Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  When I entered the house with Merwyn and Edna, carrying a variety of cold, sliced meats, King David was clean and attired in the best of the baron’s garments. He had regained his self-possession, and we managed to find a few subjects for conversation that did not touch on the war. Later, I found a board and pieces and we played chess, but before we had finished the game, Hugh flung open the door and entered with Sir Gerald behind him, and their smiles added a glow to the candlelight that lit the room.

  “Sire,” Hugh said, bowing low. “You are free! Ypres has captured Robert of Gloucester, and the empress will have to free King Stephen to have back her brother—will she nill she. No baron in England will serve her without Robert of Gloucester to follow.”

  Chapter 25

  Bruno

  There are tales for children that Father Anselm used to tell Audris when she was very young—to which I listened eagerly also, although I tried to hide my pleasure under scoffing—that end, “and so they lived happily ever after.” I cannot say precisely that; thanks be to God Melusine and I have not yet come to our ending, and it is not wise to claim much happiness with certainty before then. Still, there is much hope in me now for “living happily ever after,” and when the king and I were discovered by the outer gate, I had no hope of living beyond the next few minutes at all.

  I felt twice the burning agony of being stabbed and hands dragging at me, but I clung to the king until there was a pain in my head, a great burst of light, and then darkness. I must have been very near dying because I fell under those blows in the middle of May and I do not really remember anything until September. I have vague recollections of pain and crying for water, but no memory at all of the passage of time until the day I became aware that something heavy clung to my ankle and made it hard to move my foot. I recall saying crossly, “Melusine, that foot is long healed. You must take off the bindings.” And then I opened my eyes to see Sir Grolier looking down at me.

  “You stabbed me,” I whispered, remembering now who held the knife. I have never seen such hatred in a man’s face, yet when I put an elbow behind me to push myself to a sitting position and could not for weakness, he lifted me most gently and placed something behind me so I could lean in comfort on the wall. While he moved me, his body blocked my view, but when he moved back, I saw he and I were alone in the chamber. “Where is the king?” I cried, terror giving strength to my voice.

  “Curse you, be still,” he snarled. “He is in another chamber hale and well. Shut your mouth or I will be beaten again for your screaming.”

  That remark astonished me so much that I fell silent. Perhaps I also slipped away for a time to wherever I had been since May, but it was not for very long. I woke to find Grolier feeding me, digging each spoonful of stew out of the bowl as if he intended to break my teeth with it but touching my lips gently so that I opened my mouth instead.

  “Do you get beaten for making my mouth bloody too?” I asked.

  He did not answer, but the glare he turned on me was enough. I then said I would feed myself, but I found I did not have the strength to hold the spoon much less move it from the bowl to my mouth. Grolier laughed, enjoying my distress, but when I choked on tears of rage, the petty rage of the weak, he pulled me upright and patted my back until I could breathe easily again. No one could have heard me choking, so why did he not let me strangle to death and be free of tending me? It was a puzzle I thought about while eating, and continued to think about after Grolier held a cup to my mouth and went out. I heard the scrape and clank of metal on stone as he moved and realized his ankles were chained together—so he was a prisoner too.

  Over the next two weeks, as less and less of my time was lost to sudden unconsciousness, I worked out how Stephen and I had been duped into escaping and almost killed from a few furious, unguarded comments Grolier made and the facts I already knew. First, it had been Grolier’s news that set escape in the king’s mind, and for all I knew he may have directly spoken of escape. Second, the queen’s father had destroyed Grolier’s family, not helped it as he had implied, so he had a personal hatred for the king and had intended to kill him. Third, I knew that could not have been by Gloucester’s orders, but Grolier could not have got into Bristol keep without some important person’s authority, and the only important person foolish enough to think Stephen’s death would benefit her cause rather than harming it was—Matilda. I have no proof that the empress actually ordered the king’s death and never will have. I could not make Grolier speak on that subject, and perhaps she only ordered that the king be induced to do something foolish so that Gloucester would imprison him more securely. I know she opposed Gloucester’s gentle imprisonment and desired from the beginning that Stephen be chained in the depths of the keep.

