by Mary Lide
He reached down and pulled me up by the slack of my shirt. “You shall lead me to her, then,” he said. “Climb up, master messenger.” He forced me to scramble behind him, set off at a canter before I was firmly set. I hung around his waist for dear life, the first time I had ever been on a horse, and its great hooves and height terrified me. It bounded up the little track, striking sparks from the stones, and behind us his men stretched and scratched and laughed softly to themselves in the sun.
On the cliff top the Lady Olwen awaited us. She had thrown her gray cloak across her saddle bow, and her long hair blew freely in the wind. I was right; she had worn her best green dress with jewels stitched at neck and sleeves. And the little white horse that had been standing patiently began to dance and paw the grass as the bigger stallion came up, until she quieted it with a word. Unnoticed, I loosened my hold on Prince Taliesin’s belt, slid to the ground, and scrabbled to safety, out of their way behind a rock. They paid no attention to me, prince and lady staring at each other. There was a strange immobility about them, a sudden stillness that I cannot explain. I knew very well who they were, yet as I looked at them, it seemed as if two figures were superimposed on them, a man and a woman, not a boy and a girl, and the woman waited immovable, like a statue cut in stone. There was a beauty about her that I have never seen in this world. I cannot say if she were old or young or what she was, but she was cut from time itself; and the man she greeted or bid farewell to was as old or young, as immovable, and as beautiful. All I can tell you, then I was frightened by what I saw, two things at once, one real and alive, one not real and yet not dead. I closed my eyes. But when I opened them, Prince Taliesin and the Lady Olwen were still sitting there silently. Yet it is also true that I had never known before how beautiful Lady Olwen was, as if I now had glimpsed for a second also the lady she would become, and in her eyes sensed the same sadness I had just seen in Prince Taliesin’s.
Prince Taliesin spoke first, or rather raised his arm in salute, gravely, without a smile. The sleeve of his shirt fell back, and the gold bracelet glittered in the sun.
Lady Olwen bit her lip. I had never seen her at a loss for words. She was nervous, I think, and tense, as if what she said should be said well, as if she searched for both word and thought, as if—and this, too, I did not realize until afterward—as if this was the most important thing she had ever said.
Even her voice trembled when she spoke at last, and her hands shook on the reins until she clasped them tight on the saddle in front of her.
“My lord,” she said, “I am come to ask your pardon for discourtesy. If you would not eat or drink in my father’s hall, I hope I am not the cause.” When he still did not reply, she went on. “But you, my lord, owe me a like apology.” Then she did turn to him in her quick, eager way. “You did me wrong to knock me to the ground like a common man. You did me wrong to mock at me. I would show you honor as is right. So now should you honor me.”
Prince Taliesin was taken aback. Of all the things he had expected, this was not the one. I saw he, too, searched for words to reply. “Lady,” he began, but she broke in, in her impulsive way.
“I have not asked my brothers to right that insult, but, my lord, you owe me recompense, I think. One against one is fair and just. You told me your horse could outrun the world. Then let him run against mine.”
He did not laugh, although I saw how his lip curled. “And the wager?” he asked, almost softly to her. “It would be theft to take it so easily.”
“When you have won, ask what the wager is,” she said. “But since that horse of yours is half Cambray bred, it may be I’ll ask for it.”
“That was not the wager I had in mind,” he said, softer still. “Nor you, I think.” Perhaps she sensed what he meant, for she flushed. I had never seen her blush like that.
“To the ruined tower and back,” she said, suddenly sharp to hide the confusion in her cheeks, to hide the fact that perhaps he had understood her thoughts, “unless you are frightened to ride against me.”
Before he could guess what she was about, she took up her gray cloak and threw it over his horse’s head, much as he had thrown his cloak at her the night before, and while a second time he fought his horse to a standstill, she took advantage of him and sent her little white horse scrabbling over the cliff, down to the path at its foot. By the time Prince Taliesin had disencumbered himself, she had already disappeared from sight.
