by Mary Lide
He spoke carefully, choosing his words. I thought at first it was to avoid offence, but then realised it was weariness that made him slow. He swayed upon his feet as he talked, and his face was pale with fatigue. How long had he been on the journey here? When had he forced himself to leave the forest shelter? And why? Like Henry, he could ride nonstop—with broken shoulder scarcely knit, with wounds half-healed.
‘We thought you dead,’ Henry said. He reached out and drank a goblet of wine, a long choking drink, he who drank but seldom and then always abstemiously, having no taste for feasting.
‘No,’ said Raoul, with a flicker of a smile, ‘it is not so easy to bury old acquaintances. They rise when you least expect them.’
Henry drank again. For some reason, I was suddenly reminded of a time when I had burst into the Hall at Sedgemont to seek revenge. And here was Raoul, unarmed, in the midst of his enemies. I looked round for help, not knowing then de Luci, who was already whispering to the chancellor, not seeing Sir Gautier move purposefully behind the servants round the table’s edge.
‘There is the matter of Gilbert of Maneth,’ Henry said. ‘Murdered. Who judges that? And the taking of Cambray castle by force? And the seduction of the Lady of Cambray.’ A cruel thrust, that last.
I jumped to my feet again, Geoffrey with me. Together, we shouted, ‘Gilbert died in battle.’ Then I alone, ‘I asked that Cambray be taken. I accuse my liege lord of nothing. All I have comes from him.’
‘Now, there is loyalty,’ Henry sneered. ‘Whence comes such loyalty as that, my lord, that even in Sieux your men ever plot your return?’
‘Here, my lord King.’
The three men of Sedgemont stood forth from the back of the Hall. Weary they were with their fruitless vigil, still dressed in their worn clothes, still sharp and taciturn.
‘And how many more do you bring against me?’ Henry sneered again.
Raoul spread open his hands, moving his right arm painfully. At that simple, open gesture, the king’s temper overflowed. He pushed back his chair with a crash and stalked to the edge of the dais where we sat. His face was mottled with rage, so that the freckles stood out like dark spots and his cropped hairs bristled like a dog’s. With short neck thrust forward, his wide shoulders, he resembled a bull that would charge everything in its way.
‘When will you show such loyalty to us, Raoul of Sedgemont,’ he cried. ‘How often have you refused to submit to me?’
‘Since we first met,’ Raoul said calmly. ‘I think I can count the times as well as you.’
‘And if I force you to your knees,’ said Henry, ‘here before them all, that you should hail me rightful King of England, lord of all this land?’
‘Then you will force me to my knees,’ Raoul said as calmly as before.
They stood close to each other, of a height now that the king still kept to the platform, both breathing heavily, both panting.
‘And if I kill you for it,’ Henry said, the veins swelling on his face, ‘if I order my guards to run you through for a treacherous dog?’
I think he felt he spoke to Raoul alone, as if the rest of us did not exist.
‘Then you run me through,’ said Raoul.
‘I can have you cut down,’ Henry’s rage was frightful to behold; no man I had ever seen writhed so, rocked with anger as with pain, ‘a traitor, your head will rot above London gates.’
Mother of God, I prayed, he will kill him where he is before us all. I made as if to go to Raoul’s side, to throw myself before him and share the blow. It was the queen who caught me back again, with a grip like iron.
‘Make no move,’ she mouthed at me. ‘Say nothing. Do nothing.’
‘He will kill Raoul.’ I must have said it aloud. By her side, Sir Gautier stared past me, neither hope nor condemnation in his eyes.
‘Or Raoul will slay him,’ she suddenly cried at me. ‘Fool. You cannot interfere. They must battle it out between themselves. I have done what I can. But they must battle between themselves, with all the lords of England to watch and condemn what Henry will do. Oh God,’ she cried, and I had never seen her show fear before, ‘that I should be bound to such a man. Whether he kill Raoul or not, it will kill him. King he would be, must be, if he acts as a king. If he does not, he will be nothing, a madman, scorned by everyone. Oh, God,’ she whispered again, ‘it is himself he fights.’
