Gifts of the Queen

by Mary Lide

  'Perhaps.' He sounded dubious. He rubbed his hand across his face in the gesture I had seen Raoul make. 'Since it is our only hope, we shall act on your advice. If proved wrong,' he paused, 'we go to our deaths in any event.'

  'And if proved right,' I cried, 'Lord Raoul will die by Henry's side.'

  He looked at me, pity contending with surprise. 'Then are you too caught in a trap, Lady Ann,' he said after a while, 'but it cannot be stopped.'

  On whose side will you fight? I had asked Raoul that question; better, I think, that he had asked me. For that is how I betrayed him and his king.

  Well, that is how the Welsh moved to prepare the ambush for Henry at Basingwerk, and that is how I destroyed all I held most dear for my Celtic kin. Bitter are the days I have lived to regret it. You shall do us a service. Now was that prophecy come true, and like all the others, two-edged. Owain's men left before the day was an hour old, slipping away in the dark, mounted on their swift border horses, whose hooves had already been muffled with straw. Owain's bodyguard, his family retinue, more than a hundred strong, with Dafydd among them, they went the fastest way north. The rest, on foot for the main part, walked or ran down the long road we had come up, carrying their spears and heavy Welsh bows. Since boyhood are they trained to run like that; and within an hour or so of my meeting with their prince, there was little sign of them, only stray wisps of straw, a broken strap, their gear they had left at their place, a young boy or two, the camp guards. And their womenfolk—I had not even realized that the women were there. They may have been waiting outside the camp for the men to leave, for they had not shown themselves to bid them good-bye or wish them Godspeed. First one of them, then another, came out from wherever they had kept themselves, and with the help of the boys, brought up saddlehorses for them to ride. Some began to gather up the pieces strewn about Prince Owain's hall; neatly and quickly they piled them as if they must be accounted for. And when they were ready too, to leave, one of them came up to me where I sat and bid me follow her.

  Where else, I thought, shall I go? And so I did. I mounted as they ordered it, riding astride, no hardship for me although I think they feared it, a heavy shawl of undyed wool, closely woven against the damp, wrapped round my head. I thought it was too late for warmth; I thought I should never know warmth again; ice cold I was, and where my heart, my memories, all that I loved should have been, nothing but ice. And so we also rode away.

  We rode deeper into those northern mountains that Geoffrey of Sedgemont had longed to see. (And, it seemed, already word had come to Owain's camp of that attack, although no word yet in Henry's. Many men dead, they claimed, Sir Geoffrey dead, Geoffrey Plantagenet escaped, but so had I already known that news; it too was dead to me.) It was hard riding in the dark with only a few torches to light the road, yet after many hours of zigzagging through small, wooded ravines and under tumbled rocks, we came to Prince Owain's dwelling place. It was not a castle in the Norman style, although he owned those, but an old-style fortress, hemmed round with deep ditches and earth ramparts, topped by a wooden palisade with iron-studded gates. A battering ram or a Norman siege machine would have made short work of those ditches and walls, but how to get Norman army there; we had ridden along trails so narrow, so twisted, our ponies scarce could inch along, and the last climb had been almost perpendicular from a valley floor into the clouds. A Norman horse would have been too large to pass, would have slid off in the precipice. I said little, thought little, remember little of that ride. What was there worth remembering? It all had been told, long, long ago.

