She shivered and watched, her face as unsmiling as those all around her. King William, who led the procession, looked ahead sternly. The tiny queen who stepped neatly beside him owned an alabaster complexion as white as polished ivory. Gunnhild knew that she was, of course, far beneath the dwarf queen’s notice.
At last the Wilton nuns slipped into place to join the walk to the cathedral and Gunnhild took up her position alongside Christina, behind the knights and nobles, bishops and monks. As they moved forward over the palace’s icy yard towards the church, the monks’ censors swung back and forwards through sharp winter air in a slow, methodical rhythm. After what seemed an endless time, they were at last crowding into the nave of the great Minster. Others pressed in behind them and Gunnhild found herself moving forward with a crowd of mourners all about her. They thronged every space from the altar to the West Door. She could smell the musty damp rising off their furs, hardly masked by the heavy oily perfumes that they wore to conceal the stink of their sweat. Her throat was irritated by the pungent smoke from the golden swaying censors and she began to cough. Christina glared at her through bead-like jackdaw eyes that missed little. Gunnhild clamped her hand to her mouth.
Turning away from the censor-swinging monks, she tried to breathe slowly. In, out, in, out. Try not to inhale the sickly perfume, worse inside than out, just breathe. As she recovered, a deep sadness overcame her and her mind wandered. Aunt Edith was telling her to sit by her charcoal fire on a stool, teaching her to read from an illustrated book with tales of animals – stags with thorny crowns, red foxes and long-eared hares. Shaking herself from such memories, she focused hard on where she was now. Looking about the nave, she began to scan the sombre faces of others. So many people had gathered at Westminster. Did they really care about the dead old queen who had straddled two worlds, the beautiful world she had known before the great battle and that of the Norman conqueror. How could these strangers possibly care about her clever aunt? She closed her eyes, and by squeezing them tightly shut, she captured an older recollection. This time she saw her mother embroidering a fine tunic with golden thread. It was for her handsome warrior father, Earl Harold, in their happy time before he was king. Perhaps her mother, the once lovely Edith Swanneck, was here too. She opened her eyes and glanced around again, peering hard through gaps in the groups that crowded the nave. Her mother was not there. So they never invited my mother. I am still not permitted to speak with my mother in case we plan together to bring my brother Godwin back from Denmark and help him to kingship. Aunt Edith never allowed me to write to her. ‘For your own sake, Gunnhild,’ Aunt Edith had once said when she had begged to write to her mother. ‘Forget you ever had a mother. I am your mother now.’ Gunnhild knew the true reason. Simple. The bastard king is afraid of my mother, ever since her part in the rebellion at Exeter. She is like the rest of the mothers of Hastings, shadows in the corners. This is what becomes of passing your days on your knees in prayer .
Gunnhild chased another memory. Ulf, her little brother, was still a hostage at King William’s other court in Normandy. He had been fleet of foot and so filled with mischief. They had glided together over frozen ponds on bone skates and climbed tall spiky trees on the estate of Reredfelle that winter before her father had sent her to Wilton for her education. She felt herself smiling through damp eyes until a moment later a finger was prodding her, pushing her forward. Christina was hissing in her ear. ‘Wake up, look down. This is a funeral, not a wedding.’
Four nuns stood in a tight group around Christina, their sweat as stale as rotting fish, their breath foul. Gunnhild looked away from them and swallowed. She glanced across at the other side of the nave. A knight who stood by a statue of St Mark’s lion was looking straight at her, watching her. As she caught his eye he turned to the canons who were gathered about the coffin chanting prayers, helping Aunt Edith to Heaven. Had he really looked her way, or was her imagination tricking her?
‘Gunnhild, what are you doing now?’ Christina pinched her arm. Gunnhild bit her lip to stop a retort. ‘Look down, girl. This behaviour does not become the daughter of a man who was once a king of the English.’
‘I am just trying to find my mother, Lady Christina.’
Christina hissed. ‘She would not be invited.’
