Melusine maintained that bland indifference while we ate and through the afternoon and evening, making no reply to Sir Giles’s angry complaints. He had been made steward, he told us, through the favor of the bishop of Ely and had assumed that there would be some profit to be made from the estate. Instead, he had found a desert. The people of the village had come back after the soldiers and their captain departed, he said, and they had planted the fields and made the furnishings—he laughed bitterly on the word—for his hall. Then he shrugged. At least they were quiet, he admitted; though they were stupid and lazy beyond any serfs he had dealt with, they did not protest the double and triple tithings he made of produce, fish, and game.
How had her family lived, he asked Melusine. They needed little, Melusine replied; they were simple people, content to hunt and fish and eat the black bread and flat cakes from the rye and barley their thin soil would grow, to wear the rough wool woven from the fleece of their few, hardy sheep. Sir Giles came close to howling with rage, snarling that there was not enough, even of such things, to keep him alive, let alone a large family—and Melusine shrugged and said sweetly that she was sorry, she knew no more than she had told him.
I knew she was not lying, for I had seen the gowns in her chest and it was plain which the queen had given her, but I had also seen her fine ivory comb set with small jewels, a silver thimble, and other such luxuries. She had once told me, too, that they had the wherewithal to trade. So she was not telling all the truth. Nonetheless, I held my tongue, pretending I did not understand what Melusine was doing until we were lying together, not in a bed but on straw-stuffed pallets in a little house in which Melusine asked to lodge, saying it had been built for her sister-by-marriage, who had died in childbirth.
Edna was at the far end of the single room, but she slept like one dead after the exhaustion and terror of her journey. I doubted she could be wakened by screams and kicks and knew she would not hear our quiet voices. I took Melusine gently by the ear and shook her head.
“Well?” I asked.
“I am well,” she replied. “It looked so different, like any other hall in Cumbria. I could not see Papa—”
“Melusine,” I murmured dulcetly, “I have never beaten a woman in my life and I think it very wrong for the strong to be cruel to the weak, but I am coming close to forgetting the rules that have guided me through life.”
“What good do you think beating me will do?” she asked, and I could feel the movement of her cheek that meant she was smiling. “I can tell you nothing. I admit I bade the people to take away and hide whatever was in Ulle, but I do not know who took what or where it was taken. I think the people would bring back what they carried away if I asked them to do so.” She hesitated, then went on in a voice that was no longer light and teasing. “But I would gladly be beaten to death before I would give that order so that Sir Giles could sleep in my father’s bed.”
“The king has the right—” I began.
“To sleep in Papa’s bed?” Her voice was small and sad. “He would never get it. You heard Sir Giles say he looked for a profit. Bruno, I swear to you that the full yield from Ulle—there was none yet from any of the other manors; we gave to them—would not pay one knight in the king’s service. Perhaps it would be worth being angry with me if the king were able to buy a knight with the blood drained from Ulle, but Stephen would never receive a single silver penny—and you know it.”
My hand had loosened from her ear—the hopeless sadness in her voice tore at my heart—and she turned her head and kissed me when she finished speaking. I made no answer because I did not know what to say. By strict rule, Sir Giles’s dishonesty was not my business; the full dues of Ulle should go to him and he be responsible for what happened thereafter. But I knew what Melusine said was true. The king would not benefit no matter what was squeezed from Ulle, and my loyalty was to the king.
Melusine was shivering a little. The cold struck up from the earth floor through the thin pallets, so I pulled her to lie closer. She came quickly and so eagerly that she ended lying more atop me than beside me, and she kissed me again and stroked my shoulder and arm, running her hand down and up and then down again, only this time over my chest and belly and hip until she found the traitor who was never angry with her. Somewhere at the back of my mind I suspected that it was not pleasure alone that Melusine was seeking as she stroked my shaft, but I did not care. Pleasure first; I could think about why tomorrow.
