Arlette continued to nibble at her crust, moistening her mouth with dainty little sips of wine. It was like sitting next to a mouse, Rolf thought with irritation. Deliberately wolfing his own food, he pushed himself to his feet.
Arlette gazed up at him, her grey eyes wide and startled. 'Where are you going?'
'To look over the yearlings. William FitzOsbern asked me to search out some likely ones for training up.'
'In this weather?'
'It is better than being cooped up in here.' Brushing perfunctorily at the crumbs on his tunic, which was already stained from the stable, he left the hall.
Berthe had tucked her breast back inside her gown and was winding the baby. Her eyes followed Rolf hungrily. So did Arlette's.
Free of the smoky atmosphere and the constraints of the hall, Rolf breathed a sigh of relief and went to check upon the mare and foal again. The colt had folded up in the straw to sleep, his small belly as tight as a drum. The mare dozed on one hip, standing protectively over him. Smiling, Rolf left them and ordered a groom to saddle up the old black gelding he used when working among his herds.
While he was waiting, he heard a commotion down at the bailey gates, and emerging from the stables to look, saw the riders entering the yard two by two, liquid mud spraying from the shod hooves. The leading man carried a brilliant yellow and black gonfalon, the ragged edges snapping out in the vicious, sleety wind. Behind him, astride a prancing chestnut stallion, came William FitzOsbern, one of his regular customers. He was a close relative and trusted advisor of Duke William's, and very powerful. With this borne in mind, Rolf put a smile on his face and went to greet him.
FitzOsbern grimaced as his horse was led away to a warm stall. He stamped his feet briskly on the ground to restore feeling and beat his hands upon his thick woollen cloak. He was between forty and fifty years old with fine spider lines creasing the gaze of shrewd hazel eyes and deepening into seams between nostrils and thin-lipped mouth.
'Hirondelle looks fit,' Rolf said, as with resignation he retraced his steps towards the confines of the hall. He doubted that William FitzOsbern would appreciate viewing any stock until he had been warmed by fire and wine.
'Full of himself,' said FitzOsbern expressionlessly. 'Tried to buck me off twice this morning. If I had known how frisky he was going to be, I'd have thought twice about buying him off you.'
Rolf glanced sidelong and saw the glint of amusement in FitzOsbern's eyes. When Rolf had first started dealing with him two years ago, he had found FitzOsbern's expressionless delivery extremely disconcerting. Was the man speaking in earnest or in jest? Rolf had since learned to read the signs, but they were hardly obvious – a slight turn of the lips, a deepening of the eye creases, if you were fortunate.
'You'll thank me for the fire in his feet when you take him on a battlefield,' Rolf retorted.
'Interesting you should say that.' FitzOsbern preceded Rolf into the hall and looked around with the keen eye of a connoisseur. His gaze lit on Arlette, who was supervising the clearing away of the breakfast repast, her hands busy with a drop spindle and fluff of carded fleece.
Noticing the men, she hurried over, her pale complexion suffusing with pink.
'My lord, what a pleasure,' she said to FitzOsbern.
Rolf could tell that she meant entirely the opposite. He could see her mind flurrying to the kitchens to check if they had enough food, could see her wondering where they were going to accommodate FitzOsbern and his entourage if he decided to stay the night. She would manage, she always did, but not without a deal of anguish and hand-wringing in private.
'The pleasure is mine,' FitzOsbern returned as a matter of Form, inclining his head.
'Bring us hot wine to the solar,' Rolf said, then added to FitzOsbern, 'Will you stay to eat with us?'
'Thank you, but no. I have to press on to Rouen, and if this sleet becomes snow, the roads will be difficult.'
Rolf could almost hear Arlette's sigh of relief as she hurried away to mull a pitcher of wine. He took their guest to the long room on the floor above the hall. It had been divided up into living and sleeping quarters by the artful use of woollen curtains and embroideries. Near the window a woman was busy weaving at a tall loom. Rolf dismissed her and directed FitzOsbern to a cushioned box chair positioned close to a glowing brazier. He fetched himself the stool on which the maid had been sitting.
