Gifts of the Queen

by Mary Lide

  ‘What do they tell?' she asked, quick to test my lie.

  I flushed a little, for in truth, I had never spoken to them, only heard the castle servants talk.

  ‘Well,' I said hesitatingly, 'who to wed, what he will be like, if he will be a great lord.'

  ‘Aye,' she said almost absent-mindedly, 'a great lord indeed. High above you shall you look for a husband. But landless, landless, he shall be before you wed.'

  ‘And will he love me?' I said, not liking the sound of landless, which was disgrace, remembering other things the castle wenches spoke of carelessly before me, so that I yeaned parts of it, 'will he love me true?'

  Love,' she said, 'If you will speak of love, why then,—many men will you have in your life to ride into your dreams. Some will love you, some will desire you, and some will use love to do you harm. And one you will love but fear he does not love you. And because of the hatred of three men you shall do us a service so great, we shall throw off the Norman yoke. But what follows after will not depend on you.'

  Her list of—prophecies, I suppose I should now call them, daunted me. I would not let her know it. I threw back my head and squared my shoulders under the woolen cloak. The mist had condensed upon it in great drops, even the reins were black and slippery with wet and the rain had beaded upon her hair.

  'And is there no more than this?' I asked, although my voice trembled despite myself.

  'Only this,' she said, and for the first time, there was anger, cold and stern, in her voice. 'Death and grief are within your power. Use your hold on them carefully. Beware the malice of womenfolk.'

  'And is there no hope anywhere?' I cried, afraid of something I could not see, but glimpsed at darkly, far-off.

  She said, 'Men will lay down their lives for you. Be comforted. They will do so willingly. Trust the impulse of your own heart. And one day, you shall come safely home.'

  The men at the entrance to the stone cried out, or perhaps now I was suddenly able to hear them.

  'Comeback, Lady Ann, come back,'I heard their captain shout.

  'That one,' she said and she pointed to him on his gray horse. 'Come back, he says. Long will he wish it for himself.'

  'And shall I bring you the golden chain?' I said, nudging my pony away from her, for the coldness in her voice was like ice. 'Tomorrow, if you will tell me where.'

  'No,' she said, 'you will not bring it to me although one day I shall claim it. But not tomorrow nor tomorrow's morrow will you come up here again.'

  The captain had forced his horse through the gap at last, and lashing it, reached over the side to grasp my bridle with his other hand. With whip and spur, he forced the frightened beast, almost dragging me underfoot.

  'This is no place for you,' he cried, his Norman voice a trumpet blast. 'Away from this ring of death.'

  'It is you who have spoken the word,' she said, standing up very tall. 'And on your lips is death recorded, not on mine.'

  As she spoke, the animals stopped their struggle, turned meekly to one side. We jostled through the gap in the stones; the other men, as if freed from whatever had held them there, swung round, roweling their horses down the narrow path, moving into a gallop on the level ground.

  I shouted the words, 'Tomorrow then?' over my shoulder, but the mist had come down, the circle of stones was hidden, everything blurred and faded away.

  We came to the open fields, the village beneath the castle walls, in a thunder of hooves, fear driving at our heels. Well, she spoke the truth in this. I never went up there the next day. On the morrow's morning was my brother dead; murdered, if the correct name be given, and within two days my father, Falk of Cambray, had followed him; of grief and loss he died. I left Cambray of sea and moors and came to the castle of Sedgemont, as ward to my overlord. Lord Raoul, who but a boy himself, had recently inherited those lands from his grandfather. The handsome captain of the guard was lost in one of those many battles far away and never ever came back to Cambray. And many weary years passed until I returned.

