July 1068, Tutbury, Staffordshire
Atop the ramparts, Johan shielded his eyes from the morning sun and watched a company of knights leaving the castle. “I’m glad to see Richard de Rupierre depart,” he said to Gilbert. “His dislike of Alaric irked me.”
“Dislike?” Gilbert said. “They’re allies.”
“Allies do not curse each other.”
“These do,” Gilbert shrugged. “Richard and Alaric are two rocks in the same river. They crash into each other, but both roll downstream side by side. At least we know Alaric is in Scotia. Richard thinks he will meet the king in York by summer’s end.”
“I hope Dreux’s not there. I didn’t warn Alaric that Dreux tried to compromise the countess.”
“Why not?” Gilbert demanded.
“He would assume she’d enticed Dreux or suspect her motives for spurning him.”
“She had to rebuff him,” Gilbert said. “Dreux set the court astir with his lingering gazes, and Marguerite spread rumors of a tryst. Her ladyship’s rejection quashed the rumors.”
“And provoked Dreux’s malice. Along with blaming Alaric for Clare’s death, he now despises Lady Stafford for her public rejection.”
“What exactly happened?”
In a flash, Johan recalled the moonless night, a lighted, glowing tent tucked between festive pavilions. “As you and her ladyship attended mass with the queen, I fed a young pig enough ale to make it sleep. I dressed it in a silk chemise, and left it in Dreux’s tent, snoring contentedly on a bed of furs. Soon, courtiers filtered into the shadows to witnesses the rendezvous.”
“Dreux?” Gilbert asked.
“Came dressed in gold and silver. He stood before the tent, aware of his hidden audience and swirled his sable cloak. ‘I make my case, gentlefolk,’ he said, ‘the lady is mine.’”
Gilbert gasped.
“Yes! I wanted to gut him!” Johan said. “With a flourish, he turned to the tent and spoke to the silhouette of a reclining figure, ‘Oh, lady! I am humbled that you await my embrace.’ He mentioned love and things beautiful, stars and seas. He entered the tent, ‘Come, let me kiss your sweet lips.’”
Johan cringed. “A moment later, Dreux yelled and fled the shelter, tripping when the squealing pig ran between his legs dragging the garment.”
“God’s breath!” Gilbert crossed himself. “He’ll never forget this insult.”
Johan nodded. “Witnesses stepped forward, laughing and repeating Dreux’s love words. He turned the incident to jest. With his broad, infectious smile, he said, ‘I accept the lady’s refusal.’ He clapped one knight on the shoulder as they laughed together. But,” Johan shook his head, “when he caught me watching from the shadows, his eyes turned deadly as if vowing: Alaric’s wife will die as did my Clare.”
In silence, they walked around the ramparts and spotted Lady Stafford and Jeoffroi riding beside the fields.
Gilbert asked, “Will Dreux hurt her? Can he?”
“I don’t know. If Alaric would only give her a chance. Damn his obstinate heart!”
To Elise’s relief, Richard de Rupierre and his knights headed toward Burton Road. From the moment they arrived yesterday, the boisterous group, led by the loud, hulking brute, had dominated the hall, brawling with Gilbert’s hearth guards, grabbing female servants, drinking and dicing, whooping and singing. And she disliked Rupierre’s eyes tracking her as she and her women had left the great room to their raw pleasures.
“We’ll stay in full view of the spotters,” Jeoffroi said to Elise, riding beside him. “It will take a few more days before we can slip unnoticed into the woods.”
“Yes,” she said. She had not seen Frigga in nearly two months and longed to ask about the things she’d heard whispered among women at court. What were dewale and sleep-apples? Was it true that midwinter falling on a feast day foretold a harsh winter? Did bramble tea cure warts, and could someone rid a malady by burying his nape hair?
As they rode back toward the castle, Elise mentally repeated Frigga’s song, reassured she had not forgotten how to find plants in the wood and meadows and along the riverbanks. Approaching Castle Road, she asked, “Did you enjoy being in charge of the garrison when Gilbert was away?”
“No, my lady,” he said. “Those duties left little time to entertain your aunt during her illness.”
“Hortense is stronger than ever,” Elise said. “Perhaps your scant attentions helped her flourish.”
“Taking charge of the hall in Marguerite’s absence restored her,” Jeoffroi said, grinning.
Elise smiled, recalling the moment they entered a newly whitewashed hall, saw the fresh rushes on the floor and smelled the spicy, inviting aromas. In response to Marguerite’s fury, Hortense struck back: No worries. Now that you are back, the hall will again fall to ruin. With that, the hostility between the two women sharpened.
