Viking Hostage

by Warr, Tracey;

  ‘This hall is in a terrible mess and poor Mother is exhausted and dejected again,’ she told Guy in a low voice.

  ‘Can you help her?’ he murmured back. ‘I can manage.’ They were at the doorway and Guy reached his fingers to the cold stone reassurance of the doorjamb.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Adalmode asked doubtfully. The ring of swordplay in the bailey struck her ears and she looked to where their brothers Hildegaire and Aimery were practicing.

  ‘Yes, go and help Mother.’

  She watched anxiously as Guy felt his way down the steps, his hand tracing the rough stones of the wall as his guide. She knew he was surefooted in a place such as this, that was familiar, and yet she liked to stick to him as much as possible. ‘Hildegaire is on the left and Aimery the right,’ she called softly to him, as he reached the cobbles. ‘Sergeant Rufus has set up the quintain and practice rings to the left of the well. Aimery is winning.’ Guy smiled back in her direction but his gaze did not quite connect with her eyes. She knew her face was just a blur to him and he was locating her from the vivid red of her dress, which she wore deliberately that he might pick her out in a crowd or at a distance.

  ‘I’ll come back and help you when I’ve seen to Mother,’ she said and Guy turned his face towards the sound of his brothers’ fighting. Adalmode returned to the chaos of the hall, calling crossly to a gossiping huddle of maids as she passed: ‘The state of this hall is a disgrace. I feel sure that I have spiders living in my hair. Get it cleaned immediately! Swipe the cobwebs from the corners and strew fresh rushes. I want to see the stone flags gleaming and to smell rosemary within the hour!’ The girls jumped to their feet, making apologies and yeses, bumping into each other as they hunted for brooms that lent and lay neglected in the corners.

  Adalmode walked back to where her mother was still hunched over the trestle. She wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders, laid her cheek against Rothilde’s and felt cold tears there. ‘All will soon be …’ Adalmode began but she was interrupted by the sudden loud scream of a baby and felt her mother flinch. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go and fetch her,’ Adalmode said. She ran to the cradle, lifting her baby sister, Calva, rocking and cooing and then called for the wetnurse. ‘Gerda, Gerda, where are you? Calva needs you.’ Gerda came running and took the grisling baby from Adalmode, placing her to her breast so that everyone in the hall relaxed again as the insistent wail was abruptly switched off. Adalmode sat down next to her mother and took her hand.

  ‘Thank you my love,’ Rothilde said, ‘you are such a good girl.’ She smoothed a stray curling lock of Adalmode’s honey-gold hair behind her ear. ‘Your father’s plea for reinstatement has been refused again,’ she sighed, explaining her particular dejection this morning. Adalmode had already heard the news from Guy who had attended their father in his audience with the Duke. They had all hoped so earnestly that this year, finally, Gerard would be returned to his rights.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked. Many years before, Adalmode’s grandfather had chosen the wrong side to support in the battle between Ebles Mancer, Count of Poitou and his rivals, the Counts of Toulouse and Auvergne, in their struggle over the throne of Aquitaine. As a consequence her grandfather had lost his family rights to the rich holdings of the Viscounty of Limoges. All her life, Adalmode’s father had been trying to convince Guillaume, the present Count of Poitou and Duke of Aquitaine, of his loyalty. Every year he sued for the restitution of Limoges, but always returned from the assemblies empty-handed. Meanwhile his family grew and the meagre resources at Montignac where they were exiled, grew no larger. Her father’s chances of restitution from the Duke were not helped by his reckless kidnap of her mother for wife, and the Duke was still bearing a grudge for this too.

  It was a romantic story that her parents liked to tell to their gathered children and retainers, but it had worsened the family’s situation. In the days when Adalmode’s grandfather was still in favour with the Poitou overlords, still the Viscount of Limoges, Gerard was betrothed to Rothilde, heiress to the rich castle of Brosse, but when Adalmode’s grandfather fell out of favour, the Duke reneged on the betrothal oath and married Rothilde to Archimbaud of Camborn instead. Adalmode’s father lost the Viscounty and the wealthy bride that should have been his. When Rothilde was widowed, instead of watching her married to yet another man, Gerard rashly abducted and married her himself. This act further entrenched the Duke’s disgust and impoverished Rothilde. Now there were eleven children and the soup grew thinner and thinner and the Duke’s face did not grow any friendlier to Gerard.

