Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  ‘God’s wounds, girl,’ he gasped, but the coldness had gone from his voice; he might almost have been laughing again, ‘but you fight like a wildcat still. Perhaps it is no matter you are so slow with sword and knife. You would tear a man’s heart out. Leave over. I am too lame to go wrestling with a half-naked maid.’

  His words made me aware of what I must look like, breasts naked, arms naked, clothes rucked around me.

  ‘God’s wounds,’ I swore myself, the words out before I could stop them, ‘the Lady Mildred will have my blood for this.’

  He did laugh then, easing himself upon his back.

  ‘If she cannot control you,’ he said almost to himself, ‘who am I to try? Such a devil needs a church to whip it forth.’

  I took the ends of the cloth and tied them into a knot. Poor Cecile would never recognise her dress again, I thought, as I forced my arms back into the sleeves. The rips perhaps I could mend, but the bloodstains would never go away. ‘God’s wounds,’ I swore again, ‘she’ll make me rue this.’

  ‘Then that will be punishment enough, I think,’ he said. ‘See, Lady Ann, how we seem to maul each other when we meet. We shall hack each other apart before we’re done. Let us agree to speak no more of this. Giles, your squire, will smart for a while, but less, I wager, than I do. And he still shall be your squire, although I could send him back where he came from. He also will have learned a lesson, I think.’

  I swallowed my pride at that ‘also’. For it was true, he could have had Giles killed for disobedience.

  ‘And you must deal with the Lady Mildred as best you can. But remember, she has long been chatelaine, since I was a child, and Sir Brian was my grandfather’s oldest retainer here at Sedgemont. Do not expect me to protect you against them. However,’ as I turned to protest, ‘you are not forbidden our Hall. I expect your presence, nay, will command it. And when we ride out again, you shall stay where I can see you.’ He was laughing at me, I knew, yet I could not fault what he had said.

  I scrambled to my feet, hair flying but more presentable. ‘Yes, my liege lord,’ I said and dropped him a curtsy.

  ‘I have told you before,’ he said, ‘mock servility does not please me. Use your wits. I cannot rise unless you give me a hand, for this scratch has stiffened. You will not be so churlish as to refuse.’

  I stretched out my hand gingerly, not sure what trick he meant, but he merely grasped it and, with the help of a chair, pulled himself upright. I could see the half-healed scar that this new gash cut through.

  ‘My lord,’ I said, ‘I have some knowledge of healing. That cut should be seen to. A wild beast is unclean.’

  ‘Have you now,’ he mocked me, seating himself in the chair, stretching his leg carefully. ‘Hensbane you speak of, no doubt, rubbed in tenderly to make it fester. Or salt perhaps to make it burn.’

  I refused to rise to his baiting.

  ‘Our people have understanding of herbs and plants. Ask anyone. Gwendyth was well loved because of it. And I have watched her often enough. You should steep soothing herbs that will draw the poisons out and make it easier for you to move, so you do not limp for days, or months, as you did last time.’

  That was a shrewd remark. I could see him digesting it.

  ‘And you should not move now until the bleeding halts.’

  He eased himself into a chair, eyeing me curiously. Yet he looked as disreputable as I did, with his torn and bloodied clothes. Any peasant among his huntsmen would have been better dressed.

  He said at last, ‘Well, try then. I yield me to your care, lady. There be salves aplenty in the coffers yonder, although what leeches do with them is beyond my understanding. He who tended your arm must count you the first success in many months.’

  I stifled a smile. Gwendyth would have said the same, yet the man had spoken on my behalf and I should speak him well in turn.

  ‘I will say this for you, Lady Ann,’ Lord Raoul was adding, as I turned to seek the things I needed, ‘for all that things go awry when you are near, you are a good comrade to have at one’s back. I may have saved your life, lady, but you helped at least save mine. Half the women I know would have swooned at the sight; the other half would never have got close enough to see it in the first place. . .’