Sweat trickled down Gunnhild’s back and soaked into the coarse linen she wore under her gown. She must find fresh air before she vomited in front of them all. ‘Excuse me a moment. I …’ Gunnhild clapped her hand to her mouth and turned around, almost knocking the nun behind her over in her haste to escape. She pushed back through the great gathering of nobles, weaving a way around groups of strangers until she sensed clearer air from an opened side door. She ran out into a small courtyard and retched. She used her sleeve to wipe the spittle from her mouth and leaned against the stone wall, gulping cold air. Once she felt a little better, she edged her way back along the wall. The same knight stood there with his back to her, hovering just inside the doorway, blocking her return. He shifted his stance and glanced out. From her place of safety she observed him through the slits in the stone tracery of the portico. She realised that she had seen him before. His red hair was less bright than when she had last observed him during the nightmare year when other women of her family fled England. She had only been ten years old and had chosen to stay at Wilton with Aunt Edith.
Many foreign ambassadors and great knights had visited Aunt Edith. This red-headed knight, known to them then as Count Alain of Brittany, had lingered deep inside her memory. Her mother had behaved in a scandalous manner, agreeing to wed the knight then breaking her promise. Aunt Edith had been angry and had never mentioned her mother’s name again. Momentarily the knight stood still as the effigies that graced the side chapels inside the minster and, watching him slowly scan the courtyard, she felt a delicious stirring of something she longed for – his world.
He moved out of the doorway, strode around the portico and looked straight down at her. Trying to reclaim her dignity, she stood up, swept her hand down her gown and pulled her rough mantle closer.
‘Are you unwell, my lady? Can I fetch someone, one of your order, perhaps?’
She did not reply. He spoke again. ‘Who cares for you? Can I find that person for you? Ma petite, you are a novice, yes?’
Stretching up to her full height she found her tongue. She fixed him with as stern a look as she could manage. ‘No, my lord, I am not yet a novice nor do I ever intend to be one. I am Gunnhild, a daughter of King Harold of the English.’
‘I thought as much. Lady Gunnhild, you are grown since I last saw you in Wilton. You must be … what age?’
‘I am eighteen years, and I am quite recovered, thank you. Please allow me to pass.’
The knight scrutinised her face. Is he looking for my mother in my countenance? My mother was right to deny him, of course. This man could never replace my father.
He said, his voice so low she hardly heard, ‘And at eighteen you should be wed.’ He bowed, inclined his head and moved aside to allow her passage.
‘You are bold, knight.’ She looked up at him, refusing to let his remark pass unnoticed, even though she agreed. She should indeed have a husband.
‘And you are fair, my lady. I mean it as a compliment.’ At that, Gunnhild pushed past him into the church and hurried back through the crowd.
She turned at a pillar and glanced back, her eyes searching hard for him but others had closed him in and he was gone.
When she returned to her place, Christina tugged her mantle and she fell to her knees. They rose again as everyone was beginning to leave, drifting towards the great door, following after the king and queen and Lanfranc, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Bishop of London, monks, nuns and nobles. No matter how hard she peered through gaps in the great gathering she could not see the red-headed knight and, by the Virgin, she could not remember his name.
‘Where were you, Gunnhild?’ Christina said.
Gunnhild pointed to an alcove close to the narrow doorway.
‘Praying to Our Lady for my aunt’s soul.’ The lie slipped from her tongue as easily as the liturgy she knew by rote.
‘Sooner you are shriven the better, my girl.’ Christina took Gunnhild’s arm and hurried her back out into the brightness of day. Turning to her group of nuns she dropped Gunnhild’s elbow and said, ‘There are too many temptations at a funeral feast. Prioress Winifred will see to our needs in the women’s hall and there we shall rest.’ With that she turned on her heel. Dutifully the four nuns of Wilton followed as Gunnhild trailed behind them. Glancing backwards, Gunnhild now saw that the knight was leaning on his sword by the choir stalls, once again observing her. Feeling a flush of colour creep up her neck she drew her mantle hood close and hurried after the others.
3
Wilton Abbey, Winter 1076
While snow and hail and frost all fall together
The heart’s wounds seem by that yet heavier …
The Wanderer – A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse edited by Richard Hamer, 2006
‘Gunnhild, I must speak with you and with Eleanor,’ Christina announced after Nonce on a snowing day in January. The year’s first snowfall always reminded Gunnhild of how her grandmother, Gytha, had told them of how a white raven who had belonged to the Norse god Odin scattered feathers in the cold of winter, feathers that fell to earth as snow.
