by Mary Lide
But then came a time when, for pride—and God save the mark, but I was proud, Ann of Cambray, of my small lands and keep, although I could not hold them and they were far off—there came a time I say, when pride would not let me mix with the other ladies of Sedgemont. Cambray’s lands lay to the west, and although they were not large, they were rich. Not in farmland as here, but in sheep and horses and cattle. The moneys and goods from those lands were to follow me here to Sedgemont to provide a retinue of men and women to serve me. When we had first arrived, I had paid scant attention how we were bestowed or how Sir Brian intended to deal with my household. I was young, of course, but I knew the men who came with me from Cambray as friends. When malaise or grief or sickness finally left, already some things had changed without my knowledge or consent. I have explained how Lord Raoul had taken my small guard with him; well, it was his right, he being overlord, but I grieved at not having had chance to bid farewell, not even to those older men I had known all my life. I remember some of them to this day, who would have followed my father or my brother to the world’s end, who went with Lord Raoul because he ordered it and never came back again to Cambray. But even had they stayed behind with me at Sedgemont, I could not have kept them. For the road to Cambray was long and wearisome at the best of times. Now it was shut off; messengers and supplies came fitfully, if at all. And finally, one day, they came no more. The way was choked, they said; paths overgrown, the forests filled with outlaws or refugees, villages robbed and pillaged by ruthless men. And so, if the sacks of wool did not pass, nor the casks of mead, the hide and meat, then I, proud Ann, had no resources of my own, no moneys with which to pay my household wants, not even the wherewithal to supply my own needs, and must live upon the charity of Lord Raoul in every sense of the word. And that, too, rankled deep.
But by then I was older, able to give some thought to what should be done. For I would not go to Lord Raoul’s Hall or to his chatelaine, and although perforce must I live within his keep, I would take as little from him as I could. Therefore, despite Gwendyth’s pleading, I sought for ways to make ourselves independent. ‘For if they hold me at such little worth,’ I said, ‘then have I no dealing with them. “Like a beast” quoth he. Then shall we live, like animals in the forest who do hunt for what they have, since fate has left us here quite alone. One day they shall find out that to be Celt is no mean thing. And if I have not the wealth to buy fine gowns, yet glad I am not like those braying fools who mince and smile preen to make the men stare at them so. Our priest at Cambray said that fine clothes do not make fine hearts. I had rather dress in rags than be so low as to fawn on him because he is lord here.’ So I spoke in my pique, casting scorn on them all. And gradually I slid into a pattern of living, which, although free, was certainly not fitting, as you shall hear.
You would not recognise the way we lived. I scarce recognised it myself. Cut off from the others in the castle, I mean those who by birth and breeding should have been my friends, I wrought a way of life for Gwendyth and me, nevertheless. The size of Sedgemont helped in this. Within its walls there were many places we could go, many things we could do, without bringing attention to ourselves. There was none left to call me by title except Gwendyth. I made my companions now among the serfs and scullions and the men-at-arms. The great courtyard became as familiar to me as the one at Cambray. I grew up at the tail end of the castle world, as free and untrammelled as the wind. Ask me now, who years and events have trapped, how it was when I was a young girl at Sedgemont. I will not tell you all I remember, for nostalgia, but I will say that many things I believe and feel come from what I learned then. For those who say I do not think as others do speak more truthfully than they guess. I have known no stouter friends, no more-loving hearts than among the common folk at Sedgemont; and although I professed always to miss Cambray and longed to return there, it is Sedgemont that taught me how to reason for myself, speak the truth as I saw it, and act as I thought right, however convention should bid otherwise. Such common sense rings justly in my ears. I do not say it is always easy to live with and it has cost me dear. But the experiences of those times are witnesses to their integrity. True, we had little enough to eat and were often cold and badly clothed. Those things I could endure. And when rumours came to us, for even the Lady Mildred could not keep out rumour, well then, these wars made little impression upon me, who held them far off and of no import in my life. The young Henry of Anjou was knighted by the Scottish king; his uncle, Robert of Gloucester, died; his mother, the Empress Matilda, went back to France; King Stephen and his son, Eustace, fought against their enemies wherever they could make them stand and fight. Presumably Lord Raoul was engaged in these wars. At least he did not return to Sedgemont, and as long as he was away from us, that was good news. Gwendyth and I kept to ourselves, making virtue of necessity, ate our own food, contrived our own clothes, kept our own counsel. And if you had asked me, I would have said, as would any serf, that what was done in the outside world was none of my concern, provided the great barons of the land kept it far from Sedgemont. And so time passed.
