Winter Siege (41 page)

Overwhelmed by a sudden roster of conflicting emotions Penda opened her mouth to speak but no sound would come out.

‘Shh now.’ Maud put a finger to her lips. ‘You’re not to say anything. It is done and as soon as it is safe enough, Earl Robert has agreed to provide an escort to take you and Milly there.’

‘Milburga!’ Penda gaped incredulously.

‘Yes, Milburga!’ Maud replied, delighted by the enormous grin which had spread across the girl’s face. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re pleased. I begged her to come with me, of course, but she absolutely refuses to set foot either on a boat or in France. Says she’s too old; besides, deep down, I think she might be happier with you.’

To Penda’s enormous surprise Maud asked her to be one of her bridesmaids and on the morning of the wedding she and several other girls – ‘borrowed’ from among the Empress’s ladies-in-waiting to make up the numbers – attended her in the solar all wearing matching blue pelisses, as was customary, to confuse any evil spirit who might yet be abroad to bedevil the marriage.

It was another beautiful day and Cousin Lynessa, who had arrived from Godstow only the night before, sat on the bed, swinging her legs and marvelling at all the jostling, primping, preening vanity while Milburga, unusually dry-eyed today of all days, put the finishing touches to the bride.

‘Stop it!’ she chided, grabbing Maud’s wriggling shoulders in an attempt to hold her still while she dabbed saffron powder on the end of her nose and rosewater on her earlobes. ‘Never known such a fidget as you.’

Maud grimaced. ‘Nerves!’ she mouthed at Cousin Lynessa over Milburga’s shoulder.

‘There!’ Milburga said when she had finished, standing back to admire her work. ‘You’ll do.’

‘I’d better,’ Maud said, grabbing her nurse in an enormous hug and kissing her all over her face. ‘Because I’m not going to do this again.’

When the time came they processed out of the keep into an afternoon of blazing sunshine across a pristinely swept bailey towards the chapel where a huge crowd was waiting for them. If it hadn’t been for the familiar faces breaking through the throngs of people every so often, the sheer numbers might have been overwhelming, but every couple of yards there was a reassuring glimpse of either Sir Rollo, or Sir Bernard, Gorbag, Tola or Sir Christopher elbowing their way to the fore, to wave at them as they passed.

Just before the bridal procession reached the chapel doors, where the bride and groom were to exchange their vows, Maud, overcome by a sudden rush of nerves, stopped abruptly. The rest of the women appeared not to notice, carried away by their own excitement, but Penda, who was walking beside her, saw that all the colour had drained from her face and that she was trembling. Without a word, she reached out, took Maud’s hand and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

‘Thank you,’ Maud whispered, squeezing back. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me … It’s just that … oh, I don’t know. It’s just I’m not sure I deserve such happiness after … you know … everything …’

Before Penda could respond, the crowd parted to reveal Alan.

He looked astonishingly young all of a sudden, bereft of his usual self-assurance and quite as nervous as his bride as he shuffled from foot to foot, and yet the moment he looked up and caught sight of Maud his face was suddenly lit with an expression of such tender adoration that Penda deemed it safe enough to release her hand.

‘Bit different to the last one,’ Milburga whispered, smearing away her voluptuous tears with the end of a soggy sleeve as Maud knelt to take her vows. ‘True love this, see, no knife to ’er throat this time.’ And Penda laughed, infused suddenly with the deep sense of joy which was enfolding them all like a warm summer breeze.

‘
AND THE WAR
, my lord, was it over then?’ asks the scribe.

The abbot is silent for a moment, staring through the window at the bare oak bough which taps against the glass in the breeze like impatient fingers.

‘My lord?’ The old man is so still, so quiet … Oh, please, not yet! Not now! He rises abruptly from his stool to peer at the body on the bed beside him and in so doing accidentally sends the wax tablet in his lap to the floor with a resounding crash. A wizened head pivots at the sound and a quick pair of eyes root him to the spot.

‘Sit down!’ the abbot warns testily. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’

The scribe recoils and does as he is told, though his buttocks ache from so much sitting. Nevertheless, he is relieved by the admonishment. He has come to know the abbot well: where there is temper there is yet life.

‘I’m sorry, my lord.’

‘Never mind, never mind,’ the abbot replies, gulping down a wave of rising irritation. Has the boy learned nothing? Must he continue his tutelage to the very end? … Ah well, not too much longer … He takes a deep breath.

‘No,’ he continues, although his tone is more gentle now, ‘the war wasn’t over, not by any means, not for another decade or so but – and this I grant you – from then on something had changed … You see, by then it was no longer simply a dispute between Stephen and Matilda; the Empress had all but given up her claim. Instead, the real battle now was for the future accession: Henry Fitzempress or Prince Eustace. Stephen, of course, wanted Eustace to succeed him but the boy died suddenly in 1153 – the summer of that year if I remember correctly – struck down mysteriously; divine vengeance, or so they say, for the wanton destruction he spread through Cambridgeshire and, in particular, the terrible damage he inflicted on St Edmund’s Abbey. But, whatever it was that killed him, when he died Stephen lost all resolve and agreed that Henry should inherit. In return, our dear Fitzempress, still very young, remember, and with a good deal of business to attend to in Normandy besides, consented that Stephen should rule until his death which actually wasn’t too long afterwards.’

He is breathing hard – it has been a long speech for a dying man – yet the scribe, greedy for the information, like a beggar for bread, allows him no respite.

‘My lord,’ he says, ignoring the irritable sigh and raised eyebrows which accompany his prompt. ‘I was wondering … I know they were married, as you said … but what became of Maud and Alan? Did they go to France?’

‘They did indeed,’ the abbot replies smiling at last, ‘and were blessed with many children. They are both quite elderly now, of course, but live happily still, or so I believe.’

