Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances

by Lindsay Townsend

  "The king did not forbid it. He approved the match."

  "You wanted to be sure of her, did you?" Odo asked sarcastically.

  "I acted as I saw fit."

  Their rowing-boat now bumped against the jetty but Marc made no move to leave it. He was scanning the men behind Odo — looking for archers, Sunniva realized, a hot flood of terror drenching her body. She forced herself to keep her composure: to panic would do no good.

  But what exactly had Marc agreed with Odo and William? Why was Odo scowling, pulling at his fleshy lips with thumb and forefinger as if he would tear them off? "My brother the king will not like this, de Sens."

  "The king knows I am his loyal and faithful man," Marc answered, in a cool, clipped manner. "This way I go to my lands with the daughter of the old lord as my wife; her people will accept me more quickly because of our marriage."

  Was that why Marc had married her? The better to secure her lands?

  Sunniva kept her head up but inside she felt to be burning with shame and confusion. She glowered at Marc but he would not look at her: he was intent upon Odo.

  "You saw Bertolf the renegade?"

  Sunniva stifled a gasp at Odo's harsh description of her uncle.

  "No, my lord."

  "He will be dealt with in time." Odo looked at her, his square features livid with poorly-controlled anger. It was as if their previous, pleasant dealings had never happened. "No matter, you may go. Get to your lands, make yourself useful there."

  Odo turned his back on both of them, stamping back to the rising castle without even a farewell.

  Marc was silent on the boat-journey back to their lodgings and Sunniva was not sure what to say to him. As they disembarked, he lifted her straight into his arms, without giving her time to move herself.

  "I can walk," she protested, but he took no notice, lurching from the boat and striding away from the river as if the fiends of hell were at his heels. "I know these Normans," he said once, through clenched teeth. "They promise, then withdraw. They make a pact, then change the terms. William is as bad as the rest of them."

  He did not speak again, although Sunniva asked several times what he meant. When they reached the former Jew's house and Marc began bellowing orders to Ragnar and his men to pack, Sunniva said nothing. She now had another ordeal to face — that of meeting Marc's mother.

  Again that meeting was not to be. Matilde, Sunniva learned, had arranged for herself and her granddaughters to stay for a month at the house of the widow of a Breton goldsmith living in the city. Matilde had returned from buying fish and immediately set out again. She and the girls were already gone.

  When a red-faced Ragnar relayed this news in the stable-yard of the Jew's house, Marc's comment was sour: "Ever my mother gives trust with one hand and withdraws it with the other. She has been this way ever since the fire."

  "Perhaps your mother feels she has acted prudently, to keep your youngsters in comfort and relative safety while all is so uncertain," Sunniva began, but Marc whipped around to face her.

  "Not to my mind," he said, and stalked off to harangue an unlucky stable-lad who had just dropped a parcel of bedding into the dirt.

  Chapter 36

  So Sunniva returned to the place where she was born, traveling almost the full length of Ermine Street from London to a small village called Hanstone. She did not know where she rode, never having been so far away from her home in her life before, but Marc had hired guides, and she trusted him.

  He had also hired Ragnar Fire-Breeches and his men to ride with them, something Sunniva decided she must discuss with Marc. Her people might not view the sudden appearance of a Breton overlord and a gang of ex-Vikings with any great ease or pleasure: it would be well that Marc and Ragnar understood this, before they reached the borders of her land.

  Or was it her land? Odo of Bayeux had acted as if she had no rights in the matter at all, as if the king had gifted the land directly to Marc.

  If he wanted my land, Sunniva thought as she rode, Marc need not have married me to get it. Brought up with the concepts of responsibility, of having a duty of care for others, particularly those less fortunate than herself, this idea did not comfort her. Instead she felt superfluous, no more than a pretty piece of baggage.

  And there was always the nagging question of whether she was Cena's kin or not. If not, she really was perhaps no more than baggage.

