The Viking Hostage, page 13
Aina is one of the most striking young women in the room with her dark red hair, shining grey eyes and small, perfect pink mouth. Aina accepts Prince Louis’ proffered hand. I watch them for a while but decide she is safe enough. While she dances with Louis and imagines herself a queen, I find I must go outside in search of the privy. I don’t know exactly where it is and linger at the foot of the staircase in the dark, waiting for my eyes to adjust and to discern some landmark. I hear a murmur of voices to my left and think I must ask for directions. I follow the wall with my fingertips round in the direction of the voices. There is no moon, and it is very dark out here. I round the corner but then immediately draw back into the shadow of the wall as I see that Lady Adalmode stands with her hand on the cheek of a tall black-haired man. One of her brothers, I think at first, but then realise it is the count of La Marche. I hold myself very still as I watch Adalmode step into the count’s embrace and put her mouth on his. I want to close my eyes and not bear such dangerous witness, and yet my curiosity keeps my eyelids pinned open. The kiss they exchange is passionate and lingering. I see the count holds his hands away from Adalmode’s body, clad in it luscious red velvet, as if contact with her will burn him, and yet it is clear the kiss burns them both. He steps away, placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘God knows, I love you Adalmode,’ he says, ‘yet this is madness that we indulge.’
‘Don’t say so,’ she says in a voice low with desire. ‘Can you not take me?’
I think I may have to witness more than a kiss, but then realise she is asking him to abduct her.
He shakes his head. ‘That would bring war from Aquitaine and your father onto my people,’ he says. ‘I am not ready for war yet, but I will be, if I must. I have asked your father four times for your hand, and four times he has refused me. He offers me your little sister, Aldiarde.’
‘No, Audebert!’ Adalmode’s anguish is plain in her whispered response.
‘No, no,’ he says, stroking her hair and her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I have vowed to have you and only you to wife.’
‘You will not say so, if you are faced with the prospect of no woman and no heir,’ says Adalmode. ‘You will take my sister.’
‘No,’ he says.
‘It will be too late. They will betroth me soon to the fat Aquitaine.’
He laughs softly. ‘No, no,’ he says again. ‘We have time.’
A door opens above our heads and light and noise spill out. Audebert steps back into the shadows, close to me. ‘Go,’ he says quietly, and I watch the candlelight from the hall glint on Adalmode’s golden head as she mounts the staircase. The count turns and as he does so, catches sight of me. I draw in a fearful breath.
‘Who are you spying there?’ he demands, his hand moving to the hilt of his dagger.
‘I did not mean to spy, Lord. I am a serving maid to Ademar of Ségur. I was lost, looking for a privy.’
He laughs shortly.
‘I know Lady Adalmode’s brother, Lord Guy,’ I say. ‘I mean no harm to her and will not tell.’
His hand is still on his dagger, and his eyes glitter, studying my face in the gloom. ‘What is your name, maid?’
‘Sigrid Thorolfsdottir, sir.’ I am shaking now and take a small step backwards, away from him. It would be easy for him to stab me here in the dark and protect Lady Adalmode’s honour.
‘Norse?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Swear on your sign of Thor, then,’ he says.
I had not realised I am clutching the hammer at my neck in my fear. ‘I do, sir. I swear on Thor’s hammer that I saw nothing out here but turds in the privy and heard nothing but the thunder of my own piss in the garderobe.’
He laughs heartily at that. ‘Alright, Sigrid Thorolfsdottir, vivid-speaker. If you break your oath, you’ll find yourself head down in the piss in the garderobe. Go.’
‘I won’t break my oath. Thank you, sir.’ I move off.
‘The privy is this way,’ he calls softly, gesturing in the other direction. I walk back past him with my head down, my eyes on his fingers touching the dagger and my hand in my pocket on my serpent brooch with the pin opened and clenched between the fingers of my fist. If he makes a sudden lunge at me, I will not die without a fight and without drawing his blood to my Viken serpent. But he lets me pass, and I find the privy and sit there shaking for a long time before finding my way back to Aina in the hall.
