Fires of Winter (39 page)

Permission was given immediately, and Maud suggested I write as soon as I could because she intended to send a messenger off within the next two days. Naturally I did as I was bidden, but knowing that another would read my letter made any intimacy in what I wrote impossible. I would not have written anything that could shame me in any case, but I could not even add little jests or reminders of pleasant moments. I felt that I was writing to a stranger, and the best I could produce was a tone of courtesy. I also wrote every bit of news I had: where we were, how we had traveled to get there, the gossip I had heard in the keeps where we stayed along the way, everything I saw, each rumor I heard, and what I guessed about Dover and Maud's purpose for coming here. I was curious to know whether the queen would admit she was reading my letter by reprimanding me, scratch out what she preferred Bruno not to know, or let the letter go intact, knowing that all I wrote was harmless and desiring to let me believe, if I could, that my letter was sent unexamined.

I received no reprimand, so either the queen had no objection to the gossip and guesses I related or she had decided to let me twist a rope long enough to hang myself. I waited eagerly to learn what Bruno thought of my letter, but I was disappointed. It was the end of February before I heard from him, and what came was only a note—again part of the king's packet—thanking me for writing and saying he was too busy to answer as I deserved. He did ask me to write again though, which I took to mean he approved of my gossip. Later in the day I discovered he was also trying to tell me that I would soon have more important matters to relate because Maud bade me order her maids to begin packing for a long journey. And then I heard we were to meet King David in Durham to negotiate a treaty of peace with the Scots.

Waleran de Meulan's twin brother, Robert of Leicester, met us at his keep five days later. He carried another long letter and further instructions to Maud and was to accompany us to Durham and remain with us. I had learned enough of matters of state from what Bruno had told me during our journeys that I wondered why the earl of Leicester was coming. Was he to be the queen's advisor rather than the bishop of Salisbury, who had for many years been the chief negotiator for King Henry? Considering what Bruno had told me about Waleran's opposition to Henry of Winchester, I did not dare ask about Salisbury, but I wondered whether Waleran was fomenting a dislike and distrust in the king for his own chief ministers.

That was no business of mine, but peace with the Scots
was
important to me. Perhaps when King David and King Stephen were no longer at war, the queen would have less reason to oppose the return of Ulle. So I was much troubled by the substitution of Leicester for Salisbury, who Bruno considered astute and who must be experienced after so many years of service to King Henry. I remembered King David very well, having been presented to him in Carlisle and even danced with him several times. His manners were gentle and very polished, much more what I thought of as French than like a barbarian Scot, but despite the outward gentleness Papa had respected him and said he was a strong man. I was certain that Waleran's overbearing ways would only arouse David's animosity.

Thus, I was afraid that no treaty would be made and my case would become more hopeless, but Leicester was a very different man from his brother, not so much in looks as in his manner and, I think, character. Waleran was quick and loud; arrogant even with his equals and utterly contemptuous of anyone less powerful; prone to suspicion and envy; and distrustful of, if he did not actually hate, the Church. Robert was slow and thoughtful, courteous in speech to all, unless he had reason to be angry, and he was religious. He also seemed fond of his wife, Emma, and I could not help but like him despite his twin.

That was just as well because I soon learned that we were to be much in Lord Robert's company as we traveled to Durham, and I am sure I would have betrayed my hatred if I had been forced into such close companionship with Waleran. After the evening meal, the queen gathered her ladies and explained that she could not take most of them because of the distance, the uncertain weather, and the dreadful condition of the roads as the frozen mud thawed at the end of March. She chose from among us only strong riders who were not likely to fall ill or complain about wet and cold, which cut our number to four. I did fit the conditions, but I am still not sure whether Maud included me because she was well satisfied with my work as her clerk and did not want to take an inexperienced one on a long journey or because she distrusted me and hoped to catch me in some indiscretion when I was among the Scots.

The next day, while the queen was conferring with Leicester and I was sewing with the other ladies in the hall, a page came to tell me that my man-at-arms needed a word with me about the horses. I sprang up at once and fetched my cloak, much alarmed because I did not want to leave Fechin and Edna, who rode pillion behind him, but I had not enough money to buy a new horse. That fear was put to rest as I reached the stable and followed Fechin to a far corner. There I found Merwyn, who handed me a letter from Bruno.

“How is he?” I gasped as I caught at the folded parchment, fortunately too surprised to cry aloud.

