"If you say so, my lady," she remarked in a hopeless way.
"Would you like this gown?" Sunniva asked, tugging at her own robe. It was not much to give, but she had nothing else, no ready money, and at the very least the maid would be able to sell it on for food or cash.
The maid shook her head. "My lord clothes me well enough."
She said nothing more, shaking her head each time Sunniva asked a question as to where she was from, or who her lord was, or who they were going out to see. For they must be going out — why else the new gown, and such a lovely gown?
"Is this how Norman ladies dress?" one of the other girls asked, as the maid laced Sunniva into the snug bodice. It was far tighter than she normally wore her gowns and she felt self-conscious of her generous curves.
"If you say so, my lady," came back the unenthusiastic reply, and to Sunniva: "Can you sit down? I need to attach your head-rail."
The maid did not cover all her hair with the filmy cloth but pinned it partway back on her head, leaving all the ends flowing so that glimpses of Sunniva's thick, glowing plait could be seen.
"I cannot go out like this!" Sunniva protested.
"Perhaps it is the style of the court," another heiress suggested, as the maid silently flitted to the door.
"Will you come, my lady?" she asked. "You may leave your embroidery."
Through her words Sunniva heard a clear command and she rose quickly. In truth she would be glad to leave, although as she whispered swift farewells to the others, she wondered what she was going to.
The maid brought her to a side entrance of Westminster Hall, spoke more French to the guard there and drew Sunniva inside. Passing a tiny alcove shrouded by a thick cloth, the maid scratched at the cloth, called out, "She is here," then turned on her heel and scooted away.
Her head held high, Sunniva did not wait for the alcove curtain to be withdrawn but lifted it aside and stood on the threshold of this private, make-shift chamber, waiting for her eyes to adjust. After the semi-dark of the former abbey dormitory and the vast gloom of the great banqueting hall, still full of waiting petitioners but all anxiously silent and brooding, this "room" sparkled with light.
"Ah —” Sunniva tried to count the ranks of burning candles and gave up after a score. The smell of expensive beeswax hung in the air as she rapidly took in the rest.
King William, recognizable by his ruddy complexion, square features and keen dark eyes, was standing with his back to three large candles, examining an embroidered belt which she recognized as her own work. Beside him, lolling on a large cushion, the bald-pated Odo of Bayeux grinned at her and patted a spare cushion.
"Sit, sit, the others will be here soon," he said in his expansive way, tossing an unseen titbit to one of the prowling wolf-hounds. "Take your ease while you can. I always do." He leaned back and patted his bulging stomach. "How many water-mills have you on your lands?"
Sunniva blinked at the rapid change of subject but Odo simply beamed at her and William thoughtfully rubbed her belt against his stubble.
"This good work," he grunted in English. He sounded surprised.
"How many water-mills?" his half-brother prompted.
"Forgive me, I do not know," Sunniva answered.
"How many fields of flax? Of wheat?" Odo persisted, as the king fingered the belt afresh and muttered, almost to himself, "Colours good."
"My father never spoke of such matters to me," Sunniva replied crisply. This was a bizarre summons, she thought. Should she offer to make the king one of the belts?
As if he sensed her interest, William said something rapidly in French, which Odo translated.
"My brother says that his wife would value your advice on needlecraft, Lady Sunniva," he explained, drumming his fingers on his stomach as William looked at her directly for the first time.
Sunniva trained herself not to flinch from his blank, stone stare. "I am your lady's servant," she answered politely, hazarding further by adding, "And my lord Marc de Sens —”
"Best not to speak of him," said Odo, but William heard the name and scowled, firing off more French.
"My brother is disinclined for de Sens to be admitted into his court," Odo translated. "The man is notorious throughout Normandy and Brittany as a woman-killer. He has visited many shrines in both lands, seeking absolution for his sin."
"He is innocent!" The words sprang from Sunniva before she could stop them and now she did not want to: she stared at the new king of England, marking his reddening cheeks and narrowed eyes and repeated steadily, in the face of danger, "He is innocent, my lord. I know it."