The scribe nods, diligently jotting the words upon his tablet and – hoping that it might go some way towards securing his place in Heaven – allowing the abbot to take a rest.

‘And Penda?’ he asks eventually, secretly marvelling at his own patience.

‘Penda.’ The abbot’s voice is soft, almost a sigh as it caresses her name with a familiarity the scribe has not noticed before. ‘She returned to the fens with Milburga, to the manor Maud gave her … Never married, but is quite wealthy, or so I hear … sheep farming or some such. I forget …’ His voice trails off as, once again, his gaze drifts back to the window.

‘And the quill case?’ He must not to lose the abbot’s attention now. ‘Did she keep it? Did she ever learn its secret?’

‘Oh yes, she learned it,’ he replies. ‘But not immediately … Kept it on a string around her neck and wore it always, to remind her of Gwil – it was all she had of him, you see … And then one day, many years later, when he was able, William translated it for her.’

‘William!’ The scribe frowns, confused. ‘But I thought he would become a knight as his father had wanted. What business would a knight have learning Greek?’

‘None at all,’ the abbot replies. ‘But William did not become a knight. Fortunately his childhood friendship with Henry endured, just as Maud had hoped, and when Henry took the throne, he gave him a position in the Church.’

‘Oh, I see,’ says the scribe, head bowed over the tablet in his lap as he writes furiously. ‘And do you think they ever knew it was William who betrayed them?’ He does not look up from his labours as he asks the question and therefore cannot see the look of desolation that clouds the abbot’s face; only the sound of muffled sobs disturbs him eventually, drawing his attention back to the old man who has hidden his face beneath the sheet.

‘My lord!’ He leaps up from his stool like a scalded cat, casting anxiously around for the infirmarian, but the room behind him is empty; there is neither sight nor sound of anyone other than the distant rhythmic munching of contented pigs beneath the window.

‘A moment, please …’ The plaintive, tear-muffled voice rising from the bed is barely a whisper and the scribe, overcome by a sudden rush of pity, sinks to his knees and reaches for the abbot’s hand.

‘We need not continue, my lord, if it pains you,’ he says tenderly, trying to stroke the gnarled fingers back to warmth. ‘Another day, perhaps …’

But the abbot, who has emerged from beneath the sheet, shakes his head. He will continue … He must … There will not be another day.

‘Kenniford’s betrayal was never discussed – certainly not with William – but I think, somehow, they always knew and forgave him too, such was their goodness; even Penda, who, I believe, suffered most of all …’ He pauses for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the oak bough. ‘And yet they were all so very kind to him, far kinder, in fact, than he ever deserved …’

‘No, my lord!’ The words rush out of the scribe’s mouth in a torrent before he has time to censor them, surprising even himself with the strength of his objection to the calumny. ‘You are too harsh! William was just a child, after all, and what he did was out of love for his father! Besides, from what I’ve learned, he must have suffered for it terribly.’

The abbot stares at him for some considerable time, observing with a peculiar satisfaction the crimson-cheeked indignation on the young man’s face. So you have learned something after all, he thinks to himself. If nothing else, there is, at last, compassion.

‘Of course he suffered,’ he continues eventually. ‘And suffers still, although not, perhaps, for too much longer.’

It is the scribe’s turn to be silent.

‘I see,’ he says finally because suddenly he can, as clearly as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes at last. ‘Of course,’ he murmurs softly, as it dawns on him that the man beside whom he has sat vigil for so long is not quite as old as he thought and that his years are not so numerous that he should, perforce, be dying of them; and yet … and yet he
is
dying, although not from the physical corruption of extreme old age, but rather a lifetime’s malignant culmination of grief, guilt and loss.

I have been so blind, he thinks, as he leans across to press his lips against the abbot’s hand.

‘William,’ he whispers.

The abbot turns towards him slowly, his eyes sparkling with tears. ‘It is such a long, long time since anyone has called me by that name,’ he says. ‘Thank you, my son.’

‘For what, my lord?’

‘For listening, for judging me kindly, for hearing my confession … But now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another matter to attend to. Our business here is done, I think …’

He smiles fondly as the scribe struggles stiffly to his feet. ‘Goodbye, my son,’ he says.

‘Goodbye, my lord,’ the scribe replies, clutching the wax tablet tightly to his chest as he takes his leave and walks wearily across the room. The old man watches him go, eyes moistening with pity. I could call you back, he thinks, and longs to, yet there is no comfort I can offer.

When he reaches the door the scribe pauses for a moment, turning back to the room one last time, and as he raises his hand in a final salute, the sun appears from behind a cloud, sending a shaft of light through the abbot’s window on to his face, bathing him in a golden benediction.

Ariana Franklin
was born in Devon and, like her father, became a journalist. Having invaded Wales dressed in combat uniform with the Royal Marines for one of their military exercises, accompanied the Queen on a royal visit, missed her own twenty-first birthday party because she had to cover a murder, she married, almost inevitably, another journalist. She then abandoned her career in national newspapers and settled down in the country to bring up two daughters, study medieval history and write.

Ariana was the author of the acclaimed, award-winning Mistress of the Art of Death series. She passed away in 2011, before she was able to deliver the manuscript for
Winter Siege
. Her daughter Samantha decided to complete the novel on her mother’s behalf.

Samantha Norman
is a journalist and broadcaster who is mad about horses. She lives in west London with her two sons, Harry and Charlie, and their dogs, Becks and Spider.

Mistress of the Art of Death

The Death Maze

Relics of the Dead

The Assassin’s Prayer

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain
in 2014 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright © Ariana Franklin and Samantha Norman 2014

Ariana Franklin and Samantha Norman have asserted their right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the authors of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448127733
ISBNs 9780593070611 (hb)
9780593070628 (tpb)