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                                   Contents
                         CHAPTER 1
                         CHAPTER 2
                         CHAPTER 3
                         CHAPTER 4
                         CHAPTER 5
                         CHAPTER 6
                         CHAPTER 7
                         CHAPTER 8
                         CHAPTER 9
                         CHAPTER 10
                         CHAPTER 11
                         CHAPTER 12
                         CHAPTER 13
                         CHAPTER 14
                         CHAPTER 15
                         CHAPTER 16
                         CHAPTER 17
                         CHAPTER 18
                         CHAPTER 19
                         CHAPTER 20
                         CHAPTER 21
                         CHAPTER 22
                         CHAPTER 23
                         CHAPTER 24
                         CHAPTER 25
                         EPILOGUE
                           Praise for FIRES OF WINTER


  "Fascinating and well-written… a romance with substance!''
                                                       —The Knoxville News-Sentinel
    "Only a consummate writer of Ms. Gellis's talents could bring the Middle Ages so
brilliantly alive."
                                                                    —Rave Reviews
  "A master Storyteller!" —Romantic Times


  Don't miss these other novels by Roberta Gellis—award-winning author of…
  A TAPESTRY OF DREAMS
  "Splendid… aglow with color, romance, and rich in historical detail!"
                                               —Jennifer Wilde,author of The Slipper
  "First-rate romance in an intriguing historical setting."
                                                              —New York Daily News
  "Roberta Gellis has skillfully woven another marvelous medieval Jate. She is as
superb, a, crafts-woman at her typewriter, as her heroine is at her loom
                                                                    —Beatrice Small
  "Intense… vibrant… alive!—Affair de Coeur


  Continued…


                                 THE ROPE DANCER
  "An exquisite novel from the pen of a master Storyteller.'' —Rave Reviews
  "An extremely delightful and entertaining tale with three of the most channing and
unusual characters to come along in a great while."
                              —Rebecca Brandewyne, author of The Outlaw Hearts


   "Beautifully told… full of surprises… Roberta Gellis never disappoints!" -Affaire
de Coeur


                                 MASQUES OF GOLD
  "When a novel of historical romance has Roberta Gellis's name on it… readers
know they're getting a meticulously researched, expertly told story full of passion
and adventure."—Waldenbooks' Lovenotes
   "Roberta Gellis has an extraordinary talent!"
                                                                —Affaire de Coeur




             And now, her newest epic romance … A SILVER MIRROR
                          Books by Roberta Gellis from Jove


                             A TAPESTRY OF DREAMS
                                 THE ROPE DANCER
                                 FIRES OF WINTER
                                MASQUES OF GOLD
                                 A SILVER MIRROR




This Jove book contains the complete text of the original trade paperback edition.It
has been completely reset in a typeface designed for easy reading, and was printed
from new film.
FIRES OF WINTER
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove trade paperback edition / September 1987 Jove edition / June 1990
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1987 by Roberta Gellis.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
ISBN: 0-515-10030-7
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue,
New York, New York 10016.
The name "JOVE" and the "J" logo are trademarks belonging to Jove Publications,
Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA



                                      In memoriam
                                 To Lyle Kenyon Engel,
                             book packager extraordinaire,
                                    agent, and friend



                                CHAPTER 1


  Bruno
   My mother was a castle whore. My father, Sir William Fermain, holder of
Jernaeve keep, took the whore Berta to his bed in spite of his wife. That poor lady
had borne my father a third daughter who survived only a few hours, like the other
babes before her. Once her lord had taken her, my mother touched no other man,
and in the third month of her master's keeping she conceived me. Moreover, even
after the lord called her to him no more, she remained chaste, and for the whole time
she suckled me also.
    My mother, like most of the people of Jernaeve and the lands beholden to it, was
fair of hair and light of eye, but I am dark—like my father. Yet, because my mother
was what she was, he would not acknowledge me even as a bastard of his get.
   I only learned these things later. When I was very young, three or four years old, I
only knew that the dark man in fine clothing hated me, and that if I ran or hid or
wept, I would be beaten, but if I defied him or fought him, he would only cuff me
once or twice and then let me be. I am accounted a brave man. I learned that from
my father's handling—but there are better ways to learn.
   In those early years, before I understood what rank meant, I often begged my
mother to leave the keep, or if she would not, to give me to one of the serf families in
the outer bailey. I would not have grieved much about being parted from my mother.
By the time I could conceive that there were other places to live, most of her hopes
had soured. She was plying her trade again, and I was a nuisance. She kept me clean
and fed but preferred my absence to my presence. In any case, although I did not
know it then, she had not the power to be rid of me. My father would not
acknowledge me—but he would not let me go either. The lady of the keep had lost
two more babes over those three or four years, and little as Sir William Fermain liked
a whore's child, I was a living son.
   Moreover, as the years passed, I came to look more and more like a Fermain. I
could not have displayed the aquiline nose or the square, stubborn chin of the
Fermains in those early years, but my skin was already darker than that of the local
people, my hair so dark a brown as to be safely called black, and my eyes the same.
I had grown happier also because my father had ceased to torment me—not that I
ever grew to feel anything for him other than fear and angry resentment. The reason I
became less a target for his cruelty was that from the first time an old man-at-arms
put a blunt wooden sword into my hand, I knew, as if by instinct, how to handle it. It
was the same with horses. I was running among their feet out of love for them as
soon as I was steady on my own, and riding was my greatest pleasure from the
moment I was set astride.
   Had my father ignored me completely, I would have been perfectly happy, but as
my skills in horsemanship and swordsmanship increased, he watched me often with
an expression that made me uneasy, and he brought others to look at me. One man I
recall in particular, then only because he looked so much like my father that I was
doubly afraid, but since then for many reasons.
   I was six years old at that time. I remember clearly because one day my mother
gave me a small round metal helmet and a leather jerkin sewn all over with metal
scales. She told me my age then and that the helm and hauberk were gifts from my
father. She smiled at me and kissed me too—a thing I could not remember her ever
doing—and said I would make her a great lady yet. She was then suckling another
boy child, one whose father she could not name, but she let him scream on the heap
of straw where he lay while she dressed me in my father's gift.
   Many years later I realized that the gift and the new attention he was paying me
made my mother think he intended to recognize me soon. The lady of the keep was
great with child again, and my mother believed that when that babe died, my father
would give up hope and make me his heir. Poor woman, her hopes were never to be
realized because my father's wife at last bore a babe—a daughter—who clung to life.
I saw Audris, who had been baptized in haste, since she was not expected to live,
only a few hours after she was born. She was a tiny, scrawny creature, but strangely
beautiful, brought to my mother to nurse because my father's lady wife was dying.
The memory of how she looked—of all the sights and sounds of that night—are
very vivid because I was so frightened at first.
   It was late at night and I was wakened by the men with torches who accompanied
the woman carrying the whimpering babe. Being wakened would not have impressed
me; it was no unusual thing because of my mother's trade, but the crowd of finely
dressed people and their loud, excited voices as they discussed the lady's coming
death branded each detail on my mind. Young as I was, it was all too clear that they
were glad of the poor lady's perilous condition. I had never even seen her close, yet
that grieved me. Now I know that it was no dislike of the lady herself that bred such
callousness. What they desired was that my father be free to wed a different woman,
one who could breed him a strong heir.
    I saw, too, the indifference with which the babe, Audris— they told my mother
her name; I do not know why—was thrust at my mother. The child was still wet with
the water of baptism and carelessly wrapped in an old shawl though it was autumn
and the night was chill. My mother listened to all they said, for they spoke before us
as if we were beasts with no understanding—or, perhaps, they thought their language
would be strange to us. But a whore must learn the tongue in which the men who use
her speak, and my father had seen to it that I was tutored in proper French and used
it.
   Initially my mother had taken Audris with an indifference equal to that with which
the babe was handed over, and I could feel tears sting my eyes. Here was another
such as I, of no account to anyone, unwanted, unloved. But as my mother listened
to the talk of those who had invaded our hut near the stable wall, a strange
expression crossed her face. I was the only one who saw, for she had lowered her
head in seeming submission to the high-born ones. In Berta's eyes there was a
malicious gleam and an immovable stubbornness in the set of her mouth. As soon as
those who had come were gone, she put Audris to her breast—and the babe sucked.
Then my mother laughed softly and bade me bring my good clean shirt to her. With
that, she patted Audris dry and wrapped her more carefully in a clean shift of her
own, holding her close to warm her.
   When Audris had taken her fill—and it was a good meal she made for a creature
so tiny—my mother patted her until she brought up wind, then made me rise from
my pallet, which was warm from my body, and laid Audris therein, covering her with
my blanket. She threw her own blanket over me to keep me from growing chilled and
bade me watch by the babe, with stern words about what I should do if she cried or
began to spit up what she had eaten. Then she made up the fire so that it blazed in
the hearth like a fire of winter. I saw Audris better in that light, and she looked so
strange in the sudden flare and sudden dark that I had to see her better. Finally, my
mother snatched up my half brother and went out with him.
    I knew I would never see him again, but that did not trouble me. My mother had
so taken the other two babes born to her down to the serfs in the lower bailey. When
she took the first child, I had never been there, but my mother told me, when I cried
for the babe she had carried away, that there was always a woman who had lost a
babe among them or among the people of the village beyond the wall or on the
outlying farms. It was the first I had heard of any place other than the keep and the
inner bailey, and the tale had distracted me from the loss of my toy—for it had been
an amusement to watch the comic expressions on the face of the little one and see
the wavering of his arms and legs and the attempts to move himself. I was so lonely
in those days, forbidden to play with the other children and constantly in fear of my
father. By the time Audris was brought to us, I was accustomed to losing my
siblings and I had enough, in my practice of arms and riding, to fill my days.
   Before she left, my mother had lit the lamp with a long sliver of wood first thrust
into the blaze of fire in the pit in the earthen floor. When I was younger and the little
leaping flame from the twist of linen set into the soft fat in the pottery bowl had
fascinated me, I had been forbidden to touch the lamp. I gave that only a glancing
thought now. My mother would not be back for some time, I knew, and I had to see
Audris more clearly. A stool lifted me high enough to reach the low shelf on which
the lamp was set, and I brought it nigh and examined my half sister in the flickering
light.
   I could see at once that she was different from the babes my mother had borne.
Unlike them, she was not red, nor was her head bald and strangely pointed. Her
cheeks were very pale, almost as if no blood coursed under her skin, and she had
hair, silvery white. And as I gazed at her, she opened her eyes, which were not a
cloudy blue but clear and very, very light, almost silver like her hair. I had never seen
so lovely a babe; my mother's were all ugly when they were newborn, though each
had a certain charm even then, and they grew handsome after a week or two. Audris,
though, was like a faery thing; I shuddered looking at her, wondering if she were
perchance a changeling. It could have happened, I knew, because no one cared
about her and likely no one had been watching.
   So fearful was that thought that the flame shook in my hand and I lifted the lamp
away; Audris cried out then, not a raucous howl like my mother's other babes, but a
soft mewling. I made haste to climb the stool again and set the lamp back on its shelf
so I could pat the child silent as my mother had bidden me. In stroking her, I must
have pushed aside the fold of cloth that held one arm, and she worked it free and
found one of my fingers around which her little hand closed softly. I had had that
experience before, but this was different somehow, partly because Audris's grip was
so much gentler than that of the other babes but also, I think, because I knew my
mother could not give away this child, and I hoped I would have someone with
whom to play. It did not occur to me then that, being the lord's daughter, Audris
might merit a finer wet nurse than my mother or might be kept from such as I. I had
seen how little she was regarded and did not then understand the difference between
a whore's bastard and the legitimate daughter of the lord of the keep.
   Nonetheless, we were not separated. Partly that was owing to how sure my father
was that this child too would die, and partly it was owing to the fact that he was
busy seeking another wife, out of whom he expected strong sons, who would make
a daughter near worthless. He was much away, and I remember my joy in those
months and remember also feeling that it was Audris who had somehow brought all
my happiness with her. Nor was that all childish foolishness. The nurse of a
nobleman's child has many privileges and an easy life; thus, my mother did not wish
to have Audris taken from her, and she closed her door to the men who were used
to finding it open. That pleased me, for they often disturbed my sleep with their
grunting and groaning and thrashing about, and Audris herself, as she grew stronger,
amused me more and more.
   Audris talked and walked early. It was a strange thing to see and hear, for she was
very tiny, no larger man other babes months younger. She was my pass also to
lovely places like the keep garden, where my mother would often set me to watching
her while she washed clothes or did other tasks. And with Audris, I was free to play
by the hearth in the great hall, for we had all moved from our hut to the third floor of
the south tower in the keep a few weeks after Audris came to us. My father had
come to my mother's hut through the first snow of winter, choking in the smoky
interior while he stared at Audris, who was squalling lustily at that moment—her
voice having grown stronger—and beckoned my mother out. When she returned,
she was laughing softly but triumphantly.
   "I have won what I played for. Today we move into the keep." She spoke in her
native tongue—mine was French, for though I understood English, I was rarely
allowed to speak it.
    And then, during the dog days of August, my father died. Perhaps he brought
home the sickness from some keep or town that he had visited. I knew nothing of it
at the time he died; I have often wondered since I have been a man whether I would
have been glad or whether his loss would have shaken me. I never loved him, yet he
had been a central core in my life, and I might have felt strange to know he was gone
forever. But by the time I heard he was dead, I was too terrified to care.
   My father's sickness had spread throughout the keep and all had fallen into chaos.
I knew something was wrong because my mother began to cook our meals on the
small hearth in our chamber, and she kept us close within our tower. She told me
angrily, when I begged to go out to my lessons, that the man who had taught me was
dead and that so many were sick there were not folk enough to tend them.
   I later learned that when my father's strong hand was gone and there were none to
bid them nay, most of those who still had their health had fled. They carried the
seeds of the plague with them, so that the village and outlying farms were also reaped
by Death's scythe, the sickness lingering some weeks. That was why Audris's uncle,
Sir Oliver Fermain, delayed so long in coming to Jernaeve. I believe that if he had
known Audris was alive, he would have come at once. But hearing of the deadliness
of the disease, he must have thought so small and seemingly weak a child had died;
thus, there was no sense in exposing his family and himself.
    At the time, however, all I knew was that I was alone with no one to help me or
tell me what to do. Those I had depended on were gone, for my mother had
disappeared and the man-at-arms who taught me had died, and those I approached
later drove me away. My mother was also dead then, but I did not know that either
because she had left the tower—for what reason, I will never know—telling me only
to stay within and to keep Audris with me. She had gone down to the village, where
she had been slain, I suppose by someone who thought she carried sickness.
   I obeyed my mother's order all the first day she was gone, for there was some
food left from the breaking of our fast and I shared that with Audris for our dinner.
By evening we were very hungry and Audris was crying, so I dared creep down the
stairs. The hall was empty, the fire dead—a thing I had never seen before because
Jernaeve was stone built, and even in the hottest days of summer the hall was cold. I
do not think I have ever known such fear, not even when my father beat me for no
reason. To be alone, all alone! It was unthinkable. In those few moments I looked
death in the face, believing the whole keep was empty save for Audris and me.
   I have never forgotten that I looked back toward the doorway to the tower stair,
tempted to run back to be with Audris, but my stomach ground within me and I had
only soothed away her tears by promising to bring her something to eat. I would
have gone hungry longer to save myself the eerie trip across the silent hall and out
and down into what I feared would be an equally silent bailey, but I never could bear
to see Audris cry. So I ran quickly across to the door and down the wooden stair of
the forebuilding, beginning to weep with relief when I heard sounds coming from the
bailey.
   My tears of relief were shed too soon. What I had heard were the beasts—the
dogs in their kennel, the horses in a small paddock and stable, and the few cows
kept in the upper bailey pens for their milk. Usually there was a hog or two and a
sheep being fattened for slaughtering. The last two were gone, already butchered and
eaten, I suppose, and no more brought up because my father and his steward were
both dead and there was no one to give the order. I did not think of that then, of
course; I was simply overjoyed to see the animals alive, for I knew by instinct that
someone must have been feeding and watering them. Most of my fear dropped
away, and I thought of one of the grooms who lived with his wife and children in a
hut near ours against the stable wall. He knew me and had always liked me, allowing
me to "help" with his duties—which was more hindrance, I am sure—around the
horses, and I believed he would help me now. Perhaps his wife would give me food.
   I received my first shock on the way to his hut. A man came out of the chapel,
and I ran toward him in joy at seeing another person—but he screamed at me to stay
away, and when I stood for a moment, too shocked to move, he cast a stone at me.
I suppose he was sick and his cruelty was for my own sake, but at the time it was a
terrible blow. I was to receive another, even worse. When I came to the groom's
house, his wife was sitting in the doorway.
   Before I could even speak, she spat at me, screaming, "Whore's bastard, how
dare you live while better than you died!" Then she began to struggle to her feet,
gesturing menacingly, and added, "The lord is dead. He can protect you no longer."
    That was how I learned my father was dead, and partly why I gave little thought to
it. I was too shocked and frightened to do more than flee before the groom's wife
could reach me, terror lending speed to my feet. But I saw before I was halfway
across the bailey that she could not follow, and then rage steadied me. I was sure my
father had never protected me—at that time I had no idea of the effect of simply
being the lord's son—and I believed I had won the little favor I had received by my
own natural skills. That was in a sense true, for if I had not shown a natural aptitude
for riding and handling a sword, my father would have turned his back on me totally.
But my rage was mingled with a new fear. I remembered the man who had thrown a
stone at me and the physical threat implied by the gestures of the groom's wife. Did
those who survived blame my father for the loss of their families? Did they intend to
revenge themselves on me—and on Audris, who was even more the lord's child?
   I have long since learned that the woman was almost mad with grief and have
forgiven her, especially since the notion she set into my mind, to avoid everyone in
the keep, may have preserved my life and Audris's by keeping us free of the
sickness. The anger she woke in me, by reminding me of the praise of my tutor and
the approving looks of so harsh a critic as my father, was also useful to me. It gave
me the feeling that I was able—urged on by the pangs of hunger—to provide for
myself and Audris.
   By then, I was near the kitchen sheds built against the wall of the keep. With the
stealth natural to a small boy, whose curiosity often drove him to invade places, like
the smithy, where he would not be welcome, I crept into the kitchen yard, keeping
well inside the lengthening shadows. Seeing no one, I sidled into a storage shed,
where I found a knife stuck into a round of cheese, as if someone had been about to
cut a portion and been called away and forgotten. I finished the work, though it was
not easy, the knife having rusted and stuck to the cheese. Still, I managed, and then
having the knife in my belt and knowing—as I thought, being very ignorant—how to
use it, I felt much bolder and went from shed to shed, gathering what I could carry.
   For many days—recently, thinking back, I decided it must have been nearly a
month—I kept Audris and myself hidden. I stole wood for our fire and food for our
bellies and emptied the vessels of soil, mostly going out in the late evening, just
before dark when the shadows were deepest and most plentiful. Near the end of the
time, I went out in the early morning also, into the garden where the fruits were
ripened. For drink, I stole milk, if any remained in the shed by evening, and I fetched
water from a small spring in the garden in one of my mother's pots because I could
not lift the pail that went down into the well in the lowest floor of the keep. I was
afraid to go down into the dark too, but I did not admit that. By then, I was very
bold and proud. I think I must have believed, for a time anyway, that we would
always live that way.
    I was well content that it should be so, for Audris was very good and minded me.
I kept her as clean as I could and took her with me for an airing when I went to the
garden, teaching her to hide and be still on those few occasions when someone came
in. I wonder now whether it was those lessons, for I was frightened and she may
have felt my fear, that made her so shy of strangers all the rest of her life. But at that
time she was happy, playing only with me. I was happy too, but as the weeks
passed, I began to miss my pony and the practice with my sword.
   Soon I was trying to devise a way to steal a ride and at the same time keep Audris
safe. Usually I left her sleeping, tied by a cord to the leg of the bed so that if she
woke she could not burn herself in the fire or fall down the stairs, but I knew that a
ride would take longer than my short forays for food and that it would be dangerous
to leave her tied too long.
   Still, thinking about the pony made me wonder if he would remember me, and I
could not resist a short visit to the stable. I had been there once, perhaps two weeks
earlier to take some straw to add to the rushes on the floor; these were becoming
thin and matted, and it was growing cooler as the summer waned. Then, although
feed had been thrown into the troughs, the stable was filthy. This time it was
different. Plainly, someone had been at work. I remember how my heart sank at the
sight—I suppose I knew then that life would revert to its normal pattern and I would
sink into nothing again instead of being provider and protector, a person of the first
importance. I could not even stay to see the pony but turned and ran, and because I
was already running, escaped the outstretched hand of a groom. I heard him calling
after me, but I had become most adept at concealment and escaped him easily.
   That did not lift my spirits, though, and it was a long time before I fell asleep that
night. Nor was I wrong in my feeling that my life was about to change again. On the
very next day, not long after Audris had wakened me and I had given her some fruit
and cheese and sour milk with which to break her fast, a tumult of sound rose from
the hall below us. That place, dead and silent for so long, was suddenly full of
people, all talking, shouting orders, wielding rakes and brooms to rid the place of the
rotten old rushes, starting a roaring fire to burn cleansing herbs, and suchlike. The
noise startled Audris, used as she was for so long to no noise except that which we
made ourselves, and she began to weep. I hushed her fiercely, thrusting her into the
corner of the room farthest from the door, and ran back, struggling to close it. This I
could not do, for the locking bar was down and it was above my head and too
heavy for me to lift, so it caught against the seat into which it normally dropped.
   Had the door closed, Audris and I could have spent the day much as usual, since,
young as I was, I knew no sound could pass the thick stone walls or the thick
wooden floor and door. As it was, I was frightened to death that the smallest noise
we made would betray us, and I held Audris in my arms to keep her still and silent. I
could feel her little body shaking with fear—poor child, it was my fault, for she
would not have been afraid, I think, if I had not myself been terrified. I tried to calm
her by telling her over and over that as long as she was with me, I would let no harm
come to her. It was a stupid promise and I knew it, but I could think of nothing else
to say to comfort her.
   Of course, our silence could not keep our presence secret long. I should have
known that the cleaning would not stop with the hall. By early afternoon, our door
was flung open suddenly, and a tall woman with thick bronze-colored braids entered.
I shrank back, but there was no shadow in the south tower where windows facing
southwest and southeast allowed sunlight to pour into the room. For one moment
the woman stood frozen, staring at us, then she cried out and ran forward.
    Perhaps I cried out too. Audris's thin little arms were clasped tightly around my
neck. I remember how she screamed when the woman pulled her away from me and
lifted her, holding her firmly with one arm. With the other, she urged me to my feet
and hurried me down the stair to confront a man, who looked so much like my father
that I thought for a moment the groom's wife had lied when she told me the lord was
dead.
   In the next moment I realized he could not be my father because he asked, "Who
are you?"
  I had learned early that to display fear brought a harsher punishment than
defiance, so I answered boldly, "I am Bruno, Berta's son." And then I recognized
him as the dark man my father had brought to watch me at my training, and I knew
he, too, was a lord and would protect a lord's child against the common folk, so I
added, "The child is Audris, Lord William's daughter."
   The woman was rocking Audris in her arms, trying to quiet her, and Audris was
struggling to be free, shrieking,
  "Boono, Boono," which was the closest she could come then to my name.
  "Set her down, Eadyth," the dark man said, and Lady Eadyth obeyed.
   Audris ran to me at once, and I whispered, "Hush, you are safe now." She
quieted, slipping her hand into mine and trying to hide herself behind me.
  "I am Sir Oliver Fermain," the dark man said, "Sir William's brother, and I have
come…" He hesitated, staring at Audris, who was half hidden behind me. Then his
mouth set hard, and he went on, "I have come to hold Jernaeve for Demoiselle
Audris."
   There was a moment of heavy silence in which grief and fear gripped my throat
and closed it. I was very innocent and was afraid of the wrong things. It never
occurred to me that Sir Oliver need only slay both Audris and myself, and Jernaeve
keep with all its rich lands would be his own and his children's after him. It would
have been so easy. Who was to say that we had not died of the disease as so many
others had done? Certainly not his wife whose children would profit. Nor did I fear
that I would be thrust out of the keep altogether and left to make my own way, which
would have been within Sir Oliver's right. A whore's child has no proper place. The
horror in my mind was that Audris would be taken from me.
  During that silent moment, Sir Oliver had been looking at what he could see of
Audris. Suddenly, he frowned and turned his head to his wife. "Take the child away
and clean her and dress her properly."
   "She is clean," I cried, heedless of angering him in the agony of losing the one
creature who had ever valued me above others. "I could not wash her linen. I—"
  "You are nowise to blame," Sir Oliver said sharply, raising his voice above
Audris's renewed shrieks, but these grew fainter as Lady Eadyth carried her away.
   My eyes followed her, until the dimness of the hall and the mist of tears that rose
obscured Lady Eadyth. Then I fought back the tears, knowing they would only gain
me a beating. I suppose I knew, too, that it was right for Audris to be cared for by a
woman, and the fact that Sir Oliver was praising me, saying it was a miracle that I
had kept the child alive, also eased my bitterness. I had had few words of praise in
my life, only now and again, grudgingly uttered, by the man-at-arms who trained me.
Thus, despite my grief, I was able to answer Sir Oliver's questions so that in the end
he knew everything. And it was he who told me, as kindly as one is able to give such
news, that my mother was dead.
  I felt no grief over my mother—all my grief and loss was confined to Audris—but
knowing my mother was gone for good gave me a sense of being adrift with nothing
to cling to. I do not remember that I made any response to Sir Oliver; perhaps my
expression was enough, for he put his hand on my shoulder and himself led me
down to the kitchen, where he bade one of the cooks feed me. I must have told him
that Audris and I had had no dinner; there was food in the tower, but we had been
too frightened to eat. And as the cook hurried to find cold meat and some pasty for
me, Sir Oliver told me that when I was full I might amuse myself as I pleased until
bedtime and that I should sleep in the tower that night, until he could make new
arrangements for my care.
   Looking back, I wonder what he planned. Not, I suspect, what actually happened.
It was Audris, I believe, who forced Sir Oliver to take me into his own household.
He was a good man, honest and honorable, but I do not think he intended to raise a
whore's son with his own children. Perhaps I am wrong. He knew, although he never
said it and I had not claimed it—my mother had made clear to me that it was
forbidden—that Sir William was my father. In any case, it is foolish to speculate on
what can never be proven. What happened, happened, and my life has been shaped
by that, not by what might have been.
   Audris could not be quieted. She screamed until Sir Oliver bade his wife bring her
back to me, and even when she became more accustomed to her aunt and the new
servants, she would not be parted from me for long. Lady Eadyth tried a few times
more over the following days to separate us, but Audris began to scream the
moment I was out of her sight. So instead of being cast out completely or raised
among the servants, Sir Oliver took me into his family.
   His sons tried to overawe me at first and called me "whore's son," but I stared
them down with such pride that even Alain, who was older than I by more than a
year, did not dare raise a hand to strike me. And when I was matched with him in
swordplay, I beat him so quickly and so soundly that he came to be in awe of me. I
think when they saw my skill in riding and fighting, Alain and young Oliver wished to
be my friends, and we were easy enough together doing those things that boys do,
but I could never take them into my heart. I could not forget that they had called me
" whore's son" at first, and they tormented Audris when they could.
    I think Sir Oliver noticed their hatred of Audris, for he sent them early to be
fostered. After Alain was sent away, I expected to go too, but Sir Oliver kept me in
Jernaeve. He never gave a reason. Well, he was not a man for talk. At first I thought
it was for Audris's sake. Later, I realized it was because he did not wish to foist me
on a noble family as if I were gently born. Poor man, now I know I was a burden on
his loyal heart. He knew me for his brother's get, yet my father had never recognized
me. But he took over my training himself, teaching me the skills of a knight rather
than those of a man-at-arms, and I learned that he paid for my armor—true mail, not
the boiled leather of a common soldier—out of his own purse.
   By the time I was fifteen, I was growing restless and a little bored in Jernaeve.
Like any youth, I thought that I knew all there was to know and was impatient with
lessons. And my case was worse than many others because Sir Oliver did not allow
me to put into practice what I had learned by going in his stead to oversee the
outlying manors or to collect the dues from the small keeps beholden to Jernaeve.
So when he loosed my tether and sent me with a troop from Jernaeve to answer a
summons from the king to fight in France, I was wild with joy. I went as squire to Sir
Oliver's substitute, a man called Sir Bernard, and I learned two salutary lessons.
   The first was about women. When we came to London, I was burning with desire
for a woman. Not that I was a virgin. Knowing too much of the uses of women from
my youth, I had sought out one of the castle whores—in fact, she who had taken
over my mother's place—as soon as the first desires came upon me, I had always
something to trade for the service, for I needed only to ask Audris for an old silk
ribbon or take a heel of the fine bread or rich cheese that appeared only on our table.
Such small items were sufficient; I knew I did not need to pay at all. A word to the
bailiff could have brought deep trouble to anyone who displeased Sir Oliver's
squire—but I never used that weapon. Quite aside from the fact that Sir Oliver
would have been furious if he found I had misused my power in such a way, I had
too clear a memory of my mother's troubles (despite being shielded by the presence
of the lord's bastard and my father's favor—such as it was) to wish more trouble on
any woman who needed to ply Berta's trade.
   I think I was a favorite with the whore too, partly because I was a whore's son
and partly because I was young and not ugly. Whatever the reason, she taught me
ways to pleasure a woman so that she could receive from me some measure of
return for what she gave. I was impatient at first, eager only for my own delight, but I
soon learned that to resist my satisfaction was to make it more intense when it came.
I do not think, though, even in those early years when the body's demands are
paramount, that I was a lecher. And later, I was even less given to the demands of
the flesh—but to be honest, that may have been because once I left Jernaeve, most
of the women I could afford, if I wished to use them often, I could not stomach.
   What drove me that night in London, though, was less a need of the body than
curiosity. I imagined that a whore in a great city would be something strange and
somehow richer than the woman who plied that trade in Jernaeve. Had I not been
warned by a priest that the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb and her
mouth was smoother than oil? Having been told that such joys existed, was it not
natural that I should be eager to experience them?
   Not being an utter looby, I realized that the price of what I bought would be
higher in London than at home,but I had several items for trade. One of my
perquisites as squire was to keep the horsehair I curried from our mounts, and since
I was assiduous at such duties, I had a bag of the resilient hair beaten free of dirt.
This was much favored for stuffing pallets or cushions. I had also the candle ends
from the thick candles that Sir Bernard burned at night to ward off evil spirits. The
candle ends were of a good length, no mere stubs, since the days were long and the
nights short in the spring. In Jernaeve, I knew any of these would be a welcome gift,
but here in London I took along one of the coins from the purse Audris had given
me when I left Jernaeve—I knew enough not to take along the purse.
  Clever as I thought myself, I was still skinned. My "pleasure" cost me my shirt as
well as the other items, but in a way I received value for my payment. Because of my
expectations, I chose the most exotic appearing of the women I encountered. In the
uncertain light of flaring torches she looked a marvel—her eyes rimmed with black,
her skin whiter than milk, her cheeks and lips a more brilliant color than those of any
woman I had seen. I had no idea at that time that a woman could paint herself to
change her appearance, and I followed her eagerly, expecting wonders, only to
discover that she was less in every way than the whore of Jernaeve—even after I
bribed her, knowing the way of whores, to show me some new twist in the play of
love. And I discovered, too, once I had recovered from my disappointment, that
there was only a shade of difference in my own pleasure and that difference rested
only on the fact that I was fond of the woman in Jernaeve and cared nothing for the
whore in London, Years later, if I could have found that whore I would have given
her a round sum, for that lesson was worth far more than I paid her.
   My other lesson came with being blooded in battle—a little more thoroughly than
Sir Oliver had intended, I suspect. In fact, I am not sure the action at Bourg
The'rould should be called a battle. There were no tens of thousands drawn up with
brave banners flying and heralds riding to and fro crying defiance and shouting
heroic lines to hearten their masters' men alternately with crying curses and
imprecations at the enemy. Perhaps Bourg The'rould was no more than a skirmish.
However, it was battle enough to me—it was my first and God knows it was a
bloodier fight than many far greater battles.
   I changed from boy to man that day. I was a boy when I waited to charge, lance
in hand, thrilled to know that I would be aiming at a living man rather than a senseless
quintain. Such are the young: I did not once think that if my aim was good a living
man, against whom I had no spite, whom I did not even know, would be painfully
hurt or die. I did not harm my first target. I was not heavy enough at fifteen to
overset him, and either by luck or skill, I warded off his lance; but the second I
struck true, and the dreadful scream as my lance thrust through mail and gambeson
made me a man. Quintains do not scream.
   I cried out too, in horror at what I had done. Could I have withdrawn, I might
have run away, but I was attacked and by instinct defended myself. And then Sir
Bernard was struck down. I did not know that he was dead, and it was my duty to
defend him so I fought on. I did not even dare spew up the meal I had so gaily eaten
that morning, though the screaming and stink of blood and excrement from the
loosened bowels of the dying (or terrified) roiled my stomach. Instead I went away
inside myself to some far place where all the stench and noise were very distant and
could not touch me. I have sought and found that place many times since then, but I
no longer wake up as I did the night after Bourg Therould, sobbing bitterly.
   I was utterly amazed, wondering about what I was weeping. When I caught my
breath, I realized that the tent was free of my master's snores, and it all came back to
me. I still am not sure why I wept, and I have given the matter some thought over the
years. Oh, I was sorry that Sir Bernard was dead, but in those days the only person
whose death could have wrung from me those racking tears and sobs was Audris's.
Perhaps I wept for those who had died by my hand, or for all men who died in
battle— but I think it was more for myself, because the innocent joy of boyhood in
my skill in arms was lost.
   Later in the day, though, I remembered how the leader of our force and many
others had praised me for my heroic defense and I began to grow proud of what I
had done. Is it not this that makes war possible? That men forget so easily their
revulsion at inflicting pain and death on others and recall only their pride in their own
prowess?
   After the battle, which broke the back of the rebellion against the king, I was
witness to the punishment of the prisoners. I saw how men without influence were
sentenced to be maimed or blinded or killed, whereas one such as Waleran de
Meulan, who had been a leader of the rebels against the king—although he had been
raised like a son in the king's own household—was only sent into gentle
imprisonment. One good effect of the fearful punishments exacted for rebellion was
that I became less discontent for a time with the quiet life in Jernaeve and was glad to
go home.
   I was welcomed back with wild joy by Audris, and that, too, sweetened the days
of that summer—but I found also that Audris and I had come to a parting in the
ways of our hearts. Out of love, she listened to my tales of war, but she was
horrified, gentle creature that she was, not excited. She did not even much relish my
tales of London and the foreign towns I had seen. It was the hills and forests and the
wild creatures that lived in them that she loved, not close-packed houses filled with
people or the streets busy with trade. We did not love each other less, but we had
grown apart.
   As if to compensate, I was closer to Sir Oliver for a time than I had ever been
before. I had brought with me a sealed letter for him from the commander of the
force, which, I am sure, held high praise of my behavior in both camp and field, and
for the next few years Sir Oliver put me to use fighting off raids by outlaws and
Scots. That first year I went with Sir Oliver to drive the raiders away and follow
them back and burn their villages. The next two years I led a troop of my own, and
was welcomed warmly in the manors to which I brought relief and protection. In
some of them I stayed the night or even a few days, and more than once I was asked
questions about Audris that puzzled me.
   At first I said nothing to Sir Oliver about these questions, fearing to bring trouble
on my hosts, but their curiosity about Audris herself, and such matters as when she
would be ripe to marry and whether Sir Oliver was soon planning to betroth her and
to whom, remained in my mind. Then one afternoon while Sir Oliver and I were idly
drinking ale before the high-burning fire of deep winter, before I thought, my mouth
had disclosed what puzzled me.
    In the next instant my blood froze in my veins, so strange was Sir Oliver's
expression as he slowly lifted his head. He had been idly watching the flames in the
fireplace as he grumbled; now, instead, he stared at me for a long moment in silence.
Finally he said heavily, "I knew the time would come."
  Pretending my heart was not leaping in my throat, I stared back at him. "If I have
done wrong and should have told you about this sooner, I am sorry. I thought there
was no harm intended, just a natural curiosity about Audris because she is so shy."
   Sir Oliver sighed. "You have done no wrong. Still, you must leave Jernaeve. I
cannot keep you anywhere on the lands. You are a danger to Audris."
  "I?" I gasped, the shock of hearing so suddenly that I must leave my home being
swallowed up in the far greater shock his last sentence gave me. "I a danger to
Audris? I would die to protect her."
  "I have no doubt of it," Sir Oliver said sadly, and then with a spurt of bitterness,
"Damn your Fermain face! Why could you not look like your mother?"
  This time I was so stupefied by astonishment that I could not find my voice at all
and just gaped at him.
   "Do you not see that the men beholden to Jernaeve might prefer a strong man they
know to hold the lands, bastard though he be, to a frail maiden?" Sir Oliver went on
after a moment, watching me all the while as if he would draw the thoughts inside my
head out through my eyes.
    He could have discerned nothing but astonishment and disbelief, because that was
all I felt—but it is likely he could not tell what I was thinking at all. I had not that trust
in people that allowed every emotion to play freely over Audris's face, and it had
long been my practice to hide what I felt.
  "You cannot believe I would have any part in such a scheme," I protested when I
could speak.
  Sir Oliver shook his head. "Nonetheless, the longer you remain, the more men will
compare you with Audris and the greater their discontent will grow. You must go."
   Fear and desire warred in me. I knew that I no longer had a home, that I was to be
cut off from Jernaeve forever and that was a fearful thing, but I also had a deep
craving to go out into the world, where perhaps I could make a place for myself that
did not depend on being my father's get on a whore. I also feared Audris's reaction
to hearing I was leaving Jernaeve for good, and I dared not tell her the real reason. It
would be a bitter brew indeed to make poor, loving Audris drink of, that because
she was a frail woman I had become a threat to her possession of Jernaeve. A silly
fear. Audris had always known me better than I knew myself, and she had seen my
restlessness. She tried to hide her tears to spare me pain and only made me promise
that I would never fail to send her letters.
    Again, I was not cast out but sent with honor, with a fine horse of my own
training and good arms and armor. In the spring, I went to serve Eustace Fitz-John,
in Alnwick keep, as one of the captains of the men-at-arms. I had my seat among the
other captains and the upper servants at the second table and respect from the
common folk and men-at-arms; I had no need to feel that I had fallen. And, although
the troop I was given to manage was small and all raw men, that was to be expected
for one as young as I. I took great pleasure in training the men and polishing them,
and in the small actions we were sent on they behaved well. The troop was enlarged
and then enlarged again.
   Before I realized it, two years had passed. Every few months a messenger came
from Audris in Jernaeve with a letter of news about the keep and the family, and I
sent a letter back with the man with my small news, but in 11261 had matter of
greater interest to tell, great enough to hire a messenger of my own to carry word to
Jernaeve. King Henry's son-by-marriage, emperor of the Romans, had died, and his
widow, Empress Matilda, had returned to her father. King Henry had been in
Normandy all this time, but now he was coming back to England, bringing Matilda
with him with the avowed purpose of forcing the barons to swear that they would
take her for their queen when he died.
   To my surprise, I was chosen to accompany Sir Eustace to the swearing. It was
most interesting to see the seeming eagerness with which all men swore to uphold
Matilda's right to the throne against all others in the king's presence. The greatest
lords gave their oaths first. King David of Scotland swore to her first; after that there
was nearly a quarrel between Robert, earl of Gloucester, the king's most beloved
bastard, and Stephen of Blois, sister's son to the king and his favorite nephew, as to
who should first swear fealty. Robert claimed the right of half brother; Stephen the
right of sister's son.
   I could not help wondering, considering what I had heard in Alnwick, on the road,
and in the drinking houses, which of the three would betray her first, for Matilda, I
could see, was not the kind of woman who could make a man wish to die for her.
Out of the king's sight and hearing, it was clear that no one was happy with the idea
that a woman would rule England.



                                 CHAPTER 2


  Melusine
   I was the precious poppet, the dearest toy, the brightest ornament of the manor of
Ulle. It is not often, I know, that the birth of a daughter is welcomed with cries of joy
by her mother, let alone by her father, but my parents already had seven strong sons.
It was plain enough why my mother was joyful about having a daughter; she had no
other woman of her own kind to share her interests and burdens, but one might be
surprised by my father's gladness and attention to me. He never said why, of course,
and for a long time I did not know his treatment of me was different from that of
other fathers so I did not ask. By the time I realized that I was cossetted and favored
above most other daughters, there were good reasons for his favor and I was too
busy and too content to think about it. Now that I look back, I would guess that my
father was a man who needed the soft love of a woman, the fond flattery and the
gentle bantering talk that only a woman can provide.
  I do not mean to say that my father and mother lived unhappily together. They did
not quarrel nor hate each other, but there was a cause of distrust between them. I
know that grieved my mother, at least in later years, for she felt the cause was long
gone—but she did not know my father as well as he knew himself. Thus, she could
not understand the wariness he still felt toward her after so many years as husband
and wife, and when she sickened it troubled her mind so much that she talked of it.
   My father, Sir Malcolm of Ulle, was not born in Ulle. He had been liege man to
Duncan, eldest son of King Malcolm of Scotland. When Malcolm was murdered and
his brother, Donald Ban, came to power, Duncan fled to England and my father
came with him. Papa learned the ways of the Normans in the court of King William
Rufus and rode back to Scotland with Duncan when, with the English king's
support, he drove his uncle from the throne. In less than a year, however, Duncan
had been murdered too, and my father fled for his life to a distant cousin of his
mother's who held the lands of Ulle. Three years later, Edgar, Duncan's half brother,
drove Donald Ban from the throne, but though papa loved Scotland and still
considered himself a Scot, he saw no reason to go back there. He was a younger
son in a large family and had no heritage to claim. Edgar, the son of Malcolm's
second wife, was not likely to offer much to his brother's man when he had so many
of his own retainers to reward. And papa had made a place for himself in Ulle, for
his cousin was a lazy, dissolute man who was delighted to let my father manage his
estate. He had no heir and wanted none, quite content that papa should hold the
lands after his death—if he could.
    Mama did not know when papa's cousin died, but by 1104 when Henry, who had
been king of England for four years, came on a progress to take fealty of those
subjects who had not previously sworn to him, papa was holding Ulle. At that time,
King Henry did not have the absolute power he came to wield over his subjects in
later years, and he still needed to consider the opinions of his barons. So, because
papa's neighbors liked him and his tenants had few complaints, King Henry decided
not to try to drive him out of Ulle, even though he was Scots born and had no real
legal right to the estate. On the other hand, King Henry did not trust papa—well,
from what I have heard, he did not trust anyone very much—I mean that he trusted
papa even less because of his Scots birth and his remaining love of that country.
   Mama was the answer to that distrust. Her father was totally dependent on King
Henry's favor, and mama was bidden to marry my father and to watch for signs of
treason in him. If she sent warning, she would be rewarded and her children would
be assured of the estate and of other favors from the king. If she did not send
warning, not only would she and her children suffer the same fate as her husband but
her father and mother and siblings would go with her to blinding or exile or death.
   I remember crying out against so disgusting a charge and saying that I would not
consent to be a spy against the man to whom I was united in wedlock. Mama's eyes
had grown huge with the wasting of her face and body, and now, though she laughed
at my childish protest, they glittered darkly with tears.
   "A woman has no choice," she said. "Could I seize my sword and leave my home
to make my own way? My father would have beaten me to death if I had set my will
against that of the king."
   "There are convents—" I began.
   She laughed again. "Few that would take in a woman against the king's will and
her family's will, but even if I had been a man, I would have been constrained to
obey. My refusal would have meant disaster for my whole family. How could the
king trust my father to hold lands and enforce order if he could not obtain obedience
from his own family?"
   "And why did papa agree?" I cried, for I was still young enough then to think my
father the strongest and wisest man in the world, one who did not need to submit his
will to any man.
    "He had no right to Ulle," my mother replied. "He had no more choice than I, for
if he refused so reasonable a request, no one would have blamed King Henry for
being unwilling to enfeoff him.''
   So, in exchange for a charter for his lands, papa had to agree to take mama as his
wife. Whether King Henry actually told my father what he had arranged, mama did
not know, but papa was not stupid and he guessed.
   I did not learn until much too late that my mother had been the victim of two
clever men. Years after mama had told me her story, papa retold it, except he
laughed—not at my mother's pain, I do not mean that. Papa was not a monster, and
he had had his own grief to bear, for he had never dared to let himself show
affection for mama or let her forget her purpose. It was King Henry at whom he
laughed because the king had not seen the trap he was laying for himself—at least,
that was the way my father saw the matter. To promise my mother that the lands
would stay with her and her children if she gave warning of any treason intended by
my father had freed him, papa said, to do as he pleased. When there was some
contest between England and Scotland, where he felt his honor was engaged with the
Scots, he planned to tell my mother to send her warning, which would ensure she
and his children would be safe from retribution.
   It happened that it did not matter. In all the years of King Henry's reign, there was
peace between Scotland and England. I do not count the raiding by outlaws and by
the lowland lairds, who sought to add to their thin fortunes with loot from England.
Naturally, papa fought raiders with the same ferocity whether they were Scots or
English or anyone else, just as any other landholder did. Besides, most of the raiding
took place in the west, where, I now know, the land is richer. Thus, there was never
any reason for mama to be torn between loyalty to her husband and fear of the king.
   At the time my mother spoke to me of these matters, of course I did not know
why my father had kept the memory of the purpose of their marriage always between
them, I thought that wrong, but there were many reasons I never spoke of the matter
to him. The most important was that when he saw mama was dying, he softened and
became tender to her. I was afraid then to blame him for past coldness lest he be
angry with mama for telling me of her long pain and withdraw the warmth he was at
last offering. There were also selfish reasons: I adored my father and could hardly
bear, even for my dying mother's sake, to make him angry. Least important, but still
a real problem, was that I had little time or energy to spare for anything. As my
mother weakened, more and more of the ordering of the household fell on my
shoulders. I was only thirteen,and for fear a mistake would bring the servants' scorn
on me and make them disobedient, I did too much myself and mulled over every
order ten times before I dared give it.
    I have not mentioned my grief at my mother's illness and death, partly because it
has grown dim over the years that have passed and partly because that whole period
was so filled with pain for me that I could hardly distinguish one grief from another. I
know that such things are the will of God and God's reasons are beyond our
understanding. So I am sinful and rebellious—I have been told that many times—but
I still think it cruel and unfair that sorrows be heaped all of a sudden on the head of
one who is unaccustomed to their weight. Sorrows, like any other burden, should
come small at first and then larger, until one has gained the strength to bear them.
   For me they did not come that way. From the day of my birth, I was petted and
pampered, for my brothers might contest against each other but all of them scorned
to fight a girl. As an infant and a young child, I was a toy, a beloved plaything, to all
the men in my family. Not one came back from his fostering for a visit without
bringing to me a new toy or, later, a new ribbon or lace or other ornament. To speak
the truth, although I was tall and sturdily made, they all, my father also, watched over
me so closely that I sometimes felt I would be smothered under their care. It seemed
I could not turn around lest one cry out, "Be careful, you will grow dizzy and fall,"
nor walk a straight path lest another take my hand to be sure I would not trip and
scrape my knee.
   Among them, they would have made me unable to draw breath without help and
spoiled my temper completely, except that even with seven coming and going, my
brothers were rarely at home. Papa, too, was often away, and when he was not he
was busy. Thus, my care and upbringing were in my mother's hands, and mama
would have nothing to do with weakness and willfulness. She saw that my father and
brothers would soon ruin me, and as soon as I could walk and talk, she set about
teaching me not only all the womanly skills she had but that I was a real person, no
weaker and no stupider than my brothers. If mama bade me carry a message for her
and I said I was tired, she sent me five times over the route. If I wept without reason,
she whipped me soundly to give me a reason. If I pouted and said a lesson was too
hard, she set me two that were harder.
   I learned quickly that I was strong enough and clever enough to do anything. And
since I had learned that lesson from mama when I was very young, my menfolk's
cossetting raised a demon of mischief in me. To say it plainly, I led them all round
by their noses, and by setting one against the other and working on their fears for
me, I induced them to teach me all kinds of unsuitable things. Papa was the one
easiest to wheedle with tears; he taught me to ride a fat, placid pony because I wept
and pleaded, but it did not take me long to transfer that knowledge to a swift, rangy
mare called Vinaigre for her habit of biting. But she did not bite me, for I brought her
sweets, and by the time papa learned what I had done, I managed her so well he was
proud rather than angry.
    Duncan, my eldest brother, taught me to shoot a bow. Malcolm, my second
brother, taught me to handle a hawk. Donald, the third, was a great one for women,
willing or not; he taught me to use a knife and other ways to defend myself against
men. Andrew, who was pledged to the Church, taught me to read and write. Angus
let me ride hunting with him—but he was only four years my elder and not as sure
that I was as fragile as his older brothers believed. The two youngest, Magnus and
Fergus, taught me nothing new, but I honed my skills against theirs and they knew I
would not break.
    So my life was full of joy, holy and unholy, until my thirteenth year. I was born in
the spring, on May Day, and that day had always been a high festival for my family.
If they could, my brothers came from wherever they were to join the celebration, and
so five of them did in the year 1129. Five came and four, two with their wives and
their children, died.
   I was too sick myself to understand the calamity that had befallen us. When I
learned of it, I wept for days and began to sicken again. I remember my father sitting
beside me and trying to comfort me, begging me to eat, himself weeping, holding me
in his arms all night long, rocking me in the hope I would sleep. The kindness made
me worse, for I felt it to be my fault that so many had died. All I could say, between
sobs, was that they would still be alive if they had not come to make me happy on
my birthday. Then mama came to sit with me for a little time, begging my father to
go and rest, but as soon as papa was gone, she slapped me as hard as she
could—not very hard, for she was weak herself—and called me a selfish,
thoughtless slut.
   "You spoiled, self-indulgent monster," she hissed. "Do you think your father does
not grieve, nor I? What right have you to add to our pain with your lamentations? If
as you say it is your fault your brothers are dead, is it not your duty to comfort us?
Your father has not slept in two nights because of your selfishness. Will you be
more content when you have killed him too?"
    The slap and the cruelty of her words stunned me. I was silent for a minute or
two, then cried that she was cruel and heartless and I hated her, and wept more than
ever—I wonder if I wished she would beat me in the hope that the punishment would
lift away some part of my burden of guilt. But she did not respond either to my tears
or my words, only sat staring into nothing with a face like a stone mask of misery
until my father's step could be heard returning. Then her face changed and she went
to him and scolded with loving gentleness because he had come so soon. He said
she should be in her bed herself and that he could not rest while I, his pearl of price,
he called me, was in danger.
   My cot had been moved into mama's bedchamber so that she could hear how I
was cared for even while she lay abed. The window was wide open in the mild
spring day, and the light from it fell full on papa's face as he stood in the doorway.
When I saw how sunken were his eyes, their bright blue dimmed to watery grey, and
how the skin hung on the broad bones of his face, my mother's cruel words rang in
my head… and did not seem cruel but just. I was a monster not to have seen how
much I added to his suffering while I indulged my own grief. From that moment I
struggled to bury it, and I think I succeeded in becoming a comfort to mama and
papa. But I never celebrated my birthday again… never.
   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 UUe 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.
                               CHAPTER 3


  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
trenchbuts, 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 out
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 camp-fires. 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 fairy 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.
   When that place was offered me, I thought King Stephen was the equal of all the
gods and heroes of legends. He looked the part, broad and well muscled of body,
his face not of breathtaking beauty but handsome, framed in light brown hair, high of
brow, with greyish blue eyes, a strong nose, and well-formed lips. But it was not the
king's appearance that impressed me, it was his response to my birth. I had told him
at once that I was no more than a whore's son trained in knightly skills by the charity
of Sir Oliver, and he laughed and said it was all the better for him as I would give
him my undivided loyalty.
   He had that always—even if he did not always believe it, and even though I soon
learned I had been mistaken in my first judgement. Not about the king's kindness;
many of Stephen's troubles came from his generosity of heart, for he promised too
lightly what he could not perform. Worse, for me, was that his sense of honor was
not what I had learned from Sir Oliver. I learned to hold my tongue, but not before I
came close, a few times, to prison or exile. Indeed, it was the king's kindness that
saved me from his own wrath. Is it then any wonder that I loved Stephen and love
him still?
  It was the day I took service with the king that I met Hugh Licorne. I liked him at
once, despite his strange face, and we soon became fast friends. I learned that he
had been the first to bring news of King David's invasion, but it was my confirmation
of the news that enabled King Stephen to set aside other demands upon him and take
his army north to drive out the Scots. I had no chance then to show the king my
abilities as a fighter. The Scots fled before us, and Stephen took the opportunity to
prove himself a ruler wise, just, and of good will. Because I knew the land and the
customs, I was able to help him and he showed his pleasure in me openly and told
me more than once that he had been wise indeed to take me into his household.
     Only one slight shadow marred those clear and sunny weeks in my life—I can
hear laughter for all know that Stephen made peace with David in Durham in
February and that month is mostly wet and sometimes snowy and bitter cold in the
northern shires. I do not recall the weather. I only know for me the skies were clear
and the sun shone. After the treaty was sworn, Stephen made a progress around the
keeps of the northern shires, and where he could do it without grave offense, he
found husbands for heiresses and guardians for orphans among his own men. The
little cloud I mentioned began to gather when I realized that Stephen intended to add
Audris to the heiresses for whom he had found husbands.
   The cloud was soon dissipated, however, when Audris called me "brother"
before the king and flung herself into my arms as soon as she laid eyes on me, like
the heedless creature she is. That made the king lose interest in getting her married
because, Hugh told me to my horror, Stephen believed he could rule Jernaeve
through me if necessary. But when my first distaste for the idea that I could be
induced to take Jernaeve from Audris had passed, I became satisfied to allow the
king his mistake. Should the situation ever arise, I thought, I could see Audris well
married and happy and then find service elsewhere.
    In any case, I need not have worried about that matter at all; Hugh and Audris
settled it by themselves. All I saw, with a mild gladness, was that Audris took to
Hugh, just as I had. She showed not a touch of her usual indifference to strangers
but displayed to him her warmth, her laughter, and the sweetness of her nature,
which is like a perfume that drowns the senses. I could see that poor Hugh was
drowning, but I said nothing to him; he did not need me to tell him that an heiress
like Audris was not for such as he—or so I thought. I did not speak to Audris about
Hugh at all, assuming that her kindness to him was for my sake.
   I am very glad I had not the smallest suspicion that Audris had found a new fixed
purpose. My warnings would have changed nothing and added to the difficulties she
and Hugh had to surmount—and would have been a grave mistake too, for I have
never seen a better matched pair. Not that they married soon. It took them two years
to bring their desires to fruition, but I knew nothing of that.
   Audris, little devil that she is, never hinted of her purpose in any letter to me; and,
although Hugh and I served together later that year at the siege of Exeter, he said
nothing either. That was not to deceive me. At that time he had no idea that Audris
desired him as he desired her, and anyway, we were both too taken up, first with the
joy of fighting and then with the growing disaffection and tension among those who
had just sworn to support the king.
  I think Stephen hoped the yielding of Exeter would put a stop to any further
rebellion and permit him to strengthen his grip on his throne and his barons. Exeter's
lord, Brian de Redvers, was one of the very few who had not come to swear fealty
and do homage to the king at the great Easter court of 1136. Although Stephen had
pleasantly and without penalty pardoned those who had failed to come when
summoned to his coronation in December 1135, he had made it clear he expected all
to attend him at Easter. In the end, even Robert of Gloucester, Empress Matilda's
half brother, had done homage. After Stephen had ordered Redvers to yield up the
royal keep at Exeter, Redvers had offered to do homage but Stephen refused,
delighted to have one man he could defeat and hold up as an example of the fruit of
rebellion.
   It is pointless now, so many years later, to describe the foolish mistakes made at
Exeter. All I need say is that Robert of Gloucester's influence caused King Stephen
to offer too-generous terms to Redvers to yield his keep. This caused a bitter quarrel
between Stephen and his brother, the bishop of Winchester, during which the bishop
said the one thing Stephen could not forgive—that he was like his father, a coward.
In addition, I think the fact that the king seemed so fearful of offending Gloucester
started William of Ypres thinking of being rid of Lord Robert once and for all, and
that led to Ypres's attempt to assassinate Gloucester, which in the end caused the
loss of Normandy.
   I am sure that the king blamed the failure of our campaign in Normandy on Ypres
and that Waleran de Meulan kept green both that memory and the insult Winchester
had uttered. I did not like the strength of Waleran's influence. He was a fine soldier,
but I could not forget how he had betrayed King Henry and he was too ambitious,
too single-minded about his own advantage. I know that most of those who
surrounded the king thought primarily of their own fortunes—and I, to my shame,
was as guilty as any other—but Waleran was both short-sighted and arrogant, which
often made his advice dangerous. However, I think it was Waleran who convinced
Stephen to return to England to prepare a defense of the northern shires against a
new invasion by the Scots.
   He may have guessed the king would not be free to go himself and wished to
defeat the Scots to raise himself still further in Stephen's esteem. The king had
appointed Queen Maud as regent, but Waleran had no great opinion of women and
may have assumed—what never occurred to me—that Roger, bishop of Salisbury,
the king's justiciar, and the other high officials would ignore her and hold for the
king's return all the business they dared not complete themselves.
    Salisbury was well able to rule the nation for he had acted as regent for King
Henry, but Stephen never had the same trust in him—I suppose because the bishop
had been Henry's man and Stephen feared Salisbury hid a secret leaning to Matilda.
And ignoring Maud as he did, which was made plain from the amount of business
Salisbury had to present, angered the king. Stephen had all my sympathy. I, too, felt
it was wrong for him to be bound to Westminster when he should be marching north
to meet King David's offensive.
  No loss came of Salisbury's insistence that Stephen attend to the acts and grants
that had been pending for months. Waleran took the footmen of the king's army west
into Cumbria and drove the Scots east into the arms of the Northumbrian barons,
who did not love them. The king intended to follow in a few days with the mounted
troops, but it was actually closer to three weeks before we were able to leave.
  Fortunately there was little need for us as a fighting force. Waleran's swift
advance through Cumbria forestalled any invasion or rebellion in that shire. When we
met Waleran's army in southern Scotland, we learned that he had relieved a siege at
Wark, discovering among those killed and taken prisoner a number of men from
Cumbria.
   That was enough for Stephen. Their service to David against him, after swearing
fealty to him in 1136, made them open rebels. This was more than adequate cause
for the king to disseisin these men, or their heirs if the rebels had died in the battle,
and put loyal followers of his own on their lands.
    So we turned west, again harrying southern Scotland. The memory of that action
is dim. I know the purpose of burning villages and taking the stored food and
livestock, but I cannot help being troubled by the agony of the poor common folk as
their homes are destroyed, their women raped, their children carried off. I knew too
that their agony could only increase as they starved and froze and sickened over the
bitter months of winter.
   I was greatly relieved when we turned south into Cumbria. Here, we went slowly
and Stephen forbade wanton destruction. His purpose was to visit each keep or
great manor and insist on a renewal of the homage and oath of fealty given in 1136
from each man who had not joined King David. From the adherents of those who
had been killed or captured in the force besieging Wark, the king demanded total
submission, offering them only life, the clothing they were wearing, and their arms
when they went into exile. Even those poor terms were grasped at eagerly; most
often, worse befell helpless rebels, and the king's army was large. None of the keeps
or manors had the smallest hope of withstanding it, so all yielded immediately except
one, and that was taken in a single assault.
   Strain as I will, I can remember nothing noteworthy about taking the manor of
Ulle. Oh, I remember that Stephen named me to lead the attack. The king had taken
two small keeps in Normandy by assault and I fought at his shoulder. Stephen was
an exceptional fighter. It was a thrill to fight beside him, and I had some compliments
on my own strength and skill. In fact, after the king and I had almost been isolated
from our party and trapped in the bailey of the second keep, fighting back to back to
save ourselves from being dragged away as prisoners, Stephen said something to me
about knighting me. That came to nothing—Stephen often forgot such
promises—but he had not forgotten my skill it seems, and he passed over his greater
lords and named me captain of the assault. No one objected. Little honor could be
gained from winning so easy a contest, and the prize was not valuable. Ulle manor
was not likely to hold rich loot. In any case, with the king present, the loot would be
his to distribute. With one thing and another, my appointment was no cause for
envy.
    There was no cause for sharp memory either. All I do recall was a sense of
surprise that those within Ulle had tried to resist; there were simply too few to defend
the place. We were over the wall on the first rush, and I cannot remember that any of
the king's men suffered a worse injury than a bruise. Then I ordered the gate be
opened for Stephen. There was no keep. The halls within the manor compound were
meant for living in, not for defense, so I did not fear for the king's safety. Still, I went
ahead of him into the main hall after the ram had burst in the door. There was not a
man in the place, and since all I saw was a group of wailing women clinging to one
who seemed too petrified with fear even to cry, I left more hastily than I had entered.
I thought that was the end of the matter, but it was not. Eight months later, the king
bade me marry Melusine of Ulle.



                                  CHAPTER 4


   Melusine
   Because life had been smooth and pleasant—except for Mildred's
barrenness—the shock to us was all the greater when Sir Gerald of Irthing returned
from a journey to Carlisle with the news that King Henry had died in Normandy on
the first of December; that his nephew, Stephen of Blois, had arrived in London less
than two weeks later; that Stephen had been acclaimed king by the Londoners; and
that Henry, bishop of Winchester—Stephen's brother— had convinced Roger,
bishop of Salisbury, who was justiciar of England, to accept Stephen as king. All
this might still have come to nothing, Sir Gerald went on, but Salisbury and
Winchester together had talked William Pont de l'Arche into putting the royal
treasure into Stephen's hands. Stephen now had the funds to pay the mercenary
army his wife was sending in waves from Flanders, and the archbishop of
Canterbury, with the bishop of London's approval, had hesitated no longer but had
crowned Stephen king in Westminster on 22 December. Papa stood gaping like a
netted fish, staring at Sir Gerald, and after a moment Magnus shrugged.
   "So, all the better," he said indifferently. "We will not have Matilda as queen."
  Papa turned his shocked gaze on Magnus. "But Stephen swore," papa roared. "
He fought for the right to swear to Matilda before Robert of Gloucester."
   Magnus was the cleverest of my brothers, and not the sweetest. I did not always
succeed in duping him, and when I did get my way, I was often left wondering
whether he had been fooled or yielded because what I desired fit in with some
private purpose of his own.
   Now Magnus shrugged again and smiled. "That would be a clever move to make.
After Stephen himself is forsworn, with the august approval of three bishops and an
archbishop, how can any other man be troubled about violating that oath? It is no
bad thing to have a clever king."
  "It is no good thing to have a dishonorable king," papa rejoined. "I did not love
Henry, but a man could trust his word once given. Who could trust the promise of a
man who forswears himself apurpose?"
   "Would you rather trust the promise of a woman?" Magnus asked, his lips
twisting. "Do you think Matilda more likely to stand by her word than Stephen?"
   I was annoyed. I cannot say I was above duplicity in dealing with my father and
brothers when their misconceptions about me and protective instincts threatened my
reason and freedom, but I have never broken a promise and I do not see why
women should be thought less trustworthy than men.
   "Why should you think Lady Matilda more likely to take what is ours from us? Is
she not likely to abide more faithfully by her father's arrangements than a nephew
who has already violated his oath?" I asked hotly, and, I admit, considering what I
knew of Matilda's character, before I thought. And then, seeing how surprised the
men looked, I realized they might have been considering the nebulous "good of the
realm," which so often occupies men when they should be thinking of their own
affairs, and I added, "I suppose you are talking about the possibility that Wyth,
Rydal, and Irthing will be seized by the Crown and bestowed on others?"
   My father put out his hand and stroked my cheek. "Neither is any trouble to
concern you, pretty chick. You may be sure I will find a husband for you whose
place is secure—but not tomorrow, eh, my love? You are needed here at Ulle, and
we must see what comes of this usurper's claim to the throne before I choose a
man."
   "Do not so glibly say 'usurper' of a king who has a fortune in hand to pay the
army of mercenaries that support his claim," Magnus warned.
   Turning from me, my father made some sharp remark in return, but I had lost
interest in the discussion, which I knew would have no immediate result. I had heard
everything Sir Gerald had to say, so I knew the facts, and I had noted papa's and
Magnus's opinions, which I was certain would only become more fixed the longer
they argued. Ulle breeds stubborn folk. If it should be necessary in the future for me
to try to bring them together or to change some plan of action, I had the information
I would need to reason or plead, speak or weep. I felt I could let my mind wander to
a more personal topic—that of my marriage.
    By Church law—a law made by men, of course—a girl may be married at twelve.
I learned that listening to a priest who had come to propose a match for me with a
neighbor well into his fifth decade, who still had no heir to his lands. This was just
before I had begun my thirteenth year, and the priest's statement of the law was his
reply to papa's protest that I was too young. In fact, I am sure papa was not thinking
of my actual age—I was always his "little baby girl," even long after I had topped the
height of most of the common men—but it drew forth a lecture from the priest on
the nature and duty of females. This so angered papa (not that he thought better of
women in general but because I was the subject) that he roared, "I have said my
daughter is too young, and Church or no Church I am the master of my daughter's
life."
   That fat slug of a priest, who had been eyeing me in such a way that I guessed
who he intended should father our neighbor's heir, was terrified by papa's rage. He
began to stammer compliments about how good a father papa was and to assure him
that the purpose of the Church in fixing the age for marriage at twelve was to protect
daughters of less kindly and considerate fathers from being married off at nine and
ten, or even three and four, not to force marriages. At that point, mama, who did not
believe in giving unnecessary offense or allowing anyone to realize how much value
my father set on me, pointed out that she was not well and I was needed at Ulle.
    There had been offers after that too, but my mother was dead by then and I was
needed at Ulle. I suppose my father could have married again—had he done so I
would have managed to induce him to find a husband for me. Once Ulle came under
my sole rule and I had fitted my shoulders comfortably under that burden, I do not
believe I could have tolerated any woman in authority over me. Even at fourteen or
fifteen I was too much mistress to become maid again. But papa showed no interest
in marriage for himself—not even after my brothers died. At the time I did not think
about it, but now I wonder if he could have cared more for my mother than I
believed. For my own part, I was content as mistress of Ulle and more relieved than
sorry that papa did no more than say he had turned a suitor away or, more often, did
not mention the offers to me at all.
   After Magnus married Winifred, however, I noticed that papa began to talk about
my marriage again, always with excuses for his delay in arranging for it. I knew he
did not want to part with me but felt guilty about depriving me of my right to be a
wife and mother. I could have soothed him with a few words, assuring him that I did
not wish to marry, but… I was not sure. When I saw what was between Donald and
Mildred, I could not help longing to taste that enchantment for myself; and when I
saw Winifred's pride and contentment, I could not help wondering if something very
important was not missing from my life. And so, when my father mentioned marriage
to me, it was that I thought of rather than the effect Stephen's crowning would have.
How could I have guessed that the one would make the other?
   Not immediately, of course, although neither did life move on unchanged. Sir
Gerald had brought the news about Stephen after Epiphany. Too soon after, a royal
messenger demanded entrance at the gate of Ulle manor— but the messenger was
from King David, not from King Stephen. The man gave us news first: that Carlisle
had yielded to David in the name of Empress Matilda; then he said that King David
desired papa's pledge to support King Henry's daughter against the usurper Stephen
in her rightful claim to the throne of England. Papa would have given his word then
and there, but Magnus signalled urgently to me, and I went forward and drew the
messenger away, cooing of women's concerns—that the man was cold and tired,
that he must be warmed and fed.
  Instead of taking him to the guest house and seeing to his comfort myself,
however, I brought him to Winifred to be cared for so I could go back to the hall.
And just as I feared, Magnus and papa were at each other, hammer and tongs, papa
swearing he would stand by his oath to Matilda and Magnus swearing that papa
would ruin us by opposing the power Stephen had mustered. Usually I did not
interfere between my father and my brothers when they argued. They loved each
other too well to do one another any harm; in fact, mostly they seemed to enjoy a
loud quarrel. But they were all stubborn men, so sometimes, if the matter seemed
important, I would make peace between them. Then, later, in my own way, I would
bring one or the other to see the case as I thought right.
   This time I stood silent, though I was shivering with inner cold. This time, I knew
that tears and pleas would not change papa's purpose, yet I felt sure it was Magnus
who had the right of the argument. He, like me, was of Ulle and cared nothing
whether we were ruled by Scot or Norman so long as the overlord was just. What
was foremost in Magnus's mind was the safety of our lands. Moreover, what he said
was true; Cumbria had been subject to the king of England since the time of the first
William. David had been my father's overlord, but only as a vassal of the English
Crown.
  As if answering my thought, papa snarled, "I do not swear to David as king of
Scotland but to Matilda, who is the rightful queen."
   "She is too late with her claim," Magnus snapped in reply. "No human hand can
wipe the holy chrism from Stephen's brow. Whether or not the archbishop of
Canterbury was right or wrong in anointing him king and setting Saint Edward's
crown on his head is not ours to decide. Stephen is king of England. Swearing faith
to Matilda cannot change that. It can only lose us our lands when Stephen comes to
contest the Scots."
  "I swore—"
   "You are absolved by the highest priests in England!" Magnus shouted. "Did not
they swear also? You do not want Matilda for queen, do you?"
   My father shrugged. "What does it matter who rules England? David will be our
overlord again if Matilda takes the throne. Queens even less than kings are likely to
trouble us. There are no jewels here, no rich fabrics, and no reason to fear us, since
we swore while she was the weaker—"
   "And so you name us enemy to the stronger," Magnus interrupted furiously. "I tell
you, Matilda will never hold the throne, and David will not hold the north. If he
stopped with taking Cumbria, Stephen might ignore it since there would be no
one—or almost no one—to protest David's rule. But David will strive to take
Northumbria too, and they will resist and cry to Stephen for help. And Stephen will
come to them. So early in his reign it would be disaster for him to refuse help to a
vassal attacked by a foreign king."
   Papa growled a wordless, angry admission that Magnus was right and kicked a
log protruding from the hearth, which sent sparks fountaining up toward the black
beams of the roof. There was no chance of setting the high roof afire, but some of
the embers that sprayed outward flew beyond the slabs of stone on which the fire
was laid and smouldered among the dry rushes. I stamped out a few near my feet,
and a manservant ran to kill the others. Papa stared morosely at the threads of smoke
that rose and then were extinguished by the servant's feet.
   "I have lived my whole life in the expectation that this summons would come," my
father said at last. "I will not turn my back on it. And who knows," he added,
shrugging again, "David may conquer."
    Magnus, enraged beyond speech, did not answer that but flung himself out of the
hall. I heard him calling for his horse before a servant closed the door, which he had
left standing open in his fury. Papa did not raise his eyes to follow Magnus nor to
meet mine. That was the final proof that my fear was well founded, that papa knew
he was doing wrong, and that King David could not be the victor. And he was not,
of course. It happened just as Magnus had foreseen—King David invaded
Northumbria and the barons of that shire cried for help. When King Stephen rushed
north in strength to drive out the Scots, King David knew he was overmatched and
yielded without a battle.
   Nonetheless, no immediate evil came of papa's—to my mind—ill-placed loyalty.
In fact, when papa returned to Ulle in March 1136, he brought with him several
heavy gold armlets and a magnificent necklet of rubies and diamonds, as fine as
anything I had seen Lady Matilda wear, and gave them to me. I smiled and thanked
him and tried to look pleased, for to do otherwise would have hurt him, but inside I
shuddered with horror. I knew the jewels were loot—one of the prime reasons that
men so loved war— and I could not help but imagine them torn from the throat of
some poor woman who might also have lost more of value than the ornament.
   I was disgusted, too, that papa was so cheerful in the face of his liege lord
David's defeat, thinking that his high spirits were the result of his gain, for he had
brought home horses and armor and I think silver and gold coins as well as the
jewels he gave to me, but I was wrong in that. As soon as Donald could be
summoned and come from Thirl, papa explained why he was so pleased with what
seemed a crushing blow to King David. We learned that the peace Stephen had
offered was mild beyond any expectation, Far from seeking to punish David,
Stephen had allowed him to keep control of Carlisle and some of the lands beholden
to the keep. Unfortunately, Ulle and the new manors were not part of the lands ceded
to David, but papa had appealed to King David to exchange our manors for some
others near the coast so that he would be our overlord.
   King David had agreed to grant papa's request, but I suppose he had no time to
suggest the exchange to King Stephen because in April papa was summoned to
come to Oxford to swear fealty to King Stephen. I was afraid that he would refuse,
but when I mentioned my fear to Magnus he laughed and assured me that papa
would go. The swearing would not affect the transfer of the lands if Stephen had no
other reason to refuse; he could release papa from his oath at any time. I was glad
for the reassurance, but somehow my uneasiness would not disperse. There seemed
no reason for it; papa went to Oxford and returned home well pleased. The king had
accepted his homage without a word about his joining King David and had uttered
no threats or warnings. Stephen was a very easy-tempered man, papa said, but still
some sense of foreboding clung to me. Once I tried to warn papa that the king's
seeming indifference to his disloyalty might be a trap, but he laughed at me and told
me not to trouble my pretty head about men's affairs and that in any case Stephen
had gone to Normandy and would be no danger to us.
    I do not know that I believed papa's easy assurances, since I knew that sooner or
later Stephen would return; and it seems to me I once heard papa and my brothers
talking about the possibility of King David invading Northumbria again while Stephen
was gone, but I paid little attention because I had more serious worries closer to my
heart. Mildred was growing more, desperate by the day about her barrenness and,
though Winifred was happy, that was only owing to her simplicity and lack of
understanding. Even I, who had borne no child, knew she did not look as she
should. Her feet and legs were all swollen and she had trouble breathing if she
walked only from her quarters to the hall. The midwife was not at all happy about
her. In the end, the midwife tried to bring on the babe before its time. She had felt it
weakening—by then, Winifred realized something was wrong herself because the
child no longer moved in her—but it would not come, and Winifred grew weaker
and weaker and died, at last, poisoned by the dead child within her.
   We all grieved but not, I am afraid, very deeply—not even Magnus, who agreed
that papa should find him another wife as soon as Winifred was decently buried.
Poor Winifred had been too sweet, too simple, too gentle to be other than a nothing
in our violent, volatile family. Mildred and I shed the bitterest tears—alas, not for
Winifred but for the loss of an heir to Ulle. Had Winifred borne a son, papa and
Donald would have been content; both would be glad enough that Magnus's child
inherit our lands just as both disliked the thought that any blood but oars should rule
them. Winifred's death made Mildred's inability to get with child a larger and larger
wound in her mind, though neither Donald nor papa reproached her.
   She tried, I think, to convince Donald to repudiate her—she did not admit it to
me, but Donald began to question me about what Mildred said about him and
whether her eyes strayed to other men. I burned his ears for that before I realized
what must have engendered his jealousy. I did not dare say what I thought to
Mildred—for all the love between us, there was something fiercely private about
Mildred that forbade me to tread where I was not invited, and she was years older
than I—but I did speak to her and warned her that Donald felt she was discontent
with him. How I have regretted that! How often have I wondered if putting on a
smiling face for Donald drove her sickness inward harder and deeper until she
became altogether desperate. If so, I murdered my beloved sister.
   I thought though that her spirits had lifted when papa brought Catrin home for
Magnus. If they had, so much the lower did they fall when less than a year later, in
the summer of 1137, Catrin took a fever and died. I did not realize that at first. For
myself, I was more relieved than grieved, for Catrin was shrewish and obstinate and
thought she should rule Ulle because she was a son's wife rather than a mere
daughter of the house. So I was not sorry to be rid of her without asking papa to
banish her to the manor meant for Magnus—which would have meant that Magnus
would have to spend at least part of his time alone with her and bear the brunt of her
tongue.
   It was after papa's offers for a girl from Keswick were turned away with weak
excuses that he suggested Donald set Mildred aside. They quarreled bitterly, Donald
with an intensity that bordered on true hate, the first time ever there was real bad
feeling between my father and one of his sons. I made peace between them, but it
was an uneasy peace, and Donald came seldom to Ulle after the quarrel. I went to
Thirl when I could, but winter was drawing in and the track over the mountains was
treacherous. In November storm followed storm; papa forbade me to try the passes,
but remembering what had looked out of Mildred's eyes the last time I saw her, I
rode out one day when it seemed to me the sun might pierce through the racing
clouds. I did not reach Thirl. So great a blast of wind rushed down from the Black
Crag that my mare was toppled from the path. God knows what saved us, for
neither Vinaigre nor I was more than bruised, but I took warning.
   Was it my lack of courage, my failure to dare enough for love that took Mildred's
last hope from her? I must not believe that, as I must not believe coming to celebrate
my birthday killed my brothers. I told myself over and over that one of them must
have brought the sickness with him; it must be so, must it not? There was no
sickness at Ulle until after they came. As for Mildred, even if I had got to her that
day, would she not have fulfilled her dire purpose on another? I am torn apart anew
as I think back on that time. Am I blackening my sister with the idea that she took
her own life only to salve my own sick spirit because I was not brave enough to go
forward that day?
   Whatever is true, it is an abiding sorrow that I learned she had died the very day
on which I had failed to ride to Thirl. Late the following afternoon, Donald came into
Ulle with Mildred in his arms. Papa and I both ran to meet him, but such horror filled
my spirit that I could barely force my limbs to move. I knew before I saw Donald's
face that she was dead, even though she was tenderly wrapped in his cloak. There
was no need to run for Mildred's sake ever again, but I forced myself forward,
fearing that Donald would vent his anguish and bitterness on papa. But though my
brother was half dead with searching and half crazed from finding Mildred drowned,
he did not blame papa. Indeed, I realized in the next moment that he never suspected
she had killed herself.
   Perhaps I am wrong, but I saw things they did not. Once papa got him down
from his horse, Donald told us in broken pieces, still clutching Mildred to him, how
he had first found her horse grazing in a little valley where the Thirlwater met the land
gently, and then found her drifting in the tarn not far away. There was mud on the
horse's legs and side, and Donald clearly thought the beast had slipped up on the
steep-sided hill and thrown Mildred. If she had been stunned, she could have rolled
into the tarn and drowned. But when we at last coaxed him to let her be laid out, I
was the one who washed her and combed her hair—and there was not a single mark
or bruise on her head or body.
  I kept that to myself, of course. All we needed was for the priest to hear a hint
that Mildred had taken her own life. He knew whom she worshipped and would have
grasped eagerly at any excuse to refuse her a grave in consecrated ground. Mildred
would not have minded; she would have laughed, for all fertile earth was holy to her,
but Donald… It was really from Donald that I hid my horror. I think if the idea that
Mildred had deliberately smeared her horse with mud and then walked into the tarn
had once crossed Donald's mind, he would have followed her path. And papa was
troubled enough already, for he was, I suspected, in a way glad Mildred was
dead—and, perversely, that added to his grief for her.
    Whatever papa's feelings, he knew by instinct what to do for Donald—or was it
by experience? He had suffered when mama died. Did he remember what he had
felt? Still, papa had the lands and his children to force him to put aside sorrow and
Donald had nothing. He felt papa or Magnus could carry on for him because, I think,
he had not won the land for himself as papa did nor had he been bred to put Ulle
before all else as Duncan, being eldest, had been. When the first shock of loss had
passed, papa tried to reawaken Donald's interest in living by setting tasks for him.
My brother did what he was told out of duty, but his spirit did not lighten, and when
papa wished to take him hunting or to engage him in any other light sport, he
refused. We were all sick with worry as well as grief.
   And then Waleran de Meulan passed through our lands. Until that time, my mind
had been so fixed on private troubles that I had not taken in the news of the king's
return to England—if, indeed, papa had mentioned it. But Waleran had come from
Normandy with Stephen, and the king had sent him to the northwest to drive King
David's men out of the lands that had been ceded to King David by treaty and make
sure King David did not draw strength from our men or produce, thus breaking the
treaty of 1136.
   As I have said before, I did not care who was our overlord, but I conceived a
hatred for Waleran de Meulan that I have never found reason to change. It was
Waleran's pride and arrogance that drove papa to break his oath of fealty. No, that is
not all the truth. Waleran's haughty threats against any man who sought to aid King
David's war and his contemptuous dismissal of the "little" men whom he could break
at will if they flouted his orders infuriated papa and made him speak unwisely. In my
heart I knew the reason papa broke his oath was the light that came into Donald's
dead eyes when papa roared that his oath to the king did not include swallowing
insults from Waleran and that he would go join any force that would fight that
braggart. I think papa was only in a rage, shouting the first words that came into his
head, but Donald came to his feet with gleaming eyes and said, "Yes, let us thrust
that fool's threats down his thick throat."
   I am sure papa knew Donald did not care whom he fought or for what reason.
Donald would as gladly have joined King Stephen's army. He just wanted to fight, I
suppose against life itself for taking Mildred from him—or perhaps he wanted to die,
not fight. I think it was that papa feared. I could see him swallow down his rage and
shrug his shoulders in pretended indifference.
  "Talk, just talk," he said. "I must look about and see what will be best to do.
There is no sense in letting a loud cur drive us into a foolish action."
   But the harm was done. The first smile I had seen since Mildred died appeared on
Donald's face. "You are right about that," he agreed heartily. "We can have it both
ways. You bide here, which will stop that fool from any chance of harming Ulle, and
I will gather a force and join King David. He will remember me, even though I have
been away all these years."
   Papa knew what that meant. Donald would go no matter what he said. He glanced
toward Magnus, who had been sitting beside me on a small bench near the fire.
Magnus had not said a word beyond necessary remarks about food and such
everyday matters since they had all returned from their meeting with Waleran. His
dark eyes, much like mine and mama's—I think his nature was more like ours too,
not so open and sudden as my red-haired papa and Donald—had been narrow with
anger. It was clear that he liked Waleran no better than papa did. Donald, I think, had
noticed neither the words nor the manner of the king's envoy, for he had been as
turned inward when they returned as when they rode out; he had responded to the
word fight, not to Waleran's insults. But Magnus, angry as he was, still believed
Stephen would be the victor in the struggle with Henry's daughter Matilda and did
not approve any action against the king or his man.
   Nonetheless, when Donald jumped to his feet, Magnus said, "I do not take a blast
of foul, hot air from the mouth of a head empty of all but arrogance as seriously as
you, but I will go if you bid me." His eyes had moved to Donald and then back to
papa as if to add that he would do his best to keep Donald safe.
   "No," papa replied, though his long look at Magnus was like a caress. "I will go. I
wish to go."
    What papa said was true enough. I am sure he took considerable joy in the idea of
fighting for King David, but there was more too. There was no way Magnus could
control Donald. Magnus was the younger and Donald would either ignore or laugh at
cautions or commands from him. Most likely papa had visions of Magnus flinging
himself in front of Donald to protect him in an effort to keep his unspoken
promise—and thus losing both sons. But papa was wrong about that. Magnus was
more likely to hit Donald on the head from behind and drag him off to safety, which
I thought was very sensible but which I know would never occur to papa (or if it did
would horrify him).
   Donald laughed in the old, reckless way, the way he had laughed before he
married Mildred—before life began to have a deep meaning to him. Magnus frowned
and I saw a ring mama had given papa glitter briefly in the firelight as his hand shook.
Papa, who did not care for ornaments much, had put on the ring to please mama
when she started to weaken with her last sickness and he had never taken it off. The
flash of light seemed to pierce me and a coldness spread over me so that I
shuddered.
  "Why should either of you come?" Donald asked, his voice hard but light, almost
gay. "I said King David will know me; likely he will take me back into his household,
and from that place I am most likely to meet this Waleran directly. You are the one
who gave oath to Stephen, father. If you are in Ulle, the king cannot call you traitor,
and we will have our revenge and come scatheless away, too."
   "Broken treaty, broken oath," papa said. "If Stephen had not sent his vicious dog
to deprive the Scots king of what was given him by treaty, I would have no reason to
leave my lands. Besides, when peace is made this time, I will no longer be Stephen's
man, so Ulle is in no danger."
   "If David wins," Magnus said dryly. "Loud-mouthed cur Waleran may be, but I
looked about his camp and had a word with this man and that. Waleran is a
soldier—and that is more than I can say for David. And remember, most of the best
men David has hold English lands, much richer lands than those they hold in
Scotland. Brus, for one, went north for love of David, but he also did fealty to
Stephen for his English lands. I heard it said in Carlisle a year ago when David first
planned to take back the north that Brus had begged him not to fight the English king
and warned him that he would not be able to support any attack on Stephen."
   Donald did not even stay to listen to this. He went off toward the bedchamber he
had been sharing with papa (he dreamt, I think, and needed to be awakened and
perhaps comforted), I suppose to look for his sword and armor. Papa's eyes
followed him, and he shrugged again.
   "Win or lose, Ulle is in no danger," he said, though he did not look at Magnus.
"Stephen is not even with the army, and I doubt any man from these parts will carry
tales to Waleran. And, since that haughty lord did not deign to distinguish such
unimportant folk one from the other, I do not see how news of what I do can come
to the English king."
    I was surprised at first that Magnus made no sharp answer to that. Jealousies and
greed—and there were those who envied us the rich fishing and Ullswater and the
new manors papa had bought or reclaimed from wasteland— can make men put
aside insult from a haughty overlord and carry tales when they hope to profit. But
this time Magnus held his tongue, and I understood it was because he knew papa
was going less to support King David than to keep Donald from throwing away his
life.
   "Besides," papa said, now looking at Magnus, his mouth grim, "you had better
find yourself a wife, since I have done so poorly."
   I bit my lips to keep from crying out. I knew the chances of war because in
neighboring manors fathers and brothers had been lost in battle, but I had not before
looked deeply into that well of fear. Death's scythe had reaped differently in my
family, and my father and brothers had come home laughing and scatheless each
time they had fought. Now papa's thinned lips and hard voice renewed that pang of
terror and spreading cold I had felt earlier. He had never looked like that when he
went off to fight raiders or the first time he took up arms for the Scots king. This
time, I felt, he thought he might not return.
   Should I have pleaded and cajoled, wept until I made myself sick? Perhaps my
sickness could have kept papa at home, but it would not have held Donald, and if he
had died I think my father would never have forgiven me. In any case papa's next
words made me doubt that I had read his grim look aright. He said, "I do not know
when, or even whether, Donald will be willing to marry again, so it comes back to
you. And I have been thinking that perhaps we have gone about this business the
wrong way. It may be that the girls fear you abused your wives because you were
not satisfied with my choices."
   Magnus looked up, as if he were about to say something, but he did not speak
and papa went on, "So, this time look about yourself to find a girl that pleases you.
Then show her attention; get her mind set on you. Once the girl is willing, it will be
easier to bring the father to terms. We should be back by the early planting."
   Those last words comforted me a little. They came out easily, not as if papa were
straining to reassure us, and so I was able to part from him without outward show of
my heaviness of heart. I am glad of that, glad that he did not carry away a memory
of me weeping, glad he never knew that his charge to Magnus to find a wife cost his
son's life.
   I think Magnus first chose Mary because she was a widow with two young sons
and good property not too far from Ulle and needed no man's yea-say as to whom
she would marry. I suppose by right she needed the approval of her overlord, but
her lands—for she was living on her dower property, her husband having been a
younger son— were north of Keswick in that part of Cumbria ceded by treaty to
King David, so Magnus could count on approval… if King David was successful
and Cumbria did not change hands.
    I also know Magnus liked Mary's boys; he spoke of them more than of Mary at
first, except to say she had a strong will and would take him, if he could win her
favor, in spite of her husband's family and the new man they had chosen for her.
After a few weeks though, he began to talk about Mary, and what he said about her
gave me hope that she would be a sister I could love. I hoped, too, that Magnus
would find the kind of joy that Donald had known and be enthralled by his wife.
   I think it would have gone that way because one evening Magnus came home in a
rage and told me that her husband's kin had come and threatened Mary, saying they
would take her sons and the lands and thrust her into a convent—or worse—if she
did not accept the man they had chosen for her. Magnus went more often and stayed
longer after that, and I noticed he had provided a good coin dowry and sent away
the girl he used—I was not supposed to know about that, but I had always kept an
eye on my brothers' women.
   Anyway I was not in the least worried when he did not return to the evening meal
as he said he would on the fifth of January. It was the last of the twelve days, and
Magnus had ridden over to give Mary twelve pearls as her twelfth-day gift. I was
sure he intended to ask her to pledge to him that day and equally sure she would
agree. In fact, I rejoiced when I sat down, later than usual, to eat alone because I
thought Mary and Magnus must have been celebrating their betrothal so heartily that
he forgot the time and had decided to stay rather than brave the bitter, icy roads as
dusk was falling. I went to bed very happy that night, hoping that Magnus, who was
growing a bit restive without a woman, would have come at last into a safe haven.
   He was safer than I thought, safe for all time in God's arms. A shepherd who was
out seeking a missing ewe found him lying in the road pierced by five arrows.
   I think that was when I gave up hope. I did all the right things—set the huntsmen
and tenants searching for any sign of the murderers, sent a messenger to Mary and
several men to find King David's army and tell papa and Donald what had happened.
I even rode to Keswick to put a complaint before the sheriff about my brother's
murder and to testify to what he had told me of the threats of Mary's husband's kin.
But I do not remember weeping for Magnus nor did I really expect that papa or
Donald would ever come home. I am not even sure whether it was one week or two
that passed between Magnus's death and the day that Tom, our bailiff, brought the
news that King Stephen himself had set out from Carlisle with a huge army and was
sweeping through Cumbria and taking every manor.
  "I will not yield Ulle," I said, knowing that was what papa would have said.
    "Lady, lady," Tom cried. "We could not even hold a keep against that army. Ulle
is only a manor house. It is not meant to be defended against an army. Will you ask
us to throw away our lives?"
   The bailiff was loyal and I was sure he was not lying to me. I knew he had
defended Ulle against raiders and fought bravely under papa's orders. If he said
defense was useless, it probably was. Ulle would be taken, but I would not give it
away. Papa would blame me for that. It would have to be taken by force, and I
would not yield nor sign any writing nor give oath or pledge of any kind ceding my
right. If the king had me killed, I would have done my best and would be free to join
mama and my brothers— and papa too if what my heart said was true. But I did not
really think the king would kill me, and as long as I lived I would have a right to Ulle.
Papa would expect me to try to hold the land and, if I could not, get it back in some
way sooner or later.
   "No," I said, "I do not want you to throw away your lives. I want you to do
nothing and say nothing. Move everything that can be moved into the caves. Sail the
boats under the cliffs where they cannot be taken. Make no resistance to the king. If
he takes Ulle, I do not think he will harm me. If he takes me away and sets a new
master into Ulle, cheat him as much as is safe. Watch for my father and my brother
so that they do not fall into any trap when they return.''
   I remember how Tom's eyes lighted at my words and the fervor in his voice when
he said, "We will be watching for them, lady." But there was no answering light in
my heart. I was only saying the words I knew papa would have expected me to say
and acting as he would have wished me to act. There was no hope or expectation in
me.
   As the king's army drew closer and it became clear that Stephen would not, as
some had hoped, pass east along the easier route south of the tarn and ignore Ulle, I
called the manor folk together and told them they must leave and take with them into
hiding all the valuables of the household. I bade them take not only the strongbox of
money and jewelry, the two pieces of fine plate, and the few glass and silver goblets
but all the stored food and stock, even the linens and feather beds and extra clothing.
When Stephen took Ulle, he would find bare bones, and old bones at that, with all
the marrow gone.
    I had wanted to stay alone; the people wanted me to flee with them, but I
explained that I must stay to maintain my father's claim to Ulle—I was wrong about
all this, but I was ignorant because papa had never explained such matters to me,
thinking women unable to understand, and the manor folk knew less than I did. But
they would not hear of my staying alone, and they arranged among themselves that
all the young men and women should go, leaving behind only a few old
womenservants and the men of my father's retinue who had been ordered to protect
Ulle in his absence.
   I had no notion they meant to fight. Papa had only bade them guard Ulle to salve
their pride—had he feared an attack he would never have gone, and Donald would
have stayed too, to fight for his own land. The men-at-arms papa left behind were all
too old or too crippled to go with him. But they gave me no warning of their
intention, and when Stephen's army was sighted, one column winding down the pass
from Darkgate and another creeping along the track by the tarn, the captain asked me
to go inside the main hall with the four women who had remained and bar the door. I
went without words, for he had already promised not to open the gates but to make
the king's men force them. I believed he wished to bargain for my safety—or,
perhaps, for his own.
    So I went inside and sat down on papa's chair to wait, and the women drew
stools close around me. The windows had already been shuttered, and the hall was
lit only dimly by the wan grey light that seeped down from the smoke holes in the
roof and the low-burning fire. I was not conscious of the passing of time, but it
could not have been very long because we saw the army soon after dinner, and when
I heard the first stroke of the ram on the gate, the light from the smoke holes had not
grown dimmer. The sound of the ram woke no fear in me; it was dulled by distance
and by the walls of the hall and the shutters on the windows. To me the hollow thuds
were much like those of heavy clods of earth falling on a coffin—all too familiar to
my weary ears.
   Then there was a crash. The women on the stools around me set up a wail, and it
took me a moment to hush them. Only then did I hear the shouts and a faint clashing
of metal on metal and realize that those foolish old men were fighting. I cannot
imagine what they thought they could accomplish, but perhaps they only wished to
die with honor instead of being driven out to beg for bread. At the time I did not
think of that. I jumped to my feet to run out and stop them, but the women clung to
me, weeping, ignoring my commands to let me go. And the battle, if it is not
laughable to call it that, was over before I could free myself. The clashing died away
and what noise there was of more men entering did not penetrate into the hall, but
soon the shouts began anew, this time in tones of rage as the invaders saw the bare
stables and outbuildings and realized the shell they had cracked was empty of meat.
   Around me the women, who had been murmuring to me, fell silent, although they
clung still tighter. I could feel their terror, and tendrils of it crept through the
dead-ness in my soul until my heart could scarcely beat, so encased was it in the ice
of fear. I had said the king would not hurt me, but what if he should torture me to
discover where the wealth of Ulle was hidden? I could not tell him. I did not know
where the manor folk had fled. There were caves and hollows in the hills that I had
never seen or heard of. Or what if Stephen should throw me to his army as a
scapegoat to be used by the men until I died?
   A mailed fist thudded against the hall door and a single male voice, strong and
clear, rose above the noisy confusion. A moment later the ram crashed against our
last defense. I suppose it was fortunate that it took no more than a few blows to
burst open the door and that I was frozen with terror. Had I not been, I would have
disgraced myself by running about and shrieking as mindlessly as any frightened hen.
   The splintering of the door loosed my women's tongues and they began to wail.
One further blow and the door sprang open, letting in the soft light of a grey winter's
day. It did not blind me, but it was bright to my dark-accustomed eyes, and my fear
gave a sharp-edged, slow-moving quality to everything that happened.
    First, a man in full mail with a bared sword in one hand and a raised knight's
shield in the other leapt in and stepped sideways to put his back against the door, as
if he expected the sealed hall was a trap. The shrieks of my women, augmented by
his entry, drew his head to us. The light then fell full on his face—dark and… and
hungry. I will never forget that face. I have reasons enough now to remember it, but
at that moment terror seared the features and expression into my memory. He had
lowered his shield when he saw only women and there was no nasal to the helmet he
wore, so I could see clearly the large, black eyes, the high-bridged, aquiline nose,
and the mouth—but that I did not see as I saw it later; then it was only a thin, grim
line in a black-stubbled face. Simple as I was, I thought he was the king. I learned
later that two men could hardly look more different—or be more different.
   The difference in looks I discovered in the next moment when a second man
came through the door, I knew at once the mistake I had made when I saw this
man's armor, for his shield was beautifully painted and gilded, whereas the first
man's was chipped and battered, and this man had a gold circlet affixed to his
helmet. This was the king, but somehow I was less afraid. His face was obscured by
the nasal of his helmet, but the eyes were mild, the mouth bland, and there was a
fullness about the chin that robbed it of determination even though it was not weak.
His expression, puzzled rather than angry, held none of the intensity of the first
man's, who said a word to him softly and went out with an indifference that showed
contempt and emphasized my powerlessness.
   Others came in then, but with sheathed weapons; and as the king approached me,
he put his own sword away and lifted off his helmet, handing it to a smaller
man—perhaps it was a boy, a squire. "Be quiet!" he said to the women. "I will do
you no harm." They obeyed him better than they would have obeyed me. He
stopped about a yard away from us, his followers respectfully behind him, and
asked, "Who are you?"
  The question was plainly addressed to me, and I suddenly found that my tongue
no longer cleaved to my mouth, bone-dry with fear. I answered quietly, "I am Lady
Melusine of Ulle."
  "Where is your brother Magnus?"
   His voice was sharp now, still not hard, but my heart sank. I remembered how my
father had said the king would know nothing about us, but papa had been wrong. It
seemed that Stephen knew far more than papa had guessed. Still, nothing could hurt
Magnus ever again, and my first terror worn away, the deadness in my soul had
crept back, making me indifferent to my own fate.
   "Magnus is dead," I said softly. "He was murdered on the road on his way home
from his betrothal."
   Shock, followed by sympathy, showed on the king's face, and it came into my
mind that I might yet save Ulle with weakness where strength would not serve. So
before Stephen could speak I asked, "Why did you attack me? I have done no harm
to anyone."
   The little hope was crushed at once. A kind of spiteful stubbornness replaced the
look of sympathy, and the king snarled,"Why did you seal your manor against me,
against me, the king? You knew your father and brother were rebels, gone over to
King David. Well, the lands are forfeit for that. I am done with forgiving rebellion.
And you need not think any will dare oppose me. I have cleaned out this sewer of
Scots lovers. Nor will there be any to lead uprisings. Your father and your brother
are dead, killed at Wark in open rebellion."
   I had known they were dead. I had known from the moment the shepherd brought
Magnus home with frost crystals whitening his eyes that whatever curse had fallen on
me on my thirteenth birthday would not lift until all I loved were destroyed. Still, to
hear it said, no longer to be able to fight the knowledge, no longer to be able to cling
to any shred of hope—that felled me. I must have fainted and perhaps I was
unconscious for a long time and that reawakened the king's sympathy. I learned
many months later that he had treated me with great kindness, but I have no memory
of that nor of anything else that took place until the beginning of September. I must
believe, little as I like it, that I was quite mad for nearly eight months.



