Chapter 8 #3
This was Madeleine’s opportunity to list all her grievances, and yet, with her uncle and aunt already out of favor, it seemed petty to do so. “It is not easy at such a time, and my aunt is not well.”
“So I see. You did write to me, demoiselle,” the king pointed out, “and complain of mismanagement.”
So he had received her letter. “My uncle is overly harsh, sire,” she admitted. “It is not a productive way to handle people . . .” Under the king’s eye she found herself adding, “He hanged a man for letting his pigs into a cornfield.”
“Carelessness, certainly,” remarked the king with a raised brow, “but hardly a hanging matter.”
Another silence grew. Madeleine found she could not look away from those pale blue eyes. In the end she was compelled to say something, anything. “He whipped children once when some of the families tried to escape . . .” Madeleine wondered why that particular event had broken out.
“Children?” repeated the king, and there was that in his eyes which chilled her. Dry-mouthed, she nodded.
One finger tapped the table in front of him as William asked quietly, “Do you mean youngsters? Twelve? Thirteen?”
Madeleine watched the finger in preference to meeting his eyes. She shook her head and swallowed nervously. She knew now why William was feared. “I think the youngest was three, sire,” she whispered.
“By the Blood!” William’s fist crashed down, making the boards jump. The whole hall fell silent. “Leo,” the king called. “You are a father of doubtless troublesome boys. For what cause would you whip a three-year-old?”
Leo blinked. “Do you mean spank?”
The king looked a question at Madeleine and she shook her head. “A whip,” she said quietly, and the memory returned, bringing anger. “Tied to a post,” she added more loudly.
There was a murmur around the room and Leo de Vesin said, “For no cause under the sun, sire.”
The king nodded and lapsed into silence. Slowly the hall filled with voices again, but many of the men watched the king, wondering where the reverberations of his silent rage would be felt.
Madeleine waited in terror. Would the matter somehow be laid at her door?
“And you, demoiselle?” asked the king suddenly, so that Madeleine jumped. “Has he ever whipped you?”
“Sire, I have no wish—”
“Answer me!” he snapped.
“No, sire.”
“Yet I see a bruise by your eye.”
“That was Aunt Celia, sire. She . . . she is not well.”
“I think perhaps I should apologize, demoiselle. I sent you here without much thought. As your father had left the barony in his relative’s hands, I assumed it would do well enough until I had time to look into matters. What do you want me to do with Lord Paul?”
“Do, sire?”
“I’d be within my rights to hang him for the mismanagement here.”
“No, sire,” Madeleine said hastily. “Not that.”
The king nodded and took a drink of ale. “That’s as well. I haven’t ordered any man killed since I came to England, and if I can I’ll keep it that way. I can tie him to his whipping post and strip his back.”
“No, sire.” Bile rose in Madeleine’s throat at the thought of it. If she had her way, no one would ever be whipped at Baddersley again. “I just want him to leave.”
The king shrugged. “You are too softhearted, but I suppose it comes of being convent-raised. I’ll send him back to your father’s place at Haute Vironge.
That’s a ruin now, sad to say. I don’t suppose de Pouissey can make it any worse.
If he crosses me there, I’ll banish him.
” He looked at Madeleine and smiled. To her his expression was predatory.
“Your situation here has been unfortunate, but things should be better soon. All you have to do is choose the right husband.”
There was emphasis on the word “right.” “Will I really have my choice, sire?” Madeleine asked warily.
“Have I not said so?” replied the king with a mild good humor she distrusted. “Even after receiving your petition for aid, I have been fair. I have brought you three able young men to choose from, all different, all proven in war and loyalty.”
The words escaped her. “But that . . . but Lord Aimery is part Saxon!”
The king fixed her with a look which was enough to make a bolder spirit crumple.
“So am I,” he said. “Most Englishmen acknowledge my right to the crown, and in return I raise them as high as any man of Normandy. I have given my dear niece to a full-blooded Englishman as wife, and promised my eldest daughter to another. Do you rate yourself higher?”
Madeleine was petrified, but before she could stammer out an apology his expression lightened. “But I have misunderstood you, of course. You have seen Lord Aimery’s advantage. His Mercian heritage means he is more able than most to handle the English, who are, after all, a funny lot.”
That was one way to put it. Madeleine had a queasy feeling she knew now who was the “right husband.” It would never do, but she was not up to telling William that just yet. “I do find the people here hard to understand, sire,” she said, hoping to turn the subject.
