Yet, despite the shortcomings, he was pleased with his new estates, of which Ulverton was the main settlement. They were easily as large as Brize-sur-Risle and had just as much, if not more potential. The lands were situated on the south coast of England, five days' ride from London, and included several fishing villages and a fine, ocean-going harbour along the shingle shoreline. There was excellent grazing for his horses, as well as for the large population of sheep which the rich downland supported. Rolf recognised the value of the limestone soil for producing sound bones in the animals he intended to breed here.
In the time of King Edward, Ulverton had been wealthy, and the difficulties that Rolf encountered were only recent and certainly reversible. He threw himself into the task with determination. The hall was patched up to make it habitable while he set about finding a site on which to build his keep. He soon chose a fine slope overlooking the village and backed by high sea cliffs. The villagers were none too happy at having to dig the mounds and ditches of the castle, but had little choice except to comply. Besides, they frequently heard tales from other communities about the harshness of the new Norman masters, and could only be thankful that their own, while not being Saxon and therefore of considerably less calibre than the former lord, was neither unfair nor tyrannical in his dealings with them. Indeed, he permitted them to retain their old laws and customs with very little interference.
Ulverton settled down to a state of truce. The castle mound continued to grow, and with it grew the relationship between the people and their new lord. He looked more Norse than French, they said, and unlike the other Normans over the hill, he spoke some English and strove to learn more at every opportunity.
Rolf treated his new peasants in much the same manner as he treated those on his Norman lands. He was of the opinion that to obtain the best from any tool, be it a spade, a piece of harness, a horse or a man, you had to treat it well. Oil and polish, kind words and discipline, a listening ear. It was not altruism, but self-interest that motivated him.
In March, King William announced his intention of returning to Normandy to parade his English victory throughout his duchy, and Rolf felt secure enough in his position at Ulverton to leave the lands in the charge of a deputy and make the journey too. But first he travelled to London, to the house of Aubert the wine merchant in order to pay his respects to the family: to Felice who had only just been rising from a protracted childbed when he went to claim his lands, to the thriving, rosy-cheeked baby to whom he had the serious honour of being Godfather, and to Benedict's wet nurse… Ailith.
Ailith sat in a puddle of sunshine, carding the last of the previous year's fleece ready for spinning. The day was so mild that she was beginning to believe that spring was actually on the threshold. There were often black days in her existence when she felt so full of grief and anger that she did not care about the weather or any other circumstance of her life, but today was a good one. She could feel the sun's warmth in her bones, and appreciate the comfort with which she was surrounded.
For a month, before coming to live in Aubert's house, she had dwelt at St Aethelburga's while Felice slowly regained her strength; a month in which her own wounds had begun to heal. On her second day at the convent, Rolf de Brize had taken her to witness the burial of Goldwin and Harold within the same grave. Although she was but recently out of childbed and not allowed within the hallowed confines of a church, still she was permitted to stand at the graveside. That had been one of the black days. She remembered it patchily, but the most disturbing part was her vivid recall of the Norman's strong, wiry grip holding her steady at the graveside, preventing her from falling in as the labourers began shovelling earth back into the hole.
Ailith liked Rolf de Brize, but she preferred to keep her distance. There had been an incident at the end of January just before he left when she had sought him in Aubert's stables to say that food was ready, and discovered that he had not heard the dinner horn because his face was buried in the ample bosom of Gytha the Alewife from down the road. Ailith had backed away quietly before either of them saw her, and had informed the household that Rolf was busy and would eat later. A whole candle notch later as it happened, his lids heavy with satiation. His appetite had been enormous – he had devoured all the chicken stew which Ailith had set down before him, and more bread than herself, Felice and Aubert put together.
'Ailith said you were busy in the stables,' Felice had told him.
Rolf had looked sharply at Ailith, and then a slow, incorrigible smile had spread across his face as hers reddened. 'I was,' he had replied without elaboration. No, he was neither to be trusted nor encouraged.
