The outlaws, p.18
The Outlaws, page 18
“I’ll have Sebbi make a coffin for him. It isn’t right to lay him in the ground like some pauper.”
“Thank you, Wulfric.”
“Osfrid! Hereric!” Wulfric said to two men behind him. “Fetch a plank so we can get our lord into the church. We can’t lug him around like a sack of grain.”
Proper coffins took some time to make, but Sebbi and his sons, despite having little experience with building coffins, threw one together in just over an hour that looked as though it had taken a whole day, so that William could be laid out before the altar rather than on the bare ground, like most people.
All the people in the village tried to pack into the church at once, and since it was a small church, there wasn’t room enough for everyone. As on Sundays, the overflow stood at the doors and beneath the windows, but this wasn’t a Sunday and now everyone wanted a chance inside. The press was so intense that those in the front row were nearly pushed into the altar or even the coffin itself — Giselle was saved from this indignity by Wulfric’s rough hand on her shoulder. With a great deal of shouting and jostling, Wulfric forced people to form a line that shuffled through so that everyone got their look.
By this time, it was almost sundown and the supper hour, and stomachs were growling all around. Before long, everyone had their chance and only Wulfric and Giselle remained in the church, which had filled with dust churned up by all the feet.
“You staying, mistress?” Wulfric asked from the doorway.
“I shall. Please see that I’m not disturbed.”
“Will you be wanting anything to eat, though?”
“Not tonight.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He shut the door.
Giselle stood over the coffin for some time before she settled to her knees and began to pray.
Sometime during the night, the door creaked open. Giselle was about to warn off the intruder when she heard in Matilda’s voice, “Giselle? Are you still here?”
“I am.”
“Do you mind?”
“No. Come in.”
Matilda groped her way to the back of the nave. Giselle felt her hand on her arm and they clasped hands. Matilda sank beside her. Giselle felt her reach out into the coffin to touch what remained of William.
“He’s really dead,” Matilda said, leaning back on her heels.
“It seems impossible,” Giselle said.
“It always seems impossible until it happens. He was a good man.”
“What will I do now?”
“You will go on. That’s what we women do. The hardest lot always falls to us. No matter what, you will endure.”
“I don’t want to!” And now the tears came. Giselle’s shoulders wracked as she sobbed. “I want everything to be as it was!”
Matilda put an arm around her. “You must and you will.”
CHAPTER 19
Hafton
September 1179
Giselle awoke to the sensation of fingers brushing her forehead. Matilda was leaning over her. Dawn had arrived, the church windows filled with gray light.
“I have to go,” Matilda said.
Giselle sat up. “I’ll walk you home.”
Matilda smiled. “Such as it is for now.”
“Where have they put you?” Giselle asked, as Matilda helped her up. “I was afraid you might have fled.”
“And miss the burial? You’re not the only one who cared for him.” Then Matilda added, “Or would care for him.”
Giselle was not sure what that meant, but did not pursue it as they had left the church and she was overcome with the surrealness of the morning. There was fog so thick outside that the houses on the other side of the street were mere suggestions. A few early risers could be seen here and there, apparitions that seemed to drift along, all sound muffled. No one noticed them as they came out of the gate, crossed the road, and went down a footpath leading to the west.
“I will be glad when the FitzWalters are gone,” Giselle said.
“As will I. I suppose you will have to go to your uncle’s now.”
“We shall have to go.”
“We shall see.”
“You won’t come?” Giselle stopped on the path, astonished at Matilda’s reluctance.
“You may change your mind about it in time.” They had reached a small house that had been the home of a widow who had recently died. It had lain empty since then. Matilda turned in the gate.
“What are you talking about?” Giselle grasped Matilda’s arm. “Tell me!”
“Now is not the time. Go home. Get ready for your father’s funeral.”
The remainder of the day went by in such a swirl of events that later Giselle could barely recall them. Breakfast in the hall was a noisy, chaotic affair, the place full to the brim with the FitzWalter entourage, many of whom had to sit on the floor for a lack of tables. Afterward, everyone dressed in their best, and trooped down to the church, where the entire population of the village waited outside for Giselle and his lordship to enter first. The village priest said the mass over the open coffin. FitzWalter looked bored; Blanche seemed distracted by something and kept picking at her gown; Eustace stood stony faced; Eleanor was more smug than Giselle had seen her in a long time; and Baldwin kept shuffling his feet and refused to meet Giselle’s eye whenever she looked at him.
After the priest sprinkled the body with holy water, said the Lord’s Prayer, and gave the Absolutions, Sebbi and his sons nailed on the lid of the coffin, and he, Wulfric, and four others lifted the box and carried it out into the churchyard. Everyone else who could grabbed a candle from the rack and followed them, but the wind, which was rising beneath a gray sky, snuffed them out before they reached the grave site beside Hanelore’s stone.
Someone handed the priest a wooden shovel, and he dug a cross in the ground, then handed the shovel to the villagers who were being paid to dig the grave proper, and they set to work.
