Hawks of Sedgemont

by Mary Lide

  Again she paused. “So that was how Montmirail came to an end,” she said. “Robert rode away, not even bothering to hide what had been so publicly shown. After him, in a towering fury, came my father, thundering in pursuit. He brought both Hue and Robert away from Sieux, out of harm, then left them here at Cambray and tried to stop their meeting with the Angevin princes again.”

  Her words stretched into a silence that seemed to encompass the world. Almost without meaning to I found myself whispering, “Is the king’s vengeance done? Cannot peace be made between us and them?”

  She sighed, leaned back against her brother’s bed, stretching wearily, spoke softly not to disturb.

  “I cannot tell you that.” Her reply was bleak. “It is not spoken of. Myself, I think it like to the mutterings of a storm heard a long way off, sometimes loud, sometimes soft, always there, underneath, the more bitter that our affairs have prospered. In France is my father equal to King Henry in that both hold lands of the French king, and never has Henry made a second move to harm our estates at Sieux. In England my father is bound to Henry as his overlord for the lands of Sedgemont and Cambray, although once in grief he repudiated them and threw away his title and rank. He took them back only because King Henry begged. I do not think Henry would dare harm him, yet my father is vassal to him.” So spoke my soft-voiced lady, who in so short a while had grown to womanhood. Although her voice was gentle, her words were hard, harder because that night she gentler seemed. “But I think we are at the start of some enterprise that may, in the end, destroy us all. Vengeance is like a poison, too, seeping underground, puddled where you least expect. King Henry has already killed an archbishop; he has murdered three Celtic princes to get his way; who knows what else his anger will do. Urien, you have changed your life for one that, in time, you may come to hate. We, too, are but pawns in the affairs of great men; they do with us what they will. But if you would survive, you should know this Henry and his sons, who one day will rule our world. Yea, I could wish my father wrong. Like Robert, I would not have old griefs rise. Yet they do, at every turn.”

  “And the queen, is her malice done?” Again I found I was whispering.

  Lady Olwen shrugged. “She also has quarreled with the king and now lives apart from him,” she said. “They say that when she discovered who the king’s last mistress was, the Fair Rosamund, she had her poisoned in her nunnery at Godstow. Poison is her weapon, they say, poisoned words or poisoned knife, what matter the method if she achieve her end.”

  Olwen put her lips to my ear, my lady who had never known evil or thought of it. “They say these Angevins are devil’s brood. An ancestress of theirs, married to a count of Anjou, was proved a witch. A perfect wife she seemed, hating but one thing, to go to church. Urged by his councillors, the count ordered her to celebrate Mass, and when she tried to leave he had the doors barred by his men. She gave a great scream and, sprouting wings, flew out the window, never to return. They say her devilry has left its mark in the Angevin rage, which, in full spate, can drive a man to devil’s work. And we—my brothers, that is—are bound to the Angevin by some bond, some allegiance, which I cannot explain. Call it fate or the will of God, but I myself think it born of the devil, too.”

  So there it was, all revealed, what I should not have known and did not want to know. Murder, poison, vengeance, these were things I had not looked to find. Yet, in truth, they were to be my destiny. For is it not writ in the Holy Book, let no man turn aside from what he has set his hand upon? Better death, I think, than such dishonor. And as the lords I served believed, so I, in my humble way, would follow them.

