Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  ‘Nay, my lord.’ A voice I did not recognise at first, hushed and unctious, as if used to explaining things to the old and ailing. ‘Nay, my lord. There is no danger: Great exhaustion, but no fever.’

  Another voice, impatient, curt: a young man’s voice.

  ‘Deep, my lord, not dangerous. The flesh is healthy. ’Twill heal with a scar, but that is all.’

  Another question. I strained to hear the reply.

  ‘Her father’s, my lord. She bore it into the Hall beneath the cloak. Dragged it more like. It is old and heavy. She could not draw the blade clear.’

  ‘So much the better.’ That was Sir Brian who spoke now. ‘It was madness to come upon you, so armed. What did she expect to gain?’

  I lay within the cocoon of the bed and listened to them talking, almost idly, detached, as if they were speaking of someone else. The only things that were real were the softness of the bed and the ache along my arm. Perhaps I even dozed for a while. But the talk went on.

  ‘Your concern does you credit, my lord. But remember who and what she is. The Celts are never to be trusted. They are as sly and smooth as snakes. Who knows what plan she had in mind, or what use she meant to make of such an exhibition? There are men who can use this to their advantage.’ Sir Brian’s voice was full of scorn, like the one which had sneered at me as a child for my birth. It would sneer at me again.

  ‘I think not,’ said Lord Raoul. I recognised him now. ‘I think she acted on impulse, out of shock and fear. I do not think she counted the consequence.’

  ‘If Anjou comes to England again, as he purposes, the western borders will be of consequence,’ Sir Brian said. ‘The Celts may rise on his behalf as they did for his mother. That might be motive enough for her to win their sympathy.’

  ‘Guy of Maneth thought of that also.’ Lord Raoul’s voice was thoughtful. The walking back and forth continued. I even knew his walk now, a slight limp, as if favouring one leg.

  ‘But she has had no converse with anyone, not even with Cambray, let alone the Celts beyond,’ he went on as thoughtfully as if continuing an argument with himself. ‘Nor is there any proof the Celts will rise, nor rally to Anjou or to anyone else. And Maneth’s power has grown overfast since the Earl of Gloucester’s death for me to hold him as detached observer of the borderlands. I do not remember that he played an important part in the last struggles.’

  ‘He is a good fighter,’ fretted Sir Brian, ‘better on our side than the other ... It might be wiser to have granted his request.’

  ‘Well, so be it.’ Lord Raoul sounded more impatient again. ‘I refused him. Let it be sufficient that she will live. I thought her cut in twain.’

  ‘But there are other wounds, my lord,’ said the soft, older voice. I knew who spoke now: it was the castle leech. We had ever been on good terms with him and he had always held Gwendyth’s skill highly. In truth, she had not had the same confidence in him, but I think she misjudged him, for he spoke kindly of her. And of me, as he now proved. Silence followed his remark.

  ‘God’s teeth, what mean you?’ Lord Raoul said. ‘Will you handy words with me?’

  ‘My lord,’ said the old man again, ‘this only. Have you thought what has become of her all these years while you have been away? She has grown from childhood.’

  ‘Why should his lordship wonder?’ Sir Brian spoke sharply. ‘He has had cares enough without thought for a half-breed wench. And my lady wife has been here to befriend her.’

  ‘Patience, good sir,’ Lord Raoul said, ‘let the fellow speak.’

  ‘I meant only, lords,’ he said, ‘that you have been gone overlong and she has had no one to check or guide her if you did not, as her liege lord and guardian. I speak out of turn, but she and that old woman who was killed lived as poorly as the serfs out in the fields. If she has acted rashly, it was for lack of guidance surely.’

  ‘Then why stayed she not with the Lady Mildred and the other women in the bower?’ Sir Brian asked. ‘Why set she up her own household, God save the mark, as if she were a princess of the blood? Why came she not under our protection as she should?’