  The remainder of the story I wrested from Grolier himself by the simple expedient of threatening to scream as if he were hurting me. He told me that my clinging to the king instead of trying to defend myself had drawn the attention of the guards, who seized him and his two servants—one the king had borne down and the other who had struck me on the head. When I was pulled away from Stephen and rolled over, one of the guards had recognized me and then the king.

  William of Gloucester, the earl’s eldest son, happened to be in the keep at the time. Before ordering Grolier’s two servants executed, Lord William had wrenched from them the information that they had been given a description of Stephen, told to provoke him, and when he reacted, to help Grolier kill him. But he did not order that Grolier himself be executed. I had heard that William of Gloucester was a strange man; he certainly had a weird sense of the comical, and instead of executing Grolier he devised a weird punishment. Lord William had ordered that Grolier nurse me and serve the king. If Stephen was dissatisfied with Grolier’s service or if I died, William told Grolier, he would be killed by slow torture, but one hour of torture would be remitted for each week I lived.

  To ensure Grolier’s close attention to his duties, Lord William had given him a sample of the skill of his torturers. His little toes had been removed on both feet, not chopped off but cut away slowly, a little at a time. Moreover Lord William had arranged that I be examined twice daily but at different times each day, and if I had soiled myself and had not been cleaned or if I showed sores from lying too long in one position, Grolier was to be whipped. Of course, neither Lord William nor anyone else expected me to live. Grolier was quite sure that Lord William had remained in Bristol far longer than he intended just because he hoped for my death each day so he could enjoy Grolier’s torture. I do not know the truth of that. I had seen William of Gloucester a few times, but I do not remember ever speaking to him, and I could not judge the truth through Grolier’s hate and fear.

  I was sorry for my cruelty to Grolier after I had forced him to tell the tale. It was not important to me to know why Grolier attended me with such care when his hatred was destroying him, but I had grown spiteful in my feebleness over those weeks. I expected to gain strength quickly, and I did not. Although I felt I was starving before each meal, I could eat very little, and forcing myself was useless because I only vomited the whole meal when I tried. Second, being chained made it much harder to move so I could not exercise unless Grolier helped me, and that he would not do. Perhaps he suspected what would happen to him as soon as I could feed myself and reach for the pot when I needed it. I had managed that by the third week in September, and one day Grolier disappeared. He was a treacherous dog, but I wept when a manservant brought my dinner and told me, his purpose being ended, Grolier had been hanged.

  After he was gone, I slipped back instead of improving. I was dull with weakness and despair, for I was alone all the time now except when a servant brought me food or came to empty my pot. The food was worse too—I suppose Grolier had picked out the best pieces for me because I ate so little, but the servant dumped a bowl on the floor beside me, always cold and the dregs, the meat all gristle and the vegetables rotten. I think it was the lea
vings, what the men had thrown away. Often it was too much bother to lift the bowl and try to eat, and I did without. The servant only took the bowl away, empty or full. I wondered sometimes why I was left in that chamber rather than being cast down into the lower dungeon. Perhaps it was because the constable had forgotten about me now that Grolier was dead.

  I must have been near death again; I can remember that my last thought was whether I had strength enough to lift the pot to piss. I cannot remember whether I did or not. The next thing I knew was that the constable of Bristol keep was kneeling by my bed and calling my name and pleading with me to wake up. Behind him I saw Stephen with tears on his cheeks and rage on his face. I slipped away again, but even in my unconsciousness the sight of the king free and unguarded must have worked in my mind and given me strength. I woke again to the feeling of being washed and the sound of a woman weeping; it was the constable’s wife who was weeping as her maids bathed me, and I was in the constable’s bed. But even that puzzle could not hold my attention.

