Authors: Emily Murdoch
With Fitz still in his sick bed, and Adeliza refusing to stir from her bed chamber, the heavy task of preparing Isabella’s body for burial fell to Catheryn and Ursule. It took every inch of her self-control to prevent Catheryn from weeping as she gently caressed the young body with warm water. Isabella was so young, had done so little, had seen so little of the world. She had never grown, or married, or had children of her own. She had never learned to love literature, as Catheryn had, and she would never sing with her siblings again.
All of that was over.
“Just pretend that I am not here,” said the priest, sitting on a stool by one side of the bed. He had been brought by Roger, and had been watching over Isabella’s body for the vigil. He had not left her side for a moment over the last day, and the tiredness on his face had drawn lines of sadness around his eyes.
Catheryn smiled at him. “It is good to see you here, Father. Thank you for coming.”
The man raised his hands, and said, “My lady Catheryn, you honour me. I merely come to a part of my flock that needs tending.”
Tending, Catheryn thought. That was an interesting way of describing the horror that had flooded through this family, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.
Catheryn cast a worried look over to the other bed in the chamber. Fitz lay motionless, but his eyes were open. Despite all that she and Ursule had said, they had not managed to persuade him to leave the room, or to allow Isabella’s body to be prepared elsewhere. They had brought it back, and Fitz had stared unblinking at the body that had once held the laughter and the life of his daughter. He was still too weak to move, and too weak to attend his own daughter’s funeral; this was the least, in his mind, that he could do, to be near her.
Ursule did not say a word as they worked together to dry Isabella’s body, but Catheryn could see that she was deeply affected. Without noticing where she was going, Ursule accidentally trod on Reginald’s tail; something that he did not easily forgive. But Catheryn could not draw her eyes away from the girl lying on the bed. She looked so peaceful. She could easily have been sleeping – and yet no dreams would visit her now.
“What jewellery will be placed with her?” Catheryn said, as Ursule rummaged in a box that had been given to her by Emma.
Ursule sighed. “Her sister has given us what she wants to be placed with Isabella, but…”
Catheryn spoke. “Why the hesitation?”
The sigh that Ursule let out was even deeper now. “She gave me some of her own wedding jewellery.”
Catheryn’s mouth fell open. Each daughter was given a portion of her mother’s jewellery, to wear on her wedding day. It was always very precious, handed down from mother to daughter to daughter.
“For Emma to give these up…” Catheryn said softly. “It is almost as though she is saying –”
“That she will never marry,” Ursule finished. “Yes, I know. But this is what she has given us, and I am loath to go against her wishes.”
Catheryn considered it. Adeliza was a wealthy woman; she would have many other jewels that could be given to Emma. She was the only daughter now, and Adeliza was unlikely to have another child.
“So be it,” she said softly. “Was a lead cross included?”
Ursule did not reply, but instead drew one from the box. She placed it on Isabella’s breast, and then, without speaking, both she and Catheryn put the jewellery given up by her twin sister on her fingers, wrist, and around her neck. The gold glittered in the candlelight. And then it was done.
“Jewellery can be replaced.”
Catheryn started; turning, she saw Fitz staring at her.
“Daughters cannot,” he said, his voice hoarse with grief.
“I know that,” Catheryn said bitterly. “If there is anyone else in the world other than you that knows that, it is I.”
Fitz opened his mouth to reply, but instead a tear escaped from his eye. A heavy hand moved to wipe it away. Catheryn knew that the pain he felt could never be removed. She turned back to her companion.
“What linens have been sent us?” Ursule asked, her voice thick with emotion that she would not allow herself to indulge in.
Catheryn pointed wordlessly to the pile that lay by the door. The linens were pure white, and soft. Ursule stepped across the chamber, picked them up, and brought them over to the bed.
“You know how to prepare a body for the grave?” she said, the harshness in her tones masking the deep sadness.
Catheryn nodded. “I prepared both my mother and my father, when their time came.”
Ursule nodded. “Good. Then this should not take too long.”
