CHAPTER XXII

 

The Year 1120

The Herb Garden

 

Wandrille found Martin instructing servants on overseeing the care of the gardens while he was gone. His face lit up when he saw her. He beckoned. “We are finished here for today, Wandrille. Come, join me.” He glanced up at the darkening sky. “We are in for a regular gale. I’ll wager the wild hut rides this night.”

Wandrille laughed. “Do not let the servants hear you talk so. I nearly forgot this is the season for the hunt, when above the tumult of the gale you can hear the hunting horn, and the pounding of hooves, and the dreadful baying of the hell hounds. The pantler swears that she has seen the company of huge black horses ridden by ghosts on the air with monstrous howling black dogs alongside them.”

“Yes,” Martin whispered, “dogs with red eyes big as saucers, and some of them have human heads. They are led by a fearsome spectre, a king in jet-black robes and animal skins crowned with antlers. Some say he is the devil himself and that his fellow horsemen are the spirits of the dead, and the hounds are the spirits of unbaptized children, an entire parade of the damned, hunting for the souls of the dying or newly dead sinners to drive them to hell.”

“Come inside by the fire, Martin. It has begun to rain. Cook has made a hearty stew in anticipation of the storm.”

“I will join you anon,” Martin replied. “Just a moment more.”

“I would not want you to be caught outside when the wild hunt rides,” Wandrille teased. “Our pantler has warned me that if I ever come across this parade from hell I must not look upon them or speak to them lest I be swept away in their midst or driven mad. She claims her own father bears the scar of being burned by the hand of a devil knight.”

The wind moaned through the forest trees.

Martin said, “Does he really?”

“She says her father was only saved through the intercession of his newly dead brother who was part of the procession that night.”

A blinding flash of lightning closely followed by a clap of thunder sent them running into the manor house for shelter. The rain pounded against the door like the spirits of the dead trying to gain asylum.

Wandrille instructed a handmaiden to bring their supper into the great hall which was warmed by a roaring fire. “Mother will be in her chapel praying all night,” she told Martin, “And my father has gone to Paris on business. We shall have to brave the wild hunt alone.”

The fire was warm and bright, their shelter from the storm secure. As always, Wandrille and Martin were easy with one another, talking and laughing far into the tempestuous night.

“What shall I do without you here, Martin?” Wandrille said. “We have never been apart in all these years, and now you shall abandon me to work on Thomas’ ship in Barfleur. I cannot bear the thought. Help me think of something I can do so that I must stay in Barfleur too.”

“Dearest,” Martin replied, “I shall not be gone for so long a time and you can come to Barfleur every day if you so please and your mother gives you leave. It is not like I am going to Caen or Rouen or any great distance away. The honor of carving the prow and keel of the White Ship must override the loneliness I too shall feel for you.”

“Barfleur is not as close as the herb garden or even the camp down by the river where I can bring you cakes and ale like last summer.”

Martin laughed. “No, I suppose not. The tavern keepers in Barfleur would not take kindly to your delivering us cakes and ale every afternoon.”

He added a log to the fire and stirred the embers. Watching him, Wandrille felt a pang of regret that Thomas had won her heart when it belonged to another. Her love for Thomas was deep, but she had loved Martin far better all her life. Martin had not stepped up or spoken for her when Thomas had pledged his love. Yet only she knew of Thomas’ love, she realized, and the thought encouraged her to speak. Surely when Thomas said tell no one he did not mean Martin. Perhaps if Martin knew, things would be different. Perhaps he no longer thought of her as his little sister.

“Martin, I must confide in you,” she said softly.

Martin turned to her, curiosity in his eyes. “What is it, Wandrille? Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Thomas bade me never speak of this, but I simply must tell someone.”

Martin sat cross legged in front of the fire. Wandrille reached out and took his hand in hers. “You are my dearest friend. I must share with you my joy that Thomas has pledged his love to me. We are to be wed next spring when he returns from England.”

“I thought as much,” Martin said softly.

“Did he already tell you then?”

“No, Wandrille. He did not have to tell me. I have eyes.”

“Oh, then pray be happy for me, Martin. If you do not approve of this marriage, I must know.”

“Do you really love Thomas?”

Wandrille frowned. She thought her answer should be, “With all my heart,” but she could not say those words. “I love him well enow.” she said. Only speak love for me, Martin, and I will tell Thomas I cannot be his, she thought.

Alas, Martin did not speak to her of love. In an unwitting gesture, he covered the scar on his face with his hand. Gazing into the burning coals he simply said, “Then I wish you a lifetime of joy as the wife of Thomas Fitz Stephen.

Wandrille thought the confusion in her heart would devour her as thoroughly as the devil hounds howling beyond the stout walls of the manor house in the winds of the wild hunt. What can I do, she wondered. I am in love with two men.