Obediently bowing their heads, they trailed behind Christina through the icy cloisters, exchanging anxious glances. Gunnhild wondered what was waiting for them. Had they not been diligent enough? Would Christina punish them for some silly misdemeanour with more time on their knees in the chill chapel in prayer, finger-pricking embroidery, or, perhaps, the worst of all punishments, fumigating blankets for the abbey’s guest house? She shuddered. The extra blankets were stored in fusty chests where fleas mysteriously multiplied in their woollen seams.
She huddled into her mantle and longed to climb the twisting stairs behind the cloisters to the scriptorium where a basket of coals glowed in a charcoal brazier. There, she could lose herself in drawing tiny acanthus leaves which she loved to touch with gold. Tucked away in an alcove set aside for her use she drew and coloured little figures with such talent that visiting monks remarked that they could never better her work. She trampled snow as she plodded behind Eleanor and Christina, escaping in her mind into her miniature depiction of the Wedding at Canna with its small roses that crawled up a pillar beside the kind Jesus who reached out his hand in blessing.
They had arrived at Christina’s door. She ushered them inside, pointed to a bench and ordered the girls to be seated whilst she placed herself behind a table and arranged her gown. Once she was comfortably seated she looked at them both across the top of a prominently positioned box and a book.
Gunnhild did not recognise the largish box but she knew that the book beside it contained the names of postulants and their possessions, those belonging to girls with great fortunes and some without. Eleanor was without, but then she was an accomplished embroideress and embroidery was of great value. Christina leaned forward and opened the codex, spoiling the perfect arrangement of box and book. Ignoring Gunnhild she glanced up at her friend. Eleanor was a novice. ‘Yes, I am correct, Eleanor, my dear,’ she said with a thin smile, ‘the book indicates that you will take vows next year.’ Christina looks like a hawk today. Christina screwed up her eyes and sat back in her chair. ‘I consider you in need of no further instruction, Eleanor. You may take your vows this Easter.’ Her thin lips broke into a smile. ‘Until then you will work on our tapestry panel for Bayeux. Bishop Odo is anxious this is completed before Pentecost. Canterbury is ahead of us with their panels and this we cannot allow.’
Eleanor’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Christina turned to Gunnhild. Her thin smile became a frown. ‘Gunnhild, we are not considering you as a novice, not just yet – though I expect you to be ready by summer.’ Christina sat up straight and drew herself taller. ‘In preparation you shall attend four services daily.’ Gunnhild let a sigh escape her lips. ‘Not so fast my girl,’ Christina continued. She tapped the mysterious box. ‘You will remove yourself from the scriptorium since you, too, must work on our tapestry panels. The Bishop is sending one of his designers to check our work. It has to be perfect. You will be stitching the vow that King Harold took in Bayeux when he acknowledged Duke William as the rightful future king of England.’
She heard Christina’s pronouncement as if it came from a distant world. These were hard words. Her aunt often said that Harold had ignored a promise made on holy relics to be Duke William’s man and that when King Edward had died her father had by-passed Christina’s brother, the Atheling Edgar, and had accepted the English throne. Gunnhild wanted to cry out, ‘This is all past, long, long ago. It is nothing to do with me.’ But she swallowed and bit her bottom lip, the physical pain helping to ease her anger. Christina continued, ‘As you well know, Gunnhild, a vow on holy relics is sacrosanct. Your father’s broken promise brought us to war, caused his own death and has brought God’s wrath on us.’ She lifted her hand and again tapped the box by her elbow. ‘In this chest are your inks and brushes. They will remain in my possession since there is no need for you to revisit the scriptorium.’
