Daughter of the Last King, page 17
part #1 of Conquest I Series
I took a deep breath. It seemed certain then that I would be given to Arnulf.
‘And you will meet your countrymen there, too. Peace has been negotiated with the Welsh kings and they will attend the ceremony, carrying the king’s swords in the procession.’
Gruffudd ap Cynan and Cadwgan ap Bleddyn subjugated to King William? I did not credit it could be true. I realised that Owain would very likely also be at the court.
* * *
Sybil, Amelina and I set off with a small armed escort on the long journey to London in mid-May in the year 1099, the twelfth year of the reign of William Rufus. We crossed the Severn to Bristol by boat and met FitzHamon at his townhouse there. We continued the onward journey in his company with the coolness between FitzHamon and Sybil still evident.
We were six days more on the road. The inns we stayed in at Chippenham and Reading were well kept and comfortable, but the place we stayed in Newbury left something to be desired. The rushes in the hall smelled of mingled shit and lavender. I did not like the smell of lavender, anyway. A large group of monks, travelling together on abbey business, crowded the inn and the kitchen could offer us nothing but pease pottage that looked as if it had been simmering in the pot for weeks and that dust might be its key ingredient. Sybil and I shared a bed and rose in the morning, itching. We had little sleep since the talbots, the great guard dogs in the yard, barked half the night with the late comings and goings of other guests.
The road was in poor repair in some places, with great holes gaping where villagers had dug out clay for their pots. The landscape of England unfurled before us, so different from the mountains and coasts of Wales. I missed the big skies, brilliant light and rapid changes of weather in my homeland. From Reading we embarked by boat toward London, sailing fast with the current along the Thames, passing through the villages of Sonning, Henley, Marlow and Cookham, sleeping onboard.
At Windsor, we disembarked to spend the evening with Gerald’s brother, William FitzWalter. This was where Idwal was imprisoned. I would find a way to speak with him if I had to sell Amelina’s non-existent virtue to do it. We arrived late in the day and learned that Gerald’s elderly father was unwell and had already retired. We were greeted by Gerald’s mother, Lady Beatrice, and his brother William. Sybil presented Beatrice with a large salmon she had purchased at the wharf. I was pleased to find that Gerald himself was present, along with his other brother Maurice and his wife Egidia, and Gerald’s sister Alice. Looking at Alice, I remembered Gerald telling me he had a sister my age when I was trussed in the cart after the raid on Llansteffan.
The FitzHamon and the FitzWalter brothers exchanged news. William FitzWalter described his toils here, keeping the forest laws: ‘Last week I had to blind one of my peasants who killed a hart, and the year before I was obliged to hang that same man’s brother, caught carrying a bow in the forest, and with dogs that weren’t hambled. You’d think they’d learn, wouldn’t you? My men conduct regular searches of the villages looking for evidence of poaching: hides and deer, boar and hare flesh. They always find some. And on top of that, there are those who try to shirk their duty assisting the hunt,’ he complained.
FitzHamon and Gerald made sympathetic noises, and William went on, ‘We lately had the king’s brother, Count Henry, here, hunting. Our woods are teeming with wild animals as a consequence of my strict enforcement of forest law. Count Henry is a great lover of the hunt and was well pleased with our chase.’
‘He is a great lover …’ Maurice said and glanced at Alice.
William frowned and exchanged looks with his mother. ‘Our little sister here is lately betrothed,’ he announced.
Gerald put down his spoon and looked at his sister in surprise. ‘Who?’ he asked her.
‘Robert of Windsor will be my husband,’ she told him.
‘Robert, the son of Walter the deacon who holds lands in Essex?’ asked Gerald.
‘Yes,’ said William. ‘It’s a good match. They are a family who are going up in the world, like our own. Count Henry was kind enough to assist us with the match.’
Alice blushed but looked up to smile reassurance at Gerald. I surmised she was not unhappy with her betrothal.
‘How are things at the abbey?’ Gerald asked, meaning Abingdon, which was not far away and had ties to the family.
‘The monks are still complaining that part of their rightful lands are in the forest. The abbot is frail and will leave us for his eternal rest soon. Count Henry is of a mind to propose Faricius from Malmesbury for election as the new abbot.’
