He was there. He was upon her. She felt him mount her; her body staggered under the weight. She had to fight to stand up. His scent was all over her like a cloud. Her head involuntarily snapped back. His antlers appeared, hovering above, terrible, absolute. And then she felt him enter. A searing red pain and then, something full, urgent, tremendous, filling her like a flood.
Adela liked Winchester. Lying in the chalk downs, due north of the great Solent inlet, it had once been a Roman provincial town. For centuries after it had been the chief seat of the West Saxon kings, who had finally become kings of all England. And though, during the last few decades, it was London that had become the effective capital of the kingdom, the old royal treasury remained at Winchester and the king would still from time to time hold court at his royal palace there.
It was not far from the New Forest. A road led southwest for eight miles to the small town of Romsey, where there was a religious house for nuns. Four miles more and one was in the Forest. Yet, as Adela quickly found, it seemed a world away.
Set on a slope, overlooking a river and surrounded by sweeping ridges topped with woods of oak and beech, Winchester was essentially a walled city of about a hundred and forty acres, with four ancient gates. The southern end contained a fine new Norman cathedral, the bishop’s palace, St Swithun’s priory, the treasure house and William the Conqueror’s royal residence, together with several other handsome buildings of stone. The rest of the town was on a fitting scale, with a market place, several merchant halls, houses with gardens and dovecotes, and busy streets of craftsmen and tradesmen. By one of the gates there was a hospice for poor folk. The views over the downs were broad, the air bracing.
The city had retained much of its ancient character. The streets all had their Saxon names, from Gold Street and Tanners Street even to the Germanic-sounding Flesh-mongers Street. But the court of Wessex had been an educated place. Even before the Norman Conquest, the city had bustled with priests, monks, royal officials, rich merchants and gentlemen, and one would have heard Latin and even French spoken, as well as Saxon, in Winchester’s halls.
The arrangements Walter had made for her were certainly an improvement upon the merchant at Christchurch. Adela’s hostess was a widow in her fifties, the daughter of a Saxon noble by birth, who had been married to one of the Norman keepers of the Winchester treasury and who now lived in pleasant stone-built lodgings beside the western gate. Walter had been closeted with her for a long time when they first arrived and after he had gone the lady had given Adela an encouraging smile and told her: ‘I’m sure we can do something for you.’
Certainly, she hadn’t lacked company. The first day they walked through the streets, to St Swithuns and back through the market, her hostess was greeted by priests, royal officials and merchants alike. ‘My husband had many friends and they remember me for his sake,’ the lady remarked; but after a day or two’s experience of the other woman’s kindness and common sense, Adela concluded that they liked the widow for herself.
Her own position was made easy.
‘This is a cousin of Walter Tyrrell’s, from Normandy,’ her hostess would explain; and Adela could see from their respectful reaction that this immediately placed her as a young noblewoman with powerful connections. Within a day, the prior of St Swithuns had requested that the two women would dine with him.
In private her new friend was reassuring, but down-to-earth. ‘You are a handsome girl. Any noble would feel proud to have you at his side. As to your lack of inheritance …’
‘I’m not penniless.’
‘No, of course not,’ said her friend, although perhaps with more kindness than conviction. ‘One should never claim anything that isn’t true,’ she went on, ‘but equally there’s no need to put people off. So I think it would be best if we just … say nothing.’ Her voice trailed away. She gazed into space. ‘Anyway,’ she added brightly, ‘if you make yourself agreeable to your cousin Walter, perhaps he might provide something for you.’
Adela looked surprised. ‘You mean … money?’
‘Well, he isn’t poor. If he thinks you might be useful …’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Adela confessed.
‘Oh, my dear child.’ The widow took a moment to recover herself. ‘From now on,’ she said firmly, ‘we must both work to ensure that your cousin feels you will be a great credit to him.’
If her hostess encouraged her to be a little wiser about her own situation, the society of Winchester also made her more aware of what was passing in the outer world. She had known, for instance, that the king had his differences with the Church, but she was quite shocked when a senior churchman, talking casually to them in the cathedral yard, referred to him openly as ‘that red devil’.
‘Yet think of what Rufus has done,’ her friend said afterwards. ‘First he has a flaming row with the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Archbishop goes to see the Pope and Rufus refuses to let him re-enter England. Then, here in Winchester, the bishop dies and Rufus refuses to install a new one. You know what that means, don’t you? All the revenues of the Winchester diocese, which is hugely rich, are paid to the king instead of the Church. And now, to add insult to injury, he’s just made his best friend, who is an absolute rogue, into the bishop of Durham. The churchmen don’t just hate the king. Many of them would like to see him dead.’
Another subject she soon encountered concerned her native land. Several times, when they learned that she had come from Normandy, people had remarked: ‘Ah, I dare say we shall all be under one king again soon.’ She had known that when Duke Robert of Normandy had gone on crusade three years before, he had raised the money for the expedition by a huge loan from his brother Rufus, offering Normandy itself as security. What she had not realized, but everyone in Winchester knew, was that Rufus hadn’t the slightest intention of seeing his brother return to his duchy. ‘If he isn’t killed on crusade,’ he had apparently told his friends gleefully, ‘he’ll come back penniless. He’ll never be able to repay. Then I’ll get Normandy and be as great a man as my father the Conqueror was.’
