Chapter 2
Abbaye des Dames, Caen, Normandy
Madeleine hurried along to the abbess’ chamber, raising the skirts of her habit to run the last little way. She had been in the herb garden instead of the scriptorium and so had not been easily found. There would be penance to do for that.
She would be in trouble for running, too, of course, but hopefully there was no one around to see the misdeed.
She took a moment to catch her breath and straighten her veil, then knocked on the oak door. At the command, she entered, and halted in surprise. Waiting for her was not the abbess, but Matilda, Duchess of Normandy. She was, Madeleine remembered, now uncrowned Queen of England as well.
“Come in, Sister Madeleine,” said Matilda.
Madeleine’s first alarmed thought was that the abbess had despaired of teaching her decorum and had brought in the governor of the duchy to discipline her.
Or even worse, to force her to take her vows.
Madeleine was delaying the matter. There had been fighting in England; her father and brother had been richly rewarded; there was still hope . . .
But surely such personal matters could be of no interest to the duchess.
Madeleine was gestured to sit on a small stool close to the duchess’ chair.
As she did so she surreptitiously studied the lady.
The duchess was the patroness of the Abbaye and therefore not unknown to her, but Madeleine had never been so close to her before.
She was tiny and delicately made. It was hard to believe she was married to the frightening duke and had borne him six children, but she had a determined nose and chin, and very shrewd dark eyes.
“I have sad news for you, child,” said the duchess bluntly.
“You received word that your father was wounded at the battle when the duke went into England. Though serious, the wound was not expected to be his death, but Our Savior had other plans. The wound never healed as it should, and from that or other cause, he was taken by a seizure some months past and has gone to his heavenly reward.”
The news had been clear from the first, but the lengthy telling gave Madeleine time to adjust to it. She felt great sadness that she would not see her father again, but she could not help wondering if this loss would help or thwart her dreams.
“I will pray for his soul, Your Grace,” she said, keeping her eyes properly lowered to her hands in her lap.
“There is more,” said the duchess. Madeleine looked up. “Your brother, Marc, was drowned two weeks ago crossing from England.”
Madeleine felt numb. Marc, dead? A tingling spread through her body . . . A goblet of wine was pressed into her hand and she gulped from it, feeling the world come back, and grief, and the end of hope.
Had Marc drowned even as he came to buy her freedom?
What a thing to think when her sorrow should all be for a young life cut short in a time of triumph.
A tear trickled down her cheek, and she brushed it away. “I will pray for his soul, too, Your Grace,” she said, not knowing how else to respond. She took another drink of the rich red wine, then put the goblet down on a table.
It occurred to her for the first time that it was extraordinary the Duchess of Normandy should be here to give a simple novice this sad news. She looked a question.
“At your father’s request, child, you are now under the wardship of my lord husband. He has directed me to talk to you of your future.”
“My future?”
“Are you aware, child,” said the duchess, “that after the king was crowned in England he gave a barony to your father in recompense for his long and faithful service?”
Madeleine nodded. That barony had been the linchpin of her dreams. “Baddersley,” she said.
“It is apparently a fine and prosperous parcel of properties, centered close to one of the old Roman roads that run through England. It was part of the lands of a man named Hereward—a son, I believe, of the old Earl of Mercia. My lord husband is being merciful to those who raised their hand against him once they pledge allegiance, but this Hereward is an unrepentant rebel and so has lost his estates. The question is, who is to hold Baddersley now?”
“And Marc is dead,” said Madeleine numbly.
“The property is to be yours, Madeleine.”
“Mine?” she queried blankly. “It is to come to the Abbaye?”
The duchess’ eyes watched her carefully as she said, “No. It is the King of England’s wish that you return to the world and marry a man who can hold this land for you.”
Marriage, thought Madeleine dizzily. This was her dream. This was her freedom.
And yet it clearly was not.
If Marc had brought a dispensation for her, he would have treated her with careless kindness and allowed her to choose a husband.
But this plan meant she and her land were to be gifted to some man with no thought for her tastes.
Powerful men were often old. Most of the Norman nobles she knew were coarse, gap-toothed, foulmouthed, and dirty.
She looked up. “Do I have to do this, Your Grace?”
The duchess studied her. “It is the will of your duke, the King of England. If, however, you feel you have a true calling to the religious life . . .”
Assailed by a decision for which she was completely unprepared, Madeleine rose and paced the small, plain room, fiddling with the wooden cross which hung round her neck, trying to assess the two paths laid before her.
One, the Abbaye, was known and stretched smooth as far as the eye could see—tranquil, ordered, cultured . . . tedious.
The other curved quickly out of sight and into mystery. What lay beyond the moment? Kindness or cruelty? Comfort or hardship? Adventure or tedium?
Madeleine stopped for a moment before the ivory crucifix on the wall and murmured a prayer for guidance. She remembered how often she had prayed to be released from the religious life. Well, there was a saying, “Watch well for what you pray, for you may receive it.”
