Long after he had gone she opened the casket. Inside there was not only her jewels but a new emerald disc brooch for her mantle. She lifted it and turned it round and round and she had a feeling that she had seen Lady Emma wear it at Dol years before. Alan had said, ‘Enisant tells me, you have been diligent in your duty here. He says you are Richmond’s custodian, not he.’ She scrutinized Alan’s countenance with concern when he had said this. He had looked haggard and tired; his hair was streaked with more grey than ever and his red beard was turning to white. She wondered if he was ailing but soon after this the brothers burst into renewed action. Obeying a fresh summons, in February they rode out again.
Alan had stood by his great brown stallion, Achilles, as she had held up a cup of warm wine first to him and then to Niall. She gave them both her blessing. Niall’s longing for her was achingly obvious on that frozen February morning. After the Richmond pennants batted through an icy wind, she hurried into the cold chapel, knelt before a statue in a wall niche and prayed to St Brigit that both of them would return safely.
From Suffolk to the easterly counties and as far as the northern valleys of Yorkshire, Alan was, she knew, respected as a fair overlord, yet he could be harsh if crossed. He was trusted in a way that Saxon under-lords and Bretons settled on his lands never had faith in King William. That February, Alan and Niall had sailed for Normandy and Brittany where Robert Curthose threatened their lands across the Narrow Sea.
That evening when she retired for the night in the manor house outside Lincoln, Gunnhild tossed, turned over in her bed, and buried her head in her pillow. She worried about her long-lost brother dwelling at Duke Robert’s court and she then began to worry about Niall and Alan. She felt uneasy. Something felt wrong. Towards morning she fell into a restless doze with the sense that Alan and Niall both faced great danger in Normandy.
The following day was so bright and clear that Lady Alice suggested they all passed it outdoors enjoying a break from their usual tasks of sewing, gardening and brewing ale. Maud laughed and said, not her, not today. She wanted to gather herbs in the garden because she was making simples in the still room. She would see them at supper time.
The sun beat down on the women as they sat in the orchard, crumbs from a picnic of soft buttered bread rolls and sweet cakes scattered around them. They plaited daisies into crowns and with sharp-eyed glances from time to time, they watched the younger children climb the apple trees.
It was around mid-afternoon that a sudden wind swelled up causing blackbirds roosting in the hedges to chatter loudly and flap their wings. Gunnhild shivered. A shadow blew through the trees. On the periphery of her vision she noticed a skinny, aged monk appear through the gap in the hedge accompanied by a youthful messenger. Wondering who could be seeking them out, she stared as they came closer. The young man carried a scroll with a familiar seal. ‘Brother Francis!’ she exclaimed, recognising the monk, her small string of daises crumpling into a pile in her lap. She scrambled to her feet, the daisy chain dropping onto the grass. She trampled them as she moved forward. ‘What brings you here?’ she said, her voice sharp, cutting across his pasty, expressionless face.
Brother Francis folded his hands into his habit sleeves. With a sideways twitch of his head he indicated the messenger who held the letter with the Richmond seal and its dark blue tags. ‘This,’ he said. ‘Your husband has gone to the angelic host which is more than awaits you, Lady Gunnhild, when Death rattles your latch.’
She gasped, caught her breath at his bluntness. ‘Explain yourself, monk. What exactly is your meaning?’
‘Once, long ago I was a monk in Count Alan’s service, one of his priests after the Great Battle. The Count deserved better than an ungrateful member of your family to wife. He deserved better than a woman who shows favour to his brother.’
The youth looked shocked at the priest’s rudeness. He knelt and thrust forward the letter he held. With shaking hands Gunnhild took it from him. It was as if an ill-wishing wind was blowing and an icy spell was settling over a happy summer day. After the monk’s cruel words, its chill enchantment possessed her from the silken slippers encasing her feet to her lips which had frozen, refusing to open into further speech. Rising, the boy cried out in distress, breaking the terrible spell, ‘My lady, I came from Brittany as fast as was possible. First, I rode to the King in London …’ He indicated the monk who had not moved since his outburst. ‘Brother Francis was with my lord Anselm of Bec and the King. He said that he would take me to you here … that you were not at Richmond … but that you would be with your daughter in Lincoln … Oh, my lady.’ He glanced at Brother Francis. ‘My lord Niall sent me, my lady. I am truly sorry. Count Alan is dead.’
