Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

The man addressed the woman in rapid French and her elegant eyebrows rose to meet the fluted edges of her immaculate wimple. She answered him briefly, but with a bubble of laughter in her voice. Ailith wished that it were possible just to vanish from sight. She was painfully aware of every stalk of straw, every smear of dung on her working kittle and tattered apron. These people were quite obviously the new Norman neighbours, and what must they think?

The young woman addressed Ailith in English, heavily accented but understandable. 'I see you have a problem. My hens also have strayed before. Let my husband's men catch them for you.' Turning in her saddle, she issued a command in Norman to two youths who had just jumped down from a laden baggage wain to stretch their legs.

'Thank you,' Ailith muttered with chagrin as the young men set about the pursuit and capture of the wayward birds, succeeding with insulting ease. Alaric was fetched in high dudgeon from the top of the dung heap and presented to her with a cheeky flourish by the younger of the two youths. Ailith tucked the rooster under her arm, her broad freckled face as red as fire.

The man leaned over his saddle to address her. He too spoke English. 'Perhaps you will ask your master and mistress to call on us?' he said with a warm, wide smile. 'We would like to meet and be friends with our neighbours.'

Ailith swallowed. Her shame was so deep that she knew she would never be able to hold her head above it again. 'I am the mistress,' she said stiffly.

The Norman stared her up and down, nonplussed. Then his mouth twitched and he quickly raised his hand to cough.

His wife stepped courageously into the breach. 'We should not have jumped so swiftly to conclusions,' she soothed. 'It is only natural to go about household tasks in old clothes if you are not expecting to meet anyone.'

Ailith only felt worse. The man's face was dusky with suppressed laughter.

Please, you will still come?' Anxiously the woman extended her hand.

'I will speak to my husband,' Ailith replied, raising her chin a notch, but refusing to look at either of them. 'Thank you for your help.' And then she fled, certain that she could hear the sound of their laughter in pursuit.

Goldwin did nothing to soothe her mortification by guffawing loudly when later she told him what had happened.

Ailith ceased combing out her thick, slightly coarse hair and glared at him. He was reclining on their bed in the sleeping loft, a cup of mead in his hand. 'It is not funny,' she snapped. 'They want us to call on them!'

'Yes, I know.' Goldwin's voice was husky with laughter. 'You were still shutting up the hens when the Norman came to the forge to introduce himself. He said that you had been very embarrassed and he was sorry if he had offended you. He was also insistent that we dine with them soon.' His eyes sparkled.

'Goldwin, I can't!'

'Nor can you skulk indoors for the rest of your life in the hopes of avoiding them.' Laughing, he refilled his mead cup. 'They seem decent enough people, for Normans. His name's Aubert de Remy and he's hoping to make a fortune selling wine to the English court being as King Edward's so fond.'

As Goldwin spoke, Ailith's initial panic faded into dismay. She resumed combing her hair, tuning her mind to the orderliness of the strokes. Goldwin was right. She could not hide from her neighbours indefinitely. It would be best to make a jest of the whole incident. Laughter was supposed to break down barriers of reserve and suspicion — but she would rather that the laughter was not at her expense. 'Did you meet his wife?' she asked casually.

'No, she was busy with her maids, but he told me that her name was Felice and that her old nurse was English, so she speaks the tongue quite well.'

'She is very beautiful.' Ailith put down her comb and removed her grey woollen gown. Conscientiously she folded the garment over the end of her clothing pole. What she really wanted to do was throw it on the floor and burst into tears. Her expression screened from Goldwin by her unruly hair, she plucked at the stray stalks of straw still embedded in the dress.

Goldwin set his mead cup on the floor and left the bed. She felt his rough hands upon her shoulders, his breath animal-warm at her throat. 'I have all the beauty I need here,' he murmured, turning her in his arms until she was facing him. 'Come to bed; take me on the white lightning to Valhalla.'

Despite herself, Ailith smiled at his blandishments. He obviously desired her – if the growl of playful lust in his voice was not evidence enough, then the hard bulge in his braies certainly was. Even above her need to love and be loved, was Ailith's compulsion to be needed. Garlanding her arms around his neck, she pressed herself against him, and felt the power surge in her loins as he softly groaned her name.

As their passion mounted, she discarded the thought of the Norman neighbours in the same way she had discarded her clothes. Tomorrow she would clad herself again with both, but for the moment they had no place in her world. She was a Valkyrie riding the storm.

Ailith's brother Aldred took a hearty bite out of a roasted chicken thigh and complimented his sister on the excellent flavour of the meat. 'Better than anything we get served at court, eh, Lyulph?'

A younger man, less broad in the shoulder, brushed crumbs from his luxuriant corn-coloured beard and nodded vigorously, his mouth bulging with bread and meat.

Ailith laughed with pleasure at their praise and their vast appetites. To watch them eating now made keeping hens worthwhile, whatever her earlier thoughts on the matter. It was wonderful to see her great, blond brothers in their finery. Her hall seemed almost too small to contain them. Aldred's red wool tunic was banded with silk braid, and around Lyulph's throat was a heavy silver cross and a necklace of amber and garnet beads. Their strong, axe-wielders' hands were bare of rings which might foul a blow in a moment of crisis, but both men's wrists were adorned with gold and silver bracelets, gifts from Harold Godwinson, the man they served.

'What do you get at court then?' asked Goldwin, and stretched his legs in contentment towards the enormous Yule log burning upon two iron props in the firepit. His mead cup rested lightly on his gilded belt buckle and his own tunic was fine tonight, bordered with Ailith's skilful embroidery.

Aldred snorted rudely. 'Custards and curds for King Edward's ailing belly. Chicken blancmange and sops in wine.'

'Oh come now, I don't believe that!'

'Well, not all the time,' Aldred grudgingly conceded. 'But most of the food is mashed up and smothered in fancy sauces.'

'It's the Norman fashion, a murrain on the bastard,' Lyulph sneered, his brilliant blue eyes full of contempt. 'When Earl Harold's on his own estates, we get to eat decent, English fare.'

Ailith exchanged a wry, pleading glance with Goldwin. Responding, he valiantly sought to close the crack before it could become a chasm. 'So the King still sickens?' he enquired.

Aldred wiped his lips and smoothed down his moustaches between forefinger and thumb. 'Daily,' he said to Goldwin. 'He's not attending the consecration of his precious abbey tomorrow because he's too weak. Our lord Earl will wear the crown before Candlemas, mark what I say.'

Goldwin tactfully guided Aldred and Lyulph into talking about Earl Harold, and then conducted them from the table to the forge to show them the armour he was making for the lord of Wessex. They were much impressed by the helm and the almost completed hauberk.

'The Normans often use archers,' Lyulph said, fingering the triple-linked rivets. 'Will this stop an arrow?'

'Not at close range, but at medium- and long-distance, yes, depending on angle, of course.' Goldwin looked sharply at the two young men. 'Are you expecting to be fighting Normans then?' He added wryly, 'Other than the usual?'