FitzOsbern sighed and extended his feet towards the warmth. Rolf watched his face, hunting for nuances of expression. 'You said that it was interesting that I should mention taking Hirondelle onto a battlefield?'
FitzOsbern returned Rolf's stare and the suggestion of a smile curved his narrow lips. 'I am here with the offer of a commission from the Duke himself. He needs warhorses, and you are the man to supply them.'
Rolf gently caressed the palm of his right hand with the fingertips of his left while he absorbed this information. 'How many and for what purpose?' he asked after a moment.
The thin lips twitched further into a smile and then straightened. 'The number has yet to be judged; several hundred, I would imagine.'
Rolf was stunned. 'There are not several hundred horses in the entire stud, let alone for sale.'
'I know, and those you do have, I want to purchase now for my own use.'
Rolf was totally baffled and FitzOsbern's smile developed substance. Rolf opened his mouth to demand a coherent answer, but subsided as the door swung open and Arlette came in bearing a pitcher of gently steaming dark wine and two of their best cups. The fragrance of cinnamon perfumed the air as she poured for the men and set a bowl of warm, fresh honey cakes at the guest's right hand. FitzOsbern exchanged pleasantries with her, enquiring after her health and that of the infant to whom he had sent a birth gift of an exquisitely carved ivory cross. Arlette murmured the proper responses, her grey eyes modestly downcast. Rolf fiddled impatiently with his cup, fully aware that FitzOsbern was drawing out the tedious chit-chat just to tease him.
He tap-tapped his finger ring against the side of the cup. Arlette looked at him, made her excuses and left.
'Well trained,' commented FitzOsbern, his eyes on the door. 'Robert Strongarm's daughter, isn't she? Some useful connections.'
Rolf said nothing. He had little contact with Arlette's family. Since Strongarm's death, they were mainly a network of nuns and widowed aunts, albeit with bloodlines allied to the Ducal house. He had as little to do with them as possible.
'Very well, I'll stop teasing you,' said his visitor. 'The Duke desires to take King Edward's crown from the usurper Godwinson. As you are doubtless aware, the throne was promised to William more than fifteen years ago, and Godwinson swore an oath that when the time came he would help him sit there.'
Rolf raised an eyebrow. 'No-one ever expected Godwinson to keep that oath.'
'No, but it still makes people look on him as a perjurer. There is to be a council held at Lillebonne to discuss the possibility of taking an army across the narrow sea. Will you come?'
Rolf spread his hands. 'I am only a small landholder compared to great men such as you – what difference will my word make?'
FitzOsbern began to smile again. 'What difference does anyone's word make when our Duke is set on his purpose? No, we need men of practicality there for when the decision is agreed — shipwrights and armourers, chandlers, sailmakers and the like. Numbers and quantities will have to be estimated and the work set in motion. Your task, as I see it, will be to find the extra horses that the Duke will require for remounts and such. You have contacts and you know a sound beast when you see one.'
'Do you need my answer now?'
'It would be useful.'
Feeling dazed, Rolf looked into the brazier cupped in its wrought iron stand. While he did not want to neglect the stud, the thought of buying horses at the Duke's expense, with little risk to himself, was very appealing. He could almost smell the freedom on his skin like a warm, salt wind.
He raised gleaming eyes to FitzOsbern. 'Yes,' he said. '
I will come.'
That night, lying beside Arlette in the great bed, he stared up at the ceiling, his mind ploughing one thought after another like the bows of a galley surging through a brisk sea. How much fodder would an army's horse rank need? How long did Duke William intend keeping them in one place before he embarked? The quantities of urine and dung would be phenomenal. Transporting horses on ships was never easy even in calm weather. If a storm blew up, the only resort was prayer, and Rolf was all too aware that while God was good, he was also very fickle.
Beside him Arlette raised herself on one elbow and peered down at him. 'Can you not sleep, my lord?'
In the dim light of the single night candle her body was all gold and shadows. The way she was leaning had squashed together and lifted her small breasts, giving them the hint of a cleavage they did not possess.
