The Swan-Daughter by Carol McGrath

Author:Carol McGrath [McGrath, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 11th Century, England/Great Britain, Royalty, Fiction - Historical
ISBN: 978-1783753383
Publisher: Accent Press
Published: 2014-07-24T04:00:00+00:00

Part Two

Richmond 1082-1089

St. Cecilia

St Cecilia (picture from Wikipedia)

16

June 1082

Five-year-old Maud was watching her mother in the castle laundry.

‘Are you ready, Maud?’ Her little girl nodded and took her place at the long bench.

In the three years that had passed since Dorgen’s death, Gunnhild had watched over Maud like a she-wolf guarding her brood except that there was only Maud. She never conceived again. Gunnhild lifted the glass smoother out of the steam. Handling it with a wrapping cloth, she watched Maud lift up her own smoother. This was a flat round glass stone that was a miniature of her mother’s smoother but not heated. ‘Maud, remember that you must never touch mine. It is too heavy and it is hot,’ she said, pointing to her own.

‘I know. It is hot. Mama, you say the same thing every time we come here.’ She began thumping her tiny glass iron on her poupée’s little cloak.

‘And you are not to come here on your own, do you hear,’ Gunnhild added as she pressed her gown, protecting it with a linen cloth. She moved the smoother carefully from bodice to sleeves, half listening to Maud with a smile on her lips. Maud was muttering to her doll in a language of her own.

Gunnhild pressed the glass iron down onto the stiff green silk, taking great pleasure in looking at Aunt Edith’s beautiful overgown once again. The overgown had remained in her coffer for three years, wrapped in linen amongst bags filled with fennel seeds. With the death of that little boy she could not bring herself to wear it. Dorgen had loved the dress, but tonight, she decided, she must lay the past to rest. She would wear Aunt Edith’s gown for St John’s feast and let go her sorrow for the loss of Dorgen’s short life.

The maids bustled about carrying baskets of trestle napery from laundry to keep. The hall had been thoroughly swept and fresh strewing rushes sprinkled with camomile laid down in complicated patterns on the floor. The cooks would be busy making pastry coffins all morning and already a hog was roasting on a spit and small birds plucked for at least one of the many dishes they would eat later.

She had almost finished pressing the dress when from outside, beyond the courtyard, came the sound of chains rattling and clanking as the castle portcullis was raised. Moments later a single set of hoofs clattered over the cobbles. With a thundering noise, more riders followed. Gunnhild laid down her smoother and raced to the entrance, Maud trailing behind her. If Alan’s retinue was returning from the borders she must drop everything at once and see to his needs. That way her peace would not be disturbed, her sense of harmony unpolluted and her ability to co-exist with him would continue.

Alan had not blamed her for Dorgen’s death but he had blamed her for not conceiving another child during the two years that had followed his return from Normandy. He rarely lay with her now and she suspected, yet again, that he had found comfort elsewhere.

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