Though the days were growing milder, the nights still had the bite of winter and Richard knelt at the hearth to build up the fire as Adrian prowled around the solar, glad to be back on his own land again. As he had done many times before, Adrian gave thanks that he had a brother whose loyalty, judgment, and battle skill were beyond question.
The last years had been busy ones. After the construction of Warfield Castle was well under way, Adrian had decided a second castle was needed at Montford to defend the southern part of his holdings. He had designated his brother as castellan, and most of the work had been done under Richard's supervision. As a result, Montford bore the mark of Richard's mind and taste, just as Warfield showed Adrian's.
Finished with the fire, Richard stood and brushed his hands. "How is the empress?"
Adrian's journey across the channel had been as escort to the Empress Matilda, who was returning home after nine tumultuous years in England. Taking a chair, Adrian replied, "She has not given way to despair, though she mourns her brother's death greatly."
"It was a grievous loss for all who knew him," Richard said somberly.
The Earl of Gloucester's sudden death had been a crushing blow to the empress's hopes. Once he decided to support his half-sister's claim to the throne, Earl Robert had devoted his considerable wealth, loyalty, and military skill to her cause. For Adrian and the other barons who had also been loyal to Matilda, loss of her chief supporter could mean political disaster if King Stephen now achieved ascendancy.
"Matilda may win the ultimate victory by sitting quietly in Rouen." Adrian smiled with unaccustomed mischief. "I swear the king is his own worst enemy. No sooner does he gain an advantage than he throws it away. Stephen must be mad to clash with the Church now."
Richard nodded agreement as he poured French wine from his private stock. "Having antagonized the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Pope, and Bernard of Clairvaux, Stephen can hardly expect the Church to be enthusiastic about confirming his son as heir to England."
"Eustace is Matilda's best ally. Stephen must be the only man in England who doesn't see that his son would be a disastrous king, with most of Stephen's faults and none of his virtues."
Adrian took an absent sip of his wine and stretched out in his chair, thinking of the red-haired youth he had visited in Anjou. The desire to know Matilda's son well enough to make a judgment for the future was one of the reasons he had escorted the empress to Normandy.
"I like what I saw of Henry FitzEmpress. Though he is only fifteen now, in a few years he will make a king to equal his grandfather. If and when it comes to a choice between Eustace and Henry, I think England will prefer Henry. Even the greediest of barons are tiring of civil war and anarchy."
"Let us hope so," Richard said pessimistically.
"When Henry inherits his father's lands, he will have the strength to take England if it is not freely offered. Matilda's allies here in the west country need only stand together and wait to be on the winning side." A note of amusement sounded in Adrian's voice. "To encourage continuing loyalty, the empress is being most generous with grants and charters. After all, such gifts cost her no more than the parchment they are written on."
"What did she grant you?" Richard asked with interest.
"Written license for Warfield and Montford castles, plus permission to build another should I deem it necessary."
His brother whistled softly. "A valuable charter indeed."
"Especially since Henry told me that when he becomes king, he means to destroy all unlicensed castles." Adrian chuckled. "The lad lacks neither confidence nor common sense."
"Did Matilda have any other rewards for you?"
"A few minor privileges, such as the right to hunt in the royal forest, plus one major one." Adrian paused to sip his wine, then said offhandedly, "She made me Earl of Shropshire."
"Jesu!" Thoroughly startled, it took Richard a moment to assimilate the news, then make an accurate deduction. "Was this prompted by the fact that shortly after you left England, the king created Guy of Burgoigne Earl of Shropshire?"
"Exactly. When word reached Rouen, I was not pleased." Adrian's voice was very dry. "Knowing how I felt, Matilda offered me the same rank, thinking that it would increase my incentive to fight Burgoigne for control of the shire." He stared into the fire, his face impassive again. "I didn't tell her that no such incentive was required."
