Lord of My Heart (14 page)

She deserved it, he told himself. She deserved to suffer as she had made others suffer. But he longed to ride to Baddersley and protect her.

Even if he were so weak-willed, it would be impossible. The king was keeping everyone under his eye and playing politics. William was feeding the ancient feud between Gospatric of Northumbria and Waltheof, whose father and grandfather had been earl. He was listening courteously to messengers from the kings of Scotland and Denmark, and building Edwin of Mercia’s self-importance. The interesting point, however, was that Waltheof was now betrothed to Judith while Edwin’s match with Agatha was unsettled.

Dangerous anger was building in the Mercian camp over this, not least because Edwin and Agatha appeared to have developed a genuine fondness for each other. In fact Aimery thought it sickening the way they hovered about each other.

The atmosphere at court was beginning to grow heavy, yet William continued to be jovial and to promise all things to all people.

There had been no further mention of Aimery’s reward, and he was beginning to think he could request permission to leave when the king drew him apart.

“I’ve watched you, Aimery, and it eases my mind.”

“Sire?”

The king looked out over the crowded hall, noting who was talking to whom, who was smiling and who frowning. “These are hard times, my boy,” he said, “and this situation is not of my making. I seek only the good of my English subjects.”

“I know that, my liege.”

William nodded and looked directly at Aimery. “You will always act for my good, will you not?”

“It is always my intent, sire.”

William grinned and took a grip on Aimery’s arm. “I am giving you the Baddersley heiress.”

Aimery froze, unable to make the appropriate response.

The king removed his hand. “Do I gather,” he said coldly, “you are not delighted?”

Aimery collected his wits. “I am overwhelmed, sire. But I have Rolleston to run.”

“Rolleston, according to you, is running on greased wheels. I hear Baddersley is in a poor way. Are you afraid of work?”

With relief Aimery saw the king was not angry, merely intrigued. “You know the place, don’t you?” asked William. “It belonged to that scourge, Hereward, along with Rolleston. Is it not a desirable manor?”

“It is in a strong location, sire, and the manor holds rich land, well drained.”

“Tell me then straight out why you alone of all the young men are not slobbering over the prize.”

Because it’s to sign my death warrant. There’s a traitor in Baddersley village who’ll betray me for a few pieces of silver, and if I escape him, the heiress will recognize me and report it to you . . . Aimery found an explanation which contained an element of truth. “Rumor has it the heiress is ugly in body and mind. I was raised in a happy home full of love and graciousness. Even for a fair estate I do not want to marry such a woman.”

The king moved forward and gripped Aimery’s shoulders strongly. Aimery saw tears in his eyes. “Well said! I, too, know the value of a gracious wife. You are wise beyond your years.” But then he gave his godson a shake. “But what if rumor lies and she is fair in all respects? What then, eh?”

The humor in the king’s eyes told Aimery that William knew the heiress was comely. “Then I am a fool,” he said, “and have thrown your generosity in your face, sire.”

The king released him and paced backward and forward, deep in thought. “Very well,” he said at last. “We shall throw it in the lap of fate. Follow the
wyrd,
as our Viking ancestors would have it.”

There was almost a hint of mischief in the king which made Aimery very wary.

“The queen will rest here for a while,” William said, “but I have a mind to see some of the new castles. We will visit Baddersley and the heiress. Does rumor tell you the lady is to choose her husband?”

“No, sire.” Aimery was assessing all the angles of this disaster, seeking an escape route.

“ ‘Tis truth. So, I will take care to have only married nobles with me other than you, Stephen de Faix, and Odo de Pouissey. De Faix is a man who easily finds favor with women, and de Pouissey is known to the demoiselle. I believe she was fond of him as a child. All three of you are worthy, and the lady will have her choice.” He looked sharply at Aimery. “Do you regret your decision now?”

“No, sire. I will abide by God’s and the demoiselle’s wish.” Aimery was dismissed and could find peace to consider it all. What a hell-made situation.

It would only be a matter of time before the heiress recognized him as Edwald and screeched it to the king. From there to Golden Hart and d’Oilly’s giant was a small step.

Even if that didn’t happen, he had no wish to marry a woman who could beg to have innocent people flogged.

But she’d surely never choose de Pouissey after that attack, which left only de Faix between him and a life of misery. He thanked Christ that de Faix was the sort of man young women found very pleasing, even as he tasted gall at the thought of her in any other man’s arms.

Madness. Witchcraft.

