Fires of Winter (5 page)

So my thirteenth year began and so it ended. Duncan and Malcolm, with their wives and children, and Angus and Fergus died in the first week of May. Andrew, who had survived the disease, as had I, was granted the high honor of accompanying his bishop on a trip to Rome; he died there late in January. We did not learn of his death until the end of April, and by then I had no more tears to shed, for my mother had died only two weeks earlier. It was the one mercy of that terrible year that my mother did not need to hear of Andrew's death.

After that, the hand of God was lifted from us—but not all the way and only for a time. Donald left his service with King David of Scotland and came home, for he was now the heir to Ulle. He had sworn he would never take a wife, but now he agreed to marry to breed sons. Papa chose the girl, far more with an eye to the sum she would bring as dower than to her beauty or temper—Papa was sure that Donald was too hardened a sinner to be reformed by any woman—and so Mildred's dower brought Thirl manor and its lands into my family. And then a strange thing happened: Although I cannot say Mildred was a beauty, she had such charm that Donald was soon weaned away from his pursuit of other women. Somehow she satisfied him completely.

I cannot help but laugh at myself and my stupidity when I think about Mildred. I was then so sure of my power over men, not thinking that when I was neither sister nor daughter my advantage might disappear, that I never asked Mildred how she had conquered Donald. We were good friends too, for Mildred was not jealous by nature and she did not begrudge me my sister's share of Donald's love. But mayhap it is as well I never learned, for I discovered Mildred was not a Christian; although she went to Mass to save trouble, she worshipped the old horned god. The priest said it was that devil worship which brought our final catastrophe upon us, but I do not believe it. Most of the common folk worshipped as Mildred did and no ill befell them. Besides, I loved Mildred and love her still.

The first years of Donald's marriage were good years. Day by day the pain I hid and thought would never ease grew less. I learned to laugh again, and Mildred brought new life into our family. She and Donald lived in Thirl, not Ulle manor, but it was no great distance and we were together often. And at first when Papa saw how Donald was changing and casting aside his wild ways, he was delighted with Mildred's power; so was I, and I never came to think differently for Donald was a very happy man. However, Mildred did not get with child, and as the years passed and no seed quickened in her womb, my father grew dissatisfied. I will say for Papa that he tried everything to get an heir for Ulle before he said one word against Mildred. As soon as Magnus was knighted, my father found a wife for him.

I have been telling my tale as if the outside world did not touch me or Ulle, and in a way that is true. The country around Ulle is wild and mountainous and has little to attract those not bred to the place. Strangers fear the steep, rough tracks that climb from our narrow valleys over the high passes through the hills and creep around the edges of our deep tarns, but the valleys are sheltered and fertile and the tarns are full of fish. So, though we are not rich in gold and gems, there is food in plenty for the few people who live here. And, though we are few, the people are not weak or slavish. Every man must use bow and spear and long knife to protect himself and his family and beasts against the bear and wolf that roam the mountains, and our people do not fear to turn the same weapons against human enemies.

Still, we are not wholly free of affairs outside our own shire. I have told already how King Henry, as one small part of tightening his grip on England, summoned my father and arranged his marriage. Some years later, when King Edgar of Scotland died, King Henry helped Alexander, Edgar's half brother, succeed peacefully to the Scottish throne. Since Papa agreed that Alexander had the right to rule, it caused no change in our lives—except for having to listen to Papa grumble that it was not Henry's business to interfere, even if what he did was right. Papa felt the Scots should settle their own affairs, even if it meant they would fight and murder each other for years. Now, I do not know that I agree with him, although then I was too young to have any opinion.

Far more important to my family was that Prince David, Alexander's younger brother, became overlord of Cumbria. Papa went to his investiture and did homage to him and came back full of praise for the prince. I do not remember that, for I was only six when King Alexander died and David became king of Scotland. King Henry insisted that David relinquish the rule of Cumbria when he took the throne. I know this because Papa constantly bewailed the loss of David as overlord. To me it was never entirely clear why he bewailed it, but a hint here and there implied that David had favored a fellow Scot, whereas an English overlord would be prejudiced against him.

