I was unsure which of the jobs I hated the most. Hides came to the tannery stiff and dry, and covered in dirt, gore, and blood. First, they were soaked in pits on the edge of the river, and pounded and scoured to soften and clean them. Then they were taken to the piss-pits and soaked in urine for several weeks to loosen the hair. Fulbert had a regular supply from the poor, who exchanged their night-soil for a coin. He even gave them a pot to piss in, and if their pot was not full, he would not pay.
Once the hairs were loose, they were easier to remove, and could be scraped off with the fleshing knife. As soon as they were hair-free the hides were put in trenches which contained a water and pigeon-shit mixture. Each day two of the castle brats brought the droppings from the dovecote to replenish the trenches. Today Arlette and I had the delightful task of wading up to our knees in this putrid mess and kneading the hides with our feet.
I much preferred the final process, where the hides were stretched and hung in deep pits of water and bark for months at a time, to give them their colour. The bark of different trees produced different coloured leather, and the hue depended on how long the hide was left in the pits. Turning them was the least onerous job.
I had not worked in the tannery since Herleva spelled me into a cat, yet I preferred being outside and doing an honest job, than being party to her black machinations.
After wiping the sweat from my brow with my sleeve, I lifted a foot out of the water. Already stained and wrinkled, it looked like a fish which had been left too long before cooking. And it smelled as bad.
Arlette grumbled again. ‘I have not had breakfast and he-’ she jerked her head at her father who was dipping into the pouch he kept fastened about his neck for a coin, ‘expects me to wade up to my knees and stamp on the skins of dead cows for the rest of the day.’
I did not bother pointing out I had not eaten (not that I had much of an appetite with the smell of pigeon shit clogging my nose), and I had been up all night also.
She stopped treading, raising her head to stare at the rampart around the donjon. I followed her gaze. The walkway. Three people on it, one of them dressed in red, silver shining at his shoulder. I could not see him clearly, but Arlette knew who he was all the same. The clear morning sun glowed on her face, lighting her with tinges of pink and gold. Her skin was luminous, and her hair shone and gleamed, the sun’s rays turning it into a burnished raven’s wing.
She climbed out of the trench and sauntered to the river, ignoring her father’s cross shout. Her drab, brown work dress clung to breast and waist and hip, as she walked with a woman’s gentle sway. A soft blush painted both cheeks and she dropped her gaze and hiked her skirt higher around her thighs before stepping daintily into the water, with pointed toes and slender long legs.
I dragged my attention off her and back to the ramparts. The duke had his hands either side of a crenellation, and was leaning forward, staring down at her.
For many long moments, he remained immobile, watching Arlette dance in the shallows as though she were at a ball, washing the dye off her feet and legs, caressing her calves, stroking her thighs. She threw her head back, exposing the long arch of her neck, and laughed. Then she looked at him, straight in the eyes, and I knew he was lost.
She had him, from the topmost curl on his head right down to his sturdy feet.
Then she stepped out of the river, letting her skirts fall to the ground and sat on a rock, waiting for him to claim her.
She did not have long to wait, but he did not come himself.
I had been studying the fortress gates, expecting to see the duke on horseback riding down the long ramp and across the wooden bridge, heading to the river, so the man he had sent in his stead was upon us before I realised. He was haughty, giving the impression he believed it beneath him to fetch a whore for his master’s pleasure.
‘His Lordship wants you up at the castle,’ he said, gruffly.
‘Does he, indeed?’ Arlette did not stir. She did not even look at him.
‘You don’t understand, wench. Duke Robert has sent for you. Hurry up.’
‘I understand perfectly.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? You can go in by the postern gate.’ He shuffled, impatient; whether it was with this chit of a girl who did not realise the honour bestowed on her, or if he had a more important place to be, I could not tell.
Several workers stopped what they were doing to watch.
Arlette finally turned her head. ‘Firstly, if Lord Robert wants me then he can ask me himself. Secondly, I will not slink in through the postern gate like some common whore. I will enter by the front gate and on horseback, like a lady, or I will not enter at all.’