  And it was true that since that meeting my life had not been an easy one. My brother and father had died; even my castle of Cambray had been lost when a Celtic force had taken it, and other enemies had coveted it too and tried to kill me for my little lands. And true it was that many men had died for me. That they did so willingly had not made their deaths easier for me to bear. And although I had never thought to marry with an earl, Lord Raoul was indeed a great lord, lord of many lands and titles when I knew him first, but landless when finally we were wed, a month ago at the English court. For after my father's death, those wars, those civil wars I have spoken of, had fallen on us in all their fury. Not one part of England had been free of them, not my lands at Cambray, nor Raoul's at Sedgemont. And Raoul, who had sworn to support one claimant to the throne, who had fought loyally to the end for King Stephen, not even Raoul had escaped the enmity of that other claimant, Henry of Anjou, who on Stephen's death, had at last gained his heart's desire and been crowned king himself.

  What put it in my mind this last day of our journey south, the thirty-eighth day (I know, I had kept count, scratching each morning a fresh mark on the saddle flap), what made me think now of the lady of the moors? More than ten years had passed since she had appeared to me, and I had hidden memory of her as a dream is hidden, so deeply buried I had never thought of her again, as if grief and death had supplanted her. And yet I had never forgotten her either, and on remembering I must remember the occasion complete, the cold wind, the smell of peat, the chink of bridle chain, the rivulets of mist. Who knows what God puts into our minds to make us recall this thing, then that. We are but part of a vast plan whose beginning and end are never known. I can tell you only that now we were riding along the river's bank toward Sieux and all the mist of the spring evening curled about our horses' feet. We splashed through the reed beds, startling flocks of geese and ducks that broke away across the wide expanse of open water where the river had widened into a lake. A month or more had we been already on our journey here, a long hard month since we had set sail from the little southern English port and crossed the sea and come to France; more than a month since I had been wed at the court of this new English king, Henry, second of his name. More than a month since my new husband, Lord Raoul, Earl of Sedgemont, Count of Sieux, had brought me here to France, to his own lands now restored to him.

  I looked ahead of me where Lord Raoul rode. Only a few knights accompanied us, on this our last day's journey south to Sieux. From time to time, Raoul turned painfully, for riding was not easy for him these days, and looked back where I, my two squires, and a rear guard rode in single file. He was simply dressed, this great lord, no sign of rank, a leather jerkin, no rich rings, no golden chains, no furs. His hair, silver-gold, grown longer on our journey here, tossed freely in the wind. And his right arm, sword arm, wounded arm, was still strapped tightly to his side. But when he smiled as he now did, his eyes of Norman gray turned blue-green like the sea, and the laugh lines fanned out. God knows that he was tired and thin, but he did not look so fine-drawn, if I can use that expression for a man so full of energy, as on his wedding day when he had outfaced King Henry in his court. You would not know, on looking at him today, what cruel wrongs had been done to him.

  For Henry hated Raoul, a hatred that went back even to their forefathers' time, a hatred so strong that even before Henry had been crowned king, he had seized Raoul's lands in France and occupied that castle of Sieux, toward which we now were riding. Worse, on succeeding to the throne, Henry had seized Raoul's English lands as well, had openly proclaimed Raoul an outlaw, and had named him a traitor whose lands and titles and life were forfeit. The story of that time has been already told. Wounded in a last great fight with one of Henry's men, Raoul had been rescued and hidden by the Sedgemont guard who, for love of their overlord, went willing into exile with him. These same men rode with us today. Well did they deserve to rest this night. And the story too has been told how I, as Lord Raoul's ward, had come to
London to find the king and plead with him for Raoul's life, and how, alone, friendless, I had been befriended by Queen Eleanor. She it was who in the end had persuaded Henry to pardon Raoul and his men, give them the kiss of peace, and restore to Raoul his lands and titles, all that had been lost.

  Perhaps it was the mists that reminded me, the mists that curled and eddied with each step, or perhaps the creaking of the saddles or the clink of armor as a man turned to talk or laugh, or the jingle of a bridle piece when a horse tossed its head. Or was it the way our shadows loomed and wavered, sometimes large and distorted, against the wall of fog? Or was it simply my listening to one of my squires, Walter the elder, who loved a tune, and was whistling one between his teeth, a song learned of a kitchen wench the night before? Or perhaps the glint and shimmer of the water where the lake opened up between the matted reeds reminded me of the sheen of the lady's gown beneath her rags. I do not know, but will tell you only this: back the memory came, fresh as yesterday, and her words chimed like bells within my head. And all that had happened since my meeting her echoed and echoed in my mind. I thought as I had thought often this past month, what is done is done. God have it so, that all bitterness be finished and enmity and death. And that we come home safe to Sieux.