  And the ladies of Owain's family, realizing there was no harm in me, and sensing, in a way no man would, the sickness, the darkness and the despair, they left me alone, although from time to time, when I swayed in the saddle, I suppose like to fall off, as in truth I thought I might, they sent someone to ride beside me to catch me if need be. Most of the time they chatted among themselves, a hardy breed these royal ladies, wife, daughters and daughters-in-law, some of them red-haired, some gold-red like Dafydd, some dark, all of them vivacious, although in public they seldom spoke but that may have been the nature of Prince Owain's household. I do not swear its truth for all Celtic courts. The Lady of Gwynedd was a regal dame—old, too—yet like other women of her race, her black hair showed no sign of age, and her dark eyes were battle fierce. She it was who noticed when I shook with chills and ordered one of the younger boys, pages I suppose, to ride beside me, had one of her daughters bring a blanket to put over my shoulders. This was the youngest daughter, perhaps two years younger than I, red-cheeked, dark-haired, dark-eyed, one of the dark Celts, and she loved to laugh and talk, as by and by, I soon found out. For, although I could not or did not reply, she still chatted on, sometimes about simple homely things such as young maids like to discuss, but more often about her father and her brothers, all warlike men, and her sisters, aunts, the women of Owain's house, warlike all. And when we passed a certain place, she told how it reminded her of the story of a lady of great fame and bravery who had herself led out her men, in her husband's absence, against the Norman Lord of Kidwelly, far in the south. Alas for my boast to Lord Raoul, this lady and her sons were defeated; she was beheaded, her sons made prisoners; yet the site of the battle is still named after her, Maes Gwenllian. But I had not thought, when I hurled that boast, I should be the cause of a Norman defeat.

  'And so am I named after her, called Gwenllian in her honor,' the girl chattered on, 'but my friends call me Lilian for short. As may you.' And so she spoke, not disheartened by the lack of response on my part. And when, after many weary hours, we came to the gates of Owain Gwynedd's fort, she helped me inside, found me a place to lie down, tended me. But never once, not then or ever after, did she, her mother, or any of those women of Prince Owain's house, say anything of where their men had gone, how or why. And that silence was for courtesy.

  For almost a week we waited, at least I think it was a week, time seemed to spin away, sometimes day, sometimes night, in no real order, indiscriminate. And on the last day, the seventh since our coming here or so it must have been, I rose from my bed. I could scarcely stand, yet I cannot explain otherwise, except some thought made me seek the open air; some awareness, some sense of things being done, of happenings, beyond our knowledge yet happening. There was a kind of watchtower, I suppose it would have been called in a Norman castle, and from its battlements there was a view over the mountainside. There I crept and there I stayed. The sky was clear, which it seldom is in these parts, a land of mist and rain, and below us, sliced between the forest, green and secret valleys stretched toward the northern coast. Lilian had claimed more than once that this was the richest part of all of Wales, supplier of grain and food, having the best cattle grazing and best land for sheep. And it is true it had a graceful aspect that bespoke peace and harmony. But it was not harmony or peace I looked for that day.

  Come the evening, for in these mountain regions the sun sank behind the peaks and brought twilight early, toward then the late of day, a cloud of black birds wheeling far below attracted me, and having watched them for a long while, I questioned a passing guard what they were. He answered in his Celtic way, not directly, but roundabout, first having looked at me carefully to know who I was and if what he said would offend. 'There be two kinds of birds,' he said, 'those who know the place and those who know the hour. These be ravens; see how they swoop and cry. They tell the time. Keep watch yourself; if eagles join them, they will point the way, for eagles know the place but not the hour.'

  He continued on his march about the tower walk, but when he passed me again, he pointed with his spear. 'Look,' he said. Two birds of greater size came flying toward us from the south. They passed beneath the castle walls, their wingspan measured by the shadows they cast upon the trees, circled once or twice, then dipped into the valley, following the ravens north. I had never seen an eagle before and certainly not ravens flying in black clouds, and I stood and watched them for a long while until they disappeared
into the shadow's line. Nor did I need to ask, nor did he tell, time and place for what—that I too had already known as did all men there.

  And two days later, perhaps it was, perhaps more—time still had no meaning here—there was an outcry in the valley below, like the sound of falling trees, loud enough for us to hear in the inner hall.

  'Harken.' The Lady of Gwynedd suddenly stood up, tall and regal in her woolen shawl which she and all the women wore indoors and out to give them warmth. Her needlework rolled off her lap and fell unnoticed on the stone floor. 'Open wide the gates,' she cried; and as the guards ran to do her bidding, and the heavy gates creaked apart, she and her women moved toward them, stood waiting in the open court. It was dark now, and ever and ever from the pass we heard the sound, a crash, as if men struck their spears against their shields. Then the lady stretched out her arm for silence, and she and her youngest daughter, Lilian, drew me toward them and held my hands between their own. Hers were work-worn, and I could feel the hardness of the palm, the lines across it, the ridges on the thumb. But she held my hand for pity's sake.