‘Faricius? Do you know much about him?’ Gerald asked.
‘He is cellarer at Malmesbury and a good friend of the count’s. A physician of skill, apparently. An Italian – from Tuscany, with the thick accent of that country. I have trouble understanding a word he says, but many hold him in high esteem.’
‘He is the count’s midwife!’ burst out Egidia, laughing behind her hand.
‘Egidia, please!’ her husband hushed her. I supposed she meant Count Henry had illegitimate children and his friend, this Italian monk healer, aided the mothers of these children. I looked anew at Gerald’s sister, wondering about Maurice’s inference that Count Henry was a great lover. I saw from Gerald’s worried expression and glances at his sister that he had made the same guesses.
‘What is your business at court, Gerald?’ William asked.
‘Arnulf requested my attendance. The king wants to meet me apparently, to hear about my defence of Pembroke and listen to my report of the current situation in south-west Wales.’
‘You are growing indispensable, brother, I see,’ William smiled.
‘And the Welsh kings will be there making their peace with King William, so it’s useful for me to encounter them,’ Gerald said, ‘and I have my own other motive for the journey, also. I wish to study the new stone buildings: the White Tower in London, certainly, but I’ve also arranged to visit the building sites at Rochester with Bishop Gundulf and Colchester with Eudo Dapifer and speak with their masons. I’ve recommended to Lord Arnulf that we build new stone fortifications at Pembroke, so I need to discover the costs, find who might be best for such a building commission. I’ll stop off at the stone fortress of Striguil also, on my return journey.’
FitzHamon looked up from the roasted duck he was dissecting. ‘That is of interest to me since I’ve been considering building stone keeps at Cardiff and Bristol. Will you share your findings with me, FitzWalter?’
‘Of course, I would be happy to discuss it with you and take your advice, for you have a great deal more battle and siege experience than I and have seen the stone castles of Normandy. May I continue on the journey with you to court tomorrow?’
‘Of course, your company is always welcome.’
We rose to retire, and I plucked at Gerald’s sleeve in the doorway, holding him back and waiting until the others were out of earshot. ‘Is it possible for me to see my brother Idwal, Sir Gerald?’
‘I’m sorry, Nest, the king has moved him to Shrewsbury Castle. He’s no longer here.’
‘Oh.’ I let go of his sleeve. My arms hung limply at my sides. The wind was knocked from my sails. I had been so intent on this and had thought of nothing else all through the journey here and through the meal this evening. Seeing I would say nothing more to him, Gerald patted my shoulder kindly, bade me goodnight and walked up the passageway.
* * *
From Windsor we rode the last day of our journey to London since the river was crowded with traffic and teeming with tolls. Gerald conversed easily at my side for most of the day. ‘Lord Arnulf tasked me to speak with you on the subject of appointing a new steward on your estate at Llansteffan. The previous man got a tumour. His neck swelled up like a pig, and unfortunately he died,’ he told me. He described the new man he wished to recommend.
‘I trust your judgement and approve your choice, Gerald.’
The sun was low in the afternoon sky when we crossed the river Fleet and rode down Watling Street to enter the city by the west gate. At a crossroads just before the gate, men hung from gallows in varying states of decomposition, ranging from fresh death where their once cheerful and now ghastly features could be discerned, to corpses riddled with maggots and flies, to skeletons laced with strips of flesh pecked at by birds. I pulled my head-veil round to cover my mouth and nose and looked up at the eighteen-foot-high walls and the Newgate portal to the city towering before us. The guards recognised the FitzHamon livery and prioritised us past the grumbling queue of carters and pedestrians.
