The Craftsman (7 page)

“Emma, more wine?” Deorwynn had turned abruptly to look at her, the wine jug lifted in one hand. “You’re very flushed. Are you not feeling well?”

She fanned herself with her own sleeve. “'Tis just this heat.”

Wulf spoke up, “You should go inside where ‘tis cool.”

Deorwynn’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her brother. “I hope you don’t think to send your wife off so you can retreat to your woodshed.”

Emma was surprised that his younger sister—eight years younger—should feel it her place to admonish him in that manner. Wulf did not shout at his sister to be quiet, which is what would have happened to Emma if she ever dared speak to one of her elder brothers thus. Of course, Deorwynn was the lady of the manor; perhaps that was why her brother did not remark upon her bossiness.

She stole a thoughtful glance at her husband as he finished his meal. These Saxons were strange folk. Had Guy Devaux not taken over, Raedwulf would be the lord of this manor now, but he was displaced by the Norman who married his sister. How must he feel about that? Perhaps he was content with his wood working and had no higher ambition. Perhaps, like her, he made the most of the hand he was dealt.

Emma picked up the jug that Deorwynn had set down and poured wine into her husband’s empty goblet. He looked surprised, pleased in his own quiet way. She smiled, glad she was there to pour his wine.

Chapter Five

“A lady like myself, Norman and born of noble blood,” Sybilia replied. “These people,” she wafted a hand about as if to bat away flies, “are all so common. And Guy Devaux’s wife—the little Saxon strumpet—has no manners, no propriety.” She sniffed. “You know, of course, that Devaux was meant to marry me less than a year ago, but that little whore stole him away even as she pretended to be my friend. Crept into his bed the moment my back was turned and bewitched him. Thus I was pushed off onto his friend to make room for her. You can’t trust these Saxons. Most of them still think there is a war to be fought and they refuse to believe they lost it long ago.” She paused for a quick breath. “I am amazed the king sent you here to wed that dreadful Raedwulf. A Saxon and a former prisoner! He can barely form a sentence. Spends every waking moment shut away, making things with wood apparently. Perhaps that’s for the best.” She laughed harshly.

Emma kept her gaze on the revelers—so many well-wishers who did not know her at all. She realized many of them were there only for the ale, but life was hard for most folk and she did not begrudge them this little pleasure. If she could be the cause of it, all the better.

“I like the Lady Deorwynn,” she said softly. “She has been very kind to me so far. Everyone has been most welcoming. Including Raedwulf.”

“So far,” Sybilia snapped. “You’ll soon find the novelty wears off.” She glared across the yard at her husband, Thierry Bonnenfant, who was laughing with two buxom young women. “You’ll be grateful for my friendship then.”

“Indeed I am grateful for it now, Lady Sybilia,” said Emma. “But you should know that I never judge others by their breed or race. As long as they do me no harm, I shall do none to them. It is not my intention to cause any rift here, nor will I talk badly about the people who have taken me into their home.”

There was a pause. “I see. Well then I shall say no more. I wish you luck for the future here.” This last sentence was muttered in a contemptuous fashion, suggesting there was little hope of it, and then Sybilia slithered away around the edge of the crowd.

Emma felt the sun’s warmth again and inhaled some fresh air, unspoiled by the Lady Sybilia’s overly-sweet perfume. She’d heard the rumors of how Deorwynn the Saxon came to marry Guy Deveaux, of course, but she was never one to pay much heed to gossip. And anyone who was markedly rude to her own husband, was not someone Emma cared to become intimate with. She wondered why Sybilia should presume they had anything in common just because they hailed from the same land. It was even more puzzling why she would think it permissible to slight a woman’s husband one moment and then try to befriend her in the next. She watched Sybilia gliding around the yard, speaking to no one, very much apart from the merry-makers, encouraging no one to approach her and ignoring anyone who made an attempt. If Sybilia had a shortage of friends here, it was clearly her own fault.

Sometimes one had to make an effort to belong.

She looked for her husband and saw him deep in discussion with Thierry Bonnenfant. What could they have to talk about so intently? Wulf appeared fascinated whatever it was.

* * * *

“Norman women need showing their place immediately,” Thierry assured him. “They get above themselves otherwise. Trust me, Wulf, I know. Don’t let her have her own way too often. Begin this marriage as you mean to go on. Never give her treats or flattery unless she does something to please you. Punish her at once when she disobeys.”

“The women of Languedoc are feisty, temperamental creatures. Worse even than your Saxon wenches,” Thierry added. “Never turn your back on her. Watch her closely.”

“I shall.”

“Make her bend to your rules, or she’ll be making her own.”

Wulf wondered if he should ask Thierry whether he followed his own advice when it came to sour-faced Sybilia. Then he saw her approaching through the crowd and swiftly decided to end his conversation with Thierry, slouching away to his workshop.

