Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  I had been guarding the new prince. Fighting angry he was, red faced, struggling against the swaddling clothes that confined him. Such energy in that scrap of masculinity frightened me. One day he would stretch and grow to become a man like his father, who had terrorised half of Europe since I could remember. One day he might be King of England. I suddenly saw the fascination he had for those courtiers. Here, then, for them was where their future might lie. And my son would not even have a name.

  Yet as I looked and mused, it seemed to me I heard a high wind blow as twice before it has blown around me, through my thoughts to blind me to the real world. Dry and hot it was, of a kind I had not then known, made up of dust and sand. Across a hot and arid plain, two men were riding side by side, far off, under a pale blue sky.

  One of these men was my son. I knew him although I could not see his face. He rode beside his master there, a tall, huge man, red bearded, upon whose white surcoat were stamped the lions of England. That second man was king. You could see it in the way he rode and turned his head and spoke. But it was not the little Henry who lay at my feet. So, although I felt a gush of joy at the way my son rode side by side with his king in the desert of Outremer, there was pain, too, and pity. And grief, that he rode there to war, death perhaps, and I could not see his face. But he rode beside a king who smiled at him. The hot wind blew across Bermondsey, and I saw them both disappear over the sand dunes until only the trace of their horses’ hoofprints was left behind. And those the wind scattered away.

  Three times had it been given to me to see things caught out of sequence, out of place. Unsought, unwelcome have they been. This was the third. I did not want to see my son ride far away. I did not want to know the fate of this baby prince at my feet. But it was my son, he who lay beneath the knotted girdle at my waist, who, if I could achieve it, would grow to be acknowledged by all men as his father’s heir, who if his father would have it so, should be loved by him among the lords of the land.

  14

  Nor have I ever told anyone what I saw. How could I? It gave no joy, no pain, it merely showed what was to be.

  ‘Lady Ann,’ the queen’s voice brought me back to the present there, ‘what ails you? You sit as pale as the layer of fog upon the Thames.’ She mispronounced it in her usual careless fashion. ‘You look to have seen a ghost.’

  ‘No ghost,’ I said—unless it be the ghost of dreams, other men’s dreams for their children . . .

  She continued to stare at me curiously. She had made a quick recovery from childbirth, had regained all her vivacity and spirits, showed all her dislike of sickness and ill health that made her impatient with those who had not her same resilience. Already I could tell she rebelled against the restrictions of Bermondsey, longed for excitement, waited for the king’s return.

  ‘Or is it,’ she said, ‘your own child who stirs within you? Come, come, I have had enough children of my own to recognise the look. If you are with child, you had best bring forth the father first.’

  When again I was silent, ‘Ah, then those tales were true.’

  ‘What tales?’ I said.

  ‘Oh tush,’ she said, ‘none of your men would speak a word against you. They are as tight mouthed as monks. Nor Cecile, like a shadow creeping beside you. But there have been rumours about you, even before I came to England. Lord Guy of Maneth had more than his share to tell.’ She made a face. ‘I could not abide him,’ she said, ‘a thing that mouths and grabs its way to favours. Henry liked him little better. Yet he felt his obligation. Maneth was, after all, vassal to his uncle the Earl of Gloucester and was loyal to him along the border. Is it true that Raoul of Sedgemont has tortured all his peasants, torn out their tongues that they cannot speak?’

  At my look, ‘Well, so Maneth claimed. A second Geoffrey of Mandeville he called him, and, as you know, at Mandeville’s death, the walls of the churches he had looted wept blood. Is Raoul of Sedgemont such a monster as that?’

  ‘For torture,’ I said unsteadily, forcing myself to think straight, ‘Guy of Maneth could have told you all you need to know.’

  ‘I am but joking,’ she said, ‘to bring the colour to your cheeks. I do not believe the stories Maneth told. And I believe he deserved his end as Sir Gautier described it to me in the letter he sent. And I do believe Raoul is the father of your child, and that is crime enough, to have seduced you against your will. And I am sure he lives, else you would not be pleading for him.’ When I was silent again, ‘Or, beshrew me, is it that you have seduced him?’

