by Sarah Bower
“Gytha…” Speaking quietly, Agatha leans down from the saddle so Gytha can hear her. Gytha’s face is composed to receive the thanks due to a hostess, a modest smile, a distance in the eyes measuring the extent to which she is thinking, no longer of her guests, but of clearing up after them. “Love changes, that is all, it is a shape shifter.” The composition crumbles, plaster flaking from a damp wall in a bathhouse. “The challenge lies in continuing to recognise it.”
Gytha reaches up to take both Agatha’s dry, bird-boned hands in hers. “Goodbye, Sister.”
The silence in the hall seems much greater than the space it has to occupy. The sounds of daily life—one of the children crying in the yard, chickens clucking, the cloying persistence of a blackbird’s song, the byre door banging in the wind (how many times has she asked Fulk to see to it?)—drop into it like pebbles into a deep lake. The floor strewing is crushed in a repeating rectangular pattern, as though the trestles are still there but have become invisible. How can nothing take on shapes? Embroidery shapes, Meg shapes, Agatha shapes? The maimed form of the flirtation between Emma and Turold, the courting dance of two birds with broken wings, cut short by Odo’s order to Turold to accompany him to Winchester. Love shapes. Odo’s shape.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers to the empty hall, but, struck dumb with grief, it gives nothing back. She crosses the yard to her bower, intending to make herself ready for her own departure, but finds herself instead lying down on the bed, its mattress now worn into unfamiliar contours by the sleeping twists and turns of Agatha and Judith. She bleeds heavily, with pain balanced like a burning stone in the bowl of her pelvis, as though her body is still purging itself of the accumulation of humours dammed up in her during the time when she did not bleed at all. Drawing up her knees, curling herself around the precious ache, which means she is free, yet can still be caught, she closes her eyes, tells herself she is merely gathering her strength for her journey. The scent of rosemary and sandalwood is in the air, light and distinct as a distant note of music.
When her eyes open they are hot and sore, as though she has been weeping, yet dry. So dry. Looking at her eyes, she sees dark stones, salt scratched, tossed up above the tideline. Then she looks at what her eyes are watching. Flames. Orange fingers, blue tongues, licking, caressing, probing, making love to the figure of a man. A tonsured man with familiar hands. His hands speak, they remonstrate with the fire, they soothe it and mould it until it goes to sit on the hearth and glowers like a whipped dog with acrid breath. Then the man laughs. Do what you will, he gasps between guffaws. After all, I am only made of wool. She must have slept for an hour at least, to judge by the angle of the buttery sunlight falling through the open bower door when she wakes. Thoughts jostle her, pushing her off the bed before she has a chance to order their clamour. What time is it? Will there still be enough daylight to see her safely to Saint Eufrosyna’s? Her bundle? Check. Still where she put it, at the bottom of the linen chest. The jewel case? Let them guess. Surely they will guess. They will not think…he would not believe her capable of theft.
Damn him, oh, damn him. When she thought of burning the embroidery, what stayed her hand was the thought of so many years of hard work, such an investment of skill, being destroyed. Not Odo’s story, but the stories between, the Fables, Alwys’ blood, Judith’s plough horse. What she believed she had envisioned, making her shudder with revulsion, were shipbuilders, seed sowers, cooks, men carrying dogs into the sea, soot blackened and curling at the edges, frayed, distorted, silenced. Yet all along, her most deep-rooted fear had been the fear of burning Odo. However late it is, she must go. Now.
***
Fulk has made a better job of teaching her to ride than he believes. Once clear of Winterbourne, she kicks the little roan into a gallop and manages to keep her seat even when the mare breaks her stride and gathers herself to jump a tree which has fallen across the track leading up to the summer pastures. She climbs the hill, following the path of the stream, letting the mare slow to a walk as the way grows steeper. This is not the direct route to the convent, but she needs time to compose herself after her disturbed sleep and heart-in-the-mouth departure, saddling the mare herself with fumbling fingers, leading her out of the wicket giving straight onto the sheep pasture behind the house to avoid being seen.
