When Ann’s face filled with joy she knew that she had done the right thing, though she had been loath to part with the pearls. Such precious possessions were a pleasure after years of desiring such things that belonged to the world beyond the cloister.
The festival of Beltane was observed throughout the countryside. The servants discarded their sullenness and, for days leading up to the first day of May, passed their precious free hours plaiting gentians, bluebells, cornflowers and early hedgerow roses into garlands in preparation. The bailey hall smelled pleasantly of flowers and grasses. Every chamber and object was cleaned, scoured to within an inch of survival.
Gunnhild marched around the castle, up and down the wooden stairway, looking furious, holding her switch. She never actually hurt anyone with it but she used it to point at corners that were dusty or at cobwebs that hung from door lintels. Her servants were so good-humoured about the celebrations that they were cooperative without her having to raise her voice to them once. None the less, she wore a stern look. When they did a job well such as mixing the floor grasses with dried fennel at her request, she thanked them. That way she and the castle servants rubbed along together without friction.
The day of the wedding arrived. After Hubert and Ann had exchanged their vows, and were exiting the church after the mass that followed their ring giving, Gunnhild noticed the little boy with red hair standing amongst the small crowd outside. The child’s mother, sister and father stood behind him. She glanced sideways and saw that Alan was watching them, too. This time she noticed Alan’s brown eyes softening as he looked from child to mother. The woman looked away. She was not boldly meeting his stare as she had done Gunnhild’s during the Easter service. With startling revelation Gunnhild realised whom the boy resembled. She glanced uncomfortably about the gathering of soldiers, servants and villagers, wondering if others saw it, too.
Once the feasting was over, Gunnhild watched the elfin woman as she tripped lightly about the Beltane fire, never once glancing Gunnhild’s way. Though she wore a plain kirtle of russet linen and an over tunic of similar material, she held herself like a small queen, her flaxen plaits swinging as she circled the flames, her two laughing children dancing at her side. Unlike many of the other countrywomen she was not barefooted. Her dainty feet were shod with leather shoes.
Cries were directed towards them. An agile, pigtailed little musician began frantically beating his drum and was sidling over to where she sat with Alan, whilst another, a plump man, followed him playing a large recorder, bending forwards and backwards sucking, blowing and puffing. A goblin-like man completed the trio. He danced about them as he played his bagpipes, his short green cape flying behind him until he stopped close to Gunnhild, tugged at her hand and tried to pull her into the circling dancers.
‘They want us to dance, too,’ Alan said, and took her other hand.
‘I can’t,’ she replied looking down at her slippers, the leather dyed to match her scarlet dress. ‘These are silk slippers.’
‘Come on, Gunnhild.’ Alan’s tone was impatient. ‘They are waiting.’ The crowd had fallen back and Alan pulled her forward, away from the bearded goblin man.
‘Who is that woman who so insolently stares my way?’ she asked furiously, on seeing the elf woman stop to watch them. ‘The one wearing red leather shoes.’
‘She is no one,’ Alan said sharply, as he pulled her into the circling dancers. ‘Her husband is my game-keeper. They care for the hunting hall. You will see it on Saturday when we take the falcons out.’
Others joined them but not the woman from the hall in the woods. As they melted into the great dancing circle, Gunnhild looked out to see where she had gone. The family were hurrying towards a cart that was waiting by the stables. The man threw a sack over a horse and climbed on to it. The woman lifted the little boy up and sat him in front of her husband, then helped her daughter into the cart. As Gunnhild wove through the dance exchanging one partner for yet another, passing a word to Ann as she swirled by her, she lost sight of the woodland family. They were gone by the time she glanced towards the barn again. Though she could not think why, she felt glad of it.
Gunnhild now threw herself into the dancing forgetting her shoes, forgetting everything except the pipes playing faster and faster as she whirled around and around. ‘You are a true chatelaine tonight, beautiful in your scarlet gown,’ Alan called to her as they swung by each other. He caught her and kissed her in front of everyone. She felt their approving glances whilst they clapped in time to the music.
