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Va l M o r g a n

AND ELEANOR: A POETS TALE

AEFLED

AUSTIN

MACAULEY

Copyright Val Morgan The right of Val Morgan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 1 84963 127 3

www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2012) Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain

I would like to thank Anat, Bette, Jane, Kay, Margery, Angela, Susan, Marion, Robert and all those many other friends and colleagues who have read the text in draft and offered advice and encouragement. Their generosity is deeply appreciated.

CHAPTER ONE
Kneeling on the bank of the river in the drenching sunlight, Aefled hooked the shirt on the stick and turned it in the water, allowing the flow to pass through its loose weave. There was no need to think about what she was doing. These habitual actions of dunking, soaking, scrubbing and thrashing, set precisely over many washing sessions, allowed her to be joyously absent from the effort of the task. Her mind was adrift in another world of music and making, soaring far from the narrow course of the river, free to tumble and leap in seas of words or undulate on waves of rhythm. That morning she was at her usual place upstream, at some distance from the village women who had congregated lower down where they would spend the working hours in talk, amusing the smaller children or distracting each other with tales, riddles or bits of news. Aefled usually walked up with them from the village and then met them again on the way home. In the group that day was little Aelfgyva and her older sister, Acha, whose mother was sick and could not come. Aefled had set them up with some of her own lye soap at a shallow pool under the watchful eyes of neighbours and kin. Show me what you have done when I come back, Aefled had said. Lets see if you can do as much as Acha. I can do more than Acha. Im as big as she is. This boast was nearly true since both girls were tiny and frail from years of undernourishment. Aelfgyva took the soap eagerly. Good girl. You can keep it. Aefled smiled and stroked the childs elfin face, pushing strands of hair back beneath her cap. See how long you can make it last. Aefled had left the group and gone off alone to her own secluded spot. On washing days she could arrange for herself a rare solitude and listen to the echoes in her head. On that day, so ordinary in its beginnings, those echoes had begun moulding themselves into shapes of sound and sense. For the

first time her voice caught the whirling threads of her imagination and began to pull them into the pattern of a poem. Bent to her work, she did not see the tiny figure emerging from the hedgerow on the same side of the river, some distance along the path, wearing what appeared to be a monks habit far too large for his childish form. He turned his peaked face to gaze along the riverbank and saw a girl kneeling by the stream, holding down something in the water with a stick. Her face was turned from him, slightly lifted, and she appeared to be in a trance, but he could see that her lips were moving. He caught a few words of what seemed like a rhythmic song. I was born in the autumn that they came in their ships, landed on an undefended shore, and stole our land. It was the kind of sound he had heard travelling poets make at their secret recitals, a strange beat overlaid with a melancholy keening. The girl with braided hair half-turned towards him and he could see that her eyes were closed. For some time the undersized figure in its voluminous monks habit stood watching her, invading her song with a strabismic gaze. Aefled opened her eyes, saw him, stopped singing and stood up from her washing. He smiled, gave a little bow, shrugged his shoulders, turned in the direction of St Johns Abbey and went on his way, disappearing into the lee of the hedgerow after a few paces. Aefled did not recognise the figure and mildly wondered who it was. She had been far away in her own private world, caught up in a secret task. Steadily, over the last few weeks, an ambition had taken root in her mind which had been impossible to stifle or argue away. Aefled wanted to make a poem. A poem that would amaze Godfric the next time he came to the village. Since he usually came at this time of year, a week or so after Midsummer Eve, she did not have long to prepare. The idea both thrilled and frightened her. Everyone knew that learned men made poems, not women, not even cloistered women, the most learned of all. She would often wonder about the poem-makers. Who were they, those men

who had shaped legends but left no names behind to seed legends of their own? Their poems told of warriors, heroes, kings and monsters, of battles and burials, ships and seacrossings, of times when men followed their gift-giving lord and sang his praises in the mead hall. Although the poets names had been lost, their words were kept alive through the generations by the bards who recited thousands upon thousands of memorised lines to the listeners they entertained. When she thought about the immensity of the tradition, Aefled would sometimes lose heart about her own feeble efforts. But when those doubts passed she was left with the same irresistible compulsion. I will do it, she told herself. I will make a poem! And when Godfric comes, I will recite it to him. With the aid of the stick, she lifted the garment from the river and placed it on an anvil-shaped boulder rising between the parted flows. Then she tied her braids at the nape of her neck, stepped down into the water, took the heavy garment in both hands, and began to pummel it rhythmically against the washing stone. I was born in the autumn that they came in their ships, landed on an undefended shore, and stole our land. I was born It seemed a suitable beginning. All beginnings were in birth. Although young and unmarried, Aefled was familiar with the process of birth. Already this year she had helped to deliver five babies. All born in late March and early April, the crop from last years midsummer festival. Yet it was not these births, nor her own, that was to be the subject of her poem, but the birth of a world. A world born from unlucky winds, ships landing on a naked shore, the disembarkation of horses and a day-long battle which still, all these years later, raged in peoples hearts. She would tell of the beginnings of the disaster, when the King and his warriors stood on the cliff-tops looking out to sea, scanning the horizon day after day for the sails they knew would come when the wind turned. She would tell of a