So be it. Her honesty told her the Abbaye offered her comfort and security but nothing more profound. The prayers and rituals which transported others into spiritual ecstasy were merely routines to her, some pleasant and others not.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I have a true vocation.”
The duchess nodded. “That is also the feeling of the abbess, though she will be sorry to lose you. I understand you have a gift for learning, particularly in the healing arts.” The duchess rose. “There are many ways to serve, my dear. These are troubled times, and the king has need of you.”
Madeleine was not deceived. The king needed her to toss to some man as a reward, as men toss the still-warm entrails of their kill to a hunting dog.
“Whom am I to wed, Your Grace?”
“That is not settled,” replied the duchess. “There is no urgency. An uncle is caring for the land at the moment.”
Uncle Paul, thought Madeleine, unsurprised.
Neither her mother’s nor her father’s family had proved to be fertile or fortunate.
Her only remaining relative was her mother’s sister, Celia, who had married an impoverished lord, Paul de Pouissey.
That marriage was childless, but Odo, Paul’s son by a previous marriage, had always been considered Marc and Madeleine’s cousin.
Paul de Pouissey was a consistent failure and quick to latch onto any good fortune of his wife’s family.
“You have been educated here beyond most young women,” the duchess continued, “but will need to learn court manners. You must join my ladies. I expect to be summoned to England in the spring to join my lord. Time enough then to settle your future.”
If no particular man had been chosen, Madeleine thought, then perhaps there was a chance to take control of fate. “I would ask a boon, Your Grace.”
A faint touch of frost entered the duchess’ eyes. “And what might that be?”
Madeleine’s nerve almost failed her, but she spoke her request quickly. “My lady, I would beg to have some say in whom I am to marry.”
A glance showed her the duchess was very cool indeed. “Are you suggesting the king and I would not have care to your welfare, girl?”
Madeleine hastily knelt. “No, Your Grace. Forgive me.”
She watched the duchess’ slippered foot tap three times.
Then Matilda said, “Well, yours has been an unusual upbringing, and some allowance must be made. At least you have spirit . . .” That foot continued to tap.
Madeleine stared at it, wondering if she was merely to be forgiven, or would gain something, even the slightest right of consultation.
“I will ask my lord husband that your wishes be taken into consideration,” the duchess said eventually, startling Madeleine. “And I will do my best to see that your marriage is delayed a little, to give you time to adjust.”
At this extra generosity Madeleine looked up in amazement. The duchess was smiling dryly. “Oh get up, girl. Your groveling has gained what you want.”
Madeleine rose warily.
“You are suspicious?” asked Matilda. “That is wise. Do you know of my courtship?”
“No, Your Grace.”
The duchess’ smile broadened as she looked into the past. “William asked my father for my hand, and I refused. He was, after all, a bastard and none too secure in his hold on his land. I was somewhat rude in my rejection. One day William and one attendant rode into Blois and came upon me in the street with my maid and guard. He seized me and laid his riding whip to me.”
Madeleine gasped, but the duchess’ smile was still fond. “Later he sent to ask again, and I accepted.”
“After he had whipped you?”
“Because he had whipped me. Oh, don’t think I desire that kind of thing. Since that day he has never raised a hand to me, and the heavens would crack with our raging if he did. But a man who dared come into my father’s stronghold and assault me so was a man whose destiny I would share.”
The duchess rearranged the folds of her flowing ruby skirt.
“Why am I telling you this? Because I approve of a woman willing to take a grasp on her fate and try to steer it. I will support you as far as I am able. I also point out that the responsibility for choosing a husband is not a light one. Take heed what qualities you seek.”
Madeleine nodded.
“My cloak,” the duchess commanded. Madeleine picked up the soft, white cloth embroidered in gold and red, and draped it around Matilda’s shoulders. She pulled the ends through the heavy brooch of gold and garnet, and arranged it on the lady’s shoulder.
Matilda nodded her approval. “As for now, I am on my way to Saint Lo on the business of the duchy. I will visit here again in two weeks and take you into my company of ladies.”
With this Madeleine was dismissed. She stood in a quiet corner of the cloister and considered her strangely altered future with excitement and trepidation. She would be joining the court and going to England. She would be entering the hitherto forbidden world of men and the marriage bed.
The convent had not left her totally ignorant, for there was much whispered speculation about sins, especially those of immodesty and fornication.
And she had, after all, lived in the world until she was ten.
She believed she knew well enough what men did to women, though she hardly thought, as Sister Adela had insisted, that some women became as crazed with lust as men.
And as for Sister Bridget’s assertion that men sucked magic fluid from a woman’s breasts in order to stiffen their member for the act . . .
All such issues were irrelevant anyway. Madeleine had been given a chance to live in the world. That meant more to her than a sweet lover in her bed.
She understood the duchess’ lesson perfectly. She would need a strong man to hold her barony safe in a troubled land—one skillful in war and careful in administration. The color of his eyes, the shape of his limbs, were irrelevant.
She would take care to choose well. Then Duke William would have no pretext for rescinding the privilege she had won and imposing on her a choice of his own.