Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  Then suddenly, so quickly that the eye could not remember what it saw, Raoul leaped in that beautiful, controlled way he had. Somehow his shield swung up, knocking Maneth’s from his grasp so that both clattered away to the side.

  For a moment, both men were latched together, then Raoul stepped back. His left arm straightened, sliced through and out. As he drew the blade forth, the black hulk of Maneth seemed to hover about him. Then it toppled slowly forward, falling as it seems all dead men fall, like empty clothes, like rags. There was only one man on his feet, and on the ground, a black thing clawed and writhed to silence. And a vast humming filled the air as if all the watchers at once had drawn breath. Raoul half-turned. Even from this distance I could see the sweat on his forehead, the matted curls, the red cut that glistened against his white face as he pushed back his helmet with his uninjured arm. He held up his sword hilt so that it glittered in the firelight, tried to say something, sank upon one knee. The blood spilled out and he, too, fell upon the ground, face forward.

  I stood as stone, still clutching at the Lady Mildred and Cecile’s hands as to safety. My voice when I spoke was as stone. I did not know the words I said, not thinking, not knowing.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ I said, ‘what Lord Raoul bade you do for me, do you now for him. At my command.’

  It is to Geoffrey’s credit that he did not hesitate. Before I had finished speaking, he had vaulted from the bench where we sat and crossed the courtyard. A strange cry floated out — I had heard it before—and at the gate, mounted men appeared, thundering in upon us, striking back the French, who tried to head them off.

  Among the crowd, each of our men turned as at a signal. Some stood and chatted with arms thrown across the shoulders of their neighbours. Some argued with them violently to distract them. Two others came running with a makeshift stretcher, while a third, having snatched a sword as his comrades rode by, stood guard above Lord Raoul.

  As numb as stone, I turned to the French envoys on their feet before us.

  ‘By God,’ Sir Gautier said, shaken from his usual aplomb. ‘I did not know he had men without. I did not think that he could win.’

  ‘My lord,’ I said, leaning towards him, smiling, that men afterwards should say I laughed and smiled while my dear lord lay wounded before my eyes. ‘You did not think they would leave without him.’

  On the other side, Cecile had thrown her arms about the second knight so that he could not break free.

  ‘What happens next, my lord?’ she cried. ‘I am so afraid. Is he dead?’ And she made him look to where the body of Maneth lay with some of his men about it, but it was clear he would never move again.

  The Cambray men had made their turn of the courtyard. Where they could, their companions in the crowd had jumped behind them, both men striking on either side to keep the rest back from Lord Raoul. Geoffrey and two others had stripped off his armour, had put some clamp about the wounds, were bearing him at a run towards the gate. As we watched, they hoisted him in front of a horseman who waited there; the others thundered out again. Using Lord Raoul’s bloodstained sword, Geoffrey single-handed beat back the French guard, snatched at the last bridle as the horsemen went by, and swung himself up and away. The French gave a great shout of anger, thrusting us from their side. Before they could give the word to mount and follow, the Lady Mildred herself stood before them.

  ‘It is God’s will,’ she said, her voice carrying like flint through the noise.

  Sir Gautier bit his lip for rage.

  ‘Aye, madame, in this case. Both he and this lady here are safe. He was not dead when he fell. And he was alive when they put him on that horse. But he is still our prisoner . . .’

  ‘Praise God for mercy,’ I said, and swooned across them, so that they were forced to catch me when all their energies should rather have been to raise the pursuit after. Men have eyed me askance for that ever since, thinking it but pretence.

  I regained consciousness to have the Lady Mildred patting my hands, and Cecile bathing my face, whilst the French men raged and swore at the delay. Sir Gautier himself still stood beside me, looking down with an expression hard to understand. He said something that I could not follow, then turned sharply away, leaving me to the ministrations of my ladies, who, half in tears, half-overjoyed, did not know whether to follow my example or take to their heels and run. Struggling to my feet, I helped the Lady Mildred steady them and draw them back into the shelter of the Hall, leaving Cecile to keep watch to report all that happened next.