                                CHAPTER 5


  Bruno
   "My lord, I do not want a wife, especially one I do not know, and I cannot
provide for one."
   Fortunately the king and I were private when the words burst from me, and he
laughed at my reaction. "You know Lady Melusine. She has been one of the queen's
ladies since you took her manor—Ulle. You must have seen her many times. She is
the tall, dark lady to whom I often speak—a very beautiful woman, very quiet and
gentle. Well, I think her gentle."
   I called her to mind as soon as the king described her, but I did not think her
beautiful—a big mare, good for heavy work like a peasant, not small and delicate like
a great lady. And her face—all I could remember was the expression of terror that
had twisted the features.
   "But, my lord," I protested desperately, "you have disseisined her, and for
excellent reasons. I heartily support your decision. Still, if I marry her, she will be
reduced to a condition unfitting her birth."
   "Nonsense," Stephen rejoined, still smiling. "If you take me for a fool, at least do
not tell me so to my face." He chuckled at my visible consternation and took my
hand, for I was standing before him. "Bruno, my Bruno, I know you have
nothing—" The smile on his lips twisted.
   "—and is that not your own fault for refusing bribes to whisper this and that in
my ear?" Then his look softened again. "It is wrong that you be poor because you
are honest. Moreover, although I am sure you think I had forgotten my promise to
knight you, I have not forgotten. I did not wish to do it without some special reason.
There are already some who look sidelong at you and call you 'favorite' under their
breaths."
   I knew at least one of those "some" who looked sidelong at me. As Waleran de
Meulan increased his hold on the king, he grew more and more jealous of anyone
Stephen loved, and Waleran knew I thought much of his advice wrong. He wished to
be rid of me. Could this marriage be his way to send me away from the king?
   To accuse him of it though would be a faster path to the same result, so all I said
was, "I am sorry, my lord. Perhaps my manner has been at fault. I will take more
care—''
   Stephen waved that away. "I have been seeking an excuse to advance you, and I
have found it in Melusine. For my purposes, she must be married, and to a man
whose loyalty to me cannot be shaken. Thus, the marriage is a service to me, and
will make it only reasonable for me to knight you and grant you a pension. But the
pension will be for you, Bruno. Melusine will remain Maud's lady, so her food and
much of her clothing will be provided. And since you will now be a Knight of the
Body, you will still be lodged and fed at my expense."
    Knight of the Body… then I would remain connected to the king, although not so
intimately as I have been as squire. That thought pulled me this way and that: I would
be safer if I was less close to the king, for I often nibbed him wrong by speaking my
mind or reminding him of the queen's opinion when he did not want to hear; yet I
loved him for his kindness to me and I owed him what little I could do to check his
impulsive nature. Also, I wanted to be a knight. God knows I was far past the usual
age for knighting and being a squire made those who did not know me look at and
speak to me in a way that rubbed my soul. And a pension… But at the cost of a
wife? I had a brief memory of Audris's face when she spoke of Hugh, and a
heaviness came into my chest at the thought that I would never see a woman look at
me like that.
  "It is too great a favor, my lord," I said. "There must be many men who are more
worthy,"
   "But I have chosen you," the king said, frowning now. "I trust you, Bruno, and I
think you less likely than any other to allow your wife to make trouble for me."
  I must have gaped at him like a fish out of water, for he shrugged as I echoed,
"Make trouble?"
   "I thought it would be sufficient to place her in a convent, but Maud will not hear
of it. Lady Melusine's father was a man of influence in Cumbria, and I hear from the
steward I sent to Ulle that the people are only waiting for a signal to rise up against
me. If Ulle rebelled, it is possible the rest of Cumbria would follow."
   "You think Lady Melusine would escape from a convent and return to Ulle to lead
a rebellion?" My voice rose with incredulity.
   "No, I do not," Stephen replied. "I have spoken to her many times, and I am sure
she is a—a docile creature."
   I wondered about that hesitation before the word docile, recalling also the way the
king had said he thought Melusine was gentle, but I only nodded acceptance of his
answer.
    "But," the king went on, "she did try to leave us secretly when we were on
progress in the north. I think the poor girl misses her old home. I doubt she ever left
it before I took her with me to court. Yet as long as she is unmarried, I dare not
allow her to go there even for a visit. There is too great a chance that a man of those
parts—and I trust none of them for I think they all have a secret leaning toward
David—might seize her and marry her. He could then claim her right to Ulle, and use
my denial of that right to raise rebellion."
  As he spoke Stephen's face showed only interest and his eyes were guileless. I
knew him and believed he was telling the whole truth, or as much as he knew of it.
But then he shifted slightly in his seat as if something had made him uncomfortable
and added, "And Maud says Melusine is hiding something, but I cannot believe it."
   That cast a different light on the matter. If Queen Maud said Lady Melusine was
hiding something and it was the queen who had opposed placing the girl in a
convent, her attempts to escape became more significant. Although it was no
pleasant prospect, I felt it was my clear duty to marry her. The queen had an
uncanny ability to sense any danger to her husband, so she was more likely to be
right about Melusine than Stephen. My selfish desire for a marriage of caring and
warmth must be put aside—not that I was losing much, since I doubt I could ever
have made myself an acceptable suitor to any well-born woman.
   "Very well, my lord," I said. "I will marry Lady Melusine when and where you
say."
  "You need not look as if I have just condemned you to torture."
   Stephen looked decidedly irritated, and I realized that my expression must have
been grim. "You have taken me by surprise," I replied. "I have never been
responsible for any other person, and to be tied for life…"
  The king reached out and grasped my arm, and grinned suddenly. "I understand.
Now that I think back, I could not have looked much happier when Maud was
proposed to me. I did not think she was an attractive woman." He laughed heartily.
"What fools men are. If I had known the prize that was being given me, the joy she
would bring me and the help, I would have spent the time between our betrothal and
our marriage on my knees praying for her welfare. But you can have no quarrel with
your lady's looks—ah, the pension."
   "I had not even thought of that," I said indignantly. "You must know, my lord,
that I have always found you over rather than under in generosity. As for beauty, I
prefer my women small and fair, so we are in much the same case. I do not think my
bride very attractive. I can only hope that fate will be as kind to me as to you. If my
marriage brings me even a part of the happiness in yours, my lord, I will be blessed
above most men."
   A small frown formed on Stephen's brow and then quickly smoothed away, and
he nodded in seeming satisfaction. "That is true, and my hope goes with yours.
Maud and I thought that fifty marks a year while you are on duty at court and a
hundred marks when you must live on your own means would be suitable."
  I bowed deeply. "That is indeed generous."
   I know neither my face nor voice betrayed my surprise and uneasiness at the
amount of the pension the king was offering. It was too much—a knight's fee was
twenty pounds a year, and out of that the knight must find food and shelter for
himself and his horse. With all necessaries found for myself and my wife, and some
clothing too, Stephen was offering more than a double knight's fee. Had such an
offer been made by any other man, I would have suspected that the woman was not
only a hunchbacked dwarf but a raving lunatic too. But I knew that Lady Melusine
was normal in appearance and quiet and well behaved among Queen Maud's ladies.
The overgenerosity had nothing to do with the lady; it was typical of Stephen.
   The king was large of promise, poor in fulfillment. I was certain that as soon as
the wedding service ended, Stephen would hand me a purse with the first quarter's
payment of my pension. I might receive another quarter, but after that it would
depend solely on the state of the king's purse. If it was full, the money would be
given with a smile and a jest; if it was not, I would have the smile and excuses; if I
persisted, anger would replace smiles—and the larger the sum that was owing the
deeper the anger would be. It was a fault I feared deeply, not so much for its effect
on me—if worse came to worst, I could always send my wife to Audris so she
would not starve—but for the dissatisfactions it bred among the nobles.
   As I came up from my bow, I could see that the king was dissatisfied by my
guarded voice and expression. I was struck by remorse, for I knew how much
pleasure Stephen took in making people happy—and he truly meant to fulfill his
promises, I am sure. It would not have hurt me to bend my lips into a smile. Stephen
was not much aware of other people's feelings and would never have known the
smile was false. But I had no time to amend my mistake, for his next words again
took me by surprise— only proving what a fool I am, for I should have realized what
he must tell me.
   "Then the day after tomorrow I will knight you, and in a week's time—let us say
the first day of September, that will be an easy day to remember—we will have the
wedding."
   I forgot completely the need to seem happy, as a wild protest rose to my lips, I
managed to swallow it, but I could not command my voice and could do no more
than bow again, and when I tried to speak, Stephen waved me off, saying petulantly
that I should go gaze on my bride's beauty and find a better mood.
   The remark about my bride I took to be an order, and I left the king's chamber to
go to the queen's quarters, but I doubted that Melusine's appearance would do much
to improve my mood. Although I knew better, I could not help but be irritated by the
king's expectation that I would show joy over his proposal. Even if I had believed he
would be faithful in payment, could he not realize that my heart would be heavy at
the prospect of taking an unwilling bride? But then I thought of what Stephen had
said, and I began to wonder whether Lady Melusine was unwilling. Some women are
so trained to obedience that they seem to have no will at all. That idea did not make
me much happier. I suppose it is better to have a placid, obedient wife than a bitter,
unwilling one, but it woke no enthusiasm in me. The only great lady I knew well, my
beloved Audris, was as willful and naughty as she was sweet and delicate, and I
thought that a great part of any woman's charm. I always chose my whores from
among those with saucy tongues.
   The thought was double-edged. With a wife in my bed I would no longer need to
use the whores. Not only would that save money, but Lady Melusine would, I
hoped, be cleaner and sweeter smelling than a whore. On the other hand, the notion
of a woman with the right to ask me about my comings and goings was not so
pleasant, and I thought again with resentment of the king's great eagerness to bind
me to this woman I did not even know.
    In a moment I realized I was being unfair. There were good reasons for the king's
haste. A knighting and a wedding would be a diversion for the small court gathered
around Stephen at Winchester. For a little time each event would provide something
to talk about besides the increasing number of men who were rebelling against the
king. In June, the attempt in Normandy to ambush Robert of Gloucester had borne
bitter fruit despite the king's denials. Gloucester had sent envoys to Stephen to cry
defiance—a formal renunciation of Gloucester's oath of fealty. Although it was no
part of the defiance, the messengers had also carried the bad news that Gloucester
had submitted Caen and Bayeux to Geoffrey of Anjou.
   Many of Gloucester's English vassals had followed his lead, some because they
were good and honorable men but more because they were discontent with what
Stephen had given them, having hoped from his promises for much more. If
Gloucester had come to England at once and united those men, I do not know what
would have happened, but he had not. Each had cried defiance separately, and thus
far, Stephen had put down each rebellion as it rose. But as defeat for each rebel was
only followed by another's defiance, even those most firmly committed to the king
were growing uneasy.
   To make matters worse, King David had attacked and besieged Norham castle in
June; for a time he had seemed stalled there, but through July and August the news
had been very bad. Castle after castle had fallen to David, and the Scots had flooded
down through Northumbria and Durham and were now threatening York. Yet
Stephen did not dare go north to fight David lest the Scots' attack be only a feint to
draw the king away so that Gloucester could come from Normandy after all and lead
a unified rebellion. That would deprive Stephen of the rich and populous south—not
to mention the ports through which Queen Maud's ships brought men and money
from her lands.
   Any diversion, even such small ones as a knighting of the king's squire and the
marriage of one of the queen's ladies, would be welcome. I would have been in
urgent need of diversion myself—little as I had to lose if Stephen were driven out of
England—if I had not had a letter from Audris that past week, telling me she was
safe in Jernaeve and Hugh was off to join Sir Walter Espec, who was gathering an
army to defend the north. Audris's news had comforted me; foolish as it was, I felt
that Hugh was doing my part as well as his own in defending the shire. I knew I
could not go myself while trouble held the king in the south, but I did not worry
about Jernaeve. The Scots might raid the lands and even take the lower bailey, but
they would never take the mighty keep itself by assault or siege. If I knew Lady
Eadyth, Jernaeve was stocked for a year or more and Audris would be safe.
   Moreover, I thought, stopping abruptly in the middle of the hall, the diversion
provided by my knighting and marriage would be especially absorbing because there
would be meat enough for vicious gossip over the giving of a true-born lady to a
whore's bastard. Then I started forward again, almost smiling. There might be talk,
but as the king had said, there would be little envy. Stephen would be sure to
describe his generosity to everyone—perhaps that was another fault, but most of the
time I found the king's eagerness to be praised rather endearing. It would save me
from making more enemies, since all who did not know already would soon learn
that Lady Melusine's father had been disseisined and she had no dower.
   On that thought I reached the top of the stair and entered the small anteroom to
the queen's chambers. The page nodded to me and before I could ask for Lady
Melusine called through the door, "The king's squire for the queen."
   It was not worthwhile to make the boy feel a fool by correcting him. I knew
Queen Maud would not be angry when I explained the mistake—she did not have
that kind of haughty temper—and perhaps she would bring me to Lady Melusine and
ease our first introduction to each other. Beneath that thought lay another. If this
marriage was Stephen's idea and he had not discussed it with his wife, it was
possible that Maud would oppose the union. With the queen on my side, I was
certain that I could escape; but Maud's first words, after I bowed before the chair in
which she sat and said I had no message from the king, dashed that hope.
  "You have come to see Melusine, I suppose. That was kind, Bruno, but I think it
would be better if you did not."
   A bitter bile rose in my throat, but I think my voice was steady when I asked, "Is
she so unwilling? Because I am a whore's son? Madam, if she—"
   "No, no," Maud assured me. She had been slow to interrupt only because she
had first risen from her chair to take my hand. "She is not unwilling at all. I have told
her of the marriage and of your birth." The queen hesitated and smiled at me with a
hint of apology in her eyes. "I had to tell her. You know what the court is like. She
would have heard from others in a less pleasant way. But I was also able to explain
why the king and I had chosen this marriage for her—that you were kind and would
take her without any dowry and that you would surely find great advancement
because you were a fine man and because of the deep love the king bears you, and
of my own affection for you, Bruno."
   "Thank you, madam."
   I hope she understood the sincerity of those few words. I loved the king in spite
of his faults, but I respected and admired the queen to the very depth of my soul.
When not driven by her need to help and protect Stephen, she was both wise and
kind. It was certain that she had used all of her considerable ability to persuade Lady
Melusine that I was a prize of inestimable value, to make me acceptable rather than a
hated necessity, which I would certainly have become if the queen had simply told
Melusine that the marriage had been the king's order and could not be opposed.
   "Then why," I continued, "should I not see Lady Melusine and tell her myself that
though I take her by the king's command, I will do my best to be a kind husband?"
   "A small precaution," Maud replied, going back to her chair. "You remember, do
you not, that you were the first man into the hall at Ulle? If Melusine should
recognize you, she might change her mind and try to refuse to marry."
   "All the more reason for me to speak to her now—" I began.
    "No," the queen interrupted, and her eyes now looked like bright black stones. "I
tell you that will she, nill she, she will marry you within the week. I would prefer that I
do not need to drag her bound and gagged to the altar, but I will do it if I must. The
bishop of Winchester will marry you, and I will find witnesses to testify that she was
willing. Stephen has too many troubles now for me to allow this girl to add even a
small one, and the way to keep her from that is to have a husband loyal to the king."
Then her expression became gentler. "But that would be a dreadful beginning, and I
do not want that for you, Bruno."
   "And if she recognizes me at the altar and cries out?" I asked, my voice harsh
although I tried to keep it quiet.
   "I do not think she will notice then," Maud said. "She will be confused and
excited, and even if she does recognize you, I think she is too clever to try to
protest. I have given much thought to this girl—no, woman. Maiden she is, girl she is
not. For months she has tried to show herself as quiet and gentle, utterly obedient,
but I sense that this is all a lie. It is what I said—a show put on to deceive us and
make us trust her. There is much, much more to Lady Melusine than I have ever
seen. And she is much beloved by the lords of Cumbria. The king has had inquiries
about her health and well-being even from those most faithful to him."
  "But surely—"
   The queen shook her head, cutting off what I would have said. "The king and I
are agreed that you are the only suitable man for our purpose. And, perhaps
Melusine will not recognize you at all. If she does, you will soon be able to convince
her that you were only doing your duty to your master. After all, you did her no
harm. You did not, if I remember aright what Stephen said, even go near her."
   "That is true," I had to admit. "And I left the hall at once. Lady Melusine was very
frightened. It may be that she will not remember me."
   "I hope so," Maud said, "but I do not wish to take any chances. And since you
are to be knighted before the wedding, I can tell her that you were given no
opportunity to come and speak with her. I see that you do not like this, Bruno, but
the king believes, and I agree with him, that having given your oath to him, rich or
poor, you will keep it to the death."
   "That is so, but there are other men as loyal," I said, and the queen, who was as
sensitive to the feelings of others as Stephen was blind to them, no doubt heard the
hint of resentment I could not keep from my voice.
   Instead of growing angry, she smiled at me. "Be that as it may, there are other
things that can change a man besides the desire for power and wealth. As many men
have been bent—and broken—by women, though few men will admit it, as by other
cravings. And Melusine is beautiful—and clever. I know that despite her long
attempt to make me believe she is stupid." Maud put out her hand and touched mine
in a kind of gentle apology, which puzzled me until she uttered the words, "Whore's
son, you know more about women than any other man I know."
  "I?"
  My shocked expression as the word burst from me made the queen laugh. "Yes,
you. I have seen how you look at the maidens of my court. Women have no hold on
you."
   I thought of the way a single tear sparkling on Audris's lashes could turn my
bones to water and make me allow her anything she desired no matter how wrong or
dangerous. But was that not because I remembered her as an infant, her little wet
kisses the only show of love that had ever been mine? It was true that what made my
shaft stand hard could not touch my will. Still, I knew there was a kind of weakness
in me; what made my heart warm could make me foolish too.
  "I know my place," I said, because if I tried to explain that I was not as hard to
women as she thought, the queen would only believe it was another protest against
this marriage.
   She shook her head. "Many men know their place, but what is in their eyes is
different than what is in yours. You are the right husband for Melusine. She will not
be able to trick you or drive you into treason, and because you are the man you are,
I believe she will come to value you as you deserve. Then you will be happy,
although I know you now think Stephen and I are doing you a wrong."
   I did not make a formal protest. The queen would have known it for a lie, and
though I was truly willing to die for Stephen's sake, I had never expected to be asked
to endure a life sentence of torment instead.
   Before I could bow my acceptance, Maud got up and moved closer to me,
touching my hand again. "Bruno, if this marriage remains bitter to you, when the
kingdom is firm in Stephen's hand, you may set your wife aside. We will help you, I
promise."
   I do not know what I said as I bowed and the queen nodded and gave me leave to
go. It must have been thanks of some kind because I understood she meant well, but
the notion was shocking to me, almost as horrible as the expectation of a wife who
hated and scorned me. Perhaps I could set such a woman aside, but what if my hell
were of my own making? What if Melusine were stupid, and the queen had misread
her? Could I cast aside a simpleton who disgusted me when she was trying to
please?
   Those were not thoughts I wished to dwell on, and I reminded myself that I had
something much better to think about. If I was to be knighted in two days, I must
cleanse myself and prepare. For that I needed time, so I presented myself to the king
again and asked for leave for that purpose. He was still annoyed with me, and for a
moment I thought he would deny me. Then he looked amused, nodded, and waved
me away. Perhaps he was thinking that such a serious attitude was not fitting for a
man of my years, that bathing and confession and a night of vigil were only meant to
impress a young man and I should know better. Or perhaps he was surprised that at
any age the ceremonies of faith and dedication to the order of knighthood should be
more than a formality to be overpassed if possible.
     I did not care. From the time Sir Oliver had sent me away from Jernaeve, I had
believed I would never have a chance to attain this goal. To me knighthood was a
high honor, not mine by right of birth but an achievement. If that achievement was a
little soiled by being tied to a marriage I did not desire, so much the more must I take
care that my heart was clean and that my understanding of the purpose and duty of a
knight was whole and perfect within itself, separated from outside matters.
   I had no close friends, although there were those who liked me well enough to
have helped me make ready if I had asked, but I did not desire help. Those I drank
with and whored with were by nature light of heart and would have hurt me unawares
by jests and teasing. So I was busy all that afternoon. First I had to arrange for a real
bath in a tub in a private room, rather than a steaming and scouring in a bathhouse,
then I needed a white gown to wear after my bath when I went to confession. It was
fortunate we were in a cathedral town or I might have had trouble finding one on
such short notice. My last errand was to arrange with a priest to hear my confession
after vespers the next evening. After that I found a quiet corner and cleaned my
sword and armor. I kept it sound and free of rust, of course, but to stand before
God and His saints, the dull grease-clotted mail was not good enough. It took me
until it was too dark to see that day and almost until dinnertime the next, but when I
was finished the mail shone like silver, brighter than it had when Sir Oliver gave it to
me.
    I suppose I must have spoken to people and eaten and suchlike, but I remember
nothing of that. I remember washing myself—with soap to be sure I was clean—and
the odd thought, as I walked from the house where I had paid for the use of a
chamber to the church, that I was glad it was summer or my feet would have been
cold. I confessed that petty thought as I confessed my greater sins and my lack of
faith in my doubts about my coming marriage. It was a long confession, for I was
not usually overcareful in freeing myself of my sins. I heard my penance and
rejoiced; I would perform it and be free. My heart was lighter, even when I thought
of Melusine, as I changed into my armor and went to stand and pray through the
night. I have no more to say of that. I do not wish to hold anything back in this
telling of my life, but I have no words for what I thought and felt.
   To my surprise and great joy, I was not without sponsors. William Martel, the
king's steward, and Robert de Vere, his constable, separated from the group
watching and came forward, one taking my sword and the other my helmet, so they
could return them to me as first and second guarantors of my fitness for knighthood.
And the queen, acting for the king, gave me a pair of gilded spurs as third guarantor.
I was so happy, I could have floated up on to the dais, but I managed to keep my
feet on the ground and even kneel.
   The king looked down at me and I saw the mingled amusement and remaining
touch of spite in his face. He meant to knock me off the dais to sprawl on the floor
and I almost let him do it—almost, but when the blow from his fist came my pride
would not yield and I braced myself. He rocked me, but I did not fall, and he
laughed, his good humor restored as I sprang to my feet. He embraced me with
good will, and called my name aloud, "Sir Bruno of Jernaeve, Knight of the Body, I
greet you." I knew him, all his faults and weaknesses, but how could I help but love
him nonetheless?
   There was time to change out of my armor before dinner, but when I presented
myself at the king's table and he had, as was customary because of my clumsiness at
carving and presenting, excused me from serving, I noticed that Melusine was not
among the queen's ladies. The king might have forgotten a small thing like that; the
queen would not. I have no doubt it was Maud's doing too when, after dinner, the
king summoned me and sent me off to Oxford with a letter for his castellan. Since I
was given no verbal message that might need discretion, any messenger could have
done the task as well.
  I guessed at once that the purpose was to keep me out of the way; nonetheless
when the castellan of Oxford confirmed my suspicion by telling me it would take him
a day or two to find the answers the king desired, I was overwhelmed by a black
loneliness. Although I had known the time for fulfillment could not be soon and my
chances of success slim, I had nourished a dear dream ever since the king had taken
me into his service. I had hoped that when England was firmly in Stephen's hand, I
would be given some estate as a reward for loyalty. Then it would be possible for
me, I dreamed, to take a wife—a woman who would be a pleasure to my eyes and
heart and who would come willingly, even with joy, to my bed so that I would have a
warm, caring companion with whom to share my life.
   That dream was utterly destroyed. From the queen's eagerness to prevent
Melusine and me from catching even a glimpse of each other, I had to assume that
Maud had used the word "willing" to gloss over a sullen acquiescence to the king's
command. Then, even if Melusine did not recognize me as the first invader of her
hall and think of me with hatred, it seemed the best I could hope for was a cold
indifference. One spot of warmth and light shone steady above the sea of black
despair—Audris's love. To that I turned, purchasing parchment, quills, and ink and
setting myself to pour out my anguish, writing in my own hand what I could never
have spoken out loud to a scribe.
   It was not the first time that I blessed my slow and awkward management of a
quill. Before I had struggled through the first part of the tale, I had rehearsed my
bitterness in my heart ten times over, not only that I must take an unwilling wife who
was not to my taste but that I would in the end carry this burden without the ability
to feed and clothe the woman, who must be as unhappy as I with the bargain. The
fourth or fifth time that ran through my head, I finally understood what it meant.
    If the king failed in payment of the pension he had promised, I might be brought
to the point where no resource at all remained to me so that Melusine might need to
live on Audris's charity some day. I did not need to add to my poor wife's bitterness
by sending her to a place where she would be treated with cold courtesy, for I knew
Audris would resent anyone she believed had made me unhappy. Thus, I realized
that no hint of my reluctance to marry Melusine must stain the letter.
   By then, thanks to God, the very thought of Audris's sympathy had soothed me
and I began to think that patience and kindness might in the end win me what I
hoped to have at first. I did not then believe that even fondness could make Melusine
beautiful to my eyes, but that was a small matter. One hardly sees the physical form
of those with whom one spends every day—there were some among my fellow
squires I had once thought ugly, some beautiful, and now I did not notice the
difference between them.
    I cannot tell how often I wrote and rewrote that letter. I scraped clean that
parchment so often that the surface became too rough and the ink spread from each
letter into a blot no matter how carefully I wrote. Still, I never found the right words
to explain my marriage. At last, every explanation seemed suspect to me, and when I
got a fresh parchment, I wrote to Audris only that I had been knighted and that I had
more important news for her which I would bring in person as soon as I could get
leave to come to Jernaeve for a visit. And after all my effort, I could not find a
messenger willing to carry my letter to Jernaeve. All had heard horror stories of the
Scottish invasion, and I knew there was no purpose in arguing. I could send my
letter with one of the king's messengers going to Newcastle. Having talked, or rather
written, myself into some concern for the poor woman whose dreams had no doubt
also been shattered, I used the idle days in Oxford to have new shoes made and a
fine gown of dark red, richly embroidered, as elegant as any nobleman's dress.
Usually I dressed plainly, partly to spare my purse, partly because I was more
comfortable in simple garments that freed me of the constant worry of soiling and
spoiling, and partly so that no man could say that the king's favor was making me
rich. In this case I thought it more important that Lady Melusine not be shamed or
shocked at our wedding by a common appearance after all she had probably already
borne from gossip about my birth.



                               CHAPTER 6


  Melusine
   Mad! I must have been mad, for by the king's and queens's orders, I was
married—without a murmur of protest, I have been assured—to a man without name
or property, a landless bastard who had no more to recommend him to me than that
he was the favorite of my captors.
   I do not remember being dressed; I do not remember the king leading me to the
great doors of Winchester; I do not remember Henry, bishop of Winchester,
speaking the words that bound me to Sir Bruno of Jernaeve; I do not remember the
crowd of witnesses that watched my wedding, nor the celebration that followed it,
nor being undressed and shown to my groom. Doubtless he was displayed to me
too, but I must not have looked at him, which was taken for maidenly modesty, I
suppose. I do not remember the chaff of jest that flew about, nor being led to the
bed and placed into it with Bruno beside me.
   All I remember is a piercing pain between my thighs and suddenly coming awake
to see above me the face of the man who had burst in the doors of the hall at Ulle
and turned away from my terror with such contempt. The shock deprived me of
both speech and movement, and I did not fight him or even cry out in my pain. To
me, no time had passed between the moment I dropped senseless before the king in
my agony of grief and finding myself impaled on the shaft of the invader of my
home. I could only believe that the king had thrown me to his army to be used until I
died, and that kind of death was a horror that again deprived me of my senses.
   I came to myself with screams bubbling in my throat, with my hands curved into
claws—and with nothing to claw or scream about. I lay unmolested, a fine woven,
light woolen coverlet drawn up over my shoulders. For a single instant my heart leapt
with joy as I wondered if all the horrors that had befallen me were no more than an
evil dream; in the next moment I felt the ache between my legs and the stickiness on
my thighs that told me my maidenhead had been reft from me and that the soft
breathing to my left was not a maid on a pallet but that man.
   One man. A flood of relief lifted me on a wave crest only to sink me into the
trough with shame that I should prefer to be an enemy's lemman to dying, even by
torture. And the shame brought back the face I had seen above me—handsome in its
lean, dark way, although I have never found dark men to attract me—which bred
more shame. There had been no joy, no pleasure, not even a leer of lust in that man's
face. The hunger I remembered in his expression was there, but it was not hunger for
me. That was a deep, abiding part of his nature. Overlying the hunger was the hard
mask of a man doing a distasteful duty. But why should a man who did not want me
take me for his lemman?
   Though the answer to that question—that one does not refuse what a king offers,
even if it is not what one desires—came into my mind at. once, I had no time to
consider it because a maelstrom of incongruities burst upon me. A thin woolen
coverlet was all that covered me, the bed curtain was looped back, and by the light
of the night candle I could see a black rectangle of unshuttered window—yet I was
almost too warm. In the depths of winter?
    A faint shudder passed through me as I remembered Magnus's frozen eyes. Yes,
it had been winter when Magnus was killed; I could not be mistaken about that. And
it had been no longer than a few weeks later when the king took Ulle. But the light
breeze that came from the open window and stirred the bedcurtain near my head was
heavy with warmth and sweet with the scent of flowers, and the wall into which the
window was set was stone. This was not Ulle, and winter was long gone.
    I very nearly fainted again and for what seemed like a long time I did not think at
all. The first new question that formed in my head after I realized that I had lived out
the winter and spring and most of the summer—instinct, not thought, had picked out
the scent of late-blooming plants— was how long I had been the lemman of a man
whose name I did not know. I almost turned to look at him, to confirm that I had
really seen the face I thought, but the slight movement of my hips recalled a shadow
of my pain and reminded me of the blood that had flowed. I had, then, been a
maiden until this night.
    Screams of a different kind of terror tore my breast, but I set my teeth against
them. It is no light thing to realize that more than half a year of one's life is gone
without one spark of memory to mark it, but to me it was a worse thing to wake the
man beside me. I could choke back my cries, but my body would not be denied
completely and I could feel deep tremors starting inside me. Holding back my
shudders with the last of my will, I eased myself inch by inch out of the bed. Once I
felt the man stir, but he did not turn toward me and I made good my escape.
  A few steps took me to the door, but I was no longer mad and I stopped. Where
could I run, naked and blood smeared? Clothing lay across two chests. I stepped
softly to that with the woman's garments, but I did not don them. The cloth was
richer than any I had ever worn, even for a high celebration at Ulle, and the gown and
tunic gleamed with gold thread embroidery. Who had given me such garments and
why? Even if the king had decided to carry me with his court—what could stone
walls mean but a royal keep?—as some kind of trophy of victory, such a gown and
tunic could not be everyday attire. That notion joined and mingled with the soreness
I felt on walking, and it came to me what such fine clothing and the loss of my
maidenhead after so many months of captivity must mean. Marriage!
  "Comeback to bed."
  The deep voice brought a faint squeak of terror from me before I could close my
mouth with my hands. I stood frozen, regretting that I had not pulled on the clothes
and fled.
  "Come back to bed," the man repeated. "You will take a chill standing there
naked. The night is warm, but cold oozes from the stones. Come. I will not touch
you again."
   The tone was weary and sad, the words spoken slowly, as if to one who had
great difficulty in understanding, like a very young child or… or a woman of feeble
mind. That was when I first realized that the months missing from my life were
missing because I had been mad. A protest rose to my lips, but I swallowed it down,
wondering if I might not benefit from being still thought out of my mind. Then the
bed leathers creaked and I knew that the man was making ready to rise and put me
back to bed. I could not bear to look at him, so I came back before he could move
and lay down. A moment later he started to turn toward me, and I shrank away
instinctively before I could think whether that might anger him. If it did, he did not
show it then for he came no closer.
    I neither wished to sleep, fearing that despite his promise, he would take me again
if I did, nor did I think I could sleep. I suppose that my shock and confusion had
exhausted me, however, because I remember lying stiff and wary at one moment
and, seemingly, the next, opening my eyes to see sunlight in the room. This time
though I had no need to gather the small fragments of memory together. The man,
fully clothed, stood by the window, looking out.
  "Get up now, Melusine," he said. "You will want to dress before the king and
queen come to see that you have been well and truly made a wife."
   I realized that I must have been wakened by him saying my name, but he did not
turn his head toward me as he spoke, only repeating, "Melusine, get up and dress
now."
     I stirred then, unable to bear the dull, patient repetition. As I got out of bed, I
seethed with fury. What kind of a man, I asked myself, marries a madwoman, even
at a king's command. Only the dregs of the earth—either a coward, shivering for the
safety of his skin, or one so eaten up with greed that no act is too shameful if it will
fill his purse. My eyes flicked from side to side seeking a weapon with which I could
rid myself of this creature, but there was nothing, and I remembered that he had said
the king and queen were coming. The king and queen? Then I was at court. But I
had no time to think of that. I did not want to be found naked with blood-smeared
thighs, and I hurried to the chest, laid the fine garments on the other, and opened it.
   "Do you not wish to wash?" The slow words were a mocking insult. "There is
time for washing, and I have poured water for you."
    Still without turning, he pointed to a table on which stood a basin with a washing
cloth and a drying cloth folded beside it. I hesitated a bare instant, unwilling to
accept what seemed a kindness from the animal that had despoiled me, but I was
disgusted to sickness by the dry stains on my legs, and I almost ran to the table. In
stretching my hand for the washing cloth, I saw my nails were all filthy, and I
shuddered, realizing that I had scratched at the smears during my sleep when they
dried and began to itch. The reminder was of use though, for I washed my face
first—I could not have borne to wash it with dirty, bloody water—and then my
hands, only last cleaning my legs and the thick black curls that covered my woman's
parts.
   I could not even bear to leave the water in the basin, and I carried it to the pot to
pour away, but the moment I saw the pot, of course, I felt an urgent need to relieve
my bladder and bowels. Before that man? I threw a hate-filled look at him and saw
that he was still staring out of the window. Then I realized he had not once looked at
me—or if he had, it was no more than a brief glance. One can feel it when one is
watched, I more than most because I had been so often annoyed by my father's and
brothers' watchful eyes. So he found his bargain distasteful, did he, that clod who
had accepted a madwoman or half-wit for profit?
   While the thoughts coursed through my mind, I had used the pot. He must have
heard—there are unmistakable sounds—and he made one small movement that
almost caused me to leap up half finished. But he did not turn, only moved the
shoulder he was leaning on the window frame. Nor did he speak again until I had
selected clothing from the chest and pulled on my underclothes and tunic. When I
thrust my arms through the sleeveless summer bliaut and settled it on my shoulders
to show the proper amount of the embroidered neck of the tunic, he asked, "Shall I
lace you up?"
   I was too surprised to reply, partly by the keenness of his hearing, which had
apparently told him to what stage my dressing had progressed, and partly by the
offer itself. But it was necessary. The loose gown of a peasant woman can be simply
pulled over the head. At Ulle I had a number of such gowns for work in the stillroom
or the garden, but the fine bliauts of a lady laced tight to the body from hip to breast
either at the back or the sides, and a maid was necessary. The absence of a woman
to assist me was another shock. Who had helped me dress all these months—or had
I been moping and mowing in a cage all this time, only drawn out to be married to
this man? And married for what purpose? Ulle?
  He turned and came to me before I could speak the bitter questions in my mind. I
do not know what showed on my face in the instant before I made it blank; it did not
matter because I do not think he even glanced at me. A surge of fury at his contempt
followed. What right had he to be contemptuous of me? One does not deliberately
go mad. It is no shame to be stricken by the hand of God or to be broken by
sorrow. To my mind it was a far greater shame to fill one's purse or lickspittle by
taking a mad wife. Nor did it soothe me that he knew well how to lace a lady's dress,
drawing it just so in a way that did not furrow the cloth between the lace holes. So he
was a womanizer too. Well, who else would take a mad wife but a man who used
women so freely that a disgusting wife meant nothing.
  "There," he said, turning me about and stepping back. "You look… ah… very
handsome. Can you comb your hair or…"
   I almost spat in his face, but my growing rage needed a fuller—a
bloodier—satisfaction. I had no weapon now and knew I could not kill him even if I
had. I remembered how he carried himself with sword and shield under the weight of
his armor when he burst through the door of my hall,and I had been watching him
since I woke. There was an easy, fluid grace to his movements that told me he was
too strong and too quick to be taken by surprise… when he was awake. I would
need to wait until he slept. And I would need to appear half-witted and harmless…
and find a knife.



                                CHAPTER 7


  Bruno
   I could have spared the effort to look as fine as the other noblemen. It would have
made no difference if I had dressed in rags or come unshaven with my hair knotted
in filthy tangles. All the thought and effort I had given to my appearance on my
wedding day, to make myself as different as possible from the battle-stained person
who had burst into the hall of Ulle, were wasted. Not once, from the time the queen
brought her to the church door, did Melusine raise her head and look at me.
   At first all I felt was relief. The thing that had haunted me at every odd moment all
the time I was in Oxford, all the sleepless night before the wedding, and all the long
day—for the king and queen had chosen that we be married just before
vespers—was that Melusine would take one look at me and begin to scream. I knew
the queen; the girl would be forced one way or another to go through with the
marriage, but I did not know whether I could endure it, and it would ruin forever the
small hope I had of bringing my wife to true acceptance.
   I did nothing to draw her attention to me as Henry of Blois, bishop of
Winchester, began the wedding service. But when I lifted her limp right hand to place
the ring on her finger and even more when I had to lift her face to kiss her lips, I
began to suspect that the queen had given Melusine some potion to keep her quiet.
There was something wrong with her eyes—I cannot define what it was, only say
that there seemed to be no soul behind them. I felt sad that Queen Maud thought it
necessary because that implied that Melusine's objections had been stronger than
sullen acquiescence; however, I was not angry. Better to deal with the screams and
tears in private. The whole court had attended the wedding, I suppose by the king's
request, and the last thing I needed was gossip among them about an unwilling bride.
   The worst, the very worst, was taking the poor girl's maidenhead. The king and
queen did not permit any long delay over the disrobing, cutting short the usual spate
of bawdy jest and comment which had broken out as soon as Melusine's magnificent
body was exposed. I have said before that I prefer women to be small and delicate,
but no man could have found fault. Her skin was like pale, dull cream-colored satin;
her breasts large and full but firm; her waist narrow; her hips broad and strong; her
dark hair, glinting with red in the light of the torches, fell to her beautifully rounded
buttocks. At another time and place I suppose I would have responded as any man
to that lush invitation. On the day of my wedding, however, even that beautiful body
could not arouse me, and my shaft was shriveled to nothing with disgust and dread.
I have never been sure whether Melusine and I were hurried into our chamber, away
from the guests, as soon as they acknowledged there could be no annulment for
physical fault to conceal Melusine's condition or to conceal mine.
   The queen herself helped Melusine into the high bed, and the king came and put
his hand on my shoulder, saying, "Be gentle with her." He hesitated, glanced toward
Maud and added, "But make her your wife beyond doubt or question."
   Stephen's glance toward the queen saved me from utter consternation. If he had
observed my distaste for himself, most of the other guests would have been equally
aware, but that the queen had urged him to make sure I did not leave my bride a
virgin did not surprise me. I thought of it nonetheless. A small cut could provide
enough blood to give evidence of our mating and free me of the need to violate an
unwilling woman. But I put the thought aside as Stephen and Maud went out. To do
that would betray their trust.
   The sounds from outside stopped suddenly, and I knew either the king or queen
had shut the door. My first thought was that the drug must be wearing off—I was
surprised that it had lasted so long—and the closed door was to conceal the shrieks
of my bride. I shuddered, but when I glanced at Melusine she was sitting just as the
queen had left her, apparently staring at her own fingers. My next thought was that it
would be best to broach her while her senses were still dulled and that, drugged as
she was, with her will weakened, her body might respond and make her ordeal easier
or even a pleasure. With that in mind, I got into bed quickly and touched Melusine's
shoulder. It was smooth and cool—too cool.
   "Lie down," I said, and then, hoping to excuse what might seem a peremptory
order, I added, "You are chilled."
   For a long moment she did not respond, either to my touch or the words. Then,
without lifting her head, she slid down and pulled the cover up. In that moment I
became aware that her skin was soft and smooth and her hair and body had been
scented with something sweet that was a delight to smell. The inviting odor gave me
a spark of hope. If she had perfumed herself, was that not for me? Perhaps not.
Perhaps that too was by the queen's order.
   I suppose I should have said something more. Had she reacted in any way, I
would have known what to say. As it was, I was afraid anything I said would be
wrong. I lay down beside her and stroked her arm and hair—but she responded to
that no more than to my first touch, lying with closed eyes. Her face could have been
carved of stone for all the expression it had. I did think of trying to arouse her, but I
dared not play the rough games that delighted the little whore of Alnwick, nor invade
her private parts as I did with that girl and others to make her ready. Slaps and
tickles can only be exchanged between those who are fond and trusting, and to place
fingers or lips to Melusine's nether mouth without invitation would, to my mind, be
worse than the forced coupling itself.
    I am not sure why that notion was so fixed in my mind. It seemed to me that to
couple by order would be equally unpleasant to both of us, but 1 would have had
pleasure out of touching and fondling and if she was unwilling that was unfair. I was
growing angry too over the sullen, passive resistance, over her stubborn refusal to
recognize my presence at all. By the moment I grew more certain that it could not be
all the result of the drug. No drug could keep its full power for so many hours, and I
resented the fact that Melusine did not guess this was as hard for me as for her. That
was foolish. Later I realized that most women think a man is always ready, but it was
not so for me. I had never forced a woman in my life—I suppose because each time
an opportunity arose I imagined Audris in the place of the terrified girl. But it did not
occur to me then that Melusine could not know that.
     The anger helped, although I still needed to handle myself to harden my shaft.
That made me angrier, but it also led me to wet myself well with spittle to make entry
easier. I did it for my own sake, not for Melusine's; later I was glad I had hurt her as
little as possible. It troubled me that she did not move or open her eyes when I
mounted her and thrust her legs apart with my knees, but I dared not stop for I knew
I would never again nerve myself to broach her if I did not finish.
   The full horror of what I was doing did not overwhelm me until, at my first really
hard thrust, when I burst her maidenhead, I felt her stiffen to fight me off. That
response, the fact that she had made any response, even a kind I did not desire,
encouraged me to thrust twice or thrice more, since her passage was now
well-slicked with blood and my motion must hurt her less, perhaps even give her
pleasure. And then I realized she had gone too lax. This was not the stillness of
submission or pleasure; the poor girl had lost her senses.
   I could not continue. It was like having ado with a corpse, and I found it no
sacrifice to withdraw without spilling my seed. I looked at Melusine, and the light of
the night candle was enough to show me that she was breathing evenly. She would
soon revive, I thought, and turned my back intending to sleep, but a fear that had
passed glancingly through my mind a few times took a stronger hold on me. What if
Melusine's behavior had not been caused by a drug? What if the queen was wrong
and she was half-witted?
    I felt the body beside me jerk and then lie stiffly still again. I knew I should turn
and speak to her, but I could not bear to have my fear confirmed. If only she would
rail at me, curse me, strike me—but she lay quiet without speech or movement.
Later—I had almost drifted off to sleep despite my heartsickness—I felt her leaving
the bed. I turned carefully, only enough to follow her with my eyes, hope rising
again, but the poor creature only took a few steps toward the door, then a few more
toward the chest on which her clothing lay. Then she stood still, as if she had not
mind enough to understand where she was or what had befallen her. For a few
minutes my sickness rose high in my throat so that I could not speak, but at last I
forced myself to address her calmly, softly, slowly, so I would not frighten her and
bade her to come back to bed.
   As she had done before when I addressed her, at first she did not respond,
seeming almost not to hear, but then she slowly did my bidding. Then I understood,
and I had some ado not to burst into tears—I am not sure whether out of pity for her
or for myself. Poor thing, poor thing, she was slow to obey not out of sullenness or
reluctance but because it took her so long to understand what was said to her. I felt
her settle beside me and began to turn to her, thinking to comfort her like a child, but
she shrank away, and remembering that I had hurt her, I decided to let her be until
her feeble mind lost that memory of hurt. Then, knowing the worst, beyond hope or
doubt, I slept.
   The morning began with a confirmation of my unhappy knowledge. Melusine had
to be told everything—to wash, to dress. The only action she took without my order
was to use the pot. Yet there were also little things that kept pricking me into doubt
and hope. True, sometimes she seemed confused about the simplest matters,
standing as if bewildered when I pointed out the water for washing, yet she had
sense enough to put aside her elaborate wedding garments and seek for plainer ones
inside the chest.
   I began to see why the queen had not been willing simply to thrust Melusine into a
convent and forget her. But I had no time to devise any way to test my doubts, for
Melusine was hardly dressed when the king and queen came with other guests to
witness the consummation of our marriage. I do not know whether I could have
faced Stephen and Maud without resentment if that small thread of doubt had not
been woven into the blanket of sadness and disappointment that covered me. As it
was I could barely keep myself from asking bitterly what I had done to deserve a
half-witted wife. But I suppose none of my bitterness showed on my face. Maud
looked well pleased and smiled at me as she held up the blood-smeared sheet.
   I am still not certain why the queen was so intent at that time on having Melusine
bound in marriage beyond any doubt. Perhaps the rebellions and the Scots invasion
made her feel that one more trouble, even a small one, was unbearable. Or perhaps
she believed that if Melusine escaped and made her way back to her own property,
the lords of Cumbria would not only take her in and protect her but rise in rage
against Stephen. I saw her take the sheet to store away, as if she might need proof
that Melusine was well and truly a wife, and then the king came and struck me
fondly, saying he had missed my service and I should come with him.
   I saw no more of Melusine that day. The king dined privately with his brother
Henry of Winchester and Roger, bishop of Salisbury, and commanded me to take
the dishes at the door, as I had done as a squire when Stephen desired privacy. I do
not think I looked surprised or indignant—I certainly did not feel either
emotion—but a few minutes later Stephen suddenly broke off what he was saying to
the bishop of Salisbury and beckoned to me.
   "I forgot you were a Knight of the Body now," he said contritely. "This service is
not fit for you."
  "My lord," I said, smiling—who could fail to forgive him when it was so clear he
meant no insult?—and, after all, I had myself forgotten my new state, "any service
you ask of me is fitting."
   But then Stephen began to draw me into the conversation. At first I was troubled,
thinking that he was trying in that way to make up to me for asking a squire's service
of me. Soon, however, I saw he was not thinking of me at all, except as an escape
from a greater unease. What that was I could not tell; there seemed no special
subject that the king wished to avoid. It was as if the very presence of his brother
and Salisbury made him uncomfortable, even when they had nothing over which to
quarrel.
    That idea made me so uneasy that I did not give Melusine another thought all day.
I knew that Roger of Salisbury had been Henry I's chancellor and justiciar, and with
the assistance of his nephews (if they were nephews and not sons) Alexander,
bishop of Lincoln, and Nigel, bishop of Ely, who was the king's treasurer, Salisbury
still managed almost the entire government of the country. I do not know whether
they were good and honest men, but I did know that the chancery and exchequer
performed their business smoothly. They had accepted Stephen and I thought
served him well. I was sorry about the coolness between the king and his brother,
but that had existed since the end of the siege of Exeter. It would be worse if
Stephen's anger was growing to involve Salisbury and his subordinates.
   My concern was partly selfish. If Stephen now distrusted Salisbury and gave his
offices to someone with little experience and ability, no doubt one of Waleran's
family or friends, it was possible that revenue to the exchequer would fall. I had little
doubt that the first expense to be cut would be the payment of pensions. But after
the bishops left, I felt ashamed of my thoughts. It seemed that the king had really
missed me, for he kept me close the whole day. We rode out after dinner, hawking,
the king flying the superb bird he had been given at Jernaeve. Between the flights,
Stephen talked, mostly of how he had frustrated any hope of Robert of Gloucester
and Empress Matilda coming to England—but it was Queen Maud who had the
largest hand in that.
   When Walchelin Maminot, who held Dover, rebelled to give Gloucester a port of
entry, the queen had bidden her ships from Boulogne to blockade Dover from the
sea while she brought an army to besiege it from the land and forced Maminot to
yield to her. Not that Stephen was trying to steal credit from his wife as so many
men did; he valued her above anything on earth—or in heaven, for that matter.
   It was only a careless form of speech, partly because he truly considered himself
and Maud one body and one soul and partly because he was in high spirits. There
had been no new uprisings, and all the south of England, except the far west, seemed
to lie quiet in his hand.
   I could not help thinking of the Scots swallowing up the north, but I held my
tongue. I knew well by now the king's habit of setting aside unpleasant thoughts and
dark prospects with an easy optimism. In this case, despite the pain I felt for my
land, I could not blame him. It was impossible for Stephen to leave the rich,
well-peopled south to drive the Scots away from a poor, barren shire. He had done
so twice already, showing his good intentions toward Northumbria and Yorkshire,
but times were more dangerous now. If the king took his army northward, there
might be more rebellions. Then men who held other ports than Dover at which the
earl of Gloucester and Empress Matilda might land could have second thoughts and
welcome them ashore.
   By the time I was free of service, it was dark. I fear my mind was so far from my
marriage that I would have sought my old sleeping place had not the king dismissed
me with a half-jesting apology for keeping me so long from the new delights of my
marriage bed. I was fortunate that he turned away from me too quickly to notice the
shudder I could not restrain at the memory his words called up. I thought of finding
myself another place to sleep, but I could not leave the poor creature to whom I was
married in doubt and perhaps fear—if she remembered me and the hurt she had
suffered.
    The door was open, but only the faint glow of the night light lit the chamber when
I arrived. Melusine was already abed, either asleep or pretending to be so by the
stillness of her body under the coverlet. I was glad of it, for it spared me the need to
talk to her, and I undressed and lay down on my left side with my back to her,
hoping that if she were only pretending my position would be sign enough that I
would not trouble her.
    Fortunately for me I was more accustomed to sleeping on my back or my right
side and not at all accustomed to sharing my bed with anyone. Because I was not
comfort-able, I could not sleep, so after a time I turned gently to my back. Melusine
gave no sign of being aware of my movement and I began to relax. Perhaps I was
half asleep by then and my breathing changed its rhythm, but the presence of another
in the bed kept me from letting go completely. A tiny shift in the sheet and mattress
brought me more awake. Had the movement been swiftly over, I think I would have
dismissed it and truly slept, but it was too slow and went on too long to be a natural
shifting. I do not think I felt any suspicion, only a mild irritation because Melusine
was not yet asleep and a sleepy reluctance to find words of reassurance. But
suddenly the slow shifting changed to a swift lunge upright, and a shadow with a
dully gleaming tip arced downward toward me.
                               CHAPTER 8


  Melusine
   The night when I first regained my senses had been so full of terror and my
waking moments so full of rage that my head had no room for memories or my heart
for grief. Perhaps too I closed papa and my brothers out of my mind for fear of the
agony remembering my loss would bring. I had played such tricks on myself in the
past, when I was trying to forget what my thirteenth birthday had brought upon my
family. That morning, although I did not deliberately refuse to think of my menfolk, I
may have slipped into the old pattern out of hate and fear. I knew that my only
chance for revenge would be lost if anyone suspected that I was no longer mad.
Thus my entire attention was devoted to behaving as closely as I could to how I had
acted before I recovered my wits.
   Since no one seemed surprised when the queen brought me in among her
ladies—and several who had not come to see the proof that my maidenhead had
been wrested from me greeted me kindly—I assumed that there had been no need to
confine me in the past. Beyond that I had no guide, but it seems that my hesitation to
reply or act, bred out of the fear I would betray that I was in my right mind now, was
considered normal for me. As soon as my terror of exposing myself was a little
eased, I began to think where I could obtain a knife long enough, strong enough, and
sharp enough to kill.
   From Donald. Papa would not give me a long, sharp knife and Magnus would ask
why. The unbidden answer was in my mind before I could guard against it, and with
the thought came an involuntary bracing of my body as if to endure a physical pain.
But there was no stabbing in my chest or throat so sharp as to stop my breath.
There was only loneliness, the terrible knowledge that my menfolk would never again
help me, cosset me, or interfere with me. In that great desolation, my resolve to kill
the greedy cur that had married a mewling madwoman for favor and gold hardened
for I had nothing to lose. The punishment for murder was death, and death would
save me from being alone.
   Perhaps I sobbed once or made some low sound of misery. I was not aware of it,
but a woman came to me and led me to the queen. Clearly Maud had no idea that I
was grieving for a loss more than half a year in the past. She thought only of my
current state and tried to reassure me about the pain of coupling and explain that my
husband was a kind man of the highest character and a great favorite of the king. I
did not want to listen; I did not wish to hear good things about a man so venial that
he would marry a madwoman for profit; I would not believe what she said.
  All I felt was surprise that she should trouble herself to try to soothe me, but I
saw the way she watched me as she spoke and guessed that she was suspicious of
me. I could not guess why. What danger could one helpless prisoner be to the queen
of England? My father and brothers were dead; they could not come to rescue me.
And even if they had been alive, there was not the strength in Ulle or even all of
Cumbria to challenge the king. Yet after Maud spoke to me and I was led away, it
seemed to me that I was watched constantly by one or another of the queen's ladies
when Maud was not herself among us.
    That puzzle so teased my poor head that the sharp anguish caused by
remembering my loss eased. Later, I was shocked when I realized how easily I had
been diverted from a pain that should be consuming me. When I thought of it, the
pain was there, but put away in a corner of my being, almost as if I had been aware
my dear ones were dead over the lost months of my madness and had been grieving
all that time. I was familiar with the separation of grief from ordinary life; I had lived
with that buried ache since my thirteenth year.
   The fact that my life was not at all ordinary right now also overlaid the pain. The
queen's suspicion must have something to do with Ulle and so did my marriage. I
was certain of that, for in myself I was only a young woman without power or
influence. Perhaps mama's relatives in England… but we had lost touch with them
after mama died. Anyway, I was certain that papa had told me years ago that mama's
own brothers were dead and there were only cousins, whom we never saw. It must
be Ulle. If only papa had explained to me what could give Ulle such importance
instead of telling me always that a beautiful woman had no need to trouble herself
with politics. What value could a poor manor like Ulle have to a queen and king who
ruled a whole nation?
    I had to keep pushing the puzzle out of my thoughts, for it was leading me into
senseless speculation that was diverting me from seeking a knife. Other things
diverted me too—a woman who stared at me for a moment, making me so nervous
that her words pierced my preoccupation. She said, with a shake of her head to the
friend seated near her that it was a shame to give Bruno of Jernaeve a wife who had
not sense enough to appreciate a man with so little interest in playing with women.
  And the other laughed and said, "Did you try for him too? I think a man whose
mother was a whore might know too much about women."
   "Perhaps," the first admitted with a shrug; then her tongue flicked out to touch her
lips and her voice thickened, "but I have heard he knows all the right things as well
as all the wrong ones."
   They spoke low enough to keep what they were saying from other ladies at a little
distance but ignored me as if I were a cushion or a bench, although I was too close
to miss a word. I kept my head down watching my fingers and cursing them. Until
that woman spoke it, I had not known the man's name. Now I knew it was Bruno of
Jernaeve, and he became more a person, less a symbol of the fall of Ulle and of
greed without honor. I rose and wandered about, touching this and lifting that, but
without much hope. The queen's quarters were not a good place to find a weapon,
there being little beyond embroidery needles and small, delicate eating knives
available. I did not need to steal one. I had my own eating knife, but the short,
narrow blade would have to be aimed too exactly. It would not guarantee success to
a hurried thrust in the dark. What I needed was a wide, double-edged hunting knife.
   I felt a fool as soon as I thought the words. That man must have a hunting knife,
and he was not wearing it this morning. He had been dressed in plain, sober
garments— not the sort of clothing one would expect the son of a whore to
choose… Son of a whore. It was his name that had first stuck in my mind, but now,
as I tried to remember the details of his dress, those words came back. They
explained the hunger I had seen burned into his soul and the greed that had driven
him to accept marriage to a madwoman. Pity stirred in me and I ground it down. It
was true that his mother's trade was no fault of his, but someone had lifted him out
of the dirt. He had the means to gain an honorable livelihood. There was no need for
him to become the lickspittle of an usurper.
   His knife would do if it was with his clothing and other possessions, but I needed
to get back to the chamber in which we had slept to find it—and to free myself from
the women who watched me to steal it and hide it. A need to piss came over
me—from fear at the thought of what I must do and what must follow that act, I
suppose—but I found that I knew where to go, although I could not remember ever
having used the privies. I wandered toward the door, and I heard a voice call after
me, "Where do you go?"
  I made no answer until she came after me and gripped my arm, and then I said,
"To piss."
   The woman sighed and let me go, but she followed me out of the queen's hall to
the privies at the back. Nonetheless, after I relieved myself I did not go back to the
queen's hall but to the guesthouse chamber I had found myself in last night. I stood
in the doorway at first simply letting my eyes wander about the room. Since my
gaoler was behind me she could not see where I was looking; perhaps she thought
my eyes were on the bed—still tumbled because I had no maid of my own, as I
judged from the fact that no one had come to help me dress. I suddenly remembered
how skillfully Bruno—no! that man; I would not think of him by name!—had laced
my dress. Yet the gossiping women had said he was not a womanizer.
   None of that matters, I told myself angrily, pulling my eyes away from the
untidiness that grated on me, the cover half sliding to the floor and the pillows all
awry on the bare mattress from which the queen herself had removed the sheet. That
act made me seem a person of importance, but the lack of a maidservant surely
showed that I was of no account at all—unless the queen, or the lady responsible for
such matters as assigning a maid (I had not the faintest idea how so great a
household was managed) had forgotten. Yet people of importance are not
forgotten… and unimportant people are not watched.
   My thoughts having come round full circle again, I barely restrained a cry of rage
and forced myself instead to consider the knife I needed. I could see the chest
holding my clothes from the doorway, but I had to step farther into the room and
turn to see the man's possessions. My watchdog followed, and I heard her exclaim
wordlessly—I assume when she saw the unmade bed—and step out again. I took
two swift steps toward the chest, then froze as I heard the woman call to someone
and bid that person watch the door and keep me within. And then the door closed.
   I remember a strange sensation about my mouth and cheeks and then realized I
was smiling. To be able to feel the difference told me how very, very long it had
been since I last smiled—but what had I had to smile about? Now that I had purpose
again, I could smile with satisfaction if not with joy. I was on my knees beside the
chest, praying it was not locked, heaving it open before the prayer was finished, my
fingers catching in the engraving on the lid. I barely stopped myself from grabbing
garments and tossing them to the floor as I took in the neatness within. I had
expected the same wild jumble that filled my father's and brothers' chests no matter
how often I created order in them, but here every shirt and tunic and pair of braies
was folded and in a place, even those that were worn and clumsily patched!—no
doubt by the hand of a man who had no woman to mend his clothes. Pity wrung me
again; although I do not know why, there was a terrible feeling of loneliness in that
inept patching and careful folding.
   I drove the pity out, cursing instead the pinchpenny ways of the low born which
made it needful for me to remove and replace the contents of the chest with care
when I might be interrupted at any moment. Without more ado, I lifted out the fine
gown that man had worn to the wedding, then a layer of plain sober tunics and
chausses like those he had worn this morning, and finally came to a set of stained
learner garments that must be hunting clothes. Beneath them lay what I sought.
    The knife was long and strong with a wide, curved guard, and I had some trouble
forcing it up my inner sleeve. It was sharp and keenly pointed too, and cut the cloth
in several places as I shifted it around so it lay along the outside of my arm. Anyone
who saw the sleeve would see what I had hidden there, but my long, wide outer
sleeve would hide it, and it was heavy enough so that I could not forget it and
expose it by accident. Having replaced the clothing, I closed the lid and could not
help seeing that the carving that decorated the lid formed the word Bruno. I turned
my eyes away and hurried back to stand where I had been when my watchdog went
out. Not long after, she returned with a maid who carried a clean sheet. I did not stay
to see the room put to rights, but went back to the queen's apartment.
    The rest of the day was worse. I hardly had to pretend not to hear what was said
to me or to be slow to understand. I could think of little else than what I must do this
very night for the weight of the knife in my sleeve made my purpose real and did not
allow my mind to wander from it. There were moments when I exulted: I would have
my revenge for the violation of Ulle and of my body and cut away this favorite from
the king, who had been papa's enemy, as my papa and brother had been cut away
from me. But somehow my joy in revenge would not stay clean and hard.
   I was not much afraid, for all but my life had been reft from me already—I had no
family, no lands, even my body was forfeit to my enemy—and a brief time of pain
would make me safe and rejoin me with my papa forever. But somehow the contents
of Bruno's chest—not a nameless enemy but a man called Bruno—kept rising before
my eyes. I saw again and again those patched and folded garments, and tears
prickled behind my eyes when I thought that the hands that had taken such patient
care would never touch them again.
   Still, the day passed and at least I was spared being seated beside the man Bruno
either at dinner or the evening meal. The queen dined in the great hall, but the king
did not, and the evening meal was served to the queen and her ladies separately in
the queen's hall. After I had choked down what I could of it, I rose and walked
toward the door. As before, a lady pursued me, asking where I would go, and I
paused and thought and replied slowly, "To my own chamber, to bed."
   This reply caused great mirth and several crude jests about how even the
slow-witted had sense enough to learn quickly the pleasure of the body and how I
would no doubt sleep less restlessly now that I had a husband. I should have
expected it, I suppose; I knew about wedding and bedding and the sly teasing that
accompanied them, but my case was so different that the implication of what I had
said had not occurred to me. My head came up to snap back a hot retort, but
fortunately my glance caught the queen's face, and I saw that the smile on her lips
was not mirrored in her eyes. She nodded as if in agreement with the jests, but she
also ordered the same woman who had followed me before to go with me and find a
maid to help me undress and sit with me until I slept.
   Perhaps the fact that I made my way to the chamber unerringly and had stayed so
quietly in the room earlier gave the woman confidence. Whatever her reason, I could
see by the irritated downturn of her lips that she thought the queen's precautions
needless. In the hall outside the queen's solar, she had beckoned a maid to follow us.
She stopped outside the chamber, leaving me to myself while she instructed the
maid, so I had time enough to move the knife from my sleeve and conceal it under
my pillow. Once in the bed, I lay quietly, looking about for a time and then let my
eyes close. Later, I turned to my side and thrust my hand beneath the pillow to grasp
the hilt of the knife.
    I think I did sleep for a while, for I do not know when the maid left. I came awake
when the mattress sagged under the weight of another body, but I could not have
been deep in sleep because I knew at once who it was and what I must do. Memory
of pain, of the slickness of blood on my thighs, of the hard contempt on the face of
the man who had violated me without joy or pleasure flooded me with hate. My hand
tightened on the hilt of the knife, ready to draw it forth and kill the moment he
mounted me—but he did not touch me at all. I suppose that should have been a
relief; it was not. I hated him more, both for making me wait to kill and for the scorn
that dismissed me as not desirable.
    I did not move and neither did he, but I knew he was no more asleep than I. And
as my heart pounded out the long, slow minutes, my rage against him grew, and I
remembered tales of the old days when the most common way to gain lands was to
kill the holder and his male heirs and marry a daughter of the blood. Perhaps this
creature had urged the king to let him take Ulle because he had already murdered my
father and brother. The longer I lay tense and still beside him, the more reasonable
that seemed to me; and the more reasonable it seemed, the more eager I grew to
draw out the knife and cut out his heart.
   I fought against that desire, knowing that my chance of success would be much
greater if the man was asleep, and at last he turned on his back and after a little while
the sound of his breathing changed. Then I dared draw the knife from its hiding
place, little by little, and little by little, inch by inch, free my knife hand of the covers,
turn on my back, and move my left arm so that I could lift myself up in one single,
swift motion and stab downward.
    I do not know what mistake I made. Perhaps I drew a deep breath before I thrust
myself upright; perhaps I hesitated a tiny instant before I stabbed
downward—although I had smothered it and buried it deep, there was a horror in me
at the thought of killing, I was sure he was sound asleep when I moved. I know my
left arm held down the coverlet so his right was imprisoned. And still, with all my
precaution, I did not even prick him. As the knife swept down, when it was no more
than a hairsbreadth from his throat, he put out his left hand and caught my wrist—
without effort, without surprise, with the ease of a mother preventing the mischief of
a baby—and laughed, laughed!
   He did not even hurt me! He did not wrench my wrist or twist my arm. He was so
strong that even though I was above him, pressing down, he simply raised my arm
away from him and sat up—and laughed. And then he said the strangest thing:
"Good evening, Lady Melusine. I am glad to meet you at last."
   I gaped at him, too stunned to make a sound, and he shook his head and grinned
at me. I could see his expression well enough, for my eyes were accustomed to the
dark and the night candle was behind me so the light fell full on his face. I swear he
looked delighted. A chill of terror rippled along my spine. All I could think was that
he had been waiting for an excuse to beat me to death and now had it.
   "It is too late to look at me like that, my lady," he said with a satisfied chuckle.
"You never managed to convince the queen that you were an idiot, and your
cleverness at obtaining and hiding a knife has given you away to me. I do not know
the purpose of your game, but the game itself is now useless, so you may as well
speak lies as act them. Come, give me the knife. I cannot let you keep it just now,
and I do not wish to bruise you."
    I blinked at the last words, and looked down at the knife, realizing that though he
still held my wrist too firmly for me to move it, he also held it gently. But if he
intended to beat me for trying to kill him, why should he worry about a bruise on my
wrist? Could I use the knife to defend myself? As the question rose in my mind I
realized I had instinctively been straining against his hold all the time and his hand
had not even quivered. It seemed to me that he was the strongest man I had ever
come across in my life, for I remembered that my brothers had never been able to
control me so easily. Later it occurred to me that I had essayed no trial of strength
against my brothers since we were all children, but at the time all I felt was that any
idea of self-defense was hopeless. I.allowed my hand to fall open, and watched him
pick up the knife, raising my eyes to his face to seem unafraid.
   His smile had disappeared, but he did not beat me or turn the knife on me. He
released my wrist and got out of bed, asking in an easy, cheerful voice, "From
whom did you take the knife, my lady? I must return it."
   "It is yours," I said, beginning to wonder whether the king and queen had decided
to marry a madwoman to a madman. I had a vague memory of Maud telling me that
Bruno was a sweet-tempered man, but even the sweetest of tempers must resent
being a target for murder.
   "Very clever, my lady." He tossed the knife carelessly upon his chest and took a
twig to the night candle to light the tapers on the stand where he had set the water for
my washing in the morning. Then he turned toward me and nodded with what
appeared to be real approval. "You saw that I did not wear hunting garb this morning
and reasoned that I must have such a knife. Clever. Clever."
   Clever? What was clever about reasoning out so simple a matter as the fact that
any man had a hunting knife and if he was not wearing it, it must be with his
possessions? Yet he seemed to be gloating over my ability. But surely he could not
really take pleasure in being the victim of attempted murder? Was this a cruel game
to ease my fear and thus make my suffering worse when he attacked me?
   "So how will you punish me?" I burst out. I suppose my fear made my glare at
him seem more virulent.
  To my surprise, he dropped his eyes and repeated sadly, "Punish you? Not in any
way. I know you have cause to hate me—or fear me. What you did was natural
enough. I hope some day we can both forget this, or laugh over it."
   Laugh over it? Laugh? What cause could I have to hate him or fear him? Because
he burst into Ulle? But he had done me no harm except to look at me with contempt.
Why should he look down as if ashamed over that? Perhaps it was not only that.
Could the wild thought that he had been the one who killed papa and Donald be
true? I should have felt a new welling of hatred, but all I felt was confusion, which
was compounded as I stared at him by my awareness of his naked body.
   He was still standing close to the candles and I could see the thick muscles on his
arms and chest and, in a swift glance that I could not resist, even though it shamed
me, on his strong thighs. Between them, the hair was so dark that his shaft showed
pale. My eyes fled from that at once, but not so soon that I did not see that he
seemed larger than my brothers, and as I looked up I saw that he was staring at me. I
was sure he had noticed where I was looking, and I shrank back. He turned away at
once, caught the knife up off the chest and opened it to draw out a coarse tunic,
which he pulled on after dropping the knife in the chest. Now I think I may still have
been a bit mad, because I had so much to fear yet what troubled me was that Bruno
had no bedrobe.
   "You need not be afraid," he said harshly. "I will not force you again." He
hesitated and then went on, still with his back to me. "I am sorry for taking you
against your will last night, but I had given my word to the king and queen that I
would make you my wife beyond contest or doubt—you must have known what
would result when you agreed to accept me as your husband."
  "I never—" I began, and then fell silent.
   Perhaps I had agreed to the marriage. I had no memory of it, but I had no
memory of anything. Could I tell him that? Would he believe me? Recalling his
words about my trying to convince the queen that I was an idiot, I doubted anything
I said could shake his belief that I was playing some sly game. Besides, I did not
want him to know of my weakness. He had turned to face me again and I met his
eyes defiantly, not knowing what else to do.
  "I want you to know," he said, "that I was no more eager for this marriage than
you—"
  "And how could you be forced to marry?" I interrupted bitterly.
  "I was told you were dangerous and that it was my duty."
   "Dangerous?" My voice squeaked in surprise, but it was fear that prevented me
from laughing afterward, for Bruno's eyes flicked sidelong at the chest where lay the
knife with which I had tried to kill him.
   He merely shook his head and smiled, however, saying, "It is too late to pretend
innocent frailty. You are a clever and beautiful woman, but I must warn you that I am
not a man that can be led around by my rod. Neither beauty nor cleverness will turn
me against the king and queen. I owe Stephen a great debt of gratitude and nothing
will make me betray him."
   He called me clever and beautiful, but I grew cold again. I was sure he was telling
the truth when he said that passion had no hold on him. I remembered what the
women in the queen's chamber had said about Bruno that morning: The whore's son
knew too much about women, and surely I have never seen a man look at me with
greater indifference. But underneath the hardness was that hunger. Whoever learned
to satisfy that—if it could be satisfied— would be Bruno's master. I recoiled from
the idea; it was more likely that whoever probed that hunger would be swallowed up.
   "I am your prisoner?" I asked, my voice quivering in spite of my efforts to keep it
steady as he came toward me.
   "In a sense, I suppose you are," he said irritably. "I am pledged to make sure that
you commit no act of treason against King Stephen, but I wish you would stop
pretending to fear me." Then he sat himself on the bed and looked deliberately
toward the chest. "I seem to be in more danger from you than you are from me," he
went on, turning his eyes back to me. "I have told you already that I will do you no
hurt. We are man and wife and must find a way to live together. I want to be able to
sleep at night without expecting a knife in the back."
   I could feel my blood rising into my face, but I made no reply. I knew I would
never be able to nerve myself to try to kill him again, but why should I give him the
ease of mind of admitting that?
     "I have a proposal to make to you," he said, his face set like stone. "You know
my state. I am a landless bastard, a whore's son. I desire an estate. Your condition is
little better than mine, for you have been disseisined. Stephen holds your lands, and
you have no hope of restoration because the queen knows you are an enemy. But I
am close to the king and have some influence with him. It is not impossible that, in
time, Stephen can be convinced to grant your lands to me. Understand, I will make
sure you cannot raise rebellion against the king, but you will be able to live in the
comfort of your own home among people you know. If you will make truce with me,
I will promise to do my uttermost to have Ulle and whatever other lands belong to
your estate restored to us."
   I do not know how long I sat staring at him. My first impulse was to spit in his
face because what he said seemed to confirm that papa and Donald had died by his
hand so he could marry the heiress to Ulle. But he had also said that he had been
unwilling to take me as his wife. Which was the lie? And then I remembered that
papa had married against his will to keep Ulle. Surely he would expect no less of me.
And once at Ulle, it would be easy, so easy, to avenge papa's death. It would not
even be necessary to shed any blood. Accidents were all too common in my part of
the country even for those who knew the land. It would be very easy to arrange one
for a man who was ignorant of the wild winds that came of a sudden down our
mountains and swept men and horses off the narrow roads that hung above the deep
tarns. And when my husband was dead, I would inherit his lands. Ulle would be
mine again! My breath eased out and I lowered my eyes. Papa would approve of this
truce. He would rest easy when Ulle was in my hands and his killer was dead.
  Slowly I put out my hand. "Truce," I whispered.



                                CHAPTER 9


  Bruno
   The glitter of the night candle on the knife blade gave me an instant's warning, and
I caught Melusine's wrist just as the point touched my throat. It took all my strength
to lift her arm away from me and to hold it until I could sit up. I suppose I should
have been angry, but instead I was filled with a crazy joy because the queen had
been right. I was not married to a witless lump of flesh. This woman might be a
devil—indeed, she looked it with her big, black eyes wild and her hair disheveled as
she strained to free her arm and plunge the knife into me—but I could fight a devil or
come to terms with it.
   The sickness that had pervaded my very soul all day was gone, and I could not
help laughing for joy. I do not remember what I said first; it was silly and shocked
her, but it served my purpose in letting me take the knife from her without hurting
her. At first she tried to pretend idiocy again and then tried to make me believe she
was terrified of me, but I soon showed her I could not be deceived by such
pretense.
   One thing I told Melusine most sincerely was that I was sorry for my rape the
night of our wedding, that it was of necessity not of my will. I do not know whether
she believed that because, when I got out of bed to light candles so that we could
talk, she had no doubt seen that the sight of her had half roused me. I put on a tunic
then, so she would not be able to think she could judge my thoughts by the swelling
of my rod—and I warned her that the desire to couple never warped my will. But I
doubt she believed that either; women never do—and I must admit that with life and
fire in her she was far more lovely than I first thought her, although she was still a
bigger, darker mare than suited my taste.
    Despite that and her dark coloring, which I never cared for in a woman, she was
lovely, and I had to remind myself more than once that she had tried to stick a knife
in me. Nor from the way her eyes met mine would it be her last attempt, and there is
no way for a husband to shield himself from his wife at all times. Clearly she felt her
life would be well lost if she could end mine, and if she had no fear of retribution,
unless I maimed her or locked her into a dungeon, she would succeed sooner or
later in killing me.
   I thought then that she remembered and hated me for taking Ulle. I was the first
man in, and she blamed me for the loss of her lands. That was not reasonable, of
course. It was the king who had ordered the taking of the manor, and if I had not led
the attack some other man would have done so. Ulle would have been reft from her
in any case. I almost said that, after telling her that I wanted to be able to sleep at
night without fearing a knife in the back, but I stopped myself in time, hoping she
would not notice the sheen of sweat that burst out on me when I realized how
serious a mistake I had nearly made.
   As a flash of lightning over a battlefield will etch each detail, everything had been
made clear to me. I suddenly knew why I was the man Queen Maud had decided
must be Melusine's husband, the only suitable man. I had been chosen because I
was the focus of Melusine's hate, because as long as she had me to hate, the queen
hoped she would not turn that hate on the king. But why had the queen not simply
done away with Melusine if she thought her so dangerous? Partly, I guessed,
because Stephen had become fond of the girl, would not believe ill of her, and
would be angry if harm came to her, and, of course, partly because Maud was not
sure Melusine was dangerous. Had Maud hoped that if Melusine attacked me I
would kill her in a rage or while defending myself? If so, she had misjudged me.
Despite my liking and admiration for the queen. I knew that she was not in the least
scrupulous when Stephen's good was at stake, and I would not do her dirty work
for her.
   And then, as swiftly as I had seen the problem, I saw the solution. If Melusine
hated me because she blamed me for the loss of Ulle, could we not live in peace if I
promised to do my best to get Ulle back for her? But why should I? I could not
admit that my purpose was to cool her hatred for the king lest it set ideas into her
head and make hatred a prize to cling to against all reason.
  While all these thoughts flickered through my head, my eyes had rested on
Melusine's face. The flush of color that had come into her cheeks when I said we
were man and wife and must learn to live together still lingered and reminded me of
another reason she might hate me. A lady born might resent being forced into
marriage with a whore's landless son—and she would certainly believe that he would
use that marriage as a basis to win lands of his own.
   I had to phrase my proposal carefully, pointing out that she had no chance at all
to regain her lands without me, and that I could only serve that purpose because I
was a favorite with the king. Thus, I hoped I had made clear that Stephen and I were
both necessary to her purpose and must not be targets for her spite. In fairness, I
warned her that, if I were successful in getting Ulle regranted, I would not permit her
to use those lands for treasonous activity—but I was not really worried about that.
Women are not much interested in political matters unless they affect them directly.
   I was very pleased by the length of time Melusine took to think over what I had
said. Had she leapt at the offer without thought, I would have had grave doubts of
her understanding and seriously accepting the proposal. But she thought for several
long minutes, her eyes fixed on my face as if she hoped to pierce through and see
what was written in my mind, and only slowly stretched out her hand to me, saying
softly, "Truce."
   I felt she meant it, and I took her hand. "We will both benefit by peace," I told
her, "but I must remind you that to achieve this purpose will take time. I hope you
do not expect me to ask tomorrow and be granted the lands the next day."
  "I am not a fool," she said, and then blushed hotly.
    I laughed, knowing she had remembered that she had deliberately been acting the
fool. "You have got yourself into the stew by pretending to be an idiot," I remarked,
not sorry to rub a little salt in the wound. Perhaps she would be more careful of the
lies she acted in the future, but the pretense was now as awkward for me as for her,
so I went on, "Can you think of a way to climb out of the pot? I will be glad to help
in any way I can, since I do not want everyone laughing at me for being married to a
half-wit."
    "There are more who would envy you than laugh," she said with a wry twist to her
full lips. Her voice was deep for a woman, without the lilting quality that made
Audris's speech so charming.
    I thought that over because in a way she was right. Most men seemed to prefer
silly women—even the king, although he had come to value his wife highly. I too
valued a clever woman who could talk to me and even in certain matters advise me
because Audris had been such a one, and during my early life I had no other friend
or person to love, man or woman. And now that Hugh had married Audris I was
again without a heart that belonged only to me.
   I was glad for Hugh and Audris, but a pang of regret stabbed me and I released
Melusine's hand, which I had been holding absently since we swore truce with each
other. How I wished she had offered me that hand in trust and affection instead of as
a thin bridge over a river of hate. But I would not despair. We had a great interest in
common, and that might easily be a foundation on which trust and affection might
some day be built. For the present, it was fortunate that my notion of what was best
in womankind seemed to fit with hers, if I had read that scornful turn of the mouth
aright.
   "I am not one who cares for stupid women," I said. "I wish to be able to
approach my wife and be seen to talk with her with pleasure when the king takes his
ease with the queen."
   Her eyes, which had been on the hand I had been holding and then released, rose
to study my face. She looked startled and then very thoughtful and at last said
slowly, "I suppose I could pretend to have been sad and fearful and thus guarded
my every word so that I seemed dull. And now that the worst has befallen me I
could pretend that it is not so bad as I expected so my fear could wear off slowly."
   I was not too well pleased with her remark that she could pretend the worst was
not as bad as she expected. It seemed a poor return for all the effort I had made to
soothe her, but then I reminded myself that she believed she had cause to hate me
while I had none—except her unwillingness to marry me—to dislike her. Still, I said
to her, rather sharply, "I hope that pretense will include civility to me in public."
   "Yes," she replied, "of course. If you are to have any chance to retrieve my lands,
I must seem reconciled to my fate." Then she frowned and added thoughtfully, "We
will need to balance carefully between seeming content with each other and waking
suspicions in the queen that you are growing enamored of me. It would be better if I
seemed to come to you and seek your attention."
   Clever, I thought—not as I had thought earlier when the fact that she could think
at all was a blessing like a shower of gold to me—but with some caution. Melusine
not only had a quick mind but also did not allow herself to be diverted from a
purpose by foolish considerations of pride. It could not be easy for her to seem to
pursue a whore's son, but she was willing to put the greater purpose ahead of the
pinpricks she must know the queen's ladies would inflict on her. However, a clever
woman sometimes thought she was the only one of her kind, and the queen would
be watching.
   "It would be better," I agreed, "but remember that your pretense of stupidity did
not work on the queen, and she may see through this new pretense with equal ease if
you do not take care."
   She stared at me for an instant, and then uttered a strange, brief bark of laughter
which seemed to startle her as much as it did me; then she shuddered. "I will take
care," she said, and lay down and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders as if fear
had chilled her.
   I almost reached out to touch her comfortingly, for if I had been the queen's
enemy and trying to deceive her I would have been sorely afraid, but I remembered
that Melusine might take such a gesture as a threat and changed the movement of my
hand to pushing myself up off the bed so I could snuff the candles. Having removed
my tunic and dropped it on my chest, I returned to the bed.
   The effect of lying naked beside Melusine was irritating, even though I was not
touching her. All the time we had been talking, my eyes had rested with indifference
on her face and full breasts, bare except for the veiling of dark hair that fell over her
shoulders. Now that her body and features were hidden from me, I was suddenly
achingly aware of them and I felt a warmth and filling in my loins.
   I could not force an unwilling woman, but I regretted that I had spoken in such
terms as to preclude any attempt to make her willing—or had I? Could the same
carrot that had led her—I hoped—to give up any notion of murdering me be used to
induce her to agree to our coupling?
   "There is one more thing I must say before we sleep," I remarked, toying to
sound completely indifferent. "I promised not to force coupling on you, and I will
keep my word, but you should consider that a child would be a good reason for the
king to enfeoff me with Ulle. Stephen is fond of children and I could make a good
case pleading that my child not be deprived of the security of a home and lands. If
you feel this is reasonable and are willing, I will do my best to make the coupling as
easy for you as I can." I could feel a very faint movement, not as if Melusine had
shifted her body but as if she had stiffened, and I said quickly to forestall a flat
negative, "You need not answer now. Take time to consider. I am in no hurry."
   Then her body did shift; she turned her back to me with a hasty flop that would
have betokened bad temper in any of my usual bed partners. Bad temper? I reviewed
my hasty and thoughtless words and grinned to myself in the dark. Who would have
thought it? I would have assumed that the disinterest of a whore's son would have
provided the well-born Lady Melusine with relief, but apparently great lady and
common whore agreed on one thing: Neither liked to find any man indifferent to her.
   The revelation restored my good humor, although it made it no easier to convince
my standing man that he would find no soft, warm haven this night. Partly to induce
him to lie down and partly because I did not really trust the truce with Melusine
enough to sleep yet, I thought over what I had so hastily promised to pacify my
wife. I had not lied to her; I would indeed do my best to convince the king to grant
me Melusine's heritage. The only untruth was the implication that Stephen might
possibly enfeoff me with those lands.
    Was it really so unlikely? The more I thought about it the more I thought that what
I had said only to obtain a breathing space in which to tame Melusine might be the
best possible solution to a number of problems. The first of those was the strong
possibility that Stephen would fail to pay the pension he had promised, which was all
I had to support my wife. From what I had seen of Cumbria, the income from
Melusine's estates would come to considerably less than the pension. The land was
able to provide a subsistence to those who lived on it but little more than that. Yet
for me, a secure subsistence based on lands of my own was far more desirable than
a rich pension—even assuming it was paid with reasonable regularity.
   For the king there would be a profit far greater than relief from payment of the
pension or the guilt of not paying it. Although Stephen had disseisined those knights
and barons who had been actively disloyal during the winter invasion of England, all
knew that Cumbria remained a hotbed of disaffection. It seemed to me it would add
greatly to the peace and stability of the shire to enfeoff a man loyal to Stephen but
married to a native Cumbrian. To disseisin men and place stewards on their estates
had no ring of finality. If Stephen were defeated, those lands could be returned to
their original holders with no more than the stroke of a pen and the pressure of a
seal. But once a new man was settled on the estate, particularly one married into the
legitimate line, it would take a war to restore the property to the man who had been
disseisined.
   Holding Ulle in my own right, I would serve as an example of the evil result of
rebellion as well as furnish Stephen with a voice in the councils of Cumbria—and I
would be well placed to deal out further lessons to the rebellious barony if they
intended to welcome David and his Scots again. But thinking of the Scots sent a
sharp pang of anxiety through me. By the last news Stephen had, David had
swallowed up all of Northumbria and was driving south toward York, where Hugh's
foster father Archbishop Thurstan was gathering an army to oppose him. Had they
met? Who had triumphed? Had Hugh been hurt in the battle? If he had been
wounded or killed, I would have to go to Audris to give her what comfort I could.
   Then I remembered that I had never sent her the letter I had written while I was in
Oxford. That could be amended easily; I would send it with the next messenger to
go north. But now I realized I had too lightly ignored how much of a hold David
might have on the countryside. My heart sank farther as I thought Audris might need
my help and I not know of it. I had better ask the king for leave and go myself to
make sure all was well with Audris. But if I asked Stephen for leave because of the
Scottish threat in the north he would be hurt and angry thinking I was slyly reproving
him for not helping.
    As I cast around for some other excuse to offer Stephen, a small and very
ladylike snore sounded in my ear. Melusine, about whom I had forgotten completely
and who had nothing at all to fear from knives in the back, had fallen fast asleep. For
one instant I was so enraged by the contrast in our conditions—mine filled with
unhappy anxiety and hers one of relaxation and confidence—that I was sorely
tempted to shove her out of bed and dump her onto the floor. In the next I forgave
her, for I had found the perfect excuse to give the king: I wished to take my wife
north to introduce her to my "family." I breathed a deep sigh as another soft, delicate
snore preceded a shift of Melusine's body, an easy, boneless kind of turning that
guaranteed sleep. Tomorrow I would speak to the king about leave, I thought, and
let my eyes close at last.
   I did receive permission from the king to go north the next day, but as matters fell
out, I did not need to ask for it. When I came on duty, Stephen had not yet come
from his bedchamber into the hall, and when he did Waleran de Meulan was with
him. I do not know whether Mass had been said in the king's bedchamber, but I did
not think so, and they did not go to the chapel so I missed Mass also. That did not
trouble me for myself, but I wondered whether it was a chance occurrence or
whether it marked another step in the king's estrangement from the Church. Stephen
smiled at me but did not speak and sat down at once at the single table set for him to
break his fast, gesturing to Waleran to join him. Their expressions roused a cautious
watchfulness in me. The king looked uneasy and stubborn and Waleran's face
carried a muted triumph.
   The morning meal was never formal, and on a fine day like this most people took
their food out of doors; but there was food in the hall for those who wished to wait
there on the chance that Stephen would notice them and beckon them to him.
Naturally, the great lords did not bother to come; they had more direct methods of
approaching the king. There were few gentlemen in the hall this morning, and those
did not come closer when they saw Stephen was already engaged.
   I stood back somewhat behind Waleran's position, directing the squires to carry
dishes to the table but moving as little as I could myself, for stillness confers a kind
of invisibility. Waleran did not like me—not, I think, for any personal reason but
because of the trust in me Stephen showed. I believe that Waleran did not want the
king to love or trust anyone except those tied by blood or interest to himself.
   I could not help thinking as I watched Stephen's ease and confidence with
Waleran how different he had been with his own brother and the bishop of Salisbury
the previous day, and I felt it was wrong. I did not desire that Henry of Winchester
rule the king, but I did not want Stephen to be ruled by Waleran de Meulan either. I
remembered how Waleran had betrayed King Henry, who had loved him as tenderly
as a son, and I feared Waleran was more interested in his own wealth and power
than the good of the king or the realm.
   The way Stephen and Waleran looked at each other told me that Waleran had
convinced the king to do something that others might not approve, and I wanted to
know what it was. Waleran was not likely to speak openly about what he felt was so
confidential it should be urged only in the king's bedchamber, but Stephen was
prone to hints and significant glances about a subject that was occupying his mind.
Although Waleran's influence was growing steadily stronger, I could sometimes
interfere in small ways by making the king see certain of Waleran's suggestions in a
different light.
    I learned nothing, Waleran having cleverly diverted the talk at the table to a new
hawk he had given the king. Their discussion of the bird's strength and agility, which
it seemed they were planning to test later in the day, was interrupted only by a page
who came running to announce that a messenger from Archbishop Thurstan had
arrived and was on his way to the hall. In his eagerness Stephen jumped to his feet
and went down the hall—and I went also, my heart suddenly pounding in my breast.
   "God has saved us!" the messenger cried as he crossed the threshold and saw
Stephen. "The Scots carpet the field of Northallerton like cut rushes, and those who
survive flee north in disorder. King David's army is no more."
   "Well come!" Stephen responded, clapping the young priest on the shoulder.
"You are most well come. I am sure God has shown His favor because of the
blessed Thurstan's piety. And now that threat in the north is lifted from us, we will
have peace in the land. Come, sit with me and tell me all the news."
 Stephen led the priest back and I followed close on their heels, forgetting all about
Waleran's purpose in my anxiety about Hugh, who I was sure had been in that battle.
But it was through the news of what became known as the Battle of the
Standard—the rallying point for those loyal to King Stephen had been a standard of
saints' pennons and a pyx prepared and blessed by Archbishop Thurstan—that I
learned what Waleran had convinced Stephen to do and was given leave to go north.
   The battle had been described between bites of bread and cheese and pasty and
gulps of ale, which the king urged on the priest, who had obviously been present on
the hill where the standard was set. Then the priest told Stephen that William
d'Aumale had organized the pursuit of the Scots and intended to take back those
castles that had fallen into David's hands. Suddenly, Waleran, who had been listening
with great interest, leaning forward with an elbow on the table, sat up and touched
Stephen's shoulder.
   "Aumale should be rewarded, my lord," he said. "It seems to me, that it would be
most fitting to award him the earldom of York. He is already in good repute with the
local barons, familiar with the shire, and engaged in protecting it. Would it not seem
reasonable to give the authority over the north into such loyal and skillful hands?
Perhaps he could be invested at the same time as you assign Worchester to me and
Bedford to Hugh and give formal recognition to Gilbert as earl of Pembroke."
   For a moment I was distracted from my fear for Hugh. If I had heard aright, a
good portion of the great nobles of England would be members of Waleran's family.
Robert, Waleran's twin, was already earl of Leicester; William de Warenne,
Waleran's half brother, was earl of Surrey; Roger Beaumont, his first cousin doubly
tied in blood by being married to his half sister, was earl of Warwick. Now three
more were to be belted as earls: Waleran himself would hold Worchester; the Hugh
he spoke of was the youngest of the three full-blooded Beaumont brothers and had
been called the Pauper because there had been no lands to give him—he would be a
pauper no longer but the earl of Bedford; and Gilbert de Clare, married to Waleran's
full-blood sister, would gain full title to what he had long claimed and be earl of
Pembroke. No wonder Waleran and the king felt privacy was needed.
   I knew at once, however, that this matter was beyond my touch and my
judgement. I feared the elevation of so many Beaumonts would increase the
dissatisfaction of other noble families, but they might not take it amiss. Anything I
said on such a subject would be presumptuous. Doubtless Waleran was advancing
his family because he expected they would support him, but there was no guarantee
of that. I knew that Waleran's twin brother, Robert of Leicester, had taken no part in
Waleran's rebellion against King Henry. Moreover, Robert was respected by all for
his sober judgement, and William de Warenne was well liked too. From all I knew
and could guess, there was as much likelihood of evil resulting from refusing to
elevate Waleran's candidates as from agreeing to do it, and I could see no good in
my interference.
   The king, filled with enthusiasm by the good news, nodded eagerly at Waleran but
turned back to the priest at once to ask if there was anything else he wished to say. I
do not know that he had, but he had lowered his eyes thoughtfully when he heard
Waleran's proposal, and now shook his head at Stephen's question as if he wished
to have time alone to think. Assured that the messenger's budget was emptied,
Stephen took a rich ring from his finger to reward the bringer of glad tidings and told
him that he might go and rest.
   That wiped all thought of the ennoblement of Beaumonts from my mind. I could
not leave the king and could not be sure of finding the priest again. "My lord," I
cried, "may I beg a few words with this messenger?"
  "Most certainly," Stephen replied kindly, "but he can have no news of Jernaeve or
your sister."
   "I know, my lord, but my friend Hugh Licome, who was Archbishop Thurstan's
foster child, must have been in the battle." I turned to the priest. "Do you know
Hugh Licorne?"
   "I do, but I have no word of him." He smiled at me. "That must be good. Sir
Hugh was one of the leaders under Sir Walter Espec, and I spoke to Sir Walter. I am
certain that if any harm had come to Sir Hugh, Sir Walter would have sent the news
to my lord the archbishop."
    I drew a deep breath of relief and thanked him most fervently. Each time I thought
of how Audris's light had been dimmed just by separation from Hugh when she
knew him to be safe and well, my terror increased about her reaction to his death. As
it turned out, the priest was wrong and my relief premature, but since Hugh
recovered I was grateful for the mistake. I would have torn my heart out with worry
to no purpose at all had I known the truth.
   The priest rose, bowed slightly to the king, and left the table. As I backed away a
few steps to make room, Waleran raised a hand to stop me from going farther and
said to the king, "My lord, this is a day on which all things must go well. I was just
wondering where we would find a man to carry your message to Aumale—and here
he is. You are from the north, are you not, Bruno?"
   Stephen gave me no chance to reply, laughing at what seemed to me great
presumption on Waleran's part, but he did say, "You are very free in disposing of
my favorite servant. Surely I can send a message back with the priest or find
someone else to carry my gratitude to those who defended the realm."
   "I beg pardon, my lord," Waleran said, "it is not that I wish to rob you of Bruno's
service, but you know the priest's first loyalty is to the archbishop. He will go to his
master before he goes to Aumale, so the offer of the earldom will seem to have
come through Thurstan's influence instead of direct from the goodness of your
heart." He shrugged. "You know I am glad of the victory over the Scots, but I could
wish it had not been handed to us by a prince of the Church."
    "I do not think we need worry about Archbishop Thurstan," Stephen replied. "He
is a most pious man who would not overstep the bounds of his spiritual office."
   "Only because he is too old and too sick," Waleran remarked sourly. "He was not
so meek in King Henry's time. But we are losing the point of who should go north
with your thanks and rewards. Not the priest—I agree with you there."
    My lifelong training held my face straight, but I did not know whether I felt more
like laughing or crying at the way Waleran had turned his objection to employing the
priest as a messenger into Stephen's idea. Then the import of what they had said
sank into me, and I could hardly believe my ears. Stephen had never been ardently
religious, which I counted a virtue I must admit, but it was strange to hear him speak
of a churchman overstepping the bounds of spiritual office. Churchmen had always
held high temporal places, partly because of their ability to read and write and speak
in Latin, whereby they could communicate with others nearly everywhere in the
world, and partly because of their knowledge of God's law and man's. Nearly every
high office in England was held by a churchman—chancellor, treasurer, justiciar. Did
Stephen mean to change that and appoint… whom? I felt blank and lost. Who could
take the place of Salisbury and his nephews without causing great disruption in the
government?
   Waleran had not stopped speaking while these ideas about the place of the
Church in the affairs of the realm were running through my head, and part of my
mind had heard him. "My lord," he had said, grinning as if he were joking, "you
know what will happen if we send someone strange to that part of the country. He
will lose himself a dozen times over in trying to follow Aumale and take ten times as
long even when he knows where he should go by keeping to the great roads instead
of taking the forest paths." Then he grew more sober and pointed out seriously, "I
would never have come to Wark in time if I had not had men native to Northumbria
with me."
   The king frowned at this, clearly having dismissed the idea of using the priest as
his messenger and considering seriously whom he could send. He glanced at me
once or twice as Waleran added a few additional points that made me an ideal
messenger, one being the fact that I was a Knight of the Body and thus might be
considered a more personal envoy, another that I would know better what to say,
since I knew many of the men to whom I would bring the king's thanks. I said
nothing. I assumed Waleran was trying to be rid of me so that he could more easily
learn if any objected to the great advancement of his family, but I did not feel that I
was responsible for protecting the interests of every man who spoke to the king.
What was more, I had come to understand that it would not be as easy to obtain
leave as I had originally thought, so I welcomed Waleran's interference.
   Many of Stephen's Knights and Squires of the Body served in rotation, having
homes and families and sometimes estates that needed their attention. Since I knew
Sir Oliver preferred I stay away from Jernaeve, I had seldom asked for leave, and
Stephen had grown accustomed to having me with him. But Stephen himself had
given me a great responsibility other than my service to him. And though I loved
him, I could repose no trust in his continued payment of my pension—particularly if
he were about to cause violent disorder in the exchequer by dismissing those who
had long managed it. I had to make Melusine known to Audris so she would have a
haven if my purse failed or, worse, rebellion was fanned to flames again.
   I had not been following the discussion closely, but I knew Stephen, out of
kindness, would ask my preference and I was ready when he said, "Well, Bruno,
what do you think?"
   "I would be sorry to leave you if you need me, my lord," I answered, "but I think
as Lord Waleran does that I would be a suitable messenger. I know my way about
Yorkshire and Northumbria, and though I would not go so far as to say I know
William d'Aumale, Walter Espec, and the others, I am acquainted with some and
know the others by repute. I think I could express to each your sentiments in such a
way that he would be pleased with your thanks and gratitude. I also have a personal
reason to wish to go, if you will forgive me for letting such matters intrude. I greatly
desire to make my wife known to Lady Audris of Jernaeve, so this journey could
accomplish two purposes and I will not need to ask leave again."
   Stephen first seemed surprised at my answer; I suppose he expected me to say I
preferred to stay with him, as I had in the past, but my mention of Jernaeve brought
a nod. Although I am certain the king no longer had any doubts of Sir Oliver's
loyalty, since Jernaeve had not been on the list of places that had yielded to King
David and were to be objects of Aumale's attention, perhaps he still thought I could
hold the keep for him if Sir Oliver died. That was now totally out of the question
because Audris had a husband, but I did not think anyone had sent the king news of
Audris's marriage to Hugh—I certainly had said nothing about it because I knew Sir
Oliver had disapproved. And I was not about to say anything that might lessen my
chances of taking Melusine to Jernaeve; Hugh was as loyal as I to the king, so it
could not matter to Stephen who held Jernaeve.
   "Hmmm, yes," the king said, as he nodded, his expression suddenly thoughtful,
as I had hoped. "It has been a long time since you were last at Jernaeve. It would be
a good idea to see how they weathered the invasion. You might ride around the
country there while your sister and your wife come to know each other. I will give
you a purse so you can offer help to those who have suffered damage from the
Scots." Then his handsome face looked worried. "Your sister will not be jealous of
your wife, will she?"
   "No, indeed," I hastened to assure him, avoiding any comment on his notion that
I could—or would—ride about and visit those beholden to Jernaeve to ingratiate
myself with them. Sometimes the flexibility of Stephen's notions of honor distressed
me, even though I had tried to make my peace with myself on that subject.
   "Audris will be very happy to learn I am married to so well born and lovely a
woman as Lady Melusine," I went on, thinking wryly and with some amusement that
what I said would be true only so long as I did not tell her how the marriage was
forced on me and that Melusine had tried to murder me. But I did not intend to make
Audris unhappy with the true tale. "I am more concerned with how to resist her
invitation to stay with her than that she will not welcome us," I added more truthfully.
   My attention had been on Stephen, and I had not noticed that Waleran was
looking at me as if I had grown two heads. "Do you mean to tell me you are known
and welcome in Jernaeve?" he asked.
  Surprise at his vehemence made me hesitate, and it was the king who answered,
smiling. "He is the holder's brother."
   "Sir Oliver's brother!" Waleran repeated, clearly at a loss to connect the king's
statement with what he knew of my history, but with a kind of recognition.
  Stephen laughed. "No, the holder of Jernaeve is Lady Audris, not Sir Oliver.
Bruno is Lady Audris's half brother, and much beloved of the lady."
   "I do not remember any Lady Audris when Sir Oliver grudgingly allowed me and
my two chief captains a night's lodging and made my troops camp beyond the
gates," Waleran said angrily. "We had come to protect him from the Scots and he
treated us like an invading army."
   "Sir Oliver is very cautious and very devoted to his niece," I said, biting the inside
of my lip so I would not laugh at Waleran's indignation.
   The man must think everyone but him an idiot. Jernaeve needed no protection
from the Scots or anyone else outside the gates. No more than Sir Oliver would I
have allowed so good a soldier and so ambitious a man to bring troops into
Jernaeve. But Waleran was a bad enemy to have, so I tried to soothe him. "Lady
Audris is very shy of strangers," I explained. "My lord the king will tell you that she
had to be summoned specially when he himself visited Jernaeve. And I am sure the
welcome you were offered was not meant to seem grudging. Sir Oliver is naturally
brusque of manner. As for excluding your troops, he was only following old
custom."
   The words came smoothly, and I thought wryly that I must be learning to be a
courtier at last. I had told a whole series of untruths without uttering one lie. I do not
know whether I salved the hurt done Waleran's pride by Sir Oliver's treatment.
Actually, I doubt he was even thinking about what I said although he eyed me
speculatively as I spoke, and he did not answer me at all, turning to the king instead.
   "By all means, my lord," Waleran urged, "if you have a key that will fit in the lock
of Jernaeve, let it turn the lock often so that it will turn easily if you ever need a way
in."
   A very clever man was Waleran and yet he was very stupid too. I tried not to like
or dislike any of the king's intimates, but Waleran would make an enemy of me in the
end despite my will. However, although I could not like the manner in which he
spoke or his implication, Waleran's last remark brought the king to the decision I
desired.
  Stephen sighed and shrugged and said, "I do not want to lose you for too long,
Bruno, but you can take time to let your wife and your sister become true sisters.
Perhaps if she can feel she has a family again, that will ease Lady Melusine's sorrow.
Poor gentle creature that she is, I am sure Lady Audris will learn to love her.''
   A vivid memory of Melusine's lips drawn back from her teeth as the knife in her
hand flashed down toward my neck made me bite my lips to keep from laughing at
the king's description. Audris would not love Melusine for trying to kill me—but she
would never know of it—and she would love her better for a high spirit than for
being a poor, gentle creature. But it was not being taken into the bosom of a family
that would ease Melusine's "poor" heart. It was the restoration of her lands… Then I
suddenly saw how I might induce Melusine to be on her best behavior on this
journey and in addition gain some idea about whether she simply wanted the lands or
was, as the queen feared, a rebel at heart.



