Viking Hostage

by Warr, Tracey;

  ‘Thank you Duke, for your justice,’ young Helie was saying as Guillaume moved past him.

  ‘Justice!’ he heard Adalmode spit incredulously behind him and he quickened his pace to get through the door and away.

  That evening Guillaume sat in his chamber with a tremendous blaze in the hearth. It was a little too hot, and he was a little drunk he admitted to himself. He heard a noise at the door and looking up was surprised to see Adalmode standing there, swathed from her shoulders to her naked ankles in a heavy shawl and wearing thin silver slippers on her feet. Her hair was loose and he saw the threads of white in it now at her temples. There were tiny crease lines at the corners of her eyes and her mouth, yet she was still the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever seen. She never came to him of her own free will. He always had to go to her and she never received him with anything except duty and revulsion.

  ‘My Lady?’

  She stepped into the room.

  ‘Some wine?’ he asked. He found this usually helped in their marital encounters and could almost create the impression sometimes that she was a willing recipient beneath him. She shook her head and he swallowed at the cold expression on her face.

  The room was very hot and she let the shawl slip a little from her shoulders and throat. Beneath the shawl she wore only a low nightgown of thin white cotton and Guillaume looked hungrily at the swell of her breasts, her skin a golden-olive warmed in the firelight.

  ‘Are you here to render your marriage debt to me, wife?’

  ‘No I am here to treat with you.’ She shook her head at his gesture to the stool close to him. ‘Repudiate me,’ she said bluntly. ‘If you will not let me go to Bellac as Regent, then repudiate me and I will go into a nunnery.’

  ‘Er,’ Guillaume was thrown by this unexpected request. ‘Er, do sit down wife, please.’ Reluctantly she sat and he poured wine for them both. He threw back his own wine in one gulp. She did not touch hers.

  ‘I cannot do that Adalmode,’ he said, leaning forward and clasping her hand tightly, though she tried to extract it. ‘I love you. You are my dear wife.’

  She wrenched her hand free and red scratches where visible on her fingers where she had scrapped her flesh against his rings. She sat back looking coldly at him, saying nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry if I have pained you with my decisions today …’

  ‘You are not.’

  ‘They are for the best, dear. Your son is young yet.’

  ‘You deliberately divided his father’s inheritance. You rob him and you have robbed me every day for the last six years with your lies. You renege on the promises you made at our marriage. If necessary, I will ask Count Fulk and my brother to enforce your promises that they were witnesses to.’

  ‘I think we should renew our marriage debt, now,’ he said, furious at her threat. He saw her mouth set and her hand grip the arm of the chair. What was the point in trying to woo her, hoping she might willingly return his feelings. There was no hope of that left. Yet he needed to treat her carefully. He wouldn’t put it past her to leave him, as his mother had left his father, and return to her brother, and he did not want to drive her to that.

  ‘If you were to give me an heir, Adalmode,’ he said making his voice and face gentle, ‘then we could discuss the possibility of your taking the veil if that were still your wish, but you know that I must have an heir and you must give him to me.’

  She stared at the fire but he could see the resignation and the misery in her face. He could keep her a while longer.

  ‘This is Ademar of Chabannes,’ Guillaume said to Adalmode, introducing a young monk standing eagerly before them, his brown habit spilling overlong onto the pale white slabs paving the Great Hall. The monk looked small and inconsequential, dwarfed by the great expanse of the hall stretching empty behind him. ‘The Count of Angoulême has commissioned him to write a history of Aquitaine. A splendid idea don’t you think? He will do some of his research in our Library.’

  Adalmode did not answer. She stared down the hall, past the monk, unseeing, only half-listening to the conversation between the young man and her husband about the research he planned to undertake. She held her hand on the mound of her stomach. She had thought to go to a nunnery even though Guillaume had refused it, but now that she was carrying a child again, what could she do? Perhaps this child would drop from her also and then she could go. Her maid had told her of a woman in the poor quarter of Poitiers who sold pennyroyal to women who could not afford another mouth to feed, but Adalmode could not muster adequate courage for that crime, that sin, and if the child lived, she knew that she would be unable to abandon it, and it would keep her here, with him.

