The Bought Bride

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There was a roar of laughter and applause so loud that none of Rhoese’s protests were heard, yet still the grip on her arm was maintained as if the knight had forgotten to release her. Nor had he laughed.

‘Let her go, Judhael de Brionne,’ the king commanded. ‘It’s your turn next. This one’s for de Lessay. Let go, man.’

The grip slowly relaxed, casting Rhoese adrift into a sea of grinning faces and clapping hands through which she could still make out her stepmother’s jubilant expression. Turning her back on it, she came face to face with a man of more than middle age, a deliberate move on the king’s part to get another lucrative offer for her when this husband died, making her an even richer prize than she was now. It was a favourite artifice.

Ralph de Lessay, it seemed, had as little grace as the king and as much excitability, for he grabbed Rhoese unceremoniously by the shoulders before she could stop him, pulling her hard into his sweating face for a mouth-stopping slobbering kiss that left a trail of spittle to drool down her chin. His soldier’s grip hurt her intensely.

She brought up her arms to push, to wipe her face with her sleeve, to keep him at arm’s length. Gasping for air, she sobbed to the king, ‘No, sire! No! This is unworthy. This is not the way the daughter of a king’s thegn should be treated. Please, let me go home, I beg you.’

The king’s face straightened into a sober block of recognition like a child who had suddenly become aware of a misdemeanour. ‘Yes,’ he said, tightening his mouth. ‘That’s enough. Take her home, de Brionne. It’s time we were away on that hunt.’ With a sudden about-face, he turned and strode through the hall, knowing that the crowd would part for him like the Red Sea, and soon the place was emptying except for the clerks, the archbishop and his assistants and those most involved with the whole disgraceful incident.

Thoroughly shaken, Rhoese was the first to find a voice, determined not to give Ketti any pleasure by an exchange of incivilities that she would win, hands down. From the archbishop, however, she hoped for something that might still lend a grain of dignity to the proceedings, something that might allow her to walk away from this nightmare with her head held high. A blessing, perhaps? A word of comfort that would remind her of some small benefit? ‘My lord?’ she whispered. ‘Am I…is he…? Oh, my lord, is this truly happening to me? Can he do this?’

He had seen it before and he knew that William Rufus could do exactly what he pleased with any remaining English property, especially a woman’s. ‘Yes,’ he said, scowling at the stupidly grinning face of the man who had won her, ‘he can. And may I suggest to you, de Lessay, that you get a grip on yourself and behave with some dignity towards this woman who is to be your wife. Go and bathe, man. You stink like a fishmonger.’

Taken aback at the unflattering comparison, Ralph de Lessay’s shoulders slumped as he turned obediently away, and Rhoese saw how the bald patch on his head was scabby and brown where the summer sun had blistered it. At the same time she had to resist the temptation to hug the archbishop for saying what she herself would like to have said.

To Judhael de Brionne, the archbishop said, ‘Take the Lady Rhoese home, Jude. There’s nothing to be gained from hanging about here. The marriage will be in York before our return to London, I’m sure. His Grace doesn’t like delays.’

Ralph de Lessay, euphoric after his success, seemed to have second thoughts about the mode of Rhoese’s return to her home. ‘Wait!’ he called, coming back to them. ‘I’ll take her myself. I’ve a mind to see…’

Swiftly, Judhael de Brionne caught him by his mail beneath the chin, almost lifting him off the ground with one hand and hurling him backwards into the king’s chair with such force that the man and chair went crashing over into the rushes. ‘You’ve seen enough, short-arse!’ Jude snarled. ‘Do as the archbishop says and take a bath. You stink!’ Without waiting to see the man recover, he placed a hand under Rhoese’s armpit and walked her at an urgent pace out of the hall and into the bright light of day, with Els almost running to keep up. Neither of them even glanced in Ketti’s direction, so missed her change of expression from satisfaction to admiration.

‘Let go!’ Rhoese said, swinging her arm up. ‘We can take ourselves home.’ Over their shoulders, men watched for the inevitable scene.