  His half-compliments and jests unnerved me. I had never known anyone who spoke with such a mixture of mockery and sense. I ignored him, moved to the fire where I put water to boil, took one of his fine shirts—I recognised the Lady Mildred’s work before I tore it with my teeth—and set it to soak. There were dried herbs in plenty, although none as fresh as Gwendyth would have used, but I put all I could to steep, and before he could complain, slapped cloth and herbs as hot as could be borne upon the open wound. He gave a cry like a scalded cat.

  ‘Judas,’ he shouted, ‘do you think to boil me alive!’

  But I forced him back into the chair.

  ‘It will draw what poisons are left,’ I said primly. ‘It may hurt now, but it will take the pain out in time. Let it lie until it cools, then get your pages to heat more.’

  ‘Of a certainty,’ he said, ‘such treatment takes fiendish thought. And now, lady, look to your own repairs. Else scandal will be a-brewing as well.’

  His gesture to my torn bodice and skirts angered me.

  ‘I can fend for myself,’ I said waspishly. ‘And if you would listen to me, there would be no trouble as you term it. Give me leave to go back to Cambray. . .’

  ‘That so fills your mind,’ he said, almost curiously. ‘That is all you want?’

  ‘You went back to France,’ I said, ‘to Normany, to Sieux, which you count as home.’

  ‘And found it not to my liking,’ he said abruptly, his mood changing. His eyes darkened; he shouted to his pages who still skulked nervously outside.

  ‘We cannot have all we want,’ he said, dismissing me suddenly. ‘In good time, as God wills, you may yet see Cambray.’

  ‘As God wills, or you,’ I retorted unwisely. ‘Take castles, revenues, lands, but let me at least breathe fresh air again, western air, that is.’

  ‘When you are angry,’ he said, ‘you are like a wet hen, all froth and feathers. Mind your speech, lady.’

  ‘And you yours,’ I snapped back. ‘You curse as freely as a peddler at a fair, although less skilfully. I see little to choose between your tempers and mine, except that you are older, who should be wiser, and a man, who should speak a lady fair.’

  ‘And your liege lord,’ he added.

  ‘I forget it not, my lord,’ I said. ‘Every day, every hour, do I recall it. With every mouthful, every stitch, is your bounty impressed.’

  ‘Now, by God,’ he said, dragging himself up, ‘you do me wrong at that. You have an evil tongue, Lady Ann. Perhaps this will stop it since nothing else does.’

  Before I knew what he was about, he had pulled me against him, crushing my arms against my sides as if to break them off. His mouth clamped down on mine to choke off breath. For a moment, I felt his rage flare against my own. Then a new emotion that I did not know took hold instead. His tall frame was hard against my own. And my weak body, instead of fighting back, seemed to fold and bend into place against the lines of his ... I should have struggled, but could not any more than I could have moved that day in the sunlit glade. And where there had been anger was something else I did not then know, but as strong and forceful. He released me violently, thrusting me from him. Did he feel a similar like and dislike? Did he sense in me the conflict of resistance and compliance together? He sprawled back in his chair, shirt torn, leggings stained and bloodied, as oafish as a peasant in the fields. I felt a blush of shame and pleasure stain my cheeks as he watched me. Then I swirled round, almost running into the startled men at the door, and fled away to safety in the women’s bower.

  4

  Strangely enough, the Lady Mildred did not scold as much as I had feared. Cecile received back the wreckage of her dress in silence. Perhaps they thought Lord Raoul’s anger was enough. Nor did th
ey question me. No doubt there was no need, for rumours of what had happened would have flown far and wide. But there were many things that seemed strange at that time, and gossip was the least of them. My own moods confused me; by turns happy, sad, angry, pleased, I was furious with myself and with him. At best, I thought, he had bested me, making me seem a plaything, of little worth; at worst, he had revealed thoughts and longings that should have been kept hidden.

  It was difficult even to say what those feelings were. Remember, I had lived much on my own, not knowing people of my own age or rank. Among the common folk, it is enough to live and exist; they have no time for subtleties. Thoughts came to me slowly. I was still unknowing, not of the facts, but of the ways of the world. But gradually I resolved that since Cambray and I could come together only when some man took me to wife, the obvious solution lay there.