  Chapter 5

  Now while Lord Robert lay abed, some days seeming on the mend, others sunk to fever’s lethargy, I would not have you think that all was despair. Looking back, in some ways I count this time as the happiest of my life. For once Lord Robert’s convalescence was assured, though long, then had I free access to the people I most admired; and although there is no doubt they thought less of me than I of them, that did not change my state of mind. The Lady Ann departed at last to join her noble husband at Sedgemont; and since after a while Lord Gervaise came no more, for whatever cause, then in truth I could pretend I had the Lady Olwen to myself. Nor were absent friends forgot. News often came to us of Hue, how he was brought to Winchester to see a king’s son crowned, the new Archbishop of Canterbury rendering that service, and the prince’s wife being crowned with him. We heard of the improvements to the palace, long needed, for in Stephen’s reign all of the royal residences had fallen into disrepair, the worse since Stephen’s mercenaries had been quartered therein and had refused to move. The changes Henry made were the wonder of his time. There were even privies, set apart and carefully screened, and decorations on the state room walls, whose colors glowed with blues and greens. One painting afterward all men marveled at, that of the eagle harried by its young, their cruel beaks tearing the parent flesh. In future, men were to point at it and exclaim, “So are prophecies made truth by time.” And there at Winchester had Hue his wish granted, his father knighting him, himself handing Hue the sword and awarding him the accolade, no light tap upon his back but a full buffet that sent the new knight asprawl, perhaps to remind Hue again of all that knighting meant: not only war and warlike deeds but obedience to his overlord, honor, and deference to all men. And they say that Hue, scrambling awkwardly to his feet, seized his father’s hand and kissed it as token of his respect. Knighted, then, reconciled with his father, who clasped him to his breast in one last gesture of affection, and as part of Prince Henry’s household, Hue set sail for France, close friend of the prince and companion in his future wanderings. Earl Raoul returned to Sedgemont, joined there in time by the Lady Ann, and thither were we to go ourselves come Michaelmas.

  As for Prince Taliesin, neither was he forgot. For often I sensed an air of expectancy in the Lady Olwen, as if daily she hoped for news. And in later years they tell how that prince and his men rode swiftly on from the pass after his parting with us and came again at length to his father’s principality, where, in a fortress along the northern coast, the old man awaited him. They say his father sat alone in an empty hall and greeted him. A tall man the father was, bent forward in his great carved throne, the skin on his face stretched thin across his high cheekbones, his gray-black hair grown long; but his eyes, dark blue beneath their heavy frown, were bright with urgency. Four sons he had once had, as did King Henry, who had killed the oldest three. Now this one returned, his last born, his heartstrings. Yet when he had heard his son relate the story of his journey to Cambray, the old man, without a word, at the end, merely raised his hand and pointed with his finger, east again. As his father commanded, so Prince Taliesin must travel out on vengeance’s quest.

  We were sitting, as was our wont, in the great hall at Cambray, and I was whiling away the hours of enforced inactivity (for Lord Robert had not yet back his strength) by singing him Welsh songs, which he and the Lady Olwen liked. He, in turn, was teaching me Norman ones (although mine, I swear, were more seemly for a noble house) when there came a clattering at our gates. It was the lords of Walran, father and son, well armed, stern-faced beneath their helmets, weighted down as if by some mighty care. They came, of course, as friends, and we let them in but marveled at their warlike state and their air of anxious importance.

  Lord Odo of Walran, father to Gervaise, swung himself off his horse heavily and strode toward the keep, his Norman sword swinging at his hip, his spurs grating on the stone stairs. Beside him, Gervaise, equally armed, almost ran to stay in step. And whereas in former days Gervaise had a smile for everyone, now, perhaps showing himself in more true light, he and his father shouldered a path through, without a by-your-leave, as if a thousand enemies were at their heels.

  “Save you, Lord Robert. ” At least Lord Odo had the courtesy to greet my lord, although he did not wait to let the guard bawl out his name, merely pushed his way toward the fire, where Robert lay upon a couch. “Nay, sit you s
till, lad,” he added patronizingly as Robert struggled to his feet. “No ceremony, I beg, lie back. I’ve come on border affairs, and it’s an ill wind that finds your father gone and you still abed.”

