The Handfasted Wife Read online

  She pulled her cloak from the peg by the door and set out from the bower to the hall, wondering who had sent the monk. As she came into the back of the hall she saw that her children had dressed up in the moth-eaten old clothes that had lain in a chest belonging to the old Earl. Ulf strutted in a red cape which would have just covered Godwin’s shoulders but enveloped his child’s frame and trailed in the floor rushes. On his head he wore a woman’s black-plaited fillet into which he had stuck three yellowing ears of wheat. Gunnhild trailed after him, wearing something very long and musty-smelling. Elditha made a mental note to have all the clothing in that chest washed, mended and distributed to the poor, and the chest dusted with flea-bane.

  The monk was sitting by the hearth drinking a bowl of milk. ‘My lady,’ he said,, preparing to stand. He appeared lanky inside the voluminous folds of his black habit. His face was stern and his eyes were set into his lean face like beaten down nails.

  ‘Do not raise yourself, monk. Finish your milk. What brings you here to our quiet hall in the middle of Lent?’

  ‘I come to open the chapel and to be tutor to your son.’

  ‘Sent by whom – the King?’

  The monk was frowning at her. ‘The Archbishop, who, of course, has the King’s ear.’ He put his bowl aside and folded his hands into his lap, ‘My lady, I fear you are being led astray here. I saw today …’

  Elditha swallowed. Who knew what tales this Archbishop’s man might carry back with him to Canterbury? ‘What you may or may not have seen today does not concern you, Brother …’

  ‘Francis. But it does, my lady. I am concerned for your children, for you, for the villagers here. The Church finds practices such as I saw today questionable. These are the very kinds of sorceries that lead God’s flock away from their faith.’

  ‘I think that God would want to see His people eat, don’t you?’

  ‘My lady, I fear you are misguided. The village priest should know better. I see it is for me to bring an understanding of what it is to be a Christian to Reredfelle.’

  ‘Brother Francis, you are welcome here, but you will restrict your mission to the chapel and the education of the King’s son. As for the village priest and his family, do not meddle. I have worked hard these past two months to gain the love and support of my reeve, the priest and my villagers. Tread softly.’

  ‘But the Archbishop would not approve.’

  ‘The Archbishop knows me well. I would never do anything misguided. The Archbishop of Canterbury leaves us to our own ways; these are the same Christian practices that we have observed with devotion since the time of King Alfred.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady.’

  The words slipped from his mouth like spider’s silk. But she saw by his thin-lipped grimace that he did not mean to do as she wished at all. She would show him that they were observant of the liturgy at Reredfelle. ‘We have already opened our chapel here. Father Egbert, the village priest, comes to us every day.’ She folded her hands. ‘Brother Francis, I will have the priest’s house made ready for you at once. I can provide you with one of my own servants, a freed slave who refuses her freedom. She will be happy to serve you.’ Brother Francis bowed his head. She went on, ‘This afternoon you must dine with us. We have fish from our own ponds, pottage and sweet pastries …’ Her sentence went unfinished. She heard her children shriek. Not now. She rose to her feet. ‘Excuse me a moment, Brother Francis, the children …’

  Too late; Ulf and Gunnhild were racing into the hall, Ulf chasing his sister. Gunnhild flew up to her and clutched her cloak and then, as she tried to unpeel her daughter, to her horror Elditha saw that what she was wearing was in fact a vestment. Before she could speak, Gunnhild had turned to Brother Francis and was saying in a solemn voice, ‘Can you betroth us?’

  ‘Hush, Gunnhild,’ Elditha said.

  Brother Francis looked both children up and down. Elditha could feel his censure of her and her children. She heard the chill in his voice as he said, ‘I am come to Reredfelle for other purposes, certainly not to betroth brother and sister. Perhaps the children could show me the chapel.’ He pointed at Gunnhild. ‘And then we can return that garment to its rightful home.’ He removed his eyes from Gunnhild to her and lifted a box that sat by his side on the bench. He added, ‘Lady Elditha, the Archbishop himself has sent this relic as a gift for Reredfelle’s chapel.’ He shuddered dramatically. ‘And I do think, my lady, that here we are sorely in need of St Benedict’s help.’

