by Mary Lide
Let me rather tell you first what became of Lord Raoul and his men, and all the great events that shook our island kingdom at that time. Long after did I hear of it, and Giles told me, in fits and starts as I drew it from him. For we met again, as you shall learn, and he showed how it was that Giles, a stable boy who scarcely knew the further side of the castle gates, rode forth with an army and saw the world. So while I sank within those convent walls, so mewed up that any life outside seemed almost unreal, Lord Raoul and his men rode swiftly towards the western border and Cambray.
‘A hard ride it was,’ Giles admitted at last, when I pressured him. ‘And we have complained of living roughly before. This was nothing but rain and cold and damp so that you could not sit or lie or ride but the water dripped and fell upon you, and all your gear was wet, even the horses’ reins slippery to the touch. Our Yuletide was a camp upon sodden ground, with a saddle over our head and bread that was mouldy enough to sprout. I have eaten poorly at Sedgemont, but never as poor as that. And these were Norman knights too, who crave their meat and red wine, and will not make a move without a jug of ale in the morning. I will say this for them, they may grumble but they do not give in easily. They keep on moving like wheels that turn over and over.
‘And so we came to Cambray. Dreary cold it was, and the sea white like frost. Not that we saw much of it either, for we circled the castle from a distance. Dark and desolate it seemed, to beg your pardon, and all the fields about it run wild. Whoever was inside answered neither greetings nor challenge, and when we brought up a battering ram to try the main gate, they still gave no word. But on the walls above they appeared a raggle bunch as ever I have seen, not a knight among them. And they carried those great long bows I have heard Dylan speak of; so strong are they, they can put an arrow through a breastplate and stick out the point at the back. Those bows drove us out, and we were too few to make a close siege round. And then news came as we had expected, that the Lord of Anjou had landed.’
‘Where was that?’
‘They said that he came to Wareham in the south, sometime in the middle of the month of January, although we heard of it later. But he, it seems, had heard of us, for instead of heading towards the border as he had intended, he swung north towards Devizes, where he was joined by many great lords. For he dared not come too close to us, putting our numbers far higher than they were. Which was perhaps fortunate for us. The guards from Sedgemont were perhaps fifty, and we had lost some of them from the winter cold, although they recovered later to be of service when we needed them. Half that number again of squires and men-at-arms. And half again of knights and men riding with Lord Raoul’s vassals; all these, with some of his lesser lords, made up our total, perhaps to one hundred and twenty. Yet all came willingly, out of feudal love, that was one thing. Henry of Anjou had perhaps one hundred and forty knights, and three hundred foot, to say nothing of those troops who rode with the greater lords. But few of those had any real love or duty for him. All was expediency.’
‘Those great lords, who were they? Would I know them?’
‘Great earls they were, of Chester, Salisbury, and Hereford, who, they say, had already quarrelled with King Stephen and were therefore forced to Anjou’s side. And the earl of that land which lies even further west than Cambray, of Cornwall, where they say all men are giants. But Anjou’s main troops were mercenaries, whom he had hired in Gascony. And more ruffian soldiers there have never been.’
So spoke my gentle Giles, as if he had been bred a soldier for war.
‘For when we caught up with him at Malmesbury, his Gascon mercenaries went wild. They seized the city first, and killed all within it, women and children too. It was my first sight of battle, Lady Ann. The city was a shambles. They had not even sorted through the piles of dead who sprawled in clusters as if taking comfort of one another. Yet they would never have seized Malmesbury castle had not the king’s castellan opened it to them, treacherously.’
He fell silent then, as if the memory was too strong, and it was long before I could get him to continue.
When he did, it was a sad tale he had to tell.
‘We came upon Henry of Anjou’s army the next day, having spent the night bivouacked in the woods beyond the river there. Our arrival was well timed. For on the selfsame day the king himself arrived, with all his lords and barons, and camped on the farther side of the stream. That day should the battle have been joined. For the Angevin troops had run amok and could not be brought to discipline. And Stephen had with him a great army. And at Henry of Anjou’s back, we waited.’
