by J G Lewis
Ela stared for a moment, surprised by his familiarity. Then she smiled. “Indeed he was quite the tallest man I ever met. I brought a likeness of his face.” She reached into her cloak where she’d folded a small parchment sketch. “It shows his features in proportion.”
The stonemason took it and studied it. “I thank you, though I hardly need it.” He looked up at her. “Everyone in Wiltshire knew William Longespée, and I intend for them to recognize him instantly when they see his tomb.”
“He should be in full chain mail, with his longsword by his side and his shield with six rampant lions.”
“Yes, my lady. And it will be painted with his heraldic colors.”
“He’ll be life size?”
“At least life size. He’s a larger-than-life figure in these parts, isn’t he?”
Ela felt relieved. She’d been assured this stonemason was the most accomplished in all Wiltshire. She wanted to make sure her husband’s tomb would be worthy of him. It would outlast all of them and would be the only William Longespée that his grandchildren and their grandchildren would ever know. “Thank you. I look forward seeing my husband again in your stone carving.”
As she rode back to the castle, a solider on either side of her, Ela noticed a phalanx of official-looking horsemen riding toward the castle on the London road. “Slow down,” she ordered the guards. “Can you see who that is?”
They both demurred. Young and inexperienced, they probably wouldn’t know the Ayyubid Sultan if he rode down on them with an army. The men carried no identifying banner but then nor did she. Such things were reserved for official occasions.
She squinted, trying to make out who they were. Her sight wasn’t as keen as it used to be, but a sour sensation in her gut began to inform her who her visitor was before she could make out his arrogant visage. Hubert De Burgh.
Startled by her reaction, her horse shied and she had to pet Freya’s neck to settle her. How did he have the nerve to show his face here when her husband was barely cold in his tomb? At least he hadn’t had the gall to attend her husband’s funeral.
She wanted to order him from her castle—from all of Wiltshire—or throw him headlong into the dungeon underneath the castle.
But he was the king’s justiciar.
Blood boiling, she spurred her horse forward. She had to arrive back at the castle before he could be warmly welcomed by Will or her mother or Jean, all of whom had no idea what he’d done.
She trotted through the arch and up the castle hill while the party was still approaching at a brisk walk. She’d dismounted and handed her reins to the groom when De Burgh and his retinue of about ten men rode through the gates.
Ela prepared herself to behave with the dignity required of her office as countess and high sheriff of Wiltshire.
De Burgh dismounted and strode up to her with the confidence of a man used to taking what he wanted from life. Something he’d apparently been doing since his birth as a lowly yeoman. He’d risen far and fast on his wits and supposed charm, and she now prayed fervently for the day he’d fall all the way back down.
“Ela! My deepest condolences. His majesty and I are devastated that we were unable to attend the funeral services for his beloved uncle. Unfortunately pressing matters kept us at Westminster.”
“The king’s condolences are much appreciated,” she said stiffly. Could she manage to stay just this side of rudeness? De Burgh could destroy her if he chose.
“His highness charged me with bringing a small token of his affections for his uncle William.” He gestured to a riderless horse, being ponied by one of his companions. The horse wore a pack saddle laden with what looked like a large box. The myth of the Trojan horse stirred in her mind.
Would she ever look at anything without at least a hint of suspicion again? “Bring your men into the hall for some refreshment.” She’d have rather offered him a cup of poison out here in the courtyard, but there was no way to avoid the invitation. She prayed he didn’t intend to settle in for a long visit. Her castle did house the king’s garrison so he could claim to be here on the king’s business. She couldn’t keep him out without risking the king’s ire—something she had no desire to do.
“Thank you, kind lady.” De Burgh’s honeyed smile churned her gut. “Your hospitality is a credit to your late husband. How is young William bearing up?”
“He’s devastated by the loss of his father, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Thank God she’d had the self-control not to share her suspicions with her son. If he thought his father’s murderer was about to enter their hall, he’d grab his father’s famous longsword and greet De Burgh with it flashing in his hand.
And no good could come of that.
De Burgh cleared his throat. “I must apologize for the unfortunate circumstances of our last meeting.” He spoke quietly as they headed through the doorway into the hall. “I’d been told by reliable sources that your husband was lost in the shipwreck. If I’d known he lived I would never have encouraged my nephew to ask for your hand.”
Ela felt bile rise within her at the memory. A silly boy hoping to be her husband. And De Burgh had already requested permission from the king!—who’d agreed as long as Ela could be persuaded to say yes. It was a cheap and dirty grab at her lands and titles, and she’d rebuffed it will all the fury and indignation it deserved.
And she’d have to live with the repercussions for the rest of her life.
All rose as De Burgh and his finely dressed retinue entered the hall. Alianore greeted him effusively, and Ela half wished she’d told her mother of his nephew’s disgraceful proposal so she could have instead chilled him with one of her haughty stares. Alianore would be aghast to know that a man without even a title of his own had dared to ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage. But once again, her mother and Jean were safer protected from information that would inflame their righteous anger and possibly endanger them all.
