“I had not even thought of that,” I said indignantly. “You must know, my lord, that I have always found you over rather than under in generosity. As for beauty, I prefer my women small and fair, so we are in much the same case. I do not think my bride very attractive. I can only hope that fate will be as kind to me as to you. If my marriage brings me even a part of the happiness in yours, my lord, I will be blessed above most men.”
A small frown formed on Stephen’s brow and then quickly smoothed away, and he nodded in seeming satisfaction. “That is true, and my hope goes with yours. Maud and I thought that fifty marks a year while you are on duty at court and a hundred marks when you must live on your own means would be suitable.”
I bowed deeply. “That is indeed generous.”
I know neither my face nor voice betrayed my surprise and uneasiness at the amount of the pension the king was offering. It was too much—a knight’s fee was twenty pounds a year, and out of that the knight must find food and shelter for himself and his horse. With all necessaries found for myself and my wife, and some clothing too, Stephen was offering more than a double knight’s fee. Had such an offer been made by any other man, I would have suspected that the woman was not only a hunchbacked dwarf but a raving lunatic too. But I knew that Lady Melusine was normal in appearance and quiet and well behaved among Queen Maud’s ladies. The overgenerosity had nothing to do with the lady; it was typical of Stephen.
The king was large of promise, poor in fulfillment. I was certain that as soon as the wedding service ended, Stephen would hand me a purse with the first quarter’s payment of my pension. I might receive another quarter, but after that it would depend solely on the state of the king’s purse. If it was full, the money would be given with a smile and a jest; if it was not, I would have the smile and excuses; if I persisted, anger would replace smiles—and the larger the sum that was owing the deeper the anger would be. It was a fault I feared deeply, not so much for its effect on me—if worse came to worst, I could always send my wife to Audris so she would not starve—but for the dissatisfactions it bred among the nobles.
As I came up from my bow, I could see that the king was dissatisfied by my guarded voice and expression. I was struck by remorse, for I knew how much pleasure Stephen took in making people happy—and he truly meant to fulfill his promises, I am sure. It would not have hurt me to bend my lips into a smile. Stephen was not much aware of other people’s feelings and would never have known the smile was false. But I had no time to amend my mistake, for his next words again took me by surprise—only proving what a fool I am, for I should have realized what he must tell me.
“Then the day after tomorrow I will knight you, and in a week’s time—let us say the first day of September, that will be an easy day to remember—we will have the wedding.”
I forgot completely the need to seem happy, as a wild protest rose to my lips. I managed to swallow it, but I could not command my voice and could do no more than bow again, and when I tried to speak, Stephen waved me off, saying petulantly that I should go gaze on my bride’s beauty and find a better mood.
The remark about my bride I took to be an order, and I left the king’s chamber to go to the queen’s quarters, but I doubted that Melusine’s appearance would do much to improve my mood. Although I knew better, I could not help but be irritated by the king’s expectation that I would show joy over his proposal. Even if I had believed he would be faithful in payment, could he not realize that my heart would be heavy at the prospect of taking an unwilling bride? But then I thought of what Stephen had said, and I began to wonder whether Lady Melusine was unwilling. Some women are so trained to obedience that they seem to have no will at all. That idea did not make me much happier. I suppose it is better to have a placid, obedient wife than a bitter, unwilling one, but it woke no enthusiasm in me. The only great lady I knew well, my beloved Audris, was as willful and naughty as she was sweet and delicate, and I thought that a great part of any woman’s charm. I always chose my whores from among those with saucy tongues.
The thought was double-edged. With a wife in my bed I would no longer need to use the whores. Not only would that save money, but Lady Melusine would, I hoped, be cleaner and sweeter smelling than a whore. On the other hand, the notion of a woman with the right to ask me about my comings and goings was not so pleasant, and I thought again with resentment of the king’s great eagerness to bind me to this woman I did not even know.
In a moment I realized I was being unfair. There were good reasons for the king’s haste. A knighting and a wedding would be a diversion for the small court gathered around Stephen at Winchester. For a little time each event would provide something to talk about besides the increasing number of men who were rebelling against the king. In June, the attempt in Normandy to ambush Robert of Gloucester had borne bitter fruit despite the king’s denials. Gloucester had sent envoys to Stephen to cry defiance—a formal renunciation of Gloucester’s oath of fealty. Although it was no part of the defiance, the messengers had also carried the bad news that Gloucester had submitted Caen and Bayeux to Geoffrey of Anjou.
Many of Gloucester’s English vassals had followed his lead, some because they were good and honorable men but more because they were discontent with what Stephen had given them, having hoped from his promises for much more. If Gloucester had come to England at once and united those men, I do not know what would have happened, but he had not. Each had cried defiance separately, and thus far, Stephen had put down each rebellion as it rose. But as defeat for each rebel was only followed by another’s defiance, even those most firmly committed to the king were growing uneasy.