Fechin made a gesture of caution and looked nervously over his shoulder, and I clapped a hand to my mouth. No doubt Bruno had ordered his men to be secret, and he was quite right. If Maud learned that a private messenger had come from Bruno, her doubts and suspicions would be redoubled, worse because of the care we had taken to calm them.

“Is my husband well?” I asked in a carefully lowered voice, hoping it would not tremble as I trembled within, suddenly torn by a mixture of longing and jealousy.

“He be very well, m'lady,” Merwyn mumbled, looking down at his boots, “but m'lord bade me go soon as the letter be in your hand and not to stay for any answer.”

I was a little surprised at Merwyn's awkward manner. None of the men ever intruded on me, but if I spoke to them, they had always answered easily. However, I tried to accept his unease as owing to his wish to obey his master and leave, violently suppressing the suspicion that Merwyn was embarrassed because he knew I had been supplanted. It was a ridiculous suspicion—with whom could Bruno supplant me in siege or war? What did it matter if he relieved his body with some serf in the fields or the kind of whore who followed an army? I would not
let
it matter. If I did, I was lost. Besides, it was useless for me to keep Merwyn and, in a way, torture him. I knew he
would
not answer the question I could not allow myself to ask, and he surely could not answer questions about the king's doings. Nonetheless I was bitterly reluctant to let him go, and only fear that the queen still had eyes that followed my doings forced me to nod permission.

When he had slipped away, I opened the letter and read it while pretending to look at the horses. From the first lines it was clear why Bruno had sent this privately. He was furious with the king, criticizing him for the first time and actually calling him a fool over the terms of the treaty that was to be offered to King David. For nothing, he wrote, simply for the promise of good behavior, David was to have all of Northumbria and Cumbria, and all the bloodshed in driving the Scots out was wasted.

For me, of course, the news was not unwelcome, no matter how bitter Bruno was over the hurt Audris and Hugh and other northern friends had suffered. However, my satisfaction did not last long. The real reason Bruno had written was not to express his anger and disappointment but to warn me not to approach King David with a plea for the restoration of Ulle. The peace could not last, he warned; most of the Northumbrian barons would not accept it and would make trouble enough to provide David with an excuse to violate the treaty at any time. When that happened, Stephen would be twice and thrice as bitter against any who had been favored by the Scot.

I read that more than once and thought of my doubts about the queen's reasons for selecting me to go with her to Durham. Perhaps there was no hope of convincing her; perhaps I should ignore Bruno's warning and appeal to King David—had not my father and brother died in his cause? And if Bruno was not loyal to me, why should I be loyal to him? I began to fold the letter and saw there was more to it, a few lines that had been hidden by the fold on which the seal was set.

“Beloved,” Bruno wrote, “take care for your health and that you do not tire yourself with too much labor, I beg you. I grow so weary of this life. I desire only to sit in quiet with you by my own fireside though we eat no more than black bread and salt fish.”

Hot with shame, I returned to the hall and my sewing. A thousand pretty verses could not have carried the caring and longing in those few lines. At that moment I would gladly have painted my face blue to do as Bruno asked, but as we traveled north my anxiety about being noticed by the king faded. It was many years since David had met me and kings see many, many people. It did not seem possible he would remember me, and during the time the treaty was being negotiated he did not seem to do so, although we dined in the same hall several times. However, on the day of the feast to celebrate the signing of the treaty, as I finished a dance with some man whose name I do not remember, the king came up to me and took my hand.

“Do I not know you?” he asked. “Are you not Lady Melusine, daughter of Sir Malcolm of Ulle? Why did you not come and speak to me?”

I curtsied to the ground. “Your memory is far more keen than I could dare hope,” I murmured. “I would not presume so far.”

King David laughed. “I do not forget beautiful women who dance as gracefully as you do. Will you allow me to renew my memory of the pleasure you gave me in the past?”

The music was beginning again and I could scarcely refuse, but though I could not see the queen, I could feel her eyes on me. Mostly the steps of the dance separated us, but as we walked down the center of the set together, the king said softly, “I think my surprise in seeing you with the queen made me slow to recognize you. Are you a hostage for your father's good behavior? If so—”

He did not know! Did he think Papa and Donald had fled, deserting his service when the tide turned against him? “My father and brother are dead. They died at the siege of Wark. Ulle belongs to the Crown.”

He looked shocked and grieved but could not answer because we came to the head of the row and were forced to stand apart. When we came together, he said, “I grieve for you, but I can do nothing about Ulle—not now.”

