‘With money?’
‘Money, yes, and land. He is an astute man, Freya. Normandy is not big enough to hold him and he leads us regularly on forays into border countries – Brittany, Maine, Anjou, perhaps even France. Those knights who help him win new lands gain custody over them in his name and I can be such a knight!’
His eyes shone and Freya felt a dangerous desire to kiss the lips that were talking so eagerly of his prospects.
‘It sounds very exciting,’ she said enviously.
‘It is. It will take time but one day, maybe, I will have an estate of my own and will be able to look for a wife and you may be, may be . . .’
He ground to a halt and Freya finished for him.
‘May be free myself?’
He nodded, bowed his head. ‘I would wait.’
‘For me? Why?’
His head came up and he looked deep into her eyes.
‘I am not sure why, but I know it to be true. You set my soul alight.’
Freya gasped. She reached up and touched his face as he still held hers.
‘I think you are my Christmas miracle,’ she said softly and then his lips were upon hers and she lost herself in them, drawing him fiercely in against her as if he were cold water on a hot day, or rich mulled wine in the ice.
‘Wherever I am,’ Freya told him when finally they pulled apart, ‘and whoever I must be with, I am yours.’
‘And I yours. I swear it before Christ at this, the glorious hour of his birth.’
‘I swear too. Here . . .’ She reached up and tugged one of the dark green ribbons from her braid, wrapping it around their still-linked hands. ‘We are joined now in God’s sight.’
She glanced to the altar. Many of the candles around the abbey were guttering and flickering away into darkness and the vast building was more shadows than light. Duke William was rising stiffly from his knees and Heriot pulled her against him.
‘I must go, but we are joined, Freya – my love.’
Heriot kissed her again, hard and sure, but behind them the duke stretched and they pulled apart. Freya saw Duchess Matilda step forward and William reach out for her, his night-dark eyes shining with sudden softness.
‘He loves her,’ she whispered, surprised.
‘Oh yes,’ Heriot agreed, ‘he loves her. He has, I think, as tender a heart as the rest of us, it is just trapped beneath hard-won warrior’s muscle.’
‘He cannot, then, be all bad.’
Heriot chuckled.
‘No one, surely, is all bad? As your thief could have been robbing for his hungry children, so Duke William labours for Normandy.’
‘In what way though? Why is he here?’
Heriot shrugged.
‘I am not in his confidence, Freya, but it seems to me that with your Godwinsons gone there is a hole in the power-fabric of your country and that is something Duke William is always on the lookout for.’
Freya shivered and Heriot kissed her again.
‘It need not concern us, my love, save that it has brought us together, but I fear I must go before he looks for me. I will see you on the morrow?’
‘I will make sure of it.’
He squeezed her hand, still bound to his by the ribbon.
‘May God be praised for bringing you to me.Trailing to England was Duke William’s whim but I bless him twenty times more for it now than I cursed him before. Sleep sweetly, my love.’
Heriot kissed her then carefully removed the ribbon, pressing it into her hand with another kiss before setting his brow and turning away to stride out into the nave.
‘Count Heriot?’Freya heard Duke William rasp and she pressed herself tight against the far side of the pillar.
‘My lord duke,’ Heriot said, his voice soft and warm.
‘Why are you wandering the abbey instead of guarding my person?’
‘I was securing it, my lord. The shadows of even God’s blessed house can conceal enemies.’
‘True,’ William agreed. ‘I thank you for your diligence.’
Freya thought of the diligence of Heriot’s kisses and had to press her hand over her mouth to stop herself giggling in delight, but her heart was pounding with nerves and she was desperate for the duke to leave before she was discovered. Thankfully he was heading down the central aisle, his boots rapping purposefully across the rock-hard earth and little Matilda all but running at his side to keep up.
