For once again he has spoken my name
and said I must sing at his board.
That I must make upon my harp
more songs to please him.

Him! By the beards of the Old Ones
and the wise Witan fire--how hard
falls this burden upon me. I, daughter
of Saxon fathers slain on Pevensey Ridge,
I would rather repeat their dirges a hundred-fold
than honor this Norman Lord, my captor!

And now, at this Yuletide feast,
with all the gathering of his folk,
and jests, and hawking, and great cavort
in chamber and hall; when all his kin from
Normandy have crossed to hunt our stag
and boast of bows pulled and arrows spent,
when duck and swan roast beside five butchered
swine and the cook mixes up blood pudding for his guards,
I must flee...

I must flee to a quiet place.
A walk beside the river, where the cold
has made the dark water freeze like brittle
fairy skirts about the reeds, and shrinking,
shrouded in my cloak, I watch the shadow fish
nose up the slipping current.

This was my father's land, with thick fallowed fields
and weighty flocks--But he now names it Beauregard...
I would weep, save the sharpish wind has already stung
and blurred my eyes, before my heart could burst...

--Who's this coming in my steps, like a faithful dog,
to sniff my trail...?

One of his Norman pack, no doubt, who never
slough off mail, nor blades, nor gauntlets;
and whose black beards are clipped and curried
close as glistening horsehair, not wild and thick,
like Saxon men...

Which is this? De Brecy? De Monfort? De Valereux?
It matters not.
One will do for another, in my place;
an escort to end my solitude; a bell about
a kitten's neck, sounding as she strays...

... I have known here fair days of warmth.
I need but shut my eyes to see the circle
of my father's friends, his thegns and coerls
squatting on the green as tale upon tale
goes 'round a golden eve...

Hathawold lingered at my elbow, then.
With meadhorn and venison, in merryment...

...And I recall the Mayfest dawn we woke together,
and I braided mallow flowers into his hair--

Likewise, he fed the ravens of Pevensey;
split in twain. I can speak of him now,
after these years...

nother Norman comes to sniff me out:

"Lady, he calls your name..."

I am bidden. I am bound.
My harp is as heavy as the key to his tower keep.
My heart is wrung, like dyers' cloth.
How can I sing before him?
Where will I find a song?

I pass between trestled tables,
to the hearth, where the great log burns
a Twelvenight fire. A bench is there,
draped with a cloak of fur. His.

Oh, I recognize it. Alone, perhaps,
of all his company, I know this cloak;
older now and growing sparse of hair, but he
wore it, the fringe of silvery wolf close
about his shoulders, when I was brought to him...
I remember how he flung it off--

And after, how he flung me to his pack,
as easily as he treats the boarhounds
scratching in the hall. To De Brecy, De Monfort,
De Valereux.
And others, who live no more...

But I survived the autumn of their victory,
and these ten years, besides...

He waits.
The fire snaps.
Its heavy warmth prickles, like his gaze,
upon my hands and brow...

I have never understood my husband this:
this calling of that Saxon brachet.
I cannot think his mind.

After gests and laughter, and spitted roasts,
and the choicest cheeses and walnuts shipped
especially from home, after knocking open
the finest casks of wine, from Caen; when every man
is full-sated and joyous, he seems but cannot wait
to send De Brecy or another to bring her forth,
those flaxen braids all done round with mean
and common leather thongs...

I have never understood my husband this:
his want to hear her voice, or her melancholy hand
upon the strings. Every Christmastide it falls the same,
and I am quite full of it. She has no grace. Our tongue
is slaughtered by her mouth. And of her own--tut—
a springtime toad makes a fairer song, and much more
pleasing to my ear. My father's jester would ape
and mock her so, if he were here...

She is a Saxon apple, true. Sullen and sour.
Tart and green, never softening, no matter
the oven's heat. I never understood why he
keeps her here...

Unless... No. T'was but malice made that whisper
about the hall, that once, before I came,
he studded her, like a hound upon a heated bitch.
Malice, and no more. I never saw the proof.
Her belly never swelled...

Yet... straight-backed he sits,
and with his eyes, judges her most acute.

Her breast rises quickly.
The fire glows rosy upon those hands
holding the harp, unplucked.
She waits...

Has this Norman lost all sense
of what he is about?

If I were he, there would be
no cunning Saxon slut standing
in such defiance of my seat.
She would have no harp to torment
the ears of good Christian men and boys.

If I were he, this Saxon wench
would wear a weight of chains
upon her throat and know the cold sweat
of my dungeon cell--or better,
she would feed my steel that white neck
which she now holds so stiff and proud...

