He grunted something about hoping her lord knew what she was doing selling off her treasures, but none the less, his greed for an abbot’s approval won. He gave her his bags of silver in payment and she accepted them, wondering as she did so whether Count Alan would agree that the sale of a jewel was worth it.
In November, a messenger rode in again with news from Dol. The fight was not going well for the Normans. The French king had ridden out to break their siege, and with the help he gave to the rebels it was unlikely King William would destroy the castle. He would never humble Earl Ralph. The messenger looked deflated as he told her that the King might withdraw his trebuchets and his siege towers before Christmas.
‘The fighting has been fierce. Count Alan is safe though he has lost some of our men to French arrows.’ This time there was no letter from Alan.
Gunnhild thought of Emma. ‘And what of Earl Ralph and Lady Emma?’
‘The lady left Dol before the siege. She is with her own people in Burgundy now.’
‘And her child?’
‘That I do not know, my lady.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Count Alan says that he hopes to return for the Christmas feast.’
Gunnhild felt joy at this news. Her heart lifted as she surveyed her Hall, which smelled pleasantly of wood smoke and of fresh camomile and sage leaf which had been scattered amongst the floor grasses that same morning. The new kitchen meant that there was no need to cook over the central hearth. Surely Alan would approve her changes? It was her castle and she had financed everything herself though she wondered about the wisdom of selling the Penthiévre ruby. Uncomfortably, her hasty action had begun to prick her conscience. She glanced from the messenger to the doors at the side of the hall, closed as the cooks were roasting November geese for dinner. The Hall’s kitchen possessed bread ovens, a cooking hearth, great smoke vents and its own large door that led out to the well in the castle yard, to the vegetable and herb gardens. She thought of the other work that was in progress that autumn. The painters had finished decorating the walls of her solar with woodland scenes, nymphs and satyrs, trees with broad oak leaves, blue sky glimpsed between the foliage and steep life-like banks of spring flowers. They would now paint a religious scene in their bedchamber. She favoured the Golden Mass, the Virgin and the angel Gabriel for one wall and for another she decided on the Fall of Adam and Eve. That should please her husband. When they started painting it the following week she must have her bed carried up into the solar whilst the work was underway. If the painters from Rouen worked quickly all should be completed in time for the Christmas feast.
Calling for food and drink for Count Alan’s man, she hurried into the antechamber to write to Alan without delay. Selecting a fresh piece of parchment from the coffer by the window, she first smoothed it out on the table and ruled faint lines with a rule and her sharpened pen. She dipped her goose-quill pen into a pot of black ink and began to write. Her words took shape on the page as she wrote of her forthcoming child and of her work on St Margaret of Antioch, Aunt Edith’s name-day saint. She had begun to scribe it and she would decorate the capital letters with pictures. She finished her letter by saying that she prayed for his safe return. She hoped that they would soon be reunited. Keep safe and come home to us soon, my husband. I miss you more with every day that passes.
On a grey cold day with snow fall threatening but not yet come, Hubert sent out into the woods for the yule log. With great cheer a group of villagers wrapped in heavy woollen cloaks dragged the thick tree trunk from the forest into the bailey. When they processed with it up the castle hill Gunnhild was waiting in her hall amongst servants who carried, from cords hung about their neck, large wooden trays laden with refreshments. She offered everyone cups of warm cider and freshly baked honey cakes. Most of the villagers stood quietly sipping the drink as they looked towards the doors into the kitchen in awed admiration. Servants kept entering holding fresh trays of pastries. Gunnhild circulated amongst the villagers, stopping to pass words with each of them as she refilled their cups from a jug. She knew that she was admired by them now as she was large with child and she smiled her benevolence at them all.
Agenhart had come with them. The woman hung back from the hearth with her two children and her mother-in-law by her side. When Gunnhild approached she said quietly, ‘My lady, the fighting at Dol. Have you heard any news?’ The question was direct and Gunnhild answered just as directly, ‘No bad news, Agenhart, nothing yet about your children’s father. But I think he may be home soon, maybe for the Christmas Feast.’ She moved on. The little boy ran after her.
