‘How do you know?’
‘Sir Edward told me.’ He studied Gunnhild with a dark look and swept a hand through his thinning cropped hair. ‘I shall have a grant written out making Reredfelle and other properties made over to you. You will take it to Canterbury for Lady Elditha to sign. It must go straight to King William, himself, before the survey puts them all down as Abbey lands. I expect you to be persuasive.’ He gathered his mantle from the bench threw it over his shoulders and made for the door.
‘Before you go there is more to say, Alan,’ she called after him. ‘When did you say I travel to Canterbury?’
He turned around. ‘After the wedding.’
‘And who escorts me? You?’
‘Your mother will certainly not wish to see me again. I shall organise an escort. After the marriage ceremony I shall return to Brittany.’
She drew in a breath. Her lands indeed. By the old English laws a woman could dispose of her own property as she wished. Not so now the Normans said that a woman’s property belonged to her husband. Dear God, let Walter d’Aincourt be generous to her daughter. She hoped that Elditha would refuse. Alan had land enough and had already acquired much of what had belonged to her mother.
Alan had tried to marry her mother after the Normans came to England, built castles and quashed any rebellion afoot, sending her grandmother, Countess Gytha into exile in Flanders, killing one of her rebellious older brothers, keeping her youngest and dearest brother Ulf a hostage in Normandy.
And, of course, no one had heard of Ulf for years. He had simply disappeared. Ulf was a difficult topic and one they never discussed. All Alan would ever say was that Ulf was part of Robert Curthose’s household. He was probably, by now, more Norman than English. What age would Ulf be? She counted. Maybe, he was already twenty-four years old since she was twenty-eight.
‘I see,’ she said aloud, now finally setting her embroidery aside and folding her hands. To see her mother again after so many years had passed was a joyful thought, but parting with Maud would be accompanied by deep sorrow. ‘And when are we to expect d’Aincourt?’ she asked.
‘By mid-month and it will be a quiet event. I leave it to you to arrange chambers for our guests.’
‘And the betrothal feast?’
‘That must be as fine a feast as is fit for the female kin of King William, including my sister and her husband Hugh. They will stand as witnesses. You may order what is necessary from York.’ He swept out through the doorway and returned to the hall.
She picked up her embroidery and made a few neat stitches on the hem, but her mind was not on acanthus leaves and miniature flowers. Her thoughts worked fast. Ann would help her to prepare Maud for her betrothal. There would be the castle to make ready for guests, food to order and new gowns for Maud. The loss of her daughter would be tempered by the anticipation of a visit to see her mother. Elditha had been informed of her marriage to Count Alan years before but after that there had been no communication. This visit was to be welcomed. It had never been permitted before but now that it was a question of land suddenly it was permissible.
* * *
A few days later, Alan and Gunnhild sat with Maud on a bench in the garden. A yellow sun shone down hotly and the roses suffused them with a soft perfume. The rain had stopped. Summer had arrived at last. Together they gently broke the news to Maud of her imminent betrothal. Alan told Maud that life on a great manor and in a noble townhouse in Lincoln would be much more exciting than life at Richmond. ‘We shall visit you often, my sweet,’ Alan said. ‘Although you will be married, Alice d’Aincourt and her ladies will see that you continue your education. They will introduce you to their bower and teach you how to organise the dairy and stillroom. You will be happy there and get to know your bridegroom. He is a kind and handsome young man. His father, Sir William, is my trusted friend. I knew him at King William’s court when our King was just the Duke of Normandy. You will grow up amongst good people and I would not have it otherwise.’
Gunnhild was grudgingly impressed with Alan’s approach to the changes in their daughter’s life. She took Maud’s hand in her own. ‘We shall both travel with you to Lincoln and settle you in with your new family.’
‘But I shall miss you, Mama and Papa.’ Maud looked from one to the other.
‘There will be new things to see and learn. We shall miss you, sweetheart, but I think your father tells the truth. You are going to be pleasantly surprised.’
‘And can I bring my Merleswein and Pippet?’
‘Yes,’ Alan said quickly. ‘Your pony and your dog will be part of your retinue. And Elizabeth will stay with you so you will always have her company.’
‘I would prefer Mama’s.’
