Gifts of the Queen

by Mary Lide

  He pushed back his coif with its sprig of broom, the black curls blew. Over his mail he wore the Angevin surcoat, embroidered in gold the Angevin lily for purity. And he smiled as if we had met but yesterday and met as friends. 'Why, Lady Ann,' he said boldly, riding up to us, his horse that one he had ridden once into my life at Boissert, thrusting its powerful way through our line, 'you have failed to greet us; I am but a traveler like you through these deserted wastes. We go to join my brother's mustering. And you?'

  He and that other Geoffrey, each so-called, as unalike as beer and wine, one plain and honest, dependable, the other fickle, capricious, treacherous, they stared at each other stony-faced as I named them both. Already the Angevins had flowed round us. They did not unsheath their weapons as we had done but came on empty-handed with arms outstretched as if in welcome, as if to say Godspeed, friend, or Good day, or any word that one kindly group would pass another with, meeting by chance like this on a lonely road. Yet this was no chance meeting and so I knew. Our men fidgeted, wiped their hands, looked foolish with their drawn swords, and turned to Sir Geoffrey for command.

  He too was caught unprepared by this show of friendship. 'Lady Ann,' he tried to ask, 'what are these men?'

  I knew he asked, are they friend or foe—if foe, in a moment it would be too late, they would have surrounded us and our hope of a sudden breakthrough would be lost. They outnumbered us, looked well-armed, well-horsed but—friend or foe, how was that to be reckoned, how to know on which side anyone fought these days? Geoffrey Plantagenet had crowded past our ranks toward me. His blue cloak was tipped with fur, his squire close behind him carried sword and shield and bore his helmet with the Angevin crest. He looked himself a prince.

  'So, Ann,' he said, as easily as if we walked along the garden at Poitiers, 'is this the way to meet after such a while? Hearing of your convoy hence, for at the coast there was talk of storm, delays, I thought to wait to offer you protection along the road. I thought you might have need of another horse, having taken mine last time.'

  I heard our men suck in their breath; his insolence offended them, there was a mutter at his insults. Geoffrey of Sedgemont tightened his hand upon his sword. To him, beside me, I said beneath my breath, 'Forbear, no harm in him. Let me deal with him, stay calm.'

  Which was a lie; seeing him, I felt all my old apprehensions grow.

  To the other, 'My Lord Plantagenet,' I said, as casually he spoke so should I, 'or is it Count I should call you these days? My husband is not here. I am sure you look for him. He rides ahead to attend the king.'

  Geoffrey Plantagenet smiled his beautiful smile, but without warmth or mirth. 'I also serve the king,' he said, 'see, I carry his coat of arms upon my back. But I was looking for you; Countess of Sieux. I guessed you must pass this way. It was not difficult to learn your husband's plans for you.' He had noticed how my men eyed him, and for caution or courtesy, spoke low. I felt myself blush with chagrin. Looking at him with the wind blowing through his hair, blowing color into those fine-cut cheeks, you would have thought him the epitome of knighthood, like to charm a woman out of mind. Yet with what effrontery he spoke, and when he stretched out his hand, the scar upon it was still marked clear.

  'You parted with me coldly,' he was protesting, his voice full of reproach, I looked for joy on seeing you. What harm, to ride as companions on this open road? Your face is as melancholy as your words. I told you you were niggardly. Well, I thought, since I'm to serve my life in Brittany, what better chance to find out all there is to know about the Celts than join the king in his Welsh campaign. . .'

  Every other word a lie or half lie, yet also half a truth. As always, I did not know what to believe of him.

  'Not likely to learn much,' I said, 'a land of mist and fog until a Welsh arrow takes you by the throat. Best for you to retreat now to southern parts, more to your taste and style than here. I thought fighting was not in your line. Besides,' I hesitated, 'when you speak of fighting, remember it is my kin you fight.'

  'God's life,' he said, 'the mist does not dampen your tongue. But who speaks of fight?' He looked at me, bold as brass. 'The quickest way to get what you want,' he said, 'is to woo a woman to your bed. Most come willingly I admit. But then, not all are as beautiful as you are.'

