by Mary Lide
It was not quite dawn when we came into the courtyard. The French envoys were already there, mounted, waiting for the first light. Most of their men rode with them, but they left a token handful behind. Some of Maneth’s men went with them, the French ones. A few stayed, along with a half-dozen of our wounded, and a couple or so of men who had served Sir Brian at Sedgemont.
Our three men were already mounted. One still had a stained bandage about his head, but he was alert, resolute, although he slouched in his saddle as I had seen them all ride once before. I knew enough now not to mistake that for discourage. Behind him, the four greys of Cambray had been loaded as pack horses.
The Lady Mildred saw my glance. ‘Once,’ she said, ‘when Earl Raymond was given his title, he brought four such horses as gift, part of his feudal dues. I take it as omen, Lady Ann, that you have them with you now.’ She had not asked where I was going, had not sought to question me, yet her will was indomitable. And in her hands she carried, wrapped up in a sacking case that it be not noticed, a flag of Sedgemont with his crest fresh embroidered upon it. I took it without words. What words were there to answer such trust?
The French lords came up to me, riding bare-headed, their faces reddened by the wind. It was not so cold; the warmth that had started the thaw would come faster now that day approached.
Sir Gautier spoke. ‘We go east,’ he said, without courtesy. ‘Which way ride you?’
‘East, too,’ I said, swinging myself up with the help of my men. He eyed me sourly. On horseback, I was of a height with him. I could manage my horse as well, if, God willing, I did not heave my food before him as I already had done once this morning in secret.
‘Not with me,’ he snapped. ‘We ride hard. You make no party with us.’
‘The roads are free for all,’ I said, tight lipped. ‘And you may find we ride as fast as you.’
‘Not with us,’ he said again. ‘We have no responsibility for you.’
‘I do not need that,’ I said, gesturing to my three men who had closed behind Cecile and me. ‘We have no need to run like dogs in the shadow of your protection. Look for us if you wish. We shall be there.’
He eyed me, wheeled his horse round without word, and made signal. His escort jangled across the drawbridge, the blue banners laced with golden lions waving in the breeze. Beside me, one of our men spat. I gave the French five minutes’ start before we left, standing there in the melting snows, the horses shivering at our impatience.
The Lady Mildred waited at the steps at her usual place, no emotion showing, no tears. Yet below her, wrapped in his military cloak, the body of her husband lay still unburied until the ground unfroze, and nearby lay the bodies of the other men. I looked about me in the morning air. It was light now. There was a good smell of fresh things growing through the ice. The remaining men were standing in their separate groups around the wall, some leaning despondently, some expectant, all wondering. The great walls of Sedgemont rose dark above us, unguarded. The bailey was littered still with straw, with dirt, all unkempt, unwatched.
I said suddenly, addressing the three groups of them whose three separate dead lay waiting, ‘We be strange companions here, but I commend you to the Lady Mildred, who will order this castle in our name until I return.’
There was a murmur. One man cried out, ‘No one holds Sedgemont.’
‘Yes,’ I said evenly, ‘you do, until my return. Keep all in order lest your watch be found wanting. I seek justice for the rights and wrongs of us all. Else will we be like devil’s curs, snarling over bones of wood. Without a master here, Sedgemont is as dead. Honour the Lady Mildred until our return. She acts as master and mistress both.’
We turned on our heels, clattered out ourselves, a small silent group, without flag, without honour. But as my men rode by, they saluted the little figure at her place, the sharp salute of the Sedgemont guard. Then we, too, left the castle gates, went spurring after the dark shapes we could see against the white ground, already far ahead.
