He came back within the hour, on his two feet. He swept into the sick chamber with various prelates, monks and barons trailing after him. His mild eyes were as near to flashing with anger as it was possible for them to be. He marched to the bedside. Ralph was in his place. ‘He’s sleeping,’ Ralph said.
‘No, I’m not.’ Rufus opened his eyes. ‘Is it done? Has he been made Archbishop?’
‘I’ve been invested,’ said Anselm, ‘invalidly and improperly. I wish to say that…’
He stopped. It was full daylight now and opened shutters were letting it into the room. It showed him something. He reached a finger to Rufus’ forehead. Across the bed, Ralph nodded. ‘Yes, it’s sweat. The first natural sweat since this illness started.’
‘I was going to say,’ said Anselm, ‘that if you recovered, I would regard you as free to undo this unwise appointment. But now I say, when you are well, I shall regard you as free to dethrone me. I don’t think you’ll die this time. And if you refuse to dethrone me,’ he added sternly, ‘then I shall begin at once to advise you for the health of your soul and your kingdom. And this will be my first piece of advice.’ He gave Ralph one cold look and then concentrated on the king. ‘If you had died of this illness, just what do you imagine would have happened to your kingdom? Marry,’ said Anselm, ‘and get a son. You should have done it years ago.’
‘I made a fool of myself,’ said Rufus grimly. ‘My lord, you were very ill,’ Ralph said.
‘I know. I remember it all, even the dreams I had when I was out of my head. I know what I said and what I’ve done. I’m saddled with Anselm now and he’s saddled with me. The bishops won’t let either of us back out. I hate bishops,’ said Rufus glumly.
They were in the garden of Gloucester Abbey. There was no more talk of expeditions to Wales. The muster was disbanded and Rufus himself was convalescent. He liked the garden. In his otherwise unpoetic personality was one poetic quirk; he liked flowers. At Gloucester, the garden was cheerful with primrose and daffodil. They pleased him, unlike the bishops.
‘Bishops,’ said Rufus, ‘always behave as if they thought they ran the country instead of me. Anselm’s making the best of it in his own way. He hasn’t as much as been confirmed by the Pope yet – though that worries him more than it does me – and he’s already demanding all of Canterbury’s lands. He knows them by heart. Amazing how these unworldly men always know things like that. They say it’s their duty to make an honest accounting to God.’
‘As though He were a celestial Ranulf Flambard?’ Rufus let out a yelp of laughter. And then looked embarrassed. ‘Ralph. I thought of other things besides Canterbury while I was ill. In some ways I’ve not been a good lord to you. Have you never been tempted to go back to de Warenne, or Helias of La Fleche?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘What is he like, this Helias?’ Rufus asked curiously. ‘He’s a nuisance to my brother Curthose, so he must have his virtues.’
‘He has. He’s handsome, generous… knightly,’ said Ralph laughing. ‘But pious.’
‘No one’s perfect. But he can’t be far off it. Why in the world did you leave him?’
‘I wanted to seek out some of my father’s friends in England. Also – I was no one much at La Fleche. Here it’s different. You’ve made me a knight.’ He wondered if he had disappointed Rufus with that, if he should have protested love instead. But Rufus said: ‘You regard yourself as someone? My friendship and Sir on the front of your name are enough for that though you haven’t a f… foot of land to call your own? I promised you a holding, didn’t I, Ralph? And I forgot. Forgot a promise to a knight. I’m sorry. I didn’t quite forget, to tell you the truth. But I thought, if I give him land, he won’t be so much mine any more. He’ll want to go and see it, perhaps live there. Anselm’s been at me again to marry but I feel married already and I want you to think only of me, as a wife would. You should have reminded me. I owe you an apology, Ralph, and what’s more, I owe you a holding. Promises must be kept.’ He grinned. ‘Well, I’ve got somewhere for you.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Chenna’s Tun
Spring 1093
It wasn’t a big holding, Ralph gathered. It lay in the New Forest, where it would often be easy for him to call on it even when on duty. It was not in a part that he knew well. It was vacant because its former tenant, a man called Chenna, had died without heirs. It was a little bigger now than the mere fifteen acres to which it had shrunk when the Domesday survey was made, said the clerk who gave him its history. There had been representations from Minstead, to which it technically belonged, and permission had been granted for lapsed land to come back under the plough, though as the land was within the Forest, it could not be fenced.
