by Mary Lide
To give substance to his haste, he snatched at his cloak, slung it around his shoulders without even bidding anyone farewell, and went stamping down the steps as roughly as he had come in, his men behind. His son hesitated for a second, glancing from his father’s retreating back to the Lady Olwen’s, for she had turned away after her remark, perhaps regretting it. A faint blush crept into Lord Gervaise’s cheeks. For the first time I saw how alike he and his father were, Norman-eyed, broad-shouldered, and fair, both square-jawed and determined, fixed to some belief of their superiority that would dominate all their further lives. In the older man that narrowness of thought had turned to bigotry. I remember thinking that one day, in his age, Lord Gervaise would be his father’s self renewed, and the thought disheartened me, not just another son inheriting all his father’s lands and rank, but becoming heir, as well, to all his father’s prejudice. Yet he spoke out boldly enough, although the Lady Olwen would not look at him.
“Lady Olwen,’’ he began, “in truth my father came to wish you well and offer help. Especially in your father’s absence—’’
She rounded on him soundly. “Get you gone,’’ she cried. “My brother cares for me. Seek out your Norman vengeance and call it justice if you will. I am glad to be part Celt. What treachery is here lies not with them. ’’ He could not blush redder, for he was caught between pleasing her and angering his father, not a choice he much enjoyed. Yet in the end it was his Norman thoroughness that prevailed; he revealed for a moment another side of himself, not the affable one he wanted us to know but something harder. Yet he still spoke well and certainly more courteously than his father had.
“I cannot be other than I am,’’ he told her simply. “My father orders me. The words are his, but I concur; a Celtic band of wild scavengers is no sight for a lady fair. I would not have you harmed.’’ But she had turned her head aside again and would not reply.
Down in the courtyard Lord Odo had snatched at his reins and with a Norman curse was hauling himself up into the saddle, wrenching around his horse’s head, making straight for home. He roared for his son, who, after a moment’s hesitation, left as well, running quickly down the stairs to mount and ride. And in the great hall at Cambray we looked at one another in consternation and fear.
Lord Robert had paled with effort, scarce able to stand, yet he had dragged himself to his feet and was leaning upright against the chimney, staring back at us.
“God’s wounds,” he swore, “bad news spreads like brushfire. My father hoped Prince Taliesin would have been distracted long since, before these border lords had frightened themselves into fits, but I see it is too late. Taliesin will be as tenacious as his father, who all these years has nursed his hatred in silence. Well, by the rood, ’tis true the prince asked my father—no, not asked, told, bold as brass—what he planned; that is, getting no help from Cambray, he would go direct to the king to make his demand. And in return my father told him what Cambray would do. And now that blustering idiot has made me swear the same, no Celt to cross our land when armed. Dylan, what for advice?”
Dylan came up to him, looking intently into the fire with his small Celtic eyes, as dark and glittering as a snake. He said, “Lord Odo is wrong but dangerous. If we do not turn Prince Taliesin somehow, he will. And a Welsh prince’s death, however caused, even if he himself courts it, will undo that treaty faster than if the wind blew it away. Prince Taliesin’s father is old, implacable, and he craves vengeance as a starving man craves meat, risking all, even his only surviving son. If that son dies, then the Celts, in truth, will have a cause. By contrast, Taliesin’s little army may seem but a friendly expedition sent to pass the time of day.”
“Then,” Robert’s voice was resolute, “a way must be found to stop the prince.”
“My lord.” Dylan also spoke briskly; for once he moved like a younger man, light on his toes; I think this appeal for help had rallied him. “A way shall be made, I swear. In the meanwhile, send forth the watch, guard the boundary to keep Prince Taliesin’s men hemmed in and to stop Lord Odo’s men from spilling out.”
