Chapter 4
Madeleine’s chance to write to the king came a few days later.
Her uncle summoned her. “Got to send a message to the king,” he said. “There must be serfs to be had somewhere in England, though there’s few enough round here. Damned priest’s off to the bishop over something or other. You can write, can’t you?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Madeleine wondered if this was a trap.
“There’s a messenger here on his way to the king.
I’ll send word and seek help.” Paul hawked and spat into the rushes.
“Can’t care for the fields properly with so few.
Those miscreants we punished are malingering good-for-nothings, and the people here still dribble away like water through a sieve. Cursed Golden Hart.”
“What, Uncle?”
He looked up at her. “Some peasant calling himself Golden Hart. He’s inciting the people to rebellion, urging them to flee their proper place, to disobey the commands of their rightful lords, to kill the Normans.
The Saxon dogs are bold these days. Sons of Harold are nibbling at the south, and that cursed Hereward’s skulking in the east trying to bring in the Danes or Scots.
The king’s too easy on them all. It’s enough to make a man vomit.
We need to show them the price of rebellion, as I did that bunch of runaways. ”
“Yet they still flee, Uncle,” Madeleine pointed out.
He glowered at her. “They wouldn’t run footless and branded, would they? I should have never listened to your soft whinings. You’re well on the way to ruining this estate, Niece, and so I’ll tell the king. With you and Golden Hart undermining it, there’ll be nothing left worth the having.”
That was always Paul de Pouissey’s way. Blame everyone but himself for his disasters. Madeleine was intrigued by this Golden Hart though, and her heart danced. It must be her outlaw. It must. She wondered if she could contact him and work with him to rid Baddersley of Uncle Paul.
Her uncle took a swig of ale. “Damn swill,” he muttered. “Can’t even get any wine. Well. Go get whatever you need to write, girl!”
Madeleine hurried to the small stone chapel which nestled near the manor house, but once in the one-room presbytery, she stopped to think. Was this a chance to communicate with King William? If it was, dared she take it?
She gathered parchment, pen, ink, and knife. Could her uncle not read a word? If she was caught, the consequences would be terrible, for she intended to not just put her marriage back in the king’s hands, but make clear the ineptitude of her guardians.
But this is likely to be your only chance, she reminded herself. She went into the chapel and communed with the Christ on the cross. Strengthened and fortified, she returned to the manor house. As her uncle dictated the standard obsequious flattery and followed it with pleas, Madeleine wrote,
My uncle wishes you to find him serfs for this estate, but the truth is he has frightened many away and with his cruelty, killed others unjustly, and works the remainder to death.
I need your help, my king. I need a better hand to administer this estate so graciously gifted to my father.
I need a capable husband, and willingly submit myself to your election in this.
Madeleine was so absorbed, she almost signed it.
“Bring it here,” her uncle commanded.
Madeleine swallowed. One of Paul’s hounds raised its head, and she fancied she saw cruel suspicion in its eye. She rose and carried the letter to her uncle, sure he must hear her knees knocking, must see how her hand trembled as she held the parchment out to him.
He scarcely looked before awkwardly scrawling “P de P.” “Write my name in full beneath,” he commanded.
It was hard not to collapse with relief.
He smirked. “Bet you thought I couldn’t write. Better than a cross, eh? Read it back. Let me see how it sounds.”
Madeleine froze.
“Read it, damn you! If you’re fooling me and can’t write sense, I’ll have you whipped.”
Madeleine sat with a bump and stared at the sheet.
Her heart scurrying, she forced herself to recollect the half-heard words.
“My great and puissant liege. Hesitant as I am to disturb you during your mighty enterprise of reforming and civilizing this barbaric land . . .” She carried on, inventing when she could not remember, expecting a bellow of outrage at any moment.
When she finished, he nodded. “I fancy you changed a bit here and there,” he said, “but it sounds very well. Give it here.” He sealed it and summoned the messenger.
Within the hour, Madeleine watched her letter to the king being carried away by the long-limbed runner, safe by the most severe laws from all interruption of his journey.
The messenger was heading to Winchester.