As we emerged from under the shadow of the gates, I heard bells and the song of monks on either side from the monasteries and churches of Saint Martin Le Grand and Saint Peter. The smells of fish and horse dung were pungent in the air. We continued down Watling Street, past street vendors and a surgeon’s shop, past beggars, slow packhorses, rowdy taverns spilling their unsteady customers onto the street, past stinky rills of sewage, past priests and monks wearing black, brown and white robes and apprentices struggling with buckets of water. They were a mass of men and women clad in bright blues, reds, greens, yellows, all rushing purposefully about their business. I heard French, English and Flemish shouted around me. On either side of the wide street we rode down were warrens of narrow, dark alleys with tall slivers of houses jumbled together at erratic angles. My horse’s hooves trod in mud glittering with raw sewage and entrails. Rats, dogs, cats and wild pigs rummaged in piles of rubbish. Over my head hung gaudy shop signs of luxuries: goldsmiths, silk merchants, spicemongers. ‘Don’t pause,’ Gerald warned us, ‘or the beggars will be all over you like Master Richard’s locusts and strip you down to your braies and bones.’
The great broad river came into sight on our right with the king’s new wooden bridge. After the bridge, we saw the White Tower up ahead. Work was nearing completion on the high keep, built in grey-brown and white stone. Since FitzHamon was one of the king’s leading counsellors, we were given lodgings close to the tower and Gerald prepared to part from us as his lodgings were elsewhere and our roads diverged. FitzHamon and Sybil turned their horses after his farewells and promises to see us at court the following day. Gerald leant close to me in his saddle, handing me a small packet. ‘A gift for you, Lady Nest, if you will accept it, now that you are of age and entering the world.’
I was surprised that he should give me a gift and looked toward Sybil’s broad back, as she rode on unaware. I took it from his gloved hand. ‘I thank you, Sir Gerald. I … must catch up with Lady Sybil.’ I kicked my horse on, cross with myself that I should be so awkward and ungracious.
Our lodgings were comfortable but rather dusty and noisy from the stonework going on all around us. We stowed our finery as best we could and went to mass in the new chapel of the tower where the stones of the great rounded arches and the thick columns were suffused with golden light. The service was crowded with nobles, knights and squires gathering in the city for the king’s court and the opening of his new hall. Robert FitzHamon was a man of the first rank, so we were seated in a pew not far from the royal members of the congregation. I recognised the fair hair and ruddy features of King William and exchanged a greeting with Ranulf Flambard as he took a seat in front of us. FitzHamon leant to Sybil’s ear and told her ‘The king’s brother is in attendance.’
‘The duke?’ she asked, surprised.
FitzHamon shook his head, frowning irritably at his wife’s error. ‘No, no, Count Henry. The king’s younger brother. Blue tunic,’ he said in a low voice, indicating the broad back of a dark-haired man standing in the front pew alongside the king. Sybil and I looked, but our view was obscured by the press of people and we could not catch any further glimpse of the man pointed out to us.
That night, in the privacy of the blankets on my pallet bed, I unwrapped Gerald’s gift. It was a small ivory cross with an embossed silver stud at its centre and four more studs at the termination of each arm of the cross; simple but exquisite. I looked at it, smiling, and then carefully re-wrapped it into the soft green woollen lining.
The following day, FitzHamon decided we would travel to Westminster on the river rather than ride through the crowds and smells of the city again. It was a fresh morning with a light mist rising from the water in the early sun. We embarked at the steps near the water gate. Looking downriver, we could see the new abbey at Bermondsey on the south bank being constructed for the Cluniac monks and near finished. I was amazed at the traffic on the river, which seemed no less than the bustle of the city streets. Stately swans weaved their way on waves that spread and rolled in the wake of hundreds of boats of all sizes. We stepped into a small boat being held at the bottom of the steps. The boatman was about to push off when there was a shout from above our heads. ‘Hold please!’ Even in those few words, it was obvious this man was a foreigner. His French was heavily accented with an intonation I recognised as Flemish. The boatman held the boat against the steps as the man clambered in.
‘Haith!’ said FitzHamon, reaching up an arm.
‘My lord! You save my bacon!’ Haith gripped FitzHamon’s arm at the elbow to steady himself in the boat, and they greeted each other warmly.
‘Sit, before you scupper us, sir!’ Sybil told him tetchily, and indeed the boat was wobbling violently from side to side as he squeezed around us to take a seat, but he seemed not the least concerned, at home on water legs as practised as the boatman himself.
