by Mary Lide
‘Why look you so?’ Lord Raoul was saying. ‘Lady Ann, you are white as death. Why do you not answer?’
The salt spray lay on my cheeks like tears. The great sea rolled far off. So rolls it, they say, to the world’s end, mile after mile.
Drowned, my father said. His men wrapped his son in a heavy cloak and brought him to Cambray. My father leaned from his horse and drew his sword as if to cut his heart out of grief.
‘Perhaps she dreams of Cambray,’ said Lord Guy.
‘She thinks of it, certainly,’ said Sir Brian, moving a pawn.
‘Then shall she return,’ Lord Guy of Maneth said.
‘I shall bear you back there as wife.’ Gilbert smiled.
‘What ails you?’ Raoul said at my side.
How could I tell him I saw two things plain, set one upon the other like two pictures painted on a single frame. I have not spoken of it all these years. Yet I tell you true. Explain it as you will. While I watched Gilbert smile at me in Sedgemont Hall, I saw my brother drowned at Cambray strand. I only know that I believe there is no action, good or bad, that does not at some time come home upon a distant shore. And so to God may all things seem ripples moving endlessly on a lake. Three times in my life have I stepped outside recorded time, for grief and pain, and never wished to know it. Three times. This was the second and the worst. I would not for all the prayers in the world have spoken of what I saw. But I have told and will tell you true.
‘The lady needs time to think on such things.’ Lord Raoul’s voice was warm and comforting.
‘Let my son give her the kiss of peace, that they be counted betrothed.’
‘Thus will the affairs of Sedgemont and Maneth be knitted up,’ Sir Brian echoed.
Beside them, Gilbert bowed again and preened.
And I said, ‘I will not wed with murderers. They have slain my house.’
Then they all shouted at once. What an outcry of noise, spilling down about us. Gilbert of Maneth made the most of all. Sir Brian upset his chess pieces, scattering them upon the reeds. Then was he at Lord Raoul’s side whispering advice. Lord Raoul himself was silent, but I guessed what anger that silence held. Nor did Guy of Maneth speak except for one start, as if exclamation was forced from him. But his men hissed as at outrage.
For my own part, I had nothing more to add. I had said it all. I wished it had never been. If gift it is to catch time out of joint, I would not know. It comes not of my seeking. They say there be those who can cull such things from the air, what has been and will be. I wish them joy of it. It brought me no such joy.
‘Last time I was here,’ Lord Guy said at last, and as he moved, his cloak fell wide as if the fire’s heat overwhelmed him, and I saw the glint of steel, ‘she spoke of a servant killed.
Now she speaks of murder of all. She sings to but one tune. Maids were more careful in their talk once. I come not to be trifled with.’
‘She is mad,’ Gilbert said, his small eyes starting, ‘bewitched. I’ll have none of her . . .’
‘Or overwrought.’ His father pressed his arm to silence him.
‘We should talk again at your leisure, my lords. But time is wasting. No doubt she can be brought to reason.’
‘A whip would do it,’ Sir Gilbert said, red faced and angry. ‘On her knees, she’d not speak so loud.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Lord Raoul said, and the knife at his side swung as he moved.
‘Be not too hasty,’ Sir Brian amended speech. ‘My lord of Maneth, Sir Gilbert, Lord Raoul...’
Raoul motioned him away. ‘The Lady Ann had right to speech.’
Maneth raised his brows. ‘Such mad fantasies?’ he said.
‘Such lies,’ Gilbert broke in. When he moved, he was slow as if sinking into marshland. ‘I told you we were friends. How could we plan to kill them? It was so long ago, what could she remember?’
Lord Guy took his son’s arm. The knuckles were white where he gripped.
‘She can know nothing,’ he said, quick-witted where Gilbert was slow.
For me, their guilt stood around them like a pall; yet, I doubt if any other there saw it. Except Maneth himself. He was fast, sensing out what I could know, could only guess at.