From her hiding place, Freya could only just make them out but as they approached the door she risked a proper glance, searching for a final glimpse of Heriot. He was there but with the other guards behind him he could not risk a look back. Someone else did though. At the rear of the tight Norman group tripped two women wrapped in rich furs and now one turned. Her eyes locked onto Freya’s and for a moment she felt as trapped in their knowing stare as if a cage had closed around her. Emeline! The French girl had seen Freya and her wry smile made it clear she fully understood what she was doing in the shadows of God’s house and that she would not forget it.
CHAPTER SIX
25 December 1051
The head minstrel raised his bow and gave the signal to his fellows – all twenty of them – and in a ripple of notes as glorious as the bells earlier in the day, the dancing commenced. Freya felt the music pull at her feet and leaped thankfully up from her place at dinner. She’d been sat next to Lord Alfstan of Stamford, a man with a head as shiny and smooth as one of the abbey bells and whose only topic of conversation seemed to be dung.
Alfstan had made a study of it – an extensive study, it would seem – and appeared to consider it his duty to educate Freya on the differing properties of dung and what they said of the health of the animal. She had tried to be polite but it had rather spoiled her meal. The black puddings in particular, usually a favourite of hers, had been quite ruined by his vivid descriptions and she was keen to get away. Perhaps the only good thing about the man had been how interesting he’d made Lord Osbern look but she didn’t want to think of her future husband now. The Normans were here for two more days. After that Heriot would be gone and she would be a dutiful daughter and wife, but until then . . .
‘Lady Freya, may I?’
She spun round and there he was, bowing low before her. The heat of him washed over her like a mill race.
‘You may,’ she said formally but her hand clasped his as if afraid of falling and her body ached so much for his touch that when he pulled her close for the dance she thought she might dissolve. She glanced around. Surely everyone could see the fire between them? To her it felt as strong as the giant Yule candle burning in its iron stand behind the king’s throne, and she longed to be alone with him. But how?
Heriot slept in the hall with the other soldiers and whilst some women might be happy to crawl beneath the sheets barely an arm’s length from the next pallet bed, she was the daughter of a lord and would not be demeaned in that way. She dared not take him to her own pavilion for fear of her father or Wilf returning and Alodie had unfortunately already retired to hers.
Freya was a little worried about her friend, for she had gone rather grey during dinner, her usually lively eyes sinking into their sockets, and she’d not even raised a token protest when Laurent had suggested he took her back to bed. He was an attentive husband, that much was certain. He had gifted Alodie a magnificent string of glass beads this morning of such an array of colours that she had looked as if she had a rainbow strung between her brooches.
‘Are they not marvellous?’ she’d asked Freya. ‘Look at the colours and the patterns. I could examine them all day and not grow tired of them. Is he not a wonderful husband to me?’
Freya had agreed that he was but even so she was secretly astonished that he had forgone the dancing to take his wife home. She was glad, though, for if he had ducked the duty it might have fallen to her and much as she cared for Alodie she could not bear to have one of her precious nights with Heriot taken from her.
‘You’re here now,’she reminded herself a
nd turned her attention to her partner and the dance.
It was a fast, energetic jig that required all her attention and left her no breath to talk with her partner but at least its speed necessitated a tight hold and she revelled in Heriot’s proximity.
‘Mistletoe!’ someone called and Heriot halted her at the end of the dance set where Duchess Matilda’s second companion, Cecilia, was mischievously holding aloft a bunch of the wild plant laden with berries.
‘Plenty of kisses left,’ Cecilia said. ‘Help yourself.’
Heriot looked at Freya.
‘May I, my lady?’
Freya smiled up at him but dared not answer for fear of sounding too eager.
‘Go on,’ Cecelia urged, taking her hesitation for modesty. ‘It’s Christ’s Mass and the duke is gone, Duchess Matilda with him. ’Tis the kissing time for sure.’
‘Why not,’ Freya allowed and tipped her head up to let Heriot claim her lips.