He caught her around the waist, ignoring her yelp of protest. ‘Yes, lady, I know you can. And the sooner we get away from this place the better. Come on!’ He swooped to gather her knees over his arm, then hoisted her high on to the stallion held by his squire, dumping her without ceremony behind the high saddle to which she was bound to cling to avoid falling off. From that height it was difficult for her not to look at him, and through her confusion and anger, she noted every detail as if to compare it with the scruffy and disgusting knight who had insulted her so publicly. Under English law, he would have been punished for that. Here before her was a tall confident knight whose hands had supported her, whose appearance was immaculate from gleaming helm to polished spurs, whose stern expression told her he was not one to cross, unless she was prepared to be hurt. Formidable was the word that sprang to her mind.

‘You’ll ride pillion with me,’ he said. His look took in the beauty of her full mouth and the perfect flushed bloom of her cheeks before returning to her eyes, settling into their anguished velvet brownness with a slow blink. He would know exactly what to do with her, his look said, unlike that boor he had knocked flat.

Her mind stopped working, and for once she found nothing to say to him. But as he leapt into the saddle as if vaulting over a gate, swinging one leg over the horse’s neck, she could not help the shiver of unwilling pride that, after that degrading scene of a few moments ago, she was riding high behind a man with some sense of how she must be feeling, even if his way of responding to it was less than gentle.

Over the knight’s broad shoulder she saw that Els was similarly seated behind the squire on a chestnut gelding and that her arms had already encircled the young man’s waist. As Rhoese felt the horse move away, she clung with one hand to the cantle until the knight’s hand came round to find it and take it to the belt at his waist. ‘Hold on to that,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘and stay close.’

‘Why would I want to stay close to you?’ she said under her breath.

‘Because it’s easier on the horse,’ he replied, as if she should have known.

It had not taken the knight, Judhael de Brionne, long to reach a conclusion about how best to win this woman, though it had already begun to look as if bets could be lost to those who had put money on his success. The matter that Ranulf Flambard had mentioned yesterday had accelerated far more suddenly than any of them had anticipated, and now she was almost out of bounds before the game had begun. And yes, she had been correct in her assessment: it was a game to take from the English whatever was available, both a game and a business at which he had already benefited. It had been all the more satisfactory for being quite difficult, English laws having been designed to cover every small point regarding possession of property and women. Nevertheless, since the first William’s death, his son had shown himself to be less particular about keeping the English laws intact. This afternoon’s fiasco was an example of how happy he was to bend any rule that would put more money into his treasury, whether it was fairly done or not. Like his father, William Rufus had no qualms about going back on his word if another bidder made him a better offer. Ralph de Lessay must be displaced.

Jude felt the touch of Rhoese’s shoulder on his back and her little thumb stuck into his belt. The king had been his usual unpredictable self, dragging de Lessay out of the crowd in the excitement of the moment as one more spontaneous and bountiful gesture of the day. As if the woman had not been embarrassed enough. It had not been well done. He had felt her sway with consternation. Her body was soft, and though she was showing the world her indomitable spirit by spitting fire at every man in sight, he had seen the pain behind her eyes and felt the shockwaves as the king’s demands had shaken her. Man or woman, it made no difference to William Rufus. He used them both the same.

Ranulf Flambard had been eager to hear how Jude would go about winning the body, if not the heart, of York’s unassailable beauty. Ranulf had offered what he believed were helpful suggestions, none of them particularly original and most of them quite missing the point that she was obviously immune to that kind of approach. Jude knew better than that; any woman with such a chip on her shoulder for whatever reason required a different kind of handling. She was not for the faint-hearted, and certainly not for a seasoned hard-bitten campaigner like de Lessay who hauled on his reins as if he was pulling a boat in.

But things had moved ahead with unsettling haste, and what had started out as a game meant to last a week or two, as such games usually did, had now grown into something more serious. Not just that she was to be married at the king’s discretion: that happened all the time. Not because she was wealthy, either, or because she had made an enemy of that weasel-faced stepmother. No, there was something more to it than that, something that had disturbed Jude since he had first seen her counting her rents. She was vulnerable, exquisitely beautiful, tempestuous yet with a hint of scaredness, and not quite as ice cold as she would like to be thought. He had seen the look used on him that men used on women, and though it had been quite unconscious, he was experienced enough to recognise it. Until now, he had only toyed with thoughts of marriage, laughing at his father’s urgings to find himself a wife and enjoying his reputation as a breaker of women’s hearts, both married and single. The possibility of taking an Englishwoman to his bed permanently had never been more than a passing thought during his eight years here in England. Until now.