For many years I thought that rather funny. I am of Ulle, not Scottish nor Norman nor English, and I could not understand why my father, who had lived at Ulle all except a few years at the very beginning of his life, did not feel the same. Moreover, after my mother's death I was responsible for tallying the dues that came in from our tenants and the smaller manors that Papa had bought or established on unsettled lands near us and the dues that we sent to our overlord or to the king. Since there was no great difference no matter where the dues went, I could not believe we were worse treated than any other holder in the shire.

Later I learned the charters for the small manors Papa had established at Wyth, Rydal, and Irthing, where he had settled an old friend, Sir Gerald, had been written and sealed by Prince David. Even then I saw no real reason for Papa's complaints. We paid dues on those new manors, which would profit the overlord, whoever he might be. Though I kept the accounts, Papa did not think women fit for understanding the intricacies of politics and did not discuss such matters with me, so I was left to believe he feared a new overlord would not honor the charters for spite. I did not realize there was more profit to enfeoffing a new man than in collecting rents faithfully paid.

Those manors Papa founded kept us poor. Had he not diverted flocks and men from Ulle into the new lands, we could have established new villages in Ulle, enlarged our fishing fleet, and sold our produce, particularly the lake fish, which were in great demand. Sometimes I resented the draining away of our wealth, especially when I was young and was refused some bauble or a length of fine cloth or gold thread, but I soon realized why Papa was so intent on those new manors. He loved his sons and would not send them out to make their own way as he had been sent with no land to come back to. And one of the manors, Wyth, was to be my dower.

Until King Henry died, all went well with us. We rejoiced heartily at the birth of the king's grandson in 1133 because, if the child lived, he would rule in his grandfather's place rather than Matilda, to whom the barons had been forced to swear. The king, though aging, seemed strong, the land was at peace, and our personal concern—who would hold Cumbria—seemed settled. To avoid giving offense to King David, who claimed Cumbria for his eldest son, or to Ranulf, earl of Chester, who claimed it because his father had once ruled it, King Henry would hold it as Crown land. And since no one could alienate Crown land except the king, Papa believed that the new manors would be “old” and ours by long custom as well as by law before any question regarding them could be raised. Another son, Geoffrey, was born to Matilda in 1134, securing, as we thought, the succession.

Papa, who had been uneasy and grumbling ever since the swearing to Matilda, stopped talking about the probable horrors of being ruled by a woman—to which I had made no answer, although he tried my temper sorely. I often felt like recommending to him one of his own favorite maxims: Never cast away dross without a careful look; a jewel may be hidden within. But I had met Matilda when she came north with her father—not to Ulle, of course, but once in Carlisle and once in Richmond, and unfortunately, I thought Papa was right, except for discounting
all
women. Besides, pert remarks, except in jest on light matters, are no way to manage a man, so I held my tongue.

So the year 1135 opened with contentment for us, which deepened into a hope for happiness as Magnus was wed to Winifred—both being willing and well satisfied with the match—and she got with child within the month. To ensure her comfort and safety, Papa bade the young couple live with us at Ulle instead of at Rydal, which would eventually be their home, and built them their own small house within the walls. Winifred was happy, and though she was a simple soul and I could not feel for her what I felt for Mildred, we lived peaceably together. The crops were good that year and the fish plentiful. The priests are always mumbling about signs and portents, but they are all liars, I think. There were
no
signs that summer or autumn of 1135 that the long peace in which England had basked and grown rich was about to be shattered.