“By Christ,” he swore, and now he was all young man and angry, “she has tricked me after all.” He watched her for a moment, swore another great oath, struggled to unbelt his sword, threw it and his shield aside, clapped spurs to horse, and bounded off. And now you saw indeed what he would have been had not some secret grief, some secret wrong, eaten his childhood, his boyhood, away. For he laughed as he rode, and shouted out his battle cry, the cry of his house, so that his men hearing it raised up a cheer. And when they saw him galloping along the crest of the cliff, they cheered again and began to stream up the little paths to the hill fort. For Taliesin’s sharp eyes had spotted another track running along the top of the cliff, inside the walls, and although it was longer by far to the western tower, it was clear of stones and wider, so he could let his stallion race full speed. So, they say, ages past, another prince of our Celtic peoples at another time rode his thick-maned horse into a battle in this place.
Well, Lady Olwen’s little white horse ran bravely, slipping neatly through the rocks along the lower path until it came within the shadow of the western end by the ruined tower, where it had to pause to make the turn. Along the crest of the cliff came the big gray-black horse, its ears laid back, charging down the cliff beside the tower so that when Lady Olwen turned, Taliesin was but three lengths behind. Now was the race more evenly matched, in that they both started at the same time and place, but nevertheless in one sense Lady Olwen had the advantage. For she was still in front, and although the little horse was tiring fast, it was able to twist between the stones and rocks more quickly than a larger horse could; nor could Taliesin pass it on the track, where there was room for only one horse at a time. Once the prince had to rein back so hard to avoid trampling that white horse that he almost threw his own. And, knowing this, and having planned it so, Lady Olwen turned and smiled in triumph at him. Exasperated, Taliesin suddenly threw his arm above his head so the gold shone and urged his horse away from the path across the moor itself with its treacherous litter of stone and rocks, where a misstep might kill a horse or a man who rode too fast. And now he laughed as he came, passed her on the last curve, and swept up in front of her before the cliff. The gods were with him; he did not fall. Only the little white horse, nudged aside, stumbled and rolled over like a cat. Before it faltered, Taliesin leaned over and clasped the Lady Olwen about the waist, plucked her into the air like picking fruit, set her before him, and galloped on. The Celtic soldiers leaned over the cliff edge and cheered, clashing their spears against their shields, as they do for victory. And presently the prince came cantering up, riding easily himself, the stallion snorting and stamping, still fresh, not even noticing the double weight.
He reined up when he reached the top.
“Now, lady,” he said, and all men heard, “you have out-challenged me and outrun me and out-tricked me, and now fairly in the end have I outrun you. Thus was your wager made, and I claim my fee.”
And he kissed her full upon the lips. Then he set her carefully down upon an outcrop of broken wall, so that she stood almost level with him, and wrestled off the golden bracelet. One of his men brought up her cloak and his sword and shield; he put her cloak about her shoulders and clasped the bracelet on her wrist.
“And now,” he said as he took up his weapons and buckled them on, “go back home, Lady Olwen. This is no place for you. I have no quarrel with your house, nor with your father, nor with his sons. But as he is warden of the borderlands, so he speaks and acts in the king’s name. My quarrel is with the king. I told you I had come on men’s affairs. Th
ere is no enmity between your house and mine. But there cannot be friendship between us either.”
Her face had grown white as chalk, except for the dark bruise. He must have noticed it, for he almost put his hand out to touch it, then drew back.
“I am not come in my own right,” he said, and now I sensed the misery that drove him, that drove his men, “but in my father’s name as well. Last and only son am I of an old lord, who has seen his other sons die before him. Three he had. Come of age, I have ridden here to avenge their deaths.”
Lady Olwen’s lips repeated the words; she did not say them aloud, but they hung like whispers in the air.
“My brothers,” he said, the boyish smile quite gone, the face shuttered close, the dark blue eyes heavy with an old grief, “three older brothers were given to your king as hostages for peace in his last Welsh campaign. Dead they are, every one; King Henry had them killed for spite.”
“Killed.” She repeated the word aloud this time.
