Gifts of the Queen

by Mary Lide

  He put the child back in my arms. His voice was light, the voice of a young man whom death has passed by, whose future has brightened at last, who dares look ahead to fame and loyalty. The words had an older ring to them. They made me cold. Perhaps he sensed that, too; he was always quick to feel another's thoughts. He began to talk of this and that, as was his way to bridge an awkwardness.

  Not so young Matt. A wounding had given him leave to speak where before, for modesty, he might have held his tongue. 'We thought you dead. Lady Ann,' he repeated. 'We thought you captured for certain sure.' His blue eyes shone. The look he gave Walter was one old comrades share, remembering a danger overcome.

  But when I pressed them, 'What danger, what men?' (for it occurred to me they might tell me what Lord Raoul had not), they eyed each other, at first mute. I knew that look too, the one men use to keep their womenfolk in ignorance.

  'Danger must be thought on,' I insisted, although instinctively I suppose I held the baby closer to my breast to shield him from more harm. Noting that gesture, Walter answered cautiously. He had pulled a scrap of wood from an inside pocket and had settled down with his whittling knife. Each flick of the knife on the wood made a point. I suddenly had the sense of what he might have been had fate not set him in the path of a knight; in other worlds there should have been a place for him, at once so practical and curious.

  'First, Lady Ann,' he told me, 'those men were mercenaries hired by Norman lords. Secondly, they knew enough of our plans to surround Saint Purnace and bribe citizens to work for them before we reached the town. Thirdly, they wanted to retrieve the queen's gifts, or failing that, the gold those gifts would bring. The attack on you was an afterthought, although they would have harmed you if they could. And fourthly, their leader was well-known, a routier of the vilest kind who hires himself to many lords in Normandy, as pleases him.'

  Walter went on with his wood working in his calm, thoughtful way, but Matt in his eagerness broke in and said too much, revealing all those rumours which since the fair must have been sweeping through our camp, all those dangers that Lord Raoul had foreseen.

  The last master that routier served,' Matt cried, 'was Jean de Vergay.' He spat. 'His daughter, Alyse, threatened to reveal our plans. And if de Vergay and de Boissert are involved in conspiracy, as is said, why, conspirators need wealth more than most men. Ready gold they need, to buy themselves friends and win support and . . .'

  The glance Walter gave him silenced him. But thus I learned how my child and I had become the first victims of that plot, that conspiracy, which in the end was to entwine us all.

  Well, I was still young to the twistings of the world. I could not believe a woman would wish another harm; I did not think sworn vassals would plot against their lord; I did not think men could be hired to kill. My squires, more knowledgeable, told me I was wrong. But I ask you, what is justice, or where is it? The lot of a peasant is hard enough. All day long he toils that his lord may live. Left in peace, he has at least right to simple joys, to see his children, grandchildren, grow and thrive, to know his hut and crops are secure. Without just lord, his life is naught. Above him sits his lord who owns the land, orders him, creates the laws. His lord has power to make or mar his life. But above that lord sit other, greater lords, counts and dukes, princes, kings and queens, whose every word, whose every whim, can topple in an instant the hopes of lord and serf. Anything that the great do has effect on everyone. The attack on us was indeed not an isolated thing, although a woman's spite may have started it, but part of a larger scheme whose consequences began now to unfold. Those consequences reached far away and long afterward, beyond us here at Sieux to a wider world. And so the following day was to prove. It is seldom any of us, in this life, can withdraw in safety from great men's plans.

  I could not rest safe at Cambray, still less so here at Sieux, a holding of much more importance. So, although what happened next would seem simple on the surface, an event not worth being recalled, it was neither simple nor confined to us. For the man who brought the message came from the royal court.

