So intent was she on her prayers that she paid little heed to what was happening further inside the church. Eventually, through the puffs of incense and the tense standing knots of armed, fidgeting men she noticed a muscular, clean-shaven, middle-aged man standing close to the high altar. Beside him were the bishops in their heavy, embroidered robes — she was too anxious to take notice of the needlework on their clothes. Beside them were a few monks, singing gamely into the not-quite-silence, and on either side of the nave, the Saxon lords and William's Normans.
They made a contrast, Sunniva thought. The Normans, clean-shaven and crop-haired, some sweating in chain mail. The English, long-haired, with full beards or moustaches, and short riding cloaks, many stained by travel. To a man they stared at the altar, not quite looking at the king — for that was certainly who it was.
William was speaking, repeating something, prompted by an elderly cleric.
"That is Aldred, Archbishop of York," Marc said in her ear. "I have it on good authority that he has anointed William and — look!"
Sunniva swung her head and saw the lean, hawk-featured Aldred place a gold diadem upon the stocky William's balding head. The Normans, standing on the right side of the nave, began to cheer, the sound lost in the great church. A few of the English, standing on the left side of the nave, joined in, and Sunniva thought that she heard the accents of her own homeland, coming from the lips of a tall, elderly Englishman who reminded her of someone... She felt homesick for an instant, missing her mother, and then the moment was gone.
Now the archbishop of York stood back and asked the English if William was acceptable as King. A French bishop, whom Marc did not recognize, asked the same question to the French-speaking Normans.
Both sides agreed and their acclamations grew louder, each side seeming determined to outdo the other. With every shout, those waiting outside the abbey joined in until suddenly one of the guards burst back into the church, yelling something in French that spurred the whole company, Normans and English, into an unseemly stampede for the door.
Frozen into a shocked stillness as the ominous smell of burning gushed into the church and she heard screaming outside, she was conscious of being roughly bundled behind Marc. "Keep your back always to the pillar!" he hissed, tugging a monk behind him and drawing his sword to defend them all.
Outside the tumult increased. Sickened to hear the running panic, Sunniva realized that most of the congregation had fled, including the tall, bearded stranger who had put her in mind of her homeland. Like scurrying ants in a broken ant-hill, the clergy were hastening to complete the consecration of the king. William, paler than spun flax, seemed to be trembling. All this — on Christmas Day!
Sunniva closed her eyes and prayed for safety.
Chapter 26
Odo of Bayeux cracked a louse between this thumbnails and scratched at his crotch. He enjoyed relieving the massive itch — he was proud to be a man of prodigious appetites — and he enjoyed watching the people waiting in line to see the king (his brother William) as they schooled their revolted expressions into a fast, dumb docility.
All except the girl waiting with the tall, strapping knight, who hovered as close to her as a pander to his money. Standing at the back of the snaking line of folk in this bare great hall, shuffling forward a few steps every few moments as the king, his brother William, saw off another English groveler, Master Hovering Knight was aware of no one but the girl. And she was aware of nothing but him and...what?
Odo pushed his bulk away from the wooden pillar and snatched a torch from the nearest wall sconce, all the better to see. Hefting the torch aloft, he grinned as several of the nearest English fell back from him as if he would burn them, but the charmed pair, as he expected, did not notice the new play of shadows and light over their tryst. Master Hovering Knight was clutching his sword hilt and -
"God's bones, it is Marc de Sens," Odo muttered. He had never seen the man with such a clear, open look before. How had he not recognized him earlier? Of course, it was the girl Marc was with, she was enough to cloud any man's wits, even his own, and he was a cleric.
She was playing with something, catching something on her wrists and fingers, like knucklebones but bigger. Twigs, Odo thought, peering through the smoke. She had picked up twigs from one of the faggots ranged at the north end of the great hall and she was playing with them.
Odo strode towards the couple. The wench became better-looking with each step and not only because he had sunk a half-barrel of wine at supper that evening. He sucked in his gut, realized what he was doing, and chuckled. This was one English worth speaking to.