The servants took their cloaks and fussed over the guests, settling them at a table near the fire with drinks. Ela busied herself with her children, asking them about their morning and telling them about the service at the new cathedral, when she sensed De Burgh’s long shadow looming over her.
“Might I speak with you in private, my lady?”
“Anything you have to say to me can be said in the presence of my dear mother and her husband.”
De Burgh looked doubtfully at them. “But your children—” He glanced at them, then back at Ela, with more than a hint of menace.
Was he threatening her? Could he destroy her loved ones, one by one?
Fear spurred her to action. “Accompany me into the armory.” She rose and led the way, requesting that the two soldiers standing watch should wait outside the door. If he’d come to kill her he’d find her handy with a sword and she’d die fighting.
Seething, she held her tongue until the heavy door closed behind her. “With all due respect to the office of the king’s justiciar,” she said slowly, “your presence here is an insult to the memory of my husband. William Longespée was alive and well, God be praised, delivered from a terrible shipwreck and a year in exile. Alive and well just days ago!”
“May he rest in peace.” De Burgh crossed himself and Ela followed suit, though she would rather have slapped him across his smug face.
“Alive and well until he accepted an invitation to dine at your house, in a supposed apology for your unwise attempt to coerce his wife into an illegal marriage.”
“My lady—” She could see him getting ready to ply her with lies, which only added insult to injury and that made her angrier.
“Alive and well until he supped at your table! The next morning he sickened and by the time he returned here he was feverish and sick unto death.” She struggled to keep her voice steady. She had no desire to sound shrewish and shrill. “Within days of that fateful visit he was dead.”
“I cannot apologize more, my lady.” He bowed his head. “I feel I am to blame.”
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Ela froze. Was he going to admit to poisoning her husband? This was more than she’d hoped for. And worse than she’d feared. He surely wouldn’t let her live with that knowledge at her disposal.
He shook his head, and his distinguished brow wrinkled. “I should never have plied him with such rich fare! A man barely recovered from the privations of a tiresome journey and a long illness.” He looked up at her, eyes filled with mock contrition. “I should never have tempted the Lord by breaking the Lenten prohibitions in my efforts to entertain him like a king.”
Ela knew they’d dined on meat and milk and all manner of forbidden dainties. William had raved about the transgression during his fevered penance. “Indeed you should not. But I hardly think that rich fare alone was enough to bring a hearty man who’d survived many battles to his deathbed.”
“Still, I regret the feast with all my heart, my lady. If I could but bring him back.” He let out a dramatic sigh that made her clench her fists. “I’ve brought a richly illustrated prayer book—the cover decorated with large rubies—to offer to the new cathedral as a gift in his memory.”
Did he hope that would buy him a place in heaven? Or win him a place in her heart? On both counts he was sorely wrong. “I’m sure Bishop Poore will appreciate your generosity.”
Why had he come here? The king could have sent a troop of soldiers to deliver his gift. Surely he hadn’t come all this way for a mock apology? Did he hope that his brazen entry into her dead husband’s keep would somehow demonstrate his guileless innocence? Or was he here to gauge her reaction to the events and plan her future accordingly?
It was galling that De Burgh had so much influence with the king. If he chose to wield his considerable power he might even have her driven from this castle and her son deprived of his inheritance.
Or could he? The king was intimate with her husband and had brokered the peace between William and De Burgh after the marriage scandal had enraged William. Perhaps he could be convinced that his justiciar was a stone-cold murderer.
“I don’t presume to mention marriage again, Ela.” His use of her first name startled her by its presumed intimacy—and pronounced lack of respect.
“I’m grateful for that, at least.”
“Although should you change your mind, my nephew was very much taken with your—”
“I will certainly not change my mind.” His audacity knew no bounds. “I intend to take the veil when my children are of age.”
“Ah. You seek a life of quiet retirement.” A look of relief smoothed his features. “No doubt you are anxious to be quit of the responsibilities of castle and garrison.”
“Indeed not.” She’d seen that coming. “I look forward to serving Salisbury as my husband and father did before me.”
He paused, and his lips did an odd twisty thing. Almost like he was trying not to laugh. “That won’t be necessary, my lady. I’m sure our master the king can appoint a sheriff to absolve you of the tiresome responsibilities. Then you can retire to one of your peaceful manors and enjoy a life of repose.”
Ela felt her father’s blood surge within her. He’d raised her from the cradle to hold and serve Salisbury castle. “I have no intention of retreating into the countryside. I have written to the king about my intention to serve as sheriff.”
His face creased again, and she wondered if he’d try to pull rank. She braced herself for the onslaught. I am Ela, Countess of Salisbury, and my children are cousins to the king.
“Your desire to serve the people of Salisbury is most admirable, my lady. And quite eccentric under the circumstances. Happily, there are men enough in our kingdom to assume the role of sheriff and castellan, and you need not bother yourself with the labors.
“Service to my king and country is no bother to me, my lord. I consider it my duty. And I will hold the castle until such time as my son William is ready to assume command of it.”
De Burgh studied her, his eyes murky with unspoken questions. “We’ll see about that. The king is in Northumbria at present. I will be sure this matter comes to his prompt attention.” Then he took a step toward her. “Perhaps his majesty will find it needful to wed you to a new husband.”