  "You are my wife," Marc said, when she raised the matter with him, as if that should be enough, and he silenced her fears with kisses. But in the morning, riding again, Sunniva brooded. At one point Ragnar remarked in that clipped way of his that she lacked colour and for the rest of that day she forced herself to chatter about London and the girls — although even that subject was difficult, with Marc muttering darkly about his mother's lack of trust.

  That night she dreamed of her own mother. Ethelinda, more confident and glowing than she had ever been when alive, came out of Hanstone church on the arm of Father Martin the priest and with a crowd of villagers following on.

  "Who are you?" she asked. She was young in the dream, as young as Sunniva, and as beautiful as Sunniva had known her.

  "Mother, it has been so long," she answered, longing to embrace her, marvelling to see Ethelinda smiling when she could not remember seeing her mother smile in life. "It is so good to see you here."

  She took a step forward, but Ethelinda's flawless face clouded.

  "I know you not," she said. "You are a stranger. You do not belong with us."

  And her mother drew back into the church, leaving Sunniva facing the mob. The villagers closed quickly about her, drawing their knives....

  Sunniva came awake suddenly and dared not sleep for the rest of the night.

  Still she and Marc moved north. On their third day of traveling the countryside about them changed from being flat, with stretches of dense woodland and marshy heathland, to a more rugged aspect. The ground itself began to rise, emerging from the featureless plain in a great curved outcrop, so that the whole looked like a huge half-buried worm. A few spindly rowan trees clung to those few places where the cliffs were almost sheer; in other spots where the land rose less steeply there were patches of woodland and fields of grazing sheep.

  Sunniva felt her pulse quicken at the sight, and even more at the smell — the loamy scent of the land itself, as familiar to her as her own scent. Sensing her excitement, Marc smiled at her and she took his hand as they rode side by side along the road.

  "We are getting close," she said.

  "I know it," he answered. "From you."

  She thought of her dream again and suddenly wished their journey was a thousand miles longer. How would the people view her? Would they accept her? What would they think of Marc? He was their lord now, but would they truly accept him? She knew he would be just, but what if they rebelled because he was not English? Would he be patient with them? Would they ride into Hanstone now and be met with flowers or with stones?

  "Do the folk here know that we are coming?" she asked. "Have you sent word?"

  "No to that, but they will know all the same, soon enough," Marc replied, riding in that loose-limbed style he had, and turned his head this way and that, watching out for trouble.

  He released her hand with a tiny pat and touched his sword. Then he pressed the blue tattoo on his arm — for luck, Sunniva assumed and a nervous gesture she had not seen from him before. Tense herself, the blood singing in her ears, the sound of her breath seemed very loud in the silence. She prayed to all the saints she could remember, begging for their peace and mercy.

  Around her Ragnar's men were also muttering, some fingering charms and rune sticks. Everyone looked strained. When a bird broke cover and fluttered skywards in a blaze of wings, the entire company flinched and then laughed.

  "It will be old men and lads, remember, so go easy on them," Marc said gruffly. "Keep in mind, too, that some may not know that they have lost Cena as lord. "

  "Or their own lords," Sunniva put
in, thinking of those women whose men must have perished with Cena at the Bridge of Stamford. Feeling ashamed of her new married status, she did not meet Marc's glance but stared straight ahead, which was how she spotted a bobbing movement at the roadside and saw a small, freckled face peeping out from the ditch.

  "That is Arni No-Hair!" she breathed, recognizing the shepherd boy from his domed, bald pate — he had lost his hair two winters back when she had helped his mother nurse him through a fever. He had lived, but his fine blond hair had never grown back. In a burst of fevered anticipation, delighted that here was someone she knew well, Sunniva rose up from her saddle.

  "Arni, it is me! Sunniva! Arni!"

  Her cries went unheeded. As fast as a stooping bird of prey, the boy dropped back into the ditch and vanished.

  "Let him go," said Marc, as much to her as to his men. "I understand the nick-name now: when you first mentioned him it made no sense, but now I see that the lad is as bald as an egg."

