Enchantress Mine (32 page)

The bishop lowered his voice, and softly advised his half-brother, “The lady wears her jewelry casually as if she is accustomed to wealth although her foster father was not a wealthy man. She has obviously inherited from her first husband. How much she possesses, William, that is the question. The manor involved is not enough to raise jealousy among your closer friends and more powerful allies. Since Josselin is well liked, I do not believe anyone would deny he deserves your generosity. And you cannot afford to lose such a loyal friend. As for the heiress, beauty such as the lady Mairin possesses can be a dangerous liability. We must chance that the monies possessed by the lady are not so great as to cause dissension among your supporters later on.”

“What you are saying, Odo,” the king replied in as soft a voice, “is that the solution is as the lady Mairin has suggested. That they marry with one another.”

The bishop nodded. “Now,” he said. “Today before any thought can be given to it by those who might be envious. After your coronation tomorrow Josselin and his bride will leave London to return to Aelfleah. Once out of sight they will be forgotten by those who otherwise might question your decision, and envy de Combourg his good fortune.”

William nodded. Then he said to Josselin, “You are not precontracted to any other woman, Joss?”

“No, my liege. There is no one.”

“Not even one you might prefer over Mairin of Aelfleah, or someone with whom you have discussed the possibility of marriage? Speak the truth to me as you always have, Joss. If you cannot be content with this lady, or your heart is elsewhere, I will still see you well rewarded for your long service to me.”

“I can be content with this lady,” came the quiet answer. He looked to Mairin whose radiant smile set other hearts within the room racing.

“And you, Mairin of Aelfleah,” said the king. “Will you accept my choice of a husband for you, and surrender to him your lands in dowry?”

“I will accept your choice of a husband for me, my liege, but I would retain my own lands, and swear my fealty to you even as did my father.”

William looked surprised at her bold words. He had heard that Anglo-Saxon women were outspoken and independent. He was not certain that he approved. “What is this?” he said. “You would haggle with me, lady?”

“Saxon law,” she said, “allows me possession of my own property, sire. Norman law does not. Have you not agreed to honor the laws of this land? If my lord husband should fall in defense of you, and our children be but babies, how can I protect them without another husband? What man will have me without a dowry? I pray that God will give my lord Josselin and myself many years together, but I must plan ahead.”

The king shook his head. “The lands must be in the hands of those who can defend it, Mairin of Aelfleah. You are but a weak woman. I will, however, strike a bargain with you. Render the manor of Aelfleah to Josselin de Combourg to be his in his lifetime. It will revert to your ownership should he die and you be either childless, or your heir be a minor. That, and half your wealth to your husband.”

“I agree, sire,” she answered him, and her violet eyes twinkled. “I suspect if I don’t you will have everything of me before I know it. Only let your scribe draw up the papers before the marriage ceremony.”

Again William shook his head. “You must learn to trust me, lady,” he told her sternly. “You will be married here and now before me, but when you leave to return home the proper papers will be in your possession.” The blue-gray eyes stared hard at her, and Mairin bowed her head in submission. It was far more than she had hoped for when she so daringly bargained with him.

The king looked at his brother and said, “Will you waive the banns, brother bishop?”

“I will!”

“Then perform the ceremony, my lord of Bayeux. All of you here with me will be witness to the fact that on this twenty-fourth day of December in the year of our Lord, ten hundred and sixty-six, Josselin de Combourg, a Breton knight, and a loyal servant of William of Normandy, took to wive the lady Mairin Aldwinesdotter, heiress to the manor of Aelfleah—in the presence of their king, and of her mother, the lady Eada of Aelfleah; Robert, Count of Eu; William FitzOsbern; William de Warenne; Hugh de Montfort; and Robert de Beaumont.”

Josselin took her hand in his; and together they stood before Bishop Odo as he united them in holy matrimony. Afterward the king ordered that a health be drunk to the newlyweds, who then raised their goblets to toast their king. Mairin was feeling very giddy after two goblets of strong red wine.