He said to Lord Raoul, ‘You should consider many things before we withdraw. For we have ridden in haste, not letting time and weather stand upon our coming. Your objection to my suit this spring was well taken. I have no grievance with that; she is too young for me and our ages do not match. You who are younger see clearer, although I have not felt myself old and may look for a wife of my own still. But Gilbert is not old, not so much above your age. He would be a stout ally in these wars. As I said before, we lords of Maneth would give you support. You need vassals you can rely upon, and our help may be sought by many sides. In bad times, we need to stick together, else there will be rich picking for someone in the end.’
‘I do not expect to have my lands picked over,’ Lord Raoul said. There was an edge to his voice that made the others step back. ‘I think to see to my own demesne lands yet. The lords of Cambray were loyal vassals in their day. They will not be easy to replace.’
Lord Guy’s face flushed also at that. But with an effort he controlled himself and shrugged.
‘If you think so, my lord. Ill news travels fast these days. I thought my help of use after the loss of your lands in France.’
They eyed each other, the two men almost of a height, the older sturdier, solid, the younger light, more flexible.
So once, long ago, had my father and Talisin looked beside each other. I thought, Dear God, they will be at each other’s throats, and that will be my fault. But there was nothing I could do.
‘All the more so,’ Gilbert said breathlessly, thrusting his way forward again, his eyes bulging with the import of his news, ‘that Cambray keep is taken this month past.’
We all stared at that, his father in most anger of all that Gilbert had let slip a piece of information he would have kept to his advantage. I thought he would have struck Gilbert where he stood.
‘My lords, this is grave news,’ Sir Brian cried. ‘How, by whom? Lord Raoul, this comes untimely. . .’
Lord Raoul said nothing, but held Lord Guy so in his look that the older man shifted and fell back again.
‘I would have spoken of it first off,’ he said. He was a smooth liar when he talked. ‘You may judge how much I cared to push this match that despite the loss of Cambray, I would have it go ahead. It will be of small consequence if we find quick means to drive them out.’
‘It cannot be the Angevins,’ Sir Brian said. ‘Henry of Anjou could not have passed the coast without our knowledge. Who then?’
‘The Celts, my lord, have not sat idly by. You know how long the bond has been between them and Cambray. A band came skirmishing down from the mountain passes, claiming to be bringing messages of good will.’
‘And the fools of Cambray let them in,’ Gilbert broke in viciously. ‘There be your loyal vassals, my lord. Fools.’
‘Well,’ said his father more lamely, for after all, Cambray was what he wanted, too, ‘they have got their foot inside and will not budge. Cambray was not well manned. The castle guard, such as it was, needed supplies and trusted the Celts. I do not fault them, my lord of Sedgemont. But Cambray is a strong castle to besiege. By foolishness the Celts got in.’
‘And as easily will be whipped out again,’ Lord Raoul said lazily. You would not have guessed those words had robbed him of a third of his English lands. ‘The Celts like not to be penned inside. They are hill people, preferring the mountain freedom. They will not adapt to castle life.’
‘If you have time, my lord,’ Lord Guy said smoothly, ‘or men enough to hem them round. The border is long if you must watch it as well. You should think what troops you have at command, although for courtesy I would not have mentioned it before. But if Gilbert becomes Lord of Cambray, then that frees you from a burden at once. He can use soldiers from Maneth to that siege, leaving you freer with your own men. And m
ine will also be at your service’... He paused to let the words sink in. ‘And Gilbert still would be wed, even if the keep of Cambray be not free. Despite the unseemliness we have witnessed here, he would be wed.’
‘His anxiety becomes him as well as your solicitude for the lands and titles of Cambray,’ Lord Raoul drawled. ‘But I shall have time to put my own affairs to rights and hold the western marches for King Stephen.’
‘Then have it as you will,’ Maneth said angrily, and his hand twitched to his side. So must he have looked when he came in the spring. ‘Let things fall out as best they may. Think not to have me at your call when Henry of Anjou comes.’
‘He has not yet come,’ Lord Raoul said. ‘Much may happen before that day. After all, we have driven the Angevins out before and will do so again. Do you think of that, my lord of Maneth, lest you be forced to change your tune. As I think you did last time.’