She stared down at the seal, afraid to break it. Brother Francis offered in an almost, though not quite, remorseful tone, ‘I was on my way to St Mary’s in Lincoln this week. I knew you where you were. The nuns told me you came every spring.’
She stared at the missal, still unable to move her fingers to break the seal and open it. Lady Alice stepped forward and, ignoring the monk, addressed the messenger, ‘Go and find food and drink in the kitchen. I shall let you know if there is a reply.’ She turned to Brother Francis, ‘Thank you, Brother Francis for bringing us the messenger. I hope you have a place to rest. You are not welcome here. Your disrespect for Lady Gunnhild, who was Count Alan’s very good wife, precludes any possibility of a bed here for you. Be on your way.’
Brother Francis shrugged. ‘No matter. I must continue to St Mary’s. You can find me there if you need me.’ He turned tail and began to stride back through the orchard.
Gunnhild felt her legs weaken. Alice caught her as she began to collapse. ‘What do you know of my lord?’ Gunnhild called out to the monk’s retreating back. ‘What else do you know?’
Alice took her arms, shook her gently and stopped her from following him. ‘Gunnhild, the monk knows little. Let him go. Come back to the solar. Read this in private, and with something to revive you,’ she said in her quiet manner and called down the orchard to Hilde, who was gathering cornflowers for vases in the hall and had been oblivious to the short encounter. ‘Hilde run to the bower and set out a jug of hippocras.’ Hilde took one look at her mistress’s face, which was pale as parchment, and ran.
Clutching the letter with its seals still unbroken, Gunnhild stumbled back to the bower. Glancing out of the window into the courtyard, she saw Brother Francis clamber onto a palfrey, kick its flanks and tear off through the gate towards the road into Lincoln. St Mary’s was Alan’s priory, which meant that Brother Francis must know Prioress Ann from the nun’s house. He surely would not be so evil as to bend her ears with his slanderous hints. Cautiously she lifted the silver letter knife from a small sideboard, sank into a chair by the window, cut the seals and began to read its contents.
My dear lady,
Greetings from Niall, lord of Richmond, wishing you perpetual health in Christ.
This missive must be brief, but rest assured, my thoughts and concern will be with you and my niece, Matilda, at this terrible time. My brother and your husband’s life expired yesterday in the castle at Avranches. He had been hawking in woods close to the castle, was ambushed and took an arrow wound to his stomach which caused him to drop from his stallion. As a consequence he hit his head on a rock. We had not expected any ambush and Alan was without helmet and other armour. His end was swift and that is a blessing. Alan is now with Christ, since a good man cannot linger long in Purgatory. As he often requested when we were on campaign, his burial will be at Bury St Edmunds, three weeks hence on the feast day of St Thomas, the third day of July. I set out for Bury St Edmund with his embalmed body forthwith. Messengers have already gone out to everywhere my gracious brother and lord was known in this world. May you order masses for his soul and may you find strength in Christ at this difficult time. Lord Niall of Richmond.
Gunnhild clutched her stomach, hardly aware of Alice holding her upright and forcing a sip of the honey
ed wine into her mouth. ‘This will help with the shock, my dove. Ease back in the chair and then breathe. He is gone. There is nothing you can do to change what is. We must be practical and strong, order masses in Lincoln, though no doubt that sorry priest has already precipitated the singing of masses for a man he never knew.’
‘Evidently, he once knew Count Alan very well,’ Gunnhild said. ‘There was a time when Brother Francis was a part of my husband’s retinue. That monk has the uncanny ability to appear when he is least expected.’ She laid the letter on the table. ‘I must tell Maud right now. She is in the still room. And we both must ride south to the Bishop of Bury in the morning. I expect he is already arranging Alan’s funeral.’