summer-long threat and an agony of waiting, fear gripping the belly and wolfish hunger as the foodstocks ran low; how the army watched vainly all summer; how September came, forcing the warriors to disband so they could take in the harvest to provide food for their families that winter. September, harvest, men go reaping; scythe and sickle curling, sweeping, Blading full-eared corn for carting. Then news raged across the land like fire. A force of three hundred ships packed with Norsemen led by Hardrada, had landed on the northern coast at the Tyne. The invaders had joined up with Tostig, the Kings treacherous brother, and were already marching on York. Hearing this terrifying news, the harvesters went racing from their sun-scorched fields. Throwing aside scythes and sickles, they took up swords and spears once more. In a few days they were hurtling up the Great North Road in the wake of their steely king, leaving the south coast fatally exposed. Harold northward leads his eorlmen silence shrouds the southern shore And the luck of the wind turned against them. Then the savage men came sailing, sea-spray whipping, water whitening, Beach stout-bellied ships on shore; wood on pebbles, grinding, grating, Men lead their fatal horses forth Horses! Aefled had an instinct about the horses, sensing their importance without understanding it. Almost every day she heard the sounds of horses bearing armed riders in and out of the palisade. Their snorts, neighs, jingling snaffles and creaking harnesses, their hoofbeats on the beaten earth, were a familiar acoustic of her life, although she had never been close

to one and could never expect to ride such an animal. Oxen ploughed, donkeys and palfreys carried, but the great, gleaming destriers of the Normans shared the remote, terrifying glamour of their masters. She wanted to describe them, to put them into her poem in the vivid phrases that the old poets used for the natural world: sea-birds skimming the waves, the stag, strong in his horns, who flees the hounds, the whale whose riding-place is the sea; but since the old poets had not sung the praises of horses, she lacked the words.I will put them in later she told herself. In any case, to describe them in more detail at this stage will delay what Isaac would call the klimax. Harold southward speeds his army, aching hearts and muscles aching, Low in numbers, great in sorrow, for far-fallen heroes mourning Aefled shook her head. It was no good. She was coming to the most important part of the poem and yet neither the balance of the lines nor the choice of words was entirely what she wanted. Her poem must belong to the tradition and yet go beyond it, be different somehow, be her own, contain her own thoughts. It must tell of war and warriors, all the poems of the tradition did that, but her poem would tell of a battle greater than any Beowulf had fought, greater than the catastrophe of Maldon, a battle whose stakes were higher than any since the Trojan war of old. That was her chosen theme, and she was determined to tell it in her own way, placing herself in the poem, letting her voice speak through it, daring to tell her own thoughts. I was born in the autumn No, it was not the season that was crucial, but the day. Saturday, the fourteenth of October. On that day of battle, nearly sixteen years ago, she had been born. The morning drew on and, far downstream, little Aelfgyva had become distracted from her task by a beautiful damsel fly shimmering above the water, as blue as a shard of summer sky. It moved, forward and back, darting like a fish in water, borne

