Fires of Winter (24 page)

“I see.” She nodded. “Being untrustworthy himself, he cannot trust others, so he sent you away to be able to buy information from one or another of the knights and squires who attend the king. Then he would know who speaks against him and exactly what accusation was made so he can counter it without even seeming to know he was accused. Yes, that is all very well, but why now? Why not six months ago or six months hence?”

For a moment I sat staring at her. I had been overjoyed when I learned that Melusine was not a half-wit, but I had not really connected that with the queen's insistence that she was exceptionally clever until this moment. I had a sudden uncomfortable memory of the queen's warning about falling into her power. But it was ridiculous to ignore a sensible question. There was no thread in this that could be woven into a rope that would tie me to Matilda's cause.

“Six months ago we were in the field and only a fool would speak against Waleran's influence there. He is a fine soldier. He is certainly too good a soldier to want to deprive the king of a loyal companion to support him when fighting is to be done. That answers why he did not wish to be rid of me six months in the past.”

When I said that Waleran was a fine soldier, Melusine turned her head away again, but she bent to pull and flatten the loose end of the stirrup strap, so I could not be certain whether hiding her face was deliberate. That strap could have loosened during the canter and finally worked itself into an irritating loop. She had looked back at me wearing the same look of interest without too much intensity by the time I finished.

“And as to six months in the future,” she remarked tartly, “once rid of you now, perhaps he hopes an accident or fate will remove you permanently. Never mind that. I thought from what you said that it was not easy to get the king to send you, so perhaps the king had more cause than usual to need a discreet servant. Or did I misunderstand?”

“No, you did not misunderstand, but when the subject was first broached, a week ago, Stephen was not particularly unwilling to part with me. He was eager for me to renew my ties in Jernaeve—I must speak to you about that some time and explain, but it can wait. It was only after the canon from Canterbury came on Saturday that Stephen suddenly changed his mind. And you are right about something else. Waleran must have been desperate to be rid of me, for on Saturday night, after Stephen decided that he could not spare me, Jernaeve or no Jernaeve, Waleran took great trouble to get the king to let me go.”

“A canon from Canterbury? Does that somehow fit with Winchester's ignorance of the messages you carry?”

“Not the messages. They have nothing to do with the Church. They are only Stephen's thanks to such men as William d'Aumale and Walter Espec for holding back the Scots.”

But even as I said the words I remembered how Waleran had prevented Stephen from using the priest to carry the messages so that none who received the rewards should think they came through the archbishop of York's recommendation.

“Not the messages,” I repeated slowly, “yet I am beginning to be afraid that through Waleran's influence something is being planned against the Church—no, not the Church but against Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely.” Instinctively I stopped Barbe to turn him.

“Are we going back?” Melusine cried.

I sat still for a breath or two, conscience struggling with desire, until reason intervened. My distrust of Waleran was making me see wrong where there might be right. I knew that Salisbury and his nephews did their work efficiently, but was I so sure that they were loyal to Stephen? They had violated the oath they had given King Henry to support Matilda—of course, Stephen had violated the oath also, but it seemed to me that when a man of the Church swore he should be bound more straitly than a common man. Besides, from all I had seen and heard—although it was many years ago—I did not want Matilda for a queen. And it was not only Waleran who would have better information about what Stephen intended. If anyone around the king could be bought, the bishops could buy as well as Waleran.

Turning Barbe's head north again, I said to Melusine, “We will not go back.”

“Thank God for that,” she sighed. “For you to thrust yourself between Waleran and the bishops is asking to be ground small between the upper and nether millstone.”

“It is not that,” I protested. “If I thought I could do good for my master or for the realm, I would do it. I dare not try to interfere because I do not know what is right and what is wrong.” I told her then about the coldness between the king and his brother Winchester and how that coldness seemed to be spreading to Salisbury, Ely, and Lincoln, who were the highest officials of the realm.

