by Mary Lide
‘I have no plans,’ he said at last, lied, had I not heard him talk of them? ‘None that could wish you ill.’
I was silent still, hands folded. Underneath the stuff of my sleeve, I held the handle of the little dagger. He would not take me off guard again.
‘Lady Ann,’ he was saying, ‘you do me wrong in this. I do not deny that Cambray is the chiefest fort held by the king’s faction along the western border. If I can use it to secure the border for Stephen, it will be to our great advantage. Henry of Anjou will look for help from the west as his mother did before. The death of Gloucester has left a hole in his support there. Cambray may be of more value than you know. And only a fool would let Henry of Anjou take advantage of the lack of a lord of Cambray to call the Celts across the border to his aid.’
Henry of Anjou, Henry of Anjou, I thought. They use his name as a shadow to frighten children. Who is this Henry of Anjou?
‘And what have I to do with Henry of Anjou?’ I said. ‘I want to go back to Cambray, back to my own lands, that is all.’
‘I cannot send you back now,’ he said.
‘But they are my lands.’
‘No, by God, they are not,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘God’s wounds, but you hold them from me. And you are my ward until I give you leave otherwise.’
‘Then have a care of them, my lord,’ I said smoothly, ‘and of me. Else your wardship may be found wanting.’
‘Rot me,’ he said, ‘but you try the patience of a saint.’
He loomed over me, taller by a head, powerful in his open jerkin and linen shirt, his arms braced against a chair. I would not flinch. Within my sleeve I felt the cool steel of Giles’s knife.
‘Show not your rage to me, my lord,’ I said. ‘I could hold my father’s men to my will. You need not fear the Celts either. The Celtic princes swore peace with my father.’
‘Who had a Celt as wife,’ he said, still staring at me. His eyes were dark and stern. Strange eyes, I thought them, large and set wide apart like a deer’s. I would not show him I was afraid.
‘She was my mother, lord,’ I said. ‘I am half-Celt, as you have often baited me with. I am kin to those Celtic princes who rule the lands and people across the border. They will keep peace with me.’
‘You speak proudly,’ he said. ‘Who would have guessed your race from your looks and speech? They say your kind have power to change shape at will. From raging harpy to demure nun? You will not sit or eat or drink with me for a childish fret that once I was angered by your tantrums. Yet you dare draw sword against me at my own table. Do you know what doom is decreed for those who come armed into their liege lord’s Hall? Death it is, lady, slow and painful, to raise weapons against your lord, and he unarmed.’
With a swiftness that unnerved me, he caught hold of my arm and shook it until, with a clatter, the little dagger fell hilt-foremost between us, on the floor at his feet. He bent to pick it up, and still grasping my arm, pulled me towards a small table where he dropped the dagger and stood looking at it and me.
‘And you could not even have used it,’ he said suddenly. ‘Any child at an army’s tail could tell you that you have but one chance to strike and kill, and if you miss ... If you would sleeve a knife, then have the blade at hand, not the hilt, like so. How can you hope to strike with a handle? And hold it firm so that when a man runs upon you, his weight gives you the force your own arm lacks.’
He showed me how to hold the knife so that the sharp edge slid point-first into the palm of my hand.
And then he threw it abruptly on the wooden table so that it struck there quivering.
‘And by the troth, lady, I do well to show you how to kill me,’ he cried, half-angry, half-laughing. ‘Come, can we not forget what has passed between us? When first we met, you were a child and I, forgive me, was not much older than you are now and should have known better than to cross you. And I have a wound that is half-healed and like to lame my leg if I cannot rest it. And I care not to sit if you will not, and I have overthrown the wine so that we cannot drink. Shall we not let bygones be bygones and sheath all weapons for a while? I owe you some amends of neglect and you shall allow me to nurse my present hurts before inflicting new ones.’
The smile he gave me was infectious, the hand warm and steady. I let him lead me to a chair by the fire and waited while he shouted for more wine and food. Seated then like that, with his leg propped before him, he did not look so threatening after all, nor so different in some ways from the teasing lad I remembered.
