Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  Still holding my arm, Bruno put his free hand on my back and pulled me close. I did not resist because I knew it would be useless and make me look ridiculous, but if I had had a knife, I think I would have plunged it into him.

  “Fool!” he murmured into my ear while seeming to embrace me. “To believe you will be loyal for my sake will wake the queen’s sympathy for you as nothing else could. She adores Stephen.” He let me go then and touched my nose with his lips. “Send Edna soon.”

  Then he was gone, leaving me so confused that I stood staring after him—until I realized I was confirming what he had said to Maud by my behavior. Then, I turned about and hurried back to her and dropped a short curtsey.

  “I think you should know, madam, that despite what Bruno says, I am not a bitch in heat unable to free myself from my dog’s cock.”

  She burst out laughing, and cocked her head to look up at me. “Touched your pride, did he?” But the laughter seemed good-natured, and when she gestured toward the bench and said, “Come, break bread for me and give me a slice of cheese, and then you may go and break your own fast,” she seemed somehow satisfied.

  My outburst had calmed me a little. I had told the truth, whatever the queen wished to believe. I served her without saying any more and when she had smiled graciously at the earl of Warwick’s wife and beckoned that lady to come to her, I retreated gladly, eventually finding a quiet corner with a stool in it where I could sit and eat. It was cold there, too far from the fire, but my gown was warm and it was worth numb fingers and toes to be overlooked by the younger and lesser ladies attending the queen. I had been right about my absence from court curing my problems with the queen’s ladies. Most of those who had served her before I went away had been already granted leave to go home or would go in a few days. The group now in attendance did not know me at all or remembered me only dimly. If any recalled my slowness and silence, they doubtless put it down to my fear and uncertainty in the past.

  I had found being part of a group of chattering, gossiping women interesting and amusing—it had been a long time since Papa had taken me to a council in Carlisle or on a visit to Richmond where a large group of ladies was gathered—and it had distracted me yesterday from my concern about being unable to speak to the queen. This morning, however, I did not wish to be distracted. Bruno’s remark had given me a severe shock, wakening my fear of abandoning my lost loved ones for a false, new toy. Yet what had he done wrong? He had promised me he would try to win back Ulle, and every move he had made certainly aimed toward that purpose. Had not his whole conversation with the queen been designed to soothe her? And was it not worth a small slight or two to gain her forgiveness and fix in her mind that he desired Ulle as his reward? Even his spying on me—perhaps it had not convinced the queen, but certainly it had shaken her conviction that all I desired was the success of King David and Empress Matilda.

  It seemed I had been fortunate that circumstances had prevented me from telling the queen a lie. She would never have believed me, and my lie would have made the truth Bruno had told seem false. He had known just how to manage the queen. I kept forgetting that Bruno was not like Papa, who often spoke before he thought and said what was in his heart. Bruno was cleverer—was it disloyal to think that, even if it was true? So long as Ulle came back to Papa’s blood, did it matter how?

  Should I send Edna out to seek lodgings? Mary help me, was all this musing on how clever Bruno was and how wrong I was to be angry only an excuse to lie with him again? But the queen had been appeased. Suddenly I felt warm with blushing despite the chill in the part of the hall where I sat as I realized my denial had probably only convinced Maud of my desire for my husband. Well, let her think he could rule me. If Edna found lodgings for us, I could refuse him—that would show him how I felt and not betray me to the queen.

  All my worrying was useless though. Edna did not think she could find us anything decent within a reasonable distance of the palace. The men had been no problem; she burst into giggles telling me. She had lodged them in the stable of the whorehouse in which she had served. They were welcome for their ability to keep other men-at-arms out, for the women of that place preferred to reserve their favors for the gently born, and they had had some trouble and threats when they would not open their doors to common soldiers. As to our men, the situation had been made clear to them, and if they had a fancy to slake their own thirsts, the older women in less favor or already degraded to servants would doubtless satisfy them. Lodging for Bruno and me was a different matter. Edna agreed to go out and ask, but she thought finding a place before those who had come to court were gone would be impossible.

  I agreed with what indifference I could summon up, but I was ashamed that I felt disappointed. And before I could decide whether to send her anyway or tell her to forget the matter, the queen’s servant came to me and plucked my sleeve, bidding me come to her mistress. I assumed Maud wished to question me again, and my heart sank, for I was equally afraid to lie or to tell the truth. I was bitterly disappointed, for I had thought my trial was over—but I had guessed wrong.

  “I have heard that you can read and write,” Maud said abruptly as I came up from my curtsey. “Is that true?”

  “Yes, madam.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. Surely the queen had clerks enough and my ability to scribe was unimportant. She was staring back, her brow wrinkled with doubt, and I thought I might add to my answer so I would not appear stubborn or sullen. “I learned from my brother Andrew, who was a priest, more for mischief than any real reason, but I found the skill useful for I acted as my father’s steward in the accounting of the estate. I am no practiced scholar though. I know only the common tongue, no Latin.”

  “I do not need a practiced scholar,” Maud snapped. “I need someone who can keep accounts and who will not get my maidens with child while counting linens in my own bedchamber, as did that little priestling who served as scribe to my chamberlain and almoner.”

