by Tracey Warr
‘That’s him,’ she said, smug.
‘Why does he need to speak with me?’
‘Well, he won’t tell me but he is insistent.’
‘Do you think he has news of the Welsh rebels? Of Prince Owain?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, hesistantly, drawing out the word as she considered this possibility. ‘But I don’t think it’s that.’
‘Well, you’d better get me dressed quickly then, so that I can clap eyes upon your paramour and see if he is as handsome as you claim.’
‘He is!’ she said, laying out my dress and picking up the hairbrush. ‘He’s cleaned up well, apart from a bit of a fish pong, but he says he can’t tarry because of the tide.’
I entered the hall, curious to look at what the sea had washed to Amelina. Her Dyfnwal was indeed a handsome young man, dark-haired and brown-eyed with a dimpled chin and a large smile. He had slicked his hair and looked ungainly in his best clothes. It was still early and there were few people up and about as yet, mostly servants. I was pleased to see that someone had thought to offer him beer and bread.
He looked at me agape for a moment and then recollecting himself, he dropped to his knee. ‘Princess Nest!’
‘Please do stand, Dyfnwal. Welcome to Pembroke. You wished to speak with me?’ I knew that I should tell him I was not a princess, I was simply the wife of the steward of Pembroke, a lady, but I knew that the Welsh held to my presence here in desperate hope for our lost kingdom and the royal line that I represented.
I indicated that he should sit and took my own seat, but he remained standing, looking awkward and uncertain. I smiled, trying to make him feel at ease. It was a pleasure to be conversing in Welsh. From the corner of my eye, I saw Amelina hovering at the foot of the stairs, peering around the edge of the doorway.
‘It’s, well, it’s forward of me, I know.’ He stopped and I waited.
‘I’ve taken a great liking to your maid there, Amelina.’ He jerked his head in her direction.
‘Yes, I am greatly fond of her myself.’
‘Well there’s the trouble of it.’
I was growing impatient. ‘Do say what you came to say, Dyfnwal. I understand you must get back to Llansteffan for the tide, for your next haul. Thank you for the gift of the catch.’
‘It is my pleasure to bring a gift to you, my lady. Yes. Well. So, it’s like this. I’ve a mind to be marrying Amelina.’
‘Marrying!’ Now I stared at him.
‘Yes. She’s a fine woman.’ He glanced in her direction again.
‘She is,’ I said slowly, trying to recover from my surprise. I had not expected this. She had only been away for a few weeks.
‘I know you won’t want to be parting with her, lady, and I know she wouldn’t hear of that neither.’ He spoke in a rush. ‘So, I’m thinking we could be married but she could stay with you mostly. I’m busy fishing six days a week anyway.’
I frowned. ‘Well. If you were married you would want to see each other sometimes.’
‘I expect you might allow it now and then,’ he said, an expectant look on his face.
‘I expect I might.’
He grinned.
‘Have you asked Amelina herself?’
‘No. Needed to be clearing the matter with you first. I know she wouldn’t think twice about saying no if she thought she had to leave you.’
‘Well, Dyfnwal, you’d best ask her and I wish you success.’
We turned to the doorway to find Amelina already half-way across the hall towards us and running helter-skelter into Dyfnwal’s arms. ‘Yes!’ she declared breathlessly, the tops of her breasts wobbling above her chemise, under the pressure of his tight embrace.
The King stayed with us only a few days longer, and he and I did not repeat our caresses, but desire was there all the time in the way he looked at me. It was loaded in the tone of his voice. I had thought Gerald would not know, but evidently he guessed at something. His behaviour to me became politely strained again.