on invisibly fast wings in warm currents of tremulous air. The child chased it, following it along the bank, pointing and laughing. To Aelfgyva, whose own name meant gift of the elfin world, the damsel fly was a magical being, a fairy creature in disguise or, as the older girls had told her, the spirit of a drowned soul come back to share the secrets of the deep. It hovered in the sunlight, iridescent with the promise of mysteries, or swooped invisibly in shadow, appearing and reappearing all along the stream. She followed its rapid, straight-line movements, lunging to catch it, joyful to see it darting ahead of her as if playing some game. Had Aefled seen the little girl, stretching out her hand for a fragment of sky with its glittering promise of magical worlds, she might have recognised an image of herself reaching for her elusive poem. It was an hour or so before noon when Aefled started for home, expecting to meet up with the other women on the way. She collected the drying washing from nearby branches of alder and willow, rung the excess water out of the last remaining garments and put everything into her basket. Slinging it across her back, tucking the hem of her gown through its canvas strap, she set out for home, her mind still wrestling with the intricacies of rhythm. As she made the last turn towards the village, having crossed the old Roman road which ran straight through the valley, she met the other girls and women, some with children, returning to feed their families. She exchanged greetings and fell in with them. They had not walked far when the sudden pounding of hooves on the road made them stop and freeze. Before they knew it, before anyone could move, a galloping horse turned the bend and came hurtling upon the group. As if trying to warn them, the horse whinnied but his rider stabbed his flanks with spurs so that the terrifying projectile of horse and man was gaining speed as it came full tilt at the knot of women. At the last moment, realising the danger, they threw themselves out of the way. The rider, armed and mailed like a soldier, his face wholly obscured by the fixed visor of a Mediterraneanstyle helmet, yelled at them furiously but made no attempt to slow his mount. It all happened too quickly for Aefled to

register much detail, or even to be afraid. In seconds, the horse was far down the road, disappearing in a cloud of brownish-red dust raised from the parched earth. In the ensuing silence some of the women crossed themselves. Holy Mother of God, save us! What was that? Was it the devil, do you think? In broad day? The only devil of the day is the Norman devil. Is everybody alright? asked Aefled, picking herself up from the verge where she had thrown herself beside ten-yearold Acha. Acha, wheres your sister? asked Aefled. Acha looked around, frightened. She did not know where Aelfgyva had gone and began to cry. They called aloud for the child, but there was no reply. They all began looking, along the verges, in the hedges, up and down the track. Oh Lord Jesus, what are we to do? Where is she, little Aelfgyv-? Did she fall under the hooves? No, answered Aefled to the last question. Thats not possible. The horses pace was regular, a beat as fast as a frightened heart. Did you not hear it? Racing into her mind came lines from the old poem, Riddle of the Wind, capturing exactly that terrifying rhythm: Cruel and killing on the savage road who shall still us? The Riddles shrieking wind, bursting from sea-caverns or screeching from the upper sky, was likened to dark horsemen storming, swooping, surging over shattered men, just as Norman warriors let loose from their strongholds howled like a whirlwind towards a place of destruction. No, Aefled went on, Aelfgyva could not have been trampled. We would have heard something, a cry, a scream, something. She could not have been hurt under the horse. It is not possible. Aefled sounded more confident than she was. In fact, the incident had happened so quickly she could not be certain what

had taken place. She was trying to apply reason, as Isaac had taught her, to a situation which seemed inexplicable. Well, where is she, then? Wheres she gone? said Gyft in her usual brazen tone. There was no time to run far. Shes only five, how far could she have got? I think she was taken, stolen. That man was no soldier. That man was not a man. It was a wicked spirit snatched Aelfgyva up just now. A demon. Gyft, one of Aefleds many cousins, a brawny girl of nineteen, made a point of challenging Aefled whenever possible. She pointed after the vanished rider and repeated, That man was not a man. Mark my words, it was a devil. Youre talking nonsense, Gyft. But we must go quickly and tell the elders what has happened. Lets gather up our things and be away from here. Aefled addressed the whole group with an assurance rare for her years and the women began to collect the scattered laundry. Gyft hung back. As the elder cousin she felt resentful of the way the women were prepared to listen to Aefled and fall in with her plans. They seemed to defer to an aura or some natural poise that Gyft could not see at all. Young mothers especially, whom Aefled had tended in childbirth, had a habit of listening to her advice. But not all the women were of this mind. Some whispered that she was not to be trusted because evil spirits had been put into her by Isaac. Some called her an elf child, touched by mysterious witcheries, a girl who knew too much. Others saw her as different, strange, set apart, but, for all that, capable beyond her years. To most she was no more than the nearlygrown daughter of their neighbour, Aelric the carpenter, for whose sake they were inclined, on the whole, to indulge her oddities. While Aefled was fetching her basket and gathering up the washing, her mind went back to the strange little figure who had been watching her that morning. She had thought nothing of him at the time, assuming he was just a young lay-brother or oblate child from the nearby Abbey of St John. Since she had not seen him close-up, he was merely a vague impression in the back of her mind. But why had he been there at the river? Did his presence have anything to do with Aelfgyvas

