Ann of Cambray

by Mary Lide

  ‘He will find me ever generous.’ The lordly abbot waved his hand again. ‘I will offer him the hospitality of his own hunting grounds, which I have made good use of whilst he was away in France.’

  ‘Do not suggest that to him,’ Sir Gautier said almost dryly. ‘He is generous in many things, but not his hunting privileges. Jesu, I have known him work the whole night through, trailing from one room to the next, with his scribes running behind him, and when he had worn them out, kicking us awake to send us hawking before dawn. Nor does he welcome easy living, good food, as the rest of us do. I think he delights in bedding down upon the open fields just to watch his retinue bicker with drawn swords over the privilege of a straw pillow. I have slept so myself many times with only a cloak to cover me.’ He sighed. ‘But he is young, you see, my lord Abbot. We who are older need enjoy our creature comforts more. If he grant us them.’

  The abbot, who was older by thirty years, had paled at the hint, the threat implicit in those words. ‘Then will he find London a paradise, after these harsh customs,’ he said, attempting to jest.

  ‘I doubt that.’ Sir Gautier’s tone was brisk. ‘I doubt if London has held him long. Once crowned, he will not have wasted time before riding about his new kingdom to see to things himself. Look for him here, my lord. He will turn up one day without warning.’

  ‘The king is not in London?’ It was my turn to stammer forth. Here was unexpected news. ‘How then shall I see him?’

  ‘Unless you mean to quest across the length and breadth of England,’ Sir Gautier said, ‘you must wait like the rest of us.’

  I slowly pushed aside my platter, the rich food cloying in my mouth as I spoke. All about me, the red, flushed faces laughed and ate and drank, enough food to fill a town, whilst in a hovel, a woodcutter’s hut, Lord Raoul and his men lay half-starved and hoped for help from me.

  ‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘Where shall I find him? Do you not go to meet him?’

  ‘Yes, lady,’ he said, ‘but for you, that would be impossible. I shall have to cast and cast about me in the hunting field. Where he is today, God knows; where tomorrow, when I have caught up with today?’

  I stood up slowly, feeling for the back of my chair. The others eyed me, curious for a moment, as I forced my legs to carry me away. I had thought London would be the end of my search. To hear now that it must go on and on near broke my resolve. And I did not have time to waste. Time was my enemy. I must find the king and plead for Raoul before the king’s messengers should hunt him out again, or he try to resist them ... or before all men would know I pleaded in a special case, for the father of my bastard child . . .

  ‘But I thought you sought London, Lady Ann.’ Sir Gautier’s voice was almost perplexed. He had followed me to where I leaned against an outer wall. ‘You are unwell, you look unwell. Allow me to call your woman to tend you.’

  I could sense the concern in his tone. His dark eyes were fixed upon mine. He tugged at his beard.

  ‘I must see the king,’ I said, not caring now what I revealed to him. ‘It is a matter of life and death. Time to me is all. Take me with you, my lord. Have I not shown I can keep up as a man?’

  He did not answer me at first, tried instead to lead me to a bench that stood within the columned walks, and when I did not move, stood looking out across the dim-lit garden, all shrouded now in January greys and browns. In the spring it would be pleasant here, a garden within these monastic walls, as rich and lush as the food they ate, the life they knew.

  ‘Lady,’ he said at length, and I saw how he kept his gaze fixed on the far side of the court, as if he did not wish to note what was happening underfoot. ‘Lady, I told you I do not need to know your affairs. What you seek, who and why, are not for me to know. I have scant knowledge of women, a bachelor knight am I. My life has been wrapped up in court. I stand close to the king, as close, that is, as any man. I tell you this not to boast, but to show you something of what I am. I am older than you by some twenty years. Before you were born was I with Count Geoffrey of Anjou, King Henry’s father. I knew his heart like my right hand. The court and its ways are no secret to me. They are to you. What hope will you have, unknown, young, poor, without friends, to trail your suit before the great lords of this land?’

  ‘Someone will help me,’ I said. ‘I am not so unbefriended. There will be someone who will speak for us.’