  "But he knows me," Sunniva protested, her mind flayed with the injustice of Arni's lack of trust in her. "I gave him ale when he was sick, and mopped him down. Last winter I gave his mother one of my gowns and an iron cooking pot." Her brother Edgar had beaten her when he saw Arni's mother wearing the gown. "By Saint Freya, he knows me! Why should Arni No-Hair think I would do him harm?"

  "'Tis not you he dislikes, but us," Marc answered. "And he shall tell the others that you have returned." He motioned over her head to Ragnar. "Let us pick up the pace and, mark this well, I want no corpses at this homecoming. I am their lord now and would not start my rule with a massacre."

  He spurred his horse on to lead the way, calling to Sunniva. Too anxious to be exasperated at his high-handedness, Sunniva obeyed.

  They rode up the broad escarpment, through woodland and over fields, galloping for the hill top. Now Sunniva could see the thatch of house-roofs and twists of smoke and suddenly, ahead of her, standing apart from the village and its church, there was her old home.

  How mean it seems, she thought, struck by the sagging roof, the lack of windows, the broken storage barrels in front of the single door. The stables were silent and the dairy was empty. Strangely homesick all over again, realizing she had imagined a home that had never really existed, she felt ashamed of bringing Marc to such a low, neglected place.

  I left it in better order than this! Where are the dogs and cats and cattle? Where is the hog? Where are the servants? Where is anyone?

  "When the lady of the house is absent, chaos is king," Marc remarked, correctly interpreting her distress. "But we shall soon make this right."

  Heartened by the "we" Sunniva looked about more closely, her spirits rising further as she realized the village and its lands were unscathed. In the south, King William and his men may have ransacked and burned but her in the heartland of her home, the place she knew best, all seemed unchanged.

  Except for one thing. "Where are people hiding?" she asked.

  "Let us attend to your hall first, my lady," Marc answered, leaping down from his horse to inspect one of the broken barrels. "They will come to us in time."

  He winked at her. When she continued to frown, he stepped back and wound an arm around her middle, half-dragging her from her palfrey to give her a smacking kiss.

  "Come, Sun-light, all will be very well," he murmured, waving off the inevitable ribald comments from his men. "These are your own folk and you are their lady. This is the first of your lands and we shall visit all of them in time."

  When I discover where these other lands are, Sunniva thought, wishing that she felt as confident as Marc was now. His earlier nerves seemed to have deserted him, whereas she was more on edge than ever. All her previous fears had returned, with heart-stopping intensity and arrow-sharp speed.

  What if the folk here did not take to Marc? What if they turned away from him, blamed her for marrying a foreigner? What if they turned away from her, for being the bastard daughter of an unfaithful slave-wife? What if Marc grew tired of her, as Cena had of her mother?

  "Marc, what agreement did you make with King William?" she whispered urgently, thoroughly disconcerted when Marc whispered back, "Only that you are the prettiest wench in England."

  Giving her no chance to answer, he turned his head to the black-toothed, swarthy Fire-Breeches. "English, remember, Ragnar," he called out, a reminder that they should use the native tongue. He stroked Sunniva's face, tracing her covered hairline, then he stalked off in that clashing walk of his, going straight to the door and pushing through it.

  Sunniva's breath hissed in her throat as Marc disappeared into the house. In another instant she was off her horse, avoiding a startled Ragnar and sprinting for the darkened entrance.

  "Do not hurt them!" she cried, desperate that Marc should make a good impression, that above all he should not be attacked, lest he strike back. "They will be nervous of strangers. Let me explain our presence."

  She was pleading to Marc's broad back, but to no one else. Feeling foolish, she stopped short inside the hall, wondering again where everyone had gone. Where every thing had gone.

  "What has happened here?" she stammered, raising her arms to the empty walls and roof beams.

  "Where are the curing meats, the hangings, the tables, do you mean?" Marc countered, twisting round to her as he stood by the dead fire-space, hands on hips and fingers tapping the hilt of his sword. "I think your people have decided that their lord has gone and have helped themselves to his goods."

  He grinned, shedding ten years in a moment. "No more than I would have done, if I were them."

