Published monthly

Home  | Contents  | Features  | Galleries  | Reviews  |  Archive  | E-Mail    

You could reach a unique targeted audience of over 15,000 people per month by advertising here for just £50

SIR FAINTHEART

by Ida Pollock

The Abbey of St Elfwyn had been standing, off and on, for more than four hundred years. It had been burned down three times, once by Norwegian Vikings, once by Danish Vikings and once by a nun called Caedwith – feeling chilly, Caedwith had attempted to warm things up by pouring goose fat on the kitchen furnace. Every time this happened there were those who thought the great building had gone forever, but important people gave gold and humble people gave prayers, so it always came back, and every time it came back it was more splendid, so that by the year One Thousand and Sixty-Six it was said to be one of the finest buildings in the country. The Mother Abbess observed that one more really good blaze might enable it to surpass the great new church at Westminster; but she did add that if she could help it no more pagan barbarians were going to get within sniffing distance.

By this time there weren’t that many pagan barbarians in the vicinity, but the fat lands of England were being eyed by foreigners. King Edward – widely understood to have been a saint – had recently died, and his departure had left a tempting gap. Far across the icy North Sea, Harald Hardrada was believed to be planning a good old-fashioned Viking style invasion, while in Normandy Duke William the Bastard was making his own arrangements. On the whole, William took a loftier position than Hardrada - King Edward, after all, had been none other than a son of William’s Aunt Emma, and as if this wasn’t enough had actually promised the Norman his throne. To cap it all, William’s ambitions had been accorded the Pope’s personal blessing (Normandy was a civilised place, full of admirable architecture, and that kind of thing deserves encouragement. Anyway, the English Saxons were tediously different from other people, and needed bringing into line).

There were just a couple of snags. At the very end of his life St Edward had changed his mind and bestowed his kingdom on a Saxon called Harold. And, typically, the English people were in a surly mood. They didn’t want the Bastard, or his knights, or his architects. They weren’t worried, of course – one English axe man could account for three or four Normans, no problem – but just now and then they did feel a hint of uncertainty. Norman knights, it was said, wore such armour as had never been seen before; and their horses were the size of dragons.

Wulfric, Thane of Chettingdene, was a powerful man in the middle of southern England. He loathed the Bastard and all his followers, and had little doubt that they could be hurled into the sea. He also had nerves of iron and the strength of an ox, but he did have a weak point. Her name was Elfrida, and she was his daughter. At eighteen she was too old to be still unmarried, but the wench was hard to manage and so far had turned her nose up at every suitor produced for her. Anyway, he had no other child, and Elfrida could be pleasant about the house. She was skilled with a needle, too, producing so much tapestry that the Hall at Chettingdene had not a single wall uncovered. That autumn, though, Elfrida had been a worry to him. . . . As the leaves turned brown and mist rose along the Downs, and news spread that the Bastard had put to sea, Wulfric ordered that two ponies should be saddled immediately. He did not imagine his daughter would enjoy being deposited within the Abbey of St Elfwyn – or any other enclosed area, for that matter – but on this occasion she was not going to be consulted.

The Mother Abbess received them both with kindness and some satisfaction, for Elfrida was a great lady in that part of the country, and her presence might mean additional protection for the Abbey. And Wulfric was generous, handing over a sizeable amount in gold. Elfrida wept, when her father rode away, but she had royal blood – on her mother’s side – and was determined to be brave. Besides, she had brought with her a hound and two pet cats, and meant to see they all dined properly.

A se’ennight passed, and more nights, and then a passing carter brought news. Far away up north, he said, Hardrada had landed with his army, but King Harold had been there in time and it was said they would be hearing no more of Norway. At the same time, though - off the southern coast - the Bastard’s sails had appeared. The King and all his people had ridden hard, pushing their horses down the long backbone of England, but they had arrived half dead with exhaustion and had been allowed just one night of rest before William walked ashore with his horses and banners and priests, and battle commenced. King Harold and his house-carls, his men-at-arms and spearmen had stood close as bees in a hive, so tight together that a thread could not have been pulled between them, so close that the dead could not fall. They had fought all day long, braver than the ancient heroes. . . .

