‘Can I go now?’ I asked, after I had placed the items on the table in front of her.
She had spread a black cloth over its surface while I had my back to her, and now she moved the bowl to pride of place at the table’s centre, the candles flanking it. The whole ensemble reminded me of an altar.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Put more logs on the fire. I need it hot.’
Damn. I disliked watching her perform magic. Nothing I had witnessed so far had aided me in my quest to be free of her, and I suspected this spell-casting would prove to be no different. She only kept me there to taunt me, but two of us could play that game.
‘I am surprised you did not command me to fetch a vial of the girl’s blood,’ I said, innocently.
Arlette’s hands, busy with a small paring knife as she carved symbols into the candles’ soft wax, stilled. It was only for a heartbeat, but it was long enough to tell that my words had struck their target.
‘It is not needed,’ she replied, haughtily. ‘A simple love spell will suffice.’
Good comeback, I admittedly to myself, but both of us knew the truth – if Arlette could have cast the same spell that Herleva had wrought on Duke Robert, then she would have done so. The lady was not half the witch Herleva had been, and both of us knew it. I wish I had thought to suggest a sleeping potion to take with me to Flanders, though, because I could have slipped it in Matilda’s drink and that of her maid, therefore sparing myself and William the scene at the church. Herleva would have thought of it – hell, Herleva had thought of it – Duke Robert had looked particularly vulnerable asleep, I recalled.
I knew Arlette could make sleeping potions because I had witnessed her making them, but I was certain she did not have the ability to make the eternal love spell that Herleva had cast, otherwise she would have done so.
Arlette had risen as high as she was ever going to when it came to magic, and in other ways, too. Herleva had once said that magic always sought the medium road. Rise too high and magic will seek to redress the balance, and Herleva had warned Arlette not to push too much, else the magic would push back.
Herleva’s high point had been the birth of a king. What was Arlette’s? Would it be now, with the marriage of her son to one of the most desirable women in the known world, or would the dark magic permit her one more victory before it slapped her down?
Lord help us all when William was eventually crowned King of England. Arlette would be impossible to live with as a king’s mother; she was difficult enough now.
Candles finished, she turned her attention to Matilda’s hair, teasing out the strands until they all lay in the same direction. Then she withdrew a small leather pouch from her pocket and removed the contents – a thin braid of coarse hair. I knew, without being told, that it came from William’s head.
It must have taken Arlette some considerable time to weave it, for William’s hair was close-cropped, and I marvelled at this normally-impatient woman’s determination, as she now proceeded to weave the two strands of hair together, muttering under her breath in a language I did not comprehend as she did so. The language was of dark things and death, of hell and damnation, and I wanted to cover my ears, but I knew from past experience that Arlette would only dish out a subtle punishment. She took pleasure in watching my discomfort.
Plaiting done, she gestured for me to fetch her the ever-present blackened saucepan of water, which was hanging over the fire. Usually, it was filled with sweet-smelling herbs to scent the air, but tonight the only smell emanating from it was the stink of thyme.
I really, really hated that smell.
Using a cloth so as not to burn my hands, I picked the pan up by its handle and placed it on the table. The water bubbled and frothed. She threw in more herbs, followed by a handful of coarse salt, then she placed the bowl on top of it, that awful wooden bowl with the carved figures, the one out of which Herleva had forced me to drink the vile liquid that had altered my very being.
Working quickly, Arlette dropped the two black candles into the bowl and stirred until they melted. The spoon she used was actually an ancient tibia bone. I had no idea to whom it had once belonged and had no urge to find out. From the size of it and its delicacy, I guessed the owner must have died when he (or she, for some reason I strongly suspected it had been female) was very young indeed.
Once the wax was molten, Arlette carefully slipped in most of the entwined hair, leaving the final half-inch poking out of the top like a wick. Then she removed the bowl from the pan and placed it near the window to cool.
I watched her reach for the wine, wondering what part the ruby liquid was to play. Symbolic blood maybe?
She poured a cup full and drank it down with a weary sigh. Oh, nothing to do with witchcraft, then, and I noted that she failed to offer me any refreshment. I had no idea how much time had passed but I was deathly tired myself, and from the stoop of her shoulders, I guessed my mistress must be also.
The only light in the chamber came from the fire and I remarked upon the lack of a moon.
‘Why did you not wait for the full one?’ I asked, assuming spells were more effective if wrought under the pearly eye of that round, white orb.
‘A dark spell requires a dark sky,’ was all she would say, before adding, ‘This is no mere enchantment made for a lovesick girl on a whim,’ and it occurred to me that she said it as much to convince herself as me, because I thought that was exactly what the spell seemed to be. It was certainly not in the same league as the enchantment cast by Herleva on poor Duke Robert.
The issue with the spell Arlette was casting tonight was that, unlike those love spells which she had once told me about that had to be renewed each month until the hapless fellow (and they were nearly always men who were on the receiving end of them) was caught, I knew this one could be cast only the once. Obtaining another lock of Matilda’s hair would be nigh on impossible now.
‘What next?’ I asked.