  ‘I mean no harm, my lord, no harm.’ The old voice quavered at Sir Brian’s anger, yet went on, good, kind, old man. ‘God forbid that I should speak against you. The Lady Mildred has held this castle well and all within it safe. But look you, my lords, if the Lady Ann and her servant have lived as servants themselves, perhaps you should know of it. l or pride perhaps she lived so, not wishing to be beholden to your lordship. I know not. No one will say it was your prime concern . . .’

  Lord Raoul broke in at that. ‘Judas, I have been battling across a country to keep a king on the throne; I have had little time for what concerns the women in their bower at Sedgemont.’

  ‘True, true, my lord,’ the voice went on soothingly, ‘but things beyond all men’s control have made her no man’s care. The Celtic lords may remain firm but they will not be pleased to know their kinswoman is nigh starved of hunger and ill of neglect.’

  ‘You speak out of turn, old man,’ said Raoul. ‘You tempt me to harsh reply.’ But his voice was not harsh. ‘Those are not easy words, to be taken lightly.’

  ‘Then see for yourself, my lord,’ said the leech. ‘Is this a sleep of exhaustion? Faintness and pallor like this come not from flesh wounds.’

  A sudden movement gave me warning, time enough to turn my face aside and close my eyes. I could feel the light upon my hair now, and beneath my lashes, sense rather than see how Lord Raoul came close to the bedside. But it was Sir Brian who spoke first.

  ‘God save the mark,’ he swore, ‘but how that hair flames red as Hell. And yet, my lord, it is an unusual face. It may be men will make a bid for her and take the burden upon themselves no doubt. They say her mother was the fairest of her race. So may she be if she be true.’

  His words were blunt enough, not cruel so much as detached. He might have been speaking of Lord Raoul’s horse.

  ‘Nay, look,’ said the leech, ‘see this then.’

  He switched aside the bedcovers. I lay exposed to their gaze, naked but for a linen shift open to the waist, my arm strapped to my side. Rigid with fear, I dared not move or breathe for fear they would see how conscious I was of their scorn. Where the others stood and how they looked I cannot tell. But I knew that if I opened my eyes I would see first Lord Raoul’s cold grey-green stare. At last he reached out and pulled the covers back in place.

  ‘ ’Tis skin and bone,’ he said. ‘God’s death, is there never end to woman’s folly? Rot me if there has not been more trouble these past hours than all seven years previous. Send then to Guy of Maneth, that my mind will not change. He leaves at dawn and would learn how she does. You marked how he was last evening, first not knowing her, then over-eager to claim acquaintance . . . But he had not seen her since Cambray . . . And when she wakes, bid the Lady Mildred take her to her charge. We will think on things further. And that, too, you may tell the Lord of Maneth. But I will avouch this, sirs: she has grown taller perhaps, but no different from that hellcat I remember when I left.’

  His voice ended abruptly. I heard him go limping from the room. When all were gone, I lay upon the down-filled bed and felt my body shiver with shock. It was not so much what they said, their plans and policies and military moves—those made my head ache to think on but I did not at first consider them as closely as I should. It was their disdain, disinterest, that men should think so little of Gwendyth or me as to make her death and my grief of no importance. Except for the kind old leech, not one had spoken of me but as something ‘worth bidding for’, as Sir Brian had so gracefully expressed it. No doubt they did have plans for Cambray, no doubt it was as important as I was not. But no man could have the one without me too. That was the law. As for Lord Raoul, when we had first met he had called me ‘brat’, ‘she-wolf’, and I had not forgotten. But to be labelled thus—‘hellcat’ was it? ‘sly as a snake’, and worst of all ‘skin and bone’—these things lay not within the real
m of forgiveness. Long would he rue the day he spoke those words. Yet I tell you now, in part he spoke truth, for I was slow in coming to womanhood and was then as slender and unformed as a boy. And he did not know that I heard him. But, for those words, I could have killed him where he stood. So thus between anger and grief, I watched the rest of the night through.

  After the death of my brother, I count these the saddest hours I have ever known. For now I truly was alone and must make use of my wits, such as they were, to save me, since there was no one else I dared to trust.