Later, as they walked up the hill to the castle, leaving Ann and Hubert to their bedding ceremony, they could see flickering fires glowing beyond the palisade. Alan pointed and said that there was an ancient stone circle out in the woods. The country people would drift to it after they left the bailey. She had overheard the servants talk and knew that they would celebrate Beltane far into the night. Women and men would couple. Promises would be made and trysts kept and broken. She wondered how many bastards would grow in peasant girls’ wombs before dawn.
They drank a cup of warmed buttermilk and sat companionably in the antechamber where a fire glowed in a hearth set into the wall. As she sipped the soft milk that was pleasantly laced with honey, they discussed how successful the wedding had been and how proud Hubert was of Ann. It was long after midnight when she and Alan climbed the stairway to their bed chamber. By then she was too tired to ask him more about the huntsman’s family, especially the boy.
Later, she lay comfortably in Alan’s arms, sated by their passion. They sank back into the new feather mattress resting until Alan raised his head and looked thoughtfully down at her. He whispered into the golden sweep of hair that covered his chest, ‘Gunnhild, I must tell you something.’
‘You have already told me that today I looked beautiful.’
‘No, something else, Gunnhild.’
‘Well?’
‘That little boy you saw at the wedding – well he is mine. I am telling you because I see that he worries you.’
She pushed him away and sat up, wide awake. ‘What are you saying, Alan?’
‘It was five years ago and I have seen that they are well cared for. Agenhart is a merchant’s daughter from Dinan. She is now married to my woodsman, Brieuc.’ He paused, waiting for her to say something. When she remained silently tense beside him, he added, ‘You must accept this. Soon we shall have sons of our own. Agenhart is a mistress; she is not my wife.’ He sat up beside her, put his arms about her stiff, angry body and kissed her gently. ‘Promise me that a mistress and an innocent child will not destroy your happiness. Rise above it as other women do.’
She grasped the hand that reached out for her own but she could not speak. He entwined his fingers with hers and stroked her hair. He soothed her, but though she knew he spoke the truth and was honest when many a man was not, she felt uneasy. Agenhart is a mistress not was a mistress. She choked back tears that threatened to flow. What was she to say to this? Everyone must know of it. The boy’s parentage was obvious, so much so that even she had wondered.
‘It must never ever happen again.’ She turned to him.
‘I do not make promises I cannot keep. You will ignore this,’ he said hardening. ‘Agenhart is a beautiful woman but she is not my wife and you are. As such you will behave as behoves a noblewoman.’
She choked, swallowed and looked angrily at him. And the boy is your son. She was royal, a princess. The boy’s mother was a mere merchant’s daughter.
‘I shall try to understand,’ she said aloud though in her heart she felt jealous that any woman had lain with him before her. She suspected that many others had lain with her husband before Agenhart and that he was telling her that Agenhart remained his mistress.
‘And the boy is named?’ she asked at last, hoping that this was not Alan.
‘Dorgen. She called him Dorgen.’
Fréhel was her dower gift. Never would Agenhart or the child, Dorgen, enter her keep. Furious, she eventually
turned away from Alan and fell asleep.
10
And the king was at Westminster that midwinter; there all the Bretons who were at the bride-feast at Norwich were condemned … Thus were traitors to the king laid low.
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, 1076 , translated and edited by Michael Swanton, 2000 .
The day of the hunt dawned bright and clear. Gunnhild felt sad at Alan’s revelation but, though it had disturbed her deeply, she held her own counsel, determined to survive the day ahead and maybe, just possibly, enjoy the hunt. She rode into the woods clad in a simple linen gown that was fuller than usual, one she had the seamstress make for this purpose so that she could ride astride Shadow. A little way into the beech trees, Alan allowed his sacret to fly free. She watched its progress as it soared high above the canopy into the blue sky.
‘Let your goshawk go,’ he shouted over and she released it as he had taught her over the previous weeks.
His sacret was moving in on a wood pigeon. She gasped, thrilled, as both birds swooped and chased.
‘So which will bring it down, yours or mine?’ Gunnhild shouted gleefully.
