Susan Spencer Paul (12 page)

The boy shook his head in silent disgust and replied, “Come down and see how matters stand for yourself, my
lord. The women have labored hard to have the master’s chamber fit to welcome you. John, Alan,” he said, addressing the men standing on the ground, “ride ahead to tell the others that their lord has arrived and has brought with him his—” he glanced at Rosaleen “—very beautiful lady. I’ll bring them down the main road that they may better see the fields.”

Rosaleen wanted to correct the young man about his wrong idea of her relationship to Hugh, but she held her tongue for the moment and watched as the two men did as they were bidden. It was impressive, she thought, that the boy was able to command the obedience of men older than he. And yet there was that about him, the quality of leadership as well as maturity, though he couldn’t possibly be older than ten and eight years of age. He had clearly been educated, for his speech was cultured, far removed from the low jargon of the other men, and although he was as dirty and ragged as a beggar, Rosaleen saw that he held himself as nobly as an earl. He was a handsome lad, his finely cut features holding all the promise of one day making him quite as attractive as Hugh Caldwell.

“What is your name?” she asked as she and Hugh turned their steeds to follow the boy’s poor mount.

“Christian,” he replied, not looking at her.

“Christian?” she repeated in the same tone she used on unruly servants, a tone that indicated displeasure at having been purposefully half-answered.

“Christian Rowsenly,” he answered more respectfully.

“Rowsenly?” Hugh repeated. “John Rowsenly never mentioned any relatives. Are you his cousin? Brother?”

“Half brother,” the boy replied, “and bastard born.” He offered both Hugh and Rosaleen an emotionless face. “I’m not surprised John didn’t mention me.” Turning again in his saddle, he pointed toward the long, beautiful
valley of ripening fields spread out below. “To the right,” he said, “there are nearly three thousand acres of wheat. We planted most of the land in wheat, as it’s the most valuable crop. Farther on there are six hundred acres of oats. To the left, by the river, we’ve seven hundred acres each of rye and barley. Of course, all of the fields have been sown in the proper ridge-and-furrow fashion. Half the ridges are planted with beans, the other half with peas.”

Rosaleen, who understood such things better than Hugh, approved heartily. “Very good, Christian Rowsenly. You’ve made certain to keep the fields well drained?”

“Aye, my lady, and they were marled before we started planting. These are the first crops planted at Briarstone in more than seventy years, so we were able to use all the land without having to let any of it rest. Next year we’ll begin to alternate the crops.”

“The first crops in seventy years!” Hugh said with disbelief. “By the rood! Hasn’t this been the Rowsenly estate for longer than that?”

Unexpectedly, the boy laughed. “No, my lord. Briarstone was a Rowsenly estate for less than two years, as that was when my brother, God rest his soul, acquired it in the same manner that you did. Before that, Briarstone lay abandoned.”

“But the damned fellow told me it was his family estate!” Hugh insisted.

Christian shrugged. “He had planned on it being so, before he went to serve the king.” He shook his head. “Only a few English killed at Agincourt, but John must be one of them. It’s just like him, God rest his soul.”

“So that’s why there is no village,” Rosaleen said thoughtfully, “and no vassals or villeins spread out over
the land to tend it. What a wretched waste! This land is as rich as any I’ve ever seen. I cannot fathom the king letting it lie untended so long.” She looked at Hugh. “The first thing we must do, Hugh Caldwell, is determine what Briarstone’s future will be. There must be a village someday, else the land will fall into ruin again. A goodly area near the castle must be set aside for it, and we must plan for the vassals who will be wanting their own homes and fields to manage.” Her gaze moved back to Christian, who was nodding at her in agreement. “I assume that the present vassals of Briarstone live within the castle walls. How many are there?”

“We’ve a little more than fifty in all, my lady,” he answered. “More than half are men, the rest are women and children. I don’t suppose,” he said hopefully, looking at Hugh, “that my brother explained to you how he gathered his vassals together, did he?”

Hugh shook his head, fighting down a sense of dread.

