The Shattered Rose (48 page)

Galeran counted the sheets. Five of them. "Is it all here?"

"Everything I could think to relate. The bad as well as the good. Like the three nights he kept us all up when he was teething. Like the way he would bounce in time to a drum . . ." Her eyes were still searching his anxiously. "I didn't give it to you sooner because I wasn't sure . . ."

"No. You were right. I wasn't ready. But now . . ." He had no words for what was in his heart. "Now ... I thank you . . ." Suddenly unable to speak, he gathered her into his arms. "Thank you. Oh, God, thank you."

She held him tight, stroking him. "In a way," she whispered, "I, too, never mourned him properly. It all whirled out of control so fast. ... If you will, perhaps we can read through this together. And weep together."

He nodded his head against her shoulder, parchment crushed tight in his hand, and prayed that his son—now surely an angel in heaven—intercede for them. Surely they deserved happiness, and the gift to be of benefit to the world. And perhaps, if God was truly good, one day another child, theirs to enjoy in peace and harmony.

Later that night, after tears and laughter, with a picture of his son filling his heart, Galeran made love to his wife. Not as he had dreamed of on the way home from Jerusalem, in a healing blast of released need. Not as they had done since, trying to cobble the tattered fragments of their love together as best they could. But in wonder at each other, that what had been so good could become, through the crucible, a richer, deeper treasure.

Epilogue

Jouray, Guyenne, September 1103

Aline went out of the fortified house that was her home, searching for Raoul, who was somewhere in the fields checking on the grape harvest. She carried little Hubert on her hip, though at just over a year, he was wriggling to get down.

"In a little while, love. I want to find your father and tell him the news."

She hurried down a path edged by flowering bushes. The number and richness of fruits and flowers here still astonished her. There were times when she longed for her bleaker homeland, but not so many. And even if she were homesick, she would never want to be anywhere but near Raoul. She just hoped peace continued so he'd never have to travel far from her.

A silly thought for the wife of a warrior, and one she did not trouble him with except to scold when he injured himself practicing.

As he had just the other day.

She'd deliberately bound his arm so tight, he could hardly move it. He'd grumbled about that, but made it an excuse to lie passively beneath her last night while she inflicted her every whim upon him.

Thinking about it, she chuckled, and Hubert chuckled too.

"Papa!" Hubert called, pointing.

The child had inherited his father's long sight, for there indeed sat Raoul on his horse, overseeing the workers, who were gathering the plump, juicy grapes into baskets.

Some of the previous night's whims had to do with plump, juicy grapes. She did enjoy harvest time. . . .

Aline dragged her mind off such thoughts, or she'd be wanting to seduce her husband in the fields. Again, She'd done that more than once, and would have done it today if it weren't for the child.

Raoul heard his son and waved. In moments he cantered over to them. "Trouble?"

"The very opposite!" Aline waved the letter. "Jehanne was safe delivered of a son three weeks ago."

He swung off his horse and took his son in his arms. "That is good news. Read it to me."

Dearest cousin,

I send you the best and happiest news, that we were blessed with a healthy son on St. Giles's Day. The labor went easily and he was born with the dawn. We have called him Henry, for the king had something to do with our happiness, and his favor could be useful one day. He is not very like Gallot, being dark-haired and -eyed as far as we can tell.

Donata loves her little brother, and calls him Henny. Of course, she wants to hold him all the time, but she is too little yet to do so without supervision. She is bright and mischievous, and everyone says she is just like me at that age. I will have to teach her to think before she acts.

All is peaceful here, God be praised, since the failure of Duke Robert's invasion, and King Henry has established firm law throughout the land. This spring his queen gave birth to their first child, so, God willing, England can look forward to peace and prosperity.

I hope that soon you will travel with one of Raoul's family's ships to Stockton and visit us up here in the bleak north, for I long to see you again, and your child.

Your devoted cousin,

Jehanne of Heywood

Hubert was increasingly restless, so Raoul put him down to explore. "God truly does seem to have smiled upon his people. There were times, you know, when I doubted Galeran and Jehanne would find their way again."

"But they had trust." Aline stepped over to wrap her arm around her husbands waist. "With trust, anything is possible. Have I told you I trust you?"

He kissed her. "Every day, in every way. As I trust you." A wicked twinkle entered his eye, warning and exciting her. "In fact, I might trust you enough to let you tie me up."

"Tie you up!" She stared at him, growing hot at the thought. "Er ... is that a hint?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it's a warning. Since you trust me. Why don't you go back to the house and plan your strategy while I sit and contemplate sweet, plump, juicy grapes?"

Aline watched him ride away, even more tempted to ravish him in the fields, then picked up her son and hurried home, making plans, and very much looking forward to the coming night.

Author's Note

First: What's true and what's not?

The historical facts in this novel are as accurate as I could make them. However, I couldn't find any information about what happened in London in the early days of the reign of Henry I, so I made it up!

Ranulph Flambard was a real person, however, and as far as I was able, realistically portrayed here. He rose from obscurity in the service of William the Conqueror, hitting the highest point of his career under William’s son, William II (Rufus). Contemporary accounts of him are confusing, with some writers crediting him with charm and cleverness, and others with unmitigated evil. He surely was extremely clever, and probably needed charm to stay on the right side of the kings. It seems clear he was entirely without scruples, and avariciously ambitious.