  “Save you, my lord.” Robert’s greeting was also courteous, and he smiled at Gervaise as if to say, “Where have you been?” But by now I knew him well enough to catch the keen look he gave both lords and the almost imperceptible nod of caution to our men to take cloaks and swords, to serve wine and bring forth stools, all courtesies such as a lord makes for his guests. He had noticed, as did we all, how beneath their cloaks they and their men, crowding after them, wore full mail and, despite custom, did not render up their swords. Even Gervaise kept his sword belt on, although he had removed his helmet and thrown back his coif. Usually when he came to Cambray, he was decked out in new clothes, each time another embroidered shirt or coat to flaunt—he must have kept his mother’s maids stitching day and night. But now he was plainly dressed in soldier’s gear, and he scraped his feet in their boots and spurs and looked at the floor as if abashed, prodding at the rushes with his scabbard point. Yet I must admit he looked well in soldier’s mail, better than in his velvet robes, his blond hair well curled, his shoulders broad in their hauberk of the latest style, made of fine chain linked together like a net of scales, hanging low about his knees. But he let his father talk, proof again if proof were needed that this was not a social visit, the more so that Lady Olwen and her maids were seated in the hall with us.

  “I am glad, Lord Robert,” Lord Odo of Walran was continuing, “that your father at least left Cambray well garrisoned. We shall need trained men. I am come to bring you warning, if you have not yet so heard. The cub of Afron is on the march. They say he is already heading south, gathering up malcontents to swell his troops; all of Wales up in arms, flocking to join his army’s ranks. They say he will cross the border here, to march against King Henry’s court. They say he plans to let the Welsh dragon loose.”

  There was a gasp, part surprise, part alarm. And part, I think, some other thing. A border castle is full of half-breeds. Some might have been there that day who, although loyal to their Norman lords, although well aware of the danger, would feel a twinge of pride that free Celts could so arm and could so rise. There might have been those, and such I confess was I, who thrilled to the image of a Celtic warlord on the march. Perhaps Lord Odo thought of that. His eyes narrowed, and his voice grew harsh. “The Celts last rose in sixty-five,” he said. “You were too young, my lord, to have taken part, and your father was not even here. But we took part. No border castle was safe. Like locusts the Celts swarmed over our boundaries and walls. That year marked King Henry’s second invasion of Wales, a bigger disaster than his first, eight years before. And in the first, I think, your father was engaged. He may not speak of it, but he will remember, as do other men, how he rescued the king from a Welsh ambush. We will lack his presence this time. ”

  There was a hush. Lord Odo had blundered upon things better left unsaid, of which even Robert had not spoken, how the earl had been constrained to fight for King Henry against the Welsh and how, to his own risk, he had saved Henry’s life. Aware of his mistake, the Lord of Walran hastened on. “No need to be caught like sitting ducks. I suggest we seize opportunity whilst we can. No sense in giving them advantage of attack; attack first. Advance across the border with all your men and mine. Hit them where they are most vulnerable.”

  Lord Robert eyed Lord Odo in his thoughtful way. “We have a treaty with the Celts,” he said after a while. “Let us not be overhasty, my lord. It may well be that Prince Taliesin will not raise as large an army as you fear. It may well be he means no harm, merely seeks a passage through. In any case, in these last years King Henry has made overtures to the Welsh, especially since his Irish campaign. The Prince of Powys has already sworn a peace; the Prince of Rhys has already agreed to act as Henry’s justiciar. Moreover, Henry has recently returned other hostages without harm. It strikes me that these gestures of peace will count more than ancient grievances.”

  Lord Odo of Walran heard him out impatiently, biting his lip and, like his son, fidgeting with his sword. “That may be so,” he burst out. “The workings of the Celtic mind are not my concern, nor do I claim to understand what they might feel. But I do understand what they are capable of. You, Lord Robert, are too young, but there are Norman barons in plenty who, to their cost, can tally up their losses in that last campaign, when Olwain of the North and his men stormed our border in a rampage of loot and rape, killing, burning, and plundering. Thrice did he cross to our despite. No castle was safe from him, no Norman knight, no Norman wife. I do not speak to afright, you understand,” he said, turning a little to where the Lady Olwen still kept her place, “but we marcher lords will bear the brunt. We do not intend to let invasion come while we sit idly by.”