‘I am not handy with weapons,’ I said at last, hesitatingly. Then he did laugh, the young laugh I also remembered. ‘Only with slingshots,’ he said. ‘They say you are a great huntsman with stone and sling.’
I blushed at that.
‘And rider, too. But there may be time for such pleasures without stealing my horse. We can find more-fitting mount than a knight’s charger.’
I made no reply but noted the words stealing my horse for future thought. Perhaps he marked my displeasure, too, for when the food had been brought and the wine (all of which I would have eaten or drunk from hunger had not I remembered how he called me ‘skin and bone’, so sat and nursed pride and determination), he said slowly, as if thinking of ways to please, to recall old times, ‘I knew your father well.’ I was too startled to reply. I had not looked for that.
‘He came often to Sedgemont,’ he said, ‘before these wars began. He was my grandfather’s best friend. He took me on my first hunt. He bore me before him on the saddle of his grey horse.’
I felt him looking at me as I sat there, saying nothing.
‘He was the best horseman I have ever known, And the grey horses of Cambray were famous even then. And I was my grandfather’s only heir, my parents being dead before this. Yet, from among all others, my grandfather chose him to bear me from Sedgemont to our lands in Sieux in southern Normandy.’ He paused before going on, ‘So heard I of your brother, Talisin. And of the little sister with red hair. I knew of you long before we met, Lady Ann. Think you not that it is better to be friends as Lord Falk and Earl Raymond were? For my part, I would not have enmity between us.’
There was a silence then that lengthened until I broke it.
‘It has been long, my lord,’ I said awkwardly, ‘since any have spoken to me kindly of Cambray. Even Gwendyth seemed to have forgotten it.’
‘She who was killed?’
‘Yea, my lord.’
We were silent again.
‘My lord,’ I said abruptly, ‘I have had no traffic with the Celts these many years. And they were not Celts who killed Gwendyth. I saw them. They passed me on the stairs.’
He leaped to his feet, grimacing with pain, and limped towards me.
‘Which stairs? Why spoke you not of it at once?’
‘They lead from the kitchen, a small spiral stair almost built over, where no one goes . ..’
‘I remember it,’ he said; and when I looked at him, surprised, ‘Well, I once was a child here, too. What were you doing there?’
I hesitated to answer that.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘it will be easier if you tell all you know.’
‘I had gone to the kitchen,’ I said finally, ‘for food. Well, that is the way we lived. And we lodged in a small room above. I heard men running and hid.’
I gulped, remembering again that stealthy clink, those soft running feet, the hissed whispers.
‘I marked them as they passed. They spoke Norman-French as you do, my lord.’
‘From among my men?’ he said. ‘I think that impossible. How were they dressed? Saw you their faces? Who was at Sedgemont that night?’
He limped back and forth, the hounds padding beside him. ‘Who would dare?’ he said again. ‘How looked they?’
‘Armed,’ I told him, ‘with heavy cloaks drawn over their heads. And spurred for riding.’
‘We feasted in the Great Hall,’ he said, running over names aloud of guests, messengers, and envoys who had been there.
When he came to Guy of Maneth’s name, he stopped.
‘Guy of Maneth,’ he repeated then. ‘But he rode out next morning. He and his men. And they are from the border, speaking as you do.’ He turned to me. ‘What do you know of this Lord of Maneth?’
‘Little enough, my lord,’ I said truthfully. ‘He used to come to Cambray from time to time. He was, I think, a minor lord, vassal to another, not to Sedgemont. His son Gilbert was Talisin’s age.’
‘You do not like him,’ he said sharply. ‘Your voice betrays you.’
‘He has a weasel look, my lord,’ I said at last, lamely, for I could not then put into words the dislike that seeing him had roused in me—dislike and unease. ‘His eyes are set too close...’
He laughed at that as if relieved.
‘By the Rood, lady,’ he said, ‘if that is all, I shall not set great store by your likes or dislikes. It is not by a man’s looks that he is judged. He seemed in good spirits when we feasted that night. He seemed concerned for you. And he has border men about him.’