Gunnhild blinked back the tears that swam too easily into her eyes. ‘I must stay here at Castle Richmond, but if you ever need me, send for me and I shall come to you.’ As she said these words she prayed to St Brigit that Alan would permit her to fulfil her promise.
From the bailey yard to the keep’s turrets, Richmond prepared for the d’Aincourt arrival. The hall was swept out and the timber boards scrubbed; tiles in the bedchambers were freshly washed with vinegar, lemon and water. Dust was swept away and garlands and banners were hung in the solar and the hall. Guest chambers were prepared on the upper two storeys and in its four turrets. Soft feather mattresses were delivered and fresh linen was trundled upstairs in huge baskets to make these chambers comfortable in a way the neglected upper rooms had never been before. Walls were freshly limed and hung with tapestries which Alan had kept hidden away for years in huge coffers. Braziers were placed in every room so that if the weather was cold and rainy the d’Aincourt party would have every possible comfort. Frankincense was burned in all the braziers throughout the castle to freshen it. Finally, camomile and lavender were scattered amongst the floor reeds.
Supplies came on sumpters from York and from the countryside. There were exotic spices, sacks filled with flour, honey, wine, raisins, dried fruits, venison and birds that would be spiced with cinnamon and encased in pastry coffins for the betrothal feast. New cooks rode in on a wagon dragged by a team of four horses, lent to Count Alan for the duration by the custodian of York Castle. A team of five seamstresses arrived from York with bolts of material and within two weeks Gunnhild had a new overgown of blue silk with trailing sleeves, trimmed with raised roses and embroidered with gold thread.
Maud exclaimed over the sumptuous overdress and mantle that she would wear for her betrothal ceremony. Her betrothal dress was made of pale gold damask with a matching mantle, yet she favoured her wedding dress of scarlet silk, hemmed with hundreds of pearls and the delicate veil with a gold circlet that she would wear for the wedding ceremony in Lincoln.
Thankfully, September was dry. Gunnhild looked at the sky hourly, hoping that fine weather would continue for the visit. At last, on a day of perfect skies with only the odd scudding wisp of a cloud, the d’Aincourt party rode into the castle bailey with clattering hooves and rattling litters. Matilda d’Aincourt and her husband Hugh, who had ridden in from York some days earlier, now hurried to Alan and Gunnhild’s side to make the introductions. They were a kindly couple and Gunnhild had been grateful for the older woman’s help, though Matilda warned her that they would depart after the betrothal ceremony. They, too, were to face the survey clerks. They would ride south to London taking a route through the midlands where Sir Hugh had estates that were part of the King’s great survey.
Gunnhild and Alan, with a very excited Maud standing between them, came into the courtyard to meet Sir William and Lady Alice. Their four young d’Aincourt daughters tumbled out of a long litter that clattered over the paving stones, stopping before the castle’s entrance.
The girls seemed to range in age between four and ten. An older girl of around twelve years rode on a little brown mare beside her brother, Walter. He climbed from his white roan, helped his sister to dismount and led her forward to join his parents. He knelt in front of Maud and
took her tiny hand in his long elegant fingers and kissed it. His manners were impeccable. Gunnhild smiled at him. He was a beautiful young man of around eighteen years of age with even facial features, nut-brown hair that curled onto his shoulders and a figure that was well formed. His height when he stood again was middling for a man, around five feet and eight, though Gunnhild guessed that he would stand an inch or so less without his riding boots. When he lifted his head he smiled back at her with eyes that were blue and clear and which caused his whole countenance to light up. Gunnhild could see from Maud’s smiles that her daughter was well pleased with her bridegroom. She prayed that happiness would follow. In four or five years’ time this marriage would be consummated and the pair would move to their own household. As nine-year-old Maud solemnly curtsied, Gunnhild considered that the groom and bride had both made a good beginning.
On the following morning, Gunnhild and Alan watched proudly as their daughter was betrothed to Walter d’Aincourt. The young man looked even more handsome today in a green tunic trimmed with gold bands and matching hose. His linen mantle was secured across his shoulder with a large golden pin fashioned like a goshawk. Momentarily, as she gazed at it, Gunnhild wistfully remembered the hunting bird she had once owned in Brittany. When they hunted close to the Castle Richmond it was deer that Alan enjoyed chasing or, if not deer, she often suspected it could be women.
