by Mary Lide
2
Now comes a difficult part of my tale, but first I must relate how Lord Raoul returned, unexpectedly, after all these years. News of the renegades in the forest must have come to the castle, for Lady Mildred kept double watch and we were penned in, as if under siege. Then, too, the weather worsened as it does at Yuletide, setting people coughing and shivering with agues. Many of us were sick, and hungry too, and Gwendyth had a busy season, for she was famed for her potions and salves and was much in demand among the inhabitants of the castle. But this year her remedies were of little help, not even to her when she fell sick also, and we thought to have a bad while in the spring. People began to talk of the flux which had carried half Sedgemont off before, including the present lord’s mother and father, both within a night. But this sickness was not as grave as that; it left us weak but did not kill. Soon the worst we had to endure was the monotony of being shut up within the castle walls until Lady Mildred forgot her fears. I was left alone much at this time, being shy even of seeking Giles out in the stables where he had work aplenty. There was little else for me to do and I took to walking on the battlements, more to listen to the guards talk than for hope of seeing anything of interest. Thus I was among the first to spy Lord Raoul’s messengers, posthasting through the mud as if life and death were in their mission, and was at hand when their loud hail summoned the watch to open the gates upon his return. After them, hard on their heels, came the outriders, the red banners fluttering brightly through the drizzle, as I noted sourly, for even pique would not keep me from my vantage point. They were a brave troop when they came, I must admit, and they rode out strongly across the open meadows from the east, cheerfully, horns sounding, hounds baying, returning as if after a long and successful hunting expedition. I could not make out who any of the riders were, for they were full-armed, with helmets on, lances lowered, as befitted a war party in troublesome times; but it seemed to me they were not as numerous as I had thought, and of the men who had come with me from Cambray I could not pick out one. Rumours soon were flying; that they did not intend to stay long; that Lord Raoul had taken advantage of a lull in the fighting to come back to Sedgemont before returning to his lands in France; that he purposed to make up his full complement of troops only before the next campaign began. At the time, I paid little attention to this talk. As I have said, the affairs of the great were not my interest, especially not those that concerned Lord Raoul. Remembering the elegant young lordling who had insulted me, I did not suppose he would have taken kindly to soldiering, although, as soon became clear, in this I greatly maligned him. In any case, his arrival set life at Sedgemont all awry, and all our placid, irregular ways ground to a halt. Lady Mildred, jolted out of lethargy, came timidly to greet Lord Raoul, and on seeing her husband, Sir Brian, melted with fine display of sensibility into his arms. At once, the style and flavour of Sedgemont changed. There was a martial clank and clatter about the courtyards; messengers came and went at all hours; the bustle of the castle revived as I remembered it when I had first seen it those years ago. But apart from staring with the rest, all agog over this fine arrival, I kept out of everyone’s way. I was not missed, and since it was at this time that Gwendyth herself fell ill, I had plenty of excuse to keep close to the little side room where we had long made our dwelling place. And although I searched among the returning men for news of Cambray, I did not then realise how great our losses had been. And if for the first time in many years, envoys from the west reached Sedgemont, their business was not with me, and I could glean but little information from them. One man I thought I did remember, a tall dark-faced lord with brows that met above deep eyes, but I could not then recall who he was or what he wanted. He came up with his own guard, as mark of his importance, and was soon closeted with Lord Raoul about some border affair. Since his name is one worth remembering, I set it down now, although then I did not know it—Lord Guy of Maneth, vassal of the dead Earl of Gloucester, one-time companion of my father, as his son, Gilbert, had been friend to Talisin. But whatever they discussed was far from my knowledge or interest, and if I thought it strange to be excluded from what may well have concerned Cambray (and as I have said, there were many rumours abroad), yet I concealed my anger with the thought that in the end it might be better for me to keep myself apart. In that, I think instinct served me right. Although, God knows, I would not have sought attention the way it finally came.
