‘Your father was a pilgrim to Jerusalem?’
‘Of a kind,’ I said. ‘He left after my mother died, and spent years there. Our manor steward Osbeorn and his wife were the ones who raised me for the years while he was gone. When my father returned, he was almost a stranger to me.’
‘I did not know that, my lady. What adventures your father must have had!’
‘Indeed.’ I looked down at the bundle of worn cloth. ‘I will take this, too. It is one of the few things I have left with which to remember my father.’
Chapter Two
I went to the chapel early in the morning on the day we were to depart. I wanted to pray at the graves of Lady Adelie, Stephen and the children. In the past few months I had barely thought of them, and I was overcome with guilt that I should now be going to court when, truly, they had been better suited for such a life.
The chapel was brightly lit with candles. I took one of them, walking quietly down the centre of the nave to where Stephen lay buried under the heartstone of the chapel.
I stood there a long while, praying, and in contemplation of Stephen. What would Stephen think, to see me married to his father? And carrying his brother or sister? What would he have said, knowing that I had loved him? I still felt great guilt that I had survived and he not.
Tears threatened, and I stepped back, whispering a goodbye, before moving to Lady Adelie’s grave in one of the aisles. What would she have thought, seeing me take her place in her husband’s bed, assuming her titles? I could imagine her saying something gracious, but with internal reflection shadowing her eyes. I think she would have feared that I might fail in my duty, somehow.
In turn I visited the gravestones of the other children: Alice, Emmette, Rosamund and John.
I prayed for them all, and for me, for three of them had died from my own hand.
‘Lady Maeb.’
I turned about, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Owain approached, looking weary and wan, as if he had been up all night, praying. I suddenly realised how much I would miss him. Owain had become a true friend and I would be the worse for lack of his counsel in London.
‘I will miss you,’ I said.
‘And I you. Remember, always, that Pengraic is your home. Your true home. Do not be seduced by the wonders and gaiety of court.’
‘Court terrifies me,’ I muttered, then spoke a little louder. ‘Owain, I bear so much guilt.’ I gestured at the graves of the two little ones, and Stephen. ‘I wonder what will become of me, what tragedies I must bear, to atone.’
‘You did what was needed, Maeb. Those who died would have thanked you for it. I carry no guilt for what I did, which was no more than you — rather, much worse.’
‘But I worry God will never forget, despite my confession and penance and your absolution. I fear I will be damned.’
Owain looked as if he struggled with himself, trying to find the right words to say. Finally, he spoke. ‘There are many others who weigh the goodness and the evils of souls, Maeb. You acted out of love. That will always stand as your defence.’
I shrugged, thinking Owain’s words only falsehoods meant to comfort me. ‘I fear I will lose this child, as punishment for what I have done. Or lose Raife.’
Owain stepped forward and placed his hands on my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake. ‘You will not be called on to atone for what you did, Maeb!’
I still did not believe him, but I spoke out of love for him and also that he would not worry for me. ‘You are a comfort to me, Owain. What shall I do without you?’
‘There are priests aplenty in London and Westminster.’
‘But none of them are you.’
‘No. None of them are me.’
Owain started to say something else, but just then there was a step at the door.
We turned to look. It was three women from the village — I knew their faces but not their names. Two were young, my age perhaps, but one was older, carrying a basket, and it was she who stepped forward.
‘Priest,’ she said, ‘we have an offering. May we enter?’
‘Of course, Eada,’ Owain said. ‘You are always welcome.’
She smiled at him, and then at me. ‘My lady, you are most welcome here, too. You have that way about you.’
I was so astounded by this statement that I could not reply. I managed to give the women a nod and a smile as they passed, then turned to Owain. ‘What —?’
He put a finger to his lips. ‘Shush, Maeb. Just watch a moment.’
I was still struggling to understand why Eada should have said I was welcome here — by God, I was the countess of this castle and, apart from my husband, there was no one with more right to be here.