Chapter 16
Melusine
To see a man lost to himself in passion was a revelation to me—not that I noticed the first few times Bruno and I coupled. In the beginning I was too lost myself to care what he felt, and he came into control of himself afterward faster than I—I suppose because he was much more accustomed to the violent pleasure. I think also, looking back, that in the beginning he was so eager that I be fulfilled, or rather, sated, that he somehow suppressed his own release. Whore’s son that he was, Bruno knew every trick that could be played with the body.
At first I was appalled, for he taught me to crave that pleasure as I craved food and drink, and I feared I was trapped into a kind of slavery where he could control me by my longing. But when he saw that I desired him, he also let me see that he was as much my slave as I was his. That lifted my fear, until I realized that devil had played another trick on me. To see his eyes glaze, to hear him sigh and moan, only excited me to greater transports, tying the knot of my pleasure tighter around my neck.
I had begun to fear that there would be no way to free myself from my passion except to give some trusted servant in Ulle a sign that would cause Bruno to trip over a rock and plunge down a mountainside or fish too eagerly and fall overboard. However, that first night in Ulle, I used Bruno’s weapon against him. With a few reasonable words and many touches and kisses, I diverted his mind from the disappearance of the revenues of Ulle and bound him to the notion that the poorer Ulle seemed to be the more likely Stephen would be to enfeoff him.
Poor Sir Giles. He was so stupid, I almost came to like him despite his greed. Later I learned it was not sheer stupidity, although he was stupid, but a complete lack of understanding of our countryside. Sir Giles came from the wide, flat fields of Norfolk and found it easy to believe nothing would grow among our steep hills. He really thought the demesne farm was all the cultivated land we had, and it was very easy to keep him from the hidden valleys where our grain was grown and the folds in the hills where our flocks were grazed. He did not even seem to realize that the people in the village were not creeping around in the last stages of starvation, which they should have been considering what he left to them after taking his share. But the people of Cumbria are lean and hard; perhaps the folk of Norfolk are fuller fleshed, and Sir Giles thought those of Ulle were thin from hunger. Bruno was not so fooled. I saw the way he looked at the folk and raised his brows to see them so sturdy. But I touched his face and pleaded with my eyes—and he said nothing to Sir Giles.
I was grateful to Sir Giles also for keeping Bruno busy for a few hours the day after we arrived. It was a grey, windy day, but not raining, and I was able to slip out to walk by the lake—where I was hidden from sight in a small hollow screened by brush after a five-minute walk. I knew Tom Bailiff would be watching for me; he was, and was with me soon after I could not be seen. Fortunately Bruno and I met him on the road, since I had expected to be able to send a servant to bring him to me and none of the old servants was at the manor.
Tom Bailiff told me that the servants had crept out and fled and were now in Wyth serving Sir Gerald, who had held Irthing from Papa. I gasped with hope when I heard that, but Tom shook his head before I could ask or really feel any pain of disappointment, and I knew that Sir Gerald had confirmed Donald’s and Papa’s deaths. Tom did not say that, only told me that Sir Gerald had returned, more dead than alive, in the spring of the year, and that, as I had bidden them, they had hidden him in Wyth, fearing if he went
to Irthing he would be recognized by someone more interested in the king’s favor than in old friendship.
I praised Tom and promised reward and said that he must set a watch so that the next time I was free he could bring me the true tally sticks of what had been harvested from the fields. We could then decide which animals should be slaughtered and salted for food, which driven to market, and what to do with the spring wool that had not been used.
I told him that I would remit a tithe of lord’s share because of the trouble and losses engendered by harvesting, slaughtering, fishing, and doing all other tasks in secret. The folk could keep that tithe as it was if they wished, but the stores from Ulle that had been hidden and this year’s lord’s share were to be sold in Penrith or Kendal. The coins were to be sent to Beric, at Wyth. However, as reward for his faithfulness and that of the other folk, the cloth, wool, and fleeces should be distributed. He could keep a second bailiff’s share. The remainder could be sold or used by those folk who must stay in the caves or mountain shelters.
