Beguiled by the Forbidden Knight
Author
Elisabeth Hobbes
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18.7K
Chapters
17
Chapter One
Yorkshire—May 1071
‘Tell me, madam, where is my bride?’
Gilbert du Rospez flung his arms wide in a gesture that encapsulated frustration, surprise and disbelief. He turned a circle around the brightly lit hall, then once again faced the impassive woman sitting on the dais.
‘I have travelled from York to Haxby in appalling weather, and at risk to my safety, with the sole intention of meeting your daughter and now I discover she is not here!’
From his place at the left side of the hall Guilherm FitzLannion hid a frown as he watched his liege lord and childhood friend grow increasingly irate. The journey from the city to this manor house was manageable within half a day on foot, and on horseback had been even faster. The Galtres Forest had provided shelter from the sudden May rainfall and there had been no sightings of any trouble. Gilbert was merely attempting to impose his status on his audience and, as usual, he showed no sense of how to do it with poise or effectiveness.
With his even features, chestnut hair cut in the fashionable style and a slim frame, Gilbert seldom failed to charm anyone he raised his soft brown eyes to, but if the glowing youth was hoping to make a good impression on his future mother-in-law he was failing. From her seat above them, Emma, Countess of Haxby, continued to look down her nose with an expression of disdain.
‘Perhaps you should have checked before setting out on such an—’ Emma smirked openly ‘—arduous journey whether it was one worth making. My daughter has not lived with me for almost two years.’
Her blue eyes became flint. ‘I sent her away in the winter of sixty-nine when your King marched to retake York from Edgar and his allies. I did not want her in the city when he was wintering there.’
Your King, Gui noted. He had not expected her to call William ‘the Great’, but this open disdain was a clear signal. If Gui had wondered which claimant to the throne of England Herik of Haxby’s widow might have supported in the tumultuous events five years previously, this was the evidence to confirm it. She either believed the oath-breaker Harold’s claim had been valid, or perhaps she had supported the Aetheling in his failed attempts the previous year to take York back from Norman control.
Gui flexed and bunched the fingers of his right hand and ignored the creeping itch in his left wrist. He looked at Gilbert to see if the nobleman had also picked up the inflection. Doubtful. Lady Emma would have to openly call William ‘the bastard’ for Gilbert to notice her hostility.
‘I know you have sent her away. You are telling me nothing I don’t know and I believe you are being intentionally unhelpful!’ Gilbert gazed on her with eyes full of injured dignity. ‘The question is, to where did you send her?’
Gilbert’s voice was rising and a blush was creeping up his throat. Any moment now he would stamp his foot. Gui noticed a shift in the stance of the attendants standing at either side of Emma’s chair. The two men were middle-aged and wore short swords buckled at their waists. Emma must have considerable influence to be allowed to keep armed guards after William’s determination to bring Yorkshire’s defiant inhabitants firmly under his yoke.
Gui and Gilbert carried swords so Gui doubted they were in any real danger. Part of Gui relished the idea of drawing English blood and teaching these northern curs that they were under the rule of William of Normandy. Another part grew clammy with cold sweat at the thought of taking arms in battle. The sword had never been his preferred weapon, but he no longer wielded the bow that he had loved since his youth.
In any case, William had decreed that was not the way things were to be done. England had been taken by force and subjugated by brutality, but would be held and secured through marriage and creating alliances.
Gui was growing tired of listening to the demands and refusals going back and forth. It was time to intervene and smooth the path for his lord as he had done so many times before. That was why Gilbert had brought him today after all, not to fight. He was no use in that respect any longer.
Gui swallowed the bitter bile that caused his stomach to twist in self-loathing. He cleared his throat and stepped forward to stand beside Gilbert.
‘Lady Emma, it’s time to put an end to this nonsense. Be gracious enough to tell us where the maid is. Now.’
Emma raised an eyebrow in surprise. Her watery blue eyes raked over Gui. She blinked, but did not outwardly show aversion at the sight of him as most women did. Gui felt a grudging touch of admiration for the woman who faced down these unwelcome visitors in her house and lands with such assurance.
‘Who are you to speak so boldly on a matter which does not concern you?’
What must she think of him in comparison to the noble knight he now stood beside? He was a head taller than Gilbert and with a broader frame. He bore a nose that was slightly crooked after a break during his childhood, and his time in William’s army had left him with a scar that split his lower lip into two uneven parts and eyes that were charcoal smuts from frequent sleepless nights. He felt like a rough tree trunk beside a tower of polished oak.