"But in the end," said the Abbess, who could not go any longer without getting to the point, "all was well?"

"No, Mother. All was lost."

When Elfrida was told, she wanted to know what might have happened to her father, who had meant to fight with the King, but the Abbess had to admit she did not know.

"I must go home," said Elfrida.

"You cannot go home, child. Everyone may. . . have decided to go away. And your father wanted you safe."

"I am not afraid of death, Mother."

"Death, my child, is not the only terrible fate that can befall a woman."

Three days later Elfrida tried to run away. After that an extra watch was placed upon the gate, so she took a blade from the house of tools and tried cutting through the bars of her cell. It would have been a pity if she had succeeded – apart from anything else she was in the guest chamber, which was very fine, with a mat upon the floor – but she hardly grazed the ironwork. Bursting into a storm of weeping, she sat for three days with a cat on her lap and a hound at her feet. When the Sisters tried to comfort her she refused to answer them, or even to eat. At length, however, she accepted a peach, and later that day ate braised venison with carrots and cabbage.

As the days went on, more news came to the gate. News of burned villages, of innocent souls murdered for their loyalty, of William the Devil being anointed King in the new church at Westminster. There was no sign of Wulfric, but as autumn fell into winter a great assortment of fugitives came by. One churl, grievously hurt, stayed only long enough to be saved from death before travelling on so that his presence could bring no harm to the Sisters. Not that they lived in fear. When not under orders to commit murder and pillage most Normans were, it seemed, rather pious, and having won his great victory their leader was not likely to risk an unnecessary argument with the Church.

Alone at her prayers in the chapel, the Abbess sometimes found it hard to control her anger. . . not against God, who as a Father could hardly be blamed for the conduct of errant children, but against William, against the stupid old King and also against the Pope, who had allowed his sacred blessing to be used for the encouragement of unprovoked slaughter. She spent many hours on her knees before a statue of St Elfwyn – having been a Saxon girl, Elfwyn might find it in her heart to intercede - but when the prayers ended there was never any response, just the cool silence of the Abbey church. There was a small mark on Elfwyn’s left cheek, where long ago a careless builder had struck her with his chisel. . . just once, a flicker of sunlight turned the mark into something that might have been a tear. But that was all.

The grass began to grow again, and melting frost swelled the stream that flowed through the Abbey garden. Birds were singing, green shoots bursting through, and one morning in April three horsemen emerged from the woods.

Two of the men were of the common sort, but the third, who rode between them, was another matter altogether. His mail-coat glinted in the April light, and from his shoulders swung a cloak of velvet. His head was uncovered, revealing brown hair cropped short, and he sat his tall horse as if born to be a leader. Approaching the Abbey gate-house, he sprang to the ground. When the bell rang Sister Elizabeth looked out - one of the oldest nuns, she was not too easily startled but at the same time she did not relish dealing with such a situation as this. The Mother Abbess was called, and she peered out through the grille. As she did so, her eyes met the brown eyes of the stranger.

"What do you want, my son?"

"Your blessing, Mother."

She studied his face. Very good looking, but that meant nothing at all. "You have it. If it’s deserved."

"Also, I am come to offer help. Is there anything I may do, for you or for the holy Sisters?"

"Who are you?" she asked sharply.

"I am called Guy of Rocheneau."

"You are a Norman."

"I am a knight in the service of Duke – of King William."

The grille was slammed shut. Momentarily the young man looked disconcerted, but he rang the bell again and moments later the grille opened again. The Abbess was still there, and Sir Guy spoke quickly.

"I offer you gold." He beckoned to one of his attendants and the fellow dismounted, fumbling in a large saddle-bag. Eventually a smaller bag appeared, and Sir Guy held it up. "This was bequeathed to me by my uncle, but I have pledged it to the service of Holy Church. I beg you, Mother, to take it."

He passed it through the grille. It was heavy and the Abbess looked inside with caution. Sure enough it was filled with glimmering gold pieces, densely massed together.