                               CHAPTER 10


  Melusine
   One would think that sleep would be hard to find after trying to kill the man
sharing the bed. I certainly did not expect to sleep, since I only half believed that he
would take no revenge for what I had done. I was utterly furious with him too for the
obvious indifference he felt toward me. Men accounted me a highly desirable
woman. Many had sought me in marriage. Papa had told me that some offered to
take me without any dowry other than his friendship—and this boor to whom I had
been married casually threw away the right to my body. Yet sleep I did, hard and
fast, before I had even been able to enjoy my rage and hate.
   More surprising still, I was not pursued through the night by evil dreams. I dreamt
of Ulle, and of the promise to return I had given so indifferently. But the first idea
that came into my mind when I woke was to wonder in whose bed I was sleeping. I
do not mean that I had slipped into madness again. I remembered perfectly where I
was and what had happened, but great beds with fine curtains and bedding are no
common matter; they are costly and might be the whole of a poor knight's dower to
his daughter. I also remembered that Bruno was poor. Whence then had come this
great bed, finer than my mother's and father's?
   Surely from the king's or queen's favor—so Bruno had not lied about being a
favorite.
   Then I realized I was alone in the bed. Fool man, I thought, how am I to dress
myself? Must I go with laces undone… Before the thought was complete, I saw
movement and a young girl rose from where she had been sitting on my chest and
came toward the bed. She was thin and clad in little more than rags and she was
shaking with fright, but she spoke to me in fair French, explaining that Bruno had
sent her to help me dress this one day.
   "But who are you?" I insisted, realizing that despite her ability to speak our
language she could not be a servant to any of the queen's ladies. The tattered
clothing made it unlikely, and her manner to me—a deference that I had discovered
none of the maids would show the woman they thought a half-wit—confirmed my
guess.
   She hesitated and then shrugged. "Bruno said I must speak the truth, so I will. My
name is Edna, and I am a whore who can no longer ply her trade. I hope you will not
be angry. Bruno found this service for me out of pity; he said you would see that I
was fed."
    For a moment I just stared, so consumed with fury that I could not speak, but the
girl certainly looked as if she needed a meal, and my rage began to fade into
puzzlement. "Do you know how to lace a lady's gown?" I asked, mostly because my
mind was reeling with so many questions that I could not decide which to ask first
and so asked the least important.
  "Yes, my lady. I… served in a place where gentlemen were entertained and fine
gowns were worn."
  "Were you Bruno's whore?" was my next question, and I was far more surprised
when the words came out than was the girl. Why should I care whether or not she
was?
   "I lay with him once or twice," she admitted, looking at the floor, "but he did not
come often to the place where I worked, only when he was with a group of friends.
Please do not hurt me. He said you would not care…"
   Her voice was steady, but she was trembling even more and her face was wet.
"Why should I hurt you?" I remarked. "If I were angry, I would be angry at Bruno
and he, not you, would suffer for that. And since I must have a maid right now, I will
use you."
   I looked at her hands as I said that, expecting to have to tell her not only to wash
but how to do it—but they were clean, even the nails, which were pared smooth.
And the rags she wore looked dirty because they were stained beyond cleaning, but
they did not smell. I began to think about what had seemed to me at first to be a
deep insult—or an incredible stupidity—and I began to laugh.
  Edna drew a deep breath. "Shall I help you out of bed, my lady? The washing
water is ready. Shall I get the pot?"
  "The pot. I can get out of bed myself."
   We did not exchange many more words. The questions I wanted answered could
only be answered by Bruno. It occurred to me that he might not have expected me
to question the girl. Perhaps the wife of a great nobleman would not have done so,
taking for granted the service offered. If I had not asked, I could not have been
offended, for Edna was a good maid. Still, she said Bruno had told her to speak the
truth, so perhaps he did want me to know she was a whore, and one he had used.
    I was still puzzling my head about Bruno and Edna when I came into the queen's
hall to break my fast, and it is just as well I was full of my own problems. I was only
slightly aware of excited voices and a sense of jubilation among the women. Then
suddenly I felt the queen's eyes on me, and I looked up quickly and caught her
staring. She smiled at me when our eyes met and then looked away, but it was
warning enough that the excited talk somehow concerned me. Still, it took me several
minutes, listening to a snatch of talk here and there as I gathered up bread, cheese,
and wine, before the pieces of statements and exclamations I heard came together
into the news that King David had suffered a great and bloody defeat at a place
called Northallerton.
   What the queen had been seeking in my face, I did not know. All that could have
been there was a vast, empty indifference. Once I had felt King Stephen to be my
worst enemy because his henchmen had angered my father and set papa's feet on the
road to war that led to his death, but the fierce rage like the worst bitterness of my
grief seemed to have been swallowed up in those lost months. Now I no longer had
anything to hate or fear. Everyone I loved was dead already, so no battle, whether it
brought victory or defeat, had meaning for me.
   Perhaps a better daughter than I would have grieved over the loss suffered by the
king her father supported, but I had never been wedded to my father's political
beliefs and now I loathed equally all kings and all causes. Why should I love King
David? Had he not started the war that caused papa's and Donald's deaths—and
Magnus's too, in my opinion—and for such a cause! For the right of Matilda to rule,
curse her pride and greed. And King Stephen had taken Ulle from me—though I was
innocent of any crime.
   I found a place to sit and took an angry, hungry bite from my bread and cheese,
paused in shock, and then went on chewing slowly. Should I be hungry, I wondered,
as I took a sip of wine? In a sense my father and brothers were newly dead, but the
grief I felt was distant, muted. I felt more anger at the stupid kings and their quarrels
than I felt sorrow. Perhaps I had been grieving in all those months I could not
remember, and the sorrow had worn thin as it had for my other losses. Even when
my mind spoke my menfolk's names, no fierce pangs ravaged me; there was only
that distant ache of loneliness, only the dimming of all brightness in life as I
remembered that there were none left in the world for me to care for and none to
care for me.
   Yet the dull uncaring could no longer smother me. One bright, sharp point of
hope existed now. I could recover Ulle… through Bruno… but nothing in life is
perfect and perhaps I would not need to endure him long after the lands were mine.
That sensation of being watched with which I was so familiar stiffened the little hairs
along my arms. This time I did not catch the queen's eyes on me, but still I knew that
favorite of the king or not, the recovery of Ulle would not be so easy as Bruno
implied. Or was that only to pacify me?
   I did not know how much influence the queen had— some women were less
considered than a horse or a dog, but Maud did not have the look or manner of
those. She was neither meek nor a tyrant but had an assured, easy manner with her
women and the gentlemen who served her. But whatever her power with her
husband, the suspicion the queen felt for me could only increase the difficulty of
convincing the king to regrant the lands. And Bruno had not lied about Maud's
suspicion. A queen does not so closely examine the face of a nothing without kin or
property, so there was something she feared I could do to hurt her. Somehow I
would have to prove I was no threat.
   Proving innocence is no simple thing, particularly when the crime—beyond so
general an idea as treason—is unknown. Nonetheless, I found myself biting and
chewing with enthusiasm, noting that the manchet bread was lighter and finer than
what we made at Ulle and the cheese of a more subtle flavor.
  "It is good to see you eating so eagerly."
   I looked up and met Maud's small dark eyes, bright as polished onyx. My
muscles tensed to rise, but she gestured negation at me and seated herself at the end
of the bench I was on. Her look demanded an answer, although she had not asked a
question, and I said, "The fear that has choked me for so long is less."
   I had responded almost without thinking, not realizing until the words were out of
my mouth that I was following the path I had suggested to Bruno for escaping my
role of half-wit. I could swear the queen was startled by my answer, or perhaps by
the fact that I had answered at all, and so swiftly. But her mind was on its own path,
and she raised her brows.
   "You are cleverer than that, Melusine," she snapped. "You will never convince me
that you feared King David's victory."
   "King David's victory?" I repeated blankly. "But did I not hear that he was
defeated?"
  "You did," Maud replied, staring at me hard. "I am asking why that should make
you rejoice."
  "I do not rejoice," I said. "I do not care. Whatever you think, I never cared."
  "You have grown quick and saucy of tongue all of a sudden," the queen
murmured, as though she had sprung a trap.
   I shrugged. "I have said before, that the worst has befallen me already. I have
nothing left to fear, so my thoughts no longer plod over and over the same trace,
shutting out all else."
   Maud looked indignant. "What fear, since you say you did not fear for King
David's success? What did you expect? Did you think me such a monster—and
Stephen? My husband has spent more time trying to soothe you and win a smile
from you than he has ever spent on any other lady."
  That was news to me, of course, but I lowered my eyes to my food and replied,
"One cannot be rude to a king, but it could not ease my mind that my mistress's
husband showed me more favor than another."
  A warm chuckle burst from the queen. "Child," she said, "were you afraid I
would be jealous? Or that Stephen had an impure motive? Why did you not speak?"
   "I feared everything," I muttered, but I could not help liking her better because of
the way she laughed at me.
   It surprised me too. An older woman and one who could never have been a
beauty generally is jealous when her husband pays attention to a much younger,
handsomer woman—and even if my new husband found it easy to turn aside from
me in scorn, I know my beauty is greater than Queen Maud's. Of course some
women so abhored their men that they loved and cherished their husbands' lemmen,
but there was nothing bitter in the confident chuckle Maud had uttered, and her look
was of amusement, that of a woman very sure of her man.
   Thoughts are swift, but I found that one cannot allow one's mind to wander even
for an instant in a conversation with the queen. "And now that you have a husband
you fear nothing?" she asked in so smooth and uncaring a tone that I almost slipped
into the trap and cried that a man forced on a woman without even her knowledge is
no true husband.
   Fortunately, I recalled my purpose in time and also remembered that Maud had
spoken well of Bruno the morning after my marriage. So I kept my eyes down and
shrugged and answered with what I hoped was the right mixture of sullen acceptance
and relief, "I suppose I was afraid you would give me to someone even worse. I
cannot say I am happy to be the wife of a whore's son with nothing but his sword to
advance him, but he has not been unkind."
   "And he will not be, if you do not call him whore's son and drive him to it,"
Maud said. "I swear that if I hear those words again, I will make you bitterly sorry
you spoke them. Bruno is not at fault for his mother's trade. Come, look at me. I
wish you to see that I speak the truth."
   The color rose in my cheeks as I lifted my head, but not with shame or anger as
the queen doubtless thought. My reasons for disliking my husband had nothing
whatsoever to do with his birth, and the flush marked a little thrill of pleasure at my
success in leading Maud to believe what I wanted her to believe. Now let her think I
was easily cowed also.
  "I do not blame him," I muttered, "and my honor, will I nill I, is tied to his. You
may be sure I will not missay him to any other nor invite a beating by waking his
wrath."
   Maud sighed. "I doubt he would beat you for speaking the truth—Bruno is honest
and honorable to a fault, and such a nature has advantages—but you will lose all
chance of winning his love if you show you scorn him. Oh, I know you do not now
think that is of value because you are all the more foolish for being all too clever, but
I tell you that there is no greater happiness on earth than a good marriage." She
shook her head and sighed again. "It is a pity that most clever women are so stupid.
Never mind what you think. Hold your tongue for fear of me, if for no other reason.
Bruno is a good man and I do not want him hurt. I will give you another warning,
which no doubt you will also scorn. Bruno is the king's man, and nothing you can
do will change that. If you do not torment him to be disloyal, your life with him will
be sweet."
   "It may be short too, if he spends all his time in the king's wars," I snapped
before I thought.
   To my astonishment, the queen winced as though I had slapped her, tears flooded
her eyes, and she closed them. My hand went out and touched hers before I could
stop myself as I realized that if she loved her husband, as what she had said to me
about marriage implied, her fears must be even deeper and more dreadful man mine
had been before all cause for fear was reft from me. I snatched my hand back and
clutched my cup, which I lifted to my lips before her eyes opened, but I knew she
had felt the touch. She said no more, rising and walking away, and I finished my
meal, trying to lock her words out of my mind by thinking of the whore Bruno had
sent to wait on me and my promise to see that she was fed.
   This I managed by carrying down a good portion from the ladies' table. It would
have to serve as the girl's dinner too, since I could scarcely ask a place for her
among the castle servants while she was dressed in rags that would be scorned by
the dog boys. I wondered what I would say to any queen's lady who followed me,
but none did. I suppose responsibility for watching me was now Bruno's, or else he
had told the queen that I had taken the bait of the restoration of my lands and would
be quiet and obedient.
   A flicker of rage touched me at that thought, but I was not nearly as clever or
stupid as the queen believed. I had time to discover whether that offer was only a
trap. Besides, I scarcely knew where I was or how to reach Ulle, and what I had
thought the first day I recovered my wits was still true. I would be a greater danger
than a help to my people if I fled to them.
   When I returned to the queen's hall, there was so loud a sound of talk and so
great a crowd that I paused in the doorway. A single glance showed me that the
chamber was full of men as well as women, and I sidled in carefully and soon saw a
small open space near the hearth where the queen was talking to a richly garbed man
that could only be the king. He was tall and fair, very handsome, and his face was
familiar to me. I put that memory aside to think about later because I was struck so
forcibly by the look of pleasure Stephen wore while speaking to the queen, holding
her hand in his and looking down at her. His expression caused a strange stirring
within me and brought Maud's words about the joy of a happy marriage back to my
mind. Her face, too, was changed. Nothing could make her features beautiful;
nonetheless, there was a kind of beauty in her.
   I had no time to see more because Bruno touched my armto draw my attention.
He looked at me with anxiety, and I raised my brows and stared back haughtily,
thinking he was concerned about my reaction to discovering he had sent a whore to
serve me.
   "I hope you said nothing to make the queen more uneasy about your loyalty," he
said softly, drawing me closer to him so that I could hear. "I am sorry I did not send
word of David's defeat to you so that you would be warned and have time to collect
yourself, but it was impossible for me to get away from the king at first. By the time
I could have left him, I was sure you had already heard."
   It was just as well Bruno's apology was so long winded for it gave me time to
reorient my thinking and to reconsider expressing my exasperation too. "I said to the
queen exactly what I am about to say to you." I spoke as softly as he and I made no
effort to escape from the arm that was encircling my waist, but I did not try to hide
the sharp edge of irritation in my voice either. "I do not care whether King David was
defeated or victorious and never did care."
  The anxiety cleared from Bruno's face, and the arm around me tightened a trifle.
"She will not believe you, but it was the best thing to say. I—"
  "Do you believe me?" I interrupted him because I was annoyed and wondered
whether he would lie and say he did.
  A slow smile curved his lips and lit his dark eyes. There was a kind of contagious
mischief in that expression that made me smile back and almost forget the whore.
   "Should I not?" he countered, then smiled more broadly and added, "I think I do
believe you—but I will not tell you why since that will make you cross and I want
you in a good temper. I have news for you. I hope you will think it good news."
   "I am sure to think it the worst news in the world after that introduction," I said,
but I could not keep an angry look on my face. My lips quivered upward, tempted to
laughter by the teasing.
  "Why then, I will not tell my news at all," Bruno remarked loftily.
   That drew a gasp of indignation from me as I saw the trap into which I had fallen.
"Why did you go to all that trouble not to tell me something that you could simply
have kept to yourself in the first place?" I asked angrily.
  Bruno opened his eyes wide in a patently false astonishment. "What? And have
you hear from someone else of the king's order, then blame me for not telling you
now so that you seemed neglected by your husband and the last to learn from him
what you should be first to know?"
   I burst out laughing. I could not help it. The open admission of his maneuver was
too comical to resist at the moment, although I knew I would be furious later. All I
could do was take a small revenge by asking, "Did you say that in the most
confusing manner and the largest number of words possible apurpose, or is that the
way you talk all the time? If so, I will know that the king and queen have visited upon
me the worst cruelty they could imagine by condemning me to a lifetime of listening
to you."
   "How do I know how I talk? Ones does not listen to oneself talk," Bruno pointed
out gravely. "Half the men in this court would have hung themselves years ago if they
did."
   Despite my desire to choke him, I crowed with laughter again and then was
startled to feel the arm that had been holding me drop away. Bruno stiffened and
stepped to the side. Almost, I cried out that I was sorry I had offended him and
moved toward him, although I had not the faintest idea what in my laugh could have
made him angry. I bit back the words and checked the movement as I saw his eyes
were looking past my shoulder at someone behind me. I turned, and there were the
king and queen. Stephen was smiling broadly at us; the queen was smiling too, but
the curve of her lips was not mirrored in her eyes.
   "My dear Lady Melusine," the king said, "that is the first time I have heard you
laugh in all the months I have known you. I have wished you happy already at your
wedding, but it is a great easing of my heart to see—"
  "The first step in that direction," Maud interrupted smoothly. "I beg you, my
heart, do not speak of happiness yet lest an evil ear be cocked to catch your words.
Recall that they have not yet had time to quarrel. In a year, you may praise them for
being happy. Now is too soon."
   Stephen patted his wife's shoulder. "Very well, I will say no more, but you are
always too fearful of expecting a happy future, Maud. Surely you can see that these
young people are well-suited."
  "I hope they are." Maud's voice was warm while her eyes were on her husband.
"We would be monsters if we planned a marriage for those we knew to be ill-suited."
   Then she looked at Bruno and me, and there was no more to be seen in her eyes
than in small black stones. It took all my strength not to shrink back into the
protection of Bruno's arm, and I flushed with the realization of how much comfort
his embrace had given me. Yet he had withdrawn from me the moment the king and
queen came near. To show them he did not wish to be coupled with a rebel? The
question gave me a feeling of hollowness, and I was ashamed of myself. Where were
my vaunted courage and independence? I had always thought myself able to stand
alone, but was that only because in the back of my mind I knew my father and
brothers would support me?
   Shame made me stiffen my back. Perhaps Bruno saw that for he was a step
behind me and could not have read my face. He put his hand on my shoulder, and it
was then I noticed that the queen's expressionless eyes had shifted to him. If Bruno
was disturbed, there was no response to that concern in the hand that held me. It
was warm and steady, gently linking us, and his voice was amused when he replied
lightly to the queen's remark, "I beg your pardon for contradicting you, madam—not
to say we are ill-suited and that you knew it—but we have already quarreled.
Somehow people always have time for a quarrel."
  "May all your quarrels end in laughter," Stephen said, and put his arm around the
queen and drew her away.
  "I wish you had not played the fool for so long," Bruno said when they were
gone. "She is very suspicious of you."
   "I was not—" I began angrily, about to deny that I had "played the fool," and
then realized that was useless and changed it to "I could not think what else to do. I
am very sorry if you are soiled with my dirt," I added coldly.
   "And so you should be," Bruno replied equably, dropping his hand to my arm
and turning me toward him, "because if I were, your purpose would become
impossible to gain. But you need not worry that the queen suspects me of disloyalty.
Within or without reason, my life is pledged to the king, and she herself has done me
such favors that no service I do her can free me of obligation."
   "Well, she certainly looked at you strangely for someone who harbors no doubts
or suspicions," I answered tartly.
   "Did she?" Bruno looked puzzled and then shrugged easily. "No doubt I will learn
soon enough what troubled her—if she was thinking of me at all. It is not easy to
read the queen."
   He drew me toward the door then, and I saw that everyone was going to the great
hall. At dinner, all the talk that came in snatches through Bruno's conversation was
about the great victory at Northallerton. But Bruno seemed to be trying to shield me
from this, seating me beside him at the end of a table among the lesser knights and
keeping most of my attention with a merry explanation of why he was never chosen
to serve the king like the other Knights of the Body. Despite the fact that I was
annoyed by his apprehension that I would betray some anger or hurt at the slights to
King David, I was amused by his tale.
   Besides, I was glad to be sitting with him rather than among the queen's ladies.
Now that the queen knew I was awake and alert, I dared not continue to pretend to
be an idiot among them. I was certain that would make Maud even more suspicious
of me. Yet to burst out suddenly into my natural behavior would doubtless make all
the other ladies hate me. They would think, as the queen did, that I had been
shamming and had made fools of them or, perhaps, heard secrets I should not, as I
had heard the previous day that Bruno was little inclined to play with even willing
women. Perhaps I should not have cared that the women would dislike me, but I
would have to spend nearly all my waking hours with them. I did not know if I could
endure to be shunned and despised by all.
    I was glad of a respite from the problem and enjoyed my dinner, thinking when
the meal was over and the king rose to leave the table, that I could put off dealing
with the queen's ladies a little longer. I would go and walk in the garden and possibly
explore the keep so I would not be lost if any need came to find my way alone.
Bruno had risen too and pushed our end of the bench back so that I could step out
easily, and I smiled at him and nodded my thanks automatically. He glanced quickly
at the king, who was saying a few last words to Maud but already looking toward the
entrance to his closet where several men waited.
   "I must go," he said, "but will you take what food you can to Edna? And if you
can find her anything to wear better than what she has on, I will be grateful to you
and replace with new whatever you give her."
    I had forgotten all about the girl so that Bruno's words were a shock. And I was
all the more furious because he was gone before I could find my voice and ask him
how he had dared to send a whore to wait on me. I would have liked to spite him by
refusing what he asked, but I recalled the girl's eyes when I brought her the bread
and cheese remaining from the morning meal. I had seen eyes like that before—thank
God not often—in the rare years that not only crops failed but fish and game were
also hard to find. No matter how angry I was with Bruno, I could not deny the girl
whatever food I could bring. She could take away what she could not eat, and for a
day or two, at least, her belly would not cramp with hunger.
   I glanced around and saw a servant with an alms basket and beckoned him to me.
He showed no surprise when I asked for the basket, just gave it to me and went
off—I suppose to get another. I had been a little concerned that at the king's table
the custom might be different, but I had taken the chance because I knew that even
at such great places as Carlisle and Richmond it was quite usual for noble ladies to
gather up the scraps and bring them with their own hands to the beggars at the gate.
   While I piled the basket high, putting at the bottom whatever I thought least likely
to spoil, I tried to think what I could give Edna to wear. A chill passed through me
as I realized that I had not the slightest notion of what was in my chest, aside from
my wedding dress and the clothes on my back. It is not pleasant to remember that
you were truly mad. Most of the time, even when I thought of the queen's suspicion
of me and how her ladies would react to the change in my manner, I almost believed
what Maud thought was true—that I had been pretending. So when I came to my
chamber, I was glad to see Edna there, glad to be able to talk to her and use the
excuse that Bruno had told me to give her a gown to turn out the chest with her help
and see what was there.
   It was a relief to find that everything that had been mine in Ulle had been sent with
me. I suppose the old maids that had stayed with me to face the invaders had
packed my things. Even my riding dress and the rough gowns I wore to work in the
garden and the storehouses were there, and at the very bottom, my sewing basket,
with needles and pins and thread and my scissors. I might have dissolved in tears,
remembering that most of my sewing had been the mending of my menfolk's clothes,
but I was distracted from that grief by the need to do something about the gown I
had offered Edna. She was half my size and I had to laugh when she put it on. It was
more like a tent than a garment.
   I was much surprised to learn that she could not sew. She had been so deft in
helping me dress that I thought she had all a maid's skills. But her fingers were
nimble, and when I cut off a wide swathe of the skirt and showed her how to thread
the needle and set stitches, she folded and hemmed quite well enough for that rough
wool gown. There were things I had to show her, of course, and that was excuse
enough to stay in the chamber, away from the other women. I could not say I had
been teaching my maid to sew, but it would be natural that, newly married, I
examined and altered my gowns.
   Pleased with this notion, which could protect me for several days, I smiled when
Edna asked in a timid, shaking voice, "What shall I do with this piece of cloth,
madam?" Her fingers caressed the rough length of wool— the gown had been the
most worn and stained of my gardening clothes, faded a dull brown from what had
been, if I remembered, a rich maroon. The new color had the advantage that the
earth stains hardly showed.
  "Would you like to keep it?" I asked in return.
   "If it is not asking too much," she faltered. "I could use it as a shawl. The weather
will turn cold soon."
   She was so thin I thought that she might feel cold when my body was glad of a
breeze. "Take it then."
  "Must I go now?"
  Because I did not know what to answer, I almost lost my temper with her—but it
was Bruno at whom I was angry, not poor Edna. And the thought of Bruno
reminded me that I could not undress without help. His help? The idea terrified me. I
did not then know why, although I soon learned, but I said quickly, "No, stay here. I
may need you at bed time. You may practice your sewing by hemming the length of
cloth where it was cut. Sewing is a useful skill."
   She thanked me with pathetic gratitude so that I first wondered whether she had
no place to go, but she was too clean for Bruno to have picked her off the street.
Then I remembered a glimpse of dark bruises on her legs—I had turned away to give
her privacy to change to my gown when I realized she wore nothing under her outer
rags and had seen no more of her body. Now I thought she must be mistreated
wherever she lived. I was tempted to ask whether she would like to remain with me
and be my maid, but I held back the words. I would say nothing to her until I had
discovered Bruno's reason for selecting such a servant.
   Nothing happened during the rest of the afternoon to move that purpose from my
mind, and I intended to get some satisfaction from making Bruno ashamed of
himself, although I had to admit that Edna had some extra skills in service that made
me think again of keeping her with me. She found some twine, for example, and
strung it through my tunic and bliaut so she could hang them in front of the window
to air. And she brushed my hair as no one had ever done, touching the scalp just
enough to make it feel clean and fresh without scraping painfully and stroking so
evenly that I almost fell asleep on the stool.
   I suppose I was tired by the strains of the day. I remember only telling Edna to
leave all the bedcurtains tied back. Then, I suppose I slept as soon as I was
stretched out in the bed, but I was no longer so shocked and exhausted that I could
not wake easily. A bump against the bed brought my eyes open.
  "Edna, if you cannot be still—" I began to say irritably, and realized the bump
was on the other side. Edna was gone, and I sat up and glared at Bruno, who had
knocked against the bedpost.
  "Sorry," he said. "I just doused the candles and I'm still light blind."
  "Well, you can just light them again and find somewhere else to sleep," I snapped.
"How dare you send your whore to wait on me."
    He stopped where he was, naked, one hand still on the bedpost to guide himself
around the corner of the bed. The previous night I had seen only the power of his
body; tonight I was able to pick out details—-the triangle of black hair on his chest,
pale scars on shoulder, arm, and hip that contrasted with skin that was dark even in
the dim light. I could see such details because the wick on the night candle was high,
and wakened from sleep as I was, my eyes were already adjusted. Gazing at him, I
felt again the strange terror that had gripped me earlier when I thought of him
undressing me, but it was like no fear I had ever known before. I was not cold and
clammy but too warm, and my insides shook in a strange way.
   "So you did know what Edna was," Bruno said, coming forward again. "I thought
when I came in the morning and found her still here that you had not bothered to
ask."
  He got into the bed as if I had not just bade him to find a place elsewhere, and I
could not speak because I knew my voice would break.
   "It is useless to pretend to be angry with me after being so kind to her," he went
on, turning toward me and grinning.
   "Why should I be unkind to the girl?" I got out, although I could not keep my
voice completely steady. "She cannot help what she is. She scarcely looks to be
happy in her work or able to deny any order given her. It was you who insulted me
by setting your lemman to wait on me, not her."
   "No!" Bruno exclaimed, putting his hand out to take mine. I shuddered, and he
withdrew it, his face creased with anxiety. "I swear I meant no insult to you,
Melusine. I swear I did not. Good God, Edna is not my woman. I may have lain with
her once, but I had forgotten all about it until you said it."
   I looked at the hand Bruno had been reaching for and saw that it was turned palm
up to clasp his. "Then why did you send her?" I asked, staring down at my hand and
wondering if it had been lying that way all the time. But that was impossible; it was
too uncomfortable. I must have responded without knowing it when he reached
toward me.
    "If that is not the silliest question I have ever heard it comes near it," Bruno said
irritably. "You know I must be in attendance on the king at dawn. Where the devil
did you think I was going to find a woman who knew something of maid's work,
was reasonably clean, and spoke French an hour before dawn? Did you expect me
to wake the queen or one of her ladies to ask to borrow a maid at that hour? And do
not tell me that I should have thought of it before," he snarled, his voice growing
louder. "I had more to think of than who would help you dress yesterday."
   It was a logical answer and delivered with no attempt to charm me. I could not
doubt that the reasons Bruno had given me for thinking of a whore were true, after all
an unmarried man would not often have been attended by a woman in other
circumstances. "But why Edna?" I asked. "Why your whore rather than another?" I
could have bit my tongue as soon as the words were out of my mouth. He would
think I was jealous.
   "I have said already that she is not my woman." Bruno merely sounded bored,
perhaps slightly annoyed. "I assure you that however ill you think of me, I would
never permit any woman in my keeping to be starved or to dress in rags. I went to
that house because it is the best in this town and the women are all clean and know
French. I took Edna because when she opened the door to me she begged me for
something to eat. I was sorry for her, and I also thought she would not be likely to
missay you or walk out on you."
  "Missay me?" I repeated. "Would such a woman dare?"
   Bruno smiled. "From that house, it is possible. Some of those women have
powerful protectors. They judge me a poor knight—which I am—and do not regard
me with much awe. So my wife might be given scant courtesy." Then he sighed. "I
thought when Edna told me what had happened to her, that she might continue to
serve as your maid. Of course, if you do not like her, I will have to find another
woman, but—"
   "I do not dislike Edna," I interrupted, feeling quite exasperated, "but I cannot
have a practicing whore as my maid—even you must see that."
   "But Edna cannot ply that trade any longer," Bruno stated. "That is why she is
starving and in rags. Did she not tell you that? The girl is a half-wit. No wonder you
were so angry with me."
   My hand flew to hide my mouth, and then, realizing that the gesture had betrayed
me I said the words it had instinctively held back. "She did tell me. I just did not
think of it until now."
   "It was too much fun being furious, I suppose." The mischievous grin that had
made me smile back earlier did not have the same effect now, and Bruno shook his
head as I opened my mouth to protest. "I will leave it to you to settle with Edna
whether you wish to keep her or not, but I hope you will. You see, I do not want any
royal servants waiting on you. A servant loyal to someone other than her own
mistress can twist what is perfectly innocent into something else to win pay or
praise. I want no twisted tales of you carried back to the queen. Perhaps your maid
will be questioned, but if she answers with the truth we will have nothing to fear."
   "If Edna truly can be chaste—or at least as chaste as any other maid—I will keep
her."
   "Settle it with her," he repeated. "I bade her sleep in the hall outside and come to
you again in the morning. Now I have something much more important to talk about
than maids. The king has ordered me to carry certain messages north for him and
has given me leave to take you with me."
  For a moment I looked at him, probably open-mouthed with surprise, then
swallowed and croaked, "Go with you? But why?"
   Bruno looked back at me, trying, I think, to make out my expression in the dim
light of the night candle. "Do you not wish to go?" he asked, his voice carefully flat.
   "Oh, yes," I cried. "Indeed I do, and it cannot be soon enough for me, but I do
not understand why—"
   "I warn you," he said, "that if you try to escape me and run home as you did
before—"
   "No, no," I gasped. "I—" I was about to say that I was not such a fool, but what
he said implied that I had tried to get away before, and I knew he would not believe
my denials. "I have come to understand that that would be a very foolish thing to do,
that it could only make trouble for my people."
  "I hope you are speaking the truth, but you seem so very eager—"
   "Only because I wish to get away from the queen's ladies." I explained how I was
caught between increasing Maud's suspicion of me and making the other women
look foolish and dislike me. "If I am gone from them for some time, it will be easier
to change my ways. I—I am tired of being thought a half-wit." That was true, even if
I had only endured it for a few days rather than many months.
  Bruno laughed, but I thought, though I could not truly see, that his eyes still
watched me warily. All he said was, "I am not surprised."
   "But I still do not understand why the king should allow a messenger to take a
woman with him," I said hurriedly. I needed no more lectures on why it was unwise
to play sly games.
   "It is a special case," Bruno told me, pulling up a pillow behind him and relaxing
against it. "There is no need for special haste in delivering these messages, so the
speed at which I travel is not important. Moreover the journey will take us close to
Jernaeve, where I was born and bred. The king was kind enough to yield to my
desire to introduce you to the people there who have been very kind to me and cared
for me."
   "But I thought…" I hesitated, not knowing how to ask a question without hurting
him.
   "You thought a whore's bastard was born and raised in a ditch? How do you
think I came by my skills and accoutrements? "
  "I thought nothing of the sort," I riposted sharply, angry that he thought the worst
when I had been trying to spare him. "I thought you had quarreled with your family
and were not welcome among them."
   "There has been no quarrel, and I am sure I will be welcome in Jernaeve now." He
paused as if to weed out of his future words certain matters, then said, "Sir Oliver—
and I must tell you that I am not Sir Oliver's get, no matter that we resemble each
other—who was warden of Jernaeve for many years, holding the right of his niece,
Lady Audris…" He paused again, wondering I think whether to add something, but
continued with what was clearly the main thread of his story. "Sir Oliver sent me
away from Jernaeve because he was afraid the holders of smaller estates sworn to
Jernaeve would prefer me to Lady Audris. I went willingly, for I love Audris above
my life, above the salvation of my soul. But she is married now, to Sir Hugh
Licorne—"
   "Licorne—a unicorn?" I interrupted, not caring but driven to say anything to hear
no more about his love for this Lady Audris. Despite the fact that our union had
been forced upon him, how dared he lament another woman's marriage to his wife.
   He chuckled and I realized at once what a fool I was. If Sir Oliver was Lady
Audris's uncle and Bruno was not his son but yet resembled him, Audris must be at
least Bruno's first cousin—if not his half sister. The easy chuckle told me there was
no deep hurt connected with Lady Audris's marriage, and no anger at my
interruption, but I suspected that Bruno was not given to telling this story and I
wanted very much to hear it.
   I touched his hand. "Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt you. You must
believe that I am deeply interested in this matter."
   Still smiling, he patted with his other hand, mine, which had remained resting on
his. That senseless fear started up in me again, but this time I fought it, ignoring the
crazy trembling inside me and fighting to keep my breathing from going short. I
would not withdraw my hand and anger him for a senseless fear. In God's name,
what had I to fear from Bruno?
   "Everyone is startled by Hugh's surname," he said, "but Archbishop Thurstan is
the one who named him and he must have had a reason. I do not think the
archbishop is a fanciful man. Nor can I remember that Hugh told me the reason.
Perhaps he did not know. I cannot imagine myself questioning Archbishop Thurstan
about why he did anything. But the point is that Hugh is perfectly fitted in every way
to hold Jernaeve and has the full right of husband of the holder, so I cannot be a
threat to Lady Audris's right and I am sure I will be a welcome guest."
  "Naturally, I will be very happy to meet your f-friends, but—"
   I faltered a bit over the word, unsure of whether to say family but very aware that
Bruno had been specially careful to make no such claim. And I was angered for him,
believing that he was despised among the people in Jernaeve and that he was taking
me to them to show that he now had importance in the world and had been given a
noblewoman to wife. That made me ashamed of him for the first time, and I was
about to urge him to have more pride when he interrupted me.
   "I can see that you are wondering at my desire to drag you hundreds of miles into
the wilderness of Northumbria over lands devastated by war," he said, smiling again.
"I am not mad. I have a good reason, and one that will please you, I think, for taking
you north. The king has given me two months leave, which I have permission to
stretch to three at need. There will be time enough for us to visit Ulle."
  "Ulle?" I gasped. "You will take me to Ulle?"
   "If you make yourself pleasant to those at Jernaeve and give me no reason to
think that you will do anything to spite the king or lessen his power over your
lands…"
   I knew Bruno went on speaking and my eyes were fixed on his face, but I neither
saw nor heard. A cold horror had overtaken me. Could I go back to Ulle, to those
halls and chambers haunted by my brothers and father? Bruno had spoken about
getting back the lands, but that had been a thing in the distant future. I suppose I had
believed that it would be years before I need see another man seated in my father's
chair, other hands than those of my brothers' holding cups at a high table. I heard a
strange sound, like the whimpering of a small lost beast, and suddenly there were
warm arms around me and a man's smell in my nostrils as I was pressed against his
chest, and a deep voice crying, "Melusine, Melusine, what is wrong?"
   All my life I had been comforted by men. My mother loved me, but she felt I got
petting enough, and when I was hurt or frightened, it was always papa or my
brothers who held me and begged me to tell them what was wrong and kissed away
my tears. I clung to that broad warm chest, to the man-smell that meant safety and
comfort, and sobbed out my hurt.
                              CHAPTER 11


  Bruno
    I had good reason to believe, as did the queen, that Melusine had been pretending
to be half-witted for some purpose of her own. After all, she had almost succeeded
in sticking my own hunting knife into me. But as I sat looking down at her after she
had at long last cried herself to sleep, I began to wonder if perhaps she had not
intended to deceive anyone but had been living in some world of her own because
she could no longer bear her grief in this one. I was shaken to my core with pity for
the child within the grown woman, who still believed she had murdered a good part
of her family just because they had come to celebrate her birthday. And that clinging
memory of the ice crystals whitening her murdered brother's eyes—I shuddered at it
myself.
   Had I known the burden Melusine carried, I would have been more careful in
introducing the subject of taking her home. I had thought that she would be
overjoyed and my only problem would be keeping her at Jernaeve until I had finished
the king's errands. Now I did not know what to do. I had told her that there was no
need to go to Ulle, but I do not think she heard or understood me. And if we did not
go now, I was not sure when I would be able to get leave again and I was eager to
look over what had been Melusine's property.
   I had been totally indifferent to everything except the immediate problem of taking
the manor when I was there with the king's army. I had no idea I would ever have
any special interest in Cumbria. When I thought of the grant of lands I might some
day receive as a reward for loyal service, I always thought of lands in Northumbria.
And it was always a thing very far in the future so I did not, like many of those who
expected favors from the king, look at every keep and manor he took with an eye to
asking for it. Thus, Ulle and the area in which it lay were only dimly remembered. I
had intended, with Melusine as a guide, to examine her lands to see if there was
some great source of wealth in them. I did not think there would be, nor that I would
discover any strategic reason I had missed when we passed through for the king to
hold those lands in his own hand. But I had to be sure before I approached the
subject of reclaiming Melusine's estate.
   She was still sobbing in her sleep, so I stroked her hair and she grew quieter. One
good thing about her tears and terror was that they had cooled my lust. When she
had accused me of setting my whore to serve her as an insult, I had barely held
myself back from proving that I was as hungry for her as for any whore—and
perhaps a little more. She might be too big and too dark with features too strongly
marked for my taste, but she had been a sweet-smelling armful when I held her in the
queen's hall, and the way she laughed when I teased her had sent waves of heat
through me. I had to let go of her and step away lest my rising lust show openly.
   Even though I felt no desire now—poor Melusine was too much like a hurt child
to think of coupling this night—I wished I had not so lightly given my oath not to
demand my marital rights. Tomorrow it would not be easy to lie in this bed with her
without some relief, and the next day would be harder yet. Perhaps I could find
some reason to leave before the week the king had set for our departure. Once on
the road, separate pallets or camp beds would keep us well apart and I might have
time to slake my thirst on some girl without Melusine's knowledge. Or, would it be
better if she suspected? Had her anger about Edna been more than that of a dog who
keeps an ox from his manger out of pure spite? She had been angry when I showed
myself indifferent to her charms even soon after she had tried to kill me.
    A wicked notion came to me then. Perhaps I would ask her permission. I could
flatter her at the same time by saying she was so beautiful and desirable that I was
finding it hard to keep my promise not to couple with her. I considered that as I slid
down to lie flat, enjoying my memory of how her dark eyes seemed almost to show
a flicker of red when she was angry at me in the queen's hall, and how laughter had
overcome her anger. A quick temper, but not a sour or stubborn one, thank God.
The king and queen might not have done so ill for me as I thought at first—unless
Melusine, who I was now sure did not remember that I had been the man who
"took" Ulle, suddenly recalled it.
    That brought my mind back to Melusine's violent reaction to my offer to take her
home. I turned my head but could not see her face, which was nearly buried in the
pillow. Her breathing was quiet now, not troubled even by the little hiccups that
follow prolonged weeping. I sighed and closed my eyes. I would not force her if
every mention of the place drove her into a frenzy of grief and fear—if it did, what
would be the use of trying to reclaim the property? But only time would tell. If she
did not broach the subject herself, I would try again in a day or two after she had
time to grow accustomed to the idea.
   Since Melusine was still asleep when I had to leave, my duty requiring me to be in
the king's outer chamber before he woke, I could do no more than tell Edna that
Melusine should ask the queen to send for me if she needed me. I hope she did not
need me, because I was away from Winchester soon after the king broke his fast.
Stephen's spirits had been so elated by the defeat of the Scots that he cast aside all
business and took those of his court that favored the sport off on a great hunt. Being
in attendance as Knight of the Body, I had no choice but to go.
   That solved—for a little while anyway—my troubles with sleeping beside
Melusine. We were away three nights, two spent in hunting lodges and one in
Alresford. I was not on duty that night, so I sought out a woman—a thing I doubt I
would have done had my appetite not been whetted by my wife. Not that I had
forgotten my little plan for inciting Melusine's jealousy, but it was safe to seek relief
in a town miles from Winchester without asking permission. I paid to keep the
woman with me all night and used her well, striving to leech all the hot spirits out of
my body. And so I learned from a whore a second lesson I would never forget:
Using the whore of London taught me that pleasure increases with caring, not with
beauty; using the whore of Alresford taught me that the act of futtering does not
reduce desire. The moment I laid eyes on Melusine, I was as ready as I had ever
been.
    If she had tried to find me and been angry at my absence, she had forgotten or
put the anger aside. She seemed glad to see me; her dark eyes were bright when they
found me, and she took my arm and clung to it as we all, huntsmen and
stay-at-homes alike, trooped into the great hall to eat a much elaborated evening
meal. For this meal there was no formality or precedence. Except for the king and
queen on the dais, everyone seized food from the trays as they were borne about or
set down and found seats where they could. The heads of the greatest kills were
brought in—one of the boars was the king's but another, even larger, was mine—and
Melusine smiled at me, glowing with pride, and joined the shouts of approval before
asking, "Were you hurt?" Clearly she knew that wild boars were not easy to kill, and
it warmed my heart that she should ask about my safety.
   "A little bruised," I replied. "I went over and the devil stepped on me before I
finished him."
  "I will look to it later," she said calmly.
    I was strangely torn between relief and disappointment. I certainly did not want
Melusine to express concern for me too openly before the whole court; to draw the
eyes of others always makes me feel hot and desire to hide my face. But if she
cared, would she not have sounded more anxious or tried to drag me away at once
to make sure the hurt was not dangerous as Audris would have done? I knew I was
telling the truth and had no more than a few bruises, but how could she know?
Before I thought, I voiced the question, and Melusine laughed.
   "Because I am not likely to misjudge a man's health no matter what he says. You
rode here and were steady on your feet when you dismounted and you are eating
well and with good appetite, so no great harm can have been done. I saw your color
and the way you moved. I was only nine or ten years of age when I began to tend
bruises and sew up rents in the hides of my bro—''
   Her voice quivered and stopped, and she closed her eyes. I took her hand and
said, "Melusine. Melusine, do not—"
  She opened her eyes again. All the brightness was gone, but there were no tears.
"You need not fear that I will fall to weeping again. I am sorry if I was a burden to
you Monday last. You took me by surprise, and—"
   "You were no burden," I said quickly, cutting her off. "Never mind that. Tell me
instead what you decided to do about Edna and how you have managed with the
queen's ladies?"
   She shook her head, and her full lips twitched, but she told me that she had
decided to keep Edna, at least until we left, because she had been able to tell the
queen that I had given her a fool for a maid and use Edna as an excuse to spend
nearly all her time in her own chamber. I think she was annoyed with me for believing
she would say too much in public, but I would rather have her annoyed than take the
chance that word of my plan to visit Ulle would get back to the king or queen and I
might be forbidden to take Melusine into Cumbria. I would have tried to pacify her,
but I had no chance. The parade of the kills had signalled the end of the meal. Before
Melusine could finish her tale, several men who had not accompanied the hunt came
to congratulate me on my kill and stayed… to talk to Melusine.
   She certainly knew how to please men, what to say to them to set them at ease, to
draw smiles, and to manage the talk so that no one man had more than his proper
share of her attention or the general conversation. I was more silent than I should
have been; Melusine had to draw forth my voice more than once and I saw that the
other men were looking at me and smiling. They would roast me well later and
spread the word that I was jealous—but, odd though it may seem, I was not jealous.
   I was glad to see Melusine's eyes gradually brighten as the talk and attention eased
her grief. Perhaps I am not a jealous man, but it was also clear to me that Melusine
was not trifling with the men around her; there was nothing in her manner to rouse a
man's lust—unless the man was one of those who thought her beautiful, and even
then I thought it unlikely for any to be tempted. I myself felt none of that hot rush of
desire that had flooded over me several days ago in the queen's hall and in our
bedchamber or even when she greeted me on arrival.
   Rather than being jealous, I was stunned by her skill. I had seen no woman but the
queen so able to control a group of men, and the queen was older and, when she
wished, could enwrap men in a motherly warmth. As that realization came to my
mind, I understood at once how Melusine pleased without stimulating. She was…
sisterly. I recalled her desperate weeping as she recounted the roll of her losses; well,
she had practice enough in being sisterly with seven brothers. But I also remembered
that I had responded to her as a woman whenever we talked alone. Had her manner
to me been different? If so, was that difference deliberate?
   The very notion started a new rise of heat, and I forced myself to pay attention to
the talk and participate in it more, meanwhile rising from the eating bench myself and
moving Melusine away from the table. It was not long after that when the king and
queen left the hall, and I could begin maneuvering our small group slowly down the
hall toward the outer door. I made no haste, but Richard de Camville, a clever devil
and a pleasant drinking companion (now that Audris was safe from him), became
aware of what I had done when our slow progress stopped.
   "That is a most tactful hint, Bruno," he said, chuckling and directing the attention
of the other men to the guesthouse across the yard. "But tactful or not, my friends, I
fear we are being told that we are not wanted."
   "Clever man," I remarked. "I knew I could count on you to save me. Gentlemen,
Camville is seeing to the heart of the matter as he always does. You are not wanted. I
have better company for this time of night."
   Although Melusine responded easily to the teasing comments made on parting by
the other men, I sensed that what I had said had startled her and was making her
uneasy. To shift the subject from what she feared without renewing my promise not
to urge coupling on her, I said the first thing that came into my head, which was that
I did want to talk of our journey north—I did not say to Ulle, fearing to set her
grieving again—but that I did not wish to discuss it where a report of our plans
might come to the ears of the king or queen. As I spoke, I could see the tension go
out of her, and when I had finished she nodded.
   "I am not a fool," she said shortly, but without anger, and then, in the same
indifferent voice added, "Take off your clothes and let me look at you."
   I gaped at her, associating what she said only with the jesting remarks I had made
to rid us of our companions. I could not believe I had been mistaken in her almost
fearful reaction, and this flat-voiced invitation was scarcely seductive, but a hope
sprang up in me that despite her fear she wished to be fully my wife. Fortunately, I
was frozen for a moment in the conflict of hope and disbelief, and Melusine cocked
her head questioningly.
  "I have seen you naked before," she remarked. "There is no need to be coy."
   There was something in her voice that warned me that I had somehow
misunderstood her, but my head was bemused by my rod, which had risen to
attention, and I could only ask, "Then why do you want to look at me?"
   Melusine had started to turn toward the door, but she stopped and stared at me
over her shoulder, frowning. "To see if your bruises need salving. Do you not
remember I said I would look at them later?"
   My disappointment was profound but too mingled with amusement at how desire
could wipe out of my mind what did not feed it to allow my rigid shaft to shrink. In
the past I had tried to hide from Melusine the fact that she excited me. This time I
thought it best to let her see my desire and show her too that I was not a slave to it,
so I stripped off my clothes without more ado. She stood watching me as if she had
forgotten that she had started to turn away, the puzzled frown still on her face; but
that looked as if she had forgotten the expression too. When I was naked I found
she had turned back to face me fully, and I smiled at her.
   "The bruises need no salving," I said softly, "but you are very welcome to look at
them—or any other part of me."
  I saw her eyes flash down and widen, and she backed a step away.
   "I will not pretend that I do not desire you, Melusine," I went on. "But you need
not fear I will force you either. I am the master of Monsieur Jehan de la Tete
Rouge—" I tapped the red head that had pushed its way through the foreskin so she
could not mistake of what I spoke, "—not he of me."
   There was a moment's silence, then Melusine swallowed hard and stepped
forward, her full lips thinned and her round chin jutting. "Then hold Monsieur hard
back, for I think myself a better judge of hurts than you."
  "He is as hard back as he will go," I protested in a slightly choked voice, and then
began to laugh.
  "Perhaps those are the wrong words," Melusine said stiffly. "I know little of such
matters."
   That made me laugh even more, and she regarded me warily but continued to
walk toward me, and when she was close enough, laid a hand on my black and blue
ribs. I could feel her fingers tremble, but her hand was warm, not cold with fear, and
she peeped downward once or twice while she felt my ribs. That was enough
encouragement to keep my shaft hard and to tempt me to advance my cause. I
leaned forward and kissed the bridge of her nose, which was all I could reach, her
head being bent. She leapt back like a startled doe.
  "You promised—" she gasped, her voice trembling more than her fingers.
   "Only not to force you," I pointed out. "I never said I would not try to make you
willing. And you need not look at me as if I were threatening you with torture."
   Indignation chased the fear from her face. "I am not afraid of pain," she said,
much more steadily, and then, her voice shaking again, "I agreed to a truce, not to a
true marriage."
   "As for pain, I do not think I would hurt you if you were willing—or, at worst,
only a little and for a short time. As for marriage—will you or nill you, Melusine," I
reminded her, "we are truly married. For better or for worse, I am your husband. I
would prefer that it be better between us."
  She swallowed hard again. "It may be better for you if we couple. I do not think it
would be better for me."
   I shrugged. The talk and my inner knowledge that she was not yet ready to yield
to me had reduced the urgency of my desire, but I was not looking forward to lying
beside her without satisfaction for three more nights, or even one more. "Do you
think you can be ready to leave tomorrow?" I asked as I got into bed. "Last Monday
the king said we were to go in a week, but if the letters I am to carry have been
written, I cannot see why we should not leave sooner."
   The tense alertness of a creature poised to flee relaxed, and Melusine sounded
more natural, even tart. "If you will tell me how much to take and how you intend it
to be carried, I can be ready in a few hours."
  "What do you mean, how much to take?"
  "Is the bed ours?" Melusine countered reasonably. "The bedding?"
   "Good God, I never thought of them," I admitted, drawing Melusine's pillows to
me so I could prop myself upright. "I think they are only lent by the king and queen.
I will ask."
   She made a moue of distaste, which made me wonder whether she hated Maud
and Stephen so much that it offended her to lie in a bed they owned, but her next
remark offered a different interpretation for the expression. "I hope they are lent, but
we still have the chests, which must go in a cart and that will make for slow travel.
And—and I do not wish to sit in a cart like baggage."
  The last sentence was almost a plea. "You ride?" I asked, feeling blank.
   I realized I had never thought of all the difficulties when I asked Stephen for
permission to take Melusine with me. One thing I had not considered was how to get
her to Jernaeve. I could not take her pillion on Barbe; he was not accustomed and
was too nervous a horse to take a chance. But to give her the freedom of riding a
horse of her own might be a temptation too great for a woman's promise.
   "Yes, yes I do," she said eagerly, and then, as if she had read the doubt in my
face, "and I will not try to run away. I swear I will not." In her earnestness she came
to the bed and put out her hand, as she had when she had sworn truce.
   "Very well, you shall ride," I agreed, glad to make it seem that I was doing her a
favor.
    In reality I could see no other way of getting to Jernaeve, doing the king's
business, and still finding time to visit Ulle. But even if Melusine rode well, that still
left the problem of what to do with those things that could not be taken with us. In
the past, my baggage had always gone with the king's, and before I came to court I
never had more than could be carried in a blanket roll behind Barbe's saddle.
   "But we will not be able to leave tomorrow," I went on. "I will have to make
arrangements to store the chests and whatever else we do not take. There is no
chance the king will remain here long, and I do not wish to burden anyone with the
responsibility for our possessions."
  Melusine nodded. "It is better to have a home to which possessions can be sent
and faithful servants who will see that they arrive safely."
   Our eyes met. "As soon as I can," I agreed and then, cautiously, "if you can bear
to live there."
   I had taken Melusine's hand when she promised not to flee from me and she had
not withdrawn it. Now her grip tightened on mine, and I drew her closer and put an
arm around her.
  "I do not know." Her voice quavered, but she steadied it. "I think about it often,
and it seems to grow less painful. When we are there, if I cannot bear it…" She
buried her face in my shoulder. "I do not know what I will do. Papa would be so
angry…"
    I did not make any direct reply. What could I say except that her father was dead
and would not care at all—and that might hurt her more than believing he did care. I
stroked her hair for a minute and then bade her softly to make ready for bed, turning
her gently so I could untie and unlace her bliaut. She pulled away before I was quite
finished, thanking me in a choked voice and saying she could finish for herself, and
all but ran to the other side of the room. I was puzzled by Melusine's change of
mood, for she had come into my arms herself, and I had made no sexual gesture that
could frighten her. Still, I knew she could not be pushed further that day, so I tossed
her pillows back to her side of the bed and lay down with my back to her to give her
privacy to finish undressing.
   It was as well that I had realized I would have too much to do to leave the
following day. When I arrived in the king's antechamber at dawn, there were already
petitioners waiting, each pressing to be heard first, if not by right of earliest arrival
then by right of the urgency of their business. And long before the king was ready to
see anyone at all, the bishops of Winchester and Salisbury came in, both with sour
downturned mouths. To give Stephen a little warning, I remarked after I told him
they were waiting, that perhaps we should not have spent quite so much time in the
chase, but he seemed at first not to want to understand, laughing and clapping me on
the shoulder.
   "I am delighted that your wife already finds your presence so necessary to her
that she quarrels with you over your absence," he said, and then I saw he
understood very well because he added, "My ministers do not have the same excuse
but seem to feel the same way—or say they feel the same way while they urge me to
give them the power to rule my country without me altogether."
   My chest tightened with anxiety. That sounded as if Stephen suspected
Winchester and Salisbury of wishing to overthrow his rule. I could not be sure about
Salisbury, but it could not be true of Winchester; he was Stephen's brother.
   "It is not that they wish to restrict your pleasure," I offered, trying to seem
unaware of the direction the king's remark pointed. "The bishops fear, because of
the recent troubles, that you might be drawn away again to defend your throne
before necessary business is done. I am sure that if you explained carefully that they
can trust the queen—"
   "They do not wish to trust Maud," Stephen said in a peculiar voice. "They want
the power themselves, so they look for problems, not solutions."
   He was, I thought, partly resentful and partly uncertain, and I would have been
hard put to find an answer that would not have deepened his resentment. All I could
think was that King Henry had trusted Salisbury to rule England for many years at a
time and few had complained of the bishop's management—and that answer would
only have made Stephen angrier. Fortunately he did not wait for me to speak,
gesturing irritably during his last few words for me to bring Salisbury and
Winchester in.
    I was surprised to see that Stephen had smoothed the anger from his face in the
few minutes it took me to fetch the bishops into his bedchamber, and he greeted
them with a jest about trying to escape a scolding for running away from his duties
by seeing them before he was truly awake. Both smiled at once, making me wonder
if their sour looks had been owing to expectations of an unpleasant greeting rather
than irritation with Stephen for hunting. It might be, I thought, recalling that stiff,
uncomfortable dinner the day after my wedding. Winchester pressed the king's
shoulder gently, saying that Stephen deserved a few days rest. But Salisbury,
although he looked quite benign, remarked that King Henry had loved the hunt also
and found it restored the balance of his mind.
   I held my breath until Stephen replied. Considering his earlier mood, I feared he
might become angry at what I took to be a subtle reprimand. But the king only
agreed and said blandly that he supposed he might have inherited much from his
uncle and then smilingly asked why they had rushed to see him before he broke his
fast if they had not come because great numbers of pressing affairs had arisen in the
few days of his absence.
  "One affair is pressing enough," Salisbury said. "I would like to send a royal
messenger to King David this very morning with terms for a treaty."
   "It was David who was defeated," Stephen remarked, suddenly standing, turning
his back, and throwing off his bedrobe. A squire leapt forward, holding out a pair of
chausses and another came with a shirt. "Why should I hurry to send terms to him?
That would seem as if I doubted Aumale's ability to take back the royal castles from
David's men." His voice was muffled as he drew on his clothing.
   "I am sure King David will not think you doubt Aumale," Winchester said. "He
will believe that you wish to save fruitless bloodshed on both parts. Stephen, I know
David. You will have more leverage with him if he believes a treaty will save his
men's lives than—"
   "Save their lives for what?" Stephen interrupted bitterly, turning to face his
brother, his hair tousled from pulling his shirt down. "So David can gather them and
bring them down on me again? Let them die. When he is too weak to fight, he will
sign what I want him to sign as meekly as he did for King Henry."
  Winchester looked shocked. "But our men will die too," he protested uncertainly.
   "I am sorry for that," Stephen replied, gesturing away the squire who was trying
to slip under his arm and tie his shirt at the neck without interfering with the
conversation, "but David's losses are more important than mine in the north." He
paused and then went on, his voice sharp with exasperation, "Henry, do you not see
that I cannot call a levy on the northern shires as long as David is strong so that
losses among those men do not weaken me. God knows, I wish they were at peace
and not dying, but—"
   "Then let us at least try," Winchester urged. "I tell you, I know David. If he can
be brought to sign a treaty and swear he will no longer support Matilda's cause, he
will keep that treaty."
  "Perhaps." Stephen shrugged.
   "My lord, there is another reason for offering a treaty now," Salisbury put in
before Winchester could insist again that King David was a man who kept his oaths.
"We hope, as you do, that Robert of Gloucester will not be able to find entry into
England and that the unrest caused by his defiance is at an end, but if rebellion
should burst out again, there will be far less chance of bringing King David to an
agreement favorable to us."
   Stephen laughed, and my heart sank. I desired peace in the north more fervently
than the bishops. Northumbria was my home; it was men I had fought with in
Alnwick and Jernaeve who would die, and innocents, like a little whore I knew in
Alnwick village, who might be destroyed by the fighting. For my own sake, I had
hoped the king would listen to Winchester, though I knew from a military point of
view that the bishop's argument was not convincing.
   What Salisbury had said was entirely different. So far, it was true that Gloucester
had shown little desire to act in his sister's cause, but that could change. It was also
true that the rebels against Stephen had not joined forces and had been easily
suppressed. That, too, could change. And if, God forbid, Gloucester should find a
way into England and rally the rebels into a powerful, coordinated force, King David
would surely refuse to sign an unfavorable treaty. There would be too great a chance
to win back all he had lost with Gloucester's help.
   My worst fears were confirmed when the king made an obscene gesture and
cried, "Gloucester? Aumale will have time to clean out Northumbria and take half of
Scotland before Gloucester can make up his mind what to do.''
   "Do not be too sure of that, my lord," Salisbury warned. "Now that he is in
company with Geoffrey of Anjou, he may be spurred to action. Anjou is a man of
firm decision, and he has a fluent tongue and convincing manner that could arouse
Gloucester. And Anjou has very good reasons to foment trouble in England. If you
are at war here, you would be unable to fight him in Normandy."
    "Nothing will stir Gloucester," Stephen scoffed. "Even if he should try to come,
Maud's ships will stop him in the channel. And should they miss, the coast is closed
to him. Morever, I have taken the heart out of the men who might have rallied to him
if he had come earlier.''
   When I heard that, I knew the king's easy optimism and perhaps his remaining
anger because his brother had accused him once of carrying his father's cowardice
were blinding him to the truth of Salisbury's warnings. The more they argued, the
more stubborn Stephen would become, I feared, and my fear was realized. The
argument continued for some time longer, the bishops yielding only when Stephen
finally lost his good humor and roared that he would not be driven into an
appearance of weakness. I had not dared intrude, but when I opened the door to let
them leave, I followed them out into the great hall.
  "My lords," I said, "if you would allow me a word?"
   "What is it, Bruno?" Winchester asked kindly, although his lips were set in a thin
line.
   "If you would bring this matter of the treaty to the queen's attention…" I let my
voice drift, unable to say too much, but I hoped the bishops had seen, as I had,
Stephen's special deference to Maud's opinion. "Women always desire peace," I
added hopefully.
  "Women have not the brains of lice," Salisbury snarled, and pressed on past me.
  Winchester tried to smile and shook his head. "Maud is too bound to Stephen's
desires," he said and went on past me too.
   They were both wrong, I thought, but I could do no more except hope that
Stephen would be right. I tried to put the matter out of my mind, but later in the
morning when a page came and asked me to attend the queen I hoped that
Winchester, who knew Maud well, had spoken to her after all. Even if Maud was
angry that I had dared to interfere and had summoned me to remonstrate with me,
she would still think about the advantages of making peace with King David now.
And if she thought that best, I believed she would be able to change Stephen's mind.
   Only the lesser petitioners were left by the time the queen's page arrived, and it
would matter less if one of them were offended, so I went up to the king and asked
him if I could go to the queen before dinner. He gave permission at once, but he did
not meet my eyes or make any teasing remarks, which surprised me a little. I was
surprised again when the page told me to follow him, for the child knew I was
familiar with the queen's apartments. However, he led me out and into the garden,
where I found Maud walking alone among the strong-scented herbs.
   "Madam?" She turned at my voice. I bowed, and she watched me. It seemed she
was angry, but I had acted for what I thought was the best and I withstood her gaze
without flinching or changing color.
  "Melusine has told me you intend to take her north with you. Is this true?"
   I was so surprised by this total change from the subject I expected her to broach
that I must have stared blankly for a minute, and Maud repeated her question
sharply.
   "Yes," I replied, still too off balance to do more than confirm that Melusine would
go.
   "I thought you would have more sense," the queen snapped. "Has the woman
turned your head already?"
   By then my wits had come back. "I do not think so," I answered honestly. "It was
not Melusine's idea to travel with me. She did not know I had been chosen to carry
the king's thanks to Espec and Aumale and the others and was greatly surprised
when I told her that I had begged and received the king's permission to take her."
    Maud examined my face as if her eyes could scrape away the layers of skin and
flesh and come to grips with my soul. I tried to soften the impassive mask I had
worn since childhood, first to hide fear from my father and later to hide weakness
from anyone so I would not invite hurt. I wanted Maud to read me, to know I was
telling the truth, that the desire that had wakened in me for Melusine had not and
could not ever shake my loyalty to Stephen and her.
  "Why?" the queen asked.
   "I wished to make her known to my… to Lady Audris at Jernaeve." I hesitated a
moment and then decided that I must speak honestly and without regard to giving
some offense. "I have no land, madam, no source of income but the king's favor. If
circumstances should press on my lord so bitterly that he is forced to tighten his
purse and you should no longer be able to keep Melusine, I would have no means of
caring for my wife. In such a case or if I should die in the king's service, I could
send her to Jernaeve, where she would be safe and comfortable. Her future will no
longer burden my soul, and I will be able to continue my service to the king without
regard to anything beyond my oath of loyalty."
  "And so you could send her whether or not she was known," Maud replied
coldly, staring at me. "I know Lady Audris is your sister and fond enough of you to
welcome your wife known or unknown to her."
    I stared back. "Yes, madam, Audris would welcome her for my sake, but how
would Melusine feel, knowing herself to be an object of charity and thrust into a
strange place without introduction to the people or having any idea what they feel
about me. She is my wife," I said, "not a dog to be sent from kennel to kennel
without knowledge or explanation. I must live with her for the rest of my life, and my
life will be far sweeter if I can make her happy and bind her to me so that she obeys
me willingly. Making her hate me can serve no one's purpose, for if she hates me,
will she not hate you and King Stephen more for tying her to me?"
   At that the queen's eyes dropped and she walked ahead silently for a few minutes,
gesturing me to walk with her. "Of course it is true that it would be best if she does
not hate you," she agreed with a sigh. "One of the reasons Stephen and I settled on
you for her husband was that we knew you would be kind to her. But Melusine
troubles me." She sighed again. "I have never known anyone before who could play
a part so faultlessly for so long. Such desperate determination implies an equally
great cause, and I cannot see what that cause could be except a full-scale rebellion in
Cumbria. And this would be the worst time, the very worst time for such a rising.
The rebels may be quiet, but they are still rebels at heart. All they need is the rising of
a whole shire; they would fly to arms again and the Scots would fly to support their
dear friends in Cumbria, and—" Her voice shook and she stopped speaking, no
longer looking at me but staring ahead into a bleak future.
   I listened in growing delight, realizing that Maud had been building great castles of
plots on a foundation of the wet sand of fear. Not that I dismissed completely either
her projection of the damage a rising in Cumbria could do or her suspicions of
Melusine. I simply did not believe it would be possible for anyone, particularly a
woman, to wake rebellion in Cumbria after the winnowing the king had given that
shire in the beginning of the year. As to Melusine, it was indeed possible that she had
been playing a part to accomplish a purpose—but I was reasonably sure that
purpose had great significance only to Melusine herself.
    I could not tell the queen of Melusine's attempt to kill me because, prejudiced as
she was, Maud might demand that my poor wife be punished. Yet that attempt on
my life was one good proof that Melusine had no larger purpose in any of her
actions than an ultimate escape from fear and despair. She must have known that,
had it been successful, my murder would result in her own death and thus in the
failure of any political move connected with her presence in Cumbria. Thus, had she
had a political object in mind, she would not have tried to kill me. Nor were her
actions since we had made a truce enough of a single piece for a person with a fixed
and overwhelming purpose.
   With all of this evidence in Melusine's favor, I still could not ignore the queen's
fears. Maud was too keen a judge of people for me to follow my own opinion.
However, I did not agree that the solution was to mew up Melusine. Eventually I
would come to hate her from the constant tension of needing to be her keeper. Better
to bring her to Cumbria and test her so that any doubts of her purpose could be
resolved.
    "I assure you, madam," I said, stepping around in front of the queen so that she
had to stop and look at me, "that Melusine will raise no rebellions in Cumbria. I will
kill her if I must," I promised grimly, "and I will swear that by any oath you desire."
   It was an easy enough promise to make. I was very sure that Melusine's purposes
were all personal—perhaps only finding a little peace and happiness for herself after
her losses and sorrows, perhaps winning back her estate. However, if I was wrong, I
would keep my word to the queen, for a creature able to manage so deep a
deception was surely a creature of the devil and better removed from this world.



                                CHAPTER 12


  Melusine
   For some minutes after I woke the morning after Bruno told me he would take me
to Ulle, I continued to lie with closed eyes listening intently. I could not remember
exactly what I had said and done, but I knew I had given way completely to my
grief. Bruno—my husband—had been as good and gentle to me as papa…No! No, I
must not allow myself to think of him as good and gentle. What if he had killed papa
and Donald?
   There was a faint sound of breathing in the room, but no movement. Could Bruno
be sitting and watching me? What would I say to him? Could a man who had killed
my father and brother show such concern for me? Yes, of course he could if he
wanted Ulle and a peaceful life, and he had told me outright that was what he wanted.
Tears stung behind my closed lids. I would have to thank him as coldly as I could
and then send him away.
   When I had conquered the tears, I opened my eyes, but it was only Edna sitting
on the chest and staring out of the window. By nature every creature flees pain, so I
fled from the problem my husband's kindness created to the much simpler problem
of what to do about Edna. Having used the pot and washed—she having served me
most deftly and in silence, although I could feel her look at me whenever I was
turned away—I said to her when she began to dress me that Bruno had told me she
could no longer practice her trade and asked her why.
    "I got with child and could not birth it," she replied, her eyes staring past me into
nothing. "Three days I screamed and it could not come. I was dying. They thought
they could save the child, so they cut it out of me. Somehow I lived and it died, but
if I get with child again, I will die."
  "Do you mean to tell me that the—the place you work permitted you to refuse?"
   "No, madam." She looked at me and a smile I never hope to see on another face
twisted her lips. "They 'persuaded' me until I agreed, but I could not. When a man
came to me, I fought. I could not help myself."
  "I should think they would have cast you out then. Yet Bruno found you there."
   "I served as maid to the others and cooked and cleaned. Also—" Edna looked
away again. "There are a few men, not many but a few, who only take pleasure in
forcing a woman. They kept me for those."
   I recalled the bruises I had seen on her and felt sickness well up in me, but I also
knew that women bred to Edna's trade were also bred to deception and dishonesty. I
knew the bruises could be dyed into the skin with plant juices and the emaciation be
deliberate, but I could not make myself send her back—and she was a skillful maid
who was clean, spoke French, and could not have any loyalty to anyone in the court
except myself and Bruno.
   All the while we talked, Edna had continued to slip garments over my head. By
the time I admitted to myself that I must keep her, because even the smallest chance
that the tale she told me was true was too great, she had finished lacing my bliaut. I
sat down on the chest carved with Bruno's name and gestured her toward the other.
  "Do you wish to stay with me as my maid?"
   Edna began to sob aloud. The first day she had wept, but silently. Now she
slipped from the chest and crawled to my feet and bent and kissed them. I grasped
her arm and jerked her upright.
  "Do not use such extravagant gestures to me," I said.
   "My people are faithful to death, but they do not grovel. I take it that you do wish
to be my servant?" Still unable to speak for sobbing, she nodded vigorously. "Very
well, I will accept you on terms. You will be fed and fed well, and I will see that you
have decent clothing fit for all weathers—that is all I promise. Perhaps Sir Bruno will
find a coin for you now and again, but we are not wealthy people. For your part,
your duties will be much what you have done already—to clean our clothes and
make the bed and suchlike—except that you will need to learn to sew and perhaps
embroider. You are too old to learn to spin or weave."
   She still crouched before me, struggling to master her sobbing, and gasped out, "I
will do anything, learn anything if only I may stay with you. Only be a little patient
with me. Do not cast me out for—"
   "The only thing I will cast you out for is stealing or lying to myself or Sir Bruno. I
know stealing is the custom of your trade and you do not think it to be wrong, but I
will not suffer it. I am not talking only of your stealing from me or Bruno. In fact, I
think you would not be so foolish as that, but if you steal anything at all from anyone
at all, I will cast you naked into the road wherever we are. And for lying also—but
only for lying to me or to Sir Bruno. One cannot be a servant in court without lying
to others; only do not be so fanciful that you are caught in your lies."
  I could not help smiling as I said that, and Edna wiped the tears from her face and
timidly smiled back. "Madam," she whispered, "we were not allowed to steal. Great
lords came to that place, and had one missed a ring or a coin, the punishment might
have been death or maiming for all of us. But I am very good at lying."
    "Good. Remember your lessons then, for the punishment here will be no less
great, and you will bear it alone. But as to lying, we must begin that at once. For my
own reasons, I wish to avoid the queen's ladies as much as possible. Therefore, I
will tell the queen that Sir Bruno has burdened me with a singularly stupid and
clumsy maid whom I must train as if she were a dog." I nodded. "Your bruises may
be useful. You might show a few of the smaller ones to some of the other
maidservants to prove you have been punished for stupidity. Since you say you
know well how to lie, I will leave it to you to explain where Bruno found you and
why you speak French. But be sure to tell one tale and hold fast to it, since you will
live with the other servants and many will repeat the tale to their ladies."
   I sounded more confident than I actually felt because I had no idea how a servant
was recognized and given the right to eat at table and a place to sleep in this great
place. Therefore I had no choice but to explain my problem to the queen, and I was
by no means sure Maud would agree to my having a maid who was not in her
service. Nor was I at all certain what I should say if she questioned me about the
journey north Bruno had mentioned. North was all I allowed myself to think, but in
me there was a terrible longing for the place I dared not name, a terrible longing and
an equally terrible fear.
   After I had taken my morning meal to the darkest corner I could find, I watched
for a moment when the queen was alone and approached her. She seemed surprised
that I should willingly open a conversation with her but did not mention my going to
Jernaeve, which made me suspect she did not know. Remembering how she had had
me watched and that Bruno had said I had tried to escape in the past, I pushed my
knowledge of our journey to the back of my mind and spoke of Edna as if I
expected to remain with the court.
   Maud smiled with her lips—I think to hide what she was thinking because I could
get no impression of any kind of feeling—but she only said, "Of course you must
have a maid of your own if your husband is willing to pay for her," and then told me
which of her gentlemen managed meals and quarters for her ladies' maidservants.
   I remembered then that when papa went to swear fealty to Stephen—that was
before Mildred died—he had complained that a charge had been levied on him for
food and lodging for his grooms and horses, grumbling about the mean-fisted
hospitality of English kings compared to the treatment of guests at the Scottish court
when he was a young man. I had not thought of Edna costing anything beyond what
worn out garments I chose to give her because when I went with papa to Carlisle or
Richmond we had lodged in a private house, our servants with us. A small qualm of
conscience passed through me, for I knew Bruno had little and a maid might be a
burden on his purse, but I said nothing of that to the queen, who might think I was
begging to be spared the expense.
  In addition, Maud's near disinterest in whether my maid was one of her own
servants reminded me that the queen was probably sure she could discover anything
she needed to know from a maid whether or not the woman was in her service. I was
not certain that Maud would be as successful in penetrating the practiced lies of a
whore as she thought; nonetheless, I would take no chances and tell Edna to be very
careful of the queen and speak only the truth to her—unless I bade her profess
ignorance.
   The idea coursing through my head had made me slow to reply, and Maud tapped
my arm with an impatient finger, bidding me sharply not to play slow-witted again. I
begged pardon, assuring her I had no intention of doing so, and then presented my
excuse for remaining much of the time in my own chamber. This time, Maud raised
her brows as she looked at me, and I found myself blushing.
   "That is not true, madam," I admitted. "Edna cannot sew, but otherwise she is a
most deft maid. I do wish to teach her to sew, but—but I really desire to hide myself
from your ladies." Stumblingly, I confessed that I could not bear to be treated like an
idiot any longer but feared their rage if they should come to believe I had been
mocking them by pretending to be foolish.
   The queen's expression was very strange as she listened, but she only said, "Very
well. You have had no duties in the months you have been with me, so you will
cause me no inconvenience if you absent yourself for a few days. However, you
cannot hide forever."
   "I thought I would change little by little," I said, "as if—" I could feel myself
blushing again. "—as if marriage had wakened me."
  "Very well," the queen repeated, both face and voice completely devoid of
expression now. "You may go."
   At dinner I learned that the king had gone hunting,taking with him the servants on
duty, which meant that Bruno had gone too. It was a great relief to me, for I hated
the thought of seeming ungracious and ungrateful for his kindness, and yet I dared
not let myself accept it. Too late I discovered that sitting alone in my chamber was
no better than being treated like an idiot. I had never been bored at Ulle; usually there
was too much to do, and a few idle moments were a blessed relief.
   There were things I could have done; Bruno needed a nightrobe and in court a
woman always needs clothing and pretty new embroidered girdles or sleeve cuffs,
but I had no cloth or fine embroidery thread and nothing with which to purchase
any. It had not occurred to me to ask Bruno for money, and I would not have done
so even if the idea had come to me. I knew he did not trust me and might think I
wanted the coin for some secret evil purpose. I could not imagine what evil I could
accomplish in a place where I knew no one but a few women who all thought me a
fool. Yet it troubled me that he should not trust me, and I knew if he refused me I
could never feel the same toward him. I remember putting my hands to my head
when I thought that and wondering what I meant.
   Before the second day ended, I considered going to the queen and asking for
duties to be assigned to me, but I dared not do that lest she use my new employment
as a reason to forbid my accompanying Bruno when he went north. Altogether, he
was too often in my mind over the three very long, dull days that passed. In fact, I
began to long for what I had at first feared, and when Edna came flying from the hall
to tell me that the hunt had been sighted nearing the castle, I forgot all my doubts
about my husband. I ran out into the bailey to meet the returning huntsmen and
greeted Bruno with delight, my heart warm with having a man of my own to
welcome.
   And I must say that he made all too easy what had burdened my spirit for the
days he had been gone. Our talk had been so pleasant and I was so excited by the
huge boar Bruno had killed, that I mentioned my brothers while I was assuring him I
was a good physician. The pang of grief I felt when I remembered that I would never
heal any of them again made me close my eyes and catch my breath. Again Bruno
offered comfort, but I was not overcome as I had been on Monday night, and I
assured him I would not let that happen again. I still had no idea how to avoid
thanking him for comforting me, then and now, but before I could say anything he
changed the subject to Edna.
   That effectively quenched any gratitude I felt in an icy rage, but I had to swallow
my renewed suspicion quickly. If I displayed it, Bruno would have reason to think
me jealous—and what reason could I have? Should not an unwilling wife be grateful
that her husband vented his lust on another woman? I swallowed down any
expression of my rage to salve my pride; still, if I discovered that the tale Edna had
told me had been concocted between her and Bruno so that he might have his whore
at hand, I would… I had no idea what I would do, but I promised myself that neither
of them would find it pleasant.
   Fortunately, my rage was diverted by the arrival of a group of gentlemen who had
not accompanied the hunt and wished to compliment Bruno on having made one of
the greatest kills. He made nothing of it, turning the feat into a jest and making them
laugh with a tale of how he tripped on his own feet in his eagerness to cut the beast's
throat and was trampled for his clumsiness. I could see that he is of that kind of man
who can never bear to be too much noticed—Andrew and Fergus were like that and
Magnus too, but for a different reason—and before I considered what I was doing I
had drawn the talk away, just as I had always done for them.
    Once I began to talk to Bruno's friends, I forgot how angry I had been. It was
very pleasant to be part of a group of men talking about such things as we all
enjoyed—hunting in general and the use and care of the hawks and horses and dogs
that were so much a part of that sport. I drew from each man his special knowledge
and opinions, from Bruno some remarks on the training and flying of the great hawks
of the north, but he was shy at first. Later he talked more freely—it was the training
of horses that sparked his deepest interest—but all the time, without my noticing at
all, he had been edging us to the door closest to the guesthouse. I was near
speechless when he drove off the other gentlemen with a jest about desiring only my
company at this hour of the evening, and led me in.
  I could not refuse to go with Bruno without making myself ridiculous, but I
entered the chamber prepared to defend myself, to resist as well as I could any
attempt on Bruno's part to void his promise and force me to couple. Instead of
seizing me, however, he began to talk about the journey north and his fear that if the
king or queen were reminded too often of our going by courtiers' gossip, they might
place restrictions on our route of travel. I understood that he was trying to warn me
to say nothing of his plan to take me to Ulle without mentioning the place—and
realized with surprise that I had thought of going there without horror, although there
was still pain. So I said as shortly as I could that I was not a fool and changed the
subject to the bruises he had received when he killed the boar.
   The man is a devil! His face—if one is diverted from the hunger that lies under
every other expression—is open and innocent; his dark eyes are sometimes wary but
more often soft with kindness or bright with laughter. Bruno was not handsome to
my eyes, not with the brilliant beauty of my red-haired, blue-eyed father and
brothers. He was more like Magnus—that should have warned me; laughing or
caressing, Magnus's clever mind always held firm to its own purposes. But I never
thought of Magnus.
   Despite the warning I had had in overhearing Maud's ladies speak of Bruno's
knowledge of women and despite his open admission, in my presence, of his
intention to the men he had dismissed from our company, I was beguiled
completely. Only an accident saved me from falling headlong into the trap of lust that
he set. He set? Or did I set that trap myself and Bruno only sprang it? It was I who
bade him take off his clothes; he only used my own pride—but is that not the devil's
favorite weapon?—to draw me to him, even after I saw his staff upright, its head
bare in lust. I had never before seen a man so, but I knew what it was and what it
meant from what rutting male beasts exposed.
   Only Bruno is no beast; he is a clever devil. He would not let me put from my
mind what I had seen, but fixed my attention on that standing rod, taking away any
fearful-ness I might have felt by making me want to laugh. Monsieur Jehan de la Tete
Rouge, indeed! And talking of that part of him as if it were an independent
personage with feelings and desires separate from his own. So instead of running to
hide myself and being revolted by that swollen shaft, I actually came closer, finding
Monsieur amusing. I felt again that warmth and trembling within me—perhaps I even
knew then that it was desire, not fear—but I was too curious to be warned, so
curious I had to press my hand on Bruno's ribs to keep myself from reaching down
to touch Monsieur de la Tete Rouge.
   Devil! Bruno knew what I felt, I am sure of it, and he bent and kissed my nose. It
was a disarming caress, full of warmth and tenderness; it was also papa's favorite
affectionate gesture when I was close, brushing dirt from his clothes or looking at
something he was holding. Had it not been for that, Bruno would have had me then
and there. As it was, the web he had been weaving around me broke and I jumped
away.
  Devil! He knew enough not to pursue me and to call again on my pride to smother
my fear—not of him but of my own rising passion. Like a fool, I stood up to him,
answering roundly the excuses he made for tempting me. Thus I let him beguile me
again, for he set aside the issue of our coupling, as if he had been defeated, and then,
while my pride still blinded me, he challenged my usefulness as a woman, asking, as
if with contempt, whether I could make ready for our journey in one day.
   In pointing out those things he had overlooked, or seemed to have
overlooked—and in my joy at his promise that I could ride a horse of my own rather
than being jounced in a cart like a servant girl—I all but forgot how he had made me
want him. Without thinking, I ran to him for comfort when fear of finding more pain
than I could bear at Ulle struck me. I thought the unruly ideas he had planted in my
head were gone—until he began to unlace my gown. There was no hint of
Monsieur's desire in what he did, but that wicked warm trembling began in me again.
This time I had strength enough to flee—and that devil turned his back on me and
was fast asleep before I had lit the night candle and snuffed the others.
   It took all my strength, after I had lain awake some while, still warm, still wanting,
to refrain from putting my foot in the middle of his back and shoving him out of the
bed. I thought about it with longing, imagining his rude awakening, his shout of
surprise and perhaps pain if he landed on his bruised side. I even began to believe it
would be worth the beating he would undoubtedly give me—but what if instead of
beating me, that devil understood. If he kissed my mouth, which papa never did,
would I have sense and strength to flee him again or would I yield to the curiosity of
my treacherous body?
    Desperately, I tried to stop thinking about that infuriating man and fixed my mind
on the problems of our journey. The diversion became preeminent when it suddenly
occurred to me that more trouble would arise from keeping the trip north a secret
than from telling Maud about it. It was possible that the queen would forbid my
going altogether or forbid Bruno to take me to Ulle, but I did not think so. For the
first, I doubted she would openly forbid anything for which the king's permission
had been obtained. As to going to Ulle, I was quite certain it would not enter her
mind that Bruno would consider taking me there, so it was unlikely she would forbid
it. On the other side of the coin was the picture the queen would see if she heard of
that journey by accident—a black picture of my deceitfulness.
    I intended to speak to Bruno about this notion, to ask him what I was to do about
Edna to whom I had promised service only this morning, whether he wanted me to
arrange for carting or storage, how to do so, and a million other details, but of
course he was gone by the time I woke. I do not know what annoyed me
more—Bruno's ability to slip away without a sound or a quiver of the mattress or my
own stupidity in forgetting to tell him to wake me when he woke. I suppose I looked
like a thundercloud when I went to the queen's hall to break my fast, although I was
not aware of it until Maud crooked a finger at me and gestured to the lady with her to
leave us alone.
   "You are much more amusing now that you have—so to speak—come into our
world," the queen said, smiling at me as I made a small bow. "Certainly you do not
trouble to wear a courtier's face. Tell me, Melusine, who or what has displeased
you?"
   "I am more worried than displeased, madam," I replied, cursing myself for my
carelessness and wishing I had the player's skill with which Maud credited me.
   I dared not even lick my lips, although my mouth had dried with nervousness. I
no longer had the choice of discussing with Bruno whether it would be better to tell
the queen. I must speak now or not tell her at all.
   "Bruno told me last night that he is to carry a message north for the king and that I
am to go with him," I went on, trying to keep the frown on my face unchanged so
that Maud would not read my anxiety.
  "And you do not wish to go?" Maud asked without inflection.
   "Oh yes," I cried, "I do wish to go, but I am sure I must beg leave of you,
madam, and I can give you no further explanation. Bruno told me no more than I
have already repeated."
   The queen looked at me with no more expression than there had been in her
voice. There was no way to judge whether she believed what I had said, although in
a way it was true since Bruno had not explained the king's purpose.
   "I hope you will grant me leave," I went on. "Since I have no duties, I am sure my
absence would cause you no hardship—" I glanced quickly over my shoulder and
lowered my voice to be sure I would not be overheard, "—and being away would
solve my problem with your ladies. I suppose most of those attending you now will
leave and others, who do not know me, will come before we return—Bruno said he
had leave for two months. But even if I am wrong about that, surely the ladies will
forget so small and unimportant a matter as my behavior or understand that the travel
and excitement had changed me."
   "What a clever girl you are, Melusine," Maud remarked so blandly that a chill ran
up my spine. "I find you much more interesting than most other women."
   "Please let me go, madam," I whispered. "I am sure you will find me more
interesting still when I do not need to hide myself for most of the day."
  "Oh…" The queen drew out the sound until, though soft, it rang with irony. "So
you intend to return?"
   I stared at her, blank with fear and then asked, "Where else have I to go?" The
question brought a brief look of surprise to Maud's face, and wildly seeking any
topic that would keep her from asking me a direct question about Ulle, I blurted out,
"And I do not know what is mine to take. I have several grand gowns in my chest
that are new. Are those to be returned to you, madam? The bed, I am sure, was lent,
but is it to stay in that chamber or should it be packed away? And do I need a tally
to mark that I have returned what was lent?"
   "The gowns are yours," Maud snapped. "Two were given to you by Stephen to
make you less sad, and your wedding gown was my gift. Why do you continue to
pretend that you do not remember?''
   "I do not pretend, madam," I said seriously. "I do not know why I do not
remember. Perhaps I did not listen properly because I was thinking about my
sorrows, or perhaps I did not want court gowns because I did not want to be at
court."
   "Whatever you are, you are certainly not a flatterer," Maud remarked, her brief
flash of temper replaced with wry amusement.
   "Would you believe me if I said I was overjoyed to come into your service—or
your care?" I asked quietly. "It would be foolish for me to pretend that. Yet, madam,
now that my bitterness is a little eased, I can see that you and the king have tried to
be kind."
   "I am glad your bitterness is eased," Maud's smile, as so often was the case, did
not reflect in her eyes. "I must suppose that is Bruno's doing."
   To my horror I felt myself blushing, but I would not look away and seem
ashamed. "He is not a man I would have chosen for myself," I said firmly, hoping
she would recognize the truth when she heard it for once, "but he is not cruel or
ungenerous. Since it is too late to hope for better I must be content with him and
make as good a marriage as I can. So will you give me leave to travel with him?"
  "I will tell you tomorrow or send a message if you need to know sooner."
   There was a slightly troubled look on the queen's face, but I did not think it had
anything to do with me, and she continued to be withdrawn into her own thoughts as
she told me that I did not need tallies for the bed or bedclothes and gave
permission—unasked—for me to go and begin sorting and packing as soon as I had
broken my fast.
   I was sick with worry all the rest of the day, but I had no chance to confess what
I had done and warn Bruno because he did not sit with me at dinner. And when I
told him at the evening meal, explaining my reasons for telling the queen, he only
nodded and said he was sure Maud would give me leave.
   "I am so glad you are sure," I said somewhat spitefully, remembering how
unpleasant my interview with her had been. "Now will you please tell me what you
want done with the chests—and with Edna. You told me to take her as a maid, so I
did, but I am sure she cannot ride. Do you want me to store everything or to hire a
cart—"
   "Oh, bless you, Melusine," he cried, "if you will see about the hiring of a cart and
a couple of men to drive it and guard it, I will somehow find time to get a horse and
saddle for you." Then he looked at me hard and said in a somewhat lower voice, "I
do not wish to ask the king for time to go into the town when my service will be
withdrawn from him altogether so soon."
   "But—" I began, about to protest that Bruno had misunderstood me. Then I
hesitated, knowing that if Magnus had given me such a look, it would have some
important meaning and I suppose inside me something woke to alertness so that
small incidents stuck firmly in my mind. There was no immediate threat, however,
and my attention jumped back to the fact that I knew nothing of the town, that I was
not sure the queen would give permission for me to run about in it, and that I had not
the faintest idea how to go about hiring a cart and men anyway because at Ulle I had
owned the carts and the men had been servants in the household.
   "Oh, of course, you will need money," Bruno said, seeming to associate my
unfinished remark with the wrong uncertainty. His hand fumbled in his belt, but he
was no longer looking at me and he did not look down for his purse either. He had
glanced at the king's table when he spoke of not having time to go into the town, and
his eyes stayed fixed there, following a gentleman, most gorgeously attired, who was
crossing behind the queen-Bruno pushed a purse into my hand, and rose to his feet.
We had not finished eating, but I felt his movement had more to do with the
gentleman he was watching, who now bent over the king's shoulder and said
something that made Stephen laugh. The queen looked up at him too. It seemed to
me that she had cast a quick glance at her other table companion, who I knew was
the king's brother, before she smiled at the gorgeous gentleman. I thought Bruno,
who was standing beside me, still closing my hand around his purse, had seen the
glance Maud gave the bishop of Winchester and stiffened, and a faint curiosity about
what it all meant stirred in me. In the next moment I dismissed the matter. I had my
own troubles to occupy me. I had no idea of how I was to accomplish what Bruno
thought I had suggested.
    Absently, my eyes went back to the king's table and I wondered if I had imagined
all those quick looks and tensions. The bishop had apparently been included in the
jest that made Stephen laugh, for he was laughing too now, and Bruno, also smiling,
was talking to Camville. As I watched, the royal party rose, having also finished
eating. The king walked toward his private apartment with the gorgeous gentleman's
hand on his arm, while the queen stood talking to the bishop a moment longer. When
they parted, I saw the bishop look at the doorway through which the king had
disappeared. For some reason, he looked lonely—a ridiculous idea when applied to
a man of such wealth and power—but I had got to my feet and started toward him
before I realized how silly such a notion was.
    My next notion was audacious rather than silly. The bishop of Winchester
virtually owned the town. Who would be more able than he, or one of his servants,
to help me? So instead of turning aside, I continued toward him as quickly as I
could. Winchester almost walked past me, and if I had been able to absorb his
expression before I spoke, I would have held my tongue. However, the words, "My
lord bishop, a moment, please," were out of my mouth before I realized that
Winchester's whole face looked frozen. I began to back away, but he had stopped
and turned toward me, staring at me somewhat blindly. To continue to back away
now that I had his attention would be stupid as well as rude, so I dropped a deep
curtsey.
   Winchester's expression softened into a smile. "You are the new married
lady—Sir Bruno's wife."
  "I am Lady Melusine of Ulle," I replied, somewhat tartly I fear, as I rose from my
bow. I had little taste for becoming a mere appendage to any man, even my husband.
   Although the smile remained on Winchester's lips, his eyes now looked wary.
"Life is as God directs," he warned.
   I realized immediately that my denial of Bruno's name made the bishop believe I
had accosted him to complain about my forced marriage and was at a loss for what
to say. I would not say I was content, and I could not say outright that I knew
complaining to him would be useless because he was only the king's and queen's
tool. Then I was glad the thought had not leapt unbidden from my lips—as
sometimes happened with me, spoiled as I was by my loving father and brothers,
who would defend me even when I was wrong and not punish me
themselves—because the bishop added, very kindly, "But if I can help you I will."
   Dismissing my ugly thoughts, I admitted ruefully, "I do not think the favor I will
ask is the kind one can request of God, and I am afraid it is a great presumption to
ask it of you, my lord, but I hope you will at least direct me to whom I should
speak."
   "Any favor can be asked of God," the bishop murmured in automatic response,
but curiosity had almost replaced the wariness in his face.
   "My lord," I said, laughing, "I will gladly pray for a horse and cart and some men
to drive it and guard it and my maidservant if you think that is the best way to obtain
them, but I do hope you can suggest some more direct and practical method
because I need them very soon."
  "A horse and cart," Winchester repeated, blank with astonishment.
   "I hope I have not offended you, my lord," I said quickly, fearing that he had the
kind of pride that regarded as an insult being asked about any common matter.
    A burst of laughter followed. "No, no, my dear, you have not offended me," he
assured me, "but I feared you were about to… to pose some weighty problem to me
and—" He uttered a small sigh, then smiled. "Well, let me say I am glad your trouble
is so simple."
   "Not to me, my lord," I pointed out, smiling too. "My husband, who is bound to
close attendance on the king, has bidden me find cart, horse, and men—no, he said
nothing about the horse, so possibly he means to obtain the horse himself, but—"
   "The horse and cart are for Sir Bruno?" Astonishment again raised Winchester's
voice.
   "I am so sorry," I exclaimed, "I began in the middle of the tale and have confused
everything. Please allow me to begin at the beginning—if you have time to listen, my
lord?"
  "This tale I must hear whether I have time or not," he replied, grinning.
   "It is not nearly so interesting as I have made it seem, I fear," I said. "Simply, the
king has ordered Sir Bruno to carry certain messages north and has given his
permission for me to go also—"
  "North? Bruno is carrying—" His voice had been above normal with surprise, and
he checked it abruptly and spoke lower. "Is Bruno carrying messages to Scotland?"
He looked eager and excited.
   "He told me nothing of the messages, my lord," I answered carefully, "but I do
not think he expects to go into Scotland. He intended, I know, to bring me to the
people who raised him in Jernaeve keep. That is in Northumbria."
   I realized that I had been foolish beyond measure. In a court everything has ten
meanings more than should be conveyed by simple words. God alone knew what
Winchester had read into what I had said. My slow, careful words and direct gaze at
least caused his expression of eager expectation to be replaced by puzzled
thoughtfulness.
   "Ah, yes," he murmured, "you said you were to go also and needed a horse and
cart. The messages, then, cannot be very urgent if Bruno is to go no faster than you
do in the cart.''
   "I ride, and I will cause no delay to Bruno's business," I told him, and then was
furious with myself, pride having again driven me to speak before I thought. "But I
think you judge correctly that no urgency attends the messages," I added, hoping to
retrieve my second mistake. "Bruno is given two months leave."
   Winchester nodded understanding, smiling and seeming more at ease although still
very thoughtful. "That is why the cart is needed."
  "Yes, my lord," I agreed. "Since the court will move on before we can return, we
must take our possessions with us, and also my maidservant, who cannot ride."
  "And when do you leave?" he asked.
  "On Monday, I believe, my lord," I replied.
  "Very well, Lady Melusine," Winchester said, "a cart will be ready early Monday.
And you may tell Bruno that I am very happy to be able to be of help, and will be
happy to serve him in any way I can in the future."
   He smiled at me again and turned away. I was appalled, but I could not say a
word for my throat had closed with fear. Apparently Winchester believed Bruno had
sent me to him. I had no idea what I had done for good or ill, and I was left in that
state until the morning we left because Bruno did not come to bed that night nor the
next.
   Saturday night I was half mad, terrified one moment and raging the next. The
terror came first when Bruno did not come at his usual time. I was seized by the idea
that Bruno was being questioned about my unwise disclosure and perhaps would be
punished for it. But as the hours passed, I knew he could not have been detained so
long and rage overwhelmed fear and regret. I became certain Bruno had made some
assignation with Edna because I had not yielded to him the night before.
   On Sunday morning I learned that Bruno had not slept with Edna, wherever else
he had been. I spoke to the woman in charge myself and discovered that Edna could
not have left the maids' lodging in the bailey that night. One of the women had been
taken ill and two nuns had sat up with her all night. Then of course my fear returned,
to be supplanted by rage again when I saw Bruno at dinner in his proper place
among the Knights of the Body. He smiled at me, and lifted his hands, palm up, in a
gesture of helplessness. That did not amend my temper much since I felt he could
have sent a message and saved me a great deal of grief and fear. My resentment was
only increased when I glimpsed him later, after the evening meal, in the doorway of
the king's private apartment giving instructions to a page.
   Because I had not slept at all on Saturday night and had been too busy Sunday
separating what Bruno and I could carry on our horses and what must go by cart, I
slept so fast on Sunday night I would not have known that Bruno had not come to
bed if he had not confessed indirectly by bursting into our chamber after Prime on
Monday, crying in a breath, "I am sorry to be so late. Can you help me arm?"
   Haste combined with that question leaves no time for scolding, recrimination, or
counter-questions. I sprang toward him, catching his belt as he opened it and flinging
it on the bed, bringing his arming tunic as he lifted off the one he was wearing,
holding his mail so that he could slide into it with ease, and bringing back belt and
sword to be buckled on.
  Only then did I say, "I do not know where your shield and helmet are. Bruno,
what danger threatens?"
  "My shield and helmet are in the stable with Barbe, and if we do not leave at once,
we may never get away," he said, and went out before I could speak again.