* * * *

Emma found Deorwynn, sitting with her feet up, fanning herself with one corner of the tapestry table cloth. She advised her new sister-in-law to go inside where it was cooler and Deorwynn finally agreed to leave the feast, taking the arm she was offered and lumbering upright with difficulty.

Emma sighed. “There is no dishonor in putting yourself and your child first. Many a strong man could not do what you’re doing.” And many a strong woman too, herself included, she thought sadly.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emma. There is something comforting about your presence. You seem so sensible, solid and steady.”

Sensible, solid and steady?
She might as well have added—
and dull
. Emma knew there was little about her that might seem interesting to a young woman like Deorwynn. She was almost a decade older, a childless widow with a plain face and no special talents. Her sister-in-law had already ascertained that she could not sing and didn’t like to dance—these being two things Deorwynn enjoyed very much. Neither did Emma like to hunt and she rode only when forced. The two women, therefore, had little in common beyond their gender and their connections now through marriage.

Yet Emma felt a bond already with Deorwynn.

Their steps clicked across the stone floor. Once inside the thick castle walls, cooler air surrounded the two women. The light within was softer, the outside noise muffled to a drone. After sitting a while, Deorwynn’s eyes began to close and Emma persuaded her to go to bed and catch up on her sleep.

Before she left, the woman said to Emma, “I know you will take care of my brother if anything happens to me. It is a great relief to me that you are here now, with us.”

Emma looked at the other woman’s wide eyes and saw the fear she’d been trying to hide. There were dark hollows beneath each brown orb and beads of sweat gleamed along her hairline. Deorwynn was young, only one and twenty. Suddenly she looked even younger, her body over-whelmed by the size of her belly. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you,” Emma told her calmly, moving sticky strands of hair back from the anxious woman’s face.

“But how do you know?” Deorwynn winced, one hand on her lower back. “I could die. If I die, will you take care of the babe Emma?”

She swallowed hard. There was a time when all she could think about was having a child of her own. The loss, the failure had raked at her heart like cruel, sharp witches fingernails, digging in each time she heard of another woman’s child born. It was not that she envied their happiness or hated them for doing what she could not. She hated herself, despised her body for failing in that task for which it was made by God. What was the purpose of her life, she’d thought then, if she could not have children? In time, slowly, the pain had dulled. It came back occasionally with a sharp wrench of the gut, but most of the time she kept it locked away. No one, she was quite sure, wanted to see her mope. She had no time for mopers herself.

“Of course I will help take care of your child, Deorwynn. But you are not going to die. You are strong, young and healthy and you have people here who love and care for you. Now go to bed and rest.”

“But it’s afternoon!”

“And you’re exhausted. That will do the babe no good will it? You need all your strength for what is to come. Now go to bed. Don’t get up for a few hours at least. I’ll send some food and drink up to you.”

Slowly the young woman nodded and then began to walk up the steps to her chamber, helped by one of the maids. She stopped, looking back. “You are the first person who has been able to tell me what to do, Emma. My husband tried, my brother tried, my maid tried, the midwife tried…you have a very persuasive, motherly way about you.” She grinned. “I shall call you my mother hen.”

Emma winced.
Mother hen
? Yes, she supposed she did seem like an old hen to that cheeky young girl.

Guy Devaux suddenly appeared in the main doorway, looking for his wife. “Is she alright? Where is she?” He looked panicked.

“She has gone up to rest. She is quite well, just a little hot and tired. ‘Tis no surprise in this weather.”

The man seemed only partially reassured and hurried upstairs after his young wife. Emma went outside to order some refreshment for Deorwynn, as promised.

* * * *

The crowd thinned as the afternoon turned dusty and oppressive. The light yellowed and the air hung heavy with the promise of a storm. People and animals sought cooler spots in the shadows and some retired indoors. She found Wulf where she knew she would. In his workshop. Even on his wedding day.

This time she knocked before she entered.

“Your sister has gone to rest at last,” she said.

“Aye. She’s a stubborn filly.” He looked up from his bench. “'Tis good you’re here, if she’ll listen to you. It’ll be pleasant for her to have an older, sensible woman about the place.”

So they all thought her an old, sensible, mother hen, did they?

But then she caught a little bit of a grin, partially hidden as he bent his head and pretended to be enthralled in his work. He
was
teasing her. This time she knew it.

For a while she watched him work. They said nothing; the only sound was that of his file and chisel—the click and shuffle and scrape over the wood.

“I suppose it’s different here to York,” he said suddenly. “I hear it’s colder there, up north, the land bleak and wild.”

York. There it was again. Why did they keep asking her about York? She’d come from Colchester, not York. Had never been to York in her life.

Her pulse slowed. She looked at the man hunched over his workbench. “Yesterday your sister called me Amias. Why?” She could hear her own heart beat as it tried to pick up the pace.