Before the day was over was this done: men thundering out of Cambray gates, the watch within the castle on alert, warning given to neighboring villages and outlying farms, patrols ordered to scout the boundary length, north and south. But Robert, who scarce could stand and certainly could not ride, sat by the fire and beat with his good fist against the wall. “By Christ, ” he said at last, and suddenly he did sound young and vulnerable, “by Christ’s holy wounds he bore for us, I tell you I cannot find it in my heart to hate a man who acts because he must. Nor can I wish to bury him because he avenges his own brothers’ deaths. But my father and I are pledged to keep a peace. Prince Taliesin cannot cross our land.” There was a misery in his voice, too, to make me sympathize; so do great lords pledge oaths to keep or break, either like to bring equal harm. For it was clear to me, and to us all, that my lord would not budge an inch from his stand. And if, as by all accounts, Prince Taliesin would not either, then stubbornness would clash with like stubbornness, head on. And at our backs the lords of Walran were poised to strike if we failed. No way out, then, for anyone, unless a quick solution be found.
So while all things at Cambray were battened down against attack, we pondered the impasse, arguing first this way, then that. Often Lord Robert and Dylan, deep in talk, disputed vehemently, without success. There were men who pointed out that Wales was large, a coastline dotted with good ports, a border running for many miles—why would there be a forced passage here at Cambray? The answer to that question, too, was known: the other princes had closed their lands or refused access to the sea; no support from them. And the choice of Cambray was a simple one; because the prince’s intentions had been already told to us. No underhanded treachery here, no secrecy, simply the execution of a plan the prince had decided on, a determination, direct and hard. So with no time to seek advice from the earl at Sedgemont, with little hope of reaching a compromise, although all men hoped for one, we spared no pains to make ready in case of need.
The inner courtyards were stripped bare so men could run and climb the outer walls with ease. Armorers made their anvils ring as swords and helmets, not used in a score of years, were cleaned of rust and hammered straight. Space was made in the outer courtyard for villagers who, with their flocks and herds, soon came streaming off the moors seeking refuge in anticipation of the Celtic hordes. Every day women and children gathered up whatever grass could be found and wisp by wisp cut and tied it for foddering. What was left of the harvest was carefully guarded, to be put to the torch rather than let an enemy get it. Fishermen, surly Irishmen, were coaxed to launch their boats through the surf; salt fish makes good siege rations. But in truth a siege of Cambray’s walls was not expected. Lord Odo at least knew Celtic tactics well; they take, devour, and pass on, not having in their strategy the patience or the skill to sit out a siege. But the danger of sudden attack was real, and against that danger Cambray prepared.
The early days of September continued hot. Hourly, it seemed, we scanned those dusty hills, and every morning safe we counted a day’s more grace. But Celts can come like shadows, drifting in the night. And every day Lord Robert drove himself, back and forth across the great hall, willing his strength to return, until, dripping with sweat, exhausted, he was forced to rest. Sometimes he used me as a staff, I being just enough shorter that he could lean on me, back and forth, yet he could not use his arm nor wear his mail. And the first time he mounted his horse seemed like to be his last. But I could tell that as he paced up and down, so did his thoughts.
Meanwhile, too, the Lady Olwen watched, veering from joy to grief like an April day. Sometimes she thought that Taliesin would come and wept at the danger to him; sometimes she thought that he would not and smiled before remembering that then she would not see him again. And so it was that she was among the first to learn our wait was done. Although in truth all men could see the great pillars of smoke rising from the bonfires; t
he watch beacons standing ready these many years were now kindled to give alarm. And presently the outer guards came crying back, shouting their tidings even before they reached the gates. I myself had been keeping watch on the castle wall, on the seaward side, where the walk is narrow, scarce room enough for two men to pass, and the wall strikes down into the cliffs, stone and rock becoming one. Between the crenellations I could see the horizon’s dip, where sea and sky become one, too. Both now were tinged with red, red sky for sign of alarm; and where the tide was out, the little line of boats bobbed gently against the jetty stones, built in recent years by the fisherfolk. I was playing softly to myself upon my pipe, the thin notes dropping like birds’ songs in the translucent air, when I heard my lady coming along the inner walk. I have never known anyone so quick, so light, dressed now in her oldest clothes, which I thought she had put aside, her bare feet slipped into wooden clogs, her hair unbound like a servant girl’s. The tears were running down her face, but she made no attempt to brush them away.