Then I went stiff. The three women had gone straight to Stephen’s grave, to the ancient heartstone of the chapel. There Eada set down her basket and the women took out meadow flowers, kissing each one before laying them down gently, one by one, to form a circle about the stone.
‘What are they doing?’ I murmured to Owain.
‘Honouring Stephen, as also the Old People,’ he said.
I remembered he had said once that the village people liked to come and lay flowers here. But at the altar, surely?
And then I thought: this heartstone is their altar, not the Christian stone under the cross.
The women had finished laying out their flowers now, and paused, bowing their heads as they laid their hands over their hearts.
I was touched. ‘They know that is Stephen’s grave?’
Owain hesitated, then nodded. ‘They honour Stephen as much as they do the Old People,’ he said.
Then Eada reached into the basket and, to my horror, lifted out a dead cockerel and laid it in the very heart of the stone.
The bird was only freshly killed, for blood oozed across the stone where Eada had laid its corpse.
I opened my mouth to speak, to voice my horror, but Owain caught me by the arm and squeezed it tight as the women, now done, approached us.
Eada’s mouth twitched as she saw my appalled face. ‘For the wolves, my lady. For the wolves.’
And then she and her companions were gone out the door.
‘For the wolves?’ I hissed.
Owain nodded toward the walls. ‘You remember the wolves in the paintings. I told you that in ancient times people believed that the wolves were their protectors. The villagers still believe so, and like to appease the wolves in the mountains that Crickhoel may be spared their angry ravages.’
I remembered then the dream I’d had when I was dying, of the wolves who snapped at my heels and prevented me moving completely into death.
‘They are no protectors of mine,’ I said.
‘Do not fret. I will remove both flowers and cockerel.’
‘Just the cockerel, perhaps,’ I said.
He laughed, then leaned forward and laid a gentle kiss on my forehead. ‘Go in peace, Maeb. Do not worry about the ancient legends. Look after that child and husband of yours. And remember that Pengraic always waits here for you as refuge, should you need it.’
We travelled to London by the same route we had, so many months previous, travelled from Oxeneford to Pengraic. As Raife had said, we journeyed more slowly than when Stephen had led us westward, partly because Raife did not want to risk the child, and partly because our train was so large — ten carts, a hundred and sixty soldiers, knights, servants, grooms and two minstrels Raife had contracted to entertain us along the way.
Additionally, the further east we travelled, we acquired almost a score and four of pilgrims who travelled with us for the protection we afforded. Three parties were travelling to Saint Edmund’s Burie and then on to Walsingaham; another party to the tomb of Edward the Confessor in Westminster; others yet much further afield, to shrines in Europe, and even Jerusalem. All were glad to have the protection offered by the earl’s column as it travelled toward London, and the pilgrims themselves provided us with much entertainment in the evenings as they told us their tales.
/> But in many places it was grim travelling. On our journey we passed two villages which had burned entirely to the ground, most of their residents carried off by the plague. In other places, a house here and there may have burned, but most buildings still stood, even if many of the buildings, or the whole village, were now deserted.
It was not unusual to see flocks of sheep, pigs or cattle left to fend for themselves, or stray, starving dogs that the soldiers had to beat away from our column. There were people, too, on the road, who passed hollow-eyed and thin, their clothes worn and ragged. They rarely gave us a glance, and did not respond to greetings, as if they had lost any connection to this world, even though they still lived within it.
The monks in the monasteries where we stayed, or the lords of manors who offered us shelter for the night, warned us of parties of brigands. Men left desperate after losing everything during the plague, and now resorting to stealing and thieving to feed themselves. Despite the warnings, we were never troubled by them. I think the sheer size of our column, and the number of soldiers and knights who travelled with us, meant that any brigands kept to the forests, perhaps coveting our riches with their eyes, but not daring to attack.
Many of the towns we passed through had been damaged by the plague. Monemude and Glowecestre both had swathes of their housing blackened and burned, although the majority of their towns had survived.