I nodded. The terms of the treaty were not quite as favorable to Scotland as Bruno had described. Northumbria and Cumbria were not being ceded to King David himself. Instead his son Henry would do homage for those shires as vassal to the English king, so Stephen would still control them, at one remove. Even I could see that Henry, who must swear to be a faithful vassal, would not dare—at least for the present—to restore anyone disseised as a rebel against Stephen.

We had been performing the last of the turns and bows of the dance while those thoughts ran through my head, and King David took my hand for the final bow and curtsey. “I can offer you a place as my wife's lady,” he began, but I shook my head.

“I am married, sire, to Sir Bruno of Jernaeve, Knight of the Body to King Stephen.”

He stared at me and then nodded slowly. “If it is well with you, I am glad,” he said. “But I will not forget you, Lady Melusine, and I will do what is in my power to do for you if you need my help.”

He raised and kissed my hand, and I curtsied low a last time. That time I saw the queen and caught the glance of her black eyes. There was nothing to be read in her face and it was too late for regrets, but I had time to think about what I would say when she summoned me. She was in bed, having kept me waiting as long as she could—to allow time for my fear to grow?—and asked me why King David had chosen to dance with me.

“He said it was because he never forgot a beautiful woman who danced gracefully,” I replied. “I had danced with him some years ago in Carlisle. I told him of my father's and brother's deaths at Wark,” I went on, “and that I had been disseised.”

“You are very bold,” Maud said quietly.

“Not so bold, madam,” I sighed. “But I could not bear that he should think Papa and Donald deserted him when he was losing.” I wiped tears from my eyes and met hers. “And we said nothing to each other worth lying about. He offered me a place as his queen's lady, but that is not what I want.”

Bruno

I do not know why, when all was going well, I felt the cold hand of disaster on my shoulder. Leeds fell to us with little loss. Our foray into Scotland did not weaken the king's forces, although I could not see that we accomplished anything either. Ludlow yielded also, and Stephen himself saved Prince Henry from death or capture by rescuing him when he was pulled from his horse with an iron hook by one of the defenders. Even before that the prince seemed fond of King Stephen, and that attachment boded well for keeping the treaty, despite my distaste for it. And if it were kept and there was peace in the north, Stephen's control of the south would be firmer.

Nor had the king grown cold to me when I spoke my mind over the terms he had offered to make peace with King David. He had been kind as ever, saying he understood my fear that those I loved in Jernaeve might suffer, since they had always withstood the Scots. But it was not fear for Audris and Hugh that chilled my blood. Prince Henry, who would be their overlord, was not a vindictive person nor the kind of man to blame Hugh for loyalty, and King David would not urge unjust behavior on his son—far from it; King David was a good man. Besides, Henry's investiture with the shires of Northumbria and Cumbria was hedged about with restrictions forbidding any changes in the tenure of those who held lands from Stephen and in the laws and customs that were current in those shires.

I felt some uneasiness about the reaction of the earl of Chester. He had long claimed Cumbria had been reft unjustly from his father by King Henry and that his loyal support of Stephen deserved the restoration of those lands. He had been pressing that restoration at the Christmas court, and I remembered Stephen soothing him with bland words. But if Chester had taken those words as a half promise, he would be more bitterly angry than before.

I do not think Chester's disappointment would have troubled me as much if it had not been for the secret talk about the treachery of the bishop of Salisbury. That made me feel as if the earth were unsteady beneath my feet. Salisbury had been the mainstay of the kingdom for all of my life, and I did not trust Waleran, who was the chief spokesman against him. Only I knew myself that the facts Waleran stated were true. He did not exaggerate the secular power that had accumulated in the hands of Salisbury and his kin—among them, the bishops of Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely controlled the gathering of the wealth of the entire kingdom and held six great keeps. There was no doubt that if they turned on the king and the earl of Chester joined them, the realm would be lost.

If it had been only Waleran who claimed that the bishops were just waiting for Matilda to step ashore to repudiate their faith to Stephen and raise her to the throne, I think I would have contrived to warn the bishop of Winchester that the king's mind was being poisoned. But it was not only Waleran. Before he left for Durham, Robert of Leicester, who had as deep a love of the Church as his brother Waleran's distrust of it, admitted that he felt the king's hold on his realm might be in danger. And William of Ypres, who was not a man that liked to contend with the Church either, no matter what he felt about it privately, warned Stephen that the castles the bishops held were too strong for easy capture and could make whole districts rebel strongholds.

