Chapter II
Chetwood Manor, Nottinghamshire, March 15th, 1194
Violet checked the linden and chamomile infusion she was preparing for her father, Sir William of Chetwood. As it was ready, she filtered it and the sweetened it with a little honey, before taking it to the dining room, where the elderly knight was waiting for her, sitting in front of the blazing fireplace. It was mid-March and it was still quite chilly, even if the snow had almost totally vanished from the fields.
"Here you are, father", Violet said, offering him the ceramic cup with the infusion; the grey-haired man accepted it, smiling at her lovingly; he sported an almost completely white beard.
"Thank you, daughter", he said, "You're as good as you mother, with medicinal herbs."
Violet had learned the healing arts with herbal remedies from her mother Adèle, who had learned them in turn from her mother Marie, a native of Brocéliande whom many had though to be a witch.
"I wish I had more time to learn directly from her", Violet declared with a sigh, sitting next to her father, "The herbal medicine manuals she had copied for me when I married are a great help, but nothing is like direct experience."
"Fourteen years have passed since", William observed, sipping at the infusion, "You got a lot of experience."
"That's true", she confirmed, "even if sometimes I messed up things… like when, accidentally, I gave a purgative to that unpleasant Lady Rosalind, instead of a tonic", she added, grinning. William laughed: actually, the remedy had been administered on purpose to the petulant noblewoman, who dared to publicly reprimand Violet because she thought her behaviour was not proper for the royal court. Indeed, the young woman was quite temperamental, as her mother had been, and as Queen Eleanor herself was, and she hadn't let the presumptuous woman off that easy: Lady Rosalind had stayed in bed for two days with a dysentery.
After drinking some more, William observed with a sad smile:
"I miss your mother so much…"
"I, too, miss her a lot", Violet stated. Adèle had died five years before because of a fever, which not even her herbalist capability had found a remedy, not even with the help of the old healer, Matilda, who lived in Sherwood forest and who had assisted her until the end.
Rare thing among nobles, William and Adèle had married for love. The young Chetwood had been a very handsome boy and all the maidens were crazy about him, but William had always been pretty down to earth; when he had met Adèle, at Henry II Plantagenet's court, both were 15 years old and they had immediately fallen in love with each other; she was one of Queen Eleanor's ladies-in-waiting and, like her, she came from Aquitaine. The queen had looked favourably to their love and therefore, one year later, they got married. Their union had been blessed next year with the birth of their firstborn Jeffrey, who was fair like his father; now he was fighting in the Crusade with King Richard. Three years later, Violet was born, looking very much like her mother both in features and in fiery character, even if this was partially tempered by the typical reflexivity of her father.
Child of a love marriage, she hadn't been forced to marry a man of her father's choice; on the contrary: when Charles, Baron of Roganton, had asked him for Violet's hand in marriage, William made sure his fifteen-year-old daughter liked the man. Even if he was more than twice her age and a widower, Charles was a handsome-looking man and he seemed very kind to Violet, therefore she had accepted him; also, the fact his fief was just one day away from Chetwood helped a lot. Therefore, three months later, she had become a Baroness.
Charles had immediately proved to be a hasty lover, indifferent to his wife's pleasure; on their wedding night, he had taken her with no foreplay at all, hurting her, and later things didn't improve much. Luckily, each time he lasted only a few minutes, and Violet came to the point to estrange herself from her body while her husband rode her, spurted his seed inside of her and then left her. Over time, it became clear that not even she, as it had been for his first wife, was able to give him a son, and hence, Charles had turned to other women, in the hope to have at least a bastard to name his heir; but not even those women were able to fulfil his hopes, making clear that he was unfertile. At last, two years earlier, Charles had died in a hunting incident and the title and fife had gone to his younger brother Roland; her brother-in-law had offered her the opportunity to stay, but as she had never liked the way he looked at her – with clear concupiscence, in spite of his gorgeous and obliging wife – Violet had refused and returned home. As it was the custom, her dowry had been returned to her, and she had it invested in her father's fief, funding repairing and replacement of equipment that, over time, funding that, over time, would bring profit. If one day she would remarry, her father wouldn't have troubles to provide her another dowry; but given her unhappy experience, Violet had no intention to get another husband.
