Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  He was safer than I thought, safe for all time in God’s arms. A shepherd who was out seeking a missing ewe found him lying in the road pierced by five arrows.

  I think that was when I gave up hope. I did all the right things—set the huntsmen and tenants searching for any sign of the murderers, sent a messenger to Mary and several men to find King David’s army and tell Papa and Donald what had happened. I even rode to Keswick to put a complaint before the sheriff about my brother’s murder and to testify to what he had told me of the threats of Mary’s husband’s kin. But I do not remember weeping for Magnus nor did I really expect that Papa or Donald would ever come home. I am not even sure whether it was one week or two that passed between Magnus’s death and the day that Tom, our bailiff, brought the news that King Stephen himself had set out from Carlisle with a huge army and was sweeping through Cumbria and taking every manor.

  “I will not yield Ulle,” I said, knowing that was what Papa would have said.

  “Lady, lady,” Tom cried. “We could not even hold a keep against that army. Ulle is only a manor house. It is not meant to be defended against an army. Will you ask us to throw away our lives?”

  The bailiff was loyal and I was sure he was not lying to me. I knew he had defended Ulle against raiders and fought bravely under Papa’s orders. If he said defense was useless, it probably was. Ulle would be taken, but I would not give it away. Papa would blame me for that. It would have to be taken by force, and I would not yield nor sign any writing nor give oath or pledge of any kind ceding my right. If the king had me killed, I would have done my best and would be free to join Mama and my brothers—and Papa too if what my heart said was true. But I did not really think the king would kill me, and as long as I lived I would have a right to Ulle. Papa would expect me to try to hold the land and, if I could not, get it back in some way sooner or later.

  “No,” I said, “I do not want you to throw away your lives. I want you to do nothing and say nothing. Move everything that can be moved into the caves. Sail the boats under the cliffs where they cannot be taken. Make no resistance to the king. If he takes Ulle, I do not think he will harm me. If he takes me away and sets a new master into Ulle, cheat him as much as is safe. Watch for my father and my brother so that they do not fall into any trap when they return.”

  I remember how Tom’s eyes lighted at my words and the fervor in his voice when he said, “We will be watching for them, lady.” But there was no answering light in my heart. I was only saying the words I knew Papa would have expected me to say and acting as he would have wished me to act. There was no hope or expectation in me.

  As the king’s army drew closer and it became clear that Stephen would not, as some had hoped, pass east along the easier route south of the tarn and ignore Ulle, I called the manor folk together and told them they must leave and take with them into hiding all the valuables of the household. I bade them take not only the strongbox of money and jewelry, the two pieces of fine plate, and the few glass and silver goblets but all the stored food and stock, even the linens and feather beds and extra clothing. When Stephen took Ulle, he would find bare bones, and old bones at that, with all the marrow gone.

  I had wanted to stay alone; the people wanted me to flee with them, but I explained that I must stay to maintain my father’s claim to Ulle—I was wrong about all this, but I was ignorant because Papa had never explained such matters to me, thinking women unable to understand, and the manor folk knew less than I did. But they would not hear of my staying alone, and they arranged among themselves that all the young men and women should go, leaving behind only a few old womenservants and the men of my father’s retinue who had been ordered to protect Ulle in his absence.

  I had no notion they meant to fight. Papa had only bade them guard Ulle to salve their pride—had he feared an attack he would never have gone, and Donald would have stayed too, to fight for his own land. The men-at-arms Papa left behind were all too old or too crippled to go with him. But they gave me no warning of their intention, and when Stephen’s army was sighted, one column winding down the pass from Darkgate and another creeping along the track by the tarn, the captain asked me to go inside the main hall with the four women who had remained and bar the door. I went without words, for he had already promised not to open the gates but to make the king’s men force them. I believed he wished to bargain for my safety—or, perhaps, for his own.

