by Jean Plaidy
In the schoolroom there was constant talk of the visitor. None of the children had ever seen anyone quite like him and they knew that their parents were more excited about Earl Harold than they had ever been over any other visitor.
Robert, who rarely spoke to his little sisters, was now boasting about how he acted as page to the guest. This was indeed a sign of growing up. He stood behind his chair and waited on him. Robert as the Duke’s heir had been given this task which showed how important the visitor was.
Adelisa could not stop plying Robert with questions. What did he say? What did he eat? Had he told any stories? Had he laughed or sung?
Robert replied that the visitor was different from anyone else who had come to the castle.
‘He is more handsome,’ said Adelisa.
Robert conceded that. He smiled little, said Robert. He seemed sad, but he was kind to Robert.
‘He is always kind,’ said Adelisa with conviction.
Richard said that he fancied Lord Harold was longing for his own home.
‘How could he be,’ demanded Adelisa, ‘when we all wish him to stay here?’
‘With the greatest ease,’ replied Richard with a smile.
Robert and Richard exchanged knowledgeable looks which were infuriating. They implied they knew something which was not for little girls’ ears.
Eagerly she gleaned all the information she could and on one memorable day she was dressed in a gown much more beautiful than any she had ever possessed before.
Her mother came to her chamber where the maids were braiding her hair. She smiled and said: ‘You look well today, daughter.’
Adelisa smoothed the folds of her gown. ‘It is beautiful, my lady,’ she answered.
Matilda turned round and examined her critically.
‘It’s a pity you’re so young,’ she said. ‘Why couldn’t you have been born four years earlier?’
‘That was a matter for you and my father to decide,’ replied Adelisa demurely.
‘Ah, so you can speak up for yourself. Come with me. You are to be presented to Earl Harold.’
Adelisa blushed with confusion.
‘Oh come,’ said Matilda, ‘he is but a man. You will have to stop thinking of him as some divine being.’
She gripped her daughter firmly by the arm.
‘Now we shall see whether you have learned your lessons. You will curtsy to the Earl and answer the questions he puts to you; and if you do not behave in a becoming manner in every way I myself will whip you.’
‘I will do my best,’ murmured Adelisa.
‘I wish him to find you charming. If he does not, remember, it will be the worse for you.’
‘I will try to please him.’
‘If you show him you regard him as one of your grandmother Arlette’s heroes you will doubtless do that.’
Matilda laughed as though something very amusing had been said and they went into the hall where Harold sat with William.
Harold rose as Adelisa entered.
‘My daughter,’ said William.
Harold bowed and smiled kindly. Adelisa curtsied with as much grace as she could.
‘Our daughter is so overcome by the honour you do her that she is a little shy,’ said Matilda.
Harold took her hand and for a few ecstatic moments the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen met hers in grave concern.
‘You must not be afraid of me,’ he said.
‘No, my lord,’ she breathed.
‘For you and I are friends.’
She smiled and all her adoration was in that smile.
‘She is by no means ignorant,’ said Matilda. ‘The Duke has always set a high value on education even for girls. Her Latin is good. Quote some Latin verses, Adelisa, so that Earl Harold may see that you are no dullard.’
Harold held up his hand and said kindly, ‘There is no need. I see the intelligence shines from her bright eyes.’
‘The Duchess and I will finish our game of chess while you converse together,’ said William; and he and Matilda retired to an end of the hall, leaving Adelisa and Harold together.
‘They want us to like each other,’ said Harold.
‘Oh but . . . I do.’
He smiled. ‘You are a sweet little girl. I find you charming.’
She thought: I did not know there was such happiness in the world. She closed her eyes. Let this moment go on and on for ever, she prayed.
When she opened her eyes he was smiling at her.
‘You are but a child,’ he said. ‘There are many years before you will be grown up.’
‘I am ten years old,’ she told him proudly.
He put out a hand and touched her golden hair.
‘I am an old man.’
She was indignant. ‘Nay,’ she said, ‘such as you are could never be old.’
‘Alas, it is a fate which must overtake us all.’
She shook her head. The gods were never old – they lived for thousands of years and were always strong and beautiful.
He thought her enchanting; nor could he be blind to the adoration she was offering him. Poor little girl. As much a pawn as one of those pieces her father was moving across his chessboard.
‘Methinks I shall soon be in my native land.’
‘It is England, is it not?’
He nodded. ‘It is a beautiful land and I love it.’
‘It must be the most beautiful land in the world.’
‘To me, yes – as Normandy is to you. It is always so where our native land is concerned.’
‘I should like to go to your land.’
‘The Duke and Duchess want you to do that.’
She clasped her hands.
‘They want us to marry. What would you think of that?’
‘Oh!’ she said and was silent.
‘Of what are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘That I shall die of happiness.’
He talked then of England, the beautiful land of green fields, of monasteries, golden sands and silver seas, and he spoke as one spoke as a lover.
‘One day,’ she said, ‘you will take me there with you.’
‘And if I did?’ he asked.
