Authors: Emily Murdoch
The servant had to fight past other servants trying to clear tables as quietly as they could, and men and women leaving the hall to either relieve themselves in private, or to find a more personal space in which they could talk without being overheard. Much court business was undertaken when visiting loyal subjects – it was easier not to be overheard in unfamiliar corridors. Eventually the servant reached Catheryn, and tapped her gently on the shoulder.
Catheryn felt the tap, but was so captivated by the music that she did not respond. Another tap followed, and eventually a whisper that she could not ignore.
“My lady!”
Catheryn turned and scowled at the servant, interrupting her during what was probably the best rendition of Apollonius of Tyre that she had ever heard.
“What?” She replied rudely.
“A thane of your father’s house bid you take this,” the servant said, slightly embarrassed at annoying the daughter of the household over something that seemed so trivial. He handed her the piece of parchment, and made it clear to her without saying a word that he was anxious to be gone.
Catheryn dismissed him with a flick of her head, and turned around to the musicians again. But now she could not follow the desperate tale of Apollonius of Tyre, as her delicate fingers twisted themselves around the piece of parchment. Why would a thane of her father send her a note – surely any of his concerns should be addressed to her parents?
She unfolded the piece of parchment, and it was fortunate that there was at that same moment a loud point in the music, for it covered her gasp.
It was a love note.
The king, his queen, and their royal court had gone, and normality had returned, for the most part. For Catheryn, everything was still rather strange.
The sun had dawned early, but awoke to find Catheryn already pacing in the field. By the time it had completely risen, she was sitting underneath a tree in the garden her mother had determinedly created out of the wild that surrounded their home. Its beauty was somewhat hampered by the total lack of care that it received, but in a way its wildness gave it a different exquisiteness. Her back was against the bark, and the sun was dappled rather than dazzling. In her hands was the piece of parchment that she had been handed at the feast the night before.
Catheryn knew it by heart by now, but she looked down to read it once again, to remind her eyes of what it contained.
See
I
bring
thee
a
secret
message
!
A
sapling
once
in
the
woods
I
grew
;
I
was
cut
for
a
stave
and
covered
with
writing
;
Skilled
men
cunningly
carved
upon
me
Letters
fair
,
in
a
faraway
land
.
Since
I
have
crossed
the
salt
-
streams
often
,
Carried
in
ships
to
countries
strange
;
Sent
by
my
lord
,
his
speech
to
deliver
In
many
a
towering
mead
-
hall
high
.
Hither
I
have
sped
,
the
swift
keep
brought
me
,
Trial
to
make
of
thy
trust
in
my
master
;
Look
thou
shalt
find
him
loyal
and
true
.
It was infuriating, in a way. Catheryn knew that she should be delighted that she had been given it – honoured even, depending on which thane it was that had sent it. But this was something so beyond what she knew, so totally alien to her that every time she attempted to guess what it really meant, she ended up losing her temper.
Catheryn recognised it, of course. She was not unlettered enough to believe that whoever had sent such a note had created these beautiful words out of nothing, had pulled them out of their imagination themselves to place on this parchment. It was the beginning of a poem that was called, “The Husband’s Message”. It was sent by a man far from his love, and it entreated her to join him. It was a poem of passion, of love between two people that could not speak but could write of their devotion to each other. To receive it in this way, from an anonymous man, was almost scandalous.
Catheryn sighed, and pulled at the grass absent-mindedly. She scattered the small leaves around her without noticing what she was doing. At the end of the day, there were only so many people that could have written it. There were five thanes currently living at her father’s table, and two of those were already married. One was younger than her, and Catheryn screwed up her nose at the thought of Harold, who had not yet earned his sword, writing something like that to her. That left Cuthbert and Deorwine.
Catheryn’s heart sank, and her arms fell listlessly at her sides as she considered whether Deorwine could be the man that wrote such an elusive and tantalising note. Her father respected Deorwine’s skill with a blade, and the second son of an
ealdorman
, a high status nobleman, he was actually unusually highborn for her father to secure him as a thane. But Catheryn could not help but be disgusted by the irregularity of his bathing rituals, or the way that he seemed to gain such pleasure from the autumn slaughter of their pigs. She could not respect such a man, could not even like him – and as for love! Despite never having felt that sweep of emotion, Catheryn was sure that it could not be inspired by a man such as Deorwine.
But as the week progressed, she could not help accidently gazing at Deorwine. Catheryn watched him as he slopped ale down his front that evening, and she saw with disgust the way that he picked his teeth whilst talking to her mother. And so the more she watched him, the quieter and more withdrawn she became.
Selwyn was not entirely sure what he had expected Catheryn to do once she had received the note, but it was certainly not this. Glancing over to Catheryn one evening, Selwyn was astonished to see that once again, she was silent. This change in demeanour was startling. She was usually one of the loudest ones at the evening meal, gossiping with the servants and casting angelic eyes to her parents who usually sat on the other side of the room. But tonight…tonight was different, just like the last few evenings.
She seemed almost distraught. No, that was not the right word: off-balance. Selwyn saw that the poise Catheryn usually demonstrated every day was shaken. My, but she was barely speaking! Selwyn thought. Not a word has passed out of her lips for almost an hour.
And then, as he paid close attention to her, Selwyn began to realise what it was that she was looking at. While he so carefully examined her face for hints of her intrigue over the sender of the note,
she
was staring across him – at Deorwine. She was looking at him with such intensity; it was as if she was attempting to see through him, to see inside his very soul.