He thanked his stars that his greatest disfigurement was not immediately apparent to an onlooker and folded his right arm over his left, masking the padded leather glove he always wore. He turned his eyes to meet the widow’s gaze, boldly as she had called it.
He gave Lady Emma a smile, knowing that even when he meant it—which was rare these days—his scarred grin was more likely to provoke repulsion than kindness.
‘My name is Guilherm FitzLannion, my lady. I am no one of import.’
No one. Not a man of rank, simply an archer who had followed his friend and lord to England to seek his fortune and failed to find it.
Gilbert clapped a hand tightly on Gui’s shoulder and gave him a wide smile. The sorrow in his eyes was replaced with a warmer expression.
‘Gui is my closest confidant and my advisor, Lady Emma. He reminds me that I need to temper my speech at times and perhaps now is such a time.’
Emma flashed Gui a look of understanding that took him by surprise. Perhaps she had spent the years before widowhood smoothing the path of a rash nobleman.
Gui bowed his head. ‘Sir Gilbert does me too much kindness. I would add my petition to his, however. Delaying this affair simply to provoke us will solve nothing. Whether or not you accept William as King, he has spoken on this matter.’
He gave another crooked smile, took a step back and waited.
‘She is with her companion—a foundling left with us as a child—at the priory at Byland near Elmeslac,’ Emma said after a long pause.
Her voice caught. Her eyes were blank, viewing something other than the room before her. Were her nights plagued by bad dreams as Gui’s were? Did she hear the same cries?
‘Sigrun was already of fragile temperament and is not strong in body or spirit,’ Emma continued. ‘She narrowly escaped defilement, first at the hands of the rebels, then by men such as yourself who came to take back the city. Despite his determination to break our shire, I believe William of Normandy respects the sanctity of holy orders enough to allow a maiden to be safe in a priory from abuse and slaughter.’
Her voice dripped with contempt. Having travelled from the south through the ruins of what had once been prosperous villages, Gui found it hard to blame her. He studied his boots, ashamed of his countrymen, though he had not taken part in such dishonourable exploits.
‘My heart aches for the maid’s distress, but if you have sent her away you must fetch her back,’ Gilbert blustered.
A gleeful smile flitted across Emma’s lips.
‘That is out of the question.’
Gilbert growled deep in his throat and tensed his shoulders. Gui laid a restraining hand on his friend’s forearm, foreseeing a return to the hostilities he had hoped were ending.
‘You are making this harder than necessary, my lady,’ he cautioned.
Emma rose from her seat and walked slowly to the men. Her attendants stayed at their stations, but both stood poised to act if the need arose. Did these men of the north think Normans so dishonourable that they would attack a woman in her own home?
Emma stopped before Gui.
‘I am a poor widow with few resources. I do not have the means to escort my child here safely and she cannot travel alone, not while bands of rebels and outlaws roam through Yorkshire. It is simply not safe.’
‘Your daughter will come to no harm,’ Gui assured her.
‘You thought York was safe after FitzOsbern was given the garrison in the city, but Edgar and Sweyn of Denmark proved you wrong! Yorkshire may rise in rebellion again at any time.’
‘Now Alan Rouz holds the estate as Tenant in Chief, Yorkshire will not rise again. William has seen to that. Barely a village stands between here and Durham.’
Gui and Gilbert had marched with Alan the Red of Brittany to take York back when the Aetheling had attacked for the second time. Rouz had been granted land and William had decreed that Gilbert was the man to marry the sister of the young eorl who had taken arms against him.
Emma looked from man to man. Approaching her late thirties and therefore at least ten years older than either man, she was still an attractive, elegant woman with full breasts and a gently curved belly. Where once he might have taken his time to appreciate her beauty, Gui remained unmoved, simply noting that time and her troubles had not diminished her looks.
‘I agreed to allow my daughter to marry you, Sir Gilbert,’ Emma said coldly, ‘but I do not have to like it. Nor do I have to aid you in the process.’
‘You did not agree. You were given no choice,’ Gui pointed out. Neither was Gilbert, he thought ruefully. ‘A marriage was settled in return for your lands not being devastated after your son joined with the Aetheling’s forces.’
Emma’s eyes filled with hatred. Gui shrugged. A daughter’s virginity was a small price to pay in return for the guarantee of safety for those who lived on her manor, especially when the girl would have been doubtless married off to some straw-haired eorl in any case.
