The outlaws, p.26
The Outlaws, page 26
Giselle held the torch to the thatch above her head. It was dry and the ends of the thatch glowed and burst into flame. She moved along the side of the barn to the far corner, lighting the eaves, and continued around the back, ready at any moment to throw down the torch and run for the forest.
But there was no shout of alarm, no sign that anyone was about.
With a pang of guilt that almost stayed her hand, she wondered if the night guard was inside the barn. If so, he might be burned to death. She hadn’t thought of that possibility. It was too late now to stop, for flames were coursing up the thatch roof, illuminating the dark.
Halfway along the rear of the barn, her nerve failed at last. She thrust the torch into the thatch, and ran for the forest.
She circled back through the trees to the track. She was almost there when the barn door opened and a figure emerged and ran up toward the mine. By this time, the barn’s roof had blossomed into a terrible pyre, flames reaching a hundred feet in the air, lighting up the area as if in daylight.
As she reached the fork, there was shouting at the mine. She ran as fast as she could toward the ford, heedless of the noise in her haste to get away.
CHAPTER 5
Hafton
August 1180
Someone rapped on the door to Giselle’s chamber. She flinched, afraid that it might be Eustace again, but he wouldn’t have bothered to knock.
Since the fire, she had retreated to her chamber and rarely went out. She could not bear to look people in the face after what she had done and what had transpired as a result.
The satisfaction of revenge had dissipated upon Eustace’s return, replaced by guilt and shame. He had initiated an inquiry which was short and brutal. All the miners and villagers where interrogated, many harshly. When no evidence surfaced as to those responsible, he had hanged the watchman, a boy of twelve, and expelled his family. Then he had forced everyone in the manor, villagers and miners alike, to rebuild the barn. He imposed even greater fines and rents to make up for the loss.
Even though Giselle’s behavior on that night had been unusual, Eustace had not suspected she might be responsible. And when the beatings and questioning began, and the hanging took place, she had remained silent, paralyzed by fear. She knew that if his eyes turned to her and he put her to questioning, it would not take long for her to confess. He would kill her then, she was sure of it.
“Come!” Giselle called when the pounding on the door did not cease.
Eanfled stuck her head in. “M’lady, we’ve a visitor asking for his lordship.”
A visitor! Oh, God, another person to see her humiliation. “Have Eleanor take care of him.”
“She’s in the village collecting eggs.”
“What about Baldwin?”
“He’s with my lord.”
“And where are they?”
“Gone to the mine for the day.”
“Well, what about Aelfwyn?”
“Still asleep,” Eanfled sniffed.
That wasn’t surprising. Aelfwyn liked to sleep until breakfast, which was at least an hour away. Giselle lifted the wad of raw wool which she had been carding from her lap, put it in the wicker basket at her feet, and stood up. She wasn’t going to be able to avoid seeing the visitor after all. “Very well, I’m coming.”
She paused at the master bedchamber. Giselle heard a creak as Aelfwyn turned over in bed. There was a thump as bare feet hit the floorboards. Aelfwyn was getting up. In moments, she would call for a maid. Hearing the same alert as Giselle, Eanfled hurried downstairs, not wanting to be the one who had to answer the summons. Aelfwyn was demanding and had a bad temper after she had just awakened.
Giselle descended the stairs to the hall. The visitor turned toward her. He was an old man, beyond sixty, his hair a dense bush of thick gray. A thicket of gray beard masked his face. He was a big man with broad shoulders and thick arms. His shirt and hose were wool, threadbare and patched in spots, instead of linen, the blue and red color dulled with age and hard use. He carried a sword on a worn leather belt. Giselle crossed the room to him.
“I am Giselle,” she said. “Welcome to Hafton manor.”
The old man measured her with cool gray eyes, eyes that seemed rather familiar. “So, you are the wife.”
Giselle was startled by his directness. “I have that . . . singular honor.”
The old man grunted. “How old are you, child?”
“Fifteen.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“You look a bit thin. Don’t they feed you enough here? Any chance you’re pregnant yet?”
“Goodness, no!”
“Too bad. Diotte would like to be a grandmother.”
Giselle’s forehead wrinkled in puzzled astonishment. Who was this man? And who was Diotte? What gave him leave to be so familiar with her?
She was thinking about things to say to put him in his place when he chuckled, showing good strong teeth. “He hasn’t spoken of us then. I thought not. We’re an embarrassment to him these days. I am Warain, Eustace’s grandfather. Diotte’s his mother. I’ve come for him.”
Giselle was startled to learn that Eustace had a grandfather and this was the first time she had heard mention of a mother. But this made them family — her family now. Poor relations, by the look of them. Well, that was no reason for her to be rude. She managed to say, “He’s at the mine across the river. I’ll have him fetched for you. Won’t you sit down and have a drink? We’ll be having breakfast soon, if you’re hungry.”
“No, thank you. I must see him right away.”
“I’ll take you, then. Eanfled, please have Osgar saddle my mare.”