  So I went inside and sat down on Papa’s chair to wait, and the women drew stools close around me. The windows had already been shuttered, and the hall was lit only dimly by the wan grey light that seeped down from the smoke holes in the roof and the low-burning fire. I was not conscious of the passing of time, but it could not have been very long because we saw the army soon after dinner, and when I heard the first stroke of the ram on the gate, the light from the smoke holes had not grown dimmer. The sound of the ram woke no fear in me; it was dulled by distance and by the walls of the hall and the shutters on the windows. To me the hollow thuds were much like those of heavy clods of earth falling on a coffin—all too familiar to my weary ears.

  Then there was a crash. The women on the stools around me set up a wail, and it took me a moment to hush them. Only then did I hear the shouts and a faint clashing of metal on metal and realize that those foolish old men were fighting. I cannot imagine what they thought they could accomplish, but perhaps they only wished to die with honor instead of being driven out to beg for bread. At the time I did not think of that. I jumped to my feet to run out and stop them, but the women clung to me, weeping, ignoring my commands to let me go. And the battle, if it is not laughable to call it that, was over before I could free myself. The clashing died away and what noise there was of more men entering did not penetrate into the hall, but soon the shouts began anew, this time in tones of rage as the invaders saw the bare stables and outbuildings and realized the shell they had cracked was empty of meat.

  Around me the women, who had been murmuring to me, fell silent, although they clung still tighter. I could feel their terror, and tendrils of it crept through the deadness in my soul until my heart could scarcely beat, so encased was it in the ice of fear. I had said the king would not hurt me, but what if he should torture me to discover where the wealth of Ulle was hidden? I could not tell him. I did not know where the manor folk had fled. There were caves and hollows in the hills that I had never seen or heard of. Or what if Stephen should throw me to his army as a scapegoat to be used by the men until I died?

  A mailed fist thudded against the hall door and a single male voice, strong and clear, rose above the noisy confusion. A moment later the ram crashed against our last defense. I suppose it was fortunate that it took no more than a few blows to burst open the door and that I was frozen with terror. Had I not been, I would have disgraced myself by running about and shrieking as mindlessly as any frightened hen.

  The splintering of the door loosed my women’s tongues and they began to wail. One further blow and the door sprang open, letting in the soft light of a grey winter’s day. It did not blind me, but it was bright to my dark-accustomed eyes, and my fear gave a sharp-edged, slow-moving quality to everything that happened.

  First, a man in full mail with a bared sword in one hand and a raised knight’s shield in the other leapt in and stepped sideways to put his back against the door, as if he expected the sealed hall was a trap. The shrieks of my women, augmented by his entry, drew his head to us. The light then fell full on his face—dark and…and hungry. I will never forget that face. I have reasons enough now to remember it, but at that moment terror seared the features and expression into my memory. He had lowered his shield when he saw only women and there was no nasal to the helmet he wore, so I could see clearly the large, black eyes, the high-bridged, aquiline nose, and the mouth—but that I did not see as I saw it later; then it was only a thin, grim line in a black-stubbled face. Simple as I was, I thought he was the king. I learned later that two men
could hardly look more different—or be more different.

  The difference in looks I discovered in the next moment when a second man came through the door. I knew at once the mistake I had made when I saw this man’s armor, for his shield was beautifully painted and gilded, whereas the first man’s was chipped and battered, and this man had a gold circlet affixed to his helmet. This was the king, but somehow I was less afraid. His face was obscured by the nasal of his helmet, but the eyes were mild, the mouth bland, and there was a fullness about the chin that robbed it of determination even though it was not weak. His expression, puzzled rather than angry, held none of the intensity of the first man’s, who said a word to him softly and went out with an indifference that showed contempt and emphasized my powerlessness.

  Others came in then, but with sheathed weapons; and as the king approached me, he put his own sword away and lifted off his helmet, handing it to a smaller man—perhaps it was a boy, a squire. “Be quiet!” he said to the women. “I will do you no harm.” They obeyed him better than they would have obeyed me. He stopped about a yard away from us, his followers respectfully behind him, and asked, “Who are you?”

