tirewoman’s duties with the removal of a pair of dark blue hose from the chest. Indigo dyed, Gytha notices, expensive. The woman has the spare bones of a well bred horse, with pale, prominent eyes and a pursed, loveless mouth. “None of us has to be here. This is not a house of correction.” She makes no reference to the burning clothes.
“After what I’ve seen of the mistress of this house, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I’d like to see how she’d react if any of you tried to leave.” She unwinds the towel from her hair and shakes it down well below her waist.
“What do you mean?” asks the horsey woman. With a short, bitter laugh, Gytha sits on the end of the bed closest to the hearth and crosses her legs, exposing strong calves scattered with dark, silky hair. Welsh legs, her mother used to say, good for climbing hills. She looks from one to the next. Besides Margaret, Leofgeat, and the horse-faced woman, there are two others in the room, though Gytha has to double check this with herself because one of them, at first, and even second, glance is identical to Margaret. The sister, Alwys, she assumes, not surprised that Margaret failed to mention their being twins. Twins are nothing to boast of, even boys; Alwys’ and Margaret’s father was likely very grateful to have found them a place in an earl’s household, even a Norman earl, even this Norman earl. It is only when she concentrates that she can tell them apart by minor variations in dress and the fact that Alwys’ hair is a shade darker and a little less curly than her sister’s.
The other is a mousy creature with lank hair and sallow skin bearing the pits of small pox. She also has a vigorous tic that wrenches her chin round toward her left shoulder. The muscles in the right side of her neck are oddly thickened and corded as a result. In repose, if you can call it that, she keeps her hands thrust deep into the pockets of a linen apron she wears over her dark grey dress. With this variation, all the women are dressed in the same dark tunics and white caps as Margaret. The horse-faced woman has a key hanging from her girdle. She’s the one to watch, then , thinks Gytha, Sister Jean-Baptiste’s journeywoman. Judith, the thegn’s widow.
“I mean, if you cross her, she might just have you shot.”
“Shot?” says Margaret. “Don’t be silly.”
“From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t have much respect for human life, even by Norman standards.” And she tells the women the tale of the executed poacher.
A resentful silence settles over them. Everyone wishes Gytha had kept her shocking story to herself. Now they know they are prisoners. Me and my big mouth , thinks Gytha, me and truth . A self-destructive relationship if ever there was one. She should carry a sprig of myrtle under her tongue, to curb its talkativeness.
“Nothing she does surprises me any more,” says Alwys. “She makes us bathe once a month, whether we want to or not. You can only get out of it by saying you’ve got your monthly visitor. She even offered to teach Meg Latin. What would Meg need to know that for? If you ask me, she’s mad.”
“It’s not her fault, though, is it?” says Margaret. “It was wrong of the earl to expect her to be able to design the hanging. Women’s minds aren’t suited to that kind of work. I expect it’s the strain of having to behave like a man.”
“And she truly is the king’s sister?” asks Gytha.
“Yes,” Margaret replies.
“She and the earl are his half brother and sister,” says the horse-faced woman. “They have the same mother.”
“Judith’s our authority for these things, our Book of Genesis,” Margaret teases. “She’s the only one of us ever to have set eyes on the earl. He hasn’t been here since any of us arrived. Judith’s husband used to be something high up at court.”
“King Harold’s court,” adds Judith, seeing the expression on Gytha’s face, unaware its fall is due to the discovery that
“After what I’ve seen of the mistress of this house, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I’d like to see how she’d react if any of you tried to leave.” She unwinds the towel from her hair and shakes it down well below her waist.
“What do you mean?” asks the horsey woman. With a short, bitter laugh, Gytha sits on the end of the bed closest to the hearth and crosses her legs, exposing strong calves scattered with dark, silky hair. Welsh legs, her mother used to say, good for climbing hills. She looks from one to the next. Besides Margaret, Leofgeat, and the horse-faced woman, there are two others in the room, though Gytha has to double check this with herself because one of them, at first, and even second, glance is identical to Margaret. The sister, Alwys, she assumes, not surprised that Margaret failed to mention their being twins. Twins are nothing to boast of, even boys; Alwys’ and Margaret’s father was likely very grateful to have found them a place in an earl’s household, even a Norman earl, even this Norman earl. It is only when she concentrates that she can tell them apart by minor variations in dress and the fact that Alwys’ hair is a shade darker and a little less curly than her sister’s.
The other is a mousy creature with lank hair and sallow skin bearing the pits of small pox. She also has a vigorous tic that wrenches her chin round toward her left shoulder. The muscles in the right side of her neck are oddly thickened and corded as a result. In repose, if you can call it that, she keeps her hands thrust deep into the pockets of a linen apron she wears over her dark grey dress. With this variation, all the women are dressed in the same dark tunics and white caps as Margaret. The horse-faced woman has a key hanging from her girdle. She’s the one to watch, then , thinks Gytha, Sister Jean-Baptiste’s journeywoman. Judith, the thegn’s widow.
“I mean, if you cross her, she might just have you shot.”
“Shot?” says Margaret. “Don’t be silly.”
“From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t have much respect for human life, even by Norman standards.” And she tells the women the tale of the executed poacher.
A resentful silence settles over them. Everyone wishes Gytha had kept her shocking story to herself. Now they know they are prisoners. Me and my big mouth , thinks Gytha, me and truth . A self-destructive relationship if ever there was one. She should carry a sprig of myrtle under her tongue, to curb its talkativeness.
“Nothing she does surprises me any more,” says Alwys. “She makes us bathe once a month, whether we want to or not. You can only get out of it by saying you’ve got your monthly visitor. She even offered to teach Meg Latin. What would Meg need to know that for? If you ask me, she’s mad.”
“It’s not her fault, though, is it?” says Margaret. “It was wrong of the earl to expect her to be able to design the hanging. Women’s minds aren’t suited to that kind of work. I expect it’s the strain of having to behave like a man.”
“And she truly is the king’s sister?” asks Gytha.
“Yes,” Margaret replies.
“She and the earl are his half brother and sister,” says the horse-faced woman. “They have the same mother.”
“Judith’s our authority for these things, our Book of Genesis,” Margaret teases. “She’s the only one of us ever to have set eyes on the earl. He hasn’t been here since any of us arrived. Judith’s husband used to be something high up at court.”
“King Harold’s court,” adds Judith, seeing the expression on Gytha’s face, unaware its fall is due to the discovery that
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