“Ah well, I didn’t imagine he would have,” the boy said, adding with an unhappy sigh, “This should prove interesting.”

The gates were already open when they reached the castle, and they rode directly inside. There was only one large bailey to the place, but that was kept beautifully clean and clear, much in contrast to the decaying state of the surrounding structures.

“Where are the stables?” Hugh asked, looking around and trying to get his bearings.

“There, my lord.” Christian pointed to a tiny stone building with a sod roof.

Hugh frowned grimly when he saw it. God’s teeth! He couldn’t house Saint in that! It looked older than Methuselah, and just about as sturdy.

Old. Everything about the place looked aged.

Slowly, he moved his gaze from the stable toward the square-shaped keep, taking in the details of the outer structures. There were no mews that he could see, no dairy, no chapel, no separate kitchen. There was nothing in the grassy bailey save the keep, the decrepit stable and a well that looked as if it hadn’t yielded water in more than a century. On the keep Hugh saw no windows, only arrow loops, and on the outer walls were empty spaces from which explosives could be dropped on an attacking enemy, or from which boiling oil or water might be poured to discourage anyone trying to scale those same walls. They were two of the oldest methods of defense that had been built into castles and had long since been improved upon.

Eyes narrowing, Hugh asked, “How old is Briarstone, Chris, lad?”

Dismounting, Christian replied, “It was begun in the year of our Lord 1004 by Hyweld the Goodsworn, who was descended of Aethelstan and well favored by Athelred the Unready.”

He moved to help Rosaleen dismount but was pushed aside by Hugh, who had dismounted, as well, and who lifted his hands to circle Rosaleen’s waist and pull her from her saddle. He didn’t release her when her feet touched the ground, but instead took her hand and interlaced their fingers, pulling her along as he followed Christian Rowsenly toward the enormous castle doors.

“It was completed in 1025,” Christian continued. “It was one of the finest castles of its day, at that time, and even William the Conqueror found it praiseworthy. Shortly after the Conqueror’s invasion it was given as a prize to one of William’s favorite nobles, a baron named Dellaroix, who already had vast estates in Normandy and who eventually deeded Briarstone to one of his cousins, Laurent Dellaroix. Laurent Dellaroix managed the estates well
and Briarstone enjoyed great prosperity.” They reached the base of the five steps that led to the doors, and Christian began to mount them while Hugh and Rosaleen followed.

“There were over thirty thousand acres of land attached to Briarstone at that time,” he continued, “and a village bearing the castle name, which was one of the busiest trading centers in England. In 1289, however, the Dellaroix family fell out of favor with King Edward, and Briarstone was given by the king to a distant Dellaroix cousin, who had modified his name to Dellard and who was also, as it turns out, a cousin of Queen Eleanor’s.” Christian stopped in front of the keep’s doors and turned to speak more directly to his rapt audience of two.

“The Dellards are the ones responsible for Briarstone’s present condition. Allan Dellard was the first to lay claim to the fief, though he never lived here. His most memorable involvement with it was selling off most of the land. He died in 1340 and his son, William Dellard, inherited what was left. William did live here, but as a hermit. He did naught as lord. He never married nor had children and, save for a woman who did his cooking, lived alone until his death in 1402. By that time, with all but these five thousand acres of land sold and with neither guide nor care, the village had died away and Briarstone had fallen into ruin. After William Dellard died, what was left of Briarstone was inherited by yet another cousin, a man named Robert Dellard, who two years ago gambled it away to my brother, John, who subsequently gambled it away to you, my lord. And that,” he said, grasping one of the large iron rings attached to a heavy oak-and-iron door, “is the history of Briarstone. Now, please, my lord and lady, prepare yourselves for what you’re about to see. It may, I fear, greatly surprise you.”

S
urprise, thought Rosaleen, after she had crossed the threshold of Castle Briarstone’s keep, was an apt word for what she felt. And if the amount of squeezing that Hugh Caldwell was applying to her hand was any indication, it was an apt word for what he was feeling, too.