Then he remembered Gyrth’s tale, which posed another problem.

If they arrived at Baddersley to find the heiress a beaten wretch, someone would pay, and he feared in the end, as usual, it would be the ordinary English people.

She had tried. She had scavenged all the food she could and given it to the most needy. She had supplied medicines and advice. She had even worked in the manor garden herself, pulling weeds and carrying water. She had deflected her aunt and uncle’s cruelty wherever possible.

She had done some good, she knew she had, and yet the people here were no more kindly disposed and the world had gone mad. Strange accidents had begun to occur, and acts of malice against her aunt; and they always happened in such a way that Madeleine looked to be at fault.

She had endured day after day of accusations and blows and kept a core of strength. That had withered away when she had learned the truth.

Aldreda had slipped up to her. “Do you ever wonder why we’re doing this, Lady Madeleine?”

Madeleine had realized in that moment that all her troubles were a plot by the Baddersley people. That knowledge had been more painful than any blow. “No,” she said numbly. “Why?”

“Orders,” said Aldreda. “From Golden Hart. The next time your aunt strikes you, remember it comes from him.”

It was doubtless true. He had promised to punish her, though for what she did not know. She shouldn’t care.

He was cruel and worthless. But Aldreda’s words robbed Madeleine of the last of her strength and spirit, and she took to her bed.

She tried to eat the food Dorothy brought to her, but took very little. She watched the shadows mark the passage of the sun on beautiful summer days. If ever the king did come, she would ask to return to the Abbaye. Surely, she thought, this hell was a judgment on her for leaving the convent when it had been her mother’s dearest wish that she go there. Punishment, too, for lusting after that outlaw.

True, the king had sent for her, but if she had resisted and pleaded a true vocation he could not have insisted. And no one had forced her to behave lewdly down by the stream. These were the only blots on her conscience which could account for God so turning his face against her. She understood how Harold Godwinson must have felt when he saw the Norman army carrying the Pope’s banner, saw the winds change in their favor, and knew God was displeased.

She was idly watching a spider build a web in the corner when her aunt burst into the room. “Why are you lying here, girl? You are not hurt. Get up, get up, and go out in the sun. You are as pale as a ghost!”

“Leave me alone.”

Her aunt lunged and dragged her up by the hair. “Get up! The king is coming!”

Madeleine just stared, and Dame Celia shook her. “You must look pretty. He doubtless brings your husband, and if you find him not so kind as dear sweet Odo, then it will be a judgment upon you, you ungrateful girl!”

Madeleine beat off the woman and dragged herself to her feet, dizzy and weak. “The king?”

“Is coming here! The place must be freshened.” Dame Celia waved her hands like a crippled bird. “We have no tapestries, few beds. No fresh rushes . . .”

She reached again to grab Madeleine. “You can’t shirk the work, you lazy slut!” Madeleine pushed her away and Celia scuttled across the tiny room and opened a chest. She pulled out a length of cloth. It was slashed into ribbons.

Dame Celia shrieked, “Wretches! Wretches! It isn’t our fault these people are so devil-ridden. It’s that Golden Hart! Golden Hart. The king will find him, then we’ll see.” She glared at Madeleine. “Don’t just stand there. Do something!”

“The king is coming.” Madeleine repeated the words, and hope began to uncurl within her.

Dame Celia hurried back to pinch Madeleine’s cheeks, though not viciously, and push her fingers clumsily through the girl’s tangled hair. “He must see how we have cared for you. We have cared for you, haven’t we?”

Madeleine began to laugh. It turned hysterical, and her aunt slapped her, but again not viciously. “See!” she hissed. “You make me do these things. As God is my witness, I have done my best! If you complain to the king of my treatment, I will be forced to tell him the cause—your wicked ingratitude, your madness, your lewdness—”

“I am pure!”

“If your husband casts you off, it won’t be my fault,” her aunt gibbered on. “No one can blame me. No wonder the convent threw you out.”

“No one will cast me off! I am a virgin.”

“All that sneaking off to the woods,” Celia ranted. “Up to no good, I’ll be bound. Odo had a lucky escape!”

Madeleine saw the woman was beyond all reason. “Yes, Aunt,” she said soothingly. “I’m sure that’s true. Why don’t you rest?”

“Rest? Rest?” the woman shrieked, waving her arms about. “How can I rest with the king about to arrive! Paul says he can travel like the wind. He could be here at any minute. Any minute!” She scuttled out, calling conflicting orders to anyone she met.