Although I thought my offer generous, Tom did not look too pleased, and I said sharply that he should not be unwise enough to think his service was worth more and even less should he believe he could keep it all. This he vehemently denied, but I felt the temptation would be too much for Tom. I suppose the success he had had in hiding the real yield of Ulle from Sir Giles and the long months I was gone had lit a spark of greed in him.
I had hoped to spare myself the pain—and the danger to him—of meeting Sir Gerald, but I realized I could not avoid it. Old Beric, who had been as near a steward as my father had, would have to bring the records he had hidden to Sir Gerald, who would then manage Ulle and the other manors until Bruno regained the estate. It was unfortunate that most of the records were written, since Sir Gerald could not read—well, neither could Papa; I had teased the skill out of Andrew because tally sticks for many small accounts are a nuisance. But I was sure Beric knew most of the amounts by heart, and if a question should arise, a clerk who would keep a still mouth could be found.
To Tom I said that I wished to speak to Sir Gerald to learn what he knew of my father and brother, and that I would tell him how it should be arranged when I next met him. He seemed to accept that and to be more resigned to the loss of his hope of being lord of Ulle in all but name, but my faith in him had been shaken. Somehow I would have to contrive a way for Sir Gerald to let me know what was happening and for me to get messages back to him.
My mind was so preoccupied with my disappointment in Tom Bailiff and the difficulty of relaying messages from a place as distant as Cumbria to a court that moved every few days or weeks that I did not bother to consider why Bruno was more than usually silent that afternoon and evening. Certainly, I did not associate it with my meeting with Tom. But that night Bruno made love like a man expecting to be starved of that joy forever after. He woke me four times, and would have had me a fifth, I think, except that I was so exhausted that I could not respond to his touch although I was dimly aware of it. I was annoyed also, although I cannot deny that I enjoyed our couplings, because it seemed to me that it was seeing Ulle that made me more precious in Bruno’s eyes. Of course I was glad that Bruno liked Ulle, but I preferred to be caressed in response to my own charms, not my property’s.
It was also very stupid not to suspect Bruno’s convenient absence most of the next morning, but he so often rose before I did—and I had slept very late—that I simply thanked God for it and went out to meet Tom. I was pleased that he had come and had brought me the tally sticks as I ordered, because I do not know what I could have done if he had decided to avoid me instead. The habit of obedience is wonderful. I decided to take the sticks with me to examine, partly because I did not want to spend too much time away from the manor and partly because I wanted to show them to Sir Gerald. I told Tom only the first part of my excuse, but assured him I would put my mark on them to show I approved his accounting after I had read them.
Then I asked him to bring Sir Gerald to Ulle and bid him hide in one of the cottar’s huts. I was not happy with the arrangement, but though I had racked my brains all day, I could see no other way to arrange a meeting. It would not be difficult to get Bruno to take me to Wyth, but I was sure it would be impossible to free myself of him for as long as I would need to talk to Sir Gerald. In Ulle, I felt I could contrive somehow to get free within a week. Since Sir Giles did not seem to know one man from another, I hoped Sir Gerald would be unsuspected for that long. When he saw me alone, I told Tom, he was to lead Sir Gerald to this place.
It was no problem to conceal the bundle of sticks under my furred cloak. I nodded to Edna, who was sitting on a stool in the sun by the doorway slowly and carefully stitching a seam, and bade her finish her task. Inside the little house I still thought of as Winifred’s, I drew the traveling basket that held my clothes close to the hearth, pulled a shift halfway out, as if I were examining it, and began to read the tally sticks. To my relief, the amounts of grain garnered, lambs and calves born, and all else seemed much the same as other years—a bit more here, a bit less there, but I felt that the accounting was honest. I smiled as I heard Bruno’s voice in the bailey, flipped the shift over the sticks, and thrust them down into the basket.
“And where have you been?” I asked, as Bruno came in.