I felt her fear, her involvement, her complicity, it could not be called love, for Henry, as strong and helpless as mine for Raoul. Here then was that thing which Sir Gautier had warned me of, that he and Raoul himself, that they all knew. The king was gnawing at his wrist as if to stop his hand from twitching to his sword.
‘He is no traitor, my lord King,’ four other voices rang out. They came from Geoffrey and the Sedgemont guard, who stood a solid phalanx to one side of the dais. Did their voices break the king’s concentration? Did he use them to vent his anger? With a howl, he shouted at his own guard, who leaped upon them, thrusting them back against the wall, sword points at their throats. They thrashed and kicked, the mass of men swirling back and forth until they all four were pinioned with spear shafts across their chests, their hands shackled.
King Henry turned his back upon them, clasped his hands behind him, tightly, and began to pace up and down. Below him on the floor, Raoul kept step, as I had seen him many times, both men prowling, watchful of each other, taut like string.
‘At Wallingford you bade Stephen refuse me as heir. You would not sign the Treaty of Westminster that followed. You came not to swear allegiance to me after it was signed.’ The long list of accusations gushed out. ‘What of Cambray, a border fortress thrown up without leave? What of my envoy slain? What of your raids across the Welsh border?’
‘And what of Sieux,’ said Raoul at the end, ‘taken and burned without cause? Your men hold it now without right. What of my men who were killed there?’
‘Casualties of war,’ Henry said.
‘Such as I would have avoided at Sedgemont,’ Raoul said. ‘It was unguarded. Your messengers had free entry. It was not I who struck against them. Your own friends did that.’
‘By whose right hold you Sedgemont?’ Henry said. He turned upon Raoul like a snake. ‘In whose name hold you those lands?’
‘They were gift of your grandfather to mine,’ Raoul said. ‘And he held them of no man save the king.’
‘You have not those titles that once he held . . .’
‘My lord King, my lord King.’ A small dapper man was on his feet. I would know him later, not then.
‘Stephen would have granted Lord Raoul all the rights and titles of Sedgemont. On his deathbed did he offer them . . .’ Raoul made no sign of recognition towards the man who spoke, de Luci it was, earnest to uphold what he knew to be true. Just as he had made no movement to acknowledge Geoffrey or his men, or me.
‘Refused them, why?’
‘Because,’ Raoul said as simply as before, ‘it was a deathbed gift. I would not use it to protect myself.’
They faced each other again, at the far end of the dais, away from the four prisoners at the other. Henry’s face had smoothed, the high colour faded, but the skin was still mottled as if with heat or cold.
‘What should you accept from anyone,’ he said, almost softly, almost wondering, ‘that you would accept freely as gift?’
‘My lord,’ Raoul said, standing still, ‘you have seen for yourself what needs to be done in this land. You have gone north and east already. What you have seen there is repeated south and west. You knew the western marches when you were a boy. Go there again and see what war has done to them. You will need Sedgemont and Cambray, even Maneth castle, if you are to bring order to the western lands at last.’
‘A strong rule will do it,’ Henry cried. ‘No man will move against me then.’
‘The king is but one man,’ said Raoul, ‘he cannot be everywhere at once. He needs strong men to help him.’
The two pairs of eyes looked at each other, both d
ark and stormy, both stubborn, like two oaks wedged against each other, neither able to shift.
Henry began his pacing again, up and down. His voice was lower now, under control. They seemed to be speaking of military matters; I could see how Henry jabbed with his finger as he questioned, how Raoul gestured with his left hand as he replied, up and down, until gradually the tension in the Hall began to slacken. I felt, rather than heard, someone draw breath.
So this also was Henry of Anjou, heir to the Angevin hate and temper. King or not, I thought suddenly, I would not be bound to such a man.
Behind me, Eleanor took deep, quick gasps, as if she would faint for lack of air.
‘Marriage,’ I heard her say, ‘you think perhaps it solves everything. I tell you, Lady Ann, it is only the beginning for us. Without marriage, we cannot survive, not you in your little honour of Cambray, not I in my great duchy of Aquitaine. Men will come hounding us for what we have. Long will it be before they accept us for what we are, not only as images of their power and lust. But since marriage is all we have, we are fortunate to value it for some things. I think you may be more fortunate than most. Is that your choice?’
