by Mary Lide
The cloak fell back. I saw his face. It was not a face I knew, and I had never seen its like before; but, simply put, it was the most beautiful face I had ever seen, or hope to see again.
The sun, reflecting off some piece of mail, glinted in my eyes and caught the ring upon my hand.
'By the Rood,' he said, 'where got you that?'
I looked at him, startled, not knowing at first what he meant. He seized my hand, crushing it in his grip, and pulled the fingers apart. The ring, too large, slid easily off.
I cried out, 'The ring is mine. Or rather, the countess lent it me.'
'Then where did she, this countess, get it?'
I shook my head. 'Ask her yourself.'
'Tell the countess we will speak with her. Let her expect us.'
'How shall she know you?' I said.
He thrust out his hand. On it gleamed a ring, similar to the one the queen had given me . . .
Also by Mary Lide
in Sphere Books: ANN OF CAMBRAY
MARY LIDE
Gifts of the Queen
SPHERE BOOKS LIMITED
First published in Great Britain by Sphere Books Ltd 1986 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5SW Copyright © 1985 by Mary Lide
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Set in 10/11½ pt Compugraphic Paladium by Colset Private Ltd, Singapore
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading
To my dearest aunt, Ruth Lomer.
In her house I spent a happy childhood;
In her house I wrote this book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As a background to Gifts of the Queen I used contemporary chronicles wherever possible, although not many exist for the early years of Henry II's reign. The following writers were useful: Roger of Howden, Walter Map, William of Newburgh, Robert of Torigny and Gerald of Wales. Recommended books on general history of the period include: From Doomsday Book to Magna Carta by A.L. Poole and Henry II by W.L. Warren. Specialized books which were useful were A History of Wales by J.E. Lloyd, Norman Castles in Britain by D.F. Renn, and The English Medieval House by Margaret Wood. I would also like to suggest reading contemporary poets; two useful anthologies were Lyrics of the Middle Ages by Hubert Greekmore and The Earliest Welsh Poetry by Joseph P. Clancy.
I should also like to take this opportunity to thank my family for their tolerance, my neighbors, Nonie Gorey and Lee Tyree for their support and my many friends for their encouragement. In particular my thanks go to Linda Martz for her help, to Francesca Moorse for her journey with me to Poitiers, to the Corfmat family for their hospitality at Fontevrault, and to Carmella and Peter Harris without whose kindness in Cornwall this book might never have been finished. Finally, my gratitude to Elise Goodman, my agent, and Fredda Isaacson, Vice President of Warner Books, whose advice and help have been invaluable.
Table of Contents
Preface
Gifts of the Queen ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Map
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
I Urien of Wales, Bard to the Celts, high poet of the old people, record these things. Out of long silence do I write them, not in my own tongue but in priestly fashion of the Norman courts, that men who came hereafter should read and remember. It is for the Lady Ann of Cambray I speak, wife now to Lord Raoul, Earl of Sedgemont, Count of Sieux in France. At her bidding I write. And although there will be many who question my right to act as scribe, I would have them know that I have heard of the Lady Ann and her kin since childhood, that, like her, I was born at Cambray, and like her, of Norman father and Celtic dam, and that, of all men else, she chose me to speak for her.
I was a child, half-grown, when first I saw her and her husband. Lord Raoul, who was so great a lord. And the story of her upbringing here at Cambray and then at Sedgemont where she was ward to that Raoul—it is known to every child. But how she was wed to him who was overlord, and how they left Cambray and Sedgemont far behind and withdrew to France, I was grown before I heard tell of that.
'I was happy at last,' she used to say, 'whom happiness before had passed by. Can it not suffice that I had long waited for Lord Raoul, hoped that he would wed me, had feared for his life and safety in those bitter wars that tore our island kingdom when I was young. But nothing is that constant is. As we grow older, it seems to me the circle of events grows larger, ripples from a stone thrown in a mountain lake. In ever widening arcs do they stretch out, beyond our sight, out of our past into a future we cannot guess at; as Lord Raoul of Sedgemont once said, 'Anything that the great do has effect upon everyone.' I would amend his words. I believe that there is nothing done that does not have effect at last, that does not come back upon some distant shore. Happiness, like sorrow, must happen.'
And so it is, that I, who am poet, high bard to the Celtic folk, write, that what they were and what was done should be known. It is a story of love, hate, loyalty, ambition, and conspiracy, that many-tangled snare which traps all men. And a story, too, of revenge, a two-edged sword whose blade cuts both him who deals the blow and him who bears it. We are come to the year of Christendom, 1155. At the Yuletide season before, Stephen, who was King of England died, and in his place was the young Henry the Angevin, who was known as Henry of Anjou, crowned King, second of that name and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, made Queen. In the early spring of that year came Lord Raoul to Henry's court, to claim his land and titles and his bride. Within the month were they wed and gone from England to France to Lord Raoul’s estates there, to find what happiness held for them.
Ora pro nobis.