Others faithful to the king and not of Waleran's party, although they did not come forward with warnings, said when questioned by Stephen that they were made uneasy by how much power lay in Salisbury's hands. Among them were men I respected—Geoffrey de Mandeville, who was sheriff of Essex, Aubrey and Robert de Vere, Robert de Ferrars, earl of Derby. All agreed that although the bishops had seemed to serve the king loyally, it would be wise to convince Salisbury and his kin to give up their offices and castles…if possible.

That “if possible” worked on my soul like a shower of sleet despite the mild weather and sunny skies of June as we moved toward Oxford, where the king was to hold his summer court. If Stephen dismissed Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely from their offices and demanded that they yield up their keeps, would they obey him? Most of Stephen's barons clearly felt the bishops were more likely to flee to those keeps, where a great part of the money they had collected was stored, and fight the king, crying out that they had been unjustly deprived. Their defiance might convince Matilda that the time was ripe to come and demand her throne. If she came with her half brother Robert of Gloucester to lead her army, surely the rebellions that Stephen had quelled this year would burst out anew.

It seemed a hopeless tangle, but there was one thought that warmed me despite all other evil: Melusine would meet me in Oxford. The queen had finished her work with King David and was coming to join her husband. This time I made sure there would be no chance of being deprived of Melusine's company. I spoke to the king as soon as the place and time of holding court were settled, and though he laughed at me and teased me for my uxoriousness, recalling how I had resisted the marriage, he gave me leave to go ahead and find lodgings—and gave into my hands a good deal of the business Geoffrey of Glympton would ordinarily have done with the castellan of Oxford.

My pleasure in my foresight and in the fine, cool chamber—with a bed—I obtained raised my spirits. Being so early into the town, I had my choice of places, but I was not fool enough to consider any of the large, rich houses along the street that led to the castle or even those north and south of Carfax, where the market would be held. I chose a place less convenient—not far from the North Gate and Saint Michael's church—and a house too small to hold a nobleman and his retinue. Even so, I paid more than I could afford, but for the price had the guarantee that the widow who gave up her solar to my needs would house my men and horses—the horses in the yard, the men in the workroom—during the time the king was in Oxford.

Later Melusine told me I had been cheated, that if I had presented Cormi and Merwyn first, the price would have been lower. I said she had a lecherous mind, but to tell the truth, I am sure she was right; the widow and the woman who worked for her doing embroideries, which were sold by her son, who carried on his father's business as a mercer, also lodged below and from the sounds that drifted up to me did not lodge in the shop but chose the workroom too. I never would have thought it; the widow and her helpers were not young—but my men-at-arms were scarcely in the first flush of youth either.

Perhaps the fortunate, if lamentable, weakness in the moral fiber of the women was partly my fault. It was not possible for me to spend much time in my lodging until the king came because of my role as deputy to the king's chamberlain, and I did not trust my hostess—after all, it would be natural to wish to make as much profit as possible from an event that took place only once in a few years. So I bade my men stay at the house to make sure she did not rent it to several other people, despite our arrangement, and insist that we share the place. I bade Merwyn and Cormi make themselves agreeable and useful so that she would not suspect their true purpose, so perhaps I led to her downfall—but why should I regret something she enjoyed so much?

My work was not so pleasurable. Glympton had given me a list of the men who were to be lodged in the castle, their names written in the order of importance they had to the king. Did this mean the most important should be lodged closest to the king or in the grandest state, I had asked, whereupon Glympton had shown his teeth at me—it was not a smile. Part of our trouble was that in Oxford nearly all the great nobles had to be lodged in the keep or the town, unlike Westminster, where many of the barons had their own houses.

A further complication was that we had several foreign visitors, among them Alan, count of Brittany, and a man called Hervey de Lyons—that one was so haughty that he never deigned to see me, and his lips curled and nostrils flared every time Stephen put a hand on my shoulder or asked for a service from me with a “please.” I am not certain why Stephen was so eager to please Lord Hervey; he was not a man the king would ordinarily have welcomed as a companion. Looking back and considering the fact that King Louis of France betrothed his sister Constance to Stephen's eldest son, Eustace, the following year, I have come to think that this Hervey might have been a secret envoy sent to determine whether the English court was a fit place for Constance. Whether he was or not, he was so dainty in his ways that Robert de Vere and I decided he must have his own house, not lie in the common hall, no matter that he be closest to the door of the king's chamber.

