by Prue Batten
‘Who is she?’
I tripped on a root, the jolt hurting my head and I sucked in a breath.
‘Nearly there, Ysabel, not too far.’ Brother John’s hand took hold of my arm and steadied me. ‘She is called Frida. But tell me, is he really dead?’
‘I… yes. I struck him near to the heart.’
‘Why?’
Such a direct question and I wonder you have not already guessed the answer.
‘He was raping me, Brother John. I am sorry to talk of such things but he wanted an heir begun before he leaves for the Holy Land and he t… he …’
‘No more of it, leave it behind. He is in the Devil’s hands now.’
He helped me over another root, the larger trees creating undulations on the forest floor with their spreading foundations.
‘What makes you think he is dead?’
‘Sorcia knocked him down and he hit his head on the wooden edge of my oratory. There was a lot of blood and I struck him with my quill knife. I plunged it in.’
‘To his heart you think?’
‘Aye. It stayed upright…’
I shuddered as a cold sweat crept over me, bile ascending into my throat. I began to vomit.
‘What do you do to the poor young boy, monk?’
A hoarse voice with the tinge of a Saxon accent spoke from the shadows.
‘Frida! We search for you…’
‘In the dark with no flame? It must be odd business then.’
‘Dangerous business, Frida. This young person needs help to escape far from here.’
‘Why? What is the deed?’
‘Murder. Baron De Courcey.’
Frida spat.
‘Huh, no loss then. So that was the noise across the forest; they’ve raised an alarm.’
I struggled to make out Frida’s features in the shadow as I lifted my head and wiped my mouth with a wad of grass.
‘This is the Baron’s wife, Frida. Alaïs’ daughter. She has been sorely used and fought to protect herself.’
‘She! Aah! Oh aye, I can see blood staining her hood.’
‘He hit her and broke open her eye and cheek.’
I was sick of them talking over the top of me.
‘Can we sit while we talk? I feel a trifle weak.’
Frida stepped from under the tree canopy and into a moonbeam that filtered through branches. She was as wrinkled as a dried up apple-skin, her eyes dark and expressionless, her face unreadable.
‘She’s pale, Brother John,’ she said. ‘Needs to rest a few hours to settle that head wound.’
‘I don’t have a few hours.’ I sighed.
‘You have as long as needs be,’ Brother John rejoined. ‘She can hide you and you must do as she says.’
‘I’m hardly in a position to do otherwise. I’m a fugitive like to be strangled and burned if caught. Or worse.’
‘Dead’s dead, my lady.’ Frida laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter if it’s by hanging, or any other of the ways they have to finish a person off. Come, let’s get you to where none shall find you. You can leave her in my care, priest. She’ll be looked after.’
‘I have no doubt,’ said Brother John, reaching to grasp me in a hug as I stood. ‘Ysabel, take care, don’t take risks. Get to Wales safely and send word to Cecilia or myself. We must know you are well.’
He clasped me like a father clasps a daughter and momentarily my eyes prickled but the epiphany loomed large.
‘I shall beware, Brother John. God bless you for being like a father to me.’
‘You shall always be my daughter, as you are God’s own. I loved your mother and father and I have loved you, their child, since I first entered Moncrieff. I shall pray for you.’
‘Then pray frequently and often, priest.’ Frida took my arm. ‘She’ll need it to get to Wales. She must cover a lot of ground.’
She tugged for me to follow and I hurried after her, glancing back at the dark cowled shape that was my family’s priest, waving but seeing no arm waving back. It seemed I left another part of my life behind as I paced in Frida’s steps but all I wanted was to escape; leaving a life behind meant little.
Running.
It’s all I had done for a year.
Running toward an unwanted destiny.
Running alongside someone I had thought was my champion.
Running away from a terrible fate.
Frida walked with assurance in the dark and I tripped and fell after her until we fetched up against a rocky bank. Where it lay and if it were concealed by foliage was impossible to discern as clouds drifted in uncompromising grey bands across the moon. I looked up. A halo of diffuse light surrounded what little I could see of it.
‘It’ll rain tomorrow,’ said Frida. ‘See how there is a veiled ring around the moon? Good for you; wash your smell away. Give you time to plan.’
More clouds and we were in the dark again. I heard the swish of leafy branches and then my hand was grabbed and I was dragged into a dry, comforting cave that wrapped round me like a womb round a babe.
For two days I stayed. Frida fed me, dressed my wound and the rain poured down and not once did we hear a search party close by. She told me how my mother would come to her for rare herbs and medicaments and how she was fond of Alaïs.
‘A sad day,’ was all she said of my mother’s death.
But then she spoke of other things as her hand wove stems of hazel or she crushed leaves and petals.
‘You know, she did a good thing the day she employed young Gisborne as your father’s steward.’
My attention was hooked like a fish on a line.
‘He was a good man.’ She stirred the honey for my wound, warming it over the flame. ‘Pity he left.’
He left to find me and finding me, realised that status and power were more important.
Frida wasn’t the most verbose person but she waxed lyrical for quite a long moment about Guy of Gisborne.