A t that moment, Isabelle entered into the room. She was Violet's young cousin, daughter of William's younger sister; her parents had died a couple of years before Violet came back to Chetwood. At twenty-two, under her angelic looks Isabelle hid a character even more combative than Violet and Adèle put together and, instead of learning the arts of needlework and household, she preferred devoting herself to weapons. This was not unheard of, among noblewomen, even if none trained with equal constancy, passion and dedication as she did. She was an outstanding swordswoman, especially in the technique with dagger and sword, which she favoured over sword and shield because, being a woman, she had to count more on agility than strength. On her body, she sported proudly a few scars, which she had received during training and fighting against the outlaws infesting the county's roads, while she was escorting her uncle's carts to the markets of Nottingham or Mansfield. Here, they sold or bartered the goods their small but rich fief produced, in particular apples, which were renowned both for cider production and for eating; among the latter sorts, one stood out, a peculiar golden type, crispy and juicy when freshly picked, while with conservation it became mellow and very sweet, therefore it was highly sought after to cook both must jams and tarts.
"Good afternoon, Uncle William", she greeted him, placing her leather gloves on the table to take off her helm, "Hullo, Violet. Is there a hot drink for me, too?"
"Hullo, Rebelle", her cousin countered, smiling, using the nickname the maiden had earned with her explosive character, a mix between rebel and Isabelle, "If you like, there's some spiced cider in the kitchen."
"Excellent", Rebelle approved, tucking behind her ear a chestnut-brown lock that had fallen loose from the tight braid in which she usually plaited her hair, "I'll drink some to heat up my stomach, before taking a bath."
"We can take it together", Violet suggested.
Adèle had taught to all her family the importance of hygiene, of both body and house, and even the servants took a bath at least once a week; Rebelle washed herself after each training, meaning almost every day, and Violet too, because cleanliness was paramount, during the preparation of medicaments, from the simple infusions to the most complicated ointments and potions. Often, the two cousins bathed together, chatting about their everyday occupations, their wishes and their plans.
Rebelle nodded and took back her gloves; taking her leave, she crossed the room heading for the kitchen. William sighed:
"I doubt we'll ever find a husband for her", he commented in a tone both amused and exasperated. He adored his niece, but he didn't think someone could ever want such an unconventional woman as a wife, so much more inclined to martial arts rather than to womanly arts.
"I suppose she's not interested", Violet observed. And neither am I, she thought, but she avoided saying it aloud as to not upset her father; she had never confessed to anyone – not even her mother – her disappointment about what her marriage had been in the bedchamber.
"But I won't be here forever to protect her", William objected.
"Of us all, Rebelle is the one who less needs protection, don't you think?" Violet said, forcing a smile even if the hint to her father's mortality had saddened her, "And she'll know how to protect me too", she added, before William could object that she, too, needed to be safeguarded, being an unmarried woman.
William pressed his lips together and shook his head: on one hand, he acknowledged the martial capability of his niece, but on the other hand, he still feared it wasn't enough.
"The world's not kind", he whispered, "especially with women."
"Don't forget that, as I am Adèle de Mornais' daughter, I enjoy the favour of Queen Eleanor", Violet reminded him; she had had proof of it during her stays at court, "Not even Prince John would dare to harm a single hair on my head."
Everyone knew that Richard's vain and faint-hearted younger brother, regent of the English throne in his absence, had a healthy fear of his authoritarian mother, whose ire was notoriously dreadful.
William nodded reluctantly, not because he doubted Eleanor's favour, but because he didn't think it was enough, on a long-term basis, to keep his daughter and niece safe, because not even the formidable Queen Mother was immortal. However, as he didn't want to displease Violet, he kept his doubts to himself.
"I'm going to rest a bit, before dinner", he announced, standing up. Violet saw him wince.
"I'm coming with you, so I'll apply some ointment on your shoulder", she said, standing in turn. For a few years, William suffered from arthritis on his left shoulder and only his wife's and now his daughter's ointments relieved his pain.