“Talk to Aimery. He understands their ways.”
“Lord Stephen seems a pleasant man, sire,” said Madeleine desperately. “Does he come of a good family?”
The king’s shrewd glance seemed to see right down to her stockings, but he followed the lead, “Aye. And he sings a pretty song. And Odo tells a funny joke now and then.” William’s look said, “Wriggle as you like, demoiselle, you will do as I wish in the end.”
Marry that Saxon, with his long hair, his load of gold, and the bright green eyes which reminded her of a bitterly shattered dream . . .
“What do you know of a man calling himself Golden Hart?” the king suddenly asked.
“Golden Hart?” The second after she had repeated the words, Madeleine was recalling them to her mind to hear the inflection, was wondering what expression had been on her face. Why did she care? If Edwald fell into the king’s hands and ended up blind or maimed, why should she care?
“I understand from Lord Paul that he is the bane of the area,” the king prompted, watching her shrewdly. “He places all his troubles at that man’s door.”
“My uncle has spoken of him,” said Madeleine carefully.
“He does blame him for all our troubles, but I have no way of knowing the truth. People flee, and folk say Golden Hart has helped them, but they flee because conditions are so poor. Sometimes,” she said boldly, “I think Golden Hart is as much a myth as the faeries.”
The king was watching her far too closely. “Perhaps you leap to conclusions about the faeries, Lady Madeleine. You must talk to Waltheof Siwardson about it. He is the grandson of a faery-bear.”
Before she could respond to this extraordinary suggestion, the king continued, “As for Golden Hart, he’s real enough as such things go.
His presence has been felt in other areas.
You don’t agree with your uncle, then, that a sweep of the forest hereabouts would drive him from his lair?
He told a tale of you and Odo being attacked by the man. ”
Madeleine hesitated. Now was the moment to reveal what she knew. “We were attacked by a few ruffian outlaws, sire,” she found herself saying. “If any of them were Golden Hart, he is not the magical character he is said to be.”
What was wrong with her? She wanted him in chains, didn’t she?
“They never are,” said the king dryly, considering her thoughtfully. “I’ll have the rogue in my hands one day and prove it.” He looked past her. “Ah, Aimery.”
Madeleine became aware of a shadow over her lap and looked up to find Aimery de Gaillard looming over her.
The king rose. “Pray keep the demoiselle company, Aimery. I must have a word with Lord Paul if he’s to be on his way tomorrow.”
Madeleine didn’t look at her new companion as he sat. She tried to think of an excuse to escape. She couldn’t face another verbal battle.
“You look exhausted,” he said soberly.
Madeleine realized her eyes had almost shut and forced them open, made herself sit up straight. “It has been a hectic day.”
She risked a glance at him. When she’d first seen him in the hall, he’d caught her attention by the strangeness of his flowing blond hair and gaudy dress, but now he made other men look dull.
Why, she wondered, was she so certain she should not marry Aimery de Gaillard?
When he wasn’t poking fun or sneering, he was quite attractive.
She shouldn’t let his resemblance to a certain lecherous wretch sway her.
Edwald was a crude outlaw who had played with her for his own amusement, and then turned the local people against her when she would not satisfy his lust. Aimery de Gaillard was a Norman, and an honorable man.
“Why do you stare?” he asked sharply. She noticed his right hand had formed a fist. There was something about it . . . He suddenly moved it so it supported his chin, and whatever had teased at her tired mind swam away.
“Did I stare?” she asked, confused. “I beg your pardon. My mind wanders.”
“I think you should go to bed,” he said, almost gently. “Tomorrow will be even more hectic and,” he added, “these men are fast sinking their wits in your mead and ale.”
She looked around and colored as she realized many of the men were drunk. The tone of the talk and singing was distinctly bawdy. She rose quickly to her feet, and he did the same. “I will escort you to your chamber,” he said.
She led the way, suddenly nervous about her safety. The curtain which separated her alcove from the corridor leading off the hall had always seemed substantial enough, but now with these strangers present she felt insecure.
When she stopped at her room, he held back the curtain for her to pass. “Don’t worry, demoiselle. I don’t think anyone would be so foolish as to disturb you, but I’ll post a guard who can be trusted. After all, you need your sleep. You have a momentous decision to make tomorrow.”