In the doorway, my way is barred by young Guillaume of Aquitaine, who is standing with a group of other adolescents. He is only a few years younger than Prince Louis, and already his boyness is on the verge of the man he is becoming. ‘Well,’ he says, gripping my upper arm painfully, ‘look here, lads, a red-haired beauty.’ I am still shaking from my encounter with the count of La Marche and do not have my wits about me enough to push past quickly. Suddenly he grips the back of my head and kisses me, forcing his tongue into my mouth, and I am struggling, panicking, pushing at his chest, kicking at his shins, hearing the cruel laughter of the boys crowding close around us.
I feel my elbow gripped, and I am borne forward out of Guillaume’s grasp and through the doorway. ‘This young woman is clearly not enjoying your attentions, boy.’ I recognise Count Audebert’s voice. I rush through, pulled along with the force of his stride, until I find myself firmly pushed down onto the trestle next to Aina. ‘Your seat, I think,’ he says and is gone. I gasp for air and stare with shock at the doorway, where Guillaume is looking furiously at Audebert’s receding back.
Aina stares at me. ‘Sigrid! Where have you been? You look strange and were gone a long time. You haven’t been dallying with one of those Northmen and given him your virginity, have you?’ she asks suddenly.
‘No!’ I exclaim crossly. Across the hall, I see Lord Audebert looking intently at me, standing alongside Geoffrey of Anjou and his son Fulk. Lord Audebert is black-haired, blue eyed, tall, muscled. There is a suppressed and dangerous energy about him. I can see why Adalmode clings to him and does not wish for marriage to the lustful boy-heir to Aquitaine. I look away demurely from the count’s gaze. ‘We should go to bed, Aina. Men are getting drunk and careless of courtesy.’
She sighs. ‘Oh, I suppose so, but I am enjoying the adventure of tonight.’
Not I so much, I think. We pick our way carefully through drunken guests, holding the hems of our dresses away from the messy rushes, and I feel Count Audebert’s blue eyes like heat on my back.
In the morning, Ademar is telling Melisende how Guy requested further formal discussion with his brother Hildegaire concerning the necessary dispensation for his marriage to Aina.
‘Did you see how Bishop Hildegaire rode into Brioude on a magnificent horse with caparisons decorated in gold and silver, a handsome falcon on his forearm, and accompanied by a large retinue?’ says Melisende, disapproval in her tone.
‘Yes indeed,’ adds Aina. ‘He wore a fur cap, a split coat, a sword and several knife scabbards on his belt. His clothes are made from the finest linen.’ She giggles and raises her eyebrows at my serious shake of the head.
‘Bishop Hildegaire has become a gourmand in the last few years,’ Ademar says, referring tactfully to Hildegaire’s extreme corpulence.
‘He conducted his meeting with Guy lounging in his bed,’ Aina says.
‘Aina, you do not know that. The man is a bishop,’ says her mother, exasperated.
‘Yes I do,’ Aina argues. ‘I heard it directly from his own servants.’
‘Well, you should not be gossiping with servants,’ her father tells her. ‘Guy meant to be conciliatory, of course, but he could not resist pointing out the inappropriateness of Hildegaire’s lifestyle.’
‘That would not help Guy’s request for dispensation to marry, I fear,’ says Melisende.
‘No,’ Ademar continues his tale, ‘he said that Guy would always have made the better priest and asked him if he wanted to swop places?’
Aina looks at me pointedly. Here is yet more evidence, from her point of view, of Guy’s unsuitableness as her husband. I ignore her glance and listen to the rest of Ademar’s account of the brothers’ argument.
‘Hildegaire asked Guy if he would have him shaved and tonsured, sacrificing the adornment of his beard and hair, wearing a womanly cassock, spending his days blessing pilgrims’ staffs and travel bags.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Melisende, ‘poor Guy only wanted to find a solution to the impasse on this marriage, but I fear he has made matters worse.’
Aina smiles gaily to me.
* * *
The following day we rise to witness the royal wedding, but the families of the southern counties are taken by surprise when King Lothaire steps forward, and two pages stand behind him, each bearing a crown on a cushion. The king takes the larger crown and places it on Louis’ head. ‘Bear witness,’ he says, ‘that this day, in the tradition of my ancestor, Charlemagne, I crown my son Louis, king of Aquitaine.’