Bruno

I lived in Alnwick nearly ten more years before I had an answer to the question I had asked myself when I had gone with Sir Eustace to watch Stephen of Blois and Robert of Gloucester swear fealty to Matilda. I do not recall whether I remembered my curiosity about which man would first betray her when news of King Henry's death and Stephen's crowning as king came to Alnwick. However, I did not feel surprised when Sir Eustace, seemingly without giving a thought to the oath he himself had sworn to Matilda, greeted the news with pleasure and swore fealty to the new king. I
was
surprised when I heard that King David of Scotland had determined to abide by his oath to Matilda and had brought an army into Northumbria, demanding that each keep yield to him in Matilda's name, but that was because at that time I was not aware that King David had a strong claim to the lordship of Northumbria through his wife.

Since winter was well advanced, all the crops were in and the early slaughtering had been done so the keep was fully stocked. By that time I was master-at-arms in Alnwick, and I began with all speed to prepare to repel an assault or withstand a siege. All the war machines on the walls were tested, and stones for flinging by the trebuchet, huge arrows for the ballistas, were set ready. The fletchers were set to making arrows and quarrels; the smiths to repairing armor and making extra weapons; and the serfs to preparing long hooked poles for casting down ladders, carrying sand and oil for heating and pouring down on our enemies, and piling hides where they might be needed to protect against fire.

We were ready when the Scots came, but it had been a wasted effort. Sir Eustace had his terms of surrender all ready to present to them. He would do homage to King David as overlord of Northumbria and swear to support Matilda if he was confirmed in his possession of Alnwick. I could hardly believe my ears when he ordered me to carry these terms to the leader of the Scots.

“Why should you propose terms to them?” I protested. “There are no more than five or six hundred men out there. Probably we can drive them away, but even if we cannot, the Scots have no staying power. We can sit them out.”

“Fool!” he shouted. “Do you think this is all the army? Norham was taken—”

“It is all the army that is here,” I snapped back. “And certainly not enough of an army to make me change my mind about who would better rule England.”

“Make
you
change your mind!” Sir Eustace bellowed. “Who are you to throw your opinions in my teeth, whore's son? You are my hired sword, and you are no longer even that, since you refuse to obey my orders. Get to your quarters and put of my sight. Get out!”

What he saw in my face turned his purple. After that, I barely escaped with my horse and arms. I think I succeeded in riding out on Barbe because Sir Eustace was either afraid or ashamed to order the men-at-arms I had led to stop me. The Scots, having had so easy a conquest, were too surprised to interfere when I galloped out and, I guess, felt one man and one horse not worth pursuing. It was not until I was well away and sure of freedom that I began to wonder what to do with it.

Sir Oliver would surely blame me for throwing away my livelihood. Doubtless he would think it was not my business what Sir Eustace did with Alnwick;
my
honor was in no way involved. I began to wonder whether the real reason that I had insulted Sir Eustace was because I was bored and his refusal to fight had meant my boredom must continue. The more I thought, the more dissatisfied I became with my behavior and the less willing I became to reach Jernaeve and face Sir Oliver despite an icy rain that began to fall. I turned Barbe due west toward Wark, telling myself that Sir Oliver must know of the coming of the Scots already and that it would not matter if I slept the night in Wark. It was only right to warn Sir Walter Espec's castellan too, I reasoned.

The fact that it was full dark by the time I topped a small rise not far from Wark keep saved me. Though I was half asleep, my hands instinctively pulled back the reins to stop Barbe. It took a minute longer for my tired thoughts to fix on what was wrong—and then I saw there was a yellow glow beyond the shadow of the keep. I had been looking straight ahead above the level of the ground on which Wark's motte rose, seeing nothing in my weariness and heartsickness, trusting Barbe to find safe footing as we went. Now I looked down the slope to ground level and saw the cause of the glow. Wark was ringed with campfires. The keep was besieged!

