The Baron comes down from the hills

“Well met, cousin.”

Githa paled. It was Theobald’s brother, Gifmund—no, he was Baron now. And he seemed to be amused by her discomposure.

“Oh…” she began. “I was—I was only just starting to prepare supper—” Should she ask him to join them?

“I shan’t interrupt you. As much of a pleasure as it is to see you, dear cousin, I came to see my brother.”

“I—well, the groom will send him in. Won’t you come inside?” She tried to smile, but her heart beat rapidly. This was trouble, there was no doubt this was trouble. And the groom would not know to prepare Theobald.

“Children,” she announced as she came in, scooping up Brinstan as she went, “you remember your Uncle Gifmund.”

Athelis stared up at him, and Brinstan hid his face in his mother’s shoulder. The last time they had heard their father speak that name, they had been terribly frightened.

“Good day, children,” he said with a slight sneer. “Happy to see your old uncle?” He looked around the small room and sniffed.

Githa handed Brinstan to the nurse and quietly bid the woman take them both up to the Countess. Gifmund only chuckled to himself.

As they left, he turned back to Githa and asked, “Is that all of them? I thought you were expecting again.”

“My baby died,” she said quietly.

“Ah—I see.” His sneer weakened. “I’m sorry—I hadn’t thought of that.”

Just then the door opened again and Theobald came in. He had been wearing a smile in preparation for greeting his guest, but when he saw who it was, his face hardened and became terrible to see.

“You dare enter my house and speak to my wife—I could kill you for that outrage alone.”

“She’s my cousin, too,” Gifmund said merrily.

“Githa, take the children and go.”

“I sent them to Colburga,” she said, hoping to calm him by the calm of her voice. “I shall stay.” She did not know what he might do with her watching him, but it could not be worse than what he might do if she left.

Her mind went back to the story of Cain and Abel. It had always saddened her—an only child who had craved brothers and sisters—to think that a man could murder his brother. But it seemed horrible to her now as she saw how her husband, a tiller of the ground, looked at his brother, become a shepherd of men. “And it came to pass,” she recalled, “that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.”

“Then go into the kitchen,” he said, still lowering at Gifmund. The last red rays of the setting sun that came slanting through the window made his eyes glow like hot coals.

There were knives in the kitchen, Githa told herself. It might be best if she put herself between him and them. She moved the soup to the back of the stove and then stood listening, watching.

“How is our mother?” Theobald growled.

Oh! She hadn’t thought of that! But it had been Theobald’s first thought—had Gifmund come to tell him of the death of his mother?

“She is the same, brother.” He shook his head sadly. “She pines for you, but you abandoned her.”

“It is you who said I might not see her!” Theobald snarled. “It is because of you that I do not come! Do you tell her that?”

“I?” Gifmund gasped, feigning surprise. “Surely you are not afraid of me! A great warrior like you, Theobald!”

“What do you know of that?”

“I know more than you might guess, ‘Squire.’ It is my business to know. Our father was blinded by his love for you, but this is a defect that I do not share. Those hills are in my hands now, and who holds the hills holds the valley.”

“You know that cannot be.”

“I know nothing. All I hear are old stories and legends. Our father sat by while you and your friends paid generous tithes to the abbey and sent nothing to him. That is about to change.”

“You reckon without our king,” Theobald warned.

“And you reckon without mine. Does William know about this little kingdom of yours? I have heard he is quite interested in corners of the isle that resist his rule. So interested that he likes to inspect them himself—likes to bring his entire army along to show them, as well.”

“Is this why you came here? To threaten us?”

“No. I came here to offer you a bargain. You will pay me rent—the same amount that you pay to the abbey—and I shall claim the valley as part of my domain, and send along part of the rent to London accordingly. King William need not know that it is being farmed by outlaws,” he sneered.

“I dare not presume to speak for my king, but I doubt he will accept your bargain. If you are as knowledgeable as you claim to be, then you know that he can field more men than you, and far better armed.”

“It is not my army that should concern you, but the king’s.”

“You’re a fool, Gifmund, damn you!” Theobald cried, striking his fist against the chimney. “You know that the day you claim dominion over this valley is the day you lose all! And I won’t allow you to do that to the rest of us!”

Githa moved uneasily in the kitchen. What did Theobald mean?

“Stories and legends,” Gifmund repeated. “You’re the fool, Theobald. This is absurd, this farce of kings and kingdoms. Your king is a madman, and all the rest of you are fools, or mad yourselves. William will strike this place from the earth with a sweep of his hand. You have no rights here, none but what I grant you.”

“You have no rights here! I warn you, Gifmund! It was not out of blindness nor love for me that our father and our grandfather left this valley vacant—and it is not out of blindness nor love for me that he allowed us to settle here—and I as a common gentleman, while another baron’s third son was named an earl!”

“Then he was a fool.”

“Do you call our father a fool?” Theobald cried.

“I do.”

Githa lifted her hands to her mouth, and the movement caught Theobald’s attention. She looked into his eyes, pleading with him, for a long moment.

“You may repeat your offer to the king,” Theobald growled. “But if he values you at your worth he will slap you across the mouth and send you out through the kitchen door.”

“I will not speak to your king, for I do not recognize his authority here. Outlaw though you are, you are the brother of the Baron, and the only person I deem worthy to treat with me.”

“Treat with you!” Theobald howled. “You aren’t worthy of my boot on your neck, you hound! Though if you say much more I may be gracious enough to grant it you anyway!”

“I shall allow my offer to stand, Theobald. The harvest is not yet in. You may speak with your friends—they may be wiser than you believe.”

“If you allow your offer to stand, you endanger all of our lives as well as your own. Go back to your hills, Gifmund. I shall not say it again—This valley is not your affair. King Sigefrith will not allow you to threaten it.”

“Now, Theobald—Is that a threat? ‘Is that why you are here?’” He mocked. “‘To threaten me?’”

“That threat is not mine to make. But this one is: Do not allow me to see your face again, brother. If I do not slay you now for the outrage you committed against me and against our father as he lay dying, it is because my wife is watching me, and I would not have her think me a murderer. But do not allow me to come across you in the fields!”

“Theobald!” Githa wailed, terrified.

“Go!” Theobald thundered.

“Farewell, cousin,” Gifmund called to Githa as he moved for the door. “It may be that we never meet again.”

“God help you if you ever do!” Theobald cried as he slammed the door after him.

Githa stumbled weakly into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

Theobald glared at the door, his jaw clenched and his fists shaking as he tried to bring his rage under control. She had never seen him so angry. She believed then that he could kill, and the thought frightened her almost as much as if he had.