Where?

The stable?

No. Not the stable
Never again the stable...

The mill, then?

No. Farther.

The grove?

I must get farther.
Even farther....

He will seek me out...
I saw his jaw become rock,
his lips without color...

He will set his hounds
after me.
De Brecy.
De Monfort.
De Valereux.

T'will fall as before.
Tthese ten years have been naught.
Naught.

No!
T'will not as before!

They will not have me...

Turn this way.
Leave the caer...

The snow will hide me.
See how it thickens upon my hair,
like goose down at the plucking,
crowning in white...
It fills my steps in haste...

And how wet!
It clings to every stone.

I must faster away...

Run now. Run...

Do I hear the river yet?
Listen...?

Is that the gurgle and lap
of the current...?

Is this the shape
of the stepping bridge...?

The snow is thick.
I cannot see clear for the swirl
and drift of the downy white....

Of his Thoughts, and Words, and Deedes

& of certain others, about the Hall

Damn her!
Damn her blue Saxon eyes!
Had I my hands upon her, I, I--

Cease. Put back your guard.
Make no public face over this.
No alarm. Let her go now, as if in peace.
as if it were only her blood too strong
in her veins, this night. Yes, from feast...
from wine...

Yes, wine--

"Here! Servant! Be quick! Carry out a fresh cask!
And let there be music! Now! Of pipes! Of tambour!
Call the players! Dance! Form up, those of you who would..."

...but no more of singing.
My ears have had sufficient
of singing...

De Brecy looks my way; De Monfort rises.
Ah--such is our brotherhood, that one look
between us serves for many words...

Oh, ma Saxone, one nod
in their direction and all
would be done. What I might
have done these ten long years...

"Yes, my Brother, partner yourself
with My Lady. She would love to see
the patterns of the Angevin court.
Yes, do."

...And now come the Saxons forward,
one upon the other, chewing their beards,
making their obeisance, chins furrowing their chests...

They would put on the look of dead men
before my eyes, whilst yet alive.
They do not fool me.

The Iron-Hand pale of face, not to be trusted...
The Old Sage, not to be trusted...
And where stands Ead-boerht--?

"Yes, Nephew, you have my permission.
Yes, by all means, dance with Eylane, yes.
Show us your turns--"

and your new woolen hose of Ghent...
Yes, by all means, yes, Robert, do something!
to turn my daughter's head from that Saxon whelp
who charms her heart--Prie Dieu! that it's not too late!
Where is he? He stands not among the men.
Nor in any corner....

There?

There?

There!

No--'tis but De Valereux rising up--
Old wine sack. And just as sour.
He'll off to sheath that sword
of his in some warmth, though duller
now than ever...

Merde, alors! He staggers this way--
I have no taste for lamentation.

"My liege, a favor,
grant a favor to your old
chevalier, for old time's sake...

"Let me fill your cup, My Lord--No, here,
here, use my flagon--You would not refuse
me, not de Valereux of Ettiens--
drink with me, eh? Will you drink...?

"Here, my lord, close now. I will not
beg. I ask: Give me the wench.
I will curb that tongue of hers
that made you wince--Shhh, shhhh, yes,
my Lord, I'll whisper it--wince.

"I saw. I'm not such a sot that I would
miss the discomfiture she brought you.
And on this night, of all... Ungrateful
wench--She should be taught her place...

"Give her to me, my lord. I will break
her of mocking songs. No more offense,
I vow, my Liege. What say you? And
besides, you know what good cover
against the cold she makes, eh? Heh, heh...

Here, let us drink on it. HO! SERVANT!
MORE WINE FOR MY LORD! QUICKLY!

What you say, my lord? Give her me?

"Uh-hum--Forgiving my boldness,
My Lord, but I pray you, better still,
give her instead over into the care
of Almighty God...

Give her into my hands, my Lord,
and I will see she comes to find Christ's
Love and Redemption. She will forget
all songs of Albion and her Saxon dead.
She will repent her sluttish charms
and holds, and come to embrace Almighty
God in all his Glory!

Give her unto me, My Lord, I pray you.
Give her unto me and I vow you shall
have no trouble of her evermore."

