‘Angel dust,’ Wilf said, letting it collect on his hand as he peered up into the frosted branches of the oak tree.
‘From Mother?’ Freya suggested.
They smiled at each other then Wilf grabbed her hands in his.
‘Let’s dance!’
‘You meant that?’
‘I did, Frey – I need to learn.’
‘So you can spin pretty girls without bumping them into their friends?’
‘Exactly! Teach me, please.’
Freya laughed. The request was ridiculous but it was good to see Wilf recovered and the light flakes whirling in the air, tinged pink by the sun peeking over the eastern gate, made her feel blissfully giddy. Memories of last night tugged at her feet and she succumbed easily to his entreaties. And so it was that Galan, sleepy-eyed and brushing snow from his beard, came upon them. Seeing him, Freya hesitated, but he waved them on.
‘Dance, please, whilst you can. I like to see it.’
They turned a few more steps but in truth it was cold and the sounds of others stirring awake around them cut through the moment, so they headed back into the pavilion with their father.
‘I’ll fetch ale,’ Wilf offered, yanking on his tunic and throwing his cloak over his shoulders.
‘Really?’ Freya asked.
‘I’m thirsty and the bread might be out of the ovens too – I’ll see if I can grab us a loaf.’
Wilf grinned and was off. Freya watched him, marvelling at his powers of recovery, but now Galan drew her onto a stool, sitting himself at her side. He looked very serious suddenly and Freya peered at him in alarm.
‘Father? Are you well?’
‘Quite well, my dear. I just . . .’ He tugged at his beard. ‘You are happy, Freya?’
‘Of course, Father.’
‘Happy, I mean, my dear, to marry Lord Osbern?’ The question startled her and she could find no quick response. ‘It is just . . . seeing you dancing here with Wilf and last night with that smart young Norman guard . . . You’re so young, daughter, and so pretty. Have I, have I done you a disservice with this betrothal?’
He looked so upset, so concerned, and her heart folded in on itself.
‘Of course not, Father. You have my very best interests at heart, I know that.’
‘Your welfare, yes, but your happiness? I fear I have not taken that sufficiently into my reckoning.’
‘Oh Father!’ She clasped his hands. ‘I will be happy. Osbern is a lovely man and I will be near you and Wilf.’
Galan smiled.
‘You are a good girl, Freya, and you speak true, but here in London you seem lit up. Your face glows like those children with their candles yesterday and I have not seen you this way before.’
Freya swallowed. A tiny thought whispered across her mind, as Heriot’s fingers had so recently whispered over her back, that this could be her freedom, her chance, but she squashed it. Heriot was in England for a mere five days; he might be filling her present but he was not her future.
‘It is Christ’s Mass, Father,’ she said gently, ‘and we are in a beautiful, exciting place. Of course I am happy. And,’ she added cheekily, hoping to distract him, ‘I could be even more so if there are pretty things at the market.’
Galan laughed and to her great relief Freya saw his shoulders relax. At times since his wife’s death he had seemed so tense and drawn that she had feared he would make himself ill and he was too precious to lose.
‘You are a pretty thing, my dear one,’ he said fondly, ‘and I am very proud of you. Now, come, you should dress so you can get to the stalls early before all the best goods go.’
However, when they crossed the compound to the first stalls a little later, Freya could not believe the best goods would ever go – there were so many things on sale.
‘Take Hereford market and double it five times over and it still wouldn’t be this big,’ Freya whispered to Alodie as they strolled between the stalls.
‘It feels as if every merchant in England is here,’ Alodie agreed. ‘And from a hundred other countries besides.’
Freya stared around her, finding the exotic goods on sale almost as hard to comprehend as the accents of their sellers. There were glassware goblets and bowls blown through with beautiful colours and patterns; beads and precious stones from mines far away; spices in tightly woven baskets; carved caskets and gaming pieces; and thick arm-rings of silver alongside delicate miniature versions, apparently made to be worn on your fingers. They all looked strangely bright against the stark white of the snow-covered ground and that made them somehow more enticing.