There is a collective gasp from those gathered. The French royal family has made no claim to Aquitaine for several generations and if Louis is king of Aquitaine, where does that leave Duke Guillaume?
‘Mother?’ I hear the duke’s young heir begin to question Duchess Emma.
‘Silence!’ she snarls her command to him. Her hand is gripped like a talon on the head of her staff.
King Lothaire lifts the other crown aloft, declaring, ‘And I crown my son’s wife, Blanche, queen of Aquitaine.’
Duchess Emma’s face has assumed a look of hatred. The duke of Aquitaine rises from his seat, and followed by his entourage, he stalks from the hall. With the king’s announcement, I feel allegiances swirling, shifting and reforming in the room around me. Duchess Emma stares with loathing at Queen Blanche, who had been her erstwhile friend and I see her bare her teeth, before gripping the arm of her son and following her estranged husband in abandoning the assembly.
On the way home, Ademar explains that King Lothaire has not only made claim for the submission of the southern counties with his surprise act, he has also curtailed the ambitions in this region of his powerful ally Duke Hugh Capet. ‘Lothaire thinks to gain the submission of the south through this marriage but he has only gained himself the enmity of the Aquitaine family and of Duke Hugh. The count of Anjou, who no doubt has brokered the whole plan, seeking to bind the king closer to his own house, has also now made himself a serious enemy in Duke Hugh. ‘It is the start of a new round of power plays,’ says Ademar wearily, ‘and I doubt the wisdom of it for anyone!’
I think of Lady Adalmode whose lover, Count Audebert, is allied with Anjou, and whose mooted fiancé, the duchess’ son, is on the other side of the divide. I hope Count Audebert knows how grateful I am to him for rescuing me from the unwelcome attentions of young Lord Guillaume. I have not told even Aina any of it. I find myself hoping Adalmode and Audebert will not be injured in these power plays and will gain possession of one another, and I hope Count Audebert knows how steadfastly I will keep their secret.
10
Angers, Autumn 987
Audebert stood on the top step above the courtyard of his domus, looking around at the massive, solid walls of Bellac, the La Marche stronghold. It was eleven years since he had been hauled from the Montignac pit, barely able to stand or ride a horse, and there were no visible signs of his ordeal now. His height and the breadth of his shoulders were finally rewarded with the musculature they had been promised in the boy, but cruelly denied in the young man. The invisible signs of the pit, however, were another matter. He could not abide to be in small spaces and even being indoors was something he avoided as much as possible. Returning his body and health to fighting fitness had taken more than a year, eating well, regaining the hard muscles of his arms and legs practising with weapons and horse, engaging in small skirmishes each year to develop both his own skills and the coherent fighting and loyalty of his men. The thought of being captured filled him with utter dread, but instead of inducing panic on the battlefield, this secret terror sparked a ferocity in his fighting. He would not ever be taken alive again.
Each year he asked for Adalmode in marriage and every time he had to wear her father’s rebuff. They contrived to meet briefly most years and had agreed that if she were threatened with another marriage, with Aquitaine’s heir, then she would get word to him and he would take her regardless of who might stand against them.
‘But do not harm my brother Guy,’ Adalmode told him. ‘I could never forgive that.’
Looking around at the newly fortified walls of Bellac, thinking of the solid loyalty of his milites, he was satisfied. He was ready to seek vengeance for his unjust incarceration and ready to take Adalmode as his bride. He was thirty-two and his wait for her had been overlong. She was twenty-seven this year and they could not wait much longer. Bellac was a predominantly male household with his brothers and his men, a military camp in effect. He wondered how Adalmode would fare here, what he could do to make her at home, when he would finally ride in with her at his side.