"My Lord Abbot, with respect,
I decline your petition..."

Ha! Then she's mine--!"

"No, De Valereux. To you
I grant any other maid.
But not her."

"Pooh! Why! This is unfair!
An injustice on me!
You wrong me!
I was your right arm...

Zut! You would throw
her to De Brecy quick
enough. You do favor him
above us all--"

"Cease!"

No, 'tis truth! You would
favor de Brecy always!"

"Cease, I say!
You have drunk too much!
Quit the Hall!
I will have no more insolence--
Be gone to bed and sleep off your wine!"

I am not so dismissed!
I will have my speech—"

Oh, Ead-boerht!
Please be waiting!
Please!

I must hurry!

I saw you leave
during her song,
your eyes filling,
red in the fire-glow.
I saw--

Please!
Be waiting for me!

I have used their raising
voices to slip away.
I snatched Father's
old cloak to disguise
my head. None should
remark me, seeming as
Saxon-fair as you.

Snow!

Oh! Such flakes!
Oh! They catch
my eyelashes,
my cheeks,
My shoulders are
already white....

Pray, be waiting
for me...

Ead-boerht...?

Ead-boerht?

Is that you, loef?

My loef? Ead-boerht?

Empty!
The stable is empty! Oh, Ead--

But look!
My horse is gone!

Oh, yes!
Ead-beorht, Yes!
I do understand!
I do know this meaning--!
I will meet you at our place!

Great Mother!
You have granted me revenge!
You have granted snow!

Her track is plain enough to me.
Foolish cow, she.
She passes without the walls,
to the river, along the bank.
Foolish bitch, she leaves behind
her Norman pack, who've guarded
her at each turn, these years...

But now she is my recompense.
She will be avenged, my wife...

Justice, anon...
and more debts repaid...
on the morrow...
on the morrow...

But first, this traitor
will suffer...

Look! Here she paused,
looked back,
listened,

and ran on....

Here she leaned against this tree,
to catch her breath,
and listened more.

Yes, and here she picked her
way along the bank.
--A slip--another here,
in the deepening snow.

She found the stepping bridge.
The water is high, certain stones
are overrun--her hem is wet,
it drags a swath behind her.
Easier than a blood trail
to pursue. Easier than
a feast-day hunt...

God's Blood!
T'was hot in there!

Ah, this is better...

Cool...

And now I need
some urgent relief...

Aaahhh, better...better...

"Here, my lord, come see!
I am doing you the homage
you deserve! I piss upon
your wall! Ha!"

...dismissed me...

...injustice...

...said I was not fit...

Ha! 'Tis he...

And that...that Saxon cunt!

That Saxon cunt...

...she fled this way,

that night...from kitchen

...to stable...

Ha! And with hayfork
would blind me...? Me?! Ha!

...and what prize, she...

that hair unloosed,

aback the wall...

...yes....yes...

here...in this stall

this very...

...her wood no match
for steel

I see her now

... refused to kneel...
though I laid it

...cold....

’pon her neck...

She refused--

those lips tight...

in this hay... uff!

--here, I.... I...took her...

yes...ah! Yes...much the same--

this hay...smell...of summer...

... oh, my bones! aahh--to lay at rest...

aahh...blessed rest...here....rest....

....she did...not weep......once....zzzz....

nor plead...here....zzzzz...

not once....zzzzzzz...

in this hay....zzzzzzzzz

hay.......zzzzzzzzzz

My heart will burst--

I must stop. Stop--

breathe...
breathe...

More snow.

ever more.

What shall I do?

breathe... breathe...

Soon, I'll reach the grove.
Among the oaks I will hide.

Perhaps he will forsake my pursuit
for the morrow's hunt...? What Norman
can resist his chase?

--Oh, what foolishness do I tender: I am his hunt--
I ken it...foretold it this very night, in song...
Spake it upon mine own head...

Rise up...
Seek the oaks...
Mayhap their dark arms
will take me up.

Hark?

And again.......?

Something moves
upon my trail--

But what?

I cannot see...

Run...
Run...