Alodie flitted from one stall to another, buying dress-trimmings and sewing thread and exclaiming excitedly over swaddling cloths, but Freya took in everything as they passed slowly between the stalls, before finally pausing by one selling leather, drawing in the musky scent of the freshly worked goods.
‘Wilf would love this belt,’ she said, lifting an elegant braid, dyed in twists of red and blue. ‘He was complaining earlier that his own was too dull.’
‘Quite the popinjay these days, your brother,’ Alodie laughed. ‘Oh but look, Laurent would adore this purse. His is very shabby. Let’s see if we can do a deal.’
She grabbed the seller, throwing herself enthusiastically into haggling over the price, and Freya drew back a little. She could see an ironworker’s stall just up the row and hoped he might have eating knives. Galan was always complaining that the handle of his was loose and she had been saving to treat him to a new one. She peered towards the stall, trying to see the wares and, to her surprise, spotted Laurent walking towards them. Alodie had said he was on duty with Earl Ralf this morning but maybe he had been released and was come to find them. She was about to warn her friend to hide the purse she was even now paying for, when she saw Laurent turn to someone and noticed the duchess’ dark-haired companion – Emeline, was it? – walking at his side. What was he doing out with her?
‘Right, Freya,’ Alodie’s voice cut into her musings, ‘you owe me two silver pennies and a big thank you. He wanted five for it at first, the rogue! Hey – what are you doing?’
She struggled as Freya grabbed her arm but Freya held on tight. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she knew she wanted to get her friend away and turned her firmly in the opposite direction to Laurent.
‘Beads,’ she said – the first thing that came to mind.
‘Beads?’
‘You said you wanted beads, Allie.’
‘Did I? Yes, yes I probably did. I’m hoping Laurent might buy me some though.’
‘Of course. He’s good at presents, is he, Laurent?’
‘He is. He has quite an eye. I think it’s to do with growing up surrounded by women.’
‘Surrounded?’ Freya asked, pulling her friend down a new row of stalls.
‘He has six sisters,’ Alodie said. ‘His mother must have praised God indeed when she finally produced a son. Certainly she had no more and I think the girls spoiled their little brother – their friends did too.’
‘Friends?’ Freya asked casually. ‘Was that, er, Emeline one of his sister’s friends?’
‘Emeline?’
‘The lady from last night – Duchess Matilda’s companion.’
‘Oh her! The twirly one?’
‘Yes. So . . . ?’
‘So what?’
Alodie had been distracted by a silverware stall and Freya had to grab her arm again.
‘So,’ Freya said impatiently, ‘was Emeline one of Laurent’s sister’s friends?’
‘Oh! Yes, yes I think so. At least, I think her mother became a friend of Laurent’s mother when she moved to Normandy. Quite a beauty by all accounts. Apparently . . . Ow!’
Alodie spun round suddenly and, alarmed, Freya stepped out of her way but as she did so she felt a tug at her purse.
‘Oi!’
Freya grabbed protectively at the delicate leather bag at her belt but then felt pain scream across her hand. She cried out and sna
tched it back, staring in horror at the deep red knife-line across her skin, scarcely even noticing the ragged man darting into the crowd with her purse clutched in his dirty hand.
‘Stop, thief!’ Alodie screeched at her side, but Freya was dazed by the pain of the cut and she felt the market start to spin.
She stared at the ground, determined not to faint but the sight of her own blood dripping thick and red onto the snow made her shake. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to stay upright. Then through the mist she heard a roar of pain and fury and Alodie’s cry of ‘Yes!’
‘Allie?’ she asked weakly.
‘He’s got him,’ her friend crowed, not even looking her way. ‘He’s got the wretched villain.’
Freya forced her eyes open and snatched at the edge of her cloak with her free hand, pressing it against the wound. Alodie was jumping up and down and pointing delightedly and Freya saw a knight coming towards them, the cutpurse bundled roughly before him. Her vision swam again; it couldn’t be, could it? Was she dreaming of dancing again?
‘Heriot,’ she whispered and sank against the stall in a clatter of silverware.