  How long I lay thus, I care not to remember. I woke to full consciousness to see the Lady Mildred advancing purposefully across the room, the leech bowing and muttering behind her. God’s death, but she could so fill a space with purpose when she wanted, that, small woman that she was, she seemed the largest of us all.

  What had been spoken of in the night, what had happened, became now as a dream that I had imagined. Reality was billowing arms, and honeyed words and determination, strong as steel. For a little body, who gave the impression of fragility, she was indomitable. For the first time I realised that the Lord of Sedgemont had not made so poor a choice in having left her to guard his castle in his absence. Now, having been told to take me to her charge, she was determined upon her duty. I was too weak at first to protest and, in some ways, found amusement in watching her. As for the other maids and waiting-women, well, one might do worse than echo Lord Raoul’s observation about women in their bower. They bored me silly within the day with their chatter and their concern and their sly prying. Yet I found I could not lift a hand or foot without their help. The worst part of that convalescence was having them dance in attendance around me. I was washed and groomed and fed like a lapdog whom they half-feared would bite. And although once it was clear that my wound was mended, I sank from favour, yet grimly Lady Mildred clung to the hope that she would yet make a lady out of me. Well, Gwendyth had hoped so, too. We would see who would win at this second try. One thing at least was true. Under her wing, I need have no fear of any new attempt upon my life. She would not have let a man within the room without first rousing all of Sedgemont about his ears.

  When the summons came for me to attend upon Lord Raoul himself, I had not the strength to resist. Yet I had been half expecting it, like a soldier who knows a battle is coming and keeps one thought always to his defence. The messengers waited at the door in their brilliant reds and golds, while the women braided my hair and hastily cobbled up some dress for me to wear. I heard them tell me how to walk and smile and curtsy, thus and thus, to turn my lord’s anger aside, but paid their advice scant heed, too. But before I left I took care to slip the little hunting dagger Giles had given me into my sleeve. Thus armed and ready, I followed meekly while the guards clashed and swaggered through the castle halls.

  Lord Raoul’s quarters were in a far part of the castle which had been seldom occupied as long as I remembered. Now there were fires blazing in the stone hearths and men-at-arms everywhere in the courtyards and on the stairs. I noted too how even the common men went armed, and the guards kept all their accoutrements about them as if ready to march at short notice. It was unexpected, this martial readiness. And yet, looking about me as we went towards his chambers, I wondered which of these fine fellows was so much Lord Raoul’s man that killing of harmless womenfolk was not accounted a sin. Who among them then was so loyal that a bribe would not ease him into betrayal?

  Lord Raoul believes himself safe, I thought, with his armed companions about him, but if there are murderers and villains in the pack, let him beware. They will slit his throat one day, too. When he is alone and out of favour, let him look for loyalty. I little knew how close my thoughts came to the truth later, how close and how far. But that lies ahead. Then I knew only that for all my brave thoughts, I was shaking when I came to the large room where he was waiting.

  ‘Lady Ann,’ he said, ‘you are welcome.’

  His voice, when he spoke in courtesy, still had that timbre of laughter, a vibrancy about it that I remembered from my childhood. It was, I thought, the only attractive thing about him.

  ‘I trust you are recovered,’ he was saying. ‘You are kind to grace our presence.’

  Courtly words. No sign of that anger that they had warned me against. I made him no reply, but curtsied as low as I could, to do Gwendyth credit, although it galled me to make him obeisance. And if I had not come, I thought sourly, no doubt you would have had your guards haul me here by the hair if it pleased you. But I said nothing, kept my eyes downcast, hands folded together, as was fitting in a great lord’s presence. I had been watching Lady Mildred’s maids; I knew humility now well enough to ape it.

  ‘Sit you here, then,’ he said at last.

  ‘Nay, my liege lord,’ I simpered, ‘I had lief stand as it pleases you.’

