she was to marry, at least she could be excited at the prospect of a more adventurous life than could be hoped for as a blacksmith’s or carpenter’s wife.
Before any wedding could take place Gerald needed approval from his own father, who a few months previously had set off to the Holy Land to fight the Infidel. Word was sent, and after several weeks an answer was returned, but of a tragic nature: a typhoid epidemic in Sicily had killed the father en route, and suddenly Gerald, his only son and heir, was Master of his Lands and Dominion, modest though they were—an old, out-of-date motte and bailey castle in great need of repair, and a squire’s rights over the peasants who worked a sliver of lands wedged between the larger holdings of the Earl of Apthwaite to the south, and a vast forest belonging to the Baron of Flechevile to the north. As well, Gerald’s father had taken with him much of the best armour and the finest of his horses, along with a large retinue of servants and retainers, on God’s mission to liberate the East. Left behind in the depleted castle, Gerald, a young man head over heels in love, threw all practicality to the wind in his desire to please his bride. He emptied his storehouses and granaries, and sold the stockpiles to buy his love precious stones set in gold and silver, and supply her with the kind of dowry a Lady of higher standing was expected to bring to such a marriage: rolls of damask and saraset silk to make kirtles and dresses, and gowns lined at the hem with mink and ermine. Her father, ever-practical, had mocked her the first time he had seen her clothed in that style: “You’re wearing that thing upside down,” he had teased her. “That’s a fine fur to keep your neck warm in winter, yet you drag it through the mud like a mop.”
The wedding itself was another extravagance, and Gerald had gone into debt to pay for it, borrowing heavily from the Earl of Apthwaite to throw a party for the hundreds of guests invited from far and wide. It was a three-day festival of wine, music, and every kind of cooked meat, wild and tame. Sylvanne had been overwhelmed, and although everyone was gracious to her, and praised her beauty and deportment to the heavens, still she wondered what they really thought of this simple country girl marrying into an old and noble family, especially after overhearing a notoriously opinionated Baroness describe Gerald as “a young fool without proper counsel.” The grand old woman had been pontificating to a gaggle of other ladies in the coolness of the garden between dances, not realising Sylvanne had slipped out for a breath of air herself, and was listening from the shadows. “The aim of any marriage should be to solidify alliances with families of equal or greater power,” the esteemed Lady had asserted. “Poor Gerald has let love’s poison-tipped arrow lower his good name and water down his bloodline, mating with a mere milkmaid, however prettily clothed for the occasion.” A murmur of agreement had arisen from the ladies, and not a single voice had risen in her defence.
The dutiful daughter had agreed to marry Gerald under intense pressure from her father, and after marriage she transposed that sense of obligation to her husband. She became the dutiful wife. Did she love him? She told herself she would, with time. There were reasons to love him, for he was tender with her, and kind-hearted, though he had an impetuous streak and was terribly unwise with money. She scolded him for it, but he laughed it off as none of her concern. As a year of marriage turned to two, then three and four, and they remained childless, cracks began to show in his kindness toward her, for he expected from her the son that was essential to keeping his bloodline intact. Sylvanne’s mother, with her expertise as a midwife, gave her all manner of herbal concoctions to help her conceive, but to no avail. In all corners of Christendom a barren womb could only be spoken of in public as a woman’s shame, but in private, in a rueful whisper so soft God might overlook it, her mother put the blame on a caprice in Gerald’s bloodline. Such a failing called for discreet cures, and the remedies she concocted to make the husband more virile had to