Ailith considered the foamy pile of carded wool in the basket beside her and decided that she had enough now to begin spinning. But first she had to see to Benedict. He had been gurgling in his cradle, delighting himself by trying to grasp the motes of dust suspended in the splash of sunshine, but his voice had become more querulous by degrees and she could almost feel his growing hunger in her own stomach. Her breasts filled as they always did at the sound of his cry. She lifted him from the cradle and crooned to him, her face radiant with love, and Benedict responded with a gummy smile.
Ailith settled down to feed him, freeing one of his hands from the swaddling so that she could play with his tiny fingers. She knew that it was dangerous to love so hard, but Benedict had bridged the aching chasm left by Harold's death. Her own son lay in the soil, but it was so easy to imagine him living on in Benedict. With his brown eyes and dark hair, he could have belonged to her and Goldwin.
When the baby had finished suckling, she laid him down on a soft pile of raw fleece to change his linens. He crowed at her and kicked his legs high in delight at being freed from the tight binding of the swaddling bands and the bulk of the soiled tail clout. This led to an accidental discovery that he could suck his toes, and he undertook the new skill with great gusto.
Laughing at his antics, Ailith fetched a fresh linen napkin from where it had been warming near the firepit. It seemed a pity to cover him up when he was enjoying himself so much, and she decided to let him kick for a while in the fresh air. The fleece was unwashed as yet, and it would not matter if he stained it.
Ailith glanced up to see Felice descending from the sleeping loft where she had been napping. She had made a slow recovery from Benedict's birth and still tired very quickly. 'Are you feeling better?'
'A little.' Felice finished securing her wimple and sat down on the stool which Ailith had vacated to tend the baby. Idly she picked up a mass of carded wool and ran it through her fingers. 'Should you not cover him up? He will catch a chill lying there.'
'I thought he would like to lie and kick for a while. The sunshine is lovely and warm.'
'All the same I would rather you covered him. A small baby should be swaddled so that his limbs will grow straight later on.'
Ailith lowered her eyes and bit her tongue on the response that Hulda said such stories were so much nonsense, that no animal ever swaddled its young.
Sometimes Ailith found herself sorely tried by living with Felice and Aubert. When Goldwin had been alive and King Harold new on the throne, Ailith had held the same, if not higher social status than her neighbours. Now, with a conquering Norman King commanding their lives, her husband dead, and his business sold off to a Norman armourer, she was an English widow, dependent on the de Remys' goodwill. It did not matter that they were in her debt, that they tried to treat her as one of their own, Ailith knew that the gulf was too wide to bridge. Since Felice had to spend so much of her time resting, the burden of domestic duty had inevitably fallen upon Ailith's shoulders. Sometimes she was the servant, sometimes the mistress. It was inevitable that whichever role she played, either she or Felice felt resentful. And then, she thought grimly, there was the unspoken battle of wills over Benedict.
Silently Ailith folded a fresh linen square between the baby's legs and rebound him in clean swaddling. Benedict complained loudly at being confined. Giving
Felice an I told you so look, Ailith presented her with the wailing infant. In a moment, she was sure that Felice would hand him back, lacking the confidence to cope.
But Benedict, made curious by a different but familiar smell, by the sound of a voice that belonged to the warm womb-darkness before his birth, responded with a smile to his mother's overtures, and then a gurgle.
Ailith felt a stab of vicious jealousy as she watched Felice play gently with Benedict, encouraging him to laugh, talking to him in soft, high-pitched Norman French.
'Isn't he beautiful, Ailith?' Felice's dark eyes were burning with love-light. 'And so good-natured. You are!' she crooned to the baby, making a kissing sound. 'Yes you are! Oh just look at him!'
Ailith could not bear to watch. She wanted to snatch Benedict out of Felice's arms and keep him all to herself. Filled with bitter envy, knowing that it was wrong, she murmured that she had to visit the privy, and fled outside.
Rolf de Brize was tying a chestnut stallion to a bridle ring nailed in the wooden stable wall, and the yard was filling up with an entourage of grooms and retainers. Ailith hesitated. She had left the house to find a breathing space and perhaps to cry; there was that kind of pressure behind her eyes. Instead she encountered the vital red-haired Norman, and space of any kind was denied to her.