“They are coming,” she cried, no need to say who the “they” was. “Robert’s watch has brought the proof. Mostly foot soldiers, running fast; bowmen with their arrows notched, moving at a steady pace toward the pass.” She paused for breath. “And Robert,” she cried, “even now mounting up, sworn to lead out our men himself. Mother of God, they’ll have to tie him on. And Dylan, like a block of wood, bowed to fate, no sense to him.” She cried again, “It will be death for both, Norman and Celt. Either Robert or Taliesin will kill the other, or passing us, the prince will hurl himself upon Walran spears, already massed upon our eastern line. God save us from the villainy of honest men who will drag the world into its grave for faith.
“I tried to stop Robert,” she cried out a third time. “I ran to Robert and pulled at his sleeve. I have never heard him speak like that before. ‘Get you gone,’ he told me; even his voice has changed, older, like flint. ‘This is no time for you. I have no quarrel with the Celts, but Taliesin will not trespass upon my lands. I ride at dawn.’ Mother of God,” she cried, and now I knew she did not talk to me, had perhaps forgotten that I was there, such was the look upon her face, the tone in her voice. “I’ll give him up; I’ll close my eyes and never gaze upon him again; I’ll shut myself into a nunnery, if only he and Robert will not fight.” And there was no need to explain who that “he” he was.
“Not even an army,” she said after a while, crouching beside me in her familiar way. The twilight had come full upon us now. The bats swooped in and out of the cliffs; the line of foam where the waves were curled spread like silver threads across the bay. “Just a ragtag bundle of men, coming from nowhere, going nowhere, peddlers at a country fair, looking for a vengeance they will never get. Christ’s wounds, were I a man to stand in Robert’s place, I would find a way to turn them back.” I had laid my pipe aside and was looking at her in the concealing dark as I never dared to face to face. For I had learned by now to endure not looking at her. I was older now; God forgive me, I had begun to shield myself for pride. Yet even in this dangerous time I took advantage of the chance. Her face was wan, tear-stained. More than ever she resembled the flower for which she had been named, its delicate blossoms spilled like stars for the winds to buffet. Back and forth she was blown, torn between her hopes and dread, torn between her sisterly care and her growing love. Yet her namesake plant is tenacious, too, clinging to the crevices of rocks, creeping over the roughest ground. Beneath her fragility was a gritted courage typical of her house, her inheritance, perhaps, from that first dour Norman lord who had had the will to carve his lands out of this wild western moor, who had won and loved a Celtic wife. Behind our backs the vast immensity of the ocean stirred as gently as a millpond. Presently there would be a moon, the large harvest moon in the autumn night, when the darkness would begin to race to dawn. And with the sunrise Lord Robert would lead out his men. I said slowly, the words forced out of me, like the songs I sing, not knowing whence they come, not knowing myself what they mean, “If not by land, then by sea.”
Her hand, shaking me, pulling at my hair, brought me back. “What did you say?” She was crying in my ear and tugging at my sleeve as she had tugged at her brother’s. “What did you say?” I stared at her bemused, not sure I had said anything.
“Sweet Jesu,” she cried. She threw her arms about my neck. “Sweet Jesu be praised. By sea, he said.” I felt vitality rise in her like sap. She was gesturing over the castle walls to where the fishing smacks bobbed on their ropes in the gentle surf. “Those Irish coracles have carried Celts throughout the world, have taken them beyond the edge of our universe to the ocean’s rim. Missionaries, pirates, warlords have sailed in them. So shall Prince Taliesin.”
“You’d never get an army afloat,” I began to argue weakly, marveling how her thoughts had leapt ahead; she was always quicker than I was, sure of herself, when her mind was made up.
“Duke William of Normandy did,” she argued back. “Horses and all he brought when he conquered England. But Taliesin can get the horses he will need on the farther shore. What we need now are fishermen willing to help them escape, gold to buy new steeds. And someone to persuade them to it.”
She snatched up her skirts, jumped up, poised to run. I followed her down the steep winding stairs into the inner yard, where men were hurrying back and forth, and women were wringing their hands. Up more steps to the great hall, empty now, and up again to the women’s quarters above. I had never been there before and watched in amazement as she scattered rugs and trappings on the floor, pulled open the massive wooden chests with their iron locks. Inside were clothes and jewels and other gear, which she threw aside in careless heaps until she found what she was looking for, the bags of coins, small and heavy, that formed the treasury of Cambray. She looped them around her waist, under her cloak, and stood up. “That for bribes,” she said, “and horses’ hire. Now who shall speak for us?”
