by Jo Beverley
“How could they work the land footless?” she protested. “We have few enough laborers as it is. If you’ve whipped them too severely, who will weed the fields?”
“They’re sturdy as oxen,” he countered. “A flogging won’t do them any harm.”
“What about the children?”
“What about them?”
“You’re surely not beating them, too?”
“Teach ’em early.” He looked up like a surly bear, and his hands formed beefy fists. The hounds raised their heads and showed their teeth. “Go mind your affairs, Niece, and let me mind mine.”
Mine. Not yours. Mine. Madeleine bit back the words. Tears of frustration built in her eyes as high, childish shrieks reached her. The worst thing in life was to be powerless.
Like one of the sunbeams striking through the dusty air of the ball, Madeleine saw the truth. She needed the protection of the king and a husband or Baddersley would be ruined. Alone she could do nothing. She needed a husband to enforce her will. It was only necessary that he be just and able. Tall or short, fat or thin, young or old—such things were no longer important; she truly believed the king would give her a husband who was at least just and able.
If this awareness had been William’s intention in sending her here, then she granted him the victory; but how was she to do anything about it? She had not even the means to send a message without her uncle’s consent.
She had a sudden urge to flee. To run away from Baddersley into the forest, to find the great Roman road they said passed nearby and went all the way to London. There she would surely find news of the king and queen . . .
But that would be madness and the act of a child. To go alone through unknown territory, among a hostile people whose language she could barely speak? It would be suicide. She would have to find the means to send a message . . .
“What are you standing there for, girl?” her uncle demanded. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Madeleine wished she could drive a sword through her uncle’s black heart. “Do not speak to me as if I were a serving wench, Uncle,” she snapped.
She saw the hot anger in his eyes and the convulsive clenching of his fist. A low growl rumbled from his hounds. Behind her, Celia gave a moan of apprehension, but Madeleine held her ground. When he said and did nothing, she considered she had achieved a victory. She was, after all, mistress here. “The children are not to be flogged,” she declared. “Stop it immediately.”
Slowly he rose to his feet, massive and with plenty of strength in his bulk. “I have the running of Baddersley, Niece. Those children will learn early the price of shirking. Just as you will if you take that tone with me.”
Madeleine couldn’t help but take a step back. The hounds had risen to stand by his side, lips curled to show sharp teeth. But she responded firmly, “This is my land, Uncle. Those are my people. Stop the whippings.”
His hand shot forward and gripped the front of her tunic. She was hauled up against his stale body, her face only inches from his. His foul breath assailed her as he snarled, “Shut your mouth or you go next to the post.”
He meant it. He was mad.
Celia scuttled over. “Stupid girl!” she hissed. “You can’t talk to a man like that!” Paul de Pouissey glared his wife into silence, then contemptuously released Madeleine.
Madeleine tried to tell herself her silence was noble—she would not be able to help the people of Baddersley if she was dead. But she knew it was blind terror that stilled her. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to be in a cruel person’s power, to be abused or not at his whim.
Get word to the king, she thought. That must be her goal. Get word to the king and be rid of Paul and Celia forever. It must be possible—with the help of a traveling merchant, or one of the villagers willing to risk a journey. But she must be careful. She ignored Celia’s whispered rebukes and crossed the hall to an open window that looked out on the bailey.
Oh, sweet Jesu, they had a howling child tied to the post. He could be no more than eight. At least they were using a light whip on him, but as it bit he shrieked and cried for his mother. The least she could do, thought Madeleine bitterly, was watch. And so she did, too angry even for tears, as a half dozen children were dragged to the post and whipped, each one smaller than the one before.
Dear Lord, would they whip the babes in arms?
It stopped at long last with a child of about three carried off howling in terror—Madeleine hoped to his mother’s arms if she wasn’t too ill from her own punishment.
Her fear left her, or rather it was worked by her hot rage as iron is worked in the forge. She felt as hard, cold, and resolute as a mighty sword. This injustice had to stop, and she must be the one to bring it to an end.
Aimery stood at the back of the angry, silent crowd and looked at Madeleine de la Haute Vironge framed in a manor window. How could a human be so calm in this situation?
What a wonderful day she must be having. She’d tormented Odo to desperation and escaped intact. Now she was enjoying the sight of these poor children dancing and screaming at the whip’s end as if it were a mummer’s play.
Oh, to have her in his power for an hour or two.
Chapter 4
Madeleine’s chance to write to the king came a few days later.
Her uncle summoned her. “Got to send a message to the king,” he said. “There must be serfs to be had somewhere in England, though there’s few enough round here. Damned priest’s off to the bishop over something or other. You can write, can’t you?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Madeleine wondered if this was a trap.
“There’s a messenger here on his way to the king. I’ll send word and seek help.” Paul hawked and spat into the rushes. “Can’t care for the fields properly with so few. Those miscreants we punished are malingering good-for-nothings, and the people here still dribble away like water through a sieve. Cursed Golden Hart.”
“What, Uncle?”