  Guillaume dismissed the monk from their presence and reached out a hand to place it on top of hers with satisfaction. ‘God willing you will carry this one,’ he said. ‘You must be confined throughout the pregnancy this time. I will send my mother’s old midwife to organise everything.’

  Adalmode wanted to object but she had no energy. Perhaps when she was over these first few months of sickness she could muster herself to take action and resist Guillaume’s arrangements.

  ‘Richard, the new Duke of Normandy has sent a chest of books to us as a gift, dear,’ Guillaume said. ‘Your maid can look through them and find something for you and bring it up to your chamber. It will be a long confinement I know but I will visit you every day and you will have anything and every thing you want.’

  Adalmode stared at him stonily. She wanted to be done with him, to be in Bellac with her son and her memories of her first husband.

  The thought of being confined to her chambers for the next six months, cared for by unfriendly servants, was not appealing, but she grit her teeth, determined not to show her feelings. If she lost this child too it would be soon and then she could steal away to the nunnery. Her body would reject this one just as it had rejected all the other spores of Audebert’s murderer.

  36

  Limoges

  1009

  Aina’s mother, Lady Melisende, as far as anyone knows my mother, died and my grief at her funeral was real enough for I loved her dearly from the first moment I smelt her lemon scent in Tallinn when she bought me and took pity on me, sheared raw away from my brothers as I was. I ached to be with Aina when she received the news of Melisende’s death. I had been terrified to hear of the Saint Brice’s Day Massacre of Scandinavians in Engaland, sanctioned callously by their king Athelred. I waited anxiously to hear from Aina but when her letter came she reassured me the wave of anti-Norse feeling had not reached far into Bretland. ‘Now that my mother is dead,’ she wrote, ‘there is no one left alive there who knows who you truly are.’ No one except me, I thought, me and my lies.

  Guy’s sister, Adalmode, bore an heir at last for the Duke of Aquitaine. Guy says that he is a fine boy, six years old now, and past the threats of infancy. Count Fulk of Anjou too finally has an heir named Geoffrey. When Guy told me of Fulk’s pilgrimage to Jerusalem to atone for his cruelty to his first wife, Elisabeth of Vendôme I burst out, ‘That will not give her life again, or take away the agonies she suffered. What kind of a religion would offer forgiveness for such actions just because a man gets on a horse or a boat and travels a long way.’

  ‘Aina!’ said Guy, ‘I do hope you continue to only voice such bizarre opinions to me.’

  ‘I have some sense, husband,’ I said crossly. ‘Plenty.’

  A bright new star was seen in the sky in 1006 and some took this as yet another indication of the Second Coming and Judgement Day. Abbo of Fleury’s recalculation of the End of Time to 1004 proved to be the end of time only for him, when he was murdered by resentful monks who he was intent on reforming. ‘The Church grows mad over this notion of the End of Time,’ I said to Guy but he told me I should not speak impieties.

  Hilduin continues to advise Guy to separate from me. In my bleak moods I fear that I will lose my husband for a consanguinity that does not exist, for fear of a hell that I do not belie
ve in. My lies tangle me more and more, even though Guy assures me he does not heed Hilduin’s counsel on this nor ever will.

  I have been waiting anxiously for Guy’s return from Roccamolten where he has been assisting his sister’s son, our foster-son Bernard, to oust the ‘tutors,’ Pierre of Dorat and Humbert Drus, that Duke Guillaume thrust upon him, and I am relieved to hear the sound of many horses arriving below. Delighted I run to the window to see him come, but draw my head back quickly when I see not only his dear face looking up to my chamber window, but also beside him, the golden head of his sister, Adalmode, also looking upwards. I sit down with a thump onto a low birthing stool, my heart beating. I have to avoid her. Guy sent me no warning that she would accompany him. If I claim to be ill she will come to nurse me, unless my illness should endanger her. I know she is carrying her second child by the Duke of Aquitaine. ‘Hilde!’ I call to my maid. ‘Quickly girl. You must take a message to my husband immediately in the hall below.’