‘That would be the happiest day of my life.’
The chess game was over; William and his Duchess came to them as they sat at the table.
‘You may go, Adelisa,’ said Matilda, and the child rose and curtsied to Harold and then to her parents.
She went to her chamber; she lay on her bag of straw and she saw nothing but the blue eyes, the glittering person of the man she was to marry.
She was as one bewitched. She did not hear when her brothers or sisters spoke to her. She was living in one of the legends which had enchanted her childhood; and the hero of that legend was far more beautiful, far more brave than any other had ever been.
She had grown up suddenly. She was no longer a child of the schoolroom. She might join the company at the feast.
Harold sat on a chair especially placed for him. Robert stood behind it. He was not pleased that he must stand and wait while his young sister sat. He must hold the dish for Harold; and when the eating was over he must bring the bowl in which the guest washed his hands; he it was who must fill the horn from which Harold would drink, making sure not to dip his fingers into the great wassailing bowl.
And she, little Adelisa, was allowed to share Harold’s dish; they drank from the same horn. He smiled at her; he was so gentle and kind although she knew that he was a mighty warrior. Loving him was painful; her heart seemed too big for her body; her eyes often filled with tears, so that she saw his beauty through a mist.
He smiled at her as though he understood and he said she must have the tenderest pieces of the meat because she was of tender years; he would not allow her to drink too frequently, for he said, ‘You are too young for over-much wine.’ And always he spoke with a gentleness which moved her and yet hurt because she loved him so much.
It was a very important occasion becaus
e they had special meats; there were peacocks, swans and pies; and she was aware too that her father and mother were trying to show Harold how grandly they lived.
But he was sad. She knew that, and she wished that she knew too how to make him happy.
William discussed his plan with Matilda.
‘The time has come for the final scene in the drama of Harold’s visit to Normandy.’
‘All has gone well so far,’ agreed Matilda. ‘He is betrothed to Adelisa whose devotion he has won; all he has to do now is return to England, send his sister to Normandy and prepare the people to accept you when the time comes.’
‘The last is the most difficult to achieve and that is what I am planning now. We are going to Bayeux.’
‘I always loved Bayeux,’ said Matilda.
‘And there he is going to swear in such a way that he will never dare to go against his word.’
‘But can you make him swear?’
‘What else can he do? He is our prisoner. Perhaps it was as well Guy of Ponthieu gave him a taste of the dungeons. He will not wish to spend the rest of his life here – an exile, when exciting matters are about to break in England.’
‘Good luck go with you.’
‘We shall all go to Bayeux to witness the scene.’
‘That will delight your daughter.’
‘At least Adelisa is happy with the arrangement.’
‘It would break the child’s heart if you took her Saxon from her now.’
‘These Saxons are not without their attractions.’
‘The men are handsome. I wonder if the women are equally so. In which case I must perforce keep a wary eye on my lord.’
William laughed at her. ‘Have you ever had to do that?’
‘Oh, you have mingled only with Norman women till this time and been too busy fighting your wars.’
‘Rest assured I shall doubtless be busy in England, and as soon as I have put myself on the throne I shall send for you to join me.’
‘I shall be there. I have a score to settle with the Saxons.’
‘Why so?’
‘For taking you from me. Which they will do, I doubt not, for the settling of yourself on the throne will take some time.’
‘It may be not. If Harold prepares the land for me it should be an easy matter.’
‘Do you think he will calmly hand over that which he wants for himself?’
‘When he has given his sacred oath, yes. Remember Edward. He made an oath never to have sexual relations with a woman and he kept that vow even though he married.’
‘That was because he did not want to. But, believe me, William, Harold wants that crown as much as you do.’
‘Then it is time he swore his oath to give it up.’
That day William said to Harold: ‘I want to show you my castle of Bayeux. We will ride there tomorrow. We can hunt on the way.’
Uneasily, at the head of the company, Duke William beside him, Harold rode to Bayeux.
In the great hall of Bayeux stood a large coffer over which had been laid a coverlet of cloth of gold.
William had commanded that all the nobles and knights who had accompanied him to Bayeux, with those who lived within ten miles of the town, present themselves and assemble in the hall.
It was an impressive gathering.
When they were there he himself donned his ducal robes, including the circlet of gold which he wore on his head on state occasions, and seated himself on his throne.
He then sent for Harold.
As soon as Harold entered the hall he guessed what was about to happen and inwardly cursed the winds which had thrown him up on the coast of Normandy. He was going to be made to swear to marry Adelisa, he knew. How could he marry such a child? And how valid must an oath be considered which was taken under duress?
What would happen to him if he refused? He had heard stories of the ruthlessness of William of Normandy. He had assessed his character during his enforced stay here. A strong man, a ruthless man, a man who once he had made up his mind to do anything would allow nothing to deter him.
‘Welcome, Earl Harold,’ said the Duke, as Harold entered the hall.
‘Welcome,’ echoed the assembly, but the word had none of its usual kindly meaning. There was something sinister about it. Well come from their point of view perhaps, because it had placed him in their hands. And most untimely come for him since their gain must surely be his loss.