‘We wait for the wax to cool, then I light the candle.’ Her cackle was low and evil, goose-bumping my skin. From the glitter in her eyes and the skull-like shape of her head, I realised the darkness had retained its hold on her. It was not until the diabolical candle had been lit and had finally burned down to a nub, that it left her, and it was not until the night had lost its grip and the last of the candle smoke had drifted up to the ceiling, that the energy in the room slowly dissipated and I could breathe freely again.
‘There,’ she said, finally. ‘It is done. Prepare for a wedding.’
Chapter 7
Falaise was where it all began. It held bitter memories for all of us. I had lost my soul and my freedom there; Arlette had lost Herleva and her duke; William had lost his father, though he did retain some fondness for the castle as it was his birthplace and where he had spent his childhood. I could not, in all honesty, say that William had had a childhood after his father died – the boy had been forced to become a man long before he was ready for it.
It seemed fitting then that we gathered there, like a murder of crows, to await the news of the death of Matilda’s free will.
It was not long in coming.
Within five days of the spell being cast, a messenger appeared at William’s gates.
‘Admit him,’ William instructed, after ensuring the hall was sufficiently full of nobles. He wanted as many as possible to hear that the maid had changed her mind.
It was barely a week since William had publicly beaten and abused Lady Matilda of Flanders, and by now the whole world had no doubt heard about it. I had spent the week listening to the rumours and concerns of William’s people. To be fair, the concerns, at least, were valid, especially since Count Baldwin had immediately declared war on Normandy. That particular piece of news had travelled very fast indeed, and the good people of Normandy were understandably troubled.
Everyone, except William, his mother, and me. I had no doubt that the spell would work and neither did Arlette, and if William was unsure, he kept it to himself.
&n
bsp; I also listened to the varying opinions regarding the Duke’s actions, but I kept those close to my chest, not wanting to anger him.
“—Duke William has lost his mind. No good will come of this—”
“—Normandy is nothing but a laughing stock—”
“—how could the Duke lower himself to attack a woman—?”
“—he could have at least brought her back with him, then he would have something to show for his stupidity—”
And so on. None of his people supported him. They all thought his actions had been harsh and unwarranted. Maybe if he had dragged her onto his horse and carried her off while declaring his undying love for her, his people would be singing a different tune.
The messenger was accompanied by several soldiers, all bearing Baldwin’s coat of arms. I held my breath and the rest of William’s court did the same. War or wedlock? Which was it to be? The enchantment said wedlock, but my traitorous head whispered war. Count Baldwin might not be inclined to forgive William, and if that were the case, then it wouldn’t matter a fig if Matilda professed an undying love for the Duke of Normandy.
The hapless man cleared his throat. He had every right to be nervous. William was not averse to shooting the messenger. Without meaning to, I looked up to the gallery, checking for bowmen. If there were any, they were well hidden.
‘Matilda, Lady of Flanders, graciously accepts your hand in marriage,’ the messenger proclaimed.
A flurry of gasps and exclamations followed, and mine was amongst them. I had expected the message to be from the father, not from the maiden herself, and once I had overcome my surprise, I smiled at her directness. This was one bold lady and I admired her spirit. Lady Matilda, I suspected, might give her new husband as good as she got. It would certainly make for an eventful marriage.
William, too, was taken aback, and although he was careful to keep his response under control, his eyes widened and his lips parted. And did I see a hint of a smile hovering on them?
‘My lady has announced that she will marry none but Duke William of Normandy,’ the messenger went on to proclaim, ‘And she has declared that he must be a man of great courage and high daring to have come and beat her in her own father’s city.’
William silenced his astonished court with a raised hand, and now I was positive he was trying not to smile. ‘Tell my lady I am honoured,’ he said. ‘And inform Count Baldwin that I apologise for the upset that my ardour and love for his daughter has caused him. I meant no disrespect.’
A while later, with the pomp and ceremony dispensed with, William signalled for the messenger and his accompanying soldiers to be shown out, then he retreated to his private quarters, taking his mother and Walter with him.
Arlette jerked her head indicating I should follow and I happily slipped into my usual role as lady-in-waiting to the Duke’s mother, slipping into place behind her. As we filed out, the noise in the hall rose, the knights and their ladies, the courtiers and hangers-on, giving free reign to the relief.
One comment caught my attention and gave me pause.
It was said to my back, and I knew that even if I turned around, I would be unable to pick out the speaker from the crowd, which was probably why it was said loudly enough for me to hear, but not so loud that it would reach Lady Arlette’s ears.
‘I bet that witch, Lady Caitlyn, had something to do with that girl’s change of heart. Look at her! I’d wager tonight’s supper that she’s in cahoots with—’
‘Shhh!’
I stiffened but kept walking. Maybe that was why Walter had mentioned my agelessness – he had heard the rumours and it had started him thinking. The gossip must be well developed indeed, to risk saying anything in my hearing. The next step would be to say it to my face. I wondered whether anyone would have the courage, or the stupidity, to say anything in front of Arlette?