‘Madam, may I play with the kitten?’ he asked. A little black cat was scurrying after a miniscule bundle of wool that had fallen from a bench. She nodded. The lad raised his bright eyes to her, smiled his thanks and then raced off to scoop the small ball of fur into his arms. He looked back at her, cuddling the wriggling kitten, still smiling and in that smile she saw Alan and her heart felt pained. Automatically her hand found its way to her great belly. She was nearly seven months carrying their child.
On Christmas Eve the snow storms began. Gunnhild attended both morning Prime and noonday Sext. The feast was to be held this year in the keep hall rather than in the bailey feasting hall. It brimmed with activity. The aromas of spices for sauces and cakes and the deep, rich oily smells of roasting fowl seeped into the air, filling the castle hall with warmth, passing through cracks in the doorway to the antechamber behind and drifting up the keep’s staircases to her bedchamber and into the solar. She indulged herself in a sense of anticipation, both for the feasting that would follow and for Alan’s return. Her castle was welcoming, so filled with her own particular sense of beauty that surely he must be embraced by it and welcome her changes. She held that comforting thought close to her heart.
It was heavily snowing by evening and as she looked out through the drifting white screen she wondered if Alan would battle through the gales to reach them or would he have to retire to Dinan, which was an easier journey. Climbing slowly up the stairway, clutching onto the rope rail and half pulling herself up to her chamber, she knew there was nothing she could do to bring him home that night. The villagers, too, were facing similar disappointment since those who had joined Count Alan’s troops would not be returning either.
Not really interested, she pulled underskirts and over dresses from her clothing pole. Nothing fitted her now. They could not be let out any more. There was just not enough material in them. The seamstresses of Rouen had never returned but perhaps Ann could help her create a wider dress. She looked longingly at the green silk dress she had brought from Wilton and taking it from the pole, held it up to the candle light to enjoy once again the lustre from the tiny pearls at its hem. Ah, she thought wistfully, maybe one day I can wear this once more.
‘My lady, tut.’ Ann had slipped into the chamber and was staring at the pile of clothing she had pulled down. She began gathering them up into her arms.
Gunnhild lamented. ‘I am grown too big for this.’ She threw the green gown onto the bed.
‘I have not let out the scarlet wool yet. It has more material in it than the others. I can do it now in time for the feast.’
‘Well then, it will have to be that. It is a good colour, reflecting courage.’
Ann unpicked the seams. She had just begun to re-pin them together when they heard shouting on the stairs. Gunnhild dragged herself to the doorway and, paying no attention to the fact that her head was unveiled and her hair falling loose, overjoyed, she pulled it open.
Alan was at the bottom of the stairway shouting at the servants. ‘My men must eat now. They have had nothing in their bellies for two days, nothing do you understand, nothing since we left Dol.’ Then he bellowed, ‘Where is Lady Gunnhild?’
Ann grabbed a mantle and threw it over Gunnhild, who had begun struggling down the stairway crying out, ‘I am here, my lord. If only you had sent word.’
He swept Gunnhild into his arms as she came off the bottom step but im
mediately drew back. ‘What, by the rood, are you wearing, woman? You will stab yourself and my child if not me.’ He drew out a fine bone pin from the loosened side seam and handed to her.
‘Oh, Alan, please give me a moment. We are letting my overdress out.’ With that she hurried back up the narrow stair-case, hoisting herself clumsily up by the rope rail. She flew into the chamber where Ann was frantically clearing away underdresses, gowns, slippers and hose.
‘Let me help you get that gown off before you injure yourself.’
Gunnhild opened her hand and presented Ann with the pin she was still clutching. ‘I nearly stabbed my lord.’
Moments later Gunnhild was back in the hall and Ann had retired to the solar above the bedchamber to finish pinning and stitching. The yule log was blazing and the hall was busy with Alan’s soldiers seeking bench space. Servants busily put large platters of pies, bread and butter on roughly set trestles. They all seemed entangled with each other but then through the mêlée she spotted Alan standing by the hearth, holding a pasty in one hand and a cup of wine in his other. She hurried to him.