She touched the letter feeling deeply saddened for Maud and for the loss of a husband she had tried to love but could not. Never would she have wanted him gone. She closed her eyes and in squeezing them tightly shut she could almost imagine once again the day when she had first seen him at Queen Edith’s funeral in Westminster. She thought of him standing beside her as the Breton priest joined them in hasty matrimony and she remembered their midnight ride to the coast, the storm at sea, their journey to Castle Fréhel. There was Agenhart, Dorgen and Alan’s determination to accumulate a great fortune. She had been part of that plan. Shaking her head she opened her eyes. But, mostly, he had been a fair lord to his tenants and there were many who would remember him fondly. His life was not black as the darkest night, nor was it as light as a day. Sadly she thought that Alan’s life, like all our lives, was for the most part composed of the in-between.
‘What will you do?’ Lady Alice asked Gunnhild when later that evening they returned from the church in Lincoln. ‘Maud is broken-hearted. She loved him so.’
‘I know it and I hope that in time her heart will mend.’
‘We can care for Maud’s heart. But what will you do, Gunnhild? What do you wish for your future?’
‘I do not know. It is too soon to decide a future. Niall will be Count of Richmond. I think I should travel to Brittany for a while. Fréhel is my dower castle and now I must claim it. Alan wished it to be so. I shall take whichever of my household wish to accompany me. I shall be welcome here, too, I hope?’
‘Of course, of course you will, always.’
Hilde raised an eyebrow. ‘My lady, I think Lord Niall will be unhappy with your decision.’
‘That may be truth indeed, Hilde, but it is the best decision I can make.’
‘Are you sure, Gunnhild? Do you really wish to leave your home?’ Alice asked.
‘I cannot explain but I shall not return to Richmond.’
Hilde spoke up again. ‘I shall come to Brittany, if you will have me.’
‘O Hilde, I would be glad of your company but what would your father think? He will expect you to marry soon.’
‘I shall tell him that there are great lords in Brittany and I shall have my pick of them,’ Hilde replied.
Gunnhild sent to Richmond for her possessions. They arrived in three long wagons and they included her bedding, her books, her inks, baskets and chests with clothing and linen. Ann knew what she required. Hubert and Ann accompanied the guard travelling south and brought with them the ladies and maids whom Gunnhild had requested.
On seeing Ann in the courtyard of Alan’s manor in Bury, Gunnhild fell into her arms. A moment later, wiping away tears with her hand, she drew back and said, ‘Go to Maud, Ann. She is in the solar and will be pleased to see you. When you have greeted her we shall walk in the garden. I have something to tell you.’
As they walked in the garden, Gunnhild told Ann that she intended to make a visit to Castle Fréhel as she intended to establish her rights over her dower castle.
‘Brittany indeed. We shall miss you, my lady. But, then again, we can only hope that you will see your place is with us and return to us,’ Ann said. ‘Return soon, Lady Gunnhild. Do not remain long at Fréhel. Your place is here.’
‘You must know I cannot stay. Indeed, however, in time I shall return to Lincoln to be with Maud. Perhaps a part of my widow’s third can be this manor house at Bury.’
‘I think Lord Niall would want you to stay in England.’
‘That I must not do, so make an end to such thought. This is what a dower castle is for and I shall be glad to see mine again.’ Gunnhild replied. They had returned to the house and were climbing the outside staircase to the solar without even noticing.
Count Alan’s funeral was attended by every loyal magnate from Kent to Northumberland. The magnates rode to Alan’s manor of Bury where Gunnhild was waiting to receive them but when Niall rode into the courtyard a few days after their arrival, Gunnhild was shocked to see how tightly drawn his countenance looked, how stooped with grief his manner.
He said at supper, ‘The lords of the north object to Bury. They say Alan’s remains should be interred in York. But, Gunnhild, Alan expressed a wish to rest in Bury and for the choir there to sing his funeral masses. He said there was no sweeter choir in the whole land.’ She saw Niall’s eyes well up with tears as he spoke.
‘So be it. You are tired, Niall. Rest and we can talk later.’
Maud jumped up from the hall bench where she was seated with Alice’s daughters and burst into a fit of weeping. She would not be consoled despite the comforting arms that reached out to her. ‘I want to see my father before everyone comes.’
Gunnhild wrapped her in a long, long embrace. ‘Sweetheart, he will rest by the altar in Bury for two more days. We can ride over to the church tomorrow,’ Gunnhild murmured to her in soothing voice. ‘And we shall observe a midnight vigil for his soul, all of us who are his family.’