  “I promise not to get your maidens with child,” I gasped between chuckles. “My ability to keep your accounts must be tested. I am afraid, madam, that keeping track of bushels of wheat and casks of fish at a poor manor like Ulle is far different from dealing with a queen’s estate.”

  “Not so different as you think,” Maud answered, and called to two men I had not noticed, addressing one as almoner and the other as chamberlain. They were standing near the wall, well away from her chair, and came forward, both looking very cross and protesting as soon as they could be heard when speaking low that it was unheard of to have an inexperienced lady keeping accounts. They would find an older scribe, one less likely to fall into temptation.

  “One in his dotage, you mean? What man not nearing his deathbed and eager to serve in a court does not have an eye to a pretty, young woman?” The queen’s anger and scorn, though soft-voiced, made the men blench, and I had to bite my lip. In fact, I had yesterday heard some talk about the almoner, himself a priest, that I had not then understood. Now I did.

  When there was no answer to her accusation, the queen continued, “I need a strong scribe, one who can ride as far as I must go and who can be near me. Here is one young and clever who can be trained to the work—and who will cost me nothing. I will take no more chances that the daughters of noblemen entrusted to me to be held safe and taught virtue will be befouled by those supposed to guide them. Who will compensate a father who has lost a marriage prize? The blame will be mine, the cost mine. Lady Melusine is my chosen scribe. If you cannot work with her, you are free to leave my service.”

  The chamberlain only raised his brows disdainfully, but the almoner looked furious. I was not happy about working under the direction of two men who did not want me, but I had not been asked what I wanted any more than they had. Thus I became the queen’s scribe for her closet, and the rest of that morning I spent poring over the accounts the dismissed priest had left with one or another of the queen’s officers sneering at m
e.

  At first I was frightened and thought I would have to tell the queen I was unfit for the post. The priest’s hand was unfamiliar and he used many short forms that I did not recognize; however, I was afraid the queen would think me unwilling rather than unable, so I struggled on. Then the chamberlain left, saying he had business that could wait no longer on an idiot woman who could read no better than a pig. Nonetheless, his leaving meant I could put aside the accounts of purchases made for the queen’s household, which were far more varied and thus more difficult to decipher than the almoner’s record of charities.

  The almoner was even less accommodating. He hardly gave me time to glance at a sheet before he snatched it away, and when I held tight, he pointed to one item after another, asking, “What is this? this? this? Stupid! No woman can read or keep accounts. All you are good for is between your legs.”

  The more the almoner sniped at me, the angrier I grew, until I answered him roundly that I was no stupider and far less interested in what was between my legs than a priest who meddled with one of the queen’s maidens. Moreover, I told him, holding fast to a sheet he seemed very eager to snatch away, I was not set to a guessing game but to learning, so he had better teach or I would go to my mistress and complain that he was trying to drive me to refuse her orders.

  We went better after that in one way, worse in another; the almoner grudgingly explained what he could—at least I thought he was explaining what he could. At that time I believed he was almost as ignorant as I and resigned myself to discovering bit by bit what the forms meant, for I was determined to spite both men and please the queen. Still, I knew I had made a bitter enemy of the almoner. One would think that when after dinner the king called for dancing and Bruno came to lead me out, this matter, which might be of grave importance, would burst from my lips. Far from it, as soon as I laid eyes on him everything but the fact that I would sleep alone again that night flew from my mind. What I said at once was that there was no hope for lodging until court was over.

  Bruno’s grip on my hand tightened. “I must talk to you alone,” he said, “and I cannot find a moment’s freedom until the king is abed. Also, I do not think we can wait until the court disperses. I am afraid the king will leave the same day he dismisses his vassals.”

  “Leave?” I repeated, my shame over my desire for him driven out by surprise and alarm. “But will not the queen accompany the king?”

  “No.” He stared at me in warning as we joined the row of dancers, and I realized he would not tell me more where others could hear.

  “Perhaps we could meet—” I began, but I could not really think of a private place, and then we were separated by the figure of the dance.

  By the time the set ended, I was furious with Bruno again. He had asked permission to lodge away from court not because he wanted me but because he needed a private place to give me instructions. But I am not a complete idiot, and angry as I was I understood that there must be matters of real importance he needed to tell me. Moreover, I had to tell him about the queen’s peculiar behavior to me. In my anxiety over the actual records and the disgust of the chamberlain and almoner, I had not considered what she had done carefully—but I knew it was peculiar.

  I had no chance either to express my hurt feelings or to mention my problem. Richard de Camville was waiting to take my hand from Bruno’s for the next dance at the last note of music. I was about to refuse him, but Bruno shook his head, bowed to me, and said he must go, glancing toward the entrance to the king’s closet. So I danced with Camville and then with other gentlemen. I am sure they found me pleasant company; I had experience enough answering my brothers while my mind was on other matters. And since I would not think about Bruno’s indifference to me compared with my weakness for him, I thought instead about the almoner’s uneasiness.

