Eventually Fitz regained control once more.
“It is done,” he said heavily, “and it is terribly done, but it is done and there is naught I can do to change it.”
“I mourn for you,” Catheryn said quietly.
“And I appreciate the companionship,” said Fitz. “When her own mother will not join me in the sadness, it is good to have some company.”
Catheryn knew that she should leave him; that Fitz needed to rest, to completely recover his strength; that Adeliza would need caring for as well. But nothing beyond her mind made any sort of move, because every nerve in her body wanted to stay where she was. It was as if there was nothing else for her beyond the four walls of that sick chamber.
“Catheryn,” Fitz said hesitantly. “You must know… you cannot fail to realise that there is absolutely nothing that we can do about these feelings that we have.”
His words were like iron fists into her stomach, and yet Catheryn could not help but admit that she had been expecting them.
“Despite the fact that we love each other?”
Fitz smiled wryly. “Because of that very reason. This love we have… it cannot leave these walls. We can never speak of it again, and we cannot change the way that our lives are.”
“I have nothing else to live for.”
It was not until Catheryn said the words that she realised just how true they were. Her husband – Selwyn, the man that had taught her so much about the world – was dead. He had been killed on a field and lain where no one knew until the ground reclaimed its own. Her son had been cut down beyond her reach; she had no knowledge of what his last words were, his last sights, and sounds. Her other child could be dead or alive: she had no way of telling. Home taken, friends killed, country ruled over by a foreign lord that she had sworn no oath to. Catheryn had no other reason to continue, except this brave and honest man who lay before her.
“I am married.”
“I know,” Catheryn said, a tear in her eye that she would not let fall. “And despite my feelings for you, I cannot dislike Adeliza. She is a good woman, despite her faults.”
“She is a good woman,” Fitz agreed, “and she has given me a family. I have three children still living, and I cannot wrench away from them.”
“I would not ask you to!”
“I would be forced to if I chose to leave their mother, you must know that,” said Fitz. “Divorce… it is not permitted unless there are extreme circumstances. I made vows to Adeliza a long time ago, but they were made until death, and I am not a man to break them.”
Catheryn was very aware of just how close Fitz was. His breathing was deep, and his shirt was not closed at his neck. The silver strands of his hair were just beyond her fingertips – and yet it was a divide that she knew she would never cross.
“And even,” Fitz pushed through, heart breaking that his words would cause Catheryn pain, “even if Adeliza did not even exist, even if I was a widower, alone in the world, I am too close to the King. You are a disgraced Anglo-Saxon and I am the King of England’s cousin. There is just – there is nothing to be done.”
Catheryn sighed. “If only I had land, and power; or wealth, and friends.”
Fitz smiled. “Small recompense for my loss, I suppose, but –”
“Do not misunderstand me!” laughed Catheryn bitterly. “I do not suggest them as alternatives. I just thought – if I had but one of them, then I would certainly be a more interesting and suitable marriage prospect.”
Fitz shrugged, and then winced as something in his shoulder gave him pain.
“And I suppose that is that,” Catheryn said quietly.
Fitz pulled a hand out to brush against Catheryn’s face. His fingers felt warm, and the comfort that they gave to Catheryn could not be put into words.
“My love,” Fitz whispered, “and I will call you my love, even if it is for the first and last time – just because I do not say that I love you, show that I love you, marry you, that does not mean that I do not feel what I feel for you.”
Catheryn smiled sadly. “That will have to be enough.”
She rose, carefully putting Fitz’s arm back underneath the covers so that he could keep warm. Walking to the door, she opened it, and was about to walk through it when Fitz spoke.
“Catheryn?”
She looked at him: the man that she wished she could pledge her heart to.
“What will you do now?”
There was real concern on his face, and Catheryn smiled to see it.
“Do?” she said lightly. “There’s only one thing I can do. I am going to break out of here, and find my daughter.”
Chapter Twenty Three
With Fitz still in his sick bed, and Adeliza refusing to stir from her bed chamber, the heavy task of preparing Isabella’s body for burial fell to Catheryn and Ursule. It took every inch of her self-control to prevent Catheryn from weeping as she gently caressed the young body with warm water. Isabella was so young, had done so little, had seen so little of the world. She had never grown, or married, or had children of her own. She had never learned to love literature, as Catheryn had, and she would never sing with her siblings again.
All of that was over.
“Just pretend that I am not here,” said the priest, sitting on a stool by one side of the bed. He had been brought by Roger, and had been watching over Isabella’s body for the vigil. He had not left her side for a moment over the last day, and the tiredness on his face had drawn lines of sadness around his eyes.
Catheryn smiled at him. “It is good to see you here, Father. Thank you for coming.”
The man raised his hands, and said, “My lady Catheryn, you honour me. I merely come to a part of my flock that needs tending.”
Tending, Catheryn thought. That was an interesting way of describing the horror that had flooded through this family, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.
