Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  No one dared to sleep that night. I joined the Lady Mildred and the other women at the death watch, and when there was time to whisper, drew such comfort as I could from Cecile, who watched with us. In the young hours of the morning. Lord Raoul came himself, bringing a taper that he bent to light from mine. His face was expressionless as he stood there looking down at the body of a man who had been as father, adviser, friend to him all his life, whose last thought perhaps, as he had moved into the arrow’s path, was to protect Raoul. I knew that look now; beneath it he hid all those thoughts he did not dare reveal. And yet it seemed to me that to a man like Sir Brian, there could be no more-fitting end. It was one he would have wished for himself.

  ‘Yet I hoped to avoid this,’ Lord Raoul’s voice, when he spoke, reflected strangely my own thoughts, ‘another senseless death that most of all I would prevent. He begged me, Ann, to close the gates and fight. “Better death than dishonour,” he said. I would not answer him, reminded him of his age, of his wife. You see how even our best intentions trap us.’ He sighed, his face half-hidden in the shadows. ‘And now once more, despite all my efforts, our lives are bound as one. If I fall, Ann, your life will be forfeit as well.’

  ‘And as you live,’ I said, ‘so shall I.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, not boastingly, ‘I shall kill him for you. But I would have you leave before. Tomorrow at dawn, before we can begin, we shall send word to your men outside. Geoffrey will know what to do.’

  ‘Raoul,’ I said, ‘have I not told you clearly or often enough? Without you, I care little what happens to me. Come with me then.’

  He said nothing in reply. His silence gave me heart to continue.

  ‘Westward,’ I said, ‘there are ships that could bear us far away. Beyond France even, where people know nothing of these Angevins, these civil wars. I heard you speak before of Outremer. We could go there together.’

  After a while he moved beside me, flexing his hand along the wall so that the shadow of his fingers spread against the rough surface.

  ‘It would only be a dream,’ he said. ‘Your father knew what is the lot of a landless man. Remember, you told me of your old soldier in the ruined fort, how you could have wept for his broken strength. And a woman at any army’s tail, her fate is far, far worse. You could not come with me. And I will not run away.’

  ‘Then let me go to the king,’ I said. ‘That is what I hoped to do.’

  ‘I will not beg for my life,’ he said. That stubborn, bitter pride. He said abruptly, ‘Was it true, then, what they planned? Was Maneth a monster so vile?’

  I felt the tension in him as he spoke. I did not want to speak or remember it.

  ‘And the messenger who was killed, was that true also?’

  I said, ‘I never spoke of it for shame, for guilt. He would have possessed me and so ran upon the knife point. I would not have spoken of it even now. But you know yourself that I was virtuous when I came to Cambray.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He did not move. ‘And is that all? Are there any secrets else? I would not have lies, half-lies, concealed between us. We bear the weight of too many things, too many misunderstandings . . .’

  I should have told him then the secret that most concerned him. Why kept I quiet? Because I feared I might yet be mistaken? Because it seemed unfair burden on him when he was so much under stress? Or because he, most of all men, would have a son to be proud of?

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘Maneth doubly deserves to die. Else will he spread those stories of your ill fame to the world to do you harm. After, shall you leave, go to where we can keep you safe. Do not fret for me. Now think. How many men have we to command?’

  He numbered them aloud as I named them to prevent my speaking of these other matters, forming his plan. Geoffrey and his men made ten, but they would be unarmed. There were ten more outside, however, who would have weapons to spare, would know how to help at the right time. Ten French under their two captains, armed. Maneth’s men three times as many, and bowmen on the walls, but all disorganised, perhaps unarmed if they came into the courtyard.

  ‘Ann,’ he said, ‘we whisper here in a holy place beside the dead. God knows, I have not been a believing man, but something of your faith has come to give me hope. How often have we parted never to meet again? Perhaps there is a way out of this maze if only we know the secret. Stand watch for me beside the Lady Mildred, pray for me.’ He suddenly smiled. ‘Look not so worried, ma mie. This Maneth is a fighter, too. Like a cautious soldier, I go to find out how he fights, to see what my men know of him and his ways. Do not be afraid. He will not escape us this time. You shall see him fall. I fight for you, and Sir Brian and all our wrongs.’

