Maid Marian (4 page)

At last we both were seated, and I began a frank discussion.

“Sir Thomas, how good it was of you to allow my visit. I have seen a great deal of Denby already and am quite delighted with its landscape.”

“Indeed, Lady Marian, it is a beautiful spot. Any person with an eye attuned to beauty and art, as yours must be, cannot help but be transfixed by it.” His face was round like a flattened plum, bland and pale as egg on toast.

“Yes, truly, that is the case. Can you tell me, Sir Thomas, what sort of people inhabit the land?”

“Oh, the usual common sort. Farmers, laborers, smiths, and tinkers. We have some excellent clergymen and some traveling friars. And, of course, the bad element runs loose sometimes in the woods and dales. You must be careful in your travels, Lady Marian.”

“Yes, of course. But what number of inhabitants are there? Are there no other nobles beyond yourself?”

“Indeed, there are a great many commoners and a few other nobles, but, I assure you, there are no young ladies to rival your beauty, fair lady.”

This was not going as I had hoped, and I sought to alter my course.

“Sir Thomas, I understand you must be quite dear to my husband, Hugh of Sencaster, and his family.”

“Yes, ’tis true. You may perhaps know that I am cousin to his mother, Lady Pernelle of Sencaster.”

“Ah, but of course.” I sighed inwardly. His every answer seemed designed to hide as much information as he pretended to share. Again, a different tack was needed.

“What a marvelous household you keep here, Sir Thomas! After our long travels I quite expected something more rustic, but this house shines like a true oasis in the wilderness.” He laughed, and I laughed, pleased to see that my compliments had been well received.

“I think you will find that we are not so remote here as we may seem. Why, King Henry himself traveled this way not one full year ago and slept within these very walls. He, I trust, found everything to be quite adequate and of the greatest comfort.”

“Indeed! The king himself. Well that is an honor, truly.” On I prattled, praising first one thing and then another, throwing honey upon every item of richness I had spied since arriving. At last the lord seemed to mellow and settle back into his chair, pleased to hear the young girl before him shower him with platitudes. That, I felt, was my golden moment.

“One more thing, if I may, Sir Thomas. Could you please tell me who employs my nurse, Anne Bailey, and my tutor? And who funds my lodging at Warwick Castle?”

“Well, I do, but of course, Lady Marian. It is one of my duties as your regent to ensure your well-being. I trust everything has been handled satisfactorily?”

“Oh yes, quite perfectly, thank you. I have had no complaints, I promise you. I simply wondered if perhaps, rather than continuing to bother you with the tedious details of my management—now that I am full fourteen and can arrange these things for myself—I thought perhaps I could be given the allowance you set aside for my care and be permitted to arrange these things by my own hand.”

Sir Thomas looked a little pale at this question, but he recovered himself quickly enough. “You wish to receive monies from me rather than your nurse and tutor?”

“I simply thought these must be annoying details for you to manage, you who have such a vast tract of land to govern. I am quite certain that I can take over any contracts without causing you trouble. And I do not wish to be a burden to you, Sir Thomas. Perhaps”—I smiled winningly here—“your clerk could draw something up, explaining how much I am to expect, and how often?”

Here I rushed on, standing and bowing before he could respond, for I wished to trap him into acquiescence. “Thank you so much for seeing me, Sir Thomas. I know how fully occupied you must be with hearing disputes and the like, and I do appreciate your willingness to sit and speak with me. It is such a pleasure to be in the land in which one was born. I quite feel it in the air. Good day, and thank you, Sir Thomas!”

I dashed away, completely unconscious of his gracious mumbles echoing behind me. I had little faith in the success of the interview, but to my great surprise a clerk came to my chamber that very evening, bearing a piece of parchment which outlined the arrangement. I was to have so many marks of silver each year, to be paid, as is customary, on Lady Day, and was to have full control over my employees. The clerk also brought the year’s contracts for both Annie and my tutor, and these I happily placed in my purse along with the original parchment.

When Annie and I rode forth from the manor the following morning, I felt a great sense of accomplishment. I had sat with my regent in a most adult way and convinced him to give me the control over my own situation, which I so desperately craved. True I was not mistress of my own fate, since Hugh was still my lord and master, but for the next few years at least I, and I alone, would be in charge of myself.

As I say, I was quite pleased with myself and rode home the next day with a full heart and new appreciation of my own powers. The one thing I failed to realize was that Sir Thomas had won a victory too. He now knew what I was about. I had shown him my wit, my frank style of speech, my desire to have, to own, to control. I had told him exactly what it was I wanted, and, since it caused no grief to him, he had happily supplied it. I considered this a conquest, but what I did not see was that Sir Thomas made off more the winner, for he had gained knowledge while I had gained nothing more than a simple contract.

Chapter Four

Y
EARS FLEW BY
on golden wings, and as they passed I grew ever more anxious over Hugh. I had reached seventeen years, the age at which most unmarried women were exchanging rings, and yet I remained mercifully alone. This, I knew, would not last. One day soon I knew he would arrive to take me and establish me in Sencaster, and there I would stay for the rest of my life.

