‘That’s a bonny pair of lungs that’s come with her,’ said Malcolm of Scotland admiringly. ‘It’s a fine princess you’ve given me there, Margaret. She’s welcome. We’ve boys enough, the quarrelsome brutes.’
‘How do you wish her to be named?’ asked Margaret. ‘I suppose,’ said Malcolm, half-humorous and half-disparaging, ‘ye’ve some saint’s handle in mind?’ The room, apart from being hot and rich, was also very much Margaret’s room: pious, learned and feminine. A small shrine faced the end of the bed, with candles burning and a golden crucifix giving back their light. Malcolm thought it a disquieting sight for a woman facing the dangers of childbed, for as the candles flickered, the figure on the cross seemed at times uneasily to move. But Margaret apparently derived strength from it, and her husband let it stay. On a table by the bed were signs of the other pastimes which Margaret liked and had employed as distraction until the last moment: an exquisitely illuminated Life of St. Withburga of Ely, in Latin, and a strip of gold and silver embroidery. Probably for some churchy purpose, Malcolm thought, though not necessarily. Margaret embroidered all his tunics herself and the half-finished strip might be for him. He realised that under the blanket-like mantle which was essential everywhere in the fortress just now except for this one room, he was sweating, and shrugged the mantle off, revealing the splendours of one of the tunics, stretched taut across his barrel chest.
‘I mind,’ he said, ‘when you were carrying Edward and green as ill-cooked cabbage with it, I told you you could have the naming of the bairns. You have the trouble of bearing them; you’re entitled. Call her how you like. You like English names,’ he added, ‘and why not? As long as it’s naething oot of date.’ He glanced sideways at the illuminated book on the table. He could not read but he recognised the cover. ‘Not Withburga. Even in England, they’re no naming their lassies that ony more. Call her after you, maybe?’
‘My grandmother was named Edith,’ said Margaret. ‘That’s a good English name. I like it. The wife of the Confessor was an Edith too. She was a most pious lady. What do you say to Edith?’
‘Imph. Short, royal and makes a nice noise,’ said Malcolm. ‘But mark one thing. I’m no against piety in a lass. It keeps them honest to their husbands and forby it’s maybe an interest in a woman’s life. But she’s to be reared as a wife for a prince. I’ll no have her turned into a nun.’
‘She’ll need an education. That will mean a stay in an abbey where there are learned women to instruct her. It would be hard for me to do it. I have so many duties.’
‘That ye have. And I’m no against learning, either. It’s never been but an ornament to her mother. But no matter what she learns or where, in the end she’s to be the bride of a man, a flesh and blood yin, and none else.’
Gently, Margaret said: ‘That will be as God wills.’
‘No it won’t,’ said Malcolm, grinning. ‘It’ll be as I will, my lass!’
***
Sybil, the last child born to Wulfhild and Simon of Fallowdene, arrived at Candlemas, on 2nd February in that same year, but under very different, not to say melodramatic, circumstances.
That Candlemas morning was hushed and grey. But as ever, there was work to do. Their twelve-year-old son Richard, who was being educated with one of Simon’s friends in London, was home on a short visit and Simon had bought him a new horse. Father and son were up at daybreak, gulping a few mouthfuls of food the sooner to rush out to the entrancing pastime of grooming and training their mounts.
Wulfhild, who had noticed that Richard was growing out of his clothes, had also despite the weariness of being eight and a half months gone, risen before dawn and stirred up the rest of the household. She put out their sewing gear in the hall but while they all waited for the feeble daylight to grow, she set the other women to livening up the fire and preparing the day’s bread dough, and herself went out to feed the poultry. Richard and Simon, erupting back into the hall, almost knocked her over. ‘Warm water!’ said Richard, urgently.
‘And ginger! Is there any in the kitchen?’ Simon demanded.
‘Ginger?’ Wulfhild pushed away a couple of the dogs, who had been disturbed from a snooze by the sudden noise, and were trying to jump at her. ‘What’s wrong? One of the horses?’