  ‘Do not count on it,’ he said dourly, as dourly as Dylan had warned me before. ‘You dare to thrust where other men will hold back.’

  ‘God has spoken on our behalf already,’ I said. ‘Forget not that when you tell your tales.’

  ‘I tell no tales,’ he said, flushing again. ‘I can only report what I saw happen at Sedgemont: no more, no less. Do not ask too much of me.’

  ‘It was little enough I asked,’ I said proudly, ‘an audience, that is all, to state the truth. As God has already proved it.’

  ‘They all think that they state the truth,’ he said, still staring away from me. ‘Who is there who does not think he is in the right?’

  ‘Between right and wrong you can judge,’ I said. ‘Court life has not ruined that for you.’

  At that he did turn round, and beat his fist against the wall as once Raoul had beat his for rage. I saw the indecision in his gesture, that I should put pressure on him, that he should jeopardise his standing with his king.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know the court. Nor am I so unworldly that I do not know the facts of life. Speak not to me of right and wrong. You, I think, are with child . . .’

  I gaped at him, stopping my hand that instinctively would have moved to cover my belly. Then I faced him.

  ‘Then what wrong is there,’ I cried, ‘that my child’s father should live? Were you in such distress, my lord, would not you wish your mistress to speak for you? Who else is there who has greater right?’

  He made a gesture as if to stop his ears. ‘I do not want to know the whys and hows,’ he cried. ‘They are not my concern. But they will mock you for a wanton in the streets.’

  ‘I daresay Guy of Maneth has already branded me,’ I said. ‘His son would have had all his men take turns to make me whore. I am used to slander. Well, what if it is true I know no great lords, as you taunt me with. But I have friends, unknown, lowly, you would call them, who have given their lives for me. I owe them much.’

  I looked at him dry-eyed, emotion spent.

  ‘I thought you, too, might be my friend,’ I said.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he said. ‘I know you have cause. There, I have said it. But I tell you, if you speak what I think you will to King Henry, he will not listen. Even if God himself speaks for you! Henry,’ he paused a moment, ‘Henry of Anjou is not as other men. He will not listen. Or he will listen and promise and not do. Or, since you would have me speak openly, as you are young and fair, look not so surprised, he will listen and promise and demand payment for his services. And that is worse.’

  ‘Then is there no hope at all?’ I asked, half-whispering.

  He said abruptly, ‘Go with Sir Renier. Tomorrow our ways part. He will go south to the queen, I north to track down the king. The queen has settled with her court and her young child at Bermondsey, south of London, close to the river there. Sir Renier will get you audience of her.’

  ‘But will he help me?’ I said, stretching out my hand to detain him.

  His look told me what I needed to know. ‘He will do it,’ it said, ‘because I order so.’ But what he said was quite different. ‘If you smile at him, Lady Ann,’ he said, ‘or look at him as you look now, he will do anything you ask. But for good measure, I tell you this.’ He smiled at me. ‘I am not versed in women’s ways, but I know the queen will soon give birth again. A second son will win the king back to London fastest of all things. She will have his ear as I have not. And your secrets will be safe with me.’

  I watched him as he stood, a short man, not much taller than I, with almost forty years of service at a great lord’s cou
rt. I knew he lied about his ignorance of women, about his knowledge of me. But I did not think he lied when he said my secrets would be safe.

  ‘Then shall I wish you Godspeed, my lord,’ I said, holding out my hand to him. ‘Do you as much for me.’

  He took my hand and bowed over it. I thought he said, ‘I wish your errand was any other than this.’ But he did not repeat it and that was the last time we spoke together before our ways parted.

  I slept better that night, without dreams for the first time since we began. The next day, our road ran through more crowded parts, villages, larger and more prosperous than I had ever seen, well kept, trim, no signs here of desolation. I do not recall their names except that they were softer-sounding than our western ones, suggesting meadows and country lanes.

  For the first time we saw other travellers on the road, and as we came to the river ford, their numbers seemed to grow so that our men were forced to beat a passage through, shouting the king’s name as they flailed about them with the flats of their swords. And so we came at last to the bank of the great river Thames, and had our first glimpse of the city of London spread before us.