                               CHAPTER 13


  Bruno
   I had no idea that I had frightened Melusine nearly out of her wits when I
demanded my armor and rushed out, sending two servingmen in to carry out our
belongings. Nor did I realize that she would misinterpret my saying that we had to
leave at once to mean that the king was furious and about to arrest me or had exiled
me with only hours to escape. How could I guess she would be so silly? Had I not
told her more than once that I was one of Stephen's favorites? Indeed, it was his
fondness for me—or, at least, his conviction that I was more discreet than any of his
other servants that nearly overset all my plans.
    After I had killed that damned boar on the hunt, the king had said, half-jestingly,
that I was too good a companion in sport to use as a messenger. I reminded him that
it was not only to be a messenger but to bring Melusine to Jernaeve that I was going,
and he said no more about keeping me, but a more serious threat to my leaving arose
on Saturday afternoon. At first the canon, who had come from Canterbury, seemed
to have nothing to do with me. The archbishop of Canterbury, that William de
Corbeil who had anointed Stephen as king, had died less than a year later, in
November 1136, and the canon had come to petition that Canterbury should be
permitted to elect an archbishop when the papal legate should arrive.
   I paid little attention, knowing that the king would put off any election as long as
he could because the revenues of the see went to the Crown as long as there was no
bishop. Stephen spouted all the usual soothing words, promising that he would obey
the papal legate, who would undoubtedly have directions from the pope about many
matters. It was only when the interview was over and I heard the king suggest that
the canon go quietly to Netley Abbey rather than stay in Winchester's great house by
the cathedral so that' 'no undue pressure be placed on the free canons of
Canterbury" that my ears sprang to attention. Next, while the canon was being
served a farewell cup of wine before his short journey, Stephen drew me aside and
bade me take him to the east gate, where he could board the boat that had brought
him. It would be best, Stephen said softly, that he speak to no one on the way.
   When I returned and was able to report that no attention at all had been paid to
the canon—and I had watched the boat out of sight on the river—Stephen took a
ring from his hand, pressed it into mine, and said he could not spare me, that he
would find someone else to carry his thanks and rewards north. I knew he meant
only I could be trusted to be secret, and I dared not protest again that I would rather
have leave than a ring, no matter how rich. Then I wondered whether my own selfish
desires were making me blind to any real danger a loose mouth could do the king. I
thought of that for the rest of the afternoon, but I could not see that anything the
worst blabbermouth could have said could be dangerous, which brought me to the
sad conclusion that Stephen had a guilty conscience and was seeing monsters that
did not exist in dark corners.
    That was why I felt free to catch Waleran in the king's chamber after the evening
meal and tell him that my leave was cancelled. Possibly he was the cause of
Stephen's guilty conscience, but I knew it would take more power than I had to raise
doubts of Waleran's motives or good sense at this time, so my presence could do
no good. Waleran wanted to be rid of me and I wanted to be gone; all I felt was
relief when having asked Stephen jovially why I was not already gone north and
hearing that I was not to go, he somehow managed to talk the king into changing his
mind again.
   Perhaps I should have been glad that Stephen felt he needed me so much, but I
was not. I had seen others, closer and dearer, fall from favor. Because they were rich
and powerful already and the king was not a vicious man who would strip everything
from those he no longer trusted, they had lost little more than the ability to grow still
richer and more powerful. But if the king should dismiss me, there was only the
gutter of the common mercenary below. More than ever I wanted Melusine to be
known and loved in Jernaeve and I wanted to see her lands and learn whether I could
cozen the king into giving them to me.
    I was like a man strung by the thumbs all Saturday night and Sunday. It made me
a little easier in my mind that the king demanded that I sleep in the outer chamber
both Saturday and Sunday night so that I could be summoned quickly if he needed
me. Perhaps he thought I would feel deprived of the "service" of my wife as he felt
deprived of my service, but I was doubly glad. For one thing, I hoped the king
would work off his spite—sometimes he was spiteful, but the fit never lasted long.
And anyway I got two good nights sleep away from temptation.
   Still, I could not relax all day Sunday because Stephen grumbled all the time he
was giving me my instructions and signing the writs that named the rewards for each
of the principal men who had fought at Northallerton. And between attending to the
king's business, I had my own to finish. I had already obtained extra blankets that we
could use for camping out if we could not find a hostel and had discovered that
Melusine had a horse and saddle, but I had to arrange that our traveling gear be
brought from storage to the stable to be loaded and arrange with the queen's groom
to bring Melusine's mount to the king's stable. I have forgotten all the small things,
but Sunday was no day of rest for me.
    Monday morning was worse, however. Stephen sent me on an errand to Robert
de Vere that any page could have run, and when I reminded him that I had hoped to
be on the road north as soon as Melusine had broken her fast, he shrugged and said
it did not matter whether I left that day or another. Then I knew that although he
would not openly oppose Waleran's desire to be rid of me, he intended to keep me
from day to day as long as he could.
   Robert de Vere, the king's constable, did not keep me waiting as he might have
kept a page, so my errand was dispatched more quickly than the king expected. And
Vere liked me, I think—he had stood sponsor to me at my knighting—and was no
fool. He said nothing to me about Stephen's reluctance to grant leave to those he
liked—Vere knew I was supposed to go from Stephen's grumbling about it—but he
accompanied me back to the king and when Stephen dismissed me, Vere blandly
wished me a good journey and said he would bid me fare well now as he did not
expect to see me again for some time. I fled the king's chamber as if hounds were on
my trail. If Vere could keep Stephen busy until I had left Winchester, Stephen might
be angry but I doubted he would send after me and I was certain he would forget all
about me while I was gone and welcome me back gladly. The king could be spiteful,
but he did not carry a grudge.
   What I had forgotten when I told Melusine that we must hurry and leave was that
she knew nothing of all this. I assumed too that in eight months with the court, no
matter how absorbed she had been in her own grief, she would have learned how
changeable Stephen was and that one must seize an opportunity when it occurs. Of
course, I also did not know that she had any private reason to be fearful.
   I gave all my attention to seeing the small cart loaded so there would be room for
Edna and the chests would not break loose and crush her. Then I rolled four extra
blankets around the bundles of necessary clothing and other items we would need
for the journey, since we would soon outdistance the cart. Inside Melusine's roll I
could feel the shape of a small pan, and I blessed her silently for being a woman who
knew the uncertainties of travel. From the corner of my eye I saw her take the rein of
her mare from the groom, but I was busy giving directions to the driver of the cart
and the two guards and seeing them past the inner gate.
   When I hurried back, Melusine handed me my saddle-bags bulging full and I
slung them over Barbe without really looking at her. And even when I lifted her to the
saddle and she said softly, "You have found Vinaigre for me," I hardly glanced at
her but mounted Barbe and urged him forward. By then I knew there was no need
for haste. If the king had decided to recall me, he would have done so at once. The
only reason I can think of for feeling the devil was at my heels was that I was very
weary of court life, very weary of the need to balance between offending great men
or hurting small ones and protecting the king from their importunities, very weary of
seeing a man I loved for his kindness and generosity act weakly, sometimes even
dishonorably, under the influence of others. Until freedom was promised me and
then nearly snatched away, I had not realized how desperately I needed to be free to
speak my mind without fearing an unguarded word might do great harm.
   The need to flee was so strong that I kicked Barbe into a fast trot as soon as I
was sure Melusine was steady in the saddle. We soon passed the cart, and I paused
only briefly at the gate to describe it and bid the guards let it pass. Then we were out
on the road and Barbe's trot soon lengthened to a canter. I had no need to look
back, for the thin head of Melusine's mare with her wicked white-rimmed eye held
steady at my knee.
   I know now that Melusine loves her dearly, but Vinaigre is a cursed beast if ever
there was one. After we had ridden quite some time, the mare still did not need all
her strength and speed to keep up with Barbe; she was surefooted enough to turn
her head midstride and nip my thigh. My hauberk kept me from any bruise and I
smacked her nose, but she did not slow or miss a step, only rolled that eye until I
was sure she was laughing at me, and I laughed back good and hard.
  "Are we safe then, Bruno?" Melusine's voice was tight with fear, and I reined
Barbe in to a walk, and when we were side by side turned my head to look at her.
   "Safer than most travelers," I replied soothingly, noticing that my wife's face was
white and strained. "The roads are not what they were in King Henry's time, but I do
not think any outlaws would bother attacking us. I am well but not richly armed and
you are dressed plainly."
  Astonishment replaced fear on her face. "Outlaws?" she echoed. "I thought we
were fleeing the king!"
  "Good lord!" I exclaimed. "Whatever gave you such a notion?"
  "You gave me the notion," she snapped. "You said if we did not leave at once,
we might not be able to go at all. What did you mean, if the king is not angry?"
   "Just the opposite," I confessed. "Stephen seemed to feel that he could not do
without my service. I am sorry to have frightened you, but why should you think I
had suddenly fallen from favor so completely that escape was necessary?"
  She did not answer at once, and then explained how she had obtained the cart and
guards. "I thought, because of what the bishop of Winchester said about thanking
you and being willing to serve you at any time, that my telling him of our journey had
exposed some secret. And when you did not come back to our chamber to sleep or
send me a message, I feared the king had learned of my indiscretion and lost his trust
in you."
   I let her finish her tale without questions, but it woke all my uneasiness about the
strain between the king and the bishops again. I must have been frowning too
because Melusine added, "Then what I did was stupid and dangerous. I am very
sorry. I could not avoid the queen, but I could have—"
   "No, no." I smiled and reached out to pat her hand, which was tense on the
mare's rein. "There was no harm in your telling Winchester, at least none to you or to
me, and if there had been it would have been my fault for not telling you to hold the
news secret. That is what is so strange. It was not a secret. God knows, Stephen
was groaning and complaining to all his gentlemen that I asked for leave at the worst
time. Why then did Winchester not know?"
   "You asked for leave?" Melusine repeated. "But did you not tell me that Stephen
ordered you to carry messages north?"
  "I did. And, I swear to you, so it was, but the king remembers things in his own
way. It was Waleran de Meulan who convinced the king to send me—"
  "Waleran de Meulan," Melusine gasped, her eyes growing large with an emotion I
could not read. "What have you to do with him?"
   "As little as I can," I replied, "but unfortunately a great deal. Waleran is Stephen's
closest friend and advisor, so there is no way I can avoid him—and it is my duty not
to do so."
  "You are not Waleran's man, are you?"
   "No. I am the king's man, and the queen's, but there is no conflict in that double
loyalty, for the queen desires only the king's good."
   I answered promptly and forcefully, and I watched her because the question had
been asked with such intensity. Melusine's interest implied some connection between
her and Waleran, but that was ridiculous and impossible—unless he had stopped at
Ulle and some bond had been formed then? She had looked away so I could not
read her face, but her knuckles, which had been white with the force of her grip,
began to regain their ordinary color and she turned her head toward me again.
   "Then why should Waleran influence the king's decision to send you north?" she
asked.
   I could not tell whether the question was asked out of simple curiosity or was a
clever diversion to prevent me from thinking about her interest in Meulan. "He thinks
that it will be easier for him to learn what the king says and does in private if I am not
on duty in the chamber," I told her. "And the surest way to keep me from being on
duty when matters that might be dangerous to Waleran are discussed is to have me
gone from the court entirely."
 Nothing showed in Melusine's face but bright-eyed interest as she asked, "If
Waleran is, as you say, the king's dearest friend and advisor, why does he feel he
must watch Stephen so closely?"
    "The king has had other close friends and advisors who have lost their influence,"
I said slowly, not certain of how much it was safe or wise to tell her. "I will say, in
the king's favor, that in both cases those men had said or done something that was
truly offensive. However, I am not sure Waleran understands this. He is no
monument of loyalty himself." I explained how he had betrayed King Henry, and she
listened without any change of expression.
   "I see," She nodded, "Being untrustworthy himself, he cannot trust others, so he
sent you away to be able to buy information from one or another of the knights and
squires who attend the king. Then he would know who speaks against him and
exactly what accusation was made so he can counter it without even seeming to
know he was accused. Yes, that is all very well, but why now? Why not six months
ago or six months hence?"
   For a moment I sat staring at her. I had been overjoyed when I learned that
Melusine was not a half-wit, but I had not really connected that with the queen's
insistence that she was exceptionally clever until this moment. I had a sudden
uncomfortable memory of the queen's warning about falling into her power. But it
was ridiculous to ignore a sensible question. There was no thread in this that could
be woven into a rope that would tie me to Matilda's cause.
  "Six months ago we were in the field and only a fool would speak against
Waleran's influence there. He is a fine soldier. He is certainly too good a soldier to
want to deprive the king of a loyal companion to support him when fighting is to be
done. That answers why he did not wish to be rid of me six months in the past."
   When I said that Waleran was a fine soldier, Melusine turned her head away again,
but she bent to pull and flatten the loose end of the stirrup strap, so I could not be
certain whether hiding her face was deliberate. That strap could have loosened
during the canter and finally worked itself into an irritating loop. She had looked
back at me wearing the same look of interest without too much intensity by the time I
finished.
   "And as to six months in the future," she remarked tartly, "once rid of you now,
perhaps he hopes an accident or fate will remove you permanently. Never mind that.
I thought from what you said that it was not easy to get the king to send you, so
perhaps the king had more cause than usual to need a discreet servant. Or did I
misunderstand?"
   "No, you did not misunderstand, but when the subject was first broached, a week
ago, Stephen was not particularly unwilling to part with me. He was eager for me to
renew my ties in Jernaeve—I must speak to you about that some time and explain,
but it can wait. It was only after the canon from Canterbury came on Saturday that
Stephen suddenly changed his mind. And you are right about something else.
Waleran must have been desperate to be rid of me, for on Saturday night, after
Stephen decided that he could not spare me, Jernaeve or no Jernaeve, Waleran took
great trouble to get the king to let me go."
   "A canon from Canterbury? Does that somehow fit with Winchester's ignorance
of the messages you carry?"
   "Not the messages. They have nothing to do with the Church. They are only
Stephen's thanks to such men as William d'Aumale and Walter Espec for holding
back the Scots."
   But even as I said the words I remembered how Waleran had prevented Stephen
from using the priest to carry the messages so that none who received the rewards
should think they came through the archbishop of York's recommendation.
   "Not the messages," I repeated slowly, "yet I am beginning to be afraid that
through Waleran's influence something is being planned against the Church—no, not
the Church but against Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely." Instinctively I stopped Barbe to
turn him.
  "Are we going back?" Melusine cried.
   I sat still for a breath or two, conscience struggling with desire, until reason
intervened. My distrust of Waleran was making me see wrong where there might be
right. I knew that Salisbury and his nephews did their work efficiently, but was I so
sure that they were loyal to Stephen? They had violated the oath they had given King
Henry to support Matilda—of course, Stephen had violated the oath also, but it
seemed to me that when a man of the Church swore he should be bound more
straitly than a common man. Besides, from all I had seen and heard—although it was
many years ago—I did not want Matilda for a queen. And it was not only Waleran
who would have better information about what Stephen intended. If anyone around
the king could be bought, the bishops could buy as well as Waleran.
  Turning Barbe's head north again, I said to Melusine, "We will not go back."
  "Thank God for that," she sighed. "For you to thrust yourself between Waleran
and the bishops is asking to be ground small between the upper and nether
millstone."
   "It is not that," I protested. "If I thought I could do good for my master or for the
realm, I would do it. I dare not try to interfere because I do not know what is right
and what is wrong." I told her then about the coldness between the king and his
brother Winchester and how that coldness seemed to be spreading to Salisbury, Ely,
and Lincoln, who were the highest officials of the realm.
   "And I have no doubt that Waleran de Meulan is doing everything he can to make
cold colder," Melusine mused when I was done. She was looking between Vinaigre's
ears, and I wondered whether she approved or disapproved of Waleran's activity.
Then she shook her head and turned to me again. "If I had known this, of course I
would not have gone near Winchester.''
  "You think Waleran a better advisor than the king's brother?" I asked, doing my
best to sound indifferent.
  "How could I know such a thing?" she countered, not really answering my
question. "What I do know," she went on, "is that safety lies in being attached to
neither party. I was a fool. I should have gone to the queen with my questions about
the cart or found some other way to deal with the matter. It was just… when the king
went into his chamber without inviting Winchester, I had the strangest feeling that the
bishop was… lonely. Is that not the silliest—"
   "Not so silly," I interrupted. "I am not sure the emotion you read was loneliness,
but it might be. I think that Winchester greatly regrets the quarrel that hurt the king
and wishes to amend the rift between them. But that Stephen should go to be private
with Waleran without calling Winchester to join them might easily arouse strong
feelings other than loneliness in the bishop."
   There was a long moment of silence. Melusine stared at me, but I do not think she
saw me. She was remembering something else she had seen. Then she drew a deep
breath, as one does when coming to terms with some unpleasant thought, and she
saw me again, grimaced, and said, "I see that I spoke at just the wrong time, but I
wonder what Winchester thought I was hinting at? And why was he so excited about
your carrying messages to the Scots?"
   I told her about Salisbury's suggestion that Stephen press King David for a treaty
but did not say why. It seemed unwise to discuss the probability of future rebellions
with the daughter of a rebel. "I suppose," I ended, "that Winchester hoped the king
had changed his mind and decided to send a proposal. I am a Knight of the Body
and would be considered a confidential servant; on the other hand, I am no great
lord and could arrive at the Scots court and see King David privately, so if the idea
of a treaty were refused, the matter might remain secret. It would have been a good
plan, something old King Henry might have done, but Stephen is not subtle.
  "Do you wish for a treaty?" Melusine asked.
   "Yes." I shrugged. "But my reasons are selfish. Northumbria is my home, and it is
Northumbria that is first ravaged in any war with the Scots. I am not sure that the
bishops were right."
   Then I fell silent because those last words were more a tribute to my loyalty to
Stephen than to reason. I had none of the king's easy optimism. I could not believe
that all rebellion had been quashed; neither could I believe that Robert of Gloucester
would delay much longer in coming to England. Of course, if Queen Maud's ships
took him prisoner or drowned him in the narrow sea, all might be well; however, if he
escaped and found a landing place in England, his vassals would fly to arms again
and there would be much less reason for David to accept reasonable terms of treaty.
    "This is a lovely day for travel," Melusine said lightly, after riding beside me in
silence for a time. "When we see a pleasant place, we can stop to eat. I have food
and a little wine in the saddlebags.''
   "Again, bless you," I exclaimed. "I had completely forgot that the saddlebags on
Barbe carry much less palatable stuff. Parchments and wax are poor stuff for filling a
belly, however good these may be for the spirit."
   I laughed, but I was most sincerely grateful to Melusine for so quickly leaving a
subject that must have been of deep interest to her. A firm treaty with David would
mean—or, at least, should mean—no support or encouragement for rebels in
Cumbria, and that might make it easier to recover her land there. Yet Melusine had
put aside her questions as soon as she saw the subject made me uncomfortable. I
glanced at her, but her eyes were bright and her lips curved in amusement at my
remark about parchment and wax. She was a very pleasant companion; I realized
with a sense of surprise that for me Melusine was as easy to be with as Audris. Once
more I reminded myself that Maud had been right about how extraordinarily clever
Melusine was; and she might be right about her intention of ensorcelling me into an
obedient slave. I almost wished, as she made some counter-jest about the food, that
she would whine and complain or pick a quarrel.
   To my dismay, I found myself liking my wife better and better with every day's
travel—and that owed nothing at all to my physical desire for her. Except on one
night I suffered no temptation, and on that night I was so tired that Sir Jehan could
hardly lift his head and was easily discouraged. For the first four nights, we lodged
in the hostels of either abbeys or convents, and both holy houses separated even
married male and female travelers, lest they be desecrated by carnal congress, I
suppose. The fifth day was wet, not a downpour, but a constant drizzle that annoyed
without soaking. We had the choice of stopping too early to lodge in York and
getting out of the wet or riding on to Ripon, which I thought we could reach before
dark.
   I offered the choice to Melusine, who said at once she wished to ride forward
despite the rain. She seemed so eager to leave York, where we could have found
comfortable lodgings, that I wondered whether she did not wish to stay near
Archbishop Thurstan, who had created the army that defeated King David. Later,
when it was growing really dark and I realized we had missed the side lane to Ripon,
I wondered if Melusine had distracted me apurpose by her lively conversation from
watching for it because she hoped to reach Richmond. That was one of the keeps
from which she had tried to escape and it was possible she had friends there. But
when that thought came into my mind and I said we should make camp, Melusine
displayed no. reluctance to stop. And she was so cheerful as we made the best of
cold, damp food and huddled together under damp blankets that I blamed myself for
imagining she had any evil intent.
   Indeed, I began to believe she had spoken the truth when she told me she did not
wish to escape, that to run to her people could only do them harm. Certainly she
made no attempt to escape, then or earlier when I gave her freedom—although not
so much as she thought she had—to buy in the markets of towns we passed. Nor
did she go from me that night, which she could have done for I slept very deeply.
That worried me too. I should not have slept so soundly. No matter how tired I have
been from march or battle, when there was reason to be watchful I have rested
lightly, ready to wake at a twitch or a whisper. To let myself sleep like the dead
meant that deep inside I trusted Melusine. Yet I knew it was wrong to trust her.
  In the morning, she was no less cheerful—making nothing of relieving her bladder
and bowels behind a thin screen of brush and casting about until she found a wild
apple tree from which she brought back a skirt full of fruit to add to the even damper
bread and cheese that remained. Apples were also offered to Vinaigre and to Barbe,
after she asked if he were allowed to have them. So much sweetness and light did
nothing to ease my mind. I was sure any other woman in the world would have been
hissing and spitting.
    As she helped me squeeze out as much wet as we could from the two sodden
blankets we had hung from the limb of a tree to keep off the rain, my unease made
me question her, disguising my purpose in flattery of her hardiness to discomfort.
After looking at me in what seemed like honest amazement, she laughed most heartily
at the notion that she would be deterred from doing anything by "a little mist in the
air."
   "When we come to Ulle," she said, still laughing, "you will see what rain and wind
are."
   But then the laughter caught in her throat and she looked stricken and turned
away. It was not fear or horror this time though. Something to do with rain and wind
in Ulle had reminded her of an unpleasant idea? experience?
    We stayed that night at Durham, and the next day came to Jernaeve early in the
afternoon. I do not remember much beyond the warmth of our greeting because after
that I was told of Sir Oliver's death. I had not known how much I loved him until I
learned he was gone forever. I do not think I had ever suffered such grief and such
regret. In the past, after the battle of Bourg Thrould, I had wept bitterly for the loss
of my boyhood, but that was nothing compared with the scorching of my soul when
I realized I could never tell Sir Oliver that I understood what he had done for me,
that I had never touched him or kissed him in love in all the years he had cared for
me. Only then did I understand that he could have cast me out naked and that
instead he had given me a father's care, provided for me as a loving parent would
provide for a younger son.
    It was worse for me because I could not speak of my grief to Audris or to Hugh.
Hugh was still weak from a fever that had come from many small wounds and nearly
killed him. And what I saw in his face when Audris told me of her uncle's death
reminded me that he feared daily to hear the same news about his foster father,
Archbishop Thurstan, who was an old man and very weak. To speak to Hugh of
grief and regrets over the death of the man who had been, though I had never
recognized it until too late, the only father I had, would come too close to his own
fears and be cruel in his weakened state.
   And Audris was already suffering too much for me to add the weight of my
sorrow to hers. When she told me, her voice choked with sobs and she wept with a
racking bitterness I had never before heard from that happy soul. Later, I learned that
seeing me had unloosed the sorrow that she had not permitted herself to feel
earlier—at first, because immediately after her uncle's death she needed to show
herself confident to enhearten the men in Jernaeve to withstand the Scots, and after
the Scots had fled all of her mind and will had been given to nursing Hugh, who had
come to break the siege of Jernaeve with fresh wounds received in the Battle of the
Standard.
   I comforted her as well as I could when each word she said was a twist of the
knife in my own heart. My eyes burned with tears I would not let her see when she
sobbed of her ingratitude, her failure to show her love, her cruelty to Sir Oliver in
running away to Hugh. Yet compared with Audris, I was a monster. She had been a
joy to Sir Oliver just for her elfin ways and had, in the end, kissed him and teased
him and displayed her love even if she did not speak often of it. She had not gone to
Hugh to hurt her uncle but to save him the hurt of losing Jernaeve. And I—even in
my own heart—I had not appreciated Sir Oliver's kindness to me. I had blamed him
for "keeping me back," and later resented being sent away even though I wanted to
go.
     At last I diverted Audris by telling her that I must leave the next day. I could have
taken some days of rest, but I could not bear to stay in Jernaeve until I had grown a
little accustomed to my loss. Much as I loved Hugh, a rage rose in me when I saw
him sit in Sir Oliver's great chair. In crying out against the briefness of my visit,
Audris's self-blame was quenched, and I made her happy again by telling her that I
would leave Melusine with her as a guarantee of my return. She lit with joy; however
deep Audris's grief, it did not cloud her spirit for long. I know most of the joy was
for the assurance that I would return, but some was for Melusine's company. I had
seen the approval in Audris's face when I brought Melusine to her and they had
almost at once laughed together, I do not remember about what but it was easy,
happy laughter that promised a true bond between them.
   Somehow I survived the evening meal and a few hours more, for it was important
that Hugh know all I could tell him about the court and the outlook for King
Stephen's future. I held back nothing, not even my doubts of the king's fixity of
purpose—which Hugh knew because he had been at Exeter—or the doubtful
wisdom of rejecting Winchester and Ypres in favor of Meulan. There were things I
could say in words to Hugh's face that I would never dare tell a scribe to write and
might even hesitate to write myself, lest the letter fall into other hands. But when I
had passed the essential news, I could bear no more. All the time I had been talking,
I was holding back tears because I would never bring such news to Sir Oliver again.
   It was fortunate that Hugh was still not strong, and Audris thought it was my
consideration for him when I said I was tired and would like to go to bed because I
needed to make an early start in the morning. She might also have thought I was
eager to lie with Melusine—or used that to silence Hugh when he wanted to draw out
the talk—because she made crude and obvious jests as she showed us to the
chamber Lady Eadyth had made ready. Audris may have the pale, transparent looks
of an angel, but as I have always known, there is nothing else angelic about her.
   To save Melusine the need for explanations that might turn Audris against her
when I was away, I roused myself to respond to the jests as if all were as usual for
wedded folk between Melusine and myself. The effort distracted me from realizing
that Audris had led us into the north tower chamber, Sir Oliver's and Lady Eadyth's
old place. Before I could protest, Audris assured me that she had not put Lady
Eadyth out, that her aunt had preferred to move to a wall chamber. Thus the north
tower had become the best place to put guests. It had had several occupants
already—Hugh's great-uncle, Ralph Ruthsson, and Walter Espec, who had come for
two days to see for himself how Hugh was so he could carry the news to
Archbishop Thurstan, who was praying himself sick.
    To my surprise, being in that chamber did not trouble me—and I realized that was
probably the only place in all Jernaeve that I did not associate with Sir Oliver. I do
not think I had ever been there in my life, certainly not in my father's time and not
later because a bedchamber is much more a woman's than a man's. Sir Oliver came
into the bedchamber only to sleep or get children, both acts that were none of my
business. He truly lived in the hall, in the armory, in the stables, and that life I had
shared with him; it was that life I mourned, that life I could not bear to see others,
even others dearly loved, usurp.
  Then Melusine laid a hand gently on my arm; I turned and saw tears in her eyes,
and I understood what she had felt when I told her I would take her to Ulle.
   "I know now," I said. "I will not make you go to Ulle. I will not sit in your father's
chair, as Hugh sits in Sir Oliver's."
   And she put her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder. "Hush,"
she murmured, "you are too hurt to think now. Let me help you undress."
    When we lay together in the dark—it was cool enough so far north to close the
bedcurtains against the small light of the night candle—she said softly, "Time heals,
at least a little."
   "It cannot heal me." My voice cracked, but I had to confess to someone. "He
was all the father I ever had— only out of the goodness of his heart. I had no claim
on him. And I never thanked him, never, not once."
  She slid an arm under my neck and drew me to her. "One does not thank those
one loves. They understand without."
   Then I wept, and she wept too, and the pain in my chest and throat grew a little
easier so that I began to drift toward sleep. It was not until I woke in the morning
and looked down at her and saw the stain of dried tears on her cheeks that I
remembered my promise to the queen.



                                CHAPTER 14


  Melusine
   Never did a journey begin so ill for me and turn to so great a pleasure. Once
Bruno had explained that we were not fleeing for our lives and I had got over wishing
to kick him for frightening me out of my wits—I had a little satisfaction in that
Vinaigre had nipped him already—I was like a prisoner set free. If Bruno had been
married to me to be my gaoler—as he had admitted—he was the strangest gaoler
ever set as guard.
   A gaoler wishes his prisoner helpless physically and beaten in spirit. Bruno did
nothing to curtail my liberty and seemed to delight in making me happy. He did not
take back the purse he had given me to pay for cart and guards; he let me wander
through the markets in the towns we passed and buy food to replace what we ate on
the road; he urged me to buy for myself such small items as caught my eye—a
pincushion with pins, which had somehow been left out of my sewing things, a net
for my hair because mine had caught on a twig and been torn; from his own purse he
paid for a veil that I admired because I shook my head and said I had veils enough
when he bade me buy it.
   Most important of all, he did not try to keep me in ignorance, which is very
strange for a gaoler, who should hope that ignorance will make his prisoner more
helpless. Several times I had the odd thought that papa, who loved me, was more
eager to keep me in his power than this man, who had said it was his purpose to
control me. Bruno answered any question I asked. I knew that sometimes he held
back something from me, but that was because he did not trust me—which I did not
like, but it was reasonable enough. He did not demean me by saying that he would
protect me and I need not worry my beautiful head about wars and politics.
    To me it seemed sensible to explain. After all, Bruno knew we would have to
return to court and I was less likely to say the wrong thing to the wrong person if I
knew what was going on. What was remarkable was that Bruno apparently agreed
that explanation was safe and sensible. Most other men would only have shouted at
me, or perhaps beaten me, for what would have been a serious mistake in blabbing
all to Winchester and ordered me to keep my mouth shut in the future—regardless of
the fact that it is impossible for a lesser lady to keep her mouth shut when she is
bidden to speak by some higher noble.
   All this kept me so interested that I hardly noticed the miles march by. Not that I
would have complained no matter what pace Bruno set. He was so good to me,
more considerate than was at all necessary—imagine asking if I wanted to break our
journey just because of a little drizzle; I had ridden with papa in downpours and
raging storms if he decided he wished to be at some particular place. Papa might
have worried about my being wet and chilled, but he never asked me if I minded.
   That night Bruno apologized to me for missing the turnoff to Ripon as he hung
blankets to keep off the wet and said not a word of blame—yet it was my fault we
missed the road as much as his. And, seeing me eye the tiny shelter with doubt—I
doubted it would keep us dry, not the small size that would push us into each others
arms—he promised again that he would not force me when he wrapped me and
himself together for warmth. I almost wished he had. I often wished he would be
harsh and cruel now that we were alone and he need put on no face for others. I was
coming to like him too much—quite aside from the craving of my body for his.
   By the last two days of our journey, I felt in so great danger of my affection being
fixed on this man as well as my lust that I could not ride long enough or fast enough
to end our being alone together. I am afraid that my eagerness to come to Jernaeve,
where I knew there would be others, made Bruno somewhat suspicious. He asked
for no explanation however, and I offered none, but I sighed with relief when we
came to the top of a rise and Bruno pulled Barbe to a halt and pointed a little
northwest.
  "Jernaeve," he said.
   Familiarity must have made clear to him what was little more than a distant cliff
face above a sparkling river to me. Or a different kind of familiarity blinded me, for
God knows Cumbria has more than its share of high cliffs bulging over rivers and
lakes and no one would bother to build a fortress there. We build in the valleys,
close to the little land we have that is suitable for crops.
   Even as we came closer I could see only stone, no sign of palisade or path or
hall. It was only when we came right up to the bank of the river that I realized not all
of the cliff was natural. Involuntarily I pulled Vinaigre to a halt and sat staring
upward, suddenly aware of the two mighty towers and the wall of dressed stone that
must have added thirty feet to the height. Now I understood better what Bruno had
been telling me of the power and importance of Jernaeve, sitting astride one road that
ran from Scotland to England and only a little more than one league from another,
more important, highway. I did not like that threatening fist of rock crowned by that
mighty bastion.
  "Who built it?" I breathed.
  "The first Fermain, I suppose," Bruno replied, but without much interest.
   To him Jernaeve was a natural thing, a place he had always known. It did not look
to him as it did to me, a lair for giants created by sorcerous arts. Bruno had smiled
when he glanced up, a fond affectionate smile, such as one gives an old friend.
There was no awe in his face, only a great eagerness—not for the place itself, I
guessed, but for what was within.
   Until that moment I had given no thought at all during our journey to those who
held Jernaeve. I knew Northumbria was more fertile and less mountainous than my
own Cumbria, but I also knew it was harsh and desolate compared with the south of
England. Thus, I had assumed the people of Jernaeve were much like those I knew at
home. Now I recalled the way Bruno had spoken of introducing me to those who
had been kind to him and cared for him, not claiming them as family, and I
remembered my shame and anger for his lack of pride in desiring to display his new
status as the husband of a gentlewoman. I blushed for him, but it was too late to
speak. He was already easing Barbe down into a deep and dangerous ford.
   It was fortunate that Vinaigre was accustomed to our own rushing streams and
sure of foot. We emerged unscathed only wet to the thighs, and I was furious that
Bruno rode straight to the gate. I did not wish to be presented to these proud people
looking like a beggar maid, stained and muddied. I had a fine gown in my blanket
roll. I could have changed in the shelter of the lower wall. But I could not hold on to
anger, for awe overmastered me again when we were admitted.
  War had taken a toll of the lower grounds. Buildings had been burnt and were
being repaired and restored, but I had little time to look about. The gate guard
summoned his captain, and that man bowed as he bid Bruno welcome and said we
might go up to the keep. I almost forgot my rage and shame in marveling as the
horses climbed that road, winding back and forth to the upper gates. The upper
bailey was untouched; I was not surprised that this keep had not been taken. Cattle
lowed in the pens, dogs barked in the kennels, the sound of hammer on iron came
faintly from a smithy I could not see. Before I could place any sound, Bruno was off
Barbe, handing his rein to a groom who came running from the stable to our left, and
he had turned to lift me down. I was barely on my feet when a small form flew
across the bailey and flung itself on Bruno with such force that he staggered
backward.
  "Bruno! Brother! Dearling!"
    The voice was high and sweet. I thought her a girl child before I turned to look,
but even from the back the laced bliaut showed her to be a full-formed woman. She
hung on Bruno's neck and kissed his cheeks and his lips, then flung back her head to
see his face. He crushed her to him, released her, hugged her again, murmuring,
"Audris. Audris. I knew you would be safe." And as he looked into her face, for the
first time there was utter content in his. That deep hunger I had first seen when he
burst in the door of the hall at Ulle and underlay every other expression was gone.
   Wonder was what I felt at first. I had assumed that a whore's bastard would
hunger for riches or for power and that no gain of either or both would ever satisfy
him, for what is lost at birth can never be fulfilled. But I had been wrong, as far
wrong as I could be. What Bruno starved for was love, to be cared for and caring.
   When the meaning of that revelation burst on me, I was frozen in place with fear.
Perhaps I had been more terrified when the ram burst in the door of Ulle's hall or
when I first woke from my long madness and found Bruno mounted and thrusting
into me, but that fear was for my body and this was for my everlasting soul. I saw
how this man could be bent and broken, made into a puppet to do my will. I need
not murder his body to get revenge; I could destroy his soul instead.
   Perhaps if the embrace Bruno and his sister were sharing had lasted another
moment, jealousy would have been added to the ferment inside me. But I had barely
recovered from the shock my revelation had brought when Bruno turned Audris so
she saw me.
   "Here is the surprise I promised you, dearling," he said. "This is Melusine, my
wife."
   "Oh, how beautiful she is! How lucky you are, Bruno!" Audris exclaimed, and
flew to me.
    I say flew because I know no other way to describe Audris's movement. It was
so quick and so light that her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. When she was
still, as she was in the next moment, having taken my hands to look smiling into my
face, she was a tiny creature, not at all beautiful because she was so blond that she
seemed altogether faded. Yet there was something about her that called aloud to my
heart—was it that her eyes, so pale as to be colorless, sparkled so brightly, that the
barely tinted lips curved up at the corners as if laughter always lived in her, or simply
the overflowing warmth and natural joy of her greeting to Bruno.
   Certainly that last must have had a large part in my response because, as I pressed
her hands in mine, I offered no conventional greeting but asked, "Why do you call
Bruno brother? He speaks of you always as Lady Audris."
   "Bruno is an idiot!" she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that
could have melted the ice cap on a mountain in winter. "He is always mumbling and
mowing about his unworthy mother. Who cares a fig for his mother? I cannot even
remember her, she died so long ago. He is my father's son, my brother, who cared
for me every day of my life—''
  "Your father did not recognize me, Audris—"
   She let go of me and silenced him with a kiss, crying, "Hush! I will hear no more
of it, and if you once call me lady, I will—I will pour honey in your hair!"
    We all three burst out laughing, but even as I laughed my eyes filled with tears.
The threat was so clear an echo of a childhood spent together in perfect security that
it not only assured me that Audris had told me the truth about the value she set on
Bruno but also brought back to me my squabbles with my younger brothers. Audris
had turned back to me, I suppose with an invitation to come within on her lips, but
instead she took my hand again and whispered, "Oh, Melusine, I have hurt you."
  "No, no," I stammered, "not you. Memories, only memories."
   And Bruno was beside me, his arm around my waist. "She has much to grieve
for," he said softly to Audris. "And it cannot be amended."
   "Then I will overlay the hurt a little with a sweet poultice—I will show you my
son," Audris said, glanced at Bruno, and tightened the grip of her small warm hand
on mine. "But not at once," she went on, smiling. "My aunt says I am a
featherhead—" Her voice checked and her eyes widened. "Oh bless me, I will be
scolded again. I never stayed to listen to the end of the guard's tale and learn that
Bruno had brought another guest. As soon as I heard his name, I went running—"
She sighed and shrugged. "Well, it will not be the first time."
   Bruno laughed. "Nor the last neither, if I know you. Poor Lady Eadyth, how hard
she tried to teach you the skills and duties of a lady."
   "I had rather climb for hawks or weave," Audris retorted. "What good would
come of my knowing Lady Eadyth's skills? I could never practice them without
taking from her a great pride and pleasure. Do not be so silly, Bruno. Now come
within, you are both all wet. My aunt will have dry clothes for you, and bath water
heating, and all measure of guestly greeting."
  My pain had disappeared completely as I listened to this exchange. I suppose that
was its purpose but I never thought of that. "You climb for hawks?" I gasped.
   Bruno groaned and Audris laughed this time. "He taught me when we were
children and he is still blaming himself for it, but Jernaeve has the most and the finest
hawks in any shire in the land. Come, love," she soothed, looking around me at
Bruno. "There is no danger for me any more. Hugh goes with me and I tie a rope to
me so I cannot fall."
   "Hugh goes with you?" Bruno repeated in a stunned voice, and I looked with
great admiration on that little lady who had so bewitched her husband that he
assisted her in doing what would bring on a fit in most husbands.
   "Not right now," she said as we entered the forebuilding, broke our grip on each
other, and began to climb the stair to the hall entrance. "And do not begin to scold
him about it, for he agrees with you from the heart and is not a whit more able to
resist. Besides, he is still weak from his sickness after the battle."
   "Sickness!" Bruno exclaimed, stopping on the stair. "But the priest said he had
not been hurt—"
  "Go up," Audris urged. "He is better now, so there is no sense in worrying."
   I had no time then to marvel at the great hall, which was as large as that of
Richmond—and might have been even stronger—because near the door was waiting
the ugliest man I had ever seen in my life. His hair was so red that it glowed, even in
the dim light of the hall; his eyes were so far apart that I wondered if he saw two
images; his nose was an eagle's beak; his long, narrow chin jutted too far
forward—and then he smiled, and I forgot everything except that his eyes were a
beautiful, luminous blue and he was welcoming me with a rare warmth.
   The welcome, of course, was not for me at all; it was for Bruno, whom he
clasped in his arms and kissed. And Bruno returned the embrace, but gingerly, as if
he feared to do hurt by too tight a grip. Then he pushed away and scanned Hugh's
face anxiously—for I realized this must be Hugh Licorne, Audris's husband—and
urged him back toward the great hearth, where a fire burned low, and benches were
set.
   I have always been very partial to red-headed men, finding them more attractive
no matter what their features than dark men like Bruno. However, I must admit that
Hugh was an exception. Seeing him side by side with Bruno made me aware that,
dark or light, my husband was a handsome man. I glanced sidelong at Audris,
wondering how she had felt about Hugh's face when she first saw it, but the silly
question slipped from my mind. All laughter had fled from her eyes and their
brilliance was shadowed by remembered pain and fear.
   In the next moment it was gone and she had called out merrily to halt Bruno's
questions about what had befallen his friend. "One moment only," she cried,
laughing. "I know there can be no longer stay before you plunge into a blow by blow
explanation of the battle, but Hugh must greet Melusine. This is Bruno's wife, Hugh."
   Two long strides brought Hugh back, and he bowed over my lifted hand and
kissed it. "This is the most wonderful surprise!" he exclaimed. "I wondered what on
earth Bruno could have meant, saying he had been knighted and was bringing us a
surprise. Knowing Bruno—he has the strongest penchant for picking up ugly
creatures and nurturing them; after all, he bade Audris love me—I had not expected
anything so beautiful."
   "That is quite enough," Audris put in, grinning. "I know I am half a loaf compared
with Melusine—"
   "Ah," Hugh murmured, running his eyes over her so deliberately that they might
have been hands and I felt myself blushing, "but it is the half I like best, so I will
keep it, never fear, and keep it warm too so it never goes stale."
   "Is it not beautiful," Audris said, turning to me, "to have so dedicated a lecher for
a husband. I never have the slightest fear that he will take another woman. At night I
keep him hard at work, and in the daytime he is far too tired to manage more than his
duties in the keep."
    "In the name of God, Audris," Bruno protested, "Melusine is not yet accustomed
to your humors. Let her test the water a little at a time. Do not throw her into the river
all at once."
  "But that is the best way," Audris countered. "Did you not take me beyond my
depth to teach me to swim?"
   "Not unless I was mere to hold you up," Bruno said, innocently and unwisely,
forgetting the original subject.
    Audris widened her eyes. "I have no objection to you holding up Melusine. Often
it is better so." She giggled. "But then I think Hugh has the better part. Half a loaf is
lighter."
  "Audris!" Bruno roared.
   My face must have been redder than uncooked beef, but I could not help a little
choke of laughter as Audris raised her eyes to heaven and sighed. What she would
have said next I cannot guess, because just then a tall woman came toward us, her
eyes fixed on me with a slight frown.
    "Aunt," Audris said, smiling brilliantly, "this is Lady Melusine, Bruno's wife. She
is the surprise he wrote about in his letter. Is it not wonderful?"
   "I am very happy to meet you, Lady Melusine," Eadyth responded. The frown
smoothed away, and I had an instant to wonder whether she had thought Bruno had
brought his lemman with him before she added, "Audris, you take Lady Melusine
into my chamber, where I told the servants to bring the bath because the fire was
already lit there. Perhaps one of my gowns will fit—''
  "I have dry and more… suitable clothing in my saddle roll," I suggested.
   "So much the better," Eadyth said, nodding. "You will be more comfortable in
your own clothes. I will have everything brought to the chamber for you, and send a
maid, and have more water heated, and perhaps something extra prepared for the
evening meal—"
  "Never mind the maid, aunt," Audris interrupted. "I will help Melusine bathe."
   "Help or hinder?" Eadyth asked tartly. "Remember that Bruno is also wet and
cold—"
  "Yes, aunt, we will be quick," Audris promised, leading me away.
   "You are very patient," I said. "Does it not tease you that she treats you like a
child—and a silly one at that?"
   Audris's twinkling eyes glanced up at me and her lips curled in a mischievous grin.
"I am accustomed," she said. "And it suits me in many ways. She lifts the whole
burden of woman's work in Jernaeve from my shoulders, and our paths do not often
cross. When I am not in my own chamber weaving, I work in the garden or ride out
into the hills—that is, I used to do so. Of late, I have been too busy with Hugh and
Eric—oh, Eric is my son, a little more than three months old, and Hugh—" The
shadow I had seen earlier again darkened her eyes as she said, "—Hugh nearly died
and I was busy nursing him." Then the shadow was gone and she smiled anew,
adding, "But it comes to the same thing. Aunt Eadyth cares for the keep and I am
free to care for what is important to me."
   Her moods were like quicksilver and she spoke lightly of her aunt, but I
remembered what she had said in the bailey about taking from Eadyth her pride and
her pleasure in caring for Jernaeve. My heart warmed to Audris as I considered how
clever she was and how kind. Nor did she suffer from leaving matters in her aunt's
hands, I thought, considering the order and decency in the hall we had just quitted.
And Eadyth did not stint herself either, I decided, as we entered the small chamber
carved out of the thick wall of the keep. It was lit by tapers—the room had no smell
of torch smoke so the tapers were not only for a guest—and had a small fireplace,
with a slit in the stone wall above to draw out the smoke, not that there was much,
for the wood that was burning was well dried. There was a cot, narrow but with a
well-plumped mattress on the wall facing me and two large chests along the wall to
my right. A chair—a real chair with back and arms—had been pushed aside to make
room for the oval wooden tub.
    I do not remember exactly what we talked about, while the servingmen filled the
tub. Then Audris helped me unlace my riding dress, after which she ran out and
came back with a handful of herbs to cast into the bath water just as I rid myself of
my undergarments. From that we came to talk of wild herbs, and I found myself
telling her about my life in Ulle. I stopped midway, catching my breath over a stab of
grief, and she cupped my face with her hands but did not ask a question or offer a
word of sympathy. It was exactly the right thing, for between weariness and the
many shocks and surprises coming to Jernaeve had brought, all the horrors of my
life since Ulle was taken would have poured out of me. I could not have endured that
in my present state. I think I would have begun to scream or slipped back into
madness.
   How Audris knew, I cannot guess, but she said, "Oh, herbs. I had better make a
confession to you and explain, since I hope you will stay with us for a time. There
are those who call me witch—but I am not, I swear it." And went on to tell me about
her knowledge of medicines and then about her weaving certain pictures that seemed
to tell the future.
  I did not make any direct answer, other than to say I did not hold to the common
fears on such subjects. But I thought to myself, for I felt close to Audris already,
that it seemed my fate to love those who, like Mildred, were looked upon askance by
others.
    Although I would have liked to soak until the water grew cool, I did not linger in
the bath, remembering that Bruno would need to wash also and that it would soon be
time for the evening meal. As soon as a maidservant brought in my clean clothes, I
dried myself and dressed and we went out into the hall again. Bruno and Hugh were
still talking about the Scottish invasion, but when we drew close, Bruno stopped
mid-question and looked up and around as if he had suddenly become aware of how
much time had passed and missed something.
  "Where is Sir Oliver?" he asked.
   There was a dead, breath-held silence, and then Audris said in a trembling voice,
"He is dead, Bruno. He was wounded in defending the lower wall. I tried to save
him." Her voice shook more and more, tears began to flow, and she wailed between
sobs, "I did! I did! I tried to save him!"
   Hugh had started to rise, but Bruno had already gathered Audris into his arms, by
habit patting her and soothing her while his eyes sought Hugh's and he repeated in a
voice totally without emphasis or inflection, "Dead? Sir Oliver is dead?"
    Hugh opened his mouth, perhaps to explain, but Audris's voice rose in that thin,
pitiful wail. "I did try to save him. Why could I not save him, when I healed so many
others?"
  "Of course you tried, dearling," Bruno said. "You loved him. He knew. All knew
how you loved him."
  "Did he know, Bruno?" Audris pleaded, lifting her face to his. "Did he know? I
never told him, or only once or twice, and I went away to Hugh and hurt him so
much—so much. He thought… he said… I did not trust him."
   Bruno had lowered his eyes to his sister's face, but I do not think he saw her—for
the first and only time in his life. "But you came back. You trusted your life and your
son's to him in the time of greatest danger. He was angry, no doubt, but I am sure all
was well between you before the battle. He never could resist you, Audris. You had
a smile and a fond word. He knew you loved him."
    There was something terribly wrong with Bruno. It was not only that he was
shocked and surprised to hear of Sir Oliver's death. Something deep inside had been
broken. He was saying all the right things, but he might have been a body raised
from the dead and made to talk for all the life that was in him. We all felt it: Hugh
looked agonized and was wringing his big hands helplessly. Audris was fighting a
battle with her grief and hysteria, and though I had lost much, much more than she,
still I was sorry for her. It must be dreadful indeed to have a loved one die under
one's own ministering hands and wonder forever if you had done too much or not
enough.
   I too had reacted to Bruno's state; instinctively, I came forward and put a hand on
his arm. I do not know if he noticed—he did not turn or glance at me—but he began
to speak again, shaking Audris very gently. "Love, love, do not weep any more. You
know that if Sir Oliver could have chosen the death he desired it would have been to
die defending Jernaeve. Now, love, I must leave early tomorrow to carry the king's
messages. Will you weep away the few hours I have to spend with you?"
   Gasps of protest broke Audris's sobs, and in a little while smiles replaced the
gasps when Bruno admitted that he had only spoken about tomorrow itself and the
week or so it would take him to find the recipients and deliver the king's messages.
He would leave me in Jernaeve, if I were willing and welcome—upon which Audris
flew to me and embraced me and begged me to stay, promising she would not be so
dismal another time and offering so many, and so ridiculous, inducements, that an
anchorite would have agreed with laughter.
   While Audris was busy convincing me to stay, Hugh drew Bruno down on           the
bench beside him again and asked, "What messages do you bear, and                  to
whom—unless it is a secret matter?" Hugh looked worried, and Bruno shook          his
head and began to explain about Stephen's thanks to those who had withstood       the
Scots and the secondary purpose under the honor offered Aumale.
   Audris sat beside me, casting only one brief, worried glance toward Bruno. She
seemed contented that he was talking easily to Hugh, and I felt surprised that one so
sensitive to my moods and so loving to her brother should not notice that all was not
well with him. Later, I realized that she was so accustomed to Bruno being the strong
one who protected her that she had believed his distress was over the violence of her
grief. Her will and attention were all to hide any further expression of it.
   Also, Audris did not seem in the least interested in overhearing what the men said.
Mostly to keep the subject away from her uncle and Bruno's reaction to the news of
his death—Bruno's face was still without any expression, although he was telling
Hugh about the elevation to the peerage of many of Waleran de Meulan's relatives—I
asked whether her husband preferred that women did not listen or speak on political
matters. Audris smiled and shook her head.
  "I am sure Hugh would not care, but why should I wish it?" she remarked easily.
"Hugh tells me what is important for me to know. But if you like we can join the men
and listen. Are you interested in affairs of state?"
   "I have no choice," I replied dryly. "But I have no need to listen; Bruno has
already told me about the messages. I—" I hesitated, on the verge of pouring out the
whole tale of my lost lands, my lost family. But this was not the time, not while we
were all balanced on a knife edge of grief. Instead, I went on, "I am one of the
queen's ladies. At court if I say the wrong word or smile at the wrong person at the
wrong time I could bring great trouble upon myself and Bruno.''
  Audris shuddered. "That life is not for me. What is in my head spills out of my
mouth. Do you wish to go back to court? You could stay here, safe with us."
    "I wish I could," I sighed, "but Bruno is tied to the king, and—and I am
suspected of being a rebel. If I did not return, the queen might blame Bruno for
letting me escape her watchful eye."
  "Are you a rebel?"
   Audris's question held only a touch of surprise and mild interest, and when I
shook my head and said that for all I cared a pox could take all three—King
Stephen, King David, and Empress Matilda—she nodded but then shuddered again
and said, "If only there would be no war, no more war, I would not care if an ape
ruled."
    Before I could agree, Lady Eadyth appeared and hustled Bruno away, and we
talked of small, light matters until he came from her chamber in dry clothes. Then we
had our evening meal. Another lady joined us, introduced as Hugh's Aunt Marie. She
was very quiet, looking always at Hugh if she ventured any remark, though he smiled
at her each time without fail. The talk was of local matters, the fear of famine owing
to the ravaging of the Scots and what could or should be done to ease it and when,
if ever, recompense could be expected for the outlay.
   Then I went to Audris's chamber with her to see her babe. I was shocked by the
ugliness of the maid who was caring for him and to learn that she was mute, but I
soon saw the woman's devotion. And then I forgot her as Audris began to tell me of
her childhood and Bruno's while she nursed Eric. The tale made clear to me the
bond between her and Bruno and that there were things I must never confess—like
my attempt to kill him—but there was nothing in what she said that explained how he
had felt about Sir Oliver. I began to hope that I had misread Bruno, rather than
Audris, and that only the shock of the news had turned him to stone. Only when we
came down to join the men again, I knew at once that he felt even worse.
    As soon as he saw me, Bruno broke off his talk with Hugh and reminded him that
he wished to make an early start the next morning. He said also that I must be very
tired and that he was tired too and wished to go to bed. I do not know why neither
Audris nor Hugh seemed to see that Bruno only wished to escape. Perhaps they did
understand and hoped to lighten his heart, but Hugh responded that an early bedtime
was most suitable to his needs also— with such lascivious looks at his wife as made
very clear what those needs were—and Audris began to make jests that brought
blood to my face. There was fear mingled in with that blush—God help me, of
desire, not shame—but Bruno did not betray my refusal to couple. He replied so
cleverly that without saying yea or nay he made them believe all was well between us.
The kindness, when I knew he was on the rack—and the suggestion, too—set off in
me that warm trembling that I had learned to dread.
   It died as swiftly as it had risen, as soon as the door closed and I raised my eyes
to Bruno's face. I suppose, because of the jests, I had expected to see his face as it
had been that night in Winchester when he first made me recognize my lust for him.
Instead, I saw such desolation, such a depth of pain, that I reached for him. When I
touched him, tears came into his eyes and he told me that he would not take me to
Ulle and force me to watch another man sit in papa's chair.
   I took him in my arms. I could not resist the need to comfort the agony that
echoed mine—but I no longer felt that first piercing pain. I would hate seeing
Stephen's warden in papa's place, but I could bear it, knowing it would not be
forever. There was another thought, far more disturbing because it was not painful,
that crept into my head as I soothed Bruno with meaningless words and helped him
to undress and get into bed. Bruno in papa's chair?
   Not painful? Was I so far gone in shame that I could be content to smile as
Bruno, who might have killed my father and my brother, drank from papa's cup at
papa's table? And then Bruno spoke again into the dark in a breaking voice of how
Sir Oliver had been the only father he had ever known and how he had never given
him one word of love or even thanks. My breath caught in sympathy for his
suffering. That sorrow at least I had never needed to know, for all of us, except poor
mama, took and gave freely words and gestures of love. I took Bruno in my arms
again and wept for him. It was not treachery to papa and my brothers, I told myself.
I was not giving way to love for their enemy. I was only making him love me. If I
could fill his craving for love, mere was nothing he would not do for me.
    Bruno rode out the next morning, accompanied by five good men-at-arms who
would give him dignity as well as be able to stand by him if they should meet any
bands of Scots as he rode after Aumale. I was at once comforted by his having the
men and made anxious by his need for them. Not that I cared if he were hurt or
killed, I told myself, not at all, but God knew what second husband might be forced
upon me; perhaps one that would not want to get Ulle from the king.
   He was gone two weeks, and during that time the busy life of Jernaeve keep
closed over and enveloped me. I was no guest, no stranger. Whore's son Bruno
might be, but even to Lady Eadyth, who was the only one, I believe, who ever
thought of him in those terms, he was part of Jernaeve, and I, who they assumed
was part of him, must also be one with the place. When I could be useful, and all
were busy in some measure in repairing the damage the Scots had done, my task
was assigned without any question as to whether I would be willing. That was
assumed,and it was most comfortable and comforting to me. I was at home, as I had
been in Mildred's manor.
   I realized soon that warm enfolding was owing to Audris's acceptance. Lady
Eadyth went to and fro and gave orders concerning women's work, Hugh ordered
and inspected those tasks men were wont to do, but the life of the keep flowed
around and around one still center—Audris. When that had sunk deep into me, I
grew cold at the thought that she might learn how I refused her brother, but I had
underestimated Audris. I suppose I had shown some sign of my uneasiness, and on
the third or fourth day—I remember it was pouring rain and I had naught to do—I
was sitting in Audris's tower, watching her weave.
   "I do not expect all to be smooth as oil between you and Bruno," Audris said
suddenly. "I saw that it was not only shyness that made you blush when I teased you
because Bruno wished to go early to bed. Have patience. You will find peace, and
joy too, I think, in the fullness of time. I do not blame you for your doubts and
angers. It was different for me and Hugh. We loved before we wed. That cannot
have been true for you and Bruno."
  "It could have been," I replied slowly, "but it was not." I recalled how it had
actually happened, but I would speak no ill of Bruno to his sister. She would not
believe me anyway. "I was with the queen some eight months, and part of that time
Bruno was there too, with the king. We may have met. We may even have spoken to
each other. If we did, I do not remember. One day I was told that the king had
ordered we be married and we were."
  "Bruno agreed to that?" Audris was clearly puzzled. "It is not like him."
   I laughed. "I told you the queen believes me to be a rebel. I do not know why, but
she seems to fear that I can do some harm. Bruno married me to protect the king. He
believed it to be his duty."
   "Ah, that sounds right for Bruno, but not flattering to you. Lovely as you are, I
can see that you might hold a small grudge." Audris smiled. "But you, why did you
agree?"
    We were both at peace then, but the question, lightly asked and showing no
awareness of my helplessness, set off a wave of bitterness in me. I told
her—everything except how I had tried to kill her brother and my fear that he was the
one who had taken my last two, my dearest, from me. Audris never said a word, nor
did she ever show whether or not she believed I had been mad, but midway in my
tale she left the loom and took her babe into her arms. And when I was done she
gave the child to me, still without a word. He was so soft and warm. I had held Eric
before, but not when I felt that blood should flow from my eyes instead of tears. I
cannot describe the comfort and the terror I felt, for I was well aware how few babes
lived to be men and women. Yet despite my fear of new loss and pain, a craving
came into me for a child, a craving so strong that it pushed out all other feeling, even
my grief.
    It was then that I recalled that Bruno had said a child would be a strong reason for
the king to grant Ulle to us, and I began to reconsider my refusal to couple with him.
After all, what did it matter who the father was? I knew papa had not cared which of
his sons sired the heir to Ulle nor on what woman the child was sired, so long as his
grandchild would hold the lands. Well, my child would carry papa's blood as well as
that of my brothers. Moreover, the more I considered the matter the more clear it
became to me that I was not as young as most girls are when they marry so I could
ill afford to wait much longer. Also, if the king granted Ulle to Bruno and Bruno
died—I made myself think those three words despite my reluctance— would not the
king disseisin me as he had done before? Me, yes; Bruno's child, no.
    Such were the reasons that came and went in my head over the next ten days. The
ideas did not come all together as they are written, but in bits and pieces, so perhaps
I really did not see where they were leading… or would not let myself see. I am not
sure about that. What I am sure about is the effect Audris's relationship to Hugh was
having on me. By their manner and words to one another, they stripped away every
ugly implication I had ever heard given to lust. Whether they tossed crude jests at
each other or touched in tenderness or simply looked, the joy of his manhood and
her womanhood was plain as the light of a torch in a small, dark room. They
understood each other;they shared all things large and small; but whether it was
Audris telling Hugh of Eric's little ways or Hugh speaking to Audris of a necessary
purchase of cattle, the red warmth of their passion underlit each word and gesture.
   They were more open about the joy their bodies gave them than Mildred and
Donald had been—at least, more open before me—but it was the same magic as I
had seen in my own dear ones. I had desired to know it then—that was why I had
never told papa that I did not wish to marry, although I knew he wanted me to say
it—and I desired it again now. But now I need only reach out my hand and take what
had been forbidden fruit before I had a husband. Yet if I found the magic and took it
into my heart, was that not treachery to my dead? On the other hand, if I could not
find the treasure with Bruno, that would free me from him completely. So, was it not
reasonable to try that path of escape from my desire for him since I could find no
other way?
   If this reasoning does not seem at all reasonable, I must agree, but I was in a
ferment that was not conducive to clear thinking. Each time Hugh cupped Audris's
breast in his hand, mine swelled and tingled; his lips on her nape as she bent over
Eric's cradle, caused a crawling up and down my spine. Other gestures made me
fight to sit still without squirming. Fortunately, Audris and Hugh were so absorbed in
each other that I believe they were totally unaware they were torturing me. Of course,
I masked my response as well as I could, and Eadyth and Marie, if they noticed at all
were either indifferent or repelled, but I barely restrained myself from dragging Bruno
off to bed as soon as he rode in, and I did kiss him in greeting more warmly than
was my habit.
  His smile, startled and doubtful, presented me with a problem I had not
considered in all my thinking. How was I to show Bruno I had changed my mind? I
would choke if I tried to tell him in words. I could not! I would rather go celibate to
my grave.
   I am afraid that although I may have seemed to listen with interest to Bruno's
report on Aumale's campaign and the reactions of the men to whom he had carried
Stephen's thanks and rewards, I learned very little from what he said.
   I remained in this quandary without the shadow of an idea all afternoon, appalled
to discover that although I knew myriad ways to soothe quarrels among men, winkle
secrets out of them, and induce them to agree to my notions of what was right in
household and, sometimes, even political matters, I had not the faintest idea of how
to lead a man into coupling with me. A few times I touched Bruno, stroking the back
of his arm where Hugh and Audris would not see, but he pushed his leg against me
impatiently, so I moved away. I suppose it was too soon to try to signal my
willingness, but even later when I tried again in different ways, Bruno seemed too
immersed in his political talk to be bothered with me—and the more I thought about
how to get his attention, the greater my desire became.
   It was only after the evening meal and after the two older ladies had withdrawn
from where we still sat near the fire, for the evenings were growing chill as October
advanced, that I realized the topic of conversation had changed. I was startled into
attention by an explosion, half laughter and half exasperated expletive, from Hugh.
   "No," he went on, "I mean yes, of course my Christian name is Hugh, but it is
also the name of my family. My father was Kenorn of Heugh—a place not far from
here. So Heugh and its manors are mine as well as Ruthsson and Trewick and some
smaller farms. Well, Ruthsson is really my Uncle Ralph's, but he has neither the will
nor the desire to manage the land and rule the people. I am embarrassed by riches, in
land if not in anything else."
  Bruno laughed. "A pleasant embarrassment."
   The laugh was not forced and now that I had been dragged from my purely
selfish concern, I recalled Bruno's misery when he left Jernaeve. It cannot have
healed any more than my wounds were healed, but like mine his no longer bled
unless they were touched. I realized too that Audris must have heard and
remembered every word I said, even the few I expended on my first horror at the
idea of seeing some stranger in my father's place. Unlike our first evening, Hugh sat
with us on the benches. Sir Oliver's chair had been set aside on the dais, so there
was nothing to remind Bruno every moment of his loss and he was at ease.
   "Pleasant or not, it is an embarrassment," Hugh replied. "Ruthsson is not much of
a problem. A really good bailiff to oversee the land is all that will be needed for a few
years. Once the place begins to pay, I might go on with the work my grandfather
started and build a real keep there, but that is for the future. Heugh is different. That
is a strong place. Not like Jernaeve, but still stone built and as strong as Alnwick.
There I need a man I can trust. Would you take it on, Bruno?"
   I had almost drifted back to my private problem, but my attention was renewed
by that last question.
   "I?" Bruno was clearly distressed, thinking he had been asked to do a service by
his friend. "Hugh, you know I cannot, at least not for longer than a month. I am now
Knight of the Body to the king. I must return to my service before Christmas."
   "I did not mean tomorrow," Hugh said. "I have a man there now who can defend
the place, and it is close enough for me to ride over for a day or two to deal with the
people on the land. But Pierre is a mercenary, and I do not want him to begin to
think Heugh is his. Can you not tell Stephen that your sister's husband has offered
you vassal-age-"
  "Vassalage!''
   Bruno's eyes flew to me, and I knew at once that he was asking me whether I still
feared to return to Ulle. Vassalage was a far different matter than holding a keep as
castellan. A vassal held the land as his own and that land could be inherited by his
children. If Bruno held Heugh as a vassal, we would be secure and free of
dependency on the king and queen. But in the brief moment that our eyes locked, I
saw Ulle nestled in the small valley carved out above the tarn; I saw Ullswater,
dancing and sparkling in the sunshine, grey and sullen under a drift of rain, dark and
deadly under a swathe of white mist.
  "Ulle—" I whispered.
  Bruno shook his head and looked from Hugh to Audris with such love that my
throat ached. "So good you are to me, to rob your own child for my sake. I cannot
take—"
   "Nonsense!" Audris exclaimed. "Eric will have more than enough, and the others I
hope will follow him also. Besides," she added, a touch of bitterness in her voice,
"all that land seems to bring now is a need to defend it with blood."
   "There is another reason also," Bruno said. "Did not Melusine tell you she was
disseisined of lands in Cumbria? I have good hope of convincing the king to enfeoff
me with those lands. What Stephen did was just, but Melusine was not at fault, and I
will vouch for her future loyalty. What is more, the lands add little or nothing to the
king's income, so I hope—"
   "It is not impossible," Hugh agreed. "Old King Henry would never disgorge
anything, particularly land swallowed for what he called treason." Hugh must have
caught some flicker of movement that marked my unease, and he smiled at me. "I am
passing no judgement, Melusine; what old Henry called treason might be anything
from trying to overthrow the throne to sneezing at the wrong time, if you had
something he wanted."
   "But Stephen is different," Bruno pointed out. "He is generous at heart, and
nothing pleases him as much as giving and making others happy."
    Hugh sighed. "I know. He gave far too much in that last treaty with the Scots. Let
us hope he does not give more away in this one, if one is proposed. Well, you must
do what is best for you, Bruno, but remember the offer for you to be vassal at
Heugh stands. Whenever you desire the place, you need only deliver to me… what is
it? Oh yes, the token is three speckled chicken feathers tied to a poniard and an eel."
  "Does the eel have to be fresh?" Bruno asked with spurious solemnity. "That
might cause a problem. A pickled eel might be had at any time, but a fresh one—''
   I thought that levity very wrong after Hugh's great generosity, and I pinched
Bruno low on the back, where my hand would not be seen moving, to urge him to
say one word of thanks at least.
   Hugh jumped up and hit Bruno fondly in the head. "Go to bed!" he ordered. "I
think you have pickled brains."
   Bruno rose and took my hand with such alacrity that I could only imagine some
signal had passed between him and Hugh that I had not noticed. Surprise allowed
my body to get up and follow my husband while my brain still sat on the bench
wondering what had happened. It was still wondering when Bruno slammed the
tower door shut with his heel and caught me into his arms and kissed me. In fact, I
do not think my brain got off that bench and came up to join me until far too late. By
then my body had been free for too long to be recaptured by sober thought.



