breathe until, as an afterthought, he collected her, too. As chatelaine of Alaric’s castle, Marguerite would govern the domestic affairs of his demesne. She had not embraced this position with all the humility and gratitude of one receiving a great honor, as Alaric no doubt thought of his generosity.
As before, she traded her body for safety, her soul for food.
She would not let her improved fortune seduce her, she thought, glancing at servants weaving throughout the room. From the age of eleven, her life had been precarious. She had two assets: her beauty and her youth, both fading quickly. She must tread carefully. At all costs, she must survive and solidify her position. She must never again be left without a protector, vulnerable to the tyranny of strangers.
And she must never reveal that she loved Johan.
When the hall door opened, she spotted him immediately. Short Shank, she mentally called him as he limped across the room. He fawned over the girl beside him. With arrested attention, Marguerite studied the newcomer and recognized the colors worn by soldiers accompanying her.
Ah, the long-awaited Clare of Wolenbroth. About fifteen winters, Marguerite guessed, plain, brownish hair, a smallish figure. She walked with her head bowed, her humility draped around her like a veil—or a spider’s web. Marguerite had heard that Clare was the daughter of a thegn who had died fighting King William at Hastings. Her family’s lands and titles had been confiscated. Now, the girl, Dreux de Ville’s captive, was merely his thrall. Marguerite, herself once the beloved daughter of a count, felt no affiliation to another woman who had likewise fallen from her family’s pedestal.
Instead, her Norman blood—the blood of conquerors—outranked the girl and most English nobles, especially now as Alaric’s mistress. Yet, she would relinquish everything to marry Johan. She quashed that thought. She had nowhere else to go.
As Alaric turned from Hereford’s castellan to observe Clare’s approach, Marguerite’s heart quickened. Please don’t desire her, she thought, knowing how easily he could replace her. She saw the girl’s eyes flicker up to him and downward submissively, and when Alaric told Johan to put the girl in one of the upper chambers, Marguerite stepped forward and caught his eye.
“Servants do not sleep above, my lord,” she smiled sweetly. “She must remain here,” she swept her hand around the hall, “with others of her position.”
Alaric looked at Marguerite a moment before nodding his head at Johan, who took the girl to the stairs. “Come,” he gestured, inviting Marguerite to sit on the bench beside him.
Hiding her resentment, she sat. Alaric remained standing and resumed his discussion. She could smell his sex, she thought, and imagined slipping her hands under his knee-length tunic, over the thick leggings to his crotch. Already she could feel heat building between them as his hand caressed her shoulder. She leaned her breast against his thigh, intending to stir his memory of her body and knew by his strengthened grip she had succeeded.
Looking about the room, she saw that none, save an old, toothless servant, had noticed her ploy. How dare that filthy crone grin at me, thought Marguerite. A few lashes would curb that smirk. She flashed the hag a withering glance. When the woman fled, Marguerite realized that she could demand a whipping for any servant who displeased her at Alaric’s castle.
On a crisp morning, Alaric left Hereford’s chapel for the last time and met Johan limping toward him.
“All are ready,” Johan said. “Marguerite is chiding the girl again.”
Alaric nodded and strode through the courtyard where he found Marguerite, astride her horse, glaring down at Clare of Wolenbroth. Alaric was struck again by the composure of this girl-child. She stood humbly, her head slightly bowed, yet she retained the air of her English nobility.
“You shall clean my boots with your very own hands, you sluggard,” Marguerite ordered, “else feel the lash—”
“What is amiss?” Alaric asked.
“This servant soiled my boot.” Marguerite stretched out her small booted foot from beneath her long tunic.
Alaric saw the smear of horse dung along one edge of the leather and motioned to his groom, who rushed forward with a rag.
“She did it. She should clean it,” Marguerite said. “I demand it!”
Alaric watched the girl raise her head and look up at Marguerite. Her clear, hazel eyes held no resentment. Dreux had picked well, thought Alaric, surveying the delicate lines of the girl’s face—proud and strong. As Dreux had hoped, she was with child. Alaric would transport her carefully. “Johan,” he said. “Put the girl in Father Pierre’s cart.” He turned to Marguerite. “We shall not tarry, lady.”
As the groom cleaned Marguerite’s boot, Alaric mounted his horse. He shouted a command, and the rest of his soldiers took to their horses. Alaric glanced at Johan, who nodded his readiness, and at his groom, who now scrambled to take his place. Alaric waved at the captain-at-arms who would remain at Hereford. His eyes flickered to Marguerite’s still angry scowl, and he signaled his soldiers to move into formation.
They began a five-day trek north to Tutbury. Alaric and Johan rode behind the scouts, then came the standard bearer and three rows of soldiers, six abreast. Next came Marguerite, escorted by a pair of soldiers. Behind her rolled several carts and packhorses. Forty or so foot soldiers guarded the flanks, interspersed with footmen carrying red and black pennons jostling into position. Grooms and squires led a string of horses, which nipped at one another, and one reared as they moved out, followed by the armorers and farrier. An assortment of pages and servants walked, and thirty mounted soldiers brought up the rear.