The d’Aincourts crowded the chapel with their bevy of exquisitely gowned, excited daughters, their servants, maids and nurses and their personal guard who stood watchfully at the back. Bishop Thomas had arrived from York to officiate. Brother Christopher swung an incense censor, scattering a light but pungent scent over everyone present. Gunnhild turned away. She had never liked this smell. It reminded her of death, of her aunt’s funeral at Westminster more than ten years before, of Christina and of the miserable years she had endured under Christina’s rule at Wilton.
Today, she could not help but reflect on the losses life dealt. There was her father, her brother, her grandmother and her aunt, lives all destroyed by the conquerors with whom she had now united, and with one of whom she had created the beautiful child who stood before the altar alongside a son of the enemy.
Although the betrothal ceremony was held inside the church, the marriage ceremony, later that month, was to be sanctified in Lincoln Cathedral porch, where afterwards there would be a lengthy mass in the nave to celebrate the union. Today the betrothed would make vows and Bishop Thomas of York would bless them. There would be a pater-noster and a small sermon from the bishop and after this the ladies and children would return to the bower hall briefly before the feast later that afternoon.
Gunnhild had been diligent in preparing the castle’s great hall. To ensure the occasion was light-hearted she had summoned musicians from York. Later there would be dancing. She knew Maud was looking forward to this because over the past month she had been practising every dance step she had ever learned so that she could impress her bridegroom, Walter, with her little steps, weaves and turns.
Ann and Gunnhild had trained Maud well for her part in the betrothal ceremony and now she stood, with her small frame straight. She seemed self-possessed, a princess who would have made her grandfather, King Harold, and her grandmother, Elditha, very proud. The chapel was beautiful, scented with candles and filled with slanting rays of light. The day was perfect. Beams of sunlight scattered through the decorated glass set in long narrow windows, creating patterns of coloured light over the tiled floor. Bunches of purple Michaelmas daises were placed in three of the window embrasures around the small church lending it a festive atmosphere. As Maud knelt at the altar with her bridegroom the pearls on her silver head band caught the light and gleamed, and under it her hair, freshly washed with soft rose-scented soap and camomile, shone like spun gold. It rippled in waves onto the flowery, straw cushion below her knees.
Gunnhild blinked back her tears as she watched her daughter’s betrothal blessed by the elderly bishop. Lady Alice, too, dabbed at her eyes. She seemed to Gunnhild a lady of sound sense, an elegant woman with a longish face and dark laughing eyes. Sir William, her husband, studied everyone and everything through gentle, studious eyes that were kindly and thoughtful. Gunnhild felt great relief. He would be as serious and considerate surrogate father to Maud as Alice would be mother.
‘I like Sir William,’ Maud had said that morning as Gunnhild straightened her daughter’s pearl-studded cap and twirled her around to check that it was pinned securely on her head. The gold dress fanned out. Maud’s new shoes, calf skin dyed a pale yellow and studded with tiny pearls peeped below her gown. As she spun she declared, ‘And I like my new family.’
Gunnhild had said, ‘You look perfect and you will have sisters at last. Katherine, the eldest, clearly wants to be your friend. Study her and learn.’ Katherine was sweet and delicate but Gunnhild knew that they would soon marry her off. Maud must befriend the others, too. As she watched Maud turn and leave the nave alongside her betrothed, she considered that her child was fortunate. She hoped, too, that Lady Fortune would continue to smile on Maud and allow her a happier marriage than her own had been.
During the feast that followed the betrothal ceremony, Lady Alice turned to Gunnhild, ’What an excellent table you have provided today.’ She looked down on the snowy cloth, picked up her napkin and daintily dabbed her mouth. ‘I know what it is to part with a daughter. My eldest, Adelaide, was married last year and now she is in Normandy.’ So Katherine was the second eldest. There was a tear in her eye when Lady Alice added, ‘I shall miss the birth of our first grandchild.’
‘Are you from Normandy, Lady Alice?’ Gunnhild asked quietly. She was puzzled because Alice’s English accent was light in tone, like that of a small songbird, not heavy and guttural in the usual way of the Norman French.