But for the moment, Hugh seemed content to live a life of independent extravagance in the court of Anjou. While his mother governed his lands in Sencaster, Hugh entered teams in tournaments of sport and lost many horses betting on them. At times, desperate for adventure, he rode forth himself to fight on horseback and was often “captured” by the opposing side and held until his friends raised ransom money with which to free him. His debts increased, but he stayed away, and I was contented.

At last, my tutor began to include more of politics in my studies, and so I was not surprised to hear that Prince Richard Coeur de Lion, now the oldest of King Henry’s sons, had formed an alliance against his father. As a boy Richard had been gifted Aquitane, Queen Eleanor’s native lands, that broad French expanse that produced such quantities of wine and wheat. Living and ruling beneath the southern sun, Richard had grown into a bold warrior, fierce and cunning. Long spite matches with his father had made him ruthless, and he had at last made a pact with Louis, the king of France, to join in war against King Henry.

Lest King Henry should receive more sympathy in this case than he deserves, it should be remembered that he had attempted numerous times to cut Richard from his inheritance and leave the full swath, from Scotland to Gascony, to the youngest boy, John. John was Henry’s pride and joy, the boy he had raised alone and unaided while Eleanor lived abroad in Aquitane or paced her fine cell in Salisbury. As a boy John had been granted no dukedoms, unlike his elder brothers, and so had earned the name John Lackland. But now, if Henry had his way, John would have it all in the final throw.

This, Richard could not abide. He saw that if he joined forces with Louis, they two together could defeat Henry and seize his lands. And so war raged in Normandy, the advantage first leaning toward one party and then the other. At last Richard began to gain; Henry fell ill and was forced to succumb. Meeting with his enemies to surrender, Henry asked to see the list of all his allies who had betrayed him. Disloyal John’s name was first on the list. Exhausted and heartbroken, Henry died soon afterward.

The very day of Henry’s death, Queen Eleanor released herself from her tower prison and made her way to London to govern the country while it awaited the arrival of its new king, Richard Coeur de Lion. This news brought tremors to every noble heart, for there is little more dangerous to those with titles than a shift of power at the highest seat. Would Richard keep them as they were? If they had been loyal to Henry, would Richard see them as his enemies or value their allegiance to the throne? A time of great change had come upon us, but few could do more than gossip and worry and wait to see what would come to pass.

They had not long to wait, for Queen Eleanor was a woman of action. Working on behalf of her royal son, she called every noble in the country to London to hear their oath of loyalty to the new king. I packed my things and prepared to go, reassured that the queen would be too busy to do more than receive my oath as vassal.

Annie could not accompany me, for we would not risk her being caught in my presence, so I gave her leave to take a horse and visit her family in Wodesley village. I sent her off with a special commission—to learn more tales of Robin Hood, that outlaw of the northern woods. She and I were still in raptures over the song of the shooting match, for we repeated what portions we recalled at least once per sennight. Lately I’d asked her to mix with the castle staff and not return until she had a new tale, for as Robin Hood was a Saxon hero, the best reports of his wily deeds came from Saxon mouths and minds.

I traveled alone, or so it seemed, for though I was surrounded by guards and ladies, I had no friend to share in my thoughts, no Annie to sing me the song of Aelbert, great hero of Wodesley, or to relate the deeds of the Saxon saints. And so the road seemed longer than ever. The only novelty was the joy of traveling, for once, in the warm winds of early autumn.

Queen Eleanor had seized the disorder of the London court with the chill and strength of a firm north wind. Prisoners lying untried and moldy in Henry’s dungeons were heard and released to spread the news of Richard’s clemency. Offices that had gone unfilled were sold off to the highest bidder to gain funds for Richard’s treasury. And lady vassals who sat unwed, hiding in their darkened corners like frightened spiders fleeing the broom, were gathered together to be married off as suited the queen.

Despite these changes, Westminster Castle received me as always, and I was soon wrapped in the plush voices of the same ladies I had always known. They were now grown, same as I, and seemed to feel a change in their fortunes in the very air of the place. And they were correct. King Henry had spent several years abroad before his death and in that time these ladies had been left unwed, spinning and weaving in their natal homes. Queen Eleanor, who knew how to make swift friends of the powerful men of the realm, prepared herself to deal them out like a pack of so many cards.

Her hand was decisive, and she lost no time. Lady Betony went to Yorkshire, to wed an earl nearly six-and-thirty years her senior who could scarcely speak for his constant coughing of blood and phlegm. Lady Clarice was wed to Sir Guillaume, the second son of the lord of Rouen, who had gambled away all of his fortune and was certain to begin on hers before the wedding breakfast. Dear, simple Lady Cicely was perhaps luckiest of all, for she was wed to a boy of six whom she could surely bully for the next ten years or more.

“By then,” she said, half choking on tears, “I expect I shall be past childbirthing and so will never know that pain. Although perhaps then he’ll have me annulled or locked in a tower like Queen Eleanor. And who can say, in ten years I may have died and will have lived my whole life without knowing a man in my marriage bed. ’Tis almost as if I marry no one at all!”