disappearance? She decided to say nothing for the moment and went on picking up the washing. When the women had collected their things they hurried the last half mile to the village in unusual silence. There was only one thought between them. What had happened to Aelfgyva? They went straight to the outlying farmstead where Aelfgyva and Acha lived, stopping along the way to ask everyone they encountered whether the little girl had been seen. Had she left the washing group of her own accord and wandered home? They found the cottage deserted except for Achas mother lying on a paliasse in a corner, like a heap of grey bones, insensible to the wave of sympathy they brought. We must tell Cedric, said Aefled. Gyft, go to the wall, find Cedric and tell him what has happened to his daughter. I will stay here with Acha until her mother wakes. I dont see what more we can do. For once Gyft did not contest Aefleds plan. I will find Cedric and tell him. He must call out the men in a search. They must do it before sunset or theres no hope. As Gyft hurried away the women dispersed to their own homes, searching for the child and spreading the dreadful news as they went. Aefled comforted Acha who was crying for her sister, while their sick mother slept on through her last tranquil hour. *** The day after Aelfgyvas disappearance the men were at work as usual. From almost any open place in the village they could be seen up on the hill; small, toiling forms like stylised figures on a tapestry cloth, bent and sinewy as they worked the stone with chisel and hammer, or stretched and taut as they strained against the massive weight of the blocks which rose slowly above their heads on creaking pulleys. In the midday glare they shimmered like powdered ghosts, covered with the chalky dust puffing from the limestone blocks, so light that the merest breeze caught it, played with it, then idly deposited it like winter rime over any exposed surface. All along the base

of the eastern wall, hammers pounded against iron chisels as the men cut the measured stone. Chippings and specks flew all around, filling their eyes with irritating grit, grinding their throats to a choking rawness. Boys with water buckets slopped among them, bringing relief for dry throats and burning faces, but no workman ever felt his thirst was slaked. Busying himself among the labourers was the man responsible for overseeing the work, Roger, the seneschal of the estate, the right hand man of Robert de Bernay. In Roberts absence, it was Roger who had charge of everything and must answer for everything. Although he occasionally stopped to talk to the Norman craftsmen, who ran the project on a daily basis, Roger had the air of someone flustered by responsibility as he hurried around the site, pausing now and then to wipe sweat from his face. Whenever he saw a labourer idling at his shovel or trundling a half-full barrow, he would shout to the nearest guard. A lash of the whip or the prod of a baton would serve to remind the English workmen what place they occupied in the construction of a Norman castle. When King William had granted lands to Robert in reward for his services during the invasion and the fierce campaigns of conquest that followed, he had had no plan to settle. It was only later, when he was building the church of St Marys in a wave of remorse encouraged by the papal legate, that he began to look upon the village as a suitable place for a permanent residence. Located near the centre of his vast southern fiefdom, well-supplied with water and dominated by a strategic hill, it offered a defensible situation with plenty of resources. The village lay in a fertile valley cut by a navigable river, good for the transport of men, supplies and stone. As a base for occupation it had much to recommend it, but what Robert had in mind was a future town. The first stage was to build a castle, strengthened by towers and encircled by walls, which would provide a stronghold for tax-collection and administration. This, in time, would attract the artisans and merchants who always flocked to the centres of money exchanges. Then a market would be established with seasonal fairs for horsetrading and animal barter as well as weekly stalls for the sale

of crops and chattels, all of which would yield a tax. Houses and workshops would extend along the Roman road. In time, a charter would be granted and a Norman town would flourish beneath the protective walls of the castle. Such, at least, was Roberts plan, already in the first stages of its realisation. The eastern section of the enceinte wall was presently under construction, having been begun after the last frosts of the previous year at Roberts orders, just before he left for the north. Since lime mortar would not set properly at low temperatures, all building had been suspended during winter. This year, as soon as April cleared of frosts, work on the walls and the eastern tower had recommenced. As Roger was passing the base of the tower, the pulley gang was getting ready to hoist a dressed block into place. He stopped to watch. At that point the wall had reached the height of about ten feet, which was at the outer limits of what the pulley gear, with its chains, ropes and blocks, could perform. Once the present course of stonework was completed, the complicated machinery would have to be raised and re-sited in order to work the upper courses. As Roger watched the block rising into the air, he felt a sense of exultation. Every stone was a confirmation. Every stone placed squarely into the growing cliff of six feet thick walls advanced the irreversible project of transforming this English hill into a little piece of Normandy. The block had almost reached the laying level when someone noticed that one of the ropes was frayed and that the loose sisal had bunched into a knot which had jammed in the pulley ring. The huge cube of masonry could neither move up nor down. It hung, twisting, for several moments. Look out! shouted the foreman to the workers who were still moving about below. Get clear, the ropes going! But the warning was already too late. The last threads broke and the block ripped away from the wooden tackle and went plunging into the workmen below. They leapt aside with warning cries but the huge stone hurtled down with such speed that not all of them managed to get clear. As it crashed at an angle on the incline and turned sidewards, its sharp corner

