by Mary Lide
He gulped another drink, another, swaying on his small feet as he stood. Hate and desire struggled in his face, a child who, for spite, destroys what he wants. So perhaps he had stood long ago by the sea at Cambray until hate sent him lumbering forward . . .
‘How many men have you lain with?’ he said suddenly. ‘Raoul, your groomsman, the soldiers of the camp; how many have you had, slut?’
‘You will never know,’ I said.
‘Like your mother, then,’ he swore. ‘They say she bedded every man your father brought to Cambray. Skill she had to cover everyone, that they all sang her praises. No woman else could have so besotted them.’
‘Do you hope so much from me?’ I said through swollen lips, and saw him pale again with sweat. ‘Then you will never know if the child you want is yours or someone else’s. Some churl’s perhaps, that one day will sit at the High Table at Maneth. If I am slut and a child of a slut, I will not change my ways.’
‘I'll tie you rather like a cur,’ he said, ‘a bitch in heat to be serviced on a chain. You heard my father. We’ve ways at Maneth to break your spirit yet.’
He ran a finger under his silk collar, sweating heavily, repeating vile words beneath his breath. It was almost as if the words themselves pleasured him. Only then did it occur to me that this man would rape me with the muck of other men, as if he could not do it with his own desire. Against my will, what others had said of him flooded into my ears, what even his father had hinted at, what his own men had suggested. There would be no escape this time. The door stood open, but there were too many men outside in the sun-filled square. I could hear them laughing, moving about, a woman’s voice singing. There would be no help from her either.
‘Slut and whore,’ he was repeating, ‘open to all men.’ And hit me with his fist at each word to make me reply.
Do not speak of rape. Lord Raoul had warned me. You know not what you say. I had thought I did. Now I saw something else, that even rape can have some ways more foul than others. And when he had hit me enough, he threw himself across me on the ground. I let him flail at me, knowing by instinct that to give resistance would have pleased him better, and let him grope and paw the more, like a beast that tears first here, then there, too ravenous to favour any part long. I felt him fumble with himself beneath his gown, engorged, yet soft as tallow, thrusting up at me under my own. Where he thrust, there was pain, yet it came rather from his weight and the movement of his ungainly body thrashing to and fro. And the more he heaved, the more he receded away.
He pushed me aside at last, staggered to the table, downed another flask of wine, and stood panting and shaking.
‘You lied,’ he hissed. ‘You are virgin.’
He stood swaying before me, the wine dripping from his chin. I was frightened then. This was how he killed, a man twisted with his desires, distorted, like a wet cord that swings and cuts as it swings.
Again he swore a dark, cruel oath. In his hand, as if sprung there, he held his dagger, turning it first one way, then the other, as he had fingered it in the square to subdue his men.
‘Before God,’ he cried, ‘you devil’s bitch, to make a mock of me. Does not death and hell frighten you?’
‘I go where better men await me,’ I whispered, ‘who will be avenged yet.’
At that he started back. ‘The devil take you then,’ he cried, almost weeping in some recollection of self-pity, ‘that for ten years I should be accused by them, unbegging, unafraid. I could kill you where you lie and you would haunt me the same. God rot my father’s soul to make me sport to dead men. For his ambitions do I pay, for his plans do my nights turn to torment. But you’ll not unman me again. Bedevilled I said when I saw you first. Bedevilled that I should consent to my father’s wish against my own. But I’ll be master here. Put on that shirt, cover your nakedness with men’s clothes. You’ve done as much before.’
He flung the scattered garments at my feet and I shrugged within them, shirt and tunic, while he turned aside for rage. Then on a rush he came at me a second time. This time I did try to leap aside, thinking he would stab me as I lay. He was not as quick as I was and wine had fuddled his brain, but I saw my mistake as soon as I had turned to the door.
‘Ho, there, watch, ho,’ he mouthed forth, loud enough for me to start back, for the cry to be heard without. I kept the bench between us, but with a kick he was able to overthrow it, and the men who came to the doorway pushed me back towards him. He bowled me over again, while they shouted and laughed, and he knelt beside me on the floor, one hand to hold my arms together, the other to still my body.
