The Bought Bride. Juliet Landon

      The crowds that packed into the city’s narrow streets were thicker than ever that day, and as Rhoese and Els pressed forward against the flow, a seething mass of bodies surged through the arch in the wall, back towards the minster. The former king, William the Bastard, had visited York only to demolish it; his son had decided to give something, for a change, and those who had come to watch this phenomenon supposed that he must therefore be of a different mould from his brutal parent.

      With a growing panic at the possible consequences of any delay, Rhoese had dressed in her best linen kirtle, dyed with damsons, over which a wide-sleeved gown reached to her knees, its borders decorated with a tablet-woven braid. The ends of her long plaits had been twisted with gold threads, and a fine white linen head-rail was kept in place by a gold circlet studded with amethysts, sitting low on her brow. Her last-minute check in the bronze mirror had been perfunctory, to say the least, for she found no pleasure in the reflection nowadays, nor were there smiles of recognition that had once sent back secret messages of love. Instead, she had pulled down her kirtle sleeves well over her wrists, adjusted the leather pouch at her girdle and hustled Els out of the door.

      Only a few minutes ago, the possibility of a quiet word with the Norman archbishop had seemed like a reasonable course of action, but her doubts grew into real obstacles as they approached the minster garth where the great white cathedral reared above the rooftops like a sleeping lion covered by cobwebs of scaffolding. Beyond it, the timber-and-thatch palace that was usually accessible to everyone was almost engulfed by a sea of fluttering pennants, tents, makeshift kitchens and stables, and armies of soldiers and monks who strode about or stood in groups, their gowns flapping in the breeze. Because the king was staying there, the archbishop’s palace was being heavily guarded.

      Two long lances crossed in front of them. ‘Can’t go in there,’ one soldier said, looking Rhoese up and down. ‘Not unless you’ve got something to give to the monks.’ He winked at his companion.

      Quickly, she seized her chance. ‘I have land,’ she said. ‘Where do I go to make my donation?’

      The man hesitated. ‘You got the documents, then?’

      ‘Of course I have, man,’ she snapped, ‘but I’d be a fool to bring them out in a crowd like this. The clerks have records. Just tell me where they are and have done with your questions.’

      The lances were withdrawn. ‘Over there, lady.’ The soldier pointed to the largest leather tent outside which stood a table covered with rolls of parchment. A tonsured cleric sat behind it and by his side stood a tall Norman soldier who pointed to something on the parchment before them. He straightened and looked directly across at Rhoese as if he was expecting her, his head easily topping the men and horses passing in between.

      She recognised him immediately, even though his head was now completely encased in a shining steel helmet, the nose guard of which hid the centre of his face. Small shining steel rings enmeshed his upper body down to his knees, split up the centre of the skirt for riding. Leather straps and silver buckles held a sword low on his left hip. A brawny young squire fed his huge bay stallion something sweet from his hand, and Rhoese was both puzzled and annoyed to see them there when she had been so sure of escaping his attention, after last night. The clerk lifted his head to look at the two women, then bent it again to his scroll, and they had no choice but to approach in the full critical stare of the man who had acquainted himself with her so forcefully. Hours later, she was to recall how that short walk was like pushing through deep sand, and how breathless she was on arrival.

      Deliberately, she avoided looking at him, but spoke in English directly to the clerk instead. ‘Master Clerk, I wish to speak with my lord the archbishop. Would you direct me to him, please?’

      The cleric looked up at her, allowing the roll of parchment to spring back over his hands. He caught it and set it aside. ‘You are?’ he said.

      ‘The Lady Rhoese of York,’ she said. ‘Daughter of the late Lord Gamal.’

      ‘Speak in French,’ said the Norman. ‘’Tis the language of the court, as you both well know.’

      The cleric seemed surprised, but merely glanced at him before rising respectfully to his feet. ‘Lady Rhoese, we were just looking at your—’ He stopped abruptly at the Norman’s signal.

      ‘At my what?’ she said. ‘My estates? Is that what you have there? The survey taken two years ago of the Yorkshire lands? And who wants to know what I hold? Meddling Normans and their like?’ Her glance at the tall Norman was unmistakeably accusing, but it was no match for a thirty-year-old captain in the king’s service used to commanding men twice his age, and the fierce message from beneath the level steel brow of his helm took only seconds to make its impact. She had better say no more along those lines, it said. Remember last night.

      The brown creased skin of the cleric’s face relaxed into soft folds like a well-used pouch and his hands slid furtively past each other into the sleeves of his faded black habit. ‘Yes, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have it here because the king himself needs to see it.’

      Rhoese felt the blood in her veins freeze as a chill wind blew across the crowded field. ‘Mine?’ she whispered. ‘My property? Are you sure?’

      ‘Quite sure. In fact, his Grace is with Archbishop Thomas at this very moment. Your arrival will be of some interest to them, I should think.’ He gathered the scrolls up like a bundle of firewood and clamped them under one arm. ‘I shall take these to him and tell him you’re here. It will save some time. Would you mind waiting with Judhael de Brionne?’ he said, indicating the soldier. ‘He’ll escort you, m’lady.’ Half-smiling at her in apology for the lack of choice, he turned away and disappeared, leaving Rhoese more puzzled than ever and wishing she had not come.

      The Norman had hardly taken his eyes off her. ‘I understand you’ve been told of the confiscation of your late father’s estate,’ he said, matter of factly. ‘Is that why you’re here? To plead for reinstatement?’

      Briefly, it occurred to her that this man could hardly have cared less whether she had heard or not, otherwise he would not have risked a mention of it so casually, moments before she was to meet the king, and again her anger flared keenly at the incessant and callous theft of English land and property into Norman coffers. ‘It’s a game to you, isn’t it?’ she hissed at him. ‘To see who can take most, fastest, every last acre of it, no matter how many generations have held it. Just like your forebears the Northmen. No, Norman, I’m not here to plead for reinstatement. I’d not waste my breath so foolishly.’ Her brazen stare swung away with her last words, conveying her despair as well as her consternation at seeing him again so soon, face to face.

      ‘No,’ he said, flatly. ‘No game, I assure you. I was about to suggest that, if you had come to plead, you’d be wasting your time as well as your breath. Once his Grace has set his mind on something, he doesn’t budge. But I see you need no advice from me on that subject. You northerners are fierce protectors of property, are you not?’

      ‘Yes, and despite what I said yesterday, you’ve managed to find out what I am owed, who from, and for what. Haven’t you? Well, it will be interesting to see how long it remains in my name now. You must be well pleased with your spying.’

      ‘If you think the king is interested in you as a result of anything that I saw yesterday, lady, then think again,’ he said, harshly. ‘There is only one part of it so far that interests me.’

      Holding her anger back on so tight a rein would normally have made her more aware of the precise implications of every word he said. This time, however, it was only his reference to the king’s interest that caught her breath and held it like a hard ball of fear in her throat, and though she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came. Before she could loosen her lungs, the cleric reappeared, beckoning to her and Els to come forward, and they were led by him through groups of curious men across to the archbishop’s thatched hall.

      It was now almost unrecognisable, thronged with heavily mailed guards and their squires, monks and high ecclesiastics still in their jewelled vestments, scribes and messengers in the royal