Her spirits begin to lift at the antics of the lambs, the sight of clusters of violets and primroses studding the stream’s banks, the songs of skylarks bubbling up through bright blue air. He has played her like a fish, letting her run then reeling her in, but this time is different; this time she will escape. She can feel the surge of the sea in her veins, see it sparkle in the grass. From the top of the hill, facing east, with the evening sun warm on her back, she can almost smell it, almost glimpse the flat, mud-silvered, oyster-crusted shores of her childhood. As the roofs of the convent, green gold thatch and dark slates shot through with gleams of lead, come into view in the valley bottom, just where the stream now rushing down the hill beside her widens and slows enough to accommodate a mill, she starts to sing. A ditty her mother used to sing to her, whose beat she fits to the rhythm of the mare’s sway-backed downhill jog. It was nonsense to her ears, though her mother told her it was in the language of the Celts and had a meaning for those prepared to hear. Well, she will hear nothing but English from now on; she has had her fill of foreign tongues.
It is almost dusk by the time she reaches the convent gate, the last rays of the sun striking gold and gems from the stained glass chapel windows. The sisters being at Vespers, she is admitted by a groom who recognises her horse though looks a little disconcerted by her arrival so late in the day.
“I am here at Sister Cygnea’s request,” she assures him, unfastening her bundle from the back of her saddle and rubbing the mare’s nose as she hands her into the groom’s care. He has pimples, she notices, and a cock as stiff as a branch under his homespun tunic. The music, she wonders, the dense, sweet mesh of women’s voices drifting across from the open chapel door? Or some novice he whiles away his evenings imagining in her shift? Possibly the horse; she had a client once who could only maintain himself at attention when thinking about a favourite horse.
“They’re all in church,” says the boy sullenly.
“I know where to go. I will wait for her.”
She is glad, she thinks, glancing at a bronze medallion bearing a likeness of King Harold as she sets down her bundle just inside the door to Lady Edith’s bower, that she possesses no image of Odo. She would not care if she never set eyes on a man’s face again and ignores the contrary voice inside her telling her, better a man than his likeness. A devil’s voice, a little, run-of-the-mill devil who will soon give up if she takes no notice.
“My dear, what a lovely surprise. I had not expected you again so soon. I was told you had a house full of guests.” Edith, fragrant with incense and beeswax, holds her arms wide and Gytha subsides into her embrace with a sigh. Edith takes her by the shoulders, holding her at arms’ length as she peers into her face. “But you look tired, and this is a late hour for a visit. They will lock up before Compline.”
“I…I have come to stay, madam.”
“Overnight? Well, of course, my bed is plenty big enough. I imagine Winterbourne is rather crowded. You wanted some peace and quiet, is that it? Sit.”
“No, madam, I want to stay for good, in the convent. I don’t suppose I can take orders, I have no dowry and no calling, but I can be of service, as you know. I have brought with me what little I have, a few clothes…perhaps they can be given to the poor or…”
“Wait.” Edith raises an imperious white hand. “You go too fast for me. Sit down, I command it, and tell me what has happened.”
Gytha takes her customary stool beside the fire, though there are no wine and honeycakes on the table behind her this evening, only Lady Edith’s missal, flung there as she came in. She stumbles through her account of Odo’s proposal for her acceptance at court, and she can see from the puzzled frown o
n Edith’s face when she comes to the end of her account that her old mistress has not understood her.
“It would be a betrayal, don’t you see?” she adds, to make herself plain, “of you and Lord Harold…everybody. Even Trudy.” She laughs, but Edith’s expression remains troubled, at odds with her round cornflower eyes and pink lips; she looks like a not quite pretty doll, or a portrait of herself done by an artist with no feeling for her gaiety.
“Frankly, Gytha, I don’t see. What is more important, your sense of honour or Lord Odo’s love and protection? You are a woman, not a knight, not even a noblewoman. Your duty is to your lord, not to me, certainly not to Harold who is dead.”
Gytha stares. “I thought you would understand.”
Edith, who has been sitting opposite her, rises as though to bring their meeting to a close. “I neither understand nor condone.” She starts to pace about the room, tangling and disentangling her fingers, her hands sometimes at her sides, sometimes steepled in front of her mouth. “Gytha, do you not imagine there were people who had dealings with Earl Harold of whom I did not approve? There were many. I kept quiet. When he married Ealdgyth, I kept quiet. Keeping quiet, that is women’s strength.”