It was not the first time that king and empress had created rival earls for the same county. In practical terms, control of the shire and its revenues went to whichever of the two claimants was stronger. Richard observed,"Since Guy forced the demoiselle of Chastain into marriage and now controls half of Shropshire, you are the best choice to hold him in check."
"Very true." Adrian sighed. "I pity poor Cecily of Chastain. Marriage by kidnap and rape is harsh even for an heiress. I would not wish Burgoigne on the worst termagant in Christendom."
His brother shrugged philosophically. All heiresses were wards of the king, to be handed out as prizes for royal supporters with no regard for the maids' own wishes. The demoiselle of Chastain had merely been unluckier than most. "When we kill him, she'll be free." Dismissing the subject, Richard poured himself more wine. "Speaking of heiresses, are you now officially betrothed to Isabel of Rouen?"
"I talked with her father again, but no final decision has been made."
Surprised, Richard raised his brows. "I thought you were set on the marriage. She has a fine dowry, and is said to be a handsome wench."
"It's a good match, but I can't say the girl appealed to me when I met her. Handsome, yes, but in a large and boisterous fashion." Adrian thought of the lady in question and the uncomfortable meeting they had had, then gave a self-mocking smile. "Nor was I to her taste."
Richard knew him well enough not to point out that one's wife did not have to be appealing. That's what mistresses were for. Instead he asked, "Are there any other girls of suitable rank that you prefer to Isabel?"
"Alas, no." Adrian shrugged. "I daresay Isabel and I can learn to be comfortable together. The idea of marriage has not been dropped, merely set aside for the moment."
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "For the moment marriage is of minor importance. What matters is that soon there will be open war between Burgoigne and Warfield. We will have to patrol the area along the boundaries to ensure that Guy doesn't destroy our villages and fields. I'm thinking of quartering small bands of men-at-arms in several villages so they can respond more quickly when Burgoigne attacks. What do you think?"
"It would make better sense to take the fighting to Burgoigne and burn his crops and fields."
"Which would hurt a lot of innocent villeins more than it would hurt him. There is no need to go after Guy, for he will surely come to us," Adrian said patiently.
Laying waste an enemy's territory was a standard tactic, but he was unable to forget that in the eyes of God, peasant lives and souls were as valuable as any other. More than once it had occurred to Adrian that a conscience was no asset to a baron. "Which villages do you think would be best for placing bands of men?"
The conversation turned to practical preparations for the coming conflict, which kept them occupied until the fire had collapsed into embers. Finally Adrian yawned and got to his feet. "We've made a good beginning. I'll return home tomorrow, but I'd like you to come to Warfield in a fortnight or so. There is still much to discuss." Then he bade his brother good night.
Despite his fatigue, sleep eluded Adrian. Though tonight he had brushed aside talk of marriage, the subject could not be ignored forever. Dutifully he had contracted a suitable marriage five years before, but the girl had died before reaching marriageable age and he had avoided choosing another.
He twisted restlessly in the feather mattress, knowing why he hesitated. It was foolish of him to want more of marriage than a good dowry and a healthy woman who would give him strong sons. For men of his rank marriage was a practical and political decision, and pleasure could be ha
d easily enough outside the marriage bed.
But such a solution would not suit a man who meant to obey the Church's commandment of monogamy, so Adrian must show more than usual care in selecting a mate. He wanted a wife who was a friend and lover as well as a "good match." Ridiculous though the idea was, he wanted a wife he could love.
Idly Adrian wondered what an ideal wife would be like. While the girl must be of gentle birth, she needn't be a great heiress. A man must find his wife reasonably attractive, but unusual beauty was not essential.
More important was intelligence and the rarer quality of wisdom. The sweet piety and gentle nature that had characterized his mother. The grace and bright charm of a young nun he had once seen and never forgotten. The good humor and easy sensuality of his first mistress, Olwen.
Five years older than Adrian and of common birth, Olwen had been a widowed serving woman when she had initiated her young master into the pleasures of the flesh. It was she who had taught him what pleased a woman, and had convinced him that guilt and shame had no place in honest loving.
