Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  Truly repentant, I admitted openly what I would have denied to my last breath, despite having exposed myself by my questions. But my purpose was accomplished. Although Bruno undid my arms from his neck and held me away from him so he could see my face, the tension in his body had eased, and when he saw I was blushing, he began to smile again.

  “You need not be,” he said. “Having the mother I did, I was never much of one for women—”

  “Not much of one for women!” I echoed indignantly. “What am I, a frog? You do not give me much rest.”

  “Do you desire it?” he asked, pulling me close again. “You never say no.”

  I pushed him away with all my strength. “What I desire,” I snapped, “is the last word, just once!”

  He took my hands in his, smiling again. “I beg your pardon. That was neither a polite nor a clever remark—I spoke before I thought because your gentle compliance makes me so happy.” Since my compliance was more often violently enthusiastic than gentle, I felt a strong urge to pull his hair and my hands jerked in his grasp, but he did not release me and went on blandly, “But on this subject you shall have the last word. I can do without women, and if you want my word on it, I will give it.”

  I could feel myself blush again, and Bruno laughed aloud, let go of me, and cast up his hands in a signal I had seen men use to call a halt in fighting exercise.

  “Forgive me!” he exclaimed. “I do not know how I came to make two such stupid remarks in succession. Of course you need not ask. Even if you do not desire that I be faithful, I swear I will take no other woman while you live, Melusine—not whore nor serf nor fine lady.”

  Although Donald had taught me what men’s oaths are worth on such a subject, I felt a definite satisfaction. Bruno was my husband, not a man promising the moon to win a mistress, and he had no need to pacify me except for his own desire to please me. However, all I said was, “With such a beginning, I know what that oath is worth.”

  He caught my chin in his hand and held my eyes. “I do not give any oath lightly, Melusine, even if I smile when speaking it. I smiled because you had the deed without need of oath. You should know I have not touched any woman since I first lay with you.”

  He embraced me again, but I laughed and pushed him away. “We must go. I did not tell the queen or Edna that I was leaving, and I wonder where Fechin, Cormi, and Merwyn slept last night.

  “They will have found a place easily enough in the stables or even in the hall.” Bruno’s lips twisted. “This court is not likely to be overattended. But you are right, we must go. I am very late.”

  There was a note of indifference in Bruno’s voice that both pleased me and made me uneasy. I thought perhaps his duty was not so precious or pleasing to him as it had been, and that would make me more important to him. Yet the happiness that idea brought was not unalloyed. I found the notion that Bruno would be lax in keeping his oath to the king disturbing. What had been a character of solid rock was no longer a place to rest with utter trust.

  I found over the next weeks that I was right in half and wrong in half about Bruno’s duty. His character had lost none of its solidity. The pleasure was indeed gone from his duty, but it was as precious as ever. He had given his oath to the king, and that oath was adamant. Until Stephen released him, he would serve. But he was different. In the past he had attended eagerly to the king’s plans and hopes and as eagerly discussed them with me, most particularly as they applied to our hopes of obtaining Ulle. Now he would not talk of anything more serious than my beauty, the latest gossip—and Bruno had never cared for gossip—and what was to be found in the shops in London.

  I was hurt, at first, thinking he was keeping secrets from me, but I soon realized that Bruno was not listening to the king and his advisors as he used to do. He said bitterly that all they did was plan for war, and none of the plans was new to him. I saw that Bruno was tired, not in his body but within himself, the way Papa had been tired after Mama died. I did not understand over what Bruno grieved. He would not talk about it, and I wondered if he was as bitter as the queen about Stephen’s rejection of the peace treaty. If that was what had made him withdraw his affection from the king, he was more loyal than Maud, for he said no word against his master.

  What I did understand, even if the cause was unclear, was that Bruno had to have a time of peace in which he did not need to strive for anything, not even for so dearly desired a goal as Ulle. Besides, from other men’s talk I learned that the war might go on for a very long time; if so, our hope of settling in Ulle would be far in the future, and tired as Bruno was, that thought must be painful to him. It was reasonable for him to avoid any talk of Ulle.