  I had heard of the river only in context of war, one army stationed on one side, one on the other; had imagined it some wide and terrible flood. It looked now more gentle than the river at Sedgemont or those mountain streams along the border, flowing sluggishly between banks lined with rush and reed, in places overflowed across the placid pasture lands that lay all about. There was no snow or ice here, only grey mist along the river’s edge, the same mist that concealed part of the view ahead. But I have never seen the outline of the city against its expanse of grey sky without an uplifting of heart, almost a dazzling of the eyes, at the stretch of its walls, its distant spires and towers. Three walls it has around it, seven gates, no less than one hundred and fifty church steeples. And every year, they say, it stretches out its fingers to enclose more of those gentle villages and placid meadows. It looked like a picture hung upon a curtain. I sat motionless upon my horse until it must have believed I slept, and thought I was come to my destination at last. Here was where our hopes would win or fail.

  We parted company at the ford. Sir Gautier with half of the men rode north; Sir Renier turned southward with us. Sir Gautier and I had no speech again, yet he bade me farewell as courtiers do, prettily, meaning much or little. I could not tell what he thought. But we had to trust him, Raoul and I, although Raoul’s name had not been mentioned by him again; it had only hung there, silently. I could not tell if his silence would include Raoul; and if he spoke, what would he say?

  We passed the ford without difficulty although the current underneath was stronger than it seemed. On the other side we found the reason for the crush, a fair of some sort, with booths and stalls set up, with gingerbread and sweetmeats and spiced goods hung on display.

  ‘Dear God,’ Cecile said, her eyes round with delight, ‘I have not seen such things in a hundred years.’

  And even the Sedgemont men who had come this way before were not too proud to put off their haughty looks and stare as longingly.

  Reluctantly we pushed our way past; starved had we been for such a show of luxury, and even Sir Renier and his men were silent, as if unable for once to make comparisons between what we saw and what they had known in Aquitaine.

  Within the city gates, they cheered up, and Sir Renier took his duty as guide seriously. He showed us the massive Norman tower, called the White Tower, which the first Norman king had built along the riverbank to hold the conquered city, a cruel huge block of stone it looked, ominous in the grey light. I shuddered as we passed. Perhaps that was where they would have taken Raoul after all, and killed him within those thick walls that never let even screams out. He showed us the cathedral of the city, built even earlier, where that same Norman king was first crowned, where Henry and his queen had been crowned less than a month ago. And he took us past the winding streets, the crowded wharves, the docks and warehouses, to yet another wooden bridge that spanned the river and led to the south bank.

  I had never heard such noise, such scurry, the sound of hundreds of people bustling to and fro on business of their own, all with the air of those who know where they are and what they are about. The colours and profusion of their clothes alone bewildered us. Bright greens, scarlet reds, russet browns, we swirled amid a gaudy patchwork, yet underfoot all was sodden and crushed and knee deep in rubbish. No wonder court people affect high-heeled shoes, I thought, to keep them above the dirt of their roads. No wonder they wear bright colours and scent themselves with unguents to hide the filth beneath. At Cambray we have middens or dung heaps to take the slops. Here, all is hurled from doors and windows into the gutters, blocked at this season into a foul and stinking mess. In summer the smell must be atrocious, I thought. And felt my stomach heave again at the idea.

  Sir Renier chatted as we rode along. Then, for the first time, I heard explanation of those forts which line our western lands, for he told us that those same people, great soldiers, had also built London, and when you dig among the city streets, beneath the cobbles, you find similar-hewn stones that they had cut to make their fortifications there as elsewhere. And Aquitaine and Provence, he told us, were filled with mighty works made by these same men: towers, bridges, roads, and temples of great height and beauty. So, with his cheerful gossip lured he us along, until by nightfall we came to Bermondsey.