In the sun’s heat, a steamy vapor rose from the muddy roads. Alaric expected the first day to go slowly. As the roads dried, they would travel more quickly. He glanced at Johan riding beside him. Along with Edo, Roderick, and Gilbert, Johan had followed Alaric to fight with the Normans. Alaric thought he had died at Hastings with Edo and the others.
“Does it pain you to ride?” Alaric asked.
“A little.” Johan rubbed his fist along the deep wound that had gouged most of his outer thigh away.
Alaric turned in his saddle and faced Johan. “I do not favor you from charity. I need a seneschal at the seat of my holdings. You have good judgment and are cautious. Besides, you learned counting. In the Ewyas days, when you and Roddy played with spotted tiles, you always knew exactly how many spots carried the game. I need a good man, Johan. You’re the only one I can trust with the authority to oversee the land and wealth at all my estates here and abroad.”
“You left Roddy to build Tutbury.” Johan could not hide his envy.
“Yes. And Gilbert to keep Roddy out of trouble. Roddy is my second-in-command. Gilbert, as castellan, will be yours.”
“What?” Johan asked in surprise, turning to look at Alaric.
“You hold the senior position to steward the settlement and growth of the castle and village. Monkman will build Tutbury’s defenses, oversee the garrisons, and administer the constabulary responsibilities. He has authority to defend the castle and hold the area in my absence. He will also keep our forces trained and deploy them when needed.”
Alaric glanced at the clouds, gauging the wind. “I have granted demesnes to you, Gilbert, and Roddy,” he said. “You have enough land to support a knight’s obligation now that you cannot fight—woodland, pastureland, a couple villages and many tenants.”
Johan grinned. “Thank you,” then as an afterthought, “my lord.”
Johan saw Alaric wince and supposed the title still sounded awkward to him, too. Remembering their childhood at Ewyas, he should not be surprised Alaric was his liege lord. Even as boys, Alaric had been their leader, and Roddy their boisterous giant. He missed Roddy as much as he missed Rannulf, Alaric’s now-deceased brother. Gilbert, despite his quiet piety, was a strong, capable warrior, and a trustworthy friend. Together, they would all serve Alaric well. All except Edo, who had run across the beach in woman’s garb and met the axe at Hastings.
Johan had thought he, too, would die there. Pinned by his dead horse, he could not move. He could see only the bloodied hand of the dying knight beneath him. As the battle raged, as the soldier’s moans ceased, Johan watched the ants trail across the bloodied fingers that twitched and hardened into a claw-like shape, pressing close to Johan’s eye.
He barely remembered them sawing through his horse to reach him or the trip to Hereford and the pig-faced woman whose hands had tended him. He had fevered nightmares and saw monstrous apparitions. He even imagined hearing Marguerite’s voice urging him to drink.
Glad to be alive, he felt honored and grateful to serve the king’s favorite. He glanced at Alaric’s angular features and shook his head. Reunited for only days, he and Alaric had little time to talk. But Johan had heard the drunken remarks of highborn Normans. They resented Alaric’s command and spoke their pleasure that the king had commanded Alaric to marry Eustace’s niece, an old shrew, with a mannish temperament and a face disfigured by pustules.
No wonder Alaric took up with Marguerite again, Johan thought.
As Alaric rode beside Johan, he wondered if Dreux had finalized the betrothal agreement. All the land in the world would not erase his bitterness that the marriage would bind him through eternity to Eustace. He knew Dreux would race to Tutbury to see his Clare and bring with him the wedding pact sealed, blessed, and cursed.
Still, it would be good to see Dreux again. He remembered their first day at York, a village fermenting with resistance and rebellion. Amid hostile eyes, they had trudged toward the church when Dreux suddenly lunged at him. A bolt hurtled past Alaric’s head and drove into the thick oak door as, together, they tumbled into a pit of clammy mud.
He sobered, reliving their last day together. They’d ridden away from York to the gills. At one small, narrow valley, Deux’s horse broke through an ice bridge above the gorge. He scrambled up and balanced on his saddle as the horse’s belly rested on the ice, its legs flailing. Alaric threw him a rope. A sudden wrench pulled him to the ground. Twisting onto his back, he skidded toward the cliff’s edge and braced his feet against an outcropping. Alaric heard the horse scream when it fell, the thuds and silence. He clung to the rope as Dreux pulled himself up to the ledge. Grabbing Alaric’s hand, he climbed over the top, collapsing beside him. Again, he felt his heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling and the tears stinging his eyes. Again, he heard Dreux’s rasping voice. “You know that . . . that horse you won?”
Alaric’s memory broke abruptly in response to Johan’s question, which, judging by a familiar scowl, had been asked more than once.
“What’s it like, this Tutbury?”
“Bleak,” Alaric said.
“Will you take Marguerite with you when you leave?”
“She will stay with you and the countess,” Alaric said. “I’ll send for her on occasion.”
Johan frowned.
Alaric laughed. “It will not be dull.”