"Thank you", he therefore answered gratefully.
A little later, after treating her father's shoulder, Violet joined Rebelle in the bathroom, an area which stone-tiled floor gently sloped towards the centre, where a plug hole was engraved, an ingenious solution which William's father had imported fifty years before from the Second Crusade. Rebelle was already immersed in her oblong wooden tub, lined with linen cloths to make it more comfortable, while a blazing fire heated the room. Seeing her coming, she smiled:
"I told Mary to use the violet oil, for your bath."
Violet returned her smile as she began to undress: her cousin knew well it was her favourite essence, also because it hinted to her name. Exactly for the same reason, violet was her favourite colour.
Her gaze was drawn to Rebelle's forearm, resting on the edge of the tub, and noticing there a new haematoma, she frowned.
"You forgot again to put on your leather bracelets before training", she observed in a tone of slight reprimand. Jeffrey, too, sometimes forgot to do so.
Rebelle glanced casually at the reddish spot on her otherwise creamy skin.
"Aye, but the hit reminded me of it", she commented grinning, "and I immediately slipped them on, so I prevented other bruises."
"Later I'll give you the arnica balm", Violet announced, taking off her camisole and tossing it on the chair along with her woollen dress, then she slipped off her legs the long knitted socks she wore with a garter; they joined the rest of her clothes. Finally, with a satisfied sigh, she plunged into the scented water.
Remembering her father's concerns about finding a husband for her young cousin, Violet thought she would openly raise the topic with her, because even if she truly thought Rebelle hardly needed protection and she personally had the Queen Mother's favour, maybe one day all this could be not enough to keep them safe.
"Your uncle worries about your future", she said straightforward, "He thinks that, with your fondness for weapons, a man could hardly want to marry you."
Rebelle laughed:
"I don't even think about marrying!"
Violet glanced at her, intrigued:
"Mayhap you found out you prefer women?"
She asked the question in a totally normal tone, not implying any form of judgement: the Church could thunder all it wanted against men who loved men or women who loved women, her mother had taught her that what counted was integrity, honesty, goodness of heart, altruism, and not with whom one chooses to sleep.
"Nay", Rebelle answered with equal ease, as she felt the same way, "I like men; but should I not find one willing to accept me as I am, a warrior woman who does not want to be anyone's property, I'd rather remain unwed. I can't guarantee on my virginity", she added, frowning with a look full of determination, "Like the Amazons, I'll give myself to whom I want and when I want, and if he's not my husband, so be it."
"Isabelle!" Violet cried, calling her by her true name to emphasise the earnestness of what she was about to say, "You shouldn't speak like that!"
Actually, she thought her cousin was right, that is, a woman has every right to give herself to whom she wanted and not to whom she was ordered to, husband or not; but this was against the law of the Church and against the customs, even if at court she had witnessed many exceptions. Queen Eleanor herself couldn't care less about the conformists' opinion and had taken all the lovers she had wanted, much to her first and her second husband's dismay. It was rumoured that she had had even female lovers, and that she had committed incest with her uncle, brother to her father, during the Second Crusade, but Adèle, and consequently Violet, thought it was only a malicious gossip caused by the envy that the strikingly beautiful, cultured and fiery Queen of France had caused in the female courtesans.
"If you'll ever decide to give yourself to a man who's not your husband", she added in a low voice, "promise me you'll tell me first. There are some... ways... to prevent pregnancy."
Rebelle watched her, intrigued.
"You mean you wouldn't stop me?"
"Would I succeed?" Violet countered, rising one eyebrow and grinning. Rebelle laughed:
"Nay, if I'd be sure I'm doing the right thing."
"Exactly... I know you, little cuz! Make sure only to see that 'tis your and solely your choice. In short: don't let anyone seduce you, but be you the seducer!"
"What? You just told me I shouldn't speak like that, and now you do so...?"