‘Sigrun is a compliant and dutiful maiden and will do what is required of her. If you wish to marry my daughter go and bring her here yourself!’ Emma lifted her chin. ‘I’ll send word ahead that the prioress should expect the noble Gilbert du Rospez to come claim his bride. Until you marry her, this house is mine so leave it now. Both of you.’
She turned on her heel and vanished behind the thick embroidered hangings into her private quarters, leaving Gui, Gilbert and their escort standing alone. Her attendants moved silently to stand before the curtain and block entry.
Gilbert spun on his heel and marched out of the building with as much dignity as the departed woman. Outside he sagged against the beam of wood at the corner of the building and sighed.
‘That woman is impossible. How dare she behave to me in such a manner?’
This was Gilbert through and through. Veering between tongue-tied shyness and wild outbursts of bullishness. Managing him took all Gui’s efforts.
‘We have invaded her land and now you wish to claim her daughter as your wife. Did you expect to be greeted with open arms?’ Gui asked.
‘Wish to marry her daughter! Wish to?’ Gilbert threw his arms up. ‘The wish is not mine. You know that, Gui. It is as much a penance to me as a reward. I don’t want to marry an English mouse who by her mother’s own account might be feeble-minded!’
Gui doubted that Gilbert had the urge to marry any woman. His mind was consumed entirely with thoughts of riding or breeding his beloved horses. Give him a kindred spirit and he would waste the night in enthusiastic discussion, but with a woman he was useless. Gui strongly suspected he was still a virgin.
‘Calm yourself. You might not want the girl, but you do want this.’
Gui gestured at the imposing house and the fields surrounding it, his throat catching with envy. It was built in the old style from tall planks of oak with wicker fencing surrounding a courtyard. To own such a home would be the greatest thing Gui could imagine. Gilbert shrugged him off and stalked to his destrier and the mare Gui had hired in York.
Gui followed him. ‘You’ll be a man of means with land here. Plenty of room to breed your horses. It’s better than being the second son of a nobleman in Brittany, even if it does mean marrying an English mouse.’
Much better than being the son of a vassal in that nobleman’s fief, too. Although Gui had accompanied Gilbert from Brittany at the behest of his friend, no one had offered him land, much less a bride for the part he had played in the conquest.
‘You know where the girl is now. All you need to do is go fetch her and the matter can be settled. You can have her back here by midsummer’s day. That would be a good-omened day for a wedding.’
‘I can’t go fetch her. I’ll be as useless persuading the girl to leave the priory as I was compelling her mother to retrieve her,’ Gilbert said gloomily. ‘Besides, I’ve been offered an opportunity I’d like to take.’
‘Which is?’ Gui prompted.
‘I’ve been invited to hunt on the Earl’s lands in the west. One of the men going breeds good stock horses. I told him I’d be there. There are good deer to hunt. You should join us.’
Gui’s jaw clenched. He jerked his head to his left arm. ‘And how would I bring them down with no means of drawing a bow?’
Gilbert’s eyes lit and he pointed a finger at Gui. ‘My friend, I have a solution. Go to Byland in my place. Bring the girl back for me while I am away.’
Gui gave a short laugh, then stopped short. He scowled. ‘You actually mean that, don’t you?’
Gilbert swung himself into the saddle. ‘Why not? It should be a simple matter. If you don’t intend to come with me, you have nothing better to do with your time.’
Gui had planned to spend his immediate future visiting as many of York’s drinking dens as he could and passing into oblivion. Traipsing halfway across Yorkshire to collect another man’s bride did not hold any appeal, even if that man was his oldest friend. He mounted his horse, gathering the reins in his right hand.
‘We’ll make arrangements within the week,’ Gilbert mused.
‘My lord! Gilbert! I said no.’
‘Of course you did, but you’ll do it anyway.’ Gilbert exuded confidence, displaying the easy charm that had failed to work on Lady Emma. ‘I could command you as your liege lord, but I know I won’t have to. My good friend. I ask a lot of you but I’ll reward you, too. You’ll need a better horse, of course. Better clothes, too. It will cost me dearly.’
Gui rolled his eyes. He was ambivalent about horses, something Gilbert found incomprehensible.
‘I imagine Lady Emma will see it as a personal insult if you send a messenger in your place.’
Gilbert pouted. ‘It’s the daughter I have to marry, not the mother.’
Gui gave him a stern look. Diplomacy was not Gilbert’s strongest feature.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Gilbert conceded. He broke into a trot and they skirted around the edge of Lady Emma’s land towards the forest path. Gui followed, uneasy on horseback and watchful for signs of trouble Gilbert might ignore.
