The outlaws, p.22
The Outlaws, page 22
The baby urinated on both girls, who made noises of disgust.
Using strips Agnes had torn from her stockings, Matilda tied one piece on the cord near the child’s belly button and the other a few inches away. Then she bit the cord in two, getting her chin and fingers bloody.
“Wrap it up,” she said.
“Are we done now?”
“No, there’s more. Comfort it, will you?”
Agnes swaddled the baby in her cloak and talked to him in a low sing-song voice. It grew quiet.
About a quarter hour later, Matilda delivered the afterbirth. She felt it coming and was able to drop it in the dirt so she didn’t soil her cloak. After a few minutes rest, she buried the afterbirth in a shallow hole.
She straightened up, and took the baby from Agnes. It was a heavy child. She waddled toward the street. “Let’s go. I think we’ll wait by Newgate.”
Brian would not appear until sundown, which was still several hours away. So they returned to their post on the door stoop.
The baby slept on Matilda’s lap. She was glad it did not fuss because she had slipped into the darkest, deepest depression she had ever experienced, and might have thrown it down right there if it had made the slightest demand for attention. Her body ached in every bone, in every pore, and although she did not sob, tears streamed down her cheeks from closed eyes. The girls tried to comfort her but she pushed them away, so they clung to each other in alarm and said nothing.
She wiped her face, rose and set off down Watling Street. “Where are you going?” Alice asked.
“Never you mind. Stay here and wait for Brian,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.”
When she had gone perhaps fifty yards she turned back to make sure that neither was following. They hadn’t. They squatted by the same stoop that had been their station throughout the day, holding hands and watching her with anxious, fear-filled faces. How she loved them. They were such beautiful children. I am doing this for them, she told herself.
She crossed the bridge over the Fleet River. Odo’s tavern lay on the right at the mouth of Goldinelane, which ran north parallel to the little river, and she was afraid she would be recognized. But no one called out.
Just beyond was the lane called Sholond, which ran south toward Fleet Street. Ahead on the left was the entrance to the Dominican Friary, which was her objective. There was a porter at the gate house, of course, so she passed further on to Smalebriggelane, which formed the southern border to the friary’s garden. At the end of the lane, by the Fleet, there was a hole in the wall. The girls, who had told her about the hole, had used it along with some of the neighborhood boys to get into the garden and raid the monks’ pear trees.
Matilda slipped through the hole and sank to her knees, scanning for the presence of other people. Seeing none, she crossed the garden to the gate in the wall leading to the friary buildings. She dared not enter there, for fear of discovery. But if she left the child here, it was certain to be discovered in the morning, when the monks entered the garden to do their chores.
She put the baby down. It had been a good baby, sleeping throughout the trip.
It opened its eyes and stirred as she turned away, thrashing small arms and legs against the restraint of Agnes’ cloak. A fat round cheek brushed the edge of the cloak and the baby turned its head, mouth searching for the breast that wasn’t there. It’s hungry, she thought.
She left it there and started back across the garden. Someone will find it and have mercy.
She was thirty paces away when it began to cry. The high tiny lament cut her in two. All right, she thought. I’ll feed you first.
So she went back and picked it up. Her breasts had begun to leak, her milk coming sooner than it had with the others, and the baby seemed to smell it, ceasing to cry and turning its head toward the source.
Matilda uncovered a breast and brought the child to it. It sought the nipple and began to suck — so hard that she winced. She felt him draw life out of her and she sank down against the garden wall.
Agnes ran ahead of the others and found her at sundown, sitting by the corner of Sholond and Smalebriggelane. The baby was asleep in her arms.
“Momma, what are you doing?”
“Resting.”
“Where were you going? What were you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Will you come back now?”
“Why? To what?”
“We have a place! Meurig has agreed to take us in!” Meurig, a Welshman, was Brian’s master. He had a house in the city by St. Mary Magdalen church off the west fish market. “Alice and I got through the city gate without paying the toll. The guard tried to stop us but we ran too fast. And we found Brian at the cathedral. And we told him what had happened. And Brian and Meurig and a half dozen of the other men with hammers went by the tavern and made Odo give over all our belongings! They threatened to beat him if he didn’t.”
“They did that?”
“Yes, I was there, I saw it. And Brian even recovered our money from where you had hidden it.”
“Oh, God.”
“Let me help you up. We must go. It’ll be dark before we get back and cold. Can’t you feel the cold? I’m already chilled to the bone.” As she must be without her cloak. “Can you walk?” Agnes bent and took the baby from Matilda and held her hand while she climbed to her feet.
“I can walk.”
“You won’t have to go far. They’re not far away. I ran on before. They followed with the cart.”
They started back toward Holborn Street. It was almost dark by the time they got there.
“Have you given our brother a name yet?” Agnes asked.
Matilda paused for a moment. “I think I’ll call him Harold.” Why she had named the child after her long dead husband rather than his father, she could not explain.
Agnes nodded. “I miss Dad.”
“So do I, child.”
They turned the corner onto Holborn and headed toward the city.