Her mind fled back several years to her wedding day with Basil of Byzantium. How different it had all been on that bright spring day when hope itself had perfumed the air, and she had believed in a love that would last past mortal life into eternity itself. Now, she thought, I have made a marriage of convenience, and given Aelfleah into the keeping of a stranger. I wonder if he really loves me, or if now that the manor is his I will become just another of his new possessions.

“You must follow my brother’s example, Josselin,” the bishop was saying, “and have a large family. Our own mother gave birth to five living children, and I have two half-brothers, the sons of my father’s second wife, Fredesendis. Families are important. A man’s strength comes in part from the strong familial ties he has as well as those he makes.”

Josselin nodded. “My lady and I will found a whole new branch of my father’s family here in England. God willing, our name will have honor. What say you, Mairin? Will you give me at least half a dozen strong sons?” His arm tightened about her waist.

“What?”
She looked startled. Though she had heard her name, she had not comprehended his question.

The young bishop chuckled indulgently. “You have the look of a maiden wed for the first time,” he said. “Your new lord asks if you will give him a large family. You had no children from your first marriage?”

“We were but wed eight months, my lord bishop.”

“Time enough for a man to plant his seed,” the bishop remarked casually.

“My daughter was overyoung to be wed,” said Eada, coming to Mairin’s rescue. “The prince adored her! He insisted upon their marriage for he feared that someone else might see her, and seeing be unable to restrain his desire.”

“Ahh,” said the bishop, understanding lighting his gray eyes. “It is well known that maidens wed too young do not easily conceive. How old are you now, my lady?”

“Sixteen this October past, my lord.”

“You are certainly old enough now! Do well by your lady, Josselin de Combourg! By autumn next I predict she will have given you a fine son!”

“Sons for a new England,” said the king. “Yes, my lords and ladies, ’tis just what we need. Strong sons for a strong England!”

Another toast was raised, this time to the future sons of Josselin de Combourg. Mairin wondered as the cool wine burned its way down her throat if she would be able to walk or for that matter even stand if Josselin took his arm from about her waist. “Do not release your grasp of me, my lord,” she murmured to him. “I think that I am drunk.”

He chuckled. “The king will not tolerate a poor vintage in his wines. Those of us who serve him grow quickly used to it.”

“It might be better had we eaten earlier, but we have had nothing since we broke our fast after the Mass this morning,” she said. “I do not know if my legs can still function.”

“Let us find out,” he said, and then, “My liege, will you give us leave to depart? Aelfleah is several days’ journey away, and we only arrived this morning. My lady is tired, and so am I. If we are to depart tomorrow after the coronation I think some rest is due us now.”

“Rest? On your wedding night? What of those strong sons for England, de Combourg?” teased Hugh de Montfort.

“Fie, my lords,” scolded Eada, but the king and his friends could not restrain their laughter. Mairin blushed a rose color, realizing the implications behind their words.

“My liege, my lords,” laughed Josselin good-naturedly, “my wife and I will take our leave of you now.” His arm still about Mairin, he led her from the king’s residence. Finding herself the only woman in a roomful of men, several of whom sent her admiring looks, Eada curtsied to the king and hurried after them.

“A most handsome woman,” observed the Count of Eu. “What a pity she cannot stay.”

“Perhaps in the spring we should visit this Aelfleah,” said Hugh de Montfort, “to see how our friend Josselin gets on.”

“Do you think the widow will give you a warm welcome, Hugh?” teased Robert de Beaumont.

“A widow is still a woman, mon ami,” laughed de Montfort, looking out the window to see the newlyweds mounting their horses.

“Just sit upon Thunderer,” Josselin instructed Mairin as he boosted her into her saddle. “I will lead him.”

“Are you all right, my child?” fretted Eada anxiously.

“The wine,” Mairin said weakly, feeling her stomach beginning to roil ominously.

Eada shook her head, and turned to her new son-in-law. “She has never had a strong head for wine. She usually waters hers. The king’s wine was a particularly fine one. I enjoyed it, but I fear Mairin will be ill from drinking it.”