He looked up at her. “Some peasant calling himself Golden Hart. He’s inciting the people to rebellion, urging them to flee their proper place, to disobey the commands of their rightful lords, to kill the Normans. The Saxon dogs are bold these days. Sons of Harold are nibbling at the south, and that cursed Hereward’s skulking in the east trying to bring in the Danes or Scots. The king’s too easy on them all. It’s enough to make a man vomit. We need to show them the price of rebellion, as I did that bunch of runaways.”
“Yet they still flee, Uncle,” Madeleine pointed out.
He glowered at her. “They wouldn’t run footless and branded, would they? I should have never listened to your soft whinings. You’re well on the way to ruining this estate, Niece, and so I’ll tell the king. With you and Golden Hart undermining it, there’ll be nothing left worth the having.”
That was always Paul de Pouissey’s way. Blame everyone but himself for his disasters. Madeleine was intrigued by this Golden Hart though, and her heart danced. It must be her outlaw. It must. She wondered if she could contact him and work with him to rid Baddersley of Uncle Paul.
Her uncle took a swig of ale. “Damn swill,” he muttered. “Can’t even get any wine. Well. Go get whatever you need to write, girl!”
Madeleine hurried to the small stone chapel which nestled near the manor house, but once in the one-room presbytery, she stopped to think. Was this a chance to communicate with King William? If it was, dared she take it?
She gathered parchment, pen, ink, and knife. Could her uncle not read a word? If she was caught, the consequences would be terrible, for she intended to not just put her marriage back in the king’s hands, but make clear the ineptitude of her guardians.
But this is likely to be your only chance, she reminded herself. She went into the chapel and communed with the Christ on the cross. Strengthened and fortified, she returned to the manor house. As her uncle dictated the standard obsequious flattery and followed it with pleas, Madeleine wrote,
My uncle wishes you to
find him serfs for this estate, but the truth is he has frightened many away and with his cruelty, killed others unjustly, and works the remainder to death. I need your help, my king. I need a better hand to administer this estate so graciously gifted to my father. I need a capable husband, and willingly submit myself to your election in this.
Madeleine was so absorbed, she almost signed it.
“Bring it here,” her uncle commanded.
Madeleine swallowed. One of Paul’s hounds raised its head, and she fancied she saw cruel suspicion in its eye. She rose and carried the letter to her uncle, sure he must hear her knees knocking, must see how her hand trembled as she held the parchment out to him.
He scarcely looked before awkwardly scrawling “P de P.” “Write my name in full beneath,” he commanded.
It was hard not to collapse with relief.
He smirked. “Bet you thought I couldn’t write. Better than a cross, eh? Read it back. Let me see how it sounds.”
Madeleine froze.
“Read it, damn you! If you’re fooling me and can’t write sense, I’ll have you whipped.”
Madeleine sat with a bump and stared at the sheet. Her heart scurrying, she forced herself to recollect the half-heard words. “My great and puissant liege. Hesitant as I am to disturb you during your mighty enterprise of reforming and civilizing this barbaric land . . .” She carried on, inventing when she could not remember, expecting a bellow of outrage at any moment.
When she finished, he nodded. “I fancy you changed a bit here and there,” he said, “but it sounds very well. Give it here.” He sealed it and summoned the messenger. Within the hour, Madeleine watched her letter to the king being carried away by the long-limbed runner, safe by the most severe laws from all interruption of his journey.
The messenger was heading to Winchester. Madeleine had no way of knowing how far that was, and she knew the king might not be there. He was always on the move, particularly with new troubles popping up all over the place. But the messenger would find him and soon, very soon, the king would come and bring her a husband.
Life was not pleasant for anyone at Baddersley in the next weeks. The previous year’s inadequate stores had scarcely lasted through the winter, and many people, chiefly the young and old, had died because of it. Those who had survived were weakened and dispirited.
The depleted work force was forced to toil beyond its endurance to care for crops and beasts at the same time that it built the castle. The people were subjected to blows and beatings for every small infraction. Everywhere she looked Madeleine saw weary, gray, malnourished people, and she suspected she herself was no exception. Though her uncle spent coin to buy better food, mostly for himself, even meals in the hall were poor.
Madeleine suspected that the money was running out. She knew Paul had given some to Odo when he returned to his duty, so his son might have a new sword and more fine garments in which to play the peacock. Her money. Baddersley’s money, which should be used to care for the people.
There would be an accounting when the king came.
But till then she could do so little. Since Aunt Celia took no interest in charitable work, Madeleine took over the distribution of what scraps were left from the hall table. She discovered the kitchen workers were passing out baskets of good food to their families and put a stop to it. What food there was would go to those in greatest need. She did not report the thievery to her uncle, however, for fear of what mad retaliation he would take. Had he not had one poor man hanged for letting his pigs get into the cornfields?
Every day she made herself available to those with problems, particularly medical ones, but only the Norman guards and servants asked her assistance. The English remained surly. No, more than surly.
The English hated her.
They hated Paul and Celia, too, but that was a dull resentment. Her they hated in an active, burning way.
Why?
Everywhere she went she felt their eyes pierce her like sharp blades, though when she faced them, their expressions were dull and blank. Even just crossing the bailey her spine crawled with the feeling that she was a target.
