Elise accepted Johan’s offer, and, with Hortense as intermediary, he gave them a few servants to assist in spinning, weaving, and other tasks they pursued. She continued to ride daily, a privilege she treasured dearly, especially since she felt more confined living at Tutbury Hall close to her jailers. Elise and Jeoffroi had gone to Frigga’s Circle as often as weather permitted, and as often as they could without causing undue notice. Every time she entered the deep woods, her tension eased, and her excitement grew with every breath as if inhaling a precious, exotic perfume: freedom.
Cool December days muted the color of land and sky. A light snowfall softened the landscape, muffled sounds, and stirred everyone with wonder at the crisp, white cover until it melted. She had overcome all the fears about possessing forbidden knowledge. But to protect Hortense, she did not tell her about Frigga or what she did during her daily outings.
Today, as she and Jeoffroi returned to the castle, Elise saw the woods differently. She mentally repeated part of Frigga’s song. Hart’s tongue nods among the moss, aside the lea cowslips cross. Neath oak and elm, beech and ash, Dog ears hide their deadly rash. Now she could read the bark and recognize the markings of small animals. Once again, Jeoffroi had taken a slightly different route, a deer trail, and she appreciated his flawless sense of direction in these dense woods, especially when they emerged onto a familiar track and circled the village.
On Castle Road, they found an elderly monk struggling with a mule that had ceased to go further. He pulled on the animal’s rope, but the beast planted his forelegs firmly in resistance. A young girl, carrying a basket of fish on her head, joined him. Using one hand to hold the basket steady, with her other she gestured to the monk who nodded vigorously. The girl took the rope and snapped the harness twice. The mule began moving, following the girl and the monk.
Elise watched curiously as the pair exchanged gestures. His hands and arms made grand movements, and with exaggerated facial expressions, the monk told the girl of his journey. Surprisingly, Elise understood his tale, though not a sound came from his lips. When she and Jeoffroi, still mounted, came abreast the couple, Elise asked slowly in French, “Do you understand him?” The girl blushed and looked down at her feet.
“Answer her ladyship!” Jeoffroi ordered.
The girl looked up and quickly dropped her eyes. She nodded, and in broken French, she said, “He . . . he quests . . . priory. I not know . . . is . . . where.”
Elise studied the monk, a large, robust man, with slightly stooped shoulders, wearing brown, faded robes. He had a shiny bald head, a cherubic face that appeared to be missing eyebrows, pale, small eyes sunk into deep sockets, and red lips, which smiled broadly, revealing a gap between his front teeth.
“You, girl,” Jeoffroi said. “Where are you going?”
She gestured up to the castle. “I . . . to work,” she struggled in French. “Cookhouse.”
Elise’s gaze flickered over the girl, barely fourteen winters, she guessed. With a lowered face, the girl clutched the top of her tunic and trembled more from fear than from cold. Elise noticed the single black design on the back of the girl’s hand, a mark identical to one of the figures atop a red post in Frigga’s circle. “What is your name?”
“Serilda.” She did not look up.
Ah. Elise recognized the name of Frigga’s granddaughter. From Jeoffroi’s impatience, she gathered he knew nothing about the girl.
“Come, Jeoffroi. Let us take the monk to Brother Derrick and the girl to the kitchens.”
Elise told Hortense that the new kitchenmaid, young enough to train, could serve them exclusively as their personal servant. Hortense agreed. Johan granted her request and made a surprising request of his own: Elise’s help in situating the tannery, which she fulfilled graciously.
Soon afterward, Johan noticed Serilda and the new monk, Brother Herluin, making Christmas wreaths in the great room. Arrested by her excited smile and accompanying dimples, he watched her hands wave and poke the air as she “spoke” with the mute.
“How did you learn his language?” Johan asked, approaching her.
She stiffened and her liveliness vanished immediately.
“Speak girl!” He ordered, annoyed that her bowed head and trembling body expressed such terror at his attention.
“It . . . cumen,” she said in Saxon, her eyes down, her cheeks reddening.
“What comes?” Her diffidence frustrated him.
“Pictures with . . . hands.” She blushed. “I did . . . wrong, my lord?”
“You certainly did!” Marguerite said, joining them. She glanced warily at Brother Herluin before pouncing on the girl. “Why are you in the hall? You belong outside in the kitchens with the others.”