  I stayed beside the bier, felt his fingers brush lightly against my hair, heard his soft footsteps retreat. Beneath the shelter of my hands, I saw how he stopped, as if by chance, to speak casually with this man and that. Perhaps he was planning his battle strategy, but I knew as well as if I listened with them that he was also arranging for my escape. Whether I would or not, he would have me gone the next day. Alone. He would not come with me. He would fight Maneth and then go to his own death with the French. Nothing I could do would change him. He would not run away himself.

  I knelt and tried to pray, but I almost did not know for what I prayed. Thoughts swirled through my head like those western mists that had surrounded us all day. What would happen with the morning? What would become of Raoul? How could I save him, despite himself? It seemed to me then that we were so bound up that nothing could untangle us from the frets of our own actions, our own desires. We had become so much a part of those greater events that I had thought to avoid, that only when they were resolved would we be free of them and able to make a real peace with each other.

  I knelt and prayed. But it was not for the death of that one man whose hatred had so bedevilled us all these years. Rather, I prayed that God, in His mercy, would spare Raoul, find some way to rescue him. Otherwise, it mattered not if he died at Maneth’s hand tomorrow in his own courtyard, or if the French killed him in the forest quietly without witness. I, too, must die with him. But it was not our lives only. One other life was bound up with his and mine—our child’s. If Raoul should not live, then tomorrow we all should die, too, or thereafter. Not all the sins in the wide world can demand the death of innocence ... Yet our child was the fruit of sin, of lust, and who knows what payment that requires.

  ‘Spare Raoul,’ I found my lips repeating as I watched by Sir Brian’s corpse. ‘Spare him and so spare us. I will not ask anything else.’

  God listens to prayers, judges us. I tell you, He requites what is required of Him. Now shall you hear how Raoul paid for his sins and mine.

  12

  The morning came. Time, which at Sedgemont had once dragged, now raced towards me. I felt as grey as the day that unfolded about us, without light, overshadowed with mist and sleet. There had been flurries of snow throughout the night, and the great courtyard was covered with a thin layer of ice. Guy of Maneth, who had camped with his men in the yard, must have rested hard, too.

  Before dawn, the Sedgemont servants were dragging out benches to make a barricade and places for the spectators to watch. The French carefully supervised this; their men stood guard, heavily armed, although there were not many of them, and watched the piles of swords and knives grow at their feet. No one passed in or out of the great courtyard unless he laid his weapons by, but the gates still stood open, for Maneth’s men controlled the outer walls. Along one wall facing, the keep, an extra row of seats was built for the French envoys and for the ladies of Sedgemont. Today, such trials-by-combat are more elaborate, the time and place are carefully chosen, the combatants are kept apart and closely watched, but the spectators still come as to enjoy a circus. This was more rough-and-ready, but although the French were concerned about the lack of ceremony, Raoul, as challenger, had the right to set their rules aside. And, in truth, it used to be more a French custom, known but seldom practised amongst us here.
As for the Celts, I have told you we hold it in the utmost veneration and fear, thinking only a strong man, firm in his belief, would dare invoke it.

  Raoul of Sedgemont, they called him thus, those arrogant French lords, without title or rank, Raoul of Sedgemont had the right to choose the weapon, the mode of battle. Never looked he more a lord than that day when he trod the arena they had built in his courtyard, tall, and lithe, only the bruises on his face and arms, the long slash on his cheek, to show what had happened the day before. I was appalled when I heard his choice: with sword and shield, on foot. I had thought he would ride his great black horse, come sweeping down from his upright stance to knock his enemy from his saddle with one swift blow. But Geoffrey comforted me. The ground was too short, he explained, the turning space too limited for that kind of manoeuvring, and the ice had made the stones too slippery to manage horse and shield and lance. But on foot, neither man would have the advantage, or rather, since Raoul was young and fast, he would not tire so easily.