‘So, what happened then?’
‘All day we sent messages to alert the king. Four times we sent, and three times our men were taken before they forded the river, by those same Gascons who would as soon spit a man as look at him. The last time, Lord Raoul would have ridden forth himself, but his other lords dissuaded him, for he was a-froth with rage, that we should sit there idle while the king deliberated. I think he would have charged alone for very shame had not finally King Stephen sent word that we too must wait.’
‘And then?’
‘All night long the rains came back, a deluge, sent from God perhaps. The ground along the river became so deep in mud that even the horses could not keep a footing, and had the men-at-arms marched out, they could have sunk down to their waists. And the king sent word again—wait.
“We have him in a pincer,” Lord Raoul cried. He had been in the saddle three days and the rain ran down his face like tears. “If we let go, he will slip out. What better chance than now?”
‘But the rains continued; there came warnings of more floods. The king turned back to London and ordered Lord Raoul to follow behind Anjou where he went, to keep him from the west and drive him farther east towards better battle sites.
“What better than here?” Lord Raoul said again, and swore a great oath that for weakness or fear of his own men, the king missed his chance to rid the country of the blight that had fallen on it.’
‘Then what did Lord Raoul do?’
‘As the king ordered. But this was the hardest part. King Stephen had many Flemish mercenaries among his army. They rioted when he would not satisfy their demands for more pay. The Gascon troops, as poorly served, took out their anger in pillage as they went. Between both contending sides, there was not much left that they did not destroy. I would not tell you all, to sicken your ears with horror. But I have seen half of the great places of the land: Coventry, Bedford, Leicester . .. They all look alike, full of dead and dying men and broken stones.’
‘And Henry of Anjou?’
‘Like quicksilver. You cannot pin him down. Trap him, and he slides away. If the king had spared us some troops, if we had had a larger force ... if Prince Eustace could have been persuaded to join with us instead of striking off on his own . . . They say battles are lost for want of a horseshoe nail. We wanted a little more than that, but not so much that Lord Raoul should not have had it. But we kept our part of the bargain. Anjou could not turn west and so at last we pushed him to another confrontation with the king.’
He hesitated, then blurted out, ‘I tell you, Lady Ann, by then it was high summer and I am not sure which is worse: the winter’s rain or to be riding armed all day in the heat and dust, with a stubble bed at night and vermin to make you itch and sweat. And fever. I would have a hundred times been in the stable at Sedgemont.’
‘And Lord Raoul?’
He hesitated again, not because he feared to displease me with his new loyalties but because, in some ways, he had already said it all. His speech was laced with Raoul. His very words were Raoul’s. But Raoul had been angry. He had always taken risks; a waiting game was not his strategy. Finally, he had baited the trap that brought Henry ‘out of nowhere’ to the River Thames, there to seize the bridge that crossed it at Wallingford. But first Henry had to take the king’s siege castle at Crowmarsh. This was the king’s chance to hem him round again.
‘And then?’
Giles
shrugged, a perfect parody of Raoul’s shrug if he had but known it. ‘It was the same as before. The king and all his men on one side, Henry of Anjou with his army on the other. And they skirmished across the wretched stream, among the water reeds, as if hunting for duck. Finally there was a meeting.’
‘With whom?’
‘The king, Prince Eustace, and the lords of England. Lord Raoul was summoned. I went with him. Ann, I, a stable boy, saw the King of England!’
In his excitement of reliving that time, he called me by name as he used to do, before awkwardness had made us formal with each other. He chatted freely then, explaining how he and Geoffrey had been chosen to go with Lord Raoul, how they had washed and shaved in haste, tipping cold river water over their heads, how somewhere, from the remnants of their supply train, pages had dug out three fine shirts, and new red surcoats embroidered in gold thread by the Lady Mildred for such an occasion. Then, mounted and armed, they had forded the stream and ridden to the king’s pavilion on the eastern bank.