  How could I explain the right and wrongs of it? You know what happened. Judge you for yourself.

  ‘My lady,’ I said, falling to my knees almost without knowing, ‘he is a just and honourable man. Spare his life is all I beg.’

  ‘Get up, you fool,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘I would hear more of this Raoul of yours. Silent as the grave have you been all these weeks, and I half-wild with curiosity. I have heard such stories about him, I know not which to think.’

  ‘He is tall, lady,’ I said, and at the words he flashed upon my thoughts, as if I saw him alive and well as once he had come towards me, ‘tall and quick; long, fair hair he has, brown skin, and eyes that change like the sea from blue green to grey. And a temper, unruly to match. But with a ready jest to laugh at you when he has angered you. Sweet tempered would he be if things would let him. And strong as hammered steel, he will not bend . . .’

  ‘Stubborn then,’ she said. ‘Enough of his physical charms or you will have us all on our knees praying for this god. What rank is he, what standing? Are you his equal? And what is it that has roused my husband’s enmity?’

  Thus asked, I poured out the story of Raoul of Sedgemont, of his grandfather Earl Raymond, Count of Sieux and of the bond that united our two families. And I tried to tell her of the bond that bound Raoul to his king, and his pride, his stubbornness—that was her word—that would not let it go.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she sighed when I was done, ‘I have heard it all before: these noble men who think to win the world at the sword’s point and will not for honour budge one inch from their course. I tell you such men cannot long endure. I do not say we shall lack their high honour, their loyalty, but the age of fealty as we have known it is passing, and they will end with it unless they can bend to fit the times, and many of them cannot, will not. And you are in love with him, Lady Ann. I can see that. And no doubt you fear he will feel you have tricked him to be with child, to have come here without his knowledge. I do not say he will. But others will say so. For his rank, albeit your family lies deep in his affection, is far above yours; his grandfather was an earl, his ancestors counts of Sieux.’

  ‘I know it,’ I said miserably. How explain that once it had seemed different when we had been two people, alone, far from thoughts of rank or position, stretching out for a little while to find warmth and content with each other.

  She sighed at my stumbling words. ‘Long ago,’ she said, ‘I thought as you did. When I was young, I, too, loved a man. Oh, all the world has heard rumours of it, even in your castle at Sedgemont. But no one knows the truth and I do not try to explain it either. The scandal of it rocked Christendom, yet I survived. I was Queen of France on Holy Crusade, and fell in love with a man who was my kinsman. Kinsman! Are we not all kin, being descended from one common father, Adam? And was not my marriage to Louis of France annulled because of closeness of blood? That word consanguinity is used by the monks to make us fear their power. And was not he kinsman, uncle, by such marriage lines that only churchmen would find the time to trace them to their end? But I say openly, without shame, I would have given crown and holy war and reputation, all, to have stayed there in Antioch with him. We were not queen, not prince, but woman and man together.’

  She sat a long while staring into the fire, seeing perhaps, as I had done, the hot desert, the sand, time jolted out of place.

  ‘Louis of France would not allow that,’ she said suddenly, her voice cold, ‘either because he would not have a
nother man want me, or because he would not have my lands slip through his grasp. Or because he was eaten with envy that I could be happy.’

  She sighed again. ‘It was a long time ago. I have changed much from that girl who would have dared anything to stay with her love. They dragged me off in the night, so we could not even say farewell. I was queen, but he was my equal in every way, a prince as Louis was not. I tell you, Ann, it is not easy to go against the world’s ways. But not to try is also death. Death, such as that is, I have never forgotten. I do not fear real death itself, having lived its counterpart. But you see how I speak, as if it were in another life, had happened to someone other than myself. I am no longer wed with that Louis I despise. I have found Henry of Anjou to make me queen again. Things do not always turn out so badly as you think. I am not the one to talk of love and how to hold it from the world’s fury. But I must warn you. When word came at last to Maneth of his son Gilbert’s death, then was he like a man possessed. Then claimed he that you were a witch to have caused so many good men’s deaths, that you saw sights and portents, had knowledge of things no one could know. There will be those who say that you have put your spells on Raoul of Sedgemont.’