It was good to feel confident in the stronghold of Bellac with the unsettling sequence of news from the north. Last year, King Lothaire died, and the throne passed to his nineteen-year-old son Louis, who imprisoned his mother and resumed charges of adultery and treason against Archbishop Adalbero. Fulk’s father, Geoffrey, who supported Lothaire and then Louis, had fallen ill in suspicious circumstances. Then Louis also died, falling from his horse during a hunt, which was most likely a polite description for regicide. Since Lothaire’s brother, Charles of Lorraine, was accused of treason and excluded from the succession, Louis was the last of the line of Charlemagne, and so the northern nobles elected Hugh Capet, duke of France as their new king. Charles would undoubtedly contest this. Guillaume of Aquitaine refused to recognise Hugh’s crowning and the new king besieged Poitiers but was driven back to the Loire. No one doubted he would be back to claim the fealty of the southern lords when it suited him. These were uncertain times when it was good to have high solid walls.
Audebert turned his thoughts from these court complexities to reimagine how he had first seen Adalmode, but his picture of her was dispersed by the noise of horses returning at the gate. Audebert shaded his eyes against the sun to watch the black-haired boy ride in alongside his brothers Gausbert and Boson, together with a group of squires. They had been exercising the horses and Fulk was riding Audebert’s warhorse.
‘He’s going really well!’ the boy called out.
‘Fulk, come in right away. There is news from Anjou. We must prepare to ride north.’
Fulk’s cheerful expression was replaced with a frown. He knew it must be news of his father, who had been sick for months. He leapt from the huge horse with the ease of an acrobat, tossing the reins to a groom and running up the steps two at a time to follow Audebert into the hall. At the trestle table, Audebert pushed a bowl of water toward Fulk to wash his hands and he shunted forward the wine jug and a goblet.
‘Is he dead?’ Fulk asked.
‘Yes, Fulk. I’m sorry. The messenger came from your uncle, Bishop Guy, less than an hour ago while you were out riding. Geoffrey Greymantle, count of Anjou, has died and you must ride north to claim your rights.’
‘My father’s burial?’
‘The funeral and burial have already taken place. The news reached us slowly. He died some weeks ago. We should not delay.’
Audebert admired how Fulk kept the trepidation and excitement that must be rising in him from his face and the set of his body. Fulk had respected his father, but spent very little of his life with him. The news of his illness over the last months had prepared him for this death, and now his thoughts were mostly on his future as count of Anjou and not on the past or familial grief. ‘How ready are we, do you think?’ Fulk asked.
‘As ready as we must be.’
Geoffrey had spent hours poring over maps of the Angevin holdings with young Fulk and Audebert, passing on his knowledge, explaining threats from neighbours in Blois, Saumur, Maine, Aquitaine and Thouars, weaknesses in the lines of communication and defences, the importance of gaining and managing loyal followers, the policies he was pursuing. It was good fortune that one of those policies had been to announce Fulk as associate count last year and to betroth him to Elizabeth of Vendôme, bringing her father, Count Bourchard, as a powerful ally. This was a good start for enforcing Fulk’s claim to his birthright. Yet Fulk’s neighbours would waste no time in seeking to undermine the rights of the youthful count. Audebert owed Geoffrey his freedom and his life, but he would support Fulk because he had a genuine affection for the boy and an admiration for his qualities. He would make a good ruler in Anjou if he could only hold onto it for the next few years. Audebert had waited so long for marriage and children of his own that his affections were invested in the energetic, black-haired boy seated before him.
‘Let’s go,’ Audebert said, with his characteristic forthrightness and urge to constantly move, get out, do. ‘The men who ride with us are already assembled, waiting. Our provisions and arms are packed. The servants have loaded everything from your chamber onto the oxen cart. We can waste no time.’ Audebert’s brothers would hold Bellac in his absence.
Recently arrived for the assembly in Angers, Guy settled his horse and servants and retired to his room to look through his annals. There was so much to record now.
* * *
The Annals of Guy of Limoges Book II
* * *
✚ [978] In this year, there was war between King Lothaire of the Franks and his brother Charles, who was accused of treason. Across the Narrow Sea in England, Athelred became king. A new priory at Chambon has been built to house Saint Valeria’s relics. The walls of Saint Martial Abbey in Limoges have been rebuilt and the crypt enlarged and the city swarms with pilgrims.