  Now, in normal times, the visit of a messenger is commonplace and should bring pleasure to a household. But these were not normal times, and to have a guest at all at Sieux was strange. Back and forth I had pages running, and serviteurs, when Raoul sent me word of this unexpected visit. We had no place for dining save out of doors, no food except what the day's catch would bring. My womenfolk went scurrying to pick sweet smelling herbs, and carpenters knocked down scaffolding for table tops . . . All in vain, as it turned out. In haste, I rummaged through the remnants of my clothes to find what was still left, when down the rutted village street a man came slowly along, almost stumbling for weariness. Behind him at the castle gate his men held his weary horse, weary themselves, unarmed, streaked with sweat and dirt. My women were still trying to tie my overtunic of green silk, one the queen had given me on my wedding day (they stood in awe of such finery, having never seen it at Sieux in their lifetime) and started back in alarm. But the voice that hailed me was one I knew, a southern voice, sweeter than this harsher Norman-French, although the man who spoke was neither sweet nor soft. His name was Sir Renier, and last year in the English court I had known him well. He was one of the queen's most favored courtiers, her kinsman from the south who had helped me win audience with her. But he had also served as messenger for the king. He had helped me, but to Raoul he must be an enemy, one of those men Henry had sent last year to take Sedgemont and proclaim Raoul a prisoner. Last year he had called Raoul a traitor to the crown and would have had him executed for treachery. My women's alarm rekindled in me. For what reason was he come to Sieux; who for pleasure visits an armed camp? Surely he had heard of our plight by now.

  'And have you seen my noble lord?' My greetings to Sir Renier forgot, I snapped the question out.

  He smiled at me in his southern way, but his dark eyes were narrowed and he ran his hands through his dark curly hair to dry it, for it was still dripping wet.

  'Aye, we met,' he said succinctly. 'The river's a fine place for fish and frogs. I did not think to stand there in my skin to give my message to the Count of Sieux. And he more gracious than when last we met.'

  'The more fool he,' I said, 'or the more fool you. He has reason enough to hate you. As do his men.’

  'I know that.' For once Sir Renier was blunt. 'Why do you think they threw me in, like to drown me in the reeds? But I do not think your lord would have me harmed, and as I bear a royal message he at least listened to it. He even offered me as good as what you have, cold water to drink, a bed of straw, a mess of fish bones. But I'll not stay. I must ride on.' He leaned for a moment against the wall, overcome with fatigue. I had my pages run to bring him wine which he took and drank eagerly. 'Ah,' he said after a long draught, 'Henry serves us sludge from the Thames if not from its sewers. This is more like the wine I knew as a boy. Well, Lady Ann, I have brought your noble lord a message from the king. Do not be distressed. As messages go it was courteous, although I would have preferred to have tendered it in more fitting place.' He suddenly laughed, and beneath the laughter I sensed other stress and strain.

  'I have given royal messages before,' he went on, 'welcome or not, but never naked, up to my knees in mud, while the lord of a castle takes a bath. "I am but a mouthpiece," I told the count, "the king's voice speaks through me." Never a reply Count Raoul made to that, just stripped off his shirt and had his squires pour water over his head; I saw his scars. Jesu, Lady Ann, I wonder he took that wound and lived. I watched him fight with Guy of Maneth as you know. I believed him dead. But never a thought he gives to the scars he bears, as much at ease as in his chamber's privacy. Well, if that is all the revenge he allows, to have me shiver while he bathes, he is well served. His men had gathered all about me on the banks, a villainous crew to grace a noble hall, although I should not say so aloud. I am no soldier as you know; I am a courtier who duels with words. I'd not like to answer to their sword points. Yet the loyalty of
his men is proverbial. I saw how they rescued him beneath my nose.

  'Well then, the king's message, which to set your mind at rest I shall repeat: King Henry of England, by the Grace of God, sends greetings to Count Raoul of Sieux, Earl of Sedgemont. I am bid tell the count that the king will soon come to France to settle his affairs. And "warn," (although that is my choice of word, not Henry's own) and warn the count that the Norman barons are "treason-ripe".'

  ' "Treason," Lord Raoul replied, and his men growled. "That is a harsh word to use to us who have too often heard it misused."

  'I did not dispute with him, he spoke the truth. But, "Treason is as the king shall find," I repeated. "There can be no rebellion in Normandy that does not touch you, whether you will or no. What shall the Count of Sieux do?" '

  'Raoul would not stoop to common plots,' I cried, 'rather those Norman barons plot against us.'

  Sir Renier sighed at my frank response. Yet, 'I believe you,' he said. 'And so should the king. But Henry also can be blunt. "Tell my noble Earl," he said, "as he values his English lands which give him that name, that he must help me here in France." '

  The injustice of it took away my breath. 'Henry should not try to threaten Lord Raoul,' I said.

