Fires of Winter Read online

  For me they did not come that way. From the day of my birth, I was petted and pampered, for my brothers might contest against each other but all of them scorned to fight a girl. As an infant and a young child, I was a toy, a beloved plaything, to all the men in my family. Not one came back from his fostering for a visit without bringing to me a new toy or, later, a new ribbon or lace or other ornament. To speak the truth, although I was tall and sturdily made, they all, my father also, watched over me so closely that I sometimes felt I would be smothered under their care. It seemed I could not turn around lest one cry out, “Be careful, you will grow dizzy and fall,” nor walk a straight path lest another take my hand to be sure I would not trip and scrape my knee.

  Among them, they would have made me unable to draw breath without help and spoiled my temper completely, except that even with seven coming and going, my brothers were rarely at home. Papa too was often away, and when he was not he was busy. Thus, my care and upbringing were in my mother’s hands, and Mama would have nothing to do with weakness and willfulness. She saw that my father and brothers would soon ruin me, and as soon as I could walk and talk, she set about teaching me not only all the womanly skills she had but that I was a real person, no weaker and no stupider than my brothers. If Mama bade me carry a message for her and I said I was tired, she sent me five times over the route. If I wept without reason, she whipped me soundly to give me a reason. If I pouted and said a lesson was too hard, she set me two that were harder.

  I learned quickly that I was strong enough and clever enough to do anything. And since I had learned that lesson from Mama when I was very young, my menfolk’s cosseting raised a demon of mischief in me. To say it plainly, I led them all round by their noses, and by setting one against the other and working on their fears for me, I induced them to teach me all kinds of unsuitable things. Papa was the one easiest to wheedle with tears; he taught me to ride a fat, placid pony because I wept and pleaded, but it did not take me long to transfer that knowledge to a swift, rangy mare called Vinaigre for her habit of biting. But she did not bite me, for I brought her sweets, and by the time Papa learned what I had done, I managed her so well he was proud rather than angry.

  Duncan, my eldest brother, taught me to shoot a bow. Malcolm, my second brother, taught me to handle a hawk. Donald, the third, was a great one for women, willing or not; he taught me to use a knife and other ways to defend myself against men. Andrew, who was pledged to the Church, taught me to read and write. Angus let me ride hunting with him—but he was only four years my elder and not as sure that I was as fragile as his older brothers believed. The two youngest, Magnus and Fergus, taught me nothing new, but I honed my skills against theirs and they knew I would not break.

  So my life was full of joy, holy and unholy, until my thirteenth year. I was born in the spring, on May Day, and that day had always been a high festival for my family. If they could, my brothers came from wherever they were to join the celebration, and so five of them did in the year 1129. Five came and four, two with their wives and their children, died.

  I was too sick myself to understand the calamity that had befallen us. When I learned of it, I wept for days and began to sicken again. I remember my father sitting beside me and trying to comfort me, begging me to eat, himself weeping, holding me in his arms all night long, rocking me in the hope I would sleep. The kindness made me worse, for I felt it to be my fault that so many had died. All I could say, between sobs, was that they would still be alive if they had not come to make me happy on my birthday. Then Mama came to sit with me for a little time, begging my father to go and rest, but as soon as Papa was gone, she slapped me as hard as she could—not very hard, for she was weak herself—and called me a selfish, thoughtless slut.

  “You spoiled, self-indulgent monster,” she hissed. “Do you think your father does not grieve, nor I? What right have you to add to our pain with your lamentations? If as you say it is your fault your brothers are dead, is it not your duty to comfort us? Your father has not slept in two nights because of your selfishness. Will you be more content when you have killed him too?”

  The slap and the cruelty of her words stunned me. I was silent for a minute or two, then cried that she was cruel and heartless and I hated her, and wept more than ever—I wonder if I wished she would beat me in the hope that the punishment would lift away some part of my burden of guilt. But she did not respond either to my tears or my words, only sat staring into nothing with a face like a stone mask of misery until my father’s step could be heard returning. Then her face changed and she went to him and scolded with loving gentleness because he had come so soon. He said she should be in her bed herself and that he could not rest while I, his pearl of price, he called me, was in danger.

