by Susan Amund
Eric let out a bark of laughter.
“Aelfreic always said that, to gain respect, you should act in a manner deserving of it,” Julia said with a blush.
“That is so,” the Abbot agreed. “I believe this gamble you and Simon have concocted may work to our advantage yet. Go on, Brother Caemon.”
“FitzOsbern seemed more than a bit surprised. He left us waiting while he checked the records for Sir Robert. Brother John was left waiting outside the tent, he overheard part of the Lord’s discussion with his advisors. Apparently, most of the Normans were not pleased to have Dunholm among them. They were suspicious of his eagerness to join William, his certainty that he would marry you, and his recounting of Aurelius’ wealth. They set one clerk the sole task of looking through the tax and trade records to verify the island and our status.”
“And now they believe Dunholm?” Eric took note of the tense set of Julia’s shoulders as she asked the question. Her voice remained calm, but he could tell she was not.
“That I cannot say. FitzOsbern returned and requested I bring you this message,” he handed over a neatly rolled parchment, sealed with wax, “and that I return within a fortnight to speak with the Duke.”
Julia broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. Although Eric could read passably well in his own language, the Norman script was incomprehensible to him. She read silently, taking much longer with the short message than he thought she needed.
“They request I send my husband or betrothed to meet with them and discuss ransom.” Julia rerolled the missive and tapped it thoughtfully on the edge of the table.
“My Lady,” the Abbot began, but she interrupted him.
“You will return, Caemon. I will send a message with you for the Duke. The other Brothers will remain here. Instead, Vandalsson will assign two men to act as your escort and guard the Norman soldier.”
“You will return him without ransom?” The Abbot looked surprised, then turned thoughtful. “A gesture of goodwill, my Lady?”
“Precisely,” she smiled and Eric felt a surge of pride and appreciation as the shrewd look in her eye. “The tide will be going out soon. If you will provide me ink and paper, I will prepare my response while Abjorn fetches the guards and the prisoner.”
Eric stepped into the outer room, leaving the door ajar, and spoke quietly to Abjorn.
“Send Bjorn and Skald with the prisoner. If anyone asks, he is being assigned to labor for the monks.” Abjorn nodded and departed. Caemon followed him shortly, excusing himself to pack supplies for the journey back to London. Eric found Julia seating herself in the Abbot’s chair, and the head monk was not in the room.
“He left to lead Midday prayers.” She gestured absently to the other door and began writing, carefully dipping and tapping her quill to remove excess ink. The room was silent for several long minutes while she wrote. Finally sitting back, she blew out a long breath. “Would you listen and tell me if this is intriguing, or too superior?” He nodded and she began,
“William, Duke of Normandy. I have the utmost respect for your leadership and your devotion to the Holy Church and the vow that was made upon the relics of that body. Aurelius has long been allied with England, and I am eager to discuss a continuation of that friendship with the next King.”
She paused, “I am not being too subtle, am I? I haven’t met the man, but I would hope he understands I mean that I expect him to take the throne.”
“Hn.”
“The unfortunate circumstances which have found your men on my island are understandable. Be assured that I do not take these actions as a declaration of aggression against Aurelius. In the usual manner, I would like to return your knight to you, and I would suggest a ransom of,”
She named a figure that was believable, but far more than what most would accept for a low-ranking noble like Sir Robert.
“As you consider this, I would request the return of the Novice Paul, Acolyte to the Abbot of Aurelius Monastery. I have sent one of your soldiers with my proxy as a sign of goodwill and a hope that this act of trade may be continued long into the future between our holdings.”
“Unfortunately, I am unable to comply with your generous offer to host my husband or betrothed during these negotiations. God has not yet blessed this Lady with an offer worthy of Aurelius.”
She frowned. “That sounds conceited, doesn’t it?”
“An outright lie, if your words to me this morning are to be believed.” Eric had to force his jaw to relax. She might not find him worthy today, but he swore to himself he would change her mind - soon.