  We did not have long to wait. Presently, the men came straggling in, a few of ours, some with cuts and slight wounds that had hampered them, some of Maneth’s men, the rest of the French driven back from a fruitless search by the lack of trails to follow, the failing light, and the worsening weather, which had coated them and their tired horses with a thick layer of snow. Once more the weary servants dragged themselves to prepare food for this strange group of men, no one knowing who was friend, who foe. I moved among them, binding cuts and stanching blood as best I could, gleaning the last details of news. It was clear at least that Raoul and his men had gained the shelter and safety of the forest before the French had been able to catch up with them. And that he lived, praise God, he lived. For even when the envoys had been free to shout their orders, those of our men left behind had so rushed to obey, knocking others over in their mock eagerness, that the disturbance they caused wasted even more time, making pursuit that much slower.

  Our men were part jubilant, part apprehensive, over the rescue. The plan had been simple and they had used it before. During the night it had not been difficult to send word to the men outside, and, as Raoul had once said, they all knew what to do. The lack of Maneth’s bowmen on the walls had certainly been an unexpected benefit. (And they, knowing what they had done, terrified by the result of the combat, had for the most part already slipped outside the castle gates and were, no doubt, heading for the border as fast as they could go.)

  But Raoul’s injuries were severe. That, too, had not been expected, and although it was sure he was still alive when he left Sedgemont, I could guess their fears that he would not survive the buffeting of the ride, the cold and storm. To each of them I said what I prayed was true: ‘Have heart. He is young and has survived as bad wounds before. And had he not been wounded, we never would have got him away.’

  Cecile, when she came, half-blue from cold, could add but little more. The gates had been closed again and bolted up. Some guards had been set to watch the walls. Most of Maneth’s men had gone. One or two older ones sat about the dead body of their lord and refused to move until he was given burial, which, as a tainted man, church law would not admit. They alone showed him any honour. Cecile, too, reported how the Celtic bowmen had run off through the snow. As for those of Maneth’s men who now came into the Hall, it was soon apparent that they were French, a scurvy lot who, they say, had joined Maneth in France in hope of loot and gain in England. They had no loyalty to him any more than to anyone, and would as soon serve with their fellow Frenchmen here.

  ‘Have heart, Lady Ann,’ she said to me, echoing my own words, ‘no one knows what’s to do. If we can but be rid of these French, who, no doubt, will be as glad as we to see themselves safely out of Sedgemont, we can put all to rights again, summon back the serfs who have not gone far, call back the Sedgemont guard. They are a match for any man.’ She smiled even as she worked to think how Geoffrey had shown such valour.

  Last of all, the French envoys returned, bad-tempered, snarling with cold and rage. In one thing Cecile was correct. No Angevin has willingly set foot again in Sedgemont castle, and these were as anxious to be gone as she had said, had not the storm, which had been both hindrance and help to us, now closed about us in earnest. For two days longer it raged, fierce blizzards as I had never seen before, nor had these Frenchmen from more-southern parts, crossing themselves hourly against such devil’s work.

  And so another Yuletide came and went. All round so thick a blanket o
f snow lay that no man or horse could venture forth for fear of being sunk beneath the drifts. Even the beasts in the forest, wolves and bears, such as we have in the wildest parts, came starving out from the depths, and slunk about the frozen river’s edge. At night, the howling of the wolves under the walls was as mournful as any souls lost to Paradise, and each evening, large flocks of dark-winged birds flew overhead, circling and circling with raucous note, omens of ill fortune. So a Yuletide passed, and a New Year. In London, already Henry and his wife, Eleanor, had been crowned new king and queen. And we knew neither where Raoul of Sedgemont was nor if he lived or died.

  During all this time I came to learn much of the French envoys; perforce, they were all the company we had. Their men were like any men-at-arms I have known, fond of good wine, good food, and merry and ribald songs, which, despite the presence of the unburied dead, we could not prevent.