‘The answer is there,’ Alan pointed and pulled on his reins so that Thunder pranced around to face her, adding, ‘The goshawk has it off her.’ He whistled a long high sound that was eerily similar to a bird’s cry and his sacret seemed to float towards them through the canopy. ‘Now you,’ he added. ‘Let us see if you can call your goshawk home.’
She tried to imitate his sound but her efforts were lost amongst the rustling branches. She could not reach the note needed to call Nighthawk in. Then, as if it had simply sensed her calling, it appeared from the sky and dropped its prey close to Shadow’s forelegs. Shadow shied backwards, almost throwing her, the movement was so sudden, but she spoke to him gently and held fast. A beater with a basket rushed forward past her to scoop up the kill.
Alan came close. ‘Well held, and who would have guessed that your goshawk would better my sacret. She knows who her mistress is, though you must practise that whistle.’
The beater stared up at her as he moved forward out of their way. She looked down at him. He glanced at Alan with what she saw was a sour look on his face.
‘Who is that man?’ she said.
‘He is Brieuc, master of the hunt, Agenhart’s husband.’
Of course he was, she thought bitterly, but he looked so different today, confident in his brown hunting cloak, not green this time, looking quite unlike the diffident man she had seen at the wedding feast. ‘He seems to resent us even though he clearly has the privileged position in charge of all the beaters,’ she remarked with acidity edging her tone.
‘Not so.’ Alan said and nudged Thunder’s flanks with his heels, moving him forward. ‘He is always that way,’ he threw back at her. ‘Brieuc is a good man and loyal.’
‘Then it is me he resents,’ she said just loud enough for him to hear.
‘Your imagination runs away with you, Gunnhild. You do not know him.’ Stiff-backed Alan gathered his reins and cantered ahead.
There is much I do not know. She remained silent as they rode along a woodland track through the trees until they approached a clearing, and she saw the standing stones leaning into a circle, some larger than others. Although the Beltane festival had been two days before, the fire in the centre of the stone circle was still smouldering. She shuddered, sensing an atmosphere here that chilled her to the bone.
‘My lord, why are the stones here in this place?’
‘Ah, I wondered if you would ask. No one knows but a legend attached to them is often told by Breton jongleurs. Those stones were here before the saints came in stone boats, fought dragons and evil leaders and Christianised the land. It is said that they once enclosed a place of sacrifice. Some call them the Devil’s stones and swear that if a man angers the old gods in this place he will be cast into stone and never move again. It is old magic but it pleases the woodland people to bring offerings to the stones here on Beltane and appease them. I think there is a more rational explanation. They are ancient tombs and that is all, nothing to frighten your dreams or enter your pretty head day or night.’
Pretty head indeed . As they rode past she stared back, unable to avert her eyes, fascinated by what she thought were faces carved into them. She felt them watching her, but after they passed into the woodland beyond the clearing and on to a sunlit path, the fearful feeling she had possessed in the glade gradually dissipated. She shook her reins and Shadow’s bells jangled reassuringly.
The goshawk sat calmly and obediently on her gloved wrist and for the remainder of the morning Alan rode close to her, keeping Thunder’s head neck and neck with Shadow’s. There was really nothing to frighten her. She would avoid the woods when Alan was away from the castle. Sensing her disapproval, Alan called to the others who followed that he was taking a new route and to keep sight of him so they did not lose the path.
He tactfully skirted the hunting lodge where Agenhart dwelled, bringing them on further to a picnic place where the woodland thinned out and they could rest amongst the bracken and heathers to eat as they watched the sea swirl around the cliffs far below their perch. Their guards joined them and the servants who followed them in a rattling cart unloaded picnic baskets filled with pasties and meats, a fermented apple drink and stone flasks filled with clean, clear well water. Gunnhild realised how hungry she felt and fell on the food, praising everything the cooks had prepared. For the rest of the hunting expedition she tried not to think of Agenhart and Dorgen.
