She said that she had been organising and overseeing their packing for two weeks. He stretched out his feet to the hearth, contemplated the flames for a moment, before turning towards her. He stroked his greying beard. She knew he was about to tell her something significant because he cleared his throat and coughed.
She was not prepared for their wounds to be opened. They had just spent a pleasant week in moderate harmony, but he said with halting speech, ‘I have selected the jewels that Maud will bring to her marriage. Come and see for yourself. I want you to agree.’
He stood up and she rose and followed him to the oak table. The jewel box sat on the linen cloth. He pulled a key from his belt purse and carefully unlocked it. Her jewels gleamed up at her.
‘I should not have to watch you unlock my property,’ she said, remembering how even for the betrothal she had worn lesser pearls and sapphires rather than bring herself to ask him for permission to wear these exquisite settings.
‘They are not your property, Gunnhild. What is yours is mine. Most of what is here I gave you in the first couple of years of our marriage. They are the Penthiévre jewels. Others belonged to your grandmother. You do not resent your daughter having these?’
She reached into the box, took out a ring with a cluster of garnets set in gold and slipped it on her finger. She lifted a necklace of pearls and another of silver beautifully engraved with tendrils and roses and put it up to her neck. She fingered a sapphire pendent and touched her silver bracelets. They had gorgeous engravings. Some were studded with amber. She touched the ruby that had caused the rift between them so many years before. As she removed the garnet ring from her finger, she measured her words. ‘I am happy for these to go to Maud, but why not give her the ruby now and leave the rest here? She will inherit them all one day. It is not right that a daughter takes all of her mother’s jewels into marriage during her mother’s lifetime.’
‘Very well. You are right on this occasion. She shall have the Penthiévre ruby and I am sure she will take good care of it. The rest will remain here.’ He banged the jewel chest shut and put the key back into the purse on his belt chain. ‘Such a pity, wife, you are not able to give me a son, unfortunate that the one I had died young.’ He did not add the words ‘in your care’ but she suspected that he still thought them. He added, ‘While you seek our lands from your mother I intend to return to Brittany. Agenhart is with child.’
She felt colour drain from her face. ‘And the child is yours?’ she said, gripping the edge of the table. Her legs were about to give way with the shock of this revelation.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I see.’ Gunnhild whispered with sinking heart.
She determined to rise above this crushing statement. Never again would she be lulled into a false sense of security with Alan. Her nagging guilt dissipated as she remembered how Niall had moved amongst the dancers at the betrothal feast. She remembered how he had looked at her with longing as she had passed him in the dance and how she, determined to keep true to her decision, had prayed that no one noticed. Now she was tempted to make a counter revelation. Yet, it would be unwise. Alan was her husband. His adultery would be of no consequence, hers would. That was the unfair truth of it.
Alan broke the silence that had descended over the jewel box. ‘You have taken this well, Gunnhild, as a wife should.’ She did not reply. ‘Niall and a guard will escort you and one of the wagons south. They know where you must rest for the night, which abbeys and castles. And hopefully the weather will hold.’
‘Niall …’ she began, wondering if it was wise. She thought the better of it and said, ‘As you wish, Alan.’ She turned away from him and swept out of the chamber without saying goodnight, but she hoped that he stayed in Brittany with his mistress for a very long time.
24
October 1086
Isolde had managed to escape from her confinement at the court of her husband, King Mark, and by secret means had travelled across the borders of Cornwall, out of the reach of her husband.