Josselin’s mouth quivered with humor. He had just married the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. His bride, however, looked close to vomiting. It was not, Josselin decided, a particularly romantic wedding night. He gazed over at Mairin, and saw that she was indeed very pale. A faint sheen of perspiration moistened her brow, and her violet eyes were closed. He wondered if she felt as awful as she now looked.

She did. Mairin had never realized before how very much like a ship a horse could be. Her head was beginning to ache fiercely and with every step that Thunderer took she felt closer to disaster. She wondered if she could reach home without getting ill, but between the rocking motion of her horse and the stink of the narrow streets she was not certain. The smell of the river at low tide did not help, but by some miracle the icy cold air of the late December afternoon kept her from losing control. She opened her eyes gratefully when her mount finally stopped and Josselin lifted her down in front of their London house.

His green-gold eyes shone with sympathy as he said, “I fear we must postpone any celebration of our nuptials, my lady wife. I would show you off proudly tomorrow at the coronation. To do that I think you will need a long night’s rest.”

“My lord, I am sorry,” she murmured, and he laughed ruefully.

“Enchantress,” he said, “I truly do love you, and I do not think that either of us could overcome your being sick amidst the heights of passion. England’s strong sons can wait another night for their creation.”

Mairin chuckled weakly. “My mother said you were a good man, Josselin de Combourg. I suspect she does not know the half of it. I think I will like getting to know you better.”

He grinned back at her. Then picking her up he carried her into the house and upstairs to the bedroom, where he set her down. “I will sleep downstairs tonight, Mairin,” he told her, kissing her quickly upon the forehead. Then as he left her he said, “I will send your mother to you,” and he was gone.

“Go to your daughter,” he told Eada when he had returned to the downstairs hall. “I will sleep here tonight.”

As Eada disappeared up the stairs Dagda moved to the fireplace and put light to the kindling he had arranged earlier. Carefully he fed the little blaze until it was burning brightly. Then he added two dry logs. The wood crackled sharply, the flame leaping and casting dark shadows upon the walls of the room. After moving a long table within the little hall, he filled two goblets of wine from the decanter upon the dusty oak surface. He handed one to Josselin.

“Now, my lord,” he said, “I will toast your marriage to my lady Mairin. Long life to you both! Many children! Peace!” and he quaffed the liquid down in a single gulp. Then he placed his goblet upon the table. “I am fifty-eight years old,” he began in his deep voice. “My father I do not remember. My mother was a large woman with a great capacity for almost anything but her many children by as many men. We were allowed to run wild. I stood over six feet tall at the age of twelve, and I had not yet stopped growing. I fought my maiden battle at twelve and a half. I killed two men, and for the first time in my life I found approval, adulation, acceptance. By the time I was seventeen, my lord, I was the most vicious and most feared warrior in Ireland. My name was a curse that mothers used to frighten unruly children into good behavior.

“At twenty-six I was captured by a group of monks. I was lured to them by stories of their hidden wealth.
Monks!
They knew me, and for what I stood. They had decided to save my immortal soul.” Dagda chuckled with the memory. “So they stripped me of my chain mail and my weapons. Then, when I was naked as the day I popped from my mother’s belly, they put me into a small windowless cell. ‘You are to be reborn, Dagda,’ they said to me, ‘and this cell is your womb.’

“How I hated those monks at first, my lord, for hate was the only emotion I could understand. I cursed those kindly old men who twice each day brought me food, but otherwise left me alone with my thoughts. I vowed if I could but get free I should destroy their monastery about them.

“Finally after many weeks the hate and the anger drained out of me. One morning as an old monk brought me my food I found myself weeping, and begging his help. Without weapons and my hate I had become again the child I once was. Those good monks began the reeducation of that child. They taught me that although physical force is sometimes the answer, more often than not problems can be solved without violence. They taught me to use my brains to reason, and to solve dilemmas rather than fight mindlessly over them.

“They put me in charge of the helpless creatures, the small beasts of their farm, who needed the protection and care of someone stronger. One day I found myself reassigned to the monastery’s hospital caring for those who were ill and dying. It was these things that taught me the value of life over death, my lord. I would have been contented to stay there forever.