13
They rode hard but not so fast that we could not keep them in sight. And in some ways they made things easier for us, their larger numbers and heavier weights cutting a wide swath through the snow. At other times, the best we could do was to plod along in their wake. And when night fell and they sought shelter at some inn, we went there, too. Then did I see for myself the ease with which space was made for the king’s messengers, food readied, beds made available. Not that there were many other travellers at the time, and I doubt if any were displaced to make room for us. But, at least, we were not ill treated, and the French envoys were not so petty as to forbid us the same shelter that they enjoyed. And when the morning came, we were always there and mounted and ready in good time, waiting for them to ride out before we followed. It was a hard ride. Nothing to Raoul’s men, who wrapped their cloaks around their chins, and lowered their heads against the elements, solid as rocks.
Not for Cecile, who set her head high; white and determined she rode without complaint. Strangely enough, I think it was I who suffered most, and who had thought least about the difficulties, having endured them all before. But, for some reason, my body now seemed determined to betray me when I wished it most unsexed, to behave as any man would. My back ached, my very bones seemed to stretch with weariness, and the dizziness and sickness that had begun to plague me threatened at times to overwhelm me before them all. I forced those things aside as resolutely as Cecile did her discomfort. No weakness of mine would make us lose place. And if it was the effect of pregnancy, well, I was not unlearned about that either, although so ignorant of its effects upon myself. There would be time to think of that, hold it to its true account, when Raoul was free again.
Unaided by our three men, we would have foundered for certain. Without complaint, without fuss, they did all that I should have ordered them to do but had not the wits or strength to think of at the day’s end. I often remember them, dark and sombre in their unembroidered cloaks, who once had proudly worn the red and gold of Sedgemont. And twice did they save our lives; loyalty again, although through what strange means, what purpose, God knows and will set down to their credit. Once, as we crossed a rivulet the frozen ice gave way beneath us. We would all have been swept downstream, forced under, had not they sat their horses in the midst of the current to their waists in ice and mud and held the line by which the other horses could be led across. I managed to ford it by myself, my thick woollen skirts so wet and clinging that they made more weight than all my body did together. Cecile they finally bore before them, patiently taking yet another wetting in the icy water. On the farther side, we all stripped in silence, and warmed ourselves about a fire until we were thawed enough to go on. That night it was so late before we found the lodging place that we all stumbled into bed without thought of food, every muscle crying out for rest. But the next morning, the horses were saddled and we were waiting before the French rode out.
The second time was more dangerous. Yet, without it, I think much that happened afterwards would not have been possible. I have said there were few travellers abroad, the weather being in part to blame, but also the uncertainty, that people were unwilling to stir from their homes. By now we had come far enough from the forest of Sedgemont to have left most of the snow behind, although the sea of mud that replaced it was no more agreeable. I had taken little heed of where we rode, concentrating more on survival than curiosity, but I had noted how, for the last few hours, we had been picking our way through a new stretch of woodland, made up of scantily spaced trees and wide stretches of brush and shrub. Later I recognised it was one of those great game preserves that the Norman kings have set aside for their own hunting grounds; then I knew only that it made easier riding than we had known before. Suddenly, the man who rode in front pulled back his horse so that it sank upon its haunches and stretched his arm out behind him to bid us hold back. We waited silently, the great horses pulling at their lead reins to crop the grass that grew there, the first we had seen in m
any days.
‘Ahead of us,’ he said softly, ‘men are waiting. In that clump of trees.’
‘Friends?’ The other two spoke as one.
‘I doubt it. I caught a glimpse of weapons. No friend hides thus.’
‘How many?’
‘They let the French go past. Less than they. More than we.’
They had already turned their horses round, heading to a more open place.
‘Should we not spur right through?’ I asked, not yet certain what we fled from.
‘Nay.’ Raoul’s men looked grim. By now their swords were out, their shields unhooked from the saddles, their eyes scanning on either side.
‘They are waiting for us,’ one explained, the youngest, a cheery fellow, his wounded knee that had kept him at Sedgemont after Raoul’s escape still unknitted, yet he smiled at the thought of danger again. ‘Ride through with surprise, stand firm with attack. Do not be afeard, Lady Ann. It is only a group of ruffians thinking to have an easy game of us.’
