by Mary Lide
‘There were good points to it, even those that your uncle spoke of today, to tear down those unlicensed castles that have sprouted everywhere, and to send back the mercenaries, be they Flemish or Gascon, who feed on the English lands. I counselled for the truce at Wallingford.’
‘And you signed it.’
‘I did not counsel, I did not sign the treaty that followed, at Westminster.’
‘What treaty? I have not heard of it,’ I cried.
‘No doubt,’ he said, dryly, ‘you were still in your priory, I think. It made the king’s new heir. Henry of Anjou will be king when Stephen dies. But I, and thus my vassals, did not agree to it.’
‘But that cannot be,’ I said, facing him squarely. ‘King Stephen has a son, Prince Eustace. He will rule after his father . . .’
‘The prince died in August,’ said Lord Raoul, ‘as he lived, a violent man by violent means. Without him, there is no other heir.’
Here then was news that Giles had breathed no word of.
And yet I had already guessed he knew more than he would say. Now Lord Raoul confirmed my belief.
‘But Stephen has other sons,’ I cried. ‘They should rule . . .’
‘His one other son is William,’ Lord Raoul said evenly, ‘who has had no part of these affairs, not being an ‘ambitious man’ as your kinsman would say. By his marriage he has acquired great wealth, and Henry of Anjou has sworn to uphold his lands in France. He has no real need or ambition for a crown. So Henry will have it.’
Only then did the implication of what he was saying sink in.
‘But the other nobles will not have it so,’ I cried.
‘The treaty was signed at Westminster, lady. Eustace died last August. In November, Stephen recognised Henry of Anjou as his heir. The lords and barons of England have been summoned twice to pay homage to him as the next in line.’
‘But you, you did not?’
When he did not reply, I suddenly remembered Giles’s reluctance to speak of the second meeting with the king. A fear grew in me.
‘Did you not do homage to Henry with the rest?’ When again he did not reply, ‘That was wrongly done.’
Then his anger did break out, the more because he knew better than anyone the complications of that refusal, the anger it would have caused to Stephen and Henry both.
‘Rot me’, he cried, ‘but you will teach me how to use my sword, or bestride my horse. What was the first cause of all these long and bitter wars? Think! That we nobles should pay homage to an heir before the reigning king was dead. You once were brash enough to tell me it was because we would not have a woman on the throne. Man or woman, it matters not; acceptance of an heir over a living king foments unrest, destroys the peace, breeds revolution and sedition. Whatever the Treaty of Westminster would have achieved is already lost. The old Earl of Sedgemont said as much to his king. And I have said it to mine.’
‘And no doubt to Henry of Anjou himself, who was overjoyed at the telling.’ He did not reply to that jibe.
‘But Stephen is your friend,’ I cried. ‘He will surely stand between you and Anjou?’
‘While he lives, perhaps,’ he said, and I knew from his tone how little faith he put in that. ‘Such oaths make mockery of oath taking. Stephen has put his own life in jeopardy that now his enemies have reason to get rid of him. It has made Anjou a pawn of other men’s desires, who will use him to advance themselves.’
He caught my glance and held it this time.
‘Like the Lord of Maneth, who seeks to outdo all those other faithless lords who ravage in the east as he himself ravages the west. It is not only the Celts who will take advantage of our stupidity, lady. All over England are there such men. I think you should know that as well as I. Maneth began his plots against you in your convent only after he saw which way the die would fall. God’s teeth,’ he cried, ‘why should they wait for Stephen’s death to make Henry king? Maneth may seem less dangerous than the others, that is all, because as long as we remain here in our ‘makeshift camp’, as you call it, he is not free to throw all his weight on Henry’s side. And if this treaty with the Celts is made, well, that may contain him. They like him as little as I do. And I shall have fulfilled the charge Stephen, in his anger, laid upon me. He will not ask anything else of me, who has defied his wishes. But if the Celtic treaty fails . . .’
‘Then what?’
‘You are good at advice,’ he snarled, ‘so advise me what to choose. Shall we sack Cambray to rid it of the Celts and bring your kinsmen about our ear? Shall we attack Maneth and thus close against his ally, the next heir of England, Henry of Anjou? Or shall we turn against a king who has already thrown his kingdom away?’