  My cot had been moved into Mama’s bedchamber so that she could hear how I was cared for even while she lay abed. The window was wide open in the mild spring day, and the light from it fell full on Papa’s face as he stood in the doorway. When I saw how sunken were his eyes, their bright blue dimmed to watery grey, and how the skin hung on the broad bones of his face, my mother’s cruel words rang in my head…and did not seem cruel but just. I was a monster not to have seen how much I added to his suffering while I indulged my own grief. From that moment I struggled to bury it, and I think I succeeded in becoming a comfort to Mama and Papa. But I never celebrated my birthday again…never.

  So my thirteenth year began and so it ended. Duncan and Malcolm, with their wives and children, and Angus and Fergus died in the first week of May. Andrew, who had survived the disease, as had I, was granted the high honor of accompanying his bishop on a trip to Rome; he died there late in January. We did not learn of his death until the end of April, and by then I had no more tears to shed, for my mother had died only two weeks earlier. It was the one mercy of that terrible year that my mother did not need to hear of Andrew’s death.

  After that, the hand of God was lifted from us—but not all the way and only for a time. Donald left his service with King David of Scotland and came home, for he was now the heir to Ulle. He had sworn he would never take a wife, but now he agreed to marry to breed sons. Papa chose the girl, far more with an eye to the sum she would bring as dower than to her beauty or temper—Papa was sure that Donald was too hardened a sinner to be reformed by any woman—and so Mildred’s dower brought Thirl manor and its lands into my family. And then a strange thing happened: Although I cannot say Mildred was a beauty, she had such charm that Donald was soon weaned away from his pursuit of other women. Somehow she satisfied him completely.

  I cannot help but laugh at myself and my stupidity when I think about Mildred. I was then so sure of my power over men, not thinking that when I was neither sister nor daughter my advantage might disappear, that I never asked Mildred how she had conquered Donald. We were good friends too, for Mildred was not jealous by nature and she did not begrudge me my sister’s share of Donald’s love. But mayhap it is as well I never learned, for I discovered Mildred was not a Christian; although she went to Mass to save trouble, she worshipped the old horned god. The priest said it was that devil worship which brought our final catastrophe upon us, but I do not believe it. Most of the common folk worshipped as Mildred did and no ill befell them. Besides, I loved Mildred and love her still.

  The first years of Donald’s marriage were good years. Day by day the pain I hid and thought would never ease grew less. I learned to laugh again, and Mildred brought new life into our family. She and Donald lived in Thirl, not Ulle manor, but it was no great distance and we were together often. And at first when Papa saw how Donald was changing and casting aside his wild ways, he was delighted with Mildred’s power; so was I, and I never came to think differently for Donald was a very happy man. However, Mildred did not get with child, and as the years passed and no seed quickened in her womb, my father grew dissatisfied. I will say for Papa that he tried everything to get an heir for Ulle before he said one word against Mildred. As so
on as Magnus was knighted, my father found a wife for him.

  I have been telling my tale as if the outside world did not touch me or Ulle, and in a way that is true. The country around Ulle is wild and mountainous and has little to attract those not bred to the place. Strangers fear the steep, rough tracks that climb from our narrow valleys over the high passes through the hills and creep around the edges of our deep tarns, but the valleys are sheltered and fertile and the tarns are full of fish. So, though we are not rich in gold and gems, there is food in plenty for the few people who live here. And, though we are few, the people are not weak or slavish. Every man must use bow and spear and long knife to protect himself and his family and beasts against the bear and wolf that roam the mountains, and our people do not fear to turn the same weapons against human enemies.