"I said that out of duty, but actually, I feel the same way as you do: a woman should be free to give herself to whom she prefers, exactly like men do. As a matter of fact, a woman should be free to do what she likes, whatever it may be. Like you, preferring weapons rather than needlework. Unfortunately, men don't feel this way, and even most women, and they'd prevent you to follow your tendencies, regarding them as inappropriate", she grimaced on the last word, "Well, I wonder who has established what is and what is not appropriate, and by what authority", she concluded.
"Aye, I too have often wondered about this."
The two cousins kept silent for a few minutes, then Rebelle asked:
"Do you ever think about remarrying, Violet?"
"Nay!" Violet cried vehemently; noticing Rebelle's surprised glance, she added, "I'm good, I don't need another man."
They had never discussed Violet's marriage, but now something in her cousin's tone and face told Rebelle there was something wrong.
"Weren't you happy with your husband?" she enquired in a soft tone, to make her understand she didn't want to know this just to meddle, but because she loved her.
Violet pressed her lips together: she had never spoken to anyone about her disappointment between the sheets and she didn't think a virgin maid could understand it; besides, she didn't want to scare her. She knew – from what she had gathered from servant girls and the few female friends she had made at court – that men could give great pleasure to women, if they wanted to.
"He had his flaws, like anyone else", she answered, choosing carefully her words, "but generally, he has been a good enough husband."
However, Rebelle knew more than her cousin guessed.
"You're generous, defending him: I heard rumours he didn't treat you in a properly irreproachable way..."
"You shouldn't listen to gossip", Violet scolded her, frowning; in spite of her discretion, perhaps the fact her husband wasn't kind in bed had transpired...?
"You mean he didn't cheat on you?" Rebelle asked, "If so, I apologise..."
Violet sighed, relieved: she had no problem, with that.
"Seeing I didn't get pregnant, he tried with other women", she said in a flat tone, "He wanted an heir. I cannot blame him, not completely, as the Church makes it so difficult to annul a marriage. But he didn't succeed in getting pregnant neither me, nor his first wife, nor any other woman, no matter how much he tried: evidently, he was sterile. Therefore, when he died, I got back my dowry and returned home."
"And now you have no desire to take another husband..."
"Exactly", Violet confirmed, nodding curtly.
"What if you fall in love?" Rebelle enquired. Violet pulled a face.
"I doubt I'll ever find a man I could fall for", she declared.
"Why, how should he be, to succeed?" Rebelle enquired, "Brave? Generous? Kind? Unselfish?"
"First thing first, he should have respect for me", Violet answered, "And then everything you mentioned, too. I don't think such a man exists", she affirmed, shaking her head.
Rebelle nodded:
"He must be respectful, aye, you're right; but I, instead, want to believe that such a man exists. Wait, no: two of them: one for you and one for me", she concluded, winking.
Violet didn't share her young cousin's hopes, but she hadn't the heart to disillusion her: unfortunately, life would take care of that, she mused bitterly.
They washed using soft sponges, passing them mutually on each other's back instead of calling a servant; after drying up using large linen towels, they put on fresh underwear, then Violet slipped back into her previous gown, while Rebelle changed into clean britches, shirt and tunic. She typically used men's wear, to be always ready to take up arms in case of need, and wore a feminine attire only on special occasions, such as parties or feasts; but even then, under it she bore her britches, so she could stick the skirt in her belt if she had to fight.
Once dressed, the two women headed for the herbalist's laboratory, where Violet filled up a small clay pot with the arnica balm and handed it to Rebelle; the latter rubbed immediately some balm on her bruise, massaging until the ointment was completely absorbed. The remedy, which had already proved its effectiveness in the past, would cut in half the time needed for the haematoma to heal.
When they were finished, they got back to the main hall, where Mary was almost done with setting the table for dinner. Seeing them coming, the young servant bowed.
"Lady Violet, Maud made the honey and raisin cake that Sir William loves so much", she announced, "so I was thinking about tapping some sweet cider..."
"Wonderful idea", Violet approved, "but go get it at the last minute, so it'll be properly cool."
"Sure. Dinner will be ready soon."
"Fine, then I'll get my father."