  I did not answer that. There were other arguments more meaningful. She saw my despair.

  ‘But these are lesser affairs and you must settle them yourselves. The main thing is to have Raoul restored, resurrected from the dead where Sir Gautier has consigned him, having considered the nature of his wounds beyond hope. Although that may be a sop to serve the king and keep him satisfied. Restored then to Henry’s favour. Henry is strong-willed too. Where he loves, he will forgive much. But his hatred is implacable. Maneth’s influence we shall discount. Your stories about him will outweigh any he told of you. And as I said, Henry did not like him. Henry is the difficulty. He will not be swayed by what we say, only by what he thinks. Yet I am not so sure that he has always hated Lord Raoul. At times he has spoken of him not as an enemy, but strangely, rather as some kind of rival he felt he must outdo. And you have someone else working to your ends.’ When I looked at her, ‘Sir Gautier spoke highly of you. He is a discreet and powerful friend, long in the king’s inner circle. He thinks much of you, Lady Ann. He is a stout-hearted gentleman with a future that is enviable. One day he will wish to take a wife himself.’

  When I did not respond, ‘Then we must leave it at that. Let me think.’ She stretched herself like a cat. ‘When Henry returns will be the time. He will surely come back now.’

  All knew the king would come, but when? Sometimes I felt relief that he did not. Each day gave me chance to strengthen my case with the queen, to tell her something of my story, to set the record against Maneth’s lies. But then, if we waited too long, the queen might tire of such complications, and all those other factors that worked against me, which I had painfully acknowledged when we came to the court, would still be there. One thing was certain—not my wishing, nor the queen’s, would bring Henry back before he himself saw fit.

  He came with the morning, unheralded, unexpected. We ladies were gathered in the queen’s chambers, the babies were fed and sleeping, and the room, of course, was warm and comfortable. Queen Eleanor lay on her wide bed while her women arranged and curled her hair. Cecile and I stood to one side folding linens. Upon this simple scene, the King of England burst like a wolf into a sheep’s pen.

  There was a commotion outside the door where the guards were stationed. You could hear their clatter to attention as a wave of noise crested down the corridors towards us. We heard the snap of command, the clash of blades drawn in salute; the arras that framed the doorway was swept back and the iron-studded door itself was thrown open.

  A group of men burst into the room. In their midst, the only calm one there, strode a young man with close-cropped red hair. He was not tall, burly rather, with thick, wide shoulders and powerful arms and a thickset head that seemed to thrust a way clear before him. He came towards the foot of the bed, his mud-caked boots clanking over the floor, two hounds fawning at his heels, yapping at the crumbs that fell from the bread he was eating. In his hand he held a large hambone, with which he pointed to give gesture to his words. As he did now.

  ‘So still abed, madame,’ he said, his eyes snapping. The queen, who alone of all of us in the room seemed unstartled by the noise, the sudden outburst, looked up almost calmly, beckoning to the terrified maids to continue with their work.

  ‘As you see, my lord,’ she said, observing herself in her mirror, ‘as it pleases you.’

  She laid the glass aside and smiled at him.

  He laughed at that, a loud, hearty laugh that filled the room with sound and set the hounds baying.

  I thought, Dear God, is that the Henry of Anjou we have all feared so much? I stared at his dirty clothes, his mud-caked boots. It was almost a boy who stood there, a loud, red-haired boy whose red cloak became him as poorly as Sir Renier’s had. Behind him in the mass of men crowding into the doorway, I caught sight of Sir Gautier’s solid frame. That alone convinced me, I think. This was Henry, King of England, who stood there, letting the remains of his breakfast fall to the floor. Yet the way he suddenly flicked his fingers, sending pages scurrying for towels and water to wash, for wine to drink, squires to unbuckle his sword belt and spurs, there was something royal in that gesture, something in the way he was served that gave lie to his youth and awkwardness. This was not a boy but a man who would not be trifled with.

  ‘We hear you have a gift for us.’