To make matters worse, King David had attacked and besieged Norham castle in June; for a time he had seemed stalled there, but through July and August the news had been very bad. Castle after castle had fallen to David, and the Scots had flooded down through Northumbria and Durham and were now threatening York. Yet Stephen did not dare go north to fight David lest the Scots’ attack be only a feint to draw the king away so that Gloucester could come from Normandy after all and lead a unified rebellion. That would deprive Stephen of the rich and populous south—not to mention the ports through which Queen Maud’s ships brought men and money from her lands.
Any diversion, even such small ones as a knighting of the king’s squire and the marriage of one of the queen’s ladies, would be welcome. I would have been in urgent need of diversion myself—little as I had to lose if Stephen were driven out of England—if I had not had a letter from Audris that past week, telling me she was safe in Jernaeve and Hugh was off to join Sir Walter Espec, who was gathering an army to defend the north. Audris’s news had comforted me; foolish as it was, I felt that Hugh was doing my part as well as his own in defending the shire. I knew I could not go myself while trouble held the king in the south, but I did not worry about Jernaeve. The Scots might raid the lands and even take the lower bailey, but they would never take the mighty keep itself by assault or siege. If I knew Lady Eadyth, Jernaeve was stocked for a year or more and Audris would be safe.
Moreover, I thought, stopping abruptly in the middle of the hall, the diversion provided by my knighting and marriage would be especially absorbing because there would be meat enough for vicious gossip over the giving of a true-born lady to a whore’s bastard. Then I started forward again, almost smiling. There might be talk, but as the king had said, there would be little envy. Stephen would be sure to describe his generosity to everyone—perhaps that was another fault, but most of the time I found the king’s eagerness to be praised rather endearing. It would save me from making more enemies, since all who did not know already would soon learn that Lady Melusine’s father had been disseised and she had no dower.
On that thought I reached the top of the stair and entered the small anteroom to the queen’s chambers. The page nodded to me and before I could ask for Lady Melusine called through the door, “The king’s squire for the queen.”
“You have come to see Melusine, I suppose. That was kind, Bruno, but I think it would be better if you did not.”
A bitter bile rose in my throat, but I think my voice was steady when I asked, “Is she so unwilling? Because I am a whore’s son? Madam, if she—”
“No, no,” Maud assured me. She had been slow to interrupt only because she had first risen from her chair to take my hand. “She is not unwilling at all. I have told her of the marriage and of your birth.” The queen hesitated and smiled at me with a hint of apology in her eyes. “I had to tell her. You know what the court is like. She would have heard from others in a less pleasant way. But I was also able to explain why the king and I had chosen this marriage for her—that you were kind and would take her without any dowry and that you would surely find great advancement because you were a fine man and because of the deep love the king bears you, and of my own affection for you, Bruno.”
“Thank you, madam.”
I hope she understood the sincerity of those few words. I loved the king in spite of his faults, but I respected and admired the queen to the very depth of my soul. When not driven by her need to help and protect Stephen, she was both wise and kind. It was certain that she had used all of her considerable ability to persuade Lady Melusine that I was a prize of inestimable value, to make me acceptable rather than a hated necessity, which I would certainly have become if the queen had simply told Melusine that the marriage had been the king’s order and could not be opposed.
“Then why,” I continued, “should I not see Lady Melusine and tell her myself that though I take her by the king’s command, I will do my best to be a kind husband?”
“A small precaution,” Maud replied, going back to her chair. “You remember, do you not, that you were the first man into the hall at Ulle? If Melusine should recognize you, she might change her mind and try to refuse to marry.”
“All the more reason for me to speak to her now—” I began.
“No,” the queen interrupted, and her eyes now looked like bright black stones. “I tell you that will she, nill she, she will marry you within the week. I would prefer that I do not need to drag her bound and gagged to the altar, but I will do it if I must. The bishop of Winchester will marry you, and I will find witnesses to testify that she was willing. Stephen has too many troubles now for me to allow this girl to add even a small one, and the way to keep her from that is to have a husband loyal to the king.” Then her expression became gentler. “But that would be a dreadful beginning, and I do not want that for you, Bruno.”
“And if she recognizes me at the altar and cries out?” I asked, my voice harsh although I tried to keep it quiet.
“I do not think she will notice then,” Maud said. “She will be confused and excited, and even if she does recognize you, I think she is too clever to try to protest. I have given much thought to this girl—no, woman. Maiden she is, girl she is not. For months she has tried to show herself as quiet and gentle, utterly obedient, but I sense that this is all a lie. It is what I said—a show put on to deceive us and make us trust her. There is much, much more to Lady Melusine than I have ever seen. And she is much beloved by the lords of Cumbria. The king has had inquiries about her health and well-being even from those most faithful to him.”