  It was only several days later that I learned why, when I was strong enough for the king to come and visit me. He told me with huge delight that Robert of Gloucester’s youngest son, Philip, had come with orders that he be released at once from his chains and with a large packet of letters. These told of the battle won in Winchester, of Robert of Gloucester a prisoner in the queen’s hands, even of the part my Melusine had played. One letter had been to the constable from the queen, informing him that one of the knights captured by Lady Melusine’s small army was the only son of the constable and his ransom was my life. I did not wonder then that the lady of the keep put me in her own bed and cared for me. Joy gave me some strength, but my body was slow to respond, and I still slept away most of the days as well as the nights of the next three weeks.

  The king came each day to talk to me, but he had little more news, only glowing plans for the future, which included a huge army that would rise to support him as soon as he showed himself. His presence, he assured me, would reanimate the whole nation, but he would never again be tricked by sweet words that led him away from his own good judgment—or Maud’s, he added grinning. I smiled in return then and as often as I could because I knew his intention in coming to visit me was kind. He wished to revive my spirit, but the truth was that the more Stephen talked about the future, the heavier grew my heart. I knew there could be no quick victory. The schism was too deep, the hurts too bitter. The war would go on and on—and I was so tired.

  I looked at the fire sometimes—there was a small raised hearth in the chamber—but it was a poor thing, captive, like me, barely flickering over the charcoal that fed it. What I wanted was the roaring fire of winter that the hearth of Ulle would hold—and peace. All I had was a faint blue flickering and talk of war. So when the king left me, I slept. Then on the afternoon of the first day of November, I was wakened by a kiss—and Melusine was bending over me.

  I do not remember what I first said. It was some fearful question about how she had come to be in Bristol keep, for her eyes were red with weeping. I asked her why she wept, and she said for joy—but there was a darkness in her behind her smile. I struggled upright with her help, and she raised the pillows behind me, laughing and hugging me and bidding me to be of good cheer because all was well.

  “I have come with the queen,” she said, “who, with Eustace, is to be hostage for Lord Robert’s freedom. But you and I are not bound to that condition, and as soon as you are strong enough, we will go.”

  I was too dazed to take in everything she said, and anyway it faded to nonsense in comparison with that last word. Go, to go was to be freed. “Go where?” I asked, and then with a sinking heart I remembered my duty. “And what of the king?”

  “Ah, as to those questions, I am forbidden to answer. You must wait until tomorrow or the next day.”

  There was so much mischief in her smile that I knew whatever I was told on the morrow would be pleasant, and when I opened my mouth to ask another question, Melusine popped in a spoon of delicious broth, thick with minced chicken.

  “I am not so weak,” I protested. “I can feed myself, and it is not time for eating.”

  “All day every day is time for eating for you,” she said. “I did not marry a bag of bones, and I have always favored well-fleshed men. As to feeding you—it amuses me. I like to see your eyes bulge when I get a spoon in unexpectedly. What else have I to amuse me?”

  Fortunately I had swallowed or I would have choked as I laughed at her ridiculous remarks, and I nearly did choke several times as food arrived in my mouth at odd moments. But I will say that Melusine probably got three or four times as much as I usually ate into me. All day Edna brought up a variety of small dishes, some cold, some hot, all delicious. Melusine never offered more than one spoonful of anything, but by evening, I found myself asking for the pot or bowl and eating an additional portion.

  Nor did I sleep much. Melusine kept me wide awake with the tale of what had happened to the queen and to her after news came of the king’s capture. I had asked, of course, for the most recent news first, but she looked mischievous and mysterious and said she could not tell me that until she had leave. And when night came, she took off her clothes and climbed into bed with me. I must have looked surprised because she laughed and asked if I wanted her to sleep on a hard, cold floor when there was a feather bed available. I had not thought at all, except that I was sick and the sick lie alone—but Melusine did not act as if I were sick, so I laughed.

  “I thought you might be afraid to be stabbed by the bag of bones,” I teased.