William did not wait for the translation but huffed back a reply.
Odo smiled. "My brother the king says that de Sens has found no peace of mind in his pilgrimages: does that not prove his guilt?"
Before Sunniva could answer the curtain was raised again and Bertolf bowed into the room, followed by Marc. Her eyes flew to him, loving all of him and marking each small change: he had grown thinner over these past few days; he had cut his right cheek while shaving; he was wearing the tunic she had repaired for him. "Marc," she mouthed, longing to speak to him.
William, lately of Normandy, now of Normandy and England, saw the Englishwoman's anguished glance and stifled a smile. His own wife had once looked at him in the same way, adoring and hopeful, and he envied Marc de Sens. Was the Breton worthy of such devotion?
Let us see, he thought, greeting the older man, Bertolf, in halting English. He knew far more of the language than even Odo realized but for the moment it suited him to pretend that he did not.
"You see that your niece is well-treated, Lord Bertolf," he went on.
"Truly, my liege," came back the smooth reply, also in English. "She blossoms in your care." Bertolf stroked his trim beard and moustache. "As do we all."
Liar! thought William. Bertolf, busy grovelling, had not even looked at his kinswoman. But such men had their uses. "Better my care than that of a killer, eh?"
"I am grateful for your concern, my liege," Bertolf answered, his polished courtier's mask refusing to slip as he did not ask the obvious question.
Marc de Sens, staring at the Englishwoman as a starving man might yearn after food, showed no such restraint. "What do you mean?" he demanded, without so much as a nod for courtesy. "What is this? In what way does my lady Sunniva need your care?" The tall Breton took a step forward, his hand going ominously to his sword hilt. "Do I have your word, William, that she is your guest, honoured and treated as such?"
"Better my guest than yours," William spat back, still using English. He was unused to being questioned, and irritated by de Sens's tone.
Faster than a stooping hawk, de Sens whirled towards the woman, shielding her as he faced the other men. He had not drawn his sword but his eyes were as narrow and bright as a blade as he glared. For an instant, William felt a prickle of dread before he collected himself — he was, after all, Duke of Normandy and King of England.
"Have a care, de Sens," Odo warned, but the man would take no notice.
"Are you all right?" He spoke directly to the lady.
She blushed very prettily, to William's experienced eye. With a modern Norman gown and head-rail she was most presentable, especially as the dress clung becomingly and her features were clear and fine, unmarred by pox. Her hair in particular was lush: golden enough to inspire any wandering poet. William felt impelled to touch it, but restrained himself for the moment.
Her voice was mellow and pleasing. "I am well. But Marc —”
"They have treated you honourably?"
"Yes. But Marc —”
"Woman killer." William pushed himself away from the wall. He had faced down many men in his time and he was determined that this Breton would not intimidate him. "Why should I allow this woman here to be delivered into your dubious charge? Why not her uncle, who is her kin?"
"I am no woman killer," de Sens ground out, "and this Englishman is unknown, untried."
"Much as yo
urself, de Sens!" Fired again by the Breton's non-appearance at Hastings and the battle of Senlac Field, William spoke his mind, not caring now who knew how good his English was. "You are notorious in France — 'The Restless Pilgrim' you are called, restless because you are unshriven, unrepentant, guilty!"
"No!" The Englishwoman cried, hurling herself to her knees before William — between him and de Sens, the king noted. "He is innocent!"
Odo stirred on his cushion but the Englishman Bertolf was there first, gliding forward with his palms pressed together like a priest. "May I make a suggestion?"
"Speak, man." William was still out of patience and there were a hundred more English still to see: if this middling nobleman had any solutions, now was the time he should share them.
Bertolf gave a low bow. "My liege, as de Sens is a fighting man, why not a trial by battle? Let him prove himself."
"Done!" said de Sens at once.