‘The Reunion of Tristram and Isolde’, from The Death of King Arthur by Peter Ackroyd, 2011
Gunnhild gathered what was necessary on a journey such as this into her saddlebags, ointments for bites, powders for weakness of the stomach, cleansing treatments in tiny jars, a change of linen for herself and Maud and a spare gown each. These she would keep with her on Blackbird. Packs for the sumpters were piled up in the courtyard in the bailey. The pack animals themselves were drawn up and waiting. Youths came forward and carefully loaded them as Alan watched, making sure he knew what held what. He had sacks filled with new wool that he intended taking on to Brittany and now he oversaw them loaded safely onto sumpters. He supervised the men, too, as they loaded carts with Maud’s possessions. Within the hour their cavalcade would set off from Richmond to York and then turn south-east towards Lincoln. If the weather remained fair the journey would take four days. Gunnhild knew that to travel from Lincoln to Canterbury could take a week but she looked forward to it. It allowed her a sense of freedom, but most of all, she looked forward to seeing her mother at the end of it. Many years had slipped by. So much had happened during that passage of time. ‘My mother,’ she whispered into her pillow on the night before they were to set out, ‘I hope you remember me.’
Maud descended into the bailey courtyard with Pippet snapping at her heels and her nurse, Elizabeth, watching over her protectively. Her father helped her up onto Merleswein’s broad rump. She sat pertly on her velvet-cushioned saddle with her reins set firm in her hands, impatient to be on the way. A bemused smile played about Gunnhild’s mouth. What a precocious girl her daughter had become. Pippet was relegated to the wagon where he was held secured on a leather lead by Elizabeth. Gunnhild’s two personal ladies, Emma and Hilde, climbed in after the nurse. Ann and Hubert and their three small daughters waved them goodbye.
After the emotional leave-taking of Ann, Hubert and their daughters, the long cavalcade processed through the bailey gate and over the drawbridge. Gunnhild turned back to wave one last time. Ann raised her hand and waved back. Gunnhild leaned from her sidesaddle and spoke to Maud. The child bride turned back and gave Ann a final wave. Gunnhild wondered how many moons would set before Ann and her daughters saw Maud again.
With a jingling of bridle bells and a clattering of hoof, they were trotting through the village, their horses’ hooves thumping the dry earth road. Count Alan’s azure-and-gold chequered pennant fluttered in a breeze, held high in their advance by a young squire. It was a wonderful sight. Gunnhild remained smiling, pleased that their villagers had come out to throw pink roses and golden broom in their path, and to cheer for Maud.
What Gunnhild did not count on was that she and Alan were to share a bedchamber when, five days later, they arrived at the d’Aincourt manor house on the edge of Lincoln. They stood on either side of the comfortable bed in their night mantles preparing to share a feather mattress for the second time in a summer. Determined not to spoil the joyful atmosphere with which they had been received, Gunnhild climbed the wooden step up into the high bed and made a cheerful comment on how enthusiastically they had been welcomed.
‘Our daughter brings a great dowry with her,’ Alan grunted as he rose from his lengthy prayers, ‘as well as the Penthiévre ruby. They ought to show gratitude. Tomorrow will be a long day.’ With those words Alan climbed into the bed, pinched the candle, turned over on his side and almost immediately began to snore.
Gunnhild lay in the darkness longing for sleep but her mind was too alert. From outside in the garden she heard an owl hoot. She sat up wide awake and through the window opposite she saw a harvest moon that was framed by it. It was a great white ball hanging in a sky of stars. Slipping from the bed, she found her deerskin slippers and her mantle. Clutching her mantle close, she slid from the bedside, lifted the latch, and pushed the chamber door open and tip-toed down the staircase into the hall.
She stole past bodies that were wrapped in sheets on pallets in
curtained alcoves and hurried out through the back porch, gently opening and closing the heavy oak door behind her. Outside, a shingle path to the side of the swathe led towards the manor’s gardens. She followed it into the walled garden that Lady Alice had proudly shown her that afternoon. There was a garden seat somewhere close. She discovered it halfway along the inside pathway. Sinking on to the stone seat she inhaled cool night air scented with the perfume of late roses.
She glanced up at the fat mellow harvest moon which cast shadow and light over the peaceful garden, over neat rows of berry bushes, herb beds, marigold patches and semi-circular-shaped espaliered apple trees. The owl hooted again. She peered past the sundial that stood in the garden’s centre. One of the garden’s shadows seemed to move through the trees, advancing towards her, growing larger as it drew closer. Her pulse beat faster and she sat very still. She thought she recognised its owner and shuffled to the end of the bench into the shelter of an arch of trailing white roses. Momentarily she blinked. The shadow had vanished. From behind her a voice whispered softly, ‘Gunnhild. It is me.’ She stood up and looked around the arch. Niall moved forward to stand beside her arbour.