  Again, Sir Renier sighed. 'That too is well known,' he said. 'The king should not be surprised at the answer Lord Raoul sends back. Naked he stood. I believe he cared not where he was. I do him injustice to think he hoped to see me freeze. "Here is my word," he said. "Bear it to Henry your King when you see him next. In England, I am his sworn man and so will attend him there. In France, I owe him nothing, and he shall nothing have. And tell him also this. He will never claim another inch, another life, upon my lands. We shall not reach for revenge, nor seek it out, although justly we could do so, nor do we plot behind men's backs; but make one move, we'll smite him body and soul to Hell." '

  Sir Renier took another long gulp of wine. 'Thus the answer from the count. Not an unexpected one, but no more easy in telling for that. Yet the count might know that Henry has changed much from that boy who inherited. Henry may regret, although I am not bid to mention it, what was done at Sieux. Tell your noble lord, Count of Sieux, Earl of Sedgemont, that, if you will.'

  I noted how he rolled all the titles out, although there had been a time when he would have stripped Raoul of every one.

  'And tell your noble lord, too, that after this affair in France, Henry has his eyes upon the western borders of his English lands. Matters stand as restless there as ever here in Normandy. I do not know if Henry has the force, or even wish, to take Lord Raoul's English lands away, for all his threats, but in England, he has the right to command him. If the count will not help Henry here in France, he must in England one day soon.'

  'I cannot answer to that,' I said.

  'You should,' he replied, his voice suddenly sharp. Here came the whiplash that I had looked for. 'You should. They are your lands. It is against the Celts that Henry will move.' He paused. His voice became soft again. 'But it grieves me, Lady Ann, to see discord grow between the king and count. I would have peace.'

  When I looked at him, he hurried on, 'Did I say Normandy was "treason-ripe"? More like a vat of their cider, brewed to frothing point. De Vergay and de Boissert could well have mounted the attack against you, but even they would not dare such a thing openly unless someone encourages them.'

  He paused, looked round him, and suddenly stooped to pick up a skein of wool that my women had dropped. 'Conspiracy is like this skein,' he said, pulling at it as he spoke, 'who knows where the ends start or how they ravel out. There are many strands to conspiracy and I, for one, do not wish to know how they interweave. But since, in the past, you and I have been friends, I would warn you. I come as the messenger of the king, but I also serve the queen. It is not easy to serve a master and a mistress both, but in private I will tell you that the queen does not always act as the king would wish. She has many friends here in northern France, made when she was queen of all of it, and among them in the past she has numbered the Sire de Boissert. And his daughter, the Lady Isobelle, who served as her lady-in-waiting for a while. She may not view this conspiracy so great a danger as the king does. After all, it does not affect her or her lands, only his.'

  'She would not turn against her own husband,' I cried.

  Sir Renier angrily threw down the wool he had been picking at. 'You speak aloud what may ruin a man,' he said. 'Have a care. Lady Ann, perhaps you are in your husband's confidence and know all he does. If so, I congratulate you. Not all wives have such power. I have a wife myself; I keep her in southern Poitou and there she'll bide. A courtier's life is best lived alone; she occupies herself with my three sons. So perhaps it should be in all men's homes, even in royal courts. I cannot speak of that. So simply this: I have a message for you from the queen. She has not forgotten you, although you seem to have forgotten her. She would still wish you well for the good you once did.'

  'I have not forgotten,' I said. 'Her generosity to me was great.'

  'Enough,' he said, 'to threaten all of Normandy by building up Sieux with it? No,' he went on, though I tried to explain, 'it is not my intent to quarrel with you. What you have done cannot be undone, although it was not wise. Lady Ann, the queen bids me tell you how she would have you gone from France to join her in England. She expects another child and craves your presence at the birth. She peaks and pines, as does her firstborn, that Prince William, who has always been a sickly child. It is only the second son, the little Henry you saw born, who thrives. She asks you to return to keep her company, help her with her children. She would have you see her through her next confinement. It would be a better place for you than this. What shall you do for shelter here when the winter comes, how eat, how be served? You cannot stay in this serf's hut. The queen does not wish more harm on you.'