Gunnhild inhaled and silently exhaled. She could feel her heart beating like that of a wounded sparrow she had once held in her hands, trapped within the cage of her fingers. For a moment she could not breathe. She watched horrified as Christina moved the box to one side, leaned forward and remarked, ‘By the way, Gunnhild, there is a visitor here today, one who wishes to speak with you. I cannot refuse this interview since he is a cousin to King William. So …’ she leaned back in her chair and sighed, ‘You may see him in the abbess’s antechamber after Vespers. Since our beloved abbess is unwell and I am working on the tapestry today, Sister Marte will chaperone you.’ She waved her hand in a dismissive manner. ‘Now, both of you go about your day.’
Eleanor bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Lady Christina,’ she murmured. Gunnhild rose to follow Eleanor but stopped and turned at the door. ‘My visitor’s name?’
‘Count Alan of Richmond. He knew your aunt and says that he has a gift for you, something that belonged to your grandmother, Countess Gytha. Now go.’
‘I see, Lady Christina. Thank you.’
‘Go. I am busy.’
Gunnhild drew another long intake of breath and did not exhale until she was back in the snowy cloister.
Marte led Gunnhild to the abbess’s receiving chamber and placed her in a chair behind a wooden lattice screen that had been especially imported for the meeting. Marte and Beatrice, both of them lowly nuns, sat behind her with embroidery in their laps. Soon after, Count Alan was ushered in by a servant and shown to a winged chair close to the screen. Since she had seen him last he had sprouted hair on his chin. His brush of a red beard was nodding this way and that. If she put a finger through the screen’s lattice work she could touch that beard. She peeped up and saw too how his close-cropped hair gleamed in the candle-glow and how his long face was criss-crossed with a light and dark latticed pattern.
He leaned in. From behind her chair, Marte clucked her disapproval. Gunnhild ignored Marte and she, too, leaned in towards the screen. His eyes were intense, the colour of amber, fox eyes, but it was difficult to tell in sconce light. Perhaps they were just brown or even tawny.
‘Gunnhild,’ he said in a quiet voice. This time she noticed his pronounced foreign accent. ‘I have come to ask forgiveness for what my people have done to your family. I was responsible for the destruction of Reredfelle. I did wrong by your mother. This sin has lain on my conscience for many years. Since the destruction of that estate, we have burned and taken lands from hundreds of those who once farmed them. If the people rebel they lose everything. These have been cruel years. Take the north for instance. There was a great rebellion there four years past and the lands of Lords Edwin and Morcar – do you remember them?– have been laid waste.’ She nodded. He went on, now sounding impassioned, his voice hoar
se with irritation. ‘The punishment was harsh. Laying waste the north is not the way to win the tenants’ loyalty.’ He breathed hard and said, ‘I live in the north and by Christ one day I shall bring peace to that land. People cannot work the land if they are not at peace, Gunnhild.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And, I am Alan now, not Alain. I think it may help me win my tenants loyalty. I try to be fair but if they cross me …’
‘I see,’ she interrupted. She had listened to enough of this. Gunnhild had not seen the destruction of the north with her own eyes but she had heard of the rebellion and about King William’s revenge. If Count Alan intended to help its recovery then perhaps not all foreigners were bad, that was if he meant what he said. ‘I hope you will act as you say,’ she said aloud. Thinking for a moment, she added, ‘You wanted to marry my mother.’
He steepled his hands. ‘A great wrong was done to her. But no one can turn this tide back from time’s shore line, nor should they. Together, my people and yours will make this land strong again. We will build great abbeys and bring it peace and God’s forgiving grace.’ He opened his hands, palms up. He smiled at her. ‘Gunnhild, I have no wife. I am a soldier and one day I shall need children to inherit my castles. I …’ He stopped and looked down at his hands.
She waited for him to continue, wondering if he was about to ask for her? He was much older than her. He must be around five and thirty. She felt her eyes widen as a whisper of hope flitted past her. He was, after all, a king’s cousin.
He was studying her face, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his month. ‘There is no point in asking for you, my lady, because the abbey here does not intend to allow you to leave. Lady Christina says you are about to become a novice, but I believe they have their own motives for holding on to you.’
‘Which is?’ She heard her own voice creak.
He lowered his so that the nun seated behind could not hear. ‘Through you they can hope for the prosperity that once belonged to your mother. Her estates are legally her lands.’
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 2