That evening Niall and Gunnhild sat in the manor garden. It was edged with a wild rose hedge, and they chose a bench under an arch of honeysuckle. Gunnhild breathed in its sweet scent. ‘So much life in the midst of death,’ she said. ‘Even the flowers have their season.’ She turned to look into his eyes. ‘Tell me now Niall, how Alan died.’
‘He died well and in peace,’ Niall replied. ‘He seemed to recover, but he was not in good health. Remember how after Christ’s Mass he took to his bed with a heavy chill? The chill weakened him but he ignored his weakness and when we set out last February he fought harder than ever to protect his castles in Maine and Normandy.’
‘And his attackers? Were they captured?’
Niall nodded. ‘All of them. They are no more.’ Niall took Gunnhild’s hands in his own. ‘Gunnhild, you must not blame yourself for any of this. He would listen to none of us. Count Alan lived the life he chose. Many admired him. He was a warrior first, a landowner second, and in the end there was not much left in his heart to give to you. There was a time when you did not exist for him. You are free now to make choices. But his last words to me were, and I swear to this, “Care for Gunnhild, Niall, for I know the love you bear her. Tell her I forgive you both.” So those were his final words.’
Her tears welled up. He had known, but he had ignored that knowledge and forgiven her. Yet, her heart had shattered for what might have been and for what could not be. ‘I need to rest,’ she said rising from the bench. She stared up at the white crescent moon, a small bowed sliver in a black starlit night. ‘Tomorrow will be a very long day.’
He caught her hand. ‘What of us Gunnhild?’
‘It is not our time, Niall. You are my husband’s half-brother and marriage is impossible between us.’ She smiled through her damp eyes. ‘I cannot stay and I am sorry that I must not. I shall go to Fréhel. It is for the best. You are Count of Richmond. Look after it well. Find another to love and be by your side. May God protect you and watch over you.’
Before he could reply, she leaned over and laid a kiss on his forehead and was gone back into the hall, her tears overflowing.
Nobles, priests and retainers gathered in Alan’s hall at Bury. Hounds and children ran through their legs as servants brought out watered wine and great platters of meats, breads and cakes to feed the company. At midmorning, the p
rocession filed out through the manor gates. Gunnhild sat on Blackbird at its head with Niall on one side and Maud on her other. Maud’s young husband and his family followed, and after them rode the thanes and barons of the north and eastern counties. The burghers of Bury St Edmunds thronged the streets and bowed their heads as the funeral procession passed. They hung dark cloth from their windows and stood praying by their doorways. They prayed that Count Alan’s soul had a swift exit from Purgatory through St Peter’s gates and into the gilded world of angels and His presence.
Gunnhild sat up erect on a sidesaddle, her horse covered with black cloth. She wore dark midnight blue for mourning and a starched wimple of fine linen which covered her hair. The colours of Richmond, borne by Niall’s pages hung before them. Following the family were all the monks and barons and wives who had gathered in Alan’s hall that morning.
Pages and boys raced across the pavement in front of the church, helped Gunnhild and Maud dismount and took charge of their horses. Gunnhild entered the long nave where she slowly walked towards the altar through banners and amongst sombre colours. A quire of monks had gathered around Alan’s coffin. Tapers illuminated the simple carvings of leaves that circled the lid and sunlight glinted through the decorated window glass, casting lozenges of colour onto the tiled floor. Moved by the solemn dignified beauty before her, she sank onto her knees, and then prostrated herself before the tableaux, her lips moving in prayer, both forgiving and in search of forgiveness.
As she rose again she glanced around. The church was crammed full and many more mourners stood outside beyond the great arched doorway. She lifted her head to see that Anselm of Bec was officiating and that one of his servers was none other than the skinny monk of Reredfelle, Brother Francis. She drew breath. The Bishop of Bury had the responsibility for her husband’s funeral. She had not realised the Prior of Bec would lead the funeral mass instead of the aging Lanfranc, who had obviously sent Prior Anselm north-east in his stead. Nor had she expected to see Brother Francis either. He clearly had inveigled himself into Anselm’s train of monks.
The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings) Page 32