Cirecestre, however, was almost totally ruined. Here it was easier to count the houses left standing, not the ones lost. We rode through the town in absolute silence, everyone overcome with the horror of what had happened, everyone imagining what it must have been like — the plague triumphant, and the town afire. Here and there men made the effort to rebuild, but I thought it would be a lifetime before the town existed again in any measure of normality.
Thus sorrow marked our journey. Everywhere we rode the plague reminded us of its grim toll. Everywhere we stayed we heard more stories of the suffering. Every family house and monastery we overnighted at was the lesser in number because of the plague than it had been when we’d passed through on the journey toward Pengraic. There was one monastery which offered Raife and myself a bed for the night — the bed was scorched although still sound, and it sickened us so much we slept on the floor.
Saints knew what lived in its mattress.
It was if we travelled to London along a vast, open wound which still suppurated anguish.
I prayed that the plague had indeed worn itself out. That, having taken what it wanted, it had now slunk back to whatever hell had spawned it. I did not think the country and its people could survive another onslaught.
After we’d passed Oxeneford, the land was better off. Here the plague had bypassed the hamlets and peoples, and most appeared bright and well. Peasants were in the fields bringing in the harvest, or driving their pigs into the forests to gorge on acorns before the Christmastide slaughter. Here was another world, the world I had forgot, and even though I had my concerns about court, somehow these contented lands relaxed me and I became happier the closer we came to London.
I allowed myself to believe that all my troubles lay behind me. I allowed myself to believe that I had a future as Raife’s wife. I allowed myself to dream of a life bouncing his babies on my knee, and watching them grow untroubled and beloved in a bright, unshadowed meadow.
I was very young then, and naïve.
The day we approached London was dark and gloomy and cold, for autumn had started to descend. By the time we rode through the tiny hamlet of Hamestede and neared the city, the occasional showers of earlier in the day settled into a steady drizzle that soaked through our mantles and froze our hands. I was half agog to see London ahead of me (drifting in and out of the rainclouds) and half desperate to find a warm chamber with a roaring fire.
Raife, riding close, looked at me in worry. ‘You are exhausted,’ he said. ‘It has been a long day,’ I said. As it had. We had risen at dawn and left not long after in the effort to reach London before dark. Now it was approaching dusk.
‘We will ride straight to my house on Cornhill,’ he said. ‘Another hour, two at the most, and we will be there. The steward has been warned of our arrival and will have the house bright and warm and a meal awaiting.’
Thank the saints for stewards, I thought. But an hour or two more? That meant we would not arrive until well after dark.
‘Which way is Westminster?’ I asked, trying to show some enthusiasm for Raife’s sake.
He pointed almost due south. ‘That way. On Thorney Isle. Edmond has a goodly enough palace there.’
‘We should not ride there first, as a courtesy?’ I desperately hoped not. I was exhausted, and I did not think I could cope with the complexities of court, nor with being polite and courteous, when I felt so fatigued and sore and sick to my stomach. Today my pregnancy wearied me immensely. I had not been able to keep any food down, and my temper was snappish and hot.
Raife shook his head. ‘No. We will go straight to the house. It is too late to pay Edmond a visit now. Time enough tomorrow for courtesy.’
I was so relieved I almost wept. Dulcette had a sweet pace, but right now I only wanted to get off her back and collapse onto a bed. Food and fires be damned … all I wanted was the bed.
Raife reached across and briefly laid a silent hand on my shoulder. That gesture of care was enough to undo me, and I spent the rest of the ride to London snuffling childishly and surreptitiously wiping away my tears.
We entered London through Lud Gate. Despite my exhaustion I roused enough to gaze about me. I had never seen the like of this! Immense red-brick walls punctuated by high towers surrounded the city, and as soon as we were through and riding up Lud Hill my gaze was drawn to a space further up the road, atop the hill, where arose what looked to be the unfinished building of a cathedral.