  But perhaps it was none of these things, only the day itself, unlike any of those other days, a month of them drowned in rain and cold, which, since the start of our journey here, seemed to have dogged us with storms, as if even the weather wished us ill. Today, despite the wet, there had been a feeling in the air, an excitement so intense as almost to give substance to mood, to things intangible, to sounds, waking me from an uneasy sleep. For often now I had the same dream, except it was no dream; it was the true past relived. We were still in Henry's court, and Henry had pardoned Raoul. Take your lands and titles back, Henry had said. I grant you the title of Earl as in your grandfather's time. I restore to you willingly your lands and castle at Sieux—if you take Ann of Cambray as wife. I still heard Henry's laugh; I still saw the open hot looks he cast at me, the hope, perhaps, to bed me first himself. I still felt his tinge of scorn, to make me a jest, a pawn, for a king to play with. But more than that, I still felt the scorn he put on Raoul. Henry could not have made his jest more plain. 'If you would have your lands back, Raoul,' he should have said, and sometimes in my dreams he did, 'marry beneath you, you who could marry where you choose, marry Ann. At my command.'

  It was an order no man of pride or rank could or would obey. But Raoul had. Sometimes I had wondered what would have happened had Raoul refused, Raoul, who when I first knew him, was already betrothed to a French lady of high degree. That Isobelle de Boissert, as she was called, had been heiress of many lands. Why would Earl Raoul marry with Ann of Cambray, whose small castle at the end of the Norman world had no value, was already part of Raoul's own estates, and he already my overlord? But there was one other reason for Raoul to marry me, one Henry did not know, and that, too, a cause to make me start awake. Had Henry known, he would have rather kept us apart and revelled in a greater jest. What he did not know was this (although the Queen who had helped me did): that Raoul had already bedded me, and I was already with child, conceived when Raoul left me, as he thought, to go to his death. This then was another reason for our haste, why since our coming to France we had avoided any place where Henry might have news of us, and why in the dark I relived again and again our wedding night when Raoul had lain with his unsheathed sword in his hand. And why in nightmares, I heard Henry and his men break into our room, to prove for themselves that I was no maid, and this my new husband had already lain with me and given me a child. So, when at today's dawn I started awake, you know what I thought. But it was only the noise of Lord Raoul's black stallion that had wakened me. We had spent last night in a simple country hostelry, less villanous than most although that does not praise it highly, no doubt a haven for local travelers, although it had neither beds nor space for us. We were but a small group even so, a score of mounted men whom my lord had brought from his lands in England, from Sedgemont, half as many again of foot, a baggage train, and my womenfolk, whom I willingly would have abandoned after the first day. This morning, hearing the sounds below the granary where we had been lodged, these selfsame ladies, in various state of undress, had fluttered to the openings in the mud walls, hung with sacking still straw filled which gave at least some protection from the bitter wind.