"There must be one hundred pieces here. Are you a rich man, Norman?"

"I have large lands, across the sea. And now. . . I have been given land here also. I do not need the gold. If you will take it, I ask only that you pray for me."

"Did you say that you have been given land around here?

"I have."

"And whose land was it?"

"I confess that I do not know."

"M’mm." The Abbess appeared to think. "Have you repented of your sins?"

"Once in every week. Only yesterday, I was granted absolution by Monseigneur the Bishop of Winchester."

"Well. . . . I will accept the gold, in the name of St Elfwyn. And I will pray for your soul."

The grille was closed again. Sir Guy crossed himself, and followed by his companions turned his horse back on to the track. The Abbey lay within an angle of the forest road, so that when they rounded the next bend one of its walls still ran beside them. There were some windows in the wall, but not many, and in any case they were of no interest to the knight, who was possessed by his own thoughts. Until he heard a woman’s voice.

"Help me. . . !"

Sir Guy drew rein, so suddenly that his horse stumbled. At the same moment his companions drew weapons from their belts, but there was no attacker in sight. They glanced up at the Abbey wall, and there they beheld a face. The face was peering through a small barred window, and plainly it was female. It was also young, the knight noted, and. . . pleasing.

"Help me!"

Sir Guy looked around him. Surely the girl must realise the other nuns would hear her? Perhaps they wouldn’t, though. Perhaps there was no-one within earshot.

"How can I help you, Sister?"

"I am not a Sister. They are keeping me here, but I want to go free. I want to find my father."

This was tricky. Someone must have placed the girl here, and in such troubled times had probably been right to do so. But if her father did not even know. . . .

"You must tell me, lady, where your father lives."

"He is the Thane of Chettingdene. But he went to fight for the King."

Something ran through Sir Guy – not as sharp as a sword but nearly as startling. Sadness, which was rare with him, and shame. Greater shame than he had ever felt in the Confessional.

"What does the Mother Abbess say?"

"That I must wait, and pray for my father. But if I do that, he may never come."

Sir Guy looked again at the window. She was beautiful, like an angel. Something reached within his breast, twisting the area where his heart was supposed to be.

"The holy Mother is right," he told her.

"But I cannot bear it any longer. I have no-one, except my father. And he has no-one except me."

"I will go to look for him." There, he had said it.

"But you are - "

"I am a Norman, but also a knight. You may trust my word. I will find your father, and I will come back again."

"And bring my father?"

"If I can. He may perhaps have been hurt."

"Yes."

Now she sounded very young. Almost like his own little sister, Elaine.

She seemed to think for a long time. "But can I really trust you?"

Indifferent to glances from behind, he knelt on the mossy track. "With your life, lady. I swear it."

And he rode away, along the grassy track.

Easter came, and May. There should have been merriment, a greeting for the summer days ahead, but not this year. Flocks had been stolen, fields not planted - some men had died in the battle, some had been taken since, a small number had fled. Even so, around St Elfwyn’s Abbey very few were in want. The Abbey, it appeared, was richer than it had ever been, and more generous. Wherever there was need the Sisters were to be seen, and sometimes Elfrida went with them. At first the Abbess had been reluctant to trust her, but then she had noticed something, a new quietness about the girl, a serenity. Perhaps she had accepted her loss. In time, when the world had settled down a little, some marriage might be arranged for her. Or she might decide to enter the Sisterhood. In the meantime, she was better off where she was. From her mother she had inherited a recipe for balm – a treatment for aching and rheumatic bodies – and she had the skill to apply it. It made her very much in demand with simple folk, especially the men.

The weather grew warmer. Summer was at its height, and on a day of deep sunlight Sir Guy rode back along the woodland track. He was prepared for a meeting with the Abbess herself, but Elfrida was in the garden gathering peas, and when she heard the thud of his pony’s feet she clambered up into an apple tree that overhung the wall. He was alone, this time, and when he saw her was glad of it. Her honey coloured hair drifted loose about her shoulders, and the bosom of her dress. . . . No, better to look elsewhere.