‘There must be some other choice than those,’ I said, refusing to let him see how his words affected me. ‘You paint a gloomy picture, my lord.’
‘Yes,’ he said, for once not turning aside my words with a jest. ‘By the Mass, were I truly a man of sense, I would show my back quick enough to them all. There are other struggles, other battles. Overseas, I could find a better war. But look not apprehensive. I have not turned coward yet, although the world looks beckoning. Forget what I have said. Let me thank you instead for your help. You spoke me fair this day, you looked fair. And you did not say we had mistreated you at Sedgemont. That, at least, was gently done.’
‘Did you expect that I would?’ I said.
‘Ah, that I cannot tell,’ he said, ‘except you are ever ready to place me in the wrong. Would it not please you, lady, to have me proved a coward, a man of no faith?’
We had come full circle now in our pacing, and he was waiting to hand me down from the path, towards my tent. The light was almost gone, yet the air was golden with reflected sun and the wind blew about his hair as he stood below me, one foot still upon the bank. Suddenly I saw the differences that had not been there a year ago: the tiredness, the frown between those wide-spaced eyes, the shadow beneath them that picked up the high cheek bones, the disdain that hid bitterness, the pride, which showed through. Beneath his robe, the mail coat curved and shimmered and his golden spurs glittered at his heels.
Many were the things I have regretted not saying, a thousand things could I have said then.
‘I did not think it would matter how I judged you, my lord,’ I said coldly, all the gladness of the day already wasted away. ‘You follow your own desires without let or hindrance from me.’
It was not only desires of state and governance that I spoke of.
And he knew it.
‘Hold yourself in readiness, then, my lady,’ he said coldly, formally. ‘We shall see what this night brings forth.’
And he strode away, already putting thoughts aside, shouting to his squire to bring his sword and belt, calling for his horse, his guard. I watched him go without kindly word. That was not well done either.
I do not know who slept well that night. I know he did not sleep at all and all the camp kept uneasy watch. I lay full clothed upon my bed, running over and over in my mind the events and words of the day until they blurred to one, and when at last I closed my eyes, my dreams were dark, uneasy, full of anxious partings and harsh words that need not have been said. Long after I have remembered that time, how pride kept me from repenting of my anger. Yet had he not set double watch, kept the gates himself, with extra guards along the outer banks, they would have overrun us as we lay. As it was, they took the outer watchtowers by stealth, one by one, but there were enough men who survived to give the warning.
They came before dawn, like shadows, drifting down from the moors on their swift-footed ponies that stole across the heather and brush. They made no sound at first, sliding towards the camp, where Raoul and his men waited for them. It was the sound of that first clash of arms, the shouts, the snarl of trumpets blaring the alert, that wakened me from the dark dreams where I had fallen. I ran to the entrance of the tent, where my womenfolk had already huddled, as sheep before a storm. Over the crest of the hill, where we had watched th
em leave, they came swarming back again, like dark ants, a string of running horsemen, bundled in their furs, circling and circling again. Giles was already at his post, leather coated, steel coifed, sword ready. There were more shouts, answers, the scream of horses and the sudden acrid smell of fire. With a thunder of hooves, Lord Raoul rode past, hauling at the reins to bring his horse to a stop. For all my boasting, I would not have known him then, with his battle helm on, his shield and lance set. Only by that black horse and the red banner would I have recognised who he was.
‘Guard her,’ he cried to Giles, ‘away to the wagons, down yonder with the boys, Lady Ann, stay close; it is but a raiding party. Mount, mount, man, they are upon us.’
Then he was gone again, thundering back towards the gates, his household guard at his heels, swords swinging. I had no chance to bid him farewell, wish him Godspeed, as he rode to take the most dangerous place before the main entrance. I watched him afar off, how he rode easier after a while, hand on hip, stopping to joke with this group, reposition that one. The other mounted men swung out behind him and he was hidden from view.