‘Yes, my Hammerfoot. Restless, dull coat, keeps looking at his flanks,’ said Simon tersely. ‘I think it’s colic. That horse cost me a fortune and I’ve just bought Richard’s; I can’t afford another. There’s no ginger left in the physic stores; Alric Steward couldn’t find any last time he went to Chichester. Whoever goes next has got to find some. You bought a little from that pedlar who was carrying it, who came by at Christmas, didn’t you? I’ve sent Gurth to the village to see if anyone there bought any and hasn’t used it all up yet, but surely we’ve still…’
Editha had heard and came hurrying through the curtained door to the kitchen, a pail in one hand and a small earthenware jar in the other. ‘There’s hot water here. And some ginger but only about half an ounce, powdered…‘That’ll have to do. My thanks,’ said Simon. He grabbed jar and pail and vanished, accompanied by Richard. Wulfhild glanced anxiously after them and then followed, the dogs prancing round her.
The poultry came cackling to meet her as soon as she stepped into the yard. Daylight had broken fully by now but there was still not much of it. The thatch of hall and outbuildings was dewed with fog and the trees which filled the lower part of the valley, and grew close to the hall palisade, were shadowy outlines in thin vapour. On a clear day, one could glimpse the hearthsmoke from the sub-holding of Westwater at the far end of the valley, and see the smoothbacked downs to north and south, parading a long the skyline like the porpoises Wulfhild had once watched from a ship when as a young woman she had travelled to Normandy. Today none of these were to be seen, no smoke, no sign of the hills, only the clammy, windless mist.
On the other side of the yard, the difficult business of drenching Hammerfoot was in progress. Simon’s bay stallion was a warhorse trained to trample down his rider’s foes, from which ungentle skill he got his name. He was not an amenable animal at the best of times. At present, tormented and frightened by stomach-ache, his principal desire was to savage every living thing in sight and he was not taking kindly to the indignity of having his mouth forced open with a clamp while Simon, standing on a bench, poured ginger and warm water down his throat through a hollowed oxhorn. He was tied to a ring in the stable wall but it was still taking the united efforts of four grown men as well as Richard to control him.
Wulfhild scattered the meal for the poultry and then became aware of two things. Firstly, that the gate to the outside world had been left ajar, probably by Gurth, when he ran out to the village, and secondly, that a white and tan canine rear was just squeezing through it. She let out a down-to-earth curse and shouted: ‘Patch!’ The dog squeezed on, disappearing. Wulfhild cursed again, threw down her basket and lumbered after him.
She had reason for concern for once out of that gate the dog could roam anywhere in the valley and up on the downs there were ewes in lamb. Patch was a young dog who was proving unreliable with sheep. He had tried to chase them, more than once. She trudged to the gate and shouted his name again but although there was a faint bark from the direction of the track to the south down, he did not come back.
She did not want to call anyone else to help. Hammerfoot, still plunging and rolling his eyes, needed all the attention he could get and the entire male population of the hall was by this time clustered round him. She did not wish to disturb the women at their doughmaking either. And besides, Wulfhild was in the habit of doing things for herself. She was, as she often said, the daughter of a plain man. At one time in her life, she had been a lady’s companion, devoting her time to embroidery and conversation, but when she came to Fallowdene with her father, she had taken to the farm life again as if she had never known anything else. She was sturdy, her skin rough with weather and her startlingly blue eyes accustomed to long distances as much as to
embroidery. She was used to walking. If the dog had gone to the down, it must be fetched back and it seemed to her that just now she was the best person to do it. She plodded, therefore, in pursuit.
The chalk path was easy to see even in the mist and though the vapours closed round her as she left the hall and the clustered village behind her, she was not afraid of losing her way. She walked steadily for some time, uphill, skirting one of the great fields, calling Patch at intervals, usually standing still to do so because she was somewhat short of breath. She wished she could see ahead. Grass and plough land blended into the fog only a few feet off. She reached the top of the field, where the sheep pastures began, and stopped to call once more.
