And damn him for being so handsome and compellingly masculine. It was hard to match wits with him when the distraction of his hard male body and the memories it evoked scrambled her thoughts and make her say foolish things.
She glanced at the garment on her lap. “Simon, my dear one, what am I ever going to do about your father?” Would there ever come a time when she was sure enough of Fawkes to tell him the truth? And how would she ever convince him it was the truth? There were so many lies between them, she could scarce keep track.
Sniffing back her tears, she regained control. For Simon’s sake, she must be strong. And careful. Ever so careful. Fawkes was unpredictable, dangerously so. She never knew what he might do. Even now, after that brutally tense conversation, she had no idea of his plans. Whether he would heed her request or ignore it.
She needed to warn Gilbert and Hilary what might happen. And come up with a plan in case Fawkes decided to bring them to Valmar. She’d slipped up badly when she told him Simon was the name of the baby who died. If he discovered Hilary had a son of the same name, he would be suspicious.
Simon. She was desperate to see him. But how could she, with Fawkes watching her every move? She should have gone yesterday, while Fawkes was away from the castle. It was unlikely he would leave again for awhile. Especially with the Lammas celebration coming up.
Of course! The Lammas celebration. Fawkes would be busy all day. First with manor court and then the celebration in the village. If she left at first light, she would have time to travel to Mordeaux, spend time with Simon, and get back before all the festivities were finished.
She let out a sigh of relief.
Chapter Twelve
Fawkes sat at a table under the trees holding manor court. He tried not to yawn as Ethelbert the miller complained interminably about the villagers who failed to pay him the proper amount for grinding their grain. Between complaints, the man tugged at his ginger-colored beard and glanced around, his dark gaze darting here and there.
A shrewd, avaricious man, Fawkes thought absently. No doubt he cheated the villagers when he could, and their slowness in paying was their way of getting back at him. “…and Godwit promised me two hams and a dozen cabbages,” the miller whined. “I refuse to grind any more of his corn unless he pays me what he owes.”
Fawkes put up his hand. “’Tis not the season for salt pork, and the cabbages aren’t ripe yet. Why can’t he pay you with honey or eggs or some other foodstuff?”
“’Twas ham and cabbage we agreed upon,” the miller said, stubbornly.
Fawkes struck the table with his fist. “This court is not the place for these petty disputes. Settle this between the two of you.”
The miller gave him a sulky look and moved off. Fawkes turned to Osbert, sitting beside him. “Did Lady Nicola really involve herself with this sort of nonsense?”
“She would hear him out, then suggest some compromise. Same as you did.”
“Jesu, she has more patience than me.”
“Most women are patient. They are always waiting, for men to order their lives, for their babes to be born, for their husbands to come back from war.” Osbert shrugged.
“Lady Nicola does not strike me as having the placid nature you describe,” Fawkes growled. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the steward if Nicola frequently visited the village, but he restrained himself. He didn’t want the man to think he wasn’t able to keep track of his wife.
Fawkes perused the next petitioner. The fellow was lean as a sapling and had squinty blue eyes and a flushed face. “I’ve come to make a complaint, my lord. That witch Glennyth has cursed me. She’s caused my manhood to shrivel up. I can barely make water, let alone swive my wife. You’ve got to do something about her. She’s an evil, meddlesome creature. I’m not the first man she’s struck down, milord.”
“I’m afraid there have been complaints about her before,” Osbert confided in Fawkes’s ear. “Several villagers have suggested she doesn’t always use her knowledge of herbs and simples for benign purposes. There has been talk of people who’ve crossed her falling sick or even dying.” He nodded gravely.
Fawkes motioned to the villein. “How do you know it was Glennyth who did this to you?”
“I came home one day to find her and my wife whispering together. Before she left, Glennyth gave me the evil eye. It was soon after that I discovered I could no longer…do what a man needs to do.”
“What do mean by the evil eye?” Fawkes asked. “Did she say something to you? Chant a spell?”