Glancing over his shoulder, Odo saw the king leaning across the table, in supposedly kingly fashion, although Odo thought he looked as brown and nondescript as the clerk scratching on parchment alongside him. The crown of England was on the narrow strip of carpet on the table, along with the silver salt cellar, and William touched the crown as he spoke. He looked harassed and out of temper, a vein punching on his broad forehead and his dogs cringing out of range of his feet. The clerk was trying to translate his rapid French into English and no one round that table and dais looked happy, least of all the stripling petitioner from London, who could have started shaving only in this past week.
Leaving them to it, Odo progressed further down the hall, swinging his trusty club on his belt and wondering what hour it was. Close to midnight, he wagered, midnight on Christmas Day and a stream of mewling English to see before he and William could claim their beds.
Odo thought with satisfaction of his bed. He had turned a Jewish family out in London, so he was well-housed in a fire-proof stone house. No woman yet to warm his feet but perhaps this pretty wench with Marc de Sens would do. Although maybe not: he might need de Sens another time, since the Breton bred excellent horses.
"It is harder to practice with twigs," the English girl was saying, "knives are easier."
Caring little for that cryptic statement, Odo approached, dropped his club and dragged the girl's head-square off her forehead.
De Sens seized his arm and bent it back, painfully, plainly not caring who he was dealing with. "My lord, this lady is with me," he ground out through a clenched jaw.
"Naturally, de Sens." Choosing to be amused, Odo took a step back, relaxing further when the younger man released him. With a flick of a finger, he dismissed a guard who had started forward: if he wanted, he could always have the Breton flung in jail. For the moment, he had got what he wanted: a proper look at the wench. She was a beautiful little thing; bright gold hair, bright eyes, white skin pink with alarm. A complete waste in England, really: she deserved to be mewed up in a Norman castle, visited and serviced at her lord's fancy.
Odo smiled, pleased at the image, and switched to English. "Who is this lady?"
"She is the one I spoke of," Marc de Sens answered, frowning as the girl sank into a curtsy: he was a most jealous guardian.
"What is your name, child?" Odo asked, pleased to stir the Breton's twanging temper further by speaking directly to her.
"I am Sunniva Cena-daughter, my lord. I am honoured to meet you. Thank you for seeing us." Still on her knees, she glanced at his fingers, clearly looking for a bishop's ring to kiss.
He was not wearing his rings today, but Odo put her out of her pretty confusion by planting his hand on her head and intoning a blessing in Latin, amused as he sensed de Sens seething alongside. Now he snapped his fingers and tossed the torch to the hurrying guard, smirking as the guard almost dropped the flame into the rushes on the floor.
"You were practicing," Odo said.
"Yes, my lord."
Odo waited, but she said nothing more. He fingered a link on his chain-mail as he paused, wondering if she might have been more forthcoming had he worn his bishops' robes. But then William had wanted him armed and ready to fight in case one of these frightened-faced English turned out to be the leader of a war-band.
"I saw you at my brother's coronation," he probed. "You
did not flee with the others."
She blushed but still said nothing. Beside her, Marc de Sens growled, "My lord, we have been waiting many hours and my lady is weary."
"Truly?" Odo turned a wide-lipped smile on the taller man. "She seems as fresh as a new oyster to me," he added in French, reverting at once to the girl's native tongue. "My brother the king admires courage," he went on, "and he does not like turncoats."
Still kneeling, she bowed her head. "We are all in the king's hands," she said steadily, her voice as mellow as a flute, "and in the care of the holy church."
"Do you come today seeking a favour?"
Her head came up at the direct question.
"I come today to offer my allegiance to my anointed king."
Cleverly done, Odo approved, warming more and more to the girl. He offered her his hand to help her rise, saying, "Come with me."
He took her, and the frowning de Sens to the head of the motley queue. The king saw him approach and waved aside his latest petitioner.