‘They have overrun the outer pickets,’ Giles said, ‘even the double watch that we had set there. They must have crawled past them in the dark.’
He brought up my horse, swung me on, then mounted himself.
‘They must have spied upon the fortifications yesterday. Treacherous dogs!’
‘Not my uncle’s men,’ I cried. ‘He would not attack without cause.’
Giles did not reply. He led the way down towards the spring and the hollow at the lower end of the camp, farthest from the gates. The food carts had been hurriedly drawn there last night. The pages and younger boys were already stationed there, fingering their short knives and muttering excitedly. My women cowered within the shelter of the wagons.
‘Do not be afeard, my lady,’ Giles echoed Raoul’s tone of voice, ‘we are out of harm here.’
A shout came from one of his men, ‘They are circling, Giles. Watch to the right.’
Then nothing, silence, a clash of conflict, screams, farther off to our left. We moved down the hollow a little towards the cliff where the stream fell softly over the escarpment, feet below. It was damp and cool in the hollow, sheltered by some wind-bent trees and bushes that grew on the cliff edge. One of the horses dipped its mouth into the water and swung up, dripping like silver. The morning mists curled across the open field above us. Silence.
Then again shouts, a cry cut off short: ‘Behind, behind.’ We turned in our saddles, the horses shifting nervously, nostrils flaring at the smell and sounds. Before my eyes, as in my dream, I saw the inner wall and hedge close to us break apart, as if churned underfoot. I saw three men in Sedgemont red stumble and fall like dolls upon the bank as a handful of men poured over them like water. Following them, a group of horsemen rode both over, friend and foe alike, bent over their ponies’ sides to shield themselves. Giles thrust my horse behind his; a bowman at his side fitted arrows to his bow and drew again. Where was Raoul? I strained to see through the shifting shadows towards the main gates, half-hidden now by the curve of the inner bank. Where were his guards? They would be taken from the rear, pinned back against the great wooden planks of their own gate. But the horsemen did not ride out towards the gates; they veered instead and came straight towards us, towards the supply wagons, the unarmed boys, the womenfolk.
With a cry, Giles and his men rode out to meet them. I sat on my horse in the cool shade while the light of the early dawn began to burn and shimmer on the glittering blades. There was a sudden violent shock as sword and shield came together. Then they were all woven into one another, a tangled mesh of steel and hooves and flesh. I could still count our men: two had fallen, another fell with a strangled cry. Giles was out in front, his short sword rising and stabbing. I thought, Oh God, he is no horseman, he is not a soldier born. Where is Raoul?
Another shout, an answering echo. I saw some of the Sedgemont men leap down from the circling banks and begin to run in our direction. But they were too far off, and the horsemen at the gates were already engaged. Giles and his little band were forced back as more Celtic horsemen flowed across the gap. The silver stream turned to mud as they flailed and slashed across the water. Beside me, the bowman fell in a gout of blood. There were other enemy archers on the banks now; I recognised their long Welsh bows before they shot down upon us. Some of their horsemen wheeled to cut off a countercharge. The rest drove headlong into the clearing, slashing at the boys and womenfolk as they came. The air was thick with noise, with clash and blare and shout, breaking like a wave of sound that deafened the ears. I thought again, Oh God, I have heard this noise before, I have seen all this before. And I watched again, as in a dream, how Giles’s horse suddenly reared and stretched, and he fell sideways across its neck, one hand curled up to grasp the rein, the other arm flung wide.
‘Giles, Giles,’ I screamed, throwing myself to the ground. I began to run towards him, running without motion across the torn and bloodied grass. He was lying sprawled at the water’s edge as I had seen him those years ago in the forest. In a moment he would leap to his feet, laughing and wiping the mud from his eyes. ‘What ails you, Lady Ann,’ he would say, ‘I did but slip . . .’
Around me all was noise, confusion, death. I ran without motion, without colour, without sound, and knelt beside him on the blood-soaked bank. I took his shattered head within my arms, but all the smiles were gone, the eyes already closed, the last breaths faint upon his lips.
‘Giles,’ I whispered into the silence, but he did not speak, did not move, and the silence washed over us like a cold, dark wind.