Several days of such confusion and turmoil had already passed. It was on a damp evening that I ventured out from our small chamber. Lord Raoul and his guests were already seated in the Great Hall, and I had come down into the kitchens to fetch food for Gwendyth, for she was still not well enough to move from her bed. Neither Giles nor I had been able to leave the castle, for he was held in stable and yard, seeing to all who rode about Lord Raoul’s affairs, and the watch was kept strictly by Lord Raoul’s own guard. From Giles that evening I had gleaned some news about the black-browed man, Lord Guy. He was about to leave on the morrow, his suit with Lord Raoul having gone adrift, so it was judged from his bad humour, for he had come himself to see that his horses were ready and had cuffed Giles for some imagined fault. I felt easier that he was leaving so soon, which was strange too, for had it been anyone else, I think I might have found some excuse to question him myself about the western lands. Giles and I had no more time for talk, so I busied myself preparing a trencher of bread and a stoup of broth for Gwendyth. Usually this would have been her task, but as I have explained, she was still far from well, and I had bidden her lie down upon my bed, not that there was much to choose between them, and had covered her with the thick blue mantle that I never wore now because it was embroidered with gold and jewels that looked out of place with my other garments. Poor Gwendyth. She would never have let me wait on her had she been in her right mind. Yet when I had her food prepared, I lingered in the kitchen, for it was warm there and the serfs were relaxed after the first serving in the Hall. Lord Raoul did himself and his friends proud, I thought, or perhaps it was only that we had become used to Lady Mildred’s parsimonious ways. I could have had my pick of dozens of dishes or flagons of wine, and the baskets of scraps for the poor were overflowing. Scullions, perspiring in the heat of the open fires, turned the spits of meat and cooks arranged platters of game and fowl. There were even sugared fruits and sweetmeats, delicacies for delicate palates, I scoffed, although it may have been hunger that made me contemptuous. For the first time, a wave of resentment overcame me that I was excluded from these festivities. When my father had had guests, he had let me sit at the High Table and Talisin had given me titbits from his plate. I had almost forgotten what it would be like to dine in state, the Great Hall filled with the sound of music and laughter. In the body of the Hall, the men-at-arms would lounge along the benches served by the menials, and on the raised dais Lord Raoul and his companions would be drinking and talking, with squire and page at their side to obey every command. When I finally mounted the narrow staircase to our small room, I could hear the sound of that laughter away in the distance and a sense of loneliness, even sadness, made me pause again to listen.
Sometimes I think if I had not paused so often, if I had not lingered, all would have been different. At other times, I know if I had gone on, it would have been too late for me too. For the noise that caught my attention at last had nothing to do with laughter. It was a familiar noise, yet strange in that place at that time, the strike of boots and spurs on the stone steps above me, hurrying, yet cautious. At first I thought nothing of it; there were always armed men about these days. But there was something about the way the footsteps sounded softly, almost stealthily, that set my heart jumping. They came on, running down faster; I cannot describe what I heard without the hairs on my head rising up as do a dog’s at hint of danger. I looked round, suddenly anxious not to be seen.
It was a narrow staircase, cut out of the thickness of the wall at some time, not a main thoroughfare that all men might use, and as far as I knew it led only
to our chamber, where no one would go. At one of the angles in the wall, a leather curtain had been hung across an alcove, and as quick as the thought, I slid behind it, praying that none would notice me.
There were two men. I was right that they came in haste, taking the stairs at a stride, yet running tiptoe. I could not see their faces, for they wore their riding cloaks with the hoods drawn, but I took heed of their voices, muffled like stones dropped into a deep well.
‘Art sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘And the other?’
‘A servant woman. Off about her business, none the wiser.’
‘’Twere well to take them both.’
‘One is enough.’
Their voices came hissing back as they ran past me, down into the part of the castle I had just left, where it would be impossible to trace them.