"Nay, leave it", Rebelle intervened, "I'll get him, anyway I have to go upstairs to take the balm to my chamber."
Smiling, Violet thanked her cousin; waiting for her coming back downstairs with Sir William, she headed for the kitchen.
"Maud", she addressed the cook, a middle-aged widow whose son was a promising apprentice in the stables, "did you instruct Jack about what he has to purchase tomorrow at Nottingham market?"
"Aye, milady, I listed him everything", Maud answered, drying her hands on her apron, which she had learned, at Lady Adèle's insistence, to change every day, "D'you have something to add?"
Of course, neither Maud nor Jack Knowles, Chetwood's superintendent, could read or write, but both possessed an excellent memory and Violet was sure that, even with a very long list, they would hardly forget anything.
"We're almost out of whisky", she said, "If he finds a few casks, it would be good. Two or three are enough."
There was a dealer in town, renowned for the quality of the whiskies he got directly from the Scottish Lowlands and Highlands, by sea from the port of Grimsby on the estuary of the Humber River and through Lincoln in the homonymous county.
"Alright, I'll tell him to stop by Rowson too, then", the cook answered.
Violet crossed over to the copper pot simmering over the fire and inhaled the aroma.
"Are you cooking trout stew?" she asked, feeling her mouth watering. Maud was an excellent cook and she used to prepare tasty dishes even with very simple things, such as peas, cabbage and turnips; her skills were particularly valuable during the time of Lent, like now.
"Precisely, seasoned with juniper, laurel, coriander and cloves", Maud explained with barely contained professional pride.
"Your food is never boring", Violet commented approvingly, "You can cook the same stuff in a hundred different ways."
Feeling appreciated, Maud lighted up.
"Fantasy, Lady Violet, nothing else", she said modestly, "and the ability to understand if a flavour goes well with another, of course", she added, thinking better.
Violet nodded, then she took her leave and returned to the hall, where meanwhile Mary had brought carafes of cider, wine and water. Shortly after, William made his appearance with Rebelle; the master of the house sat at the head of the table, his daughter to his right side and his niece to his left. The table could host up to twelve guests, but usually they were just the three of them, like on this evening.
Mary brought to the table a thick pea soup, seasoned with ginger, served in simple ceramic bowls – they used more refined crockery only on occasions – which the three table companions appreciated much; then, the handmaid served the stew that, besides trout, contained also carrots and onions.
William drank wine, while Rebelle and Violet preferred cider; when they finished eating, the dessert arrived, along with cool sweet cider freshly taken from the cellar, and so they concluded happily their meal.
When they left the table, Mary came to clear it, while the three of them sat in front of the fireplace; on Violet's instructions, Maud had prepared a digestive infusion made of mint, anise and cumin, which she now took personally to her master and mistresses. It was William who needed it most, as he had lately some difficulty in digesting, particularly meat, but the two ladies didn't mind at all drinking the aromatic herbal tea.
This was the moment during the day that all three loved the most, because they could chat about anything coming to their minds; their favourite subject were Robin Hood's endeavours in response to the Sheriff of Nottingham's wrongdoings.
Robin of Locksley was a childhood friend of Violet; as kids, they used to play together, and she often got her playfellow out of trouble, as he had a tendency to make quite some. Growing up, Robin had fallen in love with Marian of Knighton and they gave each other the promise of marriage, but then Robin had answered King Richard's call-to-arms and left for the Holy Land. When he had come back, two years before – after being dismissed because of a serious injury he had suffered while saving the king's life – he had retaken his place as the Earl of Huntingdon, title he had inherited at a very young age following his father's death, but he had found his world upside-down. At the beginning, the had tried to reason with Vaisey, but he had been forced to go into hiding to avoid being hanged in the attempt to save the life of two of his peasants, Will and Luke Scarlett. Since then, he worked to defend the poor people of Nottingham from the sheriff's abuse and had become the hero of the county with the nickname of Robin Hood.