‘Did you stay outside?’
‘No, although it would have been better if I had. My lord’s black brute kicked a fence apart and took three men to hold him. No, Geoffrey and I stood within, with the other squires at the door, and held our lord’s cloak and sword. There were many great lords; richly dressed they were for war, not like us who had crammed our finery over the wear and tear of a year’s campaign.’
‘And King Stephen?’
‘A kingly man, tall, grey faced, quiet. They said that he had fallen not once but thrice from his horse as he came towards Wallingford, but even I ride better than that. Lord Raoul said aloud, although under his breath so only we heard, “Dear God, but he has aged.” Yet they greeted each other affectionately. Not a word did Lord Raoul say then or again about the mishap at Malmesbury.’
‘And the meeting?’
‘Quiet at first, each great lord standing to give his thoughts. Or rather, not so much thoughts as fears. I could not follow all their reasoning but it seemed to me they were reluctant to speak out what was in their hearts. The king sat apart and chewed his nails. Until Lord Raoul stepped forward.’
‘And his advice?’
‘My lady, he spoke quietly too. I cannot explain all the arguments he used, but Geoffrey told me later. To sum up, he said to the king and his court, “Either you must fight Henry of Anjou and destroy him, Army to army, or, if need be, man to man. Call out your champion and let there be combat between him in your name and Henry for the settlement of this quarrel. Or if not war, then peace.”
‘Did the others agree?’
‘At first, some cried for a champion. Some said it would be Lord Raoul himself. Then all took up the same cry. Those who had shifted and shuffled most loudly of all, to make a peace. Except the king’s son, Prince Eustace, a tall stout man, who shouted it was treason to persuade the king against his will. My lord outfaced him. Lady Ann, he was a greater lord in his worn clothes with the red and scarlet draped over than the prince in his furs and jewels.
“‘The king’s will is his own,” Lord Raoul said. “But no man, not even a king, can rule without the help of his friends. For this reason are we summoned here. Look round, my lords of England. We have slashed stripes across this broad land like pieces of raw flesh that will never be healed while this war lingers on. What will be left for any king to rule if we do not halt it now.”
‘Then the king himself stood up and said, “My lords, barons, princes, I have heard your speech and it comforts me, that despite all these troubles I have loyal friends. If there cannot be a decisive battle, and you all fear there cannot be, then there must be peace.” So a treaty was made.’
‘Were you at the peace treaty then?’
‘It did not happen right away. And we had already gone before the signing. But look, Lady Ann.’ He pulled from beneath his sleeve a gold piece sewn up in a small purse. ‘While we were leaving, the king came to us and thanked us for our pains, a most gracious lord he is, and gave both Geoffrey and me a gift.’ He turned the coin over and over, the first he had ever owned, and a king had given it to him.
‘But the treaty. There was peace?’
‘Not at first.’ Giles spoke reluctantly. ‘If the barons and their knights were for it, the mercenaries were not. Nor the prince either. It seems in his anger he rode off and began to sack lands in Cambridgeshire, and waste the whole region around. But it was the mercenaries who caused the most trouble. For if they could not fight, how would they get their pleasure or reward?’
‘But the treaty was signed?’
‘I do not know, lady. We were not there.’
‘Not there? But Raoul had counselled it? Saw he not the king again?’
‘My lady, yes. But it was a private meeting. I was not witness to it.’
I knew he was not telling me the truth of that, but nothing I said could make him reveal what else he knew. I found out about that later. All he would tell me was that the king had ordered Lord Raoul and his men back to the border, there to win a treaty with the Celts so that all the plans they made would not come undone by a surprise attack from the west. So back they trailed, and camped along the border again. But to tell how that happened, I must now return to my first arrival at the convent, Lord Raoul’s ‘safe place’ in the hills.