‘Let us go into the antechamber. I have much to tell you, Gunnhild.’ He gave his cup to the pageboy who hovered close by them, sent him away, took her hands, leaned back and stared at her. ‘Pregnancy suits you well. You are carrying my son!’ He dropped her hands and strode towards the door to their private chamber.
‘How did you know, my lord? The letter …’
‘Ah yes, I had to go to Rouen to organise more weapons …’
‘The merchants?’
‘Yes, the merchants. You look well,’ he repeated.
Gunnhild asked a servant to bring fresh food and wine into the antechamber before following Alan through the doorway. Behind her she could hear his men talking and the clatter of eating knives. She closed the door on the noise and with joy in her heart she knelt by the hearth and began to unlace his boots.
‘No, Gunnhild, you are in no state to do this now.’ With a tug he had the boots off. He sat back into his great winged chair and held his feet out to the blaze. ‘Gunnhild, it is a fine thing to be toasting my toes at my own hearth.’
‘Tell me all, my lord,’ she said, sinking onto a stool.
The servant brought them a platter of pasties and a fresh jug of wine. Alan pulled himself to his feet, padded over to the table and filled two cups. He handed a cup to Gunnhild, retreated to his winged chair, and with a fire poker stirred up the logs into a greater blaze, leaning forward to gaze into the flames.
He turned to look at her through sorrowful eyes. ‘We took many losses. Some of our men have not returned.’
‘Who?’
‘Brieuc for one. He lies in the churchyard in a village near Dol. We gave him a Christian burial. And we lost our smith, too. They both died in a storm of arrows from the castle battlements as my men tried to launch a counter attack … hopelessly because the French were attacking us from the rear. We had to pull back. When night fell we retrieved their bodies. Brieuc was killed by an arrow fired straight into his belly.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘It was terrible,’ he said at last. ‘To lose Brieuc. He was a good man.’
‘Does Agenhart know?’
He nodded, lifted his cup and drank the wine in one draught. ‘Yes, I have sent word to her. Hers will be a sad Christmas, I fear. She must come into our Hall. They were happy together. The forest hall will go to a new tenant, a new woodsman, but I cannot turn her out with nowhere to go.’
Gunnhild said quickly, ‘Her father lives in Dinan and I know that Count Eudo would like to have her there. She cooked for us here and I think he would welcome her and …’ she paused and her voice became a whisper, ‘the children, too.’
‘Perhaps, but the boy …’
Gunnhild waited. There was an edge to that moment of silence that she would not slice.
Alan could not meet her glare. ‘I would have the boy here, Gunnhild. He will be trained as a page and then he can squire for me and perhaps he will make a good knight.’ Alan’s voice sounded distant. This was the realisation of a terrible fear. Though why she should fear a small boy who was cast in Alan’s image, a child who was polite and kind, she did not understand. To have Alan’s son by Agenhart raised alongside her own children, to have Dorgen so close to her family was not something she could have ever imagined.
He reached out and touched her arm. ‘Please accept this for my sake.’
His decision, she knew, would not be gainsaid. There was no point in making a protest. She replied carefully, ‘Alan, I cannot refuse you this. If Agenhart is happy for him to live here with us, then I must accept her child into our care. But, what will happen when we return to England?’
‘He will be part of our household and I promise you, Gunnhild, that I shall not favour him above our own children. Our sons inherit.’
‘And if we have daughters?’
‘If so, they will marry well and bring more wealth to us, but if we have girls, then it is written that my properties will revert to my brothers. When I return to Rouen, I shall ask King William for your mother’s lands to be added to my own.’
‘I see.’ As Gunnhild sat silently, Alan poured them another cup of wine. She sipped it but now it tasted sour. ‘So be it, Alan, but in no way is Dorgen to be favoured above our own children.’ She rose from the hearth. ‘Come, my lord, come up to the solar and see what has changed there and in our bedchamber. I had a painter brighten the walls.’
‘Who gave you permission? I have just spent a deal of silver on Castle Richmond.’