He raised his head and saw her standing in the doorway. A look of pleasure brightened his face and he strode up to her. 'Ailith, it is good to see you!' he declared warmly, and before she could move, he had kissed her on both cheeks in greeting.
Her face flaming, Ailith stepped away from him. 'We did not know you were coming to London.'
'I thought I would pay a visit before taking ship; I'm bound for Normandy on the next Rouen trader out of Dowgate.'
'Oh.' Ailith felt a surge of relief followed closely by a sensation that was almost disappointment. She was about to usher him into the house when Felice herself came out to investigate the commotion, Benedict cradled in her arms.
Again Rolf's face lit up and he kissed Felice on both cheeks too. 'You look well,' he said. 'Much better than you did in January.'
'And I am beginning to feel well too,' Felice assured him, a flush to her cheeks and her brown eyes sparkling. 'What do you think of your Godson? Hasn't he grown?' She held out the baby for his inspection.
Ailith watched Rolf take Benedict into the crook of his arm and agree gravely with Felice as to the child's progress. 'One day he will be as handsome as his mother is beautiful,' he charmed, causing Felice to blush harder than ever. 'Aubert's a lucky man. Is he home?'
'Soon,' Felice said, preening at her wimple. 'He's attending to a cargo down at the wharf'
'Good, I need to buy some wine for Ulverton, and I know Aubert will give me the best price.' He returned Benedict to his mother. 'Not that I'll need it until I return from Normandy.'
'Normandy!' Felice had not heard that part of his conversation with Ailith, and looked at him with raised eyebrows. Benedict, tired now, began to cry fretfully.
'Shall I take him?' Ailith held out longing arms.
Felice shook her head. 'No, he's not hungry, you fed him not long since, and his swaddling is clean. I'll sit down and nurse him awhile until he falls asleep. Perhaps you could oversee the meal now that we have guests to provide for?'
Ailith nodded. 'Of course,' she said, her lips tightening. Rolf looked thoughtfully between the two women but made no comment, and when Felice linked her free arm through his to lead him back into the house, he smiled and yielded her his full attention.
The hearth smouldered softly, bathing the woman and baby in a dull red light. Awake, Rolf lay on his pallet and watched Ailith suckle Benedict in the hour when everyone else was sound asleep. Her hair was braided in a loose sheaf and secured by a simple ribbon. She had freed the baby's limbs and a little hand clutched her plait as the infant sucked. Rolf quietly enjoyed the scene. He had never witnessed Ailith off her guard before and the softness in her face as she played with Benedict was a revelation. He had not had much opportunity to speak to her since his arrival. At first she had been busy with the maids preparing food, and when she had sat at table, the conversation had all been in rapid Norman French and she had been unable to follow it and join in — or perhaps she had not wanted to. He had seen a look of strain on her face as the evening wore its way down the candle notches.
There was no strain now. She finished feeding the baby and covered her breasts. Quietly he left his pallet and crouched down at her side before the banked fire. He felt her silent surprise, but she accepted his company.
'How are you faring?' he enquired as she set about changing Benedict's swaddling. Her fair braid swung forward. The movement of her breasts was heavy and fluid within her chemise. After one, rapid glance, he kept his eyes on her face, but she did not look at him, preferring to busy herself with the baby.
'Well enough. I still miss Goldwin and Harold terribly. It is an ache that will never go away.'
'But you are no longer tempted to take a knife to your wrist?' His voice emerged sharper than he had intended.
'I am tempted every day, but I manage to resist,' she answered.
He eyed her thoughtfully. While the child needed her for sustenance, he could see that she was sufficiently fulfilled to think life worth living. But what about the future? He had seen the unspoken tension between her and Felice and how it stemmed from mutual jealousy over Benedict. Sooner, rather than later, he thought, the battle to wean the baby would begin.