It was a remark meant to anger and provoke. Lord Guy’s men were eyeing the space between them and the door, closing behind their master. Lord Raoul’s squire was at his side, but none of the other older Sedgemont men were armed; Sir Brian did not even have a knife.
For seconds again, they wavered.
Then Lord Guy turned his back, his cloak flaring behind, clanking forth from the Great Hall with Gilbert braying at his heels. Yet one word more he dropped, spilled like venom before he left. ‘And who helped the Celts to enter so easily? Ask what traffic she has had with Cambray.’ Then he was gone.
Sir Brian and the older men poured after him, snatching at sword and shield from their places along the wall as they went. The younger knights came running. But there would be no brawl in the outer bailey. The moment for attack would have been here, with only Raoul and his squire armed. And now he and I were left alone in the Great Hall.
‘That was done well,’ he said to me. ‘You have made a friend today, for me, for the king, for yourself.’ His voice was cold, withdrawn, but the pulse beat in his cheek.
‘And I thank you for your defence,’ I said. ‘I expected no favours from you.’
‘Favours!’ He whirled on me. ‘I stand not on such niceties. You heard him, that he should think to juggle with my affairs. Could not you keep your mouth shut to play your games elsewhere?’
So did he judge what I had said. Well, I would not enlighten him.
‘By the Rood,’ he said ’there were better ways to show your dislike than that. It is an insult no man can bear.’
He wheeled about again. ‘It is as ill done as if you knew it all planned before. Are you sure your hand is not in this with the help of your mother’s kin?’
‘You need not shout,’ I said. ‘You have accused me of such dealings before, although not so openly. I know nothing of Cambray’s capture, by whom or how. But we may not even now know the truth, for Lord Guy may have lied also in this. Send to find out.’
‘So I shall,’ he snarled again. ‘More than that, I shall go myself. I do not mean to let Cambray go begging whilst I have head and hands to get it back. But do not plot against me ...’
‘I am no traitor,’ I shouted then, ‘although you have called me so since you first saw me.’
‘I never thought so,’ he said, ‘until now.’
‘You lie,’ I said, angry enough to tell a man he lied to his face. ‘You and Sir Brian both; while I lay as in a swoon, you talked. I heard you then, what you hoped and planned. Sly and smooth as a snake you called me.’
He was silent.
‘And you spoke then also of Cambray. And of your need for Maneth’s support. For his help were you willing to sell Cambray and me. What is this Maneth, a man of no worth, an evil man, you heard what I said, a murderer. Rot you in hell, my lord of Sedgemont, that was not knightly done.’
He strode back and forth, debating with himself.
‘Calm yourself, my lady,’ he said at last. ‘Do not look at me so. I do not know what has distressed you, but sure I will believe that it has moved you greatly. Such passion, such look, cannot be counterfeit.’
There was more fairness in his words than I would have given him credit for.
‘What proof have you of what you accuse him of?’ he asked. ‘Against father as against son. Gilbert would not move a foot without his father’s will. And he is stupid. He let slip that news of Cambray without his father’s leave.’
And you would have me wed such a man, I thought.
‘I have no proof,’ I said, ‘as you would hold the word.’ How reasonably I spoke, whose heart was throbbing still with shock.
‘Too many years ago it was,’ he said.
‘There may be those who will talk, if you could but find them,’ I said. ‘My lord, I know it. I cannot explain it or tell you how I know.’
He looked at me searchingly. But I would not answer him further.
‘It is said,’ he said slowly, ‘that there be those of your race who have power to see what the rest of us cannot.’
‘I do not know about that,’ I said, ‘but we believe that the dead do not rest until they are avenged. With or without proof, I shall have vengeance.’
‘Not you alone,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘They were my friends, too. Yet never hint or thought of wrong until now.’
‘Or last spring,’ I said. ‘You have forgotten Gwendyth’s death. He was here then.’