Fool! this baron, for making his hearth
a stage for her, as though she were a pet.
He forgets her father was an earl, whose name
is still mouthed about their humble cots.
He forgets the slaughterfield of Pevensey,
his young chevaliers against their line of pikes...

And fool again! for blindness to her unholy ways...
Pagan bitch! She swears by blood, and moon,
and other heathen holds and, I'm told, can foresee
by flight of birds and shift of wind.
(I sign myself thrice, against her power).

I would leave my bench in protest of her
presence here, save for his benefices of corn
and wool, needed for my Holy House.

Come, Lord Jesus! Let this snapping fire
make prey of her where she stands, as proper
Judgement upon a heathen cunt...

How fine this night! How grand! With my Uncle here,
and my Cousins, and the hall festooned with vines
and green boughs, and branches of golden mistletoe.
Father used once to cast it out, but not of late,
for the Saxon maids did only sneak it back in beneath
their skirts, to hide it under firewood, or bind it high
among the drying sage and thyme.

Mother would have them whipped, and me, for knowing,
but Father said 'Let It Rest'; and now this smell
of parching greens and fat dripping into the fire
is the substance of our feast that warms me so...

And now she comes!
Oh, how regal she appears, though they say
she was but the daughter of an eorl.

(You see, I know all their words,
from when I played with Ead-Beorht,
grandson of the cook...)

The King's Matilde would have no more pure
or noble face; nor finer, lighter fingers
upon the harp, I'm sure. Would that I could play
like her! Would that they would let me learn...

Even Father has put down a cloak for her.
Not ermine, of course, as for the Queen;
nor his best, which is for his Appeal to Court;
but still a cloak of fur, one well-remembered
of my youth, when I would hide behind it,
from his peeking eyes...

Ah! She sits!
As upon a throne, I think. Hers, this night...

Would that I had such hair as she,
so that by this fire's light
it would look as richly gold...

God's Blood, the wench finally sits!
I have watched her these ten years,
and at every feast, have seen how she would
fling that harp into his face--Such is her pride--
but she cows herself...

Zut! I am relieved! This is not the night
I desire to drown her in the river, as he's had
me do to others, so when they are found, it seems
a mere accident. He is no fool, my Lord.

But tonight it hangs cold without these walls,
the hoarfrost grows thick upon the branches,
and I am warm and full, with my winecup,
and nuts to crack... Not like our first winter
in this land. In draughty tents, beset by rain
and sore with wounds.

God's Truth, we did some drinking then!
Drained our winebutts to the dregs, and finished
their dreadful mead besides, and burned their hovels,
and each night took another of their daughters,
one for each of us--or one between--
such as our moods betook.

It seems not ten years... Not since
he first bid her sing, at our open fire,
in drunken jest, in wild mockery,
her gown torn, lips bruised
from rude abuse... Not ten years...

Ah, finally, la dame begins a song...

And soon now, I will know if my supposings are correct...
Soon... when the servants come slipping in, one upon
the other, to line the hall and listen, then...
then I will see the proof of what I do suspect.

Twice this week I have witnessed them
close together: my Lord's petted, spoiled
daughter, and that Saxon who, as a pup,
hauled in the kitchen wood. He now keeps
the stable; and there, I saw them.

The first day hawking, when my Lord, with his Brother,
and all our company, would make a riding 'round the Hold;
as we took our horses, the boy was too quick to bring the
maiden's mare and hold its head, whilst she put her foot
upon his thigh, to mount--I did see his face. He did want
more than her foot upon him, the Saxon buck--

And again, returning, when the winter light
was bluing and the torches came out to shine
the glistening quadrangle bright, I saw him offer
a hand to steady her, and she did smile at him...

Foxy maiden. I consider: Does she but toy,
to excite whichever cousin has been chosen her?
Or is she fool enough to think she may freely
lay her hand into his Saxon paw?

To me, my Lord seems blind about his sprout.
She should be given into the Abbots's care,
or quickly wed and bred, before the Saxon
tumbles her in his hay...

Curse her! for a bitch.
He should have had five sons!

... Ah, it begins...
They come, Saxon dogs, creeping in, to listen...

... And soon now, the vixen will search his face
among the flickering shadows and smile--and I will know.

What then?

De Brecy's trick?
No. Too much used. The boy would swim
too strong for it to pass as truth...

...Or...or...on the morrow...
at our feastday hunt...
...Yes...

I will certain that he comes out with me,
to tend the hounds, or some such task.

Then? An accident of arrow?
Or of lance?
No. Better still,
the swinging head
of a wounded stag,
in blooded fury.
A foot, beneath a snaking root.
A fall before the beast.
His belly gored,
or neck, and face...