The touch was light – courtly – but she felt it scorch through her and had to dig her hands into the folds of her dress to keep herself from flinging them round his neck. When he pulled back, she felt empty and longed for more.
‘Heavens, that poor berry is squeezed quite dry,’ Cecilia said in her prettily accented English, plucking one from the bunch and dropping it into the rushes at Freya’s feet.
She danced off and as Freya looked after her, she saw her stop next to Emeline. The two girls exchanged words, then Emeline looked over at Freya, her lips curling upwards.
‘Why does she stare at me like that?’ Freya asked Heriot.
‘Who?’
‘Emeline. She means trouble, I’m sure of it.’
‘Emeline? No!’
‘How can you be so sure?’
He laughed.
‘Emeline is far more likely to be in trouble herself than to create it for others.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘The man sort usually. It’s her French blood! No one is sure why the duchess, who seems so stern about morals, puts up with her but they are very close. Maybe the duchess envies her?’
‘Envies Emeline?’
‘She has a lot of fun, Freya. She is not as constrained as her mistress. Being a duchess is not always, I think, as covetable a position as it might seem, especially with William as your duke. Take tonight – William chose to retire so Matilda has gone too. She is a Princess of Flanders, Freya, so I doubt such austerity is what she’s used to, but I have never heard her complain.’
‘Perhaps they are happy together,’ Freya suggested.
Heriot smiled down at her.
‘Perhaps they are – and if so, they are blessed indeed. Oh Freya, I want to kiss you again.’
‘And I you.’
‘Would you excuse me, my love, if I went to try and find us somewhere to be together a little while so we can talk without so many eyes upon us?’
Freya nodded. She could see her father heading over and stepped away from Heriot, dropping into a polite curtsey.
‘Thank you kindly, my lord.’
‘My lady.’
He swept a bow and left just as Galan reached her side.
‘Dancing with Normans again, Freya?’
‘In the spirit of togetherness, Father, yes. It’s Christ’s Mass after all – a time for peace.’
‘It is indeed and they are not, you see, all monsters.’
‘Not at all. I like Earl Ralf, Father, you know that, and Count Heriot has been very courteous.’
‘Of course he has.Very advanced nation you know, the Normans. Sharp, forward-thinking, prepared to take risks and do things differently.’
‘Differently to the Godwinsons?’
Galan jumped and looked nervously around him.
‘Hush, Freya – do not speak of the exiles here. People will think we are traitors.’
‘But . . .’ Freya let it drop; she did not want to meddle in politics. ‘The Normans are, perhaps,’ she suggested lightly, ‘similar to the French?’
‘The French?’ Galan looked suspicious. ‘I don’t know about that, daughter. Hot blood, you know, the French, especially in the south. It’s the sun. I hear it’s so fierce it boils a man’s brains. Normans, though – Normans are sensible, prudent, logical.’
Galan nodded sagely to himself and Freya had to turn away to hide her smiles, for Heriot seemed none of those things to her. She looked hopefully around but there was no sign of him and now that wretched Emeline – who did, indeed, seem to have hot French blood – was heading towards her.
‘Shall we dance, Father?’ Freya suggested hastily.
‘Dance? Me?’
But before he could protest further, Freya whipped him into the set, away from the other girl. There was something predatory about her and it made Freya uneasy. She couldn’t think why Emeline would want to expose her and Heriot but some women were just made that way – even a naïve country girl like her knew that much.
‘Looks like Wilf is improving.’
Galan gestured to his son, leading a bright-eyed girl a few couples up the set. He was moving not with anything approaching flair but without, at least, treading on her toes.
‘He is,’ Freya agreed, grateful for the distraction. ‘It seems the lesson helped and his belt looks very fine.’
‘Except that he’s now complaining he needs a new tunic to match,’ Galan laughed. ‘He wants to be like Laurent.’