1
Thus from the Lady Ann: Long ago, when I was a child and lived still at Cambray, I used to come up on the moors with my father's men when they went hunting. The lands around the castle at Cambray were full of game, and sometimes when the guards had time to spare, or were in a good mood, perhaps because they had eaten or drunk well the day before, or had found a woman to please them at night, I could coax them into taking me with them when they rode out. They always gave some excuse for these expeditions: that they should exercise the horses, those great gray stallions of my father's herd, or that they should patrol the border for some Celtic band trying to slip across unseen; but mainly I knew the younger men often humored me out of kindness because I was a lonely child with no playmates of my own age, no mother to care for me, and my father and brother were often gone from home about border affairs. As a child, I did not miss such company, having never known it, and the young knights made up the lack. They were a cheerful group of men, short and sturdy built as I remember them, plain spoken, rough-tongued yet good-hearted. They wore plain armor, too, and carried weapons that were old when they inherited them; all about them was plain and serviceable, such as more fancy men might scoff at. The only things of worth they had were the gray horses of Cambray and they were famous in my father's time. I had a small moorland pony of my own, so nimble footed that when it reached a stone outcrop or tree stump a larger horse could clear, it would scramble over like a cat. Not that there were many trees upon the moors, a wild open countryside it is, covered with heather and gorse patches, and granite boulders that jut in jagged clusters on the crest of rolling hills.
We had been coursing mainly for hares that day and had ridden far inland, where the foothills begin to rise, ever sloping upward to the north where the high mountains lie. We had come to the end of our sport, and I had been amusing myself with setting my pony at the gorse bushes still in flower or leaping the boulders that cropped out of the coarse grass. The men rode more sedately behind, talking of the wars, the civil wars that had beset the land, although we here at Cambray had as yet scant news of them. Suddenly, without warning, the mists came as they are often wont upon the higher lands, the sudden sea mists that roll inland in waves so that within moments, you cannot see your hand before your face. We are used to such mists at Cambray, which sits above the sea cliffs; but that day, they were thicker than usual and we were far from home. I wiped my long hair, which had twisted and curled with the damp into a mass of red snarls, pulled a woolen cloak from my saddlebow, and settled down to a slow wet ride back. I rode astride like a boy, with skirts hitched about my knees and sleeves cut off short like a tunic so I now felt the cold. The men shouted to each other in their soft border voices for fear we should be separated. It is easy to lose your way in a fog, and you must keep close watch where you are. The paths are not marked, and run faintly through the moors at the best of times, and if you stray, there are patches of hill marsh and bog, deep enough to swallow horse and rider both. We moved forward slowly in a line, I in the middle with someone to watch me on either side. I could hear the creak of saddle, the scrape of spurs, and from time to time sense rather than see the shadowy forms of men and beasts. One of the men was whistling through his teeth, and occasionally a horse tossed its head with a rattle of bit and bridle chain. Suddenly, the captain of the guard who rode ahead reined back his horse so violently that those behind rammed into him.
'Jesu,' he whispered, and I saw him cross himself. The other men peered past him in the mist; I saw another make the sign of horns with which to ward off evil and all of them crowded close together as if taking comfort in one another. I nudged my pony past them, for they had knotted in a mass, their horses snorting and stamping with fright, not yet stampeded but on the verge of it. Ducking under the captain's outstretched hand, for on my pony's back I came barely to his waist, I pushed to the front. I knew at once where we were. High on the moors above Cambray, the highest place in all that southern part, there is a spot which all men shun. Even in bright daylight, I would have avoided it myself. It is a large mound of earth or 'barrow' as we call it in the Celtic tongue, thrown up by men centuries long gone. A circle of gray stones sags there, once set upright, now leaning this way and that, but still a circle clearly marked. What manner of men had put it there or for what purpose I cannot tell. The priest at Cambray claimed they were evil men who used the stones for purpose vile, but I do not know. In truth though, the place had a taint of evil, as water has a taint or taste, so that even horses would not graze within the circle, and the very sheep and goats avoided it.
The mist had blown clear somewhat in this high place, and wisps floated and ebbed about the crooked stones. Against one of these, a figure knelt or leaned perhaps, so wrapped up it was hard to tell, but I felt a rush, I cannot say of fear, but of some emotion else that at once made my blood run chill, yet set the hair at the nape of my neck starting up.
'Turn away, turn away,' the captain of the guard mouthed at me. He was usually a cheerful man with a joke for everyone, taller than the rest and broad-shouldered, my favorite when my brother was gone. I thought him the bravest man I knew, yet his face had paled with fear. He made vague gestures to haul me back yet did not dare come closer to the stones. The figure stirred and raised her head, the many wraps and shawls fell wide, and I saw her face. I do not remember if she were young or old, or what she was, it was her eyes that held my gaze. Deep, dark they were, dark-lashed, and full of strange things. Behind me now I heard the men hiss for dread, and again the captain tried to spur his horse between me and the stones. It would not budge and reared, almost falling back upon itself.
