‘No. Not Evelyn’s daughter.’
His abrupt dismissal of the idea caught me short. ‘Why not? She —’
‘This is an opportunity for us to grant favour to some noblewoman at court, Maeb. An opportunity to indebt some family to us or to reinforce ties to someone powerful. And you will need a woman who is familiar with court, who can guide you. Neither Evelyn nor her daughter can do that.’
The thought momentarily terrified me. A noblewoman as an attending lady?
Raife gave me a small smile. ‘Maeb, you underestimate yourself. You will do well enough.’
‘I shall have to watch every word I say.’
‘Maeb, you will need to watch every word you say in any case. Your first lesson of court. Trust no one.’ His smile broadened. ‘Except your husband, of course. Our bed can be the only place you may speak freely.’
Despite what Raife had said about the seamsters working in London, Evelyn, Sewenna and I spent much of the next two weeks sewing. We worked on undergarments and travelling kirtles, and also sewed extra panels for the kirtles I had already so that they might accommodate my growing belly.
Three days before we were due to leave, Evelyn and I began the task of packing my clothes into a chest for the carts (elsewhere the household was being packed up likewise, as all plate and linens were to be carried to London as they had once been carried from Rosseley). Even with all the clothes I had acquired since my marriage, only one chest was required, which we packed carefully.
‘Finer clothes than those you wore when you first rode in the main gates,’ Evelyn remarked. ‘What do you wish to do with your old kirtles and linens?’
She had picked up that small bundle of clothes I had brought with me to Rosseley and was sorting them.
‘Perhaps give them to one of the women in the village of Crickhoel?’ I said, and Evelyn nodded.
‘A good idea. You will create much goodwill with the gesture. We can … what in the world is this?’
Evelyn had found a small bundle of cloth.
‘Oh!’ I smiled. ‘I had almost forgot that!’ I reached for it, then gently unfolded it and held it out for Evelyn’s inspection. ‘What do you think?’
Evelyn frowned. ‘It is very old, and very worn. And the stitching is of a kind I have not seen before.’
‘Aye. But I treasure it, even though the embroidery is so old and the cloth almost rags.’
Evelyn was obviously not taken with the piece, but, because I had said I treasured it, was not quite sure what she could say.
I laughed, and folded it up again. ‘After my father died, our old steward, Osbeorn, gave it to me, saying my father had wanted me to have it. My father had only been home from his travels a few short weeks before he died.’
‘Travels?’
‘My father had been living some years in Jerusalem.’
‘Your father was a pilgrim to Jerusalem?’
‘Of a kind,’ I said. ‘He left after my mother died, and spent years there. Our manor steward Osbeorn and his wife were the ones who raised me for the years while he was gone. When my father returned, he was almost a stranger to me.’
‘I did not know that, my lady. What adventures your father must have had!’
‘Indeed.’ I looked down at the bundle of worn cloth. ‘I will take this, too. It is one of the few things I have left with which to remember my father.’
Chapter Two
I went to the chapel early in the morning on the day we were to depart. I wanted to pray at the graves of Lady Adelie, Stephen and the children. In the past few months I had barely thought of them, and I was overcome with guilt that I should now be going to court when, truly, they had been better suited for such a life.
The chapel was brightly lit with candles. I took one of them, walking quietly down the centre of the nave to where Stephen lay buried under the heartstone of the chapel.
I stood there a long while, praying, and in contemplation of Stephen. What would Stephen think, to see me married to his father? And carrying his brother or sister? What would he have said, knowing that I had loved him? I still felt great guilt that I had survived and he not.
Tears threatened, and I stepped back, whispering a goodbye, before moving to Lady Adelie’s grave in one of the aisles. What would she have thought, seeing me take her place in her husband’s bed, assuming her titles? I could imagine her saying something gracious, but with internal reflection shadowing her eyes. I think she would have feared that I might fail in my duty, somehow.
In turn I visited the gravestones of the other children: Alice, Emmette, Rosamund and John.
I prayed for them all, and for me, for three of them had died from my own hand.
‘Lady Maeb.’
I turned about, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Owain approached, looking weary and wan, as if he had been up all night, praying. I suddenly realised how much I would miss him. Owain had become a true friend and I would be the worse for lack of his counsel in London.
‘I will miss you,’ I said.
‘And I you. Remember, always, that Pengraic is your home. Your true home. Do not be seduced by the wonders and gaiety of court.’
‘Court terrifies me,’ I muttered, then spoke a little louder. ‘Owain, I bear so much guilt.’ I gestured at the graves of the two little ones, and Stephen. ‘I wonder what will become of me, what tragedies I must bear, to atone.’
‘You did what was needed, Maeb. Those who died would have thanked you for it. I carry no guilt for what I did, which was no more than you — rather, much worse.’
‘But I worry God will never forget, despite my confession and penance and your absolution. I fear I will be damned.’
Owain looked as if he struggled with himself, trying to find the right words to say. Finally, he spoke. ‘There are many others who weigh the goodness and the evils of souls, Maeb. You acted out of love. That will always stand as your defence.’
I shrugged, thinking Owain’s words only falsehoods meant to comfort me. ‘I fear I will lose this child, as punishment for what I have done. Or lose Raife.’
Owain stepped forward and placed his hands on my shoulders, giving me a gentle shake. ‘You will not be called on to atone for what you did, Maeb!’
I still did not believe him, but I spoke out of love for him and also that he would not worry for me. ‘You are a comfort to me, Owain. What shall I do without you?’
‘There are priests aplenty in London and Westminster.’
‘But none of them are you.’
‘No. None of them are me.’
Owain started to say something else, but just then there was a step at the door.
We turned to look. It was three women from the village — I knew their faces but not their names. Two were young, my age perhaps, but one was older, carrying a basket, and it was she who stepped forward.
‘Priest,’ she said, ‘we have an offering. May we enter?’
‘Of course, Eada,’ Owain said. ‘You are always welcome.’
She smiled at him, and then at me. ‘My lady, you are most welcome here, too. You have that way about you.’
I was so astounded by this statement that I could not reply. I managed to give the women a nod and a smile as they passed, then turned to Owain. ‘What —?’
He put a finger to his lips. ‘Shush, Maeb. Just watch a moment.’
I was still struggling to understand why Eada should have said I was welcome here — by God, I was the countess of this castle and, apart from my husband, there was no one with more right to be here.
Then I went stiff. The three women had gone straight to Stephen’s grave, to the ancient heartstone of the chapel. There Eada set down her basket and the women took out meadow flowers, kissing each one before laying them down gently, one by one, to form a circle about the stone.
‘What are they doing?’ I murmured to Owain.
‘Honouring Stephen, as also the Old People,’ he said.
I remembered he had said once that the village people liked to come and lay flowers here. But at the altar, surely?
And then I thought: this heartstone is their altar, not the Christian stone under the cross.
The women had finished laying out their flowers now, and paused, bowing their heads as they laid their hands over their hearts.
I was touched. ‘They know that is Stephen’s grave?’