“Nay.” The man looked down at the ground and shuffled his feet. “She has a way of looking at you, as if you were a loathsome sort of bug and she is about to squish you. All I’m asking for is justice. I think you should banish her from the village.”
Fawkes realized he would have to pronounce some judgment, or the fellow would never leave. “I’ll speak to the woman, Glennyth,” he said.
The man nodded, although he looked dissatisfied. “Beware that she doesn’t do something to you, milord,” he finished sourly.
Other complaints and disputes followed, all insignificant matters. Fawkes had the sense the villagers simply wanted to see what sort of man he was. More than once he told the individuals involved they must find ways to work out things themselves. He wouldn’t concern himself with every missing pig or every cow that trampled a vegetable patch.
At last, the line of petitioners ended. Fawkes rose stiffly. “I vow, that is thirsty work.”
“Indeed, it is.” Osbert grinned at him. “Why don’t we go to Maude’s ale yard? At least until it’s time for the people to bring you gifts and for the corn queen to arrive.”
“Gifts? Corn queen?” Fawkes looked at the reeve in surprise.
“The gifts are nothing much, merely small tokens to show they honor you as lord. As for the corn queen, every year a maid is chosen to represent the fertility of the harvest. In the old days, in the Saxon tradition, all the men of the village would couple with her in the newly harvested field. Then they would ritually kill her, chop her body into pieces and plow it into the ground to ensure the next year’s harvest. Of course, we don’t do that now.”
“Jesu!” Fawkes exclaimed. “Those old Saxons were savages!”
“Not really,” Osbert said, defensively. “It was all done with reverence, and it was considered an honor for the maid chosen.”
Fawkes realized suddenly that Osbert was at least half Saxon, as were most of the people of Valmar. He’d best watch his tongue.
They entered the ale yard. Fawkes took a seat on the bench beside Reynard, and watched as Maude the alewife poured him a foaming tankard. “Are there any rituals involving the corn queen these days?” he asked, after taking a hearty swallow.
“Indeed there are.” Reynard spoke before Osbert could respond. “The maid is decked in flowers and necklaces of braided wheat grass. Then she is given to the lord of the castle for his pleasure.” A sly grin curved Reynard’s mouth.
Fawkes set down the tankard with a thud and turned to Osbert. “He’s jesting, isn’t he?”
“No, milord.” Osbert shook his head. “Although we haven’t observed the tradition for several years, the people wish to revive it.”
“But why?” Fawkes asked. “This year’s harvest seems bountiful enough. Why do they think it’s necessary to bring back what is obviously an old pagan rite?”
“You’re not a man who makes his living from the earth, milord.” Osbert gestured with broad, blunt-fingered hands. “Nature is fickle. One year the harvest is bountiful. The next, it fails. It doesn’t hurt to remember the old ways, to propitiate the old gods.”
“When will this…ceremony take place?”
“Oh, later in the day.” Osbert gave a careless wave. “There’s plenty of time for you to eat and drink your fill.”
Fawkes exchanged a glance with Reynard and took another swallow of ale. By the Cross, this was all he needed, to be forced to take another virgin to bed, and once again have no
choice in the matter! He well remembered what had happened the last time he was in these circumstances. A quick tumble, he’d thought, an easy means of winning the goodwill of his employer. Hah! That one incident, lasting little more than a candle hour, had been his downfall. He’d fallen in love with Nicola, and his life had not been the same since. But how was he to refuse this time? He didn’t want to offend the villagers.
And where was Nicola? Taking another deep draught, he glanced around. The village women, after fussing over the food table, had retired beneath one of the oaks with their sewing and spinning, to gossip and relax. The men congregated in another area to drink ale and discuss the weather and the crops, subjects of endless fascination to men who toiled in the earth. The village children were occupied in exuberant play. The older ones had devised a game using a stuffed pig’s bladder and sticks. One group batted the bladder toward the other group, which then sought to bat it back out of their territory.