I was stunned at her temerity. She was acting like a queen and not like the tanner’s daughter she most assuredly was.
It seemed the servant had the same thought. His eyes widened and he took a sharp breath. His mouth opened and closed.
‘Yes, you heard me right,’ she said, turning back to stare out over the river.
‘I cannot tell Duke Robert that,’ he said when he found his voice.
She lifted her chin but did not respond. He stood there, uncertain whether to argue or relay the message, and after a few anxious looks and clearing of his throat to try to gain her attention, he left. She waited until he had gone before she stopped staring into the water and watched the man canter across the bridge. After a long while, he appeared on the tower ramparts. The duke turned to him then threw his arms up in the air. Robert moved out of sight, and I felt sure she had overplayed her hand and lost him. He could have any woman in Normandy without asking twice. Would he ask Arlette a second time? She waited, the epitome of patience, until Duke Robert reappeared. I could have sworn he was smiling as he looked down at her.
I thought that would be an end to it, but I underestimated her, him, and the power of the spell, for the servant returned, this time with reinforcements. Three of them approached, all of them nervous. I wondered what the duke had threatened them with if they did not prise Arlette off her rock.
‘Duke Robert of Normandy commands you to attend him,’ the original man said. The other two shuffled from foot to foot, studying her with curiosity, this maid who had refused her lord’s attentions.
‘And I will attend him,’ she said, in a pleasant voice, ‘if he wishes me to work at the castle in an honourable station, or he would like to discuss the affairs of state with me. However, if he wants to tup me, he shall do so on my terms. I am not a whore and will not be bought and paid for.’ She shifted to face the three. ‘Tell him that.’
‘But…but…’ the poor man spluttered with incredulity. ‘He will not like it.’
‘It matters not. If he wants me, he will treat me as a lady should be treated. Either that, or he takes me by force. Ask him if he is prepared to rape what he cannot woo.’
‘Oh, no, I will not ask him that.’ The soldier shook his head, backing away as if her insubordination was contagious.
‘Then tell him to come to me, so I can ask him myself.’
The man crossed himself. ‘You are the spawn of the devil,’ he said, ‘and I will not carry your remarks to the duke.’
‘Will he slice the messenger’s head off?’ she asked, sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘I thought him more honourable than that, and if not honourable, then sensible. Tell him what I said; relay every word.’
She looked up at the tower and met the duke’s gaze. He inclined his head, probably thinking she would do as she was told. It came as a shock to him when his servants left without her for a second time. He threw his hands in the air again. I heard the shouting but not the words themselves. Probably a good thing.
‘Arlette, what are you doing?’ Another shouting man, this one much closer. Fulbert was outside the sheds which were used to store the finished hides, and was covering the distance between him and his recalcitrant daughter fast.
‘Protecting my honour,’ she said, when he reached her.
‘Honour, my a
rse! You lost that when you fucked that English piece of shit. Go to the duke now!’
A gasp. Quite a crowd had materialised and more people were heading our way. Entertainment was in short supply, it seemed.
Arlette rose to her feet, in one graceful movement, fluid as a cat. She was shorter than her father by a head, but she gave him a defiant look and said, ‘I am still intact, Father. Do you want me to lift my skirts so you can check?’
Another gasp, the loudest coming from Fulbert. His face purpled with rage, his eyes narrowed, and he raised his fist. Something about her gave him pause. ‘Do you know what he can do to us?’ he muttered, lowering his arm.
‘I know what he can do to me, and I will not let him.’
‘He is the Duke of Normandy. If you refuse him, you will bring destruction down on this family with your stubborn ways. Do you think you are too good for him, is that it?’
‘Of course not. As you pointed out, he is a duke.’
‘Then what are you waiting for – the English prince? He’s gone back to where he belongs. I notice he didn’t take you with him.’