Perhaps I should not say how much those years meant to me. Gwendyth merely suffered them. She was so old I do not recall a time without her, yet she was still round and fat, without a streak of grey in her black hair. She was my father’s age, yet she seemed ageless. And she had put the past behind her as if it had never been. She never spoke to me of Cambray; never, except in moments of great stress, would talk to me in our language, trying always to urge me towards ‘more cultured’ ways, by which she meant the ways of the Norman-French. I could never understand why. Now I think that in her great grief she wished to tear ail longing and memory away so as to pretend it had never been. All I knew then was that she tried to make me into a copy of these Norman ladies, and if giving up her own memories would make this easier for me, she would do that also. She had not counted on my stubbornness. For, as I grew older, I began to do many things that she could not approve of. As I have said, even at Cambray I would not have been so free. She disliked my friends, distrusted what we did, saw all her hopes diminished every day. Only her deep love for me prevented her from going to the Lady Mildred herself, but I had threatened her if she did, and, God save us, she believed me then. No, they were not happy times for her, but I was young and thoughtless. God forgive me now that I did so little to please her then.
One of the things I took pleasure in was hunting. I was good with a slingshot. Talisin had taught me years ago. How many things there are that I have learned from him; the list is endless. It is a boy’s sport; but when we were hungry, even Gwendyth did not grumble too openly that I coursed a hare or found a partridge in the home meadows. It was against the law, of course, the Norman law I mean; but I was careful and the men had too many other worries to be looking out for children. But it was my friendship with Giles that most distressed her. I suppose it was unusual, he being but a groom, a little older than I, a serf at Sedgemont. But from the first day, when he had put out his hand to stop my fall and I had scowled at him, we ever sought each other out. Without Giles, life at Sedgemont might have worn another colour. With him, all the rest fitted into place.
When we could we would slip from one of the small side gates (ever since a band of marauders had come down, unexpectedly stealing out of the woods, burning the half-gathered harvest in the fields, the Lady Mildred kept the drawbridge tight so none might leave or enter without her knowledge) and run through the field. The peasants, who lived outside the castle in their own village huts, knew us well enough, but went about their business as we did ours. The castle was there, close at hand, to scuttle to in time of danger. Dressed in simple homespun, my skirts bound up, I seemed, no doubt, a kitchen wench. There was game for all, provided we did not disturb the real preserves, the deer and bigger animals of the forest. That we would never have done, the forest being Lord Raoul’s own hunting lands, had not we come to the idea of riding there on horseback. I had always had this wish to go into the forest but
had never ventured there at first, it being too far to walk. But once I had reasoned that on horseback we would be safe—no foot soldier willingly tangles with a mounted man, and our chance at profitable game was the much more likely since no one dared go there now – I worked hard to convince Giles of the soundness of my plan. Although no man knew more of horses than he did, he was reluctant to mount one until I showed him how. And when I persuaded him to let me ride the grey horse of Cambray, then were we free to go farther abroad until there was no part of the encircling forest we had not explored in. The catch we brought back then always justified the risk. The Lady Mildred, for fear of greater misfortunes to come, kept all on half-rations in the Hall, salted fish, tough meats, watered wine. At least we could bring enough food for our friends, and what Gwendyth and I did not use, we gave freely away. In return, when bad weather shut us in or when we were out of luck, they contrived some way to get food for us.
About the great horse of Cambray. It was one of my father’s breed left by some chance at Sedgemont, although all other war horses had gone with Lord Raoul’s guard. It was a knight’s charger, trained to fight and kill, perhaps left behind because not all men care to ride so conspicuous a beast, preferring more conventional brown and black. But my father had always ridden grey horses, and my brother too. When I rode it, I felt somehow close to them; of their kind. And then nowhere was too far for us to explore, not even to the edge of those misted hills that hung upon the horizon far away. Yet Giles was always uneasy for me; and truth to tell, it was no mount for a girl, hard to control at a gallop, ready to rear and lash with its hooves. I rode astride, without saddle, but it took both of us to harness it with bit and bridle, and although in time it would come when I whistled, yet I was always careful not to mount alone for fear it should rear if I startled it. Yet once it save our lives, as you shall hear.