  Of the two remaining envoys, Sir Gautier was the ranking member; his younger friend was from the south, a slight man whose affected ways no doubt hid more resolution than he cared to show. This Sir Renier shivered the hours away, but Sir Gautier was hardheaded, cautious, alert, a man from Anjou. He was the first Angevin I had met and I tested him with as much caution. For already I was trying to plan ahead. I could not believe that Raoul would die, but even if he was alive, such wounds would take long to heal. What if in the meantime I tried to approach the king on his behalf? So these Frenchmen and I circled each other as dogs do, sizing each other up, although I am not sure how well I hid my intent, being new at the game.

  The Lady Mildred kept the castle as before, although in a state of siege, as indeed we were, by the snow, if not by an enemy. But while we ate siege rations, she had them well served, courteously presented, as best she could, and insisted on decorous behaviour in the Hall during our presence there. Since that was the only time I had chance to speak to either man, I was hard put to win their confidence enough to find out what I needed to know. But if the Lady Mildred held it sin to laugh and flirt with one’s avowed enemy, she never said so to me.

  It was Sir Gautier who told me most about the Angevins, how their earliest ancestor, Count Fulk the Black, had cast about on all sides to enlarge his estates a hundred years before, to give the Angevins their first taste of power. While still young, this count had had his wife burned before him as a witch. I noted the relish with which Sir Gautier rehearsed this tale—no doubt, he wished the same for me—but nodded and simpered as I ought. As an old man, this same Fulk had fought a bitter war against his son, whom, after defeat, he had forced to crawl before him, harnessed like a beast of burden. And so, he hinted, would their present king treat all his enemies.

  ‘For thus are these Angevins,’ Sir Gautier said, ‘whom you would come to know. Wild men, Norsemen from the iceflows of their northern lands, who came with their long ships to burn and loot the French coast and, liking it enough, never left it again.’

  ‘But they were heathens, then, I think,’ I said, venturing softly forward, ‘and we are Christians now, not given to plundering and loot. Or murder.’

  Sir Renier gave a hoot of laughter. ‘She has you there,’ he said. ‘Lady, for culture and grace come you to the southern parts, to Aquitaine for example.’

  Sir Gautier sat in Raoul’s chair and thoughtfully sipped his wine. I noticed that he did not drink as much as the younger men I have known, but nursed one cup the whole night through. Yet he was not so old for all that, his sleek hair showed no sign of grey, his beard was not yet grizzled, and his sharp eyes retained and hid all that he saw.

  One night, desperate for news, torn between baring my fears to them, yet knowing that it might be death to Raoul if I did, I turned the conversation back again to what most concerned me. It was a conversation that both terrified and enticed me on. I think Sir Gautier guessed it, too, for much of what he said could be construed as warning, indirect, if not direct. Yet he did not know that this, too, cleared my thoughts, made me more certain of what I should do.

  We were speaking of the French kingdom, divided, as we were not yet here in England, into many great feudal estates, with the king controlling little land of his own.

  ‘What is this King of France,’ I asked, ‘that he should let his queen marry another man and become herself by now Queen of England?’

  Both men looked at each other before they spoke.

  ‘I will tell you one thing,’ Sir Renier said. ‘I know Paris well, having been there with Queen Eleanor, she who is now queen again. Angevins, such as our friend here, are feared at the French court. As for the French king, ask her who was his queen what to think.’

  ‘Are not the counts of Sieux as powerful?’ I asked, greatly daring, but Sir Gautier replied easily enough. ‘It is not as great a fief as Anjou, but it is as old.’

  ‘Yet you would have taken prisoner the man who should be lord there,’ I said. Their silence again told me much.

  ‘Lady Ann,’ Sir Gautier said. ‘We find ourselves trapped here with you, against our will, although I count it not so bad a fate.’ He smiled. ‘Remember I serve a master, and I have been given a commission that all those lands that have fallen into unlawful hands should be restored, their armies disbanded, their castles torn down.’

  ‘Restored to whom?’ I cried. ‘Lord Raoul holds Sedgemont from his father and grandfather who was made earl by the first King Henry. He received no help from mercenaries. His men-at-arms were his own feudal levies. And as for the keep at Sedgemont, it is well known that his grandfather enlarged it at his king’s command.’

