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A wave? Coming upstream?
‘Here, Gérard, is that a tidal bore?’
‘Can’t be, Pascal. Wrong time of year.’
‘Well, I might have had too much Rhenish last night, but that looks like a tidal bore to me. Come on, man, quick!’ he said, pointing.
Gérard looked and went grey. He swore and hastily crossing himself, leaned out over the parapet. ‘Tidal bore!’ He grabbed the rope of the alarm bell. ‘Tidal bore! La barre!’
‘That rowboat,’ Pascal added, shaking his head in horrified fascination. ‘Will it make it?’
It looked unlikely. Forced upstream by the incoming tide, the wave was gathering height as well as pace. It whipped along, bearing down on the boat faster than a man could run. Foam sprayed out along the riverbanks.
The noon bell had stopped ringing. Gérard’s alarm bell died away. Down by the river, the screaming began.
It seemed there was no escaping the interview with Abbot Bertram. Aude was determined it would not take long.
Shortly after noon, she and Edouard went to meet the Abbot in the old church, St Peter’s. They stood in the shady cool of a side passage as the chanting faded, and watched the monks file out. The rich scent of incense lingered in the air. Shafts of sunlight were falling in perfect lines through the narrow windows, illuminating here a carved bird, there an angel in full flight.
Abbot Bertram was sitting on a stone wall-bench, a compact, stern-faced man with little hair; whether this was because of his tonsure or because he was bald it was impossible to say. His face was elongated; he had strong features and startling black eyebrows that gave him a somewhat surprised air. Gems glittered in the polished gold cross that hung at his breast.
‘Lord Edouard, it is good to see you.’
‘Thank you, Lord Abbot. I trust you are in good health?’
‘Never better. Please sit.’ The Abbot waved Aude and Edouard to cushions on the bench. The windows above their heads were unglazed, but since it was the height of summer, the breeze playing over their heads was a blessing rather than a curse.
‘So, Lord Edouard, this is the sister I have heard so much about.’
‘Yes, my lord, this is Lady Aude de Crèvecoeur.’
‘My lady.’
‘Abbot Bertram.’
‘Lord Edouard, when your letter first arrived, I assumed you to mean that your sister had a vocation and that you wished me to find a suitable house in which she might live out her life.’
‘Lord Abbot,’ Edouard said, ‘I apologise if you were put to any trouble.’
‘My son, it is never a trouble to find places for any of our sisters who have a true vocation. And it is never wrong to test that vocation before binding vows are made. Such vows are sacred; once made they are irrevocable. It would be a grievous sin for someone to make them only to discover later that they have changed their mind and that they no longer wish to offer their life to God.’
Aude met the Abbot’s gaze. ‘Abbot Bertram, if I may say something?’
‘Speak freely, my lady. You have considered how you wish to spend your days?’
‘I have. You must know that my fiancé, Martin de Beaumont, died just over a year ago?’
‘Indeed, your brother informed me of his untimely death. Please accept my sympathies.’
‘Thank you. Abbot Bertram, it is true that after Martin’s death I considered taking the veil. But deeper thought has made me realise that the contemplative life is not for me.’ It was Hugh, Aude realised with a start. Hugh with his teasing smile, the smile that could lift me out of my grief, the smile that could startle because last spring it made me wonder what it might be like to kiss him…
‘Are you certain, my lady? The Church would welcome you. Perhaps one of the less…austere orders might suit you?’
Aude’s every muscle tensed and she had opened her mouth to speak when Edouard cleared his throat. ‘My lord, I am sorry if there has been any misunderstanding, but I must make it clear, my sister is not to be coerced. I have given my word that her will should be respected.’
Aude sent him a grateful smile.
‘Of course, of course.’ The abbot was beginning to sound irritable. ‘Compulsion would negate the offering to God. Anyone giving their life to the Church must do so freely. But I would hate to see your sister idle away her days. She has many strengths and talents, and to waste them would be a sin against the very God who gave them to her. Perhaps Lady Aude needs further, more focused guidance—a retreat, perhaps?’
‘No!’ Aude knew her voice was sharp, but she could not help it. ‘My apologies, Lord Abbot, but there would be no sense in that. I have no vocation and that will not change, however many retreats you may offer me.’
‘Your mind is fixed.’
‘On this matter it is.’
‘Perhaps you think to marry?’
‘One day, perhaps.’