sheered into the stomach of a workman, killing him outright. Before it could come to rest, it turned again, changing direction, so that its opposite corner scored the head of another workman, Harald, who was reaching out to the slop boy standing directly in its path. As the stone juddered to its final resting place it turned a final time and caught the boys legs under its full weight, smashing and trapping them. Alarmed by his screams, people came running from the workshops and sheds scattered around the building site. Far off, sweating labourers looked up from their occupations, startled by the sudden yells reaching them across the fields. Do something! Roger shouted. He pointed to the injured boy, trapped under the block. Lever it off him! Quick! Seeing the dead man lying nearby, whose stomach had been ripped open, exposing a bloodied mess of guts, he called to the foreman. Hey, you there, get rid of that body. Get it off the site. Carry it to St Marys. Come on, come on, move! By now the boys father, Harald, who had been knocked over by the blow to his head, had risen to his feet and was pushing the others aside, trying frantically to raise the block with his bare hands. Someone brought a lever, other workmen lent their strength, gradually the block was raised a few inches and the boys legs were freed. Harald took up his mangled son. As he began to carry him towards the village, blood spilled from a gash in his forehead and poured into the boys open mouth, turning his screams to choking gasps and a struggle for breath. One or two workers rushed to help, but Roger called them back. What can you do, anyway? he shouted. Youre builders not journeymen-healers. Get on with your work! The workmen did not understand what he said, for he spoke in Norman French, but they grasped the gist of it. Within a short time the steward was striding around among the toiling figures, as if nothing had happened, urging them to their tasks with the same vehemence as before. They tried again to raise the masonry block, this time with new ropes on the pulley. The ropes held, the block was raised and bedded. Roger went away

satisfied, stepping gingerly over a patch of blood on the ground. *** The workman who was killed was a mortarer, said Roger to Isaac as they sat discussing the incident the following day. The injured man is a stone-dresser. Hes still able to work. What about the boy? asked Isaac, he was badly hurt, I hear. The boy has broken bones and probably wont last. Curse their carelessness. I do not think carelessness was the cause, said Isaac. Three such incidents in the past two months. If I thought them capable of it, I would say it was sabotage. Roger was about thirty-five years old, short and stocky, with a creeping fleshiness around the neck. He was wearing a tunic of various colours and a loose-sleeved robe of bright blue striped with red. Such garments were more usually to be seen on a jongleur or court entertainer than on a serious-minded seneschal, but colourful dress was known to be one of his few indulgences. In spite of this eccentricity, Isaac knew it would be a mistake to underestimate Rogers obsessions. The rope broke because it was worn, he suggested. Roger brushed this explanation aside as a mere technical detail. We didnt have this trouble when we built the church. Oh no, they could see a reason for the church. They didnt complain then. The church went up in record time. But they dont want a castle. They dont want a fine hall for public business, they dont want walls for protection, they dont want proper storerooms to secure their food supply. They prefer to live like pigs. Look at it from their point of view, replied Isaac. The power of the lord united with the power of the Church. Two sides that lock together, snapping shut their manacles. You speak as if this had been some sort of earthly paradise before we came. Dont fool yourself, Isaac. The Church reached deep into their purses before. They had lords