‘I suspected as much,’ she murmured.
‘I could not sleep,’ he said.
‘Nor me.’
She gathered her mantle around her like a carapace between them. He sat on the bench beside her and lifted her hand. ‘We have not shared a moment together for many months.’ Despite herself, she held his hand back.
‘So much has happened …’ she began.
‘Since that business with Lord Uhtred,’ he finished her sentence and looked up. Opened window shutters loomed above them. He laid a finger on his lips. ‘I doubt anyone is watching but we should move into the trees.’ Stepping forward, he slipped into chestnut trees that grew around the garden’s boundary. She waited for a moment then followed.
‘It is a full moon,’ she said quietly. ‘A good omen.’
‘For Maud or for the harvest this year?’
‘Both,’ she said.
‘And for us, Gunnhild? Is it a good omen for us?’
‘I don’t know.’ She felt a blush rise and looked uncomfortably down at her slippers. ‘Agenhart is with child.’
‘Alan is the father?’ Niall took a long breath and let it out slowly.
‘Yes, he is the father,’ Gunnhild replied. ‘It was a shock when he told me.’
‘That was cruel, Gunnhild.’
‘It is the way it is. Alan says a wife must bear such with patience and understanding. I possess neither.’
‘I am sorry that you must suffer this.’ He lowered his voice further. ‘Do we still matter, Gunnhild? I must know.’
‘If Alan suspects me he will not hesitate to set me aside, put me in a nunnery.’ She gave him an anxious half smile. ‘The rules for a wife are different.’
‘We are to be together on a journey that may take some weeks to complete. Am I to suffer because I shall be with you and without you?’ He leaned over her and his lips touched hers. In that moment she felt the melting she always felt when Niall kissed her. She pulled away but he was quicker and caught her. He drew her towards him, his hand entangled in her loosened hair, his mouth again claiming hers. She gently pushed him away again.
‘It cannot continue, not now, Niall.’
‘Then when?’
‘I know not. It is for the best. I must go back to bed.’ She turned away from him and hurried from the garden, away from Niall, confused. Life was very, very short and there might never be an opportunity again for them, but would God forgive her, her broken vows?
Three days later under a blazing autumn sun, Gunnhild’s retinue set off for Canterbury. Her small train, consisting of Niall, Hilde, Emma and a maid, was escorted by a half-dozen guards. She rode Blackbird behind Niall and two outriders, no sidesaddle on this long ride; instead her dress was comfortably fanning out on either side of her legs.
As they trotted out of Lincoln and rode over the old Roman roads south, Niall remained courteous but quiet. He was focused on the road ahead, often sending one or other of their outriders on before them. Since he was so lacking in conversation, Gunnhild and Hilde rode either side of the slower wagon which held Emma and their maid, Greta.
Happy to be free of Richmond, she listened to her ladies’ chatter. They discussed the wedding which her ladies thought had been very beautiful; Maud’s fabulous gown sewn with pearls, her hair of gold, her little cap and her delicate veil and that ruby. It must have been beyond price. She overheard the maid, Greta, remark on how magnificent Count Alan had looked in a scarlet mantle and how Lady Gunnhild had been more elegant than royalty itself in her gown of stiff silk.
‘And that wedding feast! I never tasted larks tongues before,’ Greta exclaimed.
‘Nor rabbit either. It tasted like chicken,’ Emma added.
Gunnhild smiled to herself. Nor had she.
Sir Walter had introduced rabbit warrens from Normandy and he had brought over cooks to prepare the wedding feast which was splendid: doves, larks, blackbirds, pigeon, rabbits, chicken pies, almonds and other sundry nuts introduced into sauces as were mushrooms, boar and deer dressed with rich wine sauces, honey cakes, spice cakes, lady’s fingers and a subtlety that was a miniature castle decorated with sugared flowers, roses and honeysuckle, shaped perfectly and nestling amongst sugared tendrils of deep green acanthus leaves. It even possessed a moat with tiny dragon ships, and d’Aincourt and Richmond pennants entwined that flew from the castle’s miniature towers.