On the way, they had a chance to talk, mostly about little things, and Giselle found him to be friendly once you got beyond his gruffness. He had a farm at a bend in the River Avon south of Warwick, a small place that in theory was a knight’s fee, but poor. The land had been in the family for over a hundred years, since before the time of the first King William. The original honor had been larger. Over the intervening century, the family had sold off parcels to pay debts. He lived no better than any tenant farmer now.
When the cart track up the hill from the river broke into the clearing at the mine, they found Eustace with one foot on top of a pile of stones, talking to the head miner, finger jabbing for emphasis of some point. Baldwin stooped, picked up a rock, weighed it in his hand, then heaved it into the woods. The head miner shouted to one of the mine boys to retrieve the rock. At the sight of Warain, Eustace came toward them.
“You’re a long way from home, Grandfather,” Eustace said.
“And my backside knows it, boy.”
Eustace mouth turned down. He did not like being called a boy, now that he was a knight and held two manors. But he surprised Giselle, who expected a sharp retort. He said, “It’s Mother, isn’t it.”
Warain nodded his head. “She’s dying.”
As soon as they returned to the house, preparations were made for a departure that afternoon. Horses were saddled and packs prepared for the packhorses, food and clothes gathered, and weapons oiled and laid out.
Warain watched the proceedings with Giselle from a seat on the steps, where he drank wine from a wooden bowl she had brought out for him.
It was apparent from the preparations that Eustace planned to accompany the old man without her. “You’re not going?” Warain asked Giselle.
Giselle looked at the ground. “I’m sure he doesn’t want me to.”
“Hmmmph,” Warain grunted. He heaved himself to his feet and crossed the yard to the spot where Eustace and le Bec were tightening girths and checking bridles.
“She says she isn’t going,” Warain said to Eustace.
“She’ll just be in the way,” Eustace said.
“Your mother said I was to bring her along, if she’ll come.”
Eustace’s lips tightened, but he marched across the yard and stopped before Giselle. “You’re invited if you want to come,” he said in a tone that suggested she should refuse.
“She’s dying. Of course I will come.”
Eustace looked over her head to Eleanor, who was standing at the top of the steps. “Get her things ready. She’s coming, too.”
Warain’s house lay at the northern edge of its village, big and careworn, with rot on the corner posts and patches on the plaster walls, an old house ready to be torn down and replaced.
A cook with a stained apron across her round belly and flour on her forearms came out of the house when they rode into the yard.
Eustace jumped off his horse. “Gretta!” he cried and embraced her.
Gretta tapped him on the head with a spoon as she drew back. “Look how tall you’ve gotten. And who’s that beauty with you — your wife? We heard you had got married.”
Eustace’s grin withered. “Yes, that’s her.” He went by Gretta into the house.
Warain reached for Giselle to help her down. He had no trouble lifting her from the saddle. “Child,” Warain said, when he had set her down, “I’ve known chickens heavier than you. Gretta! We need to fatten this girl up! She’s not big enough to bear children!”
“She’s barely a woman yet,” Gretta said, putting a fat arm around Giselle’s shoulders. “Next year’s a good time for her to start having babies.”
Giselle smiled politely, a little shocked that a house servant would be so familiar not only with her but with Eustace, who disliked familiarity from anyone, and let Gretta lead her inside. When they entered the house, they found Eustace waiting at the foot of the stairs at the other side of the hall. He asked Gretta, “Is she awake?”
“Yes, I just left her.”
Eustace pounded up the stairs. “Don’t tire her out!” Gretta called after him.
Giselle followed more slowly. She stood in the doorway, afraid to enter. Eustace sat on his mother’s bed with one of her hands in both of his. Diotte’s arm was a stick; her face withered and sunken. It was clear she had been a beautiful woman once. She had long silken brown hair, soft eyes, and a small nose that turned upward at the end.
“Mama,” Eustace said. He glared at Giselle and she backed out of the doorway and closed the door.
Giselle could hear them talking through the door.
“Why did you send her away?” Diotte asked. “That’s your new wife, isn’t it? I so want to meet her before I die.”
“Mama —” Eustace began to cry. “I don’t want you to die.”
Giselle had not thought Eustace capable of caring for anyone, and despite all the pain and humiliation she had suffered, she felt sorry for him.
“I’m ready to go. I’m tired of the hurt,” Diotte said.
Later, Eustace came downstairs to get something to eat. Giselle slipped upstairs while he washed up and went into Diotte’s room. It might be the only opportunity she had to pay her respects. Giselle thought she might be asleep, and was about to withdraw when Diotte said, “Come in and sit down.”
Giselle settled on a stool by the bed. Diotte turned her head to look at her; even that slight movement seemed made at great effort. “What is your name?” Diotte asked.
“Giselle.”
“You are a pretty thing. I was a pretty thing once, too. It was my misfortune. Why does he dislike you?”
“He doesn’t really want me. He married me to please his father so that the earl could obtain my inheritance. ”
Diotte sighed. “That sounds like Roger.”
Giselle crossed her arms and hugged her knees. “They beat me until I consented.”