'I was thinking.'
'I know, I could almost hear you.' Her hand stole out to stroke his arm. 'Is it because of FitzOsbern's visit today?'
The touch of her smooth fingertips upon his bicep provoked a lazy interest lower down. Nothing drastically vigorous, for the moment FitzOsbern had departed, he had quenched his nervous excitement within Berthe's copious, greedy body. In the stables, fully clothed; five minutes of blinding oblivion.
'He wants me to buy some horses for the Duke,' he said neutrally. 'I've to go to Lillebonne to discuss the details.'
Her fingers ceased to move and her body stiffened. 'When?'
'Tomorrow.'
'So soon!'
'I've to get there and find lodgings. Besides, if I'm on the road, I might as well do some buying and selling on the way.' He reached out to cup her dismayed, delicate face in his palm. 'You know that I always come back,' he said softly. 'You know that Brize-sur-Risle is my harbour and you are my anchor. I'll bring you a bolt of silk to make a gown and thread-of-gold to trim it.'
'How long will you be gone?' Her immense eyes were troubled and he felt a pang of guilty irritation. Harbours and anchors were all very well, but he longed with all his heart for the wildness of the open sea.
'I do not know, perhaps a month.' He drew her head down to his and kissed her. 'Think of the prestige for Brize. And it will mean more money for Gisele's dowry when the time comes. Perhaps we will be able to secure her a great husband.'
Arlette was silent, but he could sense her thoughts. She was proud of her status and would like nothing better than to improve it and then show off to their neighbours. Mollified, she relaxed against him.
'You should have a son to inherit,' she murmured. 'I know I do not carry well, and I am sorry that Gisele was a girl, but if we try again, mayhap we'll be more fortunate.'
Rolf smiled wryly in the dark as she parted her thighs for him. He knew what was expected. Arlette was a firm believer in the Church's view that the carnal act between husband and wife was for the sole purpose of begetting children. Pleasure was a devil's wile and to be shunned. If it was experienced, it was to be confessed, and penance done to cleanse the sin.
He serviced her as swiftly and impersonally as Orage servicing one of the brood mares, his body brought to release as much by his inner vision of new horizons as by his wife's passive flesh.
CHAPTER 5
Ailith had wished upon a shooting star at the Yuletide feast. Now another star, trailing a line of fire, had blazed in the April sky for almost a week and she knew for a certainty that her wish had been granted.
'I believe I am with child,' she confided in Felice as she pinned her cloak and prepared to go to market with her neighbour.
Felice widened her eyes. 'Ailith, I am pleased for you! How soon, tell me when!'
'Between November's end and Yule, I think.' Complexion pink and radiant, she told Felice about making her wish. 'Goldwin said that the strange star bodes us ill, but I know he is wrong,' she added, laying her hand upon her belly which was flat, revealing nothing of the new life it contained.
'Have you told him yet?'
'No, but I'm going to roast a hare tonight and ply him with our best mead – make it a proper occasion to celebrate.' Ailith spoke brightly, but anxiety lurked beneath her sparkle. Goldwin had been dour and taciturn of late. He spent far too much time at his forge. Every day he was up before dawn, working until well after dusk, squinting by candlelight to complete death-bladed axe-heads, seax's and swords. He no longer saw beauty in the world, only the killing brightness of edged steel.
'I too have had a gift from the star.' Felice leaned close to Ailith lest the accompanying maids should hear. 'Four years Aubert and I have been married. I thought I must surely be barren, but this week I have missed my second flux.'
'Truly?' Ailith's face kindled with delight and she gave Felice a hug. 'Then we'll be outgrowing our girdles together, and neither will be able to bore the other with talk of breeding and babies. Do you know what I did this morning?'
Felice shook her head.
Ailith giggled. 'I stuffed an unwoven fleece beneath my robe to see how I will look in six months' time. You should try it too!'
Felice smiled, but Ailith received the impression that it was a trifle forced.
'How long will Aubert be away?'
Felice's expression became wary and the lustre left her eyes. 'He never knows with these wine-buying forays. Sometimes he is home within two weeks, sometimes it can be as long as two months.'