As they reached the edge of the forest Gilbert pulled his reins sharply and turned to Gui.
‘You go as me!’
Gui drew his horse to a halt, momentarily puzzled.
‘You go in my place to Byland,’ Gilbert clarified. He smiled. ‘Take my name. Lady Emma is sending word I am coming, but the Lady Sigrun and I have never met. She won’t know you aren’t me. I’ll even give you my seal to wear to add to the deception.’
He trotted on, lost in his plans, talking half to himself. ‘It would cause difficulty if she discovered the deception halfway home. Swear to me that you will take my name until you return here with my bride.’
‘I haven’t agreed yet,’ Gui pointed out. ‘She’ll discover I’m not you on your wedding night. What will she do when she finds out she has been deceived?’
‘She’ll be uncomplaining if she’s as timid and compliant as her mother says,’ Gilbert answered. He smiled. ‘Court the girl on my behalf, Gui, but do not let her know what we have done. When she arrives here she will be more amenable to the thought of marriage. If I went to bring your bride back, I can see that would be a problem, but as it stands...’
He left the thought unfinished. Gui ended it for him.
‘As it stands she will take one look at you and thank God she does not have to marry a one-handed, scar-lipped, crook-nosed beast after all.’
Gilbert had the grace to look abashed. ‘That isn’t what I meant.’
It had been, but Gui had long grown accustomed to Gilbert’s unwitting tactlessness. The offence was never meant. Besides, it was true. A wife of his own had seemed an unobtainable dream since his injuries.
‘You really don’t look as bad as you imagine,’ Gilbert said. ‘If you were wealthier, a woman would look past your injuries anyway. When I am master of this manor I’ll have the power to grant land. If you do this for me, I’ll grant a portion to you. I’ll make you my reeve. My second-in-command.’
Gui gazed around him. Lady Emma’s land had been spared the worst of the harrying that had all but destroyed the north. A river ran through the flat plain that lay barren, but in time could be brought back to life. It reminded him a little of home and the farmer’s son in him awoke. To be master of his own lands under the fiefdom of his friend would be a good thing to be.
Gilbert had been spinning tales of riches and power for them both since they had left France. They had so far failed to appear, for Gui at least, and this could be the opportunity he craved to rebuild his life and start afresh. All for making a journey of a week and escorting a girl to her home. What could be simpler? His lips twitched into a smile.
‘I’ll bring your bride,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll take your name if I have to. I’ll do whatever it takes.’
* * *
Gui raised himself high in the saddle and rolled his shoulders back. It was now mid-afternoon and he had been riding all day, but the final stage of his journey was almost complete. He had reached the highest point of the hill and stopped beside the stone marker, and could make out the roofs of the priory nestling in the dip below. It stood along the opposite bank of the river that wound lazily between hills and back towards York, passing by the remains of a couple of desolate villages and vanishing periodically into knots of trees.
He pulled at the neck of his cloak to loosen it. In the three days since he had left York the spring weather had changed steadily for the better and the new wool was still stiff and itchy in the unexpected sun.
Not that he was complaining about his new attire. Gilbert had been so grateful for Guilherm’s agreement he had presented Gui with the new cloak, two fine linen undershirts and a new tunic of light wool with a deep band of embroidered braid along the thigh-length hem. A new buckle adorned the worn leather belt Gui insisted on retaining along with his old boots and gloves. They were by far the finest clothes Gui had ever possessed and how he looked exactly like what he was supposed to resemble: a knight of middling wealth hoping to make a favourable impression on his bride.
He could almost believe their plan would be a success, and as he rode he passed the time making idle plans for the crops he would plant and the house he would build when the promised land was finally his. It wouldn’t have to be a big house; he would be living there alone after all. Best not dare to dream too big—a companion to share his life with was so unlikely that the pit of loneliness that made his heart ache soured his thoughts.
He brushed his hair back from his forehead where it had become damp with exertion from the ride. Despite all Gilbert’s coaxing Gui had steadfastly refused to shave his head in the same style as the knight, and had kept his dark-brown hair longer than fashionable so it skimmed his jaw and framed his face. Sweat pooled beneath his arms and the linen clung to his torso. He frowned. It would not do to arrive at the priory looking so travel stained. No doubt the prioress would provide the means to bathe, but sunlight turned the river silver and to Gui it was a more appealing prospect. He turned the horse towards the river and in a lazy walk he made his way down the hill to one of the bends where trees would afford him some privacy in the unlikely event he encountered anyone.