We circled at the first convenient place, where the trees were set far enough apart not to give cover. I loosened the little knife at my belt. For a moment, panic took me as I saw the figures slipping behind us, on foot, with a horseman or two at their back. I felt my vision sway and blur as I remembered that morning by the stream when Giles and his men had awaited such an attack. Our men tightened their girths and stirrup straps, watching closely while we put Cecile and the grey horses on the inside, I with my knife to guard them. When the first men came sliding into the open, I heard their rally cry like a bird’s call, and the answering echo from the farther side where others had come round to trap us. Our own knights stood up in their saddles, as Raoul had taught them, straight legged, stiff, although it must have been agony to lean on a wound scarce healed, and waited until the filthy, bearded group had advanced from the trees and came loping towards us. Then did they swing out towards them, two of them moving on together neck and neck, their arms outstretched above their heads to sweep down on either side like a storm, slashing through to the bone with all the weight they had, while the third, a length behind, cut past obliquely to turn the attack from the rear. They swept back, their sword tips crimson now, their faces beaded with sweat, and I heard the shout they gave, ‘Sedgemont, Cambray,’ echo through the forest like a trumpet blast. Three more times did they sweep out and cut our attackers down as they came. Three times they wheeled back without hurt to themselves, although had there been bowmen in the group, we would all have been dead long since. Before we could launch a fourth charge, I heard another cry, the thunder of hooves, and swinging round to right and left of us through the trees came the blue trappings of the Angevins. Thus were our men relieved, although they gave no outward sign, except to shout once again, as now all three rode out, knee to knee as one man, charging through the underbrush into the midst of the outlaw gang. These, in panic, had started to throw down their weapons and begun to run for the shelter of the deeper trees, whilst their leaders, seeing that there was no hope, had already turned and galloped away. I watched as a head spun off in a gush of blood, like a bird’s wing against the grey trees, and, sick and shivering, turned my face aside to vomit away all the fear and relief. When it was done, I tottered to the side of the clearing and sat upon the muddy grass turfs and waited for the men to rejoin us. They came back, as joyful as from a hunt, the youngest one whistling through his teeth, for all that his bandaged leg ran red, and his eyes were rimmed with dirt and fatigue.
‘You do not think to sell yourself easily?’ Sir Gautier’s voice broke in upon my reverie. He and Sir Renier had come spurring up, and leaned now upon their saddles while their horses heaved and pawed, foam spraying from their bits. He pointed with his sword to my hand where I still held Giles’s knife.
When I could speak, ‘And what would you do with that?’ I said, pointing in turn to his sword.‘Do not tell me that it was used on our behalf?’
‘Dieu, I did but course after hares,’ he said.
‘What waste of effort,’ I replied, scarce caring what I said as long as the sickness kept its distance whilst they were there, ‘to turn you back so far from your path.’
My men had drawn up behind me now as I sat, Raoul’s men, I should say. I had seen them exercise that formation a hundred times across the great meadows of Sedgemont and in the camp on the border.
‘Who trained them to that?’ Sir Renier asked. ‘Who serve you?’
They looked at him disinterestedly, cleaning their swords upon their cloaks, resettling their shields, their straps, without word.
Fighting the return of faintness, I said breathlessly, ‘While they ride with me, they serve me.’
‘No woman . . .’ Sir Renier began. Then Sir Gautier who had been observing me narrowly, broke in, ‘Then were you better served, my lady, to ride slower with your men. Have them bear you in a litter. Hire more men. Ride slower.’
‘I can keep up,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I have no choice.’
‘Why not?’ he said, still watching me. ‘I do not understand your haste.’
‘So that the people whom I know and trust,’ I said slowly, forcing myself upright against the tree, ‘will not be reduced to living like these poor wretches, so that they are free to hunt among their own lands.’
‘It will kill you, lady,’ he said again, pulling at his beard, his round face suddenly drawn with worry.
‘Should that concern you,’ I said bitterly, beckoning them to bring my horse so I could mount, ‘what will one more death be to you?’