“The only actual offers for my hand have been from a nice young noble at Edward’s court who would have let Steward Galen walk all over him rather than start an argument and Gwain Dunholm, who is not worthy for obvious reasons. It isn’t a lie.” She pointedly avoided meeting his gaze. He stepped up to her side.
“And my offer?”
“You haven’t made one.” She held up her hand to stop him from interrupting, “If you did I would not be able to say that I hadn’t received any worthy of the island.” He hadn’t realized how his breath was twisting inside him, waiting for her response, until it relaxed. He caught her chin and forced her to look up. A blush heated her cheeks and she quickly looked away.
“Julia,” his voice was lower than usual and her blush intensified, “please accept-”
“Don’t!” She tore her face away from his hand. “I won’t lie in this message, and if I accept any offer of marriage than I lose my biggest bargaining advantage with the Duke.” When she looked at him, the strong facade she had erected for her people fell. For a brief moment, he was stunned by the longing and sadness in her expression. “I cannot.” Her voice broke and she looked away to compose herself. “I cannot fail in this.” A tense silence settled between them.
Eric understood her reasons. She was responsible for these people, for an entire island. She would put their lives and livelihoods above her own wants. Her dedication, her commitment was part of what attracted him to her. She was a woman worth fighting for, worth waiting for. She had already admitted her desire for him, her desire to allow his courtship. He was a patient man, but he would not wait forever. Eric would simply have to address her concerns. He nodded, and stepped back. She continued in a shaky voice.
“As a personal thanks for the return of my brother, Aelfreic Cruithne, I have sent a gift that I humbly ask you to accept. I have already given your courier leave to return to you, please recall him at your leisure.”
She blew out a long breath and signed with a flourish, blotting the parchment before tugging a leather thong from her tunic. Strung around her neck was a heavy iron ring, made for a large man’s finger. She folded the letter and stood to heat a stick of colored wax over the brazier. When it was sufficiently melted, she dripped the grey wax across the edge and pressed the face of her ring into the swiftly hardening sealant. Eric picked up the missive as she tidied the Abbot’s desk.
A circle enclosed a sword; a laurel wrapped around the blade. Letters were spaced equally around the edge: DTSV. She noticed his interest.
“Defendit terram, sanavit vulnera,” she stated. “It is my family’s motto.”
“What does it mean?”
“Ground defended, wounds healed.”
Eric nodded to himself. She had healed many wounds, both literal and figurative. She assuaged the grief of her people. She gave balm to the injured pride of his men and the promises that had been broken to them many times by delivering what she had offered. She gave him a home when he had nothing. Julia had done all she could to protect her island; she had brought him here. She would heal the wounds and he would defend the ground, as well as his Lady
Christmas
“One more day,” Julia muttered to herself. She was doubled over, her head inside a trunk of clothing. She sat up in annoyance. Despite his recent injury, Dunholm had become much bolder - out of desperation - and so Eric and the other men-at-arms had kept her under close guard. The
only thing that kept her from screaming in frustration was the occasional near miss with the English knight. Waiting in the shadows near the latrine, ambushing her at her brother’s grave, seating himself beside her during mass, even accusing the servants of damaging his clothing during laundering and demanding she inspect it.
The knight was certainly growing more audacious. She shivered. As his deadline approached the lust and anger in his eyes was joined by a feverish temerity that frightened her. She would not have admitted out loud to anyone, but the worming tendril of fear in her belly had grown large enough that she was grateful for Eric’s constant presence. She could do without the audience that seemed to follow them everywhere, however.
She blushed and paused in her search of the trunk. The guards were growing ever harder to deal with, as Eric seemed to have decided that her acknowledgment of him as a worthy suitor gave him leave to court her. His attentions were becoming increasingly forward and public. Although she wouldn’t deny that she enjoyed his low, intimate words or hot kisses, she would prefer not to receive them knowing two or more of his men were probably close enough to hear them.
