Most historical records of these times show us meek, biddable women demure beneath wimples and veils. Occasionally we get glimpses of strong, skilled women who carved out independent lives for themselves. I love to imagine them and write their stories.
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MADONNA OF THE GATE
“My Lady Aline?”
I looked up.
“Sir Baldwin de Vire, My Lady.” My Steward stepped back and I watched the visitor approach. Middle height. Early thirties. Fox-red hair.
I rose and curtseyed to his bow. “Welcome, Sir. Please take your ease.”
He settled into the cushioned chair and flicked back a delicate lace cuff to take the wine I offered.
“How can I be of service, Sir Baldwin?”
“It is I who am sent to offer you a service and protection. Lady Aline, King Richard holds to his oath of crusade and wishes England well settled before he sails for the Holy land. It’s a pity your husband has not yet returned from France. Your news of him is good, I trust? He is recovered from his injuries?”
Why would you know or care? Who are you? I forced a smile. “Sir Geoffrey’s had careful nursing and I expect him daily.”
“A comfort, Lady. Such a pity to be wounded and on the losing side.”
I lifted my chin. “My husband kept his oath to King Henry and fought as commanded.”
“King Richard has a long memory for those who oppose him.”
“King Richard values loyalty and honour most highly.” I kept my back straight, my smile in place, my growing distaste and distrust of this courtier hidden.
“As he does proven friendship, Lady Aline.” He reached for more wine.
I leaned back, beginning to make sense of this visit. What else do you reach for, Sir Baldwin? Silver proof of our loyalty and friendship? Is that why you’re here?
“Lady, to more immediate matters. I am instructed by Chancellor Longchamps to ensure your well-being.”
Distaste congealed into dislike. “I thank you but trust it will prove unnecessary.” England’s barony hated and feared Longchamps. Only the Queen Mother could curb him. I chose a pastry, planning my words. “Will His Grace appoint his Lady Mother as Regent while he’s in the Holy Land, Sir Baldwin?”
Baldwin shrugged. “It is discussed, Lady, but undecided.” He drained his cup and stood. “Lady, I thank you for your hospitality. I’ll return within the month to ensure your safety.”
I walked with him to the Hall doors. He stank of ambergris and musk.
The dim coolness of the chapel gave sanctuary against threat and confusion and I welcomed its shelter. I stood drinking in quietness, willing it to soothe the tumble of unease and dislike Baldwin de Vire had left in his wake. Seeking solace, I turned to the little shrine on the right wall. Every Sunday, I dressed the narrow table in fine linen and beeswax candles. I lit the candles before reaching out to open the carved doors of the small icon. As always, the tender images of the Madonna and Child took me to my knees, smiling.
The babe curled into his mother’s neck, his trusting gaze fixed on her face. In the soft ivory of his skin, the warm, sweet weight of him was radiant. Her face, half turned to the infant, was serene, her dark eyes inscrutable. Behind them was a high wall pierced by a deep gate and at her feet a pilgrim knelt, offering a gift.
Tears blurred the beauty before me and Geoffrey’s gruff pride echoed in my heart. “The Madonna of the Gate she’s called. It’s the ninth gate in the wall of Jerusalem. Legend says it’s built on topaz. The pilgrim is St. James the Apostle. His gift is a deep pink topaz of the rarest kind. Tis the most precious thing I possessed until now. My bride-gift to you, wife.”
Against my eyelids the images came of Geoffrey stamping into the Hall, calling for meat and ale, of Geoffrey sweat-soaked and chaff-covered at harvest, of Geoffrey, grizzled warrior and tender, patient lover. I’d been given to him as his reward for long and brave service to the Crown and I’d resented it bitterly but had not been proof against his true delight in the estate and in me.
“Blessed Virgin, watch over him, I beg you. Keep him safe and send him back to me.” My whisper fought past shards of tears in my throat. “I need his cleverness and strength. I need him with me. Please, Mother of Heaven.”
I softly traced the glowing oval topaz, which promised the gifts of strength and safety against sadness and fear. “Husband, I’m afraid. I fear the shadow of Longchamps. He will bleed us dry. Leave our people in want. I fear for you, Geoffrey. And for me. Dear heart, come home. I need your arms around me, alive and strong.”
“Have Steward and Bailiff attend me.” Soon after, I watched both men hurry to me and was reassured by their trusted, experienced faces.
“A message must be taken to Sir Geoffrey immediately. Send two men, good horses and sufficient coin.” My Steward nodded and I continued. “Have as much harvest as possible gathered within three weeks. Organize some additional storage away from the present barns and cellars. I will adjust the tithe to sweeten the fruit,” I promised wryly, knowing the fruits had colour but not yet full ripeness. A tart harvest for my estate. No matter.