When I was able to nod, ‘Then,’ she said, ‘that is a thing I can help with.’
She raised her voice, using the tone she had spoken to the king when she bade him not play with the forks or break the hinges of her box.
‘My lord King,’ she said, ‘the Lord of Sedgemont,’ she stressed the words slightly, ‘is new recovered of his wounds. You risk his well-being to keep him on his feet and march him up and down as on parade.’ And indeed, it was clear to me that Raoul kept himself upright by effort of will alone.
‘By the Mass,’ Henry cried, ‘I had near forgot. A fight to the death, was it not, a Judgment of God. Who are we, as God’s anointed, to stand against His choice? But, Raoul, you have had other friends, less heavenly, crowing your praises here at court. Less heavenly I say, although that depends upon the point of view. Your ward, the Lady Ann, I think is from the castle of Cambray?’
Raoul made no reply but I noted how the pulse in his cheek beat at the mention of my name. It was a warning, and my heart sank.
‘Cosseted with my lady wife,’ Henry said, ‘a beauty, if I be a judge of that. No doubt you come to claim her back.’
‘No doubt.’
‘So would I if she were my ward,’ Henry said. ‘But I hope you bring a strap. I know these border wenches, having cut my teeth,’ except he used a coarser phrase, ‘upon them. A well-set-up wench, I think, and fit for breeding, they tell us . . .’
He slapped Raoul upon the shoulder, seeming not to notice the stab of pain it caused. ‘Well, if you would have her that would be a gift from me. Suppose, my lord, I grant you your title as earl as once your grandfather held, as Stephen would have given it... I have noticed, my lord, that the local soldiery fight better than hired mercenaries, and command sits better with local lords than those hired from afar. Suppose you take the old command back as Stephen gave it to you . . .’
‘Then I should be your man,’ Raoul said slowly.
‘Ah,’ Henry said, ‘we hold you to that.’ He laughed. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘I too can count the times since first I asked you to submit to me.’
‘You were a child,’ Raoul said slowly, holding to each word as to a support. ‘It is forgotten quite.’
‘But I remember,’ Henry said, a smile with no mirth to it on his face. It was as if he rent his own flesh as he spoke. ‘You tossed me to a thorn bush that time, was it not so? And then again at Rouen before my retinue ... I watched how you leapt upon your horse after; full armed, you vaulted into the saddle. I learned that trick of you. At my knighting two years later in Scotland, I vaulted as far. I still can leap astride,’ he boasted with all the youth of his twenty-one years. ‘And you, Raoul, can you?’
Beneath the weight of his twenty-six, his wounds, Raoul said, ‘I could, my lord King. I may again.’
‘Ah, yes, if your arm heals straight.’ He slapped Raoul upon his shoulder again, a bluff hearty blow, one comrade to another, but the blow fell on the right side. ‘Come, man, you fight as well left-handed. Even with one arm disabled, you will guard that frontier still for me. So have we then resolved our mutual affairs. I shall give you title to Sedgemont and Cambray as before. And Maneth to boot. Take your ward back. Except . . .’ And here a malicious glint crept back, the sliver of the claw that kept us all, his queenly wife most of all, on edge. ‘Except that in return for her and all these other gifts, you shall wed her to bind the estates together. How’s that, my lords,’ he shouted, ‘Raoul the Double-Handed to wed.’ And he guffawed, a large laugh that made him seem older than his years, and slapped Raoul again upon the right shoulder. ‘How then, with wife and lands and titles, yea, even those in France you once had, shall you kneel to me as king?’
Raoul’s face was as dark as before it had been pale.
‘I shall . . .’ he said, then folded like a tree cut at the bole and crashed to the floor at Henry’s feet.
There was a scream; all the women stood and cried about. Men came running. Geoffrey pushed past the startled guards, shuffling forward to kneel beside Lord Raoul, bellowing at them for clumsy oafs.
‘By the Holy Mass,’ Henry swore, a forgotten hulk in the clamour,’ I did but lean upon him in jest. What ails him then?’
His queen had come to stand beside him, soothing him as one might a child.