The passing of the shovel to the gravediggers signaled the end of the ceremony, at least as far as Earl Roger was concerned. He left without a word, followed by his wife, Eustace, Baldwin, and Eleanor. Four of FitzWalter’s knights remained in the churchyard, however, sitting on the stone wall apart from everyone else.
Athelhild eyed the knights. “Something’s not right.”
“I’m sorry?” Giselle said.
“I said, something’s not right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I just feel that something’s wrong.”
“What could it be?” Giselle asked.
“I don’t know. We must keep our eyes and ears open. We cannot trust these people.”
“I am so tired. I wish they were gone.”
The wind stirred the grass, carried off a few hats, tugged at the cloaks of the small number who wore them and the clothes of everyone else. The sky had grown darker, dropping tendrils toward the ground. The grave was half dug and it would rain soon.
“It’s all right if you want to go,” Giselle said to the villagers. “No sense in getting wet and falling sick.”
People were reluctant to depart at first, but more and more trickled off home so that by the time the two grave diggers had completed their work, only Giselle, Athelhild, Wulfric, and Sebbi the carpenter remained at the graveside, not counting the knights.
“That’s deep enough,” Wulfric said to the grave diggers. He and Sebbi pulled them out of the hole.
The four men lowered the coffin on ropes. Giselle threw the first spadeful of dirt on the coffin, where it struck with a hollow sound. Then the two gravediggers began shoveling dirt into the hole in earnest, eager to beat the rain. It seemed to take no time at all to fill up the hole, far less than it had taken to make it.
“Well, that’s that,” Sebbi said. “Begging your pardon, mistress.”
“No need to beg my pardon,” Giselle said. “You best get on home yourselves before you get wet.” A few raindrops had begun to fall, leaving pockmarks on the bare earthen mound before them. She pulled up her hood and turned toward the gate.
“Why are you still here?” Giselle asked the knights as they rose at her approach.
“For your protection,” one of them said.
“I hardly need protection here on my own land,” she said.
“A lady like you can’t be seen walking about without an escort,” the knight said as they all fell in about her and Athelhild. “It isn’t seemly.”
He said this with a smirk that seemed out of keeping with a protective impulse.
Someone must have been on lookout at the manor house, for as they crossed the bridge and entered the yard, Eustace was there waiting for them.
Behind him, it seemed that the entire FitzWalter party and all their horses were in the yard, saddled and ready to go. Blanche’s maids had already climbed into the wagon, and Blanche herself stood beside it, eyes on Giselle.
“You’re leaving?” Giselle asked Eustace.
Eustace did not answer. He gestured to Athelhild. “Take her to the house.”
Two knights grasped Athelhild’s arms and marched her toward the manor house. She looked appalled, but did not resist or speak.
“What are you doing?” Giselle cried and tried to follow, but Eustace clasped her shoulder.
“Your things are already packed and loaded.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A young girl like you cannot be left unprotected. My father will take care you come to no harm.”
This sounded so like what one of the knights had said outside the churchyard that Giselle had the panicked feeling this had all been planned since Ludlow. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my home. I’m staying here.”
Eustace pushed her into the arms of one of the knights. “There’s no time to argue. We must get going before the rain turns the road to mire.”
He gestured toward the wagon, and the knight dragged her there. He forced her aboard. Blanche climbed up behind her.
“Why am I not allowed my maid?” Giselle asked. “Where is Athelhild?”
“We are told she is difficult and quarrelsome,” Blanche said, settling on her cushion. “We will find you another maid. One more suitable.”
“She is my maid. I want her.”
Blanche fixed her with a cold glare. She slapped Giselle hard. “You will do what you are told henceforth, without complaint. You have been spoiled altogether too much for your own good.”
Servants dropped the canvas cover so that it prevented anyone from seeing the passengers, and the wagon jerked toward the gate.
CHAPTER 20
Hafton
September 1189
Earl Roger’s party had just got beyond the last house in the village before a boy came running up the path to the abandoned hut where Matilda and her children had taken shelter with word that he had gone.
Alice and Agnes threw down the wool and spindle they had been working with. Alice began kicking dirt on the fire.
“What are you doing?” Matilda asked, looking up from some embroidery.
“You’re not thinking we should spend another night in this place?” Agnes asked.
“It’s not that bad,” Matilda said.
“How can you say that?” Alice asked, finishing with the fire. “The roof leaks and it has holes in the walls. Birds could fly in at any time. Who knows what lives in the thatch!”
“You two have got spoiled living in the manor,” Matilda said. Even so, she stood up and put the embroidery in a satchel with what remained of their food. She had no desire to remain here any longer than necessary than the girls did. The place smelled of rot. “All right. Brian, fetch the blankets.”
They came around the bend and approached the manor house.
As they got near, Wulfric came through the gate, his face more grim than it had been at William’s funeral.
“You better not go in,” Wulfric said when he reached Matilda.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Earl Roger has taken Giselle away. He means to have her wardship. He’s left his bastard boy in charge.”
“Eustace?” Matilda was appalled, thinking of her danger rather than the terrible thing that had befallen Giselle.