Up this ridge,

into the grove...

"Good night, Brother. Yes,
sleep well. We will hunt the
morrow, snow or nay...Yes,
good night... Good night...!

And likewise, to you, Robert..
Be sound this night... 'Til morn....

"Yes, Ma Dame, I too will come soon."

"Soon--
Let your ladies attend you as fitting...
then I will come..."

"Yes, Lady, upon my oath--
Soon."

"Here, servant, fill this jug
and be gone. And take all others.
I crave some peace awhile..."

...some peace awhile...

I would have my seat...
...my fire....

Sainte Mere de Dieu!!!
'Tis easier to treat
with all the Burgundians
in Christendom than my own hall
half-mixed with Saxon curs!!!

What a weasel-sack they are!
Le Fourgeron, Iron Hand--
a blooded boar--dangerous...
And Le Vieux--Old One, cunning--
Knowing all in this fieu...

And that love-sick puppy
who cannot eat for love
of my Eylane...

And now! Petite Dame!
This new song of yours!
--Sangre de Dieu! Did you Saxons
never learn that Le Duc took what
was his by Right of Succession's Vow,
from your own Edward, King...
It was your Harold, son of Godwin, who smiled
under a usurper's crown, not Le Duc...

Saxone! You do know the truth.
Yet, even so, you dare lament our victory.
Your words are embers to the others--
I saw their faces glow...their eyes
filling with light—

And sung before the view of my brother!
Who misses nothing! And Abbot Toad!
What gossip will he croak abroad of this
night's regale: 'De Barré did smirk at hearing
his King named basest thief'?!

--"Who comes there...?"

"De Brecy, my Lord..."

"You have some news...?"

"My Lord, she has fled...I searched myself,
in all parts. She has fled without the
gard,into the snow--"

"Then she will not range far,
'tis certain; and will be glad
of our approach on the morrow,
when she is stiff and cold.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Find her then, De Brecy.
But I charge you, keep De Valereux
away. He would meddle too much.

"Understood, My Lord."

......Aye, De Valereux
would meddle too much...

Smitten...he is, of her.

For all his bluster of hard-ruling;
she would weave his heart a love-knot...

Smitten old fool!

Yet.....

yet,--what of myself...?

Was I not once?

...Smitten...?

Did I not hunger for her?
All heat and eagerness
to bend her to my ways....?

Admit it.
Admit it.

--Yes!
I did delight in her!
Though I did not know her rank, at first--
Took her only as perchance, for a comely wench,
hair of gold and flanks of a courser...

Yes...delight--though in all those days
she never begged one thing of me...
not mercy,
not relief,
not protection--

Submitted silently to all...
silently....

And by that silence, I judged
her Saxon oak. Tough and dure.

T'was other Saxon slaves who told
first of her blood...

...I took her then for myself...
I would have none more of my knights
studding their Earl's daughter...
I am not so foolish to ignore
the politics of victory...
I gave her place, and dignity, and held her
for myself, as was my right--

Yes... for myself! meant only a longing for the next...

And there were nights
--I swear--
when she began to warm, as snow does
in springtime, soft in my arms,
her lips unlocking against me,
her loins like supple leather...

--Sante Mere! If she had spoken
my name but once...or begged favor...
or swelled with a son of mine...

But then ma Dame and fille came
from Normandie, to join in this new house--
And I would not have her rank so defamed
as to show preference for a Saxon maid...

But I confess--some nights I did shut my eyes,
one against the other--

And still...

But now?

Now, Petite Dame, you have sealed
upon your head this night what I have not
these last ten years... Your songs are done...
There can be no more of this...
Treason, you sang, before us...
All witnessed.
Your people. Mine.

And now I must be swift...
for if Le Duc hears first, he would make
of you spectacle, teaching other Saxons
how not to sing--
And I will not have it so--
.No torture.

Where is another flagon?

Full?
Yes. Good.

Good....

No torture, but quickly done....

I will name the surest hand.
Sharpest steel...

I am resolved...

Resolved...

Yes, I am resolved...

...I can run...

...no more..

I am done...

I will sit...

