It was one of those particularly beautiful summers which only seem to happen in wartime. In the patchwork of tiny fields the corn was gold and high, and the pinched worry had eased from the faces of the women. It seemed that, despite the absence of the young men who normally tilled the soil and harvested the results, they would have enough to eat this winter.
Upslope from the village the woods began, perilous in winter now that the pigs often ran wild with the boar, but today a welcome refuge from the sun. At the edge of the trees, where the stream ran out from the woods and down through the fields, a lute leaned against a tree trunk. Nearby giggling and sighing revealed that not all found the war preying heavily on their minds.
At last Alain rolled over onto his back, sweaty and exhausted. Beside him Eadgytha pulled her skirts back down over her plump thighs and once more imprisoned her full breasts behind her bodice lacing. That done, she lay back down with her head on Alain's stomach, dabbling her dirty feet in the cool water.
"That were nice," she told him dreamily. "Bet Waltheof couldn't ever ha' done like that."
"As well he is with our King, then," Alain replied thoughtfully once he had puzzled his way through her dialect, "or I should have to fight him to give to you what you deserve."
"Nah." Eadgytha turned her head to smile at him. "He'd be big enough to lay 'e on t'ground."
Alain half-closed his eyes against the sun shining through her blonde hair, and smiled at her teasing. "Then I shall have to run away with you before the ending of war."
"And where will 'e get money to keep a wife?"
Alain shrugged, not easy with Eadgytha's weight holding him down. "From the war, cherie de coeur. Where else?"
"And will 'e come back for me?"
The minstrel opened his eyes to look at Eadgytha. "It is the Adversary himself cannot keep me from you," he told her. "You know that, insistent wench!" And with an effort he rolled them both over until he was atop her once more.
Eadgytha laughed, and struggled in her lover's arms until her clothing was again in disarray, pink flesh escaping from her carelessly-tied bodice. "Guess I'd best do as 'e say, then," she teased at last.
But Alain released her and sat up, tidying his clothing as he looked out over the village. "Summer is ending, Gytha. Time is I must go."
"And leave me dishonoured?" Eadgytha's voice from behind was suddenly angry. "Is that all 'e want? A tumble in the hay and leave me a big belly?"
"Never." Alain's dark face was intense. "But I will not take you in winter to sleep in the mud of the roads. And money here there is none for a poor Norman, if much for the rich men. No. Eadgytha..." and here he hesitated. "Eadgytha, will you plight me your troth?"
Eadgytha clapped delightedly. "Oh, that I will, Alain, for sure. I've never loved nobody like I love 'e, not Waltheof, not nobody." The sun glinted from her hair as she flung herself at him, her heart as open and engaging as ever. "Let's be married!"
"When I come back," Alain told her gravely, drawing close as he voiced tentative plans he had begun weeks before. "For I will never get past your father 'less I can keep you. Tomorrow I go for the Holy Land, and when the war is ending I shall come to you, and then we shall be man and wife together. Will you wait?"
"A course," she told him, her blue eyes wide. "I'll wait 'til you come, if it take a hundred years!"
Alain sighed, his dark face radiant with joy. "Pray it not be so long! But if it be, then I will still come to you, with both old and grey. So let us make up for to-be-lost time, n'est-ce pas?" And pinning the young girl's rounded arms to the ground, he once more flung himself on top of her.
It was hot, and the wind blew dust into the minstrel's face as he squinted into the distance, searching for signs of the enemy. The pike felt heavy and awkward in his slender hand, and he gripped it all the harder so that those next to him might not see his fear.
Behind them rose the walls of the city, Christian again after a long battle he could not shake from his memory. Against those walls were pressed the Moors who had held the city against them.
He faced determinedly forward, overlaying his thoughts with memories of Eadgytha, which seemed to come to him unwillingly in this hard, hot place. Behind him, faint, blown away from him by the wind, he could hear the screaming.
The sky was darkening as the sun sank behind the castle, its cold grey stone casting a pall over the landscape. A young minstrel broke into a run as the guards began to leave their posts and cross the drawbridge into their barracks. At the sound of running feet two turned, half levelling their pikes before they realised that they faced no rebellious Saxon, but a mere dark-skinned lutist, as Norman as they.