  The blessing of her parents’ fertility should have been the envy of their neighbours but instead it stressed the family’s severely constrained resources. Every year, more servants and soldiers left them for better conditions elsewhere, and every year Adalmode and her mother must do more of the work themselves. Rothilde whispered to Adalmode that she prayed to God, Calva would be her last child.

  Adalmode’s older brothers should have left home long ago to be apprenticed to neighbouring lords but nobody wanted to take the sons of a disgraced family. Guy tried to find positive solutions to their dilemma, but Hildegaire grew angrier, along with their father, bitterly watching as Duke Guillaume allowed their cousin, Ademar of Ségur, to administer their birthright in Limoges and grow rich on it.

  Of course, Adalmode, thought glumly, just as no one will take the sons, who would want the undowried daughters of Gerard and Rothilde? Adalmode’s betrothal should be in negotiation by now. Would she have to be married off to the cloddish son of the castellan who looked at her golden hair with lust and would touch her rudely as she passed if it were not for the threats and fists of her brothers, or would she have to go into a nunnery? She wanted to stay with Guy always, but she knew that a marriage to someone significantly lower in status was her likely fate, and soon. Her brother, Hilduin, went to the monks last year, as soon as her father could scrape together the necessary endowment for him, and Geoffrey and little Hugh, the youngest boys at eleven and three, would join him in the monastery before long.

  Last year Adalmode and Guy accompanied their father to the Assembly at Poitiers. When her father petitioned for the return of Limoges the Duke said, ‘Show me some true allegiance, and I’ll reward that, but for now all I see before me is the son of a traitor, a kidnapper defying me.’ Gerard prostrated himself in supplication in vain. Once out of the Duke’s sight and earshot, Adalmode watched her father shout, kick and smash their paltry possessions in his anger at the Duke’s refusal. ‘I would sooner eat grass in the mountains than spend one more day at this court!’ he yelled.

  ‘This is not the way, Father,’ Guy told him. Her brother was near-blind but far from stupid. He listened intently to the currents and eddies of debate and nuance around him.

  ‘What is the way then?’ shouted their father. ‘You know this way do you boy?’

  ‘I can make a suggestion,’ said Guy.

  His father kicked the chest once more doing more damage to himself than the solid wood, swept a few more of their mother’s precious goblets to the ground, and slumped into a chair. Guy waited. Eventually his father looked up. ‘You’re still here. Speak it then – your suggestion.’

  ‘The Duke’s priest was assaulted just recently and blinded by Helie of La Marche.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ said Gerard. ‘The entire country knows that Helie of La Marche attacked the unarmed priest Benedict. Of what interest is it to me if La Marche cannot control his sons?’

  ‘If you captured Helie, brought him to justice,’ said Guy, ‘Duke Guillaume would reward you.’

  A long silence followed whilst Gerard considered this. Adalmode saw that her father was looking intently at Guy. ‘That’s brilliant, boy,’ said Gerard finally, ‘That could work.’

  Gerard and Guy sent spies to search out Helie. They found him with his brother Audebert in the forest of Gençay, not daring to go home after Helie’s sacrilegious act, the smoke of their fire giving away their position, a small
group of men huddled around it. Gerard and Guy quietly surrounded the camp and captured the two La Marche sons without bloodshed. Guy told Adalmode that he sat his horse and hoped he would not be required to engage in any serious combat, and on this occasion he had been lucky. The stealth and surprise paid off. Helie and Audebert languished now in the dungeon.

  Helie of La Marche’s crime had outraged the counties, the story told in horror from hall to hall. Gerard held the La Marche boys at the pleasure of the Duke, and at some considerable risk of reprisal and rescue from their pugnacious father, the Count of La Marche.