  I did not press the subject, since the queen had told me we would remain in London through January. I was the center of Bruno’s world; I was very happy, and I wanted him to be happy. I felt there would be chances toward the end of our time together to show Bruno the letter I had had from Sir Gerald with the accounts of the harvest and quarterly income from the fisheries. The accounting was some months out of date, but I did not blame Sir Gerald for that. He had first had to find a priest who could write and would not betray him, and then the poor messenger had twice arrived in towns the queen had just left.

  I was eager to give Bruno Sir Gerald’s news because the accounts were cheering; the harvest had been good and the fish were bringing higher prices than ever because of the war. The hidden strongbox was filling with silver, and when we came to Ulle, there would be money to buy sheep and pigs, even cattle, to replace any depredations Sir Giles made. And the war had not touched Ulle; it might be tearing apart most of the realm, but the deep valleys of Cumbria were quiet. I should have made him listen; it would have been something good to think about, something to cling to during the nightmare that followed.

  One would think that, at twenty-four years of age and bearing on my heart the scars I bear, I would not have the simple expectation of a child that the war everyone talked of could not touch me. I had been “promised” that Bruno would be with me until the end of January, and I expected that “promise” to be kept—as if the queen’s remark could order fate. I had no suspicion that our time of peace and play was over when Bruno sent a message that his duty would keep him late and I should go to our lodging with our men’s escort. Even when he came and flung himself on me with such violence that our coupling would have been rape, except that his urgency roused me quickly to desire, I only laughed, glad of his need of me. But when he began to shake after his release and I felt his tears wetting my shoulder, my pretty bubble burst.

  At first, I was more shocked than frightened, and I held him and soothed him. I remember saying that though the whole world burned, we had each other and would find a corner in which to live in peace. I could not well make out his answer because his voice was thick and he would not raise his head; it was as if he were ashamed. He said something about pitch spreading from the guilty to smear those who stood watching. I supposed he was speaking of something the king had done, but I did not care and only told him that there was no way one man could change the world—unless he thought he was Christ in his second coming. He was too sick, with disgust I think, to smile, but the reminder that he should not be so proud and think the fate of the world rested on his doings finally calmed him. He sighed and let me see his face and told me he was sorry he had been so rough. A little later he loved me again with his usual tenderness, and then he slept. I did too, not knowing what was to come.

  Before dawn Bruno woke me. He held me and kissed me tenderly and said he must go and he did not know when he would come back, so perhaps I had better give up the lodging. That was when I realized he was all in mail. I was so stunned that I could not even weep—thank God for that. My poor Bruno had enough to bear; he did not need the memory of a weeping wife. And I thank God too that out of some inner urge, I called out, “Take all three men, Bruno. I do not need a private messenger, and I think Fechin is lo
nely without his friends.”

  It was Fechin who came back to me, riding Barbe, though he could scarcely sit the horse, and leading Merwyn’s mount with Merwyn tied to the saddle. Cormi was dead.

  In times of utter and complete disaster, one thanks God for small mercies. When I heard that Bruno was alive and not sorely hurt, I thought it a wonderful thing that he was a prisoner rather than dead. Thus it was I who brought to the queen the news that instead of taking Lincoln, the king had been surrounded by Gloucester’s army and defeated. It was not until Fechin stood before her that I thought she might not believe him and call him a liar or even punish me, but Fechin began the tale at the right end by saying that the king was alive and not much hurt before he said that Stephen had been taken prisoner.