‘You smote him thrice upon an open wound,’ she said. ‘You are too strong. You forget other men are made to suffer and bleed, although you feel nought.’
‘I have never seen Raoul laid low before,’ he said, suddenly chastened. ‘As God is my witness, you did not think I wished to harm him here in my own Hall before my queen?’
‘Still less in his own, or anywhere else without due process,’ she said smoothly. ‘I am as sure of that, my lord King, as I am of your goodness towards us all. Call him surgeons. Have them carry him forth. Come, Henry, sit and share of the warmth of Provence with me again. I will sing you new songs, and if you will not drink my southern wine, then I will fill you with its pleasures in other ways.’
She turned back as if to take her place, as if all that had passed had never been. I felt a coldness strike me at the indifference, shall I call it, the disinterest in her voice. But when she turned her head to me as she passed, I could see the lines of strain beneath her eyes and bright smile. She looked older than I had ever guessed.
‘Why do you linger?’ she snapped at me. ‘What are you about, wench, to linger here? See to your lord.’
I had stood as if numbed while they carried him off, while they freed the Sedgemont guard, while a mass of people drifted back and forth, overstimulated, excited by what had occurred. The king still waited at one side, with his courtiers; the queen stood with hers. I noted suddenly how Henry had surrounded himself with short men. Not tall himself, he was a head above those who stood by him: Sir Gautier, de Luci. Only his new chancellor was taller than he was. And he one day would be killed by the king he served . . .
‘Lady,’ said Henry softly to me as I would have slipped past. ‘You owe me a favour. I have done you one.’
I felt the full force of his personality blaze at me. I saw Sir Gautier turn aside. What had he warned me?
He will listen and promise and have you repay him.
I said quickly, ‘but I have already repaid you, my lord King.’
‘How so?’ he said, his prominent eyes narrowing, undressing me as I stood.
‘There are four grey horses in your stables,’ I said. ‘Remember, you spoke of them before.’
He was taken aback by my answer. At last reluctantly, ‘Yes, I remember.’ He stared at me. Well, he had put shame on me before his court, assessing me in terms of the coarsest kind, making me a sport for their laughter, to strike at Raoul.
‘Then are you a witch,’ he said as softly, as if to me alone, ‘to foretell the rise of the Earl of Sedgemont. It is an earl’s g
ift.’ I heard beneath his jest the glint of threat, saw the malicious grin that made one wonder if he enacted all this; but played, to keep us in suspense, to bat us back and forth to his fancy.
‘Then shall I ride one of my new gifts,’ he said, ‘when I go hunting in the morning.’
‘They are but half-broken, my lord King,’ I said, suddenly worried that he might come to grief through negligence of mine.
‘So much the better,’ he said. ‘I straddle half-broken fillies better than most.’
And again he gave his coarse, older laugh, that made the words take on their most lewd meaning.
I gave him a sketchy curtsy, and addressed my words between him and the queen, who gave no sign that she had heard what he said.
‘My lord King,’ I said, ‘my lady Queen, by your great mercy have you restored Lord Raoul. But I beg of you, put not the burden of marriage upon me. He may not requite it.’
‘The more fool he,’ the king said. ‘It is your duty to persuade him to our command.’
‘I am no man’s plaything, my lord,’ I said, and sensed a ripple of dismay, shock, that stirred those waiting courtiers. But Henry kept his claws sheathed.
‘Yea,’ he said, ‘you and he should be fit match for each other.’
‘You wanted as much.’ The queen’s voice had grown hoarse. I should heed her warning. But spoke she to me or to him?
‘It is too late now to turn back on what you have,’ she said. ‘The choice is made!’
‘You see?’ It was the young Henry who was speaking now, the boy king. ‘The queen has bidden us and she knows more of love’s tricks than I shall care to remember. Her word is law in the courts of love.’
He put out his hand, gallant as any noble there, to lead her forward. She laid hers upon us, a handsome royal couple, such as England or the world has not seen since, as good a match for each other as any. But the smile he gave me in passing was older, wiser, threatening. ‘And one day,’ it said, ‘I shall be first there, as in all things else .. .’