  ‘Well, stand,’ he said more abruptly. He heaved himself out of his chair and limped towards the open fireplace, leaning against it while he kicked a fresh log into place with the heel of his boot. Two brindled hounds that had been lying close by stretched and padded behind him. In a corner of the room a chest stood open, its contents spilled out carelessly.

  But his war gear, coat of mail, shield, and sword belt were neatly laid upon a bench, and his war helmet and great sword lay unsheathed near by. This was a campaign room of a man who expects to be called to duty momentarily. I had thought Sir Brian would be beside him, but he was alone, save for the guard that stood at the door. That gave me more courage. Presently, when I still said nothing, he gave off playing with the dogs and called for his squire to bring him wine. He took the goblet then, and offered it to me formally.

  ‘By your leave, lady,’ he said, and bowed to me to drink. Again, it was a courtly gesture that none had made to me before but I held firm to my intent.

  ‘’Tis not fitting, my lord,’ I said.

  He scowled at my words, tossed off the wine himself, poured more, and limped from one side of the room to the other with his halting stride. I watched him beneath my lashes.

  ‘God’s teeth,’ he said at last, broke out with, as if he had meant to remain calm, ‘but will you not even sit or drink in my presence? What ails you?’

  ‘I do not know what your lordship means,’ I said, smiling to myself.

  ‘God’s teeth,’ he swore again, then, slowly, as if willing himself to manners, ‘this is a change, is it not, from she who came storming into my Hall, sword in hand, demanding vengeance but days ago.’

  ‘I had cause,’ I said.

  ‘I do not deny that. I have called you to hear it. But this,’ he waved his hand in my direction, ‘does not help.’

  ‘What does not, my lord?’ I asked, echoing his words, as if simple.

  He gestured again, a gesture that took in meek face, meek hands, the carefully arranged clothes and hair.

  ‘Have you nothing to say? You intimated much that night. Or perhaps you prefer to forget what you said.’

  His anger gave me heart. That I had come prepared for. ‘Perhaps, my lord,’ I said, choosing words carefully, ‘perhaps since then I have learned discretion. Perhaps I have also learned to be afraid.’

  He swore again at that, a soldier’s oath that sat ill with his more formal words.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing, then, my lord,’ I said, ‘as your lordship pleases.’ ‘Devil take it,’ he cried, ‘does your fear so prevent you from sitting or drinking in our presence? Or do you think I shall try to poison you with the first mouthful?’

  I said nothing.

  He said slowly, ‘This murder hath grieved and startled you, lady, as it must all God-fearing men. I wish only if there be cause or reason perhaps that you know of . . .’

  His echo of Sir Brian’s words began to anger me in turn. Yet I had sworn not to lose my temper, because then I might say too much.

  ‘Cause, cause,’ I said, ‘what cause could there be to kill an old woman who lived as a pauper in my charge. Except, my lord, it
has occurred to me, if not to you, that she was killed in my stead. Next time, the murderers will not be so foolish as to make the same mistake. But forgive me, my lord, that I prefer there be no second time. And until I know who are my enemies, it is hard to guard against them.’

  He drank another stoup of wine, seeming perturbed by what I said. I still watched him beneath my lashes. Good, if I did but goad him further, it would be sweet revenge.

  He said at last, ‘Why speak you of enemies?’

  ‘My lord,’ my reply came pat, ‘I have long lived here at Sedgemont as ward and dependent, against my will and liking, God knows. But no hurt came to me until now.’

  He scowled. ‘What mean you by that?’ he said again, gritted out. I could see the pulse beat in his cheek. Later I came to know it as a sign of mounting rage, held in check by will. But now his anger was plain.

  ‘Nothing, my lord,’ I said, and slid the last barb neatly into place. ‘You have heard tales enough of how we lived. I make no complaint. But we lived at peace with all until your lordship’s return.’

  We stared openly at each other then. I suddenly felt moved to say what was in my mind, even if it threw away the advantage I had won.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘it is your lordship’s plans that cause my enemies to rise. Perhaps, although I am of little worth, Cambray is more.’

  It was a shrewd blow. I saw he had not expected it.