Olwen had been his mistress for years, until the day she told him that she wished to marry a miller who had recently lost his wife and been left with four young children. With her calm good sense she had explained that she was fond of the miller and liked the idea of having four sweet children to raise, since she seemed to be barren herself. Though she did not say so, perhaps she also craved the respectability of marriage.
Adrian had given his mistress a generous dowry as a parting gift, though he greatly regretted her loss. Indeed, he missed her still. The mere thought of Olwen made him burn with desire, for it had been months since he had had a woman.
While he had come to terms with his need for physical passion, a difficult legacy of his religious schooling was that he had never learned to take a woman casually, forgetting her in the morning. It would have been far easier if he had never left the cloister—or had never entered in the first place.
After reviewing the qualities he wanted in a wife, Adrian smiled wryly into the darkness. No wonder he had never found a woman he wished to marry. It was doubtful such a paragon existed. And if she did, she would want a husband of equal perfection, which would eliminate Adrian from consideration.
He rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. There was nothing wrong with Isabel of Rouen, and the match was a splendid one which would give him great holdings in Normandy. Doubtless when several months had passed without seeing the girl, Adrian would find the prospect of marrying her more congenial.
Chapter 3
Avonleigh, Shropshire
April 1148
Meriel had worked late the night before, then rose early to finish her most important tasks quickly so that she could slip away for a few hours. While she would take her falcon and hope to find game for the pot, her real goal was simply to take advantage of the beautiful spring weather to commit the sweet sin of slothfulness.
After starting the household servants on tasks that would occupy them all day, Meriel scanned the courtyard with a practiced eye as she walked to the mews. The court teemed with life as villagers baked their bread in the new oven, carpenters raised the frame for another storage building, a thatcher balanced on the smithy roof, and the smith hammered on a set of iron hinges for the rising barn.
It was a scene of happy productivity, far different from the decay and lethargy the de Veres had found when they first arrived at Avonleigh. It had been almost two years since Alan had been enfeoffed, and they had been years of unremitting work for him and his sister.
Since Alan was in Normandy performing his military service with Lord Theobald and would be gone at least two months, Meriel was lord as well as lady of the manor until his return. Even on the short walk to the mews she was stopped to issue judgment on whether a serf's hen was robust enough to be accepted as rent for his cottage. The bailiff claimed the fowl was sickly while the serf insisted the hen was perfectly stout, though something of a runtling, but all his hens were small this spring.
By custom, the hen was deemed healthy if it could jump over a fence or onto a stool when frightened, so Meriel duly witnessed the serf's attempts to make his hen perform. The problem was not the hen's health but its stupidity; three attempts were necessary to get the bird to jump in the right direction. Voice grave but eyes dancing, Meriel accepted the hen as a suitable payment, then slipped into the mews before she could be intercepted again.
Meriel closed the door and turned, holding her tongue when she saw that Edmund the falconer was sewing shut the eyelids of a newly caught goshawk, a process called seeling. While the bird was temporarily blinded, it would be tamed through taste, touch, and sound. In a few days, when the hawk was accustomed to being handled, its eyes would be unseeled.
They had been fortunate to find a falconer as skilled as Edmund. He was an elderly man who had spent most of his life in the mews of a baron, then been turned off when his lord had unjustly blamed him for the death of a valuable Norwegian gyrfalcon. Now Avonleigh benefited from Edmund's magnificently trained hawks.
When the falconer had finished his task, Meriel said softly, "I've come to take Chanson out."
Edmund gave her a dour glance. "Be careful with her, she's nervous today."
"When am I not careful?" Meriel asked with amusement as she made her way through the dimly lit mews without disturbing any of the roosting inhabitants.
"You haven't ruined a hawk yet," he allowed, unable to suppress an affectionate smile. At first Edmund had had doubts about Meriel's assisting him, but eventually he had come to accept that her passion for falcons, and her gift for working with them, were the equal of his own. Her actual knowledge had not been as great, but his teaching was remedying that lack.