The priest had to move back slightly as they began to wind the lines of linen around Isabella. Catheryn and Ursule worked fast, silently, their hands crossing as they passed the linen to each other. Soon, nothing of Isabella was visible save her face.
Ursule sighed, and sat down heavily. “It is done.”
“I shall finish here,” Catheryn said kindly, and began to wind the last portion of linen around Isabella’s face.
“No!” Ursule put out a hand to stop her. “That is not how it is done.”
“But…” Catheryn said, confused. “It is the way that it is done – at least, how we have always done it.”
“You are not in England now,” Ursule said quietly, “and here, we leave the face uncovered.”
It made no sense to Catheryn, but she obligingly put the last piece of linen down. She did not want to upset Isabella’s family, after all. She could not help but quickly glance over to Fitz’s bed, but his eyes were closed. It seemed that he had succumbed, finally, to sleep.
“I will follow you,” Catheryn said quietly.
Before Ursule could reply, the door to the chamber opened. Roger stood there, his brother William behind him. Two of Fitz’s men, part of his retinue, stood behind them. They were all dressed in black.
“Is she ready?”
Catheryn had not spoken to William, and so was surprised to hear how deep his voice was. He was almost a copy of Fitz – a replica of a Fitz that she had never known, but had probably lived around twenty years ago. His beard was a little lighter, and not so coarse, and there was no tiredness in his eyes; but save those differences, they could be the same man.
“She is ready.” Ursule obviously realised that Catheryn could not speak. “Bring it in.”
Catheryn stood back as the wooden coffin was brought into the room, and placed on the floor between the two beds.
Without a sound, Catheryn and Ursule lifted what was once Isabella, and placed her in the coffin. It had been lined with rosemary.
Roger and William placed the lid on the top of the coffin. All at once, Isabella’s face was obscured from view, and it would remain that way forever. That was the last glimpse that any living person would have of the eldest FitzOsbern daughter.
Roger turned to Catheryn. “If you wish to dress for the… I believe that you should do it now.”
“I would agree,” the priest, still sitting down, spoke up. “I believe that we should leave soon.”
“I will be but a moment,” Catheryn replied, gathering up the remaining piece of linen. “And then I shall join you.”
*
The church was cold. Candles had been lit throughout, but that did not prevent the icy breath of those that gathered within it from rising above them.
Catheryn drew her cloak to her, and shivered. The church was full; so full, in fact, that many of the local villagers were standing in the porch, and outside the church. All had wanted to pay their last respects to a girl that had been so gentle, and yet so wild. The men, as was the custom, wore black, and the women wore white. That was how it was for a lady of such high birth as Isabella. Why, you could say that she was a cousin of the King.
One woman sobbed. Catheryn could see from her place near the right hand side of the altar that it was Adeliza. Emma was by her side, draped in white, and she had a hand resting on her mother’s, which shook.
The coffin that held Isabella’s body had been brought in by her two brothers and the two men Catheryn had seen them with earlier, and been placed before the altar. A white covering had been placed over it. In Catheryn’s eyes the coffin seemed to get larger and larger, the church smaller and smaller.
Catheryn could hear that the priest was speaking, but it was hard for her to really take in his words. It was difficult for her to take anything in; that Isabella could be dead, that she would not see the spring; it did not seem to make any sense.
The priest had finished the prayers, and was now speaking about Isabella as the Mass was sung behind him.
“An innocent girl,” he was saying, “who knew no faults, and will be received pure and whole by our Creator…”
Knew no faults, Catheryn thought, and smiled despite herself. The priest might not have said that if he had heard the two sisters fighting. And yet, he was right in a way. She had never done anything truly terrible, and yet had never experienced anything truly wonderful. Before all that life held for her had approached, she had been snatched away from it.
The candles were being distributed, and Catheryn lit hers from Ursule, who stood beside her. Ursule wore white also, but it was obscured partly by the fur of Reginald, once again wrapped around her neck.
At last, the coffin rose onto the shoulders of the four men once more, and was carried around to the middle of the church. A grave had already been dug there, and a memorial stone already carved by a man in the village. Slowly, with great care, the coffin was lowered into it.
“Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech thee…” The priest began to speak again, and many of those that had attended too many services like this one, began to speak along with him. Catheryn joined them.
“…so may thy mercy unite her above to the choirs of angels, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Fitz’s recovery was long, and hard. Catheryn spent so much of her time sending word to Ursule, begging her to come back to the castle and treat Fitz when he descended once more into a fever, that Ursule eventually demanded her own chambers in the castle.
“And don’t forget my payment!” she would mutter, wandering down a corridor with Reginald weaving in and out of her tiny legs. “I won’t do naught without my payment.”
Roger disliked her, but could not help but admire the way that she managed to keep Fitz away from death, month after month.
“Whether it is witchcraft, or the power of God, or some other female power,” Catheryn once heard him say to Emma, “there is something strange about that woman.”
And yet despite his mistrust, Roger was always true to his word; each and every week, a new barrel of ale would be rolled by a servant into Ursule’s chamber.
“Why do you think she wants so much ale?” Roger would ask Emma.
But Emma would invariably not reply. The loss of her twin sister had hit her harder than Catheryn had thought possible. For one so young, to be grieving in such a way – there was, Catheryn supposed, no telling exactly how long it would be before she would recover. If she ever would.
Adeliza spent another six months refusing to take a step closer to her husband. Catheryn moved through the motions of anger, disbelief, and finally pity at the way that Adeliza would be desperate for news of her husband, but not take the leap of walking into his sick chamber. Her fear of sickness grew after Isabella’s death, and there was nothing that Catheryn could do to persuade her that the danger – for others – had passed.
Fitz’s own danger did not disappear until just before Christmas in 1068. After three months without a single worrying turn, Ursule took Catheryn aside.
“That’s finally done it,” she said, smiling wearily. Catheryn blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“He will live, and live strong.”
Catheryn breathed a sigh of relief. “You are sure?”
Ursule shrugged her shoulders, made heavy again by the weight of a sleeping Reginald. “As sure as a body can be, my lady. He will not sink again until he is sunk into the grave, and I do not believe that will be for a good many years yet.”
Christmas that year was taken slowly. Unlike the year when Fitz had remained, tossing and turning in his sick bed, unsure who the people attending to his needs even were, this year the entire family sat at the table. A space was left for Isabella. Her absence was like a weighty cloud, pressing on them heavily. They could not ignore it, and yet there was nothing to say, nothing to cry out at.
It was just… absence.
In the New Year, Catheryn realised that their lives had returned to what could only be described as normal. A sort of normality that seemed to belie the tension that was now present. She and Adeliza could never be friends again. By the time that February arrived Catheryn was sure of it.
“I was to sit there,” Adeliza said curtly, as Catheryn gently lowered herself into a chair by the fire in the Great Hall. “You will not mind if I take it.”
Without waiting for an answer, Adeliza reached out, grabbed Catheryn’s arm, and physically pulled her from the chair.
Catheryn stared with an open mouth as the lady of the house almost fell into the seat. Fitz was sitting opposite them. He looked up. Catheryn caught his eye.
Fitz shook his head, almost too slowly for Catheryn to see – but she did see, and she knew what he meant. He was telling her that it was simply not worth the aggravation to say anything.
Taking a deep breath, Catheryn managed to speak.
“My apologies, my lady Adeliza, I did not realise. I will happily sit elsewhere.”
But after taking a quick look around the Great Hall, Catheryn realised that there was nowhere she could be that would not make her feel awkward. Adeliza’s presence was like a poison, slowly turning Catheryn against her.
Adeliza, tragically, was not aware of this. She had been moving in a mist of pain ever since her child had departed this life, and there was nothing that could be done to reach her. The idea of losing her husband, of course, had marked upon her the awful loss that it could have been.
It could be said of Adeliza that she had never learned to truly love her husband until she thought that he had been taken from her. In the dark moments in the night, when she could hear him wailing, and yet could not stir a step to go to him, she clutched at her pillow. She knew that if she lost him now then she would never be able to forgive herself.