“Hanged,” he said. “Gelded and blinded and hanged to force a peace.”
The cruel and bitter words fell like stones and could not be unsaid.
“To avenge such death,” he said, “a death for a death. For that reason I cannot eat or drink in your father’s house, although he was not to blame. Yet he is the king’s warden and is a Norman lord. For those reasons I cannot know his sons. For those reasons I shall not acknowledge his daughter, who, of all maids I have ever seen, is most fair. There can never be love between my house and any Norman one. So I bid you farewell, Lady Olwen. Do not look for me again.”
He beckoned to his men. They turned, went silently down over the cliff, he and his six horsemen in front, the foot soldiers behind, and presently we saw them following along the lower path, westward beyond the ruined tower. And Lady Olwen stood and wept, twisting the bracelet about her arm.
After a while her tears were done. I do not think she wept for herself, although she might have, nor even perhaps for those poor dead sons killed in such shameful way, but for that young man who must bear the burden of their deaths all his life. Then she called to me, put her head upon my shoulder. Together we crept down the hillside as if her own strength were gone. We caught the little horse, cropping grass, its coat all flecked with dirt and foam; wearily she rode it back, taking turn and turn with me to walk and ride. For now I was so tired myself, I would have ridden anything. When we came within the safety of the village fields, she stopped and tried to smile. “Go your ways, Urien,” she said. “You have done me service today. I had not thought it would turn like this. I cannot thank you for all that you have done, to reveal a story of such shame and woe. Never speak of this day again nor mention his name to me or anyone. Swear.”
I swore, and so have kept my oath, never broken until now. She left me then at the field’s edge, went slowly on to the castle gate. What she told, what was said within the castle walls, I never knew. Perhaps nothing at all. It is often only we ourselves who make great things or small of what we do. And no gossip has anyone ever had from me. But this I know. From that day on I never looked for her in fields or barn or on the moors. I knew she would never come. They said she had a maid of her own now, who, within the castle confines, walked a pace behind her and outstared all men to make them move from my lady’s path. Nor did Lady Olwen ever ride alone again; the little white horse stood in its stable and grew fat. Its mistress braided her hair with strands of pearls, wore her silk dresses every day, and walked back and forth on the battlements in her silken shoes, gazing westward over the hills like a trapped bird. No word she said to anyone of Prince Taliesin’s resolve or the wrongs done his kin; nor did I. But other men spoke of such things, a crime that had been committed many years before when he was still a child himself, and so had revenge lain waiting all this while until he had grown to take it up. And they said, too, that Earl Raoul had not even been in England at the time, affairs of his own keeping him abroad, although I noted that men were not easy speaking of that. But, becoming wiser in my own way, I saw now how seldom Earl Raoul and his older son remained at home but every day rode out along the border as if keeping watch, as if they looked for trouble from the Celts, as if they expected, one day soon perhaps, a young prince would return, leading an army from his northwestern lands. Lord Robert rode as his father’s second in command, as was his right; a troop he led of younger knights, sons of his father’s guard or vassals, young men of his own age. And among those young men now called to active watch was one whom I should mention here, since his name, too, must be known. A Norman lord he was, Gervaise of Walran, oldest son of a Norman baron whose castle stood east of Cambray. He often accompanied Lord Robert, riding with him on a big, rawboned horse. He was a big, raw-boned lad himself, Lord Gervaise of Walran, not yet grown into his strength, yet broad-shouldered, good-natured, well trained with sword and lance. The castlefolk liked him middling well, and he was loyal to both the young lords of Cambray and generous enough in his almsgiving to make him popular. Nor was he too particular in his own temperament, so that Hue’s rages slid off his back without giving offense. Yet I did not trust him; he was boastful when he was alone, giving me sly kicks when no one was about, ogling the castle maids and pinching them, a typical Norman knight.