Crooning softly, Meriel took the great hooded falcon onto her gauntleted left wrist. Chanson mantled with pleasure, fluffing her dark feathers while her bells jingled, then stretched her neck to be scratched. She was a peregrine falcon, the largest and noblest of the hunting birds that nested in Britain, sometimes called the falcon-gentle because only people of gentle birth were allowed to possess them.
Chanson was one of two shrieking eyases that Meriel had taken from a nest the previous spring when she was visiting her mother's cousins in South Wales. The other falcon had been trained and presented to Alan's Lord Theobald as a special thanks for enfeoffment, but Chanson was Meriel's own, and she loved the falcon as much as she had loved her kestrel Rouge, who had died two years before.
Leaving the mews, Meriel crossed to the stables, where Ayloffe, the groom, held her mare. Since she was going hawking, she would ride cross-saddle, which gave a firmer seat than a sidesaddle.
After helping her mount, Ayloffe said, "I'll be ready in a moment, mistress."
"No need to interrupt your work," she replied. "I want to ride alone today.''
Ayloffe looked doubtful. "Sir Alan won't like it if I let you go off by yourself."
"Since he's in Normandy, he won't know, will he?" Meriel pointed out with irrefutable logic. "I'll not leave Avonleigh, so there's no need for you to worry."
Unconvinced, Ayloffe said, "With two earls quarreling over Shropshire like mongrels over a bone, it's not wise for a maid to ride alone."
"I'll be safe enough. The whole of the royal forest lies between us and the rival lords." Her mouth quirked up wryly. "If one of the earls decided to ravage Avonleigh, everyone on the manor fighting together couldn't stop him."
"It's not the manor I'm worried about, but you," the groom said sternly. "What if you meet with robbers?"
"Enough!" Meriel chuckled and stroked the mare's glossy chestnut neck with her free hand. "If I encounter robbers, Rosalia will outrun them."
Before Ayloffe could object further, Meriel released the mare and rode out of the yard, Chanson balanced on her wrist with the skill of long practice. What was there about her, she wondered with amusement, that made men act like worried uncles? Indeed, all of the servants, both male and female, treated the
ir mistress with a combination of respect and protectiveness that was endearing but sometimes a nuisance.
As she trotted down the lane, serfs who were weeding and planting straightened from their labors and waved. No one resented her frivolity since it was known that the mistress worked harder than anyone save Sir Alan himself.
When Meriel was past the fields, she gave Rosalia her head so that the mare could gallop her high spirits off. As the flower-scented wind whipped her long braids out behind her, Meriel laughed aloud from sheer pleasure. Impossible to believe that a day so lovely could harbor menace.
Every hour of this freedom was a gift she would never have known if she had become a nun. On the rare occasions when Meriel felt nostalgic for the peaceful life and companionship of Lambourn, she closed her eyes and recalled the archangel with the flaming sword, and knew that she had made the right decision.
Moments of doubt had been very few. She had enjoyed her years in Lord Theobald's bustling household, serving his amiable and absentminded lady, and even more she enjoyed life at Avonleigh, where every day was different and satisfying.
Beyond the communal pasture was open wasteland that had been cultivated in the years before the Conquest, and which Alan hoped to bring under the plow again. When she was well into the open countryside, Meriel halted her mount and unhooded Chanson. "Will you catch some game for the pot, sweetling?"
She scratched the falcon's neck once, then cast it into the wind. With thunderous wings the bird swept heavenward, reveling in flight, tumbling across the sky from pure joy. Meriel watched with a pleasure and envy so intense that they were nearly pain. No wonder men imagined angels as having wings, for what could be more glorious than having the power and freedom of flight?
When her playful paroxysms had worn off, Chanson wafted on so high above Meriel's head that she was scarcely more than a speck in the sky. Whe spotted prey, the falcon stooped, diving from the heavens with the power and beauty of God's own angels, the wind screaming through her bells like no other sound on earth.