‘You have given me certain promises,’ went on William, ‘and I have summoned this company hither that you may confirm them and swear on oath that which you and I have agreed upon. You will now place your hands above the gold cloth.’
For a moment Harold hesitated. He wanted to turn and run from that hall. It was impossible. He was surrounded. What would happen to him if he refused? The picture of a dungeon rose before his eyes; he thought of the terrible things that could happen to prisoners.
He raised his hands.
‘You have promised to help me to the crown of England on the death of King Edward,’ said William. ‘Swear to it.’
Harold was silent and William said insistently: ‘Swear!’
There was no help for it. He was trapped.
‘I swear,’ he said.
William smiled slowly. This was the important oath. He went on: ‘Swear that you will marry my daughter Adelisa.’
‘I swear,’ said Harold.
‘Swear that you will send your sister to Normandy that I may wed her to one of my knights.’
‘I swear,’ said Harold.
William then signed to two of his men. They came forward and, taking the gold cloth in their hands, drew it off, disclosing a large coffer beneath it. When they opened the coffer Harold gave a gasp of horror for in it had been laid the holy relics of Normandy, the bones of long-dead saints.
It had been a sacred oath. Men tempted fate who lightly swore by such and broke their word.
He was trapped as he had guessed he was from the moment Guy de Ponthieu delivered him into the hands of William of Normandy.
‘God aid!’ cried William, and the words were echoed throughout the hall.
‘Now, to the feast,’ said William, his eyes gleaming with purpose. ‘Come, Earl Harold, this day our friendship has been sealed.’
The board was loaded on that day. William was in excellent spirits. He was thanking the great good fortune which had washed up Harold on his shores. He had seen his change of colour when the sacred bones had been revealed. He would never dare break a vow which had been made in such circumstances.
Adelisa sat beside Harold. He was sad, she noticed, though as before he left the tenderest of the meat for her.
‘I shall go to my home very soon now,’ he said.
And she thought that was why he was sad.
A few days later a brilliant cavalcade left the castle; at the head of it rode the Duke of Normandy and beside him Earl Harold.
They were making for the coast where vessels would be waiting to take Earl Harold back to England.
From the turret Adelisa watched.
This was the saddest day she had ever known. He was going away and she would not see him for a long time. True, she was his affianced wife and her father had said that she would go to England in due course and marry him. But she was so young yet. How many years must she wait before she was his wife? Three perhaps. And who knew what could happen in three years?
How could she live for three years without seeing that beautiful face!
A terrible foreboding of evil had come to her. It was that she would never be happy again.
Her sister Cecilia came to her and stood beside her at the window.
‘It is no use looking further,’ she said. ‘You can see nothing now.’
Adelisa turned to her pale-faced sister, who was so unlike the rest of the family, being quiet and serious, stern and critical.
Adelisa could not resist saying: ‘Oh, Cecilia, I am so unhappy.’
‘Because he has gone? How worldly
you are, Adelisa!’
‘Is it worldly to love?’
‘To love anyone but God, the Virgin and the Holy Church, yes. You must pray to be delivered of your sins. Come, kneel with me.’
Adelisa shook her head. ‘I can see only him,’ she said.
‘You pity yourself, Adelisa. Others have trouble. What of Earl Harold’s brother Wulfnoth? He has lost his cousin Haakon who was with him since he was brought as hostage to Normandy and has now gone home. He will be sad too, for he has lost one he must have loved even as you have.’
‘He lost his cousin, I have lost Earl Harold. Oh, Cecilia, did you ever see one so beautiful?’
‘I am not concerned with the beauty of men, but of God.’
Adelisa went on: ‘But he will come back to me. He has sworn an oath.’
‘He will never dare break it,’ said Cecilia, ‘because he has sworn on the bones of dead saints. If he broke that vow a terrible fate would overtake him.’
‘He would never break his vows,’ said Adelisa proudly. ‘He will come back to me.’
But she could not shake off the terrible foreboding of evil.
Each day Adelisa looked from the turret. A messenger would come from England to take her back with him. Often when young girls were betrothed they went to the country of their future husbands. She thought of leaving her brothers and sisters, her father and mother, and was sad; but when she thought of the great joy of being with Harold how happy she was!
One day, he will come, she assured herself; she must believe it. It was the only way in which she could bear her life.
The Duke and the Duchess waited every day for the news of Edward’s death.
‘I must be ready as soon as the news comes through,’ said William.
‘And as soon as you are settled there I shall follow,’ Matilda assured him.
When she reproved Adelisa she would say with a half smile: ‘You will have to behave better when you are Earl Harold’s Countess.’
That was the day Adelisa was living for and the stitches in her embroidery became smaller and neater because, as she told herself, none but the best of wives would be good enough for him.
There had been no word from Harold since his return.
‘Doubtless,’ said William, ‘he is considering the vows he has made.’
‘And doubtless wishing he had not made them,’ added Matilda.