“And I have no doubt that Waleran de Meulan is doing everything he can to make cold colder,” Melusine mused when I was done. She was looking between Vinaigre's ears, and I wondered whether she approved or disapproved of Waleran's activity. Then she shook her head and turned to me again. “If I had known this, of course I would not have gone near Winchester.”

“You think Waleran a better advisor than the king's brother?” I asked, doing my best to sound indifferent.

“How could I know such a thing?” she countered, not really answering my question. “What I do know,” she went on, “is that safety lies in being attached to neither party. I was a fool. I should have gone to the queen with my questions about the cart or found some other way to deal with the matter. It was just…when the king went into his chamber without inviting Winchester, I had the strangest feeling that the bishop was…lonely. Is that not the silliest—”

“Not so silly,” I interrupted. “I am not sure the emotion you read was loneliness, but it might be. I think that Winchester greatly regrets the quarrel that hurt the king and wishes to amend the rift between them. But that Stephen should go to be private with Waleran without calling Winchester to join them might easily arouse strong feelings other than loneliness in the bishop.”

There was a long moment of silence. Melusine stared at me, but I do not think she saw
me
. She was remembering something else she had seen. Then she drew a deep breath, as one does when coming to terms with some unpleasant thought, and she saw me again, grimaced, and said, “I see that I spoke at just the wrong time, but I wonder what Winchester thought I was hinting at? And why was he so excited about your carrying messages to the Scots?”

I told her about Salisbury's suggestion that Stephen press King David for a treaty but did not say why. It seemed unwise to discuss the probability of future rebellions with the daughter of a rebel. “I suppose,” I ended, “that Winchester hoped the king had changed his mind and decided to send a proposal. I am a Knight of the Body and would be considered a confidential servant; on the other hand, I am no great lord and could arrive at the Scots court and see King David privately, so if the idea of a treaty were refused, the matter might remain secret. It would have been a good plan, something old King Henry might have done, but Stephen is not subtle.

“Do you wish for a treaty?” Melusine asked.

“Yes.” I shrugged. “But my reasons are selfish. Northumbria is my home, and it is Northumbria that is first ravaged in any war with the Scots. I am not sure that the bishops were right.”

Then I fell silent because those last words were more a tribute to my loyalty to Stephen than to reason. I had none of the king's easy optimism. I could not believe that all rebellion had been quashed; neither could I believe that Robert of Gloucester would delay much longer in coming to England. Of course, if Queen Maud's ships took him prisoner or drowned him in the narrow sea, all might be well; however, if he escaped and found a landing place in England, his vassals would fly to arms again and there would be much less reason for David to accept reasonable terms of treaty.

“This is a lovely day for travel,” Melusine said lightly, after riding beside me in silence for a time. “When we see a pleasant place, we can stop to eat. I have food and a little wine in the saddlebags.”

“Again, bless you,” I exclaimed. “I had completely forgot that the saddlebags on Barbe carry much less palatable stuff. Parchments and wax are poor stuff for filling a belly, however good these may be for the spirit.”

I laughed, but I was most sincerely grateful to Melusine for so quickly leaving a subject that must have been of deep interest to her. A firm treaty with David would mean—or, at least, should mean—no support or encouragement for rebels in Cumbria, and that might make it easier to recover her land there. Yet Melusine had put aside her questions as soon as she saw the subject made me uncomfortable. I glanced at her, but her eyes were bright and her lips curved in amusement at my remark about parchment and wax. She was a very pleasant companion; I realized with a sense of surprise that for me Melusine was as easy to be with as Audris. Once more I reminded myself that Maud had been right about how extraordinarily clever Melusine was; and she might be right about her intention of ensorcelling me into an obedient slave. I almost wished, as she made some counter-jest about the food, that she would whine and complain or pick a quarrel.