“But Odo was not asking me to keep quiet.”
Edith kneels in front of her, taking her hands. “Oh, my dear, I think he was. If you would but smile and curtsey to the king, I feel sure Bishop Odo would be content.”
“For the moment,” retorts Gytha, snatching back her hands. “You do not know him as I do. He is never content for long.”
Edith rises and stands considering Gytha, her head on one side, cheek cradled in her palm. She sighs with the air of having made a decision. “You may stay tonight, but then you must go back.”
Gytha shakes her head.
“You cannot stay here. What if he comes looking for you?”
“No doubt you know the story of Saint Eufrosyna better than I do, but did she not deliberately hide herself in the very monastery her father was accustomed to visit, because it was obvious, and therefore the last place he would look for her? If I cannot be of service to you, madam, I’m sure Mother Abbess can find some use for me—if embroidering the tale of the Conquest for Lord Odo has not made my fingers unfit to stitch vestments or altarcloths in her eyes. Even if it has…”
Though Edith says nothing, Gytha stops, feeling she has been interrupted. Edith draws a sharp breath and plunges into the crevasse which seems to have opened between them, floundering momentarily, slipping down a scree of words. Gytha sweats and turns cold, all at once. It’s nothing, just her monthlies playing tricks.
“There is something I have to tell you, Gytha. I swore not to, but it seems where you are concerned, neither your silence nor anyone else’s has any currency. So I shall forswear myself, may God forgive me.” She sits, straight-backed, drawing Gytha’s attention to the marked difference in their height so she begins to feel like a child, a foolish little girl. “You have seen our chapel?”
Where is this going? “Yes, madam, you know I have.”
“It is fine, is it not? Stained glass windows, the reliquary for Saint Eufrosyna’s hair. And we burn beeswax candles at every hour between Vespers and Prime. Have you ever thought it surprising that so small a house should be so well endowed?”
“I have never thought about it at all. I suppose, if I did, I would assume that you had been generous to those who gave you sanctuary.”
“Generous?” Edith gives a bitter laugh. “You saw the way I was taken from Winchester, my dear. Don’t imagine I was left with much, in the way of movable wealth, anyway. No, someone else’s generosity made it possible for me to come here and remain undisturbed. Bishop Odo paid my dowry and returned enough of my things to me to ensure my comfort.”
Everything starts to spin away from her. “Odo? Are you sure?” As though, by asking the question, she might create the possibility of a different answer.
“Certain. When I was recovered enough to ask Mother Abbess how I came to be here, and to be concerned that I had no way of repaying her hospitality, she showed me his letter. It had his signature upon it as well as his seal. Perhaps she should have been more discreet, she was certainly most anxious that I shouldn’t try to contact him myself, but she was so excited about the windows and the reliquary, she could scarcely contain herself.”
“But you did not see him.” Gytha gropes after an acceptable solution. “Perhaps the letters were forgeries, made by someone of Lord Harold’s camp who wanted to keep you safe.”
Edith shakes her head. “I know of no one who might try such a thing and get away with it. Do you?”
Gytha considers the strongbox in which Odo keeps his seals, its padlocks with keys secreted in many different places, and how it is guarded, even at the heart of a military stronghold such as Canterbury. Hope flees with a soft sigh. “But why?”
Spreading her hands in a gesture of ignorance, Edith says, “That I was hoping to learn from you. I have no idea. I have had no direct dealings with him myself, and I cannot imagine what he hoped to achieve by placing me under his protection.”
“So that is why you sent for me?”
“Oh my dear, not entirely. I was lonely, and I have enjoyed, I do enjoy, our talks, but yes, I admit it, I hoped you would drop some hint about him that would make it clearer to me. I felt it was lucky for me when he brought you here.”
“Luckier for you than me, madam. Why didn’t he tell me? How could he let me live so close to you in ignorance?”
“Don’t reproach him. To be honest, he’s probably forgotten I’m here.”
Gytha gives a sceptical laugh. “Odo? He never forgets anything. He should have told me.”
“Why? Men like to escape politics when they’re with their mistresses, not embroil them in the same mire.”