He said suddenly, as if against his will, ‘But why? I believe you. Lady Ann, though it goes against the grain of common sense. But why now, after so long? Cambray is. . .’ He stopped as if collecting thought, then went on as if to answer himself. ‘Cambray is important to us. Its loss is a drawback which I will admit to you, if not to him. Since you have charged me with false speaking, I will tell you straight, this sets all else amiss. For I must lead my forces out now, not waiting until Anjou comes, or catching him as he lands. The coast must watch for itself. I shall run before him to the border. Maneth is right. It will be harder without his troops to besiege Cambray, and I have not enough among my own men. We shall have to camp rough, for a start, and scrounge for what we need. The Celts can exist on air, but Norman soldiers prefer a Norman castle at their back. And Maneth will be breathing malice to the north. After this, I cannot count on his neutrality. As for you...’
He eyed me speculatively. ‘There will be no safety for you now, less the Lord of Maneth thinks to come a-wooing here again. And you have shown too well that Sedgemont is no place to hold you. My mother’s cousin is prioress of a convent nearby. There shall you cool your heels.’
I was appalled.
‘I thought to come with you to Cambray,’ I began.
He almost laughed, but a bitter laugh.
‘Think you this a pleasure jaunt? Thanks to you, my hoped-for ally is lost. Thanks to your kin, my base is lost. Anjou may linger in France until the Yuletide is past. But he is coming back to England to wage war again. Unless we are careful, he will have the whole western island on his side. And without revenues to hire more soldiers, and I have not those moneys, my losses in France will leave me that much the poorer, I cannot keep an army in the field longer than my vassals are willing to honour their feudal duty. If we cannot push him to decisive battle right away ... but that may be difficult.’
I was intrigued against myself.
‘And does not King Stephen give you help?’ I asked. ‘Does he not send you troops?’
His laugh was bitter again.
‘King Stephen has much on his mind,’ he said. ‘Too much to know what to do first, so he wavers back and forth and achieves nothing. He has quarrelled with the Church, which first supported him. He has lost many of his barons and fears to lose the rest. His son, Prince Eustace, is ungovernable, a man of sudden fits and rages. His queen, whom all loved, is dead. She was a strength to him that he will lack. But while he sits besotted with his grief and will not move hand or foot to save himself, he puts all in jeopardy. I will get no troops or support from him. Yet I have told him that I shall hold the west. So is our life made up, Lady Ann, by oath and trus
t to each other, to him who is above, to him who is below. I have sworn an oath to Stephen as my king. I can do no other but abide by it.’
He paused as if reflecting on what he had said.
‘And even if my loyalty to him did not bid me,’ he said at last, ‘I needs must have a care for Sedgemont. I have had knowledge of these Angevins before, as I told you. When I was a child, I have an early memory of how they rode through my lands at Sieux, slashing at the crops and vines because the castle withstood them. What will they make of this country but a place to harvest loot as other men harvest grain? So even if King Stephen is sunk with indecision and grief, others must think and act for him. What if a cause be half-lost, one need not fight the less.’
‘You do not think Anjou will win?’ I cried.
He shrugged. ‘You have not seen yet what desolation war can bring. Lands destroyed, people homeless, crops ruined, families torn asunder. We need a strong king to put things back in order. When there is no strong king or he forgets his duty, the land is dead, waste. Men like Maneth can prey upon it; bit by bit, they build up their power. Yes, Cambray will be useful to Lord Guy. It will crown all his efforts. And all over England now there are such men, taking advantage of the times to gain their own ends. We need a strong man to push them back in place again. If Stephen cannot do it, then people may turn to Anjou in the hope he will. Yet which is worse, a king who lets all slip to anarchy, or a tyrant who will crush both good and bad beneath his heel? If Stephen will bestir himself, he can win. If not, he will not.’
‘But may not Anjou change?’ I cried again. ‘Are there not laws, rules, to bind our kings?’
He laughed. ‘A tyrant will make his own rules,’ he said, ‘not caring for what he will find here. Besides, what customs, laws, can he find? England is not one country but three. What customs are there in common among Norman, Saxon, and Celt? See how great difference there is between your race and mine. It will not be difficult for Henry to make his own laws.’
‘But what of me then?’ I cried, for as he spoke, an idea had come into my mind, so strange I almost fell over at its daring. ‘I too can be tenacious of purpose. Because two men have bid for me, one too old, one too stupid, does not mean that Cambray should not be commanded by my husband. You still could have someone.’