  ‘Won’t you greet him my lady?’ She looks taken aback. She knows how I have looked out for him every day and longed for his safe return.

  ‘Tell him, Hilde,’ I look at her intently and firmly. ‘Tell him that Lady Adalmode must on no account enter my chamber for I am only lately recovered of the spotting sickness that kills babies in the womb. I know that she is with child.’

  Hilde gapes at me. ‘But Lady Aina?’

  ‘As you love me, Hilde, you must do this, now.’

  She closes her mouth, swallows and nods, her eyes wide on my face, that of course shows no signs of the spotting sickness at all, although there has been an outbreak recently in the town and Guy knows of this. I nursed several cases and Fulayh told me of its fatal effect on unborn babies.

  In the Great Hall of the Limoges Motte castle Guy sat with Adalmode, who was expressing her dismay that yet again she would have to miss seeing Aina.

  ‘This is great bad luck. When this child is born you and Aina must come to visit me in Poitiers.’

  Guy smiled his agreement to her suggestion.

  ‘How are your Annals Guy? It seems that it is always likely to be the End of Time.’

  He smiled. ‘I have little time for writing them now, but yes there is plenty to record this year.’

  ‘My husband you know is harbouring Charles of Lorraine’s penniless son Louis in Poitiers, saying that he is the rightful king.’

  Guy raised his eyebrows. ‘He means to pursue this?’

  Adalmode shook her head. ‘He is only doing it to annoy King Robert, whilst this young man Louis, will no doubt suffer for these assertions one day. My husband is a pompous fool, Guy,’ Adalmode whispered, leaning close to his ear, ‘who loves to play at kingmaker but will not follow through with any risk to himself.’

  Guy laughed and hushed her. ‘I think the King has plenty of other things to annoy him.’

  Adalmode nodded. King Robert’s friend, Hugh of Beauvais had lately urged him to repudiate Queen Constance, and she in retaliation had organised Hugh’s murder, some said with the aid of her uncle, Fulk of Anjou. Despite the heirs that Queen Constance had given him, the King hoped the Pope might annul his marriage to Constance and allow him to remarry his first wife, Berthe, but the Pope had recently refused. Constance was now restored as Queen and reported to be thick in intrigues with her uncle Fulk.

  ‘Yet even the ructions at the royal court,’ Guy said, ‘are nothing compared to the news from Jerusalem that the Egyptian Caliph, Al-Hakim, has destroyed the Christian Church of the Holy Sepulchre.’

  Adalmode pressed his hand in agreement. For Christians everywhere this was seismic news. ‘Yes. My husband’s next planned pilgrimage to Jerusalem cannot take place now,’ she said. ‘I will have to send him to Compostela instead.’

  Guy laughed and stood. He had business to see to in the courtyard with his steward.

  Adalmode watched her small son, Guillaume, playing with Guy’s sons. She looked around at the hall remembering her own history here: her father and mother finally regaining their honours, Audebert being freed from the dungeon by Geoffrey of Anjou, standing before them all starved, his ankle ringed with sores, asking for her in marriage and declaring that he would take no other. She remembered Guy being made Viscount and the help she had given to him during the years of Aina’s captivity with the Vikings, and then finally, she remembered Audebert striding up the hall towards her and Guy to claim her as his bride. Her recollections were suddenly dispelled by a deliberate cough close to her. She looked up and recognised the young monk, Ademar, who had been undertaking research in the library in Poitiers, writing a history of Aquitaine. She smiled a greeting to him, ‘Brother Ademar isn’t it? You are living here in the Abbey of Saint Martial?’

  ‘Yes, lady. I wondered if I might have a private word with you.’

  Adalmode looked quizzically at him, ‘Concerning?’

  His face showed embarrassment. A monk asking to engage in conversation alone with a woman might be misconstrued, but she indicated that he should take a seat at the trestle.

  ‘You may not be aware my lady that my father was related to the viscounts of Limoges, to your family.’