On the morning of the King’s departure, the marshals had everything packed and ready, when it had seemed, only hours before, as if the great sprawl of the royal household could surely never be corralled. I stood with Gerald, my sons, and all our household on the steps of the hall to bid farewell. Henry bent his head to kiss the back of my proffered hand. In front of my husband, all contact had to be formal, proper, yet I felt the touch of Henry’s lips, the tip of his tongue on my knuckle, his breath on my fingers, in every miniscule detail, as if we stood naked and embracing before the entire community of people crowding the courtyard. Henry looked up into my face with his liquid black eyes communicating his grief at leaving me. I could not trust myself to speak. He let go my hand and I felt as if my arms, the front of my body, were Carmarthen Bay with the sea rushing away from me, emptying, and never returning. It took all my force of will not to stagger at the power of my emotion. Henry and his household mounted and he gave the signal to move off. The great, shadowed gates of Pembroke Castle stood open like the yawning mouth of Jonah’s whale.
Henry turned in the saddle to look back at me, and as he did so, I felt Gerald’s stare, harsh against my cheek. I was not afraid of Gerald. We both knew I had only to mention a concern to the King, and Gerald would find himself, at the very least, relieved of his position and lands; at worst, lingering indefinitely in a dungeon or exiled. Yet I needed Gerald’s good will. I might never be in Henry’s presence again. He ruled a vast, unruly kingdom. Gerald provided me, and my sons, with his daily protection. I caught myself up at this mercenary train of thought. I cared for Gerald. Surely I cared for him, although it was hard to think about that as I strained for the very last glimpse of Henry. I kept my eyes dry and my expression clean of all the thoughts in my head and the tightening grief at my heart.
When the cavalcade was out of sight, I turned towards the hall, looping my arm around Gerald’s elbow and turning him with me. ‘Normality can resume at last,’ I said gaily. I looked up, smiling at Gerald, but he did not turn his face to me. A muscle jerked in his cheek; his elbow stiffly resisted my touch. I pretended I had noticed none of this, and strolled to the hall with him. I did not chatter. That would certainly give him cause to suspect me.
7
Return to the Cloister
Benedicta’s journey to Fontevraud was delayed by the gelatinous mire of the roads after the frequent spring showers. Yet summer was, at last, settling itself in and drying the fields. Countess Adela summoned Benedicta to an empty hall. She had been instructed to be ready to leave immediately so she was wearing her warm cloak and her few possessions were packed in the small leather pouch – the scrip – slung at her waist. A large wooden chest stood open on the table before the Countess, and Benedicta approached, curious to see inside. There were numerous books – large and small – studded with gold, silver and jewels. Benedicta could read a few of the titles gilded onto the book covers: Ovid’s Metamorphoses; Marbod de Rennes’ Book of Stones and his The Figures of Speech.
‘Well may you gape, Sister Benedicta!’ the Countess laughed. Benedicta closed her mouth quickly. ‘A fortune in parchments but, even more, a priceless collection of ideas and words. Here is the key for the chest. Wear it about your neck.’
Benedicta fastened the thong around her neck and pushed the key inside her habit.
‘Poetry is more than game, Sister,’ Adela said suddenly, turning her gaze upon her with great sincerity. ‘The world is changing and there are differing views. Some things are difficult, dangerous even, to discuss in a straightforward manner.’ She lowered the lid of the chest and patted it. ‘Take care of my freight of words.’
Benedicta nodded, not taking her eyes from the Countess’s, so that she would see that she understood her meaning. She knew from her studies in the Almenêches library how poetry could provide a shield to a voice that might be considered dangerously close to heresy. Pope Urban’s preaching, some ten years ago, had initiated a wave of moral censorship across the region and necessit
ated that intellectual debates were conducted with great circumspection. Poetry could be a kind of camouflage. Benedicta had read Ovid, Horace, Cicero. She had seen how writers such as Baudri and Marbod put those texts to use in discussing new values, new ideas that some conservatives might see as a challenge to the Church. Under the cover of song, writers, including some female writers, contemplated desire, eloquence, the place of women in society, the natural sciences. Poetry enabled hazardous play with the forbidden. Benedicta loved code, and she could not see why curiosity and a thirst to pursue knowledge should be perceived as a threat to faith. She wholeheartedly approved of such debates. She marvelled, nevertheless, that Countess Adela was able to skirt moral censorship so skilfully that she could be friendly with Bishop Ivo of Chartres on the one hand, who was one of the most ascetic reformers, and friends with Archbishop Baudri, on the other, who was at the forefront of this new, risqué, literary thinking.