"Yes, brother?" William demanded in French, "Who do we have here?"
"My friend, the horse-master Marc de Sens, and this —”
"De Sens?" William interrupted before Odo could complete the introduction: his brother always interrupted. "Where has he been?"
Odo stood to one side to allow Marc de Sens to answer that risky question. William might be his brother but when his eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead like that and his bald patch glowed it meant he was irritated. Reluctant to be savaged himself, Odo glanced at the tall Breton, who to his credit, replied swiftly.
"I have been trapped in London this past month, my lord, with the Atheling's supporters busy in the streets. Before that I was on pilgrimage in the north, traveling with my nieces..."
"You ignored my call to arms," William persisted. His blunt features burned with resentment.
De Sens did not kneel and neither did he flinch. "I did not know of any summons, my liege, because I was away on pilgrimage."
"I have also heard a rumour that you have lived here in England." William sat forward on his chair, planting his elbows on the carpet on the table. "Is this true?"
"It is." Marc de Sens did not elaborate on this laconic statement and met William's glower with a frank and steady stare.
"Humph!" William broke their glance first, sweeping a hand across the nap of the carpet to finger his crown again. "You have been on pilgrimage before, as I recall, and it has given you small favour with the almighty."
What did he mean by that, Odo wondered.
"You live in this land like an Englishman, you did not fight at Senlac yet you come here, expecting my favour —”
"No, my lord." To Odo's astonishment, Marc de Sens interrupted William. "I came as protector to this lady, and protector to my kindred."
"Family first, eh?" William rasped, looking straight at Odo. Breathing more easily — when his brother spoke of family he was usually in a good mood and he was, above all, a family man himself — Odo risked winking at him.
William did not smile but he straightened in his seat and looked for the first time at the pretty Englishwoman standing quietly beside de Sens, waiting with prudent patience for the conversation to revert to a tongue she understood.
The king looked — and carried on looking. Head to toe, he scanned the young woman, then pushed back his chair and hurried round the table to greet her. "My lady —”
Odo swiftly supplied her name, amused when William tried to embrace Lady Sunniva and she deftly evaded him by sinking to her knees.
"Welcome, my lady Sunniva!" William put out both hands to raise her, his grin now wide and genuine. He snapped at his clerk, "Translate!" and repeated himself.
"Welcome, my lady Sunniva!" Odo called out in English, pleased to be in the thick of things and to remind his brother the king that he knew more of this tricky native tongue than did William. He smiled at the blushing Sunniva, now with her hands trapped firmly by his brother's paws, and at de Sens, who stood looming by the king as if measuring him for a coffin. "Welcome, Sunniva Cena-daughter!"
As he spoke, a tall, richly-dressed man lurched out of the snaking, shaking crowd of petitioners, took three steps towards the dais and sank to his knees.
"My lord king!" he cried, before the guards reached him, "I know this woman! She is my kin! Cena was my brother!"
Chapter 27
She had not seen Marc for three days, neither Marc nor his nieces for three whole days, and she was more than anxious, she felt sick and heart-sick. Sleep was a stranger to her and the woman assigned to her — as friend? As maid? As guard? — fretted that she was losing weight and colour.
Sunniva had no appetite. Worse, she had no answers. No one she spoke to — and she tried everyone, every stranger — could tell her anything of Marc. She feared he was not in the new king's favour. What had they spoken of, that night after the coronation, when William had questioned and Marc had answered in one or two words? She feared for him, for his stubborn pride. He would ask no favours of anyone, even of a king. It was one of the many reasons she loved him, yet in these strange, bitter times, was Marc wise? She had seen him drawn away by that fearsome fellow Odo of Bayeux, the shaven-headed bishop who wielded a club and kicked away beggars and claimed he was a man of peace. Where had they gone? Was Marc arrested? Was he imprisoned somewhere? What of his young ones? Were they safe?