I do not know how long it was before the darkness lifted. Hours, days ... I remember odd snatches of things, disconnected, like escaped fragments between sleep and wake: being caught up somehow, the feel of fur and leather, the bite of rope about hands and feet that seemed not to belong to me. Above all, a recurrent theme, the outstretched arms, the brown hair awash in the stream, the blood-furrowed face. I think I slept, or perhaps not slept, put consciousness away, so as not to see.
We stopped once, again, we rode on, I carried before or behind some trooper like a bundle slung across a saddle. We changed mounts, bigger and faster now, prepared for us in some valley. Somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, between sleep and wake, I knew we were going north, across the desolate region I had traversed but a few months before—north, not west. Somehow I came to realise that although at first we had ridden Celtic ponies, these new ones were not, and that the men who rode them, although some were Celt, the others spoke Norman-French, wore Norman mail, and carried Norman weapons beneath their Celtic furs and capes.
But all these were fragments, flung splintering out of silence, making no sense until at last we came to a full halt, and all came jarring together, coherent, real. I can only explain it as if a veil had been thrust across my eyes, and suddenly now it was torn back and I could see things about me as they truly were. It must have been high noon, although of which day I could not say. We had come to a halt in one of those deserted villages that I have spoken of, in the shadow of hovels whose broken walls gleamed against fire-blackened timbers. A soldier held me upright before him, his arm slack, as if I were a burden he was familiar with, as used to as any other part of his equipment. I felt the ache of my own body, stretched and tight against the roughness of his leather coat. I felt the sweat on my skin, caked like dust, and the dried blood. Most of all, I became aware of the stares of the other men, those who had been riding with us and those who lounged in the village square, waiting, it seemed, for us to arrive.
Lord Guy of Maneth rode out from behind the cottage wall. Beside him, his son Gilbert, and behind him, the guard of Maneth, armed and ready.
‘Is this the one?’ he said. ‘No mistake this time.’
‘Aye, good, my lord.’
‘Where is the Celtic woman?’
There was a scuffle inside the ruined house. Two soldiers dragge
d a woman forward, kicking and scratching in the dust. They threw her down in front of Lord Maneth’s horse in the dirt and she lay there until one of the men kicked her to her feet. It was the red-haired woman I had seen in Lord Raoul’s tent, the one I had watched and envied in the camp.
‘You,’ said Lord Guy of Maneth, his voice dark and ominous. ‘Is this the one?’
She flung a look at me sideways, tossing her long red hair. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said in her singsong voice. ‘Would I lie to you? Did I not show you where, and when; show you the way through the lines? Why would I lie about her?’
I heard a clink of metal, a fall of coins.
‘This for your pains. So do I reward those who serve me well. Those who do not, or seek to cheat me, or talk too much . . .’ There was a squeal of pain. Then she went on scratching in the dirt. I raised my head and looked upon them all—the lords of Maneth on their horses, full armed in the sun, their men-at-arms leaning forward to miss nothing, the red-haired woman hunting for the scattered coins.
‘Welcome then, Lady of Cambray,’ said Lord Guy of Maneth.’ At last we meet up with you again. You recall my son and heir, I think.’
My lips were cracked with heat and dirt. It was difficult to speak and I could not yet think clearly.
Gilbert, at his side, gave a roar of laughter. ‘We have long awaited you,’ he said. ‘Ladies, you should know each other.’ And with the end of his sword he prodded at the woman on the ground so that she left off her scrabbling and for a moment looked at me straight.
We knew each other then, who we both were, why we both were here. There was no surprise. I knew her as she knew me, what she had done and why. Then she turned around quickly, fitting the scattered silver into her pocket, limping out of sight. I felt no anger, she no remorse. Had our positions been reversed, might I not have done the same? Revenge is sweet, to the lowest as to the high.
Gilbert laughed again, that braying laugh I remembered from before.
‘And like to two peas in a pod,’ he said. ‘There is Celtic kinship for you. On the ground, there’s no telling base-born from noble.’ He laughed again. ‘And both the castoffs from Sedgemont’s bed. Which is best jest of all.’