The great hall of Castle Briarstone was magnificently huge. Everything within it was easily seen, for although there were no real windows as such, much of the back wall of the building was gone, letting in as much light and air as a person could desire. The effect this absent wall presented was odd, Rosaleen thought, for it made her feel as if she were passing from one outside to another, with only a door in the way to make a difference. But that was not entirely true. The back of the keep was missing, but there was still a roof overhead, and other floors above as well, if what she had observed from the outside was true.

But as startling as the missing back wall was to a newcomer’s entry, it was as nothing compared to what the scene before them offered by way of surprise.

Rosaleen, sweeping her astonished gaze from one end of the hall to the other, felt as though she had walked into some kind of excessive jest.

“Hugh,” she whispered.

“Steady,” he murmured. “Don’t go all faint on me now, Rosaleen.”

Dimly, Rosaleen thought with some ire that she certainly wasn’t going to faint. It was far beneath her dignity, as the heiress of Siere, to faint.

The trouble was, she couldn’t make any sense of the spectacle before her. What in God’s name were those creatures? Cows? No, they were too big to be cows. They were…oxen.

She closed her eyes and shook her head to make them go away. But when she opened her eyes again, they were still there—a dozen or more oxen, standing at the far end of the great ball, as happy as you please, contentedly munching fresh barley stalks.

Merciful God in heaven, she thought, perhaps she was going to faint.

“Hugh,” she began again, certain she had lost her mind.

“I see them,” he said softly, like a warning. “I see them, Rosaleen.”

Near the oxen, in uneven rows, sat several crude benches and long tables, and beyond them, as far away from the gaping hole of the back wall as possible, was an indoor camp. There were pallets and blankets and beds made of hay strewn all about, with no organized pattern, as though the occupants who slept there fell together in a tumbled heap at night

Set at the very back of the room, next to the open wall, was a crude kitchen, where even now several small fires burned beneath huge pots from which drifted the pleasant and welcome smells of stews and sauces.

“I believe we’re supposed to greet my new vassals now,” Hugh informed her, setting an arm tightly around her waist.

Vassals? Rosaleen dragged her gaze back across the hall again.

Standing before them, lined up in a straight row and looking as nervous as though they were about to be introduced to the king, was the most ragged, dirty group of people Rosaleen had ever set eyes on.

Christian Rowsenly started at the nearest end and began introducing them, one by one, while Hugh supported Rosaleen down the line, nodding and smiling and saying hello to each new face. Rosaleen, calling upon her years of training, stumbled along as best she could.

“And this is Alec Berry,” Christian announced when they reached the twentieth man in line. “His specialty was robbery.”

“Is that so?” Hugh replied pleasantly, gifting the middle-aged man with the same relaxed smile he’d gifted the previous nineteen with and receiving the news of his former criminal activities just as easily.

Thus far they had met thieves, murderers, forgers and just about every other manner of criminal possible, and Rosaleen was filled with admiration for Hugh Caldwell’s ability to respond to these stunning introductions with such perfect calm. She herself was doing very badly, but, then, none of her training had ever included how best to greet a man who could boast of having stolen two gold plates out of White Tower.

“I’m surprised you weren’t involved in today’s encounter,” Hugh said to Alec Berry. “Our assailants could have used an expert.”

A nearly toothless grin split the man’s face.

“I wisht I’d been there, too, m’lord, fer it’d be a real honor to hold up a great lord like yerself. But me’n ‘arry—” he nodded in the direction of the man next in line
“—was busy fetchin’ the evening meal, m’lord, an’ we couldn’t be in two places at once, could we?”

Hugh raised his eyebrows at the man standing beside Alec Berry.

“This is Harry Stoote, my lord,” Christian introduced quickly. “We have Alec and him to thank for the lamb we’ll be eating this night.”

Extending an arm, Hugh clasped the man’s hand in greeting. “It’s good to meet you, Harry Stoote. You oversee the sheep at Briarstone, then?”

The happy expression on the man’s face was replaced by one of confusion, and he sent a nervous glance toward Christian.

“No, m’lord. We don’t got no sheep, ‘n’ I wudn’t know whut t’do wiv’ ‘em if we did ‘ave.”