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the Magna Carta, signed by our esteemed king’s predecessor, explicitly states that widows cannot be forced to remarry and shall retain control of their own fortunes and estates. I witnessed its signing myself.”
“I think we both know that the king signed that document under duress. I assure you that the current king has no intention of making the mistakes of his predecessor.”
No doubt he would prefer to raise taxes from his barons at will. Ela held her tongue. “My utmost loyalty lies with King Henry. I look forward to entertaining him here at his earliest convenience.” If the king was in Northumbria her letter seeking appointment to the role of sheriff might not have reached him yet.
No doubt De Burgh would have preferred for her to entertain the king here with his snot-nosed nephew installed as lord and master of the castle. Brazen as he was, he might even continue to press his nephew’s suit both with her and the king.
However, once Will reached majority, marriage to her would not be the prize it now appeared. Will would be Earl of Salisbury and master of its great estates, and she would be an aging dowager. She smiled at the prospect of cheating De Burgh of his prize by the passage of time.
For now, this charade had gone on long enough. “I’m sure you understand that I am now in deep mourning and cannot offer the lavish entertainments you are used to.” So please banish yourself to the bowels of hell, forthwith. “My mother and her husband are visiting, and I’ve stayed away too long already.”
She swept to the door and tugged it open, keen to quit the lingering scent of death in the armory. The two guards outside almost fell in. Had they been listening? No matter. She had no intention of saying anything—ever—that she might later have cause to regret.
She walked back into the hall amidst a clamor of voices. Stephen Hale, the cordwainer, approached her nervously, bowing and stammering. “Apologies for the intrusion, my lady, but there’s a commotion in the marketplace here inside the walls. I come to raise the hue and cry.”
“Do excuse me,” she said officiously to De Burgh. “Duty calls.” Deschamps was out collecting rents so she summoned two guards and her son Will—whom she did not want to leave unattended with the scheming De Burgh, donned her cloak, and hurried out on foot toward the nearby marketplace.
They were barely out of the castle gate when Ela heard the sound of a woman shrieking. She quickened her steps, wondering at the woman’s strength to continue such caterwauling. The market square inside the castle walls had shrunk overtime, pressed in by the need for more buildings in the enclosed space, until it was barely the width of two ordinary streets.
Ela ducked as a missile flew in her direction—an egg!—and missed her by only a span. The woman pulled eggs from a basket on her arm and threw them at a man while berating him in front of a gathered crowd of enthusiastic viewers. The odd part was that the man just stood there, not attempting to run, barely shielding his face from the sticky, yellow blows. He also held an annoyed-looking red cow at the end of a rope.
“What’s she saying?” she asked Will. Sometimes she had trouble understanding the idiomatic speech of the local people. Will, raised on the same courtly French as her, looked confused as she was. One of the guards leaned in. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but she accuses him of laying with another woman.”
“She should be put in the stocks for causing a public disturbance,” said Will, staring at her.
Ela hesitated. She knew that a woman scolding her husband in public was cause for punishment, but she wanted to know if the woman had good reason for her outburst.
“Silence!” she called. Nervous that the woman would ignore her and undermine her authority, or even throw eggs at her, she quietly ordered the guards to seize her. Then hissed the word, “Gently!”
The two men stepped forward, and each grabbed one of the woman’s broad arms. She looked like she wanted to keep shouting but thought better of it. Ela stepped forward. “Madam, speak slowly and tell me why you’re causing this commotion in our town square.”
Red in the face, her pale brown hair wild beneath her cockeyed veil, the woman stared at her like she’d grown another head.
“I am Ela, Countess of Salisbury.”
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” she spoke without a hint of the deference her words might have suggested. “But my husband”—the word emerged with no small amount of spittle— “bedded another woman.”
Join the club, thought Ela. Women of the aristocracy didn’t expect fidelity beyond their first confinement. She was aware that the local peasant women—to their credit—had more exacting standards for their husbands.
“Is this true?” Ela asked the man, who had raw egg dripping from the end of his nose.
“No, I never!” he protested weakly.
“Then why are you snivelin’ because she’s dead?” The woman spat her question at him. “You should have seen your face when I told you she was drowned.” She turned to Ela. “He’s been blubbering like a babby since Widow Crouse told us the little slut was buried this morning.”
“Bring them to the castle,” Ela said to the guards.
“For what? I didn’t do nothin’!” sniveled the man.
“Causing a public disturbance,” said Ela stiffly.
“She’s causing a public disturbance.” He pointed at his wife, who was at least two inches taller than him. “I just came here to sell this cow and buy a few notions.”
“Notions!” the wife exclaimed. “Buying her notions for some months now I reckon. Little hussy!”
“You are under arrest,” said Ela quietly to the woman. Anger pulsed in her breast, and it was all she could do to retain her calm expression. De Burgh had set her nerves on edge, and she was ready to blow. She couldn’t allow some fishwife to rail at her husband in front of her and the guards in full view of the crowd. Two guards took each of the angry woman’s arms. She put up a token protest.