"Lady!" He gazed into her face. "I have come back."

"And you have found my father?"

"Yes."

"But you did not bring him?"

Disappointment was heavy in her voice. If he chose, he could lift her over that wall and carry her off.

"I did not bring him, because there was a problem. With his legs."

"Does something ail his legs?"

"It’s not any great matter. In a few months’ time, perhaps - "

"I will go to him. You must take me to him."

"I cannot do that."

"Why not?" Having very nearly slipped, she wriggled herself into a more secure position. "Don’t you want to help me?"

"I would give my life to help you. But if we leave this place together. . . . I am a man, you see. And you are a woman."

"Oh!"

Sir Guy had seen many girls blush, and had never thought it an attractive sight. Very often – unless they were dark skinned - their cheeks became blotched with unsightly red. Elfrida merely turned from a snowdrop into an opening rose.

She looked away from him at some baby apples clustering on another branch, and at her cat, who was attempting to follow. "I had forgotten. But could you not treat me as if I were a man?"

"No. But wait, there is something I must do. I have to talk with the holy Abbess."

Before she could say another word he had ridden on, and she heard a distant clanging from the gate-house bell.

The Abbess was surprised to see Sir Guy, but since some months had passed – and his gold had been of use to the entire district – she agreed that he should be admitted. He was not, she judged, likely to be demanding a re-fund of his money, and in this she was right. He was, however, demanding something else.

Several of the Sisters began clustering together. One of them had seen Sir Guy as he came in, and the sight was not something she was likely to forget. Pointing out that the flagstones outside the holy Mother’s room had not been scrubbed for three days, she remarked that something ought to be done about them - of course, if one were scrubbing right outside the door one might, quite by accident, hear something of what was going on inside. But that could scarcely be avoided.

Ten minutes later Sir Guy departed, in the process almost tripping over Sister Ethelberta, who had found a really troublesome stain right outside the Abbess’s door. As he leapt into his saddle and rode away, Ethelberta gathered up her bucket and went to join the other nuns.

"What did he say?" they asked.

"He said ‘I ask that you give her to me’."

The Sisters looked at one another. Could he have meant Elfrida?

"And what did the holy Mother say?"

"She answered that she could not. ‘You have found her father,’ she said. ‘and you must seek his blessing.’ So he has gone."

One of the nuns sighed.

"Did not someone say that Faint Heart never won Fair Lady?"

"If no-one has said it yet, they will one day."

That evening, after vespers, the Abbess sent for Elfrida. As gently as possible, so as not to shock her too much, she explained that Sir Guy of Rocheneau had apparently found her father, alive and well. Also, he had asked that Elfrida should be given him in marriage.

In marriage. . . ? But after all – as she had already confessed to the Abbess - she had only asked him to find her father.

"Men," said the holy Mother vaguely, "get the strangest ideas in their heads. However, I cannot give you to him. Only your father can do that - since he is still alive - and he will never consent to such a union. You have no reason, my child, to be afraid. Let us pray that we may soon hear from your father. Wulfric can write very well, if he does not attempt to bother with long words."

As she lay on her bed that night, Elfrida shed tears of gratitude. Her father had been found alive and sooner or later, somehow or other, she would see him again. Then she thought about Sir Guy and his offer of marriage, and little shivers began running up and down her spine – only, of course, because it was all so surprising. It was a long time since she had thought about marrying anyone, and she had never, ever seen a man she might wish to marry. As she lay awake, though, it did occur to her that when – if – she chose a husband, she could wish him to be about the same height as Sir Guy. It would be nice, too, if his voice were to sound about the same. And then she fell asleep.

Autumn came, again. Nothing had been heard from Wulfric, or from Guy of Rocheneau, and the Abbess thought sadly that she was not completely surprised. Since he desired to please Elfrida the Norman might well have lied about finding the girl’s father alive. It would have been a wicked lie, but – God protect his soul – she did not believe Sir Guy to be a bad man. He had offered honourable marriage, the ceremony to be conducted by their own priest, within the Abbey chapel. Perhaps she had been wrong to refuse consent.

