Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  ‘They are too old to care,’ I said laughingly. But I wanted Lord Raoul to care.

  ‘I think you mean to anger him,’ Cecile said shrewdly. ‘Beware. He is not one to bandy nonsense lightly.’

  I took a hurried look. He still sat alone, drinking heavily but not sottishly as some men do. I vouch there was not one woman there who would not have left all the rest to go with him had he beckoned.

  ‘He will be too far gone in his cups to remember anything,’ I said.

  Perhaps I spoke too loudly; perhaps he guessed what I said. The next dance was new from France. I thought it safer to sit at the back and rethread the ribbons in my hair and keep myself out of his black looks. I wanted to anger him, but not too much. I wanted him to notice me, but not too closely.

  ‘So you will not dance to Norman tunes, lady?’ His voice coming unexpectedly made me start.

  ‘Why should I, my lord?’ I said. ‘They do not interest me.’ He swore under his breath.

  ‘Then learn you shall with me,’ he said, jerking me to my feet. ‘Dance you shall when I bid you.’

  ‘Your courtesy demands my obedience, my lord,’ I said angrily, until common sense told me to keep my temper. I made an effort to be pleasant. Was it my fault he took it amiss?

  ‘Your wound will pain you. You should take care.’

  ‘You count me a dolt,’ he said, ‘or an old man, that I must creep across the floor?’

  And in truth, since the wine did make him lurch so that he put out a hand to steady himself, I was forced to hide my smile.

  ‘Why, nay, my lord,’ I said, looking at him in this new way I had been learning, ‘but I thought men of war had not the time for such gentle arts.’

  He swore again at that.

  ‘So you prefer games after all,’ he said, holding my hand tightly, forcing me to trail after him. ‘It seems but yesterday you were begging for rescue from them. . .’

  ‘Ah, my lord,’ I said with a sweet smile, although I could have kicked him for such mean memory, ‘but look how much I have changed since then.’

  We had come to the far side of the room. He suddenly pushed me by the shoulder out of the small doorway there that gave onto one of those inner courtyards which was hemmed in by walls all round. Someone long ago had planted a bush at the side, perhaps the same lady who had planned the pleasure gardens without the walls, and in the warm weather its white flowers still shone as if it were full summer. He pulled me before him until I had almost gone head first into the bush and would have been buried in its leaves had he not stopped in time to swing me round, so that we faced each other. I could feel the soft fur that lined his tunic against my cheek, but his face was in the shadows.

  ‘My lord,’ I said, striving to speak calmly to hide my fear. ‘Your men will wonder where you are. They will follow. . .’

  ‘No, they will not,’ he said, ‘unless I give them leave. And I have not given them leave. They remember, which you do not, that I am master here.’

  ‘No, my lord,’ I protested. ‘I too remember it.’

  ‘Damn your eyes,’ he said. ‘Who taught you to look so?’

  ‘There seems little to please you, my lord,’ I said. ‘Speaking or looking, I give offence.’

  He said, ‘I prefer your jabbering. When you are quiet there is mischief abroad. So now, mistress, what devilry are you about to have my men tripping on their swords to serve you?’

  I smiled to myself at that. ‘They do me courtesy, my lord,’ I said, ‘or perhaps they have learned from you what ways to pleasure women.’

  ‘God’s teeth, brat,’ he said, ‘you take much upon yourself. No woman is worth so much fret. . .’

  ‘Not even your betrothed, my lord?’ I asked sweetly.

  ‘You speak out of turn,’ he said, sobered. ‘Out of ignorance.’

  ‘Or perhaps she is far away in France. And you forget your troth. . .’

  ‘No,’ he shouted, ‘I do not forget it. But I have no mind to wed.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, then,’ I said, ‘I thought to have heard you were betrothed in France and wished to give you joy.’

  ‘Where got you your news?’ he said. ‘It is outdated, lady. No bride waits for me in Sieux. Or anywhere else, I trust.’

  ‘Do not you wish for one?’ I said. ‘Do not you want heirs to your estate?’