  I had not waited to hear the whole story. Once I had been assured of Bruno’s safety, I stayed only to call a servant to see that Merwyn was put in the hands of a healer before I brought Fechin to the queen. Her shock was less than mine—when I saw Barbe with Fechin, I thought Bruno was dead. Once Maud learned that Fechin had actually seen Stephen safe after the battle, riding a horse beside Robert of Gloucester though hemmed in on all sides by rebels, she had every detail out of him even though I had to translate most of what he said; Maud did not understand soldiers’ patois. Some events Fechin had seen himself and others Merwyn had told him, for Fechin’s right arm had been broken early in the battle, and he had withdrawn to have it set and then stayed with the horses. When he saw the king could not win, he had stolen Gloucester’s colors from dead men for Merwyn and himself, and thus escaped.

  “I didn’ go before I saw I couldn’ get Sir Bruno free, m’lady,” he said, turning to me in the midst of his explanation to the queen. “He be ridin’ right behind the king. I made like I was Gloucester’s man and followed, right in the city, but they be goin’ on to the keep.”

  The queen was not unkind. She called for wine for Fechin and a stool for him to sit on, but she did not let him go until she had heard everything he knew at least twice, and it took several tellings interrupted by many questions before she was sure she had drained him dry. She gave him gold coin and told me to see to his comfort. She never thanked me—one does not thank the bearer of such tidings. I went to see Fechin settled near Merwyn, who was not so near death as I had thought, only exhausted, and made sure that Barbe was stabled beside Vinaigre and being cared for. But when I returned to her, Maud took my hand and held it. Then, with a face like stone and in a voice so soft that I do not think anyone save me heard, she cursed every earl that Stephen had belted and made rich.

  Most especially did she curse Waleran de Meulan, who had most influenced the king to reject the peace treaty, and then had fled the field. I said, “Amen” and “amen” again, but I do not remember feeling anything but relief that day. The shock of thinking Bruno dead followed by the joy of learning he was alive numbed me to all else. In the days that followed my mood swung from hope to terror and back again. As a prisoner, Bruno would fight no more, so I had hope that he was out of danger; but other times I had visions of him being tortured and starved, chained in a black dungeon.

  And then we waited. Two days after Fechin came, William of Ypres rode into London. The early news Fechin had brought was of value to Queen Maud. It gave her time to absorb the shock and control her rage, to think what she must do to save her husband—and what was first and foremost was to keep the good will of any who were still faithful to the king. She was specially gracious to Ypres, who had at least not fled without striking a blow and whose power was in Kent, which gave her access to ports close to Boulogne, from where she could get money and mercenaries.

  A month dragged by. In the beginning of March the queen sent for me to tell me that a messenger had come from Henry of Winchester with news of the king and Bruno. The bishop had assured the queen that Stephen was well and being treated with honor and that he had with him his own servant Sir Bruno of Jernaeve. She did not then tell me the real purpose of the message, which was to announce that Winchester had repudiated his oath to his brother and accepted Matilda as queen and that he had called a council of bishops to convene on 7 April. At that council, the bishop intended to use his authority as legate of the pope to announce that Stephen had been cast down by God and deprived of his crown for his trespasses against the Church and call for an election of Empress Matilda as Lady. When I heard, I wondered why the title of Lady rather than Queen had been selected. I never discovered the answer, but I think perhaps it was because Stephen had been anointed as king and the bishop feared that even his legatine authority could not wipe away God’s chrism.

  Although Winchester did not obtain the enthusiastic approval he expected, even from many of the other bishops of England, most of the country withdrew into a kind of fearful neutrality. Even London, where Stephen was loved, in the end dared not resist openly and agreed to allow the empress to enter the city when Geoffrey de Mandeville, keeper of the Tower of London and thus master of the troops that guarded the city, was bought by Matilda’s promise of rich new lands. When Mandeville broke faith, Maud was deeply shaken. She wept bitterly and then wrote to the empress offering to yield if Matilda would only release Stephen under bond never to seek to regain the throne of England.