  There was real affection in these last words, to make me smile. He put his cup down with a thud so that it overturned. 'God's my life,' he said, 'when you look thus, what should I say? Ann, the danger is very real. Your friends still wish you well. Come back to Cambray before it is too late.'

  I heard the message, more like threat, an order on the queen's part. I did not know how to answer it, nor what she wanted of me. 'And should Lord Raoul come too?' I asked. 'I have a husband and a son, whom I cannot leave. Nor should I like to follow your recipe for wives, to serve as mares when you men return to breed you up more sons.'

  He did not laugh. Nor did he comment on my having had a son, although he must have known. I suppose all men knew. Nor did he explain further the queen's part, nor what was his mission for her in France. Neither did he try to persuade me again.

  'The choice of phrase,' was all he said, 'is yours alone. But notwithstanding, I think such arrangement is more natural. God did not make women to wear our clothes. However, if you have influence with your noble lord, bid him beware. That Henry will not win Raoul's support with threats, is something Henry has not realized himself. Nor will the queen be gainsaid. It is a lonely path to defy both king and queen. Courage I admire in any man, the more he shouts it from a shattered wall, the more in truth I lack such defiance myself. Yet Lady Ann, since first and foremost I serve the queen, one more thing: be careful whom you offend. Her friends are powerful and she uses them. So, in the end, as her last resort, she bid me give you this.' He fumbled beneath his cloak, brought out a small velvet bag, and closed my hand over it in a fist. The rest of his sentence hung unsaid, like words that float in air. In the end, if all else fails.

  'Take it as pledge of her good will,' he said, 'keep it as pledge of yours to her. And the message with it, for your mutual good, keep your husband safe at home.' Again he paused, as if debating what else to add.

  'God have you in his keeping, Ann,' he said finally, 'although you will not accept my help. But think well of me.'

  He bent to kiss my other hand. Then, rising to dust off his cloak, its Angevin crimsons and blues sadly stained and water splotched, he shook himself patiently
as does a hound.

  'Farewell, Lady Ann,' he said, and strode back to his horse. His men, who all this age had been waiting patiently, forced themselves awake, fell in step behind. I sat at the door for a long while watching the way he had gone, and pondered all that he had said, and left unsaid.

  When I opened the little bag he had brought, a strange heavy ring lay in the velvet folds, too large for me, more like a man's signet ring, with a strange carved stone shot through with light. A gift then, after so many others bestowed. Why should she resent the use I made of them? A piece of parchment was wrapped around the ring. I puzzled over its lettering, the black flowing script too difficult for my faint understanding. No salutation, no name, just one line which, as I cannot read, would have defied my deciphering had not Sir Renier already told me it: Keep your husband safe at home.

  I cannot tell you if the writing was hers. (It might have been. There was a slant to the black letters that could have suited her flamboyant style, and I knew she could both read and write). But the message itself seemed to echo the same thoughts that since our coming to Sieux had ever been my chief concern. Surely it meant well for me, a simple message then, not a threat? But two things I also knew. One was that the queen had not a thought in her head that could be called simple; so what was said or written by her was but the surface of her mind. Beneath were many secrets and divers schemes which I, for one, had never had any inkling of. The second was, that despite Sir Renier's claim, I had little knowledge either of what my husband meant to do. You have seen how Raoul kept counsel with himself and how, even now, he hid himself and his thoughts. And I remembered too what had been my first impression of Raoul when we met, when, as a child, I was brought to Sedgemont on my father's death. Conflict there had been between us from the start, flaring hot, that he should have plans for my little estate, for Cambray, and never tell me what they were, that he should arrange a marriage, between me, as his ward, and the man I knew to be our most bitter foe. What now should be afoot, and I not know the truth? Too long I had led a sheltered life, I told myself, too long been immersed in my woman's world. I sat and stared at ring and message until darkness fell and all men slept. I did not sleep, but watched my child in his cradle beside the fire, my women in their straw beds, the wolfhound puppy that scratched and snorted as if chasing sheep. Where Lord Raoul was that night, where he went each day, what were his intentions, I had no idea. I did not know where Sir Renier rode and what he did. Nor who these conspirators were who gathered to wreck our hopes. Thus were we drawn into the world of the great, that their plots and schemes should rob us of our peace. I resolved, come morning's light, to hunt down the truth.