‘Yes.’ Alodie bent over her, feeling it. ‘Oh yes. It is swollen.’
‘No, it . . .’
‘Very swollen,’ Alodie insisted even more loudly. ‘We must get the boot off before it is trapped on your foot. Count?’
Heriot needed no second urging. He bent and tenderly removed Freya’s boot, his fingers whispering across her ankle as he did so.
‘See!’ Alodie crowed. ‘Hideous. She cannot ride like that, can she?’
Alodie’s voice was urgent, determined. Heriot looked from her to Freya, a question in his eyes, and finally Freya understood.
‘I fear I cannot,’ she said, trying to sound weak. ‘But how will I get back?’
‘She can come in the cart,’ a kindly older lady offered and Freya froze.
‘That thing?’ Alodie said quickly. ‘It would judder her terribly, poor lamb. Horseback would be far better.’
‘What’s going on?’ Duke William’s strident tone cut across the debate.
Heriot rose.
‘’Tis this poor lady, my lord duke. She has turned her ankle in a tree root and needs escorting back to Westminster.’
‘Escorting?’ William wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, you do it then, Count Heriot – you’ve already had your chance at glory today.’
Freya saw Heriot attempt, very poorly, to look disappointed.
‘If you think that is best, my lord duke,’ he said humbly, ‘then I will do your bidding.’
‘Good.’ The duke looked away, his interest in a sprawling Englishwoman already lost. ‘The rest of you – ride out!’
The bugles sounded and the riders of the hunt threaded between the trees like spirits and were gone, leaving only the detritus of a luxurious lunch as evidence they had ever been there. The women and children clambered into the elegant royal cart and now Alodie, with no more than a swift kiss on Freya’s cheek, ran off too. The hunt would be out for some time yet and the cart would be slow along the road, far slower than Heriot’s beautiful horse.
‘Shall we?’ he said, offering Freya his hand.
Nodding, she took it and let him hoist her up into the saddle. She sat there, between his thighs, much as she had when they’d met three long, sweet days ago. Heriot slotted an arm tight around her waist and together they made for London at all speed.
Freya lay in her bed, languorous with love. Heriot was gone – he’d crept away when they’d heard the bugles sounding the hunt’s return to the royal compound – but she could feel the imprint of him upon her skin and prayed it would stay there for evermore. Their lovemaking had been tender at first, both of them feeling their way with each other and with their own new desires, but later it had been harder, fiercer, every movement urgent and furious as if they might fit a lifetime’s loving into one snatched afternoon. It would not be enough, Freya knew that already, but it would have to suffice and she would treasure it forever.
‘Still abed, my dear?’ Lord Galan came in through the flap and looked down at her, amused. ‘Is your ankle troubling you?’
‘My ankle? Oh. No, no, it isn’t too bad, thank you. I must have fallen asleep.’
‘London is wearing you out,’ Galan said easily, removing his hunting gloves and stretching out his big arms.
‘It was hard riding this morning,’ Freya offered.
‘This afternoon too,’ Galan said. Freya blushed but he went on affably, ‘I will ache tomorrow but I confess I enjoyed it greatly. I feel quite young again.’
‘I’m so glad, Father.’
He moved behind the screen that separated his own big bed from hers and she hastily grabbed her shift, pulling it over her head and sitting up.
‘Shall I fetch you some ale?’ she called.
‘Oh Freya, that would be most welcome. Would you?’
‘Of course.’
She rose and pulled her gown over her shift, blushing happily at the memory of how softly Heriot had removed it. He had covered her in so many kisses that her skin ought, by rights, to be marked by them like a haze of footprints in the snow, but there was no outward sign. She knotted her belt and pulled on her boots, reminding herself to limp a little.
‘It does hurt,’ Galan said, seeing her test it. ‘I will go, daughter.’
‘No, no. It will do it good to move. I won’t be long.’
Grabbing her cloak she fled the pavilion, turning her face to the cool night. Her body was restless and it was good to be outside, though it was fully dark now. A thousand stars were sparkling as if God were shining down on them through holes in the dark tapestry of the sky and Freya raised her arms in a wordless thank you before turning towards the kitchens.