‘Saint Paul’s,’ said Raife as we rode by. ‘It burned down a generation ago and is only slowly being rebuilt. But there is enough there now, a nave and the choir, to worship. One day it will be numbered among the greatest cathedrals of Christendom.’
We rode on. I was amazed by the number of streets, the buildings — both timber and stone — that rose everywhere, the churches, the markets, the warehouses. I had never imagined anywhere so huge! At this time of night, and in this weather, there were few people on the streets, but I imagined that during the day there would be a constant bustle of people. Once past the cathedral we turned onto a long market street — West Cheap, Raife informed me — until eventually we came to a fork where three streets joined with the Cheap. We took the middle street, climbing a gentle hill and then, wonderfully, just over the crest of the hill, we turned into the courtyard of a large stone house and we were at the earl’s home in London.
I was so stiff I could barely move and Raife had to lift me bodily from Dulcette’s back. He held me about the waist on the ground as I tried to get my balance, and only reluctantly let me go when I said I was all right.
The courtyard was a-bustle with men, horses, dogs, and servants emerging out of the house. A man came up to Raife almost immediately, bowing and welcoming him into the house.
‘This is Robert fitzErfast,’ Raife said to me. ‘The house steward.’
‘Welcome, countess,’ fitzErfast said, bowing. ‘Your chamber is ready for you, and a meal if you wish.’
He led us inside, first into a small enclosed porch, then into a hall that, while nowhere near the size of those at Rosseley and Pengraic, was nonetheless commodious with a lovely high ceiling. At the far end of the hall we went through another door, climbed a circular stone staircase, and, after moving through several other chambers and a large solar, finally found ourselves in a spacious privy chamber, its fire blazing and a bed enticingly draped and hung with soft woollens, linens and embroideries.
I sat down on a chair with a thump, pulling off my mantle with tired, jerky movements. ‘I have a woman, Evelyn Kendal,’ I said to fitzErfast. ‘She cannot be far away. Can you have someone find her an
d send her to me?’
‘Immediately, my lady,’ fitzErfast said, and started for the door. ‘FitzErfast,’ Raife said, just before the steward vanished, ‘send also one of the servants to Westminster Palace to let the king know, either now or when he rises in the morning, of my arrival. I am sure he is well informed anyway, but the servant will be a courtesy.’
FitzErfast hesitated. ‘The king is not at Westminster, my lord earl,’ he said.
‘Not at Westminster? Lord God, fitzErfast, do not tell me we have ridden all this way for naught!’
‘Not at Westminster,’ fitzErfast said, ‘but at the Tower.’
‘The Tower?’ Raife hesitated, staring unbelievingly at fitzErfast for a heartbeat, then he strode over to the chamber’s window and flung open the shutters.
Despite my fatigue, I rose and walked over to see.
There, in the not-so-far distance across some fields, a commanding square tower rose into the night, lights gleaming from behind its narrow slit windows.
‘He has gone to the Conqueror’s Tower,’ muttered Raife. ‘Why? Why?’
Chapter Three
I rose in the pre-dawn darkness, wrapping myself in a soft woollen coverlet as I made my way to the privy set into the thick stone walls of the house. When I came back to bed and slid once more under the warm covers, Raife pulled me close, complaining sleepily about my cold skin. We lay for a while in silence, both of us awake, before Raife spoke.
‘How do you feel this morning, wife?’
‘Better for the night’s rest,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘Do we need to go to court today?’
His arm tightened about me momentarily as he gave me a gentle hug. ‘I will go, but you may stay here and rest if you wish. I will pass onto Edmond your flatteries and excuses.’
I laughed softly. ‘Thank you, husband.’
‘You must eat today.’
‘I will, I promise. A day spent in a chair rather than on Dulcette’s back will work miracles on my appetite.’ I was touched by his kindness (and relieved that I did not have to attend court), and turned over in his arms to kiss him softly.
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