It happens anon.
No hand would be suspect in it.
Not by the Saxons,
nor the Maid,
nor My Lord, himself.
Mere unhappy chance...

Resolved:
I but need the help of one other,
to secret stags' horns in a lonely copse
adjacent the likely chase...

De Valereux...?

No. He's grown soft. He sits too long
at the kitchen fire and rubs his knees,
whilst the brats clamor for his gauntlets.
Half are his bastards, anyway...

De Brecy...?

...Yes...
Yes, he would keep it hid.
Our Lord shall never know of this.

There was a maid of Wuda-haem,
of Wuda-haem, a maid,
Fair of hair and fair of face,
she lived in a hidden place
a deep forest hidden place,
the maid of Wuda-haem.

So,she started
with the Wuda-haem.

I might have foretold it,
for always she does practice
this one first,
upon her walks,
or in the kitchen,
when she forgets I am about...

...God's Truth, my jug is empty--
Here, servant, catch my eye--
Ah, he sees. "Another!"

Your health, my Lord...
Yes, yes--And my Lady, too...
I drink your healths...

Oh... and after, Wuda-haem,
she will harp From the Hills--I foretell--
and then she will sing in Norman tongue...

And that will tweak my Lady's nose...
And My Lord's brother will be
fair astounded too, I think, to hear
La Saxone sing to him, and mayhap better
than his own balladeeress would,
at home in Evereux.

Her mouth is cunning...
I recall how quick she learned...
Within the year, she knew it all...
All...

...God's Truth, I did like the ride I got
upon her saddle--other Saxon mares
are culls and nags, compared to her...

I would have her for my own...
I did ask--but my Lord said no...

No? No?!
Am I not his oldest sword?
From his own estate?
His right arm, always... Phoo!
Did I not stop that thane from gutting him?
It was not De Brecy; no, nor any other,
who put that Saxon to the hilt...
And who made the listing of his Hold?
And dealt with those who would lay fire
in the corn, or lurk by night...?

I did think such feats would account me high...
She is only a woman, after all...

"Here! Here! Another flagon for me!"

Shhh! Shhh.... Yes,yes. Shhh, I know...

My Lord looks at me...
...Your health, again, my Lord...
Yes, yes--and your Lady too, the bitch...
She would rule here, like the Queen, if
he would let her...

... I asked for La Saxone
but he refused... Refused...
Why? He makes no more use of her...
Only keeps her like his child's kitten,
fed of table, and given a mat...

Her face at dawn is as grey as ash...
--Once, I heard her weep
at the hearth, stirring coals,
for her menfolk, when I came
to make first fire to warm my aching joints.
It was incantation, sure.
(Blessed Virgin, Guard me)

She chanted as she stirred,
ash swirled up from the coals,
the great hearth sighed and sucked
the tendrils up... rushing air...
a shrieking sound... their voices...

She leapt up, seeing me,
and made to fly, but I caught a braid...
Close, I saw her growing old,
before her time--her eyes, her skin...
A waste of woman...

She wants bedding every night,
blood in her cheeks,
babes to give suck--
not this making signs for Saxon dead
who've gone past rot...

Stiff knees or no,
I would make her bloom--
...And now, another Christ Tide has come...

...I will ask my Lord again...
Why should he refuse?

"Ho! You! Servant!
Hurry up!
Another jug!"

Who does Devalrowe think he is?
Drunken lout, snuffling
and snorting into his mug,
like a wounded boar?

And now shouting out!

Close thy hole and listen once!
The Earl's Daughter sings!
Hear her beautiful voice carry
sweet and sure, like an arrow...

Drunken Normans!
They have no manners for either hearth or harping.
They laugh as they will, and talk too loud.
Her father would have thrown them out of the caer
for such rudeness to a singer...

I would plant this flagon
in his face, if I dared.

If I dared...

Oh Eylane...
...Dark Eylane...

Just once this night...seek my eyes
with your own and smile me that half-hidden
kittish smile of yours...

Eylane,...just once...
as when you and I alone knew
very mischief of this hall, and yard, and hid,
and judged our friendship by naught but the bulk
of our lies and the smart of our schemes...

Eylane, loef, make one smile for me,
across the dancing fire, as signal for the end
I know must come, for your Cousins hang upon each word
and flutter of your hands, and I see fullwell
the meaning of this play. There is no mummery in it.
One of these Normans will husband you...

...I must look away... from the glow of your face
at their flatter-words...

I will not stay here more...
...I cannot... when this song ends,
I will slip without...

