Fires of Winter Page 3

  My other lesson came with being blooded in battle—a little more thoroughly than Sir Oliver had intended, I suspect. In fact, I am not sure the action at Bourg Thérould should be called a battle. There were no tens of thousands drawn up with brave banners flying and heralds riding to and fro crying defiance and shouting heroic lines to hearten their masters’ men alternately with crying curses and imprecations at the enemy. Perhaps Bourg Thérould was no more than a skirmish. However, it was battle enough to me—it was my first and God knows it was a bloodier fight than many far greater battles.

  I changed from boy to man that day. I was a boy when I waited to charge, lance in hand, thrilled to know that I would be aiming at a living man rather than a senseless quintain. Such are the young: I did not once think that if my aim was good a living man, against whom I had no spite, whom I did not even know, would be painfully hurt or die. I did not harm my first target. I was not heavy enough at fifteen to overset him, and either by luck or skill, I warded off his lance; but the second I struck true, and the dreadful scream as my lance thrust through mail and gambeson made me a man. Quintains do not scream.

  I cried out too, in horror at what I had done. Could I have withdrawn, I might have run away, but I was attacked and by instinct defended myself. And then Sir Bernard was struck down. I did not know that he was dead, and it was my duty to defend him so I fought on. I did not even dare spew up the meal I had so gaily eaten that morning, though the screaming and stink of blood and excrement from the loosened bowels of the dying (or terrified) roiled my stomach. Instead I went away inside myself to some far place where all the stench and noise were very distant and could not touch me. I have sought and found that place many times since then, but I no longer wake up as I did the night after Bourg Thérould, sobbing bitterly.

  I was utterly amazed, wondering about what I was weeping. When I caught my breath, I realized that the tent was free of my master’s snores, and it all came back to me. I still am not sure why I wept, and I have given the matter some thought over the years. Oh, I was sorry that Sir Bernard was dead, but in those days the only person whose death could have wrung from me those racking tears and sobs was Audris’s. Perhaps I wept for those who had died by my hand, or for all men who died in battle—but I think it was more for myself, because the innocent joy of boyhood in my skill in arms was lost.

  Later in the day, though, I remembered how the leader of our force and many others had praised me for my heroic defense and I began to grow proud of what I had done. Is it not this that makes war possible? That men forget so easily their revulsion at inflicting pain and death on others and recall only their pride in their own prowess?

  After the battle, which broke the back of the rebellion against the king, I was witness to the punishment of the prisoners. I saw how men without influence were sentenced to be maimed or blinded or killed, whereas one such as Waleran de Meulan, who had been a leader of the rebels against the king—although he had been raised like a son in the king’s own household—was only sent into gentle imprisonment. One good effect of the fearful punishments exacted for rebellion was that I became less discontent for a time with the quiet life in Jernaeve and was glad to go home.

  I was welcomed back with wild joy by Audris, and that, too, sweetened the days of that summer—but I found also that Audris and I had come to a parting in the ways of our hearts. Out of love, she listened to my tales of war, but she was horrified, gentle creature that she was, not excited. She did not even much relish my tales of London and the foreign towns I had seen. It was the hills and forests and the wild creatures that lived in them that she loved, not close-packed houses filled with people or the streets busy with trade. We did not love each other less, but we had grown apart.

  As if to compensate, I was closer to Sir Oliver for a time than I had ever been before. I had brought with me a sealed letter for him from the commander of the force, which, I am sure, held high praise of my behavior in both camp and field, and for the next few years Sir Oliver put me to use fighting off raids by outlaws and Scots. That first year I went with Sir Oliver to drive the raiders away and follow them back and burn their villages. The next two years I led a troop of my own, and was welcomed warmly in the manors to which I brought relief and protection. In some of them I stayed the night or even a few days, and more than once I was asked questions about Audris that puzzled me.

  At first I said nothing to Sir Oliver about these questions, fearing to bring trouble on my hosts, but their curiosity about Audris herself, and such matters as when she would be ripe to marry and whether Sir Oliver was soon planning to betroth her and to whom, remained in my mind. Then one afternoon while Sir Oliver and I were idly drinking ale before the high-burning fire of deep winter, before I thought, my mouth had disclosed what puzzled me.

  In the next instant my blood froze in my veins, so strange was Sir Oliver’s expression as he slowly lifted his head. He had been idly watching the flames in the fireplace as he grumbled; now, instead, he stared at me for a long moment in silence. Finally he said heavily, “I knew the time would come.”

  Pretending my heart was not leaping in my throat, I stared back at him. “If I have done wrong and should have told you about this sooner, I am sorry. I thought there was no harm intended, just a natural curiosity about Audris because she is so shy.”

  Sir Oliver sighed. “You have done no wrong. Still, you must leave Jernaeve. I cannot keep you anywhere on the lands. You are a danger to Audris.”

  “I?” I gasped, the shock of hearing so suddenly that I must leave my home being swallowed up in the far greater shock his last sentence gave me. “I a danger to Audris? I would die to protect her.”

  “I have no doubt of it,” Sir Oliver said sadly, and then with a spurt of bitterness, “Damn your Fermain face! Why could you not look like your mother?”