"Who goes?"
"I seek board and lodging for the night. I am a minstrel, I can play well..."
"The Count already has a minstrel, all the way from Normandy." It was a clear dismissal - no minstrel would tolerate an itinerant lutist as competition for his post.
"Then I will play for the men, or the servants. Please, the nights are cold these days."
That had the sound of a plea, and with winter coming on this Saxon weather could make quick work of someone of hot Norman blood.
Behind the guards, Alain could see the castle folk pausing in their duties, idly curious at this interruption of routine. For a moment his heart beat quicker as he caught a glimpse of golden hair among them, but there was a twinge of disappointment as he saw that the Saxon servant was thinner than Eadgytha. No matter. Her Norman lord might have her cooped up somewhere like the precious Saxon treasure she was, but he would find her, of that he was sure.
The guards shrugged and strolled up the drawbridge, and he followed them in.
The hall was stuffy with smoke from the braziers, but that was all to the good as the warmth gradually seeped into the minstrel's bones to stop them aching. It had been close to winter this year before he had finally found a minor Norman noble with whom to spend the cold season, and though he chafed at the time wasted he balked at the idea of spending the winter on the road as he had used to.
Tuning the lute he heard the lady come in, and looked up at her reflexively, although he had already seen that she was dark haired. None of her women resembled his fiancée, either. But in the way of the courtly game he rose and bowed low, a private smile to the Norman lady never touching his eyes. She nodded at him, her own eyes solemn, before taking her seat.
Had his own Eadgytha become so dignified, in all these years? He wondered, if she had, whether he would even know her, a gracious lady sitting beside her Norman lord. But no, a Saxon lady to a Norman lord was rare enough to draw attention. And even if he did not know her, she could not but know him.
His lute was tuned, the court was seated, with a gentle hum of conversation while they waited on dinner. He began to play.
Spring was on the northern marches - a very cold spring, the sun still wan and inclined to hide its face behind the rain.
Alain stood just inside the thick stone walls of the castle, the thin wind blowing strands of his greying hair across his face. Lines around his eyes deepened as he squinted into the eastern brightness.
With the ageing minstrel stood an equally old woman, her hair greying and hips spreading with age.
"I don't suppose I can dissuade you," she said quietly. "But even if that girl you're chasing turns up somewhere, she'll not be anything like you remember."
Alain shrugged. "I promised," he said simply, "and so did she. No, she won't have forgotten. She'll be waiting for me, as she said."
His companion sighed. "Don't believe everything you sing, Alain. Trust one who knows. It's a good place Baron William's offered you here, better than off on the roads chasing some will 'o the wisp. Five years you've wintered here, and you know I miss you when you go out again in the spring. I never know if you'll be back, never mind when, and it's a long time to worry. Why don't you just stay here?"
The minstrel turned and smiled at the plump woman, real fondness in his eyes. "Matilda, you've always been a good friend to me, the best I've had. I don't know how I would have coped without you, these last few years. But... I've come so far, I can't stop now. I've a feeling about this time. I'll find her. I know it." His eyes were pulled away again, towards the far-off horizon.
Matilda sighed heavily and closed her eyes, finally giving up the long argument. "Well, I suppose I'll be seeing you again in the autumn," she said tiredly. "Fare you well, Alain."
Alain, not noticing the new tone to her voice, raised her callused hand to his lips. "Fare you well also, dear Matilda," he wished her. "I will see you again." And then he hoisted the battered lute case onto his back and began walking, with the measured stride of someone with a long distance to cover.
Matilda did not bother to watch him go.
It was a fine day in autumn as he walked up to the gate of another castle; one of the rare, hot, last summer days beneath a cloudless sky. He appreciated the unusual warmth - it eased his nagging cough.
Looking up at the brightly-coloured pennants, now hanging limply in the heat, he thought it unlikely that this castle would need an ageing minstrel. Nevertheless he liked a roof over his head, these nights, and it was a long walk to anywhere else.
The guards at the gate were friendly, showing him the respect due to his years. It annoyed him. He needed no reminders that he was growing old.