Again, Patch barked in answer and sounded closer. He also sounded excited. ‘Come here!’ Wulfhild shouted. Her voice was muffled in the cloud. ‘Come here at once! Patch!’ And then she heard the sound for which she had all the time been listening, to the accompaniment of a silent prayer that she would not hear it: a frightened bleating and a convulsive scampering. ‘Patch!’ Wulfhild screamed. She pressed a hand to her back, which was aching, and trudged forward. Hideous noises broke out ahead: furious snarls, a terrified, agonised baa-ing and a wild scuffling which caused Wulfhild, despite her bulk and lack of breath, to attempt to run. Sheep were half at least of Fallowdene’s assets and a killer dog could mean ruin.
Panting and lumbering, she came to where a gorse bush loomed greyly in front of her. Ugly, distorted growls came from the other side of it. She stumbled round the bush and Patch, crouched in the wet grass, lifted a bloodstained muzzle and regarded her warily as, nauseated, she took in what he had done: the ewe with its torn throat and a tiny, savaged, premature lamb half out of her, and the blood oozing into the soaked grass and the gorse spines.
‘You foul, filthy dog, I’ll cut your throat for this! I’d do it now if I had a knife!’ Wulfhild gasped and lunged for his collar. He sidled away, growling. She lunged once more and then the pain in her back intensified, invading her entire body. She straightened, but the agony sliced through her again. Patch plunged away into the mist.
The child wasn’t due for two weeks, at least.
What of it? Richard had been a month early. It could be. There was nothing to fear. It was no more than half a mile to home and she wasn’t lost. She could see the track perfectly well. One walked, anyway, during the early stages of labour. She would just walk home, downhill. She wondered irresolutely if she should try again to capture Patch but another murderous slash of pain stopped her. The sheep must take their chance now. She must get home at once. She would send someone out after him. She started down the path.
It was true that in the early stages of labour, one walked. But within the confines of a room, with the couch at hand and Editha to lean on. And the floor didn’t slope, wasn’t made of wet, slippery chalk. She managed about a furlong and then the ground slid from under her. She was down and could not get up again. She didn’t believe that at first, not until she had tried several times and been foiled by a wrench to her knee which kept her slithering feet and unwieldy body from getting on balance again, and by the onslaughts of pain…pain. If only she had been able to see the roofs of home, she could have pulled the scarf from her head and signalled with it, but grey silence closed her in. Hall and houses might have been a hundred miles away. Suddenly terrified, she screamed for help. The earth and air were unbearably dank and her teeth were chattering, and she was alone out here and somewhere in the mist was that horrible dog which had…she thought of the ewe, helpless as she was and for the same reason and screamed again, still more wildly, as from close at hand in the fog Patch, either in duet or competition, gave tongue in a wolflike howling.
When she heard the sound of a human voice calling, she began to sob with relief. A figure strode up the track with a smaller shape prancing beside it. ‘Oger Shepherd! Help!’ Wulfhild wailed.
‘Ma’am!’ The shepherd, a wiry lad with a tangle of untidy flaxen hair, broke into a run and came to kneel beside her. ‘I heard you from down the hill. How did you get here? Did you fall?’
‘Yes. I got here by walking, how else?’ Relief made Wulfhild acid. ‘I was after that dog.’ The sheepdog which had been at Oger’s heels was now engaged in a barking contest with Patch. ‘He’s killed an ewe and a lamb, higher up.’
‘What!’
‘You’ll have to catch him but help me up first… it’s the baby… ahhh!’
Oger, with alarmed exclamations, hauled her to her feet. ‘My dog’ll bring your hound down with him.’ Once up, she found she could stay there by leaning heavily on Oger’s shoulder. The wrenched knee was painful but could take some weight. They started downhill. Oger whistled and Patch fled past them, heading homeward with the sheepdog close behind. A warm wetness was flooding out of her, soaking the skirts that clung round her legs. She tried not to moan aloud but could not help it. But the moan turned to a wavering cry of thankfulness as Simon, on foot, came half-running out of the mist. ‘Oh, thank God. Simon, the baby’s coming!’
‘Editha asked where you were. Gurth said he’d seen you going out of the gate, just as he came back from the village. Are you out of your wits, wandering away up here? Oger, what happened?’