The right-hand of the Sheriff and Baron of Nottingham was another old mutual acquaintance, Guy of Gisborne. Gisborne proclaimed to be in love with Marian, but he had forced her hand several times, going almost as far as forcing her to marry him, and this wasn't love, but only will of possession. She had been always able to escape him, partly because of a mix of indomitable bravery and luck, and partly thanks to Robin's intervention; Robin loved her sincerely, and she loved him back. Unfortunately, so far the adverse circumstances had prevented them to marry.
"No news about Robin or Marian?" William asked.
A few months ago, the sheriff and Gisborne had mysteriously vanished; they had abducted Marian, so Robin and his gang – the loyal Much, Little John, Will Scarlett, Allan-a-Dale, the Saracen girl Saffia called Djaq – had left in search of her.
"Nothing yet", Violet answered with a sigh. The last news they had received had been a message that Robin sent them, informing them that he and the other ones were sailing for the Holy Land, where the sheriff and Gisborne were headed, with Marian as their prisoner.
"I'm very worried", Rebelle said, "especially about Marian."
The other two nodded: they knew perfectly what risks a woman ran, in the hands of unscrupulous men.
"Let's hope Guy hasn't changed so much, since he was a boy", Violet whispered. By six years older than Robin and Violet, the elder son of Roger of Gisborne and his French wife Ghislaine had always been a quiet youngster, not very communicative, very protective of his younger sister Isabella. After the fire that had burnt their house, causing the death of their parents, he had left with his little sister, and then he had come back only a few years before, at the service of the perfidious Vaisey of Nottingham. He had proven many times he was a ruthless executor of the baron's orders, however, almost as many times he had failed in carrying them out, especially the most obnoxious, in such a blatant way that one could think he was stupid… or that he actually didn't want to execute them and somehow he hoped for Robin's intervention. Violet had been thinking of it many times: there was no way that Guy had been caught by surprise so many times by Robin… but other times, he had acted in such a merciless fashion – for instance, when he had burned Marian's house – that Violet wondered if his failures were due only to misfortune. She was unable to decide one way or the other.
"Gisborne has often proved himself merciless", William considered, having thought about it together with his daughter and niece, "but I've never heard he forced a woman."
"Neither did I", Violet admitted, feeling relieved, "On the contrary, if you remember Annie…"
Annie had been a servant at Nottingham Castle, who had borne a son to Gisborne, and he hadn't certainly raped her, but she had been more than happy to give herself to him in the hope to improve her condition, and furthermore, she had become enamoured with him. However, instead of taking care of their little son Seth as he had promised her, Gisborne had abandoned him in the forest, where Robin had found and rescued him. Annie and the baby had then moved far from Nottingham, beginning a new life with the financial aid of Marian and Robin. Well, that was an episode showing Guy as a cruel man, however Violet couldn't believe it, not completely, maybe because, as a child, she had a thing for him. She sighed: she hated not having a clear mind about something. A rebellious curl, escaped from her long braid – which brown colour she had inherited from her mother – tickled her cheek and she impatiently stuck it back behind her ear.
"If nothing else, Gilbert, as acting sheriff, isn't a bully like Vaisey", Rebelle commented; she
was referring to the captain of Nottingham's guards, who Vaisey had appointed deputy sheriff before disappearing with Gisborne and Marian. The man was despotic, but at least he wasn't gratuitously cruel like the baron.
"The one good thing in the situation", William considered, "is that, for now, there's no need of Robin Hood; but this will change, when Vaisey's back, and therefore I hope that Lord Huntington will be back before him, or at the same time."
"So do I", Violet said, and Rebelle nodded in agreement.
"And to think that Vaisey and I are even related!" William blurted with an irritated face. Indeed, he and the sheriff were first cousins, as they shared their paternal grandfather; William's mother had been Vaisey's father elder sister; the latter had inherited the title, handing it down to his only male child.
Violet, too, produced a disgusted sound: not even she was proud about this kinship. Then, a thought struck her: her brother Jeffrey was actually the heir presumptive of the title of Baron of Nottingham, because not even the late Davina, Vaisey's sister, had had children. Unless, of course, Vaisey wouldn't take a wife and provided to produce himself an heir: after all, he wasn't too old to do so.