Having saved her life in the forge at midwinter, Rolf felt that he had a responsibility for Ailith's welfare, one that he would rather have foregone. In the normal course of his life, he would have tumbled her joyously in the warm stable straw without a second thought and then gone on his light-hearted way. And if she refused him, which occasionally happened, he would have shrugged and found someone else to lighten the heaviness in his groin. Now, burdened, he was at a loss.
'How long will you be gone in Normandy?' She returned Benedict to his cherry wood cradle and set it gently rocking with her toe.
'For the spring and early summer. I have to look over the new foals at Brize and decide what is to be done with the yearlings. I'm going to bring some horses back to England with me as breeding stock for Ulverton. It was the reason the King granted me the lands – to raise warhorses for his stables. I may go to Flanders too. They raise heavier animals there, ideal for blending with my Spanish grey. Breeding the perfect warhorse is not easily done, but I have always relished a challenge, and I suffer from the wanderlust,' he added with a smile.
'Is that what brought you to England? Your wanderlust? The challenge of another man's grass?'
Rolf shrugged uncomfortably beneath her stare, which was almost accusing. 'In part, yes,' he confessed, 'but King William had need of my skills and no-one ever denies his will — not if they want to live.'
'And did you leave a family at home in Normandy when you crossed the narrow sea?'
Rolf sighed down his nose. He had known the question was inevitable, and would have preferred not to answer her. Normandy was Normandy, and England was England. 'I have a wife and child,' he said.
Ailith's expression became closed and wary as he had known it would. 'It must be hard for you, being apart from them for so long,' she murmured.
'Sometimes it is.' He picked up a twig of stray kindling from the floor rushes and peeled at the bark with his fingernail. 'I was married to further the interests of Brize-sur-Risle – for wealth and land and politics. My father was the most astute of men when it came to such dealings. I had no choice. Not that it mattered. Arlette was suitable in every way and there was no-one else.' He poked the twig beneath the smouldering logs in the hearth. 'She is a good wife,' he said, his tone wry. 'Near to being perfect.'
The kindling smoked at the tip and turned black. The bark writhed away from the pith and suddenly bright flame licked intensely along the twig and consumed it. Rolf stared at the blackened, crumbling fretwork. 'Perhaps that is why I hav
e a need to play with fire,' he said softly.
CHAPTER 18
Rolf fondled the bay mare's soft muzzle. A leggy red-gold yearling butted jealously at his hand, seeking attention, and the mare's new chestnut foal stretched his neck to discover if he was missing anything. The dark January night of a year and a half ago when Rolf had struggled to save the yearling's life seemed to be from a different lifetime, so much had happened since.
'England,' said Arlette. 'You are taking them to England?' There was anxiety in her voice. 'But she is your best mare, Rolf.'
'I want to breed her to Sleipnir,' he answered. 'And there is no way on God's good earth that I am bringing him back across the narrow sea. Once was enough. She has mated well with Orage, I won't deny it, but I want to see the result of putting her to the grey. There are some other mares I have a mind to take too.'
Her eyes clouded. 'That means you will be spending much of your time in England.'
'For a while, until the lands are more settled, and the breeding established.' He ceased stroking the mare and sat down on the river bank where Arlette had organised a picnic. In the village he knew that his people would be dancing around the maypole and indulging in various pagan rites connected with the celebration of the fertility of spring. Father Hoel would be among them, scattering blessings and holy water in a vain attempt to Christianise the proceedings. Rolf would have preferred to join the dancing and oversee the feast he had provided for his people, but Arlette, full of righteous disapproval, had suggested the alternative of dining by the river in the sunshine, adding that in the month he had been home, they had scarcely been together except at retiring time.
He had complied, for it gave him the opportunity to inspect his horses, nor was he averse to a lazy hour beside the peace of the river. Besides, the May celebrations would go on all day, and well into the night. And the night was usually the best part.
Watched closely by her mother, Gisele toddled about on the grass, constantly plumping down on her fat little bottom. Delicate pale gold curls escaped the edges of her linen bonnet and framed a dainty face that was Arlette's in immature miniature. Rolf took her on his lap, but she struggled free immediately.
The Conquest Page 15