and thanes to bully them before. They had taxes and poverty before. There were free men and slaves before we came, just as there are now. Yes, but they governed themselves. They had their own laws and customs. Were not destroying their customs, were adapting them. We arent dismantling their laws, were making sense of an impossible tangle of precedents. Were bringing enlightenment, strong government, organisation, in a word order. Why do they whine and groan? We bring them architecture, buildings finer than anything seen since the Romans were here. Cant they see the benefits? We bring them into the network of continental civilisation, opening up trade, commerce, learning. We bring them a future in the world. Unfortunately, thats not the way they see it, said Isaac. Then they must learn to see it. Roger idly shuffled some account-rolls laid out on the table. Nothing must stop the progress of this building. Lord Robert wants a castle and it is my job to deliver what he wants. Ive had a message to say he will be arriving in a couple of weeks and is anxious to inspect the progress. What do I have to show him? Isaac nodded as if to say, Not much. After a pause he said, Can I ask who brought the message? Some young relative of Robert. He turned up here boasting of a break-neck ride, saying hed almost run down a flock of washer-women on the road. He outran his escort. They arrived two hours behind him and got a thrashing for incompetence. Isaac had heard of the incident. The whole village was buzzing with the womens lucky escape and the mysterious disappearance of a little girl. When the elders had been informed, a search was organised under a special licence, granted by Roger, giving them the freedom to congregate. All the free men of the village had returned to the spot en masse and begun a thorough search, but nothing was found. It was as if the little girl had turned into thistledown and been blown away. Many spoke of bad magic, spells and devilish works, others suspected the operation of human evil. The inexplicable

loss of the child was like a cold knife held to the heart of the village. Though people knew death and loss, though children were taken from them with wearying regularity by disease, famine, accidents, nothing shook the whole community so much as a sudden disappearance. Grief was bearable, a part of daily life, but an unexplained vanishing awakened in them the dread of a demonic world. This relative of my lords, said Isaac, is he staying long? As long as he pleases, no doubt. As long as it takes to fill his belly, get drunk, get sick, get better and start again. Thats how it goes with him. You know him well? I met him once or twice in London, a few years back. Why all these questions? One hears so many stories, I wanted to get at some facts. Fact one, said Roger, his name is John, family from Rouen, Roberts younger cousin, and, possibly, if we are unlucky, his heir. Fact two, hes a drunkard and a bully. Fact three, he is diabolically expensive to keep. Is that sufficient? Isaac sensed that his inquiry was now closed. They were sitting in an upper room of a rambling twostorey wooden lodge in what was to be the lower courtyard of the castle but was now merely the centre of the outer bailey. Roger used the room as an office although, like all the interior spaces within the wooden buildings of the fortification, it served many functions. Solid oak chests lined the walls. There was a writing table and some shelves for the storage of rolls, sealing-wax, letters and accounts. At one end was a cubby-hole where Hugh worked and slept, cramming his bedding and personal effects in among writing implements, stores of legal documents, an archive of account rolls, drums of tally sticks and numerous odd, forgotten and useless things which packed the room from floor to ceiling, leaving just enough space for a table and bench at which to work and write. Hugh was a lay-brother of the Abbey of St John, currently employed as a scribe and interpreter in Roberts household. For the most part, people did not see Hugh, even when he

passed by. He was one of those invisible functionaries whose work is vital but who has little personal presence. To Roger he was just the sort of young man he could depend on to have absolutely no desires of his own, very different from the headstrong young squires who would sometimes run riot. Hugh came and went indistinctly in his faded habit, a discreet young man who seemed to occupy space without quite filling it. Just how misleading all these impressions were would not become apparent for some time. In contrast to Hughs modest dullness, Roger appeared flamboyant. He liked to dress in rich, bright-coloured materials, a taste he had acquired from his wife, Maria, a darkhaired Sicilian girl whom, it was said, he had carried off from Palermo against the wishes of her family. Some mystery surrounded Maria. She rarely spoke of the past so that it was impossible to know how she came to be there. What she felt about her life, whether she was happy or unhappy, were matters known only to herself. Roberts affairs up north are almost complete, said Roger. Hes been given a huge estate which once belonged to an English eorl. In time, it can return all your investment plus interest a hundredfold. All Im asking is a modest extension on the present loan until the first revenues come in. Isaac wondered why it was that the rich always complained of being short of money, but he limited himself to asking: When might that be? Well, not till after the second harvest. Land takes time to recover. But the estate has ten ploughs! Ten! Imagine! Solid, wheeled, iron-bladed ploughs with oxen teams and no lack of workers to run them. Two men can plough an acre a day. Work that out. How many ploughs have we here? Five. Isaac pursed his lips. Thats an impressive doubling of Roberts treasury. But Ive heard rumours about the north. Whole villages emptied. Livestock slaughtered. Disease rampant. Years without harvests. Trade depressed. In such a situation, recovery will be slow.