‘I found her, sir, I’ve just this minute found her.’ Simon’s thick French accent always flustered his villagers. As their lord he was fair in his treatment of them but his voice reminded them that he was Norman and they didn’t trust Normans, not even this one. Oger was almost babbling, afraid that in some mysterious way he would be held to blame.
‘It’s not Oger’s fault. He can’t be everywhere at once,’ Wulfhild panted. ‘It was the dog, Patch…’
‘Help me pick her up, quick,’ said Simon to Oger. ‘Your horse, Simon; you’ve left Hammerfoot…’
‘They’re walking him for me and he’s got enough nursemaids. I wanted to find you. Wandering off into the mist like that ... all right, not long now. Come on,. Oger!’
Wulfhild was still explaining as she was carried into the hall, where a flour-dusted and expostulating Editha took charge. ‘Oger’s to be rewarded,’ said Wulfhild between gasps. ‘And that dog must be killed, he’s dangerous. Simon, do you hear me? The dog…’
‘Yes, Mother, we know.’ Richard had run to them as soon as his mother was borne through the gate. He regarded her with the same expression of slightly exasperated alarm as his father. Richard was already very like his father, with the same neat facial features, and he was beginning to be aware of himself as Fallowdene’s future lord. ‘Now let Editha take care of you.’
‘You always think no one can attend to anything except you,’ said Simon rebukingly as Wulfhild was placed on her couch in the resthouse. ‘You could have called someone to fetch that damned dog.’
‘…your husband is right, you take too much on yourself and always did,’ said Editha, shutting the door on the men and setting to work to strip off Wulfhild’s wet garments and wrap her in warm, dry blankets. ‘You’ll learn different one day but it’s a shame you can’t grasp it now. Sir Simon’s terrified for you and the baby, I suppose you realise that? And it’ll be a wonder if it gets safe into the world after this!’
But Sybil, born an hour later, was none the worse. She arrived, on the contrary, bawling more noisily than Patch had howled on the hillside or the infant princess Edith had cried in her overheated birth chamber; and without causing her mother (‘You’re luckier than you deserve,’ grumbled Editha) more than minimal trouble. She was in fact a being of great spirit, not to mention vocal powers.
She was also, from the moment of her birth, quite simply beautiful.
King William had known that one day his half-brother Odo would stab him in the back; the only question in William’s shrewd mind was: when?
In 1082, when both Sybil and Edith were in their second year of life, he found out.
The common parent between Odo and William was their mother. Odo was not therefore part of the Norman ducal house and he felt it. He had
position certainly; he was Bishop of Bayeux and after the Conquest, William had made him Earl of Kent. But what was either, compared to the Conqueror’s dukedom, the Conqueror’s throne?
If someone had presented Odo with a kingdom on a platter, however, most people who knew him doubted if he could have made good use of it. He resembled William physically and like him was getting corpulent in middle-age. But those who were acquainted with them both said that Odo was ‘like the Conqueror with something missing’. He lacked William’s mental stature.
But he did not know this, and being denied a secular realm of his own, he looked round for advancement as a prelate. And conceived the idea of campaigning to be Pope. Which meant going to Rome to create an impression.
‘Which he was welcome to do,’ William said to Rufus, explaining his reactions, ‘but not if he insists on cutting a dash by taking several hundred trained knights with him. I can’t spare that number of professional fighting men out of this kingdom. He’s a fool anyway,’ he added. ‘If I wanted to steal an entire army from an overlord for my own use, I wouldn’t assemble it in a castle – no matter how handy a place for setting sail from – where I was preparing to host a major council for the same overlord. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to think that no one would notice my swollen garrison or wonder what all those ships were doing in my harbours. I suppose he thought that with so many lords and knights gathering for the council, the crowd would mask his own muster. It didn’t. Also,’ he concluded, ‘I don’t think Odo has ever realised that I have my own paid informers in every great household, including his.’
Odo’s suffused and bulging countenance was a startling spectacle on the last day of the council, when, with the agenda complete, the Chief Clerk asked formally if there was any other business and William, rising majestically to his feet, said: ‘There is. We wish to order the arrest of Odo, Earl of Kent.’
King of the Wood Page 7