Diotte chuckled. “I went willingly. But I wasn’t lucky enough to become a wife. Not enough money for Roger, you see. You’re lucky in that.”
“I wouldn’t call it luck.”
Diotte grimaced. Giselle leaned forward and put a palm on the older woman’s forehead. It was hot. A rag lay beside a wooden bowl on the bedside table. She dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out and daubed Diotte’s forehead.
“Fever’s not the problem child, it’s the pain — it’s in my bones.” She pointed to a clay vial on the windowsill. “That. Get that, please.”
Giselle brought over the vial. Diotte needed help to hold it steady at her lips to drink.
Diotte made a distressed face. “There isn’t enough. I’ll need more.”
Giselle sniffed the vial. “What does it do?”
“It dulls the pain.”
“I’ll get more, but where do I go?”
“There’s an old woman in the village. Take the last lane before the mill. Her house is the last on the left. Her name is Gerda. Tell her you’ve come from me. You won’t have to pay then.”
“I’ll go right away.”
Giselle met Eustace at the door. He was bearing a tray with a bowl of soup, a quarter loaf of bread, and cheese. “Wait,” he said to her. He put the tray down and grasped her hand, forcing her to surrender the vial. “What were you doing with this?”
“Going for more. It’s empty.”
“Go downstairs. I’ll do it.”
“She’s in pain now.”
Eustace put his hand on her neck. His touch was gentle, but the way he stroked with his thumb told her he was not far from strangling her. “Do what I say.”
Giselle backed out of the room as he shut the door.
Gerda was sitting on a bench beside her front door watching the sun go down when Eustace reined his horse to a halt at her gate. He tied the reins to a fence post and crossed the yard. They say she had been the most beautiful girl for miles around, too — until Diotte was born. She was over seventy now, he reckoned and showed every year.
“I remember you,” she said. “The earl’s bastard. I hit you with a rock once.” Eustace had lived in the village from the time the earl cast off his mother, when he was three, until he was six and the earl came and took him away. The village children had sometimes taunted her from the lane. She kept a bucket of stones of her own for such moments, and had a good arm.
“I think I still have the lump on the head,” Eustace said.
“At least you didn’t cry. What do you want?”
“My mother needs more of your potion.” He gave her the clay vial.
“Poor thing.” Gerda went into the house. Eustace did not follow. It was dark and stank of clammy, nasty things.
Gerda emerged with the vial. “I made this one stronger than before. Tell her no more than two spoonfuls at a time. More could kill her.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Be certain she understands. The last I saw her, she was in terrible pain. She may be tempted to take too much because of it.”
“I’ll give it to her myself.”
“Good idea. Keep it out of her reach.” Gerda sat back down on the bench. The sun had set and the sky was red and orange in the west, the colors fading fast.
Eustace gripped the vial but did not turn away.
“Is there something else?” Gerda asked.
“Yes.”
“A love potion, perhaps? For your new wife?”
Eustace snorted. “You know about her?”
“Warain is bursting at the prospect of little Eustaces.”
“No. I need something altogether different.”
Gerda waited for him to go on.
“My wife carries a child,” he lied.
“My congratulations. Does your grandfather know?”
“It is another man’s. It seems that she was not a virgin when we married.”
She rubbed her chin. “Well, well. Old Gerda can help you there. She’s helped many a lassie with that problem.”
She went back in the house and returned with another clay vial. “This is an extract of hyssop, the fleur-de-lis — that pretty little blue flower over there. Put no more than a spoonful into a cup of beer or wine. That should be enough to cause her to expel the child. More at one time and you risk killing her. Like the poppy, the hyssop can be deadly if not used carefully.”
“How much is here?”
“Enough to end three or four pregnancies. You may need more than one dose, you see. You have to try again if the first dose fails.”
“One spoonful it is,” he said.
He stood up and deposited a leather purse on the bench. It clinked with the sound of money.
“Get yourself a new gown. You look like a witch.”
Gerda cackled, displaying the three teeth she had left. She liked his little joke. “Oh, I will, your honor. I will.”
It was dark by the time Eustace returned to the house, and everyone there had settled into bed, the remains of the coals covered with clay tops and the windows shuttered.
Eustace trudged up the stairs and entered Diotte’s room.
“Do you have it?” she asked.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Give it to me!”
He pulled out the cork, wondering what to use for a spoon to measure the dose. Her hand, gnarled as a hawk’s foot, grasped his forearm. “Hurry,” she whispered. He couldn’t stand to see her in such pain. Her suffering was like a knife in his belly.
He put the bottle on the table. “It’s here, Mama. By the bed.”
She turned to search for it. “Where?”
“On the table.” He held the candle so she could see.
He backed toward the door. It wasn’t murder if she drank it herself, and it wasn’t suicide if she had no idea that to drink the whole meant death, so she could find a measure of peace at last and go to God and be buried in consecrated ground, untarnished by sin. I will bear the sin, he thought.
Her hand closed on the bottle as he went out and shut the door.