But it still amounted to only thirty acres, and probably they were none too productive. The soil of the district was known to be thin, and Lord Roger, who owned Minstead, had been suspiciously willing to sell his rights over it to the king in order that it might be passed on to Ralph. Rufus, even when rewarding a lover, never could resist the temptation to drive a hard bargain. Years later, on hearing that Ranulf Flambard had been made Bishop of Durham but had had to pay for the privilege, Ralph commented dryly: ‘What else did Flambard expect?’
But small or not, poor or not, Chenna’s Tun was land. Rufus gave him leave to go and take possession. He rode away, to claim it.
It was 30th April, a cool, overcast day, when Ralph turned off the main road from Winchester to the coast, and took the track for the Tun. He was riding Blue and leading his bay destrier Arrow. He wore his armour because he was alone. He could not afford a servant. But although it was now twenty-seven years since the Conquest, accidents still sometimes befell Norman appointees who arrived on remote manors without the backing of at least one sword-carrying companion, or a suit of chain mail.
He knew that his tenants numbered between eighteen and twenty souls, dispersed between four households. As he neared his destination, his thoughts became much occupied with wondering how they would receive him. He was jogging along a forest track, following a sketch map provided by the clerk, but it was crude and not to scale, and he came on the Tun before he expected to. He trotted suddenly out of the trees, to see it spread before him. It came on him like a revelation, like the great light in the sky which had once startled some shepherds on watch near Bethlehem, that this cluster of thatched dwellings, that curving glint of stream, those fields, those tethered goats, those beehives, were his.
He who had been homeless since the day he left Aix had a home at last and this was it.
He jerked the destrier’s halter and rode closer. The horses both shied as a dog on a long leash sprang from behind the first cottage and barked at them furiously, neck stretched at the end of its chain and forefeet solidly planted. Ralph halted again, waiting for someone to come out and see what had upset the dog. Nothing happened. Looking round, be observed that the fields seemed as devoid of human life as the cottages. The dog’s challenge subsided into a low growling. Apart from that, Chenna’s Tun was still.
He rode round the cottages. They were thatch and daub, walls made of rubble and plastered with cowdung, looking as if they had grown where they stood rather than been built. Every door was shut. But the place hadn’t been abandoned; the dog was there, and the goats, and he found a byre with four oxen in it. Puzzled and uneasy, he followed the track to the stream. It brought him to a ford and continued on the far side towards another house, which stood alone with a patch of trodden earth in front and a lean-to byre of its own at the side. It resembled the other dwellings but was a little bigger. Two more goats were tethered to it.
Goats had to be tethered under Forest Law, since they were destructive of the young foliage if allowed to roam.
These would be his own personal goats, he supposed, since this was certainly his house, according to the clerk’s description.
He splashed across the ford and up to the house. This too was closed and when he dismounted to examine the door, it was
locked.
At a loss, he gazed round. He had a vegetable patch, he observed, and it had been weeded. There were signs of sprouting crops in the fields. But where the devil was everyone? The skin of his back prickled as though someone were watching him from hiding and he spun round. Across the stream, the dog barked again and suddenly he saw that from one of the cottage roofs, a thin smoke was trickling. He mounted, quickly, and rode back.
He jumped down at the door of the cottage and pounded on it. He was rewarded presently by a shuffling noise. The door opened a little. A face peered out. It was brown, seamed and whiskery of chin, and framed in grey wispy hair. Despite the whiskers, the owner of the face was apparently female though not, thought Ralph, eyeing the grime in the wrinkles, over-fond of washing. At Rufus’ court and at La Fleche, even with de Warenne, although his household was less cultured than the others, Ralph had grown used to reasonably good standards of cleanliness. The deepset grey-blue eyes, though, were surprisingly alert and clear. They stared at him.