“Actually,” Johan intervened, “the girl now serves Lady Stafford and her aunt.”
“Why was I not consulted about this matter?”
“Because,” Hortense said, emerging from her chamber, “the matter did not concern you.” She joined Marguerite and Johan hovering over a terrified Serilda. “Go to her ladyship,” she said to the girl.
Serilda hesitated in confusion. “Go on, girl.” Hortense tipped her head.
“Stop!” Marguerite said.
Hortense turned to Johan. “Will you please inform your lordship’s concubine that the girl belongs to me and her ladyship, or shall I do so. You can be sure I will not mince words.”
“Why you—”
“Marguerite!” Johan grabbed her arm, blunting her strike.
Hortense nodded as Johan pulled Marguerite across the room to her chamber.
“You have no right to treat me so.” Marguerite rubbed her arm where Johan’s hand had held her. “And you certainly have no right determining where the servants work. That is my right as Alaric’s chatelaine.”
“There are exceptions to your rule. It was my decision to make. The girl serves the countess and her aunt, and that is final.”
“What about that harridan? Are you going to let her insult me?”
“What insult?” Johan said, his voice rising along with his rage. “You are Alaric’s concubine. Would you prefer whore or mistress instead? Neither word changes what you are, and Hortense will not be punished for speaking the truth.”
Marguerite gave Johan a slow, easy smile and raised a single eyebrow.
“You disgust me.” He turned and limped away. Annoyed and angry, he did not know why Marguerite’s laughter irked him.
January 1068, Tutbury, Staffordshire
In January, the ceaseless wind atop the escarpment pierced even the thickest furs. Restless soldiers trained in the north outer bailey, servants struggled to work in frozen mud. Deadly accidents occurred all over the castle: a ladder broke, horses became lame, heavy icicles crashed onto skulls, a cook nearly severed his hand. Servants clashed with each other, soldiers brawled, and Gilbert’s men thrashed people who had hoarded food. Tension within the hall became unbearable.
Elise had noticed a change in Marguerite. Despite the dozens of people always flowing in and out of the hall, Marguerite often sat alone near the fire, isolated in plain view, perhaps in a prison of her own making. These last days, she had been quieter, pensive, watching the activities in the hall as if distracted. Pregnant? Elise wondered, knowing Marguerite had been with Alaric less than three months ago.
Today, despite a crowded hall, Marguerite huddled beside the smoking fire, staring as if dazed. Lonely, thought Elise, recognizing the feeling. Marguerite closed her eyes, squeezing them tight as if trying to expunge a spiral of unwanted memories, and a slight shudder crossed her shoulders. Elise thought Marguerite looked like a frightened, vulnerable child. She suddenly remembered that Marguerite was near the age of Marie. A flush of compassion washed over her and dissolved quickly when Marguerite opened her eyes and caught Elise watching her. Instantly, Marguerite’s eyes glistened in rage, and before she could speak, Elise slipped into her own chamber.
January 16, 1068, in the second year of
King William’s reign, Thorney Island.
To Johan de Vaux:
I will ignore the pebble slung in your last letter and dismiss your scorn as the result of a painful leg, foul weather, or the strains of mediating between two hissing cats. Do not provoke me again.
Father Pierre died suddenly. I sent his wife and children to Herefordshire. Arrange for their support. A Norman monk scribes in his stead.
After King William returned to London, Eustace was tried in absentia and found guilty. The Norman penalty is perpetual imprisonment, death by English law if he ever returns. His English lands are forfeited. Through marriage, I am now related to a convicted traitor. My annulment petition will be submitted to the ecclesiastical council after Pentecost but, for now, William will not support it unless I can sway him to my cause. Your letters must provide details about the countess’s activities, and despite your unease, search for evidence of a treasonous alliance with her uncle.
We marched to Exeter when the villagers withheld their oaths, but after more than two weeks, we could not breach the walls. The village surrendered when William confirmed Exeter’s ancient privileges and accepted the customary crown fee in place of swearing fealty. We left a castle and garrison behind. William forbade pillaging under the surrender terms to constrain the zeal of his well-paid Mercian, Saxon, and Angle mercenaries.
Your responsibilities increase with my wealth. I received a manor outside London’s walls and one near Winchester. Both need attention. Spare no expense. Along with these and other estates, more people depend on me for their lives. See to it that good tenants are found for my new lands. Discuss with Gilbert the protection of these holdings and how to meet my knight’s service obligations.