“I have been along one of the trails that leads into the hills,” he said, gazing steadily at me. “There are blocked-off side tracks on it.”
I smiled at him, thinking he was hinting that he had not gone down those tracks deliberately to avoid discovering evidence of the true productivity of Ulle. “If you wish to see what is there, I will ride over with you.”
“I would rather ride out to the smaller manors beholden to Ulle,” he replied.
“Very well,” I agreed. “There is Wyth, Irthing, Rydal, and Thirl.” My voice quivered over the last, for I thought that house would probably be just as Mildred left it; I did not think that any part of the king’s army had struggled over the snow-filled passes to Thirl. “Which would you like to see? If we go to Rydal early, we can also visit Wyth and then come back over the mountain to Ulle. It is a beautiful ride—if the weather is fine.”
“Why do you not wish to visit Thirl?” he asked.
I told him, and he came to my side, put his hand on my shoulder, and said he was sorry. I thought his voice sounded flat, and glanced up at him but he was looking over my head, out the door. I suppose I should have been warned by that, but I was hurt because I assumed Bruno was growing tired of being sympathetic to sad memories. I resolved to do my best not to mention my family to him again—easy enough to do because, aside from shying away from what might wake pain in me, I was not sad.
That shows what a fool I was; it did not occur to me that it was Bruno’s presence, not only his physical presence but the knowledge that I belonged to him and he to me, that sheltered me from grief. I had not yet quite absorbed the fact that Bruno did understand women far better than any man in my own family. I underestimated him at that moment and went on being very pleased with myself and quite blind to everything beyond my own satisfaction.
He had been silent, still looking out the door, his hand sliding up from my shoulder to my neck. I thought he could see something I could not and craned my neck upward, but there was nothing there, and Bruno’s grip was growing uncomfortably tight. I did not want to complain that he was choking me—men are so easily hurt when one points out that their affectionate gestures are actually unpleasant—so I rubbed my cheek against his arm, then turned my head farther and kissed it. As I expected, he let go at once.
“Would it not be wiser to go to Wyth first if the morning is fine?” he asked hurriedly, more as if he needed something to say than cared exactly what he said. Then he went on more purposefully, “Is not the road to Rydal easier than that from Ulle to Wyth? Should we not do the most difficult part first and not chance a change in the weather that will keep us from ta
king the trail over the mountain in the afternoon?”
“If you like we can go to Wyth first,” I replied without a hesitation. I was certain that Sir Gerald would be warned and have time enough to make himself scarce before we actually entered the place; besides, he might have already left for Ulle. “It is just that Rydal is a richer manor. There was a small income from it and there is more to see there, which was why I suggested we go there first. Wyth was to be my dower property, you see, and since Papa was in no hurry for me to marry, he did not spend much effort on it. Papa planned for Magnus to have Rydal and made it as rich as he could because Donald would have had Ulle in the end.”
I stopped speaking abruptly, annoyed with myself for forgetting so soon that Bruno was bored with my “might have beens” about my father and brothers. Absently, I closed the traveling basket, trying to think of something cheerful to say, but all that came into my mind was the sad thought that if Magnus had married Mary, he would probably have preferred Thirl, which was closer to her estate, and that Donald would have been willing to make the exchange.
“Perhaps we should not visit Wyth at all,” Bruno said suddenly.
I stood up and put my arm around his waist. “We will go where you please when you please, my lord. There is not a stick or stone in Ulle or any place beholden to it that is not beautiful in my eyes and I hope to make it all beautiful in yours, for you will get little out of it except the beauty.”
“Beauty? In bare rock?”
Sir Giles’s voice did not startle me, for I had seen a shadow fall across the open doorway and seen another bob up and then disappear. The second, I assumed, was Edna, jumping up and bowing, so the first must be Sir Giles. I was very glad that my words had been so ambiguous, and I laughed and said, “I am a simple soul and find great joy in the little flowers that grow among the scree.”
Fires of Winter Page 29