                               CHAPTER 15
  Bruno
   I did the king's business well enough, but it does not take much diplomacy to
convince a man to accept thanks and a reward. That was fortunate because my mind
was not undivided. In truth, I felt as if my head were full of separate parts: one part
grieved over my stupidity and ingratitude to Sir Oliver; another rejoiced over
Melusine's kindness to me; a third examined that joy with suspicion; a fourth tried to
gather information on what was left of the Scots' resistance and whether Aumale was
strong enough to wipe this out without the help of those from Yorkshire who had
already left his force to attend their own affairs or were about to leave; and a last
small fragment spoke to each man for whom I had a message of the king's pleasure
in his strength and devotion and of the king's desire to see him at court and thank
him in person.
   As the number and importance of those to whom I must speak with
diminished—naturally, I saw Aumale first, Espec next, and so on in order of
precedence although it doubled or tripled the distance I had to ride—the first three
concerns loomed larger and larger. In the beginning the injustice I had done Sir
Oliver overshadowed all other thoughts, but each time that grief came into my mind I
also recalled Melusine's tender sympathy. By the time my errands were done, the
two hung in even balance, my reluctance to return to Jernaeve and face the piercing
reminders of Sir Oliver just equal to my eagerness to see Melusine again.
   The greeting I received overset that balance completely. After the hunt, Melusine
had come to me with an outstretched hand and a warm smile, but in Jernaeve I found
arms around my neck and a kiss that was a very distant cousin, indeed, to a kiss of
peace. To my shame I must admit that any thought of Sir Oliver flew right out of my
head. All that remained in it was a need to discover the meaning of that kiss. My
earliest apprehension, that Melusine had somehow offended Audris—although how
she could do that without hitting her with a stick or dropping Eric on his head I
could not imagine—and made herself unwelcome and thus unhappy, was cast aside
almost as it struck me. The laughter and comments showed Melusine to have earned
love, making herself part of the family in Jernaeve.
   There were then only two alternatives: Melusine's desire for me, or for a man in
general, which I had seen partly wakened the night I returned from the hunt, had been
again aroused—by my absence?—and she was so innocent and ignorant of men
other than fathers and brothers that she did not herself understand the kiss she had
bestowed on me. The other alternative, less pleasant, was that every move Melusine
had made since our marriage had been planned, and she was a succubus straight out
of hell.
   The second alternative I dismissed—not completely, but enough so it would not
influence how I intended to act. There was nothing I could do about the evil in her, if
there was any, until she tried to use her power on me. So long as I was aware that
evil might be intended, I could enjoy what was offered. It was much like using a
strange whore in a large town. If you were not aware of the tricks that could be
played, you might lose your purse and even your life to the girl or the men who
owned her; however, with adequate precautions, she would work hard to provide
you with pleasure.
   Before the afternoon and evening had passed, I could cheerfully have murdered
Melusine. She followed that kiss with more go and stop signals than the most
practiced flirt among the queen's ladies had used to tempt me. One moment
Melusine slid a hand down the back of my arm; the next, when I moved my thigh to
touch hers, she moved sharply away from me. Then she would listen to me,
frowning in thought while I spoke of the places the Scots still held as if she were
measuring King David's chances to advance again. Only when I glanced at her to see
her reaction to my words, I would notice her eyes had slid from my face to my lap.
And yet there was no sly invitation in her eyes; she looked worried. I do not now
remember everything, only that I was so bemused by Melusine's teasing that I did
not understand when Hugh, out of the goodness of his heart and Audris's, offered
me a true livelihood as vassal of Heugh.
   First I thought he wanted me as castellan, and I was sorry I could not oblige him,
but then he made it plain that he and Audris were prepared to rob their own children
to provide for me. I hesitated only an instant, glancing at Melusine; I heard her
whisper "Ulle," and could only hope she meant that she still wanted the lands. I
could not steal from Hugh to provide for Melusine no matter how much she made
me wish to protect her. If Melusine could not abide Ulle, we could rebuild or live on
one of the lesser estates; if I could not get Ulle back and could not support her, she
would have to live here in Jernaeve.
   I had guessed right with regard to Melusine's desire for Ulle though, because she
pressed herself against me when Hugh and I were talking of the possibility of
regaining the lands. Hugh thought he had hurt her by mentioning her father's treason,
but when I had spoken of it in the past she had only stared me down, so I think she
wished to show she was pleased with my refusal of Heugh. But when I made a jest
about the vassal's token to turn the subject, Melusine began to tease again and
pinched me on the buttock.
   Perhaps Hugh saw her hand move or I was not quick enough in hiding my
expression, but he ordered us off to bed. At that moment I think I was more grateful
to him for that than for the offer of Heugh. I admit I expected another shift to
coldness, a protest that it was too early for bed or some resistance when I took her
hand to lead her up, but she came at once, without a word, and in the time it took to
cross the hall and climb the stair, I decided that I would bandy no more words or
cautious gestures with her. As we entered the chamber, I saw some servant had lit
tapers so we would not be in the dark, and I pushed the door closed with my foot,
took her in my arms, and kissed her with all the passion pent up in me.
   Since I had never before kissed an innocent woman, I had no idea what to
expect—except that she might try to fight her way free of me. But Melusine did not
resist at all. When I first put my mouth to hers, her eyes opened wide, and her arms
hung limp; then her eyes closed and one hand stole up my arm to clutch my sleeve.
A little later the other slid over my back and around my neck. Her lips were still, but
as her eyes closed I could feel them grow fuller and a touch more moist. Her grip on
me tightened too, so I took the chance of relaxing my hold with one arm and
stroking her back, gradually moving my hand until the fingers were caressing one
side of her breast. Her lips parted then, and I let my tongue, just the tip, slip between
them.
   Then I had a stroke of luck. Her bliaut was laced on the side where my hand
touched her breast. It was not difficult to pull out the bow and begin to loosen the tie
while I touched her, but that was as far as I could go without breaking our kiss. I
was hard and ready—I had been in that state and at some pains to conceal it more
than once this day—and I gave a thought to pushing her back onto the bed, lifting
her skirt, dropping my chausses, and having at her. In five minutes I would be
content—and Melusine might be so disgusted that I would lose her forever. So I
withdrew my tongue and lightened the pressure of my lips on hers, lifted them,
kissed the corner of her mouth and then her chin.
   Slowly, her eyes opened and she drew her head back so she could see me. "Oh,
thank you," she whispered. "How did you know? I did not know how to tell you."
   I almost pushed her away. After the skilled hot and cold teasing she had
administered all afternoon, the words pretending innocence and ignorance seemed a
crude contrivance, but my standing man throbbed and pleaded in his silent way and I
decided to content him and at the same time to teach Melusine a lesson. When I was
done with her, she would crave me more than I craved her. So instead of answering
her directly, I turned her within my arm and drew her toward the bed, kissing her
neck and stroking the inside of her palm with my forefinger.
    Near the bed she held back and I thought that I would force her if she began to
play no-I-cannot games with me now. As to that, I had misjudged her; she only
asked, as simply as a child, if she should help me undress first or undress first
herself. That made me a little less angry because I knew she had been a virgin when I
first had her and whatever her intentions toward me or her knowledge of teasing a
man, it was likely that she had never done more than tease in the safety of company.
Perhaps she was not sure what to do.
   "Let us make a game of it," I murmured, nipping her earlobe and breathing softly
into her ear. "I will take off your clothes and you take off mine at the same time."
  She giggled softly. "But we will get all entangled."
   Her dark eyes were so bright that in this moment they shone more lucently than
light ones. "That is our purpose after all," I told her, laughing also but watching her.
    Melusine blushed. It was not as obvious as the red flush of a blond woman, but it
had a subtle loveliness. The color came up under her dark skin, turning it softly rosy,
like a rich fruit. I leaned forward and bit her gently, catching the musky scent of an
excited woman mingled with something sweet—a rich fruit indeed.
  When my teeth scraped lightly across her jaw, one of Melusine's hands rose and
wavered about. I took it in mine and laid it on my belt buckle. The leather was soft; I
had put aside my swordbelt when I took off my armor. She made quick work of
undoing it, using no gesture, even one that might be thought an accident, to arouse
me. It was just as well. I needed no encouragement.
   I took longer over undoing the ornamental knots of her girdle, brushing her lower
belly with my fingers as I unwove the silken cords. She closed her eyes again,
standing with my belt hanging awkwardly from her hand; I had to push it from her
fingers and she did not seem to notice when it fell to the floor.
   So it went. As I laid her hand on each garment, Melusine took off my clothes
without an unnecessary touch, seeming only half aware of what she was doing even
when my upper body was bare. But I took no offense. It was clear that she was
totally enwrapped in the feelings of her own body, and I had no difficulty believing
that these were all new to her and that the long breaths and short ones, the little
shivers and quick gasps were all true signs of what she felt. That gave me so much
pleasure, for with a whore it is impossible to tell how much of their response is true
delight and how much is art, that I came near to spilling my seed without any help.
   I stiffened and drew a deep breath and then thought it was purposeless to torment
myself with holding back. I had a long row to hoe before I could plunge my spade
into Melusine's earth and plant seed there. Let her bring me on by touch; I would still
be lively enough before I had her ready. So I pulled the tie of my chausses and set
her hands on my hips. I knew she would have to kneel to pull off the feet—I had
already slid my feet out of my shoes—and I had a hand under her chin to lift her
head as soon as my feet were bare. Her face was only inches from my private parts,
and she stiffened in surprise, perhaps in fear, for from so close an engorged rod
might look huge.
   "That is my standing man, Melusine," I said softly, one hand on her hair. "You
know his name. You must not fear him, for he loves you and only wishes for your
pleasure. Come, make friends."
   She chuckled, and the stiffness went out of her, but she did not raise her eyes to
my face, seeming fascinated by what she already saw. "How make friends?" she
asked.
   "He is not very clever," I admitted. "There is no brain in that red head. He loves
to be stroked—but only if that gives pleasure to the doer."
   Now I took my hand from Melusine's head so that she would feel no constraint to
kneel longer, but she did not rise. She put out a finger and ran it from the head of my
shaft to the base and back again. As is wont to happen, Sir Jehan bucked. Melusine
jerked her hand away, then giggled, and stroked me again. I touched her cheek, slid
my hand under her hair, and tickled her ear. She drew two fingers up me, scraping
gently with her nails, and then again. It was enough. I gasped as my liquor spilled,
and Melusine sprang up, crying, "No, no."
   It was no mighty spill, nor was it accompanied by such thrills of pleasure as wring
groans from a man and leave him breathless, which was my intent. I was able to
catch Melusine before she moved away and draw her to me, murmuring, "Hush, you
have lost nothing."
    "But you have spilled the milk that makes a child," she cried, pulling away a little.
"I thought you knew. I want a baby."
    I had to swallow to hold back laughter. Now I understood the excuse Melusine
had given herself for changing her mind about coupling with me. Not that I thought
the excuse a false one—I had seen her dandling Eric and hugging and kissing him
too—but it was plain she wanted more than the poke or two it takes to make a child.
I had no intention of shocking her with the truth, however, and all I said was, "There
is plenty more where that came from."
   She blinked and looked away, color coming up under her skin again, more
strongly than at first. "Yes, of course," she said. "I did not mean… I only meant…"
   It would never do to grin like an idiot. She only meant she did not want to wait.
The idea brought a stir to Sir Jehan, who had been drooping, and to encourage him
to stand tall again as well as to save Melusine from having to find an end to her
sentence, I caught her tight to me and kissed her again.
   "We will start on that baby very soon," I murmured into her ear. "Silly woman, I
spilled apurpose so that I should be able to show you how great a pleasure it is to
create a child."
   I do not think she believed me, perhaps because Sir Jehan was still leaning wearily
against my thigh, but she did not push me away when I began to stroke her hip and
thigh with one hand while pressing her against me with the other, moving my chest
gently from side to side so that the cloth of her shift slipped back and forth across
her nipples. I could feel them thrusting forward, pressing against me,and as I stroked
upward I caught the shift in my hand and pulled it off. The cloth caught against the
hard, rich-brown buds that topped her full breasts, and she cried out, lifting a hand
to protect them. But I had bent and caught one in my mouth, cupping my hand over
the other, before her hand reached so high.
   She cried out again then, the hand she had lifted pushing against my shoulder for
a moment while the other gripped my buttocks and pulled me tighter. In the next
instant, she caught at my head to pull it closer, abandoned that movement, and
tangled her fingers in my hair. I could feel her shaking, her legs trembling against
mine so that I was afraid she would fall. Carefully, I backed her the few steps to the
bed and, supporting her with one arm, pushed her back until she was lying down. I
was hard and ready again; now she had to be so wild she would not notice any pain
of stretching when I entered her.
   I raised my lips from her breast to kiss her mouth, but continued to tease her
nipples with one hand while I caressed her nether mouth with my other. She moaned
and bucked, trying to force my hand into her, and when my fingers were wet with
her woman's dew, I mounted her at last. Her need drove her to learn the rhythm of
love easily, and she soon cried and shuddered in a climax of joy. I did not withdraw,
but I let her rest, only moving enough to keep myself ready, then began again.
   We lay late abed in the morning. Although I had wakened at my usual time, I was
glad to take advantage of having no duties. I was very curious to know what
Melusine would do and say. Not much later, I became aware that she had wakened
also, but when I turned my eyes to her—barely shifting my head so that she should
not notice me watching—I saw that her eyes were still closed. She was pretending
sleep—out of shame? Before I had done with her during the night, she had rubbed
herself against me and finally pleaded with me in words for release.
    I was amused, knowing she had not expected to need to confront me
immediately. Usually I was gone to my duties before she woke. For a few moments
more, I lay quietly, wondering if she would give up her pretense, but then I thought it
would be stupid if my teasing turned shame into bitterness and taught her to resent
her pleasure in me. To be honest, I had never had such joy before myself. Even the
first violent burstings of my manhood were nothing compared with what Melusine
had given me. I had planned out of spite for the way she had teased me to make her
crave me; probably I had succeeded, but I wondered if I had not trapped myself as
much as her. I could die of thirst if she became so angry as to close her well to me.
    "May I wish you a good morning, Melusine?" I said, turning to her openly. "God
knows, I wish you nothing but good, morning, noon, and eventide for all of your
life."
   Her big eyes opened promptly, and she looked at me seriously for a moment,
then smiled wryly. "You may wish me good, but I cannot yet judge what you have
done me. Of one thing I am sure, not every woman has such an experience in
coupling."
   "I hope not," I replied, feigning indignation. "I was instructed by artists, not
allowed, as most men are, to follow their brute instincts. Would you rather I
disgusted you and caused you pain?"
    Melusine had begun to smile at my jesting answer, but before I finished, her eyes
slid away from mine, and her voice was uncertain when she said, "No, of course
not."
  Thinking she had suddenly realized who I meant when I said "artists" and that she
might now object violently to my use of whores—she had been jealous over poor
Edna—I stroked her cheek and murmured, "You need not fear I will be unfaithful.
You content me more than any such woman ever could."
  She looked up then and laughed. "And I save you both sin and expense too."
  "Fool that I am, I never thought of that!" I exclaimed, smiling back at her. "But so
you do. You are triply precious."
   "And you," she retorted, suddenly thrusting back the covers and swinging her
legs out of bed, "are as skilled with your tongue as with your shaft. Did you learn
that from artists too?"
   "God witness me, no!" I swore. "No one has ever accused me of oversmooth
speech before. Who would bother seeking sweet words for a whore?" While I
spoke, she had pulled the pot from beneath the bed and squatted above it. The
sound of her water flowing sparked in me an ardent need for similar relief, and I
exclaimed that she should hurry.
  "There is the window." Melusine giggled. "Easy for you; impossible for me."
   I was up on the chest before she finished speaking, sending a golden arc of liquid
sparkling through the air. "Not impossible," I remarked judicially, "but a tight
squeeze, I agree. But I do not think you could fall out, and what a view from below."
   Melusine laughed again, but did not answer, and I glanced at her over my
shoulder to see if I had offended her. Her expression truly surprised me, for the
remains of laughter mingled with a worried frown, which seemed a very odd
response to so light and silly a jest. In the next moment she had drawn on her
bedrobe and was gone to open the door and call down the stair for Edna while I
came down from my perch. When she turned back to me, she looked only pleasant
and mildly intent on her business, which was choosing clothing for me from my
chest.
  "The cart arrived," I said.
   "Two days ago," she answered. "They had very good weather, only enough
drizzle to keep down the dust and keep the horse cool. I sent the men and cart back
to Winchester yesterday. I hope I did right. Audris said she would lend us another
cart if we needed it, and if… if you do mean to go to Ulle—"
  "Indeed I do—if you are willing, Melusine."
   She was tying one sleeve of my shirt, her head bent to her task so that I could
only see her temple and the curve of her cheek. I put my free hand over hers and
captured them. She looked up.
  "Yes, I am willing."
  "If you cannot bear it, we will go away—perhaps to one of the other manors,
where your memories will not be so sharp."
   Melusine was silent for a moment, looking down again at our clasped hands.
"Perhaps that would be best in any case," she said slowly. "If the king's bailiff is at
Ulle,will he not send Stephen word that you were there and I also?"
   Was this a test of my loyalty? Or was she already urging me to take the first small
step into concealment and lying that would lead in the end to open treachery? I could
lay a trap for her, but the innocent fall into traps as often as do the guilty, and I
wanted no deception on my part. I would make her understand that even after a night
of love I would never forget, even while her closeness woke in me faint echoes of
that delight, my loyalty to Stephen stood firm.
   "I would expect him to do so," I remarked sharply. "I am not trying to hide our
presence. That would be treachery. In fact, if the bailiff does not inform the king of
our visit, I will tell him myself."
   She blinked with surprise. "But you bade me not talk of it, lest we be
forbidden—"
   "Certainly, I did not wish to be forbidden beforehand because of the queen's
conviction that you will create some kind of disaster if you return to Ulle. I know you
will not cause trouble." I put all the threat I was capable of into that statement, and
Melusine flung up her head and stared at me, wide-eyed. But though I had decided
not to deceive her, there was no harm in offering honest honey to sweeten the threat,
so I went on, "In fact, part of my proof that it would be safe to enfeoff me with your
lands will be this visit—the evidence I can present, with the bailiff to support my
word, of how you greeted your people and soothed them so that the land would be
quiet under the king's hand. Do you understand me, Melusine?"
   "Have my people not been obedient?" she asked in a thin, fearful voice. "I bade
them be quiet."
  "Did you?" I asked, unsure whether to be surprised or assume she was lying.
    "Yes, I did," she assured me anxiously, and then her lips thinned with anger. "Not
for fear or for the king's sake but for theirs. I did not wish them to be tormented or
killed. What do they care who rules? They care for their fields and their herds and
their boats."
  "And you, Melusine? For what do you care?"
   "I care to have my lands back, and no longer be a beggar picking up crumbs from
the queen's table!"
   There was passion enough in that, her eyes flashing with rage, and I nodded
acceptance. I thought the reply was honest; I prayed it was honest. I could not bear
to think of what I had promised to do if Melusine tried to stir up rebellion in
Cumbria. For a moment as I looked at her, bending to pick up my tunic, I felt 1 must
find an excuse and not go to Ulle so that she would have no chance to show the evil
that was in her. But even as the beauty I had never before seen in her face tugged at
me, I knew I could not live that way. I had warned her over and over. I must take her
to Ulle and test her with fire.
    It was easy to think, not so easy to do. To tell the truth, I seized eagerly on every
excuse offered to linger in Jemaeve and put off that test, but I only increased my
pain. Each day made Melusine more precious to me. She and Audris were so
different and yet their joy in each other's company was clear; little as I knew of such
matters, it was plain from Lady Eadyth's approval that Melusine was a householder
of knowledge and high standards; and the nights and early mornings… I understood
at last why lust was numbered high among the deadly sins.
   At last I set the morrow, a few days before the start of November as the time to
leave. The weather was already turning cold and rainy, and Melusine said if we did
not go soon, the high passes between Ulle and the other smaller manors would be
blocked with snow. Because we had been talking of the journey to Ulle from time to
time, all was planned. The chests were to stay at Jernaeve; what we would need for
Ulle would come with us in travel baskets on two packhorses. With us also would
come Edna, riding pillion—we had her practicing each day we lingered—behind one
of my new men-at-arms. I had three: Fechin, Cormi, and Merwyn; they had come to
me to ask if I would take them the day before Hugh planned to select a few men to
act as guards and messengers.
   After a moment of astonishment, both at the way the servants and men-at-arms
knew what no one had yet told them and at these men's eagerness to join me—for I
knew Hugh to be a good master—I recognized them; they were older now, but all
three had served with me when Sir Oliver had sent me to France as Sir Bernard's
squire. I explained that I was not offering an easy duty, that they would not be idling
at court but serving mostly as messengers, riding back to Jernaeve in all weathers
from all parts of England.
   Fechin, the eldest, must have been near forty, but he grinned at me. "If I be goin'
to see new things," he said, "I better be at it now, before it be too late." Then he
looked down and scrubbed at the earth with one foot. "We be old friends, we three,
and no women nor young to bind us. Sir Hugh, he be a good man, but—but it be
strange wi'out Sir Oliver. We'ul be easier wi' you."
    The others nodded soberly, and tears came to my eyes. I realized suddenly that
since I had returned, Audris and Hugh had concealed any signs that Hugh was now
lord of Jernaeve. At meals or in the evening, we all sat together on benches; Lady
Eadyth ruled the household as she had always done; in the work of rebuilding, Hugh
and I gave the orders—but all that riding up and down and helping the men lift and
fit and pull out burnt stumps was young men's work and we would have done that
even if Sir Oliver was still alive; it was as if he was away, up by the northern wall or
visiting another keep. Nonetheless, I understood what Fechin meant. I swallowed the
tightness in my throat and said I would have them gladly, if Hugh agreed.
   There was no trouble about that, of course, and we set off for Ulle on the
twenty-eighth day of October. It was a bright morning, the air crisp enough to nip
nose and cheeks into rosiness but not sharp enough to bite, and the sun lay warm on
our backs without dazzling our eyes as we rode west after fording the river. There
was a smell of smoke in the air as we neared the village that was beholden to
Jernaeve, but it had no acrid taint of destruction. This was the pleasant, homely smell
of wood fires, bringing thoughts of warmth and ease. As we passed through I did
see signs of the ravages of the Scots—the pale wood of the doors on some houses
marked the recent replacement of older doors smashed in; there was new thatch on
some roofs and burns scarred some walls.
   I noticed too that a few of the places had not been repaired. Likely the menfolk of
those had been killed, unless their skills had been needed in Jernaeve and they
   had been summoned to pay their due of labor in the keep. But the few folk who
were at work in the village waved at us cheerfully, and Merwyn called out to one man
to tell another that he would be gone for a while. A laughing, jesting answer was
returned, showing that under Hugh as under Sir Oliver the villagers and the
men-at-arms were on good terms. I was glad Sir Oliver's discipline had held and the
men of the keep had not taken advantage of Hugh's sickness and single-minded
devotion to the restoration of Jernaeve to ill-use the common folk. Briefly I was
annoyed with myself for forgetting to ride down and make sure all was well, but
fortunately no harm had been done.
   When the river turned north, we angled northwest across the rising ground toward
the road that ran just south of the great wall. It was easy riding because the land was
grazing common, not wooded, but when we had almost reached the crest, Melusine
exclaimed in surprise. I had half drawn my sword and my men were gazing around in
utter astonishment for any threat before I realized that Melusine was looking far
down the valley to where an eight-ox plow was breaking the sod of a fallow field for
the planting of winter wheat.
  "Now what do you find so startling about the field?" I asked.
  "The field!" she exclaimed. "It looks to me like a whole shire. It goes on forever."
    I stared at her, puzzled. The fields of Northumbria were small compared with
those plowed in the fertile south. Melusine must have seen those expanses,
checkered with their different crops, many times when she rode out with the queen.
Yet surely her expression of amazement was a result of true surprise; she could not
at this point in our marriage believe it worthwhile to raise again the subject of whether
she had been playing an idiot during her first months with the court—or could she?
In any case, I would not join her game if that was her purpose.
  "If you think so," I replied, "the fields of Ulle must be very small indeed."
   "Compared with these, yes," she agreed at once. "I cannot remember ever seeing
eight oxen on a plow. Two are what we use most often, sometimes four to break
new land."
  "The soil is light then?"
   "I do not know," she replied, looking at me with lifted brows. "I never looked to
the farms, except to mark down the yield and lord's share and suchlike. I had my
own garden, of course, for herbs and spices, but—"
   "But a manor garden does not grow grain for bread or peas and beans sufficient
to last the winter," I interrupted. "Did you buy corn? And with what?"
   "There are fewer people so we often do have enough," Melusine said absently,
her mind clearly elsewhere. Then she added, seemingly reluctantly, "And we have the
wherewithal to trade—or did have before the king came and drove all the people
away."
   I needed a moment before I could answer. "You have tripped into your own
snare," I remarked coldly. "I was with the king's force when we came down through
Cumbria and there was strict order against looting or misusing the people where
there was no resistance. In the north, there was some trouble, and those who made it
were punished. But I know no one was driven away from Ulle. There was no one
there to drive away."
  "The people fled in fear," she answered insolently, looking right into my eyes.
  "By your order?" I asked.
  "Yes," she said with a slow smile of calm defiance. "I had to stay. I knew I could
not hold Ulle, but I was not going to give it away. Anything taken by force—and
more so from a helpless woman—is an outrage than can be appealed to a just lord."
  "A just lord? King David?" My voice rose, but she still met my eyes.
   "If he had the power to give me Ulle—yes!" Then she shrugged. "Since he has
not, I will take it back from Stephen's hands as gladly."
   To hear that last sentence was a distinct relief, and I remembered now that when
we came into Ulle it was empty. The common folk had not fled in, a last minute
panic with what they could carry. Everything of value had been taken from the manor
as well as from the very small village outside the walls. So her admission that she had
given the order for the people to go was probably true, but that tale did not sit well
with what she had said to me some days ago about ordering the folk to submit and
obey the king's warden.
  "You cannot have it both ways," I snarled. "Either you bade your people go or
you bade them be quiet and obey the king's warden. Which is the lie, Melusine?"
   She smiled at me, which did not ease my heart. "Do not be foolish. Why should
both not be true? My people fled the army, but when that was gone, why should they
not return? It was the dead of winter, and that hardship would be worse to bear than
the harsh treatment of the warden. They could always go back to the hills in the
spring if they were used too cruelly."
   I have never hit a woman—except a few gentle slaps on Audris's hands or bottom
when she was a babe—but I came near it in that moment. What Melusine said might
be the literal truth, but something in the way she said it made it into a lie. I was too
angry to say more, and rode ahead for a time, but no matter how I turned the matter
in my mind, I could see no present political purpose for either lying or defiance.
There was no war in Cumbria now, no Scottish troops that could be victualled or
supported by Melusine's people nor any of Stephen's men, except the guards living
in Ulle itself, to be harmed.
   Then it occurred to me that Melusine might still fear what she had done in the past
could bring punishment on her. I thought of those men Stephen had disseisined and
exiled with their wives and families. If any had appealed to her, arms, comforts, and
supplies might have been carried to them by those she had ordered to "run away."
But that was near a year past now and did not matter to me. All I cared about was
what Melusine would do in the future.
   However much the matter worried me, it did not weigh at all on Melusine's
conscience. She was in high spirits, and I must confess teased me back into good
humor by her unaffected appreciation of a landscape that most southrons find too
wild and barren. Only when we came near Carlisle she grew silent, sad too, I think,
but she said nothing.
   To spare her, I did not seek lodging at the castle but sent Merwyn ahead to find a
decent place that would take us in for the night. I would not have troubled her that
night, but she clung to me, so I loved her until she was weary—I too—so she would
sleep.
   The next day I would have followed the path the army took, west to the coast
road, then inland and north again, knowing no other. But when I set off toward the
west, Melusine called me back, asking in surprise whether I did not wish to go to
Ulle and then telling me there was a shorter way. It would take three days to go the
long way round, she said—I knew that was true because it had taken the army more
than a week—but we could be in Ulle before dusk if we followed her. There had
been something strange in her look and manner from the time we woke this morning.
Until she spoke of a quicker way to Ulle, I had believed she was tormented by sad
memories. Now I had doubts. Still, I could not believe she would be so foolish as to
try either to escape me or to lead us into some ambush, so I agreed to go her way;
however, I was prepared for trouble, and I warned my men that we would be going
into wild and dangerous country.
   At first there was little difference between the old road to Penrith and the one we
had followed from Jernaeve. Some distance past the town, though, as we topped a
rise of ground, Cormi called out to me in a voice that held a note of fear. My hand
was on my sword hilt before my eyes followed his pointing hand, but I knew he
would not fear men, and then Merwyn, who was closer muttered, "Faery!"
  "Faery?"
   Certainly it was a ring, clear of brush and smoothly grassed as if scythed with
care, but the faery were little folk, and this ring was some twenty yards across, with a
ditch and fosse. However, I doubted that ditch and fosse were for defense. For one
thing, though far too deep and high to be the work of the little folk, they were surely
not sufficient to protect defenders; for another, I could see the top of the raised
mound of earth, and that had never held post holes for a palisade. Moreover, I could
see that there was an inviting path of smooth green turf leading into the ring.
   "I do not know." It was Melusine who answered my doubting question. "But I
have passed it many times and have come to no harm."
  Her voice was flat, as if she had no interest in the strange place, but I thought she
knew more of it than she wished to say.
   "This is Lady Melusine's country," I said to the men, "and she says this place is
not dangerous—"
   "No, I did not say that," she interrupted. "I know one can pass it in daylight in
safety," she went on. "But that is all I know. I would not want any to come to harm
from thinking I give more assurance than I do."
    That made me wonder if Melusine was deliberately warning us away because this
was a meeting place for the rebels. I looked at it again as we came down the hill and
almost laughed aloud at my silliness. What right-minded man would come to so
strange a place, even to plot mischief when he could meet his friends by his own
fireside or in some wholesome wood or field with less chance of being seen.
Melusine must be speaking the truth about the ring, even if she was not telling all she
knew.
  As we came down, the ring was hidden by the trees that bordered the road. We
passed it warily, kicking the horses into a canter, but we did not hold the pace long.
Melusine, who seemed somewhat amused by our caution—the first lightening in her
somber mood that day—soon called to us to turn back. She had stopped Vinaigre
by the opening to a narrow track that I had thought a game trail. It led southwest into
what seemed a stark wilderness. Before we had ridden half a mile, the track met and
followed a small river. By then it was clear this was no game trail. Low branches had
been lopped back to make a wide enough passage for pack animals and brush had
been cleared, but I saw that the track had not been used often this year; there was
new growth that had not been cut. Melusine saw it too, but what she thought of it I
could not tell. Her face was closed—dark and sad again.
   Though narrow, the track was clear and easy to follow, and we rode along for
near an hour with no surprises until on a low rise it opened out into a small meadow.
My breath caught at the beauty of the scene below us. Melusine had stopped beside
me, and I heard a faint sounds—a sob? I put out a hand blindly to pat hers, but I
could not tear my eyes from the landscape. A long lake gleaming silver under the
lightly cloudy sky stretched away into the distance, bordered by steep hills that
folded into each other, green with forest close at hand and shading into blue and
purple in the distance. Aside from a few sheep grazing the meadow, four very small
houses, and what looked like a stable and fenced yard for horses down near the
water, there was no sign of man's hand in this wilderness. To the east of the lake,
however, I was not sure the mountain came directly down to the water. Though the
bank rose steeply, there might be a fold of land behind that could hold an arable
valley. But if the track we rode on began again to the east, behind the few dwellings,
there was no sign of it.
   There was not much sign that the road continued south along the west side of the
lake either, but Melusine confidently trotted Vinaigre across the north edge of the
valley and then down toward the lake. I almost called out, thinking she was about to
plunge into the water, when she turned right sharply and disappeared. Since there
was no splash, I followed calmly enough, only to find myself perched on a trail not
much wider than Barbe's barrel and hanging over the lake. The drop was not much at
this point, perhaps four or five feet, but ahead I could see a few brown and grey
splotches where the track was not edged with trees and they were a hundred feet or
more high.
   Fechin, seeing where my eyes were directed, uttered a snort. "We be needin'
spiders, not horses, to get up there."
   Melusine was already well ahead, so I could only shrug and touch Barbe gently
with my heels. He started willingly, by which I guessed the track must feel solid and
steady to him. "Do not look down," I called back over my shoulder. "Watch the
horse ahead and the trail itself for holes or loose stones."
   I began to follow Melusine's rapidly disappearing back,and then had to shout to
her to stop. That devil of a mare instead started a fast trot, which Melusine did not
check, but I could not follow. Cormi had just called to me that Edna was in trouble.
I cursed Melusine fluently as I backed Barbe a few steps to a spot wide enough to
turn him. She could not get far nor elude me for long, but I was sick inside with fear
that she had taken the first chance she had to escape.
   I cursed Edna too, although she, poor creature, did not deserve it. Truthfully, I
had been much surprised by how cheerfully she had accepted the discomforts of the
long trip, how attached she seemed to Melusine, and her stoic endurance on this
ride. She had only had a few hours of practice to accustom her to being perched on
a horse, and we had ridden nearly forty miles from Jernaeve to Carlisle. When she
dismounted at our lodging the night before, Melusine noticed how stiff Edna was
and asked me to send a man to buy a liniment to rub on her sore muscles. She was
better although still uncomfortable when she came to help Melusine dress in the
morning, but she made no complaint when Fechin lifted her to Merwyn's saddle pad
nor later when she was shifted to Cormi's to rest Merwyn's horse. I thought she
might have grown faint from pain and weariness, but it was the sight of the road
winding up on the cliffs that had frightened her so much she nearly fell off.
   "Let me walk," Edna sobbed, when I asked if she could go forward after a short
rest. "I will follow faithfully. I will run to keep up, but I cannot bear to sit up so high
and look into nothing."
   "My lord—" Fechin began, and then stopped suddenly, his eyes going past my
shoulder.
   I turned sharply to see Melusine coming back toward us at a sharp trot, and I had
to grit my teeth to keep from shouting aloud with joy. My wife—the word was sweet
in my mouth, although I did not utter it—my wife had not used the length of rope I
had given her to hang herself.
   Fechin shook his head and looked back at me. "Your lady makes us look fools,"
he went on, "but we'uld all be easier on our feet goin' up there."
   Apparently Melusine had heard him, because she cried, "Oh! Do forgive me."
   She sounded truly contrite and, oddly, somewhat embarrassed, and put out her
hand to me, which I took and pressed warmly. If it had not been for the men, I
would have kissed her; in fact, so great was my relief that my passion stirred, and if I
could, I would have dismounted both of us and played mare and stallion without the
help of Vinaigre and Barbe. Melusine must have seen that in my face—I hope no one
else did—because she found a small smile for me.
   "I… my mind has been on… on other things," she said. "I forgot your men were
not accustomed to our roads. This road is perfectly safe, all sound, but the men can
walk if they like. Ulle is less than three leagues and they cannot get lost." She looked
at Fechin and smiled. "You need only keep to the road that follows the lake. There
are only four tracks that turn off and they go directly away from the water."
   The men dismounted with sighs of relief, and I turned Barbe and followed
Melusine. This time she did not allow Vinaigre to go faster than a walk and I was
close behind. Farther on, the road curved a little inward where the land was flatter
and widened so I could ride abreast.
   "You did not include me in the invitation to walk," I remarked. "But I wish you to
know, I am quaking in my stirrups and hope you will keep a sober pace."
    Cleverly, she looked at Barbe, not at me. The horse showed no
nervousness—and he was a nervous horse—so she could assume I felt none. "I did
not think you would let me go alone," she said, "and I certainly do not wish to walk
all that way."
  "Is there some reason I should not let you go alone?" I asked.
   There was a brief silence, then Melusine said softly, "I am sorry I did not come
back at once when you called. I was angry when you bade me to stop until I saw
that something was wrong. I thought you believed I was running away. I would not
do that. I have given my word."
   "Did it not occur to you that there might be other reasons I did not want you to
go alone? You are dear to me, Melusine, and this is wild country—"
   "Not to me," she interrupted, smiling. "There are no outlaws here"—the smile
disappeared abruptly—"or were none. Perhaps good men have been driven into
outlawry since I have been gone, but none of them would harm me."
    "If good men have been made outlaw, I am sorry for it, and the king will be sorry
also," I told her. "That was not Stephen's intention, and if I see the people are
ill-used, I will do my best to amend it."
   She shifted in her saddle restlessly, which surprised me. It was almost as if what I
said made her uncomfortable because she did not want me to show interest in or
sympathy for her people. That raised a new specter in my mind. The queen had
wanted Melusine married so that no Cumbrian lord with a loyalty to David could
seize her, marry her, and claim Ulle through her. Just now it had come to me that a
widow would serve as well as an unmarried maid for that purpose. I suppose I was
staring at her. I do not know what was in my face, but Melusine suddenly turned her
head away from me, and as she did I thought I saw tears in her eyes. That only
added to the puzzle, but I could think of no way to approach any solution to it, and I
was thankful that the trail narrowed as we began to climb again and she pulled ahead.
   I soon began to think my doubts were foolish. There was no reason for Melusine
to want another husband. Her eagerness to couple and her transports in the marriage
bed were genuine, of that I was certain. If she intended to be rid of me, why should
she have made our marriage complete in Jernaeve? Surely if she wished to replace
me with another man, she could have refused me a little longer. And God knew this
homecoming must be bitter as gall to her. There were reasons enough for tears. By
the time we came to the next space open enough to ride side-by-side, I had put the
doubt aside and was only troubled about how Melusine would endure actually
coming into Ulle. But that, like the road, was easier than I expected—except for a
few breathtaking stretches.
   The worst part of the road was the traverse of Stybarrow Crag. For over a
quarter of a mile, the track hung over the water, too narrow over that whole length to
turn a horse. One man could hold off a whole army—if he did not tire. On the other
hand, archers, so dangerous in most wild and wooded country, would be of little use
because the hill bulged out above the road and there were few places where a shot
could be angled correctly. My mind was on the impossibility of bringing an army
along that road, and I must have pulled back on the reins with surprise because
Barbe stopped suddenly. Around a curve below the rise on which Barbe stood,
where I expected to see more wilderness, there was a tame and cozy demesne
farm—for dolls.
   I looked down at the tiny fields, each one not more than half or quarter of an
acre—with the same surprise that Melusine expressed a day earlier on seeing the
eight-ox plow working near Jernaeve.' One could be fooled into thinking the fields
were miles away and small with distance, except that below us, close to the edge of
the lake, was a substantial, man-sized walled manor. That I recognized! Ulle!
   Now my eyes flew to Melusine, but she had not stopped as I had. I could see her
head turn from side to side, sweeping the fields and then the lake. I hoped she was
not suffering too much; if she had turned to me I would have comforted her as best I
could, but in a way it was a relief that she did not. I did not know what to say. I did
not even know whether what she saw was the same or different from when she had
been mistress of Ulle. I remembered now that the ground had been covered with
snow when I led Stephen's forces into Ulle; that was why those tiny fields had not
stuck in my memory.
   All I could do was increase Barbe's pace so that I could ride beside her. Once I
touched her hand, but she did not look at me and I made no further gestures. We
met only one man, trudging along the track that bordered the fields with a faggot of
sticks on his back. He looked up and gaped for a moment, then backed to the side
of the road, staring.
  "A good day to you, Tom," Melusine said. "I have come for a visit. I hope all has
gone well with you these months I have been away."
   "None so well," the man replied, glancing at me before he added, "none so ill
either, my lady."
   "This is my husband, Sir Bruno of Jernaeve," Melusine said, then nodded and
rode on.
  "Good day to you," I said, and rode on also.
    There had been first gladness and then disappointment in the man's face after his
first shock had passed. So much was easy to see, but I put that aside to think about
later, my greatest concern being with Melusine as we drew nearer the manor. At least
the gate was open and unguarded, which meant there had been no trouble with the
local people. That was a relief, but I was surprised that Melusine's arrival caused no
more than a few curious looks. The only armed man inside the walls stared at me
open-mouthed before he hailed a manservant to take our horses and said he would
inform the steward that guests had arrived.
  I dismounted and hurried to lift Melusine down. Her face was a mask, but there
was horror in her eyes. "Where are the old servants?" she whispered.
  "Melusine!" I exclaimed. "Those who were here when the king came were still
here when he left. You know they were unharmed, even those silly old men who tried
to hold us off."
  She shook her head. "Where are they now?"
   "I do not know, my dear, but I will find out," I said, turning to face a man who
cried a hearty greeting as he came, but keeping my arm around Melusine's waist.
   "Well come!" he exclaimed. "I am Sir Giles de Montalbe. I have not seen a new
face in months. You are well come indeed in this empty end of the world."
   "It is not an empty end of the world to us, Sir Giles," I said. "I am Sir Bruno of
Jernaeve, Knight of the Body to King Stephen, but I am on leave and my coming
here has nothing to do with the king. This is Lady Melusine of Ulle, my wife, and I
have brought her here because she was sick with longing for her home. I hope you
do not mind."
  "I would not mind if you were Satan, bringing Judas with you," Sir Giles said
explosively. "And if your lady wife and you would like to stay for good and can get
me permission to leave, I will be overjoyed."
  There was bitterness in his voice and disappointment and anger in his face, and
Melusine drew a gasping breath and cried, "Where are the old servants?"
  "Gone," Sir Giles replied in a snarl.
    "Dead?" I could hear the edge of hysteria in Melusine's voice and her body
stiffened.
  "How would I know?"
  The rigidity of Melusine's body eased, and she said, "You mean they ran away?"
   "I mean that when I came here there were the hall and outbuildings of the manor,
sixteen of the twenty men-at-arms with their captain that the king had left to hold the
manor, and nothing else. And only twelve of the sixteen men left could bear arms.
The men had been hunting to feed themselves, and in two months three were killed
by falls and another five had been seriously injured, and the captain had a broken leg.
The bailiff sent by the king was also dead—he drowned while fishing, and one of the
men-at-arms with him."
    Now Melusine was wholly relaxed against my arm. "This is dangerous country,"
she said. "I was born here, and I have been overturned in the lake and blown off the
trail near Black Crag—" She nodded northwest toward a glowering hulk of mountain
that darkened the horizon. "I am sorry about the servants though. Would you like me
to ask among the village people where they have gone and if they would be willing to
come back?"
  "Willing?" Sir Giles almost choked on rage. "They have no right to will. They—"
   "Forgive me, Sir Giles," Melusine interrupted. "The servants in Ulle were all free.
There were no slaves or bound serfs in Ulle." She smiled at him. "We were never
rich enough to buy slaves, and they would have been useless for anything except
household work or work on the demesne farm—which as you see is not large. As to
trying to bind the native born into serfdom, how could we keep them if they wished
to run into the hills and hide? It is more practical in Ulle to have free tenants who
work willingly."
   "Work?" Again Sir Giles's voice rose with rage. "Who works in Ulle? They are all
idlers."
   "Let us go in, Sir Giles," I interposed before Melusine could answer. "We have
been on the road since sunrise and I am sharp-set. I know we have missed dinner—"
  "Good God, forgive me," Sir Giles exclaimed. "I have forgotten my manners and
am growing as savage as the country. Do come in and I will see what there is to eat."
    He led us in, and I made sure to enter the hall first and cross to the firepit, leaving
Melusine to hesitate at the doorway as she glanced around the room. I hoped the
familiar hall would not be too much for her to bear, but I thought it less important to
offer comfort than to keep her from seeing me in the doorway in armor, as she must
have seen me the day Ulle was taken. But perhaps she would not have noticed me at
all; she seemed far more smugly satisfied than distraught as she looked around the
room, and her lips were twitching, not down but upward. I suspected it was laughter,
not tears, she was trying to control.
   Melusine's expression made me look about also. I cannot say I remembered the
hall the day I burst in behind the ram. It had been dark, with all the shutters closed
and barred, and my attention had been fixed on the wailing women. All I could
remember was a chair of state behind Melusine. I had assumed there were other
furnishings fitting for a gentleman's hall. What I saw now would have better suited a
hunting lodge where men shelter for a night or two rather than a manor where men
lived—three rough benches and a stool flanking the firepit, a trestle table of splintery
planks on the dais, and that was all. I could not see behind the wall screen at the
back of the dais, but I doubted that the bed in which Melusine and her brothers had
been conceived still stood there.
   Had everything in Ulle been looted by Stephen's army? Then I remembered that
though there had been little of value, except furs, in any of the Cumbrian estates the
king had taken—a few silver coins, some goblets and plate, and stores of food—in
Ulle there had been nothing, nothing at all. Yes, that was why Stephen had left one of
the minor clerks of his household to be bailiff and ferret out why Ulle was bare
bones. But the bailiff had died. I glanced at Melusine, but she only looked politely
bland now, as if she were entering a stranger's hall and were determined not to notice
anything out of the ordinary.
   Melusine maintained that bland indifference while we ate and through the
afternoon and evening, making no reply to Sir Giles's angry complaints. He had been
made steward, he told us, through the favor of the bishop of Ely and had assumed
that there would be some profit to be made from the estate. Instead, he had found a
desert. The people of the village had come back after the soldiers and their captain
departed, he said, and they had planted the fields and made the furnishings—he
laughed bitterly on the word—for his hall. Then he shrugged. At least they were quiet
he admitted; though they were stupid and lazy beyond any serfs he had dealt with,
they did not protest the double and triple timings he made of produce, fish, and
game.
    How had her family lived, he asked Melusine. They needed little, Melusine replied;
they were simple people, content to hunt and fish and eat the black bread and flat
cakes from the rye and barley their thin soil would grow, to wear the rough wool
woven from the fleece of their few, hardy sheep. Sir Giles came close to howling
with rage, snarling that there was not enough, even of such things, to keep him alive,
let alone a large family—and Melusine shrugged and said sweetly that she was sorry,
she knew no more than she had told him.
   I knew she was—not lying, for I had seen the gowns in her chest and it was plain
which the queen had given her, but I had also seen her fine ivory comb set with small
jewels, a silver thimble, and other such luxuries. She had once told me, too, that they
had the wherewithal to trade. So she was not telling all the truth. Nonetheless, I held
my tongue, pretending I did not understand what Melusine was doing until we were
lying together, not in a bed but on straw-stuffed pallets in a little house in which
Melusine asked to lodge, saying it had been built for her sister-by-marriage, who had
died in childbirth.
   Edna was at the far end of the single room, but she slept like one dead after the
exhaustion and terror of her journey. I doubted she could be wakened by screams
and kicks and knew she would not hear our quiet voices. I took Melusine gently by
the ear and shook her head.
  "Well?" I asked.
  "I am well," she replied. "It looked so different, like any other hall in Cumbria. I
could not see papa—"
   "Melusine," I murmured dulcetly, "I have never beaten a woman in my life and I
think it very wrong for the strong to be cruel to the weak, but I am coming close to
forgetting the rules that have guided me through life."
   "What good do you think beating me will do?" she asked, and I could feel the
movement of her cheek that meant she was smiling. "I can tell you nothing. I admit I
bade the people to take away and hide whatever was in Ulle, but I do not know who
took what or where it was taken. I think the people would bring back what they
carried away if I asked them to do so." She hesitated, then went on in a voice that
was no longer light and teasing. "But I would gladly be beaten to death before I
would give that order so that Sir Giles could sleep in my father's bed."
  "The king has the right—" I began.
   "To sleep in papa's bed?" Her voice was small and sad. "He would never get it.
You heard Sir Giles say he looked for a profit. Bruno, I swear to you that the full
yield from Ulle—there was none yet from any of the other manors; we gave to
them—would not pay one knight in the king's service. Perhaps it would be worth
being angry with me if the king were able to buy a knight with the blood drained from
Ulle, but Stephen would never receive a single silver penny—and you know it."
  My hand had loosened from her ear—the hopeless sadness in her voice tore at
my heart—and she turned her head and kissed me when she finished speaking. I
made no answer because I did not know what to say. By strict rule, Sir Giles's
dishonesty was not my business; the full dues of Ulle should go to him and he be
responsible for what happened thereafter. But I knew what Melusine said was true.
The king would not benefit no matter what was squeezed from Ulle, and my loyalty
was to the king.
    Melusine was shivering a little. The cold struck up from the earth floor through the
thin pallets, so I pulled her to lie closer. She came quickly and so eagerly that she
ended lying more atop me than beside me, and she kissed me again and stroked my
shoulder and arm, running her hand down and up and then down again, only this
time over my chest and belly and hip until she found the traitor who was never angry
with her. Somewhere at the back of my mind I suspected that it was not pleasure
alone that Melusine was seeking as she stroked my shaft, but I did not care. Pleasure
first; I could think about why tomorrow.



                                CHAPTER 16


  Melusine
   To see a man lost to himself in passion was a revelation to me—not that I noticed
the first few times Bruno and I coupled. In the beginning I was too lost myself to
care what he felt, and he came into control of himself afterward faster than I—I
suppose because he was much more accustomed to the violent pleasure. I think
also, looking back, that in the beginning he was so eager that I be fulfilled, or rather,
sated, that he somehow suppressed his own release. Whore's son that he was,
Bruno knew every trick that could be played with the body.
   At first I was appalled, for he taught me to crave that pleasure as I craved food
and drink, and I feared I was trapped into a kind of slavery where he could control
me by my longing. But when he saw that I desired him, he also let me see that he was
as much my slave as I was his. That lifted my fear, until I realized that devil had
played another trick on me. To see his eyes glaze, to hear him sigh and moan, only
excited me to greater transports, tying the knot of my pleasure tighter around my
neck.
   I had begun to fear that there would be no way to free myself from my passion
except to give some trusted servant in Ulle a sign that would cause Bruno to trip
over a rock and plunge down a mountainside or fish too eagerly and fall overboard.
However, that first night in Ulle, I used Bruno's weapon against him. With a few
reasonable words and many touches and kisses, I diverted his mind from the
disappearance of the revenues of Ulle and bound him to the notion that the poorer
Ulle seemed to be the more likely Stephen would be to enfeoff him.
   Poor Sir Giles. He was so stupid, I almost came to like him despite his greed.
Later I learned it was not sheer stupidity, although he was stupid, but a complete
lack of understanding of our countryside. Sir Giles came from the wide, flat fields of
Norfolk and found it easy to believe nothing would grow among our steep hills. He
really thought the demesne farm was all the cultivated land we had, and it was very
easy to keep him from the hidden valleys where our grain was grown and the folds in
the hills where our flocks were grazed. He did not even seem to realize that the
people in the village were not creeping around in the last stages of starvation, which
they should have been considering what he left to them after taking his share. But the
people of Cumbria are lean and hard; perhaps the folk of Norfolk are fuller fleshed,
and Sir Giles thought those of Ulle were thin from hunger. Bruno was not so fooled.
I saw the way he looked at the folk and raised his brows to see them so sturdy. But I
touched his face and pleaded with my eyes—and he said nothing to Sir Giles.
   I was grateful to Sir Giles also for keeping Bruno busy for a few hours the day
after we arrived. It was a grey, windy day, but not raining, and I was able to slip out
to walk by the lake—where I was hidden from sight in a small hollow screened by
brush after a five-minute walk. I knew Tom Bailiff would be watching for me; he
was, and was with me soon after I could not be seen. Fortunately Bruno and I met
him on the road, since I had expected to be able to send a servant to bring him to me
and none of the old servants was at the manor.
   Tom Bailiff told me that the servants had crept out and fled and were now in
Wyth serving Sir Gerald, who had held Irthing from papa. I gasped with hope when
I heard that, but Tom shook his head before I could ask or really feel any pain of
disappointment, and I knew that SirGerald had confirmed Donald's and papa's
deaths. Tom did not say that, only told me that Sir Gerald had returned, more dead
than alive, in the spring of the year, and that, as I had bidden them, they had hidden
him in Wyth, fearing if he went to Irthing he would be recognized by someone more
interested in the king's favor than in old friendship.
   I praised Tom and promised reward and said that he must set a watch so that the
next time I was free he could bring me the true tally sticks of what had been
harvested from the fields. We could then decide which animals should be
slaughtered and salted for food, which driven to market, and what to do with the
spring wool that had not been used.
   I told him that I would remit a tithe of lord's share because of the trouble and
losses engendered by harvesting, slaughtering, fishing, and doing all other tasks in
secret. The folk could keep that tithe as it was if they wished, but the stores from
Ulle that had been hidden and this year's lord's share were to be sold in Penrith or
Kendal. The coins were to be sent to Beric, at Wyth. However, as reward for his
faithfulness and that of the other folk, the cloth, wool, and fleeces should be
distributed. He could keep a second bailiffs share. The remainder could be sold or
used by those folk who must stay in the caves or mountain shelters.
   Although I thought my offer generous, Tom did not look too pleased, and I said
sharply that he should not be unwise enough to think his service was worth more and
even less should he believe he could keep it all. This he vehemently denied, but I felt
the temptation would be too much for Tom. I suppose the success he had had in
hiding the real yield of Ulle from Sir Giles and the long months I was gone had lit a
spark of greed in him.
   I had hoped to spare myself the pain—and the danger to hfan—of meeting Sir
Gerald, but I realized I could not avoid it. Old Beric, who had been as near a
steward as my father had, would have to bring the records he had hidden to Sir
Gerald, who would then manage Ulle and the other manors until Bruno regained the
estate. It was unfortunate that most of the records were written, since Sir Gerald
could not read—well, neither could papa; I had teased the skill out of Andrew
because tally sticks for many small accounts are a nuisance. But I was sure Beric
knew most of the amounts by heart, and if a question should arise, a clerk who
would keep a still mouth could be found.
   To Tom I said that I wished to speak to Sir Gerald to learn what he knew of my
father and brother, and that I would tell him how it should be arranged when I next
met him. He seemed to accept that and to be more resigned to the loss of his hope
of being lord of Ulle in all but name, but my faith in him had been shaken. Somehow
I would have to contrive a way for Sir Gerald to let me know what was happening
and for me to get messages back to him.
    My mind was so preoccupied with my disappointment in Tom Bailiff and the
difficulty of relaying messages from a place as distant as Cumbria to a court that
moved every few days or weeks that I did not bother to consider why Bruno was
more than usually silent that afternoon and evening. Certainly, I did not associate it
with my meeting with Tom. But that night Bruno made love like a man expecting to
be starved of that joy forever after. He woke me four times, and would have had me
a fifth, I think, except that I was so exhausted that I could not respond to his touch
although I was dimly aware of it. I was annoyed also, although I cannot deny that I
enjoyed our couplings, because it seemed to me that it was seeing Ulle that made me
more precious in Bruno's eyes. Of course I was glad that Bruno liked Ulle, but I
preferred to be caressed in response to my own charms, not my property's.
   It was also very stupid not to suspect Bruno's convenient absence most of the
next morning, but he so often rose before I did—and I had slept very late—that I
simply thanked God for it and went out to meet Tom. I was pleased that he had
come and had brought me the tally sticks as I ordered, because I do not know what
I could have done if he had decided to avoid me instead. The habit of obedience is
wonderful. I decided to take the sticks with me to examine, partly because I did not
want to spend too much time away from the manor and partly because I wanted to
show them to Sir Gerald. I told Tom only the first part of my excuse, but assured
him I would put my mark on them to show I approved his accounting after I had
read them.
   Then I asked him to bring Sir Gerald to Ulle and bid him hide in one of the
cottar's huts. I was not happy with the arrangement, but though I had racked my
brains all day, I could see no other way to arrange a meeting. It would not be
difficult to get Bruno to take me to Wyth, but I was sure it would be impossible to
free myself of him for as long as I would need to talk to Sir Gerald. In Ulle, I felt I
could contrive somehow to get free within a week. Since Sir Giles did not seem to
know one man from another, I hoped Sir Gerald would be unsuspected for that
long. When he saw me alone, I told Tom, he was to lead Sir Gerald to this place.
    It was no problem to conceal the bundle of sticks under my furred cloak. I
nodded to Edna, who was sitting on a stool in the sun by the doorway slowly and
carefully stitching a seam, and bade her finish her task. Inside the little house I still
thought of as Winifred's, I drew the traveling basket that held my clothes close to the
hearth, pulled a shift halfway out, as if I were examining it, and began to read the tally
sticks. To my relief, the amounts of grain garnered, lambs and calves born, and all
else seemed much the same as other years—a bit more here, a bit less there, but I
felt that the accounting was honest. I smiled as I heard Bruno's voice in the bailey,
flipped the shift over the sticks, and thrust them down into the basket.
  "And where have you been?" I asked, as Bruno came in.
   "I have been along one of the trails that leads into the hills," he said, gazing
steadily at me. "There are blocked-off side tracks on it."
   I smiled at him, thinking he was hinting that he had not gone down those tracks
deliberately to avoid discovering evidence of the true productivity of Ulle. "If you
wish to see what is there, I will ride over with you."
  "I would rather ride out to the smaller manors beholden to Ulle," he replied.
    "Very well," I agreed. "There is Wyth, Irthing, Rydal, and Thirl." My voice
quivered over the last, for I thought that house would probably be just as Mildred
left it; I did not think that any part of the king's army had struggled over the
snow-filled passes to Thirl. "Which would you like to see? If we go to Rydal early,
we can also visit Wyth and then come back over the mountain to Ulle. It is a
beautiful ride—if the weather is fine."
  "Why do you not wish to visit Thirl?" he asked.
   I told him, and he came to my side, put his hand on my shoulder, and said he was
sorry. I thought his voice sounded flat, and glanced up at him but he was looking
over my head, out the door. I suppose I should have been warned by that, but I was
hurt because I assumed Bruno was growing tired of being sympathetic to sad
memories. I resolved to do my best not to mention my family to him again—easy
enough to do because, aside from shying away from what might wake pain in me, I
was not sad.
   That shows what a fool I was; it did not occur to me that it was Bruno's
presence, not only his physical presence but the knowledge that I belonged to him
and he to me, that sheltered me from grief. I had not yet quite absorbed the fact that
Bruno did understand women far better than any man in my own family. I
underestimated him at that moment and went on being very pleased with myself and
quite Wind to everything beyond my own satisfaction.
  He had been silent, still looking out the door, his hand sliding up from my
shoulder to my neck. I thought he could see something I could not and craned my
neck upward, but there was nothing there, and Bruno's grip was growing
uncomfortably tight. I did not want to complain that he was choking me; men are so
easily hurt when one points out that their affectionate gestures are actually
unpleasant—so I rubbed my cheek against his arm, then turned my head farther and
kissed it. As I expected, he let go at once.
   "Would it not be wiser to go to Wyth first if the morning is fine?" he asked
hurriedly, more as if he needed something to say than cared exactly what he said,
and then went on more purposefully, "Is not the road to Rydal easier than that from
Ulle to Wyth? Should we not do the most difficult part first and not chance a change
in the weather that will keep us from taking the trail over the mountain in the
afternoon?"
    "If you like we can go to Wyth first," I replied without a hesitation. I was certain
that Sir Gerald would be warned and have time enough to make himself scarce
before we actually entered the place; besides, he might have already left for Ulle. "It
is just that Rydal is a richer manor. There was a small income from it and there is
more to see there, which was why I suggested we go there first. Wyth was to be my
dower property, you see, and since papa was in no hurry for me to marry, he did not
spend much effort on it. Papa planned for Magnus to have Rydal and made it as rich
as he could because Donald would have had Ulle in the end."
   I stopped speaking abruptly, annoyed with myself for forgetting so soon that
Bruno was bored with my "might have beens" about my father and brothers.
Absently, I closed the traveling basket, trying to think of something cheerful to say,
but all that came into my mind was the sad thought that if Magnus had married Mary,
he would probably have preferred Thirl, which was closer to her estate and that
Donald would have been willing to make the exchange.
  "Perhaps we should not visit Wyth at all," Bruno said suddenly.
   I stood up and put my arm around his waist. "We will go where you please when
you please, my lord. There is not a stick or stone in Ulle or any place beholden to it
that is not beautiful in my eyes and I hope to make it all beautiful in yours, for you
will get little out of it except the beauty."
  "Beauty? In bare rock?"
   Sir Giles's voice did not startle me, for I had seen a shadow fall across the open
doorway and seen another bob up and then disappear. The second, I assumed, was
Edna, jumping up and bowing, so the first must be Sir Giles. I was very glad that my
words had been so ambiguous, and I laughed and said, "I am a simple soul and find
great joy in the little flowers that grow among the scree."
   Sir Giles sighed. "I sent your husband to bring you to dinner, but he seems to
have forgotten."
   "I beg your pardon," Bruno said. "We were talking about other places to visit and
I did not realize how the time was passing. Would you like to accompany us? I am
sure Melusine will make a reliable guide."
   "In this season there will not even be the wildflowers you praise, Lady Melusine,"
Sir Giles remarked, lips twisted in contempt, "and I have seen enough bare stone. I
thank you, but in weather like this, I prefer the fireside— such as it is. I will allow
you to enjoy the beauty of Cumbria alone."
   We did enjoy it; the stark beauty of this country is not, at least to my mind,
diminished by a cloudy sky. There were no flowers, of course, but some red and
gold leaves clung to the trees on the lower slopes, bright against the grey-green hills,
and the lake glowed like a burnished helm. I took Bruno around the head of the lake.
Bird calls preceded us, some from birds that I knew had flown away for the winter,
and the stubble fields showed only a few cows. A few sheep were scattered on the
low knolls that stretched south and west.
   Bruno must have known that the land would carry more sheep than what he saw,
but he did not ask where they were and I leaned from my horse to kiss him as he
turned north to ride the east shore of the lake then inland past Silver Hill and around
Lough Crag to climb The Dod. We did that on foot, leaving the horses at a
shepherd's hut below. It was no great height, but the land ran away in folds, and
Scalehow Beck lay like a silver ribbon below us.
   The next day the wind was all from the lake and the high clouds moved slowly
with large breaks that sent lances of sunlight down upon the hills. I was sure there
would be neither rain nor much wind inland, and I told Bruno that it would be a
good, day for riding. To my horror, while we broke our fast, Bruno repeated his
invitation to Sir Giles to ride with us, telling him that we intended to visit the other
manors. Sir Giles only laughed scornfully and refused again, saying he had been at
each several times during the summer, had ridden through the hills, and had seen
nothing of enough interest to take him out on them on a cold November day. If we
discovered anything, we were welcome to it. I had raised a foot to step on Bruno's
toe, good and hard, if he tried to say any more but it was not necessary.
   Later, on the road, he told me he had asked Sir Giles to come because he felt the
man deserved another chance. "If he had questioned you and watched you as we
rode and examined the manors, he could have learned a great deal that you did not
mean to tell him."
   "That was just what I feared," I exclaimed. "Do you or do you not want to
recover Ulle?"
   For some reason the angry question seemed to please Bruno, who smiled at me.
"I want to recover it honestly," he said, then laughed at my snort of contempt. "I am
sorry, but I do not have a woman's single-minded way of looking at problems. I
suffer from a man's tender conscience, and must assuage it."
   "And daring a disaster has patted and oiled your tender conscience into
smoothness? I am surprised that you did not force Sir Giles to come at sword point,
rub his nose in every bramble closing off a cart track, and help him to count each
stubble stalk so he could know how many grains of corn were lacking."
  He laughed again. "It was the knowledge that I would have to do so if he came
along that convinced me to let the stupid dog lie. But his repeated refusal to
accompany us can, I think, be used to imply to the king that he is not an assiduous
steward."
    I drew breath to point out that his entrapment of Sir Giles, who he must have
already known was lazy and stupid, was no less unscrupulous than my concealment
of Ulle's worth, but that would have been idiotic. Bruno was, in fact, far too honest
for his good or mine. He would have pointed out the oddities in Ulle's management
if Sir Giles had shown any interest; why should he not use that lack of interest if he
could? Bruno was also far too honest to tell me outright that he would conspire with
me to keep Sir Giles in his present state of ignorance and then betray my
confidences. This gave me the freedom to talk seriously with him about the value of
the land and the fresh-water fish that could be caught in abundance in our lakes and
tarns.
   "For now," I summed up, "there is little above what we would need to live in
comfort, but over the years as the other manors begin to yield profits instead of
needing support, Ulle could be rich."
  "Not if there is war," Bruno said.
   "God forbid!" I exclaimed. "King Henry came once and never again. King
Stephen has been here already. I pray God that once will suffice him also."
   Bruno had been watching me so closely that I began to feel uneasy, but he burst
out laughing at my last remark. "I hope so too, from the heart. I do not want ever
again to creep with an army over your roads."
   Then he put out his hand and touched mine as we came out on the crest of a hill.
The thin soil had been washed away to bare rock and the wind was like an icy steel
blade against the skin, but the sun made every stream into a jeweled ribbon and
gilded the crags beyond us to the west. He stopped and I reined in Vinaigre.
   "You need not fear that I will try to obtain some richer land," Bruno said firmly. "I
do not desire riches. I am accustomed to a hard land called barren by others." His
lips twisted wryly as he let his eyes sweep from the glint of Ullswater away in the
distance to the mountains we still had to climb. "Not so hard as Ulle, perhaps, but
not so beautiful either."
   We rode on then and I was happy. To say the truth, I had forgotten all about Sir
Gerald being at Wyth. I did not even think of him when we came out of the wood at
the top of a rise and were able to look down into Wyth's bailey for a few moments. I
could see movement and faintly hear voices, but they struck no fear into my heart,
and when Bruno looked at me, I smiled and said, "There are few visitors to Wyth.
Perhaps they think it is Sir Giles. But if they are running about hiding kegs of fish at
this late hour, I will have their skins."
   I was a little annoyed when Bruno did not answer; I felt that to pretend now, after
I had confessed all and he agreed with me, that it was wrong to conceal most of the
catch from Sir Giles was pompous and silly. It was not until we had passed the
narrow fields and saw a few men and women standing by the gate of the palisade
that I felt a prick of anxiety. Would Bruno realize that they already knew I was at
Ulle? They cried out on seeing me, and one woman clung to my skirt, weeping and
thanking God that I had come back. She was the chief weaving woman and used to
a small house and servant of her own and the comforts of life in an established
manor. I think she liked me, but her fervor was for regaining her old life.
   As I explained that I had only come for a visit but that my husband, Sir Bruno,
would listen if they had any complaints of ill-usage and do what he could, I
dismissed the anxious qualm. So what if the people of Wyth knew I had come?
There need be no reason besides natural interest to send the news from Ulle to all the
other manors. And since I had told Bruno the truth, I asked openly for the tally
sticks. The headman—Wyth was not large enough to dignify the man with the title of
bailiff—was out fishing, but his wife knew where the sticks were, and I sat down in a
patch of sunlight in what might some day be the manor garden to read them, leaving
Bruno to look about as he pleased.
   He came directly from the hall, waiting while I cut the M with a U under its arches
that was my mark into the stick that summed the whole year ending the last day of
February. I was slow about it, not noticing that Bruno was looming over me because
I was thinking that it would not be long now until the sticks marked the end of
1138—and I could remember none of it, except the last two months.
  "The hearth is warm," Bruno said.
   "Warm?" I repeated blankly. "What of that? I think the servants who fled from
Ulle are living here. I suppose they settled into the hall—they are used to living in a
hall. Besides, there are few houses here and no one would be fool enough to build
more and give away that there were new folk here. And they have no right to build
more."
  "Only the old servants live in the hall?"
   I almost burst out and told Bruno the truth, hoping that if I pleaded with him not
to betray my father's old friend that he would keep secret Sir Gerald's escape from
the battle where my father died. But how could I dare take such a chance with a
friend's life? I knew Bruno's devotion to what he believed his duty. Neither pity nor
mercy would stop him from dragging Sir Gerald to the king to suffer whatever
punishment Stephen decided was proper for a man who had done no more than
obey his overlord.
  "I do not know who lives in the hall," I replied,
   lowering my eyes to the tally stick in my hand and cleaning a splinter out of one
leg of the M.
   I was not lying. I had seen several open, half-filled barrels of saft fish standing in
one of the outbuildings that I thought had been a house rather than a storage shed. In
fact, it seemed more likely that Sir Gerald would live in one of the common folk's
houses because it would be much easier to conceal his identity if he should be
surprised by a search party or a visit. Most people would not realize that one barrel
had been set where it would conceal the firepit and all had been left open so the
smell of fish would be stronger than any lingering trace of smoke.
    There was a brief silence after I spoke and I felt Bruno staring down at me, but I
hurriedly began to carve my mark on a second tally stick so I would not have to lift
my head. If that one was incorrect, I would have to accept the loss. I was growing
frightened wondering whether Bruno could somehow have heard about Sir Gerald,
when he remarked that he saw no sign of stores except salt fish. That made me look
up at him with a frown.
   "That would be right since Sir Giles must have taken lord's share of what little
came from the fields already. Wyth does not harvest enough grain to feed even these
few folk. They trade fish for produce. The pigs are still in the woods. Slaughtering
has not yet begun, except for a single animal now and again for food. What would
you expect to find here?"
   I felt another stab of fear; Bruno was not looking at me, and his face was set like
stone. But in another minute he said, "You are right. There is nothing here. Let us go
on to Rydal."
  "Let us eat first so I can finish with these tally sticks," I protested.
   "Very well," Bruno said flatly. "I will go down to the mere and look about for a
few minutes."
   That reply seemed very peculiar, for we had brought our food and could sit down
and eat in a sheltered sunny corner any time. Nonetheless, my fear diminished. There
had been no threat in Bruno's voice or manner. Instead he seemed very
disappointed. I could not imagine why; I had told him that Wyth was the poorest
and least developed of the small manors my father had founded. And disappointed
or not, I still had to make sense out of Bruno's deciding to take a walk by the lake
when all we had to do was open a pair of saddlebags and eat. All I could think was
that perhaps Bruno wanted to sit in greater comfort at a table or felt it to be below
the dignity of the lord of the manor to perch on a log or sit in the dry grass.
   In a few minutes a table and two stools were brought out and I sent a man after
Bruno. I laid out the small cloth I had expected to set on the ground, and one of the
women who had been a maidservant came running with wooden bowls and spoons
and a large pot of hot fish stew. It was delicious, the perfect addition to the cold
roast venison, cheese, bread, and wine we carried. Perhaps the food made Bruno
more cheerful, but he seemed happier after we were on the road to Rydal, and he
certainly approved in every way of that manor.
   The bailiff there had wanted to take me aside, but I explained that Bruno was my
husband and would not betray him. He did not seem entirely comfortable—and for
an instant I was terrified over giving so broad a command, fearing that some other
rebel folk might be sheltering at Rydal—but the fear was baseless. The bailiff was
only worried because he had been less successful than Tom in hiding the arable land
from Sir Giles, and that greedy sloth had taken nearly half their crop. If they gave full
lord's share to me, they would starve.
  I acknowledged that it was more difficult to conceal the arable land around Rydal.
The hills here were all low and much of the forest had been cleared. He addressed
most of these remarks to Bruno, but it did him no good because Bruno shrugged,
said he knew nothing of the crops in this area, and wandered away to inspect the hall
and outbuildings, leaving me to ask for the tally sticks. I assumed Bruno's actions
implied that I should settle the matter and I did. The bailiff did not get what he
wanted, but the folk of Rydal would not be more than lightly hunger pinched— and
with my father and brothers absent they could hunt more freely and fill any empty
corners in their bellies with game.
    It was just as well we had visited both manors that day because it poured rain and
blew a gale on the next. I barely ran from Winifred's house to the hall without being
blown away. On the second day there was only a light drizzle and the wind seemed
less, but it came off the mountains out onto the lake. Bruno said, as we broke our
fast, that he would ride to Thirl with any guide who knew the way, since I did not
want to visit that manor. He did not understand that the wind would be worse in the
hills, and it would sweep through the passes in a roaring fury that could easily lift a
horse and rider and toss them over the side of a trail—but I dared not tell him that.
There might come a day when I would have to send him out in such weather to rid
myself of him. A great hand seemed to clutch at my chest and squeeze the breath out
of me at the thought so that I gasped for air.
   All I could do was to plead with him not to go. I saw his eyes go to Sir Giles—I
think he had had enough of that one's company—and he argued a little, but he
yielded to my pleading much more readily than I expected and he was much easier to
amuse than papa or Magnus when they had been thwarted. I ran back to Winifred's
house to fetch another item the maids had packed in my chest because it was clearly
meant for traveling—a small chess set wrapped in a cloth that served as a board. I
had taken it along when Bruno and I left Winchester, and we had used it a few times.
I knew Bruno took pleasure in the game, though neither he nor I had much skill. We
played for an hour or two, and then began to gamble for silly stakes with marked
bones, which I unearthed from beneath a slab of stone bordering the hearth. Sir
Giles stared at me, but I only laughed when he tried the other hearth stones, and the
bones, although painted with symbols and very old, were worthless. I had often
wondered where papa had found them and why he kept them buried by the hearth,
for they were the bones of a man, but I had never asked, and it was too late now.
We hardly noticed when the wind died.
   The next day dawned clear, with hardly a breath of breeze from either lake or
mountain. It was almost warm, and when Bruno asked if I would change my mind
and ride to Thirl with him, I nearly said yes. Then I thought of the unchanged state of
Thirl—of Donald's chair by the hearth with the cushion Mildred had embroidered
and the stool by it on which she sat. Perhaps Thirl had been stripped by some
raiding party—but what if it had not? Would I see Donald lying back in the chair,
laughing at me? Mildred with her hand outstretched to draw me to her? I swallowed
hard and shook my head, my voice beyond control.
   Bruno's face hardened, and I looked quickly away. Rage struggled with grief and
fear in me until I remembered that for him nearly a year had passed while for me it
was only a few months. I looked up, but he had already turned away, saying over his
shoulder that he would see to Barbe's saddling as well as horses for his men and a
guide and asked whom he should ask to lead him.
  "Tom Bailiff would be best, if he has not left the manor," I replied. "I will walk
down and tell him."
   It took me a few minutes to find the man; he was outside the gates talking to the
swineherd about bringing in an animal to slaughter to honor my arrival, and I told him
sharply not to be a fool, since Sir Giles would want to know from where an extra
plump, healthy pig had come if he had not ordered it to be slaughtered. We must eat
from Sir Giles's table, not from my hidden stock, I reminded him. Then I told him I
would like him to guide Bruno to Thirl. He looked startled, then said that Peter
Huntsman would be a better guide for the party and shouted to a passing boy to
fetch him to us.
   I was not pleased by Tom's resistance to my order, but by the time the shepherd
had been sent off, the huntsman was in sight and it was too late to insist on my own
way. Besides, I was not sure how to make Tom obey if he would, not. Everyone had
always obeyed me because papa and my brothers would have enforced my orders,
right or wrong. I was not at all certain Bruno would do so—and in any case, he did
not have the right; Sir Giles was legally master here. So I swallowed my pride,
nodded a greeting to Peter, and explained that he was to guide my husband and his
party to Thirl and home again.
   "There can be no danger in riding in the hills on so still a day," I said to Peter
finally, "but remember the men are riding English horses, not mountain goats, so go
through the pass of the Stick, not over White Side. I wish to ride White Side with Sir
Bruno myself."
  "I will look forward to that," Bruno said from behind me, but he did not look at
me, gesturing Peter toward a horse one of his men was holding.
   His face was blank and there had been a peculiar note in his voice, almost like
longing, that made me wonder whether he had been disappointed rather than angry
when I refused to go with him to Thirl. I had noticed that Bruno was much more
desirous of my company since we lay together as man and wife. But we had not
coupled last night because my flux had begun. Surely the man could not be so silly
as to add my refusal last night to my refusal to go to Thirl and believe I was angry
about something? I almost started after them, and just barely choked down a cry for
Bruno to return when Tom said, "I will bring Sir Gerald to the hollow as soon as the
party is out of sight."
   Well, if Bruno were silly, I was far worse. I had almost forgotten that his visit to
Thirl was a perfect opportunity to meet with Sir Gerald. Still, I could not help
glancing back over my shoulder at the riders. Again I called myself a fool. I could
explain everything just as well after Bruno came home. Foolish once, foolish twice;
without thinking I went back inside the gates intending to go to Winifred's house to
change to stouter boots and get my cloak, and of course I fell into Sir Giles's
clutches.
   At first I could not understand his arch looks and self-satisfied smiles as he made
unnecessary and foolish flattering remarks about how lovely I looked that morning.
So indifferent was I to the cloddish creature that I did not even suspect his intention
when he asked if I would play chess with him. I was surprised by the request—it
was largely his impatience with the game and his remarks on it, which even such
poor players as Bruno and myself recognized as totally inept, that had driven us to
abandon it. I looked down at my toes, trying wildly to think of some excuse, and Sir
Giles, totally misunderstanding, took me by the arm and murmured into my ear that
there was no need to feel shy; he would be happy to serve so lovely a lady. While I
gaped, wide-eyed with disbelief, that wet cow-flop dared stroke my arm and say he
would accompany me to my bedchamber to get the chess set and then, no doubt, I
could find an errand on which to send my maid. Then it burst on me like a
thunderclap that the stupid clod thought I had sent my husband away so that I could
be alone with him!
   I should have boxed his ears, of course, or better yet, spit in his face, but the
whole idea that any woman, including a feeble-minded crone of sixty, could desire
him enough to cheat on a husband, no matter how bad, was too ludicrous to take
seriously. Besides, I was not yet ready to leave Ulle, so I decided I had better
decline civilly.
   "I am afraid I do not feel like playing today," I said. "I do not feel very well. And
I cannot allow you to accompany me to Winifred's house because I must change my
bleeding rags. It is kind of you to wish to amuse me, but I am better off alone on
such days."
   The truth was that I was never much aware of bleeding and sometimes messed
my garments from forgetting my condition. It was Mildred who had trouble,
sometimes flying into rages or weeping for nothing just before her bleeding began
and sometimes being so racked with cramping in her belly while she bled that she
could do nothing except lie in her bed and grit her teeth against moans. Sir Giles
stared at me open-mouthed, and then turned from me with a foul curse and a look of
disgust. I had much ado not to laugh for a moment, but then tears rose to my eyes
as I silently blessed my lost sister for spreading the mantle of her torment over me to
protect me.
   After that I got my boots and cloak, but I had to send Edna out to discover where
Sir Giles was before I could sneak out of the manor to meet Sir Gerald. As I left, I
also bade her sit outside the closed door and tell him I was abed if he should happen
to ask for me and she nodded, grinning. I doubted he had the brains to suspect me
of plans of my own, aside from being convinced that I would engage in the
lecherous deceptions attributed to every woman, but I did not want him to learn that
I had gone out. Edna's ready understanding pleased me; in fact, I was very well
pleased in every way with Bruno's choice of a maid. Edna's ability to sew had
progressed rapidly; she had made herself a new gown, refitted the old one to her
figure, and begun a tunic for me in a fine, rose-colored wool that Audris had given
me. So far I had had no complaints about her behavior with men, and she was
certainly circumspect when I was present.
   Thinking hard as I could about Edna could not mask completely the growing pain
in my throat and chest. I had always been fond of Sir Gerald, but that he should live
and papa die was hard, very hard. Yet I was also glad he had survived; he was
someone, one lone thread stretching back into the part of my life that was over. My
steps slowed, then quickened, then slowed again. I swallowed and bit my lips and
recalled the many, many times I had been in Sir Gerald's company, and yet, when I
saw him waiting for me, his eyes alight with eagerness, I burst into tears. He rushed
to me and took me in his arms and also wept as he patted me and tried to comfort
me.
   At last he put me away a little and said, "Come, Melly, they are dead almost a
year. This is too much… or…" His arms tightened around me again. "Melly, is the
man cruel to you? Tom said you spoke well of him, this Sir Bruno."
   "It is nothing to do with Bruno," I sobbed. "To me it is as if they died less than
two months ago. All the while the king held me, I was mad. Oh, Sir Gerald, I do not
remember half the winter, the whole spring, and part of the autumn."
   "Too much grief," Sir Gerald said softly. "Too much grief for any woman to
bear. Hush, child, it is over now. They are at peace, and with God's help you will
find some peace too. Now, what of this man? He must have been forced on you.
What do you wish me to do?"
   My tears did indeed dry up as I realized that Sir Gerald thought I had called him
to free me of a hated husband. I had to bite my lips to keep from laughing, and then
blink back more tears. Poor Sir Gerald; my Bruno would have killed him in… ''my"
Bruno?
   "Forced on me, yes," I said quickly, hiding from my own thoughts as well as
seeking an answer that would satisfy Sir Gerald if it should ever become possible for
him and Bruno to meet. "For I would not have willingly married a man who must
have been papa's enemy, but he is a good man and has been kind to me." I hesitated,
thinking that if Bruno did get back my lands, they would come from the king, and Sir
Gerald had better know that Bruno was Stephen's man heart and soul. If Sir Gerald
could learn to accept the king, perhaps Bruno could win him a pardon also, so I
added, "I think also that the king and queen meant well when they chose Bruno for
my husband. Although he—he is not so well born—"
  "A bastard, eh?" Sir Gerald remarked.
   I wondered how he guessed that, and then realized that Tom must have said
Bruno was a lord, and the common folk are very quick to detect their fellows
dressed up in rich clothes to deceive.
   "Yes," I admitted, quickly deciding that there was no need for Sir Gerald to know
the whole truth, "but he is recognized and dearly loved by his half sister and her
husband—the lord and lady of Jemaeve. Sir Hugh offered to take him as vassal for a
good property."
  "A strong man, then, and a good leader?"
  "Yes, and a great favorite with King Stephen, and—and he refused vassalage
because he believes that in time he can convince the king to enfeoff him with Ulle." I
said that in a rush, fearful that Sir Gerald would be angry, but he only patted my
shoulder.
  "You want me to leave here then," he said slowly.
  "No!" I cried. "Oh, no! This is your home. Where would you go?"
  "You must not think of that, child," he replied. "I will find a place, never fear for
me."
   But he was old. I had never noticed that before, but now I saw the lines on his
face and the grey in his hair. He would not find a place, not really. Someone might
take him in for charity, but that would destroy his pride.
  "No!" I exclaimed. "I need you."
   I could see that he was about to go on arguing, so I shook my head vehemently
and opened my mouth to explain my lack of confidence in Tom's continued honesty
under the strain of lacking a master. Just in time I remembered to ask softly if Sir
Gerald was sure the bailiff was gone, and he assured me he had sent Tom away with
the excuse that his absence might be coupled with mine if he stayed. Then I
explained how Tom Bailiff was hiding most of the produce of my estate but that
someone must oversee Tom.
    "Sir Geraid, if you will not stay and be my deputy," I ended, "there may be little
left to build on by the time Bruno gets the lands."
  To my surprise, he looked shocked. "Melly," he protested, "that is not honest.
Forgive me, my dear, but your father did an unwise thing. Little as I like it, Stephen
had the right to do as he did. It is the law. And the yield of the land is his by right."
    "Perhaps," I snapped, "but I did no wrong. I tried to stop papa from going to
King David. I am of Ulle, and England and Scotland both can be sunk in the sea for
all I care. Why should I lose my lands?" I saw that he was about to tell me what
others had in the past, that a woman had not sense enough to consider such matters,
and that was why she must be bound to the will of her menfolk. But I was not in a
temper to listen to pious mouthings— which were clearly false, since if papa had
listened to my "lack of sense" he would still be alive and the lands ours—and I
hurried on to explain that Sir Giles would swallow all, and whatever was yielded,
none would come to the king. "Moreover," I ended, "I have shown all to Bruno, and
he agrees with me."
  "So he does!"
  I flung myself before Sir Gerald, trying to hide him or protect him, I do not know
which, with my body. How Bruno had crept up on us, I have no idea, but mere he
was, smiling down at us from the little rise that sheltered the hollow.
                              CHAPTER 17


  Bruno
   The discovery that the purpose of Melusine's secret meeting with Sir Gerald was
a conspiracy about nothing worse than making sure her bailiff did not cheat her filled
me with such joy that I would have committed a far greater crime to please her than
concealing Sir Gerald's escape from the battle at Wark. I was very sorry to have
caused her the terror I saw in her face when she cast herself between Sir Gerald and
me, and I would have told her so directly—which would have been a grave mistake.
Fortunately Sir Gerald put her gently aside, telling her not to be a fool.
  "Am I your prisoner, Sir Bruno?" he asked steadily.
   "I know of no ill you have done sir," I replied. "Nor do I remember seeing or
hearing your name on any list of proscribed men." That was the truth; I had been
searching my memory for Sir Gerald's name since I heard it when Melusine bade
Tom Bailiff bring the man here, and he had not been proscribed with Sir Malcolm
and Sir Donald. I nodded at him. "I have come to Ulle on a visit with my wife and
have no official standing. Unless you have recently taken up a career of rape,
murder, and arson, I have no reason to take you prisoner."
  "Then why have you been searching for me?" he asked.
    "Do not flatter yourself, Sir Gerald," I answered. "My purpose was of deeper and
more abiding interest to me. I have been examining what I hope will be my property
if I can earn it by sendee to the king. That cannot be very soon, unfortunately, and,"
I could hear my voice grow harsh, "I want to know what to take out of Sir Giles's
hide when I can rid the place of him. As to you, if I had found you, I would have
told you what I have just said."
  Sir Gerald passed a hand over his face. "Have I been hiding for nothing then?"
  "I do not know," I told him honestly. "Certainly you are not being sought, yet if
some enemy should bring you before the sheriff and swear that you had fought for
King David, you might be imprisoned in hope of ransom."
   Sir Gerald laughed loud and heartily. "I would be in prison a long time in that
expectation. I have nothing, not horse nor arms nor armor. I was left for dead before
Wark and stripped like the other corpses. I have no idea how long I lay there, but it
must have been two days at least from the growth of my beard. Why I did not freeze
I do not know, nor do I know when I crawled away from the battlefield, only that I
woke up the second time in a wood." He turned away from me and drew Melusine
to him. "I never saw your papa and Donald struck down, Melly. I went first, so I
have nothing to tell you. I am sorry I was so careless. Mayhap…"
   Melusine pulled away from him and ran wildly away toward the manor. I looked
after her but did not follow. She was best alone in the first moments of her grief;
God forbid that grief should suddenly wake her memory of me as the invader of her
hall. Besides, I needed a few more words with Sir Gerald.
  "Does she still hope?" he asked, also looking after Melusine.
   "I do not think so, but she still hurts," I said grimly. It seemed that the queen was
wrong about Melusine. Poor girl, she had no reason to lie to her father's old friend,
and she had told him that she had been mazed in her wits by grief. Then I saw how
tensely he was watching me, and I shook my head. "They are dead beyond doubt.
The king was not at Wark, nor I, but Sir Malcolm and Sir Donald must have been
marked by one who knew them. I know they were listed as buried because I
examined the scroll myself soon after Melusine and I were married."
   He nodded quietly, but I thought his shoulders slumped somewhat and his face
became a little greyer. He had been hoping that Melusine's father or brother had
survived I guessed, even though he knew it unlikely. I was sorry for the old man and
I hesitated because I found it hard to ask the question I must ask. To hurt Melusine
again, if the answer was wrong… but my life was sworn to Stephen.
   "I said I knew of no ill you had done, and that is true, Sir Gerald, but as Melusine
told you, I am a king's man. I must ask—if there is war again between my lord and
King David or the party that supports Empress Matilda, what will you do?"
    "Nothing," he said, looking steadily into my face. "I am of no party, and I have no
overlord to order my loyalty now. I am landless, masterless, penniless. What could I
do? And if you are asking whether I am willing to sell my sword…" He laughed
bitterly. "I do not have one, and who would buy the sword of an old man anyway?"
   "That is not good enough. A man of your experience, who knows the ways of
this dangerous land, would be of value and could be dangerous to my lord," I
pointed out—and I was glad to see his eyes brighten and his shoulders go back with
renewed pride. "I cannot ask you to swear to me," I went on, "because I am little
richer than you, and can offer you nothing. A useless master is a bad master."
   I paused and was delighted that he did not rush to protest that he was eager to be
my man without benefit. That would have marked a man who lied easily to save his
skin. Then I went on, "But I must ask you to give your word not to aid the king's
enemies. In turn, I will gladly give mine to return Irthing to you—or one of the other
manors, depending on what the king will give me, if he gives me anything."
   He thought that over for another moment, then said slowly, "I will promise not to
take service with any man who is bound to King David or Empress Matilda for the
purpose of overthrowing King Stephen, but I cannot swear any general oath not to
oppose you. I must reserve the right to protect Melly. She said you were kind to her,
but I do not know you, Sir Bruno, and she must be my first concern."
   "Then we are easily agreed," I said, smiling. "I will tell you truly that I was no
more willing to marry than Melusine in the beginning, but she has become very dear
to me. I will do my uttermost to protect her. But there is one thing I must tell you.
When Ulle was taken, I was the first man in, the first man she saw. She—she does
not seem to remember that, but if she should do so and take me in distaste for that
reason—"
   "I certainly will not encourage such silliness in her." He answered my unspoken
question immediately and without hostility, then frowned. "Unless… You did not
harm her, did you?"
   "I did not touch her, not even come close or speak to her. No one harmed her.
King Stephen took her under his protection immediately," I assured Sir Gerald, glad
I could tell him something favorable of my lord that the servants of Ulle would
confirm.
   "Then Melly has no right to be angry with you, and remembering that you obeyed
your master is no reason for her to turn on you. You obeyed your overlord as I
obeyed mine, and she must learn to accept that. I know women do not understand
such matters, but I will not break my promise to you for that reason. I will explain it
to her and tell her that Sir Malcolm would honor you for doing your duty."
   I breathed a sigh of relief. I was sure that Melusine trusted this man, and I knew
that she had been devoted to her father. If she should remember, perhaps Sir Gerald
could convince her that I had not deprived her of Ulle of my own will. He nodded,
acknowledging my relief, but said only that he would stay until first light tomorrow in
case Melusine wished to speak to him again. He hesitated and I was sure he would
ask me to arrange another meeting—she was his last link with his lost past—but he
only grimaced, I thought in recognition of his own foolishness, and told me to assure
Melusine that he would demand accounts from Tom Bailiff and the headmen of the
other manors, to remind them that Ulle still had a master.
   I thanked him and as he turned away, called him back and told him, if he should
be betrayed by an enemy—more likely now that he intended to take an active role in
the management of Ulle—to send a message to me at court and another to Jernaeve,
one of which would surely reach me. I was not certain I could help him, I explained,
but I did have the king's ear, and there was a chance Stephen would spare a friend of
mine and of Melusine's.
   We did not remain in Ulle much longer, only a few days, during which Melusine,
as she had promised, took me up White Side and any number of other mountains. I
admit I hope never to see the top of some of those again despite my wife's
enthusiasm for perching on the edge of windy crags to admire a fine stretch of
wilderness. However, at those few moments when my attention was not wholly fixed
on not toppling off a trail a mouse would have found narrow, I noted that the area
was thick with hawks.
   I had thought then that Ulle could have a mews that would rival the one at
Jernaeve, and I thought it again as we rode across the mouth of Grisdale and on
south toward Brothers Water, where I saw the graceful birds circling. That was a
resource Melusine's father had not used, it seemed. Perhaps he had had no taste for
hawking and I knew he had no friends in high places, but I was different. I recalled
how Sir Oliver had used the beautiful and well-trained birds with which Audris filled
Jernaeve's mews. Often a fine hawk brought great benefit to Jernaeve or bought
peace and well-being. I could do the same for Ulle, and service with the king had
taught me just which people to gift.
    Not that I was about to allow Melusine to climb cliffs and trees as Audris did, but
I knew Audris would gladly teach her skills to our… My thoughts checked. I had
been about to call the folk of Ulle "our people." I must stop dreaming, at least stop
fixing my hope on so real a thing as Ulle. Vague dreams may be renewed when
disappointed; but dreams fixed in reality shatter, and shards pierce the heart.
Anyway the hawks would be gone south soon, for the weather had changed and
Ullswater lay grey and still under a cold steel sky.
   Melusine had taken one look that morning and said we must go, that snow would
come that night or on the morrow and we would be trapped with the passes closed if
the snow was heavy. I did not argue, having learned that she was right too often
about Cumbrian weather but went to tell Sir Giles and to apologize for our abrupt
departure. He had shrugged and grunted that we were indeed fortunate to be able to
flee the horror of a Cumbrian winter. I commiserated with him, but did not suggest
that he could easily leave and no one know or care. If he left the place and were
removed from his office as steward too soon, another more efficient man, or worse
yet, someone who knew Cumbria and could manage the people, might be appointed.
It would be much harder to obtain estates that were flourishing and paying taxes into
the king's coffers.
   Aside from that, I really had little sympathy with his distaste for the winter
months; I was used to long, snow-heaped winters at Jernaeve, and sitting by the
roaring fires of winter with Audris and Sir Oliver was among my sweetest memories.
My heart stirred to think that I would spend such winters at Ulle with Melusine.
   Again I told myself not to fix my hope on so uncertain an objective, but I could
not resist trying to smooth my way to it, and Melusine and I often discussed how to
convince the queen that Melusine in Ulle would be no more dangerous to King
Stephen than Melusine at court. We never found an answer—how could we "prove"
something that depended on what was inside Melusine's heart and head?—but even
our fruitless talk gave me joy. Just to be with Melusine gave me joy.
    We had more than enough time to discuss that and to sit by the fire or lie warm
together because Melusine had been right about the snow. We were not actually
trapped, but what should have been two days' ride took five days. Even after we
came out of the mountains the roads were seas of freezing mud. Until then I had not
minded the delay, but I had sent Cormi to Jernaeve for our chests, and after we met
him in York, I often had cause to regret the need for court clothes. With the cart we
dared not try to shorten the distance on side roads. Even on such great ways as
Watling Street, which we took south of Leicester, we came close to being mired
more than once. We did not reach London until the third day of January, and came
into the city so late that we found lodging not far from Aldersgate rather than
struggle through the dark to Westminster, where we would not be expected and
likely find no place to sleep.
  Not that I was aware of the date when we arrived, although I knew it was past
Christmas—we had celebrated that in some small town. I lost count of the days
again on the road, and did not bother to ask since we could move no faster than we
were already going. My temper would only grow worse with each day I knew I was
overstaying my leave, so it was useless to count them. I was relieved to find out the
evening we arrived that the twelve days were not yet over, and that we were not as
late as I feared. So instead of rushing off to the king, I rose early, left Melusine
sleeping, and hurried to the West Cheap, where I purchased a pretty pair of long
earrings, a necklet of gold wire so cleverly twisted that it looked like lace set with
very small pearls, and a tiny bejeweled knife for paring nails—I could not resist that
as a reminder of her reaction to our marriage.
   I had not realized how long I had taken choosing and chaffering for the gifts.
They cost more than I planned too, yet I could not buy false, bright dross for
Melusine. However thin the gold wire, it was real gold; and each pearl and jewel,
though minute, were true in color and form. I expected to find sharp words waiting
for me, but Melusine hardly listened to my excuse, pointing to my court clothes laid
out and bidding me change quickly while she packed away what I was wearing. She
too was in court dress, all else packed and ready so we could go at once.
   I was surprised and said so because Melusine had often told me she thought of
her service to the queen as a kind of captivity, but she did not respond to my
remarks and uttered vague assurances when I asked direct questions. I wondered
whether she was angry about my unexplained absence—I had said only that I had
business to do. If so, the cure was in my purse, and I would enjoy applying it.
   Considering how and when to offer my gifts kept me pleasantly busy during the
short ride. The king's palace at Westminster was only about half a league from our
lodging, and even after battling the men, women, horses, dogs, mules, carts, wains,
and all else that flowed through the streets, it did not take long to get there. Still, by
the time I found a place to leave my men and my cart and shepherded Melusine and
Edna through the crowded courtyard, we arrived barely in time to present ourselves
before dinner, I to the king's chamberlain and Melusine to the queen's.
   I do not know what greeting Melusine had, but Geoffrey of Glympton, the king's
chamberlain, was not well pleased to see me, growling that he did not know if
another herring could be packed into the barrel. All he could offer was a pallet in the
king's chamber. There was no room for my men. Westminster was filled to bursting;
every lord in the land seemed to have come to this Christmas court. Although this
spelled discomfort for me, I was glad of it. The great attendance must mean that
rebellion was at an end and all acknowledged the king's power.
   Stephen himself was more welcoming, and he only grinned at his chamberlain's
complaints. In high good humor, he embraced me in a huge bear hug and smiled at
me when I said I had a confession to make. He told me he had no time then to let me
ease my conscience, but bade me with a laugh to attend him after the evening meal
and then dismissed me to find lodging for my men. I ate no dinner that day. It took
me all the forenoon to accomplish what should not have taken an hour's time. Each
page I sent with a message to let Melusine know I must lodge with the king never
returned, and I had to assume the boys had been captured by a more important
person and sent on a different errand. I had to accompany my men to see that my
chest was placed in the king's apartment, and Melusine's was three times sent to the
wrong place by officious, ignorant servants before Edna recognized my men and
directed them.
   I almost fell on her neck and kissed her when I saw her coming back with the
men. Although I had had the forethought to tell them to bring her with them, I had
almost given up hope that they would find her and had begun to fear that I would
have to ask admittance to the queen's chamber to explain matters to Melusine and
get her good clothing to her. I did not want to take the chance of drawing the
queen's attention to me though; I was sure if I did, Maud would seize on me and ask
questions I did not wish to answer until after I had spoken to the king. Now Edna
could tell Melusine to seek lodging with the queen; there was another problem Edna
could solve for me also. She understood the ways of the city, and if I sent her out
with Fechin to find lodging and stabling, she would not permit him to be cheated.
    Edna listened and nodded, asked a question or two about where I would prefer
the men to be placed and what I was willing to pay and whether area or cost was
most important, then said she would find something. I thanked her and gave her a
silver penny, and to my surprise she laughed and said she would keep it because she
had been bred up to take money from men but that she had been paid and overpaid
already for any service she could do for me or for Lady Melusine. And I really
looked at her and saw that she spoke the truth, for she was a different woman,
carrying herself with pride and without fear. I was glad I had not asked Edna to spy
on Melusine in Ulle. The girl had a place in the world now; it would have been a
shame to stain her loyalty.
   A glance at the sky told me it was both too late and too early to ask for food,
dinner being long over and the evening meal not yet started. The nearest cookshop
was too far, so I turned toward the kitchen sheds, where I hoped to be able to
wheedle some bread and cold meat to fill my hollow belly, when my arm was seized
in a powerful grip.
  "Bruno! Where the devil have you been these two weeks?"
   I bowed, masking my surprise as well as I could when my eyes met the pale blue
gaze of Ranulf de Gernon, earl of Chester. "I was lately married, my lord," I said,
"to Lady Melusine of Ulle, and the king gave me leave to make my wife known to my
half sister, Lady Audris of Jernaeve."
   This was the first time in my life that I had openly named my relationship to
Audris, and my statement of Melusine's full name was also deliberate. Ranulf of
Chester had a claim to Cumbria, which his father had held and surrendered to King
Henry for the right to inherit the earldom of Chester. If Lord Ranulf ever won his
claim, he might be overlord of Cumbria, and I wanted to remind him that I had a
deep interest in the north.
  A moment after I spoke, I regretted it. Chester had opened his mouth to say
something, but he closed it abruptly, a gleam of interest making his eyes even paler.
His brow creased in thought, then he nodded and said, "Ulle? I know that name, I
am sure. That is a place not far from Carlisle. So your new wife is from Cumbria?"
  "Yes, my lord, but she was disseisined because her father was a rebel, and—and
we have no further interest in Cumbria."
   Chester smiled broadly and I had all I could do to keep my rage at my own
stupidity from showing. In trying to recoup one blunder, I had made one much
worse; I had betrayed by denying it my desire for Ulle. And Chester was a man who
understood such desires—all too well.
   Pretending I did not understand his broad smile, I asked, "Is there some way I
can serve you, my lord?"
   My heart sank as the words echoed in my ears. It was only a formal question, one
I had asked many lords many times during my service to King Stephen, but in
conjunction with exposing my desire for Melusine's lands, it rang with implications I
had not intended. Chester would doubtless interpret that question as a hint, for he
was just the man to dangle Ulle as a bait, asking for a trifling service, a trifling favor,
and implying that when he had regained his father's lost power over Cumbria, he
would remember those services and favors.
   "Yes, you can," he replied, smiling again. "You can tell the king that I am leaving
tomorrow, but I would be glad of a word with him in private if he can spare the time
tonight."
   "I am not summoned to service until after the evening meal," I said, keeping my
voice flat and my face blank. "If you need someone to speak earlier, you will have to
seek another messenger, my lord."
  "No, no. If I desired to see the king in the middle of a rush of other business, I
could have presented myself now. I said tonight. I wish to find Stephen at leisure."
   "Very well, my lord," I said.
   He clapped me familiarly on the shoulder, as a man might do in thanking his own
upper servant, and nodded and turned away, leaving me much shaken. There was no
other answer I could have made to his request because I knew that the king wished
to conciliate the earl of Chester. He was too powerful to offend, and for my master's
sake, I must do as he asked—which gave the impression that I did wish to serve
him. Yet Chester was the last man I would wish to see as overlord in Cumbria. I did
not trust him; I could not decide whether he was greedy and power-hungry or
whether he was simply obsessed with reestablishing his right to Cumbria. But
whichever was true, I was certain that no oath of fealty would override that desire,
and his loyalty would go with the prize he sought. For me—if I should be enfeoffed
with Ulle—an overload who changed sides from Stephen to Matilda would be a
disaster.
   Three months away from court and I seemed to have forgotten all I had learned in
two years! I was disgusted with myself; I had not spoken with such thoughtlessness
and naivety even in the beginning of my service. Between lack of food and anxiety,
my stomach was flapping against my backbone, which reminded me that I would be
an unknown, nameless face in the cookshop and all too well known almost anywhere
in Westminster. Without another thought about the long walk, I went out through the
nearest gate and set out along the river.
   It was almost dark when I returned, my stomach very full of tasty food and my
heart much calmer than when I set out. It was true that I should have been more
careful about what I said, but doing what I knew the king would want me to do did
not commit me to Chester's service, no matter what the earl thought. So it was in
good spirits that I came to stand behind the king's chair, placing myself so that he
would see me as soon as he rose and turned away from the table. His eyes lit when
they fell on me and his smile warmed me. I spoke only the truth when I bowed and
said, "I am very glad to return to your service, sire."
   "And I to have you back." He shook his finger at me. "I thought you might have
forgotten me, you were away so long."
   "Only because I spent near six weeks lifting a cart out of one mudhole after
another," I said ruefully. "Our journey took much longer than I expected." I felt
rather than saw someone approaching to get Stephen's attention and I added quickly,
"You have not forgotten that I have a confession to make, my lord. I meant no ill
and no ill came of what I did, but I would not wish you to hear of it from another
man."
    Stephen looked surprised, not as if he had forgotten what I had said earlier but as
if he had thought it was a jest. But when he glanced at the gentleman sidling around
to block his way to the door of his closet, he shook his head and said, "I am sorry
Pembroke, but I have promised to play confessor to Bruno—and hear his news
also." And he made his way firmly to the door and through it, drawing me, and me
alone, in with him.
   Inside, he laughed. "Did you say that to save me from Pembroke?" he asked. "Or
have you really committed some crime against me?"
   I grinned back. "You are very kind to make a mousehole out of Pembroke's
greediness for me to escape into, but I dare not accept that escape. Twice I have
nerved myself to confess. I will never manage a third time." I was speaking lightly,
but I saw a flicker of doubt in the king's eyes, and I hurried to put that doubt to rest.
"I have not committed a crime, my lord, only yielded to my wife's desire to see her
old home and took her to spend a week in Ulle."
  "And?" Stephen urged, seeming to expect some unpleasant news.
   "There is no 'and,' my lord. That is all I had to confess. I wanted you to know we
went there. Melusine has a great love of the country, and it is very beautiful despite
being poor. I saw no signs of disaffection in the people, but we did not visit any of
the local gentlemen. I would say the common folk care for nothing but their small
farms and fishing boats."
  The king raised his brows. "You needed total privacy to tell me this?"
  I laughed. "No, my lord, although I was eager that you should know. What I
wished you to hear in private was that the earl of Chester stopped me in the
courtyard and bade me tell you that he wished to leave tomorrow but would be
grateful if you would spare him a few minutes alone tonight." The anger I saw in the
tightening of the king's lips made me add, "If you do not wish to see him, I can go to
him in the morning and say I found no time to give you his message."
  "He has not asked me for leave to go," Stephen said.
   I remembered that Chester had said he was leaving. I had assumed that he already
had the king's permission, but apparently he did not feel he needed it. Heat rose in
my face as I flushed with anger at the way Chester had used me to deliver a subtle
insult to my master.
   "Let me bring him a message forbidding his leaving," I snarled, "and challenge
him to meet me man to man if he will not obey."
   Stephen met my eyes, his own bright with anger and his jaw set, but after a
moment, he shook his head. "It is too dangerous. I doubt if he would accept
challenge, and anyway, I would have to forbid the meeting. No one would believe I
did not know of it, and it is the king's business to keep the peace when he holds
court. Another thing, Bruno, I do not know why Chester came to court at all. He has
not joined the council of barons to do any business; he has not asked me for any
favors—aside from his usual complaint of how Cumbria was reft from his father
unjustly. So why did he come?"
  "To see if the court was thin after the troubles in the summer to decide whether a
new and greater rebellion was brewing?" I suggested furiously.
   But my sneering remark had an odd effect on Stephen. The anger faded from his
face, and then I realized I must have called to his mind the crowded court, the many
nobles who now fawned on him seeking favor and recognition. "If he hoped to see
me weak, he has had a round answer," the king said with smug satisfaction. "No, I
will not deny him. Go bring him to me, Bruno. Let us see what he desires."
   I was still angry, but I realized that by accident—and partly against my will—I had
done the right thing in calming the king. The trouble was that Stephen was virtually
helpless against so great and powerful a noble. He could not seize him and imprison
him here in Westminster even for open defiance. During a holding of court, strict
custom decreed that all who came had safe conduct to depart after the king did so
or earlier by permission. It was a good custom; without it, few men would have
found the courage to bring a complaint to the king or answer a summons to decide
even a just cause. And for minor knights or barons the custom of safe conduct was
a protection without any license for defiance or contumely. A minor gentleman could
be caught and punished any time after the holding of court was over, but once a
great lord like Chester was back on his own lands, he was too strong to be attacked
by the king's mercenaries. It would be necessary to summon a baronial army to fight
the earl of Chester, which would most likely revive the rebellion that Stephen had just
seemingly put down.
   It soothed me somewhat to find Chester near at hand and watching the door of
Stephen's private closet out of the corner of his eye. I had almost suspected that his
only purpose in stopping me was to have me pass on the insult of his leaving without
permission. I was wrong about that it seemed. Chester did have some request to
make of Stephen. Yet he did not seem pleased when I nodded at him and said, "The
king will see you now, my lord." But that might have been because I used the same
phrasing to him that I would have used to any minor nobleman, or perhaps my tone
was not all it should have been.
   I felt even better when, as Chester entered, Stephen, who had seated himself
beside the fire while I went out to fetch the earl, looked up and said, "You desire
permission to leave our court? You have it."
    I had not expected so perfect a response, for the king was not particularly apt at
quick responses, and I had to swallow hard to hold back a little crow of laughter.
The blow went home too; I could not see Chester's face, but I saw the way his back
stiffened and the slight check in his stride. By the time I closed the door and came to
stand beside the king's chair, however, Chester had bowed slightly and come erect
again, wearing a faint smile. He shook his head—to indicate he had not come to ask
permission to leave? If so, he was not ready for open challenge of the king's
authority because he said nothing about that.
   "I have a small problem with my bishop about the selection of a priest for the
manor of Ridley," Chester said, "and I thought since you have just approved the
election of Theobald as archbishop of Canterbury, that…"
   The earl continued to speak, but I heard no more. I was shocked deaf, dumb, and
blind. Theobald had "just" been elected archbishop of Canterbury and that election
had been approved by Stephen? Who the devil was Theobald? How was it possible
that anyone except Henry of Winchester could have been approved by the king to be
archbishop? Henry was Stephen's own brother and had done more than any other
man to win the throne for him.
    When the old archbishop had died not long after Stephen was crowned, it was
common gossip that Winchester would be the next archbishop. When he was not
elected immediately, some said the canons of Canterbury, who were responsible for
the election of the archbishop, were resisting the king's will because Henry's interests
were too secular. Others said the king himself was delaying the election to obtain the
rich revenues of the see, which flowed into his hands while there was no archbishop.
I thought it was a bit of both, having heard the king claim he was waiting for the
pope to send a legate. This was an excellent excuse for delay while Stephen filled his
purse at Canterbury's deep well and could not be blamed on the king. It was, after
all, the pope who bade legates come and go. In addition, the legate could more easily
influence the canons so that Stephen could be sure his brother would be elected. But
whatever the cause of the delay, I do not think it occurred to anyone that Henry of
Winchester would not be elevated to the archbishopric.
   As my shock receded a little, sadness came. Surely Stephen could not be so petty
as to deny his brother the crown of his ambition over a quarrel a year in the past?
Yet I could see no other reason for the king to permit the election of another man,
not even, as far as I had ever heard, a notable churchman. I was no expert on
episcopal virtue and I knew that Winchester was no saint, but he was certainly no
worse than others who had held the office. He was not lazy or stupid; he was
cautious and careful and a good negotiator, which was necessary for the
management of the suffragan bishops; he might not be a great scholar, but he loved
the Church and would have striven for a smooth working between the Church and
the king, which would benefit both and the realm also.
   I never discovered what Chester asked of the king so I never found out whether
the request was his real purpose or an excuse for testing some unstated idea. I blame
myself for that. Perhaps if I had been more alert I would have seen some sign—but I
doubt it. I am not even sure that Chester was a practiced deceiver. I think the angry
remark I had made—that he had come to examine the king's strength—was more
true than an angry burst usually is, and little to Chester's taste as it was, he had
decided that he must moderate his demands and live at peace with Stephen or be
locked in a struggle he could not be sure of winning.
   It is wonderful how years of service teach a man to keep some small part of him
alert to a demand by his master no matter where his thoughts may wander. Thus I
responded smoothly when the king asked me to pour wine, but all I saw was that
Chester was not dissatisfied with the meeting and the king was openly pleased. They
drank a cup of wine together and bid each other a cordial farewell before I was told
to open the door and invite others into the king's chamber.
   I was not surprised when Waleran de Meulan was the first named, but his name
brought a new idea into my mind of why Henry of Winchester had been passed over
for archbishop of Canterbury. Waleran hated the king's brother, not for any injury
Winchester had done him but for his influence over the king, and of course as
archbishop of Canterbury that influence would be greatly increased because
Winchester would be speaking for the Church in England rather than for himself.
Suddenly it occurred to me that Theobald had one all-important virtue in Waleran's
opinion—he was not Henry of Winchester.
   As I went about among the men talking in the great hall, seeking out those the king
wished to see in his chamber and deciding whether to invite those with them or wait
until I could discreetly separate them from their companions, the subtle struggle
between Waleran and Henry of Winchester replayed itself in my mind. It seemed to
me that Dame Fortune had been lifting Waleran up on her wheel for a long time. Part
of the king's love for Waleran was natural—they were much alike in their tastes and
humors—but it seemed pure good fortune that Waleran was absent when Henry
blamed the king for yielding terms to Redvers and when William of Ypres's attempt
to ambush Robert of Gloucester caused the failure of the campaign in Normandy.
   Not that Waleran left matters in Lady Fortune's hands completely. I had always
suspected that the reason the wound Henry had dealt Stephen in that year-old quarrel
had never healed was that Waleran had continued to pour salt into it. And it seemed
that I might have been mistaken about why Waleran had been so eager to be rid of
me. I had thought it was to collect news about who opposed the elevation of his
relatives to one earldom after another; now it seemed more likely that he wanted me
out of the way so I could not impede his efforts to worsen the relationship between
the king and his brother,
    I liked Henry of Winchester and I did my best to smooth his way, showing him
particular courtesy, and making sure the younger squires did too, so that he would
feel he was welcome to the king. And those times Stephen refused to see him, I gave
the message—or related it to the messenger —with soothing apologies and regrets.
If those courtesies were discontinued, Winchester might grow suspicious and angry;
his anger and suspicion would irritate the king, who might speak thoughtlessly and
harshly; and that could only make Winchester even more suspicious and angry, and
round and round. Oh, yes, considerable damage could be done in three months,
particularly if Waleran subtly encouraged the discourtesy of the younger squires,
who admired him.
   With Winchester's defeat and probable withdrawal (I had not seen him among the
men in the hall) and with William of Ypres still in partial disgrace (I had seen him and
spoken a few words, but his company was his own mercenary captains and a few
minor courtiers), Waleran was now preeminent with the king. I did not like that at all.
Waleran was a fine soldier and in his way shrewd, but I had never seen in him a
wider view than the increase in his own wealth and power. Of course Fortune was
fickle; Waleran might fall. I would not mind that at all—except that tied so close to
him, the king might be dragged down too.
   Altogether, I was in a black humor by the time I went to my pallet that night. What
I had learned from listening to the talk in the king's chamber sickened me. Not only
had Winchester been deprived of an elevation I knew he wanted, but Stephen had
not had the courage to tell him and explain to him. The king had secretly summoned
the canons of Canterbury to Westminster on the twenty-fourth of December, the day
Henry had to perform an ordination of deacons in St. Paul's in London, and the
election of Theobald, abbot of Bee, had been carried out in Stephen's presence and
that of the pope's legate, Alberic of Ostia.
  I was long past weeping over the weaknesses of the king, who was always kind to
me so that I could not stop loving him, but I bitterly craved the comfort of
Melusine's body. I needed to talk to her too. The skewed view she had of all events,
which had meaning to her only as they affected her personally or might affect Ulle,
sometimes made me laugh. But just as often, her view lifted me out of a rut in which
my thoughts went round and round and helped me see and accept a fresh truth. I
had done a great deal of talking as well as coupling with Melusine in the past three
months, and now I desired her as some men desire drink.
   Next morning I had reason to wonder if that desire had been so strong that some
thread of it had disturbed the queen's dreams as well as my own. Before I had gone
in to the king, a page from the queen was bidding me come to break my fast with
her. I begged admittance to the king's closet, where he was in the middle of dressing,
and asked his permission. It came so promptly and with so little remark, as well as
with eyes that would not meet mine, that I realized he had been with his lady that
night and she had already spoken to him about me. His uneasiness was also a
warning that the queen was angry; I had expected that and was rather glad to face it
so soon. I do not mean that I did not respect the queen and fear her anger, but I felt
that the results of the chance I had taken were all good and I hoped to be able to
bring her to see it that way.
   Her expression was not encouraging as she gestured me to the end of a bench
that was drawn beside her chair. Melusine stood on the other side, her black eyes
wide open. I thought she was holding back mingled alarm and indignation, but she
went quietly when the queen bade her bring us wine, bread, and cheese.
  "You have failed me!" Maud said bitterly as soon as Melusine was out of hearing.
   "No, madam," I answered steadily. "I have proven to my satisfaction, and I hope
to yours, that my wife is no danger to you, to the king, or to anyone."
   "You have proven nothing but that you are completely ensorcelled by her. I
thought I could trust you."
   I smiled at her; I could not help it. "I will admit freely that I am happier in my
marriage than I expected to be. If you wish to say Melusine has bewitched me, I will
even agree to that. But I have nonetheless fulfilled your trust as well as I could, not
betrayed it."
  "Do you think I do not know you took Melusine to Ulle?" she asked.
   "Madam, I am not a fool," I protested quietly. "I never intended our visit to be a
secret either from you or from the king. I told my master as soon as I could. From
what you say, I must assume Melusine did not tell you. I cannot imagine why, unless
she was afraid, but—"
   Melusine's low, musical laugh interrupted me. "I was afraid, madam," she said,
laying a loaf of bread, a large piece of cheese, a flagon of wine, and three cups
beside me on the bench. "But that was not why I did not speak. You know I had no
chance. In the press of great ladies attending you, I could not come near until you
summoned me this morning. And then you called me a witch, a corrupting witch,
and then Bruno came before I could even ask why you missaid me."
  Maud's eyes flicked from me to Melusine. "Why did you go to Ulle?"
   "For three reasons," I replied. "First because I wished to look at the lands when I
was not part of an attacking army—I will, if you will permit, explain why I wished to
see them in a moment."
  "You need not." Maud's voice cut at me like cold steel. "It is clear enough why
you wished to see Ulle. You hope to get those lands."