The king has granted a charter restoring Tutbury’s mill. Build it to the design sent with this missive. Roderick sends a wagon of goods plundered before the king’s ban, and deeds and twigs in lieu of livery, granting you and Gilbert lands. These estates should provide you each with additional resources to fulfill your military obligations to me.
January 1068, Tutbury, Staffordsire
Marguerite invited the monks to dine with them during this winter of scarcity. After one sparse meal, Elise, Hortense, and Serilda had together moved to the edge of the room. Hortense squinted as she taught Serilda Norman embroidery. Elise spun wool, aware maidservants scurried to avoid the pawing, grasping men or to refill beakers. Men gathered in small groups to gamble, some took carnal pleasures in dark corners. Others told bold stories, wrestled or engaged in contests.
Elise recognized a scathing laugh and looked for the source. Dogs were growling and drunk men spun Herluin around. Someone dumped a grease-soaked trencher on his bald head. A couple of soldiers held him fast, and another squeezed his jaw and used a piece of charred wood to mark eyebrows, a mustache, and beard on his face. One soldier grabbed a female slave, shoved her into Herluin’s arms, and tripped them, so the monk fell atop the squirming girl.
Elise rose from her bench to intervene when Hortense grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
Stepping to the forefront herself, Hortense called out, “Gilbert fitz Gilbert!” Her commanding voice carried all the way across the hall.
Gilbert, talking with Brother Derrick, turned to Hortense as she moved toward him, her head lowered like a charging bull.
“I did not think you a cruel man, Lord Castellan. Yet, cruelty allows your men to denigrate a man of the cloth. Stop them immediately!” Hortense demanded.
Gilbert looked around, and with Brother Derrick following, he cut through the crowd, issuing soft orders. The soldiers disbursed. Derrick helped Herluin to rise, freeing him from his tormentors.
Marguerite watched from the high table. “That crone and her niece,” she said to Johan sitting next to her, “by Alaric’s order, have no say in his demesne.” Marguerite turned to him as if expecting his concurrence.
“All are aware you are chatelaine here.”
“All but you, it seems.”
Johan studied her as she glared at him. She had lost none of her Nordic beauty: wide-set blue eyes, golden hair, wide, red lips. Ah, Marguerite, what makes you so mean? At his silent question, she looked away.
Alaric did not love this woman and would not care if someone else had her. Once, Johan had been tempted to test Marguerite’s crusty temperament but, after his wife died, he no longer wanted a fiery beauty in his bed. He wanted a gentle woman, someone he did not have to fight all the time.
Johan’s gaze slipped to Lady Stafford and quickly away.
“That monk is evil!” Marguerite gestured toward Herluin.
Johan looked at Herluin, who had slipped easily into the castle’s life. He collected tithes and wove rushes. Herluin moved about the castle as if walking on the tips of his toes, appearing aimless, yet he could be found everywhere. He guessed Herluin to be near Hortense’s age, late fifties, yet his cherubic face remained unlined, his expression as vacant, as bland as a feeble-minded child. Except for the tiny hisses slipping through his teeth like steam from a kettle, and an occasional grunt, he communicated only with gestures. Seeing him, some people burst out laughing, others—like Marguerite—crossed themselves in fear and scattered quickly out of his sight.
Tonight’s incident was not unique. People often ridiculed Herluin, mimicked his bobbing head and gestures, and received applause for their perversions. Children tugged his belt, lifted his robes, played tricks on him. Johan frequently found him asleep sitting up in the hall, rocking to and fro. The poor monk would awaken to find thistles hung on his robe, weed brush tucked into his belt or eyebright sprinkled on him—charms against the evil eye. Through it all, as now, Herluin smiled innocently to everyone.
To Marguerite, he said, “We are all trapped here. Try to endure. If you cannot, shall I ask Alaric to send you to his London manor?”
She lowered her head and then looked up at him, her eyes brimming. “I am Alaric’s servant as you are, Johan. Unlike you, I will be discarded when no longer needed. He placed me here to usurp her ladyship’s authority. I must remain here to serve him.”
Johan frowned, confused by the hurt in her eyes. She shook her head suddenly and gave him a hard smile before looking away.