But this one presented more than a challenge; more like a crusade to discover the cause of all that anger, to channel it into the positive energy of loving. Too bad that oaf had tried to kiss her with that great broken-toothed mouth of his. Now he, Jude, would have to show her how it ought to have been while she was still weakened, and then he would have to find the best way of removing de Lessay from the position into which he had just been hurled by the king.

The ride through York’s crowded streets would have taken only minutes if there had been more than one bridge across the river, for the minster garth and Toft Green, not so far distant as the crow flies, were on opposite banks. To Rhoese, with her mind in complete turmoil once more, the journey was a total blank. Normally, she would have enjoyed seeing the traffic of pilgrims and merchants, foreign faces and strange dress, traders and their stalls, women calling greetings; but not on this day and not from a seat behind a Norman, of all people, those most feared and hated of all strangers, as foreigners were known. Even after twenty-two years, they were nowhere near being accepted, nor did it appear that they were making any effort to be. And now, it looked as if she would be tied to one for ever, bought and sold, betrayed by the stepmother who not only wanted to possess her home, but also wanted her to disappear.

They crossed the wooden bridge over the River Ouse where her late father’s ships were tied up along the wharves, giving up their precious cargoes from the northern ports. Few merchants would set sail this late in the year; fewer still could understand why Gamal had chosen to do so, to his cost. Rhoese wondered if Warin would be there and whether he might look up and see her riding behind this taciturn Norman knight. There was no sign of him, however, and then they were on Micklegate, literally ‘the big street’ in Old Norse, and almost home. Then she would have to tell them how all their worst fears had materialised in the time it took to say a Pater Noster.

Dismounting, the squire opened the gate at Toft Green and let them through into the deserted courtyard where only a dignified line of geese waddled away from the hooves. ‘Take the girl in,’ said Jude to his squire. ‘Tell them we’re coming.’

Rhoese would have preferred not to rely on this man’s say-so, but it was a long way for her to drop without assistance and she was left sitting alone on the horse’s rump as the knight led both horses across to the stable and tied the reins to the ring on the wall. Then he came to her to place his hands upon her waist, and she had no option but to lean forward and be caught in his arms like a child. Without a word, he carried her straight into the dark stable where the warm aroma of dung, hay and horseflesh mingled sweetly and where he stood her carefully upright against the timber wall with the bulk of his body closing her in.

She wanted to remonstrate, but this confrontation seemed as unreal to her as the previous one and nothing made sense any more; nothing and no one. In one quick pull he removed his helm and placed it on a sack of oats, pulling back the mailed leather-lined coif from his head to reveal a layer of thick dark hair that stuck like silk to his skull. Once again, he was the man with whom she had had words yesterday, and now she knew for sure that this was a continuation of that, where he was about to settle the score with the last word.

She placed her hands flat on his steel-linked chest, but he pushed them away with one quick flick of his wrists and, picking up the hem of her long sleeve, used it to wipe her chin of de Lessay’s odour that still clung there. He held her face, watching her eyes show confusion and anger before they clouded with defence. And a warning. ‘Oh, no, Norman,’ she whispered, pushing at him again. ‘Oh, no, you’re out of your depth here. I do not owe your kind any thanks for this day’s work, nor am I ready for another mauling. There is no man I want near me—’

He did not wait to hear the rest, for none of it was relevant to him and there was no time to explain. Catching her wrists, he held them behind her back as he pressed her against the wall, and though her intention had been to writhe, to scratch at his eyes, kick and scream, the invasion of his mouth held her completely immobile, draining the energy from every limb. Concentrating all her awareness into that moment of tantalising sweetness, she was suspended like a star in space and time, forgetting to fight or to think about objections or the futility of it all. Something at the back of her mind flared like a dying flame in a draught of pure air, blazing briefly to illuminate a gem, something precious and sublime, just beyond her reach. Then it was gone, and his lips were releasing her, hovering warm and firm over hers with just enough space for words. ‘You are wrong, woman,’ he whispered. ‘It is not I who am out of my depth. Is it? And I shall get closer than that, believe me.’

Her eyes opened and her body sprang into action without her bidding it, pushing, twisting, panting with the effort. Then, as he made no move to release her, she was obliged to wait and to watch his eyes, knowing by their direction that he had not finished with her and that she would be made to wait until he had. And though his arrogance both angered and unnerved her, the taste of him was still seeping through her senses, lingering and enthralling her, holding her in readiness. Again she felt his mastery as her eyes closed, and what she thought she knew about a man’s kiss was wiped out at the next touch of his lips, like finding a superb wine after knowing only stale water.