‘Not all,’ I said. ‘They say, in the stables, that he gets his men wherever he can find them. And they say,’ I hesitated again, ‘that although in public he spoke fair, in private he was angry; that he shouted and raved. . .’
Lord Raoul’s face grew thoughtful.
‘A man may lash out at his underlings for many faults,’ he said at last. ‘Maneth had no need to plot against Cambray or its heir.’
He paused now, as if thinking, seemed to be about to speak again, limped from side to side, then said abruptly, ‘You spoke the truth, Lady Ann. There must be plans made to secure Cambray. If war comes again, the king must be sure of the western marches. And war is coming, of that you may be convinced.’
‘I thought that now all was peaceful at last,’ I cried. ‘Is not Stephen accepted as king?’
He said, ‘Henry of Anjou is not about to sit peacefully and lose his hope of inheritance.’ He paced about. ‘A while ago, you asked what your life had to do with his. Lady Ann, let this be your first lesson in diplomacy. Anything that the great do has some effect on everyone. Henry of Anjou is as yet occupied in France, but he will not bide there long. When he has made himself secure in all the lands that he covets there, then will he turn his attention back to England. He was raised up here as a child. You should remember he knows England well. He will not let his mother’s claim go begging.’
‘I did not know all this, my lord,’ I began timidly, when he broke in.
‘Well, that is the advantage of a safe fortress at least—not even news can get in. By his father’s death is he Count of Anjou. By war has he won the duchy of Normandy and the King of France has given him title to it. And if what is rumoured comes true, the divorced queen of France, Eleanor of Aquitaine, will wed with him and bring with her all her vast possessions in southern France. Then will Henry of Anjou own more land in France than the French king himself. Then will he have time and money enough to come back to England.’
‘And do all men fear him so much my lord?’ I asked again, for, in truth, this was the first time I had thought of such things.
‘Do not lions breed true?’ he answered. ‘Even as a child, they say his mother brought him to watch condemned men die that he might grow used to blood. He has been bred up for a purpose. They are clever, these Angevins. When they are stronger than the French king, whom they despise, they will not make the same mistake, letting their vassals become too powerful for their control. And they are ruthless. I have seen tor myself in France how his father, Geoffrey, has destroyed his own followers when it pleased him. The Angevins are noted for the way they will sack their own vassals’ estates if they think it will enhance their power. Henry of Anjou has grown into the man that he promised as a boy. Having France, he will unleash a pack of war hounds when he comes back to England. He has wealth and power enough to buy the scum of Europe as his mercenaries. . .well, these be unfitting thoughts for maiden ears. . .’
‘Nay, my lord,’ I protested, ‘but it strikes me strange that you and he both should be caught up betwixt France and England in your loyalties. Are you not of one place or the other? Could not France content him?’
He shrugged as if he had not thought of that before.
‘It is the way,’ he said at last. ‘The lords of Sedgemont were counts in Sieux and Auterre long before we came to England. It is to our advantage, too. For I am returned to Sedgemont now to call up my feudal levies here upon the coming of Anjou. Then shall I go to France and wait upon my French knights there and raise money upon my lands for arms.’
His easy roll of names and titles frightened me. I had not thought of him as so great a lord. But I persisted still.
‘And Cambray?’
He paced about in his halting stride as he said, ‘I can do little now to free the passage of your revenues until I go there in person to put things in order. But it is a charge I shall take upon myself. More to the point is your safety here. You shall be well treated here at Sedgemont as is your right. Men to guard you, womenfolk to wait upon you . . .’
‘I do not want womenfolk about me,’ I said. ‘One man to guard would suffice.’ And I thought suddenly, if he will agree, we can go on as before.
‘There is one man, my lord,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘a groom of your stables. He would watch me well. His name is Giles . . .’
Lord Raoul stared at me. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I have heard report of him also. But if you wish it. . .’
‘Indeed I do.’
‘Then let him wash off the muck of the stable and dress as squire and attend you, with the Lady Mildred’s permission.’
‘But I had not her in mind,’ I cried, dismayed. ‘I did not think to be locked up with her.’
He laughed at that.