‘My lady – you are hurt.’
A crowd had gathered and Freya was vaguely aware of the handsome Norman shoving the thief at a burly blacksmith before his arms were around her and nothing else seemed to matter.
‘You are shocked,’ Heriot said.
Freya shook her head.
‘My hand,’ she managed, lifting it a little.
Gently he pulled back her cloak and the blood flowed.
‘She is wounded!’ Alodie cried and the crowd oohed obligingly.
Freya rolled her eyes at Heriot and heard him laugh, soft and low.
‘You’ll live,’ he said, ‘but we should get you to the bower to see this tended. Can you walk?’
A tiny, wild bit of Freya longed to say she could not but she shook it away and nodded. Even so she was very glad of Heriot’s strong arm around her waist as she moved away from the marketplace. The reeve had arrived and the thief was being dragged off, kicking crazily.
‘Poor thing,’ Freya said.
‘Poor thing?’ Heriot spluttered. ‘He robbed you, my lady.’
‘He did, but look at his clothes – rags, no more. What if he has a wife? Children?’
‘It is a sad possibility,’ Heriot agreed, ‘but it gives him no right to your money. I have your purse safe.’
‘You are very kind.’
‘And you are very beautiful.’
Freya sucked in a breath, suddenly feeling far dizzier than any loss of blood could account for. Heriot’s arm was so warm and strong around her and his face was dipped so close to hers that she felt a sudden longing to touch his lips against her own. He drew closer yet, as if he felt it too, and for a moment she thought he truly would kiss her and feared she would not have the strength to resist, but then Alodie leaped in front of them.
‘Thank God you were there, my lord,’ she said eagerly, ‘for without you Freya would have lost all her money and might, even now, be bleeding half to death. She is very grateful, are you not, Freya? Very grateful that such a brave, strong man was on hand to . . .’
‘Allie,’ Freya said firmly, ‘peace.’
‘But . . .’ Alodie looked from Freya to Heriot and suddenly scuttled back. ‘Of course. I’m so sorry. I’ll let you two go on.’
‘No, Allie.’
‘I’ve still got purchases to make, so seeing as you’re in such good hands, Freya, I’ll just . . .’
It was Heriot who stopped her this time.
‘Please stay with us. We will need your help. Lady Freya must be tended in the bower – the ladies’ bower.’
‘Oh. Oh yes, of course. Well, I’ll, er, skip ahead and make sure all is ready, shall I?’
Freya laughed.
‘It’s not far, Allie.’
She gestured across the compound to the nearby wooden hall that housed the storerooms on the lower floor and, above, the bower where the ladies of the court could meet to sew and weave, play their instruments and talk together.
‘No,’ Alodie allowed. ‘But, even so . . .’
Flustered, she darted ahead, leaving Freya and her escort to trace the last steps alone.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Freya said into the silence of her friend’s departure. ‘I am not so . . . so plentiful with words as Alodie but I am truly grateful for your assistance.’
Heriot smiled.
‘Your friend is very entertaining. I’m sure she will care for you well and I trust you will be rested before Christ’s holy mass this evening. I will, perhaps, see you there?’
‘You will,’ Freya agreed. She did not want this conversation to end but they had reached the bower now and there were too many people passing for her to linger with a knight, and a Norman one at that. She curtseyed. ‘Goodbye, Count Heriot.’
‘God speed, Lady Freya. Until later . . .’
Then he was bowing away and there was nothing for Freya to do but turn inside to Alodie’s nursing and, more likely, her teasing. She cared not. Her hand might be throbbing painfully but her heart was singing like a thousand birds at dawn.
CHAPTER FIVE
24 December 1051 – evening
Freya could barely wait for mass. It was normally a solemn affair, poignant and quiet as befitted the celebration of the Christ child’s birth, but this year it felt full of heavy promise. The matins service marked the opening of the glorious festival and though usually this nightly vigil was held by monks alone, on this most sacred of days everyone attended to honour God’s gift to the world.