A wild bird cannot fit itself to captivity as can one bred in a cage. Had I lived at Cambray, my father would have sent me to such a place. He used to say that maids who were convent bred made the best wives, but that was because he thought them tractable. I came too late to such a life, with thoughts and ideas already formed. And this was not the soft and gentle rule that the ladies of Sedgemont had enjoyed. There were no other ladies there, no one to talk to, for the nuns lived by the strict rule of silence, even at mealtimes. Save for one little half-witted boy, whom they kept to tend their herds and whom I befriended with scraps of bread thrown over into the outer courtyard where he lived, I had no speech with anyone. And he was too shy or too stupid to reply. I heard no news, saw no one, was so shut off that whether Henry of Anjou had landed or not, I did not know, and had no way of knowing.
As a guest there, I should have lived apart from their rules. At first, the new prioress and her nuns seemed anxious to please, showing, if truth be told, more deference than any had at Sedgemont, speaking with honeyed words when they did speak, which made me uncomfortable. But suddenly, without warning, these obsequious ways changed. The gardens where I had been allowed to walk were closed to me. The little room where I lodged comfortably, if not in luxury, was replaced by one of their cells. The goods and possessions that I had managed to bring with me disappeared, save for Giles’s little dagger, which I had had the foresight to bury in the garden. My clothes even were exchanged for the long habit of unwashed, undyed wool, which gives their order its name of ‘White’. And rougher fabric to irritate the skin does not exist. Instead then of walking at leisure, I must work with the rest of them in their fields, must attend their constant services, must keep silence and fast as they did . .. Well, such things I could bear. I did not mind the loss of luxury; I was not used to it as great ladies are; I could live on bread and water again. Nor did the hard work trouble me. I could almost enjoy putting plants in place and helping them to grow. Are not the herb gardens at Cambray famous still? And prayer. Have we not all need of prayers to see us through this world? If youth minds the loss of sleep, the long watches in the night, well, then was there the time I have spoken of, to think on and to pray for the souls of those I had loved, and who in shocking-wise suddenly had seemed as if new-killed. And for those who still lived, I could remember them. Comrades, friends, old companions, Giles, Dylan, Geoffrey . . . and most of all to think on Lord Raoul. But to be forced to these things—work, prayer, contemplation, poverty, obedience, chastity—the laws of these holy orders are known to us all now. And if you do not know them, praise God you do not.
Peace, you bid me again, that I not anger the Holy Church. I do not concern myself with the Chur
ch, and all these quarrels between Crown and Church that have plagued this land are beyond my understanding. But to make a nun of me . . . Poor I was already, none poorer, obedient perforce to Lord Raoul’s will, and chaste perhaps against my own. But I had not been sent here to be shut away forever. When next you write of despair, name it imprisonment without cause or escape.
I know now that it is against their strictest rule to force someone into religious life. I know now that first there is a long trial or apprenticeship as novice. But who is to distinguish between force and persuasion? I had no choice. By subtle means at first, then openly, was I shown the path of salvation until, with close-cropped hair, undyed robe, silence, and prayer, I could have been taken for any other there. Except I would not take the vow.
That was not easily done, to stand against them. God never had such zealous workers on His behalf as these. It is a logic I have never understood, that to be a soldier in the holy wars you may kill your enemy to save his soul. But I am stubborn as you know, and that may have saved mine.
Then came a day when all was made clear. At first, it seemed like all the other days that since the summer months had merged into one. Why do I remember it so well—because of what the lady prioress said, what she did? Because it was the first time that I sensed the hopelessness of my case, as one senses decay? Or because, as it happened, it was also the last time? The day had begun early, before dawn. I had been summoned to the prioress’s room after the morning prayers. I was still dazed with sleep, drugged with the fume of incense and the drone of voices. Hunger gnawed. Her words beat like the flies that buzzed in the warm autumn air.