  ‘What did the Duke say about the captives?’ Adalmode asked her mother.

  ‘He was pleased,’ Rothilde said, ‘but that’s all. He promised nothing and simply told your father to continue their captivity.’

  Adalmode sighed. The cost of mounting the foray had been a tremendous gamble urged by Guy and the risk of keeping them captive was more than the impoverished family could really bear. The Duke’s wily prevarications, playing one vassal off against another and giving nothing, were notorious. ‘If Duke Guillaume will not reward us with the return of our birthright to Limoges, then Father must treat with the Count of La Marche for their ransom,’ said Adalmode. She feared for the young man she recently saw in the pit – so cheerful despite his dire situation. Her father could not afford to keep them for long and perhaps if the gambit failed he would hang them in disappointed anger, but then that would exacerbate the feuding that already existed between her family and that of the Count of La Marche, leaving her family worse off, torn between two infuriated lords.

  The troop of Adalmode’s younger brothers and sisters burst loudly into the room. Adalmode rose rapidly to manage them and keep them from upsetting her mother. The children settled to play in the fresh rushes on the floor, drawing circles, faces and wavy lines with their fingers in the sweetly pungent dust. Adalmode realised she should check on the dubious military exploits of Guy outside in the bailey. At the door she turned back to ask her mother, ‘Why is the La Marche younger brother in the dungeon too?’

  ‘Because they are both violent ruffians who laid murderous hands on a sainted man of God,’ Rothilde replied.

  ‘He told me his name is Audebert.’

  ‘Yes …’ Rothilde began. ‘You talked to them? What are you doing talking to them? I forbid you to go near there again.’

  Adalmode looked innocently at her mother, her green eyes wide, and resolved that she would take a basket of the last pears from the orchard for the young man with the funny black hair, the red smiling mouth and the brilliant blue eyes, and perhaps she would put her second-best ivory comb in the basket too.

  In the bailey Guy was wearing chain mail over the training gambeson that bulked him up, and a beautifully crafted sword, an heirloom from his grandfather from the days when the family ruled Limoges, with its green jewelled hilt knocking against his thigh. Guy liked how his high black boots with their metal inlaid soles, rang out his steps on the cobbles. A breeze ruffled his brown hair. He felt the slight warmth of the early morning sun on his face. He looked out onto the bailey with large dark brown eyes and saw next to nothing: a wash of grey and black, splashes of green here and there, a small and low dark movement that must be the cat, a melee of pink and brown movement in the centre of the courtyard near the vague shape of the well, that must be his brothers Hildegaire and Aimery at practice. Guy heard the ring of their weapons, their heavy breathing and occasional shouts of triumph or grunts of defeat. He heard the water dripping from the leaky bucket hung over the well resounding in the pool far below. He heard a bird squawk overhead. He heard a woman’s voice singing off to his left – one of the servants washing or cooking.

  Guy could glean a great deal with his ears, with the touch of his fingertips, even feeling shifts in the textures beneath his feet. He could sense the proximity of obstacles and people. He knew every inch of Montignac fortress having learnt the steps, the twists and turns, the routes, but outside of his familiar environments, he needed to rely on his sister to avoid exposure. Visiting Poitiers, it had taken him days to learn the alien spaces and too long to find his way from one place to another. ‘What is wrong with you boy?’ demanded his father. ‘You have been lax of late.’ Guy’s sensitive hearing picked up the muffled snort of derision that Hildegaire thought he was sharing only with himself. Any loss of standing on Guy’s part, Hildegaire saw as his own gain.

  Now Hildegaire called from the courtyard: ‘Join us Guy! Give that fancy sword an outing for once, instead of playing with girls.’

  ‘Yes join us,’ echoed Aimery in a voice more friendly than Hildegaire’s sarcasm.

  ‘Not now, I have to practice with Rufus,’ Guy replied but he crossed the bailey and stood close to the panting fighters. He could smell their sweat. He saw that Hildegaire’s shape was low and huddled, so he must be bent over, with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. ‘Aimery bested you again,’ Guy guessed.