  It was not the king’s usual residence. That was in that dreaded White Tower itself, where Raoul’s men whispered to me they had been before. But it had been stripped bare by Stephen’s mercenaries while he lay dying at Dover, and was not fit for living in. Nor did we go to Bermondsey ourselves, but lodged that first night in a small, dark place close to the river’s edge, with Sir Renier’s men on guard below, and three Sedgemont guards without our door. Now that we had finally arrived, I felt the tension of the journey greater than ever, although Cecile enjoyed the attentions paid us as important visitors. We had clean rooms, hot water, and time to rest and think, which we had not seemed to have done since I had left Cambray. But all my worries rose before me like solid walls of stone, as if I had to tear them down piecemeal. Perhaps I should have waited at Sedgemont until Raoul was well. Then could we both have fled away together, forgetting this England, all our claims here. But would he have let me go? Where would we have gone? And what would he have said knowing I was carrying a bastard child?

  No bastard have I brought to my bed.

  Then was he lucky perhaps in his women, more than he deserved.

  An heir must have something to inherit.

  What would our son have if we lost Cambray and Sedgemont?

  What if I won him back his inheritance? Would some sense of duty make his child legitimate? Would he resent the blow to his pride?

  ‘My lady,’ Cecile said last, as I sat in the window ledge of our room, staring with unseeing eyes across the river where even now, in the small hours of the first watch, the bonfires still burned bright and the shouts of merrymakers echoed clear, ‘you must rest now if you are to meet the queen tomorrow.’

  I shook my head. ‘I am too tired to sleep,’ I confessed, ‘too eaten up with doubt.’

  She took my hand as she had held it at the trial at Sedgemont.

  ‘I will worry for you,’ she promised. ‘Lie down for a while. I will stitch your dress. It seems to have tightened about the waist, although you look more thin than before . . .’

  We looked at each other, friend to friend.

  ‘What shall I do?’ I said.

  There was no condemnation in her, only concern.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that if you bind yourself as I have known maids do before, it will not show yet, perhaps not at all, until we have accomplished what we came here to do. Now rest. Then shall you put things before the queen so she, in turn, will tell the king and we can go back home. I do not like it here, Lady Ann. For all its luxury and riches, it seems strange to me. I shall fall silent or forget my pl
ace, or weep that I am not back at Sedgemont. Do you remember that autumn day in the woods, how you first talked of Cambray and how one day we should all go there? How you would help us, Geoffrey and me, so one day we should be wed and have children of our own? We never thought we would come this far.’

  I lay with my eyes shut, listening to her voice as she worked. One day she and Geoffrey would marry, would people the world with smiling golden-haired children full of their good humour and calm.

  Great lords do not have to seek out maids or wait for them.

  When Raoul was restored to Sedgemont, far from my world at Cambray, would he still remember me?

  ‘And do you recall the great boar hunt,’ she was saying, ‘how we all wore our best clothes and rode the best horses? Do you remember how Geoffrey leapt the oak tree three times to make his horse show its paces? Even Lord Raoul cheered him on. And how Sir Brian’s cloak caught on a thorn and tore in two?’

  I wanted to tell her that I had seen none of these things, had ridden apart from them on my own. I let her talk, her lighthearted chatter rising and falling with my own breath until at last I slept.

  In the morning, Sir Renier came early for us. We watched him pick his way in his dainty shoes across the piles of rubbish that lay outside the doorway. His clothes were a startling red—gone the more sober garments of our journey—he shone like a peacock in short cloak edged with squirrel fur and high-jewelled collar. It was not becoming against his sallow skin, yet he seemed proud of himself and preened before us. He made no comment upon the way we were dressed. I had fidgeted about that, for the first time having no wish to seem countrified, but I could tell from the way men’s heads turned, and they looked at us as we trailed through the streets, that our appearance did us credit. Or rather Cecile, who must have laboured the night through. Behind us strode my guard, still clad in their common workday clothes, but people made way for them nevertheless.

  Bermondsey was not as large as I had expected, having been a monastery before being used by the royal court as a winter palace. In many ways it seemed little different from the household at Sedgemont. At all the gates and doors there were guards who stiffened to salute as we went by; but except that they wore blue, not red, they were little different from the Sedgemont guard. There was the same air of bustle and expectancy, the same messengers riding to and fro. And the same strong sense of vitality.