There would be supper beforehand of course but it would be a sparse, quiet meal and, even without the dampening presence of the iron duke, there would have been no music tonight. Freya would have to wait until the grand feast on the morrow for a chance to dance with Heriot but she longed to see him all the same and dressed with care in a dark green gown that looked suitably sombre but, she knew, flattered her hazel colouring. Her maid helped her thread matching ribbons into her braids and she prayed, more earnestly than was appropriate, that Heriot would like them.
It was a beautiful service. The monks chanted the liturgy, their harmonising voices ringing out around the wooden walls of the old abbey which flickered in the light of a hundred finest beeswax candles. Freya stood in the nave with the rest of the court and tried to lose herself in the marvel of the occasion but it was hard. The duke was knelt piously before the altar with King Edward, the narrow-eyed Archbishop Robert hovering over them. It was not they who drew her eye, though, but the shapely figure of the guard three to the right of his lord.
It was Heriot, she knew it was, and she was fascinated by the stray curl at the nape of his neck that had somehow escaped the stern knife of his Norman barber and seemed to beckon to her, inviting her to twirl her fingers into it. Strange parts of her ached and despite the beauty of the singing and the magic of the moment of Christ’s birth, she yearned for the service to finish.
At last it was over.
‘Go in peace,’ Archbishop Robert intoned, making it sound more a threat than a blessing but Freya snatched keenly at the words.
She scrambled against the flow of the exiting crowd and pressed herself against a pillar to one side of the nave, her eyes still on Heriot. The duke remained at prayer, his tiny duchess standing reverently behind him. Freya watched King Edward excuse himself awkwardly and back away but the duke prayed on and his guard remained in the abbey as it emptied. Freya let out a little cough and, as if he had been waiting for it, Heriot’s head swivelled in her direction and their eyes met. He checked around him then, with a murmured word to his fellows, moved aside, clearly trying to look as if he were searching the further reaches of the abbey for any threat to the duke’s peaceful prayers. Freya pressed herself into the pillar as he drew close and they were both shielded from sight.
‘Lady Freya.’ Heriot took her hand and bowed low over it. ‘You are recovered?’
‘Quite re
covered, thank you.’
‘I am glad of it.’
He rose but did not let go of her hand and she closed her own fingers more tightly around his. He sucked in his breath and stepped closer.
‘I have been thinking of you all day.’
‘And I you.’
She held his eyes. It was immodest, she knew, but with this man such formalities did not seem to matter. Whatever was between them was more than manners and, besides, there was no time for games, they both knew that.
‘I am not a man given to passions of the heart, my lady,’ Heriot was saying, blushing like a boy. ‘But the first moment I saw you something kindled inside me and last night, when we danced, I felt richer than the duke with you in my arms. I am sorry to speak so bluntly – it is not courtly of me – but I have only three more days in England and they feel, suddenly, like days that must be seized. My intentions are honourable, truly – I would speak with your father.’
Freya gasped. She had not expected this – had assumed there could be no future for them – and the pain of what could have been was as sharp as the thief’s knife earlier that day. She drew in a shaky breath and forced herself to speak.
‘I should tell you, Heriot, that I am betrothed, betrothed to a good and kind man whose lands border our own back in Leominster.’ She saw Heriot’s eyes crunch briefly closed but he did not draw back. ‘He is old,’ Freya went on, ‘fully forty-eight years and frail with it. He will care for me well but I confess that I . . . I do not relish the prospect of our union.’
She dipped her eyes, embarrassed at her own admission, but Heriot put out his free hand and gently cupped her chin, lifting her face to his. The church was now empty of all but Duke William’s immediate party, clustered around the altar, and they were alone in the shadows.
‘I understand,’ Heriot said softly. ‘My brother and sister have both been similarly matched for the good of the family. I, however, am the youngest and under Norman law have little entitlement. I will inherit no land from our father but in its place I have something very valuable – my freedom. Father found me a station in the duke’s guard and if I serve well I will profit. Duke William is a hard ruler but a fair one. He prizes loyalty and competence above all things and rewards them well.’
The Christmas Court Page 4