  Today, maidens are not so blunt, so practical. And yet I think that not only practicality brought the idea to mind. The season continued warm and mellow, a summer-out-of-time, they call it, when everything seems ripe to overflowing. Even the Lady Mildred’s censoring could not dampen our spirits on days like these. We lazed that autumn away, as if there should never be an end to it. Often we would find shade in the forest among the beeches and old oaks, and as we lay or sat under the trees, Giles and the other young men would climb the branches and send nuts falling into our laps. The peasants, off in the meadows, would be tying up the last stooks of corn. The slow curl of smoke would mark where they were preparing the fields. Then Geoffrey or one of the other men would tell us of the courts of love that this Eleanor of Aquitaine, new Countess of Anjou, used to hold among the nobles of her southern court to bind them to her will. I would lie upon my back and watch the leaves float down from a pale blue sky and wonder what the future would hold for me, and whether one day I would have poets sing my praises and young men faint for love of me. What harm was there in such thoughts? Do not all young girls dream sometimes? I had grown up in a sterner world, but there could be no harm in dreaming.

  Cecile now, and her yellow-headed Geoffrey, did not she tie him to her will by promises of delight? I think we held our courts of love and lust at Sedgemont in those days, and all hearts turned to thoughts of marriage then.

  One afternoon, it was as still and fair as a May day, we had come into the woods as usual, and were sitting in our little groups, talking softly among ourselves while the Lady Mildred tried to bring order to the work she had set that morning. Geoffrey was strumming to himself upon a lute. Some of the other knights had brought their horses to the water’s shallows and were letting them drink and stamp to cool themselves after a long ride at the tilting yard.

  Cecile said to me, ‘He watches you, Lord Raoul. Did you know that?’

  I looked up, surprised. I had not spoken with him since the day of the hunt, although at night I dined in the Great Hall as he had ordered. It had seemed, sometimes, when I looked up quickly from my place, that his gaze slid past as if it would not be caught. I cannot say if that pleased or displeased me. He seemed, perhaps thoughtful is the word, but I supposed it was his wound that made him morose; and since he went out each day about his affairs, I presumed some worries of his own made him preoccupied. I had not given thought to what they might be. Certainly I did not imagine he was concerned With me.

  ‘He watches you,’ said Geoffrey, ‘because I think he must make plans for Cambray soon. Now that he has lost Sieux, Cambray will count the more.’ At my stare of surprise, ‘You did not know that Sieux was lost? Well, Geoffrey of Anjou took it for his own in his last campaign before his death. Henry of Anjou is Count of Sieux now. It is a hard loss to Lord Raoul.’

  ‘They say he is no longer betrothed,’ Cecile said, ‘is that true also?’

  Again my surprise must have been obvious. I had not thought Lord Raoul a man betrothed. He had not acted like one.

  ‘I cannot speak to that.’ Geoffrey said uneasily, that he was spreading unwelcome news. ‘We went not to see her in France. Well, she was older than he was. Not all her lands and wealth would have made me bed her. I think he had as little liking, by all I have heard. The Lady Mildred had best look to her maidens now.’

  ‘Hark how he talks of wealth and lands who has yet to win them by his sword,’ Cecile said, smiling to herself. ‘I can reach higher than a landless squire.’

  Geoffrey seemed so abashed at that that I felt sorry for him, remembering my father’s life.

  ‘When I come back to Cambray,’ I said, ‘there will be place and lands for all.’

  They all smiled at that, indulgently, at hearing something that a child dreams on. Once I would have resented their smiles as mockery. Yet all the same, underneath my words I felt discomfort grow. I had not known that misfortune had hit him so close. I had not known that he had plans to be married. Yet both Dylan and Geoffrey had hinted that he treated all women lightly—well, he would not make light of me.