  Adalmode smiled briefly, politely. It must have been a very distant claim to kinship since she had never heard of it. The monk had a round, pock-marked face with large brown eyes and a small mouth. Despite his youth, there were dark circles and baggy skin beneath his eyes.

  ‘My father’s grandmother was the daughter of the Viscount of Aubusson and … related to bishops and abbots,’ he ended lamely, apparently not receiving the impressed response from her that he was hoping for.

  ‘You come of good stock, Brother,’ she said curtly to conciliate him, but wished that he would get to the point.

  ‘My grandfather was Ainard of Dorat,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes!’ Adalmode’s expression and tone warmed now. ‘My husband, my first husband, Audebert, spoke warmly of your grandfather. He was his good adviser and ally.’

  The monk was nodding happily now, pleased it seemed that she had recognised a bond between them.

  ‘Yes! I could have been trained as a warrior, instead of given as an oblate to the church,’ he said wistfully.

  Adalmode felt some pity for the young man sitting before her. No doubt he had no choice when his family decided to give him to the church at seven, and it seemed it would not have been his choice. She looked at the soft flesh of his face and hands. ‘Your family aspired for you to make your way in the church,’ she said. Perhaps this was what he wanted from her, patronage on his road to becoming an abbot. ‘What are you working on here at Saint Martial’s?’

  ‘I continue working on my history of Aquitaine, Lady Adalmode, and I also write music and act as custodes for the crypt of the saint.’

  She nodded, forcing a look of interest onto her face. So he was managing the hordes of pilgrims that flocked here, lecturing them on Saint Martial, unlocking the church doors to them for the nocturnal vigils when the pushing crowd streamed in wanting to see and touch the saint’s candelit tomb.

  ‘You wished to speak to me on a particular matter?’ Adalmode asked, growing impatient again.

  ‘Ah yes! I confess I am experiencing great reluctance in broaching the matter. It is something I found in the Poitiers library during my research, my lady. It concerns a person of your acquaintance and I find myself in need of your advice as to how to proceed with this discovery.’

  Adalmode was intrigued. Perhaps it concerned Audebert. He would undoubtedly play a part in the monk’s history but if Guillaume had editorial control, which he would have, she doubted that Audebert’s story would be told truly. If she could do anything about that … She signalled to her maid to keep an eye on the boys who were playing with a stuffed toy horse and called for a jug of wine.

  ‘You intrigue me Brother Ademar. How can I help you?’

  ‘I found a letter inside one of the books I was examining,’ he said, pulling a small jewelled book from the sleeve of his habit. He o
pened the book and slid out a folded parchment. He placed the book on the trestle before them, placed the parchment flat on his knee and both of his hands on top of it.

  ‘You took this book from Poitiers without permission?’ Adalmode asked.

  The monk’s face clouded with embarrassment. ‘I … borrowed it merely for my research. The letter I found inside is written in Norse I believe, with a truly execrable Langue d’Oil translation accompanying it.’

  ‘Norse?’

  ‘It is from King Olafr Tryggvason to the Duke of Normandy.’

  Adalmode frowned. She had heard the name before and could not recall where.

  ‘It was inside a book that was in a chest which I believe the Norman Duke sent to your husband as a gift sometime ago, but I imagine with the heavy duties of state he has not had time to peruse every book there yet. It was near the bottom. I saw it glinting there with its beautiful jewelled cover – and when I reached it from the chest, the letter fell out.’

  They both looked at the small jewelled book on the table. ‘I see,’ Adalmode said, still wondering where this might be tending. It seemed unlikely that it was anything to do with Audebert. He had few dealing with Normandy as far as she could remember.

  ‘It concerns Lady Aina of Ségur, the Viscountess, your sister by marriage,’ Ademar said.

  Realisation dawned on Adalmode. ‘Ah, yes! This Olafr was the man who kidnapped her long ago, before she married Guy.’

  Ademar was hesitant now and Adalmode knit her brow in concern at the tone of his voice. ‘Yes, precisely so, my lady.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘May I read the letter to you? It may shock you I fear.’