Free Needle in the Blood by Sarah Bower Page B

as a woman, as a daughter, a mother, a wife, a whole person to be cherished or punished for her uniqueness. To them she is just a hole in which they bury themselves, the price of a few seconds of oblivion. When the Bastard looked out to sea and envisaged the island he aimed to conquer, what did he see? Land, that was all. Farm land, building land, forests for hunting. Not people, not the Anglo Saxons or the Celts or the Danes or any of the rest who made up their ancient, intricate communities where Christ and Thor and even Jupiter supped from the same dish. Stone he saw, but not churches or moot halls, or the mysterious ruins of Roman temples and villas crumbling on empty hillsides like petrified echoes. Gold he saw, but not the way the master jewellers wrought it to frame dark sapphires or milky moonstones, or needlewomen like herself could transform gold thread into the rising sun, or the halo of a saint, or the glint in the eye of a lover contemplating his lady. What he saw, the Bastard with his Judas hair, was simply the reflection of his greed. But she cannot say this to the Norman nun, the Earl of Kent’s sister, so she keeps silent.
    “You have nothing more to say?” queries Sister Jean-Baptiste. “Then let me explain what I want of you. As I said, the earl seeks a memorial of the invasion, and please, for now, let us not debate the wisdom of his desire. The desires of great men are facts, are they not, like the weather or the hours of light and dark? There is nothing we can do to change them. His idea is that this should take the form of an embroidered hanging depicting all the events leading to the coronation of King William. I have drawn up the design for the work, and now I am looking for the best needlewomen I can find to execute it.” She pauses.
    Is she waiting for some acknowledgment of her compliment, Gytha wonders. Well, let her wait; she plied her needle in Saxon houses, for Saxon noblemen and their churches; the Normans made her the whore she is now, who does not even trouble to darn her hose.
    “The abbess at the Convent of Saint Mary of Egypt in Colchester told me how the late Earl of Wessex’s concubine singled out your work for special praise on a visit to the convent,” Sister Jean continues, “and how she then took you into her household. So I came here to Winchester to find you. Though it has not been easy. You have hidden your tracks well. Most people I made enquiries of told me all Edith Swan Neck’s women went into exile with her.”
    Exile. Thank God, oh, thank God she is still alive. “She is not dead then?” She cannot keep her relief out of her voice. Hearing it, the nun gives her a quick, warm smile, which makes her look younger, less severe. “Where is she? Do you know? Is she in the charge of your earl?”
    “Alas, I know nothing more than my enquiries after you have turned up. But there is generally a kernel of truth in rumour so it seems likely she is not dead.”
    Gytha slumps back against the wall. “Rumour, never anything but rumour.”
    “Well, you may be sure of one thing, and that is, she is not in Winchester. Perhaps if you will come to Canterbury with me, you may learn more outside these walls.”
    “My lady, I’m sure I should be flattered by your attention and yes, I was a good embroiderer, but that is all in the past. Nowadays I’m just a whore. I’ll tickle your earl’s cock for him, for a price, but not his vanity. I have little enough to be proud of; let me at least take pride in being a Saxon.” Sister Jean-Baptiste raises her eyebrows at this. Gytha, with her small stature and dark colouring, looks nothing like a Saxon. “Now I must ask you to leave. I have work to do.”
    “I think not. It’s late and I can’t hear anyone outside. I am offering you respectable, reliable employment for years to come. You will have a sound roof over your head, regular meals, and the protection of one of the most powerful men in England, who has even stood regent for