  Geoffrey sighed. ‘If Cambray is to be of use to us,’ he said, ‘you must look for a husband, Lady Ann. While Lord Raoul holds you as his ward, we are helpless here.’

  ‘Why not indeed,’ I said to make them laugh. But I thought, why not, since I have little to gain or lose.

  ‘The soldier Dylan has promised to serve you well. I, Geoffrey, shall be your knight, and you, Cecile, lady-in-waiting.’

  They laughed again, play-acting their roles. Well, it was long ago; did we ever then expect things to turn out as they have?

  ‘And you, Giles, her squire.’

  He smiled with the rest, more serious, not jesting as they did. It was after all what we had planned for him long ago. Yet Giles too had changed. I cannot say it was the beating that had caused the change—a stable boy is always in the way of cuffs and blows—but this time had been different. I could not put into words how I became sure of this; he never spoke of it again, who once had had no secrets from me. He had not been so angry as I would have thought, nor yet so uncaring either. And he was changing in other ways, filling out, becoming broader. Each day now he trained with the other squires, learning to use sword and buckler and handle a horse, although he would never be as skilled as those who had begun this work when they were children. But he took these things seriously. Was that the difference, that when the others played at games, he did not? One thing I knew: although more loyal friend, devoted companion, I would never have, he had found a sense of fitness, duty, that had nothing to do with me. My squire he might be, but not my lover now. And that both saddened and excited me.

  That night, I spent longer than usual preparing for the feast. Cecile was kindness itself, lending me another overtunic to hide the deficiencies of the poor-fitting gown beneath, binding my hair with ribbons until I felt like some ox going decked to a country fair. When she had finished, she showed me her handiwork in the small hand mirror she had. Yes, I too had changed, filled out. I had not Cecile’s prettiness, my eyes were still too large and dark, my hair was still the same shade, still flared out in wisps and webs and not smoothed to sleekness, my complexion had not her pink and white, but no one, I think, would have called me ‘skin and bone’. That night I wore my mother’s chaplet as my sign of rank; that night I sought among the men at Sedgemont for someone to win me back Cambray.

  When you are bound to a course, it is a chain that binds you tight. Perhaps I would have been more discreet had not Geoffrey’s words made me hasty. I cannot tell how well I practised all the tricks I had been watching in the ladies’ bower. But I had noted that beneath their downturned eyes, they knew how to look as fierce as men; their low-tuned voices rang out clearly when they would. If they said little, it was with intent. If they talked of walking here or riding there, it was to let someone know the time and place. If they smiled at one man, it was to tease his neighbour. If they moved restlessly for lack of air or heat, it was to expose a glimpse of breast or thigh. Well, despite all the Holy Church says contrary, it makes no sense to me that of all the female kind, women alone should not find pleasure in t
heir mates, nor seek them out as do the lowly beasts. Nor can I see, to speak plain, why men should know more pleasure in their beds, except that they expect women will not, who often do not dare express what they feel. Well, I am no laggard. I learned how easy it is to look and smile when you want, and then, when you have forgotten why you must, easier still. That night, I, who was always silent among the rest, a stranger, showed how I laughed and flirted. And at the meal’s end, when they spoke of dancing in the lower hall, my voice was raised as high as the rest.

  The menials ran to brush back the straw and clear a space before the fire. The dogs crept to the sides and the men waited by the wall benches to watch. Others brought out viols and flutes, and even the Lady Mildred’s foot began to tap. And at the High Table, Lord Raoul sat with a face of thunder and drank alone.

  Some of the dances I did not know. Others I remembered from childhood days and called for those again and again. I danced with older, heavier men who made an effort to keep themselves light of foot. I danced with Giles, who knew as little as I and complained of dizziness. I danced with Cecile’s Geoffrey and smiled at him, for practice, no more. ‘He dances as he talks,’ I told her, ‘trippingly. You must scold him, Cecile, to take more pains.’

  ‘It will not be I who scold,’ she said.

  ‘Who else?’

  She jerked her head to where Lady Mildred and Sir Brian stood, to the table where Lord Raoul sat.