‘Apologies, lady,’ he said, greeting her acid expression with his own utterly sunny one. This Haith was a striking man: very tall, over six feet, with immensely long arms and sloping shoulders so that he looked as if he could wrap his arms around you at least twice. His thick, straight hair was a rich buttery colour with glints of dark gold, cut in straight neat lines in a fringe, and below his ears and at the base of his neck, unlike the new Norman fashion where men wore their hair long and flowing. Haith was clean-shaven and the strong cords of his neck showed above the low, round collar of his tunic. I guessed him to be not long past twenty-five years in age. He had small blue eyes that twinkled cheerfully like shards of topaz in the dark weathered brown of his face.
‘Well met, Haith,’ FitzHamon said, evidently on good terms with this man, who wore a fine quality sword and clothing. ‘Haith is a knight in the service of Count Henry,’ he told Sybil to ensure she was adequately polite. She inclined her head slightly to Haith and then turned her face away in disinterest.
‘I oversleep!’ he told me, laughing, ‘and count goes on without me. Bad habit I have that he try to cure me for many years. Hopeless though!’ He shrugged his shoulders and spread his great long arms, holding his palms up theatrically in mock apology. I was fascinated by his physical presence. It was like watching a player presenting some mime or play, his gestures and facial expressions exaggerated, perhaps to compensate for his pidgin Norman.
‘This is Lady Nest,’ FitzHamon told him, ‘and my wife Sybil.’
‘Delighted,’ he said brightly, and I could not help but smile back warmly at him, although Sybil did not turn from her contemplation of the river. Shouts from men working on the wharves rang out as we passed. The river banks, like the city streets, were strewn with detritus. After the White Tower, the other forts, Baynard’s Castle and then Montfichet’s Tower, stood proud of the mass of small buildings, defending the city against seaborne attackers or rebels.
The river curved sharply to the left and suddenly we saw the island of Westminster up ahead with the splendid abbey and palace and there was the king’s imposing new hall surrounded by marshy land. There had been a great deal of rain, so the river was brown and fast, lapping against one side of the hall. We were handed from the boat onto wet steps. My foot slipped on green weed strung against the stone and Haith, disembarking behind me, caught me by the waist and easily assisted me up the treacherous steps. ‘Alright now,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Haith! You’re late again. The count calls for you!’ a man shouted up ahead, waving his arm to beckon him to hurry forward.
Haith bowed hurriedly to us and joined his fellow, quickly striding toward the hall. Sybil looked with distaste at the ground and huffed crossly. We had to lift our fine skirts and see our best shoes become caked in wet red clay as we made our way to the great arched doorway.
The doors of the hall were intricately carved with lions, dragons, eagles and warriors. Entering, I paused with my mouth open, amazed by the size and height of the hall, the complex arcade and windows high above us, and the crowd of colourfully dressed people before me. A babel of different languages ricocheted off the walls: Norman, English, Latin, Flemish, Spanish, Italian. Near the doorway, we sat on a bench, and Amelina pared the worst of the clay from our shoes with her small knife.
After Amelina’s ministrations, I stood smoothing down my gown, feeling womanly in the new dress Sybil had instructed the seamstress to make for me. It was a deep blue fabric with a high round neck, elaborate embroidery around the neck and cuffs, and a similar band of golden stitching at knee height. The sleeves were very wide and lined with pale blue silk. I wore a narrow brown leather belt with a long tongue hanging to my knee, ending in an ornate metal piece of woven gold and silver filigree, which Lord FitzHamon had given to me last Christmas. Arnulf’s blue hood with its wolf’s fur lining hung back from my cloak. My couvrechef was fine bleached linen held in place by a blue strip of cloth edged with gold thread. I wore no wimple at my neck since I was unmarried. I preferred to feel the air on my face and neck, and thought I would be stifled when I was married and had to don a wimple like the one Sybil wore.
The ivory cross Gerald had gifted me hung on a long silver chain loaned from Sybil, and rested just below my breasts. Sybil was puzzled that Gerald should give me such a gift, but after some frowning, she had decided it was acceptable for me to wear it. ‘He cannot mean anything by it,’ she concluded. ‘You are a woman of the first rank and he is the younger son of a lesser noble. He means to curry favour with the future wife of his lord, of Arnulf.’