Forty-two of the houses in Oxford were Crown property, and four on the south side of the road that led to the drawbridge were very fine. Sir Robert and I bade those living there to remove and set their servants to cleaning and furbishing. Just opposite Saint Peter's church I found one house that seemed perfect for Lord Hervey and Lord Alan. It had a luxurious solar for Lord Hervey, whose small escort could occupy the lower floor, a large hall attached, and a yard with plenty of stabling for horses. I asked Sir Robert if he would approve having men screen off a chamber to the rear for Lord Alan, so his men—God knew why, but he had brought thirty men-at-arms as well as servants—could be housed in comfort in the hall. Sir Robert pointed out that the hall was really too large for the purpose and could serve the escorts of four or five noblemen, but after looking at each other—and bursting into laughter at one another's expressions—he approved my plan.

Day by day as my mind moved the queen's cortege and with it my Melusine closer and closer to Oxford, I thought less and less of the troubles that might befall us. I was busy and a little concerned lest I make a mistake and cause offense among the king's great vassals, but that did not worry me deeply. I was not an official, only a deputy pressed into service. I was sure Glympton could find an excellent reason for the need to use a deputy, at least a better reason than that one of the king's knights wished to be sure of sleeping with his wife. And as an ignorant deputy I could be used as a convenient scapegoat and yet escape punishment. From time to time a chill would pass over me as I remembered that there might be a confrontation between Salisbury and Stephen, but it was easy to divert myself here in Oxford. I only had to look in the market and see a small, pretty, hammered brass bowl to hold flowers for Melusine, or any other toy I thought would please her, and I was warm and happy at once buying it.

I never had a doubt about how Melusine would feel or whether she might have met some charmer among King David's men who would have been more to her father's taste—and thus perfect in her eyes—until the very last. When I rode out with the king's retinue to meet the queen and her people, an honor I suspect few kings paid their wives and a mark of Stephen's eagerness to see Maud, I suddenly recalled how cool and indifferent my letters must have seemed to her. Would she know that I could not write what was in my heart because I knew the queen would also read the letters? Would she believe me when I told her that? Now I remembered that I had wasted no words on my desire for her in the one private letter I had sent either. I had been too worried and angry. Nor would that letter have pleased her in any other way. Had she obeyed me? She had not answered, neither in the queen's packet nor in any private message.

Barbe danced and fretted as the fore riders came into view, responding to my unsteady hand on the rein, and someone cursed me; however at that moment Stephen started forward along the road, which was only wide enough for three horses abreast and was lined with thick hedges. Because of that it seemed years to me before I was able to work my way around the more important folk who were greeting each other and reach the mounted ladies. Then, like a fool, I reached for Melusine before I turned Barbe and that accursed Vinaigre nipped me on the thigh. In jerking my left leg away, I pressed against Barbe, who obediently danced aside, ramming another horse to my right, which surged ahead into the hindquarters of the preceding animal; that beast, turned left somewhat by the impact, also started ahead, bumping into the mount of a gentleman riding beside the lady one down the line from Melusine.

I am not a coward. I have faced death and injury and the rage of my superiors without flinching—at least outwardly—but there are some things for which my courage is not sufficient. One of those was admitting responsibility for the growing chaos ahead of me, full of plunging horses, shrieking women, and the shouts and curses of infuriated men. Perhaps if I thought my confession that it was all my fault would have done some good, I would have confessed. I say perhaps; I am not at all certain.

The lady immediately behind Melusine had pulled up her mare in surprise and alarm and turned to look at the confusion. There was now a clear space ahead of me wide enough to turn Barbe. I did so at once and brought my stallion beside Vinaigre, who was standing like a rock, so completely unaffected by the noise and excitement behind her that she could butt her head affectionately against Barbe's neck. How I resisted drawing my sword and cutting off that mare's head I will never know.

There was a choked sound beside me, and Melusine's voice, low and shaking, followed. “I am very sorry.”

“It is time for me to buy you another horse,” I said.

I heard Melusine gasp and I tore my eyes from Vinaigre's head, where I was imagining a large, large hole. There were tears on Melusine's cheeks and she was shaking, getting out between gasps, “She likes you. She bites much harder when she does not like someone.”

“Why are you weeping?” I snarled at her. “You know I will not harm your accursed mare.”

Melusine sniffed and hiccupped, then bit her lip. “I was not weeping.” Her voice was very small and meek. “I was laughing. I am very sorry but—but that”—she gestured behind us, where the chaos near us was quieting while farther down the road it was growing—“that is a very large result for one little affectionate nip.”