  The question was plainly addressed to me, and I suddenly found that my tongue no longer cleaved to my mouth, bone-dry with fear. I answered quietly, “I am Lady Melusine of Ulle.”

  “Where is your brother Magnus?”

  His voice was sharp now, still not hard, but my heart sank. I remembered how my father had said the king would know nothing about us, but Papa had been wrong. It seemed that Stephen knew far more than Papa had guessed. Still, nothing could hurt Magnus ever again, and my first terror worn away, the deadness in my soul had crept back, making me indifferent to my own fate.

  “Magnus is dead,” I said softly. “He was murdered on the road on his way home from his betrothal.”

  Shock, followed by sympathy, showed on the king’s face, and it came into my mind that I might yet save Ulle with weakness where strength would not serve. So before Stephen could speak I asked, “Why did you attack me? I have done no harm to anyone.”

  The little hope was crushed at once. A kind of spiteful stubbornness replaced the look of sympathy, and the king snarled, “Why did you seal your manor against me, against me, the king? You knew your father and brother were rebels, gone over to King David. Well, the lands are forfeit for that. I am done with forgiving rebellion. And you need not think any will dare oppose me. I have cleaned out this sewer of Scots lovers. Nor will there be any to lead uprisings. Your father and your brother are dead, killed at Wark in open rebellion.”

  I had known they were dead. I had known from the moment the shepherd brought Magnus home with frost crystals whitening his eyes that whatever curse had fallen on me on my thirteenth birthday would not lift until all I loved were destroyed. Still, to hear it said, no longer to be able to fight the knowledge, no longer to be able to cling to any shred of hope—that felled me. I must have fainted and perhaps I was unconscious for a long time and that reawakened the king’s sympathy. I learned many months later that he had treated me with great kindness, but I have no memory of that nor of anything else that took place until the beginning of September. I must believe, little as I like it, that I was quite mad for nearly eight months.

  Chapter 5

  Bruno

  “My lord, I do not want a wife, especially one I do not know, and I cannot provide for one.”

  Fortunately the king and I were private when the words burst from me, and he laughed at my reaction. “You know Lady Melusine. She has been one of the queen’s ladies since you took her manor—Ulle. You must have seen her many times. She is the tall, dark lady to whom I often speak—a very beautiful woman, very quiet and gentle. Well, I think her gentle.”

  I called her to mind as soon as the king described her, but I did not think her beautiful—a big mare, good for heavy work like a peasant, not small and delicate like a great lady. And her face—all I could remember was the expression of terror that had twisted the features.

  “But, my lord,” I protested desperately, “you have disseised her, and for excellent reasons. I heartily support your decision. Still, if I marry her, she will be reduced to a condition unfitting her birth.”

  “Nonsense,” Stephen rejoined, still smiling. “If you take me for a fool, at least do not tell me so to my face.” He chuckled at my visible consternation and took my hand, for I was standing before him. “Bruno, my Bruno, I know you have nothing—” The smile on his lips twisted. “—and is that not your own fault for refusing bribes to whisper this and that in my ear?” Then his look softened again. “It is wrong that you be poor because you are honest. Moreover, although I am sure you think I had forgotten my promise to knight you, I have not forgotten. I did not wish to do it without some special reason. There are already some who look sidelong at you and call you ‘favorite’ under their breaths.”

  I knew at least one of those “some” who looked sidelong at me. As Waleran de Meulan increased his hold on the king, he grew more and more jealous of anyone Stephen loved, and Waleran knew I thought much of his advice wrong. He wished to be rid of me. Could this marriage be his way to send me away from the king?

