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  THE KING’S RIDDLE

  An Anglo-Norman Mystery

  By

  Maureen Ash

  Copyright © Maureen Ash 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cast of Characters

  Main Characters

  Estrid of Rochester – embroiderer

  Judith – Estrid’s apprentice

  Leofwine – an English soldier

  The English

  In Rochester:

  Godric – Estrid’s son

  Gytha – Estrid’s companion

  Cuthbert – Estrid’s servant

  Ugg – a soldier

  Cenred – a healer

  In Maidstone:

  Siward – a miller

  Alfreda – Siward’s daughter

  Harold and Penda – Siward’s sons

  Edith and Helga – Harold and Penda’s wives

  Valerie – Siward’s widowed sister

  Godser – a miller

  Tilde – Godser’s wife

  Kendra – matron

  Maud – Kendra’s daughter

  Alarice and Velda – matrons

  Osric – reeve

  Rowena – Osric’s daughter

  Gifel – boatman

  Nelda – Gifel’s daughter

  Sweyn and Redwald – Alfreda’s suitors

  Merwenna – a cunning woman

  Beorn – Edith’s brother

  The Normans

  William Rufus – the king

  Turstin fitzRanulf – Alfreda’s husband

  Robert fitzHaimo – a Norman knight

  Ralf of Abetot – a Norman knight

  William of Evrecy – a Norman knight

  Humbert – a monk

  James de Fiennes – constable of Dover Castle

  Glossary of Old English Words

  (Diacritical marks have been omitted in glossary and book)

  Alehaus - alehouse

  Apple wine - cider

  Botleas – an unpardonable crime (modern – bootless)

  Dohtor – daughter

  Fæder – Father

  Folkmote – an assembly of people (alt. spelling folkmoot)

  Frea – Mistress (term of address)

  Fyrd – English militia

  Handgeld – gift of money from prospective groom to bride’s father

  Hel – Hell

  Hunigmonap - honeymoon

  Moder – Mother

  Morgengifu – gift from husband to new wife on the morning after their marriage

  Mote – meeting (alt. spelling moot)

  Murdrum – a secret killing, murder

  Nithing – coward

  Scramseax – small dagger

  Wod - crazed

  Wyrd – fate

  Place Names

  Modern spellings of place names have been used throughout the story but for those interested in the Old English nomenclatures, the list below is provided.

  Ashford - OE – Asshatisforde – ford near a clump of ash trees

  Bearsted - OE - Bergestede - place on the hill/barrow

  Maidstone – OE - Medwegston – Medway (river) town

  Hastings – OE - Hæstingas - the followers of Hæsta

  Additional Terms

  Our Ladies Hair – A herb - stonecrop

  Please note that spelling throughout is British usage

  Maidstone Village, Kent – July, 1089

  CHAPTER 1

  The communal hall was full of light from banks of candles arranged around the large chamber. Servants scurried to and fro with jugs of mead, wine and ale to ensure that all of the guests at the wedding feast were amply supplied with drink. The smell of roasting pig floated into the hall on the soft summer air from two carcasses turning on spits outside, and a trio of roving gleemen provided music on lyre and pipes.

  Siward, a prosperous miller, stood at the back of the hall anxiously watching the guests. His daughter, Alfreda, was the bride, but the man to whom she had just been wed, Turstin fitzRanulf, was a Norman knight, base-born it was true, and only recently come into a small estate, but a knight nonetheless and one whom the king held in great favour. But still many of the villagers viewed the union with distaste, for although there had been a few marriages between the invaders who had conquered the island kingdom twenty-three years before and some of the females among their new subjects, they had not been plentiful and were usually considered a betrayal by the English participant. Siward hoped the feast would pass peacefully, and there would be no dismissive outbursts by any of his neighbours.

  Siward’s eldest son, Harold, a bull-necked individual with a surly countenance very similar to that of his father’s, came up to him. “Is there any sign yet of the king?”

  The miller shook his head and glanced at the two Norman companions the groom had brought with him. They were sitting at the table on the dais alongside their countryman; both were knights and one of them, Robert fitzHaimo, was a close confidant of Rufus, who had been proclaimed king over the English after his father’s death two years before. Both of them seemed relaxed and were treating Alfreda with great deference. She, radiant in her wedding finery, was smiling and laughing, the wreath of spring flowers on her head setting off the pale loveliness of her golden hair and blue eyes. A wash of remembrance came over Siward as he looked at her. She did not resemble her long dead mother, but his sister who, in her youth, had been a great beauty.

  “I hope he comes soon,” Harold muttered, “for it would be unwise for our guests to imbibe too much mead before they have eaten, otherwise tempers might fly high and rash words be spoken about my sister’s union with a Norman.”

  “He promised fitzRanulf he would come for the feast,” Siward replied, “and I do not think he would disappoint a knight he esteems.”

  “Perhaps so,” Harold conceded as his younger brother, Penda, came up to them. More open-faced than his elder sibling, he had a friendly countenance and a willing smile. Both of Siward’s sons were older than Alfreda, aged in their twenties while she was only a maid of sixteen.