“Dylan might,” I said slowly, for while she had worked I had leaned against the door, trying to concentrate. I have never forgotten that moment: the streaks of moonlight against the stone floors, the Lady Olwen a crouched shadow beyond, the distant sound of the sea suddenly clear, and in the courtyard below the mounting hubbub of alarm. And I, like a sentinel, set to watch and observe. She looked up at me, her eyes moon-caught, her hair almost golden in its light. “Urien the Bard,” she almost whispered, “this time your words have saved us all.”
So down again those winding steps; across the night-dark hall, where usually by this hour all would have been drowned in sleep; down into the courtyard, bright as day. All seemed confusion, yet, in fact, as military arrangements go, the organization was well done. Patrols were riding out and riding in; the great gates open to let them pass, to let in the villagers who straggled along with their goods in tow, women and children scuttling crablike, their men stern-faced, armed with rakes and forks that, before the night was done, would be exchanged for knives or bows. Horses were being saddled and fed, the gray stallions of Cambray prepared for battle; serfs thudded back and forth trailing saddles, buckets, gear. Tired men swore and shouted, weary grooms sweated as at midday, and in their midst Lord Robert sat, waiting in his saddle, as contained and still as he had been the day of Hue’s hunt.
Dylan was at one side, arms crossed, his lined face, for a moment caught off guard, drawn with weariness and concern. He wore his old mail coat, leather-stitched, that had seen him through a score of years, and his old border sword, its leather strap worn and ridged but like himself worthy still, serviceable. Even his helmet was old, a Norman helmet with its conical shape and nasal guard, but his eyes were alert, and from time to time he raised his head as does an old hunting hound, scenting out the wind. Now, as I have often explained, I avoided the seneschal of Cambray whenever I could, and of all men at Cambray I most feared him. My blood could run cold just to imagine facing him, with his tight-drawn face and knowing eyes. But I, too, gritted my teeth and came on.
“The Irish fisherfolk
are rough,” I whispered to my lady as we waited for the best time to approach, “but they are loyal to their home.” And as I spoke, suddenly, all these words I had been thinking fell into pattern to make them clear. And the thoughts that I had been fumbling with revealed themselves, not vaguely possible but real. “These past two years King Henry has been abroad in Ireland making war. Tell them that; show them how Prince Taliesin will avenge their country, too, and you have won them to your will. When their boats are in place, then let Dylan persuade Lord Robert and the prince.”
She looked at me, awed, I think, that for the first time I spoke with authority. I tell you, I was awed myself. By now a groom was leading up Dylan’s horse. With an old soldier’s caution he had stooped to tighten the girth straps, check all was in place. But he moved slowly, no heart in him.
“Now,” I said. Together the Lady Olwen and I slipped through the crowd and came up to him. He straightened, saluted my lady in his old-fashioned way. “This is no place for you.” He echoed her brother’s words and shot a look of distrust at me. I let her speak. It was strange to hear her eagerness spilled out for him, and I was suddenly afraid for her, small and vulnerable in this world of men. I saw Dylan’s dark eyes turn as he raked me with his brooding look. But I did not flinch, although another day, another time, had he cast such a look, I already would have taken to my heels. When she was through, Dylan softly said, “Well,” and reached out his gnarled hands and jerked me clear, into the light where a torch flared and dripped upon the wall. “Well, well, Urien the Bard, by all the saints. I never thought to see you of worth.” He almost gave a grin, showing blackened teeth. “Urien the soothsayer now, hotfooted after prophecy. What says Cambray’s oracle? Or is it,” and his grip hardened, biting into flesh, the grin quite gone, the hands rough and hard, “or is it some madman’s trick you think to cram my lady with? Time’s a wasting, boy, what fool’s plan?” And there was that to his tone to make me realize, if I had not before, that this, in turn, was no child’s game, and death on guard, and so would he treat me accordingly if my arguments did not convince.