  I shook my head to deaden the sense of what he said, tried to push my horse on. It was impossible—our men and his were already intertwined—there was no room to pass; we were all mingled together in the narrow path. As I have explained, on both sides hazel trees grew on a hedge, planted in west country style, first a wall, stone made, ranked with turf and flowers and gorse, with a line of trees on top, making it impossible to break out of them. It was also impossible to ride more than two abreast, which he, taking my reins as if in friendship, now did. I felt Geoffrey of Sedgemont move in place behind. 'Come, beautiful Lady Ann,' Geoffrey Plantagenet whispered, 'you welcomed me at Boissert. If I had won, I would have made you queen. Nor did you scorn me first at Poitiers.'

  "You had not then planned my husband's death,' I said, 'nor yet my son's.'

  'By the Rood,' he swore, 'always the same tune, each time another sin to curse me with. Isobelle de Boissert acted alone, she and her tiring woman. And the queen. I promised I would never harm you or yours. Did hurt come to you from me at Poitiers? I think rather you hurt me. Did I complain that you stole my horse? I could have kept you there had I wanted.'

  'And my husband knocked you down into the mud,' I said, 'where you belong.'

  He almost reined back then, with that sudden flash of more than anger distorting his face, but he kept his voice low. 'Ever swift-tongued,' he said. 'I like women with fire, but not to burn. Ann, be reasonable. Why argue over old wrongs. I am made a count at last, my needs are well taken care of. I make no bones I admire you. No,' he gestured for silence, I do not deny that the lands and titles of Sieux became you well when I knew who you were. But it was not as a countess that you caught my eye. And although I admit I have no love for Count Raoul, is not all fair in love and war? As for war, if I told you I will join Henry in his campaign, would that endear me to you? I think not.'

  A shrewd remark, and again half true, half lie.

  When I tried to speak, he warned me. 'Be careful,' he said, 'my men are restless, so are yours. If we fight with words, they may with weapons. I'd not want more blood on my hands.'

  We rode on in silence for a while, and again I sensed that flicker of another life, another possibility, another way behind those deep-set eyes, a loneliness, a regret perhaps. He knew what I had sensed. 'It is no sin to love,' he wheedled me, 'I have never pretended otherwise than that I would have you if I could. Come away with me, Ann. I have horses waiting and men to attend us. We can be at a Cornish harbor within days. The Cornish sailors are rough and ready men, but they know the coast of Brittany like their own; they'll take us safely back to Nantes.'

  'I cannot,' I said.

  He said, 'Your marriage is a forced one at best; there are French cardinals who would annul it if I so requested. Trust me. If a learned council could permit Eleanor so easily to leave the King of France; if yet another council let a King of France, years ago, steal a beautiful Countess of Anjou, my granddam, I suppose, why then, we'll make a third Council of Beaugency to end your marriage with Count Raoul, give you to me.'

  When I could speak, 'No,' I said. My lip jutted out as I know it does when my mind is set. 'I'll not break oath.'

  'Then Heaven help us both,' he said. 'You did not think Henry or his queen would show me so much favor without some favor in return. You have had a chance to choose. Take me, and be saved. Unloved, we both are lost.' He had almost reached the top of the hill, before us stretched the first range of the high mountains, some of them still snow-peaked. And immediately ahead lay the boundary ditch or dyke with its mound of earth, thrown up centuries ago to make the border between Celtic lands westward, non-Celtic east. South of it lies Cambray.

  'I will not ride on with you,' I told him stubbornly. 'Our
way parts here.'

  'No,' his answer was equally abrupt. 'We ride on together, north.'

  He repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, 'North, of course, to join my brother, who has planned on meeting you. He has come out hunting along the border here and expects me. I told him you would not disappoint us. He is not so particular as I am about receiving another man's wife. Especially a wife of Raoul of Sedgemont. He'll welcome you with open arms.' He let go of my bridle, threw his hand out, the red scar was etched across one palm to remind him of me each time he looked at it.

  'Henry is my brother. Lady Ann,' he said; now the mask was shut down, all thoughts were hidden and all hopes of what might have been put aside, 'you do not think he would give away a title, a city, with its wharves and piers, without some recompense. Bringing you to him will more than pay my debt.'