‘My name is Ralph des Aix and I’m your new landlord. I’ve come to take possession.’
He hoped she understood him. He had polished his English in the last few years but accents could be extraordinary in these remote places. The eyes, however, showed comprehension and an intelligible answer resulted. ‘They’re all over to Minstead. Be back later. They’m setting up the Maypole for termorrer. Can’t be bothered with all they silly japes myself. I stop here.’
‘I see. Well, I want to get into my house. It’s locked. Who has the key? What’s your name?’
‘Elfgiva, I am. Key’s over to Minstead too. Father Ilger, he’ll have it. He took charge, after he buried Old Chenna.’
‘How far is Minstead?’
‘Two mile or so. Back to the coast road and acrost it. Then take the right fork after you get past the old hunting lodge.’ Ralph nodded. He knew the old lodge, which was in any case marked on his map. It was a small place like a miniature fortified castle but not at the moment in use. Rufus said it was damp and had closed it.
There seemed to be nothing else to do but go to Minstead. He would have liked something to eat or drink but the crone hadn’t offered him anything and anyway, it would have had to be prepared by her filthy hands. He mounted and rode off. He glanced back once. One bright eye was watching his departure round the edge of the door and in it was a somewhat disconcerting expression.
Rufus’ bel ami was not supposed to be interested in girls but Ralph did notice them sometimes and knew that they noticed him too. The expression in that bright old eye was distinctly appreciative. One could almost say salacious.
The deserted hunting lodge stood on a mound and Minstead was on lower ground to the south of it. It was much bigger than the Tun, a modestly thriving place surrounded by fields, with a few slate roofed buildings and its own church, a modern Norman-style affair.
At first, however, it seemed as empty of human life as the Tun. Then he heard the music, and changed course to meet it.
It was a procession, winding its way among the dwellings in the general direction of the church. It was led by two young lads, one playing a pipe and the other tapping a small hand drum. They were setting a rhythm for a slow dance and behind them, weaving a measured step in and out and around each other, were a man dressed in green, with some roughly carved wooden antlers fixed to his cap, another man prancing astride a hobby horse draped in green cloth and with a realistic piebald-painted head, and a third individual clad in red and yellow and flourishing a wand. Behind them again came a long, creaking cart pulled by an ox and carrying what seemed to be a long pole all wrapped round in colourful strips of cloth. A girl sat on top of it. She had an ivy crown and she too wore green, a tight-fitting garment which revealed a juicy plumpness. She had a soft, pliant mouth and she was giggling. Behind the cart, also intricately dancing, came what the marvelling Ralph concluded was virtually the whole population of Minstead and, presumably, Chenna’s Tun. Even those who could not dance were following as best they could; a girl heavy with child was giving an arm to an old man; a man and a woman led a blind man between them, holding his elbows since his wrists ended in stumps. Some children were trying to pick up the steps and last came three young women carrying tiny babies, walking together and chattering.
Ralph, holding his two horses to the necessary slow pace, joined the tail of the procession which followed a convoluted route but eventually fetched up on a patch of green in front of the church. Here the music continued but the dance stopped and all hands were put to unloading the maypole and setting it up in a ready-dug hole. Ralph saw what must be the priest, whom old Elfgiva had mentioned, standing in front of the church. He rode round the edge of the green to join him. ‘Father Ilger?’
‘The same.’ The priest looked up at him. ‘I saw you arrive. I was wondering who you were but I can guess. Ralph des Aix? I’ve been expecting you.’
‘I think you’ve got the key of my house. What’s going on?’ The priest sighed. He was a thin, nervy man, taut as a lyre string from what was probably a lifelong struggle against a wayward flock. ‘You may well ask. I do my best,’ he said gloomily. He waved a lean hand at the activity round the maypole. ‘Are you going to live here? You’ll get to know it all if so. I’ll be glad of your support. I allow them this. They put the maypole up today and dance round it tomorrow. I bless it once it’s up and after the dance I’ll lead them in prayer for a good harvest and give them some ale and pasties and so on in the church. Lord Roger of Minstead comes along and says a few words. But…’He made a helpless gesture. ‘There’re pockets of it, you know. No one knows what we priests in these benighted places have to put up with. I go on hoping that one day I’ll be able to teach them to think of their May Day revels as part of the Christian year. Lord Roger says I talk nonsense, that he doesn’t know anything about the goings on – well, he wouldn’t, he keeps himself remote most of the time – and even the bishop doesn’t really believe me when I complain. But I worry about it. I worry about them.’