Then, as I turned away southward, I nearly ran into a troop of men who were not intent on raiding but seemed to be searching for someone. I escaped partly because I knew the territory from the years I had lived in Jernaeve and fought for Sir Oliver and partly because, as tired as he was, Barbe was a better horse than any the troop rode. Yet Barbe was my greatest danger too. I might have escaped more easily on foot, slipping through the woods while the pursuers followed Barbe, for I was well within walking distance of Jernaeve, but I never considered leaving him. I loved my stallion; still, it was not that which bound me to him. Barbe was a knight's destrier, and it was unlikely that I could ever afford another if I should lose him. It was only my fine sword and mail and Barbe—mostly Barbe—that raised me above a common man-at-arms, and though perhaps I should have overcome selfishness and considered Jernaeve's danger more important than my horse, I did not.

I need not dwell longer on the horrors of riding and hiding in the icy rain. For me, they shrank to insignificance in the warmth of the welcome I received from Audris. Sir Oliver said no word of blame over my leaving Alnwick and he was glad of my news, for he had heard nothing about the Scots being so near as Wark, but I could see he was troubled by my coming. For Audris—and for me also, though I tried to hide it—it was a pure and utter joy. Knowing that we must soon part again and that she was now a woman grown, I tried at first to keep a distance from her, but Audris was no more manageable now than she had been as a little girl. She had her own way—sweetly and with laughter, but her own way nonetheless. I have often wondered how many besides myself realize how stubborn and willful Audris is, and how successful in gaining her ends.

But that day I was only too glad that she succeeded in obtaining her desire. She insisted on taking me to her own chamber, to which Sir Oliver agreed at once; that surprised me at first, but I will credit Sir Oliver for never harboring any suspicion of the love between us nor wishing to lessen it. I realized later that he only wanted me out of the way, and in Audris's tower no one would see me, but at that time I thought I would burst with joy. My heart had been cold and still for more than twelve long years, for there was not one person beside Audris that cared for me or desired me to care.

And to complete my joy, nothing in the south tower had changed. Oh, Audris had grown a few inches since I last saw her, but only a few; she was still a tiny, faerylike creature with silver-gilt hair, the merriest laugh, and the kindest heart of any child born of woman. The loom standing by the window had grown a great deal more than Audris, and from the display of yarn it seemed that her weaving had become a serious business, but there was also a table on the other side of the window on which lay a heap of scrolls. Plainly Audris's abnormal taste for the written word had not faded.

To see the writings brought back to me how near I came to murdering Audris when she insisted I learn to read and write when she did. For what, I had asked, does a man of war need to know such arts? If Audris wanted to addle her brain with those mysteries, well and good, but why drag me into the morass also? How I suffered! Audris learned as she learned to weave, as a bird learns to fly. Though she was seven years younger than I, it seemed she need see a letter only once to know it forever, and in her little hand the quill flew over the page forming graceful symbols. My hand, already hard and callused with handling bow and sword, resisted. The ink sprayed from the quill, forming blots and streaks with no meaning; I broke the point ten times in each lesson from sheer clumsiness, and my brain was as clumsy as my hand. I learned at last, for my love was stronger than my rage, and the skill has proved useful to me. But I never took joy in it, and to this day I use a scribe unless what I must put on parchment is so dangerous or so near my heart that it is worth the effort to take quill in hand myself.

I blessed Sir Oliver again and again during that first quarter hour while Audris and her mute maid made me comfortable and in the next quarter hour did him a grave disservice, I fear. I did not intend it, but I could not help feeling concern because Audris was still unmarried. It may have been because we came near to quarreling over my belief that she must take a husband, and soon, that fixed it into Audris's mind and some months later led her into mischief. In the end, all was well, so I did no harm, but Audris gave Sir Oliver much grief, and I never meant that to be.

Even while we argued, my heart sang with joy. To be caring and cared for again was like a resurrection to me. It was the more bitter then that my joy was so short. The very next day Sir Oliver bade me ride south to tell King Stephen that most of Northumbria had fallen into King David's hands. That morning Sir William de Summerfield had come to the north wall of Jernaeve and commanded Sir Oliver to yield the keep to him in the name of Empress Matilda. I would have laughed in Summerfield's face; Sir Oliver, being wiser, answered softly—but the sense was the same. He would yield Jernaeve to no man or woman. Then, having made an open refusal of King David's terms, no matter how civilly, Sir Oliver realized he had placed himself by default in King Stephen's party, and he might as well make a virtue of a necessity by warning the king of the Scots' coming.