My struggles seemed to inflame him, or was it the catcalls of his men? He muttered endearments in my ear, his lips sour with wine and sweat, calling me his sweeting, and his page. And when all else failed, he took up the dagger in his hand and presented it at me hilt first. There was a rush of breath, a sudden silence then. I understood what he meant to do. But twist and fight and turn, I could not shake him off. Other hands grasped my feet. I saw his face intent as he struggled with breath to get at me and pry my legs apart. I heard my own scream thin and high.
Then there was a roaring in my ears. I thought it was death come to spare me this shame, until I heard the echoing screams outside, the thud against the open door. The mass of men crowded there whirled back, and I heard a great gasp at the lance that struck there quivering. Then they scattered, some running outside, some tugging at their swords or daggers, their mouths agape although no sound came trickling out. Those who had been holding me let go, ran here and there in the room as fish dart in the shallows. I rolled back out of their way, trying to pull my clothes about my nakedness, huddling up as small as I could. I saw a shape that seemed to tower in the sunlight there, a dark shape tall and menacing. A flash of light followed in its path, the downward sweep of a sword that danced and sang as it fell.
Gilbert of Maneth saw it too. He scrambled to his feet, tripping on his silken robe, his face turned to palsied white. He ran behind the other men, holding up the skirts of his robe as he tried to use them to cover himself. The great sword flashed again and again, each time cutting down through flesh, through bone. I saw an arm hacked through, a chest ripped wide. Gilbert tried to speak, tried to run. He held the dagger still in his hand, but he had not the will to lift it in his defence. The great blade caught him as he turned, and melted him to grease on the floor, shapeless in his crimson silks.
And in the empty doorway, the hawks of Sedgemont flared, striking down from their blood-red sky.
9
The men at the doorway had already gone down, wordless, folding under, as insubstantial as rags. Raoul was in the room, leaning on his bloodstained sword. His panting filled the air. About him, the dead men’s bodies sagged. He bent and scooped up the one that lolled across my legs, dragging me upright against the table. His hands were about my face and body, causing more pain, for he forgot he wore mail gauntlets, but the pain made me feel alive. I could not see his face beneath the coif and heavy helmet, and he forgot them too, mouthing words at me that I could not hear. His flag bearer, more sensible, brought some of the wine, which he poured out in a gush, most of it running freely on the floor where the boards were already turned to red. At last, when he seemed convinced that no real harm had come to me, although I turned aside for shame and could not speak, he straightened himself. I heard the quick rasp of boots and spurs as he took the floor in a stride.
‘Upon your life,’ he snarled at his guard who waited at the doorway, where they had cleared away the huddle of bodies that had been caught there. I heard him swing himself upon his horse, heard it start and plunge foaming in the pitiless sun.
‘A moi, Sedgemont,’ he shouted, his voice strangely harsh, cut off short, as if breathless. A roar answered. I heard the clash of swords again, the deadly rasp and slash of weapons. And the worst cry of all: ‘No quarter.’
I shall not speak of the carnage in the square. You are not the man for such a task, poet, nor am I. We see the blood
and brains, but they are words on papers, not hot reality. I hope it is long before I see the dust turn red, churned underfoot, bear the thrust, the shriek, the cut-short cry for mercy. No quarter had Sir Gilbert’s men, although they threw down their weapons and cried out for it. Lord Raoul was angry. His own men, bone-weary from battle and pursuit, were in no mood for restraint. This was what war is, this was what Giles had tried to describe: war, stark and cruel. Soon, too soon, the screaming stopped, and the silence was more dreadful after. When the guards led me forth, bore me forth, for I could not walk, the silence seemed to contain all those deaths that I must recall. Even Gilbert’s, whose last gasp hung about the hate-drenched room. I turned my head aside to avoid their work. But they had been merciful in this, that by that time there was little to be seen, only a rear guard hastily smoothing over the churned ground, and a great pit where they tipped the bodies unceremoniously. Yet I caught a flutter of a long blue gown, until I averted my eyes again even from that. I would not have her death upon my conscience. They left Gilbert of Maneth’s body where it had fallen, pulling down the frame of the house about him, fitting tomb, a place that he himself had pillaged and burned. Yet to die thus, unholy, unshriven, a knight with his sins gloating about him. Hard vengeance had my brother, Talisin of Cambray, that day. But do not look to write down all I think. Such thoughts do lie too deep, must be remembered with fasting and prayer.