Alfred had returned to England? That was news indeed. My last hope had left, and I felt truly on my own.
The crowd had been holding its breath, but a stirring starting at the outside of it brought my attention back to the situation. People parted, letting the castle servant through.
Arlette’s calm expression did not falter but I saw hope flare in her eyes, gone as fast as it arrived. She tilted her head, waiting for him to speak.
He cleared his throat and paused, playing to the crowd, inflating his own importance. As if he was making a royal declaration he said, ‘I have a message from the duke.’
Arlette did not move, did not utter a sound.
‘What is it?’ Fulbert whispered, fear beading his forehead with sweat.
‘You win.’
Chapter 30
The duke, now he was certain of Arlette, was prepared to be generous. No doubt if she had to enter by the front gate, he did not want the world to see a common tanner’s daughter heading for his bed, but a woman worthy of his attention. It was a matter of pride.
Herleva and I exclaimed over the finery he sent to her. Arlette showed an odd indifference.
‘Are you not pleased? Look at the quality of this.’ Herleva held up a veil of the finest creamy lace. ‘It will go well with your dark hair.’
‘He will never wed me,’ Arlette said flatly.
Herleva took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. ‘You know this. Nothing has changed.’
‘I want to be his wife!’
‘You cannot, and will not, marry him. Be content with what you have achieved.’
‘And what is that, his concubine? Or mayhap I can call myself his mistress. It sounds more palatable than his whore. When he tires of me he can discard me. He would not be able to put a wife to one side.’
‘You would be surprised.’ Herleva’s tone was dry. ‘But he will not discard you.’
Arlette shrugged under the older woman’s intensity. Herleva dropped her hands from Arlette’s arms and stepped back. ‘Do you trust me?’
The younger woman nodded.
‘Do you trust the magic?’
Another nod, but this time not so emphatic.
‘You should. Unlike people, the spell will not play you false. He will love you for all his days, he will cherish you, and protect you. The spell will not let him do otherwise. He will cleave to you more surely than any husband will cleave to any wife. And he will never marry another. Be assured of this. Now,’ she gathered a gown in her arms, ‘time to meet your lover.’
Arlette’s eyes were huge in her face and I realised what the matter was. For all her worldly ways, she was unbroken and intact. She may have had some pleasure from lips and fingers, but the thought of a man buried to the hilt inside her, frightened her. It was a daunting thought for most maidens.
‘He will be gentle,’ I assured her.
She gave me a scornful stare. ‘I do not want your cast-offs.’
‘He cast me off, not the other way around. I was nothing to him, a pre-breakfast amusement. And do not think I was the only one. The duke knows his way around a woman’s body. I am not his first – but you will be his last.’
She relented; her scorn had covered fear. ‘Will it hurt?’ she asked, tentatively.
‘Most likely.’ I thought back to my first time, and the shock and pain of it. I had been sore for days, and Rhain had not been unduly rough. It had taken me a while to find any pleasure in it.
‘I have something for that.’ Herleva handed her a small pot. ‘Rub it in before and after. It will take the sting away. It does not hurt for long,’ she added. ‘Soon you will come to enjoy it, to look forward to your time with him when no one else demands his attention. You will learn how to please him, and he you.’
Arlette lifted her head and took a deep breath. ‘Help me dress?’
‘You shall bathe first,’ Herleva insisted. ‘I have a sackful of lavender heads to scent the water, and oil to keep your skin supple and sweet-smelling. You can take it with you and I will make more.’
Arlette kissed her on the cheek then climbed into the steaming bath. I added a kettle of hot water, putting another on the fire to boil. Herleva knelt to wash her, stiff and ungainly. Once more she had a hand pressed to her side.
A mixture of emotions swirled through my mind. On the one hand, I was actually happy for Arlette, in spite of her adherence to the dark arts. She had no choice, like me. Once Herleva stared down the arrow-shaft of her determination, Arlette had been shot with the witch’s dark poison. I did not think Arlette to be inherently bad, and if her union with Lord Robert removed her from Herleva’s clutches, living at the castle as his mistress could only be a good thing.