PART 3
1180-1181
CHAPTER 1
Hereford
June 1180
When Giselle and Eustace emerged from the cathedral, the crowd outside fell silent for a moment, then shouted thunderously. Walking in a daze of disbelief that she was now a wife, Giselle stumbled on a flagstone and might have fallen if Eustace had not caught her arm. He whispered, “Careful. Do not embarrass me. Remember our conversation last night.”
Last night Giselle had made one last plea to Earl Roger not to be forced into this marriage, nothing more than a frightened “Please don’t make me!” FitzWalter had snorted and waved a hand at Eustace. “She needs another, I see,” he had said. “She’s almost more trouble than she’s worth.” Then he went upstairs while four housemaids held Giselle across a table as Reginald le Bec applied the cane to her back and legs. Eustace had knelt by her head and said, “It will stop when you agree to do as you’re told. Why do you make things so difficult?” Giselle had always expected to be brave in the face of adversity, but beatings have a way of changing people’s minds in a way that she had not anticipated. She felt dirty and small and unworthy, glad that her father had not lived to see what had become of her and how useless she was.
“I won’t,” she murmured.
“That’s good. Now smile and pretend to be happy. I know that’s difficult, given the circumstances. I shall try to do the same.”
Earl Roger and Bishop Henry, who was being carried on a litter because of a broken leg, came up behind them. Eustace tugged Giselle aside to let them pass. Together, the two magnates led the crowd to the corner of the yard where tables and benches had been set up in the open air for the wedding feast.
Many of the tables were laid out beneath a huge oak under limbs as thick as a man was tall. Giselle was thankful for the shade it provided, because the sun was hot. Eustace and Giselle sat on the earl’s right and the bishop on his left, with Lady Blanche beyond, and the other important guests arranged in descending order of their social status. Hundreds of lesser people milled about, competing for places to sit. There weren’t enough tables to accommodate everyone who came, and many sat on the ground. Smoke from the cooking fires lingered over the scene, delivering the aromas of roasting pork, lamb, beef and a dozen other scents she could not identify. Despite herself, Giselle was hungry.
Eustace was at the height of his form. Giselle had never seen him so charming and gracious, although he did not bother to speak to her. She kept her eyes down and her hands in her lap and tried not to look unhappy.
The meal proceeded in a multitude of courses: twenty-five cows and as many pigs had been slaughtered and prepared in a variety of ways — some roasted, some baked, some cut into pies and stews. Dishes of mackerel, herring, haddock and eel, accompanied by butter and cheese and pies of peas and leeks and beans — spiced with sugar, pepper, cloves, cinnamon, saffron and other things she could not identify — marched across the table before her. Oysters followed to the acclaim of the crowd, for they were popular and rare so far from the sea. Roasted ducks, swans and pigeons also made their appearance, to disappear under the knives and fingers of the hungry mob. Wine barrels were rolled out and uncapped, young and sweet and sharp, replacing the bride’s ale in a great show of extravagance — for everyone was expected to buy a cup to drink to the bride, to whom the proceeds went as a wedding gift.
The noise generated by the crowd was so intense that people at the head table had to shout to make conversation, and the wash drowned out the songs of the jongleurs strutting about among the tables so that Giselle only saw their mouths moving and fingers plucking in the din.
When the food had been consumed down to the last bit of gristle and crust, the serious drinking got underway, with casks of wine and ale set up on saw horses so that the thirsty guests could serve themselves if they were too impatient to wait for servants to attend them.
At this time, the bishop excused himself. The church had taken the view that people drank too much at wedding feasts and wakes. The bishop, who had to adhere to the official line, did not want to see what might happen so as to avoid the need to rebuke FitzWalter for the excesses that were sure to occur this afternoon. Better to turn a blind eye.
Giselle took his departure as a signal that she was free to go, too. No one expected the bride from a gentle family to take part in the drinking. As she took her leave of Eustace and FitzWalter, Blanche also stood. Together they returned on foot to the earl’s townhouse on Brode Street.
Giselle climbed the stairs to her room, where she changed from her wedding dress to a simple linen gown with a pleated skirt and sleeves. It had a high waistline that concealed her figure. The effect was modest and virginal. She did not bother to check herself in the mirror before going downstairs to the other women. How she looked didn’t matter any more.
Blanche and the other women were sitting on the steps with their sewing. A half dozen children of various ages — the offspring of Blanche’s attendants — were playing ball in the stable yard. On another day, Giselle might have wanted to join the game, but the glare sent her way by Blanche, who would not approve, and her own despair kept her rooted to the steps.
At the approach of sundown, guests of the wedding party began appearing along the road on the way to their lodgings. Giselle watched them pass by from a window overlooking the street. She searched for Eustace’s tall form in the gloom but did not see him. He would be here soon to claim his marriage rights.
She had no idea what to do now. The thought of having to lie with him made her quail. In the past few weeks, she had put these thoughts out of her mind, hoping for inspiration on how to avoid him, but none had come and she had no plan.