But the comment did set me to thinking, and I was uncertain how much longer I could remain Caitlyn. The idea worried me. If both Walter and William had remarked on my youthful appearance, and others had noticed, I suspected that the old rumour that Arlette must be a witch had reared its head again. Rumour and speculation had been rife after Duke Robert had fallen for a tanner’s daughter, and Herleva’s presence hadn’t helped. Although, with the old witch’s demise, chit-chat had settled down. Until now.
But it wasn’t Arlette who the speculation was about – it was me.
It was a more likely possibility that I would be the one who would be accused of consorting with the devil. After all, the years did show on Arlette’s face and body, no matter how many potions she spread on her face, nor how many charms she made. It was me who looked exactly the same as I did when I first came to Falaise Castle, not my mistress, and it was me who had been at both Herleva’s side and Arlette’s.
I resolved to discuss the problem with Arlette later, and although I was uncertain how I could put lines on my face, I could easily use ashes from the hearth to grey my hair and I could adopt an old woman’s stoop and careful way of walking. Nothing too dramatic, but enough to quell any rumours for the time being. Or maybe my mistress had a spell she could cast…?
I followed her into William’s private rooms to be met with a triumphant Arlette.
‘It worked,’ she announced, a self-satisfied grin plastered on her face.
William gave his mother a knowing look. ‘The maiden is enamoured with my forcefulness,’ he said, succinctly. ‘I hoped she would be.’
His message to Arlette was clear; he did not want to acknowledge his mother’s art, not even here in his private quarters. There were always too many ears. Except for Arlette’s rooms. She had taken care to cover them in an enchantment which meant that what was said in them could not be overheard by anyone outside. She had once offered to do the same for William, but he had quite rightly refused, claiming that it was better to talk about trivial things in his chambers and for the servants to listen and spy, than for them to hear nothing but silence. Imagine what they might make up instead?
‘What will you do now?’ she asked, taking the hint. She might not say anything further, but the elation on her face was plain to see. She positively gloated.
‘I will have to go to Bruges and beg an audience with Count Baldwin to formally secure peace, and to make the betrothal official. Once that is out of the way, a date for the ceremony can be set.’
‘You had best make it quick, son,’ Arlette advised, sobering a little, and William’s eyes narrowed.
Heeding the warning, he said, ‘It will have to be soon anyway, for I sail to England before the harvest is in.’
We all looked askance at him. This was news indeed!
‘Edward has requested me to attend him,’ William announced, and it was his turn to look pleased with himself.
Arlette clapped her hands, her face alight with glee.
Walter though, was more reserved. ‘You need to focus on Normandy and stop looking across the water,’ he advised.
Of course, neither Arlette nor William had shared Herleva’s prophecy with him, and I certainly hadn’t told him, so his counsel was reasonable. We had been careful to keep this sliver of diabolical information to ourselves.
William shrugged. ‘My rule here is without challenge, my borders are safer than they have ever been, and once Normandy is allied in marriage to Flanders, my position will be even stronger.’ There was steel in his eyes when his gaze swept the room. ‘I am certain King Edward is to name me as his successor,’ he added. ‘I have to go. I want to go. England is my birthright.’
‘And so, it comes to pass,’ Arlette breathed, and my scalp prickled at the latent power in her voice.
Walter shot her a curious look, but his sister smiled sweetly back and didn’t enlighten him.
William did that instead. ‘I have the best claim to England’s crown,’ he stated, ‘and I mean to have it. Edward has no other living relatives and he remains childless. I have told you before, my dear Walter, that Edward and I are first cousins once rem
oved. No one else has a better claim than that.’
Actually, it was true – Edward’s mother, Queen Emma, was the common thread. Emma of Normandy, as she was known, was the key to William being crowned King of England, despite his bastard origins.
But, and this was a stumbling block should it ever occur, there was still time for Edward to sire a son. His marriage to Queen Edith was only in its fifth year, although by now some issue from their union should have appeared. That is, assuming Edward was able to get his cock inside her, because rumour had it that he still preferred male company to female. Maybe that was the reason why Brihtric had refused Matilda’s offer of marriage, what with him being so close to the king and the king being childless?
I worried at the problem some more, and came to the conclusion that it was not a sufficient reason, because a union with Matilda would only serve to make Brihtric a more desirable contender. There had to be something else, something we had not considered, and also there was the matter of Godwin, Earl of Wessex. Brihtric might be powerful, but Godwin was possibly even more so. He played a significant role in Edward’s court, as he had formerly done for King Canute. As a Dane, Godwin represented the Danish contingent and kept them happy. But the man was also a threat. Although he had no royal blood, under the law of Danish succession he did not need to. I supposed England’s fate depended on whether her people adhered to the Danish philosophy of fitness to rule, or the Saxon one of direct descent. As far as I could tell, the issue was in the balance. The other problem with Godwin was that Edward had married his daughter, Edith. I wondered whether the King had felt it a political necessity along the “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” vein and had never had any intention of breeding a Danish heir on his new wife.
Walter’s mind ran along a similar course to mine. ‘Would it not make more sense for Edward to name Godwin as his heir?’ he asked, and from the tone he used, I gathered it was not the first time this particular matter had been discussed.
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