  Still, we are not wholly free of affairs outside our own shire. I have told already how King Henry, as one small part of tightening his grip on England, summoned my father and arranged his marriage. Some years later, when King Edgar of Scotland died, King Henry helped Alexander, Edgar’s half brother, succeed peacefully to the Scottish throne. Since Papa agreed that Alexander had the right to rule, it caused no change in our lives—except for having to listen to Papa grumble that it was not Henry’s business to interfere, even if what he did was right. Papa felt the Scots should settle their own affairs, even if it meant they would fight and murder each other for years. Now, I do not know that I agree with him, although then I was too young to have any opinion.

  Far more important to my family was that Prince David, Alexander’s younger brother, became overlord of Cumbria. Papa went to his investiture and did homage to him and came back full of praise for the prince. I do not remember that, for I was only six when King Alexander died and David became king of Scotland. King Henry insisted that David relinquish the rule of Cumbria when he took the throne. I know this because Papa constantly bewailed the loss of David as overlord. To me it was never entirely clear why he bewailed it, but a hint here and there implied that David had favored a fellow Scot, whereas an English overlord would be prejudiced against him.

  For many years I thought that rather funny. I am of Ulle, not Scottish nor Norman nor English, and I could not understand why my father, who had lived at Ulle all except a few years at the very beginning of his life, did not feel the same. Moreover, after my mother’s death I was responsible for tallying the dues that came in from our tenants and the smaller manors that Papa had bought or established on unsettled lands near us and the dues that we sent to our overlord or to the king. Since there was no great difference no matter where the dues went, I could not believe we were worse treated than any other holder in the shire.

  Later I learned the charters for the small manors Papa had established at Wyth, Rydal, and Irthing, where he had settled an old friend, Sir Gerald, had been written and sealed by Prince David. Even then I saw no real reason for Papa’s complaints. We paid dues on those new manors, which would profit the overlord, whoever he might be. Though I kept the accounts, Papa did not think women fit for understanding the intricacies of politics and did not discuss such matters with me, so I was left to believe he feared a new overlord would not honor the charters for spite. I did not realize there was more profit to enfeoffing a new man than in collecting rents faithfully paid.

  Those manors Papa founded kept us poor. Had he not diverted flocks and men from Ulle into the new lands, we could have established new villages in Ulle, enlarged our fishing fleet, and sold our produce, particularly the lake fish, which were in great demand. Sometimes I resented the draining away of our wealth, especially when I was young and was refused some bauble or a length of fine cloth or gold thread, but I soon realized why Papa was so intent on those new manors. He loved his sons and would not send them out to make their own way as he had been sent with no land to come back to. And one of the manors, Wyth, was to be my dower.

  Until King Henry died, all went well with us. We rejoiced heartily at the birth of the king’s grandson in 1133 because, if the child lived, he would rule in his grandfather’s place rather than Matilda, to whom the barons had been forced to swear. The king, though aging, seemed strong, the land was at peace, and our personal concern—who would hold Cumbria—seemed settled. To avoid giving offense to King David, who claimed Cumbria for his eldest son, or to Ranulf, earl of Chester, who claimed it because his father had once ruled it, King Henry would hold it as Crown land. And since no one could alienate Crown land except the king, Papa believed that the new manors would be “old” and ours by long custom as well as by law before any question regarding them could be raised. Another son, Geoffrey, was born to Matilda in 1134, securing, as we thought, the succession.

  Papa, who had been uneasy and grumbling ever since the swearing to Matilda, stopped talking about the probable horrors of being ruled by a woman—to which I had made no answer, although he tried my temper sorely. I often felt like recommending to him one of his own favorite maxims: Never cast away dross without a careful look; a jewel may be hidden within. But I had met Matilda when she came north with her father—not to Ulle, of course, but once in Carlisle and once in Richmond, and unfortunately, I thought Papa was right, except for discounting all women. Besides, pert remarks, except in jest on light matters, are no way to manage a man, so I held my tongue.