  ‘To have heirs, Lady Ann,’ he said, cold-voiced, in the deliberate way that always made my anger flare, ‘to have sons, one should have something to leave them. Heirs must inherit, no?’

  I started to reply but he broke in, ‘Your news is not only outdated but ill-placed. I have not lost a bride but Sieux itself. I told you the Angevins were free with other people’s demesnes. They long have eyed Sieux and now they have it. And my bride, whose lands run close to mine, has quickly found new interests to her father’s better liking. I doubt if she thinks overmuch of me, although she would have liked to be Countess of Sieux. So do not grieve for her or me. It was my grandfather’s choosing, not mine. Sieux and its adjoining estates of Auterre and Chatille, those you may grieve for. But speak not of marriage to me. I have no wish or thought of it.’

  The bitterness in his voice gave me pause. I had not thought he would mention it, yet something of the loss he felt struck a cord in me. But I steeled myself. I had not come to pity him, merely to force my own will.

  ‘But I do, my lord,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I am afire to know more.’

  I flushed at the sarcasm but went on. ‘You still have Sedgemont, Lord Raoul. All your English lands. And Cambray.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘If once you thought to be betrothed, to wed to knot up your lands in France, why then I think to do the same. I ask you, as you have wardship over me, to find me a husband of my own.’

  He stared, and laughed.

  ‘You may find much in me to mock,’ I said stiffly. ‘But I think that this is so. My father was your loyal vassal and held those lands of Cambray loyally. I have inherited it but cannot claim it until some man holds it of you. Then I will have a man to hold it in my stead.’

  ‘You are overbold, lady,’ he said. ‘It is not for you or any maid to make such a demand. Even your father, had he lived, must have waited at my pleasure. That is my right as overlord.’

  ‘She who was Queen of France, this Eleanor who now is wife to Henry of Anjou,’ I said, ‘did not she leave the King of France and take a new husband of her own choice? And did not she take her lands with her?’

  ‘You do but guess at great affairs,’ he said, still half-amused. ‘Do not think to ape your betters.’

  ‘If you had not kept me mewed up in Sedgemont,’ I said hotly, ‘I could be as capable as any, how to judge these things. You do not explain yourself overclearly, my lord. Perhaps it is because you are not willing to admit women are capable of thought at all. I do not set myself up against the highest. I know my place, far beneath you great lords. But the worth of Cambray I know. You have already told me its importance in a future war. It would be better settled soon.’

  ‘And who then,’ he asked, ‘have you in mind, Lady Ann of Cambray, that you offer your lands as bait? Which of my men have you selected with your airs and smiles just now? One of Sir Brian’s cronies, scarce able to heave himself upon his horse, let alone a bridal bed? Or one of my younger squires, he of the yellow crest, who swoons at your favour? Or your stable lad? I think you are overfond of him. . .’

  ‘It is easy to make a fool of me,’ I said. ‘I have no protection. . .’

  ‘Protection!’ he roared. ‘You make that claim like a bell to Mass, pat upon the hour. What woman ever could hold her mind straight without twisting all to her own ends? Protection, says she; wed, says she; demand, says she. Then, Madame Know-All, hear this.’

  He took his hand from my shoulder and struck it against the wall as he spoke.

  ‘One: Cambray is mine to give as I choose. To him who will serve me well, who will hold Cambray as a soldier should, doin
g military duty along the border. Two: I have your future in mind even to the point of considering marriage for you—if there be man who can have the patience to make you fit to wife. Three: I have your welfare so much in thought that I have already refused one offer when it was made in the spring. Four: Times have changed. I may not be so nice of choice a second time...’

  ‘Who was it then?’ I cried. ‘How dare you, without telling me. Why was I not told?’

  He stopped at that. I do not think anyone had spoken to him so.

  ‘Four,’ he continued slowly. ‘I am not so free as once I was to bargain with Cambray. My choice may not be to your liking.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ I cried, as angry as he, ‘perhaps not. But do not think that all my worth is to be bargained in some war that has naught to do with me. It could be that I shall use you. I have some value of my own, although you scorn it.’

  ‘I have no doubt you think so,’ he said, slowly again. ‘Use you. I wonder if you know what you say. When you look thus, I could use you very well.’