She swallowed. ‘Then you must hear my plans for this chamber, too. That is, unless we are returning to England before we can paint it,’ she added defiantly. ‘And there is a kitchen.’
There was a hint of anger again in his eyes. ‘Have you drained my coffers, Gunnhild? When I gave you the keys to the treasury here I did not intend that you were profligate with my silver.’
‘No, I did not touch the silver. I used my own resources.’
‘What resources?’
‘I shall explain later,’ she said hoping if he saw the work, understanding would follow and with that forgiveness. ‘First, come and see for yourself.’
He rose, and she led him, awkwardly moving before him, feeling a sinking dread as she slowly climbed the stairway to the solar. Ann came rushing down the narrow steps. She bowed her head and waited flattened against the wall as Alan pushed past her.
Gunnhild slowly edged the heavy oak door into the solar open. Alan stepped inside and stood rooted to the rushes gasping his shock at the woodland scenes painted on two of the walls. ‘Flowers and trees, more decorum would be correct, the Virgin and Child, perhaps, or one of the miracles!’ he said. He waved his soldierly hand at the painting. ‘How did you pay?’
‘I shall explain later,’ she said again, worried now. He will approve my labour on a saintly manuscript. ‘Come, my lord, come and see my new work.’ She took his hardened hand and led him to her work bench. On it she had laid out her inks and her pens. Alan prowled around the piece of parchment that lay weighted with stones on each corner.
‘So you have begun God’s work at last. What is it?’
‘It will be the story of St Margaret, a lady who suffered much when she refused to wed with a Roman noble and wished to remain a Christian and a virgin. She was my aunt’s name-day saint.’
Alan stared down at the tendrils of flowers that twisted about some of the letters. Celandines, tiny purple daisies and wild rosebuds peeped out from miniscule leaves. His eye moved to the standing stones which she had painted along the page margins, the sea that caught at rocks and the angels she had drawn behind St Margaret’s name. ‘When she died and ascended into heaven, God made her one of his angels.’
‘It will be a treasure.’ He gathered her into his arms and held her close. ‘Can you order me a tub filled with hot water? I leak vermin and reek to high heavens.’
Alan bathed in the great wooden barrel by the charcoal brazier a
nd admired the Golden Mass with Mary wearing her traditional blue robe, the angel that rose above her and on the other wall, the Adam and Eve fresco above their bed. ‘Much better,’ he said approvingly, ‘but the cost. Still it is well-executed and a gentle frieze.’ He reached out for the soap and began to scrub away the dirt of the journey home and then reached for the towels she held out. He ran his great hands over her belly and then pointed to the Virgin. ‘And soon you, too, will give birth, my dear, and to the Richmond heir. May the Holy Virgin bless him.’
Harmonious, they descended into the hall for the feast. It was a joyful meal and after it was over, they trudged down the hill to the bailey chapel wearing fur-lined mantles, shivering despite them, to give thanks for his safe return.
Later he cradled her head in his arm and said, ‘Gunnhild, before I fall into sleep, tell me please, what monies paid for the wall paintings and the kitchen end to the hall? We owe the Church money for our penance. That should be a priority.’
She moved his hand over her belly so he could feel the child’s movement. ‘I am going to give birth sooner than I thought. It will be February.’
‘This baby feels like he is a swordfighter already. He is so anxious to meet the world. Gunnhild, please answer my question.’
She swallowed. He would be disappointed with her. She said, ‘I paid for the work with a gift your father gave to me. I thought you would not object as it was my property, because you have granted me this castle which was inhospitable until I made changes. Our child must have a comfortable castle from which to greet God’s world.’ She twisted to face him. ‘My lord, changes cost silver.’
‘What gift?’ He removed his hand from her belly, raised himself on an elbow and gave her a penetrating look.
She shuddered. God help her if Alan became her enemy. She whispered, ‘Your father gave it to me – a ruby made into a pin. The jeweller told me it would be set into a German bishop’s crozier. It will go to the Church.’ She hoped that this at least would soften the loss of the jewel.
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 15