‘No, I am French from Montmartre, but I am here now, and here we shall stay. Walter has been accumulating lands in England, though we have an inherited estate near Bayeux and I brought our French lands to the marriage. Walter will visit them with Maud, when she is old enough, but that is still some years off.’ She leaned towards Gunnhild. ‘Gunnhild, rest assured, I love your daughter already. She is self-possessed and full of energy and enthusiasm for life. She is a credit to you.’
‘My lady.’ Niall had appeared from his place on the high table and was bowing to Lady Alice. ‘Would you partner me?’ The musicians struck up a traditional round and the space in the middle of the hall filled up with dancers. Alice hesitated a moment and turned to Gunnhild, ‘Our conversation must wait, it seems.’
‘Go,’ Gunnhild encouraged. Lady Alice tripped off into the widening circle with Niall, who looked back and smiled at Gunnhild and, in that moment, her heart leapt at the warmth in it. She felt guilty watching his slim form and his easy movements as he led Alice into the dance. She still desired him but, biting her lip, she turned her gaze elsewhere. She must not betray her feeling for him, not here, not ever, and especially not with Alan deep in conversation with William and Walter. Alan put down a half-eaten morsel of marzipan and called her over, ‘Gunnhild, this young man has a promise for us.’ He looked sternly at young Walter d’Aincourt. ‘Go on, say it to my lady.’
Walter jumped to his feet in a coltish manner and bowed to her. ‘Madam, I promise to cherish your daughter. She will be my greatest treasure and I shall value her above my own life.’
‘I will hold you to it,’ Alan said frowning. ‘Maud is an heiress and granddaughter to the great Earl Harold of Wessex. Remember it, lad, and remember it well.’
‘My lord, always.’ The boy seemed awed by his future father-in-law. For a moment Gunnhild saw Alan as he may have been at this youth’s age, filled with notions of knighthood and honour. Life had hardened him and the Conquest had made him the tough middle-aged man he was now, a cold, religious man who was once fair to his tenants but lately appeared determined to extract impossibly hard work despite the famine winters and worse, since he was determined to extract t
he King’s new tax from them.
At that moment Maud broke away from the dance, her sisterly retainers tripping after her. They dutifully smoothed her gown and generally fussed about her, four pairs of eyes filled with admiration. Katherine said to her brother, ‘You must lead your lady out.’
‘Well, my lady,’ Walter rose, bowed and holding out his hand, addressed Maud, ‘Shall we?’
Gunnhild watched her daughter leap in the dance, to be caught by Walter, her skirts swirling and her hair loosened from the jewelled cap so it was flying about her in a cloud of gold. She was only nine years old and already her dancing was perfect.
Alan’s sister, Matilda, leaned over and said, ‘Maud reminds me of your mother whom I once saw at King Edward’s court. She was very beautiful, too.’ She laid her hand over Gunnhild’s and lowered her voice. ‘I wish you were happier with Alan, my dear. I fear you are not. He cannot be easy to live with. He is a soldier and a merchant. He does not understand women.’
Some women, Gunnhild thought, as she twisted her napkin. Yet, she would not be disloyal. ‘We manage well,’ she replied.
Matilda, to her horror, glanced at Niall who was leading one of Gunnhild’s ladies into the dance. ‘Now our younger brother is more carefree than your husband. It is a wonder he never remarried. Hugh has suggested many matches for him, heiresses, ladies of high birth, but he will have none of them. His heart was broken when Constance, his wife, died, and their child gone to heaven with her. God rest their souls.’
‘Indeed I have wondered it, myself, Matilda,’ Gunnhild said with neutrality in her voice, though her heart was breaking for love of him as he danced with Hilde, a sweet girl, newly come to her from York and already her favourite lady. She felt a tinge of envy that it was Hilde who swirled and tripped over the rushes alongside Niall. If only it could be her.
On a late September evening, a week after the d’Aincourt family trundled away on the route to the Great North Road, and back towards Lincoln, Alan summoned Gunnhild to the antechamber. After he asked her to sit in the armed chair, he poured her a cup of hippocras and brought her a plate of almond cakes that the cook had freshly baked that morning. He spoke cheerfully of how in a two-week space they would all be setting off for Lincoln and asked her how their preparations were going, how many wagons they would take, how many coffers Maud would need for her new gowns and her possessions.
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 27