Lord Raoul had brought up a horse for me to ride, but when he saw I could not mount, he bade them set me before him, crooked in the folds of his cloak that bore the weight from off my battered and bruised body. We rode slowly away. His rage had been white hot; it held him taut even now so that I could feel it under the hard case of his armour, as if nerves and sinews were bolted into place. Later, they told how he had ridden without sleep, fearing to reach us too late. Coldly and deliberately had he driven his men, then burst into white heat when he reached the village. Yet, had Gilbert of Maneth not lingered the afternoon away, tempted to exhibit his independence, Maneth castle would have shut its gates in Raoul’s face.
We rode on slowly without speech through the rest of that golden afternoon. No one spoke. We were like horses who have so torn their hearts out in effort that to make one move more would destroy us. Around us, all was peaceful, a spring day when you hear sounds far off, when the air is still as a mountain lake, when even the sun seems loath to set. We were not yet safe, being overclose to Maneth, although it would be too soon for the castle watch to become alarmed when Gilbert and his men did not return. Fresh troops on our trail, fresh attacks, would have been hard to fight off. Yet the very presence of those tired, hungry men, even slumped in their saddles, they had a watchful look, made danger seem far off. It was still light when we came to the cutting in the hills where we could stop to feed the horses and rest ourselves.
I went away from the circle of men and beasts and pulled my way down through the rushes and briars to the stream’s edge. Not caring if any watched, I stripped off the poor torn clothes and slid into the running water. It was a mountain-fed brook, cold and clear. My bruises stung like fire. With handfuls of sand did I scour my skin, as if all the running water in the world would not wash it clean again. And when I had done, I found a pile of female clothes that someone had left upon the bank, a cloak that, wrapped around, gave back warmth. I came up, walking as an old woman does when she is tired, yet beneath the tiredness I could feel already the life flowing into veins and heart. Lord Raoul was standing beside a boulder, too weary even to sit or to move to any comfortable place. His squires had unlaced his byrnie, drawn off his gloves, and placed sword and shield, still stained and battered, within reach. They had brought him water and trickles of it ran slowly down his hair about the linen shirt he wore beneath his mail. He was wiping his hands upon a rag, over and over, as if, like me, he hoped to wipe them clean. I saw how they still shook; so does the aftermath of battle take some men, often those of strongest heart and will.
I took the cloth from him.
‘You are overreached, my lord,’ I said.‘Rest. The evening will be long, the night mild. We are as safe here as anyplace.’
At my words, he turned his head slowly, his eyes still dark, almost unfocused in their intent. Gradually I felt the tension slacken. He gave a great sigh and leaned his head back upon the stone. His men brought food, kneeling to serve him as if at some courtly feast until with a gesture half-impatient, half-amused, he waved them away. Later, they told me how he had swept through the square, an arm that rose and fell with but one purpose, a cry that ordered one thing only: vengeance. Now gradually he came back to his own self again. His men, squatting close about us, their swords laid ready beside them, talked quietly among themselves. We could hear the horses rustling through the undergrowth, the call of the outer guards; soft, farther off, the dash and rush of the stream. We could have been a thousand miles, a thousand years, away from death.
‘My lord,’ I said at last. At the same instant, he turned to me and spoke; we were like two who try to pass in a narrow place. I smiled at that. He stretched out his hand and suddenly took mine.
‘That is good,’ he said. ‘I thought never to see you smile again.’