  This time I was so stupefied by astonishment that I could not find my voice at all and just gaped at him.

  “Do you not see that the men beholden to Jernaeve might prefer a strong man they know to hold the lands, bastard though he be, to a frail maiden?” Sir Oliver went on after a moment, watching me all the while as if he would draw the thoughts inside my head out through my eyes.

  He could have discerned nothing but astonishment and disbelief, because that was all I felt—but it is likely he could not tell what I was thinking at all. I had not that trust in people that allowed every emotion to play freely over Audris’s face, and it had long been my practice to hide what I felt.

  “You cannot believe I would have any part in such a scheme,” I protested when I could speak.

  Sir Oliver shook his head. “Nonetheless, the longer you remain, the more men will compare you with Audris and the greater their discontent will grow. You must go.”

  Fear and desire warred in me. I knew that I no longer had a home, that I was to be cut off from Jernaeve forever and that was a fearful thing, but I also had a deep craving to go out into the world, where perhaps I could make a place for myself that did not depend on being my father’s get on a whore. I also feared Audris’s reaction to hearing I was leaving Jernaeve for good, and I dared not tell her the real reason. It would be a bitter brew indeed to make poor, loving Audris drink of, that because she was a frail woman I had become a threat to her possession of Jernaeve. A silly fear. Audris had always known me better than I knew myself, and she had seen my restlessness. She tried to hide her tears to spare me pain and only made me promise that I would never fail to send her letters.

  Again, I was not cast out but sent with honor, with a fine horse of my own training and good arms and armor. In the spring, I went to serve Eustace Fitz-John, in Alnwick keep, as one of the captains of the men-at-arms. I had my seat among the other captains and the upper servants at the second table and respect from the common folk and men-at-arms; I had no need to feel that I had fallen. And, although the troop I was given to manage was small and all raw men, that was to be expect
ed for one as young as I. I took great pleasure in training the men and polishing them, and in the small actions we were sent on they behaved well. The troop was enlarged and then enlarged again.

  Before I realized it, two years had passed. Every few months a messenger came from Audris in Jernaeve with a letter of news about the keep and the family, and I sent a letter back with the man with my small news, but in 1126 I had matter of greater interest to tell, great enough to hire a messenger of my own to carry word to Jernaeve. King Henry’s son-by-marriage, emperor of the Romans, had died, and his widow, Empress Matilda, had returned to her father. King Henry had been in Normandy all this time, but now he was coming back to England, bringing Matilda with him with the avowed purpose of forcing the barons to swear that they would take her for their queen when he died.

  To my surprise, I was chosen to accompany Sir Eustace to the swearing. It was most interesting to see the seeming eagerness with which all men swore to uphold Matilda’s right to the throne against all others in the king’s presence. The greatest lords gave their oaths first. King David of Scotland swore to her first; after that there was nearly a quarrel between Robert, earl of Gloucester, the king’s most beloved bastard, and Stephen of Blois, sister’s son to the king and his favorite nephew, as to who should first swear fealty. Robert claimed the right of half brother; Stephen the right of sister’s son.

  I could not help wondering, considering what I had heard in Alnwick, on the road, and in the drinking houses, which of the three would betray her first, for Matilda, I could see, was not the kind of woman who could make a man wish to die for her. Out of the king’s sight and hearing, it was clear that no one was happy with the idea that a woman would rule England.

  Chapter 2

  Melusine

  I was the precious poppet, the dearest toy, the brightest ornament of the manor of Ulle. It is not often, I know, that the birth of a daughter is welcomed with cries of joy by her mother, let alone by her father, but my parents already had seven strong sons. It was plain enough why my mother was joyful about having a daughter; she had no other woman of her own kind to share her interests and burdens, but one might be surprised by my father’s gladness and attention to me. He never said why, of course, and for a long time I did not know his treatment of me was different from that of other fathers so I did not ask. By the time I realized that I was cosseted and favored above most other daughters, there were good reasons for his favor and I was too busy and too content to think about it. Now that I look back, I would guess that my father was a man who needed the soft love of a woman, the fond flattery and the gentle bantering talk that only a woman can provide.

  I do not mean to say that my father and mother lived unhappily together. They did not quarrel nor hate each other, but there was a cause of distrust between them. I know that grieved my mother, at least in later years, for she felt the cause was long gone—but she did not know my father as well as he knew himself. Thus, she could not understand the wariness he still felt toward her after so many years as husband and wife, and when she sickened it troubled her mind so much that she talked of it.

  My father, Sir Malcolm of Ulle, was not born in Ulle. He had been liege man to Duncan, eldest son of King Malcolm of Scotland. When Malcolm was murdered and his brother, Donald Ban, came to power, Duncan fled to England and my father came with him. Papa learned the ways of the Normans in the court of King William Rufus and rode back to Scotland with Duncan when, with the English king’s support, he drove his uncle from the throne. In less than a year, however, Duncan had been murdered too, and my father fled for his life to a distant cousin of his mother’s who held the lands of Ulle. Three years later, Edgar, Duncan’s half brother, drove Donald Ban from the throne, but though Papa loved Scotland and still considered himself a Scot, he saw no reason to go back there. He was a younger son in a large family and had no heritage to claim. Edgar, the son of Malcolm’s second wife, was not likely to offer much to his brother’s man when he had so many of his own retainers to reward. And Papa had made a place for himself in Ulle, for his cousin was a lazy, dissolute man who was delighted to let my father manage his estate. He had no heir and wanted none, quite content that Papa should hold the lands after his death—if he could.