He bit his lip, his colour darkening as I had seen before, and turned away. It was Sir Renier who dismounted, helped me to the saddle, escorted Cecile, who had clung to her own horse this while, half-dead with fear, and brought us to the lodgings for the night. That night again I sank away to sleep before I could take food or drink, and dreamed that I was back at Cambray, running through the sand dunes towards the beach. The sea was out, and the breakers fell with a far-off murmur on the shore. And at the water’s edge a black-hooded figure waited for the tide to turn to drag Raoul, to drag Talisin, against the rocks.
The next morning was clearer, warmer still. We did not shiver as we usually did as we awaited the Frenchmen’s departure. My guard were not talkative, but even they looked more cheerful than before, as if a taste of victory had heartened them. But when the Frenchmen appeared, they looked straight ahead as they always did, as if they saw no one.
Sir Gautier came over to me. ‘Ride you beside me,’ he said abruptly. ‘We pass through a lonely place today, where there be more vagabonds. Keep your men close behind.’
‘I would thank you,’ I said, suddenly smiling at him, ‘if I knew why your change of heart. . .’
‘I have not time,’ he said, smiling at me in return, the first smile he had given since that night at Sedgemont, ‘to pant back and forth upon your trail. Although I do not think you wise to keep up this pace.’ And there was a question in his shrewd look that suddenly made me want to turn away as if he might have guessed a secret that I thought hidden from everyone. I made pretence at gathering up the reins, putting on my gloves, settling my dagger at my side.
When his refusal to move forced me to reply, ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I said at last, lamely. ‘If Cecile can, so can I.’
‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I would not have thought her capable.’
‘If we cannot, then shall you leave us again,’ I said. And with that he had to be content.
Sir Gautier was a good companion on the road. What he had guessed at, hinted at, never for decency did he mention again, at least not then, and it may have been my own guilt that suspected he knew more than I wished any man to know. He did not make concessions to Cecile and me; but by now she could manage as well as anyone, and I, well, I would, too. You come to know men when they are doing what they are best at. Sir Gautier was a good leader. Less open than Raoul with his men, less on easy terms, he was efficient and spare. And shrewd. Both he and Renier
were more shrewd and cynical than I had reckoned them, both of them having had long practise at the courts of Anjou and Aquitaine.
On the other hand, neither man was cautious about his life at court, speaking more openly of it than ever Raoul had done. It was from Renier, a Frenchman, that I learned most of London and the pleasures that awaited us there, the feasts, the fairs, the shops, which made it more large, more prosperous than any place I had ever imagined. And from Sir Gautier, all the further detail I could glean of Henry and his queen. And then again from Renier, descriptions of that hot sultry land in the south, which I never thought to see, dust-dry and hot, so unlike these muddy wet trails we rode across in this wintry landscape here, that Aquitaine, which he despaired of returning to once more.
One night we lodged at a monastery, well entertained by the abbot and his monks, far removed from those frugal silent meals I remembered. Anything less like my experience within cloistered walls cannot be described; those good men turned up their noses at Cistercian piety, sneering at the hypocrisy that made pretence that starvation and silence were sources of holiness. They munched upon the pastries and pies and haunches of venison, caught, no doubt, in the king’s forest, while the abbot explained his idea to us, waving his pudgy fingers with enthusiasm. ‘For things will be different,’ he said, ‘now that Henry is king. We shall have no more interference as we had under Stephen. We have had too many people poking their fingers into English Church affairs. This Henry will have learned his lesson not to meddle with us.’
‘I am not sure,’ Sir Gautier answered, smoothing his beard as he did when thoughtful. ‘I have known Henry a long time. He makes us all grow old with his energy. He will not be like his French king, squatting on his throne complaining of his wrongs. You may find, my lord Abbot, he puts his finger deeper in than anyone you have known. And he may out argue you to boot. He is skilled in many languages including priestly Latin.’
