Read Online Needle in the Blood by Sarah Bower - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Bower
Ads: Link
though we’re twins. We have everything in common, even William. Especially William. We’re the ones he’s made the most difference to, aren’t we?”
She nods, forced to acknowledge the truth of this. Because of William she has bent her will to the Rule of Saint Benedict and hobbled her imagination with the discipline of prayer.
“Talking to you will be like talking to myself. Because it isn’t simple, and if I’m to make a true record, I can’t make it simple. I can’t do it without you. Do you understand?”
“Not really, but it’s true I owe you a service, and English earl or no, you’re my bishop, so I must do as you bid me. But Odo…”
“Yes?”
“What if, in the world…what if…?”
“You will be strong, as you always have been. I have never known a woman more determined to resist temptation, nor man neither, come to think of it. I have faith in you, Agatha, I always have, or I would not have taken your side against William over the matter of your marriage. Now, I want to leave before nightfall, so go and make yourself ready.”
She has little to pack and spends most of the time he allows her for preparation at prayer in the chapel. She prays for obedience, that she might submit to his will, the will of her bishop, God’s representative on earth, with joy. She prays for strength to resist the world’s temptations, and the vision to distinguish what is good from what is the Devil dressed in angels’ wings. But her prayers become entangled, because in saving her from the marriage William had arranged for her, Odo effectively condoned her sinful instincts, granted her absolution without confession and placed his own soul in as great a peril as hers. It is true what he says, that they are so alike as to be almost the same person in two skins, but she fears this likeness may not be the strength he seems to think it is.
Choice
Lammastide 1068
Two days after William Bastard arrived in Winchester, he was gone again, and his brothers and his chief lieutenants with him. After a hasty, shamefaced coronation service conducted behind closed doors, the blood of the wounded rioters still marking the floor of the choir in patches of faded rust, they set off for London, leaving behind a garrison in the charge of a knight from Calvados, a vassal of Bishop Odo, who had, apparently, an English wife. Not that this seemed to give him any sympathy for the English. He closed the city, taking sole charge of bringing in food supplies, which he then sold at exorbitant prices, keeping the best back for his own table and those of his officers.
Forced to abandon any plans she might have had to return to Colchester, Gytha sought refuge in the households of men who had been loyal to King Harold and friends to Lady Edith. But, as winter hardened and food became scarcer, their welcome wore out. Neither her skill with a needle nor her devotion to her mistress carried much weight with people forced to come to an accommodation with their new overlords to put bread in their children’s mouths. There was no hard news of the fate of Lady Edith or her children. Some said they had been sent into exile, some that they had been executed in spite of the grand assurances of the Bishop of Bayeux back in November, some that Lady Edith had run mad and been locked in a convent. Gradually, the truth ceased to matter, and Edith and her children, like King Harold, began to fade into folklore, flesh metamorphosed into the words of tales and songs, myth dressed in memory’s clothes.
One night, shortly after Epiphany, unable to sleep for cold and hunger, Gytha rose, pulled her cloak about her shoulders, and stepped quietly out of the ladies’ bower of the household she was staying in. Her teeth chattered in the icy air, and her legs shook, so weakened was she by always deferring to her host’s family and housecarls at mealtimes, often giving up most of her portion to the children. But the hard light of the stars seemed to hold her
She nods, forced to acknowledge the truth of this. Because of William she has bent her will to the Rule of Saint Benedict and hobbled her imagination with the discipline of prayer.
“Talking to you will be like talking to myself. Because it isn’t simple, and if I’m to make a true record, I can’t make it simple. I can’t do it without you. Do you understand?”
“Not really, but it’s true I owe you a service, and English earl or no, you’re my bishop, so I must do as you bid me. But Odo…”
“Yes?”
“What if, in the world…what if…?”
“You will be strong, as you always have been. I have never known a woman more determined to resist temptation, nor man neither, come to think of it. I have faith in you, Agatha, I always have, or I would not have taken your side against William over the matter of your marriage. Now, I want to leave before nightfall, so go and make yourself ready.”
She has little to pack and spends most of the time he allows her for preparation at prayer in the chapel. She prays for obedience, that she might submit to his will, the will of her bishop, God’s representative on earth, with joy. She prays for strength to resist the world’s temptations, and the vision to distinguish what is good from what is the Devil dressed in angels’ wings. But her prayers become entangled, because in saving her from the marriage William had arranged for her, Odo effectively condoned her sinful instincts, granted her absolution without confession and placed his own soul in as great a peril as hers. It is true what he says, that they are so alike as to be almost the same person in two skins, but she fears this likeness may not be the strength he seems to think it is.
Choice
Lammastide 1068
Two days after William Bastard arrived in Winchester, he was gone again, and his brothers and his chief lieutenants with him. After a hasty, shamefaced coronation service conducted behind closed doors, the blood of the wounded rioters still marking the floor of the choir in patches of faded rust, they set off for London, leaving behind a garrison in the charge of a knight from Calvados, a vassal of Bishop Odo, who had, apparently, an English wife. Not that this seemed to give him any sympathy for the English. He closed the city, taking sole charge of bringing in food supplies, which he then sold at exorbitant prices, keeping the best back for his own table and those of his officers.
Forced to abandon any plans she might have had to return to Colchester, Gytha sought refuge in the households of men who had been loyal to King Harold and friends to Lady Edith. But, as winter hardened and food became scarcer, their welcome wore out. Neither her skill with a needle nor her devotion to her mistress carried much weight with people forced to come to an accommodation with their new overlords to put bread in their children’s mouths. There was no hard news of the fate of Lady Edith or her children. Some said they had been sent into exile, some that they had been executed in spite of the grand assurances of the Bishop of Bayeux back in November, some that Lady Edith had run mad and been locked in a convent. Gradually, the truth ceased to matter, and Edith and her children, like King Harold, began to fade into folklore, flesh metamorphosed into the words of tales and songs, myth dressed in memory’s clothes.
One night, shortly after Epiphany, unable to sleep for cold and hunger, Gytha rose, pulled her cloak about her shoulders, and stepped quietly out of the ladies’ bower of the household she was staying in. Her teeth chattered in the icy air, and her legs shook, so weakened was she by always deferring to her host’s family and housecarls at mealtimes, often giving up most of her portion to the children. But the hard light of the stars seemed to hold her
Similar Books