'Nay, come you on, little mistress,' the woman said, and her voice, although soft, was clear and strong. She stretched out her hand, and I saw her arms were shapely and white as a young woman's might have been. But her hair was gray and blew in long strands across her face.
I was ever forward as a child. Being left so much on my own had given me a sort of assurance, outspokenness if you will, that well-reared maidens would not dare to show. Ignoring the whispers and the cries, I heeled my pony toward her. It says something for the little creature's courage too that I could hold him to my will, for I felt him tremble with the strain and his head hung low.
'Now, mistress,' she said, when I approached her, 'you do not fear me?'
'I am not afraid,' I told her stoutly, lied, 'not with six men of my father's guard to back me.'
She nodded her head to where they milled about the gap in the stones. 'Not one, I think,' she said, 'would have the heart to pull a sword in this place.' And I thought she smiled. Then she rose up and stood by my horse's side. I felt him tremble again as she stroked his rough mane, then presently grow still as her white hand smoothed and smoothed between his ears and down his soft flanks.
‘And so, Ann of Cambray,' she said to me, 'you have been hunting on the moors. What is it that you hunt so freely without asking leave of me?'
'it is my father's land,' I said, 'but I will show you all the same.'
'And before your Norman father, Falk,' she said, 'who owned the land then?' She took the little hunting pouch that I had tied in proper fashion behind on the saddle and pulled open the strings. Inside were two hares that I had brought down with my sling, and a bird, a partridge, that had flown up from the heather beneath our feet. She smoothed its ruffled feathers with her long slender fingers, and as I watched, I thought I had never seen fingers so long, so smooth, nor yet feathers so clearly mottled, green and brown. And as each feather fell back into place, I felt a comfort steal over me, a sense of ease, as if I had known her for a long time.
"Who are you?' I asked her then, curious and excited at once, as if at something I knew but could not place. 'Are you one of the Saxon vagabonds?' (For so I had heard my father name those who, since the Normans had taken their lands, roamed homeless, finding shelter where they could.)
'Do I look like a Saxon?' she said. 'Or still more a vagabond? This is my home, before ever Saxon or Norman came ravaging.' She moved slightly as she spoke and beneath her outer wraps, I caught the glimpse of some fine silk, dark and glittering, like the sky on a cloudy night when the ragged storm clouds part and let moonlight through. And it came to me that, although at first she had spoken in the Norman-French we all use now, her last words were in Celt, the language that I spoke in preference to any other tongue.
'Then you are Celt,' I said. 'Are you one of their wise women, a Celtic witch, to tell the future from the past?'
'One day, Ann of Cambray,' she said, 'men will put that name on you, call you witch. Tell me then if you like to be so called. But if I am Celt, then we are kin. Your mother was Efa, high lady of that race, who died when you were born. As to the future, is it not made out of the past, out of the present now, that all men could foretell it if they would? But you have used that word 'future,' not I. If you would know what it is, what will you give me to tell it you?'
'It takes no wisdom,' I said in my blunt way, 'to know who I am. With me are the men of my father. Lord Falk; and for all your claims, this is his land, and he is a Norman lord to own it. As for what I have been doing, why I have just shown what I have hunted. And tonight, no doubt that is what we will eat.'
She almost smiled once more.
'You speak as freely as a boy,' she said. 'Ann of Cambray you will rue your tongue one day. But you also speak as a child. A long life lies ahead of you. Many and many are the paths and byways you must pick and choose. Are you not curious to know where they lead or what the end may hold for you?'
Put like that, her questions intrigued me. Nor did I like to b
e called a child, thinking myself already old enough to know my own mind.
'What else can you tell me?' I bargained.
'What will you give me?' she countered. 'Something to tempt the brightness forth.'
I leaned forward on the saddle prow, crossed my arms as I had seen my father do and considered her. There was a power in those large dark eyes, a look on that white oval face framed in gray hair, that fascinated me.
'I have a cross of gold,' I said at last, 'hung on a thick chain of gold. My godparent gave it me upon my birth. . .'
She made a sign of disagreement when I spoke of the cross, but nodded at a mention of the chain.
'Although your birth was a sad one,' she said, 'yet give me now the chain, that something good will come from it.'
I almost laughed back at her. Anyone would know that such a gift was not for everyday wear.
'It is locked in a chest at Cambray,' I told her, 'but I will get the key and bring it you tomorrow if you will tell me where.'
'No, no,' she said, her voice sunk low again, 'tomorrow will be too late.'
She stayed motionless so long that I thought she had forgotten me. Then, at last, she moved more abruptly than before, startling the little horse which had almost fallen asleep where he stood.
‘So be it,' she said. 'But I will tell you what I can. A long life will you have, Ann of Cambray, but not a safe one. Far from us and far again, over the distant sea shall you go. But however far you wander, you will come back to Cambray at last and do us a service greater than you know.' Again, she was silent.
‘That is not so much,' I said to hide my discomfort, for her words made strange impression upon me, although I might not then have understood all they hinted at, ‘to be worth a golden chain. Even the peddlers in the village tell more than that.'