‘I was tending my traps one day and I looked up and he sat on his horse watching me from the other side of a copse, must have seen me stuff a rabbit in my sack. He sat as still as a statue. Could’ve ridden me down and dragged me to justice but he didn’t. Just sat there, a small smile on his face and then he touched his forehead in a salute and rode off.’
Damn him and damn you, Frida. Don’t.
But it was the only time she spoke of herself or Gisborne.
‘You need to get to Locksley. The abbess there is a good woman. She’ll see you safe.’
Locklsey. Beyond Nottingham, closer to Wales.
Frida dressed my wound daily.
‘Priest did a good job of his needlework. It’s a pity it’s like it is – it’ll drag your brow down and you’ll have a ridge across to your hair. Spoil your pretty face.’
She was readying a new paste and as she eased the old bandage off, hair stuck to the seepage.
‘Ow!’
‘Damn your hair, girl! Lies in the honey and ooze.’
‘Cut it off.’
‘Eh?’
‘Cut it off. Now. Before I think on it.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
I passed her a sharp knife.
She raised her eyebrows, shook her head and in a series of sawing motions, cut my hair to chin-length; a style favoured by squires like Ulric. I fingered the silvery largesse that lay in my lap.
‘Can you dye it?’
‘Dye?’ Frida flicked the knife onto a table.
‘Yes, I might as well change my appearance completely since the Baron half changed it for me.’
She stood with her head on the side, her own grey hair writhing like Medusa’s coils in a faint breeze that edged around the cave’s bends.
‘I think brown, easier to manage. Won’t show so much as it grows. Bit of mulberry wood steeped with a drop or two of oak gall, maybe a blot of henna. Yes, I think I can.’
And so I lost my crowning glory and became nutbrown-coloured sometime between Tierce and Sext. Bells drifted in
termittently on the rainsoaked breeze but I forbore to ask from where. At dawn on the third day, Frida passed me a bag filled with some bread, apples and nuts. Underneath was a chemise and faded brown bliaut not unlike a nun’s habit.
‘I’ll take you to the northwest edge of the forest. You’ll meet the road to Nottingham and you can skirt the town if you want and move on to Locksley. If I were you, I’d stayed dressed as a boy till you get to Nottingham and then change back to the woman’s clothes in the sack. The more changes you make the harder to track you down for there’s a price on your head, lovey, mark my words. De Courcey’s a favourite of king and prince.’
It took a day to reach the Nottingham Road and Frida sat with me as we ate bread and cheese.
‘I’ll stay till suitable company comes past.’
She wrapped herself in a heavy cloak in front of the small fire, snoring almost immediately but I just lay sleepless, watching the stars break out across a clearing nightsky.
Frida amused and awed me. She was afraid of nothing. She shifted from shadow to light as if she were fey, she handled a dagger, bow and trap like the best hunter, she had the skill of an apothecary, the tender hands of an infirmarian and the grounded nature of a religieuse. Age left its mark on her knotted fingers, her hair and her wrinkled skin but her eyes were as clear as a child’s, as uncompromising as a king’s, and as inscrutable as an ancient’s.
But now she slept the sleep of a babe whilst I sat twisted around in tangles with anxiety. Not long after dawn we had the company of four merchants and their wives travelling to Nottingham in two carts and with two men-at-arms. They obligingly took me aboard and as I turned to wave to Frida, she had gone – drifting like a shadow amongst tree and leaf.
As I walked down the muddy alleys of Nottingham much later, I thought on likely talents.
I was able in the house and fields. I could handle dogs, horses, even sheep and fowl.
I looked down at my hands.
I can embroider. Even shoot an arrow and wield a knife.
But the hands that had held a needle and dragged gold thread through silk were roughened by life and the faded clothes gave no inkling I had once followed gentler pursuits.
I walked through the gates, people staring at my wounded face. My dearest hope was that none knew of the injury Lady De Courcey had suffered. The less attention I drew the better and when I left the noise and crowds well behind, I dug into Frida’s bag and pulled out Alaïs’ comb and Frida’s crumpled linens which proved to be a wimple and veil. Pulling the hair back under the wimple, I made sure the headdress sat low on the forehead, covering as much of the hideous wound as possible.
To be sure I felt the drag of eyebrow toward cheek but when I fingered around the edge of the linen, I could see much was concealed. The veil knotted at the base of my skull and I knew without doubt that I looked like a peasant. If found on the road, I would be questioned smartly as to why I was far from where I might belong. The lie, if it were needed, was not so far from the truth. My husband had died. I had no tenure of our home and thus I returned close to the Welsh border in the north, to my aunt and uncle who were in need of extra hands.
Locksley was no more than a day or so’s ride from Nottingham, but I was not used to walking on foot. Every step throbbed and my soles wore thin. When I came to a large stone manor house, I went to a door in the yard and spoke to the maid who carried slops.
‘Work?’ I asked.
‘Here?’ She looked not unlike a pig, turned up nose, bristled hair that curled from an unwieldy knot and a body that indicated the pigs wouldn’t get everything in the bucket.
‘You’d have to be strong in mind and body to work here.’
I sighed, fingering the wimple.
‘I am.’
‘See the bailiff. Extra hands’d do round here for sure.’