Their conversation comforted Gunnhild, who was loath to allow her precious memories of Maud to easily slip from her. Hilde joined in adding her own reflections, swearing that of all the ladies present Gunnhild was the most magnificently dressed. Hilde was young, sent to Richmond by her English father, a merchant of York, so that she could learn the ways of the nobility. Gunnhild smiled to herself. She would make an excellent court lady one day if she married well. It was Hilde who had dressed Gunnhild for the wedding in the blue silk gown with trailing sleeves and it was she who had plaited her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and placed her opus anglicanum embroidered veil over it. With her pearls released from captivity, Gunnhild knew that she had looked her best.
She reached over and squeezed Hilde’s hand. ‘One day soon you will be a beautiful bride, and you will have a handsome and very wealthy bridegroom.’
Hilde seemed delighted at the thought, smiling like a cat offered a rich lick of cream even though she said, ‘My lady, not for some time. I would not leave your side too soon.’
As the first stage of riding stretched though the warm September morning, Gunnhild began to smile, too. Hilde was easy company, compensating a little for Niall’s aloofness.
At night they stopped at monasteries, pushing on at daybreak, unfurling a linen cloth under trees at midday and picnicking on pies and pastries, bread and cheese washed down with watered ale. Trees shivered dryly and leaves rattled if the slightest breeze caught them. The south possessed a warmer climate, one she remembered fondly from her childhood. Ducks on ponds quacked, tame geese honked, marsh birds, corncrakes and wild geese common to these flatlands of Norfolk flew above them criss-crossing the flawless sky above. They met pilgrims who travelled in bands, moving over trackways towards shrines, generously scattered like manna, along the way. They rode with merchants who possessed huge sacks on their wagons and who were followed by their own small private armies. They passed villeins heading out to the great fields with sickles and knives preparing to bring in the last of the grain harvest and stow it away safely in tall barns. There were encounters with travelling monks and, as they entered Cambridge, a choir of canons came towards them chanting plainsong and then veered through a gate that led into the precinct of yet another new monastery church. As they rode through Essex they could smell salt pans bringing the fresh smell of the sea on a breeze inland. She slept well at night sharing her bed with Hilde, her mood lightening joyfully the further away fr
om Richmond they travelled.
Gradually Niall thawed. Nearing London, they rode close together again as they had done many times over the years in the north, but on this occasion they avoided conversation about themselves. They discussed Lincoln, the wedding and the d’Aincourts, the towns they had passed through, the clement weather and even the stars shining down from clear night skies.
Slowly she found herself renewing the feeling of closeness they had felt before Alan had returned from Brittany that year. Simply, Niall made her heart lift and her body longed for his. It was an illicit love and deeply sinful. She could never deny her love for him, though sadly she wondered if she must endeavour harder to control her desire, as must he.
It took them a further day of travel to reach the north route into London. As they rode from the Essex villages down gentle slopes towards the city’s walls, Gunnhild exclaimed, ‘It is a city of bells. Even in my childhood London’s bells always peeled for every hour.’ Again they rang, this time for Vespers, following each other, pursuing and competing, as if announcing that travellers were entering a city of monasteries, abbeys and nunneries.
Niall said back, ‘You will find it changed, Gunnhild. London is a city reborn, busy with commerce. Wait until you catch a glimpse of the wharfs and the new streets strung out along the river.’
She twisted from side to side looking with excitement at the many two-storied houses and gardens that stretched towards the old city walls. Then they were through Cripplegate.
‘One night here and then on to Canterbury,’ Niall said as they dismounted in the courtyard of Bermondsey Minster and Abbey. Their guard took possession of their mounts, intending to get stable boys to rub them down whilst Niall went to inspect the place where they were to lay their heads that night.
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 28