  The empress refused—well, I expected that; I knew Matilda well by now and pity and mercy were not in her nature—but I did not expect her answer to be so coarse and cruel. And Matilda’s messenger not only insulted Queen Maud but told her Stephen was now chained like a slave and it was the empress’s intention that he should die in those chains. That was a great mistake on Matilda’s part. It made Maud desperate. The queen would fight now, with every device and resource she could muster, and Ypres began to gather an army for her.

  As Matilda approached London, we retreated, but only to Rochester, less than ten leagues from the city and in easy reach of Ypres’s strongholds in Kent. We did not lack news from London, for the burghers sent news nearly every day; and it seemed to me that the empress was fighting on our side, so ill did she manage friend and foe alike. We heard how she would not rise to greet even King David, a fellow monarch, and how when her own half brother, who had fought for her, knelt to request mercy for an offender, she bawled a refusal at him almost as coarse as that sent to Maud.

  Most foolish of all, within days of entering London, Matilda demanded a huge tallage of the city, which I understand she had no right to do, being not yet crowned. Then the burghers, who still desired peace even with so harsh a mistress, sent a delegation who knelt and begged her to reduce the sum. The city was drained of its usual resources by the damage to trade owing to the war. Matilda would not listen and roared at them in a rage that she would not abate her demand a penny and threatened to punish them for having in the past supported King Stephen.

  Had Matilda agreed to Maud’s pathetic terms, London would have had no one to turn to, no help in rising and driving out the empress and her supporters. Now men came and whispered in Maud’s ears and Maud whispered back. In the second week of July, Maud’s army marched west and we with it, but for us it was just another journey; there did not seem to be any connection with the large number of men talked about by Maud and Ypres. Even when the army began to ravage the district south of London, I saw nothing of it. The queen and all her women had taken refuge behind the high, thick walls of Southwark priory, with a strong troop of Boulognese to protect both her and the priory.

  The most I saw was the red light of fires reflected on the low clouds and sometimes I heard a low, dull noise. But the ravaging of Southwark was the signal, given on the very eve before Matilda was to be crowned, while a feast was being readied to celebrate the event. I did hear when all the bells of London suddenly began to toll, and my eyes met the queen’s. I almost laughed, for she looked as I felt—eager, and hungry. We knew that those bells were calling the men of the city to rush out to attack Westminster, where the empress was making ready for her coronation.

 
; The burghers were as good as their word. As Ypres and Maud’s army marched toward the bridge and began to seek boats in which to cross the river, London rose. Unfortunately there were those among the empress’s party who were not befooled into believing that the bells were ringing in celebration of the coming coronation. The surprise was not complete and Matilda had time to flee with her supporters, but they went with what they had on their backs. In her haste to escape, the empress even left behind the royal crown, which she had been carrying with her since Winchester had opened the treasury to her. Ypres arrived before the Londoners who were looting the palace had broken open the strongboxes that held the royal regalia and plate, but I am sure Maud would have preferred to lose the crown than Matilda. Yet she could not blame Ypres; he did not know until he entered the palace that the empress was not there. He set out after her as soon as he was sure she had escaped, but no one of importance was captured. We learned later that they had broken up into small parties and fled in different directions so that there was no clear trail to follow.

  I have told the events, many of which I only heard about days after they happened, and in the telling I have not mentioned how they affected me. I can hardly bear to do so now. After Matilda had refused Queen Maud’s proposal of peace, my days were too busy to give me time to think, and much of my employment concerned the attack on the empress in London. That sustained me because I hoped that the empress would be captured and we would have her to exchange for Stephen and Bruno. But the nights were terrible. Awake or asleep, as soon as it grew dark—as it might be in a dungeon—I saw visions of Bruno, chained so he could neither sit nor stand and was in continual torment, all wasted and covered with running sores as I had seen prisoners in Carlisle and Richmond. And when I came into Westminster with the queen and learned that Ypres had returned without a single prisoner of note, I slipped back into the emptiness that held me for so many months after I learned my father was dead. I must have lost a few hours or a day, for I came to myself in a start of pain in an empty room in the palace when the queen slapped my face.