Later in the afternoon they were back in the chamber behind the hall. The day had turned cooler. A small fire was burning in the hearth, a long trail of wood smoke twisting up through a smoke tunnel that was set deep into the castle’s thick wall. Aching, thankful that she could rest, Gunnhild relaxed. The picnic had been enjoyable, Alan attentive, and they had hunted again on the way back through the woods. Their kill was now hanging in the bailey and the birds were back on their perches in the barn. Alan sat in a winged chair by the window where he had begun to unlace his boots. Gunnhild lifted his cloak. She was looking forward to sinking into cushions by the hearth and to a simple private meal with no distractions and noise. She would not speak of Agenhart and she would win his heart. He was her husband now. Nothing could change that. The woman must be outlawed from her castle and from her presence.
Her comfort was to be short-lived. Commotion, the neighing of horses, shields clashing and dogs barking seemed to drift up towards them from the bailey. Alan leapt to his feet, threw the shutters wide opened and thrust his head out.
He turned back, exclaiming, ‘By St Gildas’s holy bones, I swear that is my father, Count Eudo, riding over the ditch. The red serpent flies before him.’ He looked down again and called back. ‘He has a train of people with him, two of my brothers, too.’ Alan left the window embrasure, swept a hand up to thump his head. ‘By Christus, how are we to feed them?’ He returned to the window. ‘He has all of Dinan with him.’
Gunnhild threw the cloak over a chair. She hurried to the window and stood beside him looking down towards the bailey. Alan’s father, mounted on a black stallion, was now riding up to the castle. Beside him two other men trotted on fine mounts with sturdy saddles and gleaming ornaments studding their horses’ harnesses. One held the reins of a pure white gelding. He was tall and slender, a green cloak hanging in folds from his shoulders pinned with something large that glinted in the light. She noticed how he sat erect and proud and that his hair was black as a raven’s coat. The other, a stockier man like the father, was seated on a piebald mount. They disappeared as they took the path round to the castle entrance, followed by a train of horses and carts and what she was sure was a great bedstead and mattress tied to one of the wagons. She pointed it out to Alan. He moaned. ‘They are planning a long stay here, but I wonder why?’ He gripped her shoulder. ‘He should have sent an outrider to warn us.’
‘There is no time to prepare. Sainted Brigit, just look at his b
aggage train!’ she cried.
‘Gunnhild, though we are tired, we shall greet them with the customary welcome. Order food and drink to be prepared. He will just have to have this chamber.’ Alan looked around. ‘There is nowhere else. Tell the maids to boil up cauldrons of water. He will want a bath.’ Alan sank down onto his chair again and pulled on his boots. ‘Jesu, I hope there is no trouble at Dinan.’
Gunnhild hurried off into the hall to instruct the maids to build up the fire and boil up great pots of water. The guests would be stabling their horses now. Glancing down at her gown, she realised that it was still very dusty from the ride that afternoon, but there was simply no time to change. She mounted the stairway and found Ann up in the solar where she was helping the seamstress hem another new gown. Gunnhild looked at it longingly. It was to be her best summer gown of pale linen. The dun-coloured lining for the trailing sleeves lay beside it. In a state of panic she ordered Ann down to the bailey kitchens. ‘We have company. Tell the cooks to put up a side of beef, a half-dozen chickens and whatever they can in the way of pasties and griddle cakes. It will have to suffice. The birds we caught today need to hang. And we shall just have to eat later than usual tonight.’ She groaned. ‘Brother Gregory must hold Compline this evening.’
‘Who is all this for, my lady, surely not the King of England?’ Ann said calmly, handing over her long sharp needle to the seamstress who stuck it into a small sewing cushion.
‘Worse. It is for Alan’s father, Count Eudo and his train.’
Ann pushed her sewing chair back with a scrape. ‘In that case I had better get myself down into the bailey and set up the trestles in the feasting hall.’
‘And I shall send maids for water and cloths.’ Gunnhild turned on her slippered heel and ran ahead back down the stairway.
She reached the hall just in time and, giving sharp orders to her maids, waited for them to return. Alan grumbled, ‘Hurry, hurry. They are dismounting.’
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 12