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1080 Caen
“My Lady?” Cerdic stared at the queen.
“Yes, you heard me. I need you to ride to Gerberoy with a letter and this bag for my son.” She pointed toward a leather satchel on the table. Matilda’s face was blanched. Despite the warmth from the brazier, she had draped a shawl around her shoulders. “No one must know.”
Cerdic took the bag gingerly. He remembered Samson lying on the ground, beaten to a pulp, his face swollen beyond recognition.
“Here are the directions.” Matilda held out a small piece of parchment.
“My Lady,” Cerdic blurted out. “Where is Samson?”
Matilda turned away to look at the pile of abandoned needlework on her chair. “Samson is in a monastery; he is well taken care of.” Then she faced him again, her back straightened, and her voice hard. “Don’t ask me anything else. I will protect you as best I can, but be careful. Don’t let anyone see you.”
“What should I say to Squire Matthias?”
“Don’t tell him anything; just ride out early. I will tell him I sent you to the Holy Trinity Abbey with a message for Lady Cecilia if he asks.”
“But that’s right here.”
“He probably will forget all about you or think that my daughter needed you for something.”
By the time Cerdic returned from Gerberoy several days later, he was dusty, tired, and sad. It had been a long ride on muddy roads through slush and remnants of snow. At least the days were getting longer. It was March.
Robert had treated him as if he were a stranger. He perused the letter quickly as if it was of no more importance than a list of provisions. “Tell my lady mother that I will consider her thoughts carefully.” He glanced at Cerdic for a moment. “Wait, I’ll write a note to her; it will be ready for you when you leave.” He rang a bell and curtly gave his order to the servant. “Ask the steward to arrange for a place to sleep for this messenger. He’ll resume his journey in the morning.”
The courtyard of Caen was quiet when Cerdic rode in. The guards recognized him and waved him on. He dismounted and led his horse to the stable. Once he had settled it in an empty stall, he went inside. Cerdic didn’t want to wait to get rid of the letter Robert had given him and walked toward the stairs that led to the queen’s apartments.
“Where are you going?” The king’s voice boomed behind him. He was coming out of the great hall. “You have no business upstairs.”
“Sorry,” Cerdic stammered. “I was going …” His voice petered out. He tried to hold his hand with the letter out of sight.
“What’s that?” The king reached out and grabbed his hand, taking the letter from him. “Who wrote this?”
Cerdic flushed. What could he say? He knew the king didn’t read; he usually had a scribe read messages to him.
The king had turned over the folded parchment with its seal prominently displayed. His face got red.
“My lord, that is for me.” The queen’s voice was clear and firm. She was coming down the stairs, her long gown sweeping behind her.
“You?” A vein on the king’s temple was beating.
The queen glanced at Cerdic. “You may go.”
Cerdic didn’t hesitate. He backed away as quickly as he could and
walked back outside into the courtyard. It had begun to rain, and the
flagstones were slippery, but he didn’t notice. He ran toward the stables and
into an empty box at the end. The smell of old hay, horse piss, and dried horse
apples was comforting.
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