  “I had the pair of drinking cups the king sent as a wedding gift set out ready for presentation, fæder,” Penda said, ‘but have instructed them not to be placed on the table until he arrives.”

  Siward nodded his approval and, at that moment, the drumming sound of horses’ hooves was heard. Within moments, Rufus and his escort of men-at-arms pulled their mounts to a halt in front of the hall. A stocky individual with a ruddy face that had earned him his nickname, King William II dismissed the soldiers to wait for him at the village alehaus until he should be ready to leave, dismounted and came to the door. He was resplendently attired in a dark green velvet tunic decorated at neck and hem with bands of yellow under a lightweight cloak fastened with a clasp of gold. As everyone rose in deference, he gave a great shout of greeting and, with a wide smile, bid them all be seated before striding up to the dais and taking the place left vacant for him alongside the groom. A servitor hurried forward and set the pair of horn cups that were Rufus’ wedding gift in front of the newlywed pair. They were magnificent; the tips of the horns embellished with solid silver and standing bases of the same precious metal. The one for the bride was covered in a decoration of flowers constructed of silver filigree, and that of the groom with the twining leaves of an oak tree. To gasps of admiration from the guests, fitzRanulf rose from his seat and gave the king his reverent thanks for the gift, and for his sanction to the marriage.

  “I would have my people, both English and Norman, live together in an amity that has been sorely lacking in the past,” Rufus responded, �
��and what more pleasant way to consolidate our unity than through the marriage bed.”

  As the guests tittered, a servitor rushed forward and filled the cups of the bride and her husband with mead—the first they would drink together on each succeeding day until all phases of the moon had passed in four weeks’ time, called the hunigmonap, or honeymoon—and the king’s with a fine wine that was the best Siward had been able to procure. Then everyone stood again as Rufus raised his cup and wished the newlyweds long lives and happy ones, and bid everyone join him in the toast.

  After all had drunk to the pair, and they, too, had drained their cups, the gleemen struck up a lively tune and platters of roast pig and baskets of bread were brought in, along with wheels of cheese and bowls of pickled herring, and the whole company fell to eating. With great sighs of relief, Siward and his two sons began to relax. The feast was going well, the king was in excellent temper and their sister seemed blissfully happy. The miller was an ambitious man, and well pleased that the Norman knight had offered to adhere to the marriage customs of the English when he had asked for Alfreda’s hand. He had agreed to pay the handgeld—the gift of money Siward was to receive from fitzRanulf as a sign he could provide well for his new bride—and it was ample, as was the promised morgengifu—the morning gift Alfreda’s new husband would present to her on the morrow—for it was no less than the revenues of a fine house in Tonbridge. Not only the miller’s daughter, but all of her family, would profit from the liaison.

  It was Robert fitzHaimo, sitting on the left-hand side of the bride, who first noticed she was in distress. While her husband was in conversation with Rufus, she began to struggle for breath, then the pupils of her eyes widened and her lips turned blue. When fitzHaimo asked if she was unwell, she nodded her head as she made a feeble attempt to grasp fitzRanulf’s hand. As he turned to her, she tried to rise from her chair, but could not, and then, within a heartbeat, she lost consciousness and fell forward into his arms.

  With a cry of dismay he lifted her up and made a frantic attempt to revive her as everyone in the hall rose to their feet in alarm. But no matter how much the anxious knight chafed his young wife’s hands and gently wiped her face with a wet cloth brought by a servitor, her form lay limp and still and he finally realised any further ministrations would be of no use. Alfreda, his beautiful bride of only a few short hours, was dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rochester , Kent

  Three days later

  In the upper storey of a house on the main thoroughfare of the cathedral town of Rochester, Estrid Thunorsdohter was sitting in her embroidery workshop with her attendant Gytha and her young apprentice, Judith. Their living was earned mainly from the decoration of church vestments and, having almost completed the ones that had been ordered for the celebration of St. Michaels mass, they were now looking forward to a break from the hectic pace of the last few weeks.

  While her companions put the finishing touches on a row of crosses embellishing the edge of an altar cloth, Estrid gazed down at the wax tablet she was holding and on which she had been tracing the letters of the alphabet. She was a mature woman in her late thirties, tall, full figured and with the blonde hair and pale complexion common to those of Saxon heritage. Her features were handsome rather than pretty, and she had a determined temperament that could sometimes be headstrong. Last year, after discovering the perpetrator of a murder for which her son, Godric, had been erroneously blamed, she had realised that the advantage of being able to read and write might have enabled her to secure his safety more quickly. After reflecting on the matter, she had decided to ask Gundulf, the bishop of Rochester—who she knew quite well through his purchase of the items her workshop produced—if he would allow one of his monks to assist her in the learning. With the aid of Humbert, a garrulous and elderly monk who had become their friend during Godric’s misfortune, she was now able to scribe simple Latin phrases, and was determined to try and pen words in the English language, as many of the noble class had been able to do before England had been conquered by the Normans.