  So the year 1135 opened with contentment for us, which deepened into a hope for happiness as Magnus was wed to Winifred—both being willing and well satisfied with the match—and she got with child within the month. To ensure her comfort and safety, Papa bade the young couple live with us at Ulle instead of at Rydal, which would eventually be their home, and built them their own small house within the walls. Winifred was happy, and though she was a simple soul and I could not feel for her what I felt for Mildred, we lived peaceably together. The crops were good that year and the fish plentiful. The priests are always mumbling about signs and portents, but they are all liars, I think. There were no signs that summer or autumn of 1135 that the long peace in which England had basked and grown rich was about to be shattered.

  Chapter 3

  Bruno

  I lived in Alnwick nearly ten more years before I had an answer to the question I had asked myself when I had gone with Sir Eustace to watch Stephen of Blois and Robert of Gloucester swear fealty to Matilda. I do not recall whether I remembered my curiosity about which man would first betray her when news of King Henry’s death and Stephen’s crowning as king came to Alnwick. However, I did not feel surprised when Sir Eustace, seemingly without giving a thought to the oath he himself had sworn to Matilda, greeted the news with pleasure and swore fealty to the new king. I was surprised when I heard that King David of Scotland had determined to abide by his oath to Matilda and had brought an army into Northumbria, demanding that each keep yield to him in Matilda’s name, but that was because at that time I was not aware that King David had a strong claim to the lordship of Northumbria through his wife.

  Since winter was well advanced, all the crops were in and the early slaughtering had been done so the keep was fully stocked. By that time I was master-at-arms in Alnwick, and I began with all speed to prepare to repel an assault or withstand a siege. All the war machines on the walls were tested, and stones for flinging by the trebuchet, huge arrows for the ballistas, were set ready. The fletchers were set to making arrows and quarrels; the smiths to repairing armor and making extra weapons; and the serfs to preparing long hooked poles for casting down ladders, carrying sand and oil for heating and pouring down on our enemies, and piling hides where they might be needed to protect against fire.

  We were ready when the Scots came, but it had been a wasted effort. Sir Eustace had his terms of surrender all ready to present to them. He would do homage to King David as overlord of Northumbria and swear to support Matilda if he was confirmed in his possession of Alnwick. I could hardly believe my ears when he ordered me to carry these terms to the leader of the Scots.

 
; “Why should you propose terms to them?” I protested. “There are no more than five or six hundred men out there. Probably we can drive them away, but even if we cannot, the Scots have no staying power. We can sit them out.”

  “Fool!” he shouted. “Do you think this is all the army? Norham was taken—”

  “It is all the army that is here,” I snapped back. “And certainly not enough of an army to make me change my mind about who would better rule England.”

  “Make you change your mind!” Sir Eustace bellowed. “Who are you to throw your opinions in my teeth, whore’s son? You are my hired sword, and you are no longer even that, since you refuse to obey my orders. Get to your quarters and put of my sight. Get out!”

  What he saw in my face turned his purple. After that, I barely escaped with my horse and arms. I think I succeeded in riding out on Barbe because Sir Eustace was either afraid or ashamed to order the men-at-arms I had led to stop me. The Scots, having had so easy a conquest, were too surprised to interfere when I galloped out and, I guess, felt one man and one horse not worth pursuing. It was not until I was well away and sure of freedom that I began to wonder what to do with it.

  Sir Oliver would surely blame me for throwing away my livelihood. Doubtless he would think it was not my business what Sir Eustace did with Alnwick; my honor was in no way involved. I began to wonder whether the real reason that I had insulted Sir Eustace was because I was bored and his refusal to fight had meant my boredom must continue. The more I thought, the more dissatisfied I became with my behavior and the less willing I became to reach Jernaeve and face Sir Oliver despite an icy rain that began to fall. I turned Barbe due west toward Wark, telling myself that Sir Oliver must know of the coming of the Scots already and that it would not matter if I slept the night in Wark. It was only right to warn Sir Walter Espec’s castellan too, I reasoned.