She stood and let us dry her, acting every inch the grand lady. I recalled Sigrid’s women doing the same for me, in another lifetime. It all seemed so long ago.
‘Let me,’ I said, taking the cloth from Herleva and reaching up to pat the worst of the water from Arlette’s hair. The older woman shot me a shrewd look. For all her carefulness, she had not managed to conceal her pain from me, and she knew it.
She watched me work, a small smile on her face. It was not a pleasant one. Goosebumps raised their lumpy little heads up my arms. I surmised this woman was not finished with me yet, and I gave up the idea of begging her to release me from my dark enchantment. I had thought she might consider it, now that Arlette’s future was secured. What more could she possibly need me for?
A nasty idea crossed my mind. Maybe she planned on disposing of me before The Reaper paid her a visit. She would not want to leave any loose ends. Though she knew I could not speak of what she had done without implicating myself in her witchcraft, she may think I would try to seek revenge on Arlette.
Arlette was not half the witch she would need to be, in order to cast the cat-spell on me, though she might become so with time. But I was not certain how much time was left if Herleva was as ill as I hoped. The girl still lacked some training and a great deal of power. Were witches born with it, I wondered, a blackness in the soul which called to evil and sought it out? Or did it have to be cultivated and nurtured?
‘There, all done,’ I announced, helping Arlette step from the tub. As always, I was struck by her beauty. Even without a spell, I did not think any man could resist her. Pink and glowing from the hot water, eyes bright with excitement and youth, full lips parted showing white, even teeth, I could almost smell her lust. Not for the marriage bed, nor the man who owned it, but for the future and all it entailed.
Duke Robert had sent the finest silk to lie next to his mistress’ skin, and the expensive gown slid over it with a sigh. I fingered the richly embroidered cloth in envy. It should be me wearing this, not her. Red suited her, and not any old red, but a scarlet so bright she would shine like the last rays of the dying sun on her journey to the castle and her lord. All eyes would be on her, for the
y would be unable to resist.
The cloth was heavily embroidered with gold thread, flowers and leaves climbed from them, bursting into birds and butterflies at her waist. The lace veil he had sent to cover her hair, symbolised her new status. She was not a wife, for no vows had been said and never would be if Herleva spoke true, but the veil shouted her value to all and sundry. She was his wife in all but name.
I hoped for Arlette’s sake Herleva had woven the spell good and tight, and the warp and weft of it would hold until death did them part. Being a cast-off would not suit this prideful young woman.
She sat on a stool, letting me brush the tangles out of her still-damp hair, until it dried and shone with a light all its own. She wanted to wear it down, a signal to everyone who saw her, of her virginity and girl-hood. The next time she appeared in public she would have it braided, and maybe covered completely as was the custom of married women in these parts.
‘I am ready.’ She stood, her head high, her gaze strong and steady. The only thing betraying her vulnerability was the pulse beating in the hollow at her throat, and her hands were clasped together so hard the knuckles were white and bloodless.
‘So you are.’ Herleva stepped forward and stroked her arm. ‘You are magnificent.’
The younger woman knew it. She inclined her head in acknowledgement.
‘Do you have everything ready?’ Herleva asked.
‘There is not much to take.’
She was right. Nothing she possessed compared to what Lord Robert would provide her. She would not want to take her best dress, for it was rags next to her current finery, she had no jewels, no trinkets.
‘Wait. I have something for you.’ Herleva disappeared for a moment, leaving us alone.
I had nothing to say to her, and she considered me so far beneath her now I was not worth talking to. I had played my part, and I think she did not see any more use for me, as either a woman or a cat. Her mind and her gaze were firmly on the future, and I was her past. Perhaps she did not want to be reminded of what it had taken for her to be in this position – the spells, the magic, the death of an innocent woman. Or maybe she did not like the reminder that I had shared her soon-to-be lover’s bed before her.
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