It was Christmas Eve, and the winter festival would climax in a feast beginning at midday and a bonfire. Christmas day would be celebrated with mass and food among families, as well as Dunholm’s leave-taking. Julia pulled another garment out of the trunk and assessed it critically. She had a few hours before she needed to be in the lower bailey to light the Yule tree and pass the first cup of wine. She planned to bathe and make herself presentable. She sighed again. Nothing she had seemed rich enough, joyous enough, for a celebration of the winter solstice, the birth of the Savior, and the end of Dunholm’s occupation of the island.
“One more day,” she repeated with longing.
“You sound pleased, but you do not look it.” Eric’s teasing voice surprised her into falling back onto her bottom with a quiet yelp. She twisted around to scowl at him.
“You are supposed to knock. Just because the door is not barred, does not mean you may come in.”
“If you wish to bathe before the meal, we should leave now. Amund and Balric are waiting to guard the courtyard, and I believe they had hoped to join the others at the village bathhouse before the islanders arrive at the fort.”
“It isn’t a meal,” she said testily, returning to pull the last of her clothing out of the trunk. The tunic at the bottom was at least five years old and had an ink stain across the skirt. She tossed it aside, grumbling under her breath about her own poor care of the garments. “It is a feast, and I have to find something suitable to wear before I can bathe. If Amund and Balric don’t have time to make it to the village, they may use my bath when we are finished.”
“Why don’t you just wear one of these?” She turned back to him, still scowling, to see him innocently gesturing at the cloth scattered across the rug and bed as if to point out that no person needed so much clothing. Her frown deepened.
“This is a celebration. The first since the men...” she swallowed hard and moved on, “the first celebration since the invasion. It must be an occasion that will bring cheer back to the island and remind us all of what good fortune we have. And,” a grim smile broke through, “it is Dunholm’s last night on my island. I want his last image of me to remind him that he is not needed or welcome.”
“Hn,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps I can help.” He strode back to the sitting room door and threw it open. Two Norse women entered, led by the most skilled seamstress in the village, and trailed by four children, all belonging to Eric’s men. Each carried a bundle of varying size. Julia stood, puzzled and a bit embarrassed by the untidiness of her room.
“Brica, Airin,” she greeted the Norse women. They both curtseyed deeply. “Eleanor,” she turned to the seamstress with a curious smile, “what is the meaning of this?”
“My Lady,” Eleanor began. She shared a secretive smile with Eric that irritated Julia for some reason. “Sir Vandalsson asked me to prepare a new dress for you. I hope it is to your liking.” She unwrapped the rough linen in her arms and shook out an over tunic. Julia gasped. The wool was finer than any she had ever worn. Merino wool was only raised and spun in Spain; importing enough for a garment that would reach below her knees would be beyond costly. The sleeves were slashed at the shoulder and dripped to a point at mid-thigh. Ivory buttons, heavily carved, marched down the openings. They would allow the sleeve to be buttoned against cold weather. Winter ermine lined the pale grey wool. The white fur was also exposed along the collar, where the cloth had been turned back to allow the under tunic to be exposed.
Airin unwrapped an under tunic made of silk; Julia had to pull her own dusty hand back to avoid smudging the expensive cloth. The color was unlike anything that could be produced in Europe. A deep blue, so dark it was almost black, that reflected the light in an iridescent sheen. It must have been imported from Byzantium. Even if Eric had been paid in silk by the Emperor himself, it would have been valued enough for a half-year’s work. The tunic had been pieced together in the same way as the outer garment with immense skill, allowing it to hug the waist and fall more fully around the legs. The sleeves were narrow and could be fitted tightly with a soft black cord that laced up to the elbow. The hem hung several inches off of the ground, to avoid dirt, and was embroidered with black thread in a leafy pattern. Airin displayed a white silk chemise as well.