Madeleine had no way of knowing how far that was, and she knew the king might not be there.
He was always on the move, particularly with new troubles popping up all over the place.
But the messenger would find him and soon, very soon, the king would come and bring her a husband.
Life was not pleasant for anyone at Baddersley in the next weeks. The previous year’s inadequate stores had scarcely lasted through the winter, and many people, chiefly the young and old, had died because of it. Those who had survived were weakened and dispirited.
The depleted work force was forced to toil beyond its endurance to care for crops and beasts at the same time that it built the castle.
The people were subjected to blows and beatings for every small infraction.
Everywhere she looked Madeleine saw weary, gray, malnourished people, and she suspected she herself was no exception.
Though her uncle spent coin to buy better food, mostly for himself, even meals in the hall were poor.
Madeleine suspected that the money was running out. She knew Paul had given some to Odo when he returned to his duty, so his son might have a new sword and more fine garments in which to play the peacock. Her money. Baddersley’s money, which should be used to care for the people.
There would be an accounting when the king came.
But till then she could do so little. Since Aunt Celia took no interest in charitable work, Madeleine took over the distribution of what scraps were left from the hall table.
She discovered the kitchen workers were passing out baskets of good food to their families and put a stop to it.
What food there was would go to those in greatest need.
She did not report the thievery to her uncle, however, for fear of what mad retaliation he would take.
Had he not had one poor man hanged for letting his pigs get into the cornfields?
Every day she made herself available to those with problems, particularly medical ones, but only the Norman guards and servants asked her assistance. The English remained surly. No, more than surly.
The English hated her.
They hated Paul and Celia, too, but that was a dull resentment. Her they hated in an active, burning way.
Why?
Everywhere she went she felt their eyes pierce her like sharp blades, though when she faced them, their expressions were dull and blank. Even just crossing the bailey her spine crawled with the feeling that she was a target.
For a while she had continued to go out into the countryside to collect wild plants to supplement the food.
She had also hoped for a meeting with her outlaw, with Golden Hart, so she could seek his help.
But one day she had been struck by a large stone, thrown with vicious intent.
She had fled back to her guard and stopped her wanderings.
She talked to Dorothy about it as she prepared for bed one night. “Is it my imagination, Dorothy, that the people here hate me?”
The woman combed out Madeleine’s long chestnut hair. “Why should they, my lady?”
“I don’t know. Do they say anything to you?”
“No,” said the woman sourly. “Hold your head still, do.”
Madeleine realized her maid must be as cut off as she was. No wonder she was surly. “Would you like to share my English lessons, Dorothy?”
She felt a particularly hard yank on her hair. “No, I would not, my lady,” snapped Dorothy. “The very idea. Teach them to speak proper. That’s more to the point.”
Madeleine sighed. “I wonder when I will hear from the king.”
“Doubtless he has better things to do than bother about your affairs,” said the woman, driven for once into loquacity.
“Why, if matters are everywhere as they are here, he must be driven mad by the wretches. Refusing to do their work, always complaining, trying to leave their proper place as if they had a right to wander wherever they will. Heathens, that’s what they are, for all they pray in a Christian church. ”
It was true that people continued to slip away from the manor in ones and twos.
Paul put his guards on the village, but still his daily rages against Golden Hart marked another family gone.
When the headman of the village came to report that the ox-herd and his family had escaped, Paul turned a deep, engorged red, then a frightening white.
“What?” he roared. “Go after him! Bring him back!”
No wonder he was in a rage; Madeleine felt a spurt of panic herself. The ox-herd was one of the essential people on any estate, and though his full skills would not be needed until harvest time, who would look after his beasts? Without oxen they would surely starve.
“No one knows where he’s gone, Lord,” stammered the man.
“Find him,” ordered de Pouissey. He lunged forward and fastened his beefy hands around the man’s throat. “Find him!” He shook the man, who made nasty gurgling noises.
“Aunt,” cried Madeleine. “Stop him!”
Dame Celia shrank back. “Why? He’s just another troublemaker. Let him strangle.”
Madeleine ran forward and grabbed her uncle’s thick arm. “Uncle, stop!”