  This comforted me until I thought of the disadvantages. ‘For Maneth is older, experienced,’ I cried aloud, ‘I remember how my father said he was a strong man in a fight. . .’

  ‘Nay, lady,’ Geoffrey comforted me, and even in my distress, I noticed how he stood always at my side, no doubt as Raoul had bidden him, ‘my lord is as an eel, you will see for yourself. Maneth will not get close to him.’

  There was no more time to brood. Now was the hour when we must all go forth to watch. Yet, before we went, the Lady Mildred came to me herself and took me by the arm to the women’s room. There, with her ladies, she helped me prepare myself, combing and braiding my hair and changing my gown for another.

  ‘It is one of mine,’ Cecile said, tears of mirth and anguish mingling. ‘Ever before you have returned them in shreds. Pray God it keep you safe.’

  I embraced her without words, standing there among them as it seemed to me I had done years ago. But this time death himself waited for us outside.

  ‘Hasten,’ Lady Mildred said, as if this were an everyday affair. ‘There are times one must show all men what we are made of. If the Lord of Sedgemont goes forth, then honour is due to him through us. So shall we all dress, ladies, although we perish of the cold, that no man need say we do not know what is fitting.’ True to the end, did she exhort us in courtly ways. But before we went out to the courtyard, she drew me aside and flung a long, furred robe about my shoulders. Of great value it was and old.

  ‘The day is cold,’ she said, her eyes fierce with unshed tears. ‘I would not have you tremble with the cold, Lady Ann.’ And she curtsied.

  For the first time had she acknowledged me, who had been part instrument in her husband’s death, who might yet kill her liege lord and mine. At that moment, I longed for words to tell her how, despite all the griefs I had caused her, I, too, knew how to value her and all her services. But the moment passed too long in silence; I made her a curtsy, the first I think I had ever given her.

  ‘Come then, Lady Ann of Cambray,’ she said, and her dry hand was firm upon mine like withered parchment, like steel. ‘In God’s name go we forth and see justice done for all your wrongs.’

  It was perhaps already two hours from noon and yet the day was dark as if new risen. The men had swept most of the snow away and scattered straw about. At one end, a fire had been lit to give heat and light. Most of the men stood behind the barricades that had been raised along the sides. I noted quickly, as I took my place on the bench, how the Cambray men seemed to have scattered through the crowd, how some lingered at the open gate. I glanced upon the battlements, but to my surprise they were empty, the Celtic bowmen having left their post to come into the yard. Maneth, I thought, could no better control his men than he could his son. It must have been against his orders that they left the gate and courtyard unguarded. Yet, except for the French envoys and their guard, only the two combatants were armed. I watched as Raoul came forward, saw how his men had polished his shield until the hawks of Sedgemont flared upon it, how his mail shone about him.

  Yet it was the Lady Mildred herself who buckled his sword belt in place, her thin fingers so nimble with silk and thread now fumbling with the heavy straps. Raoul stood by patiently until she was through, settled belt and sword against his thigh, and led her gently back to her seat. Then he waited, below us, his sword flashing once as he drew it on command. Lord Guy was dressed in his long mail coat, no device upon his shield, no colour to him at all, a death figure as he loomed out of the mist. I remembered, in that way we have of thinking of little things, how once they had measured against each other here in the Hall of Sedgemont, the older man, an oak tree, seamed and powerful; the younger pliant, a sapling, yet both of a height, both strong.

  The French envoy was on his feet. When he spoke fast, as he did now, the cold whipping beneath his short cloak to make him shiver, I could not follow all his speech, but it sounded well enough. The older man, Sir Gautier, gave the signal. And in the silence that followed the first clash of sword blades was a lightning flash, almost blinding, almost unlooked for.

  I could not take my eyes from the two men below. They stood a sword thrust apart and hammered at each other, stroke upon stroke, until you felt their arms must falter from it, stroke upon shield until the echo ran back. I sat there wrapped in the cloak of some lady of Sedgemont, and felt the heir of Sedgemont safe beneath my folded arms, and watched its lord batter and heave and strike until the sweat ran down my cheeks and my hands were wet with it.