  ‘Yes!’ exclaimed Aimery, pleased with himself and Guy saw that Aimery held out his arm towards Hildegaire. ‘A good fight though, Hild.’

  Hildegaire did not take the proffered hand but instead straightened up and stalked off, kicking a pebble in his path that ricocheted against the stone of the well. Guy listened to the trajectory of the pebble and the way its sound continued to vibrate for seconds afterwards. He walked to his saddled horse to train with Rufus, the castle’s sergeant-at-arms. Rufus had done his best over the years to improve on Guy’s profound incapability.

  ‘Scandere equos,’ shouted Rufus. Guy used his hand to steady the horse, find the stirrup and step up into it. ‘Remember, sire, stick solidly to the saddle, you are forming a veritable iron-clad whole with your horse.’ In the saddle Guy was confident, in silent communication with his mount, using his knees and relying on the horse’s skills and practice, if not his own.

  He swung his lance in the direction of the practice ring. He knew its rough location, could see the outline of the contraption, and was satisfied to feel his lance connect with the dangling ring, not well, not in the centre, but somewhere in the vicinity rather than with the air for once. That was good enough.

  ‘Well done, my lord, a hit,’ called the sergeant. The oldest son in a family, the heir, needed to be strong and capable, not only to withstand the enemies without but to withstand the enemies within: six brothers and the future husbands of four sisters. Any of them might gladly step on him to get their hands on the throne of Limoges, if their father ever succeeded in regaining it, and if any of them knew the truth about his eyesight, they would do just that. Guy could not see much beyond the end of his nose. To read he had to hold a book or parchment right up to his eyes. His humiliations on the practice ground were notorious. Hildegaire told him yesterday that he would gladly see Guy in a monastery, ‘where weaklings belong.’

  Guy was shocked at the blasphemy. ‘A monk is not a weakling,’ he said, ‘he is stronger and braver than you or I, abjuring this world to purify his soul for the next, for the kingdom of Heaven.’

  ‘Why not go into a monastery if you feel that way?’ retorted Hildegaire.

  Guy admired the discipline and devotion of the monks but he did not want to be one of them. He was the eldest son, the heir. To inherit his father’s viscounty was his right, and he knew that he could do a good job of it, if the family were ever reinstated.

  Adalmode ran down the steps to the bailey to see Guy turning his horse from the quintain and looked with pity at her brother’s knobbled knees below his heavy chainmail and his scrawny forearms struggling to wield the weight of the lance.

  ‘No, no, master Guy,’ shouted Rufus, ‘lift it higher,’ and Guy made an effort to comply.

  Adalmode sighed. She knew the drill, had been watching Guy’s training for years, and with her lithe, strong body she could perform it much better than her brother. His hair was flattened in places at the back of his head, and sticking up in tufts on the top. He obviously woke late and had not had time to run a
damp comb through it.

  ‘That’ll do for today, Lord Guy,’ Rufus said, looking decidedly unimpressed.

  Guy smiled broadly in the direction of Adalmode and she ran to help him pull off the oily chainmail. He winched up a bucket of water from the well, lent over to grope for the rope and pulled the bucket towards himself, sluicing the sweat from his face and chest. ‘That’s over with for another day then,’ he said cheerfully, taking her hand and strolling with her towards the castle’s postern gate that let out in the direction of the wooded banks of the river.

  The sun was sparkling on the water’s surface but the season was turning to autumn and the water was chilly now. Today, instead of wading in as they sometimes did, they strolled along the bank in the dappled shade. Three ducks floated by effortlessly in the current and turned their heads curiously towards them. A large fish leapt and plopped back down so fast Adalmode wondered if she had actually seen it. The creak of frogs and insects buzzed in the air. Guy bent down at the water’s edge to dip his hands in and run them over his grimy face and tousled hair, glancing up and now looking sleek as an otter. ‘Lovely,’ he said.