I knew why he chose me as messenger—to be rid of me the sooner, and that was for Audris's sake, not his own. Nonetheless, it hurt me. I needed to sun myself in the warmth of Audris's love, only realizing when I was touched by it again how cold and heavy my heart had been all the time I had no one to care for. I felt that if I were with her for a little while, I could carry away that warmth with me; and I did not think my lingering a few weeks could have endangered Audris's hold on Jernaeve. Moreover, I believed my strength in arms would be welcome if there should be an attack. I knew, too, that the probable fate of a bearer of ill tidings was to be made scapegoat for them. Sir Oliver knew that also, for his eyes fell before mine when I looked him in the face after he ordered me to go. He did not take back the order, but he did offer me a shelter from the utter helplessness of one without friends or family by telling me to seek Walter Espec's protection if I had need and say any kindness to me would be a favor to Sir Oliver.

Audris came down at dawn the next morning to see me on my way, carrying a magnificent hooded cloak—a dark, rich red, lined throughout with thick, soft fur—and a heavy purse. My first parting from her and the purse she had given me then, which weighed so heavy on my conscience, leapt into my mind. I had taken it then because I feared to expose to Sir Bernard, who was waiting for me, the fact that Audris had raided her uncle's strongbox. This time there was no Sir Bernard, and I got down from Barbe and hugged her and said, “You naughty girl, where did you come by such a cloak and such a purse?”

She hugged me back and laughed, though tears stood in her bright eyes. “Both are mine by right, the fruit of my weaving. None questions what I take from Jernaeve's coffers, for I put back ten times the value, at least.”

I stroked the cloak, knowing that its richness would have far greater benefit than warmth alone among the people I would meet around the king, yet I was reluctant to take more from Audris. The purse I pushed aside. “I do not need that. My own is as heavy.”

While I spoke, she had raised her arms, unpinned the clasp that held my cloak, and pushed it so that it fell to the ground. “There,” she cried, “it is all muddied and you cannot wear it until it dries and is brushed clean.”

I shook my head, but she had the other cloak around me and I saw she truly desired that I take it, so I kissed her forehead and agreed. Then I hugged her tight once more, caught the old cloak from the ground, and swung myself into the saddle, knowing we would both begin to weep in another moment. It was not until I stopped to eat a bite at midday that I found the purse tied to my own at my belt. That little devil's quick fingers had fastened it to me either while she diverted me with fond talk or when I embraced her that last time. As I have said before, it is seldom that Audris does not get her own way. I could not help chuckling as I undid it to stow it more securely, and it crackled when I touched it. There was a bit of parchment within that said: “Do not send it back, beloved brother. Use it for the scribes and messengers to bring me news. I can no longer send to you, for I cannot know where you will be, and I will be sick with worry if I have no letters.”

Although I did not need it and would have sent news to Audris even if I went hungry for it, I would not send it back, I decided, smiling as I chewed my bread and cheese. Let her think she had bested me again, and when she had all but forgotten, I would find some rare trinket, something for a faery princess, and send that instead. My spirits lightened after that. Audris's cloak was so warm around me that I felt enveloped in her love, and as if it was a shield for me, no ill came of the bad news I carried.

I am sure it was the glowing richness of the red cloak with dark fur in the torchlight that completed the impression made by my tall stallion, the silver glinting on the stock of my crossbow, the bluish sheen of the steel of my axhead, and the worn leather of the hilt of my sword. The sword, ax, bow, and horse named me soldier; the cloak named me rich. It needed the two together to open the small postern gate of Oxford in the middle of the night when I cried to the guards that I had a message for the king. But it was the king's own kindness that refrained from punishing the bearer of ill tidings and instead took that bearer into his service, into a place of great honor as a Squire of the Body.