Still on her knees, the Englishwoman with the amazing golden hair bit her lips to stifle a protest and dropped her face into her hands. William almost felt sorry for her, though not by much: de Sens should have been with him on the long-boats coming to England.
"Then let the trial be the day after tomorrow, against my own champion," he said.
Tomorrow and the day after would be interesting, he thought, glancing at Odo, who gave him a knowing look.
Chapter 28
Horrified by this turn of events, Sunniva tried to speak to Marc but Odo hauled himself off his cushion to grab Marc's arm and her uncle was bearing down on her, a look of anticipated greed glowing on his usually pallid face.
"Come, English girl. Take a turn with me." Strong fingers snapped before her eyes and William waited till she had taken his hand before yanking her smartly to her feet and away with him. She heard Marc's cursing protest but she dare not look back, lest she provoke him to some reckless act of violence to match his earlier hot words. All she could do was as the king wanted: march with him into the main banqueting hall and then outside into an afternoon of bright snow.
"Reminds me of winters in Falaise." William pointed to a strung-out group of children on the opposite side of the river, pounding each other with snowballs. "My boy William used to love playing in snow."
Sunniva allowed the king to draw her arm through his, praying she would not slip on the sparkling cobbles and frosted, snowy grass. She was bitterly cold, without cloak or gloves, but determined not to shiver.
"Did you ever play so?" Away from the court and the press of guards, the king's command of English was almost was good as Marc's.
"Winter is a busy season where I come from," Sunniva replied. "I remember helping my mother break up well-ice, and check the cured hams, and gather firewood and —”
"Servants did not do those tasks? No matter." William shouted something in French to one of the guards by the Abbey perimeter wall and turned about, staring at the great church. He seemed to be listening to a thread of song from the choristers but then grunted and moved on. "Have you children?"
Sunniva hesitated, thinking of Marc's girls. Were they safe? Was Marc with them? "In a way," she answered, her scalp tingling as she made the admission. She shivered, telling herself it was the cold.
"Walk with me to the river," William ordered. "Tell me of your uncle."
"He is an honourable man, and true to his king."
William bent his head down to hers. "You do not know him at all."
She saw the laughter-lines around his eyes and risked a smile. "Not really."
"But you know Marc de Sens?"
Was it going to be this easy? Thank you, Saint Freya! She nodded, mentally taking her courage in both hands. "May I speak to you about him, sir?"
They had reached the steps leading down to the water, where a few boats sculled by. A trio of ragged figures, sweeping the steps with bits of twig instead of proper brooms, cowered away, one tumbling back into a bank of snow. A pace or two behind, Sunniva heard two of the king's bodyguard half-draw their swords. William barked an order and she heard the blades returned to their scabbards.
"Please continue." He stamped down a patch of snow with his boot.
Sunniva knew she would never have another chance. She spoke swiftly, telling of the pilgrimage: how Marc had saved her from being taken by the whore-master, how he had stayed behind when the rest of the pilgrims had gone on, so she would not be left alone. How Marc cared for his nieces. How he had been taking her to her home. How he took care of her. How he had sought out her family after the dreadful carnage of the battle for the bridge at Stamford.
"Yet he did not complete the pilgrimage to Durham," William observed.
"Because of me. He did not want to leave me. He wanted me safe."
"You could have hurried along, caught the other pilgrims up and gone on with them."
Sunniva shrugged, not wanting to go into Marc's premonitions of disaster for Durham. Had anything indeed happened there? Marc had once told her that not all his forebodings always came to pass. She might never know the answer.
"He saw my father and brothers buried," she said, deliberately changing the subject from their uncompleted pilgrimage.
"Yes, he seems to have God's own luck at arriving just too late on a battlefield." William's mouth turned down at the corners.
"He got us away from a house filled with returning warriors," Sunniva persisted. "It would have been far easier and safer for him to ride off and leave us, but Marc would never do that. He fights for those he loves."