Madeleine was weak from hunger and inaction, but a sense of purpose rose in her. Liberation was at hand. Moreover, Baddersley was hers, and it should greet the king with some pride. She must take matters in hand, and it looked as if she was finally to be allowed to do so. She had Dorothy comb her hair and then bind it up in a coif for working. Wincing a little, for her bruised ribs still ached, she changed into a serviceable kirtle of brown linen and went forth to take charge of her home.

Dame Celia was in her chamber wailing and gibbering. Madeleine mixed a soothing brew that would keep the woman asleep for the next day. Paul de Pouissey was in as great a panic as his wife, but was putting it to use by bullying his men and the servants to try to finish the palisade. He wouldn’t succeed, but at least he was out of the way.

Madeleine checked the food stores and found that, now fresh crops were available, they were adequate if not abundant. The king’s visit would lead to shortages later, but she could not concern herself with such matters now.

There was plenty of ale and mead, but scarcely any wine. She tried to get coin from her uncle to buy some, but he refused, saying there was none to spare. He had sent out to hire men for coin to come and work on the wall.

Madeleine had a late calf killed. That would provide tender meat and a stomach for making custards and curd tarts. She had other pastries prepared. She called in Hengar, the chief forester, for a report on the game. It seemed there should be sport for the king and more meat for the table. The man was markedly ill-at-ease, and she remembered he was Aldreda’s husband. She supposed the people here would expect her to complain to the king. She wouldn’t, for it was her aunt and uncle she wanted rid of, but she wouldn’t say anything to reassure them. Let them sweat over it.

She inspected the stables and found them in poor condition. She was fond of horses and didn’t see why they should suffer. She stole some workers from the defensive construction and soon men were at work to mend matters.

It seemed to her the wooden castle was a poor example and the palisade far behind plan, but that was her uncle’s problem, not hers.

There were only three beds at Baddersley—her uncle and aunt’s great bed which was in the solar, and two narrow beds in two sleeping alcoves. One was hers, and one was kept for Odo, or any other traveler of rank. She had the mattresses hung out to freshen and the bedding washed. She ordered straw to make the simple coiled mattresses which would do for most.

She discovered a number of bolts of cloth stored in a chest and still intact. One was a fine brown wool with a pattern in the weave. She had it hung on the wall of the solar, which would be the king’s room. It was not thick enough to give winter warmth, but it softened the bleakness of the bare wooden walls.

When they’d done what they could for the stables, she set the carpenters to work making extra trestles and benches for the hall. Laid flat at night, they would form the bases for the straw beds. Her uncle complained the men were needed for the building, but she stared him down.

She found she could stare anyone down these days. She knew her uncle and aunt dared not harm her with the king’s visit so close, but she did not understand the change in the English. There was no warmth in them, but that biting hatred had gone. They listened blank-faced to her instructions and did exactly as she said. Fear of the king must be goading them.

During four days of hard, meaningful work, Madeleine healed. She began to eat heartily and sleep well. On the third day she found herself standing in the courtyard looking with pride at her home and her land. It was a good place. With proper care it could be a fine home, and it was for her to give it that care.

She heard her uncle bellowing at someone, trying to get more work from some poor soul than was humanly possible. In the house she knew Aunt Celia was lying on a narrow bed complaining because the great bed was being kept in readiness for the king. Baddersley must be rid of these two, and that could only come with Madeleine’s marriage.

She reviewed her preparations with concern. Much of it was shoddily done, but time was short. The king could come this very day.

The new trestles were shorter than the old, and the old really should be mended; many of the benches were rotten. But Uncle Paul had demanded the carpenters back so frantically that she had given in. There weren’t enough rushes to make a proper covering for the floor, and there was no time to make even the simplest hangings. They had tallow dips but few good candles. At least the nights were short.

Finally, Madeleine gave some thought to her appearance. It was important to her that she first meet her husband dressed as a lady of rank and dignity. The queen had provided her with a rich wardrobe, most of which she had not worn. When she went to the locked chest in which she had stored all her finery, she remembered the high hopes and spirits in which she’d left Normandy. Some trace of that optimism returned.

The king was coming, and soon she would have a husband.

She hung handsome tunics and gowns to freshen, and checked over girdles and jewelry. She washed her hair with rosemary, and had Dorothy comb it thoroughly every night. Each day, once the hardest work was done, Madeleine dressed finely, ready for king and husband both.