After the noon meal, as Elise and Brother Herluin walked to the kitchen garden, Marguerite accosted them.
As usual in Herluin’s presence, she spit on the back of her fingers to ward off evil. “This creature casts a shadow on your soul and tarnishes your husband’s reputation. I have enjoined Brother Derrick to expel him. Moreover, your aunt may no longer enter the storerooms without my permission, and she is forthwith prohibited from leaving the castle. See to it that she conforms to my orders.”
Elise, unwilling to recognize Marguerite’s reinstated authority, merely gazed at her.
“Are you deaf, too, Lady Stafford?” Marguerite said, glancing at Herluin and back. “Can you not speak?”
“Mind your shrewish tongue!” Hortense chided behind Marguerite, startling her. “Servants might think you a common wench.”
Before Marguerite could respond, Hortense said, “Brother Derrick answers to God, not to his lordship’s whore. You have no authority over me. I go where I please.”
“One day, you will go too far!” Marguerite vowed.
“Make haste. Johan summons you,” Hortense said. “Perhaps he sends you away.”
Marguerite glanced at the hall and back at Hortense. “Never,” she smiled, departing.
“Come,” Hortense said, turning Elise and Brother Herluin toward the garden. “I overheard Richard de Rupierre telling Gilbert that your husband is far north. He says William may not release him for months.”
“God will it!” Elise said, making Hortense laugh.
Elise remained cheerful as the trio worked their way slowly across the kitchen garden. Near eventide, the sound of a horn drew her attention to Southgate. She dropped a hand full of leeks into Herluin’s basket and stood up to watch the commotion.
A priest entered the bailey. People gathered around him reverently. Some reached out to touch his garments, many knelt, and all crossed themselves. When Johan and Gilbert greeted him, the priest gestured to Derrick’s monks leading a mule carrying his baggage. Elise noticed the priest’s green cassock, embroidered along the hem and sleeves, and his mantle hanging casually over his shoulders. From his head held high and his dark, tonsured hair, he appeared young, and she admired his slow, majestic walk as he entered the hall.
“Lady Hortense,” Serilda called, a few minutes later. Out of breath, she ran toward them, speaking in Saxon. “Johan has offered the priest respite for a few days. He’s going to bless the chapel at vespers and dine with us.”
Elise smiled, seeing Serilda’s dimples twinkle in excitement as she told Herluin with gestures.
“Is he passing through?” Hortense asked.
“Yes. He’s visiting several villages to see which ones need priests. He came from Normandie.”
“Excellent! Tutbury needs a good blessing,” Hortense said.
“Yes, but he saw that we have no church,” Serilda said. “Brother Derrick explained that his lordship had set aside land for one, but he has not yet started the design or sought proper builders. The priest offered to help Brother Derrick with those plans.”
“Perhaps he can stay a week or more.” Elise hoped he would read aloud from her scriptures, or speak of Rouen or Rome, or engage her in learned conversation. She wondered if he played talf or chess, knowing that a Norman priest would enrich all their lives. She imagined Tutbury having a priest and a church, the masses, the richness of festive and solemn feast days.
“To have a priest, even for a short time, would gift us with God’s favor,” Elise said. “We’ll meet him after we trim the marigolds.”
As she worked, she smiled, happier than she’d been since marrying the stranger whose angry mark had nearly shredded the betrothal documents. Despite her husband’s efforts to demean and confine her, despite her uncle’s treason, Elise had thrived.
Along the way, she’d learned patience, which the nuns could never teach her, and had won Gilbert’s and Johan’s trust by quietly, calmly asserting herself. Her efforts won fewer guards, a dozen servants, more tasks and freedoms, and invaluable allies. Never before had she cherished secrets, but now she hid and savored the rigorous mental challenges of learning Frigga’s forbidden arts and the Saxon tongue. Surprisingly, she’d found more courage than she’d known before, which led her to face the king’s fury and to speak openly of pagan worship. And yet, she thought, filling her basket, even if her husband returned, she could recede back into her shadowed life and wait, quiet as a still pond. And one day he might accept her alliance.
Elise looked out over the bailey glowing in the late afternoon sunlight, mirroring the warmth in her heart. She had made a place for herself in this foreign land. In Black Wolf’s absence, Tutbury was hers, and she would use it to strengthen the new Norman kingdom, now her home.