Wulfric nodded, looking back to the manor house to see if anyone had spotted them. He urged them down the road to the village. When they had rounded the bend and were out of sight, he said, “You best make yourselves scarce. Eustace asked after you. He wants to talk to you about your son. He knows the boy was here and he thinks you know where he went.”
“I’m sure he intends more than that,” Matilda said, remembering the whipping delivered to Brian. There surely would be more of that to come, and perhaps not just to him.
“We’re just to go now? Like this?” Alice asked. “What about the —”
Matilda put a hand over Alice’s mouth, knowing she was going to ask after the money. Matilda had buried it in a corner of the barn one night where she was sure that no one would look for it, just as she had buried her small hord under the bed at Shelburgh, where it still remained. If they went away now, all they had was Matilda’s satchel with the remainder of the cheese, a quarter loaf of bread, a few apples, and their blankets. She’d held out not a single penny.
“Wulfric’s right,” Matilda said. “We can’t stay.” From the looks on the children’s faces, they were as frightened of the prospect of falling into the hands of a FitzWalter as she was.
They arrived at Wulfric’s house, right by the church. “Wait here,” he said.
He hurried into the house while they waited alone in the street, the wind whipping around them and the scent of rain metallic in the air.
Wulfric came out with two loaves of bread, a whole cheese, and a sack of onions. “It’s all we can spare.”
“Thank you,” Matilda said.
“If you’re caught, tell no one about this. Promise?”
“I promise. I have one last favor to ask.”
“All right,” Wulfric said.
“Can you ask Osgar to meet me? I’ll be waiting in the wood beyond the top of the hill.
Wulfric nodded. “I suppose I could.” He went back into the house.
“What will we do now?” Agnes asked.
“Where will we go?” Alice asked.
“Far from here. Come on, girls, Brian. Pick up your feet.”
It was night before Osgar dared to come again. But he had no trouble finding Matilda, since she was waiting in the same spot where they had talked earlier at the edge of the wood.
Osgar handed her a cloth bag that smelled of earth. “Careful on the road with that,” he said. “I’ve never seen so much hard money at once, and I daresay, no one else has either.”
“Thank you, Osgar,” Matilda said, opening the sack. “You can’t know how grateful I am.”
Ogar grinned crookedly. “Oh, I think I can imagine.”
She handed him a handful of silver pennies, a lot of compensation for this night’s work. “For your trouble.”
“Why, thank you,” Osgar said, astonished at her generosity.
“I’ll never forget this,” Matilda said. “Not that we’ll ever see each other again.”
“I suppose we won’t.”
“No. Girls! Brian! On your feet. Time to go.”
CHAPTER 21
Lagny-sur-Marne
October 1179
“If you drink any more of that,” Robert said, “you won’t be able to walk a straight line. And we need you sober.”
Hugh regarded the contents of his cup. “Please do not imply that I cannot hold my wine. It is not fitting for the squire to criticize the knight.” He belched and sipped again. “It’s not a bad wine, you know, though I’m sure I could do better once I have my vineyard.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a knight, and I’m not exactly a squire. So I’ll say what I like.”
“You’re the one who said we must do our utmost to maintain appearances.” Hugh squinted off across the field. They were sitting under an oak where a tavern keeper from the town had set up a temporary establishment complete with tables, benches, and barrels upon barrels of wine, separated from the hubbub of the fair by ropes stretched from posts pounded into the ground. Outside the rope, merchants hawking everything imaginable had set up stalls, and beyond this market could be seen the tops of the tents of those, gentry and nobility alike, who had established camps in what had been a pasture. They, like Robert and Hugh, had come for the tournament. “So let me remind you, as my squire you must address me in a deferential manner.”
“If you ever hope to have that vineyard, you better lay off now.” Robert finished his ale, and put the cup in a barrel reserved for used cups standing by the gap in the rope fence that served as the entrance. He picked up the wool sack that contained their mail shirts and hung the helmets, which were connected by a thong, from one shoulder and his own shield from the other. “Come on. Time to sign up.”
Hugh gulped the last of his wine and tossed his cup toward the barrel. The cup struck the lip and bounced out onto the ground. He slung his own shield from one shoulder.
“I suppose we can’t put it off any longer,” Hugh said as they stepped outside the rope and dodged a vendor who bore a tray of honeyed apples suspended from straps on his shoulders. The tray was almost as big as a door, and Robert marveled at how the vendor was able to hold it up without spilling any of the apples with all the people flowing around him.
“No, we can’t. Not if you want that vineyard.”
“The Flemings, you said,” Hugh mused. “It must be the Flemings.”
“The word is they are taking on men. They say the English team have two-hundred men.”
“We’ll have to fight the English then. I don’t think I’ll like that.”
“What does it matter?”
“Well, they are our countrymen, after all. Yours anyway. And as a Gascon, I do feel some affinity for them, owing to the fact we share a king. But Flemings? We have no more in common with them than Moscovites. Besides, what if they find out and bear a grudge?”