The Abbot pushed himself to his feet and held up his hand in brief blessing. ‘I shall leave you to your meditations. Ponder well on the benefits that would accrue to your family should Lady Aude make a good marriage to a reliable man, a man whose loyalty to Duke William is unquestionable. With that in mind, there is someone I should like Lady Aude to meet. In view of the clouds that still hang over your brother, my lady, I would beg you to ponder hard on the merits of what I have suggested. May God guide your decision, Lady Aude, and may He bless you both.’
‘Farewell, my lord,’ Edouard said.
‘He’s after my dowry,’ Aude muttered, frowning at Abbot Bertram’s back as he left the church.
‘He will be sending in one of his knights next,’ Edouard said.
‘You are not serious!’
‘Never more so. Listen, Aude…’ Edouard lowered his voice ‘…I can understand you not wanting to enter a convent, but I do think you should consider marriage, and soon. Some time this year.’
‘This year? Edouard, there’s something you are not telling me. What have you done?’
Her brother looked steadily at her, saying nothing. Her fingers had clenched into fists; deliberately, she uncurled them. Today was not turning out as she had hoped it would. Hugh—banished! And now this…
‘Edouard? It would help the family if I made a good marriage?’
He sighed. ‘An alliance with one of the Abbot’s more trusted knights would cement our position in Normandy. No one would ever question our loyalty to the Duke.’
‘I really do not—’
‘Aude, shut that mouth for once and meet the Abbot’s man. You never know, you might find that he suits.’
‘The Abbot’s man? Edouard, have you arranged something behind my back?’
Edouard cleared his throat. ‘Just meet the man. We shall proceed from there.’
‘No! Edouard, you…you…I hate you!’
‘No, you don’t. Aude, you have to marry some time. It is, as Abbot Bertram says, the moment to make your choice.’
‘Some choice! You present me with a man I have never laid eyes on! Edouard, you worm! You planned this all along. I feel betrayed, betrayed!’
In the distance, a door slammed.
‘Hush, Aude, for the love of God, here he comes.’
Brisk footsteps drew closer, Aude couldn’t bear to look. If only it could be Hugh. But that, a wish so secret she had barely acknowledged it even to herself, had always been a vain hope.
‘Good day, Lord Edouard.’
He had a pleasant voice. Unfamiliar. Aude lifted her eyes. A blue tunic. The Abbot’s knight was tall with dark eyes and curly brown hair. His smile was friendly. Slightly reassured, she rose to greet him.
Everyone stood to benefit if she married this stranger. This knight would get his reward—Aude and her dowry. Yes, it would be a fine arrangement. If Aude de Crèvecoeur married one of the Abbot’s knights, everyone would be happy. Everyone except her…
‘Sir Olivier!’ Edouard smiled. ‘Good to see you again, man, good to see you. Aude, may I present Sir Olivier de Fougères? Sir Olivier, my sister Aude.’
‘Enchanté, ma dame.’
‘Sir Olivier.’ Aude made her voice cool.
As the Abbot’s knight bowed over her hand, a peculiar fancy took her. Hugh Duclair was standing in Sir Olivier’s place, and he was no longer a banished man. Hugh was wearing a silk tunic banded with intricate embroidery, gold gleamed on the pommel of his sword, and his eyes were glittering with laughter as they had done that spring at Crèvecoeur…
‘Abbot Bertram suggested I spoke to you.’ Sir Olivier’s voice brought her crashing back to reality. ‘And that your brother approved our meeting.’
‘Indeed?’ Carefully she withdrew her hand. Not Hugh. Heavens, what was happening to her? She bit her lip.
‘My lady, both the Abbot and your brother speak highly of your qualities.’
‘It is good to hear my brother values me.’
‘And why should he not? But not only your brother, my lord Abbot speaks highly of you too. Word has spread of your competence at Beaumont, not to mention the changes you have wrought at Crèvecoeur.’
‘Oh.’
‘Lady Aude, I would be honoured if you would care to walk with me in the orchard. We might get to know each other a little better. You don’t object, I take it, Lord Edouard?’
‘Be my guest.’ Edouard had a definite smile in his voice.
‘My lady?’
Aude put her hand on the knight’s arm and he led her out of the church.
The tidal surge roared along. It was only a few miles short of Jumièges and it was larger than ever. The wave spanned the Seine; it burst over the banks. White crests foamed and frothed at the margins, churning the mud, snatching at dead branches.
The surge pushed on, unstoppable. Boats rocked at moorings, the wave broke over them, filling them to sinking point in a moment. River barges were ripped away, stolen by the great press of water. This was la barre, also called the mascaret.