For a while she had continued to go out into the countryside to collect wild plants to supplement the food. She had also hoped for a meeting with her outlaw, with Golden Hart, so she could seek his help. But one day she had been struck by a large stone, thrown with vicious intent. She had fled back to her guard and stopped her wanderings.
She talked to Dorothy about it as she prepared for bed one night. “Is it my imagination, Dorothy, that the people here hate me?”
The woman combed out Madeleine’s long chestnut hair. “Why should they, my lady?”
“I don’t know. Do they say anything to you?”
“No,” said the woman sourly. “Hold your head still, do.”
Madeleine realized her maid must be as cut off as she was. No wonder she was surly. “Would you like to share my English lessons, Dorothy?”
She felt a particularly hard yank on her hair. “No, I would not, my lady,” snapped Dorothy. “The very idea. Teach them to speak proper. That’s more to the point.”
Madeleine sighed. “I wonder when I will hear from the king.”
“Doubtless he has better things to do than bother about your affairs,” said the woman, driven for once into loquacity. “Why, if matters are everywhere as they are here, he must be driven mad by the wretches. Refusing to do their work, always complaining, trying to leave their proper place as if they had a right to wander wherever they will. Heathens, that’s what they are, for all they pray in a Christian church.”
It was true that people continued to slip away from the manor in ones and twos. Paul put his guards on the village, but still his daily rages against Golden Hart marked another family gone. When the headman of the village came to report that the ox-herd and his family had escaped, Paul turned a deep, engorged red, then a frightening white.
“What?” he roared. “Go after him! Bring him back!”
No wonder he was in a rage; Madeleine felt a spurt of panic herself. The ox-herd was one of the essential people on any estate, and though his full skills would not be needed until harvest time, who would look after his beasts? Without oxen they would surely starve.
“No one knows where he’s gone, Lord,” stammered the man.
“Find him,” ordered de Pouissey. He lunged forward and fastened his beefy hands around the man’s throat. “Find him!” He shook the man, who made nasty gurgling noises.
“Aunt,” cried Madeleine. “Stop him!”
Dame Celia shrank back. “Why? He’s just another troublemaker. Let him strangle.”
Madeleine ran forward and grabbed her uncle’s thick arm. “Uncle, stop!”
He released the man’s throat and flung Madeleine off so that she was sent sprawling on the floor. “Keep out of my way, you wretched girl!” he snarled. His hounds leaped up and stood over her, growling, keeping her on the floor at his feet. She stared at their bared fangs and could imagine them tearing at her throat.
Her uncle looked down at the headman, who was kneeling, clutching his throat and choking. “If any of the oxen die,” he said flatly, “you die. Now get out of here.”
On hands and knees, the man went.
Paul de Pouissey turned on Madeleine. “Interfere with me again, Niece, and I’ll yoke you to the plow.” With that he snapped his fingers and lumbered out into the courtyard to whip more work out of the laborers. With a disdainful curl of their lips the two hounds abandoned Madeleine and followed.
Shakily, she rose to her feet. She looked to her aunt, but found no help there.
“Stupid girl,” the woman snapped. “Don’t you know better than to interfere in men’s affairs? I don’t know what they taught you at the convent, but you’d better unlearn it if you want to live. No husband will put up with such as you.”
Once or twice Madeleine saw someone slip in to speak to her uncle under cover of darkness: an informer from the village. As a Norma
n, she should be pleased, but she hated the man, whoever he was. In spirit she felt closer to the English than to her relatives. She was terrified that the traitor was bringing a tale of Golden Hart and that she would see her outlaw dragged before Uncle Paul.
“Do we know who Golden Hart is, Uncle?” she asked one day at the table when Paul had just finished another ranting complaint about the man. She worked at picking the flesh off a very small fish, apparently the best that could be had in the nearby river.
“A Saxon traitor,” snarled Paul. “When I have him I’ll make him pay. I’ll lop his limbs. I’ll blind him slowly. I’ll cut off his balls,” he said with relish, “and then the villagers who worship him can care for him as he crawls around in the dust like the beast he is.”
The piece of fish in her mouth threatened to choke Madeleine. He would do just as he said. Had not Duke William had the hands and feet of the rebels at Falaise chopped off?
She forced the food down. “But do we know who he is?” she persisted, striving for a casual tone.
Her uncle grunted a negative. “Some say he’s a displaced Saxon lord, even Earl Edwin of Mercia, though that young good-for-nothing’s kept tight at William’s side. Others say he’s that Hereward, or King Arthur come to save them.” Her uncle laughed. “He’s no ghost, as they’ll all know when they hear him scream. Give me that dish, girl.” He poked among the mess of greens. “Steward!” he bellowed. The harried man came forward to receive the bowl and contents in his face. “Find some decent food, or God knows I’ll geld you!”
Madeleine fled the table.
She went to the chapel and prayed for the safety of her outlaw, begging forgiveness at the same time for the treason of it. “Keep him safe, sweet Savior,” she whispered. “Guard him. But,” she added wryly, “let him not entirely denude my land of people before I have a chance to see it whole again.”