But it was too sweet to be borne for long after the dreadful events of the afternoon, and her heart pleaded for some respite from the surfeit of emotions. She tore her mouth away with a hoarse cry of anguish. ‘Let me be…no…please…go away. Leave me! Leave me!’

At once, he released her, catching her elbows as he had before when the ground had lurched beneath her feet, waiting for the inevitable questions and reproof, feeling the trembling anger through her arms.

‘Who are you?’ she said. ‘Do you insult Norman women so freely, sir?’

‘Judhael de Brionne,’ he said, adjusting the linen head-rail over her hair. ‘I am Count Alan of Richmond’s vassal, and I came with him in the king’s retinue. And I don’t think it would help matters for you to know what I do with Norman women, my lady. More to the point is that you should see how some Normans are more skilled than others. You may have been sold to de Lessay for the moment, but that will have to change.’

‘I can scarce believe I’m having this conversation,’ she said, intending to cow him with her wide blazing eyes. ‘You are telling me, are you, that as well as being married to that…that boor, you want me to take you as a lover? Is that it?’

He placed a hand on the wall behind her and lowered his face to hers so close that she could see only his eyes making inroads into hers, reading far more than she wanted to reveal. ‘No, my lady, that is not it. I am telling you as clearly as I know how that you will be mine. Understand? Mine.’

‘Ah, so it is the property. You saw it. You wanted it, and now you see a way to get it. Well, that didn’t take too much effort on your part, did it? So now all you have to do is to offer the king more, which he’ll not refuse, of course, and then you can add my estates to those you hold from Count Alan. Well done. But if you think you’ll get any co-operation from me, knight, then you’ll be wrong. You won’t.’

His nose almost touched hers, so close did he look into her heart. ‘I don’t need your co-operation, Rhoese of York. I thought I’d already demonstrated that. And I also believe that your protests are a mite too strident to be sincere. Would you like me to show you what I mean?’

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No…no, don’t. You do not know…’

‘No, there’s quite a lot I don’t know that I intend to find out. But you had better know this, my lady, that you are on the losing side. Your snarling and snapping and keeping yourself chaste will get you nowhere. What I set out to take, I get. Now, I shall take you in and I shall return tomorrow to escort you back to the king. He’ll want you to make your mark before witnesses, I expect. But I shall have spoken to him by that time.’

‘You’re very sure of yourself, knight. What if he refuses?’

He smiled and levered himself off the wall. ‘You can begin by using my name. I’m known as Jude.’

‘And I’m known as the daughter of Lord Gamal,’ she replied sharply, ‘and I’m capable of making my own plans. English women are not so biddable as your Norman dames.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Come, show me your hall.’ He held out a hand, closing his strong fingers around hers and leading her out into the light. And this time Rhoese saw no point in depriving him of the last word.

Chapter Three

S o, the squabbling over possession of her estate had already begun before the decree was barely out of the king’s mouth, and Rhoese’s short-lived attempts to maintain her independence had gone for nothing. It would never have happened before the Normans came. There had been laws to protect women’s rights then, she told her brother.

‘It’s no good chastising yourself, love,’ Eric said. ‘It would have happened eventually, one way or the other, whether you’d shown yourself or not. The king had already trawled through the records to see who owned what. It was only a matter of time.’

‘I know,’ said Rhoese, pulling a fistful of brown seed-heads off the sorrel, ‘but if that woman hadn’t got to Archbishop Thomas before me with her offer of a wealthy ward, then I might have stood a chance. She’s capable of anything, Eric. And the new king is a monster. How dare he treat me like a cow for sale to the highest bidder and allow his man to handle me so coarsely? I was never so humiliated in my life. Never.’ They sat side by side on the low remains of a Roman wall that ran along one side of the croft where nettles, sorrel and dock hung heavily with seeds between the stones. She had given the news to Hilda, Bran and Neal, to Brother Alaric and the household servants, watching the silent shock on their faces turn to consternation and fear for their own positions about which she was unable to comfort them. Not since her father’s death had she felt so helpless or so fearful for her future.