Gui tethered his horse to a tree close to the river where she could drink as she wished or take shelter from the sun. He unbuckled the short sword he wore at his belt and stowed it alongside the bow and quiver of arrows he could not bear to part with, which were wrapped in leather and strapped to the pannier. He stripped off his clothes, gritting his teeth in frustration as he worked the buckles and laces with his right hand. He paused before removing the padded glove on his left hand, but in this isolated spot no one would cast their eyes on his affliction so he removed that, too.
Naked, he plunged into the river, which proved to be deeper than he had expected. He stood, gasping and shuddering, toes curling in the silt as the chilly depths closed around him to his waist. When he became accustomed to the cold, he swam under the surface with powerful strokes and emerged downstream when he could no longer hold his breath. He scrubbed at his hair and body until his flesh stung, wishing he had the means to scrape the bristles from his jaw that had become a rough beard. He resembled one of the Yorkshire Norsemen the longer he wore it.
The sun was still warm, lessening the worst of the chill. He lay back in the water and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths of the sweet-scented air. He drifted along with the gentle current, allowing the water to caress him, feeling knots in his muscles loosen as the current and weeds played around his body. For what was almost certainly the first time since stepping foot in England, Guilherm felt truly at peace.
* * *
‘That’ll do until I come again next week.’ Aelfhild tightened the knot holding the bandage on Brun’s leg. She wiped the greasy balm from her fingers, pulled the threadbare blanket back over the old man’s legs and smiled. ‘Try to move a little if you can or you’ll get more sores. That poultice will help ease the discomfort.’
‘You’re a good lass, Aelfhild. You’ll make a good wife to some man,’ Brun rasped.
Her first thought was that she’d rather be a good nurse, and her second was whom would she marry anyway; now Yorkshire’s men were in short supply.
‘I don’t think a foundling with no dowry would be many men’s first choice,’ she sighed.
Brun started to answer, but coughs racked his frame. ‘I won’t be sorry to go, but you’ve made these months more comfortable,’ he wheezed.
‘Don’t talk like that! You’ve got years ahead of you,’ Aelfhild lied.
A film of tears covered Brun’s eyes. ‘Weeks. A month or two, perhaps. I didn’t think I’d see this year come when they came to burn the village. My home is gone; my sons are dead. I’m ready to join them.’
They. The Normans. They’d lain waste to the villages all around Elmeslac, and further afield if tales were true as the new King’s vengeance for what had happened in York. For the people daring to try to regain their city. Aelfhild’s throat tightened with hatred. If she ever met a Norman she’d drive her knife through his black heart!
Brun was her final patient. She began to pack up her bag of poultices and medicines to stop her hand straying to the brooch she wore concealed beneath a fold in the neck of her shapeless tunic. She would not think about the man who had given it to her or her eyes would fill with tears, too.
She left the dimly lit hut where the remaining villagers lived together: the old and the young, those who had escaped the killing. She began to make her way back to the priory, considering herself lucky to have a home however much she hated the confining walls. She stomped along the rutted track and tried to ignore the fields that should have been thick with growing barley. Her boots were sturdy and she set a good pace up the hill, only pausing for breath when the top came into view. The breeze was warm as it caressed her cheeks, a sure sign that spring would be hot this year. She felt perspiration rising on her face and neck.
Aelfhild’s skirts billowed around her and she shook her head, enjoying the sensation of the wind’s kiss upon the back of her neck. She ran the last few paces to the top of the hill, then spun around, arms wide and head thrown back. She laughed at her foolishness, as she realised what she must look like. She did it again, sure no one was watching, for who was there left to watch her now?
Her stomach growled. Breakfast had been gritty bread and sour cheese, and supper was nothing worth anticipating. The river glinted in the sunlight, winding through the valley. Aelfhild had time to spare before she had to return to the priory and her spirits lifted. When such feeling came upon her she could forget her country was under the yoke of the Conqueror, could forget she had not seen her home for almost two years and the walls that now confined her.
She was thirsty and hot. The river could satisfy both those needs and she could even try to catch a fish to supplement the meagre diet at the priory, using the method Brun described when his mind wandered to his youth.
Anticipating the cool water swirling around her legs, Aelfhild hastened her steps as she neared the river where it bent towards her side of the bank, skipping and occasionally spinning in circles in the sheer joy of being alive. The world was empty. She could even bathe completely naked if she chose, though would not go that far. If her swim was ever discovered, Aelfhild would no doubt receive the customary whipping from one of the sisters, but there was no one to see and no one to tell. It would be her secret and hers alone.