To my dismay, I found myself liking my wife better and better with every day's travel—and that owed nothing at all to my physical desire for her. Except on one night I suffered no temptation, and on that night I was so tired that Sir Jehan could hardly lift his head and was easily discouraged. For the first four nights, we lodged in the hostels of either abbeys or convents, and both holy houses separated even married male and female travelers, lest they be desecrated by carnal congress, I suppose. The fifth day was wet, not a downpour, but a constant drizzle that annoyed without soaking. We had the choice of stopping too early to lodge in York and getting out of the wet or riding on to Ripon, which I thought we could reach before dark.

I offered the choice to Melusine, who said at once she wished to ride forward despite the rain. She seemed so eager to leave York, where we could have found comfortable lodgings, that I wondered whether she did not wish to stay near Archbishop Thurstan, who had created the army that defeated King David. Later, when it was growing really dark and I realized we had missed the side lane to Ripon, I wondered if Melusine had distracted me apurpose by her lively conversation from watching for it because she hoped to reach Richmond. That was one of the keeps from which she had tried to escape and it was possible she had friends there. But when that thought came into my mind and I said we should make camp, Melusine displayed no reluctance to stop. And she was so cheerful as we made the best of cold, damp food and huddled together under damp blankets that I blamed myself for imagining she had any evil intent.

Indeed, I began to believe she had spoken the truth when she told me she did not wish to escape, that to run to her people could only do them harm. Certainly she made no attempt to escape, then or earlier when I gave her freedom—although not so much as she thought she had—to buy in the markets of towns we passed. Nor did she go from me that night, which she could have done for I slept very deeply. That worried me too. I should not have slept so soundly. No matter how tired I have been from march or battle, when there was reason to be watchful I have rested lightly, ready to wake at a twitch or a whisper. To let myself sleep like the dead meant that deep inside I trusted Melusine. Yet I
knew
it was wrong to trust her.

In the morning, she was no less cheerful—making nothing of relieving her bladder and bowels behind a thin screen of brush and casting about until she found a wild apple tree from which she brought back a skirt full of fruit to add to the even damper bread and cheese that remained. Apples were also offered to Vinaigre and to Barbe, after she asked if he were allowed to have them. So much sweetness and light did nothing to ease my mind. I was sure any other woman in the world would have been hissing and spitting.

As she helped me squeeze out as much wet as we could from the two sodden blankets we had hung from the limb of a tree to keep off the rain, my unease made me question her, disguising my purpose in flattery of her hardiness to discomfort. After looking at me in what seemed like honest amazement, she laughed most heartily at the notion that she would be deterred from doing anything by “a little mist in the air.”

“When we come to Ulle,” she said, still laughing, “you will see what rain and wind are.”

But then the laughter caught in her throat and she looked stricken and turned away. It was not fear or horror this time though. Something to do with rain and wind in Ulle had reminded her of an unpleasant idea? experience?

We stayed that night at Durham, and the next day came to Jernaeve early in the afternoon. I do not remember much beyond the warmth of our greeting because after that I was told of Sir Oliver's death. I had not known how much I loved him until I learned he was gone forever. I do not think I had ever suffered such grief and such regret. In the past, after the battle of Bourg Thérould, I had wept bitterly for the loss of my boyhood, but that was nothing compared with the scorching of my soul when I realized I could never tell Sir Oliver that I understood what he had done for me, that I had never touched him or kissed him in love in all the years he had cared for me. Only then did I understand that he could have cast me out naked and that instead he had given me a father's care, provided for me as a loving parent would provide for a younger son.

It was worse for me because I could not speak of my grief to Audris or to Hugh. Hugh was still weak from a fever that had come from many small wounds and nearly killed him. And what I saw in his face when Audris told me of her uncle's death reminded me that he feared daily to hear the same news about his foster father, Archbishop Thurstan, who was an old man and very weak. To speak to Hugh of grief and regrets over the death of the man who had been, though I had never recognized it until too late, the only father I had, would come too close to his own fears and be cruel in his weakened state.