‘My brother, King Henry, is at war with the new king of France, Louis, after their recent dispute over the castle of Gisors, but Henry must return to England now for the betrothal of his daughter, Maud. The envoys of her husband-to-be, the German Emperor, are arriving even now in London. Whilst he is away, we are in great need of information. You can assist us, Benedicta. Fulk, the Count of Anjou, has died and the occasion of his burial gives us an opportunity.’
Benedicta was aware of the notorious Count Fulk who had taken and spurned at least five wives that she knew about.
‘We need information on anything to do with King Louis, the new Count of Anjou, Amaury de Montfort, Robert de Bellême and the son of the deposed duke, William Clito.’
Benedicta wondered how the Countess felt about her eldest brother, Robert Curthose, kept prisoner now in England for so long, and his little son, William Clito, the Countess’s nephew, under threat from his uncle, King Henry. The child was the greatest threat to King Henry’s rule in Normandy and a rallying point for his enemies.
‘The funeral of Fulk d’Anjou and the inauguration of his son means that all these people I have mentioned to you, that we must watch, are gathering in Angers.’
‘You mean to send me there?’ asked Benedicta, wondering how on earth she could possibly penetrate to the secrets of such exulted people.
‘No, not to Angers, Sister Benedicta. Fontevraud Abbey itself will do for our purpose. Bertrade de Montfort is retired there. Her brother, Amaury de Montfort, and others of interest to us are likely to visit her.’
Benedicta knew of Bertrade de Montfort. Everybody did. She had been Countess of Anjou, was mother to the new Count, and had been Queen of France after the old king, Philip, notoriously abducted her from Anjou. Both she and King Philip had been excommunicated for their fornication. ‘She is a religious now?’ Benedicta asked hesitantly.
‘So it is said.’ Adela’s voice was loaded with circumspect scepticism. ‘She had no choice now that the old king is dead. Our new king, Louis, bears her no love since she displaced his mother.’
‘I will do everything I can at Fontevraud, Countess.’
Adela regarded her with evident satisfaction. ‘You are ready to leave?’
‘I am, my lady.’
‘Very good. There is a slight change in my plan. My son, Etienne, will travel to Angers to represent our family at the burial and the inauguration. He will travel with you as far as Fontevraud. Good luck, Sister Benedicta, and my thanks. You will see Breri in due course.’ She signalled to her servant who opened the doors for two men-at-arms. Benedicta was by no means a tiny woman. She was taller than many other females, with a thin ranginess similar to her brother, Haith. Flemings need long legs – she always said, when people remarked on her height – to keep their mouths above the flood waters. Yet standing next to these muscled menat- arms she felt like a miniature. They lifted the weighty chest easily between them and carried it out to the cart in the courtyard. Benedicta did not feel the pangs of lust for any man that she had met, but she was happy to admire a well-formed, fine-countenanced young man when she saw one.
Benedicta’s unexpected travelling companion, Count Etienne, did not deign to talk with her overmuch. His exchanges with Benedicta were perfunctory and he made it obvious that a middle-aged nun could hold no interest for him. She overheard him telling the men-at-arms, who guffawed obligingly, that a woman in a nun’s habit was an offence to nature. He had been educated at the court of King Henry in England and was a boy yet, at sixteen, but Benedicta could not find excuse for him in that. He was loud and selfish. She considered the disinterest to be conveniently mutual. Yet she could not fully maintain her defended demeanour when she overheard him one morning calling to the men, ‘Where is that scraggly, underfed nun? Still snoring? We need to be up and on the road.’ She knew that he spoke loudly deliberately so that she would hear, but she could not stop herself from feeling wounded by his words. All day, in the saddle, they kept coming back to her: scraggly, underfed. That was not what she had seen in the mirror at Chartres. Why should I care what he thinks of me? she asked herself, but the words rankled nonetheless.
Bereft of conversation, Benedicta entertained herself with looking at the wonders of nature. In particular, she loved the architecture of clouds, how they constantly formed and reformed, making a different skyscape to imaginatively gambol in, at every distinct minute.