  This time it was Dylan who answered, stepping out and making a gesture for silence. Old as he was, slow-footed, ponderous, when he spoke, there were years of experience in his voice. “Cambray has never shirked its duty,” he said. “Since it was built have I served its lords. Their care, and thus the care of all men who serve them, is to guard the border and hold it firm. But, my lords, that treaty was agreed to in fitting way, made between the earl and Olwain of the North, swearing that neither side will cross the border in warlike array. If we break a treaty so signed, what should the Celts do in return? I agree with Lord Robert that the Celtic princes will not jeopardize a treaty they themselves sought.” And there was a murmur of agreement from our men.

  But still Lord Odo was not satisfied. His voice rose a notch. “Olwain of the North is dead,” he cried. “His heirs dispute their inheritance; Wales lacks for leadership. Perhaps this Prince Taliesin has visions of filling the void. More to the point, did not your father recently receive this prince? What passed between them no man knows, nor what the prince came for or what he got. But if Cambray was to be spared, what guarantee was given that we should be spared likewise?” He paused to let that remark sink in. There was a rumble from our men, more open this time, and hearing it the lords of Walran backed a little toward their own men, closing ranks, so that they stood together in a compact group.

  “It may well be,” Lord Odo said, more conciliatory now, “that you think Cambray strong enough to resist attack. I hope you are right. But only a fool, I think, would trust a Celtic treaty, Celtic made and signed. I do not intend to be so foolish as to let them trespass without constraint. Tell the Celts so, and bid them be warned. One foot on my lands, then let them look for vengeance; first I claim my own. And those who survive I hang from my battlements, food for crows and kites.”

  Lady Olwen could not contain herself a moment more. She sprang to her feet, her eyes glowing, her cheeks flame-red. “I think,” she cried, “there has been talk enough of hanging; was not a hanging the cause of Prince Taliesin’s coming in the first place? Even you, my Lord of Walran, must admit he and his family were ill-used.”

  Lord Odo took another step back. “God’s blood,” he said, staring at her with his prominent eyes, “but you speak loud for a maid. Were I your father ...” But recollecting, no doubt, who her father was and that he and his son hoped to make her welcome in his household one day, he swallowed hard and answered more softly, “Lady Olwen, these be not doll knights, playing with swords, but vermin, wild as wolves, trained since birth to treachery and attack. And burning hot for revenge.”

  “You believe then, my lord,” Robert’s voice was smooth, “that revenge is a possibility? You claim it, I think, for yourself. You admit, perhaps, Prince Taliesin has some justice to his claim?”

  “Justice, justice,” Lord Odo began to splutter. “I know what Celtic justice means. I know what rights King Henry evoked and what those varlets forced him to. And I know, my lord,” one last thrust this, his voice like steel, “that your mother is of their kin. Perhaps you think to keep Cambray safe because of her?” There was an open shout of outrage. I saw how several of our
men shifted feet to give themselves room, whilst others eyed the distance to the walls where, by tradition, the weapons of Cambray hang. The castle guard at Cambray is half Celt, but to challenge the honor of their Norman lords is a direct insult, one to be repaid in blood.

  “No offense, no offense,” Lord Odo hastily insisted. “Take no umbrage, my lord. But were I in your place, wounded, my father gone, I’d look for help wherever I could. Your father fights left-handed, I am told, ‘Two-Handed Raoul’ his nickname. But you, my lord, lack that gift. ...”

  “I seem to lack several qualities.” Lord Robert’s voice was low, almost pleasant, but beneath I sensed anger, running like a riptide. “Or so you have now reminded me, with distressing frequency. Age, I think you said, and wits, added now the inability to fight. Three lacks, enough to undo any man.”

  “Now, now, no cause for alarm.” Lord Odo began himself to be seriously alarmed. “I came but to offer advice and help.”

  “Which we will ask for when we need. Young or not, I know my father’s mind. I know our responsibility for the treaty made. I will not attack the Celts unless they invade in full force, and then I fight only to defend. But I swear they will not cross our lands.”

  “Then on your head be that oath,” Lord Odo cried. His hard slate eyes glared around defiantly, and for a moment I sensed a flash of hatred, distrust, envy, perhaps, quickly disguised. “But plenty of Norman barons think as I do. And as your father is warden of the marcher lands, then make sure his protection covers us. If not, we take the laws into our own hands.”