  To accuse him of it though would be a faster path to the same result, so all I said was, “I am sorry, my lord. Perhaps my manner has been at fault. I will take more care—”

  Stephen waved that away. “I have been seeking an excuse to advance you, and I have found it in Melusine. For my purposes, she must be married, and to a man whose loyalty to me cannot be shaken. Thus, the marriage is a service to me, and will make it only reasonable for me to knight you and grant you a pension. But the pension will be for you, Bruno. Melusine will remain Maud’s lady, so her food and much of her clothing will be provided. And since you will now be a Knight of the Body, you will still be lodged and fed at my expense.”

  Knight of the Body…then I would remain connected to the king, although not so intimately as I have been as squire. That thought pulled me this way and that: I would be safer if I was less close to the king, for I often rubbed him wrong by speaking my mind or reminding him of the queen’s opinion when he did not want to hear; yet I loved him for his kindness to me and I owed him what little I could do to check his impulsive nature. Also, I wanted to be a knight. God knows I was far past the usual age for knighting and being a squire made those who did not know me look at and speak to me in a way that rubbed my soul. And a pension…But at the cost of a wife? I had a brief memory of Audris’s face when she spoke of Hugh, and a heaviness came into my chest at the thought that I would never see a woman look at me like that.

  “It is too great a favor, my lord,” I said. “There must be many men who are more worthy.”

  “But I have chosen you,” the king said, frowning now. “I trust you, Bruno, and I think you less likely than any other to allow your wife to make trouble for me.”

  I must have gaped at him like a fish out of water, for he shrugged as I echoed, “Make trouble?”

  “I thought it would be sufficient to place her in a convent, but Maud will not hear of it. Lady Melusine’s father was a man of influence in Cumbria, and I hear from the steward I sent to Ulle that the people are only waiting for a signal to rise up against me. If Ulle rebelled, it is possible the rest of Cumbria would follow.”

  “You think Lady Melusine would escape from a convent and return to Ulle to lead a rebellion?” My voice rose with incredulity.

  “No, I do not,” Stephen replied. “I have spoken to her many times, and I am sure she is a—a docile creature.”

  I wondered about that hesitation before the word docile, recalling also the way the king had said he thought Melusine was gentle, but I only nodded acceptance of his answer.

  “But,” the king went on, “she did try to leave us secretly when we were on progress in the north. I think the poor girl misses her old home. I doubt she ever left it before I took her
with me to court. Yet as long as she is unmarried, I dare not allow her to go there even for a visit. There is too great a chance that a man of those parts—and I trust none of them for I think they all have a secret leaning toward David—might seize her and marry her. He could then claim her right to Ulle, and use my denial of that right to raise rebellion.”

  As he spoke Stephen’s face showed only interest and his eyes were guileless. I knew him and believed he was telling the whole truth, or as much as he knew of it. But then he shifted slightly in his seat as if something had made him uncomfortable and added, “And Maud says Melusine is hiding something, but I cannot believe it.”

  That cast a different light on the matter. If Queen Maud said Lady Melusine was hiding something and it was the queen who had opposed placing the girl in a convent, her attempts to escape became more significant. Although it was no pleasant prospect, I felt it was my clear duty to marry her. The queen had an uncanny ability to sense any danger to her husband, so she was more likely to be right about Melusine than Stephen. My selfish desire for a marriage of caring and warmth must be put aside—not that I was losing much, since I doubt I could ever have made myself an acceptable suitor to any well-born woman.

  “Very well, my lord,” I said. “I will marry Lady Melusine when and where you say.”

  “You need not look as if I have just condemned you to torture.”

  Stephen looked decidedly irritated, and I realized that my expression must have been grim. “You have taken me by surprise,” I replied. “I have never been responsible for any other person, and to be tied for life…”

  The king reached out and grasped my arm, and grinned suddenly. “I understand. Now that I think back, I could not have looked much happier when Maud was proposed to me. I did not think she was an attractive woman.” He laughed heartily. “What fools men are. If I had known the prize that was being given me, the joy she would bring me and the help, I would have spent the time between our betrothal and our marriage on my knees praying for her welfare. But you can have no quarrel with your lady’s looks—ah, the pension.”