...hum...
how many hectares
to a Saxon Hundred...?

...and of rents...?
and kind...?

and the number of his beef?
... Say, twenty,

and swine? ... hum...

Twice times, sure...

...but sheep--much more,
and very thick...

...and not one mill,
but two...

... and the stones
of this construct
are well-dressed...

benches and tapestry,
all new...

None of it comes cheap.

He was ever one
to vanquish me,
my Brother--
at whatever game,
or risk,
or chance...
Joining Bastard Guillaume
was his biggest throw...

...and one that will
sustain my offspring well...
Yes. My Robert, to his Eylane...
Yes...

...not the strongest-blooded
son, yet one who will do
my bidding, without rethought...

But should my brother die...then
--then, I myself will claim this Hold...

...not bad...
between home and here:
a week at sail,
a week at horse...
...not bad...

His wife...? Return her
to her father, le Baron...
or... or...
perhaps, marry her--
Think--how many brothers
does she count alive?

...But this lies off always.
The concern is tonight,
and the lacing of cousins into one.

--But she is a beauty still,
my Brother's wife...it would
be no hardship to consummate her...
... more a pleasure, I would say...
whilst I seize this rich fieu for myself...

Ten years since!
Ten years!

Since the Bastard
put Ead-woard's crown upon his head.
On Christmas Day, in London!
Ten years!

Great Mother! How can she sing
at his feet, like that!
Traitorous cow, she.
Quarter her, I would, sure
as draw in more breath,
but she keeps without my reach,
and safe among her troop of
Norman pricks...

I did expect more of her,
Daughter of our Eorl!
Strike her eyes! She rolled
in their blankets quick enough
and lined her belly well, whilst
we rest starved and suffered
their abuse, like my wife--
My wi...

Norman whore!
Pay, she will.
I make oath on it.
She... And they...

And time, too.
We Saxons have lain
like hedgehogs long enough,
curled and dumb, while these
Normans boot us about for sport...

No more. Tomorrow,
at the Twelfth-Day hunt,
I vow, when they ride out
into the copse... Then...!

Oh, Flaxen-Hair,
brave maid of deep-run Saxon blood,
thee lifts the hearts of thine people--
Brave, Maid!

Ken thee, how their faces are lightened
to see thee at the hearthen-stones,
the self-same, sure, as where thy fathers
counseled, and caught their swords in pledge?

And with harp, like olden times...
I mind thee as thou wert at ten and three,
betrothed to Hathawold-- Happy season,
before this long-handed Norman winter...

Oh Flaxen-Hair, what gift to thine
people thou art, to see thee defiant
before his eye, clothed yet in olde Saxon
gown of woad-dye and silver-threaded needling.
And the band of pearl and coral stone, thy
father's Woman-Gift, flashing as thy fingers
thread the harp its running tune...

All eyes glime 'pon thee in glad-heartedness
and pride--all save Iron-Hand--(Forgive him,
Maid; still grief-blind, after ten year...)

Hark, Flaxen Hair?
What's this? ... A new song?

Through the deepest forest,
a comely White Hind ran,
grace'd and sleek of flank,
fleet, before the man,

Who came to stalk the White Hind,
and run her to the ground,
and so, steal the prize of Albion,
and claim by it, a crown.

T'is naught but folly to name their
King William thief!

And before the eyes of a liege lord,
and with all his knights assembled!
Oh, Maid, 'tis folly, true...

And swift, the White Hind wheeled
to stand bold against her foe,
'gainst heavy ships of horsemen,
slung with ax, and blade, and bow.

Upon her hard, they pressed attack,
as hounds, catching leg and tearing breast.
She stood, white-faced, chalky-bled,
and lowered her head, sorely pressed.

Yield, Maiden! Yield!
Oh, do you not see him square
his feet... And is not his fist
more firmly 'round his cup...?

'Neath banner high, the huntsman
pursued the Hind atop a Ridge
and thence with arrows, slew her,
and cut her throat, forthwith,

And so left, hid in valley,
in fen, and down, and combe,
the tender fawns--her children--
she once sheltered in her womb.

Oh, Maid...
thou hast made me weep again...
Oh, Maid!... Our loss...

... Cunna, I'm done...

I must away,
before I loose my hold...

Rise now.

Slowly.

Go.

Past his seat.
His Lady's.
Abbot Hard-Face.

Oh, my hands begin
to shake--

My breath,
snagged...

Go.

Out... Out.

Move! you curs,
Move from my way!
I must fly...

Without the hall,
into the air...

Snow!

Wool thick
and silent underfoot...

Where shall I go?