As she moved around their pavilion, however, she heard a rustle and a strange, low gasp and, alarmed, drew behind a water butt to see who was passing. No one came towards her and as her eyes grew accustomed to the silvery light, she realised it was a couple tight up against the big oak. They were feasting – there was no other word for it – upon each other, and Freya felt her own body shudder in response.
A low giggle rippled through the air as the pair pulled apart and Freya saw the face of the girl – it was Emeline. She should have guessed, perhaps, but she could hardly begrudge her fun after her own afternoon and she began to move stealthily away and leave them to their pleasures. Just then, though, a servant emerged from behind the tree, a jug in one hand and a lantern in the other and the flame lit up the man’s broad back. With a cold shock, Freya recognised the soft blue tunic, elaborately trimmed with Welsh roses – the man with wild Emeline in his arms was Laurent.
CHAPTER EIGHT
26 December 1051 – evening
‘Whatever is the matter with you?’ Alodie demanded, slipping a hand through Freya’s arm as they crossed to the great hall for dinner. ‘I thought you’d be flying as high as a hawk. Did it not, you know . . . go well?’
Freya drew in a deep breath.
‘It went very well, thank you, Alodie. Your cunning knows no bounds.’
‘Thank you. So, did you?’
‘Allie!’
‘I’m your best friend; you can tell me. Go on – did you?’
‘We did.’
Despite her worries about Laurent, Freya heard her voice soften at the welcome admission. It felt as if what she had been through with Heriot was so meaningful she might burst holding it inside her and she was glad for Alodie’s kind probing.
‘So, when will you be together again?’
‘Maybe never.’
‘Never? But Freya . . .’
‘It isn’t all about bedding, Allie,’ Freya said, more snappily than she’d intended.
‘Well, no,’ Alodie admitted, looking askance at her, ‘but you’ve got to admit it’s a good bit. Laurent is heavenly naked.’
Freya sucked in her breath and Alodie looked at her more closely.
‘Whatever is the matter, Frey? You’re being very peculiar.’
‘Nothing.’ Freya thought fast. ‘It’s just a whole new world to me. To Heriot too.’
‘Really?!’
Freya saw her opportunity.
‘Was Laurent then . . . experienced, when you wed?’
Alodie giggled.
‘A bit.’ She glanced around. The lords and ladies of the court were converging on the hall but no one was close enough to listen in. ‘If I tell you, you must keep it to yourself.’
‘Tell me what?’
Alodie dragged her aside against the wall of the great hall, letting courtiers flow past them. Word was out that Duke William was in ‘talks’ with the king and people were keen to get to the feast before the great Norman put a shadow on proceedings.
‘When Laurent turned sixteen,’ Alodie said, giggling again, ‘his mother gave him a gift. An unusual gift.’
‘What gift, Allie?’
‘A woman.’
‘A woman! A concubine, you mean?’
‘Oh no, just a friend of hers, an older lady, widowed and happy to offer a little “education” to a young man in exchang
e for some pleasure of her own.’
Freya stared at her friend.
‘That is unusual.’
‘Not so much,’ Alodie said defensively, adding with another giggle, ‘I think it might have been Emeline’s mother.’
Freya jumped – that seemed horribly likely.
‘I suppose it might be normal in France,’ she said stiffly.
‘In England too. Apparently in pagan times it was a celebrated rite of passage for a young man.’
‘We’re not in pagan times though, Allie.’
‘Well, no, but we do still bed together and let me tell you, if I ever meet that woman I will clasp her hand and thank her.’
Freya had no idea what to think or feel. There was a strange logic to it, she supposed, but then again Heriot had proved more than capable and he hadn’t been gifted a woman at sixteen – or had he? No! No, he’d said she was his first and she believed him but if Alodie was happy with Laurent . . . Remembrance slammed into her: Laurent and Emeline, together. She recalled Laurent coming back to the hall last night once Alodie had fallen asleep – was that why? And had Emeline been getting her, Freya, out of the way so that she could pounce on him unnoticed? It made sickening sense.