  The day was damp and dreary, as I have said; spring had not come to us as I thought it must have come to all parts else. The rains which had followed us from the coast still dripped and blew about the roof thatch and gathered in black puddles in the cobbled yard. The knights of Lord Raoul's retinue were mounting up for the day's ride. They had slept no doubt even worse than we, with saddles for pillows and their cloaks for beds, but I never heard them complain. They were old friends, had served Lord Raoul long and faithfully; discomforts were but pinpricks for them. I noted at once how today they rode their battle horses, their destriers, which normally their squires led at their right side, with gear slung at the saddle pommel ready at hand for instant use. Today they wore their chainmail coats, had had them burnished with care, and over them flung the surcoats of red and gold which they wore usually to mark them as men of Sedgemont and which they had kept hidden on our march south. Already some were in the saddle, others were still buckling on their sword belts while squires knelt to strap on their spurs. Lord Raoul's horse, a great huge beast, famed for its strength and its temper both, had taken fright at something or dislike of one of the stableboys. Or perhaps it too scented excitement in the air, for it had already kicked its way through part of a stable wall, a flimsy partition of plaster and wattle. Now with a toss of its head, it sent the Sedgemont grooms tumbling among the mud and straw. Across the crowded yard it plunged, a broken strap dangling dangerously between its hooves. Those knights already mounted fought their own horses to keep them under control; those men on foot dived for cover as best they could. The black horse, enjoying freedom, reared, and flayed with its forefeet, shaking its head with all teeth bared. Then down it jarred, crashing against the bales of straw that were piled beside the courtyard gate. My ladies screamed, their hands before their mouths, and whispered excitedly to one another as they let the men below see them in their shifts. Not that there was time to enjoy their charms so displayed, the men were more intent to escape those deadly hooves. The stableboys shouted at each other in their strange harsh French, the landlord wrung his hands and cursed; the Sedgemont grooms, picking themselves up gingerly, began to move toward the gate to bar escape.

  Into this confusion strode Lord Raoul. He was dressed for riding as were his guard, but was not able to wear his mail coat yet. Brushing between his men, he came forward, my young Lord, who once had been as quick as a cat, moving more slowly today, his squire behind, tugging at his good arm in vain to make him stop. In the center of the yard, Raoul and his horse came face-to-face. The horse was not yet saddled and now I could see clearly the strap that dragged between its feet. I knew Lord Raoul could not use his right arm; I knew his broken shoulder blade was hardly knit, I knew his right side was still unhealed, and yet, although he scarce could mount a saddled horse on his own, he would ride this one unsaddled. I left my women-folk to their screams, threw a woolen cloak about my shoulders, ran to the wooden steps outside and barefooted came down into the yard.

  He still faced his horse, left hand on hip, until the horse slowly backed into the position he was hoping for, against the fallen bales of straw where he would have leverage when he needed it. Suddenly he bent and grasped at the broken strap between forefeet which I had once seen tear a man to shreds. Then, with one laborious movement, he pulled at the horse's head, until it faced away from the mass of men framed in the gateway. The bales of straw served him as a mounting block; he clambered up, each step a strain upon his ribs, and with greater effort, flung himself upon the horse's back. I had seen him before leap into a saddle with all his armor on, not needing rein
nor stirrup iron. This move was clumsy, so unlike his usual self that I felt my heart contract—I cannot use the words ‘with pity' (that would be an expression he would have spat back) but 'with pride,' perhaps—that for pride he drove himself. The abrupt movement startled the horse again; it plunged and reared and thrashed away. But Raoul hung on, his left arm wrapped about the horse's neck, hand knotted in its mane, and slowly began to gather up the broken straps to bring pressure on the curbed bit. Back and forth they fought, the horse's sides lathered, gouts of foam flying from its mouth. Raoul still clung with hand and knee until at last the horse obeyed him once more, and its rage died out. It hung its head quiet as a lamb. There was a gasp of breath expelled; the women's wailing died upon a sigh.

  Raoul's squires ran to take the reins; he let himself slide over the horse's back, limped to a bale of straw and leaned upon it, struggling for breath. I longed to go to him but did not dare, and waited instead by the wooden steps, my feet curling against the cold. His men would tend him if he needed help. Never since our wedding day had he let me tend to his wounds, although I knew of salves and potions that make flesh heal quickly and help bones knit. I think now he thought to spare me the sight of those scars, perhaps he even feared they might sicken me, yet they were wounds nobly borne; and nobly had he endured them for my sake, too. But seldom had I chance to see him at all these days; since our marriage we had tarried nowhere long, and since we had come to France, as I have explained, each day at dawn, with his men, he led the way and kept guard, with patrols to scout for danger on all sides. I, my squires and the foot soldiers, traveled more slowly in company with the womenfolk and baggage carts. And at night, so weary he could scarce stand, he slept where he could, not even taking time to unpack or use the gear we brought with us. But today, the dawning was long past. Perhaps today he would ride with us.