What comes.... will come...

Whosoever is first...

I have waited now ten years...

... and it is not changed...

Ten years....

In all, t'was but fleeting moment...

....now the wind dies...

the snow lessens...

--Hark!

So close behind... ?

I did not think them
so close behind?

Who will be first?

I will stand to meet him--

Who comes....?

"Iron-Han...!”

"Husband...?"

"...Husband...?"

"What is this...? Husband?"

"Go to bed, woman."

"What matter is this, I ask...?
What happening? I have not seen
you stroke stone to blade yourself
in years? And now?
What has happened? Tell me."

"Go to bed!"

"But why?...What can this mean...?"

"Depart! Leave me alone!
Woman, you know nothing! Nothing of pain. Dull blades.
Steadiness of hands! See! How steady mine!
Like rock. See!”

"Husband! You are drunk!"

"Befitting a feast night, then!
But not enough so my hand wavers.
I might cut a seam in your gown—"

"Keep away from me!"

"Ha! My brave wife--you wouldst have made some Saxon trouble,
if sun and moon had been reversed!"

"You forget the morrow’s hunt—
Your brother—"

"I forget nothing, Woman! I know
the field better than you think.
And the prey, a hind, fleeing for her
life--

Now leave me, whilst I edge my
blade..”

zing... zing...

"Hear it, woman? A man knows this
sound. 'Tis incense and winding
sheets, this sound. 'Tis death...

Now, depart. I have no need of your
company tonight."

"Each Yuletide you are thus,
ill-tempered, and knife-tongued—"

"Aye! Knife-tongued!
’Tis the same knife-point I have
balanced these ten years.

And now,"

zing!

"t'will be sharper---"

zing!

"--sharper—"

zing!

"for the morrow—"

"My Lord!! My Lord!!"
"Come....!"

'Tis De Brecy!

And with what cry?

What face?

"Move, beast!
Pick up your feet!"

"My Lord! Look you there!"

By your beard, Father, I vowed...
And kept it, anon...

I would not beg--never beg...
I was your daughter, true...

By the old ones and wise Witan fire,
carry me home--Father....
I am lost...
'tis dark...'tis dark....
and I cannot see...
Blinded...

Yes, I feel your hands...
freeing my bonds,

but I cannot stand...
hamstrung,...

disembowled....

I am dying... Father....

Father...

Is that... Hathawold.....?

Hathawold...?

oh, loef....come

nearer.....

my loef...

...take

my hand....

Hatha.....

"Oh, ma petite Saxone!"

from: Tombs and Temples of the Early Norman Period, D. C. Paul. Oxford. 1965.

pp. 54-55

...In the village of Oakton Bogart [Bogart= Fr. Beauregard], in addition to the remnants of a Norman keep and great hall, there exists a wonderful example of an post-Conquest abbey church, containing many early tombs of the de Barré family. The oldest belongs to Rosalyne, wife of Girard de Barré, who lies beside her daughter, Elaine, and son-in-law, Robert of Evereux. Magnificent in its simple detail, however, is the tomb of her husband, Girard, which stands in its own chapel, adorned with the well-preserved wooden effigy of the Conquest knight in chain mail, his head resting on his helm and feet supported by a favorite courser (gazehound). Abbey restoration at the turn of the century revealed a second skeleton in the de Barré tomb, and recent tests by scientists of Leeds University determined the bones to be of a young woman, buried with broach, ring, and collar in the Saxon, rather than Norman, style. Who she is and how she came to be in the de Barré tomb cannot be determined, although it is a curious coincidence that since the time of the Restoration an apparition, called the 'White Ghost,' or the 'Oakton Ghost,' is said to appear at dusk among the ruins of the great hall, or to be encountered in the local oak forest, each time described as golden-haired, and white-gowned, in collar and rings, singing to the accompaniment of an unseen harp, in words not today recognizable..." Far be it for this author to purport the belief in specters, but it is fascinating none-the-less to wonder if the Oakton apparition is in some way connected with the unnamed Saxon princess who lies, for all eternity, co-mingled in the arms of a Norman chevalier...?