Brica began unwrapping her package before Julia could form any words of praise. A pair of white silk braies were discreetly displayed before Brica covered the undergarment again and held out linen chauses. The hose had been dyed black and were accompanied by soft black cord to affix them to the braies. Julia could not help herself this time and fingered the material. The hose were soft, but thick and durable. The braies were smooth and cool to the touch. Julia could not imagine such luxury against her skin.
“How-” Eric interrupted her stunned questions with an upraised hand. He beckoned the children forward and they stood in a line, oldest to youngest. The first revealed a pair of leather boots, much like the Rus style that Eric and some of the other Norsemen wore. These were worked to a soft grey suppleness and laced to mid-calf. A harder, thick brown leather was stitched to the sole for durability. The next child stepped forward and presented a woolen head scarf lined with the same white fur as the outer tunic. Julia recognized Elsa, the third child, as Amund Svenson’s sister, and offered her a pat on the shoulder when she displayed a white wool stomacher to wrap around her waist and a supple black leather belt.
The last child was not more than four, and hid behind Airin until Eric offered a word of encouragement. Julia knelt down on the floor and waited patiently for the child. She stepped forward, her yellow curls bouncing and one thumb stuck in her mouth. At first, Julia thought that she did not have a gift - then one chubby hand was thrust forward. Julia gently took the small linen bundle from her hand and the child disappeared behind her mother.
Julia parted the cloth to reveal a brooch worked in gold. A dragon, swallowing its tail, made up the circle. A long pin, designed to be thrust through a cloak or kirtle, was hinged on the dragon; silver threads were worked into knots wrapping around the pin and tracing the dragon’s scales. A sapphire was embedded in the eye of the serpent.
“I...” Julia did not know what to say. Eric had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange these gifts for her, even enlisted one of the village women to sew the garments in secret. They were exquisite. Finer even than anything she had seen the former Queen, Harold’s wife, wear. It was too much for her. If these gifts were indicative of Eric’s wealth, she was unsure she could offer him anything in comparison. I am in no position to offer him anything, even if I had something of commensurate value. She forced a smile onto her face and bowed to the gift-bearers.
“Thank you. Takk,” she said in both languages. The women smiled and nodded, Brica even laughed with pleasure as they left their burdens on the bed and filed out of the room. The smallest child escaped
her mother at the last moment, running back to tug on Julia’s skirts and whisper a quiet, “du er velkommen.” The door shut behind them all and the room fell into silence. Julia could not bring herself to look at Eric.
“I hope these gifts are acceptable,” he said, his voice low. It was the same tone he used for whispering that he was going to kiss her. Julia shivered. Of course they were acceptable. The wealth displayed by Eric in a few minutes was worth half of the island’s yearly income, and he gave it with an easy generosity. The intent was clear. This was a bride-price, a betrothal gift. One without compare on the island for hundreds of years, perhaps even that long on the mainland as well.
“I cannot accept this,” she said quietly. Her hand reached out of its own volition, ghosting over the blue silk.
“You will. You have said you will consider me.” He stepped closer, but still she did not look up. “This is only a promise of courtship. I am not forcing you to declare yourself today.”
“Aren’t you? This isn’t a trifle, and a courtship of this...this...magnitude is owned more than mere consideration.”
“I am ready for any consideration you would like to offer.” He stepped closer again. She could feel the heat of his body. She took a shaky breath. He was what she wanted. He was what her island needed. But he was not what William had chosen for her.
“It isn’t about what I would like,” her voice broke. “I am not free; I have told you that! I should not have asked for your attentions. I will give you lands, or coin enough to buy whatever you would need in another land, but I cannot-” a sob escaped her and she bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut to hold back her tears. “I cannot turn you away. I want this,” she gestured between them, her hand coming to rest against his tunic, “too badly to tell you to stop. If I am forced to choose, if William requires that I take one of his men to my bed or risk watching this island fall to war...”