Catheryn cast a worried look over to the other bed in the chamber. Fitz lay motionless, but his eyes were open. Despite all that she and Ursule had said, they had not managed to persuade him to leave the room, or to allow Isabella’s body to be prepared elsewhere. They had brought it back, and Fitz had stared unblinking at the body that had once held the laughter and the life of his daughter. He was still too weak to move, and too weak to attend his own daughter’s funeral; this was the least, in his mind, that he could do, to be near her.
Ursule did not say a word as they worked together to dry Isabella’s body, but Catheryn could see that she was deeply affected. Without noticing where she was going, Ursule accidentally trod on Reginald’s tail; something that he did not easily forgive. But Catheryn could not draw her eyes away from the girl lying on the bed. She looked so peaceful. She could easily have been sleeping – and yet no dreams would visit her now.
“What jewellery will be placed with her?” Catheryn said, as Ursule rummaged in a box that had been given to her by Emma.
Ursule sighed. “Her sister has given us what she wants to be placed with Isabella, but…”
Catheryn spoke. “Why the hesitation?”
The sigh that Ursule let out was even deeper now. “She gave me some of her own wedding jewellery.”
Catheryn’s mouth fell open. Each daughter was given a portion of her mother’s jewellery, to wear on her wedding day. It was always very precious, handed down from mother to daughter to daughter.
“For Emma to give these up…” Catheryn said softly. “It is almost as though she is saying –”
“That she will never marry,” Ursule finished. “Yes, I know. But this is what she has given us, and I am loath to go against her wishes.”
Catheryn considered it. Adeliza was a wealthy woman; she would have many other jewels that could be given to Emma. She was the only daughter now, and Adeliza was unlikely to have another child.
“So be it,” she said softly. “Was a lead cross included?”
Ursule did not reply, but instead drew one from the box. She placed it on Isabell
a’s breast, and then, without speaking, both she and Catheryn put the jewellery given up by her twin sister on her fingers, wrist, and around her neck. The gold glittered in the candlelight. And then it was done.
“Jewellery can be replaced.”
Catheryn started; turning, she saw Fitz staring at her.
“Daughters cannot,” he said, his voice hoarse with grief.
“I know that,” Catheryn said bitterly. “If there is anyone else in the world other than you that knows that, it is I.”
Fitz opened his mouth to reply, but instead a tear escaped from his eye. A heavy hand moved to wipe it away. Catheryn knew that the pain he felt could never be removed. She turned back to her companion.
“What linens have been sent us?” Ursule asked, her voice thick with emotion that she would not allow herself to indulge in.
Catheryn pointed wordlessly to the pile that lay by the door. The linens were pure white, and soft. Ursule stepped across the chamber, picked them up, and brought them over to the bed.
“You know how to prepare a body for the grave?” she said, the harshness in her tones masking the deep sadness.
Catheryn nodded. “I prepared both my mother and my father, when their time came.”
Ursule nodded. “Good. Then this should not take too long.”
The priest had to move back slightly as they began to wind the lines of linen around Isabella. Catheryn and Ursule worked fast, silently, their hands crossing as they passed the linen to each other. Soon, nothing of Isabella was visible save her face.
Ursule sighed, and sat down heavily. “It is done.”
“I shall finish here,” Catheryn said kindly, and began to wind the last portion of linen around Isabella’s face.
“No!” Ursule put out a hand to stop her. “That is not how it is done.”
“But…” Catheryn said, confused. “It is the way that it is done – at least, how we have always done it.”
“You are not in England now,” Ursule said quietly, “and here, we leave the face uncovered.”
It made no sense to Catheryn, but she obligingly put the last piece of linen down. She did not want to upset Isabella’s family, after all. She could not help but quickly glance over to Fitz’s bed, but his eyes were closed. It seemed that he had succumbed, finally, to sleep.
“I will follow you,” Catheryn said quietly.
Before Ursule could reply, the door to the chamber opened. Roger stood there, his brother William behind him. Two of Fitz’s men, part of his retinue, stood behind them. They were all dressed in black.
“Is she ready?”
Catheryn had not spoken to William, and so was surprised to hear how deep his voice was. He was almost a copy of Fitz – a replica of a Fitz that she had never known, but had probably lived around twenty years ago. His beard was a little lighter, and not so coarse, and there was no tiredness in his eyes; but save those differences, they could be the same man.
“She is ready.” Ursule obviously realised that Catheryn could not speak. “Bring it in.”
Catheryn stood back as the wooden coffin was brought into the room, and placed on the floor between the two beds.
Without a sound, Catheryn and Ursule lifted what was once Isabella, and placed her in the coffin. It had been lined with rosemary.
Roger and William placed the lid on the top of the coffin. All at once, Isabella’s face was obscured from view, and it would remain that way forever. That was the last glimpse that any living person would have of the eldest FitzOsbern daughter.
Roger turned to Catheryn. “If you wish to dress for the… I believe that you should do it now.”
“I would agree,” the priest, still sitting down, spoke up. “I believe that we should leave soon.”
“I will be but a moment,” Catheryn replied, gathering up the remaining piece of linen. “And then I shall join you.”
*
The church was cold. Candles had been lit throughout, but that did not prevent the icy breath of those that gathered within it from rising above them.