‘Laurent?’ Galan pointed and to Freya’s astonishment she saw her friend’s husband at the edge of the dance area, goblet in hand as he held forth to a gaggle of ladies. ‘But he retired with Alodie,’ she protested.
‘Looks like he’s back,’ Galan said mildly. ‘She’s probably asleep – surely Laurent is allowed to enjoy Christ’s Mass?’ Freya frowned and he patted her arm. ‘He just likes to talk, daughter. Fret not. Now come, my legs are too old to keep this up for long and I’m hungry besides. I might go and carve a morsel off the bones of the boar with my lovely new knife.’
Galan led her out of the dance, proudly patting the eating knife she had sent Wilf back into the market to find yesterday. She smiled and steered him towards the spits but halfway through the crowd someone stepped in front of them.
‘Lady Freya.’
‘Lady Emeline?’
‘Could I speak with you?’
The French girl’s eyes, fixed on Freya, were as crow-black as her hair and Freya fought for an excuse but her father was too quick for her.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some old friends to catch up with anyway. You youngsters enjoy yourselves.’
Galan dropped Freya’s arm and Emeline seized it with a wicked, ‘Oh we will, sir,’ before adding huskily to Freya: ‘Come.’
‘Come where?’
Freya shook her off and the other girl looked momentarily hurt, but swiftly recovered.
‘To the duchess’ apartments.’
‘Why?’
‘He is waiting.’
‘Who is? Oh!’
Emeline grinned and took Freya’s arm again.
‘You’ll come?’
Freya nodded dumbly and let herself be led out of the hall and around to the guest bowers in the lee of the abbey. The great church was still lit up with candles shining out a vigil for the Christ child and the royal apartments seemed to flicker with promise. And yet . . .
‘Why you?’ she asked Emeline as they hurried across the courtyard.
The snow was falling again and though it muffled their footfall it was desperately cold. Even so, Freya hesitated at the door, looking Emeline up and down.
‘Why not me?’ the other girl countered impatiently but Freya was still suspicious.
What if this was a trap? Discovery would be bad enough for her but the pious duke might cast poor Heriot out of his guard if he heard and then all his dreams would come to nought.
‘Why would you help me?’ she pressed.
Emeline tossed her head.
‘Because others have helped m
e in the past. It is – how you say? – my turn. Now come, please.’
Emeline knocked three times on the door and when it opened, bundled Freya inside. The heat was instant. The ground floor of the best guest bower was a rich sitting area with heavily padded chairs and thick tapestries lining the walls. A brazier burned in the centre and Emeline moved keenly towards it but Freya’s eyes were drawn to the wooden stairs curling up from the far corner. Was Heriot up there? She looked uncertainly at Emeline who nodded her forward.
‘Marcus will keep guard,’ she said, gesturing to the doorman, a big lad with calm eyes.
‘And you?’
She shrugged.
‘I will return to the party to find pleasure of my own – unless you wish me to join you?’
‘No!’ Freya put her hands up, horrified, then saw Emeline’s twinkling eyes and relaxed. ‘I mean no, thank you. But Emeline, where is the duchess?’
‘With the duke of course, in his own rooms. He wanted to sleep alone last night to “honour God in prayer”.’
She rolled her eyes scornfully.
‘You do not believe in honouring God?’ Freya asked, intrigued.
‘Oh I do. I just feel there are better ways of savouring his gifts to us than in endless prayer and, indeed, it seems the duke’s thoughts are more earthy this evening. But we waste time – go!’
She shoved Freya towards the stairs and Freya went, moving carefully, still uncertain if this was some sort of trap.
‘Hello?’
She stepped up into the bedchamber. It was quite small but as richly furnished as the lower floor and dominated by a vast four-poster bed draped with rich fabrics and piled high with soft blankets and coverlets. And sat upon it was . . .
‘Heriot!’
He leaped up and drew her into his arms but, despite her pleasure at having him close, she could not tear her eyes from the richly decorated walls.
The Christmas Court Page 5