  I sat back as if contemplating the choice. And even now, I am not sure he would have done what he said, take me to Henry, that is, although I think he might have tried abduction as an easier alternative. But I could not be sure, and not knowing forced me to act as if he would. At the hilltop, there would be open ground, space for the Sedgemont men to filter through and regroup where the narrow path ended and open moors began.

  I leaned toward him, said as loudly as I could, 'No choice then, why should I run? Take me with you. Come closer, love.' I caught the scandalized look on Sir Geoffrey's face, the shocked look of disbelief; the Angevins heard me as well and, seeing their lord lean toward me with a smile, held back. And Geoffrey Plantagenet, God forgive me, in his complacency, for a moment he believed me, too. It gained us a second's respite. I took it. I rowelled my horse forward against his, jostling his out of line. It was bigger, stronger, yet I forced the pace in such a way he was pushed off balance down the facing hillside. ‘A moi, Sedgemont,' I screamed, again crowding him. I was on the uphill side so that, although his horse was more powerful, I had a slight advantage. With whip and spur I urged my horse on; I saw his look dissolve to astonishment and anger; I heard behind me the rasp of weapons as Sir Geoffrey gave the order to attack. The other Geoffrey, that dark Plantagenet, as dark as was my old friend fair, struggled to control his horse, tried to catch mine, curses breaking from that carved mouth, the more foul, he the more beautiful seemed. On the hilltop, a man cried out in pain, I heard the Angevin's battle cry, 'Vallée! Vallée!' as his men rallied. Men will die for you. God forgive me again, but I let them die that day.

  Pulling at my horse's head, I jerked it round, plunged on downhill; breakneck I went, letting the horse slide on its haunches when the ground became too steep. Another outcrop of stone and hedge waited at the hill's end, I found a gap and forced my way through, banking it as west country riders learn to do on the moors, no hope of overleaping such walls. Then on to level ground, at a gallop, thrashing through the undergrowth, over bush and rock until I broke into another open field, no cover there, the dry earth thudding behind like following hooves. But when at last I dropped back to trot, to walk, and I wiped the hair out of my eyes, I was alone, the sight and sound of fighting far away, even the sky and sun had clouded shut. And presently, as I plodded on, I saw that the grayness surrounding me was not night come early, but one of those border mists rolling down from the mountain peaks. That mist now gave me the cover that I needed and, at first, I welcomed it. Soon, however, I realized its blessing was mixed. I lost my enemies, it is true; I also lost myself. For I had intended to ride toward the dyke, tracing a path along the eastern rim, keeping the sun on my right, that way eventually I must reach Cambray. Now disoriented, as is the common fate of victims of a moorland fog, I lost track of distances, direction, time. My horse had almost foundered after such hard riding; I often had to dismount to lead it over the rough stones, then struggle to find a rock to climb up on its back. Once a mountain stream, it must have come from those distant peaks the water ran so cold, blocked our way so we were forced into a long detour.

  By now, the evening chills had spread; it would be dark soon tonight. Bitterly, I regretted having left my friends, to have escaped and abandoned them. I put that thought aside, stumbled on. I was cold, heartsick. And I will say now I think that night on the open moors sapped my strength in such a way that long afterward, I felt the effects of it. For it seemed sometimes as if I floated through a cloud of wool, where objects grew large, then small, or as if the ground beneath my feet were not solid ground at all, or as if my feet had grown so numb as not to have sensation in them. And when I heard a noise, a sudden noise in the dim uncertainty ahead, it echoed and echoed in my ears like the booming noise the sea makes in a cave. But my horse had heard the noise, too; it pricked its ears and began to step more quickly, anticipating food and warmth.

  The mist appeared to brighten. I thought I saw a flare, a light perhaps from some isolated farm where I could hide. The thought of shelter lured me on; I seemed to ride in a kind of daze, yet even if I would, I could not stop. The track had narrowed again into a gorge, no hope to cut across it, no way to go back. So we rode on until at last a solid line of rock, like a wall, blocked the path.