                               CHAPTER 18


  Melusine
   The queen's voice was cold and hard as she accused Bruno of desiring to obtain
my lands, and my heart froze within me. Why I had not expected her to guess so
obvious an intention, I do not know. I had been annoyed with Bruno yesterday
morning for disappearing as he did because I had been eager to get to court early. I
had thought I could explain to the queen that once we had ridden into Northumbria I
had become terribly sick for a sight of my old home and had wheedled Bruno into
taking me there, but I had no conception of the number of great ladies who had
come to court with their husbands. I had not even been able to beg for a private
word. Now I was sure all was lost, and I did not know whether to admire Bruno's
unshaken demeanor or be contemptuous of him for his stupidity.
   "Yes, madam," he replied with perfect calm, "every man desires land of his own,
and I would be a great fool if I did not see the suitability of Ulle as a reward for
good and honest service on my part. But there is no need for you to think me
presumptuous enough to expect that reward soon. I have done nothing to deserve it.
All the favors have flowed the other way. I do not forget what I owe King Stephen,
who raised me from nothing to a knight of the royal household." Suddenly he
grinned mischievously and glanced at me. "And much against my will you have done
me a greater favor and given me my heart's desire."
    "I am glad you are happy," Maud snapped bitterly, "but I did not expect you, of
all men, to lose your head. How could Stephen dare trust a vassal in thrall to a
disloyal wife?"
   "Melusine is not disloyal," Bruno said, staring back at her, but he was still
grinning. "Of course, she is not loyal either. I would never try to tell you that—"
  I thought him mad. "Will you give me leave to retire so that you can discuss me
more freely," I cried, barely holding back my tears as I saw all my hopes in ruin.
  "No! Sit down and listen!" Maud ordered. "It will do you good."
   I stood still for a moment, startled. To my surprise I had detected just a hint of
amusement, the faintest thawing, in those last words. Before I started to move
toward the bench on which Bruno was sitting, Maud pointed to the wine. Bruno took
the flagon and poured a cup for her. I was beside him by then and he looked up and
smiled as he gave the cup to me, touching my fingers before he let go. Maud took
the cup, darting a swift glance at me, then fixed her eyes on Bruno again, nodding
for him to go on. He was still smiling faintly.
   "My second reason for going to Ulle," Bruno said, "was that I thought if I
promised to take Melusine there, she would not try to escape me on the road, which
would save me infinite trouble."
  "I said I would not try to run away," I protested, but neither of them looked at
me.
   I was angry, but under that was a thread of relief; it was infuriating to be ignored
by people who were discussing me—one of them my own husband—but I also felt I
would be ground to a powder between those two implacable wills if I should
interpose myself. And all mingled in with the rage and fear and relief was admiration
for Bruno. I had always thought of him as an obsequious servant in the court, but he
was not bowing now.
   "My third reason," he hesitated and then went on in a rush, "was that I could think
of no better time or place to determine whether your suspicions that Melusine was an
inveterate rebel were true. I brought her to Ulle; I gave her what seemed to be
freedom to do what she wished; I set my men to watch what she did."
  "You spied on me!" I cried.
    He turned to look at me that time. "Yes," he admitted. "Merwyn followed you that
first day when you met Tom Bailiff in the hollow. You are very innocent, Melusine. I
do not think you ever looked behind."
   "Why should I suspect such a thing?" I gasped. "You only pretended to want to
go to Thirl. It was a trap."
    "Yes." He was half laughing, half shamefaced. "But the innocent do not need to
fear traps. Madam," he turned again to the queen, "I swear that all Melusine cares for
is the well-doing of Ulle. I cannot tell you that she will ever support King Stephen,
but neither will she lift one finger to help King David. I heard her say—and she did
not know I heard—that for all she cared both England and Scotland could sink into
the sea, so long as Ulle was safe and quiet."
   "That is not much advantage to the king," the queen remarked, but I thought I saw
the smallest quiver at the corner of her mouth.
    Bruno shrugged. "Nor is it any great disadvantage. Come, madam, you know that
it is a common condition that women do not care much for kings and great causes.
They care for their children, for the land that supports and shelters them, and
sometimes—" Bruno cast a glance at me that brought color to my cheeks before he
looked back at the queen and added slowly, "sometimes they care for their
husbands."
   I was not as brave as Bruno. I was too much afraid of the queen to scream aloud
that I was no more slave to my lust than he was, that I would not follow blindly any
path he laid down for me just because I did care—no, no, I must not allow myself,
not yet—and certainly, I thought, biting my lip with rage, certainly not when he had
just implied I would give up everything papa wanted for him. While I was choking
back my anger, I missed a few brief exchanges between Bruno and the queen. She
looked more amused than enraged when he rose and nodded, implying permission
for a request that may have entered my ears but had not penetrated my thoughts.
When he took my arm, I almost pulled away but I dared not, not knowing what had
been said.
   "The queen has given permission for us to lodge outside the palace—if we can
find a lodging," he said, as he drew me toward the door of the hall. "When you do
not need her, Edna can go with one of the men to look for a place. She knows the
town and knows people who are familiar with London. We can ride in, if you are
willing to rise early."
  "I am not so eager as you think to share a bed with you," I muttered, choking on
rage and shame. "If you think you can use my lust to tame me, you are mistaken."
  We had come to the doorway, and Bruno stopped. "What are you talking about?"
  "How dare you say 'women care for their husbands' after looking at me as if I
were some man-sick—"
   Still holding my arm, Bruno put his free hand on my back and pulled me close. I
did not resist because I knew it would be useless and make me look ridiculous, but if
I had had a knife, I think I would have plunged it into him.
   "Fool!" he murmured into my ear while seeming to embrace me. "To believe you
will be loyal for my sake will wake the queen's sympathy for you as nothing else
could. She adores Stephen." He let me go then and touched my nose with his lips.
"Send Edna soon."
   Then he was gone, leaving me so confused that I stood staring after him—until I
realized I was confirming what he had said to Maud by my behavior. Then, I turned
about and hurried back to her and dropped a short curtsey.
   "I think you should know, madam, that despite what Bruno says, I am not a bitch
in heat unable to free myself from my dog's cock."
   She burst out laughing, and cocked her head to look up at me. "Touched your
pride, did he?" But the laughter seemed good-natured, and when she gestured
toward the bench and said, "Come, break bread for me and give me a slice of
cheese, and then you may go and break your own fast," she seemed somehow
satisfied.
   My outburst had calmed me a little. I had told the truth,whatever the queen wished
to believe. I served her without saying any more and when she had smiled graciously
at the earl of Warwick's wife and beckoned that lady to come to her, I retreated
gladly, eventually finding a quiet corner with a stool in it where I could sit and eat. It
was cold there, too far from the fire, but my gown was warm and it was worth numb
fingers and toes to be overlooked by the younger and lesser ladies attending the
queen. I had been right about my absence from court curing my problems with the
queen's ladies. Most of those who had served her before I went away had been
already granted leave to go home or would go in a few days. The group now in
attendance did not know me at all or remembered me only dimly. If any recalled my
slowness and silence, they doubtless put it down to my fear and uncertainty in the
past.
   I had found being part of a group of chattering, gossiping women interesting and
amusing—it had been a long time since papa had taken me to a council in Carlisle or
on a visit to Richmond where a large group of ladies was gathered—and it had
distracted me yesterday from my concern about being unable to speak to the queen.
This morning, however, I did not wish to be distracted. Bruno's remark had given
me a severe shock, wakening my fear of abandoning my lost loved ones for a false,
new toy. Yet what had he done wrong? He had promised me he would try to win
back Ulle, and every move he had made certainly aimed toward that purpose. Had
not his whole conversation with the queen been designed to soothe her? And was it
not worth a small slight or two to gain her forgiveness and fix in her mind that he
desired Ulle as his reward? Even his spying on me—perhaps it had not convinced
the queen, but certainly it had shaken her conviction that all I desired was the
success of King David and Empress Matilda.
   It seemed I had been fortunate that circumstances had prevented me from telling
the queen a lie. She would never have believed me, and my lie would have made the
truth Bruno had told seem false. He had known just how to manage the queen. I kept
forgetting that Bruno was not like papa, who often spoke before he thought and said
what was in his heart. Bruno was cleverer—was it disloyal to think that, even if it was
true? So long as Ulle came back to papa's blood, did it matter how?
    Should I send Edna out to seek lodgings? Mary help me, was all this musing on
how clever Bruno was and how wrong I was to be angry only an excuse to lie with
him again? But the queen had been appeased. Suddenly I felt warm with blushing
despite the chill in the part of the hall where I sat as I realized my denial had probably
only convinced Maud of my desire for my husband. Well, let her think he could rule
me. If Edna found lodgings for us, I could refuse him—that would show him how I
felt and not betray me to the queen.
   All my worrying was useless though. Edna did not think she could find us
anything decent within a reasonable distance of the palace. The men had been no
problem; she burst into giggles telling me. She had lodged them in the stable of the
whorehouse in which she had served. They were welcome for their ability to keep
other men-at-arms out, for the women of that place preferred to reserve their favors
for the gently born, and they had had some trouble and threats when they would not
open their doors to common soldiers. As to our men, the situation had been made
clear to them, and if they had a fancy to slake their own thirsts, the older women in
less favor or already degraded to servants would doubtless satisfy them. Lodging
for Bruno and me was a different matter. Edna agreed to go out and ask, but she
thought finding a place before those who had come to court were gone would be
impossible.
   I agreed with what indifference I could summon up, but I was ashamed that I felt
disappointed. And before I could decide whether to send her anyway or tell her to
forget the matter, the queen's servant came to me and plucked my sleeve, bidding me
come to her mistress. I assumed Maud wished to question me again, and my heart
sank, for I was equally afraid to lie or to tell the truth. I was bitterly disappointed, for
I had thought my trial was over—but I had guessed wrong.
  "I have heard that you can read and write," Maud said abruptly as I came up from
my curtsey. "Is that true?"
   "Yes, madam." I stared at her, uncomprehending. Surely the queen had clerks
enough and my ability to scribe was unimportant. She was staring back, her brow
wrinkled with doubt, and I thought I might add to my answer so I would not appear
stubborn or sullen. "I learned from my brother Andrew, who was a priest, more for
mischief than any real reason, but I found the skill useful for I acted as my father's
steward in the accounting of the estate. I am no practiced scholar though. I know
only the common tongue, no Latin."
   "I do not need a practiced scholar," Maud snapped. "I need someone who can
keep accounts and who will not get my maidens with child while counting linens in
my own bedchamber, as did that little priestling who served as scribe to my
chamberlain and almoner."
   "I promise not to get your maidens with child," I gasped between chuckles. "My
ability to keep your accounts must be tested. I am afraid, madam, that keeping track
of bushels of wheat and casks of fish at a poor manor like Ulle is far different from
dealing with a queen's estate."
   "Not so different as you think," Maud answered, and called to two men I had not
noticed, addressing one as almoner and the other as chamberlain. They were
standing near the wall, well away from her chair, and came forward, both looking
very cross and protesting as soon as they could be heard when speaking low that it
was unheard of to have an inexperienced lady keeping accounts. They would find an
older scribe, one less likely to fall into temptation.
   "One in his dotage, you mean? What man not nearing his deathbed and eager to
serve in a court does not have an eye to a pretty, young woman?" The queen's anger
and scorn, though soft-voiced, made the men blench, and I had to bite my lip. In
fact, I had yesterday heard some talk about the almoner, himself a priest, that I had
not then understood. Now I did.
   When there was no answer to her accusation, the queen continued, "I need a
strong scribe, one who can ride as far as I must go and who can be near me. Here is
one young and clever who can be trained to the work—and who will cost me
nothing. I will take no more chances that the daughters of noblemen entrusted to me
to be held safe and taught virtue will be befouled by those supposed to guide them.
Who will compensate a father who has lost a marriage prize? The blame will be mine,
the cost mine. Lady Melusine is my chosen scribe. If you cannot work with her, you
are free to leave my service."
   The chamberlain only raised his brows disdainfully, but the almoner looked
furious. I was not happy about working under the direction of two men who did not
want me, but I had not been asked what I wanted any more than they had. Thus I
became the queen's scribe for her closet, and the rest of that morning I spent poring
over the accounts the dismissed priest had left with one or another of the queen's
officers sneering at me.
   At first I was frightened and thought I would have to tell the queen I was unfit for
the post. The priest's hand was unfamiliar and he used many short forms that I did
not recognize; however, I was afraid the queen would think me unwilling rather than
unable, so I struggled on. Then the chamberlain left, saying he had business that
could wait no longer on an idiot woman who could read no better than a pig.
Nonetheless, his leaving meant I could put aside the accounts of purchases made for
the queen's household, which were far more varied and thus more difficult to
decipher than the almoner's record of charities.
   The almoner was even less accommodating. He hardly gave me time to glance at a
sheet before he snatched it away, and when I held tight, he pointed to one item after
another, asking, "What is this? this? this? Stupid! No woman can read or keep
accounts. All you are good for is between your legs."
   The more the almoner sniped at me, the angrier I grew, until I answered him
roundly that I was no stupider and far less interested in what was between my legs
than a priest who meddled with one of the queen's maidens. Moreover, I told him,
holding fast to a sheet he seemed very eager to snatch away, I was not set to a
guessing game but to learning, so he had better teach or I would go to my mistress
and complain that he was trying to drive me to refuse her orders.
   We went better after that in one way, worse in another;the almoner grudgingly
explained what he could—at least I thought he was explaining what he could. At that
time I believed he was almost as ignorant as I and resigned myself to discovering bit
by bit what the forms meant, for I was determined to spite both men and please the
queen. Still, I knew I had made a bitter enemy of the almoner. One would think that
when after dinner the king called for dancing and Bruno came to lead me out, this
matter, which might be of grave importance, would burst from my lips. Far from it,
as soon as I laid eyes on him everything but the fact that I would sleep alone again
that night flew from my mind. What I said at once was that there was no hope for
lodging until court was over.
   Bruno's grip on my hand tightened. "I must talk to you alone," he said, "and I
cannot find a moment's freedom until the king is abed. Also, I do not think we can
wait until the court disperses. I am afraid the king will leave the same day he
dismisses his vassals."
   "Leave?" I repeated, my shame over my desire for him driven out by surprise and
alarm. "But will not the queen accompany the king?"
   "No." He stared at me in warning as we joined the row of dancers, and I realized
he would not tell me more where others could hear.
   "Perhaps we could meet—" I began, but I could not really think of a private
place, and then we were separated by the figure of the dance.
   By the time the set ended, I was furious with Bruno again. He had asked
permission to lodge away from court not because he wanted me but because he
needed a private place to give me instructions. But I am not a complete idiot, and
angry as I was I understood that there must be matters of real importance he needed
to tell me. Moreover, I had to tell him about the queen's peculiar behavior to me. In
my anxiety over the actual records and the disgust of the chamberlain and almoner, I
had not considered what she had done carefully—but I knew it was peculiar.
   I had no chance either to express my hurt feelings or to mention my problem.
Richard de Camville was waiting to take my hand from Bruno's for the next dance at
the last note of music. I was about to refuse him, but Bruno shook his head, bowed
to me, and said he must go, glancing toward the entrance to the king's closet. So I
danced with Camville and then with other gentlemen. I am sure they found me
pleasant company; I had experience enough answering my brothers while my mind
was on other matters. And since I would not think about Bruno's indifference to me
compared with my weakness for him, I thought instead about the almoner's
uneasiness.
   When the word came into my mind, it rang like a bell. There had been a real
difference in the chamberlain's attitude toward me and the almoner's. The
chamberlain had only been annoyed and contemptuous; he had not cared how long I
studied any record except that I wasted his time. The almoner had not wanted me to
look at anything slowly and carefully. Uneasy, that was the right word.
   As soon as I could manage it, I pleaded exhaustion and made my way back to the
queen's hall, where I found the chest that held the records and drew out those for the
last month and began to look at them item by item. After a time, although I could not
determine what each item was, I began to find a repetition of certain forms that I
took to be specific religious institutions. Each amount was not great, but added
together they came to a fair sum and it seemed strange to me that Queen Maud
should give several small sums to the same places over a short time instead of one
larger sum. Still, I could not believe this to be what made the almoner uneasy. A "fair
sum" to me must be near nothing to him.
   Some time during the night I woke with a start with the realization that there was
another use for what I had discovered the previous day. Surely the unusual pattern
of giving had a purpose that the queen would remember. If so, I would have several
names to match the forms on the record, and I might be able to use those to help me
make out the meaning of others. Thus I came to the queen's bedchamber and
begged admittance before she was dressed and surrounded by the great dames of
the court.
   Queen Maud was sitting up in bed propped by bolsters and attended only by two
of her oldest and most trusted servants. She seemed surprised when I mentioned my
trouble in understanding what the previous scribe had written and how I hoped to
decipher some of it. All she said was that I was not responsible for the records
before I began to keep them and I should write them as best suited me without
regard to what had been done in the past, and waved me away. I was a little
disappointed, for I was curious, but then I thought that there might be some private
significance in those regularly given small sums and bowed my acceptance. I was
hardly out the door, however, before I was called back, told to fetch the chest in
which the records were kept, and asked to find and display the sheets and point out
the entries.
   There was a silence while the queen considered, then shook her head. "Not by my
order," she muttered. "I will discover what these are, but by my guess the sums went
into his own pocket."
  "The almoner?" I gasped. I could not believe it.
  "No," Maud said, "the priestling."
  "But then why should the almoner be uneasy? I felt it, and I was angry because he
insulted me. That was why I looked so carefully."
   "Because the priestling was his choice—probably his son—and he knew of it and
did not stop it. And there is little I can do, for the Church reserves the right to try its
own criminals."
  "But surely you can dismiss the almoner from his office? Why should you
endure—"
   "Hush!" The order was peremptory, and the queen looked startled, as if she had
just realized that she had said more to me than she intended. She sat still for a time,
her hands lying quietly on the parchments, her eyes on my face, but not seeing me, I
thought. Then she said slowly, "A queen is not as free as a simple baron. The
almoner is cousin to the bishop of Salisbury, the king's chancellor, and was
recommended to me by him. To offend the bishop of Salisbury over so small a
matter as his cousin's dishonesty would be very foolish." There was a significant
pause and then she added, "Therefore, you will say nothing of this matter to
anyone."
   "No, madam," I breathed, appalled that my pique at being thought incapable of
keeping accounts should have led me to knowledge that I did not wish to have.
   "I am not angry, Melusine," she assured me, the tight line of her lips growing
softer, "You were clever to see the oddity, and wise to come to me in private. If you
should come across any other oddity—something you do not understand in what
you are told to write down—do not fail to come to me again. Now you may go."
   I reached for the sheets, to put them away, but the queen shook her head. She
smiled at me as I curtsied and may have intended to reassure me, but to my mind I
was caught between drowning and hanging. I liked neither cheaters nor tale bearers,
but I must be the one or excuse the other. Worse, what I thought a small matter, like
the few shillings the priest had taken, might have roots and branches reaching far
away that touched great people. And to turn a bad day worse, just after I had broken
my fast without much appetite, Edna brought me a message from Bruno that he
would be away from Westminster. He had left Fechin in case I wanted an escort,
and he hoped to be back by twelfth night but could not be sure. As a cap to my
misery, hard on Edna's heels a page came to summon me to the chamberlain, who
threw a handful of tally sticks onto a table in the queen's chamber and bade me
record them.
    I had a small revenge—and in this case did not make an enemy by it—because
while I was still cutting a quill (I had broken the old one after ruling off the old
records from the new ones, which I headed with my name) one of his young
assistants came in with a few more tally sticks. He seemed stunned to see me, but
more amused than offended at a female scribe, and willing to explain the markings on
the tally sticks for the pleasure of seeing me write—as if I were a dog walking on its
hind legs. Thus when the chamberlain returned later to prove I was incompetent, he
found a neat, clean record and was honest enough to praise my work although as he
left me he still shook his head over what he considered an unnatural act.
   The small victory raised my spirits enough to make me notice that a number of the
great ladies, as well as the queen herself, were not in the best of tempers. Usually,the
queen was a good mistress, too clever or perhaps, for I still did not know her very
well, too truly good-natured to be unkind to her servants. However, I heard more
than one whispered complaint that day about unreasonable demands and sharp
words, and Edna told me while I was dressing for another feast and entertainment
that one of the younger maids, who had carried in washing water last night after the
king left, had hinted the queen had been crying and had been slapped by an older
woman. That was when I began to wonder if at least part of my fear and anxiety was
not owing to the work I had undertaken so unwillingly but was infecting me from the
company around me.
   I had my answer to that the next night. The queen had retired to her chamber and
I was sadly allowing Edna to pack away the rich, red bedrobe I had made for Bruno.
Audris had given me the cloth and silver and gold thread, and most of the work had
been done at Jernaeve, but I had still needed to sew and embroider in every private
minute I could snatch both at Ulle and on the road. Now twelfth night was over and I
had given up hope that Bruno would come back when there was a knocking at the
hall door and a minute later a grumpy door warden came and told me my husband
wanted me and said I had leave to go with him.
    I do not remember if I thanked him. I know I forgot all about the robe Edna was
still holding in her arms. So eager was I that it was a miracle that I remembered to
snatch my cloak from the top of my chest before I ran. Nor did I pause at the door
to ask Bruno if he wished to come in but threw myself right into his arms before I
realized how unseemly was my behavior. He kissed me warmly but then lifted his
head and laughed.
  "I feel that I hardly need to make the apology I had all ready," he said, seeming
unaware that I had begun to pull away and squeezing me tight against him.
   "What apology? What have you done?" I hardly knew my voice, it was so thin
with the jealousy that had seized me by the throat and choked me, but Bruno did not
seem to notice that either and laughed again.
   "I have found a room for us for the night—but it is in the whorehouse where our
men are lodged." One of our men was holding a torch nearby. I could see Bruno's
face—full of merriment, it was—and I know he could see mine, which I suspect was
not so merry. I am not sure he realized I was angry; perhaps he thought I was
shocked, for he went on, still merrily, "Now, now, Melusine, no one could suspect
you of wishing to use the women and I am not likely to complain about your
coupling with the man who took you there."
  "You think that a fit place for me?" I cried, wrenching myself away from him.
  There was an instant's pause, and then he said, "It is not a fit place for any
woman but some have little choice." He was no longer laughing. "I will make sure the
way is cleared so that you need not see or speak to any of them."
  I had forgotten that his mother was a whore, and when the flatness of his voice
reminded me, I was so filled with horror and remorse that I could not speak or
move.
   "I am sorry to have offended you," he went on in that expressionless voice, "but I
thought… no, it does not matter. It is not necessary to take you there. I can say
briefly what must be said. I have been to Nottingham to tell the captains of the king's
mercenaries to make ready to march north the day after tomorrow. The king will—"
  "You are going to war?" I breathed. "Tomorrow?"
   "Yes." A hint of a wry smile curled up one corner of his mouth. "If you still
desire to be rid of me, Melusine, you can pray for it." He hesitated, but I could force
no sound out and the little smile disappeared. "I will knock and get the doorwarden
to let you in."
   Still unable to speak, I flung myself on him and held him away from the door. I
could feel his head bend over me, but my face was buried and he could not see it.
After a moment he said uncertainly, "We cannot stay out here in the cold much
longer Melusine, and there is no place to go. Every hut and cot is filled. There are
men sleeping between the horses' feet in the stables. I—"
   "Let us go to—to where you have a chamber," I said, shivering, but he did not
move at once, and I forced myself away from him, and took his hand and started
off.
  "You are going the wrong way," he said gently, and drew me close, pulling up my
hood and opening his cloak so he could put it around me atop mine.
   I was shaking with fear, not cold, but I dared say no more lest I begin to weep. A
guard opened a small postern in the palace wall at Bruno's order, and our way
lighted by Cormi with the torch, we walked the few streets to the place in silence.
Bruno stopped at the door of a house that looked to me exactly the same as any
other and began to tell Cormi to go in and order any woman there out to the kitchen,
but I cried, "No, no. I do not care about the women. You did not understand me."
So we went in, but I saw nothing—only a large chamber dimly lit by a lively fire in a
hearth on the short wall near the far end. Perhaps there were shadows on the floor
not far from the hearth, but I was still too wrapped in my misery to find the curiosity
to look carefully. However, my first agony of terror was beginning to abate as I
realized that Bruno might be leaving tomorrow but it was not possible for the fighting
to begin the same day.
   Had we lingered a few minutes, I would have looked about more carefully, but
Bruno pushed me gently toward a stair—a real wooden stair, not a ladder—going up
to a loft. I was much surprised to see that this was not the open space I expected
but was divided into small chambers. I think some were in use, but Bruno guided me
quickly ahead down the narrow aisle to one at the far end. Here I was surprised again
for it was brightly lit by four scented wax tapers in holders fixed to the walls, and it
was warmed by a large brazier of charcoal standing in the far corner well away from
the low bed that filled the space from the outer wall to the planks closing off the
central aisle.
    "You will be warm soon," Bruno said. "Come sit down on the bed. Do not fear; it
is clean. I came here before I came for you and made them change it."
   "It is not the place or the cold," I whispered, letting him draw me down beside
him. "I am afraid."
  "Of what?"
   I turned and stared at him, but he looked surprised and honestly puzzled. "That I
will be a widow, you fool!" I exclaimed, quite exasperated. "Did you not tell me that
tomorrow you leave to fight in a war?"
   He burst out laughing, then pushed back the hood of my cloak, lifted my face,
and kissed me hard, laughing again when I pushed him away. "But Melusine," he
folded my hands in his, "I have fought in many wars. There is nothing to fear for me.
I am sorry I teased you about wanting to be rid of me. Truly, there is as little chance
of it as of your doing me a hurt with this little toy I have for you." Letting go of my
hands, he threw off his cloak and fumbled in his purse, putting into my lax hand a
tiny jeweled knife. "There, that is a keepsake to remember how ill was our beginning
together, and these—" he put a small cloth-wrapped packet in my lap, "—are a very
small mark of my gratitude for the joy you have given me."
   I opened the packet and touched the earrings and the necklet, delicate and
beautiful. "Oh, I forgot your gift," I cried. "And now I cannot give it to you—and
you will have no use for it if you must go to war."
  "It is enough to know you remembered me," Bruno said, stroking my hair.
   "But I should have brought it." I began to weep; somehow I felt it was no
disloyalty in me to weep for my thoughtlessness in forgetting to bring Bruno's gift,
whereas to weep for Bruno's danger when I no longer wept for my dead—was that
not very wrong? "It is a bedrobe," I sobbed. "I saw you had none. That very first
day when we were wed, when I should have been thinking of where to find a knife, I
saw you had no bedrobe and wondered if I should make one for you."
  "Melusine, do not weep. I cannot bear it."
   He kissed my lips and then delicately licked the tears, first from one cheek and
then the other. I began to tremble again, but not with cold or fear. Indeed, I sought
his mouth again, and mine clung to it as he pulled out the pin that held my cloak and
pushed it off my shoulders. I do not know how he rid me of the rest of my clothes
or managed to take off his own for I gave him no help and must have hindered him
by my unwillingness to let him go. I was ashamed, but I could not restrain myself. I
needed to feel his body on mine, to hold him within me. As long as I could feel him,
warm and strong, I did not need to fear being alone.
   Does fear make lust stronger? Not fear of being hurt or forced—that kills all
desire—but fear of losing the joy coupling brings? For me, that night, it did. I tried
to suppress the waves of pleasure that rose higher with each thrust, but I could not.
That final convulsion, which is akin to pain in its intensity, took me against my will.
Bruno's too, I think, because he stopped moving and tried to hold me still, groaning
when I thrust against him in my frantic need.
   We were both still afterward, until I sighed and said, "I think you chose our
lodging very well."
   "I did not choose it. It was all I could get. I thought it more important that we be
together than what particular place we were together in."
   I felt Bruno stiffen as he spoke, and he began to lift himself off me but I held him
tight. "I think so too," I whispered in his ear. "I only meant that I do not think myself
so much better than the other women here. I am as lustful—"
   Bruno squeezed me tight, then raised himself on his elbows so he could see my
face and laughed aloud. "Silly girl! A whore is not lustful. Mostly they hate men and
what they do. A few are indifferent. A few manage to keep alive some feeling for a
special man or two, but even in those it is hard to wake any real response." He bent
his head down and kissed my forehead, my nose, and my lips, then laid his cheek
against mine. "Melusine, there is very little pleasure for me in coupling with a whore,
not much more than pissing in a pot. Lying with you—that is different. You have
given me joy in many ways, but now I am talking about joy of my body that no
whore with all her practiced tricks could give me. A trick is a trick, but you give me
your own pleasure which doubles and redoubles mine."
   And his pleasure doubled and redoubled mine too. We were both fast in a trap. I
remembered how the queen had accused him of being ensorcelled. She had thought
that his experience with women who sold themselves would armor him against
me—but seemingly it was just the opposite. So I had a real weapon, as I had
guessed in Ulle, but what did it matter? Tomorrow Bruno would ride away—
  "Teach me some tricks," I cried. "Let us see if what I do to you makes me feel
more strongly too."
   My purpose was to wipe from my mind my terrible fear of loss. And for the
hours of that short night—short to us although it was one of the longest nights of the
year—I washed away that fear in a warm sea of pleasure, finding to my surprise that
the tricks were not—except for touching with fingers and lips—what I did to Bruno,
but what I tempted him to do to me. I slipped the loops of my earrings around my
nipples and tangled my necklet in the hair between my thighs and danced and bade
him undress me with his mouth.
   Less than half an hour before that he had sighed, "Enough, I must ride at dawn,"
but my little game gave him such renewed life that he hurt me a little in his eagerness
to take me. I was tired myself by then. I would not have wakened him and tempted
him if he had not reminded me that this was all I would have—perhaps forever.
   Of course, I only remembered to tell Bruno that the queen had made me her
scribe on our way back. He thought it as odd as I, but we were both half dead by
then and not much interested in Maud's notions. At the door of the queen's hall I
clung to him, and he kissed me a last time as passionately as if we had not been
kissing until our lips were sore. Then the cold grey sky flushed red, and Bruno put
me aside, closing the hands I stretched out to him on each other and telling me not to
be a goose and that he would write to me so that I did not need to worry. That
promise and my exhaustion saved me from the most acute agony when the men rode
out. I was so sated and dazed with tiredness that even grief and fear were dulled.
   The only thing that really pierced the haze in my head was the fact that the queen
was as sick with fear and grief as I would have been if I had not been numb. It was a
strange, painful comfort, and in the months that followed while King Stephen took
the keep at Leeds and went on to ravage Scotland until King David yielded up his
son Henry of Huntingdon—this time as hostage, not guest—and then rode south to
besiege Ludlow, it forged a bond between us because we were the only two who
craved their missing menfolk in the same way.
   I do not mean there were not other ladies attending the queen who were worried
about their male kin. Almost every lady had some relative in the king's army, and I
am sure the pain of a mother for her son is every bit as sharp as that of a woman for
a husband she craves. It is as sharp, but it is different. Queen Maud and I were the
only two who shed most of our tears in a bed in which one lay where there should
be two.
   However, I did not shed nearly as many tears as I expected, nor did the terror
long continue, which in the beginning came over me in waves so that I burst into a
cold sweat and could not move. Maud noticed one of the worst of these; she stared
at me, for I had dropped my bread and wine—we were breaking our fast the
morning after Bruno had gone—and sunk down on the floor whimpering. I should
have been ashamed to show such weakness, but I was too far gone to care who saw
my misery, my whole world having narrowed to the knowledge that every person I
loved and who loved me soon died. Then the queen had come and stooped above
me, putting her hand hard on my shoulder so she hurt me and saying harshly, "You
will be better soon. It is impossible to be so afraid for very long—and I have work
for you."
   I did not believe her, but she was right. I was soon so busy that I had little time to
indulge my fears. Later I thought she might have spoken from her own experience,
but I never dared ask. I discovered the real work of the scribe of the closet during
the three days after the king rode north when the queen's Household went to Dover.
It was my duty to keep track of the queen's possessions each time her Household
moved. And we moved constantly— from Winchester to Dover; from Dover to
Hastings; from Hastings back to Winchester; from Winchester to Windsor— staying
only about three weeks in each place. Fortunately only necessary items were
unpacked when we stopped and guested at keeps along the road and at each new
place or I would not have had time to eat or sleep.
   The work was a poultice over my terror—fixing my mind on sheets and pillows,
ewers and basins, chests and stools suppressed it—but in the night and other times
too it could burst forth. It was Bruno's first letter from Leeds, which reached me at
Dover in a packet sent by Stephen to the queen, that cured the worst fear, leaving
only my natural longing for him—for the pleasure he gave me, for the way he could
make me laugh, for the way he talked to me. Maud had summoned me from the hall
and handed me the folded parchment. Perhaps I should have gone away, but in my
eagerness I only walked a few steps to the side before I began to read.
   Aside from some light words about taking care to keep the earrings and necklet he
had given me packed away until he could try putting them on as he had taken them
off—which made me blush despite knowing that no one but I could understand his
meaning—Bruno's letter was mostly full of small complaints about mislaid baggage
and bad food and the fact that the king's advisors kept Stephen back from the
fighting, which also kept his fighting companions, the Knights of the Body, from
engaging the enemy.
   That matter was not set apart in any way, not coupled with soothing phrases
about not worrying. Because it was mingled in with all the other complaints I did not
suspect it was only a lie to comfort me, as indeed it was, for Stephen and Bruno
with him were in the thick of every fight— although it was true enough that the king's
advisors did not like it and tried to hold him back. But I did not discover the truth
for more than two years because I did not suspect Bruno of such deviousness. At
the time, as I felt a lifting of the heavy weight that had lain on my heart no matter how
busy I was, I suddenly remembered how the queen had tried to hearten me, and I
cried out to her, "Oh, madam, listen," and read her those lines.
    Maud looked up from the writing she was studying and blinked, and I was
appalled at my stupidity in intruding so unimportant a subject into her news, which
must be about affairs of state. I began to stammer an apology and withdraw, but she
rose from her chair and came to me and bade me show her the letter. She was so
eager to see the words that promised safety for her husband she made a mistake and
let me guess by the way her eyes went at once to the right place that she was not
reading my letter for the first time, only reading more carefully what she had let her
eyes pass over too quickly before. For a minute I was angry, but then she looked up
and smiled at me like dawn breaking.
   That was the first time I truly understood what Bruno had told me many
times—that everything the queen did was for Stephen's sake. I wondered then if she
herself would rather have lived quietly on her own lands in Boulogne but yielded to
Stephen's need to have his own, greater estate. I could forgive her for prying if it was
to increase the safety of one she loved. Would I not have done that for my own? I
would, and gladly.
    Even though I understood, it troubled me and came back to my mind again and
again over the next few days, each time I reread my letter for the comfort it gave me.
I knew that Bruno had taken Cormi and Merwyn with him to act as messengers and
had no need to send his letter in the king's packet. At last I realized that Bruno had
sent the letter in the king's packet just so the queen should read it. That was a hint, I
thought; he had left Fechin with me, but it would be most unwise to allow Maud to
suspect I sent secrets with a private messenger—specially when I had no secrets any
longer and it was my purpose to convince the queen that I would not be a traitor if
my lands were restored. So the next time I had a chance to speak to her, I asked her
if I could send a letter to Bruno when she wrote to the king.
  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 blood shed 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 disseisined 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
disseisined."
  "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."



                              CHAPTER 19


  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 viridictive 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, Aubery 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 foreriders 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 as, 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."
   I drew a deep breath, now considering whether Melusine's head would not look
better decorated with holes. I do not know what showed on my face, but she
lowered her head and looked at me sidelong. I could see her swallow and then
swallow again and I knew she was fighting an impulse to giggle. I was balanced on a
sword edge between rage and laughter when the lady behind urged her horse forward
and said, "What in the world is going on?" and then continued ahead without waiting
for an answer.
   That was fortunate because Melusine's face turned puce in her effort to restrain
her laughter and I gave up and burst into guffaws, leaned from the saddle, and
bussed my wife soundly on the cheek.
  "God knows this was not how I intended to greet you," I gasped. "I cannot tell
you how much I have missed your company and how glad I am to have you back,
but I did not mean my celebration to take the form of a public riot.''
   Melusine started to laugh with me and then stopped and asked, "Will we be
together? Queen Maud said this court will be as well attended as the one at
Christmas, and Oxford is smaller than Westminster if one counts the lodgings in
London, so there will be less accommodation."
   Her voice sounded eager to me, but she did not meet my eyes, and I thought her
smile was strained when I told her of the chamber I had rented for us—it was later
that she teased me about our hostess's weakness for my men. Then she reminded
me that she could not come until her work for the queen was finished, and that
would be late, she feared, because Maud and Stephen would be living in
state—which meant that all the queen's richest gowns and every hanging, rug, and
ornament would have to be unpacked and recorded separately. I pressed her hand
and assured her that no matter how late, I would be waiting by the stairs that went to
the women's quarters—or, if the king had some duty for me, which I did not expect
because I was sure he would be with the queen, Merwyn would be waiting.
   It was fortunate I had made that arrangement. After idling away hours after the
evening meal, I was sent for into the king's private closet. Maud was, as I expected,
with Stephen, but I was surprised to see that even the squires of the body had been
dismissed. As soon as I came to the two chairs in which they sat side by side and
bowed, Maud said to me, "Did you know Melusine was a favorite with King David?"
   My heart sank at the words. I had hoped to hear no more of Melusine's feelings
and connections with the Scots, and was disappointed. The particular question made
my dismay worse. From it, I could only suppose that Melusine had ignored my
instructions and approached King David with an appeal for the restoration of Ulle.
   "I knew she had been presented to him," I replied warily. "I cannot see how she
could be a favorite. King David could not have known her well enough for that. I do
not believe her father ever served David—her brother did, but she would not have
been sent to court then, she was too young."
  "You are very hot in her defense," Maud snapped.
    There was a weary pettishness in the remark that made me feel much better. If
Maud had a real complaint against Melusine, she would have stated it. This attack
seemed to owe more to Maud's being tired and worried in general than to any real
anger at me or at Melusine, and the king smiled at me behind Maud's back and made
a little gesture of apology. Then I realized he must have told Maud— possibly as a
small, cheerful item of amusing gossip to relate among many troublesome
matters—about my desire to come ahead and reserve a chamber, and that must have
reminded her that I was no longer indifferent to my wife and, to her mind at least, not
capable of controlling her.
   "I beg pardon, madam," I protested, smiling, "that was not a defense but the facts
as I know them. Will you tell me what Melusine has done wrong?"
  "She told David she had been disseisined."
  "She just walked up to King David and told him that?" I asked incredulously.
"Right before your face? Or did she seek him out privately?"
   Maud looked a little ashamed and Stephen began to laugh and patted her on the
shoulder. "I think my dear wife is annoyed because for once I have seen deeper into
a person than she." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then spoke to me again.
"Melusine did not approach David at all. He approached her and asked her to dance.
The rest followed from that. I said she was a sweet, gentle girl."
   "I am not so sure of that still," Maud insisted. "Even Bruno admits she wants Ulle
back. Now that she has established that David owes her a debt… Just you be sure,
Bruno, that she does not ask Prince Henry for those lands. Treaty or no treaty, they
are not his to give."
   "Why do we not give Ulle to Bruno?" Stephen suggested, laughing again, but I
thought only half jesting. "The lands are worthless. Not a penny over the livelihood
of the steward can be wrung out of them. Then you could stop worrying about it."
  "Not now!"
   Maud spoke so sharply that the smile I had given the king, part gratitude and part
acknowledgement that he was only teasing his wife, froze on my face as I turned to
look at her.
   She laughed then and said lightly, "Melusine is too useful to me now. I cannot
spare her—and you cannot spare Bruno, my lord."
   I could have promised that Melusine and I would serve as willingly after we had
Ulle as before, but I knew Maud would not believe that, and I was not sure I
believed it myself. Instead, I bowed and said, equally lightly, "I am not yet very
hungry. The promise of the carrot on the stick will serve very well."
   "A hope you may have, not a promise," Maud replied before Stephen could
speak. Then she looked down at her hand enclosed in her husband's and added
softly, "I will not promise what may be impossible to perform." She turned her hand
in Stephen's and gave his a squeeze. "It is late, my lord, and I am weary."
   The king put his arm around her shoulders and nodded dismissal at me as he
murmured some apology to her for not taking her to her chamber earlier. I was out
the door before they rose, but had only to look across the nearly empty hall to see
that Merwyn was gone from the foot of the stairs. That meant that Melusine must
have come down from the queen's apartments and gone ahead with Merwyn to our
lodgings. I hurried down the stair in the forebuilding, but they were not in the
courtyard or the outer bailey, so I moderated my pace, guessing that Melusine must
have come down only a minute or two after I was summoned and I would not be
able to catch up.
   When I came softly into the solar, I caught Melusine in the act of undressing,
wearing only her shift. The way she cried out and clutched to her the tunic she had
just removed enchanted me completely. "I adore you," I muttered, striding across
the narrow room and embracing her. Her arms were caught between us, and for an
instant I thought she was pushing me away, but then she dropped the tunic to the
floor and laid her head on my shoulder.
  "Beloved, I am sorry my letters were so indifferent, but the queen—"
  "I understood," she murmured huskily.
    I hesitated, but she did not say in turn that she had written like a gossiping friend
for the same reason. It occurred to me just then that Melusine had never said she
cared for me. I was tempted to press her for a few sweet words, which I had never
had from any woman except my sister Audris—for I was not so foolish as to ask a
whore to call me beloved—but I did not. If she refused, even out of shyness, the
sweetness of this moment would be lost, and the moment was sweet, for her arms
had crept around me, one stroking my back and the other clinging to my waist. I
tilted her face up and kissed the full red lips; her eyes closed.
   "Are you cold, dear heart?" I asked softly after a moment. "Do you want to get
into bed?" I should not have kissed her, for I was aching with need already and the
feel of her mouth made it worse.
  "No, I will help you undress," she whispered.
   I was glad of it. She could have called Edna to help me, but her willingness to
serve me herself was precious to me. My grip on her had relaxed while we spoke,
and she let herself slide down my body. The way she went down, her arms still
around me, her whole body pressed against mine, nearly brought me to a premature
spilling of my seed. Yet, I was not sure she had intended to raise desire in me. If she
wished to hide her face or her body, she might have done the same thing. A small
uneasiness drifted about inside of me and shadowed Melusine's actions. Ever since
she had yielded her body to me there seemed to be two Melusines, one warm and
eager and the other reluctant and doubting—but at that moment it would have taken a
far stronger chill to divert me than the moth-wing brush of doubt I felt. Sword and
belt, tunic and shirt, were off and cast away anywhere before Melusine had both my
cross garters untied. As the second loosened, I had the tie of my chausses undone
and could rid myself in one sweeping push of all my nether garments.
   Then I bent to lift Melusine from the floor, to strip off her tunic, to sup the
sweetness of her body with my mouth and take in the strong woman-smell of her.
And when my mouth was not busy with kissing I praised her. I do not remember
everything I said—all of it was silly beyond measure, like calling her my sun and my
moon—but it was true. I was spilling out all the need to love that had been buried in
me all the years I had been parted from Audris. But this was a far fiercer caring, far
stronger, a need so great that though it was all joy it was like torture. Caring for
Audris was a glow of warmth and a sweet tenderness. The tenderness was there for
Melusine also, but it was like a honey that bound together a burning ginger
concoction of passion in the body and the soul.
   Later, after we had loved—and that was better than ever with Melusine's strong
legs urging me deeper and her body rising to meet mine; there was no reluctance
there nor did I fail to bring her, crying out, high and sweet, like a bird's song, to a
rich joy—but later, when the soft words and small tired kisses of repletion had been
exchanged and she lay quiet against me, I thought she looked sad. And I wondered
then whether there had been just a moment of resistance when I first lifted her up to
caress her before we joined bodies. If there had been, I know it melted with my first
touches and sweet words.
   Again it was a moth-wing brush of doubt and I flicked it away as one brushes at a
moth. But it was there, and perhaps to avoid the far greater pain of doubting
Melusine's affection for me, I turned to a faint renewed irritation about her leaning
toward King David and mentioned the queen's remark that she was a favorite with
him. She pushed herself up on the pillows, away from me, and frowned, but I saw at
once that she was more anxious than angry.
   "I do not think I could have avoided the meeting," she said. "Maud would have
been even more suspicious if I refused to come to the hall to eat with the others.
And I did not believe he would recognize me after—it must be four or five years."
She hesitated and then went on slowly, "Maud is a very strange woman. I could have
sworn that she had thought the matter through and accepted what I told her—which
was the truth—as the truth. She was so easy with me on the journey here, even
sometimes jesting with me, I thought I had eased her mind… yet she has carried that
suspicion—"
   "I am not sure of that," I interrupted. I certainly did not want Melusine to feel the
queen had been deceiving her. "I do not think the queen is really suspicious of your
talk with King David in Durham. I think Maud was angry and frightened about
something else and to divert her the king told her how I had asked to come to
Oxford before him to secure a place so we could be together—Stephen thought it
very funny and teased me for days about how I resisted our marriage and how much
I have changed. Then because of her fear, Maud recalled that she had urged our
marriage because she thought me impervious to women and found I was not. She
was only lashing out at you and me because she is afraid. And I am almost sure now
that we will have Ulle in the end, although… No, let me finish one thing at a time. The
king said, 'Let us give it to Bruno'—only half in jest—and Maud did not say 'No,'
she said, 'Not now.' "
  "Not now?" Melusine echoed, and then, quick of wit as she was, also repeated,
"The queen is afraid?" And putting the two together asked, "What has happened?"
   "Nothing as yet," I told her, "but the king fears treachery from the bishop of
Salisbury, and I believe the bishop and his nephews will be asked to give up their
offices and the keeps they hold."
   "So that was why Maud once said she did not dare anger Salisbury over the
dishonesty of one of his cousins and why Leicester rather than Salisbury came to
Durham with us." Melusine nodded briskly as if things that had puzzled her had now
become clear. Then she frowned again. "But why should the queen be afraid? If
Salisbury plans some treachery, is it not best that he be stopped before he can
accomplish it?"
   I explained then about the power of the bishop and his party, how they might
resist and cry that they were unjustly used, since it was true enough that there was no
proof of disloyalty against them, and how that might reawaken the rebellion and even
make it more dangerous by bringing Gloucester and Empress Matilda to England.
   Melusine listened although I could see her eyes were closing. When I was done,
she slid down beside me again, with a shrug of her shoulders. "A cause to deprive
them of offices and keeps will be found."
   "But I think they are too experienced and too clever for the king to catch them out
in any real crime," I said, pulling her close and laughing silently at myself because I
was so happy now and only two weeks ago the same thought could make a bright
summer day turn grey.
   "I did not say any crime would be discovered," Melusine murmured sleepily. "Do
not be silly. I said a cause would be found—or mayhap made. Hmmm. Could be
that was why the queen is afraid, because she does not think the cause the king will
create is sufficient. She is very clever, very…"
   There is a woman for you. Melusine's voice faded and faded and she fell asleep
right in the middle of a crucial remark. What she had said horrified me, and I wanted
to argue with her because it all rang too true. I remembered the plot to assassinate
Gloucester in Normandy and grew cold despite the warmth of Melusine's body
nestled against me. No, that was not possible. Maud would have had a fit not been
only worried if there had been a plan to attack the bishop. I could not and would not
believe it. Yet it stuck in the back of my mind all the next week while more and more
noblemen arrived in Oxford.
   By the date the king had set in his summons, I could have sworn that the dog
kennels and pigsties had been rented out despite the fact that it was summer and
perfectly possible to put up a tent in a field near the town. Some of the lesser folk
did so, poor knights and barons who had come to court to plead a case or beg
some small favor from the king. I suppose the great men thought their dignity would
be lessened, and it was a wet summer. The fair days of June gave way to hot
weather, alternating with terrible thunderstorms. These were so frequent that
Melusine moved most of her fine gowns to the queen's apartment and changed there
from coarser clothes, which she did not mind getting wet and muddy. But no matter
what the weather, we both made our way back to the widow's house every night.
   On the night before the king was to greet his court officially, the bishop of
Salisbury still had not arrived. I could not help wondering whether he had discovered
that some plot had been devised against him. Later I learned that he knew nothing for
sure, but he had sensed the king's coldness toward him—well, I had seen examples
of that myself and Salisbury was no fool. I think myself that the one bred the other,
that is, when Stephen was first crowned Salisbury truly intended to be a loyal servant
and it was Stephen's suspicion that caused the bishop to begin to lean toward
Matilda.
   In any case, Salisbury did come, just in time for the king's greeting. I was standing
below the dais near the king, ready to perform any necessary service, when the
bishop entered the hall, and my heart clenched hard when I saw how all made way
for him and how many bowed deeply, unlike Waleran and his party who gave only
stiff and shallow acknowledgement. This was no time for an accusation, I knew, but
I was not prepared for, and, I must admit, I was sickened by Stephen's overcordial
greeting. Whether it deceived Salisbury, I do not know. He thanked the king for his
kindness, said a few words about a meeting of the inner council, and then withdrew
from the king to greet others in the hall.
   I did not sigh with relief—a good servant to a king does not give way to such
expressions of feeling, good or bad—and besides, I was not sure that I was relieved.
The trouble had to come. Even if Stephen had begun to doubt that Salisbury was as
black as he was painted or if Maud had urged him to wait until the bishop showed a
sign of his intended treachery, I was sure Waleran would prick him into action with
new accusations. So if the break had to come, I wished it to come soon so that I
need not see my master shaming himself with falseness.
   There was no more that day, at least. Salisbury was an old man and could claim
he was tired by traveling and must rest in private. Unlike other latecomers, lodging
was no problem for him or for Lincoln and Ely and Roger le Poer, who was the
king's chancellor. However, for their guards and clerks and servants—of whom there
were a great number; perhaps because of their fears they had come with a force large
enough, they thought, to protect them—it was not so easy. Only a few were allowed
space in the castle. Most were left to fend for themselves, and since nothing better
was to be had, a good number had settled in the sheds and outbuildings in the
churchyard of Saint Peter's.
    Saint Peter's church was closest to Oxford castle—aside from Saint George's,
which was within the grounds—and made it easiest for the men to get to their
master. That need and the bad weather and the great pride of Hervey de Lyons,
which had rubbed off on his retainers, caused the trouble—I am sure of it, although
it is widely said that it was by Stephen's order that Alan of Brittany's men invited
attack with insult.
   I am sure, but I can offer no proof although I myself was embroiled in the attack
by accident. There had been two days of quiet, at least as far as Salisbury was
concerned, while the king disposed of most of the business of the minor knights and
barons. This was the sort of kindness and considerateness that always made me put
aside Stephen's other faults. He knew it was difficult and expensive for a poor man
to come to court, and he never made his lesser petitioners wait and wait to see him.
Their business was done first, and each was given permission to depart "when it
pleased him thereafter"; they were welcome to stay and enjoy the feasts and
entertainments and hunts if they so desired, but they were not required to do so. He
even made sure that there was a great feast and merrymaking the very day the minor
pleas were finished so that those who did intend to leave early would not miss all the
amusements.
   I had been on duty from dawn on both days—another mark of Stephen's
kindness, not to me but to those lesser subjects. The king thought my manner and
dress, which were simpler than those of many of his high-born servants, would put
the petitioners more at ease. Perhaps the king felt I had been too much engaged in
serious business and that was why he bade me stay after the feast and continue
merrymaking with some other young men, all of whom I knew well. I was not at all
loathe to do it. I adored Melusine and enjoyed every moment spent in her company,
but there is a different kind of pleasure in a hard drinking, loud talking group of men,
and I suddenly realized I had not been in such a party since my marriage.
    The night was everything I expected, but I stayed longer than I originally intended.
I was only a little merry with wine when I got up to leave because I did not want to
frighten Melusine by coming to her roaring drunk. On reaching the outer door,
however, I discovered there was so violent a thunderstorm in progress that I would
have been swept away and drowned if I had set a foot outside. I returned to my
companions only to wait out the worst of the weather, but somehow by the time I
reeled back to the widow's house the stars were paling in the cleared sky.
   Naturally after my initial attempt to leave, I had been well roasted for being
henpecked and had received much advice on how to school my wife if she objected
to my condition, but I had no need of it. Although I wakened her from a sound
sleep, by stumbling over something, probably my own feet, and falling on her,
Melusine received me with good humor. Indeed, I must have afforded her
considerable amusement, for I recall how much she laughed when my nose nearly
touched my knees and she had to catch me to save me from falling over as I tried to
undo my cross.garters.
   Actually, I do not remember much after that—Melusine must have undressed me
and got me into bed—until she shook me an hour or so later and told me it was
dawn. She began to laugh again when I groaned piteously, and if I had had the
strength, I would have used one of the suggestions I had been given for curbing a
wife and beaten her soundly. However, I knew that would hurt me more than her at
the moment, so I only told her I was excused from duty to the king for this day and
to leave me in peace. She was still laughing when she departed, and I cursed her
under my breath and vowed to make her rue it, but I forgave her when I woke some
hours later. I found the chamber pot set ready for me on a small bench beside the
bed so I did not have to bend and seek for it, and next to it, a goblet of wine
redolent of strong spices.
   That worked so well on me that I, who woke hoping I would never have to eat
again, was able to enjoy a hot pie I bought in the market and then have another with a
jack of ale so I could escape sitting down to a court dinner. Markets are always
noisy, and at first as I walked down the road toward the castle I thought I was still
hearing echoes of the hawkers' calls. However, the sound grew louder, not softer,
and I realized it was men shouting in rage and the clang of weapons somewhere
ahead of me. I started to run, then hesitated; the noise was coming from the hall in
which Count Alan was lodged. I had my sword half drawn, but if there was a quarrel
between the men of Count Alan and Lord Hervey, I wanted no part of that.
  Suddenly a man with blood pouring from a wound on his head appeared in the
doorway of the hall and began to shout, "A Salisbury, a I'aide! Au secours!" and a
mass of men came boiling out of Saint Peter's churchyard. I leapt between, drawing
my sword and shouting for them to keep the peace in the king's name, but I hesitated
to strike any of the bishop's men, and I was thrust aside so violently that I was
knocked backward into the front wall of the house. By then Count Alan's men were
pouring out of their hall, and the battle was joined in earnest—not with fists and feet,
which is common enough when men are crowded together with strangers, but with
knives and even swords.
   Plainly no one man on foot would be able to stem what was rapidly growing into
a riot, and it would take far too long for me to try to go around the fight, so I
charged forward, laying about me with the flat of my blade until I forced a way
through, and ran for the castle. There were men enough in the guard who knew me
and responded when I called for a mounted force to stop a riot, but the horses had
to be fetched and saddled, and by the time we rode back the damage had been done.
   Several of the men-at-arms were down and bleeding, but far more important was
that Count Alan's nephew had been badly hurt. I recognized him at once and drove
Barbe at two men fighting directly over him. Angry as they were, they knew too
much of destriers to dare Barbe's teeth and hooves and they broke and ran. The
other guards did even better, since they were experienced in quelling market troubles,
and in minutes I was able to dismount and take the young man into my arms and
carry him into the hall.
   I laid him on the table, pushing away trenchers of half-eaten food and cups of
wine, some overturned by the violence with which men had left their meal. I slashed
his clothes into strips with my knife (I could see no reason to ruin my own; I was
angry enough at having my tunic stained with blood) and bound his head and his
arm, shouting to the servant boy who was cowering in a corner to run for a
chirurgeon, or if one could not be found, for a barber to sew up his wounds.
   A guard came in then, and I ordered him to watch by the young man while I rode
to the keep and informed the king. Had the count's nephew not been hurt, I would
not have thought the matter important enough to trouble the king, but I found that I
was not the first to report the fight. Lord Hervey himself was already recounting the
insult and hurt the bishop's men had done to his servants. Stephen soothed him,
promising that the insult and damage would not be overlooked, even though it was
the men of the highest official in the land who had committed the offenses. The king
looked angry, but something about his voice shocked me; there was a kind of
satisfaction under the anger that told me Stephen had found a cause for stripping
Salisbury of his power.
   I suppose I made some movement, or possibly Stephen was growing a little
restive under Lord Hervey's unending complaints and let his eyes wander, and the
king started up out of his chair, crying, "Bruno! You are all over blood! Are you
hurt?"
   "No, my lord," I assured him, "not at all, but I saw the fight and brought men to
quell it. All is quiet now, but I am afraid Count Alan's nephew was injured. It is his
blood you see, my lord."
  "I will send my chirurgeon to him at once." Stephen gestured to a page and told
him to bring the chirurgeon, then turned back to me. "Will you wait and guide him,
Bruno? You will need to go back to your lodging to change your clothes anyway."
   "Yes, my lord." I could say nothing else, but I knew the purpose for keeping me
there was for my bloodstained clothing to start questions going among those who
had not heard Hervey's protests—or who would be overjoyed at his men getting a
drubbing, only regretting it was not he himself who had received it.
   That thought was amusing, but what followed was not. Salisbury was summoned,
the complaint was lodged, and restitution demanded. The bishop first said his
servants were not wholly at fault; they had been swamped and terrorized during the
terrible storm the previous night and had gone peaceably to seek lodging in Count
Alan's hall, where they knew mere was space aplenty. The three men who had gone
with the request were not only refused but beaten and had naturally called for help.
The captain of Count Alan's troop protested vigorously, admitting that the lodging
had been denied but claiming that it was Salisbury's men who, in fury, struck first,
crying that Salisbury was a far greater man than Count Alan and that they would
drive all Alan's men out and Alan himself too and take the lodging for themselves.
   Salisbury refused to accept this version, but said it was the duty of the Church
and its servants to keep the peace even under provocation. For this reason, he was
willing to give satisfaction for the ill behavior of his men, whereupon the king
demanded the surrender of all his keeps and his offices, and those of his nephew
also. I do not think the bishop was really surprised, but he pretended hurt and deep
shock and cried out that the punishment was too severe for so small an offense and
one not even given by himself. Still he did not refuse; he asked for a day or two to
consider, but only a few hours later he was arrested in his chamber in the castle and
his nephew Alexander of Lincoln was seized in his lodging in the town.
   The arrests were dreadful to me because they violated right and custom, which
decreed that any man who came to court must be allowed to depart in peace. Yet I
could see the necessity. King Henry had been strong enough to let go a man who
had defied him and punish him later; Stephen's rule was still too uncertain to allow
men of such power to escape. I did not like the cruelty with which the king forced
the bishops to yield their keeps either, starving them and threatening to hang the
bishop of Lincoln, but their sufferings were brief and many would have suffered
worse and died too if the king had let the bishops go and fought to take the places.
Perhaps it was a sin to lay hands on the anointed of God, but it saved much
bloodshed both for the bishops' men and ours.
   At first the king was jubilant, his optimistic nature leading him to believe that his
troubles had been solved, but Melusine told me, when the army returned from taking
the six keeps that had been held by the bishops, that the queen was sick with worry.
A number of the great ladies who served Maud had expressed their horror of the
king's action, among them King Henry's widow, Lady Adelicia, who was now
married to William d'Aubigny. Worse yet,Henry of Winchester had come to her and
begged her with tears to convince Stephen to restore the keeps and the large sums of
money in them to the bishops. He would be forced, he told her, to call Stephen to
account if he did not, and it would break his heart to need to admonish his brother.
The queen had responded that the bishop of Winchester had no right to admonish
the king of the realm, and Winchester had riposted that a legate of the pope had the
right to admonish anyone who offended the Church.
   I was at first stunned to hear that Winchester had procured legatine power. There
might have been time if he sent to the pope after Theobald had been made
archbishop, but considering the snail's pace at which the curia worked— and their
habit of delaying to see if larger bribes could be extorted—I doubted it. And then I
recalled how Winchester had thanked Melusine for her "warning" just before we had
started north, and I realized that he must have begun his negotiations to be made
legate at that time. If the plea had been presented then and the details worked out, the
legate who had confirmed Theobald as archbishop could have carried back
Winchester's request.
   I could see why Maud was worried. Kings had defied the Church before over
questions of secular power, and Stephen had not demanded any change in
administration or tax from the bishops' sees. Nonetheless, it was always bad to be at
odds with the Church. There was something that worried me far more, however, and
that was the rage generated in the sheriffs, most of whom had been appointed by
King Henry and had long ruled the shires under Salisbury's administration. I had a
taste of it once or twice as the army moved about the country and I was sent with
messages. If they would no longer serve the king faithfully, the whole government of
the realm would be shaken. I warned Stephen, but he only smiled and said he knew
how to manage that problem; he would appoint earls from among his own
supporters to oversee the sheriffs.
   In August the first overt reaction to the treatment of the bishops burst out. The
king was summoned by Henry of Winchester, acting as papal legate, to a council of
bishops that was to judge his actions. Stephen did not attend himself but sent
Aubery de Vere as his spokesman—Aubery de Vere and a crowd of bull-throated,
newly created earls. When they returned they were all very pleased with themselves
because the council had broken up in confusion with no decision.
   I heard Lord Gilbert Fitz Gilbert praising Vere's defense, which I myself found
convincing, I must admit. Vere claimed that the king had not interfered in any way
with the property or privilege of the Church; he had not deprived the bishops of their
power over their sees nor had he demanded that anything belonging to the Church be
delivered into his hands. Stephen's quarrel with the bishops had been reserved to
their activities as ministers of the Crown and their control of secular property, both
of which were rightfully the business of the king. What I liked much less was Hugh
de Beaumont's laughing comment that Vere's defense might have been masterly, but
what sent the bishops home with their tails between their legs were a few suggestions
as to what would happen to them and their precious churches if they voted against
the king or took their case to Rome without Stephen's permission.
  I think that was the final blow to any hope of peace in England. I am sure that
many appeals had been made to Empress Matilda and Robert of Gloucester to come
to England over the three years of Stephen's reign, particularly during the sporadic
rebellions of 1138, but they had not come to help their adherents. I am also sure that
there were many reasons for their lack of response, some of which had nothing to
do with England, but I think that one cause of their reluctance to commit themselves
was the nearly universal support for Stephen from the Church.
   King Henry had controlled the Church diplomatically, but also with an iron hand.
When Stephen came to the throne, English churchmen had held high expectations of
a gentler relationship with the Crown, with more freedom and opportunity to expand
their wealth and power. The fierce double blow the king had dealt them—taking two
of their most powerful number prisoner and sending his earls to threaten the whole
council—had changed that attitude.
   A second good reason, to my mind, for Matilda and Robert to delay their coming
was that they were waiting for Salisbury to tell them the time was ripe and he was
ready to support them. It seems to me that Salisbury's fall, taking from them all hope
of a quick and easy victory, rather than discouraging them, made them desperate.
They must have seen that Stephen would gain complete control of the country if they
did not act at once. While the fury of the bishops was still hot and Salisbury's
subordinates had not yet been replaced or fully controlled by Stephen's new earls,
there was still hope for them.
   The council that destroyed the bishops' hopes for a compromise ended on the
kalends of September; on the day before the kalends of October—in a month less a
day—Robert of Gloucester and King Henry's daughter Matilda arrived in England,
landing at Arundel by the invitation of William d'Aubigny and his wife Adelicia, who
by her earlier marriage to King Henry was Matilda's mother-by-law.



                              CHAPTER 20


  Melusine
   Queen Maud's mood had been so bad since the court in Oxford that when Bruno
told me Robert of Gloucester and Matilda had escaped the patrol ships and come
safely to port in Arundel, I nearly wept with despair. It was not so much that the
queen was unpleasant or unkind but that a gloom so dark hung over her that it
seemed an abomination to be happy oneself. So I felt split in two, because I was
happy. From the end of August, after the king had taken possession of the bishops'
castles, the queen had joined him and Bruno and I were together.
   The only small cloud in my personal sky was that I thought I might once have got
with child and lost the babe. I was not certain; I had only missed my flux by a few
days when we started a progress from Northhampton to Windsor, and it started on
the second day. I said nothing to Bruno—I am not sure why. He certainly never
reproached me for not conceiving, although he worked very, very hard at the activity
necessary to making a baby; on the other hand, I do not think that was his major
purpose. To be honest, it was not my major purpose. I had not been completely
overjoyed when my bleeding was late, and I felt more guilt than grief when it began
because I knew Bruno would have insisted on taking me to Jernaeve once he knew I
was with child. But the flux was not heavier than usual when it came, so perhaps I
had not conceived after all.
   It was a little shadow in my mind though, which made me more sensitive to the
queen's heavy heart—thus my despair when I heard news that I thought would make
her more sorrowful. To my amazement, the effect was quite different from what I
imagined. At first I did not notice much change in her, even when the king reacted
with his usual swiftness, gathering an army and marching south. Perhaps that was
because I felt so terrible myself; all the light seemed to have gone out of my life when
Bruno rode away. At least when the king and queen were together, we sometimes
met during the day, and Bruno was always so steady and practical that he lifted my
spirits. And we had our evenings and nights together to talk over the news and
gossip of our different portions of the court and to laugh and jest… and love.
   Then we had the news that Gloucester had escaped from Arundel, taking with him
the hundred and forty knights he had brought from Normandy and leaving his half
sister Matilda at Arundel, which the king promptly besieged. I wept—not because
Gloucester had escaped; I did not care a blown egg about Gloucester, but a siege
meant that Bruno might be away from me for months and months.
   It was then that the queen's mood changed. Not that Maud was happy, but it was
as if a blow she had been dreading had fallen, and the worst had not occurred. She
shook herself out of the heavy cloud that seemed to have deadened her feelings and
dulled her mind. Now her tears flowed. She wept over the danger her husband might
encounter if he decided to assault Arundel, but she did not let the tears interfere with
a spate of activity in which she made ready to summon more men to the king's aid
and to ascertain that supplies flowed in a steady stream toward the king's army. I
knew something of that because I wrote some of the orders. She never would have
trusted me to do that in the past, but Maud had softened toward me, especially after
she had found me weeping over the news of the siege. I had not told her my real
reason—she did not ask.
   I could have saved my tears.though. Before a week had passed, Bruno arrived
with a request that I return to Arundel with him to perform a service for the king.
  "What service?" Maud asked unbelievingly, and I fear I was standing with my
mouth open, so shocked that I could not even force out the same question.
  "Melusine knows Empress Matilda," Bruno replied.
  "Knows her?" Maud repeated, turning to look at me.
  "I was presented to her twice, but that was eight years ago. I was only fifteen."
  That was all I said, but I recalled that during the second of those meetings Matilda
had singled me out several times. Once she even sent a page for me, summoning me
by name to my intense disgust; there was no way to avoid the summons if she knew
my name. She had infuriated me thoroughly because by her august attention she had
deprived me of the opportunity of dancing and talking with friends whom I saw only
a few times a year. And there was not a thing in her conversation worth losing that
pleasure. She had nothing of interest to say; she did nothing but complain about the
crudity of English ways and the lack of manners and respect shown her in contrast
to the refined practices of the court of the Holy Roman Emperor— from which she
had been gone over five years.
   My fury made me dumb in her presence; in fact, I did not even dare raise my head
and look at her for fear she would see the contempt in my face, and I knew better
than to offend King Henry's daughter no matter what I thought of her. I can only
suppose that she took the silence and the bent head for awe and favored my
company for that reason. Some of the other ladies were not so careful as I, but most
of them were daughters or wives of men much more powerful than my papa. Also, I
knew that King Henry did not much trust papa, so it was more important for me not
to add insult to injury.
   My face must have shown that there was more than a simple presentation to
remember and Maud said, rather dryly, "For the daughter of a simple knight, and a
poor one too, you seem to have many friends in high places, Melusine."
   "I would not say I was Empress Matilda's friend," I answered equally dryly.
"There are few people in my part of the realm, madam, so there is never a great
crowd attending even the most important persons. Thus, each of those summoned
may be noticed more particularly. The empress thought me meek and talked at me,"
  Maud laughed. It was not a sound heard frequently these days, and I found, to
my surprise, that I was glad I had amused her.
  "Talked at you," she said. "Very good. That is a good description of Matilda's
conversation." Her eyes went back to Bruno. "But I do not see what service
Melusine could perform despite her acquaintance with Matilda."
  "I suppose she is to serve as a—a kind of hostage," Bruno replied.
   We both stared at him. "Ridiculous!" Maud exclaimed, and I agreed, my sense of
the inappropriateness of the idea temporarily overwhelming the hurt I felt that Bruno
would agree to use me in such a way. Hostages came from families of power who
could exert influence on the king to prevent him from violating whatever pledge the
hostages were surety for. There was no sense in taking a poor, powerless hostage.
But then Maud frowned and repeated, "Hostage? Is Arundel not besieged? Has there
been a battle? How could Matilda demand—"
   "I beg pardon, madam," Bruno interrupted, looking contrite. "I did not mean to
cause you any anxiety. The king is safe; the siege has not been broken; there has
been no battle. It is my fault for beginning the tale at the wrong end."
  The queen, who had started to rise from her chair, sank back and gestured to
Bruno to continue.
  "From the beginning then," he said, smiling faintly. "The advantage of strength is
all ours, so much so that she who was Queen Adelicia and her husband sorely repent
inviting Matilda to come to them."
  "I will make her very welcome here," Maud remarked with a grim smile.
  "Unfortunately their honor is too much engaged to give her up to imprisonment,"
Bruno said.
  "Did I speak of imprisonment?" Maud retorted. "She will be my guest, and I will
swear on whatever she desires to maintain her in greater luxury than my own until the
day she wishes to return to her husband and swears she will never set foot in
England again."
   Bruno smiled but shook his head. "You know that offer will not be accepted,
madam. The choice was only to assault Arundel keep at great cost with much loss of
blood—they cannot be starved out; it is impossible to surround the keep completely
because of the river—or to make an offer Aubigny and Adelicia could accept with
honor. The king himself wished to try assault and to encourage his barons offered to
lead the assault in person, but his advisors felt that would be too costly and too
dangerous."
  "Assault is too dangerous," Maud agreed quickly and emphatically, paling as she
spoke.
   Clever devil Bruno, I thought. I knew he had put in that little bit about the king
leading the assault just to frighten the queen. He had succeeded. Maud valued her
husband above ten kingdoms. She would agree to any proposal that would prevent
assault. But it troubled me that Bruno should use his cleverness against the queen,
and it reminded me how far he set his duty above my well-being that he would send
me as a hostage into enemy hands. Only just then his eyes flickered toward me, with
a glance that warned me he had more to say to me alone and enjoined me to silence.
Perhaps I should have been more hurt and angered by that silent command, but that
fleeting glance had been more like a sharing of trouble than an order, and I held my
tongue.
   "So it was decided," Bruno continued, acknowledging the queen's remark with a
nod, "although there was some difficulty in convincing the king, who was torn
between his desire to be merciful to his cousin and his wish not to appear weak
before his barons. However, by the consent of all, it was decided to send Empress
Matilda to her brother in Bristol."
   "But surely it is wrong to free her now that she is trapped in our grasp," Maud
cried, common sense conquering the fear she felt about Stephen engaging in war.
   "Perhaps, but to capture her would mean bloodshed, much bloodshed," Bruno
reminded her.
   The queen made a furious gesture. "Well, since you have promised her freedom,"
she said angrily, "what more does she want?"
    "A token of faith, madam," Bruno said, and before she could burst out into a
tirade of rage and frustration, he hurried on. "She desires a woman companion in
whom she believes she can trust, and after many ladies were considered, the bishop
of Winchester suggested Melusine; the king felt she would make a perfect envoy,
and the empress recalled her and found her acceptable."
   "And you agreed to this?" Maud asked. "You will let your wife be dragged to
Bristol in a crowd of enemies with Matilda as her sole female companion. Well, you
do not know Matilda, but she—"
   "Forgive me for interrupting you again, madam, but I fear you do not understand
the whole conditions. Naturally the king, having the upper hand, would not permit
Aubigny to escort the empress. That is why a lady companion was deemed
necessary. It was decided that Lord Waleran and the bishop of Winchester will
escort the empress."
   "Waleran and Henry—" the queen began with a quick intake of breath, but then
she added, very quickly, as if she hoped to overlay her first words in our memories,
"I still think it not safe for Melusine. I am afraid that—"
   "I will escort my wife, madam," Bruno said, his mouth grim. "I would agree on no
other terms. If Melusine could have joined the bishop of Winchester's people… but
that was impossible. I am aware of Empress Matilda's reputation although I do not
know her in person, and I would not endure that Melusine be Matilda's plaything or
the butt of her jests."
   The queen asked some further questions to which I paid little attention. A great
joy had burst over me when Bruno said he would go with me, and I no longer cared
much who else would be in our company. I already knew Matilda to be an arrogant
fool, and an arrogant fool stripped of her power, so I did not fear her at all. If all she
desired of me was silent attention with a meek little "Yes, my lady," at each pause, I
would provide that gladly to keep her happy; but if she thought she could take any
liberties with my person, she would soon learn her judgement of me as a meek pet
bitch was mistaken.
   At a pause in the conversation, I came forward and bowed and asked, "My
accounts, madam, to whom should I give them? And should they be proved before I
leave?"
  "Do you not expect to return?" Maud asked.
   "Of course I do, madam," I replied, smiling. "Otherwise, why should I care that
the accounts be proved? If I take them up again after some mistake or dishonesty is
recorded, how could I prove that mistake or dishonesty was not mine?"
   "I assure you, Melusine," the queen said, chuckling, "that I would never think any
dishonesty or mistake yours. A dishonesty in goods or money would be impossible,
and any mistake you made would have my seal or my name writ beside it. Still, you
may do as you did in the beginning. Rule a line below your last entry, sign it, and
bring it to me and I will set my seal there so anything writ after the rule will be
another's work."
  I do not really remember the rest of that day. Although he had concealed it in the
queen's presence, Bruno was nearly crazy with impatience to leave. He made me
leave my chest and bundle all my court gowns and toilet necessities into a blanket,
which was strapped behind Cormi's horse; Edna was to ride pillion behind Merwyn
and Fechin in turn; and we set off in the late afternoon at a pace which soon became
unsafe in the gathering dusk. We rode until we could not see, then rested until the
moon rose and rode on. I am a strong rider, but I found myself swaying in my
saddle more than once, and after a time I heard one of the men telling Bruno that he
thought the girl must be allowed to rest.
   "She must endure until we come to Steyning," Bruno said. "Tie her to the horse if
you must." He turned to look at me. "Do you want to ride before me so you can
sleep, Melusine?"
   I made myself laugh, although I was ready to weep with weariness. "Do not be a
fool. I am no feather like Edna. Barbe will founder if you add my weight to yours.
Besides, it is not so much my eyes that are tired as a certain other part, and
exchanging your saddle for mine will not mend that."
   "You are a treasure, Melusine," Bruno muttered, leaning from Barbe to kiss me. "I
will explain when we get to Steyning. There is a chamber awaiting us there."
  "At this time of night?"
  "Yes. I told them I would be late."
   He must have paid them thrice or more too, because the house was all alight,
though it was near to midnight. A man came hurrying to take the horses with a boy
behind him to help him curry and feed them. Another man urged the men within the
lower floor, and a woman showed us the way to the solar, where a warm pie and
mulled wine were set on a table in the chamber as we entered the door. The woman
curtsied deeply and withdrew and the girl followed her.
  "Royal service, Bruno?" I asked, smiling. "Is this to accustom me to life with
Matilda?"
  "I wish it were, but I think it more likely you will play the girl who curtsies and
goes out."
   "So much the better." I laughed. "I will prefer your company to hers—and that is
no great flattery, so do not begin to preen yourself." He stretched and yawned, and I
could see a greyness under the dark tone of his skin. "You look very tired. Come, sit
and eat, if you will, or go to bed at once. Shall I help you undress?"
   He touched my face. "You are my life and my joy, Melusine. I did not know that
there were two such women in the world as you and Audris, never complaining and
always kind. I must eat. I have had nothing since dawn, when I set out, but even my
jaws are tired."
    I turned away and made myself busy at the table, pouring the wine into cups and
setting pieces of the meat pie on trenchers of bread. "I hope your tongue is not as
tired as your jaws because you will hear complaints very soon if you do not tell me
why we need to hurry so fast.''
  "I did not lie to the queen." He sighed, lowered himself to the bench by the table,
and drank off the wine. I filled the cup again and sat beside him. "But I did not tell
her all the truth either."
  "I guessed that much," I told him, breaking off a piece of the pie and beginning to
chew.
     "There really was no question of assault," he said. His eyes were on the food, but
I do not think he recognized it for what it was. I broke off another piece of the pie
and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, not as if he were tired but as if he had
little appetite. "The king is very angry. He wishes to fight, not to do Matilda harm; he
would only send her back to Anjou if he took her prisoner. But he is bitter against
Aubigny, and he thinks Winchester proposed freeing Matilda because of spite. It is
true that Winchester was deeply hurt by being passed over for archbishop of
Canterbury and also felt Stephen was wrong in his harsh treatment of Salisbury and
his kin—in that there may be some private concern, for Winchester has built and
fortified more keeps than Salisbury—"
   "Never mind all the past causes," I broke in. "I can guess that Winchester is the
one who proposed that Matilda should be sent to Bristol rather than being taken
prisoner, and I can guess also that there have been some voices whispering
treachery. What I want to know is now the matter is decided, what difference could
a day or two make? Why have we nearly killed our horses to get here a day sooner?"
   "Not by order," Bruno said, staring ahead at the small fire. "The king—Stephen
always sees the sun shining, but I see the black clouds all around. There is an ugly
feeling in the camp, Melusine. Half the men, or more, who answered the king's
summons were connected in some way with Salisbury or owed him favors. I think
they are wondering when Stephen will turn on them. I think many are beginning to
ask themselves whether they were forsworn when they did homage to Stephen. I
wonder, if Stephen had been a little slower in coming here in force, whether some or
many of those now in his army would have risen in revolt to follow Matilda. I do not
know whether Winchester's reasons for proposing this solution to being rid of
Matilda are the same as mine, but I feel that an assault would more likely begin a war
among the men supposedly supporting the king than take Arundel. I want Matilda
away from these people."
   I put my hand on his and with my other put another piece of pie into his mouth. "I
cannot see why," I said, opening my eyes wide to achieve a look of innocence. "I
think you should better encourage them to go to her, not try to prevent it." And
when he turned outraged eyes on me, his mouth being too full to allow speech, I
laughed. "They would be back behind Stephen in a week, and they would never
waver again. One taste of Matilda is usually enough. I know you have great and
important reasons for the different things Robert of Gloucester has done—why, for
example, he did not cry defiance at once after he was nearly ambushed by—oh, I do
not remember his name—''
  "William of Ypres."
  I waved a hand to dismiss the name, which was not important, and presented
another piece of pie, which Bruno accepted, grinning, because he had already
guessed what I was about to say.
   "Yes, well the reason was, simply, that Robert could not stand Matilda either. It is
a good reason for him to go ahead and leave her here too."
   Bruno contemplated that while he chewed, not seriously —I had not offered the
notions seriously, only as an amusing fantasy in which there was just enough of a
shred of truth to lighten the moment. We both knew that Matilda had stayed behind
because she hoped to rouse the barons in the area to rebellion. Whether that would
have happened, we would never know because Stephen had arrived too quickly with
a show of force that pushed waverers to his side.
   "Yes, well." He drank most of the second cup of wine and sighed, the smile I had
brought to his eyes disappearing. "That is the cause of my haste. I agree with the
bishop of Winchester that Matilda can do little harm—" briefly his smile returned,
"—and if you are right about her effect on people, perhaps she can even do our
cause some good, once she is confined to Bristol. That city and the whole shire have
been steadily rebel from the beginning. To my mind, the quicker she is gone, the
more it will seem she fled from the king's strength."
   Others had come to the same conclusion, it seemed, because we wasted no time
after arriving at the king's camp outside Arundel. Even Stephen seemed caught up in
the need to remove Matilda from her present place as quickly as possible, for he
spent no more time than to ask if I were willing and to hear me say I was, so long as
Bruno accompanied me, before he sent us off to Arundel.
   Despite my calm words and manner, I was not easy as Bruno and I rode alone to
the keep. All that protected us was our insignificance; Aubigny knew that our fate
could not influence the king in any way so it was useless to hurt or kill us—at least I
hoped he knew. That could be why I had been chosen rather than a lady of more
consequence.
   When we approached the keep, the drawbridge came down and a large party of
men thundered across. I gasped with alarm, but Bruno seized my rein and said, "Do
not be frightened, Melusine. They will do us no harm. They are only taking
precautions that our coming cannot be used as a cover for an attack. See, they have
stopped. Now they will part to let us through."
   Everything happened as he said, but I did not like it when we were followed
closely across the bridge, and I felt stifled—which was ridiculous, since we were in
the open space of the outer bailey—when the bridge rose again, sealing us inside.
We were, however, civilly greeted and asked with courtesy to follow the captain of
the troop to the inner bailey and the keep itself.
  "The empress is much concerned that this offer is only a trap," the captain said.
   I looked at him in some surprise, since troop captains did not usually discuss the
affairs of important guests. He was a large man with a broad, fair face—what I could
see of it around the nasal of his helmet—and worried blue eyes.
  "It is no trap, my lord," Bruno replied.
   I realized then that this must be William d'Aubigny himself, and I thought, from
his expression, that he was just as eager to be rid of Matilda as the king. That made
me feel somewhat more confident.
   "King Stephen," Bruno went on, "desires no harm to come to his cousin. Even
should worse come to worst and it be necessary to assault Arundel, Matilda has
nothing to fear—you may assure her. In that case she would still have her choice, to
go in honor and safety to Bristol or to be taken to France or Anjou, whichever she
wishes."
   I nearly squeaked with surprise, thinking that if the empress were taken as a prize
of war Stephen could not be so foolish as to release her, and if Aubigny had not
been staring fixedly at Bruno, I might have ruined the impact of Bruno's remark. In
the next moment I realized my husband was being clever again. He had deliberately
omitted any assurance of pardon for Aubigny, who was looking more grim by the
moment. Clever Bruno; Aubigny would now do all in his power to be rid of a guest
who was about to bring destruction on him and escape scot-free.
  "I do not think it would be wise to tell her that," Aubigny said, "not if the king
wants her to go. Here she could be a cause of unrest among his vassals."
  "It might be so," Bruno answered indifferently, "but it would be of little account.
The queen has already dispatched orders for her ships to bring more mercenaries,
and then to lie at anchor to prevent reinforcements from reaching you by sea."
   I did not know whether this was the truth; likely it was what Bruno and the queen
had been talking about while I was thinking only of how glad I was that Bruno would
come with me. I saw, however, that the pleasant, calm manner in which Bruno made
these statements added greatly to Aubigny's discomfort. He said no more while we
crossed the inner drawbridge and dismounted in the courtyard. I looked up at the
keep with a distaste that was growing stronger and stronger. I did not wish to be
shut up in there with Empress Matilda, and I carefully ran over in my mind what I
had heard and what of it I could use to convince her to go. She would not care
about the harm that could come to her hosts, of that I was sure, but perhaps I could
use Stephen's promise not to harm her in a different way.
   It was just as well that I had given my thoughts to my new duty on our way in
because as soon as I was brought to Matilda and had curtsied to the ground, she
rose from the chair on which she was sitting and said, "You may rise, Lady
Melusine, and come with me. I wish to speak to you in private."
  "But madam," Aubigny cried, "it is almost time for dinner."
   And Lady Adelicia, who had also got up from a stool to the left of the chair,
cried, "Matilda, let us allow Lady Melusine to take off her cloak and brush away the
dust before we begin to question her."
   Matilda did not even glance at Adelicia. She raised her brows and uttered a thin,
high laugh. "To give you time to tell her what to say, my dear William?" I had to
swallow hard not to laugh myself at Aubigny's expression. He was remembering, f
suppose, what I must have heard while he talked to Bruno, ignoring me as if I had no
existence—as, indeed, women ordinarily did not in any talk of war and politics.
   "Oh, no," Matilda continued, her voice as sharp as her features, "I intend to hear
what she has to say before she has been made to repeat it ten times over so it comes
easily from the tongue. She may have been instructed in the king's camp—that I
expect—"
   The dislike I had cherished for years was renewed with new force as the empress
called me "she," as if I had no name, no being except to fulfill her purposes. "I beg
your pardon, madam," I interrupted in a faint, frightened-—at least I hoped I
sounded frightened—whisper. "I swear the king said no more to me than to ask if I
were willing to come to you and to hear me reply that I was willing."
  "And no one else instructed you what to say?"
   I let my eyes slip to Bruno, then pulled them back to her. "No, madam. There was
no time for—for instruction. We came from Rochester yesterday forenoon."
  "Not one word about this situation or what you were being brought for?"
   I shook my head. She did not believe me, I could see that. Again I glanced swiftly
at Bruno and away. I hoped she would think I was afraid of him. "Oh, yes, Sir
Bruno—my husband, you know—told me that I had been asked to be your lady on
a journey if I were willing, and of course, I was."
    She smiled at that, a little softened by believing I was eager to renew the joys with
which she had filled me the last time we met. I think the troubled look Bruno gave
me, the mingled fury and anxiety on Aubigny's face, and the fear in Lady Adelicia's
all helped confirm the idea that I was guileless and could be squeezed free of all
information I had once I was alone, away from dumb-show signs to threaten and
curb me.
   I followed where she led, which was up the stairs and into what I was sure was
her host's bedchamber. There she signed for the maids to leave and then at me to
close the door behind them. She sat in a chair—I guessed it was Lady Adelicia's
chair carried up from below, for there I had seen only one high seat. Since the lands
were Adelicia's, willed to her on King Henry's death, there should have been two.
Yes, I was right. I remembered there was a stool to the right of her chair as well as
from the one which Adelicia had risen. So Matilda insisted her mother-by-law sit on
a stool even though she had been a queen, and Adelicia got her revenge by
addressing her as "Matilda," without any title, as if she were a child. Not a happy
household. I grinned at the door before I turned around, thinking of the rage
Aubigny and Adelicia must feel at her ingratitude.
   She treated me no better, seating herself and at once demanding that I tell her
everything I had heard and seen from the time I was fetched. She must have known it
would be a long history, but she did not ask if I wished to take off my cloak or
whether I had ridden far to come to her, nor did she offer me a cup of wine or invite
me to sit on the stool near her chair to tell the story as Queen Maud would have
done. Since I had decided to play the role Matilda seemed to have envisioned for
me—the poor knight's daughter who had cherished for years the glow lit in her heart
by the empress's condescension—I did not plop down on the seat without her
permission, as I would have liked. Instead, I began my tale, only emphasizing
Maud's protest at letting a netted fish escape.
   Matilda told me angrily that she was not a netted fish and that if she remained the
whole shire would soon rise to support her. I did not deny this, although I heard fear
in the strident tone of her voice and knew I could play on it. But the fear woke a
thread of sympathy in me, and I hoped for a moment that I could bring her to see
that it would be best for her as well as best for the king if she accepted his offer to
be taken to Bristol. So I told her more gently than I had intended what I had heard
Bruno say about the mercenaries and Queen Maud's ships.
   "Then let them bring down Arundel," she cried, her voice even more strident with
what I now recognized was fury, not fear, because her face blazed red with rage and
fear is a pale, cold thing.
     Later I learned that Matilda's one great virtue was her courage; whether or not she
felt fear I do not know, but she never showed it, and if she saw any chance to win
what she desired, I believe she would face down the devil—or God—without
blenching. At the time I had no way of knowing this. All I knew was that she would
be safe no matter what happened to everyone else in Arundel— that she did not
know it and did not believe Stephen's promises did not occur to me. Thus, all I
could recognize in her cry of defiance was a gross selfishness that destroyed what
little sympathy had touched me, and I determined to use any weapon I had to get her
to leave. The first was to paint her humiliation when Arundel fell.
  "Oh, madam," I whispered, covering my face with my hands, "what a shame that
would be, to see you dragged out of the rubble and driven away like a stray dog. I
could not bear it."
   That touched her. She jumped to her feet and turned on me so enraged that I
thought she would strike me. I stepped back and that seemed to remind her I was an
envoy, not a servant girl.
   "What choice have I?" she spat. "I know they are all lying. I have been sold like a
slave. If I go now, my dear cousin Stephen will cast me into prison."
  "No, madam!" I exclaimed. "I am sure it is not so because the queen—"
  "I am the queen!" Matilda shrieked.
   "Yes, madam." I curtsied and bent my head, chagrined to have made so stupid a
mistake. "Forgive me," I begged, most sincerely because I could not manage her if I
offended her. "I meant Stephen's wife. But I am sure you are to be taken safely to
Bristol. Why else should Maud be so furious? At first she would not listen to the
plan and called the bishop of Winchester a traitor for offering it. She could not stop
my husband from bringing me, but I fear she will write to Stephen opposing your
release. Perhaps the king, who is the kindest of men as you know, madam, wishes
you gone to Bristol so that you will be saved the humiliation of bowing to Maud and
calling her madam."
  That bit hard too. Matilda was a very handsome woman, with a proud stance and
a good figure. To see herself bowing to homely, dumpy Maud must have cut like a
sword slash. "Why should I believe you?" she snarled at me, again raising a hand as
if to strike. "You are one of Maud's ladies now and fawn on her just as you do on
me, no doubt."
   "No, I do not!" I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing after that indignant
remark burst out. It was not only true but implied I feared and respected Matilda
more than I did Maud without needing to say so and lie. In addition it led naturally to
an explanation of why I was Maud's lady if, as I hoped Matilda believed, my heart
was Matilda's. "I have been as much Maud's prisoner as her lady," I said—and it
was perfectly true in the past as I put it. "My father and brother died fighting against
Stephen, and my lands were taken from me."
   "Oh." She thought that over without a word of sympathy for my losses, staring at
me with an eye that only weighed and measured me to see what my adherence to her
would be worth, and then nodded. "You have a good reason to want me to go free
and I will give you another. I tell you now, sooner or later I will take the throne—or
my son will. Stephen is a fool. He does not know how to rule. If you have told me
the truth, I will give back to you some part of the lands Stephen has reft from you. If
you warn me now that this is a trap, I will give them all back."
   "You tempt me to lie to you, madam," I said very low, "but you would find me
out. There is no trap. You will reach Bristol soon and safely."