Hue was in a rage most of that spring, mainly because although these other young men rode with Earl Raoul, Hue himself did not. Judged still too young, he stayed at home to while away the hours in anger, pent up inside. So whilst his brother and his friend did men’s work, Hue disjointed a shoulder climbing after an eagle’s nest or lamed his horse by leaping every obstacle in sight, as restless himself as a caged-up hawk. And so, I think, it can be said that within the castle, tensions now of various kinds were rising like yeast in a cider vat, so fast that one day they, too, must burst forth. And one day they did— old wrongs, old griefs, mixed with new, together as bitter as those Taliesin of Afron felt. And so it happened by chance, or by fate, as you will, that I was again there to be witness of what occurred.
Chapter 3
The great hall at Cambray is not as large as other castle halls I since have seen, but to a serf at Cambray, it is the lord’s own place, his own hearthstone. I had never dared enter it before. Anyone who goes there must first pass through the guardroom at ground level, a strong room with walls the thickness of an arm’s length, then climb up a steep and winding stair, into a room, large, rectangular, with a vast stone fireplace at one side. A raised dais stands at the narrow end, set with table and chairs for the castle lords. Lesser guests, knights, and squires, sit below the dais on the stem of a T, at tables, which, when not in use, are kept stacked along a wall. Pages rush about to serve food brought from the kitchen on the outside. A kitchen serf has no place there, nor any serf, unless he be a bringer of wood, or water carrier, or one with specific duties to perform. And in the guardroom, my father would be on watch for me! Yet on a morning when the weather kept the younger lords and their friends dicing in the stableyards (I know, I left them there), when I knew the Lady Olwen safe at home, I braved the stairs and came at last into that hall, hoping for speech with her.
I had washed and tied my hair as I had seen Lord Hue do, in the Celtic style, and if my tunic was ragged and the leggings too large, at least they were almost clean. I was still small for my age, thin enough to slip between the trestle tables, not yet dragged out for the midday meal. I had counted on finding the Lady Olwen immediately. What I had not then realized was that above that hall was yet another flight of stairs. It led, as I was soon to learn, to the women’s bower, where the ladies of Cambray kept to themselves, where no man but their lord himself would go. And he, by ill luck as I first thought, was not with them either today. He was sitting before the fire, with his men, the castle seneschal and many of his guard. I turned to slide out the way I had come. Too late, a squire had set himself against the door, barring my escape. I slithered farther along the outer wall in the shadows, hunched down, biding my time in patience, hoping still she would appear.
And since this great earl was there, I watched him curiously.
He sat, Lord Raoul of Sedgemont, or lounged would be a better word, before the fire, his boots upon the raised hearth, long legs, like his elder son’s, stretched out. Now, in all these years I had seldom seen him unhelmeted, unarmed, close at hand, certainly never at ease; and seldom would he have remained at home like this in his own castle hall had not these last days turned all roads to mud, the moors to bogs, a mist as thick as November covering hills and sea. There would be no hunting, no patrols, on such days.
Well, then, Lord Raoul sat before the fire with his men, nursing his old hurts, for he was slightly lame, they say, a wound suffered in his youth, and the damp of these western hills is hard on wounds. I had grown wiser in these past weeks; I knew how to judge men. I liked what I saw. His voice I recognized at once, clipped like Robert’s, a Norman voice, and when he spoke, men listened to him. And I noted, too, the way he moved and sat; he had a habit I had never seen before in a man, although his daughter had it, I think, of moving like that mountain cat I had remarked upon before. Once I had seen such a cat, high on a rock, where it had spied down on our flocks, a great cat, which I had watched rather than giving the alarm so that other shepherds or even I, if I could, would have rushed in with spears to kill. He wore simple clothes, this great lord, not like his sons, not even a fur-lined robe to keep out the cold, and his hair was cut long in the fashion of former years, bound back with a simple golden band as sign of rank; his hair was thick and silver-gold like his elder son’s. But his eyes were ones to watch, green-gray like the northern sea, Viking eyes they said.
He and his men were talking of old times, old campaigns, old battles. I think now that that day he had come down to do his comrades honor who had fought with him during those civil wars. He himself spoke but seldom, let his seneschal speak for him.