The young men had gone down to the river to swim, and predictably enough, the maids had followed to watch. Fawkes imagined the young bucks showing off for their giggling, wide-eyed audience, entertaining them with fancy dives and daring acts, then making them shriek and run by splashing water at them. He well remembered those carefree days. No more, he thought resentfully. Now his life consisted of responsibility and duty, and a bewitching wife who was fast driving him to lunacy.
He looked around for Reynard and saw him beneath a tree, talking to Glennyth. Her stance was bold and the provocative expression on her face said that this was no maid to be cozened, but a grown woman who knew exactly what she wanted and was determined to get it. Perhaps this time Reynard had taken on more than he bargained for. Fawkes certainly hoped so.
His thoughts had again turned to Nicola when a woman came and asked him if he would judge the handiwork competition among the women of the village. Lady Nicola had always judged it, she said, but since she wasn’t there, they wished for him to do it. She led him to a table on which were arranged a dizzying array of braided belts, embroidery, colorful pieces of woven fabrics and other sorts of needle and weaving work. As he examined the things, all he could think of was Nicola.
He chose those pieces that appeared the most pleasing to the eye. To his dismay, the women who had made the things immediately insisted he accept them as gifts. He called for Osbert to gather up everything, then started to walk off, intending to find Reynard and ask him what he made of Nicola’s absence. Edith, the smith’s wife, stopped him. “Milord,” she said, sweetly, “the food is ready. We would like you to be the first to dine upon our humble fare.”
He was led to a table groaning with food. There were pickled eggs, fresh cheeses, griddle cakes seasoned with herbs, lampreys cooked in butter, dumplings in gravy, meat pasties, honey cakes with hazelnuts, spiced pasties and apple and blackberry tarts. As the women who had cooked all this bounty watched, he filled a wooden platter with food.
He tried to sample everything, lest he offend any of the women who prepared the repast. But he didn’t care for sweets, so he ignored the tarts. He was told he must have a blackberry one as it was traditional fare for Lammas. Another woman suggested a sort of seedcake. All the women giggled, and Edith, blushing, told him that the poppy and caraway seed topping was supposed to be an aphrodisiac.
Fawkes decided he might as well take one. He would need all the help he could get for the coming ritual. Finally he stepped back from the table. “Please, if you have any mercy, you won’t force me to eat anything else. I vow I’ll feel like the stuffed pig’s bladder the children are kicking about.”
The women laughed gaily.
He went back to the table beneath the oak and ate what he could. It was all delicious, better than the food at the banquets he had attended when he served King Richard. When he couldn’t eat another bite, he made his excuses and went to the midden heap behind the ale yard to relieve himself. All he could think about was Nicola. Where was she?
As he started back to the ale yard, he decided the villagers be damned, he was going to find her. Then he saw the miller and the smith coming toward him and knew he was trapped. “Milord, it’s time,” the smith said, grinning. “You and the corn queen will eat the first loaf and then go off together.”
“Don’t look so sour,” the miller added. “You’ve not seen the corn queen yet. She’s a ripe, juicy piece. Myself, I’d give my right ball for the chance to swive her.”
When the girl was brought to him, Fawkes had to agree she was a beauty. Her hair was the pale hue of fresh butter. Her eyes, cornflower-blue. Her slim figure was arrayed in masses of flowers, with a chaplet of woven wheat encircling her head like a crown. But for all her fresh, blushing beauty, she did not move him.
He took his place beside her near the center of the common, and as the villagers and a few of his knights gathered around, he broke the steaming-hot loaf and took a bite, then offered some to the girl. It was maislin bread, dark, rich and chewy, unlike the refined wheat bread served at the castle. As he ate, the people cheered before stepping forward to take their own shares of bread.
The girl took his hand. “Come.”
The corn queen led him to one of the finer houses near the river. He followed, trying to think how he could gracefully refuse to bed her. They entered the dwelling. Inside, the hard-packed floor had been swept clean, the walls whitewashed, all the foodstuffs and cooking things arranged neatly near the hearth. There was a plank table, a bench and two stools in the main room. As he glanced around the dim interior, thinking he should find a lamp or candle, she grabbed his hand and tried to pull him toward the ladder that led to the loft.