Catheryn drew her cloak to her, and shivered. The church was full; so full, in fact, that many of the local villagers were standing in the porch, and outside the church. All had wanted to pay their last respects to a girl that had been so gentle, and yet so wild. The men, as was the custom, wore black, and the women wore white. That was how it was for a lady of such high birth as Isabella. Why, you could say that she was a cousin of the King.
One woman sobbed. Catheryn could see from her place near the right hand side of the altar that it was Adeliza. Emma was by her side, draped in white, and she had a hand resting on her mother’s, which shook.
The coffin that held Isabella’s body had been brought in by her two brothers and the two men Catheryn had seen them with earlier, and been placed before the altar. A white covering had been placed over it. In Catheryn’s eyes the coffin seemed to get larger and larger, the church smaller and smaller.
Catheryn could hear that the priest was speaking, but it was hard for her to really take in his words. It was difficult for her to take anything in; that Isabella could be dead, that she would not see the spring; it did not seem to make any sense.
The priest had finished the prayers, and was now speaking about Isabella as the Mass was sung behind him.
“An innocent girl,” he was saying, “who knew no faults, and will be received pure and whole by our Creator…”
Knew no faults, Catheryn thought, and smiled despite herself. The priest might not have said that if he had heard the two sisters fighting. And yet, he was right in a way. She had never done anything truly terrible, and yet had never experienced anything truly wonderful. Before all that life held for her had approached, she had been snatched away from it.
The candles were being distributed, and Catheryn lit hers from Ursule, who stood beside her. Ursule wore white also, but it was obscured partly by the fur of Reginald, once again wrapped around her neck.
At last, the coffin rose onto the shoulders of the four men once more, and was carried around to the middle of the church. A grave had already been dug there, and a memorial stone already carved by a man in the village. Slowly, with great care, the coffin was lowered into it.
“Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech thee…” The priest began to speak again, and many of those that had attended too many services like this one, began to speak along with him. Catheryn joined them.
“…so may thy mercy unite her above to the choirs of angels, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Chapter Twenty Four
Fitz’s recovery was long, and hard. Catheryn spent so much of her time sending word to Ursule, begging her to come back to the castle and treat Fitz when he descended once more into a fever, that Ursule eventually demanded her own chambers in the castle.
“And don’t forget my payment!” she would mutter, wandering down a corridor with Reginald weaving in and out of her tiny legs. “I won’t do naught without my payment.”
Roger disliked her, but could not help but admire the way that she managed to keep Fitz away from death, month after month.
“Whether it is witchcraft, or the power of God, or some other female power,” Catheryn once heard him say to Emma, “there is something strange about that woman.”
And yet despite his mistrust, Roger was always true to his word; each and every week, a new barrel of ale would be rolled by a servant into Ursule’s chamber.
“Why do you think she wants so much ale?” Roger would ask Emma.
But Emma would invariably not reply. The loss of her twin sister had hit her harder than Catheryn had thought possible. For one so young, to be grieving in such a way – there was, Catheryn supposed, no telling exactly how long it would be before she would recover. If she ever would.
Adeliza spent another six months refusing to take a step closer to her husband. Catheryn moved through the motions of anger, disbelief, and finally pity at the way that Adeliza would be desperate for news of her husband, but n
ot take the leap of walking into his sick chamber. Her fear of sickness grew after Isabella’s death, and there was nothing that Catheryn could do to persuade her that the danger – for others – had passed.
Fitz’s own danger did not disappear until just before Christmas in 1068. After three months without a single worrying turn, Ursule took Catheryn aside.
“That’s finally done it,” she said, smiling wearily. Catheryn blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“He will live, and live strong.”
Catheryn breathed a sigh of relief. “You are sure?”
Ursule shrugged her shoulders, made heavy again by the weight of a sleeping Reginald. “As sure as a body can be, my lady. He will not sink again until he is sunk into the grave, and I do not believe that will be for a good many years yet.”
Christmas that year was taken slowly. Unlike the year when Fitz had remained, tossing and turning in his sick bed, unsure who the people attending to his needs even were, this year the entire family sat at the table. A space was left for Isabella. Her absence was like a weighty cloud, pressing on them heavily. They could not ignore it, and yet there was nothing to say, nothing to cry out at.
It was just… absence.
In the New Year, Catheryn realised that their lives had returned to what could only be described as normal. A sort of normality that seemed to belie the tension that was now present. She and Adeliza could never be friends again. By the time that February arrived Catheryn was sure of it.
“I was to sit there,” Adeliza said curtly, as Catheryn gently lowered herself into a chair by the fire in the Great Hall. “You will not mind if I take it.”
Without waiting for an answer, Adeliza reached out, grabbed Catheryn’s arm, and physically pulled her from the chair.
Catheryn stared with an open mouth as the lady of the house almost fell into the seat. Fitz was sitting opposite them. He looked up. Catheryn caught his eye.
Fitz shook his head, almost too slowly for Catheryn to see – but she did see, and she knew what he meant. He was telling her that it was simply not worth the aggravation to say anything.