Unless, of course, he had a wife already.

It was quiet, when the leaves had fallen. That winter few men and fewer women were travelling on the woodland road, so it was all the more surprising when, just before Christmastide, a merchant came to the Abbey. He had travelled, he said, from London, and in his saddle bags were silks and linens – velvets, even – and all of it the finest stuff from France and Italy. He confessed, however, that he had not come by chance. He had been sent by a knight, a wealthy man now quartered at King William’s court. The knight had said he owed a favour to the Abbey of St Elfwyn, and therefore desired to send the holy Sisters a gift. He had paid, in advance, for all of the stuff that was in the cart – what the nuns did not want, he begged they would throw away or give to the poor – and he had even provided the merchant with a sturdy mounted guard (so as not to cause alarm at the Abbey, they were waiting a little way back, near the tavern of the Six Crowes.)

While a flock of nuns gasped and twittered with excitement, the Abbess wrinkled her brows. She did not particularly like the smell of what was happening.

"What was his name?" she asked.

"The knight, Mother? They said he was called Guy of Rochenel, or some such. These Normans do all sound the same."

"And he spoke to you?"

"Clear and plain as if he were native-born English. Well, near enough. Mind, he didn’t choose the stuff. He left that to the lady."

"What lady?"

"The one that stood with him, while I was showing my wares. Young and handsome, she was - dark, though, and foreign to look at."

"Well, you may leave the stuff that he sent. We shall give it to the poor of the village."

Having been smitten by a slight ague Elfrida had been resting in her cell, and so she had not heard the merchant’s words. As far as the Abbess had been able to tell, the girl’s heart had never been touched by Guy of Rocheneau, but she had believed his story about discovering her father, and would be distressed to find him perfidious. The Abbess herself was distressed. She had liked the Norman, had almost become fond of him, and was sad to think that her initial wariness had been justified.

A great evil, though, had been averted. If she had been weak and had consented to the proposed marriage ritual, Elfrida would have been destroyed and her father’s trust most horribly betrayed. One must be thankful for such mercies. For the moment, though, it might be better if Elfrida did not discover anything the merchant had revealed. Once she was older and stronger, she could be told the truth.

The Eve of Christmas was celebrated with great solemnity, and with so much singing that by midnight several of the nuns were unable to speak with any clarity. On Christmas Day, however, they were obliged to spend no more than three and a half hours in the chapel, and by four o’clock, with darkness falling, they settled down to dine. There was a fire blazing in the refectory, and in one corner Elfrida’s hound was munching comfortably on a sheep bone. There was already a good deal of chatter among the nodding wimples, and Elfrida was smiling a lot - even though, the Abbess thought, her eyes looked suspiciously red. More logs were piled on the fire. Then just as several brace of geese were being carried in something caused the hounds to start barking.

Conversation ceased

"What is it?" the Abbess asked.

Sister Ethelberta cleared her rough throat. "It’s the gate-house bell, Mother."

"Well, let someone look through the grille. It may be some poor soul in want."

At this point the bell rang again, so distinctly that everyone could hear it and one of the hounds almost choked. Two nuns hurried out, and minutes later there was a muffled sound of voices, followed by silence. The nuns came back.

"Mother, it’s the Norman that was here before. That sent the silk, and – "

"Guy of Rocheneau? Where is he?"

"Before the gate-house, Mother."

"Will he not come in?"

"He says that he has one question to ask, and he will wait outside until he gets an answer."

"What is his question?"

"He would not tell us."

The Abbess stood up. She had been a good-looking woman in her day, and she walked like the wife of some great Earl.

"No doubt," she observed, "he is drunk."

And she swept out of the room, along the passage and into the gate-house chamber.

When the grille was thrust back a frosty chill struck her eyes, and she knew that she could smell smoke. Difficult to tell just where it was coming from, but there was a flaring torch outside. . . more than one. And there were men, mounted on horseback.

"Who is there?" she asked, not raising her voice.