But she had not. Adeliza woke every morning happy in the knowledge that Fitz had been saved, that the sickness that had possessed his body for so long had finally decided to offer him a chance of life. But then the day wore on, and she saw it.
Adeliza could not help it. She could not help looking at them, her husband and the woman that had intruded into their lives for so long. Nothing was said, and no move was made, but it was plain to her that there was something between them. Suspicion was not a part of Adeliza’s character, but now it was difficult for her to ignore the tension between them. Something had happened in that sick chamber, and it made Adeliza curse the decision that she had made to abandon her husband in his hour of need.
And that she had abandoned him, Adeliza knew. She could feel it in the very depths of her soul.
“A letter for you, my lord.”
Both Adeliza and Catheryn started, so intense had been the glance that they had shared. A servant was standing quietly behind Fitz, and there was a heavy piece of parchment in his hands. Catheryn could see that there was a large seal pressed into the opening of the parchment, but from where she was standing, she could not see what it was.
Adeliza could, and she cursed the man who had sent it.
“A letter?” Fitz reached an arm upwards carelessly, and the servant, after a pause, placed it into his hand.
Bowing, the servant left the room. Catheryn had been about to return to her own chambers, but nothing could move her feet now. She was too intrigued by the letter; Adeliza’s colour had altered so rapidly, there must be something terrible within its pages.
Flicking the letter over in his hands, Fitz’s face fell when he saw the seal. He cursed inwardly, and then reminded himself that he should have expected this. He should have expected it for many months now – if anything he was surprised it had taken them this long to send word.
Breaking the seal with his thumb, he pulled open the parchment, and read the florid handwriting of the clerk to the King.
“Fitz?” Adeliza could not contain herself, and despite promising herself that she would say nothing, she immediately broke that promise. “Fitz, what does it say?”
Fitz sighed, and Adeliza’s heart fell.
“It is him, then?” she said dully. “I knew that he would call you eventually, but now seems too soon.”
“Him?” Catheryn interrupted.
“This does not concern you!” Adeliza snapped.
Catheryn coloured. “I apologise – my natural curiosity has got the better of me.”
“Peace,” Fitz said quietly. “Catheryn, you need not apologise. It is no secret.” Looking at his wife, he nodded. “It is indeed a letter from King William. He has given me the charge of the city of York.”
“York?” Adeliza tried the foreign word on her tongue. “What is it, a small village?”
Catheryn smiled. “It is a great place, a great city. My cousin Gospatrick has the power of Copmanthorpe, just south of there.”
Fitz flinched, and hated the words that he spoke. “Gospatrick has been… replaced.”
Catheryn blushed once more, only this time it was with anger, not embarrassment.
“Replaced? Is it so easy to get rid of a man? Are people so insignificant now that they can be replaced without even his own family knowing his whereabouts?”
“You do not know the whereabouts of your own daughter,” Adeliza remarked bitterly. “And you would think that was the closest bond imaginable.”
It took all of Catheryn’s resolve and strength not to move against the woman who taunted her about her daughter.
“Annis aside,” Catheryn said through gritted teeth, “I would have thought I would receive word on this.”
“It happened many months ago,” Fitz said, waving a hand, “and I did not realise that you and he were kin.”
“But the letter,” Adeliza said before Catheryn could speak, leaning forward eagerly. “Does it demand your return?”
The two women who loved him turned to hear his answer. Fitz sighed heavily.
“It does.”
Adeliza fell back in her chair, head falling down with the disappointment.
“And you will not refuse him.”
“My lady wife, I cannot refuse him. He is the King.”
Fitz rose with heaviness in his heart, and weakness in his legs.
“I must go to prepare,” he said to Catheryn. “You must excuse me. And Adeliza…” Fitz’s voice broke off; the cough that had dogged him for many seasons taking over his throat for a moment. “Adeliza,” he said when he had regained control, “you must be strong.”
He kissed her on the cheek, and for a moment Adeliza really believed that he had come back to her, that they could be made whole again. But then he pulled away, and she saw the smile he gave Catheryn as he left.