‘Allie,’ she began uneasily, ‘you do trust Laurent, don’t you?’
‘Of course, Freya, what a strange question. Why would I not?’
‘He came back to the hall last night, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. I told him to. It was so dull for him and what was the point in us both being laid up? Besides, he wanted to talk to Emeline.’
‘Emeline?’ Freya jumped as if branded.
‘Yes. Goodness, Freya, I don’t think bed sport agrees with you. You’re not yourself.’
‘Allie – hush! It’s not that. I just don’t like that girl.’
‘But Laurent does.’ Freya could hardly believe what she was hearing. Did Alodie condone this? ‘And she’s getting information for him. Vital information, he says.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know exactly. It’s his business, Freya. Honestly – just because we’re married doesn’t mean we have to do everything together. I’ve had enough of this. I’m getting cold out here and it’s not good for the baby. Let’s go inside. And try and cheer up. It’s your handsome knight’s last evening in England and he won’t want you all grumpy, will he?’
On that point Alodie was right but Freya was just so worried. Then again, did it really matter? Maybe Laurent was just using Emeline for information and, besides, she would be gone tomorrow and that would be an end to it.
‘You’re right,’ she forced herself to say, taking Alodie’s arm. ‘Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.’
‘Good. We’ll show these Normans how festivities are meant to be.’ They made for the door but then, as they crowded inside, Alodie added, ‘I might get to see it the other way round soon. Earl Ralf has been talking to Laurent about being his envoy to the Norman court. He says he wants a man he can trust and it would be an important position for Laurent.’
Freya stared at her friend in dismay.
‘But Allie, would he not have to travel?’
‘Sometimes he’d be in Normandy, yes. I’d miss him of course but it’s for our advancement, Freya.’
‘Your advancement,’ Freya echoed weakly.
Was Laurent setting himself up with a woman either side of the Narrow Sea? And if so, what was in it for Emeline? French or not, she didn’t seem like a girl who’d be happy to play second fiddle to a wife.
‘Ah – there he is now.’
Alodie bounded happily forward and Freya saw Laurent turn and kiss her, drawing her into his side as naturally as he ever did. She watched them closely. Something was odd but she couldn’t place it. Then she realised – he was no longer wearing the blue tunic. Had he been back to change? Had Emeline been with him? Had they been together in Alodie’s own bed whilst she was defending his honour to Freya? She felt rage simmer on her friend’s behalf and moved furiously forward but at that moment someone grabbed her arm.
‘Freya, my sweet sister!’
Wilf beamed at her, his smile so wide it looked in danger of splitting his face in two.
‘Hello, Wilf. All well?’
‘Very well, thank you. Very well indeed.’
‘Good. Drinking already?’
‘Nope. Not a drop. I’m just contented, Frey, that’s all. And I do love my belt – doesn’t it look fine?’
Wilf jutted out his belly comically and Freya obligingly looked at the braided leather. Her eyes widened – what under God’s heavens did this mean?
‘It matches well, does it not?’
She grabbed his arm – his blue arm with Welsh roses embroidered at the cuffs.
‘Where did you get that tunic, Wilf?’
He pulled back a little.
‘Laurent lent it to me. He didn’t mind, truly – what’s wrong? I thought it looked good on me.’
‘It does.’
Freya looked from Wilf, taller these days than she ever really realised, to Laurent just behind. Both had dusty blonde hair and slim strong shoulders. Relief took seed inside her but she wasn’t yet ready to let it grow.
‘When did you borrow it, Wilf?’ she asked.
‘Why does it matter?’
‘When?’
Wilf put his hands up in surrender.
‘Very well, sister, I borrowed it this afternoon when we got in from the hunt. I was meeting someone and I wanted to look . . .’
‘Like the handsome young man that you are?’
Wilf looked more confused than ever at the sudden softness of her tone.
‘Are you upset with me, Frey?’
A smiled tugged at Freya’s lips but she suppressed it.