“But surely—”
The queen shook her head, cutting off what I would have said. “The king and I are agreed that you are the only suitable man for our purpose. And, perhaps Melusine will not recognize you at all. If she does, you will soon be able to convince her that you were only doing your duty to your master. After all, you did her no harm. You did not, if I remember aright what Stephen said, even go near her.”
“That is true,” I had to admit. “And I left the hall at once. Lady Melusine was very frightened. It may be that she will not remember me.”
“I hope so,” Maud said, “but I do not wish to take any chances. And since you are to be knighted before the wedding, I can tell her that you were given no opportunity to come and speak with her. I see that you do not like this, Bruno, but the king believes, and I agree with him, that having given your oath to him, rich or poor, you will keep it to the death.”
“That is so, but there are other men as loyal,” I said, and the queen, who was as sensitive to the feelings of others as Stephen was blind to them, no doubt heard the hint of resentment I could not keep from my voice.
Instead of growing angry, she smiled at me. “Be that as it may, there are other things that can change a man besides the desire for power and wealth. As many men have been bent—and broken—by women, though few men will admit it, as by other cravings. And Melusine is beautiful—and clever. I know that despite her long attempt to make me believe she is stupid.” Maud put out her hand and touched mine in a kind of gentle apology, which puzzled me until she uttered the words, “Whore’s son, you know more about women than any other man I know.”
“I?”
My shocked expression as the word burst from me made the queen laugh. “Yes, you. I have seen how you look at the maidens of my court. Women have no hold on you.”
I thought of the way a single tear sparkling on Audris’s lashes could turn my bones to water and make me allow her anything she desired no matter how wrong or dangerous. But was that not because I remembered her as an infant, her little wet kisses the only show of love that had ever been mine? It was true that what made my shaft stand hard could not touch my will. Still, I knew there was a kind of weakness in me; what made my heart warm could make me foolish too.
“I know my place,” I said, because if I tried to explain that I was not as hard to women as she thought, the queen would only believe it was another protest against this marriage.
She shook her head. “Many men know their place, but what is in their eyes is different than what is in yours. You are the right husband for Melusine. She will not be able to trick you or drive you into treason, and because you are the man you are, I believe she will come to value you as you deserve. Then you will be happy, although I know you now think Stephen and I are doing you a wrong.”
I did not make a formal protest. The queen would have known it for a lie, and though I was truly willing to die for Stephen’s sake, I had never expected to be asked to endure a life sentence of torment instead.
Before I could bow my acceptance, Maud got up and moved closer to me, touching my hand again. “Bruno, if this marriage remains bitter to you, when the kingdom is firm in Stephen’s hand, you may set your wife aside. We will help you, I promise.”
I do not know what I said as I bowed and the queen nodded and gave me leave to go. It must have been thanks of some kind because I understood she meant well, but the notion was shocking to me, almost as horrible as the expectation of a wife who hated and scorned me. Perhaps I could set such a woman aside, but what if my hell were of my own making? What if Melusine were stupid, and the queen had misread her? Could I cast aside a simpleton who disgusted me when she was trying to please?
Those were not thoughts I wished to dwell on, and I reminded myself that I had something much better to think about. If I was to be knighted in two days, I must cleanse myself and prepare. For that I needed time, so I presented myself to the king again and asked for leave for that purpose. He was still annoyed with me, and for a moment I thought he would deny me. Then he looked amused, nodde
d, and waved me away. Perhaps he was thinking that such a serious attitude was not fitting for a man of my years, that bathing and confession and a night of vigil were only meant to impress a young man and I should know better. Or perhaps he was surprised that at any age the ceremonies of faith and dedication to the order of knighthood should be more than a formality to be overpassed if possible.
I did not care. From the time Sir Oliver had sent me away from Jernaeve, I had believed I would never have a chance to attain this goal. To me knighthood was a high honor, not mine by right of birth but an achievement. If that achievement was a little soiled by being tied to a marriage I did not desire, so much the more must I take care that my heart was clean and that my understanding of the purpose and duty of a knight was whole and perfect within itself, separated from outside matters.
I had no close friends, although there were those who liked me well enough to have helped me make ready if I had asked, but I did not desire help. Those I drank with and whored with were by nature light of heart and would have hurt me unawares by jests and teasing. So I was busy all that afternoon. First I had to arrange for a real bath in a tub in a private room, rather than a steaming and scouring in a bathhouse, then I needed a white gown to wear after my bath when I went to confession. It was fortunate we were in a cathedral town or I might have had trouble finding one on such short notice. My last errand was to arrange with a priest to hear my confession after vespers the next evening. After that I found a quiet corner and cleaned my sword and armor. I kept it sound and free of rust, of course, but to stand before God and His saints, the dull grease-clotted mail was not good enough. It took me until it was too dark to see that day and almost until dinnertime the next, but when I was finished the mail shone like silver, brighter than it had when Sir Oliver gave it to me.
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