  He took another step towards me, although there was nowhere I could go, half-buried as I was in leaves.

  ‘Thus it is, lady, that saucy maids are used.’

  His hands were round my waist, dragging me out. His kisses were on my face, lips, throat, half-demanding, half-contemptuous. I struggled against him, beating on him. I might as well have hit out at wall or tree, for all I could hold him off.

  ‘And thus also are saucy wives tamed,’ he said, at my ear. ‘Think you that before you make so bold demands again.’

  I told myself I hated and reviled him, that this was what he did to all maids, that his men should have nicknamed him as they did. I could feel my heart beat against him as he held me off the ground and swung me round to avoid my heels. I could feel every hard line of his body, every curve against my own. As he could mine. His grip tightened so I could scarcely breathe. His free hand ran across my breast, along my flanks, searching out the pleasure points. The flowers smelled sweet, sweet was his breath, and all the air flowered round us. I freed myself long enough to cry, ‘You have no right.’

  He released me then, with a look I could not understand. ‘In this world, Ann,’ he said, ‘men have all the rights ... So tempt not my castle guard. And remember this: it is a Norman custom that when a ward weds, her lord has leave to bed her first. That may be a right I shall claim if you tempt me to.’

  ‘You would not dare,’ I cried with my last ounce of will. He smiled down at me. ‘When you are grown to womanhood,’ he said, ‘speak to me then of dare. I will not cross you again.’

  Then he was gone, dropping me like cloak or glove upon the ground. I stood begrimed with leaves and twigs, and in my turn beat at the wall, that in nothing he counted me of value, not even as a woman. And forgot, until it was too late to ask, that he had not told me who it was who had wished to wed me for my lands.

  Perhaps he had never meant to tell me even that much. It may have slipped out in speech without his noticing. Or, as was his way, he may have meant to keep his own counsel on the matter and was angered at his carelessness. I do not mean that he was devious. But remember. He had long had to manage his own affairs. He had had charge of Sieux from an early age, and since his grandfather’s death had controlled it and Sedgemont. He had survived at Stephen’s court. Such men must learn the art of making decisions and keeping quiet when they are made. In this we were mismatched. Scarce had I thought of something, I must blurt it out for all the world to hear. Caution, distrust, if you like, had become second nature to him. And he was proud, arrogant as a Lucifer. All our weaknesses ran on the same paths. We were bound to rage and flare against each other.

  But I move ahead. First must I tell you how a second marriage offer was made for me, without my asking, and how Lord Raoul managed that, and how we crossed each other for the third time. For since it was clear to me, at least, that our wishes never would run straight, I had sense to see we would never avoid a battle of will. Except I was young enough then to hope that in the end I might win.

  It was not difficult to guess who had made the offer for my lands. I was not vain enough to think my person of importance in this. You will have guessed it, too. For it must have been someone from the west, well placed, ambitious for more power, having something of his own to offer Lord Raoul in return. Only one such man there was, and he had come to Sedgemont in the spring. My flesh crawled at the thought. And while I lay as in a swoon, I had heard them discuss it; no wonder I had guessed right—like a horse that is to be bought or sold. Then, too, there was the man himself. He was old, widowed with grown children, my father’s contemporary although younger than he had been. Yet not so old then that he might not want a new young wife who could bring him added land and power, how had Lord Raoul put it, ‘knot up’ his own estates along the border with Cambray’s. And Sir Brian, what had he said, ‘A good fighter, better on our side than on the other.’ Perhaps then, if he came wooing again, Cambray would be the prize to win his support. And his support was needed if Henry of Anjou came back to England. I tell you that before I had no care for kings or queens, although I have known them and their courts since. But for the first time then I saw how our lives were bound together, such is the chain of things, from highest to lesser to least. And whether I would or not, my little life would be tied to greater causes, and a kingdom’s battle. Anything that the great do has some effect on everyone. So had Lord Raoul said. So it proved.