‘And this someone, Wilf – who was he? Or should I say, she?’ He blushed claret red. ‘Emeline, perhaps?’
‘How do you know?’
She shook her head; she’d embarrassed him enough.
‘She looked as if she was admiring you the other night,’ Freya improvised, recalling them dancing together.
‘Did she? Really? I didn’t realise she’d noticed me so early on. She’s so pretty, Freya, isn’t she?’
‘Very pretty,’ Freya agreed, ‘but wild, Wilf.’
‘I know,’ he said delightedly and now it was Freya who put up her hands.
‘Tell me no more, brother. Be gone – enjoy your last night.’
‘Oh I will.’
Wilf dropped a light kiss on her forehead then dived into the crowd, a flash of overexcited blue. Freya looked again to Laurent. He was tenderly stroking Alodie’s hair back from her face and murmuring to her and she felt ashamed of herself for having doubted him. Thank the lord Wilf had found her when he had or she could have shamed them all. Maybe Emeline had been looking to distract her last night, but from her brother, not her friend’s husband. She bounded forward.
‘Laurent! You look very well in that tunic. Green suits you.’
He looked at her quizzically.
‘Thank you, Freya, I think.’
Alodie laughed.
‘Don’t mind Freya, she’s being very peculiar tonight. Something must have scrambled her brains.’
Freya flushed. That much was true and even now that something, or rather, that someone – a tall, muscular, achingly handsome someone – was stepping into the hall behind Duke William and the king and her heart threw itself against her ribcage.
‘Heriot,’ she whispered and, as if he’d heard her, he looked over and lifted something up high – a bunch of mistletoe, bursting with berries.
Duke William beamed around the gathered court.
‘I must thank you all, my kind English neighbours, for your gracious hospitality to the duchess and I. We have greatly enjoyed celebrating Christ’s sacred birth with you.’
‘Has someone slipped something into his ale?’ Alodie whispered to Freya and she had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep her laughter inside.
; ‘He seems very benevolent,’ Freya agreed.
‘Who’d have thought he’d had such a good time,’ Alodie commented as the duke spoke on, praising Saxon food, Saxon hunting and even Saxon minstrels. ‘What’s he been promised, do you think?’
Freya thought of the Godwinsons, somewhere across the seas gathering forces to return. She thought of the Norman archbishop, Robert, gliding around behind Edward and meeting Duke William in the dead of night. She thought of Duchess Matilda praying for the strength to love her challenging husband and watched the Norman warrior-ruler nervously as he paced the dais like a fox before his lair.
‘The Narrow Sea is just that,’ he proclaimed, holding his slim hands close, ‘narrow. We must work together to the glory of the church, the forwarding of trade, and the suppression of “common” enemies.’
William’s voice grated on the last words and Freya shivered. England had to hope, she reflected, that their enemies remained common for the duke would be a fearsome force to stand against in war. She pictured him as she’d seen him hunting yesterday, dark eyes focused intently on his prey as he’d drawn back his bow, taut with concentration, then let it fly with piercing accuracy into a deer’s throat. It hadn’t stood a chance.
‘But for now, my friends,’ he went on, ‘let us celebrate our unity in style. Men!’
He clapped his hands and his guards stepped back and, from the shadows at the rear of the dais, produced two barrels.
‘Finest claret from Bordeaux,’ William announced, ‘rich and fruitful like the bonds between our two lands. Enjoy!’
The crowd roared obligingly. Freya could hear amused mumblings about how far two barrels would stretch around the vast gathering but it was better than nothing and the servants would be hard-pressed to serve it fast enough to keep up with those keen to make the most of this unexpected beneficence.
She took a goblet and tasted the dark fluid. It was delicious, a drink to savour, not to rush, though not many around the long tables seemed to agree. She sat back to let the servers past as the first course – fresh river fish fried in flour and soft herbs – was brought in from the kitchens. She was not hungry, at least not for food, however delicious. She yearned to speak with Heriot, to touch him, hold him. Whatever the duke said about it, to her the Narrow Sea felt like a vast chasm shortly to open up between them.
The Christmas Court Page 7