  ‘St Benedict?’ She reached out for the box but as she went to touch it, he pulled it away.

  ‘His finger bone. You must provide a more fitting reliquary for it: a crystal shrine decorated with gold and jewels – sapphires, perhaps, the colour of the Virgin’s veil – but for now it remains in this box created from the cedars of Lebanon.’

  ‘A moment please, Brother Francis.’ Elditha leaned down and placed her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Gunnhild, and Ulf, you too.’ She looked at him sternly. ‘Put those garments back into the coffer where they belong. And fetch Margaret to me. She really must be more attentive to your play acting. Then we shall show Brother Francis our chapel.’ She turned to the monk. ‘The vestments will be cleaned carefully and restored to your care. They were in an old chest behind the hall.’ Elditha spoke again to the children. ‘No more silliness. We shall wait here by the hearth until you return. Go at once.’ They slowly trailed off and she shook her head and sighed. If God could forgive Harold the setting aside of a wife, then he must forgive her need to love and even spoil her children. ‘Well, Brother Francis,’ she said, scanning the monk’s countenance, ‘I hope you will be content with us.’

  The Reredfelle chapel was built of stone. It was a small and plain structure that possessed a simple chancel and nave and high, glazed, arched windows. Despite glass windows that kept out rain and wind, the inside was always cool. If God’s sanctuary at Reredfelle was the resting place for an important and travelled relic, Brother Francis soon made it clear to Elditha and anyone else who would listen that he was determined to make the chapel worthy of it.

  Determined not to antagonise him further, Elditha allowed Brother Francis to supervise the painter from Hastings as he painted the stone chapel’s inside walls. He would create a world’s doom painting on the chapel walls. Oswald set to work. Brother Francis designed the wall paintings. All the painter had to do was sketch with charcoal and paint in the demons and angels. Elditha watched the work’s progress, bemused. Perhaps Oswald hoped that Brother Francis would recommend him as a church painter to the Archbishop himself. He seemed so creeping, so determined to please the priest. The painter was to be found working in the chapel by day and night in simple rush light. He flew insect-like along ladders and scaffolding that now covered the east wall. Brother Francis supervised, driving the project on. He was passionate. Then, two weeks before Easter, he told Elditha that the first wall painting would be revealed on Easter Friday. She showed her pleasure, saying, ‘You have done well, Brother Francis. Ulf enjoys your teaching too. And it keeps him out of mischief.’

  ‘And I think he is an able student. He knows many of his letters already, just in the space of a fortnight.’ But Brother Francis swung out his dark cloak which puffed up in the breeze, a little like himself. She politely said back, ‘It must be the teaching.’

  Gunnhild seemed bereft. She complained that she wanted to learn to read and write as well, and hung about the priest’s cottage. Occasionally, Brother Francis allowed her to scratch letters on a wax tablet, but more often he sent her back to Elditha to learn how to spin, saying, ‘Little girl, learn to run a household. You do not need writing.’

  Gunnhild ran to her mother complaining. Elditha shook her head. Since her own writing ability was lacking, she must find someone else to tutor her daughter. If Gunnhild wanted to learn, she must not stand in her way. She should, after all, spend a few years, but only two years, at Wilton, which was the only abbey that taught daughters of the nobility to read and writ
e as well as the art of fine English embroidery that was admired everywhere in the world.

  ‘I shall write to your father. Perhaps you can go to Wilton for a while.’

  ‘Please, please. I like Aunt Edith. I do want to go to Wilton.’

  Chapter Five

  That you, bejewelled should yourself recall

  In your secret heart the vows and oaths you both made

  in former times together, when you might still together

  live in festive cities and dwell in one land.

  The Husband’s Message , in A Choice of Anglo-Saxon Verse, edited and translated by Richard Hamer

  Soon after his arrival on the estate, Brother Francis took to passing time in the wooden village church waiting to catch hold of Father Egbert, who was always conveniently elsewhere. When Father Egbert eventually reappeared, Brother Francis questioned him about his faith, asking him how many services the villagers attended, seeking confirmation that they were observing Lent and saints’ days, and then he confronted him with the fact that the Archbishop now disapproved of priests taking wives. Father Egbert shrugged and replied that until the Archbishop deigned to come to the village, he would decide what was best for the villagers, and for him.