I became a laundry maid within minutes in this house of pretension, for I could see the tapestry hangings and the pewter and silver. My instruction was to go to the lord’s chamber and collect his clothing and proceed to wash and mend anything that needed it.
The house was unloved and contained a capacious Hall alongside which stood an incongruous tower that held a solid stairway. Four separate doors lay along a first floor corridor which lay heavily atop the Hall like a minstrels’ gallery. No doubt the doors led to private quarters.
I knocked on the door of the closest.
‘Enter,’ a muffled voice called.
I pushed the door ajar, bobbing a faint curtsy and feeling for the veil and wimple– that they concealed as much of me as possible.
‘Your laundry, sir, I am to take it.’
‘It lies on the bed.’
I looked up quickly at the sound of that voice … a voice that chimed within memory, a visceral rumble, one that I had felt against my cheek as it lay on his chest.
No…
I walked swiftly around the room, away from his half-naked form, my back to him, collecting linen and fine cotton, my heart pounding.
‘Thank you,’ I strained my voice in order to change it. ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’
He stood at the door as I left and I was diminished by his height. As I pushed past him I knew his eyes followed me. His clothes lay in my arms, my memories soaring back over the last year, the fragrance from his unwashed surcoat, braies, chausses, reminding me of the night we had seeded a child. My mind screamed at me to leave, to run, but like a bee near pollen I hovered and knew I would rue the day.
‘Take care, take no risks.’
Brother John’s words snapped at my heels.
That first night I was so exhausted I could barely find a bed. I removed myself as far from Guy of Gisborne’s staff as I could and found a warm corner in a stall in the stables, pilfering a heavy caparison in which to wrap myself for warmth and to protect my body from the scratching straw. But in truth I was so strung out it wouldn’t have mattered if I had slept naked in a field of stubble as I went over and over the reasons why I should leave and over again why I wanted to stay.
For a week I avoided him, speaking to no one if I could help it, inviting no questions and asking none.
A week, Ysabel. Foolish girl!
Always reason chanted in my head but what is reason next to emotion? It stood no chance.
I earned my food and keep, if you could call my lodgings ‘keep’. The food was often the gravy, crusts and remains of Gisborne’s table and I decided it was no wonder the kitchen maid ate the pigswill. But food and keep was not enough, I needed coin because I knew I must leave and soonest. Finally that voice had shouted loud enough to be heard.
Gisborne is part of De Courcey’s circle, Ysabel. Part of the King’s circle. How tight do you want the executioner’s hands to be?
The day had been windy and I washed everything I could lay my chafed hands upon, manhandling bulk onto a line I had one of the black clad men-at-arms hang for me. As the linens flicked and flacked, I noticed a tear in a fine shirt. Sewing above all gave me peace and comfort in times of loss, even though my water-roughened skin caught on the fabric with a rip-like sound as I pushed folds around. Despite the fact it could be considered work, I took pleasure in mundane mending and had no doubt the men of this manor were surprised when they found only two armholes in a chemise and not three.
This evening, I had the torn shirt with me to mend by the light of a candle. The work I did was meticulous, the stitching tiny and I was careful to fold it and blow out the flame before I settled for the night, sleep descending on me like an avalanche of stone.
I vaguely heard a voice later, a voice which became an ugly growl.
‘Wake up!’
Something was grabbed from near my head and then there was another explosion of sound.
‘Thief!’
The caparison was whipped away, leaving me lying in my own ragged linen with its scuffed edge. I jumped up, wrapping my hands around with desperate modesty.
‘You!’
His eyes drifted over my form.
I sighed, reaching for the brown bliaut and holding it against me.
‘Yes, my lord.’
I pulled the garment on and was glad it slid to my toes as I grabbed the loose girdle. Tying it, I scrabbled at rough-cut hair, letting it fall close to my face and forehead, my head hanging.
‘Sir, I sleep in the stables as far from the rabble that is your staff as I can, and I did not steal your shirt. I mended it. It had a fray in the seam under the arm.’
A quick glance revealed discomfort but he retorted anyway.
‘As I remember, you are part of the staff you call a rabble. And what would you know of good or bad staff anyway?’
‘Enough.’
I turned away and picked up my cloak for I doubted I’d be working here at dawn.
‘So you have been in noble houses?’
‘I have.’
‘Is that how you managed to secure a chemise of good linen?’
Damn Frida’s shift.
‘A gift from my previous employer.’
He grinned and with a sarcastic edge, asked, ‘For services rendered?’
I knew that tone of voice. It was the one that had frightened me, as if he would explode and leave me by the side of an Angevin road.
‘In fact, yes. I ran the household for the mistress and was given such things.’
‘You say,’ he drawled. ‘And where is this fine house?’
‘Far away sir, and belongs to another now and I return to my family as my husband is dead.’
True enough.
He stroked the neck of the horse in the stall. The animal had been my only friend and companion since I took up residence in this dangerous house. She was a quiet old mare whose time was no doubt running out. As was mine.
‘What are you called?’
‘Linette, sir. Linette…’
Gisborne’s eyes did not so much graze over my face, they positively ploughed every line as though he searched for something.