But underscoring everything else in her mind was the way in which the Norman, Judhael de Brionne, had seen Toft Green during his visit to York and had instantly decided to acquire it, despite the king’s first choice of recipient. He had told her so, knowing that his kiss would be far more to her taste than de Lessay’s bungling attempt, and that she would file it away amongst ‘things to be savoured again’ in the dark privacy of her bower. And, like a fool, she was already doing it, regardless of her determination never to let a man into her dreams.

He had entered her hall, impressing those within by his civility, his courteous greetings to Eric. And to Neal, who could almost guess the result of Rhoese’s visit to the king, if her angry expression was anything to go by.

‘So there’s to be a higher bid, you think?’ said Eric. ‘That man?’

Instead of an answer, she took his hand and held it on her lap. ‘I’m going to speak to Father Leofric,’ she said, ‘at St Martin’s. I can’t just leave it like this, love. I’m not going to let them walk all over us and let that woman take over my house without putting up a fight for it. She’s taken everything I had, so far, and I’ll be damned if she’s going to get this so easily.’

‘I can’t see that he’ll be able to do much to help. An English priest.’

‘It’s worth a try. I’ll be back before supper.’

‘You’re taking Els with you?’

‘No.’ She smiled for the first time. ‘She prefers to gawp at you.’

He stood up to go with her. ‘Then I’d better not deprive her of that pleasure before I join the monks. What’s that man’s name? Judhael Debrion?’

‘Yes, love. Something like that.’ Jude, he had told her. Jude. She held a hand to her mouth and pressed gently, feeling the warm skin with her lips and the quick surge of something vibrant within her belly. ‘The house martins have almost gone,’ she said, ‘so we shall not have their protection from thunderstorms now. Come into the hall, love. Mind that bucket on your left.’

Whilst not expecting a miracle from Father Leofric, Rhoese felt that he might have been the one to offer her something more positive than Brother Alaric, her chaplain, whose position in her household was principally to lend an air of respectability to her masterless menage, and to keep the accounts. She had, in fact, already put the idea to Brother Alaric that the best way for her to avoid the king’s command would be to enter a nunnery, but his response had been guarded rather than sympathetic, and he had advised her to ask Father Leofric what he thought about it. Whether the chaplain had an inkling of what the priest’s reaction would be was debatable but, if so, he had the wit to keep it from showing when Rhoese returned to Toft Green an hour before supper.

He laid down his quill as her shadow fell across his doorway, rising to his sandaled feet to invite her into his hut. A flurry of leaves swirled round the threshold and rattled away as the chaplain drew up a stool to the door where they could be seen, careful for her reputation.

‘He’s shocked,’ she said. ‘Very shocked.’

He made a small sound of agreement. ‘Understandable. What’s his answer to the convent idea? Concerned about Eric, is he?’

That, indeed, had been a consideration. For Rhoese to commit herself to taking the veil before they knew whether Eric had been accepted at St Mary’s was to tempt fate. The last thing any of them wanted was for him to be left to rejoin Ketti’s household, and Father Leofric’s admiration for Eric was less well disguised than he believed it to be.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Naturally. He thinks that running off to a nunnery immediately would leave Eric in a difficult position, but he also knows the man the king is selling me to. He’s one of the worst types. A real ruffian, he says.’

‘He told you that? That can hardly have put your mind at rest.’

‘I wish I hadn’t gone now. The only helpful thing he said was that he’d try to find a way of getting me out of it, but for the life of me I don’t know what he means.’ It was not the only thing Father Leofric had suggested. The lie had been for modesty’s sake and because she could not repeat to her chaplain exactly what the parish priest had suggested to her, in private. His words still rang in her ears.

‘My Lady Rhoese,’ Father Leofric had said to her, not unkindly, ‘I can see a way forward in this. Will you take a beaker of mead with me?’

He was not physically unattractive, on the young side of middle age, spare and smiling—too smiling?—busy with his hands, which should have been hidden and still. Rhoese did not want the mead, but took it anyway and thanked him, wondering about the way forward.

‘Now,’ he said, seating himself just a little too close to her, ‘I’m not a man to mince words, as you know, and my thinking is that, if the king were to be told that you are already married, in secret, you understand, then he’d have to release you from this humiliating sale you’ve told me of. We really cannot allow that to happen. Can we?’ His hand touched hers and withdrew, but that one gesture alerted her to the direction of his mind.