  She smiled at me as she slid under the covers and pressed herself against me. “I even love your bones,” she whispered.

  It was the first time, the very first time, that Melusine had said a word of love to me. She had cared for me when I was hurt, she had coupled with me with open enjoyment, she had been a perfect wife in every way—but she had never said she loved me. I was afraid to ask whether the word was said knowingly, afraid she spoke the word only because I was sick. If it was the last word of love as well as the first, at least I had it. I would take no chance it would be withdrawn. So I took her in my arms and held her in silence until, being very tired from more activity than I had had in many months, I slept in joy.

  I woke in joy also, to Melusine’s merry voice. “Let me go, you monster,” she whispered, kissing my ear. “If you do not let me rise to piss, you will soon be swimming.”

  My hand and arm were so stiff I had a little trouble letting go, and I realized I had been clutching Melusine all night. “I am sorry,” I said. “You must have been uncomfortable with me holding you and not letting you move.”

  “Oh no.” Her voice drifted up from below the bed on the other side where she sat on the pot, and somehow I knew she was smiling. “I managed to wriggle around.” Then she stood up and leaned over me and spoke much more softly. “I do not think I have ever known the kind of joy I felt each time I woke and felt your embrace. I never believed I would get you back, Bruno.” She was smiling, but her lips trembled and again there was a darkness in her eyes that did not come from their color. But before I could command my voice to answer, she turned merry again, marveling at how long a man could hold his water, and called Edna to help her lift me so I could relieve myself.

  Usually I sank back to sleep after breaking my fast, but Melusine, having kissed me for eating well, made a moue of distaste and asked me if I intended to keep the beard I had grown.

  “No,” I responded, opening my eyes. “I long to be rid of it.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” she said, laughing. “I can get used to being stabbed by bones, even welcome it, but a mouthful of hair every time I kiss you—” She shuddered eloquently and told Edna to fetch the barber at once.

  I was so delighted, I sat up by myself, wide awake. No one had bothered to shave me since Grolier’s death and by now I had a bushy and untidy beard. But when
the barber came, he pointed out that he could not shave me in the bed. I was so eager to be rid of that growth of hair, that I insisted I was strong enough to sit on a stool, but Melusine shook her head.

  “Not for being shaved,” she said. “For some other purpose, I could stand behind you and you could rest on me, but if I should move or you, the barber could slit your throat.”

  I knew it was true—not that the man would slit my throat but that he might cut me badly—and I knew too that it was perfectly foolish to care whether I was shaved now or a few days later, but still tears came to my eyes and I had to turn my head away. Melusine did not seem to notice. When she spoke, she was not looking at me but at the barber, and she asked him whether he could shave me if I sat in a chair. The man agreed to that, and Melusine went out. I felt a fool but also unreasonably happy, like a child who had received a toy he had despaired of getting.

  For a moment I watched the barber run a fine pumice stone over the blades of his knives, which added to my feeling of well-being since a dull blade made a painful shave. Then I heard movement outside the door and the constable’s wife asking angrily who had dared to take Lord Robert’s chair. With the unstable reactions of the very weak, I flew from joy to rage, fearing that I would be cheated of a clean face—but I had underestimated Melusine.

  “I do not care whose chair it is,” my wife said. Her voice was soft, but I would not have blamed anyone who recoiled before it. “Just now my husband’s lightest wish is of greater importance to me than your Lord Robert’s, and your wishes, madam, I take delight in ignoring. How would you like your son back without his nose or his hands or feet?”

  “My man will send an army to fetch him!” the woman cried.

  Melusine laughed and asked, “Where? To the White Tower? To Jernaeve? To a cave hidden in the Cumbrian mountains? I said your son was Bruno’s ransom—life for life—but I did not promise in what condition he would come back to you. Woman, if my Bruno is made unhappy by your stupidity, I will see that you mourn that stupidity every day of your son’s life ever after. Now let me go.”