‘Do you mean,’ said Ralph, ‘that this is a sort of ... of heathen celebration? And that they know it is – I mean, it’s not just an old custom, something they do for fun, out of habit?’
‘Quite. I see you’ve met such things before.’
‘The man with the antlers – he’s acting the part of some kind of forest god?’
‘Yes. Yes, you do know! The one with the hobby horse is being some other forest demon, a divine huntsman or something… when Old Chenna died, I thought it might all fade away because he always used to be the one with the antlers. But no, this young fellow from the Tun, Oswin, he’s taking the part this year. He’s a steady sort as a rule and a wonder with his hands. He made that ox-cart and he carved the pipe that boy’s playing, over there. But over this – none of them are steady. I fear for their souls,’ said Father Ilger simply. ‘They believe in the forest demons, you see.’
A wild question was shaping itself in Ralph’s mind. ‘I’ve heard of this sort of thing before, as you say. In some places there are secret meetings at night. God alone knows for what reason,’ he added piously. ‘Is that what you meant by goings on?’
‘I’m afraid so. They’ll dance here tomorrow and they’ve danced already today. You’d think they’d want a night’s sleep in between, but do they?’ said Ilger bitterly. ‘Not that I’ve ever followed them… but I’ve seen them slipping off at dusk on May Eve and by the end of tomorrow they’ll be dazed, dazed with exhaustion. And at other times too. But if they had a good-living landlord setting an example…’ he regarded Ralph doubtfully, as if recalling that the new landlord came from Rufus’ court, which did not precisely have a good-living reputation. ‘I have my successes,’ said the priest, brightening. ‘There’s a boy at the Tun wants to join a monastery. I’ve made enquiries and St. Peter’s at Gloucester will accept him, if you’re willing to let him go. I hope you will be. I went to some trouble to find a monastery which won’t just use him as a servant because of his peasant b
irth. Abbot Serlo will see he has a proper chance to rise. He’s an intelligent lad. And I wouldn’t want anything to stand in the way of his salvation. He’ll be one soul saved in this place, at least.’
‘I won’t stand in his way,’ said Ralph gently. It was his first essay in overlordship. ‘You have a hard furrow to plough, here,’ he said. Father Ilger looked grateful for even this small piece of understanding. ‘I’d like to meet some of my people,’ Ralph said. ‘And there’s still the matter of the key.’
The maypole was up. ‘I must do the blessing now but I’ll fetch the key afterwards and present some of them to you. They go home for their suppers before they get up to – well, whatever it is they do get up to later. I shall pray for rain tonight,’ said Father Ilger, ‘but I shan’t get it. The cloud’s lifting. You might care to go back to the Tun in their company?’
‘…hardhearted, obstinate and now deceitful. Trying to bribe a carpenter to carry a letter! He most properly brought it straight to me. Shameful!’
‘I thought it was time my father knew how I was being treated,’ said Edith, and made herself meet Christina’s eyes, although her body shrank within itself, crying no!
In the past eighteen months, the matter of the veil had become a long drawn-out war, conducted by intermittent battles, with pauses in between. Edith, reduced at last by pain and the fear of it, would adopt the veil. After a week or two, hating herself, feeling unworthy of her father, she would begin to leave it off. Christina, as often as not, would affect not to notice, perhaps for several days, sometimes longer, once for as much as a month. Then without warning or any apparent extra provocation, she would pounce and the whole hideous cycle would begin again.
Christina had experimented with various forms of attack. She had tried incarceration, hunger, and lengthy sessions of praying with or at Edith, that God should soften her niece’s uncompromising heart. These had no effect at all and lately she had resorted again to simple violence.
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