She could sit still no longer. Rising from her embroidery stand, Sunniva walked past the candle holder with its fine wax candle to one of the many braziers scattered through the long narrow room and made a play of warming her hands. The walls of this windowless place were painted with scenes from scripture: Jonah being swallowed by a whale, Moses and the burning bush, Jesus casting out demons of the sick. She did not like to look too closely at the fang-toothed devils.
She and a few other noble Englishwomen had been brought here, into a secluded part of the Westminster abbey monastery. She guessed it had once been the monks' refectory, now turned into a dormitory for her and women like her: heiresses.
She was rich. Her uncle Bertolf had impressed upon her and the king that she was rich in lands. How can that be? Sunniva mused, holding her hands to the twisting flames. But Bertolf, in making himself known to her and the king, had been precise in his descriptions. He knew details of her old home, of her father and mother, of her brothers, and even more of her lands. He had brought witness to confirm his claims. Now it seemed she was the mistress of many farms and villages, places she had never heard of before. The sudden knowledge had shocked her.
It had shocked Marc, too, and she had not had a chance to speak to him in private about this matter, to explain to him that she had not known. How could she have known? Cena had never talked to her of lands, only of household duties.
Her father had rarely talked to her of his brother, either, and Sunniva thought she knew why. Pasty where Cena had been red, scrawny where Cena had been broad, loaded with jewels and fine furs and brooches where Cena had dressed in plain stuff, Uncle Bertolf was the consummate courtier. She remembered him as taciturn but he was not silent here. He attached himself to the new king with a fawning subservience that fooled no one. He fawned on her, too, in the king's hearing but she suspected that if he could pry her away from this strange court and get her alone with him, it would be another matter.
My appearance must have spoilt his plans, Sunniva thought, with a shiver. Had her uncle meant to claim these rich lands for his own? She rather suspected he had, in which case Marc had done her a great service and she had not been able to thank him.
Please, Saint Freya and Saint Cuthbert, let Marc be safe!
"My lady?" It was the maid who made up her bed each evening in this curious "holding place for heiresses" — for she and the other five young women kept in here could not leave: Sunniva had tried the door and found it locked. "My lady, do you not wish to wear one of your new gowns? I have another, sent by your kinsman."
"My uncle is generous," Sunniva
said quickly, as her thoughts sped out like bees from a hive. Bertolf had already supplied her with gowns and combs, but a new one surely meant change was coming.
I am getting out of here, she thought, her spirits soaring. It was as much as she could do not to snatch the maid's hands and whirl about the room with her.
"I shall be glad to wear his gift," she said, smiling. "Will you help me, please?" She knew the maid was a spy for Bertolf or the king or both, but the woman — like all Englishwomen these days — had little choice.
The maid, whose name Sunniva could not discover, although she asked the plump, dark-haired young woman each time she appeared, scurried to the door and called out a phrase in French. The phrase changed each time the maid passed in or out and now, as the door swung inwards and the maid's round, sallow face did not change from its habitually closed, stubborn expression, Sunniva caught a glimpse of a guardsman pacing outside. Beside the guard had been a tall shadow — Marc? Or her uncle?
Soon she would know: already the maid was tripping back, a new gown slung across her outstretched arms. It was of a dark blue, shimmering material, as light and soft as rose-petals, pleated and with a sweeping bodice embroidered in gold thread. There was a head-square to go with the gown: a new-style head-square, filmy and of the same stuff as the gown, to be held in place by a silver fillet.
"How gorgeous!" another of the captives exclaimed, leaving her game of solitary knucklebones and hurrying across the room. Two more young women also left their books and embroidery to touch and wonder, though the final young woman, a tall, pale girl with unbound, unveiled silver-blonde hair, watched carefully from her pallet and would not be drawn close.
When Sunniva exclaimed in turn at the gown's beauty, the woman who seemed to have been assigned to her as her maid merely looked at her through puddle-grey, flat eyes, her round shoulders sagging.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 47