  The wall was made of stones, cut stones, dripping with wet, and from within them, or above them, came voices, Norman ones. I raised my own to answer them. Silence followed, as loud as noise; my heart throbbed; my body felt encased in ice. Now, there are places on the western moors which all men shun, that circle of stones near Cambray, for one. This was another such place. Evil had a taste, a smell, a feel, to make the hair rise; the stones I brushed against were cold and wet with the dampness of many years, as if, even on fine days, moisture collected there. The flares floated in midair as if the men who held them were peering down from some high place, and the sudden gusts of wind that blew down the gorge seemed to carry with them the sound of unspoken things, dark and terrible.

  We rounded the last curve of the wall, came to a gateway I think, black and somber. There was a clatter, a scrape of chains. I heard my horse's footsteps suddenly ring out hollowly, as if we crossed a drawbridge.

  And now I had come into an open space, where men were waiting to close the gate. 'Jesu,' I heard one man say and saw him cross himself. I would have laughed had my mouth not been frozen closed. The torches began to give a shape, a size, to this place, a courtyard revealed itself; the outer walls, castle walls such as Normans make. There is only one other Norman castle made of stone within reach of Cambray, built like it, close to the dyke. I thought Henry had destroyed it, one of those border castles he had sworn to raze, an unauthorized fortress made in Stephen's time, who had permitted it. A Norman castle, a border castle—where my enemies had lived and plotted the deaths of my brother and of my father and of me. And when the guards stepped hastily aside, glad to get out of my path, I was not even surprised to see the man who stood at the top of the stairs. Why should I have felt surprise or fear? It was all ordained long ago. The wheel had come full circle and I was here.

  And, 'You are welcome to Maneth Castle,' Henry said.

  11

  He came walking down the stone steps that led to the castle hall, so similar to the steps at Cambray I almost wanted to mention it. He walked quickly, in the way men have who are more accustomed to riding than walking, with toes turned in, treading on their tips as if used to having air beneath their heels. He was of middling height, young, his red hair cut short above his ears, bareheaded now, his hunting dress of brown, cut plain, the jerkin strings untied to show the white skin of his chest; unarmed, save for a richly jeweled dagger at his side.

  'No courtesy as is correct for your king?'

  His voice was harsher than his brother's voice, plainer spoken, without guile or charm, although they claimed he could be charming when he wanted something. His eyes were gray and bold, that undressed each woman where she stood. The white skin was mottled with the cold, the Angevin temper held in check, that man, whose brother I had escaped, only to run full tilt against the older, more dangerous king.

  'By God,' he repeated, 'no smile, tha
t men claim makes their blood run hot, no kiss of peace? Not even a nod of your head. Then I bid you good even, doubly spoke, for your lack of it.'

  When I still sat motionless upon my horse, he snapped his fingers in the way I remembered.

  'Bring her,' he said, spun round and strode up the stairs. And I thought. Why struggle, why fight, the wheel is come full circle and I am here.

  I was too cold to stand on my feet; they crumpled under me. I had not realized I could be so cold. His huntsmen, or so they seemed by dress and speech, and the courtyard was crowded with the evidence of a chase—hounds, horns, stretchers of wood to drag the quarry, bowmen, spearmen, but no knights of quality—his huntsmen helped me dismount, pulled me up the steps. And when I came into the great hall, slowly, dragging myself like an old woman, the king stood alone by the fire, no courtiers in sight, alone then except for his huntsmen and squires. A table had been pushed before the hearth and was set with food. It was a simple meal, a jug of ale, roast game, some bread, thrust aside half-eaten. In one corner of the room a heap of cloaks and furs made a makeshift bed, in another his hunting gear, his sword, were jumbled in a heap. A few torches gave a fitful light, the rest of the hall was dark, disused these many years. There was a strong smell of mold and damp.

  'Sit you down,' he said, showing no surprise at seeing me, puzzled perhaps only that I rode unaccompanied, without escort, so sure his orders had been obeyed, so sure of his plans. 'Geoffrey said you would come with him; he could persuade you, he said, when we heard you journeyed late and alone toward Cambray . . .'

  'He may be dead for all I know,' I heard my own voice reply, hoarse, as if it had rusted over from ill-use, 'I left him in a hurry, so did not stop to ensure it.'

  His expression clouded over. 'Dead,' he exclaimed, 'and you dare speak of that. You would not make a jest of my brother's death?'