But it was difficult, it seemed, to get musicians to come so far, and the Baron had not had music in the months since his own minstrel had died. Alain was welcomed in, and given bread and cheese fresh from the making before he was shown to the minstrels' gallery to play.
The knights and squires and their ladies entered, chatting, and he began to play, having to concentrate on his stiff joints to find the fingerings. By the time dinner ended his fingers were aching so badly that he scarcely noticed the Baron rise to leave, his lady beside him. But as he wearily raised his eyes to watch his temporary employers depart, a wisp of fair hair escaped the lady's veil, and with a reflexive gesture so long, so lovingly remembered, she pushed it behind her ear.
She had gone before Alain could get to his feet, momentarily gasping with the sudden thudding of his heart. His lute forgotten he tore down the stairs, guessing at where the door to the hall would be, knowing it was Eadgytha that he had seen, madly trying to find the woman for whom he had searched so long.
It was in the corridor that he found her, laughing with her attendants. As he approached, he slowed.
Eadgytha's girlish roundness had, over the years, developed into the abundance so often seen in Saxon peasant women. The generous flesh on her wide hips balanced the increased bosom of motherhood - though her waist was still narrow - and her plump legs narrowed like a speartip to her small feet. Her golden hair, the glory of her youth, tumbled down her back, escaping from her veil in twisted strands of yellow and white.
As she heard the approaching footsteps she broke off and turned, frowning as she recognised the itinerant minstrel where he should not have been.
"My lady." Alain sank to one knee before her, taking in his once-betrothed's transformation.
Eadgytha absently gave him her hand to kiss as her disapproval changed to concentration. The minstrel received her hand as if it were a sacrament, but as he reverently turned it over and bent to kiss her palm she snatched it back to her.
"Alain? Is it ...Alain?" She sounded surprised, uncertain, and the fine lines around her eyes deepened as she squinted in disbelief. Then she suddenly smiled, her pleasure lighting up her round face. "How strange, that we should meet again! What has it been, fifteen years, twenty? No, Edmund's twenty-one, it must have been longer. Whatever brings you out here?"
Alain's eyes met hers with every ounce of his will. "You."
Eadgytha giggled like a girl. "I'm flattered. No, but what have you been doing all these years? Last I saw you were off to the Holy Land to earn your fortune. Did that go wrong?"
Each word was a blow to the heart. "No," Alain responded quietly, the words he longed to say slowly dying in his throat. "No. I just never ...settled down."
"Well you ought to," Eadgytha told him sternly. "At our age you can't gallivant around the countryside anymore. There's a place here you'd be welcome to fill - and so much for us to say!"
Alain shook his head as he stood, looking at the ground. "No, that won't... I already have a place for the winter. I should be turning back, soon."
The Baron's lady stepped back and nodded. "Well, then. It's been lovely to see you again, Alain." And she flashed him another quick smile as she turned away, with her women, to climb the stairs to her lord.
Watching the familiar sway and wobble of her body, Alain lived again the long-cherished memory of that summer day, so many years ago. He saw a naive, passionate lutist wooing his butterfly girl with dreams and sunlight, her love quick, and honest, and soon over. It was hard to be bitter.
Autumn was on the northern marches - the sky was grey, the sun wan and hidden behind the rain.
Alain trudged slowly up the slope towards the familiar stone walls with the sense of someone coming home at last.
Reaching the shelter of the courtyard he shook the rain out of his hair and looked across towards the kitchen door, knowing she would be there.
There was movement in the shadows, a head turning, grey hair visible for a moment. Then Matilda walked out, slowly towards him. He watched her come, wishing he had never left her, aching at all the pain he had given her, who had loved him more than ever Eadgytha had, who had waited for him all these years.
"Welcome back, Alain," she said levelly.
And "Welcome back indeed," said a deeper voice to one side. The sergeant moved deliberately across to put one hand on Matilda's shoulder. His eyes met Alain's for a long moment.
A breath was all it took to make the decision, to shoulder the weight again.
"I've come to say goodbye," Alain told them. "I'm going back to Normandy. If I hurry, I can be there by the spring."
And then he hoisted the old lute case back onto his back and turned away again, walking with the measured stride of someone with a long way to go.
He did not look back.