  Sunniva almost sagged like the roof, such was her relief. "You are not angry?"

  "What use would that be? Now, tell us what to do, my lady."

  "You? You and your men?" Part of her was amazed: warriors doing house-work?

  "To be sure," Marc replied, and he took her hands in his. "Now I am home, I wish to spend tonight in my own bed, and in comfort."

  A few moments later, black-browed Ragnar looked nonplussed at the idea of wielding a broom, but a glower from Marc had him sweeping out the floor-rushes with a will. Sunniva left Marc and his men to that while she sought out cooking pots and spits. Finding only a single spit, buried under ash in the fireplace, she turned to Marc who had just come in from the stable.

  "What food have we brought with us?" she asked in a low voice.

  "Salted meat and fish, some wheat seed, some oats. A jar of honey. A barrel of mead." He grimaced, folding his arms across his chest. "The horses must make do with the grass. There is no hay in the stable."

  "We shall do better tomorrow," Sunniva vowed, pretending a confidence she did not quite feel.

  "We shall hunt tomorrow," Marc answered. "Fresh game will draw these folk out, for I intend to share it with them."

  He was being cheerful, too, and she smiled at him, wondering what he really thought.

  Where were her people, though?

  "Perhaps I should go to Arni's house," she said to Marc later, shaking musty bedding with him out of doors while Ragnar and a guard picked their way in the twilight to fetch more water from the well, using one of their own horse-pails.

  Marc shook his head. "The door to the hall is open, the fire is lit, we have mead and oatcakes and honey to share," he said. "Let the villagers come to us."

  But will they? Sunniva thought. And is it Marc, the foreign lord they are rejecting, or me, their English cuckoo-child?

  Evening drew on and she piled furs about the fire for them to sit in comfort while they ate. Marc took some oatcakes and left them on top of the broken barrel in front of the doorway. When a shadow later sped towards the barrel, he motioned to Sunniva to keep singing the song she had started and to his men to keep still. The oatcakes on the barrel vanished and Marc whistled in time to her song, encouraging his men to join the chorus.

  "It is the same with horses," he murmured to Sunniva, as Ragnar bellowed out a tuneless version, "If you are calm and patient, they will become curious
and be drawn to you. We are doing good work here, tonight."

  "What if the villagers come to steal more things tonight?" Sunniva murmured, ashamed to be asking the question.

  Marc smiled. "We shall keep watch all night," he replied. "But I think they will surprise you."

  At daybreak the following day, Sunniva stepped out into the stockade and rubbed her eyes. She could scarcely believe what she was seeing.

  "Go on," said Marc behind her, pressing his hand lightly against her back. "They are real. Touch them." He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck, making her whole body down to her toes tingle with pleasure . "Do you recognize them?"

  Out in the yard, amidst a speckling of fresh snow, were two tables laden with wall hangings and cauldrons and crocks and spoons and knives and wooden cups. Feeling as if she were in a dream, Sunniva kicked her way through the snow and dirt to the nearest table and picked up a wooden goblet. It was painted around its middle in blue and gold.

  "Cena drank from this on feast days," she said. Did that mean the villagers, the people, accepted her as his daughter?

  Dazed, still scarcely daring to believe it was all real, she raised her head. Beyond the rough ditch and wooden hurdles enclosing the homestead she could see figures gathered on the road outside.

  "They came in the middle of the night, while you were sleeping," Marc said, holding out his hand. "May I see it? 'Tis a handsome thing."

  Slowly, she stretched out her arm and when he took the cup from her, a ragged cheer issued from the watchers.

  "I believe that counts as a Welcome Home, my heart." Speaking, Marc caught her and the goblet into his arms, lifting her high.

  "See your lady returned!" he shouted in English. "Come now and give her greeting!"

  Through a haze of tears, Sunniva spotted the shiny bald head of Arni No-Hair lunging towards her like a battering ram, heard the lad's pounding feet, ahead of all the other villagers, as he rushed into the yard, yelling, "Sunniva's back! She's back! I told you she would come back!"