  When the word came into my mind, it rang like a bell. There had been a real difference in the chamberlain’s attitude toward me and the almoner’s. The chamberlain had only been annoyed and contemptuous; he had not cared how long I studied any record except that I wasted his time. The almoner had not wanted me to look at anything slowly and carefully. Uneasy, that was the right word.

  As soon as I could manage it, I pleaded exhaustion and made my way back to the queen’s hall, where I found the chest that held the records and drew out those for the last month and began to look at them item by item. After a time, although I could not determine what each item was, I began to find a repetition of certain forms that I took to be specific religious institutions. Each amount was not great, but added together they came to a fair sum and it seemed strange to me that Queen Maud should give several small sums to the same places over a short time instead of one larger sum. Still, I could not believe this to be what made the almoner uneasy. A “fair sum” to me must be near nothing to him.

  Sometime during the night I woke with a start with the realization that there was another use for what I had discovered the previous day. Surely the unusual pattern of giving had a purpose that the queen would remember. If so, I would have several names to match the forms on the record, and I might be able to use those to help me make out the meaning of others. Thus I came to the queen’s bedchamber and begged admittance before she was dressed and surrounded by the great dames of the court.

  Queen Maud was sitting up in bed propped by bolsters and attended only by two of her oldest and most trusted servants. She seemed surprised when I mentioned my trouble in understanding what the previous scribe had written and how I hoped to decipher some of it. All she said was that I was not responsible for the records before I began to keep them and I should write them as best suited me without regard to what had been done in the past, and waved me away. I was a little disappointed, for I was curious, but then I thought that there might be some private significance in those regularly given small sums and bowed my acceptance. I was hardly out the door, however, before I was called back, told to fetch the chest in which the records were kept, and asked to find and display the sheets and point out the entries.

  There was a silence while the queen considered, then shook her head. “Not by my order,” she muttered. “I will discover what these are, but by my guess the sums went into his own pocket.”

  “The almoner?” I gasped. I could not believe it.

  “No,” Maud said, “the priestling.”

  “But then why should the almoner be uneasy? I felt it, and I was angry because he insulted me. That was why I looked so carefully.”

  “Because the priestling was his choice—probably his son—and he knew of it and did not stop it. And there is little I can do, for the Church reserves the right to try its own criminals.”

  “But surely you can dismiss the almoner from his office? Why should you endure—”

  “Hush!” The order was peremptory, and the queen looked startled, as if she had just realized that she had said more to me than she intended. She sat still for a time, her hands lying quietly on the parchments, her eyes on my face, but not seeing me, I thought. Then she said slowly, “A queen is not as free as a simple baron. The almoner is cousin to the bishop of Salisbury, the king’s chancellor, and was recommended to me by him. To offend the bishop of Salisbury over so small a matter as his cousin’s dishonesty would be very foolish.” There was a significant pause and then she added, “Therefore, you will say nothing of this matter to anyone.”

  “No, madam,” I breathed, appalled that my pique at being thought incapable of keeping accounts should have led me to knowledge that I did not wish to have.

  “I am not angry, Melusine,” she assured me, the tight line of her lips growing softer. “You were clever to see the oddity, and wise to come to me in private. If you should come across any other oddity—something you do not understand in what you are told to write down—do not fail to come to me again. Now you may go.”

  I reached for the sheets, to put them away, but the queen shook her head. She smiled at me
as I curtsied and may have intended to reassure me, but to my mind I was caught between drowning and hanging. I liked neither cheaters nor tale bearers, but I must be the one or excuse the other. Worse, what I thought a small matter, like the few shillings the priest had taken, might have roots and branches reaching far away that touched great people. And to turn a bad day worse, just after I had broken my fast without much appetite, Edna brought me a message from Bruno that he would be away from Westminster. He had left Fechin in case I wanted an escort, and he hoped to be back by twelfth night but could not be sure. As a cap to my misery, hard on Edna’s heels a page came to summon me to the chamberlain, who threw a handful of tally sticks onto a table in the queen’s chamber and bade me record them.

  I had a small revenge—and in this case did not make an enemy by it—because while I was still cutting a quill (I had broken the old one after ruling off the old records from the new ones, which I headed with my name) one of his young assistants came in with a few more tally sticks. He seemed stunned to see me, but more amused than offended at a female scribe, and willing to explain the markings on the tally sticks for the pleasure of seeing me write—as if I were a dog walking on its hind legs. Thus when the chamberlain returned later to prove I was incompetent, he found a neat, clean record and was honest enough to praise my work although as he left me he still shook his head over what he considered an unnatural act.

  The small victory raised my spirits enough to make me notice that a number of the great ladies, as well as the queen herself, were not in the best of tempers. Usually, the queen was a good mistress, too clever or perhaps, for I still did not know her very well, too truly good-natured to be unkind to her servants. However, I heard more than one whispered complaint that day about unreasonable demands and sharp words, and Edna told me while I was dressing for another feast and entertainment that one of the younger maids, who had carried in washing water last night after the king left, had hinted the queen had been crying and had been slapped by an older woman. That was when I began to wonder if at least part of my fear and anxiety was not owing to the work I had undertaken so unwillingly but was infecting me from the company around me.