At the Ételan riverbank, a woman’s eyes widened and she ran to snatch her daughter clear of the foreshore.
Near the harbour at Villequier, a little boy murmured, ‘Viking wave,’ and stuck his thumb in his mouth, eyes round as pennies.
At Caudebec-en-Caux, a monk made the sign of the cross when he noticed the white horses racing upriver. He shouted a warning at a woman hauling eel-traps in from one of the jetties. She never heard him. Foam sprayed in her face; the wave swirled round her ankles, tugged at her skirts and bore her away. There was more screaming. Choking. A mouth full of river water mixed with brine. The river swallowed her.
Jumièges lay around the next curl of the river. Only minutes away, la barre drove relentlessly towards it.
Bees were humming in the lavender hedge that bordered the Abbey orchard. Butterflies wavered past, drunk with nectar and sunshine. Walking sedately through the orchard with the long grasses brushing her skirts, Aude shot the Abbot’s knight a sidelong glance.
Sir Olivier was, as Edouard no doubt knew, well favoured and attractive. He had good teeth, he was powerfully built and he had a smile that might charm the larks from the sky. He had tucked her arm into his and she could feel strength under the broadcloth of his tunic. So far, she had seen nothing to dislike, and it was a pity she could not warm to him. Hugh. What would it be like to be walking in this orchard with Hugh Duclair?
Sir Olivier reached to pluck an apple from a tree and passed it to her.
‘My thanks.’ The fruit was red and unblemished. It held the heat of the sun, but Aude did not want it any more than she wanted the man. The memory of a teasing smile held more allure.
Firmly, she put the memory behind her. Hugh had no smile for her today.
Brown eyes gleamed as they looked at her, and with practised ease Sir Olivier manoeuvred her against one of the lichen-covered tree trunks. When his eyes darkened, she realised he was going to kiss her.
Aude lifted her lips. She had to admit, she was curious. Despite two betrothals and a hopeless yearning for a certain banished lord, she was sadly lacking in experience with regard to kissing. The only man to have kissed her had been her Martin. She had adored Martin, but she had only been thirteen when they had become betrothed and they had pledged to remain chaste until their wedding day.
That was no doubt why Martin’s kisses had been so brief; he had not wanted to tempt either of them into breaking their vows. Affectionate but chaste, Martin’s kisses had left her entirely unmoved. And as for her second fiancé, Count Richard had known she was grieving—he had not touched her. Besides, Count Richard had had a Saxon mistress to entertain him…
Sir Olivier bent his head.
Aude did not know this man; never mind that his handsome features left her unmoved, she would try for her brother’s sake. Edouard thought she had been grieving too long, that grief was her habit and it needed to be broken. Perhaps he was right. This knight might teach her to enjoy his touch. Well, let us see. If I find you pleasing, an alliance might be possible…
A tall, broad body blotted out the sun. Aude felt herself go stiff. It was not Hugh’s body, she felt no desire to touch it.
Her nose wrinkled. Sir Olivier’s blue tunic smelt faintly of sweat, stale sweat that made her want to turn her head aside. Not all men had this smell, she recalled, as the naked shoulders and finely sculpted musculature of Hugh Duclair came into focus in her mind.
‘My lady, I swear if you were to honour me with your hand, I would cherish you all my life.’
The eyes of the Abbot’s knight were almost black and as she tipped her head back Aude could see her own small self reflected back at her. What was he seeing? Herself? Or the lands and the dowry she would bring him?
The body of the Abbot’s knight pressed against her, flustering her, hemming her in. Her apple fell to the ground and she forced herself to stand still while his lips touched hers.
Nothing.
Aude felt nothing but a sense of unease. No, it was stronger than that, it was irritation and it was growing stronger with every second that his mouth was on hers. Smothered—he was smothering her. Her hand came up to push him away. He caught it in one of his. She swallowed down a protest.
Sir Olivier pressed closer, pushing her back against the tree. Think of our family, she told herself, we need to make a good alliance.
Aude held firm as he pressed closer. Her veil snagged on a twig and her sense of irritation increased.
‘Ouch! Sir Olivier!’
He could not have heard for he went on kissing her. He was trying to insert his tongue between her teeth. A shudder, and it was entirely of revulsion, went through her. Martin had never done anything half so repulsive. Aude twisted her head. There was a ripping sound as the twig tore the delicate fabric of her veil. Her hair felt as though someone was pulling it out at the roots.
‘Ow! Please, sir!’