Selwyn laughed. She thought it was Deorwine! She thought that the writer of such a delicate riddle that spoke of love and of passion could have been written by the man currently using a knife to fight a dog for the last piece of chicken on his plate.
It was time, he thought, for another note. A note that would rid her of that ridiculous idea that Deorwine could have written anything that spoke so deeply into a person’s heart. Would she turn her attentions to Cuthbert…or would she work out the joke?
Gesturing to the same servant who had been the unwilling messenger of the first, Selwyn passed to him another piece of folded parchment with the same whispered instructions. It was odd, Selwyn thought. Being a steward in a house such as this means not being a servant, but not being part of the family. The isolation never usually bothered him, but seeing the way that the servant greeted him – unsure as whether or not to bow – a pang crossed his heart. Such an outsider, even more so than when he was a child.
The servant looked passively at Selwyn, as if asking whether he really thought it wise to pander to the idiot that their master was caring for. As far as the servant was concerned, it was another instruction from one of the thanes. They shared a glance. But Selwyn nodded him away, and watched as the second love note was delivered to its unknowing recipient.
Catheryn started as she was handed wordlessly another note by the stony-faced servant. Before she could turn and question the man who had brought it, he had left her, swallowed into the crowd of people milling about the Great Hall. Instead, she opened up the parchment that had been folded so hastily.
No
keener
joy
could
come
to
his
heart
,
No
greater
happiness
gladden
his
soul
,
Than
if
God
who
wieldeth
the
world
,
should
grant
That
ye
together
should
yet
give
rings
.
I
cannot
bear
to
be
without
you
.
Catheryn gasped aloud, and many seated near her turned to face her, concern across their faces.
“Is my lady injured?” Eorwine asked her, leaning forward anxiously. “Have you cut yourself with your knife?”
Catheryn was embarrassed to see that many of her father’s thanes, and even Selwyn, were watching her. She tried to control the blush that was sweeping across her face, but as usual it was to no avail.
“I am not injured,” she said, self-conscious in the knowledge that many were listening to her, “I was merely thinking of our king, and… and how pleasing it was for us to see him yesterday.”
Her father nodded approvingly. “Your thoughts do you much credit, Catheryn,” Ælfgard said. “It is my great hope that soon it will not be an infrequent occasion when we are so blessed as to see our king and his court in their royal splendour.”
Catheryn rolled her eyes, and then chastised herself silently, knowing that many people may still be watching her. It beggared belief at times, the lengths that her parents were willing to go to become part of the royal court, and to gain favours from the king and queen. Why could they not be satisfied with the riches that they had gained? Was not the household that they had created around them enough?
Selwyn had not missed the rolling of Catheryn’s eyes, but neither had he missed the gasp as she had read the note that he had written. He watched as the blush that spread across her face was exacerbated by the attention that she drew to herself, and he smiled as she attempted, successfully, to draw her parents’ attention to their favourite topic. Selwyn could not help but admit that Catheryn was clever.
But Catheryn did not feel clever. Try as she might, the only conclusion that she could draw was that it was Deorwine that was sending her the increasingly intimate notes. Cuthbert didn’t have the brains, or the intellect, to even know what poetry was – how on earth could he have written these notes? But if not Deorwine, then who? Who else could it be? But this second one had been given to her but moments ago – and she had been looking at Deorwine before that. Had she seen him write anything? No, Catheryn thought, playing with her knife, but then he could have written it before that evening’s meal, and given it to the servant to deliver. True, she had not noticed him give any sort of signal, but that did not mean that he had not given one… or that he had not organised the timing beforehand.
But Deorwine? Catheryn looked over at him again, and shook her head. He did not strike her as one that had the brains to think of anything like this. He was now arguing vehemently with Harold about the best way to fire arrows into an opposing army, and was mainly doing so by pushing Harold off his bench into the floor rushes. Catheryn sighed. She hoped beyond hope that the notes were not from him.
Catheryn looked down at the note lying in her lap. This second note contained more of the same poem, but the last line that had been written with a strong hand was not from the poem that Catheryn knew so well. That was different, and had come from the heart attached to the hand that wrote it.
As the evening was drawing to a close, Catheryn knew that she would be able to leave the Great Hall without much comment. She stood up and began to walk towards the door.
“My lady,” Eorwine struggled to hastily extricate herself from the bench. “I shall accompany you – ”
“My thanks,” Catheryn said quickly, “but I need no accompaniment. I am merely going outside for some cooling air, and then I shall retire to bed.”
“If you are sure,” Eorwine tried to regain her composure, one leg still trapped behind the bench. “Sleep well, my lady.”
Catheryn smiled, and then continued on her way. She needed to get away from everyone, to get away from that ridiculous display of idiocy that Deorwine was currently showing, so that she could think. She desperately needed to think.
The cool evening air did not chill her, but it did calm her. The sun was just about to set, and the light and heat of the day was lazily disappearing. Catheryn unfolded the piece of parchment, and read those inflaming words once more.
I
cannot
bear
to
be
without
you
.
Catheryn sighed. Whoever wrote those words did seem to be in love with her, although it seemed ridiculous really. Deorwine – or whoever they were, she reminded herself hastily – did not really know her at all. None of the men of the household did, and even her father was under the impression that she really didn’t do anything but wait until the next time she could catch a glimpse of King Edward. What she needed really was a man that bothered to get to know her, and understand her, not send her anonymous notes referring to a passion that she couldn’t see or understand.