                               CHAPTER 21


  Bruno
   I can only thank God that the weather that October was no exception to the
general rule. The dry, bright days were a benefit and permitted us to advance swiftly
toward Bristol. I must say also that despite her arrogant manners the empress did not
slow us down. She rode as hard and fast as any man, and the only thing she did not
complain about was the distance we covered. Perhaps she was afraid Stephen would
change his mind. It was no secret that his army was following our track west.
   Aside from that, Empress Matilda was all empress, at least to me. Waleran had
appointed me to be in charge of lodging and victualling—I think out of spite,
although the reason he gave me seemed logical. He said he would not trust the task
to any of Winchester's men, who might deliberately place us where we might be
betrayed to Matilda's supporters, and on the other hand, Winchester would
undoubtedly protest if he appointed any of his own people. There was just enough
truth in that, added to the fact that I had no other duties, to keep me from refusing;
however, I knew the "honor" would expose me to Matilda's wrath.
  There was some justification for her complaints about the lodgings. I did not dare
arrange for her reception in places that would have been usual for a queen, like the
great abbey hospices, where I feared she might flee into the church, claim sanctuary,
and wait for her brother to bring an army to rescue her. Nor did I dare stop in the
keep of any great independent vassal; I had no idea any longer which of them might
cast us into the lowest floor of the donjon—or cut our throats—to please Matilda,
and the loyalty of any man grew more suspect the farther west we rode. Thus we
were confined to those few keeps held for the king by men of unimpeachable loyalty
or to those small places that would not dare challenge the might of the army that
moved west a few days behind us.
    I never replied to her tirades on that subject; if she had the brain of a pea she
would have understood why I chose the places I did, and Melusine agreed with me
that Matilda was stupid. Not that there was anything wrong with her ability to learn;
she could read and write, which was a feat far beyond any ordinary woman. It was
more as if she would not understand anything that did not fit into life as she planned
it, as if she could not look ahead and see any outcome to a plan that she had not
arranged—until disaster struck.
    Matilda was a very strange woman. She never said please or thank you; she
ordered Melusine to tell me nothing of what she said to the bishop of Winchester or
Waleran—and she never seemed to realize that an order delivered in her overbearing
manner was sure to inspire just the opposite of what she desired in any normal
gentleman or gentlewoman. Had she forgotten that Melusine was not her servant and
there was no way she could hurt her? Or did she believe the greatness of her station
awed all into instant obedience? I suspect there were some things Melusine did not
tell me; I am sure, for example, that Matilda had said she would return Melusine's
lands to her when she was queen, but by then I do not think Melusine would have
wanted Matilda as queen, even to get back her lands.
   The empress gave me orders too, most often to beat servants who had not
responded quickly enough to her wishes or had not anticipated them. Usually I
simply drove the servant out of the chamber, which seemed to satisfy her without
doing the servant any harm. If poor Edna had been whipped each time Matilda
ordered it, the girl would not have had a sound place on her body.
   Once, however, the empress went too far and ordered me to burn a shop where a
merchant had refused her a bolt of cloth without payment. Naturally the man then
offered the cloth, but I would not take it nor burn the shop, and I told Matilda that
King Stephen did not permit his subjects to be defrauded. She simply raised her
voice to overpower mine, not seeming to hear me when I said I was not her servant
and would do what I believed was my duty to my master, King Stephen.
   That time I thought I would come into conflict with Waleran, who arrived in
response to Matilda's high-pitched commands. I think he would have agreed to burn
out the merchant, but he saw my hand on my sword hilt and instead threw a handful
of coin at the man and gestured one of his men to take the cloth. Waleran de Meulan
was not afraid of me, although I think I could have won a man to man battle, but
there were too many witnesses. Waleran would not have wanted the king to hear of
his acquiescence to Matilda's demands, which would have disgusted Stephen or,
worse, perhaps made the king suspicious.
    I do not think Waleran was tempted by the empress's offers—not then, although
it was those veiled temptations to treachery that Matilda forbade Melusine to mention
to me, as if I would not have guessed without telling that Matilda was wooing both
Waleran and the bishop of Winchester. I never gave the matter much thought
because I could not conceive that any man in his right mind who had spent a week in
Matilda's company could believe for a minute that she could rule. I do not blame
myself for not reporting her long conversations with her escorts to Stephen; he
would, as I did, have assumed such talk could bear no fruit. Moreover, Matilda must
have given Waleran one order too many, for he turned back to join Stephen's army
when we reached Calne, leaving Winchester and myself to finish the journey with
her.
   In one way that made matters easier, removing any chance of another open
confrontation, but I did not want Matilda to complain too bitterly to Winchester
about my behavior. Thus, most of my attention was given to getting around the
empress's unreasonable demands without angering her more than necessary. I do not
think I could have succeeded without Melusine, who most often interposed herself
between us by carrying Matilda's orders to me. I fear I would have lost my temper
and taken that idiot woman over my knee, which she surely deserved, but Stephen
could not have overlooked such an offense against his cousin's high birth. And
Melusine and I had our nights together, for another order Matilda gave Melusine that
she would not obey was to forsake my bed and sleep in her chamber to serve her
during the night. Abed Melusine turned all Matilda's tantrums into subjects of
laughter.
    That made it possible for me to face each new day, but I have never been more
relieved than when, about midway between Bath and Bristol, we met Robert of
Gloucester by arrangement and handed Matilda over to him. As soon as his force
was in sight, she ordered Melusine to come with her. I do not know why I seized
Vinaigre's rein and held her back. Melusine looked at me most strangely, but she
made no protest, and Matilda rode ahead with the bishop of Winchester without a
backward glance. I do not think she realized Melusine had not obeyed her until the
groups were separating. Then I heard her voice raised although, shrill as it was, I
could not make out the words. I saw Gloucester look toward us, and laid my hand
on my sword. He sent a man after the bishop of Winchester, who also looked
toward us as he answered, but the man rode back to Gloucester. I saw Earl Robert
shake his head at his sister and then turn his horse back toward Bristol though
Matilda had not moved and I could still hear her voice.
   The men Gloucester had brought moved out into the road to fall in around her,
casting long shadows that reached toward us. I almost backed Barbe to avoid the
touch of those dark fingers. That was foolish; shadows could do no harm, as
Matilda herself was no threat. But Matilda's claim to the throne with Robert of
Gloucester to control her was another matter entirely. I saw the shadows touch the
bishop of Winchester, who was watching the group move away—Matilda was now
either silent or speaking quietly and was riding beside her brother—and I wondered
how many more slights Winchester would endure from Stephen, brothers though
they were. For a moment I thought the bishop was about to ride after Gloucester,
but he turned back and came toward us.
   "Lady Melusine, did you tell Empress Matilda that you wished to be her lady?" he
asked when he reached us. "She seemed convinced that you wished to leave Sir
Bruno."
   "I do not know how she can have thought that, my lord," Melusine replied calmly,
although her voice sounded strange to me. "She knew I would not take night service
because I wished to be with my husband. I may have said I was glad to be able to
serve her. I could not with civility say other than that."
   "Yes, yes, of course," the bishop said, but rather absently, as if his mind was
elsewhere. "Well, then, let us return to Bath," he added more briskly after a moment,
"and decide whether we will continue on together."
   There was no question in my mind but that my duty was to join the king at once,
since he was in action in the field, and of course I could not take Melusine with me. I
told Winchester that if I had to, I would send her east with my three men and Edna,
but I was relieved and grateful when Winchester said he would take her to the queen.
I thought Melusine would also be pleased; however, when we were alone in our
quarters, she unleashed a blast of fury that made no sense to me. For the first time in
our marriage, she would not listen, although I explained until I was hoarse that when
the king was fighting, my place was at his side, not escorting my wife about the
country. At last, unable to think what else to say, I assured her that she would be
perfectly safe with Winchester—at which point she slapped my face and I stormed
out and slept in the stable loft.
   We parted only a shade more civilly. When I lifted her to her saddle, I said one
more time, "I am sorry not to be able to take you myself, Melusine," and she replied,
"Do not trouble yourself, I understand very well," and turned Vinaigre toward the
bishop of Winchester's mount. I cursed Empress Matilda all the way from Bath to
Wallingford, where I joined the king. Perhaps it was unjust to blame the empress for
my quarrel with Melusine, but I had never known my wife to be unreasonable before.
It was as if a poison flowed out of Matilda and fouled everyone who came near her.
   I was in the mood to kill when I rode into the king's camp, but there was no
action at Wallingford. Stephen had tried some feints, but the keep was plainly too
strong to take by assault without great loss. When I arrived the army was engaged in
building two small wooden keeps at no great distance from Wallingford from which
Stephen's men could prevent Gloucester's vassal from dominating the area. That did
not improve my mood. Had I known, I could have escorted Melusine to the queen. I
did not endear myself to anyone over the week it took to make the little keeps
defensible, but the work went faster when anyone saw me.
   Fortunately, as we marched west toward Bristol, which only meant another siege
that would give me no relief, a keen-witted captain of a troop of foragers brought
word that the enemy-held keep at Cerney was ill guarded. We were upon the place
that very night, and the next day took it by storm. I had killing enough that day, for I
was first up a scaling ladder, and I had three—one through the throat, one through
the belly, and a third over the wall after I lopped off a hand—before I got onto the
walkway. I did not count the full total, but Stephen awarded me an extra share in the
loot so I must have made a mark during the assault. After that day's work, I felt
somewhat better, and two days later I felt even more cheerful, seeing the prospect of
more fighting when a deputation from the town of Malmesbury came and begged
Stephen to rid them of the tyrant who had taken Malmesbury keep by a mean trick.
   Stephen had heard the keep had fallen into the hands of Robert Fitz Hubert, but
he had done nothing because the man was kin to William of Ypres. However, on
hearing of the abominations Fitz Hubert had inflicted on the town and the
surrounding countryside, even Ypres was disgusted and had not a word to say in the
defense of his kinsman. He did not protest when the king garrisoned Cerney and
changed the direction of his march from southwest to northwest, but that did me no
good. I was foiled of the chance to relieve the fury that tore at me because, the town
having opened its gates to the king, Fitz Hubert cravenly yielded the keep without a
blow being struck.
   In deference to Ypres, Fitz Hubert was allowed to go free and all—except me,
and I knew I was in the wrong— rejoiced that so strong a place and one so near
rebel strongholds had fallen into the king's hands undamaged. There was a bright
feeling of confidence in the councils called to determine where next to strike. I
stayed apart as much as I could and held my tongue, for I felt like a black crow
ready to caw disaster.
   I know that one man's black mood cannot call down ill upon others. Often
enough bad news came when I was in the best of spirits, but I could not shake off a
feeling of guilt when trouble struck. The king, having taken the advice of the other
leaders of the army, had determined to take Trowbridge. This, with Malmesbury and
Cerney, would give us a half circle of strongholds from which powerful attacks
could be launched at Bristol. Moreover, taking Trowbridge would be a sharp stroke
against Miles of Gloucester—an ungrateful devil who had declared for the empress
as soon as she landed despite the favors Stephen had done him—because it was
held by Humphery de Bohun, Miles's son-by-marriage. We were camped within a
few miles of the place considering when and how to attack when a few ragged and
bloody men arrived with the news that Miles had marched a large force, almost as
strong as Stephen's army, around our rear, had attacked and demolished the keeps
the king had built to control Wallingford, and threatened to attack London.
   I was on duty in the king's tent, and I saw the sudden bleakness in the faces of
every man there. William of Ypres's lips thinned to nothing; Waleran snarled an
obscenity; Geoffrey de Mandeville looked down at the ground with a face turned to
stone. Although I was no great leader, I had been in the king's service long enough to
understand that it was not the setback of the destroyed strongholds or the loss of
men that troubled Stephen's vassals. Had it been the men of Wallingford and local
supporters who inflicted the defeat, the king's men would have been angered and
annoyed but not deeply disturbed.
   What struck them so hard was that Miles had been able to march an army halfway
across England without a word of warning from the shires through which he had
passed.
    That could not have happened in King Henry's time. Any knight through whose
territory so large a force passed— even if it did no harm—would have sent
messengers to the sheriff, who would have sent the news to the king at once. Indeed,
the reason that Stephen had been able to quash the rebellions of 1138 and move so
quickly that one rebel could bring no help to another was because he had just such
warnings from the sheriffs and often from the bishops who held sees in those places
and had news from a local priest that a baron was arming and buying men. But that
was before Stephen had struck at Salisbury; now both Church and sheriffs were
silent.
   Only Stephen was not downhearted. He ordered the army to march east
immediately, for London must be protected at all costs. He was sorry to miss the
opportunity to take Trowbridge and then strike directly at the source of Goucester's
strength; however, he pointed out to his glum council, the situation was not all bad.
If Miles was marching toward London, he had no stronghold east of Walling-ford.
He could be caught in the open, forced into battle, and utterly destroyed.
   There was no answering light in the vassals' eyes nor did my heart lift. The same
lack of support that had permitted Miles to march east in secret could easily prevent
the king's army from coming close enough to force a battle. Stephen was not
unaware of this. He sent riders out both to the sheriffs and to spy out the
country—only Miles was not marching on London. That news had been false. While
we searched to the east, riding all the way to London, Miles of Gloucester had
circled around us again well to the north and sacked Worcester.
   Waleran was beside himself, for he had been made earl of Worcester and had no
warning from his own sheriff. I was as angry as he, but for a far different reason.
The king had sent a messenger to bring the queen to London, but she had not yet
come when we had the news of the attack on Worcester, so I missed seeing
Melusine and any chance of making peace with her before we went west again—to
no purpose; Miles was gone, safe behind the high walls of Gloucester. Stephen took
some small revenge by assaulting and capturing the little keep at Sudeley, but I think
he might have followed Miles and attacked Gloucester, despite the danger of
ourselves being struck from the rear by forces from Bristol, had not news come of
the death of the bishop of Salisbury on 11 December.
   Leaving a strong garrison at Sudeley and a substantial force at Worcester with
Waleran, the king moved swiftly to Salisbury to secure the see. To my great joy,
Stephen sent messengers ahead to the queen and she arrived in good time to keep
Christmas with us. For others it may have been a sad time; few came to Stephen's
court that season. But for me, light returned to my life. It was not the same light;
there were shadows it did not reach and a flickering that made it unsteady, but I did
not see that at first. It was light, and there was warmth in it. After more than a month
of total darkness, it was so bright to me that I was blinded.
   I am not certain to what I owed Melusine's forgiveness— not that I felt she had
anything to forgive; as I had told her twenty times over when I left her in the care of
the bishop of Winchester, I was only doing my duty to the king. However, I was not
such an idiot as to mention our parting, and neither did she. Perhaps she had
reconsidered her unreasonable anger and realized that I was right, but long
acquaintance with Audris's humors told me that was unlikely. Probably the fact that I
was limping had more to do with the softness of her greeting than any acceptance of
the concept that my service to the king must precede my attention to her as long as
she was in no danger.
   The king did not ride out to meet the queen because he, and all of us who had
come to his court, was attending the funeral services of the bishop of Salisbury. We
had already been standing in the church for an hour when a messenger sidled
discreetly up to Stephen and whispered that Queen Maud's cortege was in sight. The
king's face lit with eagerness, and he looked toward the door. To my shame, I found
I was praying he would leave instead of that he would stay, although I knew word of
such an outrage would spread like wildfire and do him harm. Geoffrey deMandeville
laid a hand on his arm, and Stephen turned back to the altar.
   Perhaps we should have walked out for in the end the seeming respect did no
good. Those priests kept us for three hours more—I am sure apurpose—and for all
I know would have gone on all day had not the king signalled Camville, who spoke
softly to the most elaborately robed priest, one whose paunch was visible under his
robes. He was not intoning prayers at the moment and I saw his face redden and his
eyes flick toward the king, but he brought the service to an end within the next
quarter of an hour.
   We found the queen and her ladies at the back of the church. Maud moved
forward to speak to the priests even before she greeted the king, and my heart nearly
stopped when I did not at first see Melusine. I thought she had not come just to
avoid me, or that she had even left the queen's service, which shows the state I was
in; the only place Melusine could have gone was to King David, and Maud would
never have permitted that. But that was only the depth of my fear making me stupid;
she was there, very near the door of the church so that when she offered her hand in
greeting, I was able to step outside and pull her into my arms to kiss. She did not
pull away, and I asked for no reasons.
  "You are hurt," she said softly, her voice shaking, when our lips parted.
    "Only by stupidity," I said, grinning like an idiot to see her anxious frown. "I
tripped when we entered Sudeley and hurt my foot."
   I did not bother to say that I had tripped over the king, who had lost his balance
climbing over the splintered logs of the palisade, and if not for the happy chance that
I had fallen backward, shield and sword uppermost, we would both have been dead.
Stephen managed to spit the man in front of him by thrusting up and catching him
between the legs, but I would never have been able to turn over in time to get the two
coming from the side. As it was I had only to sit up, and I hit the first in the groin
with my shield and caught the other with a blow that tore the sword from his hand
and cut his thigh to the bone. Actually my foot was not hurt by tripping. The second
man-at-arms I had wounded fell on my leg and must have broken one of the small
bones in my foot, but the action was so heated just then that I jumped up and walked
on the foot until the keep was secured. It was only then that I fell, and my boot had
to be cut off because my whole leg was swollen.
   Having already gained Melusine's sympathy, there was no need to describe any of
this. I had learned my lesson with Audris. What I thought amusing had turned Audris
pale and sick with terror. Let Melusine think I was just clumsy. She would tend my
foot and some other bruises I collected at the same time just as tenderly, and not be
set imagining all sorts of horrors that had not happened but might happen in the
future. I remembered, too, that her father and brother had died in battle and did not
wish to remind her of that.
  "If you hurt your foot," Melusine said sharply, but without releasing my hand,
"why have you been standing on it for hours? Do you think that will do it any
good?"
   "No," I answered meekly, "but I did not think of it at first, and once in the church
you know I could not leave while the service was going on. That would be looked
on as another deliberate offense I am sure. But it hurts, and I can ask to be excused
from duty for the rest of the day. Stephen will be with Maud and will not want me.
Will you ask leave from the queen to tend to me?"
  "Do we have lodging?" she asked.
   I could feel my face twist. "So few have come that you can pick whatever you
like, inside the bishop's palace or without, if you do not care for the chamber I have
chosen. I took what must have been one of Salisbury's clerk's rooms. They all fled,
you know, but we came too quickly for much to have been stolen. I could have
looked for a lodging outside—we would have been more comfortable I
suppose—but… but the palace was so empty… it echoed."
   Melusine stared up at me without speaking for a moment and then said softly, "I
did not realize things had come to so bad a state." I do not know what she read in
my face, but she looked down, away from me, then took my arm over her shoulder
and went on, quite briskly, "It is just as well, with your bad foot, that the chamber is
close by. Let us go there; then I will ask the queen if I may stay with you, and if she
gives permission, I will ask her to tell the king where you are. Then I will bring us
dinner to eat in our chamber."
   I opened my mouth to protest, but I saw that dark from which I had just emerged
closing in on me and I shut my mouth again. Every minute of the light was precious,
so I let Melusine help me to the room, which was in a wing of the palace given over
to cells for priests or clerks or I knew not what. It was a small room, but I had
collected two braziers and a good store of charcoal, so it was warm. There was no
bed—there had been a cot, but I had taken that out and replaced it with two fresh,
newly stuffed pallets. The blanket I used on the march was underneath to take up
most of the cold from the floor; a fresh blanket I only used when I was with
Melusine lay atop, and I knew she would have her own to add. I had collected two
stools also, and she pushed one of those close to the pallets so I would have a place
to rest my foot and bade me sit.
   I saw Melusine look about with pleasure, but when she turned to me, I would not
meet her eyes. She said nothing, so I do not know whether that meant anything to
her; she only dropped her cloak, unpinned mine, and helped me to sit down; then
she unbound the strips that held my boot together and slid it off. Finally she "tchkd"
and drew her cloak over my foot to keep it warm—and she touched my cheek as
she rose and went out.
   That touch was full of tenderness, but it only brought the dark closer. I was sure
that Melusine had hurried me into the privacy of our chamber to try to induce me to
leave the king—not to join the empress, Melusine was not a fool, but to seek the
neutral sanctuary of Jernaeve.
   That we would be safe there and not openly connected to either party was true.
Stephen had sent no summons for men to the northern shires. Although Prince
Henry was nominally his vassal and had given oath to send support if Stephen ever
needed it, the king was too wise to test that oath, specially since he did not need
men. His army was already larger than any that could be gathered by the rebels.
Thus, all that would be necessary to send us into safety—without loss of my
position as Knight of the Body and protected from any chance of open conflict with
King David or the empress—was an excuse to take Melusine north, and I could think
of several, the easiest being that she had discovered she was with child.
   Without loyalty to any person, except perhaps to me, Melusine would never
understand my refusal. She would feel that I was deliberately exposing her to danger,
and it would be useless for me to offer to send her to Jernaeve alone. If I fell with the
king, she could not hope to win back Ulle, for she had offended Empress Matilda by
not going with her. Worst of all, she would feel I did not return her loyalty, and her
rage would be far worse than when I would not take her to the queen myself.
   By the time Melusine returned, laden with two large baskets, I had reduced myself
to the condition of a child ridden by nightmare. And, of course, I had totally
underestimated her. It must, indeed, have been the strain of dealing with Matilda that
drove her into open fury when I crossed her in Bath. I should have remembered that
Melusine was used to managing eight headstrong men (not all at one time, of course,
but she had told me a great deal about her father and her brothers) and knew
perfectly well that confrontation was not the path to getting her own way.
  What she did was to kneel down beside me and say, "Are we so close to disaster,
Bruno? You look as if you had seen Armageddon."
  "Not for the realm," I answered, "but for me."
   "What do you mean?" she asked, looking astonished. "I know the king is not
angry with you, for by chance—I do not know this place and took a wrong turn and
came out right at the door of the king's chamber just as Stephen and Maud were
going in. So I told him your foot was all swollen and he was most concerned for
you."
   There was something in the way she spoke of the king and queen that sparked a
hope I had been a fool, and I laughed and took her face in my hands and said, "Oh,
I do not fear the king. He cannot bring my Armageddon. Only you can do that,
woman."
   I cannot swear she knew what I meant. I think her eyes widened with realization,
but perhaps she thought I was remembering our quarrel in Bath. Whatever she knew
she kept to herself, for she also laughed and said, "Well, I did not bring it in my
baskets. Shall I bind up your foot first, or shall we eat what I snatched from the
kitchen?"
   "I have a stronger appetite," I murmured, leaning forward and kissing her. "It is
too early for dinner, at least by half an hour, and it eases my foot to lie down."
   "And having nothing else to do in an idle half hour you choose to toy with me?
Lecher! The time will be as well spent tending your foot." She spoke sharply, but her
eyes laughed, and when she twisted free of my hold, it was to move the baskets
safely out of the way.
   "I do not believe in wasted motion," I said, snatching at her and catching her
around the buttocks without much effort; she did not try to escape. "Since you must
take off my chausses to see my foot, you might just as well attend to the other
swelling too."
   "Disgusting," she said haughtily, but her fingers were busy untying my shirt as
mine were undoing her laces. "You have had a bath," she murmured when we were
lying on the pallet.
   She had good reason to know, for she had been playing with me, kissing my belly
and thighs and Sir Jehan's red head too. And she laughed when I answered only with
groans, but there seemed to be red flecks in her dark eyes, like the red glints the
shaft of sunlight from the small window brought alight in her dark hair. And when I
seized her and pulled her atop me, her mouth was hot against mine and she was
ready.
  Later, when I could speak again, I said, "You do not need a bath. I love the
woman smell of you."
   She laughed and answered that I would not love it long if she did not bathe at all,
but I saw the way she was looking at my shoulder, where the rings of my mail had
cut through my arming tunic and into my skin under the pressure of a blow I did not
even remember. There were a number of other bruises on my body, and despite the
sweet sated feeling that filled me, I began to wish I had left our loving until the dim
light of a night candle would have concealed the marks.
  "That was a bad fall," Melusine said, frowning. "Were you drunk?"
   "No, it was on the palisade," I said, recalling what I had told her and delighted
that she seemed to accept it. "I fell against a broken part, and rolled down—well, it
may be that we had been celebrating our victory with a bit of wine. If you will let me
up," I added quickly, "I will show you something prettier than scrapes and
scratches." The less she thought about my story the better I would like it.
  "Beast," she remarked. "You think I am too big and heavy."
   "God, no!" I exclaimed. Then I laughed uneasily, remembering that I had thought
that at first. Had she felt it and said nothing until now? I hoped not, but the rack
would not make me admit it. I said what I knew would please—and it was true too,
"But if you do not let me up, I will have more swellings."
   "A threat or a promise?" she asked, but she slid off me and sat up, pulling the
blanket around her.
   I did not answer that, only reached under the top of my pallet and drew out a roll
of cloth, which I opened and set in her lap to show a headband of gold set with
pearls. To my surprise, she did not touch it, and her eyes went all black and dull.
  "You have been fighting," she said.
  "It is not loot," I assured her. "I bought it here. I will take you to the goldsmith—"
   She threw her arms around my neck then and hugged me. "Forgive me," she
cried. "I cannot bear to wear what was torn from some poor woman's grief."
   "No, dear heart," I soothed, "but I am glad you told me. You may be sure that I
will bring you no gifts that will burden your spirit."
   I did not say that the money I had used to buy the headband had been an
exchange for my share of the cattle in Sudeley, which I could not use because I had
no land. I had thought at the time of sending them to Jernaeve to be kept until Ulle
was ours, but in the black cloud in which I had been living then I had lost hope of
Ulle and did not think it worth the trouble to have the cattle driven all those miles
north. I did not regret that now, seeing the pleasure with which Melusine set the band
on her head and preened herself as I admired aloud how fine it looked against her
dark hair. But she was not truly vain, and in a moment she had taken it off, dropped
the blanket on me, and pulled on her clothing.
   After I sat up and laced her gown, she bound up my foot and helped me dress.
Then she laid out our dinner. At first we both ate with too much appetite to talk, but
when the first edge of hunger was dulled, she said, "Tell me how bad our state is in
the west."
   "Actually we have gained more than we have lost," I replied. "Stephen is a great
battle leader." I saw her hand hesitate in bringing a piece of bread to her mouth, and
I added hastily, "Even when he does not fight. Our trouble is not taking keeps nor
defeating our enemies, it is meeting them." And then I explained about the holding
back of information, if not open treachery, of the sheriffs and the bishops and that
because of that, even the yeomen and minor knights were afraid to support the king.
Before I had even finished Melusine was nodding her head.
   "You will not have that trouble in the south and east," she said. "The queen has
been busy." Then she sighed. "We have traveled and traveled and traveled. I think
we have been in every shire—and in every chartered town— from Durham to
Dover."
  "Every town?" I echoed. "But—"
  "Men!" she exclaimed. "You say burghers will not fight—"
  "I say nothing of the kind," I protested. "They will fight, but only to protect their
own town."
   "But you do not need men, you need news—and where does news come quicker
than to a town?"
   I sat staring at her, remembering that it was the townsfolk of Malmesbury who
came to the king for help, and it was again the townsfolk of Worcester who had
brought the news of the attack—too late, but they had not been told to watch and
warn the king; he had expected that service from the officers of the Crown. And
Bath held steady for the king despite the nearness of Bristol and the rebels; the
townsfolk had helped Stephen's garrison fight off many attacks.
   "The burghers favor Stephen," Melusine continued,"and they have reason to love
the queen. I do not think any army will move east of Oxford without the king
knowing. And I think the barons will be more faithful too. Some did not greet us
very warmly—oh, did you know the queen has a small army of Flemings?—but I
saw how they were eased and their loyalty confirmed after she spoke to them."
   I doubted much could be done with the barons of the west unless the king had a
great victory there, but the towns were another matter. Surely it could do no harm to
use the queen's idea, and I was certain Maud would convince Stephen to do so
without difficulty. The king had little pride of birth, perhaps because he was sure of
his nobility, and he had always valued and treated well and fairly the burghers of the
realm. The trouble was that the west was less populous than the east; there were
fewer towns, and many of those were already in rebel hands.
   Still, there were free towns, and they did favor Stephen. I will not say that hope
leapt free and full in my breast. To speak the truth, I still saw nothing ahead but years
of battle, but with the southeast at peace and solidly for the king, the situation looked
much different. I felt less concerned at the idea of a long confrontation with the
rebels, and Melusine brought snippets of news that, always good, supported hope.
   For more than a week, I kept to that single chamber so my foot could heal. I did
not once ask to leave. I did not want to know how the court progressed. While I was
with Melusine I was at peace. We played games—chess, and when we felt silly,
riddles, or fox and geese, or nine man morris—we played other games too, in which
no pieces or boards were needed, only soft words and soft touches. And we talked
of many things, of her family and of mine, such as it was, which, of course, brought
us to Audris and Hugh and Eric and Jernaeve… and Ulle.
   It was strange that it should be I who remembered most vividly the beauty of the
land, of purple hills against the sky and deep tarns with glints of silver streams falling
into them from cliffs. Melusine saw Ulle as it must be now—so quiet it must be in
the hills now with all the passes filled with snow and the lakes frozen over. I even
told Melusine about the cattle, not saying they had been my share of the loot, but
speaking of another man with land in the north and his doubts about having the
beasts driven home. She smiled and said it was fortunate I had no part of that herd
for such cattle were useless for Ulle. They needed a hardier breed, like the little
wide-horned red cattle of Scotland—a good reason, she added, why Cumbrian men
seldom raided south or east and had so little interest in the wars of England.
   At the time I was aware of only the faintest twinge of discontent at my prospects
of sweat and blood and pain compared with the long pleasures of holding Ulle and
not caring a whit about wars. It was only a twinge, but it left a little sore place in my
breast, and over the dreadful year that followed that twinge grew to an ache that gave
me no rest. It was then that I realized what Melusine had done. She was much too
clever to place hands on hips and scream at me like a shrew that all loyalty to
Stephen could bring me was death; she had not that quicksilver lightness with which
Audris could bedazzle and get her way. Melusine, dark and warm and sweet, held
out peace and joy and pleasure to wean a man from a hard duty turned bitter with
shame.
   Mary the Merciful knows how that memory of Ulle ached within me, but the pain
did not come at once for the king and queen did not separate immediately after
Epiphany and I still had Melusine. Then, too, despite the poor attendance at the
court, at first the situation looked hopeful. A huge treasure had been uncovered in
Salisbury's strongroom, and Stephen had determined that so much could not belong
to the Church but must have come from state revenues. I thought that likely, not that
I would have cared much if it was Church coin, for the son of a whore does not get
a very good view of priests and the Church. Moreover, neither my father nor Sir
Oliver paid more than lip service and the smallest tithe they could manage to the
Church. The one priest I knew as a child who was all good, Father Anselm, did not
know what money was, I think. He had never taken more than the food he ate and
the pallet he lay upon. He never asked even for a new robe, though his own was in
such rags that Audris took it away and replaced it.
   Everyone benefitted—although one of the benefits made me anxious because it
meant that Melusine would have to go to France with the queen. There had been
some talk about betrothing Eustace, the king's eldest son, now fourteen years of age,
to the sister of the king of France. I knew Stephen desired it, hoping that Louis
would help him recover Normandy from Matilda's husband Geoffrey of Anjou, if he
made Eustace duke of Normandy. But promises for the future, particularly when
they can only be made good by large expenditures for armies, are a poor inducement
to forming a relationship. Now with a huge bribe (called a bride price) available,
Maud and Stephen were able to plan for the queen to go to France as soon as a safe
passage seemed possible.
   I was not pleased at the thought of losing even the chance of seeing Melusine for
months, but I knew we would be fighting most of the time and comforted myself that
she would be less likely to discover my lies and be worried if she were in France.
Also, the benefits from Salisbury's hoard even trickled down to me, and when the
king offered me the two payments of my pension that he was in arrears and a third
for the coming quarter, I took it gladly and did not worry about where the coin came
from. It was very welcome, because I found I spent far more than was sensible when
I was with Melusine. She scolded, but I could not resist buying her little things that
caught my eye—beads and thread for embroidery and rich cloth, red and gold; I
loved to see her dark beauty glow in those colors.
   After the queen left for France in February, the well of joy that had bubbled
through my blood as long as I had Melusine died down. The spring was darker than
the winter. It seemed as if a contagion of greed and madness tainted the whole land.
All bonds of loyalty and reason burst asunder. Every little man who could raise an
army turned on any other weaker than himself. And the king could not prevent it
because great lords, some of whom he had favored and had no reason to rebel and
indeed did not declare for the empress, suddenly seized royal property.
   The summer was worse than the spring. There is no use in trying to recall exactly
where we fought or how many marches we made—many to no purpose because
before we arrived at our objective, we had to turn back to some more urgent fight. I
had always enjoyed a good fight, at least after my blooding, in which I came to terms
with the fact that use of my sword and lance would bring pain or death to other men
whom I did not know and wished no harm. Now, for the first time in many years, I
needed to find that place inside myself very far away from the blood and the stink of
loosened bowels and the screaming. But worse even than the battles were the
constant signs we stumbled upon as we crossed and recrossed the realm of that
madness of greed, that loss of all honor, all mercy, all humanity. Again and again we
found whole villages and manors where every person had been ripped and
disemboweled and burnt for what could not be more than a few coins, a few ells of
cloth, or for nothing at all.
   Yet in the blackest moments of that summer and into the autumn there had been
some hope of peace. The queen and the bishop of Winchester were attempting to
negotiate a truce with Robert of Gloucester. But it came to nothing. Waleran de
Meulan played on the king's too optimistic nature, reminding Stephen of our many
successes and saying that all would think him faint of heart to give up half a royal
crown—and to a woman too. Perhaps the queen could have changed the king's
mind, but she was not with us and within the week news came from the townsfolk of
Lincoln that the earl of Chester and his half brother, William de Roumare had taken
Lincoln keep by a strange stratagem. They had sent their wives to visit the wife of
the constable. After some hours, the earl of Chester had arrived, saying he had come
to fetch the ladies. He was unarmed, except for the sword by his side, and he was
accompanied by only three knights, so he was welcomed without any
uneasiness—whereupon he and his knights turned on the guard, seized every
weapon they could find, and held gate and drawbridge until his brother came
galloping in with a strong troop, with which he ejected the royal garrison.
   Stephen rushed north, but Chester and Roumare had not been idle. They had
brought in more men, many more, enough to hold not only the keep but to cow the
burghers and hold the walls of the town. Now Waleran spoke for peace. He pointed
out that Chester and Roumare had not declared for the empress and that it would
truly be a disaster if so powerful a baron changed sides. Then he reminded Stephen
how bitter Chester was about the treaty with King David that had given Cumbria,
which Chester felt was his, to Prince Henry. If Chester and Roumare would swear
loyalty and swear to defend Lincolnshire against Matilda and Gloucester, it would be
better to let them hold the keep and town.
   It was sensible advice. I remembered how troubled I had been about that treaty
with King David and how I had even mentioned Chester's claim to the king when I
spoke against the treaty. Yet now I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out
against Waleran's ideas. I had begun to feel that Waleran was the king's evil genius, a
clever, perverted creature that brought ill even when what it suggested seemed fair.
But in this case all agreed with Waleran. I do not think there was one dissenting
voice, except for the displaced constable, and his prejudice because of his shameful
expulsion from his keep made his objection ridiculous.
   A peace was patched up, although this time I do not think the king was pleased
with Waleran. I thought his acceptance of the vows of Chester and Roumare was
sullen; however, they swore on the holiest of relics, on their own souls, and the souls
of parents and children that they would be faithful vassals and support the king in all
ways without fail. I think they were sincere. I think the great keep at Lincoln and the
governance of the shire—even though it was placed in Roumare's hands, not
Chester's own—was a salve that eased Chester's sense of ill treatment over the loss
of Cumbria, which was a poorer land. In addition, Chester knew well that peace with
Scotland might be of short duration while the empress was in England because King
David might be induced to break the peace to support her. In that case, Chester
might still obtain the restoration of Cumbria.
   Perhaps with that in mind, Chester set himself to be agreeable, and I believed the
king had been reconciled to the arrangement by the time we left Lincoln. However, I
thought very little about Stephen because we were going to London and I knew
Melusine was waiting for me there.
   The next few weeks I performed my duty in a kind of dream, not wishing to hear
the plans for more war and still more war in the future. I had Melusine, and we
danced together at the feasts and we laughed and played and made love, but I could
not talk of Ulle. I know that made Melusine uneasy; I was sorry for it, but I could
not bear even a shadow of pain in the little circle of false peace I had made for
myself.
   I was not even to have a full measure of the peace my wife brought me. On the
last day of December, a new messenger came from the townsfolk of Lincoln, crying
to the king of Roumare's cruelty. Lord William and his brother, he complained, were
hanging and fining the people of the town for having warned the king that the keep
had been taken. I was hardly listening, only alert for my name in my master's voice,
but I sprang to attention at the king's roar of rage and the heated words in which he
promised he would not permit such practices. I had a fleeting thought of the
burnt-out villages that he had ignored in seeking a greater enemy, but I thrust myself
between the king and the messenger when the man suddenly stepped forward.
  "Let him come," Stephen said.
    I did so, but stood close for I thought it foolish to take a chance, even though I
felt myself that this man meant no harm. He came right to Stephen's feet and knelt
down, taking hold of the king's gown in his anxiety.
   "If you wish to punish them, sire—" His voice was harsh, but hardly more than a
whisper and his eyes burned with eagerness. "Chester and Roumare and both their
wives are at ease in Lincoln keep)—and they have sent away nearly all the men they
had summoned to hold the keep and the town. If you come quickly, we will open the
town to you. You could surround the keep and take them with great ease. We will
even fight with you."
   I thought the king was about to say, "I cannot do that. I have just taken their oaths
of homage and sworn to protect them from their enemies as they protect me from
mine." I could understand why he hesitated, having only just promised, too hastily as
usual, to help the folk of Lincoln. Instead, he said, "I must take counsel with my
barons. Go now, but come back after the evening meal. Bruno," he gestured toward
me, "will bring you to my private closet."
   Years past, I had come to terms with the fact that the king's honor was not mine,
that my duty was to serve him not to be his conscience, but until now Stephen's
lapses, at least those of which I knew, had been omissions. He had chosen not to
know certain things. This was different. This time when he told his chief men to
order their troops to make ready to march and told them where to go, even Waleran
and Ypres, whose own souls were not spotless, looked taken aback, and Geoffrey
de Mandeville looked disgusted.
    They all protested, but Waleran and Ypres were soon won over, and Mandeville,
although he still looked like a man who had bit on something very sour, became
silent when Stephen pointed out that once Chester and Roumare were safely
imprisoned, there would be no chance at all that they would turn rebel and no need
to give them more and more to keep them loyal. Moreover, Stephen reminded his
men, Chester's wife was Robert of Gloucester's daughter, which would give them a
strong pawn for bargaining with Gloucester. In addition, the king swore that when
Gloucester was defeated and Matilda driven out of England, he would make
restitution to Chester and Roumare. This was only a necessary expedient in a time of
great crisis.
   To be more swift and more secret, every man-at-arms who could sit a horse was
mounted, and we rode in small groups by different ways. We were in Lincoln by the
sixth of January, but Chester and his brother were not quite as off guard as the king
had been told. Although we came to the town by night and the gates were opened as
promised, somehow warning was given. The earl of Chester escaped, and Roumare
had drawn his men into the keep and sealed it tight.
  We had not men enough to take the keep by assault.
   Although the townsfolk were willing to fight, they were not trained for such work
and would be useless. However, Lincoln had not been stocked for siege, the king
was told, and it would not take long to starve them out. Stephen was not so sure; he
sent summons to war to the local barons, and many came so we had a decent army.
Still, Lincoln was very strong and it seemed reasonable to wait and try to induce
Roumare to yield. We set up the siege machines to pound the walls and we made
feints of attack to tease the garrison into wasting arrows and wear them down with
lack of sleep and constant alarms.
    But there was a side to mewing up the earl of Gloucester's daughter that had not
been properly considered. We soon discovered that Chester did not flee to his own
lands but to Gloucester himself, and although Gloucester had had reason for
ill-feeling against Chester in the past, he did not hesitate. From the army that came
against us, it was apparent that Gloucester had sent Chester back to his lands to call
upon his men and hire Welsh archers while Gloucester summoned his own
supporters. Together, they marched west—and again the evil sown by the
destruction of Salisbury bore bitter fruit. We only learned of Gloucester's advance
when he was less than a day's march distant, and it was far too late for the king to
collect a greater army.
   As too often happened these days, the king's council was divided. The more
cautious of the king's vassals, Ypres and Mandeville, advised him to ride south
before Chester and Gloucester arrived, leaving one or more of them in Lincoln with
their troops to hold the town and continue the siege of the keep. The king could then
return with a greater army and attack Gloucester from the rear while those within
could come out and assault his front. Caught between the two armies, Gloucester
would surely be defeated and probably captured. Simon de Senlis, William
d'Aumale, and others agreed, offering to ride south with the king and raise more
men. I had my doubts about their reasons, and I did not agree with them.
    Now I know it would have been better, far better, for the king to have taken that
advice. At the time, I found myself, unwillingly, in agreement with Waleran, Alan of
Brittany, and most of the younger barons, who all cried that it would be a shame to
flee Gloucester. I was less concerned with the shame—to my mind there is no shame
in retreating from a certain loss so that one may triumph later—than with the loss of
opportunity to end the war. If we failed to meet him now, who could tell when we
would again find Gloucester so exposed, and we seemed to have at least a small
advantage. The reports we had made the rebel force out to be smaller than ours, if
we included the townsmen who would fight afoot, and Gloucester's men had had a
long, hard march while ours were well rested.
   Aside from reason, I knew the king would not go. This was too close to his
father's betrayal of his men in Antioch. Stephen might refuse battle in the open if he
saw no chance of victory, but I was not sure that he would retreat, even from certain
disaster, once he was committed to the protection of a city. I do not think he
considered fleeing south for a moment. He barely waited for the voices to cease
before he committed us to battle.
   I slept well that night, possibly a special gift from Mary the Merciful, for I lit a
candle to her and prayed, not for myself but for Melusine. My death might grieve but
could not really harm her, but if Stephen fell to Gloucester, the queen would likely
flee England. Perhaps she would take Melusine with her, but to what uncertain and
dreadful future? And if Maud left Melusine in England, could she travel the whole
length of the war-torn kingdom to reach Jernaeve? And once there, what? She would
be cherished, but what purpose could her life have? There was King David and a
second marriage and Ulle—but I put that from my mind. Perhaps I should have
loved her enough to wish for it, but I was not that good a man. No, that was a
thought to keep for the battlefield, where I could draw it out and it would give me a
berserker's strength.
   The following dawn there was a misfortune at Mass. The flame on the thick white
candle, which was the usual royal offering, went out, and the candle broke as the
king placed it in the hands of the bishop of Lincoln. The church was full to bursting,
mostly with the men of the town who were joining us to defend their city, and a cry
went up from them as they saw what happened. Then the pyx holding the body of
Christ fell out of the bishop's hand,and a silence more profound than should be
induced by the Mass followed. If it would not have caused even more terror, I
would have broken Alexander of Lincoln's neck, twisting it between my hands like a
chicken's, I do not know how the bishop of Lincoln caused the candle to break, but
I am sure he did as I am sure he broke the hasp of the pyx. It was Alexander whom
the king had threatened to hang before Devizes keep in front of the bishop of
Salisbury's eyes—could either event have been an accident?
    The king knew too, but he could do no more than I. If we prevailed, Stephen
would have his revenge. But because he no longer trusted them to stand firm, he
chose to fight afoot with the burghers of Lincoln, a detachment of his mercenary
men-at-arms, and such knights and barons as wished to join him. While Stephen was
telling his battle leaders of his decision and giving orders that they form in two lines
to defend the flanks of the foot battle, we heard the messengers crying that
Gloucester's army had somehow made its way through the swamp created around
the Fosse Dyke by the flooded Witham. The king hastened his instructions, and we
all made for the gate and marched out on the plain, which was mostly level except
for one small rise, upon which the king stationed himself.
   I held my usual place to Stephen's left and half a step behind, and a leather-lunged
baron called Baldwin Fitz-Gilbert, who would exhort the men, Stephen's voice being
too soft, stood to the right. Camville, who had given way to Fitz-Gilbert, was behind
him, and in their usual places, although on foot instead of mounted, were the others
who shared my duties. I was glad to see that our own group was well fortified by a
number of the local knights. I did not know all their names, only Richard de Courcy
on my left and Ilbert de Lacy behind him, near me; but they were all in good spirits.
   Marsh or no marsh, Gloucester's army came on to the field in good order and
advanced on us until I could make out the arms and blazons of the leaders. Chester
lead the center, and he was already reviling the king and his supporters. I could hear
a few words and had to bite my tongue to suppress a cheer when I heard him call
Waleran crafty and perfidious, but like most exhortations much of it was lies. He
called Waleran a coward and pusillanimous in deeds, and neither was true—even
though he certainly acted the part that day.
  I heard nothing more from our enemies because Fitz-Gilbert was paying them
back insult for insult and lie for lie in a voice like a brass gong. Certainly what he said
about Miles of Gloucester, Chester, and Earl Robert was untrue, and he had not
quite finished his exhortation when roars from the enemy line and shouts from our
own men cut him off. In fact, Chester was in the act of proving he was no coward
by charging at the footmen's line well ahead of his troop. He and the men who
followed hoped to shake the footmen and force them to break their close formation.
Men on horseback are at a huge advantage over individual men on foot, but they
cannot penetrate a solid line of pikemen without sacrificing many horses.
   Our line held, and Chester sheared aside just before his horse was spitted, leaning
far out from his saddle to try to strike with his lance. And then I could make out little
more for there was a confusion of shouting, screaming men and screaming, plunging
horses. I turned my eyes away; I could never bear to see horses hurt, and I looked at
the king who was staring eagerly to the right where Ypres was leading his troop at
nearly a full gallop against a motley crowd of Welsh. They were deadly as archers,
but not disciplined to stand and receive a charge, and Ypres, rightly, wished to
scatter them before they could begin to shoot or make their way around the flank of
our footmen to use their long knives.
   They scattered, and the king laughed and brandished the huge, gilded war axe he
had been given by the people of Lincoln. I heard Chester bellow orders and the
mounted troop began to gather itself and ride across our front to the aid of the
Welsh. A few arrows followed them, but not many of the burghers had crossbows
and our men-at-arms had no time to reload for behind the horsemen, as they cleared
our front, came the footmen. I drew my sword, and almost struck Sir Ilbert de Lacy
who was next to me as I heard Stephen cry out in anguish. I looked wildly about to
find the cause, but it was no physical blow that hurt him. It was Waleran riding
headlong, his men fleeing in disorder without having struck a single blow, as Robert
of Gloucester charged.
   I knew then. Even as the first wave of footmen reached us and the king charged
forward, swinging that axe, I knew the battle was over. We fought a long time. I do
not know how many men died for no purpose at all. The king killed until the ground
before him was carpeted with bodies, until the great axe broke in his hand, and I
leapt before him and took the arm off a man who had shouted aloud in glee, thinking
he had found easy, unarmed prey. He fell away and two more advanced. I took one
blow on my shield and slashed at the other man, catching him in the hip. I do not
think my weapon cut through his gambeson, but he backed and stumbled on a body
and Fitz-Gilbert killed him.
   I should not have looked, for my shield dropped and I was hit on the shoulder,
but the blow was given by a dead hand and only bruised me. Stephen had drawn his
sword and hacked the man's head half off. He killed another, pushing past me so I
could catch my breath, and in that moment I heard cheers and looked west hoping
against hope that I would see Ypres coming back. But it was Chester, not Ypres,
and his men charged our line again. It was already raveling away, not because the
men had panicked—I will never think ill of burghers' courage again— but because
they were so engaged against the enemy footmen that it was impossible to hold a
solid line.
   So we were driven back and back again, up the little hill where we had first stood
with high hopes, and every foot of the ground around our group was covered with
dead and dying. Still the king fought, and while he stood and fought so would every
man until we were all dead. Camville and Lacy had been driven away from us.
Gilbert de Gant was beside me now, poor boy, he was only a squire and too young
to be caught in such a hopeless struggle. He could hardly stand, but his courage had
not broken and he thrust away a man with his shield, turning him so I could cut at his
neck. He fell and Gilbert stumbled over him. I stepped back to give him room to rise
and was struck a heavy blow on the back that pushed me forward. My feet caught
on Gilbert, I half turned even as I fell and saw that what had hit me was the king, his
helm gone, his face all blood. I thrust blindly at a form reaching out toward Stephen
and opened my shield from my body so that we fell together. He crushed the breath
from me and the world darkened as my head slammed into the earth, but I was able
to lift my shield across his body.
   "Here!" It was a thin voice, far away in the swirling darkness. "Here! I have taken
the king."



                                CHAPTER 22


  Melusine
   I saw Bruno before he saw me in the church in Salisbury, and I had time enough
during that interminable funeral to consider how I would greet him. Not that I had not
been considering it since we had parted, but now with his strong back and his dark,
curly hair just within my sight if I leaned my head to the side, I did not feel quite the
same. I had told myself that if he did not care enough for me to hold back his lust
for fighting the few days it would take to escort me to the queen, it was time for me
to break my shackles. If I could not bend him in so small a thing, how could I bend
him in greater ones?
   When I saw him, however, I suddenly realized that I had not tried to bend him. I
had attacked him in a rage, scolding like an alewife. That was good enough for
dealing with a servant, but mama had beaten me when I raged and told me she did so
to save me a worse beating from papa if I offended him in such a way. But Bruno
had not hit me. And then I had another revelation. Bruno had not left me in contempt
but because his own temper had been roused and he would have beaten me if he
stayed. Still, he had been wrong and selfish, and I would not say I was sorry and
beg forgiveness.
   There was no need. Bruno's face as he sought me in the group of women
advancing with the queen toward the king wiped out all the hurt and rage that had
eaten at me. The anguish I saw told me my fears had been silly; if I asked for the
moon when he found me, he would try to get it. I asked for nothing, just held out my
hand when he saw me at last and I was repaid manyfold for that gesture of
submission by the joy that made him look ten years younger, like a boy who has
been given his heart's desire.
   We never mentioned the quarrel again, but I had a chance to scold him and
breathe out a few flickers of heat remaining in my head. The fool was walking on a
broken foot without even a stick to take some of his weight. No doubt part of the
anguish I had seen in his face was pain, not anxiety, but it was too late to take back
what I had offered. Besides, the broken foot was not all bad. I got leave for him
from the king and for me from the queen to tend him, so we had eight sweet, quiet
days, and Bruno needed them.
   Something more than our quarrel was troubling him. He tried to put a good face
on it for my sake and I tried to draw out the trouble to soothe it, but that made it
much worse so I pretended I did not see. I was sorry he would not share the burden,
but at least Bruno did not act as if I were a fool and pat me on the head as papa did.
I was deeply worried at first because he told me freely of the shattering of trust in the
realm caused by Salisbury's overthrow, which I knew to be the queen's greatest fear,
and if Bruno's trouble was worse it might be dangerous indeed. However, as the
week he kept only to our chamber passed, he grew so much more cheerful that I
began to wonder whether the trouble he had been hiding had to do with our quarrel
rather than the king's problems.
   That made me wonder what meaning he had read into the quarrel that I did not
see. Later I learned—at least I learned words that expressed his trouble, but I never
understood Bruno's crazy notion of duty any more than I understood papa's crazy
attachment to a country he had left when he was hardly a man. At the time all that
concerned me was whether he had bad news about Ulle he was afraid to tell me lest
we quarrel again, that it had been seisined on another man, for example, or that he
had changed his mind about accepting so poor an estate when a richer one was
offered. But it was not Ulle; I was surprised by Bruno's passion when he spoke of it
and a little amused that it was he who described again and again the beauty of the
land. Usually it is a woman who sees that kind of beauty; men see what is good for
defense or for grazing or plowing or hunting. I could not doubt his determination to
have the place, so that was not his trouble.
    As Bruno grew more cheerful, I would have forgotten his original misery had I not
caught him looking at me more than once in a strange way. And he was so good to
me, so eager to please me both with his body and his sweet words that first I
wondered whether he might be jealous, fearing I had looked elsewhere while we were
parted. That was not an unpleasant notion. I would not lie and hint I had seen a man
I liked better; it was not true. There were fair men I thought handsomer than Bruno
simply because they were fair, but I had only to think of them touching me with lips
and tongue as Bruno did and I felt cold and sick, my skin rising in bumps and my
stomach turning over.
  Then another idea slid into my head that was not so pleasant. What if Bruno had
been unfaithful because I had angered him? That made better sense of his
unhappiness; no doubt my welcome to him had made him feel guilty and the strange,
sidelong looks were because he wondered whether I had guessed. When I first
thought of it, I was ready to scratch out his eyes and show him that my scolding in
Salisbury had been a bare sample of what I could do, but we were back on duty by
then and I had regained my common sense before we were both free. Acting the
shrew was no way to hold a man, so I was sweeter than honey. I could not tell
whether that made Bruno feel more guilty, but he was barely polite to any other
woman though more than one of the queen's ladies gave broad hints of favors if he
would respond.
   I suppose it was really my jealousy that made me so discontent with being chosen
as one of the ladies who would accompany Queen Maud to France. At the time I
convinced myself that I was angry because Maud still did not trust me and would
not let me go to Jernaeve with Bruno because that would bring me too near the
Scots. However, I did not ask to be left behind. I was not sure enough of my power
to wrest Bruno from his hateful duty. Likely all I would accomplish would be to
separate him from Cormi and Merwyn, whom he would send to join Fechin and
escort me to Jernaeve. If I went with the queen, Bruno would have a third
man-at-arms, for Fechin would be useless in a country where he did not speak the
language.
    I was becoming truly expert in lying to myself and thus hiding from fears that
might have pushed me back into the madness to which I had lost eight months of
life. Thus I did not permit myself to think why a third man-at-arms should be useful
to Bruno. I did not question the cause of the bruises I tended and clung to the lie he
had told me about the king and his Knights of the Body taking no part in the fighting.
It was better to suffer some slight pangs of jealousy than to ask Bruno to take me to
Jernaeve and be told the truth.
   Aside from those pangs of jealousy, which were greatly assuaged by the amount
of attention I received from the gentlemen of King Louis's court, I enjoyed myself. I
only learned after we arrived that the queen's purpose was to make a marriage
contract with King Louis's sister. I suppose it was kept secret so that the king's
enemies would have no chance to interfere, and if Louis refused, no one in England
would know. I was not privy to the negotiations, but there was enough to interest me
without that. Woman as I was, I was fascinated by Louis's young queen, Eleanor of
Aquitaine.
   She was not beautiful, at least not to me, but I was very glad Bruno was not with
us. When she turned her eyes, darkly bright and burning with the brilliance of her
mind on me, I could understand why any man would adore her. Bruno would not
have spoken of duty to her; like others he would have fallen to his knees before her
and offered his life in her service, even if it meant being false to his precious master.
She had only to look, to smile, and to speak and all else was forgotten. I saw Maud,
who was a woman too, stare at Eleanor and, when she left the young queen's
presence, shake her head as if to free herself of some clinging enchantment.
   I said every man was her victim, but some of the priests were not. They were
already muttering "witch" and recounting the tale of her grandmother, who had so
ensorcelled her grandfather that he put aside his own wife, stole "the witch" from her
husband, and defied man and God to keep her with him all the days of their lives. It
was said of Eleanor's grandmother that she did not die a natural death, but having
been tricked into church, she changed to a monster and flew out the window when
the Host was elevated. Devout as he was, King Louis was not listening to the priests;
nor were his political advisors. They were encouraging Louis to pamper his wife
since her lands were wider and her wealth greater than those of the French
monarchs.
   I never thought Queen Eleanor was a witch. I had seen that kind of charm before
in my sister-by-marriage Mildred. Nor did I believe that Eleanor intended to bewitch
and enslave any more than Mildred did. Just to be near her woke excitement—not of
the body, that would not have affected me, although I think she could have roused
that too in a man—of the spirit. She was so full of life, of the desire to give and
receive ideas, that she filled those around her with a kind of joy in everything. It was
as if a great and brilliant light was cast into places one had never troubled to look
before, and old, dull thoughts took on a new luster and appeared new and curious in
that light. One could see the reflection of that light in her husband's eyes and one
could see that the priests that clung around Louis were not pleased with what the
light of Queen Eleanor's eyes showed him.
   I liked her better for that; I remembered how the priest in Ulle had hated Mildred
for her oneness with the earth and the nonhuman creatures of the earth. I only wished
I could catch from Queen Eleanor that ability to enchant men. Not that I lacked for
attention; I never missed a dance or a man to sit beside me at the great feasts and
offer me the tenderest cut of meat, the best of the winter roots, the most delectable
piece of subtlety. But that was only for the beauty of my face and the rich curves of
my body—and those would fade with time. I knew that Mildred, had she lived, and
Queen Eleanor would be as desired, as sought, when they were worn and wrinkled
with age.
    I watched and I listened, hoping to find the key to Queen Eleanor's powers. If I
could catch just one strand of the rope with which she tied men to her, it would be
enough. After all, I had only one man to bind, not a whole troop of courtiers. Then I
thought of the long winter days in Ulle; to me such days, spent sitting by a roaring
fire, had been full of rich contentment, but I wondered whether a man used to court
life might grow dull and restless, and I expended the purse Bruno had filled before
we parted. I did not buy the fine fabrics or ornaments he had urged me to get for
myself—what would I do with silk brocades or jeweled earrings in Ulle? I bought
leaves of parchment on which sweet songs and tales of love were written. I bought a
few lengths of cloth too, silk thin enough to float on air. One length was white,
another rose. Even in a dim light a man could see through shifts made of that cloth.
   News came from England, not all of it through Queen Maud, and when someone
who knew the country put together this and that, the news was not good. King
Stephen suffered no defeats; indeed, he put down several rebels and struck some
shrewd blows very close to the rebellion's heart. But one man cannot be in many
places at once, nor can he long rush from one end of a kingdom to another without
failing. I could not think about that, not without seeing Bruno's face grey and
haggard. I worried instead about whether King Louis would think as I thought and
refuse to allow the betrothal of Constance and Eustace.
   Queen Maud had her own form of power, however; she could not fascinate as
could Queen Eleanor, but she could bind men to her will also. Although Maud's
manners were gentle, she had great strength and authority and she was every bit as
clever, though much less learned, as Eleanor of Aquitaine. I know she had a great
sum of money to use as bribes, and perhaps that was the greatest of her powers—
but that would not have worked on King Louis, who was fond of his sister and too
high-minded to take a bribe if he believed the arrangement would place Constance in
danger or bring her unhappiness. Possibly Maud was also skilled in lying with great
conviction and managed to convince King Louis that, despite reports, Stephen was
in control of his country.
   Whatever power Maud used, she brought the negotiation to a successful
conclusion. By April we were on our way home, taking Constance with us, only to
learn that the situation was even worse than we had heard and that the whole country
had burst into little private wars as a leper's skin bursts out in weeping sores all over
his body. It was fortunate that the queen had traveled with a strong troop from her
own land of Boulogne to make a show for the French and had brought them back
with us because the king could not come to meet us. His army was engaged in the
west. The Boulognese escorted us to London, where Maud found the bishop of
Winchester waiting for her.
   Many evil things have been said of Henry, bishop of Winchester—that he was
mad for power and had built and otherwise gained more castles than Salisbury had,
that he had counseled the release of the empress out of spite because Stephen had
denied him the archbishopric, that the request he now made to the queen to allow
him to propose terms of peace to the empress and her brother was also out of
hatred for Stephen. I never believed it. I always liked Winchester. I am not saying
that he was not vain and ambitious or that he was not hurt and bitter about the way
his own brother had turned on him after he had won a kingdom for him. From what I
saw, and I happened to be caught up in both the release of the empress and the
dealings Maud had with Winchester over the proposed peace, I think he was doing
his best to reduce the agony of a country he saw being torn and burnt and ruined.
   Maud had heard enough both in letters from the king and from petitioners for her
help that she agreed at once to Winchester's request. I was never so glad of anything
in my life for I had a letter too, and it frightened me half to death it was so strange.
There was not a word about fighting, nor one word of news of any other kind either,
only a long lament of Bruno's need for me. It is true that the pretense that Bruno did
not care for me had long since been abandoned, but Bruno's letters never held
serious complaints. They were always designed to soothe me or to make me laugh;
this, although it did not ask openly, was a cry for help. I would have gone to him,
despite the fact that it meant coming onto a battlefield and even though Edna and I
would have to ride without Fechin to protect us—but I did not know where to go.
By the time we reached London, the action we knew of had been broken off and the
king was hurrying east to quell Hugh Bigod, who had broken into revolt.
    That was the story of the whole spring, summer, and autumn. Each time I thought
the king and queen must meet to discuss the terms of the peace Winchester was
trying to bring about, a new attack or new need to attack drew the king away. There
was no other letter like that first one, but then it might be said that there was no other
letter—except a few lines now and then that mentioned the king's favorable reactions
to Winchester's peace treaty. Oh, I received words written on parchment, but Bruno
was not there. They were letters from some stranger who discoursed on the weather
and the state of the roads. One time I raged, the next I wept, telling myself that he
had taken another woman because I would rather believe that than that Bruno was
now as mad as I had been before we married.
   I should have saved my tears. After the bishop of Winchester had spent all the
months from May to November crossing and recrossing the country to bring one set
of terms after another to Maud and to Robert of Gloucester, after he had even gone
to France and Blois to consult with King Louis and Stephen's brother Theobald of
Blois, after the empress had been brought to accept the terms, Stephen put them
aside "to consider at a more propitious time." I thought Maud would faint when she
had the news, although at the moment I had not yet heard the king's phrase and did
not know why her face grew so grim and so grey. I had come near when the packet
was brought to her, hoping—or should I say fearing—there would be a letter from
Bruno in it, and I cried aloud, "Oh, madam, what is it?"
   "The earl of Chester has taken Lincoln Castle, and Stephen is too busy trying to
get it back to consider the peace treaty at this time. He will think about it at a more
propitious time," she said, but I am sure she did not know to whom she was
speaking or what she was saying.
   "The king is not going to assault the castle, is he?" I whispered, for the moment
the real meaning of what she said being lost on me because of my fear for Bruno.
   "No, it is too strong," she replied still dully, as if she were speaking by rote,
without thinking. Then her voice changed, growing shrill and angry. "You are as
blind as he, you fool! Cannot you see that if Stephen had agreed to the peace,
Chester would have had to yield the keep? There would be none to help him. Why,
Stephen could have called on Gloucester to help drive Chester out. All rebellion
would have been at an end."
   It was the first time I had ever heard Maud say a word of criticism of her
husband, and I knew it was only her fear for him that made her do it, but I was
nearly stunned by what I finally understood. "The king does not like the peace
terms?" I asked in amazement. "But he has known every proposal and approved
it—Bruno wrote that. What—"
   "Waleran de Meulan"—Maud nearly spit the name— "explained that it was better
to fight on for a whole crown than live in peace with only half."
  "May he rot outside as he is rotten inside!"
   Maud seemed to shiver and focussed her eyes on me, first realizing now to whom
she was speaking. "What reason can you have to hate Waleran?" she asked.
    "If it had not been for his pride and arrogance, my father and brother would be
sitting alive at the table in Ulle talking about whether we had supplies enough for the
winter. My father answered no summons from King David; he went to fight in
Scotland because he had been insulted by Waleran de Meulan."
   "I did not know that," Maud said softly, but she looked away from me and I
could not tell whether she was thinking of what I said or had simply gone back to her
own problems, but then she looked back at me and said, "There is no letter for you,
but Stephen has assured me that he will meet me in London to celebrate Christmas."
   They came before Christmas, at the end of the second week in December. I
suppose being close to the city, the king decided to leave the army to make camp
outside of
   London and rode on, though it was already dark, desiring warmth and the
comfort of a real bed. Certainly we did not expect to see them that day and had only
a few minutes warning when a page came running, crying to the queen that the king
had come. I was sitting and sewing, and I remember that I got to my feet, dropping
my work, but I did not move from my place.
   I think by then that I was more afraid than eager to see Bruno; I thought he might
greet me as a stranger, but that was silly. It was only when our eyes met across the
great width of the room that I understood how that first letter of longing fit with the
other "polite" missives. I cannot see how I could have missed so simple an answer.
Bruno had said what he felt the first time; thereafter, he dared not even think it or
think about me lest he lose control of himself and violate his precious duty.
   How can I explain how he looked? I have lived all my life in a land that has water
in great abundance, much rain, many streams and rivers, many lakes; but there are
tales of other places where men went on crusade, where the sun blazes without a
cloud to give relief, without a tree to give shade, and where there is no water, no
water at all. The storytellers who recite these tales speak of the great agonies of thirst
endured by the crusaders, a thirst so great that the lips crack and the tongue dries to
leather. I can only say that the thirst in Bruno's eyes when he looked at me was the
same as a man in that state who looked on water. And he walked away from the
king, without a look, without asking leave, and came to me and asked, "Where is our
chamber?"
   Thank God I had had sense enough to send Edna out to seek a place as close to
the Tower as she could find and had still a few silver pennies to pay for it. I had not
slept there alone, but I had gone twice to see the bed made and that all was clean and
ready. Unfortunately, having no notion when Bruno would arrive and not expecting
he would come so late, I had not ordered a fire to be set. I shuddered, thinking of
the icy room, of cold, damp sheets, expecting that Bruno would all but leap on me
to satisfy the needs of his body starved for nearly a year. But, seeing how he looked,
I did not try to explain nor even go to find my cloak nor tell Edna I was leaving. I
took his hand in mine, with as little thought for the duty I was abandoning as Bruno
had given to his, and I led him down the stairs to the forebuilding, out of the Tower,
and out through the postern gate.
   It was very dark, even to eyes accustomed, and I hesitated, feeling for good
footing on the rutted road. Bruno gave a little shiver and said, "Wait." Then he went
back to the postern and shouted for the guard to give him a torch. When he came
back, he looked at me in surprise.
  "Where is your cloak?" he asked.
   "I did not stop to take it," I answered as steadily as I could, for it was frightening
to be reminded that once I had also looked straight at things and had not seen them
as Bruno had looked at me. "Shall I go back for it?"
  "No!"
   The exclamation was so sharp, I jumped, and he caught me to him, holding the
torch well away and murmuring that he was sorry he had startled me. Then he bade
me hold the torch while he took off his cloak, but I laughed and said, "No, take me
under it with you. I will be warmer so."
   Bruno opened the cloak for me, and I caught my breath for he was all in mail and
there were dark splotches on the rings. Then I was enfolded and saw no more;
perhaps I had been deceived by shadows from the flickering torchlight, but my voice
froze in my throat and I could not warn him about the cold, unwelcoming chamber.
We walked down the mound on which the Tower stood and into the street that led
to the East Cheap. The house Edna had found was less than a quarter of a mile from
where the houses began. The merchant from whom I had rented the chamber had
moved in with his son-by-marriage, but when Bruno pounded on the door with his
mailed fist, the journeyman, who slept at the back of the shop with the two young
apprentices, came and asked what was wanted. I answered, giving my name, and we
could hear the bar of the door being lifted.
   "Take the torch in," I said to Bruno, as I saw him lower it to roll in a puddle on
the ground. "The room is not ready. I did not expect you. I can use it to light the fire
quickly."
   He kissed me swiftly as the door opened, then pushed me into the house and said
to the journeyman, "I am sorry to disturb your sleep, but I will need the back door
opened so I can get water from the butt and wood." Then he threw his cloak over
my shoulders, put the torch into my hand—there was a night candle burning in the
shop and a dim glow from the back showed there was another there— and said to
me, "Go up and hand down an ewer," but his voice was light and he was smiling.
   That confused me so much that I do not remember doing as I was bid or lighting
the fire and the tapers. I must have done so because the room was bright and the
wood laid ready by Edna was blazing when Bruno came up the stair—little more
than a ladder with broad treads set at a steep angle along the wall of the
shop—carrying an ewer filled with water. He handed it to me, cocked an eye at the
heap of wood near the hearth, and said he would fetch more. I got the flat stones for
warming the bed, thrust them under the fire, and sat down to wait for what would
happen next. I did not think the kind of need Bruno had showed when he saw me in
the hall of the Tower could be shed by walking a few streets and entering a house.
   Yet it seemed that was just what he had done. He came up with his arms full of
wood and atop that load a big wedge of cheese and half a loaf of bread held down
by his chin and the strap of a leather jack round his arm. I ran to take the bread and
cheese before they fell, and held the jack, which I discovered was about half full of
ale, so it would not spill when he put down the wood.
  "There," he said, grinning at me, "this is not as elegant an evening meal as you
would have had in the Tower, but at least you will not go hungry.''
   "Where did you get it?" I asked as Bruno slid his arm out of the strap and bent to
put more wood on the fire.
   I knew he must have bought the apprentices' breakfast from the journeyman, but I
could not think of anything else to say. I was hurt and angry, and at the same time I
knew I had no right to be offended. It was not Bruno's fault that I had misread his
expression when he first saw me and thought he felt an overwhelming hunger for me.
I should be grateful that he had not overlooked the need of his belly, and my own,
and that he did not really wish to tear my clothes off and throw me into an ice-cold
damp bed because he could not wait until the sheets could be warmed. Still, my eyes
were full of unreasonable tears, and I had to turn away sharply and pretend I wished
to put the food on a small table by the far wall, which was a stupid thing to do since
the table would have to be moved to the fire or we would freeze while we ate.
   I never got there. I had no sooner turned my back than Bruno seized me around
the waist, thrust my veil aside, and began to kiss the back of my neck. "Let go, you
fool," I cried angrily. "Do you want me to spill the ale? Go and get the table so we
can eat in the warmth." And then I burst into laughter at my own silliness. I was
angry because Bruno's passion was not as hot as I first believed, so I shrieked at
him when he showed that it was.
   We nearly did spill the ale, but not in the grapplings of passion. We fell into each
other's arms, crushing the bread and cheese and ale between us, both laughing like
idiots. I have no idea about what we were laughing, but it made me light and happy
so that I did not flinch when I helped Bruno take off his armor and saw again those
dark stains on it.
  "Rust," he said, when he saw where my eyes were fixed. "It has been devilish wet
and not safe to go unarmed."
   Did I believe him? I do not think so, but he was grinning at me like a mischievous
boy, as Fergus grinned when he had done something dangerous, for which papa
would have beaten him black and blue if I told. I never did tell, and now I laughed,
as I had laughed with Fergus, and gave Bruno the food while I ran to get the bedrobe
I had made for him from his chest. He had left that in my care, fearing to lose
everything in the quick marches and countermarches in which the baggage train was
often left behind. The bedrobe covered his arming tunic, marked with the same dark
stains, and when they were hidden I shut them from my mind.
  There was nothing else to remind me of those marks.
   Bruno's movement was easy even when he carried the table to the fire; he was not
favoring any half-healed wound, except that he still limped a little and that, I knew,
was because the cold and damp made the old break in his foot ache. We laughed
again when we discovered that my eating knife was too small to cut the hard cheese;
Bruno was not wearing his and drew his sword to cut it, which was ridiculous, but
we had no other tool. While he was massacring the cheese, I pulled the warming
stones from the fire, wrapped them in the warming cloths, and put them in the bed.
Then we both sat down to eat. We had to drink from the jack of ale, for I had not
thought to bring cups. And then we had more cause to laugh when I remembered the
brass bowl Bruno had bought for me, which we could have used.
   I know we talked, but only of the lightest things. He said he was glad they came
too late for the queen to ride out to meet Stephen because Vinaigre would surely
have bitten him again, and he reminded me of the disaster we had caused when we
met at Winchester. And I told him about Queen Eleanor and about the writings I had
bought, at which he groaned—not that he did not like to hear the poems and tales, he
assured me, but that my purchases had reminded him of Audris's passion for such
things and the agonies he had suffered when she made him learn to read and write.
   Sometimes our hands met when we reached at the same time for the bread or a
piece of cheese. Then we did not laugh, and our fingers clung together, but only for
a moment, and we both looked aside and took the food. There came an end to
eating, a time when our hands met and Bruno lifted mine and held it to his lips. I
touched his face with my other hand, and he looked at me. Then he rose from his
stool and lifted me from mine.
    I have never known a loving like that. If it were not blasphemous, I would have
said that Bruno worshipped each separate inch of me. He took off my clothing as if
it were holy, a piece at a time, folding each garment and laying it aside. And when I
was naked, he laid me in the bed, drawing back the coverlets—it was warm enough
in the room by then, and the sheets were warm too—and began to kiss me, first my
hair, then my forehead, then my cheeks and lips, my throat, my breast. He was not
hurrying, not grasping greedily at me like a hungry man, nor was he teasing me,
playing with me to excite me.
   He said nothing, so I do not know what was in his mind, but to me the touch of
his lips seemed as if he needed to reassure himself that I was real and, perhaps, to
thank me—just for being. Whatever Bruno's purpose, that light touch, touch, touch
of his mouth on my body brought excitement nonetheless, but it came slowly. I was
ready and willing but not half mad as he sometimes made me. He drew the coverlet
over me at last and turned away, pulling off his bedrobe. I lay quietly when he went
to take off his clothes and waited patiently, watching the fire leap in the hearth. The
pleasure in my body was like that of a fire in winter, a beautiful thing, glittering and
glowing and giving warmth and contentment.
    Bruno caressed me again when he came to bed and said such extravagant things
that I would have laughed, knowing how imperfect I was compared to his words,
but I dared not. His face and voice were so intent; for that time I was his whole
world. I responded with caresses; I stroked his hair and face, his shoulders and
arms, and I kissed him gently, but I could not echo his words of love. I would not
lie to this man who was offering me his soul, and I dared not love him.
   I do not know how long we lay entwined, taking and giving comfort. My desire
for his body grew slowly more intense, and I could feel Sir Jehan pressing harder
against me. The kisses, which had been light and tender, became longer and more
passionate. I pulled gently at Bruno's body, and slowly he lifted himself atop me and
entered. We hardly moved at first. I only closed my eyes, relishing my easy, warm
delight when I was filled, and I think it was the same for Bruno, who seemed in no
hurry to spill his seed. So it continued, each slow thrust giving a tiny bit more
pleasure until a new joy broke over me in slow rolling waves that made me sigh and
sigh again but not cry out.
    Bruno's release was very like mine, or so I judged from how he acted, and he
raised his head and smiled at me then slid to the side and slept. Usually he was very
careful to say a few words of thanks and love after we coupled, but tonight there
was no need. We had said everything already with touches and kisses purely gentle. I
lay awake for some time—I had done nothing all day but sew—and I thought I
would never be jealous of him again. Perhaps he had coupled with a woman now
and again in animal need. There was nothing in that, although I would never come to
like the idea. What was important was that he would never give another woman a
night like this.
   Perhaps because I felt less strongly, I teased Bruno in the morning about how he
had contented himself over the long time we had been parted. I almost expected him
to be angry and tell me his sins of the body were between him and God. Instead he
looked as if I had given him a chest full of gold and jewels. He seized me and kissed
me and laughed long and loud. Then he frowned and tried to look stern, only his
eyes were still bright with laughter, and said a good wife did not ask such questions.
But he burst out into chuckles again before he finished and asked if I wished to see
the dingy drabs that followed the army. I would not need to ask again once I saw
them; such women, he assured me, were more likely to inspire chastity than lechery.
   "There are better women than that as spoils of war," I remarked, still teasing and
remembering what Donald had told me.
   But Bruno's laughter stopped abruptly, and he seized me by the shoulders.
"Never! Never in my life have I taken any woman as a prize of war. I could not,
Melusine. I would see you and Audris. Can you think I would use threats or
force—" He stopped and the pain in his face was terrible. "Do you still hate me for
our wedding night, Melusine?"
   "No, no!" I cried, throwing my arms around him and clinging to him. "I did not
mean to hurt you, Bruno. I had forgotten that, truly forgotten it, or I would not have
been able to tease you. I was only jesting. I—I am a little jealous."
   Truly repentant, I admitted openly what I would have denied to my last breath,
despite having exposed myself by my questions. But my purpose was
accomplished. Although Bruno undid my arms from his neck and held me away
from him so he could see my face, the tension in his body had eased, and when he
saw I was blushing, he began to smile again.
   "You need not be," he said. "Having the mother I did, I was never much of one
for women—''
   "Not much of one for women!" I echoed indignantly. "What am I, a frog? You do
not give me much rest."
  "Do you desire it?" he asked, pulling me close again. "You never say no."
  I pushed him away with all my strength. "What I desire," I snapped, "is the last
word, just once!"
   He took my hands in his, smiling again. "I beg your pardon. That was neither a
polite nor a clever remark—I spoke before I thought because your gentle compliance
makes me so happy." Since my compliance was more often violently enthusiastic
than gentle, I felt a strong urge to pull his hair and my hands jerked in his grasp, but
he did not release me and went on blandly, "But on this subject you shall have the
last word. I can do without women, and if you want my word on it, I will give it."
   I could feel myself blush again, and Bruno laughed aloud, let go of me, and cast
up his hands in a signal I had seen men use to call a halt in fighting exercise.
   "Forgive me!" he exclaimed. "I do not know how I came to make two such
stupid remarks in succession. Of course you need not ask. Even if you do not desire
that I be faithful, I swear I will take no other woman while you live, Melusine—not
whore nor serf nor fine lady."
    Although Donald had taught me what men's oaths are worth on such a subject, I
felt a definite satisfaction. Bruno was my husband, not a man promising the moon to
win a mistress, and he had no need to pacify me except for his own desire to please
me. However, all I said was, "With such a beginning, I know what that oath is
worth."
   He caught my chin in his hand and held my eyes. "I do not give any oath lightly,
Melusine, even if I smile when speaking it. I smiled because you had the deed
without need of oath. You should know I have not touched any woman since I first
lay with you."
   He embraced me again, but I laughed and pushed him away. "We must go. I did
not tell the queen or Edna that I was leaving, and I wonder where Fechin, Cormi, and
Merwyn slept last night.
  "They will have found a place easily enough in the stables or even in the hall."
Bruno's lips twisted. "This court is not likely to be overattended. But you are right,
we must go. I am very late."
  There was a note of indifference in Bruno's voice that both pleased me and made
me uneasy. I thought perhaps his duty was not so precious or pleasing to him as it
had been, and that would make me more important to him. Yet the happiness that
idea brought was not unalloyed. I found the notion that Bruno would be lax in
keeping his oath to the king disturbing. What had been a character of solid rock was
no longer a place to rest with utter trust.
   I found over the next weeks that I was right in half and wrong in half about
Bruno's duty. His character had lost none of its solidity. The pleasure was indeed
gone from his duty, but it was as precious as ever. He had given his oath to the king,
and that oath was adamant. Until Stephen released him, he would serve. But he was
different. In the past he had attended eagerly to the king's plans and hopes and as
eagerly discussed them with me, most particularly as they applied to our hopes of
obtaining Ulle. Now he would not talk of anything more serious than my beauty, the
latest gossip—and Bruno had never cared for gossip— and what was to be found in
the shops in London.
    I was hurt, at first, thinking he was keeping secrets from me, but I soon realized
that Bruno was not listening to the king and his advisors as he used to do. He said
bitterly that all they did was plan for war, and none of the plans was new to him. I
saw that Bruno was tired, not in his body but within himself, the way papa had been
tired after mama died. I did not understand over what Bruno grieved. He would not
talk about it, and I wondered if he was as bitter as the queen about Stephen's
rejection of the peace treaty. If that was what had made him withdraw his affection
from the king, he was more loyal than Maud, for he said no word against his master.
   What I did understand, even if the cause was unclear,was that Bruno had to have
a time of peace in which he did not need to strive for anything, not even for so
dearly desired a goal as Ulle. Besides, from other men's talk I learned that the war
might go on for a very long time: if so, our hope of settling in Ulle would be far in
the future, and tired as Bruno was, that thought must be painful to him. It was
reasonable for him to avoid any talk of Ulle.
   I did not press the subject, since the queen had told me we would remain in
London through January. I was the center of Bruno's world; I was very happy, and I
wanted him to be happy. I felt there would be chances toward the end of our time
together to show Bruno the letter I had had from Sir Gerald with the accounts of the
harvest and quarterly income from the fisheries. The accounting was some months
out of date, but I did not blame Sir Gerald for that. He had first had to find a priest
who could write and would not betray him, and then the poor messenger had twice
arrived in towns the queen had just left.
   I was eager to give Bruno Sir Gerald's news because the accounts were cheering;
the harvest had been good and the fish were bringing higher prices than ever because
of the war. The hidden strongbox was filling with silver, and when we came to Ulle,
there would be money to buy sheep and pigs, even cattle, to replace any
depredations Sir Giles made. And the war had not touched Ulle; it might be tearing
apart most of the realm, but the deep valleys of Cumbria were quiet. I should have
made him listen; it would have been something good to think about, something to
cling to during the nightmare that followed.
   One would think that, at twenty-four years of age and bearing on my heart the
scars I bear, I would not have the simple expectation of a child that the war everyone
talked of could not touch me. I had been "promised" that Bruno would be with me
until the end of January, and I expected that "promise" to be kept—as if the queen's
remark could order fate. I had no suspicion that our time of peace and play was over
when Bruno sent a message that his duty would keep him late and I should go to our
lodging with our men's escort. Even when he came and flung himself on me with
such violence that our coupling would have been rape, except that his urgency
roused me quickly to desire, I only laughed, glad of his need of me. But when he
began to shake after his release and I felt his tears wetting my shoulder, my pretty
bubble burst.
   At first, I was more shocked than frightened, and I held him and soothed him. I
remember saying that though the whole world burned, we had each other and would
find a corner in which to live in peace. I could not well make out his answer because
his voice was thick and he would not raise his head; it was as if he were ashamed.
He said something about pitch spreading from the guilty to smear those who stood
watching. I supposed he was speaking of something the king had done, but I did not
care and only told him that there was no way one man could change the
world—unless he thought he was Christ in his second coming. He was too sick, with
disgust I think, to smile, but the reminder that he should not be so proud and think
the fate of the world rested on his doings finally calmed him. He sighed and let me
see his face and told me he was sorry he had been so rough. A little later he loved
me again with his usual tenderness, and then he slept. I did too, not knowing what
was to come.
   Before dawn Bruno woke me. He held me and kissed me tenderly and said he
must go and he did not know when he would come back, so perhaps I had better
give up the lodging. That was when I realized he was all in mail. I was so stunned
that I could not even weep—thank God for that. My poor Bruno had enough to
bear; he did not need the memory of a weeping wife. And I thank God too that out
of some inner urge, I called out, "Take all three men, Bruno. I do not need a private
messenger, and I think Fechin is lonely without his friends."
   It was Fechin who came back to me, riding Barbe, though he could scarcely sit
the horse, and leading Merwyn's mount with Merwyn tied to the saddle. Cormi was
dead.
   In times of utter and complete disaster, one thanks God for small mercies. When
I heard that Bruno was alive and not sorely hurt, I thought it a wonderful thing that he
was a prisoner rather than dead. Thus it was I who brought to the queen the news
that instead of taking Lincoln, the king had been surrounded by Gloucester's army
and defeated. It was not until Fechin stood before her that I thought she might not
believe him and call him a liar or even punish me, but Fechin began the tale at the
right end by saying that the king was alive and not much hurt before he said that
Stephen had been taken prisoner.
  I had not waited to hear the whole story. Once I had been assured of Bruno's
safety, I stayed only to call a servant to see that Merwyn was put in the hands of a
healer before I brought Fechin to the queen. Her shock was less than mine—when I
saw Barbe with Fechin, I thought Bruno was dead. Once Maud learned that Fechin
had actually seen Stephen safe after the battle, riding a horse beside Robert of
Gloucester though hemmed in on all sides by rebels, she had every detail out of him
even though I had to translate most of what he said; Maud did not understand
soldiers' patois. Some events Fechin had seen himself and others Merwyn had told
him, for Fechin's right arm had been broken early in the battle, and he had withdrawn
to have it set and then stayed with the horses. When he saw the king could not win,
he had stolen Gloucester's colors from dead men for Merwyn and himself, and thus
escaped.
   "I didn' go before I saw I couldn' get Sir Bruno free, m'lady," he said, turning to
me in the midst of his explanation to the queen. "He be ridin' right behind the king. I
made like I was Gloucester's man and followed, right in the city, but they be goin' on
to the keep."
    The queen was not unkind. She called for wine for Fechin and a stool for him to
sit on, but she did not let him go until she had heard everything he knew at. least
twice, and it took several tellings interrupted by many questions before she was sure
she had drained him dry. She gave him gold coin and told me to see to his comfort.
She never thanked me—one does not thank the bearer of such tidings. I went to see
Fechin settled near Merwyn, who was not so near death as I had thought, only
exhausted, and made sure that Barbe was stabled beside Vinaigre and being cared
for. But when I returned to her, Maud took my hand and held it. Then, with a face
like stone and in a voice so soft that I do not think anyone save me heard, she
cursed every earl that Stephen had belted and made rich.
   Most especially, did she curse Waleran de Meulan, who had most influenced the
king to reject the peace treaty, and then had fled the field. I said, "Amen" and
"amen" again, but I do not remember feeling anything but relief that day. The shock
of thinking Bruno dead followed by the joy of learning he was alive numbed me to all
else. In the days that followed my mood swung from hope to terror and back again.
As a prisoner, Bruno would fight no more, so I had hope that he was out of danger;
but other times I had visions of him being tortured and starved, chained in a black
dungeon.
   And then we waited. Two days after Fechin came, William of Ypres rode into
London. The early news Fechin had brought was of value to Queen Maud. It gave
her time to absorb the shock and control her rage, to think what she must do to save
her husband—and what was first and foremost was to keep the good will of any
who were still faithful to the king. She was specially gracious to Ypres, who had at
least not fled without striking a blow and whose power was in Kent, which gave her
access to ports close to Boulogne, from where she could get money and
mercenaries.
   A month dragged by. In the beginning of March the queen sent for me to tell me
that a messenger had come from Henry of Winchester with news of the king and
Bruno. The bishop had assured the queen that Stephen was well and being treated
with honor and that he had with him his own servant Sir Bruno of Jernaeve. She did
not then tell me the real purpose of the message, which was to announce that
Winchester had repudiated his oath to his brother and accepted Matilda as queen
and that he had called a council of bishops to convene on 7 April. At that council,
the bishop intended to use his authority as legate of the pope to announce that
Stephen had been cast down by God and deprived of his crown for his trespasses
against the Church and call for an election of Empress Matilda as Lady. When I
heard, I wondered why the title of Lady rather than Queen had been selected. I never
discovered the answer, but I think perhaps it was because Stephen had been
anointed as king and the bishop feared that even his legatine authority could not wipe
away God's chrism.
   Although Winchester did not obtain the enthusiastic approval he expected, even
from many of the other bishops of England, most of the country withdrew into a
kind of fearful neutrality. Even London, where Stephen was loved, in the end dared
not resist openly and agreed to allow the empress to enter the city when Geoffrey de
Mandeville, keeper of the Tower of London and thus master of the troops that
guarded the city, was bought by Matilda's promise of rich new lands. When
Mandeville broke faith, Maud was deeply shaken. She wept bitterly and then wrote
to the empress offering to yield if Matilda would only release Stephen under bond
never to seek to regain the throne of England.
   The empress refused—well, I expected that; I knew Matilda well by now and pity
and mercy were not in her nature—but I did not expect her answer to be so coarse
and cruel. And Matilda's messenger not only insulted Queen Maud but told her
Stephen was now chained like a slave and it was the empress's intention that he
should die in those chains. That was a great mistake on Matilda's part. It made Maud
desperate. The queen would fight now, with every device and resource she could
muster, and Ypres began to gather an army for her.
   As Matilda approached London, we retreated, but only to Rochester, less than
ten leagues from the city and in easy reach of Ypres's strongholds in Kent. We did
not lack news from London, for the burghers sent news nearly every day; and it
seemed to me that the empress was fighting on our side, so ill did she manage friend
and foe alike. We heard how she would not rise to greet even King David, a fellow
monarch, and how when her own half brother, who had fought for her, knelt to
request mercy for an offender, she bawled a refusal at him almost as coarse as that
sent to Maud.
    Most foolish of all, within days of entering London, Matilda demanded a huge
tallage of the city, which I understand she had no right to do, being not yet crowned.
Then the burghers, who still desired peace even with so harsh a mistress, sent a
delegation who knelt and begged her to reduce the sum. The city was drained of its
usual resources by the damage to trade owing to the war. Matilda would not listen
and roared at them in a rage that she would not abate her demand a penny and
threatened to punish them for having in the past supported King Stephen.
   Had Matilda agreed to Maud's pathetic terms, London would have had no one to
turn to, no help in rising and driving out the empress and her supporters. Now men
came and whispered in Maud's ears and Maud whispered back. In the second week
of July, Maud's army marched west and we with it, but for us it was just another
journey; there did not seem to be any connection with the large number of men
talked about by Maud and Ypres. Even when the army began to ravage the district
south of London, I saw nothing of it. The queen and all her women had taken refuge
behind the high, thick walls of Southwark priory, with a strong troop of Boulognese
to protect both her and the priory.
   The most I saw was the red light of fires reflected on the low clouds and
sometimes I heard a low, dull noise. But the ravaging of Southwark was the signal,
given on the very eve before Matilda was to be crowned, while a feast was being
readied to celebrate the event. I did hear when all the bells of London suddenly
began to toll, and my eyes met the queen's. I almost laughed, for she looked as I
felt—eager, and hungry. We knew that those bells were calling the men of the city to
rush out to attack Westminster, where the empress was making ready for her
coronation.
   The burghers were as good as their word. As Ypres and Maud's army marched
toward the bridge and began to seek boats in which to cross the river, London rose.
Unfortunately there were those among the empress's party who were not befooled
into believing that the bells were ringing in celebration of the coming coronation. The
surprise was not complete and Matilda had time to flee with her supporters, but they
went with what they had on their backs. In her haste to escape, the empress even left
behind the royal crown, which she had been carrying with her since Winchester had
opened the treasury to her. Ypres arrived before the Londoners who were looting the
palace had broken open the strongboxes that held the royal regalia and plate, but I
am sure Maud would have preferred to lose the crown than Matilda. Yet she could
not blame Ypres; he did not know until he entered the palace that the empress was
not there. He set out after her as soon as he was sure she had escaped, but no one
of importance was captured. We learned later that they had broken up into small
parties and fled in different directions so that there was no clear trail to follow.
   I have told the events, many of which I only heard about days after they
happened, and in the telling I have not mentioned how they affected me. I can hardly
bear to do so now. After Matilda had refused Queen Maud's proposal of peace, my
days were too busy to give me time to think, and much of my employment
concerned the attack on the empress in London. That sustained me because I hoped
that the empress would be captured and we would have her to exchange for Stephen
and Bruno. But the nights were terrible. Awake or asleep, as soon as it grew
dark—as it might be in a dungeon—I saw visions of Bruno, chained so he could
neither sit nor stand and was in continual torment, all wasted and covered with
running sores as I had seen prisoners in Carlisle and Richmond. And when I came
into Westminster with the queen and learned that Ypres had returned without a single
prisoner of note, I slipped back into the emptiness that held me for so many months
after I learned my father was dead. I must have lost a few hours or a day, for I came
to myself in a start of pain in an empty room in the palace when the queen slapped
my face.
   "You coward!" she shrieked at me, slapping me again. "You spoiled,
self-indulgent monster! What right have you to sit staring at the wall? Selfish beast!
Will you let your husband die in chains rather than make the effort to save him?"