  Stroke upon stroke, parry and thrust. Neither man yielded ground, neither bent under the blow. Yet, gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, I saw how Raoul had changed the beat, altering his attack, no two strikes alike now, each falling from a different angle, an unexpected slant. His body swayed and dipped with each movement that he made, and his feet turned and pivoted upon the slippery stones. How could he move and bend as if the pull of that heavy mail coat, reaching to his knees, had no weight?

  Guy of Maneth had to retreat now. Step by step, he was forced back out of the central court into a corner where the light was dim, where he would have his back to the fire outside the barricade. Now all of us could sense the changing rhythm, faster, both men not striking as one but one striking, the other parrying. There was a hiss, a long breath held too long, as Raoul missed a low slash, stooped to avoid the return, drove on as before. There was another cry, even Cambray men cried out, for Maneth had slipped upon a loose paving stone, or was it where the ice had formed again, and for a moment tottered off balance.

  ‘Strike, strike,’ I heard Geoffrey whisper at my back. But Raoul did not strike then; he waited until the older man had recovered his balance before the restless beat began again.

  Maneth was tiring. You could see his uneasiness. From time to time he shook his head as a bull does when it is baited, and his small eyes cast their restless look from side to side, the furtive look I remembered so well, so that he might estimate where he was and escape from the corner where Raoul was penning him. He had come close now to the barricade at the farthest side from the gate. His black shield rang dully, in places hammered so out of shape that the blows were not deflected but slid at angles towards him. You could hear the panting, too; both men were panting, but Maneth’s was louder, almost sobbing for air. You sensed that the end of his endurance was near.

  Then, although I was watching with the rest, I know not how it happened, then he seemed to brush across the barricade. Someone gave a cry of warning. Guessing what Maneth was about to do, Raoul tried to duck. Bits and pieces of debris left by the firemakers came flying through the air, for a moment blinding Raoul. It was a second’s distraction only, but it was enough. Maneth lunged at him, thrusting at him viciously, his sword falling straight down. Again there was a cry; even the French knights stood up and cried aloud and so did I. For with that thrust, Maneth had driven through Raoul’s guard, slashed down across him so that, for a moment, he seemed to fold in upon himself, cutting through shoulder to the bone, r
ending sword arm useless.

  It had been a massive stroke and Maneth had put all his energy into it so that he, too, had to lean a space to catch his breath. For only Raoul’s quickness had prevented him from being torn apart. As it was, his right arm hung limply, the sword tip almost touching the ground. You could see the torn gap in the mail coat where the blade had caught and ripped the woven rings of steel across his shoulder and side, and pierced the leather undercoat, so that flesh and linen shirt flared white to scarlet, and even as he stood, the ground at his feet splashed red. I willed my eyes to shut, willed that I not see the rest, and felt my nails dig into the hands that caught at me on either side to hold me upright on my feet. I willed myself not to see and I did not see.

  It was Geoffrey’s roar of pleasure, disbelief, that gave me sight back. Somehow, as they had watched, that drooping figure had changed his sword and shield. How had he done it, with one easy practised motion, throwing heavy shield right, catching sword hilt in his uninjured left hand shouts came to a crescendo then, each man turning to his neighbour, the French shouting out as loud as any.

  Two-Handed Raoul. Was not that what his men called him?

  ‘Strike, my lord, strike now,’ Geoffrey was shouting, not whispering, and the other men cried out aloud as once more Raoul’s sword beat out its heavy sound, faster than ever upon Maneth’s shield. But the rhythm had to be fast. With every step, the blood flowed. You could see the stain of it on the ground like red hawks falling. He kept his shield arm tight against his wounded side, so that it must have acted as a pad to stem the first heavy flow, but that would not serve him long.

  ‘Faster, faster,’ Geoffrey cried again, for that was Raoul’s only chance, to strike whilst he had the strength before loss of blood stopped him. Maneth dropped backward, was trying to keep his shield in place to fend off the blows that fell again from unexpected quarter, being driven once more in a corner where he could not swing his sword, where he could not move. But he had only to stay hunched beneath his shield and he was safe.