‘And I, my lord,’ I said, ‘I thought you too were gone forever. These have been bad times. God willing, we shall put them behind us.’
I thought I heard someone say, ‘Amen.’ Lord Raoul gestured to his squires to unfasten the wineskins they had strung about their saddles before leaving the village.
‘It will not be such as we have at Sedgemont,’ he said, ‘but better stuff than we have known these past few months. And what if we eat rough and forage like horses a few more days. Soon it will be time to go home.’
They gave a cheer at that, drinking to it willingly, and bit into the tough scraps of food without complaint. Tired they were, weary of counting over their losses, tending their wounded, yet not downhearted. I sensed again even stronger the bond among them that let them all sit together in silence. So we stayed, some asleep, some watchful, while the moon rose. All the cruelty of that day seemed washed away at last. Later there would be time to explain, to grieve. That night I thought we lay like ones disoriented after a nightmare, waking to find all things beautiful and fair.
We were off again before dawn. Enchantment has its limits. I was still too stiff to walk or ride and my face was swollen and dark. Raoul was on edge, his voice harsh as he ordered the line of march. His men, who had fought two battles and ridden a hundred leagues or more within days, were foul-mouthed and bleary. Hunger did not improve their tempers. And we still had a long way to go before we could count ourselves free of pursuit. They had taken the horses at the village, but were loath to turn their own mounts loose for fear of their giving us away, and, if truth be told, not being willing to lose a chance at returning with two horses in the stead of one if they could. We rode more slowly than Raoul wished, burdened therefore with pack horses and lead animals, yet as the cavalcade wound its weary way through these deserted lands, we found the time, at last, to talk of all the things that must be said. In this way, sitting before him on his war horse, whose black body still seemed coiled to rage and energy, I could tell him how Guy of Maneth had boasted of the Celtic attack, how he had watched for my uncle’s coming as the perfect chance to spring the trap, how he and his son had sent out their own men disguised among some Celtic scavengers whom they had wed to their service, and how they had waited for our return in the village where Raoul had found us. But of the part the red-haired woman had played, how her information about the camp had helped and how she had revealed my presence there, told Maneth where to find me, that I did not tell. It would have been an unfair charge that he must have borne.
Lord Raoul, in turn, did not speak of Giles, not then, although I learned their losses had been heavy, not only among the fighting men but also among those who had waited by the stream. Many of my former friends were gone, pages and younger boys I had known well, and the old Celtic woman and her daughters w
ho had been cut down as they hid. As he had boasted, Maneth had planned carefully. Once I had been taken, the attackers had fallen back. Lord Raoul’s men, infuriated by the unprovoked killing of the noncombatants, had taken this as proof, if proof was needed, that such cruelty, contrary to the rules of war, was the work of barbarians. Those of the attackers who were left behind they cut down without mercy. Lord Raoul’s first thought then had been as Maneth had surmised, to send out a search party to follow hard upon the tribesmen over the boundary. But then, as tempers had cooled, signs appeared that all was not as it seemed. There were plenty of Celtic dead, it is true, no doubt of that, and some of the attackers had obviously returned to their mountain lairs, presumably paid in advance by Maneth.
But a few bodies were found with Norman gear beneath their furs; a man cried out in Norman-French. One lived long enough to taunt them with stupidity. Raoul began to remember my uncle’s words, that there were always renegades who could be coaxed across the border in return for loot. He recalled, too, what had been told him of Maneth before, that he got his men wherever he could find them. He did not have time to deliberate. If it were true what he then suspected, Maneth’s forces would have already turned north, heading for the safety of their castle. He had divided his forces then, abandoning the camp altogether, sending one fast group across the border, the other under his command taking the most direct way to Maneth castle. At first, it seemed he had misjudged, there being such little evidence. But then they came upon the Celtic ponies that had been left behind. The villagers where we had made our first stop came creeping out, seeing who it was, to give what news they had, the double burden on one horse, the cast-off Celtic dress, the signs they knew, only too well, of a war party from Maneth. Except the lords of Maneth this time did not lead it themselves.