                               CHAPTER 23


  Bruno
   I have been so often praised for sacrificing myself for the king, that I must
confess my shame. I did my duty to the utmost of my ability in the battle of Lincoln,
though I was appalled at the dishonor of the attack, but my refusal to be parted from
Stephen after we were captured was purely selfish. Did no one save me realize that
to be one with the king was my best hope of freedom? Where could I find a
ransom? Melusine had nothing except the few coins I had left with her when I
departed; Audris and Hugh would pay, I was sure, but why should I drain their
slender store and take on a debt I might never be able to repay? Moreover, I was
assured of far better treatment in captivity as Stephen's servant than as a poor knight
with no estate.
   It was fortunate that Robert of Gloucester, to whom our captor delivered us,
recognized me as one of the men who had brought his sister to him from Arundel. I
was supporting the king, who was still partly dazed from the blow to his head, when
we were brought before Gloucester, and he stared at me a moment and then said,
"You are Bruno of Jernaeve. My sister had a good deal to say about you when I was
escorting her back to Bristol."
    I thought I was a dead man in that moment, but I could not change the habit of a
lifetime, and I stared back at him and said, "I am sorry to have displeased Lady
Matilda, but I am not sorry for the cause. Free or captive, I can see no reason to
beat servants for not being able to guess in advance what was wanted of them nor to
give up my wife to a service she loathed."
   "A round answer, and what I might have expected from a man who puts his hand
on his sword hilt in reply to a look," Gloucester said.
   His voice was sober, but to my amazement there was a slight crinkling of the skin
near his eyes and a twitching at the corner of his mouth that looked like a desire to
laugh. It gave me hope, and I shrugged. "I am sorry for that too, but I could not
bawl across the distance between us a denial to a question that had not been asked."
  Then Gloucester smiled. "Just so, but we are far from the business at hand.
Kahains here informs me that he and his men had some difficulty in making you lift
your shield away from Lord Stephen when they captured him. You are a loyal
servant. Do you wish to remain with your master?"
   Before I could answer, I felt Stephen turn his head. "Stay with me, Bruno," he
muttered. "Stay and show me one candle worth of loyalty in the black night of
treachery that surrounds me."
   Despite my anger at the king and my feeling that he had shown his nobles the way
to their treachery with his own, I think I would not have denied him even if I had not
already seen the advantages in being Stephen's fellow captive. "You need not ask," I
said to Stephen. "I have given you my oath, my lord king, and that oath will hold me
until you release me." And then I looked at Gloucester. "Thank you, my lord. I beg
you to let me go with my lord king and serve him.''
   I had given Stephen his full title because Gloucester had called him Lord
Stephen—and whatever Stephen had lost in attacking Lincoln, nothing could take
from him his anointment as king. Gloucester looked at me, and for a moment I
thought he would take back his offer of allowing Stephen to have his own servant,
who might, as I had just done, attempt to keep up the king's spirits and thus interfere
with attempts to make Stephen renounce his crown. But he said no more to us, only
ordering that horses be found for us so we might be taken into Lincoln keep.
Gloucester was a fine man, and I thought it a great misfortune that he should be a
bastard and—by his own honor and his love and respect for his father as much as
by any other cause—be deprived of the right to the throne. Better, far better for our
unhappy realm had Gloucester the bastard sat on the throne than either Stephen or
Matilda.
   That is true, even though I may have overestimated Gloucester's kindness in
allowing me to remain with the king. Gloucester knew Stephen of old, and may have
known him better than I in certain ways. I had never seen the king truly cast down,
except for very short times until something diverted him from whatever had
disappointed him. Gloucester may have realized that nothing I could do could lighten
the king's mood once he realized the finality of his condition as captive. That he did
not realize it in the beginning soon became clear.
    By the time we were mounted, Stephen was fully recovered from the blow on his
head. We were both wounded, as was Gloucester, but not seriously, and none of us
had lost enough blood to induce weakness. Still, I could hardly believe my ears
when I heard Stephen talking quite cheerfully to the earl about a ransom. I wondered
if the king believed what he was saying, or if he was simply putting off the time when
he must face the truth—that mere could be no ransom on earth that would free him
except the yielding of his crown.
   For over a week Stephen resisted this truth. It was not until we came to
Gloucester and Stephen was forced to do reverence to the empress that he realized
his situation was nigh hopeless. I was not there. I was sent on ahead to Bristol, and I
thank God I do not know what actually happened at that meeting for it broke the
king. For a few days after he arrived in Bristol, he still seemed stunned. Then,
instead of recovering his usual optimism, he sank into alternating periods of grief and
rage in which he first wept and lamented his misdeeds and cried he had been justly
chastised by God and then cursed those who had fled the battle without even trying
to save him.
    The poor king was thrust even deeper into a pit of despair when in March he was
summoned to the hall to hear, before a crowd of his enemies, a special messenger
from Matilda. With sneering satisfaction, that messenger announced that Stephen's
brother had betrayed him and had offered—of his own free will and without
conditions—to proclaim that Stephen had been cast down by the judgement of God
and that Empress Matilda was the true ruler and Lady of England. The king wept for
a day and a night, moaning of his brother's ingratitude. I do not know how often I bit
my tongue to keep from reminding him of the many times he had affronted and
slighted Winchester, beguiled by the smooth flattery of Waleran de Meulan.
    To tell the truth, I was nearly as despairing as the king. The news was a bitter
blow to me too. I had not thought Matilda could be crowned until the king had
agreed to yield the throne. If Matilda were crowned without Stephen's abdication, it
might profit her more to keep him a perpetual prisoner—or be rid of him entirely. I
felt myself fittingly punished for my selfish decision to cling to Stephen, not for
honor or loyalty or his many kindnesses to me but because I thought service a cheap
way to win comfort and freedom. My solace was that I had done my master no harm
despite my selfishness and I began in good earnest to try to cheer him.
    I told Stephen—and it was true—that Matilda was proud, cruel, and thoroughly
venomous and that he must not believe all that her messengers were bidden to tell
him. I pointed out that Winchester's change of heart might not last long. As soon as
Matilda showed him her true character, he would regret bitterly what he had done.
But the king would not listen to me and sank deeper and deeper into apathy,
wandering listlessly about the hall or sitting silently in his chamber. He no longer even
walked on the walls, which was allowed. We were not confined harshly. Mostly we
were treated as guests and given much freedom— only certain places in the keep,
like the armory, and leaving the inner bailey were forbidden to us.
   I could not rouse Stephen, even when toward the end of March, Theobald the
archbishop was allowed to visit him to ask his permission to transfer his allegiance to
the empress. I stood as usual beside Stephen's chair, but I could not tell whether
Stephen even heard the archbishop. The man spoke low; I suppose he was
ashamed, as he might well be, for his election was probably the major cause of
Winchester's defection. Stephen stared at him, and I pressed the king's shoulder
hard enough that he winced and looked at me in protest.
  "Say you will consider," I murmured, bending over him. "Then we can go back to
your chamber."
   Stephen repeated my words obediently, and went with me like a sleepwalker, but
he had indeed heard Theobald. "Why do you want me to delay?" he asked, standing
and staring into the fire. "Does it matter whether I say yes today or tomorrow?"
   "You should not say yes at all, my lord," I urged. "Are you not angry with that
creature? You gave him the power he now has. How dare he come and ask
permission to change faith! Do not give him that ease of soul! If the highest member
of the Church is so weak that he will forswear himself and betray the man who lifted
him up from nothing, let him be forsworn before all men's eyes. If that less-than-man
has a soul, let it be wrenched and blackened. Do not give away your crown."
   He smiled wearily at me and rested a hand on my shoulder. "Did I not choose him
because Waleran said he was weak and I hoped to rule the Church in England as I
ruled the realm? Is it not just therefore that this weakling be unable to help me? And
why should I complain of one more traitor or try to make his change hard when
others change even faster without asking my permission?"
  "My lord, listen to me—"
   But he shook his head and soon after that he absolved Theobald of his oath to
serve him and "graciously" permitted him to swear to the empress instead. Next, I
knew, would come the formal abdication, and I was torn between my hope that it
would lead to freedom and my fear that it would lead to death. I felt helpless to bring
the king to resist, and no longer was sure I should try. Why should I cause him pain
when his case was hopeless? And then I wondered if I was so ready to believe the
case hopeless because I hoped for freedom once the king yielded his crown. It was
no merry treadmill my thoughts went round on, but I never did need to decide what
to say or do. The date of the council, which Theobald had told the king, passed, but
no triumphant message came from Matilda nor any word of a coronation.
   Then one day near the end of April when I was pacing the wall, looking north
toward the hills of Wales, beyond which though many miles away lay Ulle, a
middle-aged man came and stood in my path. I did not know him, and I did not
much like his looks. He had the face of one who has suffered too many
disappointments, hard eyes and a thin mouth that turned down at the corners. I
almost turned and went the other way, but then I thought it wrong to be so
churlish—some of the men in Bristol keep had sought out of kindness to lighten my
captivity with talk and invitations to gamble or drink with them—so I nodded at him
but without speaking, hoping he would let me pass by.
  Instead, he put out his hand to detain me and said, "You are the king's man, are
you not?"
   "I am," I said, instantly alert because he had used the word king. The other men in
the keep either avoided referring to the king, called him "your master" out of
politeness, or named him Lord Stephen.
   "I have a word of news for him. Tell him, from Sir Grolier d'Estaple, that the
council did not go as the Great Lady desired. Few bishops came and the delegation
from London did not invite her to come to their city or to be crowned at
Westminster. Instead they begged the council to free the king. Moreover, Winchester
could not prevent Queen Maud's clerk from reading aloud a letter from her begging
the bishops to remember their oaths to King Stephen. It is said that some were much
shaken."
  There was no one near enough to hear, and he smiled as he spoke, as if he talked
of some light matter. "Thank you," I said, shaking my head as if denying an
invitation. "I will tell him."
   He shrugged to show he had accepted my "refusal," and we parted, he going on
past and I continuing ahead. To tell the truth, the news confused me more than it
made me happy. Until now we had heard nothing except what Matilda or Gloucester
wanted us to hear. We had been given news of each defection from Stephen's cause
to that of Matilda and heard that Hervey Brito had lost Devizes keep to a crowd of
common folk and had fled back to Brittany as had Count Alan, who had lost control
of Cornwall. I knew, of course, that we would be told only what could lower the
king's spirit; nonetheless, over the two months we had been imprisoned, without
realizing it, I had begun to believe that the whole country, like so many of his earls,
had deserted Stephen without a struggle.
    It took me a long time to absorb what I had heard, and part of that time I kept
telling myself Sir Grolier was lying, that I did not like his looks, that it was not
reasonable that one of Gloucester's men should carry good news to Stephen. I was
pacing fast along the wall; when I realized I had gone all the way around, no short
distance, and was back where Grolier had spoken to me, I stopped. Then I had to
ask myself why I was denying the truth of the news Grolier had brought? The answer
was not flattering to me. I resisted because I was, at heart, as bad as the king. I had
given up hope, and I did not wish to hear good news because it woke hope in
me—and hope hurt.
    Then I asked myself whether it was the king's fault or mine that my efforts could
not cheer him? The answer was that I had doubtless done the king more harm than
good. Now I realized I had always spoken like a beaten man, urging Stephen to
stand firm in defeat but never holding out hope that those loyal to him could bring
about his restoration. Full of guilt, I now went quickly to the chamber where I had
left Stephen lying on his bed and staring into nothing. He was still there, and I shook
his arm.
   "Thank God you had not gone out into the hall," I said when he looked at me. "I
have good news, my lord."
  "Good news?" Stephen echoed.
   "One came to me on the wall where none could hear, by name Sir Grolier
d'Estaple—"
  "Estaple?" Stephen interrupted. "That is near by Boulogne."
  "Can he be the queen's servant?" I breathed and then told the king what Sir
Grolier had said about Winchester's council.
  "So London has refused her," Stephen said slowly.
  "But is it true, my lord?" I asked uneasily. "Of course, if Sir Grolier is Queen
Maud's man… I have never seen him here before that I can remember.''
  "I do not know the name," Stephen admitted. "What does the man look like?"
  I described him, but the king shook his head. "I do not know him, not by word
anyway. If I saw him, perhaps—"
   "I do not know where he went," I said. "He acted as if he did not want to draw
notice, and if that is true it would be a mistake for me to seem to be seeking
someone."
   "He found you once," the king said, "he will find you again if necessary." He
seemed to have lost interest in Sir Grolier, and looked away from me, but he
murmured to himself again, "So London refused her."
   The king was quite correct that there was no need to seek Sir Grolier. A few days
later, he found me again while I was pacing the wall. He had more words of hope.
William of Ypres had never wavered in his loyalty to Stephen. Ypres now had Kent
under firm control and mercenaries were coming from Flanders.
   "Can you not come to the king?" I asked. "I left him in his chamber, and I am
sure he would wish to thank you himself for your kindness in bringing this news."
   His mouth twitched. "You are generous," he said. "Most servants prefer to carry
good news themselves and only invite the bearers of ill tidings to speak directly to
their masters."
   I do not know why that struck a sour note with me. It was, I suppose, true for
some, and as I have said, Sir Grolier had the look of a disappointed man, but I told
him, "There is no need to call me generous. The king said he would like to see you
himself."
   "Then I will gladly go, but I do not think it would be wise for us both to walk in
together. If you will give me your cloak, I doubt any will look carefully enough to see
that it is not you."
  That made me uneasy, but why should I doubt the man?
   What purpose could he have other than seeking favor with the king? And if he
sought favor, was that not a hopeful sign? Surely the king could do him no favor
until he came into power again. Then Grolier certainly must hope and possibly even
expect that Stephen would be restored. We went into the shadow of a tower and
exchanged cloaks, and I stayed there, leaning against the wall so I would be out of
sight. Sir Grolier was not long away, and when he had given me back my cloak I
went down to the bailey before I returned to Stephen's chamber, as if I had carried a
message to the kitchen so that none should wonder why I went out twice.
   Because I was uneasy, I asked as soon as I came into the king's chamber whether
Sir Grolier was Maud's man.
    "No," Stephen replied, smiling broadly but speaking in the same hushed tone I
had used. "He is sworn to Gloucester and left Estaple many years ago, but for old
deeds done by Maud's father, he says, he feels obliged to do for me what he can. Is
it not excellent to find a friend amongst our enemies?"
   This answer made me no easier. Could we trust a man who, in a way, was
betraying his master? Yet did he think of the news he brought Stephen as a betrayal
of Gloucester? Likely he thought it could do his own master no harm, or did not
think at all. Probably I was again drawing too fine a line, and I could not bring myself
to mention my doubts to the king. This second dose of hope had affected him more
than the first. Why should I be a black crow and spoil the brightness for him by
mouthing suspicions for which I had no real cause? Stephen's eyes were bright, but
he was sensible enough to keep his voice low as we discussed the chances Ypres
and Maud had of protecting London and thus preventing Matilda's coronation.
   I must admit the talk did not lighten my heart much. If Queen Maud was
successful in her resistance and the war continued, Stephen, and of course I too,
had no hope of being freed until the rebels were desperate—and from the way the
war had gone until the battle of Lincoln, that might be many years. Stephen was not
thinking about that problem yet. I do not believe he was really thinking about the
military situation he was talking about. At this time what was most important was that
he had not been abandoned by all.
   Over the next few days, Sir Grolier came twice more, each time speaking to the
king alone by coming to him while I was out. That did not trouble me, although now
I think I should have wondered why a man in Gloucester's service should be so
eager to speak alone with the king. Then I did not think of it; I was accustomed to
the fact that men who wished to curry favor with the king preferred to present their
cases in private. Each time Sir Grolier brought the king a few tidbits of fresh hope,
as if he spent his time fishing for news and brought in his catch every few days. One
time he had discovered that the earl of Surrey and the earl of Northampton had gone
to the queen and pledged their support; another time he reported that William Martel
had refused to yield Sherborne Castle even in the face of excommunication.
   After that visit the king had begun to think in terms of waging war rather than in
terms of being still loved by those he had uplifted and enriched, and he soon came
to the unpleasant conclusion I had reached immediately. "I am glad I still have
friends, Bruno," he said, frowning, "but unless some great victory is achieved very
soon, you and I are likely to grow old here."
   Since it was highly preferable to me to have a lively and hopeful companion than
one who lay and looked at the walls or wept and raged, I temporized rather than
agreeing. "That may be true, my lord," I admitted, "but it is also possible that some
other medium of exchange—"
   Stephen cut me off with a sharp negative. "There is too great advantage in keeping
me. They have a leader; my force has none. Even the faithful grow weary when there
is no symbol around which to rally. Time will favor them. There is only one answer.
We must escape."
   Every particle of my being leapt up in response to those words. I am sure the king
saw my eagerness because he gripped my arm so hard his fingers left marks. God
knows for me it sounded like salvation. I had never been asked to give my parole—I
do not know whether Gloucester had simply forgotten me or considered me
unimportant or believed I would be bound by the king's vow; whatever the reason,
he had not asked me to swear to accept captivity in lieu of physical chains. But the
king had so sworn.
   "My lord," I whispered, "you know I am willing, but you will have violated your
assurance to Gloucester that you would not seek to gain your freedom. If we are not
successful, I think you will be made to pay."
    "Pay what?" Stephen asked, his voice hushed but his eyes alight. "My life? That
will not be so high a price. Can what we live here be truly called a life? And even if I
die, there will be gains. Matilda will then hold no pawn that can be used to blunt an
attack on her. Eustace is nigh old enough to rule, and betrothed to Constance as he
is, he can call in the full power of the king of France. No, Bruno, I am not afraid to
die. Are you?"
   When he spoke like that, gaily and proudly in the face of danger, a finger of the
old magic that had bound me to him touched me—but it was only a finger, not a
hand that could grasp me and hold me. I loved him, for he had great courage and it
was true he did not fear death—but that was only because, like a child, he did not
really believe it could happen to him.
   "Yes," I said bluntly, "I am afraid to die, but I am not much worried about dying.
Remember that Gloucester never threatened death. You said yourself, my lord, that
you are worth too much alive. He said chains. If you are caught, they will make you
suffer, not kill you."
    "Well, that will have a benefit too." He grinned at me. "If Maud hears that I am
ill-treated, she will move heaven and earth to free me at once. She is cautious by
nature and might delay long waiting for the best time if she believes I am safe and
comfortable."
    Later that remark added to my anxieties, for I knew what the king said was true,
and if the queen was made desperate, she might attack and fail. But at the moment
Stephen named his wife, all I could think of was my own. I had not thought about
Melusine by day for a long time—I was not quite so successful at keeping my fears
and my desires out of my dreams at night and woke quite often sobbing, my pallet
all wet with tears. At first I had spent a great part of my many idle hours recalling our
times together. However, as my captivity lengthened, I found it necessary to stop
myself from thinking of Melusine. It was not only my desire for her that tormented
me—I would have welcomed that torment gladly—but I was afraid.
   I knew that it was only Maud's fear of Stephen's displeasure that had protected
Melusine and forced the queen to keep her among her ladies before we were married.
Perhaps Maud had come to suspect Melusine less, but would she welcome my wife
as a companion in this dreadful time? Was it not more likely that the queen would
use her as a scapegoat for the real enemies she could not reach?
   I told myself again and again that Maud was a kind and sensible woman and that
she must have come to like and value Melusine, but with each piece of bad news I
grew less hopeful. I had visions of Melusine abandoned without money, without a
single man to protect her—for I thought then that Fechin, Cormi, and Merwyn had
been killed or taken prisoner in the battle. What would Melusine do? How could she
make her way across a war-torn country to the safety of Jernaeve? When I imagined
what might happen to a woman traveling alone through a country infested by outlaws
and marauding war bands, I beat my fists bloody against the wall.
   After that, I knew I would have to give up the joy of thinking of Melusine or go
mad. But when Stephen spoke of Maud, I was off guard. Maud's name instantly
brought into my mind what I had seen so often in the past: the queen in her chair by
the fire and Melusine close by, sitting on a stool with her embroidery on her lap,
looking up and holding out a hand to me. I was seized by so violent a pang of
longing that my eyes filled with tears and I turned away. Stephen seized my arm.
   "Have you changed your mind at the thought of chains? Do you fear them worse
than death?" he asked with a sneer.
    Rage leapt up to burn Melusine out of my mind. How dare Stephen sneer at me?
It was not I who wept like a babe with hopelessness and blamed everyone but
myself for my ills. "Yes, I fear them worse," I told him coldly, "since they are more
likely to be my fate than death, but I fear nothing so much I will not perform my duty
and obey you."
   As soon as he saw he would get his way, Stephen was all smiles again. He had
not even noticed that he had hurt me and that I was angry. He thought his sneer had
erased my doubts. "You worry too much," he said. "We will not be caught. When
shall we go?"
    Did he expect me to say, "Now" and lead him out of the keep and through the
city of Bristol? If so, he was sadly disappointed. I pointed out the difficulties and the
need of making plans. "The guards may have grown less watchful than they were at
first, but even blind guards would notice if we just walked out."
   He laughed and struck me lightly with his fist. "Then let us make plans if we must,
but they must not delay our freedom too long lest the rising hope of which Grolier
speaks be crushed."
   Stephen's idea of making plans was suggesting that we enter the forbidden
armory, seize weapons and armor if we could find it, and fight our way out. When I
remembered the dead around him at Lincoln, the idea did not seem quite as
ridiculous as it would have been for another man; however, as I reminded him,
numbers would pull down any man at last, no matter how strong.
  "They did not pull me down," he said pettishly. "No man could come so close.
My helm was lost, and I was stunned by a stone. There are no stones here."
   "No," I snapped, "but there are clubs and knives and spears. And even if we
could fight free of the keep, there is the whole city to traverse. How can we do that if
a hue and cry were raised?"
   "How can we' escape without a hue and cry being raised? I did not mean that we
should start a fight here in the keep. I thought we could go quietly, kill the guards at
the gate, and run. You said yourself that we cannot simply walkout."
  "We cannot walk out as ourselves, but if we were disguised as serfs who have
come in to do a day's labor, we could walk out. It is possible that none would notice
we were missing for some hours, and by then we could be out in the countryside.
Who would notice two poor hinds trudging from one task to another?"
   Stephen looked at me as if I had grown two heads, but after some discussion he
began to see the merits of the idea—or to think that it would be an amusing
adventure. Anyway, he entered into my attempts to obtain disguises for us with an
enthusiasm that grew greater with each of Grolier's continued tidbits of hopeful
news. The first step was to get my hands on money—that did not have to be done
secretly; I could pretend I wanted it for the games of chance I had often been invited
to join.
   It was easier than I expected. I was able to sell, as a keepsake, one of Stephen's
shirts embroidered by Maud with the arms of England. I think the man who bought it
believed I had stolen it from my master, but it was Stephen who had suggested that I
sell everything I could. He pointed out, we could not take anything with us so we
might as well get what we could from the garments we would have to abandon.
Unfortunately I could not sell much because I was afraid that would arouse
suspicion.
   The next step was to steal from the serfs. I hoped my depredations would arouse
no outcry because I left a silver coin for each ragged garment I took, and that hope
was fulfilled. In less than a week, I had collected two ragged cloaks and two dirty
tunics. Such garments were often laid aside for mornings were cool in May, whereas
hard work warmed a man in the afternoon when the sun shone. The tunics gave me
the most trouble because there were few serfs who were as large as Stephen and me.
I could not get braies or shoes and stockings at all. Men do not take those off, and I
could not get into the outer bailey where the huts of the demesne serfs were. Finally I
realized I could make those from our own garments by tearing and befouling them
with water and soil.
  I had to be careful in gathering and bringing in the soil, but there was still some
awe of the king and I think Gloucester had ordered that he be treated with respect.
   None came into his chamber without invitation, so I could hide both what I did
and the besmirched garments without danger. It was just as well for another reason
too. Once Stephen had got over the shock of the idea of wearing torn and soiled
garments, he seemed to find it a novelty. Twice I came in to find him trying them out
to see which filthy tunic and ragged cloak better befit him. I warned him of the
danger to us if anyone at all saw him, and I thought he looked guilty and that there
was an uneasy note in his laugh when he assured me that no one knew of the
disguise. I suppressed my doubts. I could not believe he would lie on so important a
subject.
   We were ready by the middle of May. It was a poor time for such an escape
because dusk lasted a long time, unlike winter when dark came swiftly on the setting
of the sun. However, to delay would only make that problem worse, and we were
presented with a temptation we could not resist only one day after I had assembled
everything I could for our escape. Because the king was confined in Bristol keep,
many more men than usual were quartered in the place. That meant that more
supplies came in, that more garbage was created and needed to be removed. It was
the coming and going of serfs and villiens who were not well known to the guards
upon which I had counted to allow us to leave without question.
   I had intended to make the king watch the behavior of these people and try to
imitate it for a few days. He laughed at me at first, but when I insisted he come down
to the baHey with me and pointed out the differences, he admitted grudgingly that
the demeanor of the knights, who walked proudly erect with heads high and eyes
either fixed ahead or staring haughtily at some person or object, was not like that of a
serf. A serf, even the young whose bodies were still straight, always went with
bowed head and with eyes that flicked here and there, watching for a summons or an
order or a blow.
     When we were alone again, Stephen praised me for my ability to notice such a
thing and asked how I had come to look so carefully at the serfs. I reminded him
flatly that so had my mother walked and looked and so would I had not Audris
loved me and Sir Oliver been a good and honorable man. The king then looked a
little embarrassed and agreed to practice that evening after we were supposed to be
asleep, but he seemed to scorn his role. To my fury he laughed and appeared almost
proud at his lack of success. After I pointed out that failure and a life in chains
would be the price of his pride, he worked a little more earnestly at being humble and
frightened. I think I would have given up then if I had not known that nothing could
turn Stephen from this attempt.
   Then, before my resentment faded there came the temptation that seemed so
good a stroke of fortune that we would deserve to fail if we ignored it. Not only were
more supplies needed owing to the large garrison in the keep, but the garderobe filled
more quickly so it was necessary to remove the waste often. Usually this was only
done when the lords had left and the keep was near empty, but Gloucester was
taking no chance of transporting the king around England. For one thing, there was
no equally safe and strong place to keep Stephen; for another, taking him into the
open was just asking for an attempt to rescue him by a strong attack. Thus, the very
day after Stephen had taken so lightly the need to imitate a serf, a large group of
them was admitted to clear out the garderobe in addition to the group delivering
supplies and carting garbage out to be rotted and used on the fields.
   Stephen saw them from the window of his antechamber and rushed out to find me
on the walls. I had seen them also and cursed them for coming a few days too soon,
but when the king gripped my arm and said, "Today I will go," I did not protest. I
knew protest would be useless; he was so set now on this escape that he would go
without me if I refused, and that my duty would not permit. Besides, in such a
crowd we might truly go unnoticed, and the need to clear the garderobe would not
come again for several months.
   "Very well, my lord, today," I agreed. "Do not eat your dinner—I will give you
mine if you are sharp-set— and go down several times to the privy wearing your
cloak. If someone asks, say you are chilled. I will ask for a physician later in the day,
saying you are purging. Do not let him bleed you. I will replace the medicine he
compounds with wine or water. One of the times you go to the privy, I will come
and we will choose a place for you to hide. Just before dusk, go again to the privy,
hiding the serfs garments under your cloak. Change, and remain hidden. I will come
in a few minutes, don your cloak, and return to your chamber."
   "Then how will you come out? I am not so sure of how to slip into a group of
those people."
   "I will make your cloak and other garments into a body in your bed and just walk
out, saying the physician's remedy has worked at last, that your belly gripes are
finally stilled, and that you are asleep. I am so often in and out of your chamber that
none will remember I have not returned, or they will think I am walking the walls, as I
often do, even after dark."
   I was not very excited at first. Stephen's light attitude toward the details of our
escape had lessened my hope of success, but as the day passed, my excitement
grew. The king's acting of his illness was so fine that he not only fooled the
physician into real anxiety but nearly convinced me his belly pained—enough so that
when we were alone I asked if he were too sick to go. He laughed at me so hard, he
nearly brought up what he had eaten of my dinner.
   He was perfect too in groaning that this was an evil day for serfs to be working in
the garderobe. He cursed the physician roundly for saying, sick as he was he should
use the chamber pot, shouting that he was not a babe nor yet so weak—although he
knew they all desired he grow weak and die—that he must perch on a pot. The
physician swore a hundred times that the last thing any of them desired was that he
die and that Gloucester would doubtless have his head if Lord Stephen did not
recover. Then he bade him use the garderobe anyway, saying it would not matter to
the creatures cleaning it if he shit on their heads, but the king said indignantly that he
would not so treat a dog or a horse, nor even a pig, and would not so treat a human
servant either.
   Then he shouted at me that he needed no man to watch him and drove me out of
the chamber. Nor would he allow me to help him to the privy when I offered to lend
him my arm because he seemed doubled over with pain. Thus, out of courtesy the
men looked aside and did not stare at him when he struggled down the stairs to shit
and crept up again as if spent.
   I managed to dispose of whatever medicine the physician compounded, and
Stephen cleverly pretended that the dose had helped, sending for the physician and
thanking him for his new ease. But late in the afternoon, he staggered out of his
chamber again and called for another dose of the drug. Then he pretended to sleep
until the last time. After I had crept back in his cloak, I came out in my own and
went for a third dose. Then I remained in the chamber for a little while before I came
out with my own serfs garments under my cloak. My heart leapt into my mouth when
the constable stopped me, but it was only to ask how my master fared and I said he
slept but lightly and I thought I would leave him alone until he was deeply asleep, so
that any small noise I might make would not disturb him. I hoped, I added, that none
other would disturb him.
  When I had changed, I found a broken fork and a dull wooden spade and we
went and joined a group that was dumping soil into a nearly full cart. Stephen did far
better at looking cowed and frightened than I expected. We had smeared our faces
with dirt and to my joy it had started to rain, so we could pull our hoods over our
heads. Still when the cart moved out, I could not believe we would escape. I was so
sure we would be stopped that I had to force myself forward as we drew near the
gate, and I did not dare look back at Stephen, who was a step behind me, but I was
sure he had forgotten to slump his shoulders like a beaten man and hang his head.
But the guards on the gate of the inner bailey seemed indifferent, and the cart went
onto the inner drawbridge with us behind it.
   That changed everything. It was the guards on the inner gate that I feared most;
they would be the ones most watchful for an attempt at escape. So when we came
off the drawbridge, I began to shake with eagerness, needing to think of holding my
feet to a dull, exhausted trudge when every instinct bade me run ahead out of the
outer gate to freedom. It was torture to keep to the slow pace of the oxen, but they
did advance foot by foot, and after what seemed like a thousand years, I heard a
kind of echo of the creak and groan of the cartwheels that told me we were near the
wall. Then I risked a glance and caught my breath. We were right at the gates, which
were open, and the attention of the guards was on a group of men who seemed to
have just entered.
    Just as I lowered my head to better hide my face, I heard a cry of pain from one
of the serfs ahead. I reached out for Stephen to remind him he must not resist—but
it was too late. I saw a staff rise and strike him, heard his roar of rage, saw him leap
on the man who had struck him and bear him down. I leapt too, knowing we were
lost but throwing myself over the king to save him, I thought, from being beaten to
death. But it was a knife not a cudgel that came down and struck me.



                               CHAPTER 24


  Melusine
   Selfish; Self-indulgent monster! The voice was the queen's, but the words were
those my mother had said to me after my brothers died of the plague that had taken
so many lives in Ulle on my thirteenth birthday. I felt dazed and confused, most
aware of the stinging of my cheeks where Maud's slaps had struck.
  "But that was because of papa," I said. "Because I was making papa sick with
worry."
  "Your father is dead!" the queen shrieked, slapping me once more. "Long dead!"
   I lifted my head and focussed my eyes on her face. She was bent above me, and
to my surprise it was concern not rage that I saw, but I could not answer her.
   "It is your husband to whom you owe your support," she said fiercely, although
she was no longer shouting. "He has supported you and protected you, even against
my will. Do you owe him nothing? And he is in prison, chained like a beast by the
order of that monster Matilda. Melusine, do you hear me?"
  "I hear you, madam."
   "Then listen well. I will not stay long in Westminster. I will go first to Essex and
root out any man who has ever been favored by Geoffrey de Mandeville and at the
same time draw a heavy war levy, leaving some Boulognese troops to protect the
province. As soon as I have news of where Matilda lies, I will follow. I will raise
every city she enters against her, for the towns love Stephen, and I will hound her
from place to place until she disgorges my man. You may not care that Bruno will
rot in captivity, but I am not willing to accept that fate for my husband. I will be glad
of your help and your company, Melusine, but if you wish to sit and stare at walls as
you did when the king first put you in my care, I will leave you. I have no strength to
carry dead wood with me now."
    She straightened up, turned, and left the room, and I suddenly realized that I was
sitting on the floor in a chamber looted of everything. I put my hands to my cheeks,
which burned anew, this time with shame. What kind of woman was I that my
answer to a disappointment was to become mad? No more. Never again. If I could
not face the horror and grief of my life, I would take my sister Mildred's path and
walk into the water. I would not be dead wood, a burden to everyone, needing to be
told to stand and sit, to eat and drink.
   I tried to rise, but my whole body was stiff and my legs would not support me.
How long had I been sitting thus? I tried again, but this time there were hands under
my arms, helping me, and Edna's voice, trembling as she asked, "Are you well, my
lady?"
  "I am well now, Edna," I said.
   "I did not know the queen would be so angry," she whispered. "I tried and tried
to make you get up or tell me why you were sitting there, and then I grew frightened
and… and I told the queen."
    "Thank God you did," I said, leaning on her and walking about the chamber. Now
I saw it was not totally empty. In the corner behind me there was a stool. I moved
toward it, tempted to sit down again, but each step was easier, and in a few minutes I
let go of Edna to walk on my own. When I was steady on my feet, I came to her and
put my hand on her shoulder. "Thank you, Edna. That was a brave deed. Queen
Maud is so busy, it could not have been easy to get leave to speak to her.''
   "It was not hard." She grinned up at me. "I did not ask for leave. I just walked up
to the guards and called out to her. Everyone was so shocked that I should walk
past all the great ones and cry for help, that no one tried to stop me." Then she grew
solemn, her eyes large with remembered amazement. "And the queen was so good.
She bade all those high-born men wait and came at once when I told her you were
sick and I could not rouse you."
   I felt tears sting my eyes. Maud had been very good to leave such important
matters to come to me. Her words and blows were sharp, but so had my mother's
been, and only for my good. "Yes," I said to Edna, "she is a good woman. I am
sorry I frightened you, but if it should happen again that I do not answer you for a
long time, do as the queen did—I mean, cause me pain. That will wake me."
  "But my lady—"
   "Never mind that now," I interrupted. "I am famished. See if you can find me
something to eat and drink. Anything will do." As I spoke we walked to the door. I
hoped Edna did not notice how my breath caught and I said quickly, "Bring the food
here. I fear I will have no chance to eat if I go where the queen is."
   I was afraid to admit to Edna and to myself too, that I did not know where I was,
so I turned my back on the huge empty chamber and gestured toward the small
room. Edna ran off and I turned back to the great chamber. It was a hall, a hall in
Westminster—surely the queen said we were in Westminster. I was not so mad as
not to be able to remember what had been said to me only a few minutes before, was
I? And the place was not completely empty. As in the smaller chamber, I had not
noticed that there were broken bits of this and that—a leg of a stool, a strip of cloth
that had been white and was now marked with smudges where someone had stepped
on it, half a trestle for supporting tables. And then I suddenly knew where I was. I
had not recognized the place because each time I had seen it before it had been
crowded with tables and benches and people—people eating, laughing, talking,
sometimes dancing. I was looking at the king's hall, and the chamber in which I had
been sitting on the floor was the king's private closet.
   My first sensation was shock, my second regret that my foolishness had forced
the queen to come here; it must have hurt her to see the place empty and looted.
Then I fetched the stool and sat down and asked myself what I was doing here. It
was not a place that could have drawn me by familiarity; the place I knew best in
Westminster was the queen's hall and her private chamber where I worked. Why
should I come to the king's hall? Why should I, who had never entered it before in
my whole life, sit down to wait—forever if need be—in the king's private chamber?
What was I seeking here in my madness? I never came to the king's hall except…
except in Bruno's company or to find Bruno.
    Bruno. I had come seeking Bruno in my madness. I could not lie about that to
myself any longer. And if I sought him when I was mad, then was he not the center
of my life? The center of my life… yet he was the man who most likely killed my
father and my brother. That was how it was done, to give the female to the victor.
He had been the one to burst in the door of the hall at Ulle; he had taken the manor,
that was certain. And I had been given to him, that was also certain. Was it not most
likely that he had been allowed to take Ulle because in a sense he had already won it
over my father's and brother's dead bodies?
   I shuddered so hard the legs of the stool creaked, but I hardly heard that. I heard
the queen. "Your father is dead. Long dead."
  Did that wipe out my duty to him? He had cared for me and protected me… But
the queen's voice overrode that thought too, angry, demanding. "It is your husband
to whom you owe your support… he has protected you even against my will." It
was true. But only because he wanted Ulle. No, that was a lie and I had come to the
end of lying—that led only to a dark place where I sat on the floor and stared at the
wall. Bruno wanted me—not Ulle, not even my body, although he took pleasure in
both—he wanted my love. Papa had also wanted my love… Had he? Papa had
wanted my devotion, which was a very different thing, not an equal sharing but a
greater and a lesser—and papa was dead. Dead. Bruno was in chains and might
soon be dead.
    I found myself on my feet, my hand on my eating knife and ready to run… to
Bruno, to keep him alive. Papa was dead and Bruno was still alive. Papa was dead. I
could remember him; I could still love him, but I could not let his cold hand again
draw me down the path that led to sitting on the floor in an empty chamber, deaf,
mute, and blind because my duty forbade me to do what I desired with all my heart,
all my mind, and all my soul. The queen was right. I could no longer pretend that I
was loyal to papa as long as I did nothing myself to help Bruno.
   My duty was a dead weight on me, crushing me; I must cast that aside. There
were things, real things I could do to help Bruno. I could bring men from Ulle and
there was silver in the strongbox. I could hire other men to fight with the queen. Sir
Gerald could lead them. I could go to Audris. Jernaeve was rich; Audris would lend
me or give me money to buy more men. Some might even come for the pure
pleasure of fighting against Matilda, even though King David's son was now their
overlord and King David was with the empress. But King Stephen was Henry's
overlord, not his father, and I knew the men of Northumbria did not love the Scots.
   Edna came with my food—cold meat and bread and ale, and I ate with an appetite
that I had not felt since the news of Bruno's capture. When I was full, I went to the
queen's private chamber and waited, thanking God that I had done my accounts
before Ypres returned with the news that the empress had escaped him. The queen
did not come in until very late, and she looked tired. Nonetheless, I came and knelt
beside her chair and thanked her for her kindness to me.
  "So," she said, "have you decided who you are?"
  "Yes, madam," I replied. "I am the wife of Bruno of Jernaeve, and I love my
husband as you love yours."
  "Very good." She offered me a tired smile and leaned her head against the high
back of her chair. Her eyes began to close, and her hand lifted to wave me away.
  I caught the hand. "Madam, a moment more, I beg you."
   She turned her head a fraction. "Yes?" There was a weary patience in-her voice,
the patience of one who has begun a task, now almost regrets it, but cannot leave it
unfinished.
  "I can bring men to swell your army."
  Maud's eyes snapped open and she jerked upright. I almost chuckled with
amusement although I had deliberately said that to catch her attention when I knew
she expected me to trouble her with some silly personal doubts.
  After staring at me for longer than I liked, she said, "Yes, I believe you have
decided who you are. But have you told me the truth?"
  I was not shocked. Little as I knew about armies and battles, even an idiot could
understand that an open enemy is less dangerous than an ally who knows your plans
and betrays you. I knew too that Maud had never fully trusted me although I felt she
had come to be truly fond of me. I had had several hours to consider what to say,
and now I smiled.
    "I have told you the truth, but if you will give a moment's thought to the matter,
you will see that it does not matter. The only thing I am sure papa would want me to
do—" A little chill went down my back as I thought of the kind of revenge papa
would really want on the man who killed him, but that had nothing to do with who
was king or queen. "—is to regain Ulle. I have a good hope of getting Ulle, or of
Bruno getting it, from King Stephen. I have no hope of that from Matilda, even if I
could get King David to make his son enfeoff Bruno or me. She would see me dead
first for refusing her command to accompany her into Bristol. And she hates Bruno
worse than me because he flouted her will more than once on our journey. And even
if that is a lie and she promised me Ulle to come and spy on you, do you think me
such an idiot as to still believe she will keep a promise to me, who will not keep them
to the bishop of Winchester or to Robert of Gloucester?"
   Maud herself had to smile at my reasoning, but the smile faded as she went back
over what I had said and saw that I had indeed covered every excuse for disloyalty.
She frowned and looked uneasy and there was a pettish note in her voice as she
asked, "How many men, and from where?"
   "I can only be sure of about fifty from Ulle with a knight to lead them, but it may
be possible for me to bring many more, several hundred I believe. Bruno's sister,
Audris of Jernaeve, is rich. I am sure she will lend me, or even give me, money to
buy mercenaries. There are many in the north who do not love the king of Scotland
and who will come to fight against him—and against Empress Matilda."
   Maud knew that was true; she had received bitter and angry delegations from
northern baronial leaders about the peace treaty she had made with King David. She
shifted uneasily in her seat and finally said, "I will mention the matter to Ypres."
   "Thank you, madam," I said. "That is all I desired. I would not have troubled you
with this today when I knew you to be tired, only I was afraid I would have no
chance to speak in the morning and that might cost me another full day. Jernaeve and
Cumbria are far north and west."
   To my surprise, the queen suddenly looked very pleased, patted my hand, and
promised that if Ypres thought my idea worthwhile and if I indeed did bring several
hundred men who fought well in King Stephen's cause, I should have Ulle. It took
me a while, lying sleepless on my pallet, to come to the conclusion that Maud's
suspicions had been increased by my approaching her privately in her chamber. She
had probably believed that I chose to speak when she was weary in the hope she
would seize on my offer while her mind was muddled with fatigue and sorrow and let
me go at once.
   That gave me hope that the queen had found my offer very attractive—she always
mistrusted herself when she had an instant liking for something—which meant my
idea was good. Indeed, it proved so, for I was summoned from the queen's chamber
to repeat what I hoped to do to Ypres. He did not seem much interested in the men
from Ulle, thank God; I had been afraid to speak about Sir Gerald lest his
connection with my father make the queen and Ypres more suspicious. What Ypres
was most interested in was who I expected to lead the Northumbrian troops.
   "I do not know," I told him. "I know nothing of war, but Sir Hugh of
Jernaeve—he that was Hugh Licorne before he wed with Bruno's sister—will find a
man for me who will be wise, strong, and trustworthy, I am sure."
  "Licorne." Ypres's voice became eager. "If you are wise, you will beg him to
come himself, Lady Melusine."
   "No!" I exclaimed. "You think me a selfish monster indeed if you believe I would
call my sister's husband to war in the rescue of mine. I will beg for money. I will beg
for men. I will do everything a woman can do to raise as large a force as I can. But I
will also do everything in my power to prevent Hugh from being involved in any
fighting."
   I did. I swear I did everything I could to keep Hugh from leading my small army,
but it was all in vain. Despite my need, I would never have gone to Jernaeve at all if I
believed he would think of joining the fight to save Stephen unless I asked it of him. I
am sure Bruno never told me that Hugh had once promised to take service with the
king when his old master, Sir Walter Espec, no longer needed him. The king had
freed Hugh from that promise when he did homage for Jernaeve in Audris's name,
but Hugh was like papa and Bruno; he did not forget old promises.
   Did Ypres know? Was that the reason that he advised me to ride straight north to
Jernaeve rather than northwest to Ulle? He said it was safer, that the whole central
part of the country was seething with unrest, with war bands marching to and fro and
outlaws attacking travelers and merchants. He took the trouble to speak to Fechin
and Merwyn and describe a route that should safely bypass the strongholds of
Matilda's supporters. And we did come safely to Jernaeve, only once having hidden
in a wood while a troop marched by and once having outrun a party that rushed out
at us from a ruined village.
   Hugh and Audris were at the lower gate to meet us, Audris's face whiter than
bone and her eyes round with terror. She had been weaving and from her tower
window had seen Fechin on Barbe before we crossed the ford. As I had, she feared
Bruno was dead. I had forgot she might recognize Barbe, and though I had written
to Audris almost every month ever since I had been with her in Jernaeve, I had not
told her Bruno had been taken prisoner because I knew she was with child again and
was afraid to cause her worry.
  So my tale burst from my lips before I had even dismounted from Vinaigre—at
least I cried out that Bruno was alive and with the king. Before I could say more,
Audris flew from tears to joy. I did not think that unreasonable, for I had felt the
same, and she began at once to talk of ransom.
   "Hush, love," Hugh said. "Bruno will not leave the king. If he had desired to be
ransomed, we would have heard the terms long ago. Remember that the king was
taken prisoner in February, and this is July. Let us go back into the keep so Melusine
can rest and eat. Ride up," Hugh urged me, but I shook my head and dismounted.
  "I hope you do not blame me for lying to you," I said, taking Audris's hand. "I
was afraid—"
   She patted her belly, which was large, with her free hand and shook her head.
Then, still holding me, she began to walk across the bailey. Her step was not as light
as usual, but she was breathing easily and I was astonished when Hugh picked her
up and began to carry her up the steep path to the keep. She said once, "Put me
down," but when he did not, she only sighed and did not protest again.
   I poured out the rest of my news on our way into the keep, and Hugh shouted
with pleasure when he heard that the empress had been driven out of London and
had fled with no more than the clothes on her back. However, they would not let me
explain my business until I had bathed and eaten, and I was glad of it. I found it
harder than I thought to ask for money, but Audris laughed at me and waved her
hand, brushing away any thought of debt.
  "I am alive only because of Bruno's care of me," she said. "Between my brother
and me there can be no thought of debt. Money is lightly come by. A few tapestries
and a few hawks will pay for all."
  "Bruno will not agree," I said, smiling at her. "You know that."
   "Bruno will have nothing to say about it," Audris replied. "If you do not tell him,
he will not know."
   Hugh laughed. "We will see. Men may cost less than you think, Melusine. I will
send out a summons and send this news to Espec. You may not need to bear the
burden of the force we raise. Leave that to me."
   "But will not that make trouble for you with your overlord?" I asked fearfully. "I
know Henry is King Stephen's vassal, but he is also King David's son. I thought he
could not blame you if I hired men in the queen's name. He could not know you had
given me the coin to pay them."
   "I hold directly from Stephen," Hugh said. "Henry has no right over my service to
the king." Then he smiled at me. "And even if he did, I am sure he would look the
other way. Henry does not love Matilda. He was here not very long ago, bemoaning
his father's need to uphold his oath to her—and Henry never swore that oath."
   I sighed with relief and gladly relinquished the gathering of men in Northumbria
into Hugh's hands. Then I asked whether he knew a good man to lead them. "I do
not think my father's old friend Sir Gerald could do it," I said. "He is loyal and will
be able to lead the men from Ulle, but he always served under papa, and I am not
sure how he would manage men who do not know him. I wish there were time for
me to bring him here so you could talk to him, but there is not, and Ypres said I
must have a good leader."
  Hugh was looking at me strangely. "What are you talking about? If I summon
men, I will lead them."
  "No!" I cried. "No!"
  He looked shocked and hurt. "Do you not trust me?"
    "Trust you? What has that to do with it? Must I sacrifice my sister's husband to
regain my own? No! Not you! I will do without the men from Northumbria. Curse
me that I ever came here. No! Is it not evil enough on my soul that I will send an old
friend to die?"
   Audris put her hand on mine. "Melusine, my love, is there something you have not
told us? Is this cause so hopeless?"
    "No! I swear it is not." Tears began to run down my face and Audris drew me
closer on the bench and put her arms around me. I tried to think. How did I know
Maud's hope was not illusion? I knew because William of Ypres did not suffer from
illusions in matters of war. "It cannot be hopeless because Ypres is burning to
begin."
  "Oh?" Hugh drew out the word in a pleased way. "How do you know that?"
   "I had to explain to him what I wished to do before the queen would give me
leave. He told me—well, I did not understand everything so I wrote down all I could
remember —but the way he spoke told of his eagerness."
   "Good." Hugh's brilliant eyes shone with pleasure. "William of Ypres has his
head fixed firmly on his shoulders. He does not indulge himself in dreams. I will
want to see what you wrote."
   "No!" I said, setting my teeth. "You are not going to war on my account. Audris,
forbid him! Beg him!"
   "I cannot forbid him," Audris said slowly, "and it would be wrong to beg for
what would hurt him. But I will ask." She leaned forward, the better to see her
husband, who was sitting in Sir Oliver's chair. "Why, Hugh? Is there no one else fit
to lead?"
   That was when I learned of Hugh's promise to the king. Audris seemed to know
of it, and nodded her head as soon as he reminded her. She sat back then,
apparently content to let him go to war, but I did not yield so easily. I wept and
pleaded, and Hugh came and joined us on the bench, also embracing and soothing
me—but not wavering a whit— until at last I brought out the deepest horror in my
mind.
  "You must not," I pleaded, and then I wiped the tears from my cheeks and eyes
and stood up to face them. "Do you not know that I am death. I told Audris. No
man or woman who has loved me has lived out a natural span of life. And it will all
be in vain too. When we have captured the empress and bought the king's freedom,
Bruno will be dead."
    Hugh looked from me to Audris and back again and, to my utter amazement,
burst out laughing as he got to his feet. "Now I know why you two loved each other
at first sight. One is a witch and the other a prophet, and both are given to imagining
horrors that do not come to pass."
   Then he grew sober, drew me close, kissed my forehead, and stood back with a
hand lightly on my shoulder. "Melusine, you are a very foolish woman. I am sorry
there has been so much sadness in your life, but it is not uncommon. I inherited
Ruthsson for just the same reason. My grandfather had four sons and three
daughters and a pack of grandchildren, and his brother and I are the only two still
alive. I forget just what killed each one, but I know that plague and war played their
parts as in your family. It did not hurt me as it hurt you because I never knew any of
them, did not even know they were my family until long after all were dead, but I do
not go about calling myself death personified because I inherited. Now, I will leave
you to Audris to sort out, and I will start my messengers on their way."
    "Hugh is quite right," Audris said, holding out her hand to me and drawing me
down on the bench beside her again. "Plague and war strike everywhere. You know,
my love, that it was only by Bruno's care of me that I survived a plague that killed
my father and Bruno's mother and nearly all the people in Jernaeve keep and village.
It is no person's fault when such dreadful things happen." She smiled at me. "In
some ways you are very like Bruno. He also blames himself for not preventing from
happening things that no man could prevent."
   I remembered saying that to him myself just before King Stephen had gone to
attack Lincoln keep, where he had been captured. I uttered a sob, but smiled at the
same time. I was comforted in a sense, but my fear for Hugh still lay, a great weight
on my heart. I took Audris's tiny hands in mine.
  "Forget my foolishness. But even if I am not something evil that puts a death
mark on those who care for me, war is dangerous. Do you not fear for Hugh?"
   "Yes," Audris said, "but not beyond measure. I fear for Hugh when he goes out
to drive raiders off the land, and even when he rides a new, half-trained horse." She
freed one hand and touched my cheek. "But you see, Melusine, in my life mostly
good things have happened to me. Thus, I fear in hope, in expectation, that no harm
will come to my loved ones. You fear in despair, and that must be an unbelievable
pain. I can heal many ills, but I do not know how to heal that."
   "It cannot be healed, but you bring me comfort," I told her, pressing the hand I
held. "And I think at long last I am learning to bear it without lying to myself to avoid
the pain—which only makes it worse until I find myself sitting on the floor in an
empty chamber looking at the wall."
  "Oh, Melusine," Audris cried, embracing me and holding me tight. "What
happened?"
  I told her and was comforted again because she did not scorn me for my
weakness or withdraw in horror. "But if no harm comes to Hugh and if Bruno—" I
had to swallow as panic closed off my voice, but I did go on. "And if Bruno is
restored to me alive, perhaps I will find the bearing easier." I sighed. "Even if I do
not, I must learn to bear it, or some day I will go into that dark place and not be able
to find my way out again."
    "I do not think so," Audris said. Her expression was thoughtful. "I do not think it
is the pain of grief you cannot bear. Perhaps the first time it was, that and the fear of
your father's disapproval because you had lost Ulle—a fear that would be greater
when you knew he was dead because one cannot explain to the dead or get their
forgiveness. But in Westminster I think what drove you to hide from yourself was
that you could not abandon your need for either your father or your husband. That
was the child fighting against the woman. No one wishes to leave childhood behind,
and it is true is it not that your father was quick to lift from you any burden you felt
was too heavy?''
   I stared at her open-mouthed for a moment. True? Of course it was true, all of it,
but especially the part about papa lifting burdens from me; in fact, often papa would
not give me burdens I wished to carry. Yet I saw at once what Audris meant. Papa
was safety. I could turn my back on anything I did not like while papa lived. Bruno
was different. He needed my strength as much as I needed his. I nodded at Audris.
  "Yes, I was always papa's dear little child."
   "Well," Audris said, "you are a woman now." Then she smiled. "I did not like it
when it happened to me either. And it is true that a grown-up woman cannot run for
help like a child, but a grown-up person may share a heavy burden."
   "I have certainly shared mine," I said wryly. "It seems to me that I have dumped it
on you rather than sharing it. And this is a bad time for you, Audris. You are very
near your time, are you not? Surely you want Hugh here when you are brought to
bed."
   "Want Hugh?" Audris turned eyes full of horror on me. "I would not have chosen
to have him go to war, but I am almost glad even of that if it will save me from Hugh
when I am brought to bed. Is it not bad enough to bear the pangs without needing to
comfort someone else? He is not so bad this time. He only asks me ten times a day
how I feel instead of fifty and only twice or three times instead of ten times carries
food to me because I do not eat enough. These last months are hard for me because
I am small, but I am healthy and strong. You saw him carry me when I could walk. I
know it is because he loves me, but still I must bite my tongue not to scream at him."
Suddenly she giggled. "Wait, your turn will come. Bruno will be worse than Hugh. I
would not be surprised if you prayed for a war to take him away."
   I laughed in response, but somewhat uneasily, fearing she was putting a good face
over reluctance so that her need would not come before her brother's. "But you will
be alone," I said.
   "Alone? Do not be silly. My Aunt Eadyth is here and Hugh's Aunt Marie. Both of
them have born children and will be of much more help than Hugh. And if strength is
needed for something, there is Fritha, my maid. She is as strong as an ox."
   How foolish I was, I thought. Most women looked to other women for help and
comfort; naturally Audris would rather have her aunts than an ignorant and frightened
man when she was brought to bed. I would prefer women too. It was only out of
habit that I thought of a man as bringing comfort. Then I realized that Hugh must not
have yet considered that problem and breathed a sigh of relief.
   "Hugh will not go," I said. "He has not stopped to think how near you are to your
time. Whatever you desire, he will not want to leave you."
   "He does not know how near I am to my time," Audris said, her eyes dancing
with mischief. "I did not tell him when I first conceived. You remember I wrote you
how ill he took it when I lost that babe last year. He wept more than I. This time I
waited more than three months, until I was sure the child was well set in me, so he
thinks I have yet two months to carry."
  "How can he be deceived?" I asked, looking at her.
   Audris laughed. "Because this babe is smaller than Eric was even though he was
born a month early. Perhaps it is a daughter. And perhaps Hugh does not really want
to know, and in his secret heart hopes he will be away when I am brought to bed. I
am not sure whether he is truly deceived or only very frightened, but he will go."
   She was right, of course, but I left Jernaeve in good spirits, very sure that in the
end Hugh would stay with her. My faithful three rode with me, Fechin, Merwyn, and
Edna. I was much surprised at Edna's steadfastness, for I did not think the life she
came from would have taught that virtue. I could see no reason why the poor girl
should need to face a war, however, and when I asked it Audris offered her a home
in Jernaeve. But Edna flung herself at my feet and began to weep and ask how she
had offended.
   "You have not offended me at all," I assured her, lifting her to her feet. "You have
always been faithful and uncomplaining, Edna, and of late in a life far harder and
more unsettled than you ever expected, I am sure. And now, I am afraid, there will
be more danger as well as great discomfort. I do not see why you should suffer.
Stay here in Jernaeve. You will be safe, and when… when I can, I will send for you."
   "I don't know what you can be thinking of, my lady," she said. "How can you do
without me? How can you think of traveling with only those two clumsy loobies,
Fechin and Merwyn? Who will bring you water in the morning? Merwyn? Not
without emptying the pail on your head, most likely. Who will beat the dirt and pests
from your clothes each night? Fechin? No doubt he will beat them with the edge of a
sword or a stick pulled from a dung heap instead of using fresh twigs. Who will—"
  Laughing, I held up my hand. "Edna, I know I would miss you terribly, but I
could manage—"
  "Not without me, my lady," she cried.
  Audris put her hand on my arm and said very softly, "And she can cook and sew,
which I cannot."
   For a moment that seemed to have nothing at all to do with Edna and I was lost,
but then I remembered how on my first visit Audris had said there were many things
she had never learned just so that her aunt could keep her pride in managing
Jernaeve. She was warning me not to hurt Edna's pride—a strange thought to have
for a servant, but Audris never distinguished very well between common folk and
those gently born. And as I thought of the change in Edna over the time she had
served me, I realized Audris was right. Perhaps because of her past, Edna was
fiercely proud of her position. Likely she would rather dare danger and discomfort
than sink into someone without importance or recognition in Jernaeve.
   "Then I will be very glad to take you with me," I said to Edna, taking her hand as
I remembered that she had already dared the queen's wrath in her concern for me.
"And thank you," I added.
    At least I was not wrong in my judgement of Sir Gerald. He was delighted to see
me when I rode into Wyth and made no objection at all to fighting for King Stephen,
saying frankly that it would surely win him a pardon and he was tired of hiding and
living almost like a prisoner. Nor did he desire leadership. He was relieved rather than
offended when I told him of the men coming from Northumbria and that he would
command only the Cumbrian troops.
   To my surprise, we made up a troop one hundred strong, and it took less than a
month to assemble them. The armorers in Keswick barely finished altering Magnus's
armor to fit Sir Gerald before the troop was ready. But it was a good time for
gathering men. Lambing was long over, the heavy work of plowing and planting was
done, the first haying finished. Harvest would not be for two months, and the boys
and women could care for the fields and do the second, sparser haying of August.
Even for men with farms of their own, the coin to be gathered by fighting for pay
would be pure profit, not needing to be offset by loss from neglected farm work.
And, one of the younger men who had no responsibilities said, grinning at me, that if
one had to go marching all over foreign countries, the summer was a far better time
for it than winter.
   We came into Ripon, where I had agreed to meet the troops Hugh would
assemble, at the end of the second week of August and the Northumbrians were not
far behind. They marched in on the second day of the third week, and when I saw
Hugh's great red horse I did not know whether to smile or weep. I was terribly afraid
for him, but Hugh was so strong and so wise that to have him near lifted my heart
despite my fear. He greeted me with a grin and a bear hug and reported that Audris
had surprised him again and borne a girl while he was out gathering men. She had
named the child Melusine, and she was well and the child strong. The naming upset
me a little and for years I feared for Audris's Melusine, but she lived through the
fevers of childhood and is still well and strong.
   Aside from my fears for Hugh's safety, I was also concerned because he was so
much younger than Sir Gerald, but there was no question about who would lead.
Despite the difference in their ages, by the time Sir Gerald had talked to Hugh for
half an hour, he was calling him "my lord" with the same respect he had paid papa.
Later Sir Gerald told me that Hugh was trained to be a great lord, not a simple
knight, and understood the management of armies as well as small troops.
     It was just as well he did, because we soon became an army. Hugh had brought a
little more than five hundred men from Northumbria, I had one hundred, and two
days later at Cawood, south of York, another five hundred sent by Sir Walter Espec
joined them. I was not with the army when the new troops arrived. I had ridden
separately to York to see whether there was a letter from the queen. Maud had
decided to write to me in care of the Church in York because the new archbishop,
William, had not attended the council that elected Matilda. It was a good choice for
another reason too. Although Hugh's foster father, Archbishop Thurstan, had
died—not at York but in the Cluniac priory at Pontrefact—in February the previous
year, Hugh still had good friends among the churchmen in York. The new
archbishop, who had been the treasurer of the see in Thurstan's time, was one who
had known him for many years, and when Hugh wrote to him, Archbishop William
agreed to receive messengers from the queen with news and instructions for us.
   The news was all good. The townsfolk of Oxford had secretly sent word that
Matilda had come to rest in Oxford keep and was gathering together her scattered
supporters. But now life had been infused into those faithful to the king by the rout
at London. Men who had seemed to bring only lip service to the queen had arrived
with troops. Even Waleran had finally come—but he had come only to say that his
lands in Normandy were in danger and he was departing to defend them. The queen
did not write "Thank God," but I could read it between the words that were
there—good news, indeed—that Robert of Leicester had come in Waleran's place
and had brought an army with him.
   Best of all, Geoffrey de Mandeville had returned from Oxford. He had not knelt,
weeping with shame, at Maud's feet to beg her pardon for his defection, as I thought
he should have done, but he made many excuses, most to the effect that he had
hoped by his taking up Matilda's cause when it seemed that Stephen's was hopeless,
to help and protect the king. To me, Maud made no pretense of belief but said
Mandeville was too powerful to offend. Moreover, Maud said she had made sure,
through her contacts with the merchants of Oxford, that Matilda would learn
Mandeville had returned to his allegiance to the king. Knowing Matilda's temper, the
queen reported her hope that Mandeville would be threatened or insulted or both. As
for the troops I was bringing, we were to march for Oxford as soon as we could.
   Hugh was astonished at the details of the letter. It sounded, he said, as if I were
the queen's closest confidant. That made me laugh.
   "No, it is all warnings. She is trying to tell me that it would do me no good to
betray her because events are moving in her favor."
   Hugh sputtered with anger, but I pointed out how many had betrayed her husband
and that she had long regarded me as an enemy steeped in guile, which had made
Hugh laugh. Naturally, once he had news of his objective, Hugh wanted me to go
back to Jemaeve, but I would have none of it. I could scarcely be in any danger in
the midst of the army with Hugh to protect me. I had promised to return to the
queen, and return I would. After some argument, Hugh claiming that it was not so
safe as I thought because we would pass strongholds held for the empress and
might be attacked, I said very simply that I would go with the army or alone. Hugh
cursed me for being as stubborn as Audris, but he yielded.
   It was the first week in September when we came near Oxford, and Hugh sent
men ahead to discover whether the city was besieged. But the men came back saying
there was no army, neither that of the empress nor that of the queen, and no sign of
any battle either. Hugh, Sir Gerald, I, and two knights who led troops of Espec's
men took counsel together, but none had any idea of where to go until an idea
occurred to me. The bishop of Oxford had sworn to Matilda, and the queen could
not commit any message to his care. But Maud trusted the burghers of the towns,
and I remembered from the letter that a townsman had warned Maud that the
empress had come to Oxford keep.
   I had her letter in my purse, and in it I found the name of that townsman and his
business. I wondered then if I had maligned Maud. Perhaps she had sent all the
details not as a subtle threat but because she knew my fears for Bruno and wished to
cheer me with the hopes to which she clung. I said nothing of that, but I proposed
that I should ride into Oxford alone and seek out that man. Hugh objected, fearing
for my safety, but we called one of the men he had sent out, and he assured us that
although there was an extra strong garrison in Oxford keep, the town was peaceful.
Finally it was agreed that I should go.
   Maud had left no written message, but the townsman had been told my name—I
had been right in my guess that Maud wasted no words, and his direction had been
placed in the letter deliberately—and he had news for me, again good. The king's
brother, the bishop of Winchester, had been suspected of having a hand in the revolt
of the Londoners. He had quarreled with the empress not only because she would
not grant the Honor of Boulogne to Eustace but over Church matters, on which she
had promised much and violated every promise. Thus when Maud wrote to him
again and begged him to have mercy on his own brother and work to restore him to
his throne, Winchester met Maud in Guildford and agreed to lift the ban of
excommunication from the king's followers. Winchester did not then offer to
withdraw his support from Matilda, perhaps out of shame for showing himself so
light of purpose; however, the result was the same. The empress, hearing of his
meeting with Maud and that he had lifted the ban of excommunication on the king's
supporters, had taken her army and marched on Winchester to seize him and punish
him. He had escaped and cried to the queen for help, but Matilda's army was
attacking the keep Winchester held in that city.
   That was clue enough. We marched south toward Winchester with a fan of
foreriders to warn us of any large force we might encounter. East of Andover Hugh's
men at last came upon a troop sworn to the queen making camp for the night. Again
I rode forward with only my three servants, taking lodging in Andover and sending
Merwyn with a letter to the leader of that troop. He must have passed the letter on as
Merwyn asked, for the next morning William of Ypres himself came to speak to me.
I,was frightened when he first came in, for I hardly recognized him all in armor, but
as soon as he spoke I knew his voice.
   Ypres seemed much surprised that I had come south with the troops and laughed
when I said I had promised to return to the queen with the men I gathered, remarking
that he did not think she expected me to keep the promise so literally. Then he asked
if my troops would be willing to join his force, and I replied that I was sure Hugh
would be glad to do whatever he thought best. When he heard Hugh's name, his
eyes lit; and when I told him we had a thousand men, he took my hand and kissed it.
   Had there been fewer men, I think Ypres would have merely told us where to meet
his troops. Because we were a force to be reckoned with by ourselves, he rode with
me to the camp to speak to Hugh, who was waiting for me impatiently, also armed
and ready although his tent was not yet folded away. That was fortunate because it
gave Ypres a private place to talk. He told Hugh that the queen's army had come
from Guildford and had split, the queen going south with the main force to attack
Matilda's army, which was besieging Winchester's keep of Wolvesey in the
southeast corner of the city. Ypres had led a smaller contingent of men due west,
however, because the queen had had word that Gloucester had sent a strong troop
to Wherwell to hold the road open for supplies. It had been Ypres's intention to
attack the troop that had fortified the little village and close that route for support to
the rebels. However, he was more concerned about the routes west.
   "If the queen's attack on Matilda's army is successful," Ypres pointed out, "the
empress and her accursed brother will flee west, and if I have not blocked the roads
by Michelmarsh and Stockbridge, they will escape me again."
  "I can close Wherwell," Hugh said, "if that is what you think will best serve the
queen's purpose"—he raised his head to look at the sun—"before dark. Shall I then
march on Winchester or join you?"
   "No, hold Wherwell, set guards along the fords of the river—I do not know the
name—that runs to Whitchurch, and close the road into Whitchurch too. I do not
believe that Matilda or any major supporter of hers will flee farther east than that."
   "Very well, my lord," Hugh agreed, after a moment's thought. "A messenger will
find me in Wherwell if you wish to change this plan."
   Ypres gripped Hugh's upper arm. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you
with us, Sir Hugh," he said. "I will not forget this. Neither will the queen, and she will
not let Stephen forget."
   "I desire no favors," Hugh responded with a smile. "I have all I can
handle—sometimes more. Also, I made a promise to Stephen to enter his service
once. The king was kind enough to free me from it when holding Jernaeve became
more important, but in this time of need I feel that promise still binds me. God
willing we will be successful enough to free the king."
  "God willing," Ypres echoed.
   "One more thing," Hugh said, seeing that Ypres was about to call for his horse.
"Will it be safe for me to send Lady Melusine to the queen? I do not like to leave her
alone in Andover. Either of the two armies might take to looting after the battle, and
Andover is too close on too good a road, but to take her to Wherwell—"
   "Do not leave her in Andover," Ypres agreed. "But I am afraid it will be
impossible to get her safely to the queen unless you wish to send about a hundred
men with her. There are war bands, both rebel and ours, all over the area, and there
have been clashes. Even with the men and luck in avoiding a fight, it might be hard to
find Queen Maud, and with her Melusine might be even less safe." He sighed. "The
queen is not always willing to stay a safe distance from action. She is not so silly as
to don armor or think she is a battle leader, but she rides with the troops and is often
close enough to turn back any who would flee. Take Melusine to Wherweü. She will
be safe enough in so small a battle."
   I almost opened my mouth to cry a protest, but I did not. I had forced myself on
Hugh when he wanted to send me back to Jernaeve, now I must accept whatever
place for me that he thought would cause him the least trouble. I did not want to see
the battle, no matter how small, not because I feared for myself but because I was
terrified that I would see Hugh hurt or Sir Gerald, or even Fechin or Merwyn. And
after that first moment, I had no chance to change my mind. Hugh had followed
Ypres out of the tent when he left. I heard him bidding Ypres fare well and then
calling for his troop leaders and telling them to form marching order.
   I do not know whether I could have kept my resolve steady over the hours it took
us to come to Wherweü, but again I had no choice. Hugh rode with his captains, I
suppose to make battle plans because when we came to the top of a rise below
which lay the village, all seemed to know exactly what to do. Then Hugh came to
where I was waiting with Edna, Fechin, and Merwyn a little way off the road and
said, "You stay just here. No matter what you see or hear, Melusine, stay right here. I
must know where to find you. Fechin and Merwyn will be with you, and I will come
for you." I promised readily, and he smiled at me—but I saw his heart and mind
were on the coming fight.
  Despite that promise and despite my terror we were all drawn forward by the
sounds of battle. I watched as men struck at each other, as some fell, and those who
had struck them sometimes struck again to make sure, sometimes ran forward at
once to strike at others, sometimes were struck in turn and fell. In no time at all I
could not tell which were our men, which the enemy. I could not even pick out
Hugh, and Sir Gerald had also disappeared into the malestrom.
    I had never realized how much confusion there was in a battle. Men killed and
wounded each other without ever knowing whom they had struck down or whether
the blow was fatal. I understood now that I could not have been Bruno's prize for
killing papa. Even if Bruno had fought my father or brother, how would he know? A
battle was not like the taking of a keep or a manor. Then the victor could know
whom he vanquished. Perhaps I had been given to Bruno because he was the man
who took Ulle, but papa had died in a battle greater than the taking of Wherwell. I
would never know by whose hand he died, and I was very glad of it.
     I do not think the fighting lasted more than half an hour. The sun had moved very
little when the noise of battle died away and weapons and shields were thrown down
by the vanquished. It took longer to collect the wounded and secure the prisoners,
but soon after that Hugh came for me and took me to the largest house in the village,
which had been cleaned and furnished for the baron commanding the troop that had
held it for the empress.
   I discovered when we came into Wherwell that all the folk of the village had been
driven away. There were no women, and only one leech had been sent with his troop
by Sir Walter Espec. I am no great healer, but I had sewed enough cuts in my
brothers' skins and poulticed enough bruises so that, having gathered what healing
herbs I could from the village gardens, Edna and I were of use to the wounded. I
was glad to be busy.
   The next day there was more fighting. Twice there were shouts and sounds of
battle outside the village. Each time a few more joined the wounded in the barn and
more men, stripped of everything except their braies and shirts, were driven in to be
penned with the prisoners we already had. Each time I rushed out to watch as the
prisoners were examined, hoping I would recognize some man of importance who
could be traded for the king, but only two minor knights were thrust into the hut with
our petty baron.
   Still, the news kept my heart beating hard with hope. That morning, 14
September, the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, the queen's army had
attacked the force with which Robert of Gloucester was besieging Wolvesey keep
and broken it. There had been heavy fighting in the town, Gloucester trying to hold
back Maud's army and keep them from reaching the royal keep in the center of
Winchester where the empress had been staying. Both captured knights insisted they
had been sent to reinforce Wherwell to keep an escape route free, but Hugh did not
believe them; he said they were just running from a battle that was already lost.
   Of course it was better that the queen had won the battle than lost it, but I had not
heard the news I wanted to hear. If Matilda or Gloucester was not captured, we
would merely have to begin all over, and it was growing late in the year. Very soon
most of my Cumbrian troop would have to go home to get in the harvest; many of
Hugh's men and Espec's would also demand release. As the day passed and only
stragglers were taken and brought in, my hopes waned. I was sitting outside the
house I was using, trying to fix my mind on what to provide for an evening meal
instead of weeping with disappointment, when I heard Sir Gerald, who had been
away since the end of the battle yesterday guarding the road at Whitchurch, hail me.
   "I may have brought you what you desire, Melly," he shouted, but he did not
sound or look very happy as he jumped off his horse and turned to unbind and
assist down another man, so muddied and bruised that it took me a minute to
recognize him.
   "Sire," I gasped, jumping to my feet and sinking to a curtsey before King David
of Scotland, but I felt horror rather than joy.
   His eyes were cold as he looked at me. "You have a very faithful servant in Sir
Gerald, Lady Melusine. I offered him a rich estate of his own if he would come north
with me, and he refused. Well, I was lucky twice. My first captor satisfied himself
with my purse, my second with my armor and the jewels I had hidden—but they did
not recognize me. What will you take for my freedom?"
    I looked up, my eyes full of tears. "Oh, my lord," I said softly, "I would gladly,
so gladly set you on your way freely, only for the love my father had for you—but it
is a whole realm, and my husband's life, your capture will buy."
   He looked down at me. "If you think Matilda will free Stephen in exchange for my
freedom, you are sadly mistaken." His mouth was twisted with bitterness.
   Could that be true? If it were, I surely had no reason to hold King David. I desired
no rich estate, no chests of gold. All I wanted was Bruno and Ulle, and without
Bruno, I did not even desire Ulle. Then if the empress would not trade Stephen for
David, why should Sir Gerald not have his estate? But I was not such a fool as to
trust the words of a man trying to buy freedom.
   "There will be time enough to speak of that," I said. "For now, come within and
rest." He followed me silently into the headman's house and sank down on a stool. I
poured a cup of the captive baron's wine and offered it, saying, as he took the cup,
"I will bring you water for washing and food and clean clothing."
   Sir Gerald had been watching from the doorway, but I drew him with me and
closed the door as I came out. Before Sir Gerald could protest, I said, "Let him be
alone to regain his balance, but set a guard of the men of Yorkshire around the
house—they have no love for David whereas our men might more easily be
bought—and send a messenger to find Hugh."
   "Be careful, Melly," Sir Gerald warned me. "Do not get so close to the man. If he
seized you, he would have a strong bargaining piece."
  I nodded. "I will not go in again before Hugh comes. Merwyn can serve him."
  Hugh was no happier than I when he arrived and I told him who was inside the
house. "God in heaven," he groaned, "I almost wish Sir Gerald had taken that offer
and ridden north."
  "He says Matilda will not exchange Stephen for him. Is that true?"
   "Very likely," Hugh responded, "but it is Gloucester who holds Stephen, and
Gloucester is an honorable man. What I do not know is whether Gloucester will feel
that he owes David the exchange. David is a king, but his importance to this struggle
in England is nothing compared to Stephen's. Still, there is a chance—"
   "Then perhaps we should let him go?" It was more question than statement.
Compared with my desire to free Bruno, my horror at using as a trading piece one
who had been a beloved overlord to my father was nothing, but I suddenly realized
there was another problem. "Hugh, will there be danger for you in giving him to the
queen? Close as Jernaeve is to the Scots border, it would be an ill thing to have the
enmity of the king of the Scots."
   Hugh was silent for a time, then said, "We cannot let him go, Melusine. If he is the
only captive of note taken, the queen must continue to pursue and try to capture the
empress, or bring her to yield. For that Maud will need gold and gold and more
gold. She has been draining Boulogne for months and cannot go on; there is little she
can extract from England as long as Stephen is in prison. Even if David cannot be
exchanged for the king, she can wring a large ransom from him."
  "But if it endangers you, Hugh—"
   "He need not see me or know I was involved. I think the best way is for me to
find Ypres and report who we have taken. Then Ypres can take David, you, and Sir
Gerald, who deserves credit and reward for the capture, into his care to be carried to
the queen. I will win considerable favor with Ypres for surrendering my captive to
him; he will be blessed by the queen, but you and Sir Gerald will not lose your part
of her gratitude either—so we will all profit."
  "Except poor King David," I said softly.
   Hugh hugged me comfortingly, but he did not change his mind. He beckoned to
Sir Gerald and asked him to make up a troop of mounted men and accompany him.
I went into the shed at the back of the house to examine the supplies. The least I
could do for the poor king was to see that he had a good meal before Ypres got
him. I did not think David would be mistreated, but looking at Ypres's gloating face
would surely make food less appetizing than my regretful expression.
    When I entered the house with Merwyn and Edna, carrying a variety of cold,
sliced meats, King David was clean and attired in the best of the baron's garments.
He had regained his self-possession, and we managed to find a few subjects for
conversation that did not touch on the war. Later, I found a board and pieces and
we played chess, but before we had finished the game, Hugh flung open the door
and entered with Sir Gerald behind him, and their smiles added a glow to the
candlelight that lit the room.
   "Sire," Hugh said, bowing low. "You are free! Ypres has captured Robert of
Gloucester, and the empress will have to free King Stephen to have back her
brother—will she nill she. No baron in England will serve her without Robert of
Gloucester to follow."



                              CHAPTER 25


  Bruno
   There are tales for children that Father Anselm used to tell Audris when she was
very young—to which I listened eagerly also, although I tried to hide my pleasure
under scoffing—that end, "and so they lived happily ever after." I cannot say
precisely that; thanks be to God Melusine and I have not yet come to our ending,
and it is not wise to claim much happiness with certainty before then. Still, there is
much hope in me now for "living happily ever after," and when the king and I were
discovered by the outer gate, I had no hope of living beyond the next few minutes at
all.
    I felt twice the burning agony of being stabbed and hands dragging at me, but I
clung to the king until there was a pain in my head, a great burst of light, and then
darkness. I must have been very near dying because I fell under those blows in the
middle of May and I do not really remember anything until September. I have vague
recollections of pain and crying for water, but no memory at all of the passage of
time until the day I became aware that something heavy clung to my ankle and made
it hard to move my foot. I recall saying crossly, "Melusine, that foot is long healed.
You must take off the bindings." And then I opened my eyes to see Sir Grolier
looking down at me.
    "You stabbed me," I whispered, remembering now who held the knife. I have
never seen such hatred in a man's face, yet when I put an elbow behind me to push
myself to a sitting position and could not for weakness, he lifted me most gently and
placed something behind me so I could lean in comfort on the wall. While he moved
me, his body blocked my view, but when he moved back, I saw he and I were alone
in the chamber. "Where is the king?" I cried, terror giving strength to my voice.
  "Curse you, be still," he snarled. "He is in another chamber hale and well. Shut
your mouth or I will be beaten again for your screaming."
   That remark astonished me so much that I fell silent. Perhaps I also slipped away
for a time to wherever I had been since May, but it was not for very long. I woke to
find Grolier feeding me, digging each spoonful of stew out of the bowl as if he
intended to break my teeth with it but touching my lips gently so that I opened my
mouth instead.
  "Do you get beaten for making my mouth bloody too?" I asked.
   He did not answer, but the glare he turned on me was enough. I then said I would
feed myself, but I found I did not have the strength to hold the spoon much less
move it from the bowl to my mouth. Grolier laughed, enjoying my distress, but when
I choked on tears of rage, the petty rage of the weak, he pulled me upright and
patted my back until I could breathe easily again. No one could have heard me
choking, so why did he not let me strangle to death and be free of tending me? It
was a puzzle I thought about while eating, and continued to think about after Grolier
held a cup to my mouth and went out. I heard the scrape and clank of metal on stone
as he moved and realized his ankles were chained together—so he was a prisoner
too.
   Over the next two weeks, as less and less of my time was lost to sudden
unconsciousness, I worked out how Stephen and I had been duped into escaping
and almost killed from a few furious, unguarded comments Grolier made and the
facts I already knew. First, it had been Grolier's news that set escape in the king's
mind, and for all I knew he may have directly spoken of escape. Second, the queen's
father had destroyed Grolier's family, not helped it as he had implied, so he had a
personal hatred for the king and had intended to kill him. Third, I knew that could
not have been by Gloucester's orders, but Grolier could not have got into Bristol
keep without some important person's authority, and the only important person
foolish enough to think Stephen's death would benefit her cause rather than harming
it was—Matilda. I have no proof that the empress actually ordered the king's death
and never will have. I could not make Grolier speak on that subject, and perhaps she
only ordered that the king be induced to do something foolish so that Gloucester
would imprison him more securely. I know she opposed Gloucester's gentle
imprisonment and desired from the beginning that Stephen be chained in the depths
of the keep.
   The remainder of the story I wrested from Grolier himself by the simple expedient
of threatening to scream as if he were hurting me. He told me that my clinging to the
king instead of trying to defend myself had drawn the attention of the guards, who
seized him and his two servants—one the king had borne down and the other who
had struck me on the head. When I was pulled away from Stephen and rolled over,
one of the guards had recognized me and then the king.
   William of Gloucester, the earl's eldest son, happened to be in the keep at the
time. Before ordering Grolier's two servants executed, Lord William had wrenched
from them the information that they had been given a description of Stephen, told to
provoke him, and when he reacted, to help Grolier kill him. But he did not order that
Grolier himself-be executed. I had heard that William of Gloucester was a strange
man; he certainly had a weird sense of the comical, and instead of executing Grolier
he devised a weird punishment. Lord William had ordered that Grolier nurse me and
serve the king. If Stephen was dissatisfied with Grolier's service or if I died, William
told Grolier, he would be killed by slow torture, but one hour of torture would be
remitted for each week I lived.
   To ensure Grolier's close attention to his duties, Lord William had given him a
sample of the skill of his torturers. His little toes had been removed on both feet, not
chopped off but cut away slowly, a little at a time. Moreover Lord William had
arranged that I be examined twice daily but at different times each day, and if I had
soiled myself and had not been cleaned or if I showed sores from lying too long in
one position, Grolier was to be whipped. Of course, neither Lord William nor
anyone else expected me to live. Grolier was quite sure that Lord William had
remained in Bristol far longer than he intended just because he hoped for my death
each day so he could enjoy Grolier's torture. I do not know the truth of that. I had
seen William of Gloucester a few times, but I do not remember ever speaking to him,
and I could not judge the truth through Grolier's hate and fear.
   I was sorry for my cruelty to Grolier after I had forced him to tell the tale. It was
not important to me to know why Grolier attended me with such care when his
hatred was destroying him, but I had grown spiteful in my feebleness over those
weeks. I expected to gain strength quickly, and I did not. Although I felt I was
starving before each meal, I could eat very little, and forcing myself was useless
because I only vomited the whole meal when I tried. Second, being chained made it
much harder to move so I could not exercise unless Grolier helped me, and that he
would not do. Perhaps he suspected what would happen to him as soon as I could
feed myself and reach for the pot when I needed it. I had managed that by the third
week in September, and one day Grolier disappeared. He was a treacherous dog, but
I wept when a manservant brought my dinner and told me, his purpose being ended,
Grolier had been hanged.
   After he was gone, I slipped back instead of improving. I was dull with weakness
and despair, for I was alone all the time now except when a servant brought me food
or came to empty my pot. The food was worse too—I suppose Grolier had picked
out the best pieces for me because I ate so little, but the servant dumped a bowl on
the floor beside me, always cold and the dregs, the meat all gristle and the vegetables
rotten. I think it was the leavings, what the men had thrown away. Often it was too
much bother to lift the bowl and try to eat, and I did without. The servant only took
the bowl away, empty or full. I wondered sometimes why I was left in that chamber
rather than being cast down into the lower dungeon. Perhaps it was because the
constable had forgotten about me now that Grolier was dead.
   I must have been near death again; I can remember that my last thought was
whether I had strength enough to lift the pot to piss. I cannot remember whether I
did or not. The next thing I knew was that the constable of Bristol keep was kneeling
by my bed and calling my name and pleading with me to wake up. Behind him I saw
Stephen with tears on his cheeks and rage on his face. I slipped away again, but even
in my unconsciousness the sight of the king free and unguarded must have worked in
my mind and given me strength. I woke again to the feeling of being washed and the
sound of a woman weeping; it was the constable's wife who was weeping as her
maids bathed me, and I was in the constable's bed. But even that puzzle could not
hold my attention.
   It was only several days later that I learned why, when I was strong enough for the
king to come and visit me. He told me with huge delight that Robert of Gloucester's
youngest son, Philip, had come with orders that he be released at once from his
chains and with a large packet of letters. These told of the battle won in Winchester,
of Robert of Gloucester a prisoner in the queen's hands, even of the part my
Melusine had played. One letter had been to the constable from the queen, informing
him that one of the knights captured by Lady Melusine's small army was the only
son of the constable and his ransom was my life. I did not wonder then that the lady
of the keep put me in her own bed and cared for me. Joy gave me some strength,
but my body was slow to respond, and I still slept away most of the days as well as
the nights of the next three weeks.
   The king came each day to talk to me, but he had little more news, only glowing
plans for the future, which included a huge army that would rise to support him as
soon as he showed himself. His presence, he assured me, would reanimate the whole
nation, but he would never again be tricked by sweet words that led him away from
his own good judgement—or Maud's, he added grinning. I smiled in return then and
as often as I could because I knew his intention in coming to visit me was kind. He
wished to revive my spirit, but the truth was that the more Stephen talked about the
future, the heavier grew my heart. I knew there could be no quick victory. The
schism was too deep, the hurts too bitter. The war would go on and on—and I was
so tired.
   I looked at the fire sometimes—there was a small raised hearth in the
chamber—but it was a poor thing, captive, like me, barely flickering over the
charcoal that fed it. What I wanted was the roaring fire of winter that the hearth of
Ulle would hold—and peace. All I had was a faint blue flickering and talk of war. So
when the king left me, I slept. Then on the afternoon of the first day of November, I
was wakened by a kiss—and Melusine was bending over me.
   I do not remember what I first said. It was some fearful question about how she
had come to be in Bristol keep, for her eyes were red with weeping. I asked her why
she wept, and she said for joy—but there was a darkness in her behind her smile. I
struggled upright with her help, and she raised the pillows behind me, laughing and
hugging me and bidding me to be of good cheer because all was well.
   "I have come with the queen," she said, "who, with Eustace, is to be hostage for
Lord Robert's freedom. But you and I are not bound to that condition, and as soon
as you are strong enough, we will go."
  I was too dazed to take in everything she said, and anyway it faded to nonsense in
comparison with that last word. Go, to go was to be freed. "Go where?" I asked,
and then with a sinking heart I remembered my duty. "And what of the king?"
  "Ah, as to those questions, I am forbidden to answer. You must wait until
tomorrow or the next day."
  There was so much mischief in her smile that I knew whatever I was told on the
morrow would be pleasant, and when I opened my mouth to ask another question,
Melusine popped in a spoon of delicious broth, thick with minced chicken.
  "I am not so weak," I protested. "I can feed myself, and it is not time for eating."
    "All day every day is time for eating for you," she said. "I did not marry a bag of
bones, and I have always favored well-fleshed men. As to feeding you—it amuses
me. I like to see your eyes bulge when I get a spoon in unexpectedly. What else have
I to amuse me?"
   Fortunately I had swallowed or I would have choked as I laughed at her ridiculous
remarks, and I nearly did choke several times as food arrived in my mouth at odd
moments. But I will say that Melusine probably got three or four times as much as I
usually ate into me. All day Edna brought up a variety of small dishes, some cold,
some hot, all delicious. Melusine never offered more than one spoonful of anything,
but by evening, I found myself asking for the pot or bowl and eating an additional
portion.
   Nor did I sleep much. Melusine kept me wide awake with the tale of what had
happened to the queen and to her after news came of the king's capture. I had asked,
of course, for the most recent news first, but she looked mischievous and
mysterious and said she could not tell me that until she had leave. And when night
came, she took off her clothes and climbed into bed with me. I must have looked
surprised because she laughed and asked if I wanted her to sleep on a hard, cold
floor when there was a feather bed available. I had not thought at all, except that I
was sick and the sick lie alone—but Melusine did not act as if I were sick, so I
laughed.
  "I thought you might be afraid to be stabbed by the bag of bones," I teased.
   She smiled at me as she slid under the covers and pressed herself against me. "I
even love your bones," she whispered.
    It was the first time, the very first time that Melusine had said a word of love to
me. She had cared for me when I was hurt, she had coupled with me with open
enjoyment; she had been a perfect wife in every way—but she had never said she
loved me. I was afraid to ask whether the word was said knowingly, afraid she spoke
the word only because I was sick. If it was the last word of love as well as the first,
at least I had it. I would take no chance it would be withdrawn. So I took her in my
arms and held her in silence until, being very tired from more activity than I had had
in many months, I slept in joy.
  I woke in joy also, to Melusine's merry voice. "Let me go, you monster," she
whispered, kissing my ear. "If you do not let me rise to piss, you will soon be
swimming."
   My hand and arm were so stiff I had a little trouble letting go, and I realized I had
been clutching Melusine all night. "I am sorry," I said. "You must have been
uncomfortable with me holding you and not letting you move."
    "Oh no." Her voice drifted up from below the bed on the other side where she sat
on the pot, and somehow I knew she was smiling. "I managed to wriggle around."
Then she stood up and leaned over me and spoke much more softly. "I do not think
I have ever known the kind of joy I felt each time I woke and felt your embrace. I
never believed I would get you back, Bruno." She was smiling, but her lips trembled
and again there was a darkness in her eyes that did not come from their color. But
before I could command my voice to answer, she turned merry again, marveling at
how long a man could hold his water, and called Edna to help her lift me so I could
relieve myself. '
  Usually I sank back to sleep after breaking my fast, but Melusine, having kissed
me for eating well, made a moue of distaste and asked me if I intended to keep the
beard I had grown.
  "No," I responded, opening my eyes. "I long to be rid of it."
  "I am very glad to hear it," she said, laughing. "I can get used to being stabbed by
bones, even welcome it, but a mouthful of hair every time I kiss you—" She
shuddered eloquently and told Edna to fetch the barber at once.
   I was so delighted, I sat up by myself, wide awake. No one had bothered to shave
me since Grolier's death and by now I had a bushy and untidy beard. But when the
barber came, he pointed out that he could not shave me in the bed. I was so eager to
be rid of that growth of hair, that I insisted I was strong enough to sit on a stool, but
Melusine shook her head.
  "Not for being shaved," she said. "For some other purpose, I could stand behind
you and you could rest on me, but if I should move or you, the barber could slit
your throat."
   I knew it was true—not that the man would slit my throat but that he might cut me
badly—and I knew too that it was perfectly foolish to care whether I was shaved
now or a few days later, but still tears came to my eyes and I had to turn my head
away. Melusine did not seem to notice. When she spoke, she was not looking at me
but at the barber, and she asked him whether he could shave me if I sat in a chair.
The man agreed to that, and Melusine went out. I felt a fool but also unreasonably
happy, like a child who had received a toy he had despaired of getting.
   For a moment I watched the barber run a fine pumice stone over the blades of his
knives, which added to my feeling of well-being since a dull blade made a painful
shave. Then I heard movement outside the door and the constable's wife asking
angrily who had dared to take Lord Robert's chair. With the unstable reactions of the
very weak, I flew from joy to rage, fearing that I would be cheated of a clean
face—but I had underestimated Melusine.
   "I do not care whose chair it is," my wife said. Her voice was soft, but I would
not have blamed anyone who recoiled before it. "Just now my husband's lightest
wish is of greater importance to me than your Lord Robert's, and your wishes,
madam, I take delight in ignoring. How would you like your son back without his
nose or his hands or feet?"
  "My man will send an army to fetch him!" the woman cried.
   Melusine laughed and asked, "Where? To the White Tower? To Jernaeve? To a
cave hidden in the Cumbrian mountains? I said your son was Bruno's ransom—life
for life—but I did not promise in what condition he would come back to you.
Woman, if my Bruno is made unhappy by your stupidity, I will see that you mourn
that stupidity every day of your son's life ever after. Now let me go."
   The laugh and the voice in which Melusine spoke made my skin crawl, and it did
worse no doubt to the constable's wife, who cried out that Melusine should take the
chair. In another moment two stout womenservants entered carrying it and set it
down near the bed. Until they went out, Melusine stood by the door looking out.
That, I thought, was the face of the woman who had thrust a knife at my throat on
the second night of our married life. I had almost forgotten that part of Melusine, but
the memory pleased me. It made more loving, more precious, her gentleness to me,
the tenderness with which she drew my bedrobe about me and with the barber's help
moved me to the chair.
   My legs trembled like the jelly that surrounds boiled fish, but I stiffened them as
best I could and did manage the few steps to the chair. I held my head steady too,
although Melusine stood behind me ready to support it. And when I was shaved, I
leaned less heavily, not more, on Melusine and the barber as I went back to bed.
   I felt wonderful and was just about to ask Melusine how it happened that at the
moment I was hungry there was no sign of her pots and bowls when the king
appeared in the doorway with the queen behind him. I suppose with the beard gone,
I looked more deathlike than when the thinness and pallor of my face were hidden,
for Stephen hesitated and cried, "No, do not move," when I pushed myself higher so
I could at least bow from the waist. Then he came to the bed and took my hand.
   "I have come to bid you fare well, my dear Bruno," he said. "You have served me
more devotedly than I could have asked of any man. I am sorry to leave you here,
but I must pick up the reins of my bolting kingdom and bring it to order, and it will
be, I fear, many weeks before you are fit for service."
  "Yes, my lord," I said. "I am to follow you when I am well?"
    But the queen touched Stephen's arm and then came forward. Our eyes met. I
tried to hide the despair in mine, but Maud had always been able to read me better
than most people, and I knew she saw my horror of what was to come. For just an
instant I thought I saw a similar horror mirrored in her eyes, but then, to my surprise
she bent Mid kissed me and stroked my hair as if I were her child in need of
comforting.
   "You will be too busy serving the king in another way for a long time, dear Bruno,
but your place will always be held for you. When you are ready you will be most
welcome to us. Stephen, he does not understand what we mean. Give him the
charter, for goodness sake."
   The king looked mulish for a moment. I am sure he had been about to extract a
promise to follow him before he offered my reward; however, he drew out a roll of
thick parchment, heavy with a wax impression of the great seal, and handed it to me.
   "It seems very little for what you have done," Maud said, "but Melusine insisted
that Ulle and the other smaller manors were all you desired even though the lands and
people have been misused. I know that is truly what Melusine wants, but if you
would like some other, richer lands you can have those also."
   "No," I breathed. "Ulle is what I desire. Thank you, sire. Thank you, madam. I
have always been poor, so Ulle seems rich to me. I greatly fear power, and Ulle will
bring me none. All I need or want is the peace of those great hills with their silver hair
of flowing water."
   "You must love the lands indeed to find words of such beauty to describe them,"
Maud said. "I hope some day I will be able to visit you and look on your hills." She
touched my face gently and stepped back.
   Stephen had recovered from his small pique, and he smiled at me and patted the
charter that lay on my lap. "I do not expect to need to visit you," he said, grinning—
meaning, of course, that he was sure I would be faithful and he would not need to
attack Ulle again. "But you will have to come to me to do homage some day."
  "I will come whenever you send for me, my lord," I promised. "I have already
sworn my faith to you, and will do so again at any time."
   He was very pleased with that, and leaned over and kissed me before he and
Maud left the room. I stroked the parchment in my lap, hardly believing what I held
and looking at Melusine, who held her deep curtsey by the door, I suppose until the
king and queen were out of sight. Then she flew to me and embraced me and kissed
me and began to weep, whispering, "Free! Bruno, we are free!"
   "I hope so," I said, "but when the king and queen are gone, we will be fortunate if
the constable or his wife do not murder us."
    "I do not fear for that." Melusine sat upright. "I have their precious son safe, and
if you and I together do not appear before Sir Gerald at a particular time, which I will
not say lest there be someone listening at the door, Sir Gerald will send one of the
prisoner's ears. After that, he will send other, more important, parts until we come."
  "Melusine!" I exclaimed, "that is monstrous. What if I am slow to gain strength?"
   "I cannot help that," she said. "I did not expect to find you half dead owing to
their cruel neglect. But if you are worried about what will happen to the young man,
you must strive to get well quickly." And then she winked at me. "Besides," she
went on, "the queen is not leaving with the king. What was arranged was that
Stephen would be freed and the queen and Eustace would remain here as hostages.
When Stephen arrives safe in London, Robert of Gloucester will be freed, leaving
his son, Lord William, as hostage for the queen's release. When Lord Robert arrives
here, the queen and Eustace will go, and when she and her son are with the king,
Lord William will be freed."
   I shook my head. "Once Robert of Gloucester is here, we will need no other
assurance of gaining our freedom. He is a very good man."
  "Well, I had no way to know that," she said pertly, "and it does no harm to be
doubly sure."
   In spite of her wink, which I took to mean she had never told Sir Gerald to
dismember his prisoner and was only using that as a threat, I felt uneasy. I had found
that women could be terribly cruel and spiteful. She must have seen that I was
troubled, for that night when we were abed and there was no danger of being
overheard, she told me that the young knight was safe and sound at Ulle in Sir
Gerald's care. She had seen the constable's wife listening by the door while the king
and queen were with us, which annoyed her, so she decided to give the woman an
earful.
    As if one irritation had made her think of another, she then told me that Sir Giles
would be gone and Ulle restored by the time we arrived. A copy of our charter and a
letter from the queen as well as a full pardon for anything Sir Gerald might have done
had gone with him to Ulle, together with permission for Sir Giles to give up his
charge of the estate to Sir Gerald.
   "I have promised Sir Gerald that you would invest him with Irthing for his life,"
she went on. "I hope you do not mind, Bruno. King David offered him a fine estate
in Scotland—"
   "King David!" I echoed. "Do not tell me you induced him to be part of your
army. I will not believe that."
   Melusine giggled. "I will not ask it of you. No, it was Sir Gerald who captured
him after the rout at Winchester, and David offered the estate as a bribe to allow him
to escape." She explained the circumstances of deciding not to hand King David to
the queen and that Hugh had concealed David among his men and taken him safely
to the Scottish border. "But Sir Gerald did not want to go to Scotland. He said he
did not wish to begin anew among strangers. You are content for him to have
Irthing, are you not?"
   "Good God, of course I am. I would not have cared if you wished to give him the
property outright—I will offer that. It would have been dreadful to lose him. I will
need him badly, for example, to tell me the manner of giving justice in Cumbria and
such things which I suppose your father did not teach you."
   "There are many things he did not teach me." I thought I heard resentment in her
voice, but it was too dark to see her expression. "He said beautiful women did not
need to know… many things."
   I kissed her. "You are certainly beautiful, but I think a woman needs to know
everything she can so that she can protect herself. If I am to be away in service to
the king, who will hold Ulle? You must be able to defend it—" My voice faltered
when I realized what I had said, and I hurried on, "—and give justice and do all
things as I would."
   "I prefer to be ignorant and have you there," she said, but her voice was light
again and she cuddled closer against me so that I began to think of the main purpose
for lying two in a bed.
   Unfortunately my body was not yet ready to follow my thoughts, but I did not
mind. The night before, I had not even been able to think about coupling. By then I
had forgotten all about the constable's son, but I would have had no need to worry
even if Melusine's grisly threat had been true because I gained strength far faster than
I had expected after my inability to recover when Grolier had cared for me. I
suppose the difference in my spirits was the reason; I was very happy, happier each
day as that strange terror that seemed to lie behind Melusine's smiles ebbed.
   Later I learned that the lightness and laughter, the pretense that I was not
sick—and the terrible fear that darkened Melusine's eyes—were all learned over the
year it took her mother to die of a wasting sickness. It seems I looked as her mother
did toward the end. At first Melusine was sure I would die and all she could do was
to ease my way, so she behaved as if my weakness was a game I was playing to
amuse her. But I was not dying; I was recovering, and I felt happy with her teasing
that I was lazy rather than weak so that it made me much stronger.
   Whatever the cause, in a week I was walking about in my room and two days
earlier I had managed to put to its proper use the marital bed in which we lay. First
when I began to caress her, Melusine seemed stunned, but a timid exploration soon
assured her that Sir Jehan could stand by himself very well, even if Sir Bruno could
not. To save my strength if not his, Melusine mounted me, but she rode me so well
and so thoroughly that I needed a day's rest before I tried again. My enthusiasm
grew with my ability, and I played much longer the second time, longer still the third,
and I needed no rest day between that and our fourth coupling.
   The middle of the second week, I went down on a fine day to walk in the garden.
As I came through the bailey, to my joy I was greeted by Merwyn and Fechin. I was
quite cross with Melusine for not telling me they were safe and had been with her all
along although I grieved that Cormi was dead. Melusine apologized; she had
forgotten that I did not know that they had escaped at Lincoln. She told me then
how Fechin had put on Gloucester's colors, but she did not tell the whole story, so
when we left the garden and found Fechin waiting with Barbe, whom I had long
given up as lost, I wept.
    That was not the last of my surprises. When Robert of Gloucester arrived a few
days later—I had already been riding on Barbe and found riding hardly tired me at
all, although I needed help to mount—he sent to me my armor and my sword. I did
not weep over them, but I was very glad to have them back, not only because they
were the best of their kind and would be costly to replace but because Sir Oliver had
given them to me and they were dear to me on that account.
    That gesture, however, seemed to me like a polite hint to be gone. I knew from
the fact that Lord Robert had not summoned me to give me the armor himself that he
must find my presence a painful reminder that his party had lost all the great
advantage they had won in the battle of Lincoln—and, from what Melusine had told
me, largely because of the pride and stupidity of his sister, which must have been a
bitter cud to chew. By his chaplain, I sent Gloucester my humble and heartfelt thanks
and the news that my wife and I would depart the next day.
   Melusine was aghast when I told her, but she could not deny me when I pointed
out that it was very late in the year and if we did not go within the next few days, at
the latest, snow would close the passes near Ulle. I proved stronger than she feared,
however. I did not faint with weariness after a day's riding; I just ate twice what I
would have without the exercise. I did not take a chill from the cold air either, not
even when we met snow before we reached Rydal.
   Melusine made me laugh by the way she kept brushing the snow off me and the
way she plied me with hot ale until I was nearly drunk. But I was surprised and much
less pleased when, after the bailiff and his wife had withdrawn so Melusine and I
were alone beside the fire, she said suddenly, "Let us stay here for the winter. The
way to Ulle will be too hard for you in the snow, too cold."
   "The snow is not deep," I replied, surprised. "As for too hard—it is poor Barbe
who does all the work. And I do not mind the cold. I can pull a fur around me if it
grows colder. We will go to Ulle."
   Melusine did not answer, only searched my face for a moment and then turned
her eyes to the fire—but I had seen again that darkness in her eyes and a dreadful
thought came to me. I sat frozen, unable to bring out the words I knew I must say,
but our life would truly be together now, no longer a few weeks of play between long
partings. We had now what I had promised her I would get when I had taken from
her the knife with which she tried to kill me. And in all our years of marriage, there
had always been those moments in which she drew back from me. Did she still want
me dead?
   "Melusine," I said, "if you cannot bear to see me sit in your father's chair or drink
from his cup, I will go back to the king and trouble you no more."
  "Oh no, beloved, no," she whispered, slipping from the bench on which we sat
and kneeling before me, her hands gripping my arms. "No! Not even if it was by
your hand papa died. I know you did not kill him apurpose to get Ulle."
   "I did not kill him at all!" I exclaimed. "Melusine, in God's name, have you carried
that fear—that you were lying abed with your father's killer—all these years? My
love, dearling, I know I did not harm your father or your brother. I was not even at
Wark at the time of the battle. I was with the king, and we came too late. Why did
you not ask me?"
  A weak smile trembled on her lips. "I did not want to know."
  "Is that why you never would say you loved me, dear heart?"
 She put her head down on my knee then and whispered, "No. I am afraid to love.
What I love, dies."
   I pulled her up into my lap and held her tight, remembering all the cruel losses in
her life, but it would do her no good to yield to her fears. "All men, and all women
too, die," I said. "Will you withhold joy from me during my life because of that?
You once asked me if I thought I was God to make and unmake the fate of
kingdoms. Must I ask you the same question? You are only a woman. Whether you
love or not, I will live or die as God wills."
   "But we are so near home, so near safety. I cannot believe my happiness will not
be snatched away from me."
  "That is gross superstition," I said, laughing at her. "And you are not the only one
who feels that way, so do not put on airs."
   She laughed a little then, although I felt tears on my cheek where hers rested. "Oh,
very well," she said. "We will ride on to Ulle."
    So we pressed on early the next morning though the horses were fetlock deep in
snow. A few times, when the trail seemed to disappear completely, I wished I had
not insisted, but Vinaigre knew every foot of the way and led us without once
faltering. We arrived safely as dusk was falling to find my dream turned real—a
roaring fire of winter blazing on the hearth of a well-lit hall in which a tall polished
chair stood empty at the head of a long table from whose filled benches a tumult of
greeting rose as Melusine walked in.
   This time I stood in the doorway apurpose, waiting for her to look at me. I could
not bear that there be any shadow between us. Well, I no longer feared to lose her
even if she did remember. I was sure now that I could soothe her hurt. But when she
looked across the room, she smiled. For a moment I thought she did not remember
and I would have to tell her in words, but she came to me, held out her hand, and led
me to her father's chair. There she kissed me and said, "Be welcome, beloved
invader. Be welcome in your own home."
                                 EPILOGUE


  Melusine
    I heard this afternoon that Queen Maud was dead, and I thought back eleven
years to the day I had last seen her when she said she would like to visit Ulle and see
its beauty. Although she remained at Bristol keep for nearly two weeks more, I was
busy with Bruno and did not go to her. And she never came to Ulle. I wept for her.
Poor queen, those eleven years had been as bitter for her as they had been sweet for
me. As Bruno had feared, the war continued all that time. Oh, there were truces now
and again, but they never lasted long and treachery piled on treachery.
   In Ulle, we lived in peace—at least after Bruno righted the wrong of Magnus's
murder. Mary's dead husband's father and brother are dead now, their lands divided
between us and Mary, whose sons have been restored to her. Bruno went to the king
to swear fealty for Ulle and the new lands and to receive quittance for having done
justice without proper warrant. I almost died of fear until he returned, but he begged
continued leave because the lands needed his attention and Stephen did not hold
him.
    Even so, for the next year, I was terrified that the king would summon him. I was
carrying my first son by then and could not have accompanied him even after the
boy was born, for we had no one fit to rear a child in our manor. Bruno must have
felt the same, although he never said so, and at last, in our fourth year in Ulle after
our second son was born, he went to the king to offer his service if he were needed.
I quarreled with him bitterly before he left, but he was right. Stephen seemed barely
to remember him, thanked him warmly for the offer, accepted his fealty and his
homage for Ulle—and released him from his promise, except for the military service
any vassal might be called on to perform. But he was never called.
   When Bruno heard the queen was dead, he too was sad. Later when the children
were abed, he said it might mean trouble for us. He did not think that Stephen would
long survive his wife, and Eustace was not fit to be king. Yet if Henry, Matilda's son,
took the throne, which seemed most likely, we who had been steadfastly faithful to
Stephen might suffer for that.
   "No, we will not," I said, "for Henry Plantagenet is indebted to King David." And
I brought out what I had kept quietly in my chest for all these years—two more
charters, one from King David confirming those he had given to my father long ago,
and one from Henry, David's son as overlord of Cumbria, for Ulle and the other
manors.
  Bruno shook his head. "Little rebel," he said, "how did you come by these?"
   I reminded him then of Sir Gerald's capture of King David and how Hugh had
hidden the king among his own men and taken him safely to Jernaeve. "I did not ask
for these," I said, touching the sealed parchments. "They came with a letter from
Audris, saying that it was King David's wish that I and mine not suffer, no matter
what the outcome of the war."
   Although Bruno shook his finger at me—it is the harshest punishment he has ever
visited on me—for keeping the matter secret all these years, he was pleased. I am
glad we are well protected because I have four children now, Malcolm is our eldest,
Hugh our second, Audris our first daughter, and Bruno, the baby, is two years old. I
think our Audris will be the next lady of Jernaeve, for she and Eric are already fond
of each other and it is Hugh's and Audris's dearest wish (despite the consanguinity)
that our families be bound in the next generation as in this. It will be a little confusing
to have two Audrises in Jemaeve, but Bruno's sister is eager to take our daughter,
who is already a skilled weaver and—to my horror—a great climber.
    That frightens Edna even more than me. She is still with me and loves my children
with the passionate devotion of a woman who cannot bear her own. She nursed
Fechin too in his last illness—with surprising tenderness when one considers how
sharply she always spoke of him and to him, but he died last year. Bruno and I were
grieved, but he went quickly and without pain. Merwyn is married to a girl from the
village and is now our master-at-arms. We keep more men-at-arms now. The smaller
manors are adding to our wealth as are the lands that were Magnus's blood money,
so we can afford a small private army, and we might need it. Cumbria is at peace,
but Bruno fears that the war will grow fiercer now that Henry is grown from a boy to
a man. Well, I write the truth here. I look forward gladly to the time when Henry
Plantagenet will be king—though I do not say it to Bruno.
   I am healed of the trouble that fell on me when I was thirteen too. Even when I
lost a daughter, my little Melusine, though I grieved bitterly indeed, I did not suffer
again the guilt and terror that had haunted me for so many years. Well, I am almost
healed; when Bruno asked me if I would not name the child I am carrying now for
our lost daughter or one of my brothers, I would not hear of it. If it is a boy, it will
be Oliver; if a girl, I will name it Maud, for the queen. I hope the babe will be a
daughter, for it was the queen who forced Bruno on me—and gave me this new and
very precious life.




                             AUTHOR'S NOTE
   For those readers who are familiar with the use of titles in English society, I feel it
necessary to explain that it is not ignorance that allows me to call Melusine, the
daughter of a simple knight, Lady Melusine. In the early twelfth century, titles and
their use had not yet been formalized. All women of the noble class were "lady,"
with no distinction being made between the daughter of a simple knight and that of
an earl. A man who had been knighted was "sir" to his equals and superiors, but he
was most often "lord" to his own servants and inferiors who did not know better.
   I feel I should also mention that in the first half of the twelfth century, there were
no such titles as Squire of the Body or Knight of the Body. However, the
positions— both requiring close attendance and service to the king— did exist. I
have used the titles as a matter of convenience, because they make clear the duties of
the hero without explanations that might impede the action.