“And the mistresses? Are they not permitted a view?”
“Frankly, Gytha, he probably chose to say nothing because he thought it might lead you to do something stupid. As it has done.”
Gytha stands. “Don’t worry, madam, I’m going.” Crossing the room to the door, she unwraps her cloak from around her bundle of belongings and extracts the leather pouch which she fastens to her girdle. “You need have no more fear I shall jeopardise your good name with Bishop Odo.”
“But where will you go?” Edith hurries after her. “It’s dark, the gate will be locked.” Each phrase a hand plucking at her sleeve.
Gytha remains in the doorway for several seconds, fastening the clasp on her cloak, her dark eyes disconcertingly fixed on Edith. Edith blushes, looks away, picks at an imaginary speck of fluff on her skirt.
“Do you think I would tell you?” Gytha asks finally. “You might go and do something stupid.”
The truth of it is, she has no idea where she can go. As she goes in search of her horse, she glances up at the rising moon. A perfect half moon, an idiot gape repeated to infinity in all the panes of glass in the south wall of the chapel, mocking her as she creeps into the stableyard. What now? asks the moon, where to next?
“I don’t know.” The sound of her voice, a hoarse whisper, almost a muffled shout, surprises her. Hooves thud and scrape softly, ears flick as she approaches the long barn where the horses are tethered, easily picking out the roan by the way the moonlight shines on the grey hairs among the red, making her look like a chestnut which has been imperfectly whitewashed.
She belongs nowhere. She cannot, will not, go back to Winterbourne, to the games Odo plays with her the way Thecla plays with her dolls. Not wishing to run the risk of waking the grooms, she takes the first sidesaddle and bridle she finds on the rows of pegs set into the barn wall; they are not hers, but she consoles herself with the thought that what she leaves behind will probably be of superior quality to what she takes.
“Hey.” Too late. With much rustling and cursing, a heap of straw in a corner of the barn resolves itself into the oversexed, pimply youth of that afternoon. Hoping she is not too much in shadow, Gytha plasters h
er most helpless, feminine smile to her face and contrives to stumble slightly beneath the weight of the saddle.
“I didn’t want to disturb anyone,” she breathes.
“What are you doing?” The boy scratches his head, then his arse.
“I have to leave.”
“Now?”
“Urgent business.” A slight emphasis on the word, urgent; another spoon of honey in the smile. “Can you help me?”
The boy pauses, weighing the situation up.
“I’m not sure this is my saddle. It’s terribly heavy.” She drops the saddle. Now. Just right. The boy lunges to retrieve it. His face comes within inches of her breasts as he straightens up.
“It’s not,” he says in an anguished whisper. He returns the saddle to its peg, then peers among the rest of the tack until his eyes pick out by moonlight the scrollwork on the backrest of Gytha’s saddle. “I don’t think your mare’d like that bit much either,” he adds with a smile, slipping the bridle from her outstretched fingers. His breath smells of sour milk and whistles through the gap where his two upper front teeth should be. He walks down the horse line gingerly, holding the saddle over his crotch.
He backs the mare out of the line quietly enough, pulling her ears and whispering to her, just the way Fulk does, and…but she is not going to think about Odo. But just as he is leading her toward the mounting block, a commotion of loud swallows, followed by a hooting yawn and a succession of grunts, explodes from somewhere in the depths of the barn.
“Oh Mary Mother of God,” the boy exclaims, “that’s the head groom.”
Thank you, Mary, Mother of God, thinks Gytha. “Go,” she whispers, “quickly, and thank you.”
“There’s a gap in the wall,” he throws back over his shoulder as he runs toward the barn, “behind the smithy. Turn left through there and you’ll soon find the path to Winterbourne.”
He’ll probably get his ears boxed, she supposes, as she sets the mare toward the right, but no doubt he’ll find some way of consoling himself. Her path winds gradually uphill, meandering among stooks of trees sheaved by giants, the mare picking her way steadily around clumps of bramble and juniper. The moon is fully up now, the black outlines of bud-knobbed branches, clawed thorns, and heart-shaped ivy precisely cut out of sheets of silver. The evening is chilly, but it is a spring cold, not dense enough for frost.