“Wait,” he said. She was obviously nervous. Her hand felt clammy and cold in his, and the pulse in her throat was rapid. “We must talk first.”
She shook her head. “They expect this.” She pulled on his hand again. When he resisted, she cried out, “Please! Let us finish the thing!”
Her words flung him back into the past, back to another virgin who waited for him to deflower her, another woman who urged him to hurry, that the thing might be finished quickly. But that woman had spoken like a queen ordering a servant. This woman sounded hysterical.
He removed her clutching fingers from his hand. “What’s your name? Tell me.”
“Alwen, my name’s Alwen,” she gasped. “Oh, please. Come to bed! Do it now!”
“Nay, I will not.” He grasped her by the shoulder and shook her gently. “I don’t want to do this either. I’m a Christian; I don’t believe in these old pagan ways. Besides, I don’t want to get a bastard on you.”
All at once, she began to weep. At first, he could not tell if it was relief or disappointment. Then she began to babble. He was so kind, she said, to spare her. She had a sweetheart already and she feared he would not feel the same way about her, knowing another man had had her. Besides, she sobbed, she was not a maid anyway. Johnny had taken her down by the river and he had done it to her. It had hurt, but he promised it would get better. Was that true? Would it feel better next time?
Fawkes stared down at this lovely woman-girl, her tear-filled eyes wide and rapt as she waited for his reassurance, and almost groaned aloud. He felt like the most cynical, hardened man in creation. He wanted to tell her that her Johnny was probably a crude, stupid lout who didn’t deserve her. That he would never give her any pleasure, but grunt and groan and sweat over her and get her with a babe every year until her looks were ruined. And then, once she was not so fair, he would leer after that year’s corn queen and say crude things like the miller had.
Instead, he said, “Yea, it will get better.”
She gave a little sigh and hugged him. He gently pushed her away. “Now, go throw your crown and your garlands upstairs on one of the pallets. I’ll find a way out the back for you, and after a while I’ll go out the front and make a show of adjusting my clothing and grinning like a man well-satisfied.”
She hugged him again, then climbed the ladder with the agile grace of a chi
ld. Fawkes stood in the empty room and caught his breath. He was aroused. Who would not be with that exquisite young woman pressing close? But he did not regret his decision. That his own life had turned out sourly did not mean he had to crush the youthful hopes of others. Let them find out for themselves how unsatisfying love really was.
****
“Oh, Simon, you’ve grown so much!” Nicola felt tears prick her eyelids as she held out her arms. So quickly the time was passing. Her son was not a baby anymore.
Simon hugged her back, his bright blue eyes round and curious.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
He nodded. “You bring sweets.”
Harsh pain shafted through her. That she must buy her son’s love with confections. “That’s true, my darling. I bring you sweets. This time I have brought you some blackberry tarts. Do you like tarts?”
Simon nodded. She offered him the basket the Valmar cook had prepared. He took out a pastry and concentrated on eating it. Nicola looked up and met Hilary’s gaze. A few years older than Nicola, Hilary had soft hazel eyes, reddish-blonde hair and a mild manner.
“He’s growing so fast,” Nicola choked out.
“That he is.” Hilary smiled. “He talks more and more every day. Quite a chatterbox he’s become.”
Simon finished cramming the tart into his mouth and swallowed. He turned to Hilary. “Mama? Joanie like tarts.” He nodded wisely.
“Of course, love, go fetch her,” Hilary responded. “Hurry now.”
As Simon rushed from the solar, little legs churning, Nicola let out a sob.
“I’m sorry,” Hilary whispered. “He began calling me Mama a while ago, and I had not the heart to correct him.”
Nicola nodded. “I wouldn’t want him to think he doesn’t have a mother.” Her heart was breaking. She knew this day would come. If only she did not have to hide the truth from everyone, even her son.
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