Ailith pulled a face. Despite Goldwin's current sour humour, he was always there, solid and steady, his bulk warm and comforting in the bed beside her at night. 'I would hate that.'
Felice gave a little shrug. 'You become accustomed… only sometimes it is harder than others.'
'Do you miss Normandy?'
'A little. I loved our house in Rouen, and I was safe there. Here, if I open my mouth, people hear my accent and look at me with hatred because of our Duke and your King. I think that when Aubert returns, he will take me back to Normandy until peace is made.'
Ailith nodded and agreed that it was the most sensible course to take, but knew that if Felice did leave, she would miss her dreadfully. After the inauspicious beginning to their relationship, she and Felice had rapidly become good friends. And now, the fact that they were both pregnant only served to draw them closer. She did not want to see it sundered by the politics of power-hungry men.
Despite, or perhaps because of the portentous star in the sky, the market stalls of the Chepe were louder and busier than ever. Ailith purchased plump silver sardines and a cheese wrapped in cabbage leaves. She laughed with Felice at the sight of a small dog fleeing from a butcher's stall, its jaws strained by a beef rib fully half its size.
Together the women bought lengths of linen to stitch swaddling bands, and visited the apothecary's booth to pore over childbirth remedies.
'An eaglestone, that's what you need,' Felice declared, holding up an egg-shaped brown stone threaded on a ribbon while the apothecary looked on, contemplating his profit. 'It will ease the pain of travail, or so I've been told.'
Ailith eyed the stone dubiously, and wondered how. The price the apothecary had suggested was extortionate. She knew that she could walk down by the river's strand and pick up stones that looked suspiciously similar. 'Later perhaps.' She shook her head. 'There is time aplenty to think of such trinkets.'
Felice, however, was not to be dissuaded, and purchased the eaglestone for a price that horrified Ailith. Her friend went on to buy nearly every remedy that the gleeful apothecary suggested. Ailith watched the packages mount on the counter and seeing the hectic colour in Felice's cheeks, the unnatural sparkle in her dark eyes, began to feel disconcerted.
'Have you gone mad?' she demanded as they returned to the bustle of the streets. 'What do you want all those for?'
'Security,' Felice said and gave a brittle laugh. 'I can bear anything but pain.'
Before Felice looked away, Ailith saw the terror in her wide stare. 'It will be all right,' she tried to comfort, taking her friend's stiff arm. 'The pain doesn't last for ever, and you'll 'forget i
t the moment you have your new baby in your arms.'
'My mother died in childbirth,' Felice said woodenly, 'bearing me, her first. I am told by my family that I am very like her.'
'But not exactly the same.'
'Oh, it's all right for you!' Felice snapped, shaking her arm free. 'You're built like a barn. All you have to do is open your doors and the child will just walk out!'
Ailith recoiled as if Felice had slapped her across the face. Although she knew that Felice was striking out from the depth of her fear, it did not make the words hurt any less. She tightened her lips and quickened her pace, feeling a small, desolate spurt of gratification as Felice had to run to keep up.
'Ailith, wait, slow down. Oh curse me for a shrew, I didn't mean it!' Felice panted, clutching at Ailith's cloak. 'It's just that I'm so envious of you!'
Ailith stopped. 'Of my size, you mean? You would like to be built like a barn too?'
'I wish I had your hips,' Felice admitted, 'but it's more than that. I wish I had your honest joy, a taste for the simple pleasures.'
'So I am a peasant too?' Ailith arched her brows.
'No, no, I implied no such thing… you know I didn't!'
'I am not so sure,' Ailith retorted. 'After all, our first meeting was between lady and servant, wasn't it? Me sitting on the dung heap and you on your dainty mare. Is that how you see us, Norman and Saxon?' She began to walk again, her heart thumping painfully against her ribs. Whatever had made her say that? Jesu, she had not realised how deeply the resentment had bitten. Felice was her friend, but a few more exchanges like that and the relationship would be totally destroyed.
The Conquest Page 4