  It was not easy. It had been over two decades since the Normans arrived, and her people had begun to speak a mixture of their own tongue and the Norman-French native to their overlords, so it was difficult to decide whether she should try to form words in the English of her childhood, or the pidgin dialect that had become more common as time passed. Before she made a choice, she elected to first try the names of a few simple household objects—such as a pot, bowl and spoon—that had not been altered by the coming of the Normans, using letters from the Latin alphabet Humbert had taught her and make an attempt to write them down in English. She had just finished scribing ‘pott’ and ‘boll’ when the door to the workshop opened and Cuthbert, her crippled servant, came in.

  “There is a visitor to see you,” he said to Estrid. “It is Leofwine,” he added and Estrid noticed Gytha give a satisfied smile.

  “Tell him I will be downstairs shortly, Cuthbert,” Estrid instructed. Leofwine was cousin to her dead husband, and had long been thought dead himself until last year when, during the time of the rebellion against Rufus by his traitorous uncle, Odo, which had culminated in a siege in Rochester, he had appeared amongst the king’s soldiers. At first Estrid had not noticed he was attracted to her but, as time passed, and he made a point of visiting Rochester as often as his duties allowed, she realised he was making an attempt to win her affections in the hope she would wed him. In his bid for her hand he was aided by Gytha, who heartily approved of his suit, but Estrid, even though tempted, had long ago decided she would never marry again. Her husband, Leif, had been slain in the great battle against the Normans when they had invaded so many years ago, leaving her heavy with the child that was to be their son, Godric, born after his father’s death. In that same conflict, she had also lost her father, a thegn with a vast estate in Kent, and her older brother Ceadda. After the Norman victory, she and all of her countrymen and women had lost their properties and their status, and it was only through the aid of her father’s widowed sister, Lady Emma, that she and Godric had survived at all. Those intervening years had been hard, but with Gytha staunchly by her side, she and her son had prospered and even though she had some affection for Leofwine, he was a soldier and she had no wish to tempt her wyrd by marrying again and perhaps losing a second husband in battle.

  When Estrid descended the stairs, with Gytha and Judith following, and entered the room on the ground floor that served as both eating and sleeping chamber, Leofwine gave her a courteous greeting and said he had come on a mission from the king. With him was Ugg, a squat muscular English soldier from Northumbria she recognised as also having taken part in the battle in Rochester last year.

  Sending Cuthbert for food and cups of ale for their guests, Estrid bid them both be seated at the table in the middle of the room and then listened as Leofwine informed her that his reason for being there was related to the king’s presence at a tragedy that had occurred at a marriage feast in Maidstone, and then described what had happened.

  “It is thought that the bride, whose name was Alfreda, was poisoned with yew,” Leofwine added when he finished, his deep-set blue eyes above high cheekbones reminding Estrid of his familial resemblance to her long dead husband Leif. “The village cunning woman was present at the feast and proclaimed that she had seen a young child die with similar symptoms to Alfreda—a sudden loss of breath and lips that turned blue—which had been caused by the child chewing on a yew branch she had picked up in a churchyard where one of the trees was growing. Unfortunately, there were not enough dregs left in the cup the bride drank from to test it on a rat or some other type of vermin, but the cunning woman seemed certain in her pronouncement.”

  “But how could it have been administered?” Estrid asked. “Surely the bride would not have been, like the child, chewing on a branch of the tree.”

  “The cunning woman said all parts of the yew are poisonous, and so it would be easy to contaminate food or drink with some jui
ce from the tree, or perhaps a toxic mixture made from boiling up other parts, such as the seeds, leaves or bark,” Leofwine said, “If that is what was done, it must have been placed in the bride’s cup before it was filled, for the mead that was poured into both her and her husband’s cups came from the same jug and the husband suffered no harm. The drinking vessels were a present from the king, and were horn cups, so if, as is suspected, the poison was placed in her cup earlier, it would have settled in the curved tip and not been seen by the servitor who filled them with mead. Both cups were standing apart for a time before they were used and, as the hall was packed with people all moving about while they were on display, anyone could have poured the poison into one of the cups unnoticed and then quickly moved away in seeming innocence.”

  Estrid pondered for a moment, and then said, “I have heard of yew poisoning in animals, but never that it acted so quickly.” She shrugged. “But I am sure the cunning woman has far more knowledge than I about the swiftness of its effect.” She thought for a moment and then asked, “Were the cups identical?” her question prompted by wondering if it had been the Norman husband who had been the intended victim, and the poison placed in the bride’s drinking vessel by mistake.

  “No, they were not,” Leofwine answered. “The bride’s had a decoration of flowers, and the one given to Turstin fitzRanulf—the husband—a filigree of oak leaves.”

  “It would then seem she must have been the target,” Estrid remarked. “But while this is a sad tale, Leofwine, I do not understand why the king sent you to tell me of it. I knew neither the maid who was killed nor the Norman knight she married.”