  Both men shrugged. ‘And who claimed it before the Earl of Sedgemont?’ Sir Renier asked, his lazy manner slipping for a second so that I caught a glimpse of the shrewdness he hid beneath.

  ‘And Cambray,’ said Sir Gautier, his words denying his pretended ignorance, ‘do not many people dispute it? Are there not many lands along the border claimed by many people?’

  ‘You should have asked Guy of Maneth that whilst you had the chance,’ I said angrily. ‘I do not know details of this treaty you speak of, but I tell you, ask along the border who has plundered most, who seized most, who spread fear and desolation. It will not be Lord Raoul of Sedgemont. The name of Maneth is cursed among the border peoples. And God has struck him down.’

  ‘Well, Lady Ann,’ Sir Renier said at the end of my outburst, ‘I am not versed in English law as you can tell, but Lord Guy told a different story when he was with us in Anjou. Yet for all he said, I tell you I wish that Raoul of Sedgemont, or Sieux or how you wish to call him, were still here to show us how he managed that trick of his. I have seen men do it at practice, never in open fight.’

  ‘Look round you,’ I cried again, sensing how they would change the talk, being more willing to speak of war and arms, ‘is this the castle of a tyrant? Where be the torture rooms, the prison cells, the whips that Maneth’s people have delighted in? Would men who hated their lord risk their lives to rescue him? I think you know more of the affairs of Sedgemont than you care to admit, my lords.’

  ‘And you more about this Raoul of Sedgemont than you would have me believe.’ Sir Gautier’s voice was sharp. ‘Lady Ann, if I may, I will give you advice. It is not always wise to tell all you know, any more than it is seemly to guess at things that are managed far above us. I have not made any great inquiries into the reasons for your presence here. You should show us like courtesy since we seem to be fated to remain here together for a while.’

  ‘You would have killed him,’ I cried again. ‘Would you deny it? On what grounds?’

  Their silence answered me. Yet when he spoke again, Sir Gautier was calm, seeking neither to explain nor to deny.

  ‘It is not my place to comment on that,’ he said. ‘I am an envoy of a king. But I will tell you that there was much in that Raoul to admire. Had we met at any other time, I would have known him.’

  ‘And, by Jesu,’ Sir Renier said, showing more enthusiasm than I had seen before, ‘he had courage. I would have learned much from him.
But his name was writ, my lady. We do but carry out the orders of our king.’

  ‘Then are you both murderers,’ I said, ‘like him who lies unmourned, unburied, in the courtyard below. No king’s law can give you licence to kill. No king is king who murders as he takes the crown.’

  Sir Gautier’s face changed colour; I think beneath his dark beard he might even have blushed. Yet he did not lose his temper as Raoul would have done.

  ‘Those are harsh words, lady,’ was all he said.

  ‘Then heed them,’ I said. ‘Lest all of England cry as much. Come, ladies,’ I stood up and called to the other women, taking precedence for the first time over the Lady Mildred, who followed me without word, ‘this is no place for us.’ We swept from the room, leaving them sitting there.

  Yet all this while it was Cecile who gave me hope, taking my hands between her own as we sat packing and repacking the things that we prepared to carry to the men in hiding, if they should send word to us.

  ‘For look, my lady,’ she said, in her simple artless way, ‘if you shame them, then they will begin to doubt the rightness of their work. Time is what you need to bend the ear of other great lords to save Sedgemont. Then will even these French speak on our behalf.’

  ‘No,’ I said, miserable with cold and anxiety, and a sickliness that I had never known before that welled up in me from time to time. ‘I cannot force them to what their office will not allow. I must woo them to it, and I am too rough. I wish I had the Lady Mildred’s courtesies. They are worth more than my harsh truths.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said unexpectedly, taking the things I had folded and refolded, sorting out those most needful, putting in the herbs and potions a wounded man would require. ‘God helps those who help themselves. Have patience. Geoffrey will give word. Then can you plan where to go on from here.’