‘I am sure not. But there are some things that she can do that I cannot, and she will certainly hold you safe until I return from France. You are growing, Lady Ann. Cambray will need more than a hoyden to rule it one day.’
As my look grew sulky, he said, ‘Come, come, when I return, we shall go hunting in the forests of Sedgemont. It is overlong since I rode there. I hope you have left me some deer.’
He was teasing me again.
‘Have you not missed Sedgemont while you have been so long gone, my lord?’ I asked him shyly.
But he was staring at the fire now, and his thoughts had gone far away.
‘I think of it as you do,’ he said, ‘a place to live but not my home. That is best remembered in Normandy. One day, please God, we shall all be free to live in peace and travel on our own lands.’
‘When there is peace, will you come back to live in Sedgemont?’
He still stared at the flames. His eyes were green now and the silver-gold hair curled with the heat.
‘I have had so much of camp and battle,’ he said, ‘to tell you truth, I have not thought overmuch what else I should do.’ He suddenly turned to me, one of those abrupt movements that I was never prepared for.
‘Why did you leap at me when you were a child?’ he said. ‘I did but seek to help you free of your blindfold.’
‘I thought you were Talisin,’ I said at last. ‘I thought for a moment he had come back to me.’
‘I never met your brother,’ he said, ‘to my loss. But I shall always bear the mark of his sister on my arm. Look.’
He thrust it out laughing. I did not notice then the faint white lines on his hand; my eyes were drawn to the vivid scar that ran across his right wrist. He saw what I was looking at.
‘Not that, God’s death,’ he said. ‘That all but cost me my fighting arm, if not my life. Even you could not do that, Lady Ann. But have we leave to hope that your scars of Sedgemont will be less painful?’
‘Indeed, my lord,’ I smiled at him at last, ‘you may at least hope so.’
He stood aside then to let me pass.
‘When you smile,’ he said, ‘you almost look as I imagined you.’
And so he had the last and
better word after all.
3
One thing I did after leaving him. Knowing that once Lady Mildred was in charge, such escapades would be difficult, I sought out Giles in the stable. The guards let me pass easily enough from Lord Raoul’s quarters and I had no difficulty finding Giles. He was grooming a tall, rangy black stallion that started and shied at any sudden noise.
‘Wild it is,’ Giles said good-naturedly, standing on tiptoe to reach its head, ‘mad-tempered, worse than your Cambray grey, you’re so fond of.’
I watched him affectionately. I had wanted to tell Giles of his good fortune myself. For it was good fortune and so I told him, tactfully, for no one likes to know that his menial position is clear to everyone. But from a place where he would be bound for the rest of his life, from which he could never have risen anywhere, a non-free man, he had, by one stroke, moved to squire’s rank, halfway even to that of knight, the highest of all. Even a king has to be a knight first. It was advancement he could never have expected, and how great a difference it would make, he must know better than I. But like many things, what seems done for good often turns out for ill. Although I swear that day none of us thought so far ahead.
Giles was stunned by the news. ‘It cannot be,’ he kept saying, collapsing to the straw under the forefeet of the great horse, which, in the contrary way of bad-tempered things, beasts as well as men, took no more notice of him than of a fly, although if I had done the same it would have broken me with its hooves.
‘It cannot be, Ann, I’m not sure it’s right.’ He was more agitated than I had ever known him, running over in his mind all the changes—leaving of a way of life, habits, and customs that were not only his own but had been the way of his folk for generations.
‘A groomsman is a groomsman,’ he said despondently, yet at the same time eagerly, as if hoping I could convince him. ‘I know horses, no one better. But I don’t like them much. And as for fighting—I’m good with a dagger. I’d be as clumsy as you with a sword . . .’
It says much for our friendship that I did not clout him for that unfortunate remark, but instead worked to convince him. It was true he was not a horseman, a rider I mean, but, 'Look,’ I told him, ‘how you lie sprawled beneath that brute’s feet. No one else I know would dare that. The other things you can learn. And, Giles, we’ll not be parted. We shall see each other all the time. We can still ride together. And we can talk.’