A figure walked towards her, and as the torches threw light on his face, she saw that it was Guy of Rocheneau.

"Mother. . . ?" He spoke enquiringly.

"Why do you trouble us, my son?"

"I have come to speak with you."

"This is the blessed Feast of Christmas. Do not stain your soul by trying to mar it. Go away, and leave us in peace."

"I mean no insult to the holy feast, but I cannot go through it without seeking to lift the burden that tortures my soul."

"What burden?"

"I cannot live without Elfrida."

The grille was closed sharply and the Abbess turned away, to be confronted by six or seven anxious faces.

"Go back to the table, my daughters."

The bell started ringing again – clamouring – sending fierce echoes through the building.

"Is he drunk, Mother?"

"There are different kinds of drunkenness. All can be destructive. Maybe he needs a priest, but I cannot talk to him."

By this time the barn dogs had started to bark, and Elfrida appeared, her face the colour of candlewax.

"Mother, why will you not talk to Sir Guy?"

"He has sinned. . . . Lied. He meant to do you great hurt."

"He would not harm me. He would not – " Something came into her eyes, a sort of darkness. "Is it my father. . . ?"

"I know nothing of your father." The Abbess felt ruffled, disturbed as she had never been in her life before. "But I know about this man."

"Please speak to him again."

"It is better I do not."

Elfrida disappeared, and at that moment the gate-house door was hit by something like an iron-capped toe. Immediately afterwards another object struck the panel that covered the grille, and to the Sisters’ fearful bewilderment it fell away as if made of parchment. Torchlight flickered before their eyes, and Sir Guy’s face drew near again. Out of the cold night his voice came clearly.

"I will not leave, Mother Abbess."

"You must do as you will." She stepped nearer to the opening. "I shall never hand that child to you. Not if you burn this house over our heads."

One of the nuns gasped, and several others began muttering Ave Maria.

"Is that your wish?" His voice was strangely altered.

"May God protect us all," the Abbess murmured. And she turned away from the grille.

"Oh, blessed Mary," whispered one of the nuns. "They have fire in their hands!"

"They have torches," the Abbess said crisply. But her mouth and throat were dry.

There was a burst of light, followed by a hissing sound and a soft thud. Smoke began pouring through the open grille, and Sister Ethelberta uttered a cry.

"Oh Mother! We are afire!"

Flames had taken hold of the stout oak door, and already they were reaching towards a window frame. Most of the nuns backed away from the door, but the Abbess stood still, her hands folded as if in prayer.

There was a shout from outside, followed by the sound of heavy feet running, and more shouts. As the stench became increasingly acrid, the Abbess started to cough. Then there was a different kind of sound, and something trickled through the open grille. Water.

Someone had been hacking at the door, and with one mighty wrench it was finally torn off its hinges. As it fell a bucket of water was emptied over it. And Sir Guy stood in the opening.

There was a long silence.

"I would not have let you burn," he said at last.

"I know, my son."

"The damage will be restored. And my men will keep guard until you are secure again."

"How did you – "

"You have a stream. And buckets."

"When you threw the torch did you not think of Elfrida?"

"I thought, Mother. And my temper burned, hotter than the fire."

"That is a dreadful thing."

Something moved in the shadows, and the Abbess turned her head. Elfrida stood like a ghost, staring at Sir Guy.

"I saw what you did," she whispered.

He bent his head, staring at the ground.

"Why. . . ?"

"I want you, sweet lady. Wanted you."

"You don’t want me any more?"

"I have no right to want you. I have been on the edge of a great sin."

"Two great sins," the Abbess interposed, with a hint of returning dryness.

The Knight’s head lifted. "Two?" he repeated.

"You planned to take this girl, knowing you had a wife already."

"I have no wife."

Well, he would say that, thought the Abbess. On the other hand. . . . "If you have no wife, what lady chose the silk? The silk that you sent to us?"

"Silk. . . ? Ah! That was my sister, Elaine. She is lately arrived from Normandy."