An idea bloomed in her mind: foolish, unusual but compelling. In her excitement she gripped William's arm, forgetting he was king, seeing only the interest in his bright, dark eyes.
"Please, my lord, I have a favour to ask. May I prove to you that Marc is innocent?" A chill breeze blew straight off the river, weaving her new gown even more tightly against her breasts, stomach and legs. Clammy with cold, she forced her teeth not to chatter. "My lord?"
"How will you do that?"
Bracing herself for his answer, Sunniva told him.
Where was she?
Marc was going mad. Odo was driving him mad. His nieces, whom Ragnar had brought upriver to Odo's "court" at the Jew's house, were nagging him, over and over, worrying at him with the same question that tormented him, waking and sleeping.
Where was Sunniva?
Odo claimed she was safe with the king, which Marc thought was slightly better than if she had been placed with her wretched, grasping kinsman. Still, it was not much better. He had seen how William had licked his lips when she came near.
Was she like him, a prisoner, but not?
He could go anywhere in the Jewish house, anywhere in London, if Odo and a score of Normans were with him. He dared not break out, not for fear of leaving his girls behind — he would never do that — but dread of what revenge William might wreak on Sunniva, once he and his girls were gone.
At least Ragnar and his men had got away from Odo, back into the greasy, brooding bowels of London.
Now he and his "friend" Odo were on the river again, being rowed to Westminster, while his girls were left behind at the Jews' house — for their own protection, claimed Odo, though Marc knew that they were hostages against his own good behaviour. Sometime today he would fight the king's champion to prove his innocence. The king would choose the venue and the time.
Marc breathed slowly down his nose, closing his mind to Odo's remarks on the day and the weather. He knew William's champion: big, tough, fast. He had seen the man take blow after blow on his helmet and come back for more. He favoured sweeping sword-cuts and led always with his right shoulder. He relied on his sword arm, did not move his feet much. Dangerous, but Marc knew he could best him.
And then? After he had shown the world that he was no woman-killer?
That would be a relief in itself. Pray God that today would see the end of it: peace for himself and for his girls. Isabella had suffered no more bad dreams, Alde and Judith no longer whimpered in their sleep. They had
all begun to sleep more soundly once Sunniva had entered their midst.
She has been their angel, he thought, and smiled.
He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers, keeping his hands warm and supple. He swung his legs, drumming his feet softly against the keel of the boat. He wanted to row in place of the boat-man, more than ever today, when a thick mist rose off the milky waters and snow covered both banks. There was little to see, except the growing motte that Sunniva so detested. The mound heaved with tiny working figures, soundless in the patchy fog. Elsewhere, a few coils of smoke revealed the presence of a hut, of life, but the city remained eerily quiet. Along the riverbank, a desperate woman unlaced her gown and showed off her breasts, to leering and cat-calls from the second boat, filled with Odo's guards, but they did not stop. Even paid pleasure must wait when they had been summoned by the king.
"So, you are ready." Odo waved a meaty palm in front of his eyes to ensure Marc's attention. "I am sure you will do well. Have you in mind what favour you will ask my brother the king when you win?"
"Other than sparing the life of his champion when I have him on the ground, you mean?"
"Something like, yes." Odo chuckled at his confidence, making the sign of the cross before his face: a kind of rough clerical blessing. "You did not know your pretty English maid was rich, did you?"
Accustomed to Odo's swift changes in conversation, aimed to shake and disconcert, Marc said nothing. In his concern that Sunniva was safe he had forgotten for the moment that she was rich. Why had she never told him herself? Did she not trust him? After all they had endured together, did she truly not trust him? After she had admitted to him that Caedmon of Whitby was no more than a name to her and he had forgiven her, why did she still not trust him? Was she afraid he might cast doubt upon her parentage?
"It matters not," he said, sensing Odo waiting for an answer.
He closed his eyes, pretending to pray. After today, after his trial of ordeal, Sunniva would trust him. He would prove to her once and for all that she could trust in him, and in his love.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 48