In one village they passed through, the villagers were celebrating the beginning of summer. They had selected the prettiest girl in the village to be their Summer Queen. Benedicta, Etienne and the two men-at-arms tethered their horses to graze and rest a while. They sat on the grass at the edge of the village green, taking their ease after long hours in the saddle. The villagers offered them food and beakers of ale. They watched the ‘Queen’ – a twelve-year-old girl – enthroned in a wicker bower and crowned with a circlet of twining pink, yellow, and white flowers. A sceptre wound about with more flowers was placed in her hands, and the villagers danced before her on the green. Benedicta could not take her eyes from the pretty girl: her soft cheeks, clear eyes, the unblemished skin of her neck and arms and her light brown curls. Benedicta listened with pleasure to the girl’s excited laughter, and the villagers’ singing. The sun was warm and bees hummed in the flowers, probing for early pollen. How Benedicta wished she could throw off her veil and wimple and twirl around and around there on the green, dizzy, her arms outheld in the sunshine. She turned to share her pleasure at the scene with her travelling companions and saw a look of unpleasant lust on Etienne’s face, as he too stared at the Summer Queen.
A cloud passed over the sun and darkened the grass. The girl’s smile disappeared. The pipes and the dancing continued but the villagers were growing uncomfortable at their presence here: three armed men and the careless privilege emanating from Count Etienne. Benedicta called to him, ‘We should move on, Count, or we will not reach Fontevraud before nightfall.’ Reluctantly he nodded and she was relieved to see him stand and give the signal for their departure.
Three days of riding brought the weary group late to the gates at Fontevraud. The high walls stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. ‘This is an enormous place for a bunch of discarded wives,’ Etienne said with habitual churlishness.
‘It would be best to show them respect I believe, Count,’ Benedicta told him, ‘since they will host us.’
He said nothing but his eyes glittered at her reproof although she had couched it as mildly as she could. Benedicta took a last look at a sliver of recumbent moon reflected in the river and glanced up at the original that curved bright in the brilliant pale blue twilight sky. One of the men hammered on the door to summon the porter.
‘It’s late,’ the porter told them, ‘and the sisters have already retired after vespers. I will call the guesthouse nun to tend to you and your horses, and no doubt Prioress Petronilla will greet you in the morning.’ He closed the small grille in the door. Benedicta and the men dismounted and waited outside the gates. After a while they heard voices again on the other side
of the studded wood.
‘More!’ they heard a female voice exclaim, presumably the guesthouse nun. ‘Where am I supposed to put yet more of them? I’ve just seen the whole de Bellême and de Montfort entourages bedded down in the stable hayloft and the lords themselves have had to make shift in amongst all the others in the guesthouse.’
Benedicta was startled to hear that de Bellême was already here. He was her quarry, but he would recognise and suspect her, if he saw her.
‘Hush, Sister,’ the porter told the guesthouse nun, ‘they will hear your words.’
Etienne raised his eyebrows to Benedicta to indicate that they already did so.
‘This is only a party of four,’ the porter said. ‘The lord will have to join those in the bulging guest house. His two men can wriggle in amongst the rest in the stable loft.’
‘And the fourth?’
‘The fourth is a nun so no difficulty there. I imagine you can show her to one of the spare cells?’
‘Thank goodness for small mercies,’ groaned the guesthouse nun, and the gates joined her with their own protest as the porter opened up for the visitors. The guesthouse nun presented them with an unequivocable welcome in her face that had not been present in her overheard conversation with the porter.
Benedicta kicked her palfrey forward to follow their guide and pass under the shadow of the convent gatehouse, wondering when, if ever, she might be out in the world again.
8
The Usefulness of a Garderobe
After the King’s departure, Gerald did not come to sleep in my bed. My pregnancy was far advanced but he had shared my bed throughout when I carried our other babies. I had to find a way to repair this new rift in our marriage. When our daughter was born, Gerald kept his promise to let me give her a Welsh name and I called her Angharad. He was warm and affectionate to all our children including young Henry, but he continued cool towards me.