  And the other women, although their expression did not change, I saw how their eyes flickered for a second and I heard them whisper as a prayer, 'Praise God, it is our gain.'

  They came riding in, doubled for the most part, their many wounded clinging each to a rider's back. And at their head rode Owain, his hooded eyes sunk with fatigue, his own horse almost lame; and he too had a wounded serf hanging on his waist. One by one the men came into the courtyard and as each entered in the gates, he clashed his spear and shield. The womenfolk led away those who needed aid; those who could walk went into the hall where already serviteurs had begun to heat up great cauldrons of meat and slice loaves of bread. There would be feasting without formality (no tablecloths, no fine linens, no gilded cups), but long, and with songs. And the Celtic bards, whose rank there stands as high as any lord's, would sing their victory chant. But I saw Dafydd, son of Howel, or rather, he seeing me where I leaned against the wall, he dismounted, looped the reins around a post, and came to stand beside me. His eyes were bloodshot and strained with watching, and he was weak with loss of blood, having taken a cut in the upper arm. I tended it as best I could, but the jagged edges had already been pulled together and the flesh was clean.

  'You forget,' he said, almost smiling, 'you are among the Celts, who know more of living things and more of healing than anyone in our northern world.'

  But even he was silent when he heard their bards begin to sing:

  Fair western dragon, the best was theirs;

  Sword blade in hand, inviting death,

  Death bidden, ready, red-handed . . .

  You, poet, I have heard you sing that song in quieter times at Cambray, you praise their skill who gave it words and tune. You do not know, I am sure, that I had heard them sing it first; you did not realize where I heard their victory song and stood listening when the harpers struck their Welsh harps and made the rafters of Prince Owain's hall ring with sound. But it was Dafydd who spoke the truth of it, carefully, thoughtfully, so I should know.

  'That is Prince Owain's son who sings,' Dafydd told me after listening for a while, 'he is a fearless warrior who sings as he fights. Hark to him—The bright land of the north—that is how he thinks of us. And that is how it has been for us today.

  'Well, Lady Ann, for all that I could sleep standing here, and may yet, I will tell you all I saw and heard, not so eloquent as our bardsman there, but the best I can. Prince Owain is old, but what he lacks in youth he makes up for in cunning. And King Henry underestimated us as Owain knew he would, for he set his whole force to cross the boundary, over the estuary flats at Basingwerk. The tide was high and it hampered him. Suddenly, on the western shores we appeared. Owain had kept us hidden until then; now we rose up from behind the sand dunes, clashed our spears and shouted until the very air rang. Many good horsemen were drowned; their horses, taking fright, dashed them down among the sandbars where they were trapped by the inrushing tide; and some of our bowmen, having secretly positioned themselves in midstream among the elder bushes that grow there on small isles, they too shot among the ranks to cause confusion and fright. And so that Norman army milled about on the eastern bank and could not contrive to cross.'

  'And Lord Raoul?' I scarce dared ask.

  He said, 'Lady, we had spies at the Norman camp, as they had sent their spies against us; Prince Owain's brother being there had many messengers going freely to and fro to him, and so our men slipped in among them. Until the very moment that the king ordered their march, your noble husband cautioned against it, steadfastly maintained the king should disband his troops, an army he could not long keep under control, advised (I use that word although some said command would be more like) that the king made good his offer to treat with us and meet with Owain's counselors as he had at first promised. They say he offered himself as emissary. But the king was in a strange humor. He had returned alone from hunting in a black and despondent mood, had shut himself up in his tent, would not speak to anyone, and gave the order to march even before some of his men were prepared.