  Shortly after this encounter with Father Egbert, Brother Francis noticed the estate’s butcher outside his hut busy at work. Partridge hung from the eaves along with a brace of ducks. A pungent-smelling steam coiled up into the cold air. He angled his long nose into the crisp April air and sniffed. Then he saw it. A pig had just been slaughtered and it was dropped from a ghastly hook on the cottage gable, where blood and entrails spilled into a large vat. He stopped and watched for a moment. ‘Why have you butchered that pig? It is not the right season. I hope you are observing the last days of Lent.’

  The butcher wiped bloodied hands on his leather apron, studied the pallid-faced monk and said, ‘It’s a wild hog from the woods. When Lent is over we’ll all be glad of a blood sausage, you included.’ His woman raised an eyebrow and began collecting the blood into a pitcher. Brother Francis was sure that she had made a rude gesture behind his back, twirling a finger by her head and dropping it just as he glanced back. He hurried along the track, determined to report the villagers’ disrespectful practices to the Archbishop. As he passed through Reredfelle’s opened palisade gate, Lady Elditha’s skald was sitting on a tree stump. Above, crows cawed and careered across the clouded sky.

  ‘Good afternoon, Brother Francis.’ Padar lifted a small harp and began to sing. ‘There’s been a killing in the woods. There’ll be a wild partridge for supper and a pig is on the way.’

  ‘Partridge in Lent,’ Brother Francis repeated. He shuddered and hurried off. There was no doubt that the spitting star hung in the night sky because God was angry with England’s sinners – men and women like Lady Elditha’s villagers and servants. He would have to speak about this heathenish estate with the Archbishop himself.

  Later that week Ursula brought a messenger up to the antechamber where Elditha sat by the green glass window. Brother Francis was recording the coinage she had spent on seed for the great fields. He had taken this task from Guthlac, who was now busy supervising the sowing of grain. The visitor was one of Harold’s personal messengers.

  He bowed and said, ‘My lady, I bring a letter.’

  ‘So I see. Well, give me what he has to say.’ Brother Francis’s eyes widened. Noticing, she said quickly, ‘Ursula, take this man to the hall and see that he is fed and has a sleeping place for the night.’

  She then placed the small scroll on top of her sewing chair. ‘Now back to work, Brother Francis. I want this done well before noon. I have to hang up our cheeses later.’

  The candle burned the hour away. Elditha tried to concentrate, but her eyes kept returning to the scroll that lay so temptingly on her chair. At last, she closed the ledger with a thump. ‘It is done for today, Brother Francis. Go to my son. He is playing in the yard with the other children.’

  The priest’s eyes slid away from hers to the scroll. ‘Would you like me to read that to you, my lady, and scribe your reply?’ he asked smoothly.

  She raised an eyebrow. Really, the monk was insufferable. This unpleasant man would never see her personal correspondence and certainly nothing written by the King.

  ‘No, I can read, Brother Francis, as well you know. If there is to be a reply, the skald will take it. Go, Ulf must work on his letters for at least an hour this morning. Put the ledger in that chest.’ She handed over a key from the collection that fell from her belt.

  He lifted the heavy book, secured it in the coffer and returned the key to her. She watched and waited as his dark robe trailed through the heavy blue curtain and on to the landing. He stooped as he passed under the lintel. What a tall, thin man, she thought, and so little about him to like. At last she felt she could pick up the scroll. She examined it first, turning it over in her hands and peering at it cautiously. The seal had been tampered with and there were two extra cord tags on it, dropping from a second seal. She frowned as she realised whose tags these were. Puzzled, Elditha unrolled the scroll and read the curt message it contained. The messenger had travelled from the north all the way to Queen Edith in Winchester first and only after that had he travelled on to Reredfelle. Harold, too, clearly wanted his youngest daughter to be educated at the abbey at Wilton. It was one thing for her to request this, another for him to pre-empt the request.

  Elditha summoned Padar to her antechamber. When he pushed through the curtain she spun round. She had been pacing and thinking.

  ‘My lady, you sent for me?’ he said standing just inside the doorway.