  The queen gestured towards the cradles by the fire. He went towards them, picking unerringly the newer one, where a nurse quickly folded back the coverlets to let him look. He stood and stared for a moment or two, then bent and with one abrupt motion scooped up infant, bedclothes and all. It began to squall as he held it high in the air, turning towards the men who waited. The ladies all made sounds of dismay and alarm, instinctively moving forward, as he held the screaming baby in his hands, its head lolling dangerously.

  ‘See, my lords of England and France,’ he said, ‘how he fights already. How he bats out with his hands. Harry of England, will you fight your father for the crown so soon?’

  ‘Henry, my lord,’ Eleanor the Queen spoke still calmly, although more loudly than was her custom, ‘take care. He is but flesh and blood, being a month old. And fragile at that.’ At her gesture, the nurse came back timidly and took the child into her care, easing it into safety with a sigh. Henry paced up and down, talking at first of the child, its size, its strength, his pleasure in his son. He made no mention of that older child, the little William, still asleep in his cradle. Nor did Eleanor remind him. Perhaps they both knew him of little concern now that there was a healthy second son. But a coldness troubled me, that they could be so resolved, so sure.

  Presently the king began to speak of his journey through the north of his new kingdom, of his attacks against two of his northern enemies. I did not know that both men had been with Raoul at Dover before King Stephen’s death, and their names were new to me: the Earl of Norfolk was one, William of Aumale the other. The earl’s title he had reconfirmed to win his loyalty; William of Aumale’s castle at Scarborough he had seized after a siege. I listened to these details avidly, almost stepping forward in my eagerness at the tortuous account of attack and counterattack. It sounded much as I had thought: the king would not let troublemakers rest undisturbed. But he had not killed them out-of-hand, either. In that there was hope.

  He was speaking now of some battle plan before the walls of Scarborough castle in Yorkshire, a strong-built castle it was, hard to take, and he picked up a wooden casket that held the queen’s toiletries to serve as model of the keep, opening and shutting its hinged cover as he talked.

  The queen’s maids had finished dressing her hair and she needed the combs the casket held. ‘My lord,’ she said, still in the same placid voice, ‘be kind enough to give me the box before you shatter the clasp full off.’

  He dropped it with a crash upon the table a
s if it stung him. At a movement from the queen, I came forward to take it from him, but he kept his hand upon the lid and stared at me. He had clear grey eyes, set in a face that was mottled with cold and freckled even in the winter. But there was fixation about his gaze that made my legs turn weak as water. ‘Lionlike’, they call him; there was something far off and predatory about his look, something untamed and fierce that lay behind the clear grey eyes.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘present us, madame.’

  She named me, Ann, of the honour of Cambray; although I heard my name, I could not have stirred had not Cecile jammed her fingers in my spine to make me curtsy, slow and careful, keeping one hand on the bed rail for support.

  ‘Well,’ he said again, softly, talking to me now, ‘I have heard that name I think. Where is this Cambray of yours, demoiselle, that I should remember it?’

  I felt my voice huskier than usual, as if the words came strangely to my tongue, like words I did not know.

  ‘Well,’ he said for the third time, ‘I thought as much. I can tell it in the way you speak. You have that Celtic way of singing. We were once neighbours along these western marches.’

  ‘Indeed, my lord King,’ I said, startled.

  ‘I spent much of my childhood with my uncle there,’ he said, ‘under his tutelage at Bristol. I remember Falk of Cambray. A thorn he was in our sides and to Celts as well.’

  I said proudly, ‘Falk of Cambray was my father, sire. It was his office to hold the border firm.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the king said impatiently. ‘I do not question that. Speak on, that I may hear your voice again. It is a long time since I heard that western lilt. Many of my uncle’s men talked in that way. Little men they were, with their clothes cobbled to their backs, and stank like a stable midden. But their voices would charm you from the grave. Now how did it go?’ He hummed to himself. (Strange, I thought, watching him, he looks and smells little better.) Yet at last he summoned up memory to mutter some lines in the old tongue, so ill spoken and distorted that I could scarce stop myself from smiling. I think he meant to pay a compliment, but since he had used the word for ‘harlot’ when I suspected he meant something more polite, the effect was quite the reverse of courtly gallantry.