  ' "Move out," he is supposed to have said, riding up on his gray stallion and, without telling anyone of his council what he had done, sent dispatches to his fleet moored at Pembroke to sail round to meet him on the coast. A joint attack then, planned by land and sea, which would have gone hard for us, had it come without forewarning. Yet he kept sullen even on the march; they say his brother failed him, who did not come, although no word of the attack on you or your men had reached the camp. They thought you safely at Cambray. And the king did not enlighten them. I saw those Normans come, Lady Ann, a great and noble host; like a flood themselves, they rolled across the estuary sands. And among the many banners that flew, I saw the hawks of Sedgemont.'

  'And then?'

  'Ah,' he said. 'I told you Owain was a crafty man. He guessed that Henry would not be stopped long, that failing to cross the estuary, he would ford the river further inland; and so, with that in mind, our leader had divided his troops in three parts: one third had waited at the estuary, had stepped out to make such a noise, both to frighten and to seem more numerous than they were. The other two-thirds he had stationed on either side of the narrow track leading to the ford, and hidden them among the woods of Coleshill, with his sons in command. Their instructions were simple: to prevent Henry's crossing the river there. The forest in that part is thick, one of the oldest stretches of trees in the north, a perfect place for an ambush. And Henry fell into our trap. He led his troops himself, riding recklessly without his helmet on so that his men might know and follow him. And those who saw his face say it was white with rage to have been so thwarted by the wind and tide and a handful of scarecrow men.'

  'Who rode with him, did you see who they were?'

  'I did, lady.' His voice was sad. 'Your lord's red and gold standard was ranged beside the Angevin one. Like showers of gold, those flags blew in the sun. But in the shadows of the wood, we waited for them, in the ditches where the path funnels toward the river bank. Their van went through and we let it go. I was there: I saw them, those proud Norman French who rule your land and think to take ours. I heard your lord shout out, "Send scouts ahead, lord King, watch where you go." Henry would not wait, pressed on, shouted his reply over his shoulder for those to catch as they could, "He is coward who lags behind." Your lord's face grew grim. He drew his sword, gave the word to his men. They held their place, not one faltered out of line; Jesu, had they all been like that, an iron blade slicing across the countryside, even an ambush might not have halted them. And when the path narrowed, they spaced themselves, kept a horselength between them, to swing their swords. The king, seeing what Raoul had done, clapped spurs, rode full tilt ahead, forcing his household guard and his noble lords to accompany him. Courage has that English king, but no sense. He willed a victory for himself, knowing it was defeat.

  'We waited until he was fairly in our grasp, then Prince Cynan
, Owain's son, gave the signal for the archers to fire. They stood up on both sides, fitted arrow to their bows. How at that distance could they miss? The men around the king dropped like flies. I saw one man like a hedgehog pricked through. Henry himself was cut about the face and arms, although only one arrow hit him squarely, mainly because of the speed he rode. Even where the path had deepened, he still galloped like a madman to run us down. He shouted, "Ride to the riverbank," slammed on his helmet, plucked out his sword, flailed at air. Where were we, that enemy? Dropped again out of sight, slid back into ditch and bank that lined each side; all he had seen was that deadly hail of arrows.

  'Lord Raoul caught up with him where our main force was hid—no, he was not hurt. He and his men, by holding to their pace, they had had time to throw up their shield wall above their heads, but he had to ride over the dead and dying to reach the king, his black horse nimble as a cat, leaping almost daintily. The king would have still forged on alone had not Raoul taken his bridle rein and forced him to stop.

  ' “Turn back," he said, "folly to ride on. Look about you, great King." He made the king turn and look back. Half your nobles are hit or dead and the Celts lie in wait to strike again. You cannot reach the ford this way.' It was only when he had repeated himself twice that Henry seemed to hear. We saw him wheel his horse and turn about, as if searching for an escape. The grass beneath its hooves was splashed and torn, the sun filtering through the trees on red, not green, and at either side, we waited to send another rain of death.

  ' "Where is my standard-bearer?" Henry cried, "where is my flag?"

  ' "Fallen," Lord Raoul told him, but that was not the truth. They say the king's standard-bearer, the Earl of Essex, also had seen the trap, and when the first arrows began to fall, he had thrown the banner aside, forced his horse round, and had galloped out the way he'd come in. We found the flag, its Angevin blue stained and blotched, its gold lilies torn.'