I waited until I was sure they were gone, leaning back upon the stones to steady my trembling. Some dread seemed to have overcome me, like that I had felt with Giles in the woods but more urgent, real. Then I was forcing myself up the stairs, rounding the narrow treads as fast as I could, food and soup forgotten. The door of the room where we lodged was tight shut as I had left it. I swallowed hard and jerked it open. Nothing had changed. The small fire under the eaves had died to ash, and the tallow candle was unlit. Gwendyth still slept in the dark under the cloak. I took the candle and held it to the fire, blowing until the flames started. Then, shielding the light with my other hand, I approached the bed. Gwendyth lay as I had bidden her, the cloak pulled over her head against the dark, which, like all Celtic women, she feared. I smiled on seeing her and felt a rush of gratitude for all her years of devotion. And wished, more for her than for myself, that soon we could go back to Cambray. I shook her shoulder to wake her, and felt the dampness spread beneath my hand, saw the stains now upon the cloak, saw the knife hilt stabbed through, all clearly, far off. When I tried to pull her upright, the cloak fell back and the blood gushed forth. She opened her eyes, said something that I could not understand, although I think it was my mother’s name in the old tongue. Then nothing again, silence, the shifting of the fire, the guttering of the candle flame.
I do not know how long I held her in my arms, but it was long enough for the blood to congeal and for her to stiffen and grow cold. It was only then I realised that all my holding would not bring her warmth again. I looked about me. But there was still no sign of disturbance, no stool upturned, no plate broken, nothing moved from its place. Like the wind, then, they had crept in, stabbed her as she slept, and left. And I had heard them on the stairs, watched as they passed, listened to what they said.
Sure?
Sure.
And the other?
Under my cloak, asleep in my bed, Gwendyth had been murdered. By whom? Why? In my place. It was that thought that tore like steel. Had I not begged her to lie there, covered her with my rich cloak, loitered on my mission, they would have known her for what she was and left her unharmed. Or would they have waited there for me to return? And she, waiting with them—what would they have had to do to ensure her silence? At these thoughts some rage filled me. I hardly know what I did, it overwhelmed me so. Murder, while I had stood to gossip with my friends; murder, while Lord Raoul and his minions laughed at their feasting. I laid her down gently, pushing the dark hair back from her face, crossing her arms decently upon her breast. The knife I did not touch. Let them find that when they came looking. From a coffer under the bed, I ransacked the things that it held until I reached the bottom, where my father’s ceremonial sword lay wrapped in some oiled silk. Not half the size of his fighting sword, it was still too heavy and long, the belt too wide and broad for my waist, yet I strapped it on somehow. Beside it lay a thin gold chaplet that had belonged to my mother. I tore off the headdress I usually wore these days in Norman style, freed my hair from its plaits so that it fell in a red veil across my back, and set the circle in place. Then, pulling the bloodstained cloak about me, hiding the sword underneath, I went running back down the stairs, scarcely thinking, towards the Great Hall.
The meal was almost over now. As I had imagined before, they were still sitting at the tables, replete, listening to a minstrel singing. The heralds would have barred the way but I pushed past them and the guards, letting them seek for a name to call out afterwards. Once inside the door, I did not hesitate but made my way by instinct towards the dais where the High Table stood. As I had thought, they had dined well. Trenchers of bread and broken meats lay on the table and the wine goblets were half-empty. Underneath, the hounds were sniffing among the rushes. Before them was an open place where a man had been singing. Poor fellow, I brushed him aside into silence so his lute wavered and his voice cracked. They all looked up at that. Yes, there was Sir Brian beside his wife, the Lady Mildred, and around them the other lords and knights of Sedgemont with their ladies, dressed in their best. They sat in the carved oaken chairs like statues, and beside them the pages and squires stood as motionless. And all behind me in the Hall, I felt the ripple of interest and surprise run like a gust of air.
‘My lords,’ I said, ‘I am come to demand justice.’
No one moved. Now I could pick out Lord Guy of Maneth sitting to the right of the man in the centre chair. Maneth was leaning forward, speaking urgently into his ear.
‘Murder there has been,’ I said. ‘Even as you sit here, murderers are abroad.’
There was a scream at that, quickly stifled, Lady Mildred it was, clutching her husband. Behind me, I felt that ripple of surprise move again, and the hanging tapestries on the walls stirred once. But the man in the centre place did not move. He had been peeling some kind of fruit and I watched how his hands closed across it and were suddenly still. Yet his face remained in shadow. I did not know who he was, although Lord Guy, beside him, was shouting out. But I did not understand his words either.