  They say among my people, who have such powers, that if you think upon a thing long enough, you can will it to happen. I knew, before Giles came running to tell me, who had arrived in the night and entered Sedgemont gates at early dawn. If I had been Maneth and had heard of Sedgemont’s loss in France, I would have galloped all night, too, to catch him disadvantaged and press a suit that was so much to my own interests. But I was calm when Giles described who had come, remembering each horse as other people do faces. He knew how far and fast they had ridden and who had come with Lord Guy.

  ‘But two horses are missing,’ he said, ‘two bays that came last time.’ And he described them and their peculiarities that I might remember them. We looked at each other, thinking. Lord Guy would never risk bringing men I might recognise. Nor would he come on the same errand again unless he had some hope of success this time. That frightened me. Yet it must be borne, and I could not change my fate either.

  I was calm too when they came to bid me attend the lords in the Great Hall. All knew why they had come. I tell you, it was in the air, that even dark-faced older men should think of it. Lady Mildred herself helped deck me for the ritual, exhorting me the while on duty; Cecile, thinking of love, twined garlands as if for her own betrothal feast. But she could not wish me joy; she was too honest for that. Giles kept close watch at the door with sword drawn. But even he could not keep away what was to be. Yet I could not believe my hopes would end with such a man. And the dread, if that is not too strong a word, that I had felt when he was here before revived.

  When I came into the Great Hall, they were all standing around the fire. The false summer had long gone; the rains fell winter-cold and hard. What else is there for men to do on such days, except drink and talk and plan the world? Few of Lord Raoul’s men were there; for the most part, they kept to the outer halls. Sir Brian and his friends sat at one end, engaged in a game of chess. They favoured long furred robes against the cold, and caps upon their heads. Only Lord Raoul wore more martial gear, leather jerkin, belt with dagger, hose cross-gartered into boots. His squire kept watch at the door, with sword and shield, perhaps to cut me down where I stood if I did not obey.

  ‘This is the lady,’ Lord Raoul said, taking me by the hand. I did not look at him but felt my arm tremble beneath his touch. He led me forward. I kept my eyes downcast but had already noted Lord Guy of Maneth, heavy cloaked, dark faced, large. It is the hardest thing that I know for women not to show emotion. Else they will take us for heifers offered for sale, mindless as beasts. Yet, for all m
y poise, I felt a cold wind blow.

  ‘Lord Guy of Maneth,’ Lord Raoul intoned his rank, lord of this, holding land of that, vassal to another. . .how much he held already along that border, how much he had gained in this short while, how well Cambray would round out his possessions.

  ‘And his eldest son, his heir, Gilbert of Maneth.’

  Here was an unexpected difference. I looked at him more carefully. A tall man also, but heavy, so that Raoul beside him was almost slight. Dark skinned like his father, but soft-looking where the older man was hard. Him I seemed to remember also, and the cold wind blew louder. I heard what was said, but far off. I seemed to stand outside myself and hear the words form like rain.

  ‘Lord Guy of Maneth has come,’ Lord Raoul was saying, his speech hurried, unlike his own, ‘to renew his suit, but for his son Gilbert, whom you may remember from long ago.’

  Gilbert bowed and smiled. I should have remembered that smile. It seemed to grow and fill my mind. So had he smiled when he walked behind Talisin at Cambray.

  ‘I knew your brother, lady,’ he said. ‘We were fast friends, Talisin and I.’

  I recalled what Talisin had said of him: He clings like leech.‘And as he loved me best of all would I have you love me.’

  Steer clear of him, my father had warned. I would not trust father or son too close.

  I remembered them walking through the castle yard at Cambray, my brother ahead, Gilbert at his heels. And so it seemed to me then that all the stretch of beach and sea opened wide, and I heard the waves thunder on the shore. Gilbert stood with their cloaks about his arm and Talisin ran down into the water as I had watched him a hundred times. He dived into the waves that brought him laughing back upon a rush of foam. And Gilbert took his arms as if to draw him upright, and as the next wave swirled underfoot, thrust his head and held it under, held it under. Then the wave rushed back and Talisin lay like empty weed upon the shore . . . And Gilbert of Maneth turned and laughed, his laugh louder than the waves’ sound, and the wind blew colder through the Great Hall of Sedgemont.