I understand your prudence. Men like you and me, Isaac, we are the cautious architects of a new order. The soldiers and military men, hah! What would they be without us? But you were once a soldier, said Isaac Of course. Soldiery is a Norman rite of passage. All young men of any substance do it. And some of no substance at all. Drink, kill, rollick around foreign towns, make free with other mens property and wives; a fine life, for a while. But the management of a great estate will teach you more about discipline and ruthlessness than you ever learn as a soldier, believe me. Now the challenge is to build, to consolidate, to make and accumulate wealth. Things altogether more difficult, and only slightly less brutal, than making war. But let me assure you, Isaac, we are on our way. Your investment is safe. We simply have to make it quite clear to the whole population that whats done is done. Theres no going back ever. Later, when Isaac had left the stewards house and was returning to the village, he caught sight of a knot of village girls at the well, collecting water for the evening cooking. Isaac wondered whether it was the abundance and quality of water in this place that had made Robert choose it for his town. Aside from the village well, another source had been discovered which would allow the engineers to sink a well in the donjon of the completed castle. A river, navigable by small boats, ran close to the village. There was a spring in the valley and two tributary brooks as well as innumerable small rivulets, all alive with fish in season. In addition, the village had fish ponds, a retting pool for the soaking of hemp and flax, a race and leat beside the mill. Such abundance meant that, even in abnormally hot summers like this one, the new Norman town would never lack a supply of fresh water. As he was descending towards the village, Isaac saw Aefled standing by the well, waiting her turn to lift the bucket. For many years she had been the object of Isaacs special attention. Approaching, he spoke to her. Aefled. Shall I see you this week? Ill come tomorrow, if I can. Good. We will go on with Lucretius.

Id like that. Lucretius comforts me. He shows me how not to be afraid. Aefled was unusually pale and drawn. She seemed not to want to talk. Are you afraid, then, Aefled? What are you afraid of, child? Oh Isaac! She seemed on the point of saying something important but checked herself and shook her head. Many things. I ask myself, after the blows we have had, what else is to come? Ah, yes. The little girl who vanished, the little boy who was hurt. How is he? Very ill, she replied. And his parents? Harald sits beside him, nursing his cut head. Edith prays and makes poultices. Isnt it terrible? So soon after Aelfgyva goes missing, poor Harald Haraldson is smashed to pieces. Hes dying, Isaac. Its cruel. Would the family accept any help from me, Aefled? I doubt it, she said.Especially not your prayers. That would frighten them, poor things. Aefled paused for a moment, thoughtfully, then she looked at him a strange way. Im not called Aefled any more, Im called Eleanor. A Norman name! Why? What does this mean? My father was ordered to change it. But thats nonsense. You cannot be forced to change your name. There is nothing they will not take from us, Isaac. Our names, too! Robert has the power to do anything with us, she said. Anything. Anything at all. Isaac sensed she was concealing something. Suddenly he felt that he, who prided himself as a keen observer of men and events, had missed something of great significance. Aefled, what is it? What is wrong? She appeared to hesitate as if on the point of confiding some secret. But when she spoke it was to turn the question away.

Come to the clearing tonight, Isaac! Come to the clearing where the two brooks meet. The poet is coming. Godfric is coming. He sent word to my father. Come to Brooksmeet, and listen. Isaac was aware that this was an important invitation. Every summer the poet came to spin his stories and songs to a secret gathering. Isaac had never been invited before. It was a part of Aefleds life from which he had been excluded. But do you think it would be wise? he asked. Im not sure Ill be welcome. Im an outsider, dont forget. Besides, I move among them and he gestured vaguely in the direction of the palisade. My father trusts you, he will protect you. Its true that some of our neighbours think you are a Norman spy, or a devil because you dont go to church. Cedric broods and whispers but he is not malicious. Dont let that prevent your coming, Isaac, please. Perhaps I shall. Yes, if you wish it. Aelric will offer me his hand and all will be well. I have a special reason for asking you. Aefled took his hand, as she customarily did, clasping it in both her own and inclining her head over it. She did it in imitation of the learned young monks who bow over the hand of their instructors. Later, picking his way down the hill through the loose assemblage of straw-thatched huts, small wood-framed cottages, hovels and animal pens which clung to its slopes, Isaacs thoughts turned from the unexpected invitation to the immensely odd circumstance of his being here at all. Trim and fit for his fifty-one years, Isaac still wondered how it was that his old age had found him settled in this remote and primitive land, lately pacified but still reeling from oppression, which had little to offer in the way of learning, architecture or sophisticated urban living. In his home city of Toledo he had been a gifted student, studying philosophy, astronomy and mathematics with some of the finest Moorish masters. He had pored over Midrashic and Talmudic texts, and delighted in Hebrew poetry. He knew Arabic and was drawn towards the refinements of Andalusian poetry with its Arabic metres. He