  Mama did not know when Papa’s cousin died, but by 1104 when Henry, who had been king of England for four years, came on a progress to take fealty of those subjects who had not previously sworn to him, Papa was holding Ulle. At that time, King Henry did not have the absolute power he came to wield over his subjects in later years, and he still needed to consider the opinions of his barons. So, because Papa’s neighbors liked him and his tenants had few complaints, King Henry decided not to try to drive him out of Ulle, even though he was Scots born and had no real legal right to the estate. On the other hand, King Henry did not trust Papa—well, from what I have heard, he did not trust anyone very much—I mean that he trusted Papa even less because of his Scots birth and his remaining love of that country.

  Mama was the answer to that distrust. Her father was totally dependent on King Henry’s favor, and Mama was bidden to marry my father and to watch for signs of treason in him. If she sent warning, she would be rewarded and her children would be assured of the estate and of other favors from the king. If she did not send warning, not only would she and her children suffer the same fate as her husband but her father and mother and siblings would go with her to blinding or exile or death.

  I remember crying out against so disgusting a charge and saying that I would not consent to be a spy against the man to whom I was united in wedlock. Mama’s eyes had grown huge with the wasting of her face and body, and now, though she laughed at my childish protest, they glittered darkly with tears.

  “A woman has no choice,” she said. “Could I seize my sword and leave my home to make my own way? My father would have beaten me to death if I had set my will against that of the king.”

  “There are convents—” I began.

  She laughed again. “Few that would take in a woman against the king’s will and her family’s will, but even if I had been a man, I would have been constrained to obey. My refusal would have meant disaster for my whole family. How could the king trust my father to hold lands and enforce order if he could not obtain obedience from his own family?”

  “And why did Papa agree?” I cried, for I was still young enough then to think my father the strongest and wisest man in the world, one who did not need to submit his will to any man.

  “He had no right to Ulle,” my mother replied. “He had no more choice than I, for if he refused so reasonable a request, no one would have blamed King Henry for being unwilling to enfeoff him.”

  So, in exchange for a charter for his lands, Papa had to agree to take Mama as his wife. Whether King Henry actually told my father what he had arranged, Mama did not know, but Papa was not stupid and he guessed.

  I did not learn until much too late that my mother had been the victim of two clever men. Years after Mama had told me her story, Papa retold it, except he laughed—not at my mother’s pain, I do not mean that. Papa was not a monster, and he had had his own grief to bear, for he had never dared to let himself show affection for Mama or let her forget her purpose. It was King Henry at whom he laughed because the king had not seen the trap he was laying for himself—at least, that was the way my father saw the matter. To promise my mother that the lands would stay with her and her children if she gave warning of any treason intended by my father had freed him, Papa said, to do as he pleased. When there was some contest between England and Scotland, where he felt his honor was engaged with the Scots, he planned to tell my mother to send her warning, which would ensure she and his children would be safe from retribution.

  It happened that it did not matter. In all the years of King Henry’s reign, there was peace between Scotland and England. I do not count the raiding by outlaws and by the lowland lairds, who sought to add to their thin fortunes with
loot from England. Naturally, Papa fought raiders with the same ferocity whether they were Scots or English or anyone else, just as any other landholder did. Besides, most of the raiding took place in the west, where, I now know, the land is richer. Thus, there was never any reason for Mama to be torn between loyalty to her husband and fear of the king.

  At the time my mother spoke to me of these matters, of course I did not know why my father had kept the memory of the purpose of their marriage always between them. I thought that wrong, but there were many reasons I never spoke of the matter to him. The most important was that when he saw Mama was dying, he softened and became tender to her. I was afraid then to blame him for past coldness lest he be angry with Mama for telling me of her long pain and withdraw the warmth he was at last offering. There were also selfish reasons: I adored my father and could hardly bear, even for my dying mother’s sake, to make him angry. Least important, but still a real problem, was that I had little time or energy to spare for anything. As my mother weakened, more and more of the ordering of the household fell on my shoulders. I was only thirteen, and for fear a mistake would bring the servants’ scorn on me and make them disobedient, I did too much myself and mulled over every order ten times before I dared give it.

  I have not mentioned my grief at my mother’s illness and death, partly because it has grown dim over the years that have passed and partly because that whole period was so filled with pain for me that I could hardly distinguish one grief from another. I know that such things are the will of God and God’s reasons are beyond our understanding. So I am sinful and rebellious—I have been told that many times—but I still think it cruel and unfair that sorrows be heaped all of a sudden on the head of one who is unaccustomed to their weight. Sorrows, like any other burden, should come small at first and then larger, until one has gained the strength to bear them.