They were willing but puzzled. “Sir Baldwin de Vire assures me that Lord Chancellor Longchamps is concerned for my safety and protection.” I said.
They grunted derisively.
“I am reminded that Sir Geoffrey fought for King Henry, who lost, and now King Richard is heart-set on crusade.” I added. “Sir Baldwin will return by month’s end to ensure my well-being.”
Their puzzlement cleared into sharp comprehension. More taxes. “Mistress, it will be done.”
My people worked willingly at gathering and preserving the harvest. Father Peter blessed its fruits. All blessed the fine days and sharp winds that dried the mists and dews of September. If more lights than usual were seen on the estate after sunset, none spoke of it.
I spent hours in my solar with the estate records and accounts, adjusting as much as I dared against the threatened predations of Longchamps’ taxes. I carefully calculated and recorded this year’s apparent harvest. My records would be convincing enough although I prayed a skilled estate manager would not be at Baldwin’s side when he returned. Finally, I ordered the preparations for the Harvest Feast. In the chapel, I found Father Peter polishing altar silver.
“Father, the harvest wagon is ready and I would have you see it safely into the Priory. Please ask the Prior for his prayers.”
The old man’s eyes brightened at such a glad task and he hurried away to its completion. On returning, he handed me a hide-wrapped packet. “For your eyes only the Prior said,” he whispered.
The late afternoon warmth fled. The package was stained. Threat or promise? I fled into the chapel, barred the door and knelt before the Madonna. In the candle flicker I scrabbled at the seals, my heart drumming in my ears.
My Wife, Lady Aline, Greetings.
I trust this will find you in good health and prospering under the shelter of God’s hand. I lie at the Priory of St. Barnabas near Coulaine. The monks have given me much kindness and good care of my injuries. They have my gratitude and prayers. But Aline, they do not make the poultice of Golden Rod to such good purpose as you do, wife.
I didn’t hear the moans I could feel juddering from my breast. “Oh sweet Mother of God, have mercy. No, in pity’s sake, no!”
What date?
August.
High summer.
Great, dry sobs doubled me over and the stone was cold under my face. Golden Rod was used against wound rot but with unequal results. In the heat, most died painfully of rotting wounds. Had Geoffrey been dying even as the scribe had penned this letter? I leaned into the candle flame, desperate to read the crabbed script.
My Lady, I fear danger for you and urge you to keep close upon your lands for as long as can be arranged. My sword may no longer reach to your protection. Dearling, if it proves so, I will send one who has my trust and affection. He will be my arm at your back. He will bring you a token by which to recognize him.
May the Virgin keep you in her shadow.
Geoffrey de Clancy.
Written this 20th Day of August, 1189.
My forehead rested on the cold stone. Grief and horror numbed my senses like poppy juice but didn’t stop images of such a death. Of a grave so far from home. I beseeched the Virgin to give me a tiny light of hope. Some did survive wound rot, even in summer, but my heart whispered the truth.
Geoffrey would not come home.
At last, the cold and the deep silence penetrated my pain. I slipped from the chapel and up the deserted stairs to my bed. Sleep fled out of reach. Dry eyed, I stared into blackness. The estate, modest but prosperous, was mine by inheritance and I was twenty one. Still young enough for childbearing. A sweet plum for a landless, younger son or an ambitious man. Like Baldwin.
I knew then I would be sold. Chancellor Longchamps would add me to the river of silver the King needed for his crusade. Had Baldwin known of Geoffrey’s illness? Perhaps his death? Come, with the Chancellor’s approval, to inspect the goods before bidding?
Sly maggot.
The long ride in the late afternoon sunshine left me tired and soothed. I entered my courtyard to find my steward waiting, wooden faced.
“Lady, a messenger came leaving this.” He handed me a sealed parchment. “He came from London, Mistress.”
Coldness cramped my belly. Bile bit at my throat. I broke the seal.
To Lady Aline of Preston Manor, Greetings.
Lady, it has come to our attention that Sir Geoffrey is lost and lies buried at Coulaine. Sad tidings.
Be not afraid, Lady. As a widow lacking male kin, you are under the protection of the Crown and, in the absence of the King, the Chancellor is most concerned for your safety and comfort. He fears you may be prey to unwanted, even forced, attentions and would have your future secured.
To that end, he has granted me license to marry you with all speed. Within three days I will be at your side. Once married, we can proceed to Bristol and swear fealty as required.
Lady, you may be sure of my care and protection.
Baldwin de Vire
Written this 25th day of September, 1189
The storm of rage at his arrogance, his hypocrisy, his cunning shook me like a terrier does a rat. Refusal would be treason. Treason would allow the Chancellor to confiscate the estate. Sell it. Bury me in a convent. I was trapped. Trapped and sold.