“Briarstone possesses no animal stock, my lord,” Christian explained in a taut voice, “save those oxen over there and the few horses you saw earlier this day. Alec and Harry stole the lamb from one of our neighbors in preparation for your arrival. We have grown used to eating poorly, but your vassals didn’t want their new lord to have vegetables and oatcakes as his first meal at Briarstone. Alec and Harry stole the lamb, Ivan and Peter are responsible for the two pigs, and Carl for the chickens.”

Rosaleen’s smile felt so suddenly brittle that she thought it might splinter into tiny pieces at any moment. Trespassers! Thieves! God’s feet! Stealing animals was a crime punishable by death! What kind of place had she and Hugh Caldwell come to?

Christian Rowsenly stood there, staring at them with disdain, his arms crossed over his chest, clearly waiting for them to speak ill of the illegal deeds that had been done in their honor.

Hugh responded almost at once, reaching out his hands and clapping Alec Berry and Harry Stoote on their shoulders.

“Good men,” he said with feeling, “the lady Rosaleen and I thank you. All of you,” he added, looking down both directions of the line, “for making our welcome at Briarstone so very…memorable.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the line.

“Don’t forget the girls, Chris,” one of the men piped up.

“Girls?” Hugh repeated with interest.

Farther down, just past the last of the men, seven young females were leaning over, trying to get a better look at their handsome new lord. Seeing him glance their way, they blushed and giggled and straightened.

Christian gave them a reproving look. “I’ll not forget them, Robert,” he said, and continued to introduce the men still left in line, while Hugh dragged Rosaleen along.

When they had finally passed the very last man, thirtythree men in all, they came to the first of the women of Briarstone.

The sight of them made Rosaleen’s already stiff person stiffen even more, if such a thing was possible. It wasn’t that the creatures were attractive, for they weren’t, though dressed as they were in ragged garments that left little to the imagination, they did possess a certain crude allure that almost set her teeth on edge. No, it was something else about them that bothered her.

They were whores. It made perfect sense, of course. After all the criminals they’d just met, what could be more fitting than that the women of Briarstone should be whores?

“This is Alice,” Christian began, and in quick succession introduced Kate, Ada, Jehanne, Beth, Maggie and Helen. Helen, the last, was heavily pregnant.

Smiling widely, Hugh Caldwell looked at the giggling women like a man who had just discovered a vastly valuable treasure, and Rosaleen felt like kicking him.

“The girls are responsible for the good wine we will enjoy this night,” Christian said. “They earned it ten nights past, when we thought you might arrive.”

“They earned it?” Rosaleen asked, wondering what had caused her to ask such a foolish question.

Christian nodded. “Yes. There is a small village, Stenwick, about two miles’ distance from here. Since coming to live here at my brother’s invitation two years ago, the girls have occasionally bartered their skills in exchange for food and money.” He smiled at the females with genuine affection. “We never would have been able to make it without the girls. They do the cooking and the cleaning and the caring for the children.” He motioned to the end of the line, where a dozen or so dirty urchins waited with ill-concealed excitement to have their turn at being introduced.

Hugh Caldwell’s expression was all admiration, and he quickly loosed Rosaleen so that he could more properly greet his new vassals. “Sweet angels!” he declared, kissing each of their hands in turn. He graced the enchanted females with his most charming grin. “How fortunate we are to have such kind, lovely ladies at Briarstone.”

The angry sound of a throat loudly being cleared drew everyone’s attention to Rosaleen.

Hugh Caldwell was far too pleased with his new vassals, she thought angrily, watching him. Especially the female ones. But she would be damned if she would sit by for the next three months and watch as he and his newfound
friends pursued a life of crime and lecherous, fleshly pleasures. He’d dragged her here to run his household, and by the rood, she was going to run it!