She went into her chamber, closed the door, and sat in the dark for a few moments, trying to collect her thoughts. There was no bar on the door, no lock, just a simple iron latch. There was no large piece of furniture that she could move in front of the door to prevent its opening. She could almost hear his footfalls on the boards outside.
She snatched up the cloak thrown across her bed and went downstairs.
Blanche intercepted her at the doorstep. “My dear, where are you going?” she asked. She and the other women had been about to come up to gown Giselle so that she was dressed to receive her husband.
“To church,” Giselle blurted.
“At this hour? Whatever for?”
“To light a candle for my father.”
Blanche looked exasperated and took Giselle’s arm. “Can’t you do that later?”
Giselle pulled away and threw the cloak about her shoulders. “No.”
“But he’ll be here any moment.”
“I won’t be long.” She ran down the steps to the yard and passed through the gate into Broad Street.
The falling night brought a chill with it and the scent of approaching rain. Hood up, Giselle was able to move through the streets, which were still filled with homeward bound party guests, without being noticed. Because of the feast, the curfew had been suspended.
Her first impulse was to seek refuge in the cathedral. But the cathedral grounds were walled, with access only through the gates, which would be shut by now. There was another church across the street to the right. But that would be an obvious place to look for her. She turned north, crossing Behynder Lane, and passed through the narrow alley that led to Eigne Street. At the head of the alley stood All Saint’s Church, which she remembered seeing on her arrival in town several days before.
Its door was closed. Giselle tried the latch. It was unlocked. The hinges shrieked as she opened the door. She paused, waiting to hear voices calling, but there were none. She went in. The interior was cold and musty. She groped her way to the altar at the back and sat down on the hard-packed dirt floor.
She wrapped the folds of her cloak about her legs and rested her head on her upraised knees.
The cry of hinges awakened her and she jerked up in fright.
The door had opened. Two cloaked figures, one tall and the other short, stood in the dim gray rectangle. The tall figure paused by the trestle at the door. There was the snick-snick of flint and steel, and the yellow glow of a torch.
“There you are,” Eustace said. “Your candle has gone out.”
“It was only a small candle.”
“I had begun to think you weren’t coming back. Blanche is at her wits end.”
“Then she will have to gather them as best she can.”
“And she has been so good to you, I thought, the way she has taken you under her wing.” He shrugged, a grin spreading across his handsome face. He put the torch in a niche by the trestle. “You should be more grateful.”
Giselle’s eyes flicked to his companion. She saw it was a woman, her face half-concealed by the hood of her cloak.
The woman pulled back her hood to reveal a pretty round-cheeked face set in a disdainful expression. The face was powdered, the hair escaping her wimple a light blond. She was dressed like an aristocrat, with a fur-lined cloak. A pleated linen skirt showed through the gap in the cloak, gathered at the waist by an embroidered belt. Finely tooled slippers covered her feet.
“I have forgotten my manners,” Eustace said. “This is Aelfwyn. But then I think you already know each other.”
“We do,” Giselle said.
Aelfwyn made a shallow reverence, mocking in its brevity. She was the daughter of a wealthy tenant farmer who worked a hide of land at Hafton.
“I admire your taste in gowns,” Giselle said.
“Hafton prospers under the hand of our lord,” Aelfwyn said.
“Were you intending to stay the night here, then?” Eustace asked Giselle.
“No.”
“You’re embarrassing me. I told you not to do that.”
“I am sorry,” Giselle said without contrition.
He held out a hand. “It’s time to go. For your sake, I will pretend I knew this is where you intended to come. My father will not be so angry with you then.”
Giselle wondered if he would beat her in front of Aelfwyn. She got to her feet.
“Good girl,” Eustace said.
Aelfwyn laughed.
Giselle slapped her.
Aelfwyn put a hand to her face. “Eustace!”
Eustace laughed.
Aelfwyn stamped her foot. “Damn you,” she said. She struck back at Giselle, who ducked the blow.
Eustace laughed harder, amused by the possibility that they might fight. But he was unwilling to let the fight proceed, and he stepped between them.
“How dare you bring your whore to my wedding,” Giselle spat.
Eustace shrugged. “You have nothing to say in the matter.”
Giselle’s anger swamped her fear of him. “I’m not going back. I’ll enter a convent before I lie with you.”
Eustace’s smile disappeared. He took the torch from its niche and reached for her. Backing away from him as he advanced, she retreated until her shoulder touched the cold stone of a wall. Eustace reached behind her head and drew out a length of her hair. He held the torch close, passing the ends of the long black braid through the flame. The hair crackled, curled, and stank.
“If you don’t come with me and do what I say, I will burn it all off.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she spat.
“Well, probably not now. Not until I get you back home.” He tossed the torch spinning into a corner, then turned back and slapped her on the cheek. It was a stunning blow with the heel of the palm, more powerful than a mere punch would be. Giselle’s head rocked and she sagged to her knees. Eustace grasped a handful of her gown. Strong enough to lift her off the ground with one hand, he threw her over his shoulder and went out of the church.