We had been roaming idly through the forest, not hunting, for we had already caught enough, but for pleasure, Giles riding beside on the small pony that suited him better, the two of us chatting without thought of where we were. Carelessly then, we blundered into a clearing that we had not seen before, where a number of men lay sprawled upon the ground, busy at their food. They sprang to their swords; at their shouts, other men came running behind us through the trees. Giles tugged at his short dagger, but he would have been helpless against so many. I backed the grey horse against his, screaming at him to leap behind me. With a great scramble, he heaved himself up, catching hold of my waist with a jerk, that almost sent us both flying. There was no time to right ourselves, and the horse itself was startled. Almost without my guidance, it plunged towards the first group of men, bursting through the centre of their camp, sending pots and pans flying, scattering the burning embers of the fire underneath. At the first sword prick, it squealed, lashing out with its heels to send the men bowling in a welter of blood. We whirled our slingshots in their faces; they fell back for fear and the grey horse kept the others from drawing close. Then speed got us free, that, and surprise, for they thought to have had us cornered. But I could not have reined it back even had I wished to, and whatever pursuit there was we left soon behind. So the grey horse saved us from our own folly, but both of us had to saw and fight to subdue and finally turn it round. By then, the sun was low. There would be still some hours of light, but here, under the trees, the shadow of evening seemed already come. We moved cautiously, still nervous, still expecting attack long after it would have been possible, still flinching, at least I did, at every rustle in the underbrush. We had lost our supper, tied to Giles’s saddle; we had lost his pony, which was worse, and we were not sure even where we were. Our long circuit had taken us away from our usual stretch of wood, yet I do not think we had gone far beyond the boundaries of Lord Raoul’s demesne. It says much for the nature of these times that so large a company of armed men could camp at their ease without word spreading to Sedgemont itself.
Finally, when Giles judged we were safe enough, we halted in a clearing in the wood beside a stream. After inspecting the damages—luckily not so many or so deep as to be dangerous, a scratch or two here, a gash that had bled freely — I watered the horse while Giles climbed the highest tree to mark our position. He came sliding down, his hair covered with twigs and leaves, his face shining with exertion. ‘Not so astray, after all,’ he said, pleased with himself. ‘We have headed too far east, but another hour will set us right. We shall be back by nightfall.’ He came up to where I was standing, my gown looped up still, as I paddled in the stream. At the sound of his voice, the horse lifted its head; water fell in golden drops from its mouth; then it dipped down again and the stream went chuckling by.
‘Right well we did,’ said Giles. Then he too was silent, his head lowered as if he did not want to look at me. I suddenly was aware of many things: of my torn and faded gown, of my bare feet and unkempt hair. I thought, too, of the way his arms had tightened around my waist and his heart had beat against my shoulder. I looked at him, and it seemed as if I were watching us from far off, as if I were a spectator there, of all three, horse, maid, and boy, standing there in the cool water. There was a clarity about us, a sudden awareness, as if I saw then what could have been in other places, other times.
Perhaps Giles felt it too. He kneeled suddenly beside me on the muddy bank, catching at the hem of my dress.
‘My life is yours,’ he said, courtly words coming awkwardly to him, yet all the more real for that. ‘I owe you my life.’
His head was still bent. I longed to stretch out my hands to touch him, feel his arms around me to share and prolong this moment when danger had made us close. Yet I could not. Shyness perhaps, or fear, made me tongue-tied. He looked up then, his eyes dark, watching me as they sometimes did without his knowing. I think he saw part of what I felt, or sensed it for himself. There were marks I had not seen before upon his face, weariness and dirt, the face of an older man.
‘I am yours to the death, my lady,’ he said, and I thought then that the feel of ice, of a cold wind blowing, was because he too had had a vision and put it resolutely aside. He moved to stand up; the bank gave way beneath his weight. He slipped forward, his fingers splayed upon the mud. The air seemed suddenly loud with noise, the sound of many hooves, the cut and thrust of swords, and where he lay upon the edge it seemed a crimson shadow fell.
I screamed, as I had in the clearing, ‘Giles, Giles,’ covering my ears and eyes, until he sat up, sleeving the mud from his face, scrambling abashedly to his feet.
‘My lady,’ he said again, who never called me anything but Ann, ‘what ails you? I did but slip.’
He jumped upright, Giles the stable boy, his clear honest eyes bright, his face a-smile once more, bound to his lot in life as I was to mine. Had not these strange thoughts come in between us, had not I thought to have seen his death there by the stream, I might have fallen with him beside me. Well, it would have been no bad thing to have lost a maidenhood to such a man. But something else would have been lost between us, I think, and it was stronger than lust. For he recalled me to myself, and then the horror of that vision I had seen was so deep that I could do no other than remain silent and leave him to guide us home.
We slunk into the gates without notice at last, but it was many days before I would stir abroad again. I was fourteen. I had nothing of my own. All that was mine was dead and gone. The meanest scullion in Lord Raoul’s kitchen had more than I, for she knew at least who she was, what hopes or lack of them. I had not even that. My days were passed as in a dream, and my nights were made hideous with cries and red with blood. Giles thought it was for fear of the men in the forest, and gave me his little hunting knife as my own, to keep with me for protection always. I have it still and well it has served me in many ways. But it could not protect me then from what I feared and what I had missed. And so things stood until Lord Raoul came back ... It was the beginning of 1152. It was the end of my childhood, the end of an interlude. All things began to move again, and whether I would or not, I was
caught up in them.