Pulling herself up to her full height and lifting her chin ever so slightly, Rosaleen approached the women who would now serve as her ladies. They fell quiet as she surveyed them, taking in their filthy clothing and their filthier persons. Not a one of them either looked or smelled as if she’d had a bath in more than a year. Vaguely, Rosaleen wondered what it was that men
like
Hugh Caldwell saw in such creatures, but with a slight shake of her head pushed the unworthy thought away. These women were under her direction now, and their bathing habits would shortly be altered, as would those of the entire household of Briarstone.

“You are Alice?” she asked the first girl.

Cowering beneath Rosaleen’s steady stare, the girl made an awkward bow.

“Yes, m’lady.”

“How many years are you?”

“Ten ‘n’ five, I think, m’lady.”

“You think?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“You are an orphan, then? You do not know the year of your birth?”

“Yes, m’lady. I mean, no, m’lady,” the nervous girl corrected quickly. “I don’t know when I come about”

“We shall leave it at ten and five then, and we shall count the date of your next day of birth as October the first. That is three months from today, is it not? Shall you like that?”

The girl smiled. “Yes, m’lady.”

“Very well. You shall be ten and six years of age on October the first, and we shall have a celebration in honor of
the day and of the harvest and of one other very important event, as well.” Rosaleen looked meaningfully at Hugh, who made her a mock bow.

Alice looked confused, but Rosaleen ignored her and moved on to the next girl.

“You are Katherine?”

The young girl turned bright red.

“Kate, m’lady.”

“Kate is a lesser form of Katherine,” Rosaleen told her, “and I do not approve of the use of such. From this day forward you shall be called Katherine, just as Beth shall be called Elizabeth and Maggie shall be called Margaret. You will answer to no name other than Katherine, else I shall be most displeased. Now, how many years are you, Katherine?”

And so she went down the line, finding that Ada, at ten and seven years, was the eldest and that Elizabeth, at ten and three, was the youngest. When Rosaleen came to Helen, she reached out and placed a hand lightly on the girl’s protruding stomach.

“You are far along, Helen, and shall birth this child soon,” she said with a smile. “It will be a pleasure having a babe among us. Who is the father of this little one?”

Helen, ten and six years old, grinned at her new mistress, showing the many gaps in her smile where teeth should have been.

“Oh, we don’t know yet, m’lady. Could be any one of the lads. We’re waiting till it comes to decide.” Ignoring her mistress’s suddenly pale face, Helen eagerly went on. “I got two other little ones, m’lady, just down there.” She pointed to where a child about two years of age held her younger brother by the hand. “That’s Ralf and Menna. Aren’t they pretty, m’lady?”
“Your children are lovely, Helen,” Rosaleen replied truthfully.
“All
of these children are lovely. Do they belong to all of you, then?” she asked the women.

They did, as Hugh and Rosaleen saw when each child broke from the line and moved toward his or her mother. The eldest child looked to be nearing five years of age.

“When my brother realized that there were no vassals belonging to Briarstone,” Christian Rowsenly explained, “he went to London and offered anyone who was interested five acres of land in exchange for five years’ labor. The girls are expecting land, too, for though they don’t labor in the fields, they take care of everything else, as I said earlier.”

Nodding, Rosaleen said, “And so they should. From what I see of the keep, it looks as if it has been kept quite clean, a remarkable feat, considering the lack of most of one wall and the presence of a herd of oxen.”

The girls in the line beamed openly, and Helen remarked, “Oh, m’lady, the beasts aren’t so bad to put up wiv’, really. They’re a bit of work, but they’re all the worthies we got, so we got to take good care of ‘em.”

“All the worthies you’ve got?” Hugh repeated, looking at Christian for translation.

“Without the oxen we couldn’t work the fields,” the boy said. “Without the fields we can’t survive. Everything dopends upon the fields. They come first. Always.” Looking suddenly aged and weary, Christian ran his solemn gaze over his ragged mates. “We’ve gone hungry because of the fields and have labored hard in every kind of weather. If they don’t come to harvest, my lord, there will be naught left for any of us.”

Rosaleen frowned. “One harvest, even one as rich as what these fields give promise of, will not be enough to set
Briarstone to rights, Christian Rowsenly. It will be years, many years, before this estate can be made profitable.”