‘He’s probably right,’ the widow told Adela, ‘but there is a danger. Some of Robert’s friends tried to kill Rufus a few years ago. Some of the Clares, actually. Mind you, they’re all afraid of Rufus. But you never know …’
‘What about the third brother, young Henry?’ Adela ventured. ‘He’s got nothing to rule.’
‘That’s true. You may see him, by the way. He comes through here from time to time.’ Her friend considered for a few moments. ‘I think he’s probably clever,’ she said finally. ‘I don’t think he’d take sides with either brother because you only get caught in the middle. I think he keeps his head down and gives no trouble. That’s probably the wisest thing to do. Don’t you think?’
Whenever there was any entertaining to be done in Winchester – if a party of knights came through, or some royal official and his retinue were to be given a feast by the keeper of the treasury – the widow and Adela were sure to be of the company. Within a few weeks she had met a dozen eligible young fellows who, if they were not necessarily interested themselves, might mention her to others.
It was at one of these feasts that she met Sir Fulk.
He was a middle-aged man, but quite agreeable. She was sorry to hear that he had just lost his fourth wife – he did not seem to say quite how. He had estates in Normandy and in Hampshire, quite near Winchester. He thought he had once met her father. She could not help wishing that, with his little moustache and round face, he did not remind her so much of Walter, but she tried to put the thought from her. He spoke affectionately of all his wives.
‘All my wives’, he told her kindly, ‘have been very amiable, very docile. I’ve been very fortunate. The second’, he added by way of encouragement, ‘looked like you.’
‘You mean to marry again, Sir Fulk?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are not looking for an heiress?’
‘Not at all,’ he assured he
r. ‘I’m all right as I am. Not ambitious. And you know’ – he said this with a sincerity which was obviously meant to touch her – ‘the trouble with these heiresses is that they often have rather a high idea of the importance of their own opinions.’
‘They should be guided.’
‘Quite.’
When they left the feast, her hostess was briefly delayed, but as soon as she joined Adela she told her: ‘You have made a conquest.’
‘Sir Fulk?’
‘He says he has received encouragement.’
‘He’s the most plodding man I ever met in my life.’
‘Perhaps, but he’s sound. He’ll give you no trouble.’
‘But I’ll give him trouble,’ Adela cried.
‘You mustn’t. Control yourself. At least get safely married first.’
‘But’, Adela said in exasperation, ‘he looks just like Walter!’
Her companion took a little breath and gave her a tiny glance, which Adela failed to see. ‘Your cousin is not so bad looking.’
‘He is to me.’
‘You mean to refuse Sir Fulk if he asks for your hand? Your family could insist. Walter, that is.’
‘Oh, just tell him my true nature and he’ll go away at once.’
‘I’m afraid you’re being foolish.’
‘You don’t sympathize?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You think I have to make a sacrifice of myself?’ She looked accusingly at the older woman. ‘Did you make a sacrifice when you married?’
For a moment her companion paused. ‘Well, I’ll tell you this,’ she said quietly. ‘If I did, my dear late husband never knew it.’
Adela digested this in silence, then nodded ruefully. ‘Am I clever enough to be married?’
‘No,’ the older woman replied. ‘But very few girls are.’
The proposal came the next day. Adela rejected it. Walter Tyrrell arrived a week later, and went straight to see the widow.
‘She has refused Sir Fulk?’
‘He may not be the right one,’ the widow suggested kindly.
‘Without my permission? What’s wrong with him? He has two good estates.’
‘Perhaps it was something else.’
‘He’s a very handsome man.’
‘No doubt.’
‘I take this rejection personally. It’s an outrage.’
‘She’s young, Walter. I like her.’
‘You speak to her, then. I won’t. But tell her this,’ continued the infuriated knight. ‘If she refuses one more good man I’ll take her to Romsey Abbey and she can live the rest of her life as a nun. You tell her that.’ And with only a perfunctory kiss of his old friend’s hand he left.
‘So you see,’ the widow told Adela an hour later, ‘he’s threatening you with Romsey Abbey.’
Adela had to admit that she was shaken. ‘What sort of place is it? Do you know anyone there?’ she asked in alarm.
‘It’s rather grand. Mostly noblewomen. And yes, I do know a nun there. She’s a Saxon princess called Edith – one of the last of our old royal house. I knew her mother very well. Edith’s about your age.’
‘Does she like it?’
‘When the abbess isn’t looking, she takes off her habit and jumps on it.’
‘Oh.’
‘I shouldn’t go there unless you want to be a nun.’
‘I don’t.’