was versed in Greek and Latin, had studied Plato, Aristotle, epic poetry, tragic drama. He was familiar with Roman history, especially that part of it which intersected so painfully with the history of his own people the sack of Jerusalem, Masada, the rebellion of Bar Kochkba, the Diaspora. He had a historical understanding of conquest, oppression, immiseration, servitude. And for the last fifteen years he had had occasion to observe these things at first hand. Looking up, he noticed that he was passing the hut of Harald, the father of the boy injured in the accident at the wall. He turned back and looked for signs of occupation. A skinny dog ran out followed by a tousled girl. Is your father home? The girl looked at him, astonished, and darted inside. Following her, Isaac could just make out the form of Harald sitting beside a low cot mattressed with straw and covered in sacking. Harald was turned towards the frail figure of his injured son who lay inert, in a coma, perhaps, or deep sleep. The boys mother, Edith, heavily pregnant and due to deliver in a few days, was moving ponderously about, arranging pans over the fire in preparation for the evening meal. Smoke drifted around the room, making no progress towards the hole in the ceiling through which it was invited to escape. The little girl stood beside Edith, watching the visitor through big, untrusting eyes. Is there anything I can do? Even to Isaac, his voice sounded hollow. They looked at him in blank despair for several moments, but said nothing. He withdrew. Why did I say that? he asked himself. Would I do anything? Perhaps they did not understand me. Or perhaps they understood me too well. It is certain, my English is good, equal with my Norman French and Occitan. Breton still escapes me. Perhaps I ought to find more occasions to talk to Breuc. His facility for acquiring languages was a point of pride, almost a vanity, and in recent years, Western languages had been added to his store of Eastern ones. Leaving Haralds hut

to make his way down to the village, Isaac began to think about how, while still a young man, he had gone to further his studies in Alexandria, when the Fatimid caliphs were at the height of their power. At that time he was undecided about a career, but wealthy family connections had enabled him to live well and move in the higher circles of Jewish intellectual life. Having a strong compulsion to teach, he had felt drawn to a professorial career in one of the great Eastern universities. His patrons, however, pushed him towards translation and secretarial work for the high administrators of the Arab Caliphate, prestigious work which gave access to political secrets and demanded the highest standards of accuracy and secrecy. Then he met Judith and fell in love. They married and for a few brief years life smiled on him and he was happy. A daughter was born to them, lovely beyond description, their only child. He planned her education along experimental lines, a tuition of love and openness. But she fell ill and died at the age of seven, wrenching the heart out of him. Judith died not long afterwards of the same fever. He had decided to return to Spain, though little remained for him there. A threatened attack by pirates had diverted his ship to Sicily which was then partly under the control of Norman lords from the west. Among them were men from Ponthieu, Boulogne, Brittany, Hainault, Flanders, exotic places with evocative names. Come west, they said, work as a scribe, an administrator, an interpreter. They said that the Normans were in need of men educated in languages to help in their mission of empire-building. He was tempted by the prospect of travel, offers of patronage, new opportunities in distant lands. He came, but found the enthusiastic Norman lords had misled him. None of these things was possible. As a Jew, he found most positions closed to him and so, like many Western Jews, he turned to usury. Having acquired assets in ways he did not care to remember now, he achieved a moderate success in Rouen, the Norman capital, setting up in business and successfully managing the estates of several great families. He indulged his pedagogic ambitions by taking private students and began to settle into a wealthy, comfortable life. But Rouen

turned against the Jewish population, riots erupted, property was burned, some of his friends were killed or driven out. When the yeshiva, the Talmudic Academy, was closed he had decided to move on. Just at that time the Duke of Normandy was in need of financial backing for a huge ship-building project which was taking place all along the coast from Dives to St-Valry. Isaac had been drawn into the audacious enterprise, a construction scheme of unprecedented scale and, without fully understanding all the political arguments about its legitimacy, found himself investing in Duke Williams planned invasion. Thats what brought me here, he thought. But what holds me here? I have stayed too long in this unhappy land. I should have gone back long ago, to Spain or Alexandria. Now it is too late. Later on, emerging from his meditative mood and deciding that it is never too late to learn something new, he resolved to take up Aefleds invitation to go that night to Brooksmeet and listen to the bard. Feeling buoyed by the prospect of learning more about a hidden aspect of native culture, he went home to await the hour of curfew. Never could he have imagined the far-reaching and costly web of consequences fated to spider out from the events of that night.

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