Under William Rufus, Flambard ended up virtually running the country and being extremely unpopular. There does seem to have been an attempt to kill him by capturing him and taking him out to sea. It's difficult to imagine how he avoided death, but as the story goes he talked his way out of a ship full of pirates and armed enemies, so perhaps he did have a great deal of charm and cleverness!

There's no record of when Flambard became a priest, but in 1099 Rufus made him Bishop of Durham. Though Canterbury, York, and London were the bishoprics of greatest religious importance, Durham held the most land—most of the north of England, in fact. Flambard was now a powerful baron. How infuriated he must have been when his royal patron so carelessly got killed only a year later.

Henry Beauclerk, who, as I say in the book, wanted the Crown of England almost from the day of his birth, was quick to dissociate himself from his brother's most unpopular creation. He imprisoned Flambard in the Tower. Though contemporaries record the joy at this act, no one states the reason for the imprisonment, so in my story I've provided Henry with the excuse he must have needed. There's no indication in history that the bishop was beaten or harmed in any way.

In late 1100 or early 1101, Flambard apparently got his guards drunk at a banquet, then escaped from the Tower by climbing down a rope smuggled in to him in a wine cask. (At times it's difficult not to admire Ranulph's style!) He fled to Normandy, to Henry's brother, Duke Robert, who promptly gave him great power, and Ranulph organized Robert's attempt to invade and seize the Crown of England.

That attempt failed, however, and Ranulph began to woo Henry, soon achieving a pardon. Within a few years he was back in England, restored to his bishopric in Durham, and doubtless finding ways to squeeze money for the king. True to his promise in the book, however, Henry had broken the great power of the diocese of Durham, so it wasn't the prize it once was. Also, Henry was himself a shrewd and able administrator with his own hand-picked "household" of legal and financial experts, so Ranulph Flambard never regained the kind of power he had held under William Rufus. Flambard died in 1128.

A note about literacy, since it's a subject I sometimes get letters about. This is a hotly debated topic, but I side with those who believe that many nobles in the Middle Ages could read after a fashion, women more than men. It was considered a suitable skill for women, but a potentially weakening one for fighting men.

Writing, however, is a physical skill requiring a lot of practice to do well. Add the technical difficulties of writing on parchment or vellum with fragile pens and homemade inks, and it is reasonable to believe that people would use scribes just as executives used to use typists.

Now, on to time.

Before clocks—and clocks as we know them are hundreds of years in the future—most people did not reckon time in hours and minutes. They went by the sun and the church bells, and most churches and religious houses were going by the sun anyway by using sundials.

Early sundials made no allowance for the seasonal change in the sun's position and angle. This wasn't stupidity; it was because time was only needed to reflect the reality of people's lives, and lives changed in harmony with the seasons.

So, in fact, time was flexible.

Theoretically, the day was divided into eight equal portions marked by specific prayers. Matins was midnight, lauds was three A.M, etc. In winter, when nights were long, the time periods—read from sundials—meant that prime (meaning
first
in Latin, or daybreak) would be about eight A.M. and vespers (meaning
evening)
at about four P.M.

But in summer, when nights were short and days long, prime would be about four A.M. and vespers at around nine P.M. (And incidentally, in religious houses matins and lauds were usually said—i.e., prayed—together, so that people did get at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep.)

These time divisions, marked by prayer and bells, provided the rhythm for medieval life. They are called the canonical hours, and are as follows, with their approximate modern equivalent:

prime—six A.M.

terce—nine A.M.

sext—noon

none—three P.M.

vespers—six P.M.

compline—nine P.M.

matins—midnight

lauds—three A.M.

You'll see that they counted the day hours from one (prime) through to nine (none) with vespers signaling the end of most workdays. More logical really than our system, which has the day starting when nearly everyone is fast asleep!

Did you spot him? Those of you who have read my previous books will have recognized FitzRoger, the king's champion. He is the hero of an earlier book,
Dark Champion,
though that book actually takes place after this one.

The Normans in England not forty years after the Conquest were a small, tight-knit community.

I enjoy hearing from readers, and send out an occasional newsletter or other mailing. Please write to: Jo Beverley, c/o Alice Orr Agency, 305 Madison Ave. #1166, New York, NY 10165. An SASE is appreciated to help with the cost of a reply. Or you can contact me on the Internet at [email protected] or as Jo.B on GEnie.

My books to date. Please note that not all are available new, and that they rarely turn up used. You should be able to order some through your favorite bookseller, however, and I've marked them with a star.

Traditional Regencies:

*Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed; The Stanforth Secrets; The Stolen Bride; *Emily and the Dark Angel; *The Fortune Hunter; *Deirdre and Don Juan

The Company of Rogues Regencies:
An Arranged Marriage; An Unwilling Bride; Christmas Angel; *Forbidden; *Dangerous Joy
The Mallorens (Georgian):
*My Lady Notorious; *Tempting Fortune
Medievals:
*Lord of My Heart; *Dark Champion