The Abbess closed her eyes. She seemed to sway a little, and Elfrida looked at her with anxiety.

"Mother, you are all right?"

"I. . .yes, child. I have been saved."

"From the fire. I know."

"Not the fire, from something worse." She looked at the tall figure of the Norman, upon whom light was beginning to dawn. "I have wronged you, my son, and shall do penance for the rest of my life."

But Sir Guy was not attending to her. By the faint flicker of the torches – now withdrawn to a more discreet distance – he could see Elfrida’s face.

"Lady. . . ." His voice was husky, something which could have been due to the smoke. "You would not wed such a man as I am?"

"If I do not, then I shall die a maid."

He took her small hand between his smoke-blackened fingers. "If you will trust me, you shall have no cause to regret."

The Abbess was tempted to say something, at this point, but for once she bit her lip. The Sisters were gathering round, and – drawn by rumours of disaster – a priest had appeared. And someone else, also. Withdrawing her fingers from the Norman’s grasp, Elfrida flung herself upon a heavy figure that had just loomed out of the darkness.

"Father!"

Wulfric, it appeared, had been lurking within the tavern of the Six Crowes. It also appeared that he might not have shown himself at all, had he not smelt fire.

"Your father and I travelled together," the Norman remarked.

"Dearest Father," said Elfrida, her face anxious, "I thought you had a sickness in your legs."

Wulfric rubbed his nose and glanced at Sir Guy, then – more uneasily – at the Mother Abbess.

"My legs have been a trouble to me," he acknowledged. "But it’s more what they did."

"What they did?"

"You’ll not understand, daughter."

"Perhaps I will," said the Abbess, her tongue regaining its edge.

He rubbed his nose a seconf time. "Well. . . they left the field of battle. Not before ‘twas over, mind. I was there, with my axe in my hand, till they were all dead around me. I should have died too, that’s all. But my legs walked away, and kept walking, till I couldn’t see the blood any more, or hear the – "

"You would have died," said the Norman, "if you could."

"Yes, that’s it. That’s it."

"Father. . . ." Elfrida had been soaking his jerkin with her tears. "Every day I have prayed to the Virgin, and to St Elfwyn. They will have kept you safe, and led you from the battle."

"Well, maybe. All’s different now, though. You don’t need me, now that you have – " Again, his eyes turned to Sir Guy. "He’s not a bad fellow, I’ll say that. He went a bit beyond what was right, just now, but a man’s patience only stretches so far."

"So it appears," said the Mother Abbess.

On the Second day of Christmas, Guy de Rocheneau married Elfrida, daughter of Wulfric, in the chapel of St Elfwyn’s Abbey. A year later their first child was baptised there, and all through that day sunlight flickered on the saint’s stony face, but there were no chisel marks to be seen.

And now there was no statue at all. Nothing but one crumbling refectory wall, and a heap of stones that just might mark the remains of a tenth century gate-house. I hadn't meant to linger there, I had simply squatted on the grass and begun nibbling on a sandwich. But it was warm. The hours passed. And it seems there's no limit to what the chattering rooks can tell you, when you lean your head against a weary stone wall.

Website design from £200 - ask for details

The small print

Gateway is published by Paul Edmund Norman on the first day of each month. Hosting is by Flying Porcupine at www.flyingporcupine.com - and web design by Gateway. Submitting to Gateway: Basically, all you need do is e-mail it along and I'll consider it - it can be any length, if it's very long I'll serialise it, if it's medium-length I'll put it in as a novella, if it's a short story or a feature article it will go in as it comes. Payment is zero, I'm afraid, as I don't make any money from Gateway, I do it all for fun! For Advertising rates in Gateway please contact me at paulenorman@yahoo.co.uk Should you be kind enough to want to send me books to review, please contact me by e-mail and I will gladly forward you my home address. Meanwhile, here's how to contact me: paulenorman@yahoo.co.uk Gateway banner created by and © Paul Edmund Norman

Home  : Contents  : Features  : Reviews  : Galleries  : Archive  : E-Mail

Web hosting and domain names from Vision Internet