I patted her hand and wished her well, for after all I could not see that her situation was any worse than mine. But she was frightened and could not hear my words of condolence.

The other ladies ignored her as always, and by now I had learned their reason. For what was belied by Cicely’s red hair and broad freckled cheeks was her Saxon heritage; her forefathers had risen from the Saxon lot, advancing themselves from reeve to bailiff, to steward, then lord. ’Twas for that reason her mother had sought out so French a nurse for her only daughter. For though this island held nearly two hundred Saxons for every Norman, the Normans held the more advantageous position by far, and Cicely would do well to imitate them.

Some of the ladies in our group were pleased with this court and looked toward their future wedded lives with hope and brilliant expectations. But in the main it was a sad affair. As I’d expected, I was not noticed, and so it was all the more surprising to wake in the night and see Queen Eleanor bending over my face in the dark, come to tell me that Hugh had died.

I did not grieve overmuch for Hugh as I had known him when last we met. But like a mother bird who can bring to memory nothing more than the fledgling’s face, my heart recalled my dovecote friend and wept for him as though the world would end. My childhood days had sent me so few close companions that I felt a great kinship to Hugh—to the tow-haired boy he once had been. Acknowledging the loss of that child was like cutting loose one of my own limbs and casting off my youth in the bargain. I’d not tasted sorrow like this before, and I despaired that Annie was not present beside me to weep and wipe away my tears. She too would be sad when she heard the news, though her hatred of the man Hugh had become may have tainted even her memory of the child.

Soon after I heard this news of Hugh’s death, I was called to Lady Pernelle. I supposed I was meant to exhibit a share in our common grief, a thought that made my stomach seize hard with fright. My gowns had all been dyed black for mourning and after I said my early prayers for God to have mercy on Hugh’s soul, as all widows must do, I stepped into the hall enfolded in my new-sprung raven’s feathers. Servants and nobles dispersed before my black-cloaked figure as I passed, for no one had words for a lady in mourning.

Standing before Lady Pernelle’s chamber door, I composed my face as best I could to convey a sorrow I did not feel, to demonstrate an appropriate show of horror at my widowhood. I entered softly and found her seated near the casement window, gazing out. When she saw me she spread her arms, and I went to her, obediently entering her prickly embrace.

“My daughter,” she sighed, stroking my hair with stiff fingers. “How shall we bear the sorrows of this life?”

I lowered my head and said nothing, and she went on.

“Our darling boy, dead and gone. Oh, what is to become of us?” Here she dropped her face into her hands and sobbed. I too made an attempt at weeping, but I have never excelled at public displays, and I believe all I managed to draw from my throat was the softest sounds of choking.

“Ah, Marian,” she cried when her weeping had ceased. “This is a difficult time. We must both observe long mourning for Hugh, of course we must. It shall be no hardship for me, an old lady, but for you, my child, it will be a burden. To be widowed so young!”

I nodded slowly and lowered my head as if to hide tears that did not fall. And when Lady Pernelle turned her head to gaze through her window, I looked up and eyed her carefully. True, she wept and grieved aloud—Hugh had been her firstborn son. But despite all this talk of mourning, I noticed she had found the desire to hang pearl rings from her ears and cover her head in a wimple woven in the most current pattern, newly arrived in London town. Another glance told me that her eyes were dry as a summer desert for all the sorrow she professed.

At that second she shifted her gaze, and my own eyes jumped quickly away. A guilty feeling then crept in my belly. For why should I wonder at her dry eyes? Had I never drained the reservoir of my own tears but still felt sorrow enough to weep?

I covered my mouth with a quivering hand, then lowered it to my lap. “Dear Lady Pernelle, such a mother you have been to me. I cannot think what my life will be, now that Hugh has gone from us.”

This seemed to provide an opening she had been waiting for. “It need be no different than it is now, sweet Marian. I decry any who should cause you to change, but for the necessary alteration of mourning. Nay, let us go on in every other respect just as we have always been, as mother and daughter.”

I bowed my head, but in my heart I wondered at her words. How could she say we might go on when all had changed? How could she remain my mother when every thread of our alliance must necessarily be snapped?

“I should be grateful for such a continuance, Lady Pernelle,” I replied. “For the moment I shall content myself with gentle prayers to speed his way to the kingdom of eternal peace.”

B
UT, OF COURSE,
I was not content. All that night her words would sound within my brain, clanging and biting at my nerves. I could not grasp what she was about, for in no way could we two remain as we had been, especially in her own case, for she had been long employed as regent to Hugh, and that office no longer existed. Perhaps she might remain in situ as regent for Stephen, Hugh’s young brother, but her lands would diminish as my tracts were returned to me, and our relationship must wither as well.

I was bewildered, but mostly over my own future. Nine months or a year of seclusion spread before me as my contribution to the current mode of mourning. But I foresaw that not long after I shed my weeds, I would become one of Queen Eleanor’s marriage prizes. She, I knew, would waste no time in selling me away to the highest bidder, using my increased lands and youth and meager beauty to gain some earl’s favor for Richard. I had gained a shrouded reprieve, but by its end I must be ready for what was to come.