  ‘Padar. I need advice and there are few that I trust with it.’ She waved the letter. ‘First, my husband sends us our Brother Francis, a monk who is obsessed by Pope Alexander’s reforms; a zeal that is, no doubt, popular with our Norman enemies. Now read it.’ She pushed the letter into his hands.

  Padar read slowly. He frowned and handed the scroll back without a word.

  ‘Padar, what am I to do? Gunnhild wants to go to her aunt.’

  Padar looked up at her. ‘Let her go. Your daughter will thrive with her aunt at Wilton. It is where many of our noble girls learn to write and speak in tongues other than our own and that will prepare her for a great future. My lady, he misses you and promises to come soon.’

  She turned from him at that and glanced out of the opened window towards her garden. Margaret’s loud voice drifted up, telling Gunnhild to fetch a jug of cream from the dairy. She had learned to live alone but sometimes she missed him. Some nights, when she slept beneath the green glass window, her heart yearned for him. They had bedded each other here during the first summer of their marriage and they had conceived Godwin beneath this window. And now Harold was putting the affairs of state before her whom he had loved and declared he loved more than lands or even, he had said then, more than a kingdom itself.

  But she must look to the future of her children, not dwell on the past. Gunnhild should go and learn the things men learned, so that she could find her way in the world. If she desired the Church, so be it, though many a nun went blind embroidering God’s work. She turned back to Padar. ‘Padar, you must ride to London and tell my husband that, yes, he is missed. If he is not in London, discover his whereabouts. Find out where he will pass Easter. Ask him if he remembers he has a son here and a wife. And I want to know, Padar, if he has yet wed with that pasty-faced widow.’ She added in a quiet voice, ‘And say to him that Gunnhild will go to Wilton.’

  She summoned the messenger and ordered him back to Winchester, to Queen Edith to inform her that Gunnhild would travel after the Easter feast. When Elditha told her daughter that she was to go to her Aunt Edith and that she must choose two of the older maids as companions to accompany her, she could see by Gunnhild’s happy face that she had made the right decision. ‘And, of course, I shall come to visit you in Wilton once you are settled. Meantime, my sweet, we have much to do: gowns to stitch, shoes an
d a coffer to fill. And we must send gifts with you to your aunt. We have only three weeks to prepare.’ As she spoke, Gunnhild’s eyes grew wide with excitement.

  ‘May I bring Lise and Greta?’

  ‘You may, but they must only stay with you until you are settled.’

  How she would miss this lovely, dutiful daughter.

  A few days later Guthlac brought Elditha the slaughtered pig. She was in the kitchen when he arrived, filling little bags with fennel for Gunnhild’s coffers. Clay bottles were waiting for her to pour unguents and healing potions into them, all gifts for Edith. The pig was, Guthlac told her, a gift from the village. She filled the last linen bag as he waited and tied a cord around it. Everyone wanted to eat flesh again instead of the fast-day diet of bread, worts, pease pottage and salted herring.

  ‘But, Guthlac, the village has more need of this pig than we do here.’

  ‘Wild pigs are plentiful now. We have already slaughtered several more.’

  She nodded. ‘You are right, the woods yield food even if the fields have suffered neglect. My thanes hunt the deer there. At least we have sides of venison hanging in our stores.’ She added cautiously, thinking of Brother Francis and his disapproval of her people. ‘So how do my villagers fare?’

  ‘Well, my lady, but we have had visitors.’

  She raised an eyebrow and set down a small flask she was holding. ‘Really, who would bother us?’

  Guthlac told her about two strangers who had ridden through the village that week and who had stopped and asked questions. He added, ‘And claiming to be merchants on their way south to Hastings.’

  She chewed at her lower lip. ‘Maybe they are as they say. They never came to my hall, though. That is odd. The only stranger to come here in recent days has been the messenger from Queen Edith.’

  ‘My lady, these were no ordinary merchants. They were more interested in gathering information than the selling of buckles. They poked their noses into everything. They asked if the King was wed again. They enquired if his children are with Lady Elditha at Reredfelle. They claimed that they wanted to purchase wool from your manor. My lady, has anyone come to purchase wool? No.’