‘I think you’d better make sure you do marry, but we can take a little time. Just be careful not to encourage any more Sir Fulks.’ Then, taking pity on her, the widow added: ‘I think, actually, that Walter isn’t very likely to carry out that particular threat.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, Romsey Abbey being what it is, to get you in there he’d probably have to pay.’
However, the autumn season had brought few visitors to Winchester after that. November came, the leaves had all fallen, the sky was grey and the wind that blew over the bare downs was often bitter cold. There were no suitors now. She thought of the Forest sometimes and could almost wish herself back in Christchurch, riding out with Edgar. She thought, many times, of Hugh de Martell. But she never mentioned this, even to her kindly hostess. December arrived. Soon, they said, there would be snow.
She could hardly have been more surprised, coming out of the cathedral one cold December day, to see her cousin Walter, wearing a jaunty hunting cap with a feather in it, standing beside a handsome covered wagon from which, taking his outstretched hand, a lady wrapped in a cloak with a fur trim was carefully alighting.
It was the Lady Maud.
She hurried forward and called out to them. They both turned.
Walter looked slightly annoyed. She supposed he thought she was interrupting the Lady Maud. He had sent no word that he would be in Winchester, but that was not so surprising. He surely could not have been meaning to pass through the place without coming to see her? The nod he gave her seemed to indicate that she might join them and so she went in with them as they entered the royal residence where the porter and servants evidently knew her cousin.
Lady Maud, she thought, might have been more friendly or showed more recognition, but Adela supposed she must be tired from her journey. While the Lady Maud left them for a short while, Walter explained that they were only breaking the journey. Lady Maud was to visit a cousin of hers who lived beyond Winchester and Hugh de Martell, with whom Walter had just been staying, had asked him to accompany her there. ‘Then I return to Normandy,’ Walter said. He was pacing moodily, which did not make conversation easy.
It was only a short while before the Lady Maud rejoined them, apparently in better humour. As usual, she looked slightly wan, but her manner was civil even if it contained the hint of caution that Adela had experienced before. When Adela asked if she was well, she acknowledged that she was.
‘Your husband is also well, I trust,’ she forced herself to say. She hoped it sounded polite but unconcerned.
‘Yes.’
‘You are travelling to one of your relations, Walter said.’
‘Yes.’ She seemed to consider for a moment. ‘Richard Fitzwilliam. Perhaps you have seen him.’
‘No. I have heard of him, of course.’ She had heard often. Thirty years old with one of the finest estates in the county, he lived not five miles away. He was unmarried. ‘I understand he is very handsome,’ she added politely.
‘Yes.’
‘I did not know he was your kinsman.’
‘My cousin. We’re very close.’
No word of this connection, Adela was well aware, had been made during her stay with the lady in the summer. She wondered if Lady Maud would suggest that they might meet now.
She didn’t. Walter said nothing.
There was a pause.
‘Perhaps you’d like to rest a little before we go on,’ Walter suggested.
‘Yes.’
He turned to Adela and gave her a little nod. A courtier’s sign that it was time for her to retire.
She could take the hint, but it would have been nice if Walter had come with her to the door. ‘Shall I see you again before long, Walter?’ she asked as she turned.
He nodded, but in a way to indicate that her retiring was more important; and before she could even collect her thoughts she found herself outside in the cold streets of Winchester.
She did not want to go back to her lodgings. She walked about. After a little, she went out of the gateway and stared across the open countryside. The sky was grey. The bare brown woods on the ridge opposite seemed to mock her. I am scorned, she thought; she might be poor, but why should her own cousin treat her like that, dismissing her like a lackey? She felt a hot surge of anger. Damn him. Damn them both.
She paced up and down in front of the gate. Would they come out that way? Could she say something to them? No. What a fool she’d look standing impotently by the roadside. She felt crushed.
And yet something in her still rebelled. I’m better than that, she decided. I w
on’t let them put me down. She needed to see them again, put them in a position where they would be forced to be polite. But how? What excuse could there be for going back?
Then it suddenly occurred to her. Of course: her hostess and Walter were friends. What could be more natural than for her to return with the older woman who might wish to greet him as he was passing through. The widow was a noblewoman. Lady Maud would have to recognize her. And if by chance she were to tell them that Adela was a great favourite with everybody there and a credit to her cousin … The beauty of the idea was no sooner growing in her mind than she turned and ran back as fast as she could to her lodgings.
Her friend was there. Without dwelling on the more humiliating features of the interview, it was only the work of a few moments to explain the situation and the widow readily agreed to come, so long as Adela gave her a brief space to prepare herself, which she did with all speed.
She was still arranging her hair, though, when another thought occurred to Adela. What if Walter and the lady should leave before they got there? She had better make sure they didn’t. Walter could hardly go if she told him the widow was on her way.
‘I’ll meet you by the royal palace entrance,’ she cried and hurried back through the street, praying she was not already too late.
All was well, however. The porter assured her they were still inside. She waited by the doorway, but then, as it was cold and she felt a little foolish, she asked the porter if she might step inside. Having seen her do so before, he made no objection, and agreed to send the widow in the moment she arrived.