‘Is it your will, then,’ I said, ‘that death goes unnoticed here? Have there been so many deaths that one more means nothing? Shall I lead you to the room to show you where an old woman lies stabbed? What profit to you? What vengeance shall she have?’
The lords and ladies were talking to one another now, their eyes wide with astonishment or fear. Lord Guy was still shouting; I could see his dark eyes glinting and the flush on his face. But the man in the centre said nothing.
I pushed back the cloak and edged my father’s sword from its sheath. It was heavier than I had thought, the hilt carved in some Celtic fashion. Years of neglect had stiffened the leather casing and the blade caught and jerked as I strove to drag it forth. I felt the edge slice across my arm, yet I hardly noticed the pain of it. With both hands I heaved it up; the lights from the tapers caught and twinkled on the rich gold carvings. My mother’s father had given it to him once as a pledge of peace, witness of the faith between them. Now I would raise it as a sign of vengeance for the wrong that had been done.
‘Justice,’ I cried again, and then louder, in my own tongue, ‘Vengeance. Against murder and betrayal. To me, Cambray.’ It was the battle cry of my house. Behind me in the Hall I heard one faint echo: well then, there was one man at least to back me. They were all on their feet now, the womenfolk agape, the lords at the High Table starting. Lord Guy was repeating my name, ‘Ann of Cambray. ’Tis Ann of Cambray herself.’
‘Who is with me?’ I cried again, not turning although I could hear the guards pounding up the Hall, and the rasp of their weapons. ‘Who stands by me?’
The man in the centre chair moved so suddenly that everyone gasped again. In one movement he had leaped from his place and vaulted across the table, sending goblets and plates clanging to the floor. Behind him the chair crashed slowly on its side and his guests and courtiers started forward like puppets tied to a string. He came limping towards me, hand outstretched.
‘There is no need to cry for vengeance, Lady Ann,’ he said. ‘We shall do what is needful.’
I stared at him. Would I have known him after all? It was not the minc
ing boy I remembered, that conceited fop whom I had kept to scorn in my thoughts. He seemed larger, taller, broader. And he wore simple clothes as a soldier wears who stands not on ceremony. No jewels even, except a heavy gold chain about his neck. And the hair was different, cut in a fringe across the front and waved to shoulder length. But the face, the slant-shaped eyes, the cold grey-green stare, I had never forgotten.
We stood side by side, his hand clasped about mine upon the hilt. We might have been fighting with one sword between us, and the blood from my arm ran down his as he raised the sword higher, repeating my cry, ‘To me, Cambray.’ Then I could not move. The cloak fell from my shoulders; my blood mingled with the other stains upon my gown. I heard them all clearly now, panting and pushing. I was some animal whom the hounds circle, smelling the scent of wounded flesh. They were all around, servants, guards, soldiers making a circle. My grasp upon the sword slackened against my will; he caught it before it fell and lowered it so that it rested, point to the ground. I tried to pull the cloak back in place to hide from their prying eyes, but the circle grew smaller.
‘You are hurt,’ he said sharply, ‘where, how?’ his hands rough on my shoulders and along my ribs. I tried to tell him that it was Gwendyth’s blood, not mine, her blood he must avenge, but could not. Something tore and jerked in my throat; the circle grew so small that it disappeared, and I within it fell through into darkness beneath. . .
When I came to myself, how much later I do not know, and where and when it was not at first clear, I lay cocooned in a comfort that I had never known. The room was large, too large to make out all of it in the dimness that surrounded me. The bed was softer than down, spread with silk coverlets and rugs and curtained round with rich material whose design I presently made out in the flickering light of a fire. At first I lay still as if in a swoon, seeing all these things but not aware of them. Then gradually awareness came back, and with it grief and pain. Beyond the curtained bed, I could hear now the sounds of people moving, talking, of furniture shifting as a chair scraped upon the stones, the thud of a man’s boots as he strode back and forth.
