Heavy rain now hurled itself at the windows and ran in careless rivulets down the panes. As afternoon merged into evening, the force of the storm increased. Ralph Delchard and Ediva did not even hear it. They were still entwined on the bed in languid happiness, their hands now absently caressing where they had grasped and squeezed only minutes before. Ediva was a willing lover and threw off inhibition.
A virile Norman lord was fitter company for her appetite than a fussy, preoccupied, half-hearted man whose work preceded all else. Ralph was strong and urgent. He had brought out her full, rich sensuality and satisfied her with an intensity that she had never known in her marriage. She nestled into him and purred softly. He had reminded her that she was a woman.
“Are you content?” he whispered.
She murmured with pleasure.
“This place is safe?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I would not put a lady in danger.”
“You would and did.” She gave him a teasing kiss. “That is why we are here.”
They were in a small cottage in a wood to the north of the town. It was barely furnished, but the bed was large and soft enough and the place offered all the privacy that they needed. Two of his men were in the trees outside to ward off interruption. It was an ideal choice for a tryst.
“I must ride this way again,” he said.
“My lord will always be welcome.”
“Does your husband often travel from home?”
“Too often,” she said with a slight edge, “and when he is there, I do not get my due of attention.”
“His folly is my gain.”
He kissed her forehead and ran a hand through the long, loose hair whose scent was so enchanting. It was minutes before he picked up the conversation once more.
“Does the reeve own this cottage?”
“No, my lord,” she said, “but we have the use of it.”
“On whose land are we, then?”
She hesitated. “A friend of my husband.”
“A good friend if he lends him such a place to rest.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Who is this man?” He sensed her reluctance and stroked it gently away before pulling her face to his and giving her a long, slow kiss that sucked out all resistance. “Tell me now, Ediva,” he said. “Who is he?”
“Hugh de Brionne.”
Gervase Bret had stayed much longer at the house than he had intended, but he felt no regret. He was sheltering from the rain and quite content to stay there until the key to the mill was found. If Cild had taken it, as now seemed likely, he would return in time. Gervase was happy to loiter in such pleasant company. Leofgifu had brought him back downstairs to leave Hilda alone in her room to rest. As they sat opposite each other at the table, they drank cups of wine and permitted a subtle change to come over their relationship. He was touched by her forlorn beauty, while she was drawn by his easy benevolence. He had learned of her own grief, while she had sensed brutal losses on his side. Both felt the pull of a closer friendship which they knew was beyond their grasp and so they settled for an affectionate togetherness that left them free to explore each other’s minds. He asked about her family and she talked as openly as if she had known him all her life.
“My father hates the Normans,” she said.
“It is to be expected.”
“Do you hate them, Gervase?”
“Sometimes.”
“Yet you are one of them.”
“I am and I am not,” he confessed. “Ralph teases me about it all the time. He calls me an English mongrel and says that I have learned to bark like a Norman but will never have his true breeding.”
“Does that offend you?”
“No, Leofgifu. It comforts me.”
“What of your father?”
“A Breton, and long since dead.”
“He would be proud to see his son rise so high.”
“Not as a clerk of Chancery,” said Gervase. “My father was a soldier and would have wanted a son to fight. Ralph Delchard is the same.
Fighting is in his blood. He mocks me for my love of a peaceful life.
Had he been my father, he often says, he would have strangled me at birth to escape the humiliation of raising such a son.”
“A man of peace is worth a hundred soldiers.”
“If he can manage to stay alive.”
He studied her face and her quiet dignity once more and saw the marks of Wulfgeat clearly imprinted. She had his self-possession and his fearless eye. She had the strength of character he had seen on display in the shire hall.
“We met your father with the other burgesses.”
“He told me of the encounter.”
“I would like to meet him again.”
“His manner would not flatter you.”
“I would not seek for praise. Where is he now?”
“He had business in the town but would not tell me what.” Her lips tightened. “My father thinks that women may not understand. We are here only to adorn the life of a man and not to share it with him.”
“Did your husband take that view as well?”
“He worshipped me.”
“But did he treat you as an equal?”
“No.”
“Did you choose him for yourself?”
“No.”
“Why, then, did you marry?”
“My father has a strong will. I was forced to obey.”
“Did you not resist?”
“For several weeks, but I was overwhelmed. It was my duty to follow his wishes.” She glanced upwards. “You know how Hilda was given in marriage to the miller. It was not exactly so with me, for my husband was kind and loving, but there was the same contract. The marriage was made between two men and not between two lovers.”
“Did you resent your husband?”
“I came to respect him.”
“You mourn and miss him now?”
“Greatly.”
Gervase could see that she wanted him to ask the next question.
“Did you love him?” he said.
“I cherished his goodness.”
“That is not what I mean, Leofgifu.”
“I honoured and obeyed him as I vowed.”
“No more than that?”
“It was all that I could offer him.”
“Why?”
“I loved another.”
“Did your father know this?”
Her face puckered. “He despised the man.”
Gervase took her hand to offer consolation. Wulfgeat had been cruel to name her Leofgifu. This beautiful Love-Giver had so much love to give, but it was callously stifled. Thrust into a marriage she did not want, she was grieving for a husband she could never admit into her heart. What made her plight even more pitiable was that she had been forced to live once again with the very man who ground the hope and passion out of her between the mill-wheels of his ambition.
“Are you happy with your father?”
“No,” she confessed. “Life here is an oppression.”
Wulfgeat trudged along with a cloak over his head and shoulders.
The rain had eased to a drizzle now, but the great black sky was a blanket that pressed down on Savernake to smother it to death.
Birds and animals were muffled. Insects were suffocated into silence.
Even the trees were hushed. The only sound that came from the forest was the swift rushing of its intersecting network of streams as they raced with swollen rage to join the river below and speed its wild current.
Cild met him at the mill and led the way. The gloom served them well, but the boy still moved with caution. He was fearful of being seen with Wulfgeat in case a witness guessed at the dark nature of his purpose. It hung so heavily around his neck that he dared not even look up at his companion. Guilt was tempered with remorse. As soon as he thought of his father and the hatred daily heaped upon the miller, his intent was reaffirmed. Wulfgeat was not just one of the most powerful enemies whose spite had to be endured; he epitomised the attitude of the whole town. In Wulfgeat’s unrelenting acrimony, the boy saw the vindictive face of Bedwyn itself.