Pride kept my spine straight as I processed through the crowded, silent chapel. Baldwin, in court finery, waited before the altar.
He bowed, his smile complacent. “My Lady.” He offered his arm.
“Sir Baldwin.” I ignored his arm.
I looked up at Father Peter on the altar steps. The prayer book trembled in his hands and his old eyes were searching my face, anxious for my permission to begin. In that moment, my will was frozen and I stood rigid, staring past the priest. My body, my people, my estate given into this man’s hand. There was a scream in my throat, a mad urge to knock him away, to run. Common sense was cold and unbending. There was nowhere to run or to hide. Baldwin gripped my elbow and I forced breath into my lungs. I nodded to Father Peter.
As he raised his hand in blessing, the chapel door slammed open, shattering the heavy silence. I spun around, Baldwin at my shoulder. A tall, dishevelled knight strode up the aisle. Four retainers at his back. All were armed.
“I seek Lady Aline of Preston Manor. Wife of Sir Geoffrey de Clancy.”
“I am his widow I am told.” My last flicker of hope died at his brief nod. “What business have you here?”
“King’s business.” He stopped three paces from me. Close to, he smelled of sweat and leather. The smell of a warrior. “I am a member of the King’s household.”
Richard’s man. There would be no help from him. His brief bow to me was courteous. He straightened and met Baldwin’s scowl. “Sir Baldwin, well met. There must needs be a delay to this ceremony.”
“I see no reason,” Baldwin snapped. “I have the sealed approval for the marriage from the Chancellor.”
“And I approval from the King. Stand aside.”
A hysterical urge to laugh nearly undid me. Was I to be fought over on the very steps of my own altar? Then a growing rage swept aside the hysteria. Had Longchamps sold me twice? Maybe there was a third buyer. A fourth? As well hold a public auction at the Michaelmas Fair. I forced the anger down, commanding myself to think. What if these would-be suitors had equal claim? Then, by Christ’s bones, I will choose. As the two men argued in vehement whispers, I tried to assess each.
Baldwin was sly and greedy and possessed, I suspected, a streak of cruelty under the smooth civility. However, he knew little of estate management, had powerful friends and would spend much time at court. An advantage if cleverly handled.
I knew nothing of the stranger. A young fighting knight and Richard’s man, he might follow the King on crusade. An expensive venture for the estate but men stayed in the Holy Land for years and died there of disease, heat and battle. I felt a flash of regret at such a fate for him and ignored it.
I looked past them to find my people crowding forward, hostile and tense. The possibility of their blood on my hands sickened me.
“Enough,” I hissed. “In the name of heaven, enough. If your claims are proven, Sir Knight, I will settle this matter.”
They stared at me. The stranger had a shadow of amusement in his face but Baldwin snarled and opened his mouth to protest. I cut him off. “Sir Knight, who are you and what manner of claim do you make on me?”
“A solemn oath taken, written approval from the King and a token, Lady Aline.” He drew out a leather pouch and emptied a delicate ring into his callused hand. He picked it up and offered it to me. The deep pink stone was a perfect oval set in the soft gleam of silver.
He brushed Baldwin aside to make me a courtly bow. “I am William Coxley, Lady Aline. Sir Geoffrey said you would read the ring’s riddle.”
I gaped at him, wits reeling. This stranger was William Coxley? Geoffrey’s William? His former squire and trusted right arm? Geoffrey had told me many tales of their adventures in the years before I knew him. Deep friends despite their age difference, they’d each taken service in royal households where princely enmities had kept them apart but not broken the bond between them.
Dearling. Someone I trust. My arm at your back.
No wonder he looked a warrior. He was the young coin minted in Geoffrey’s example and friendship. Tears placed haloes around the candles. I held out my hand for Geoffrey’s token and whispered. “Oh yes, Sir William. I can read its riddle.”
It nestled in my palm as I crossed to the Madonna of the Gate. The little topaz I held was a perfect echo of the great gem St. James offered to the Madonna. Simple and exquisite, the stone held the power of its promise to women. Fertility and safe haven.
I held the ring at the Madonna’s feet and breathed a prayer of gratitude and hope.
Sir William crossed to my side. “Then Lady, do you accept my protection?” His manner was gentle, awaiting my decision.
I looked up into his eyes, seeking the truth. “What of the King’s crusade, Sir William?”
“It will leave without me, Lady. My quest is here.” He held out a hand and I placed mine in it. The ring lay warm between our palms. He led me back to the altar and together we faced Father Peter.
I smiled at the old priest. “Father Peter, we are ready. Please begin with your blessing.”
