by Mary Lide
“Farewell, then, Lord Robert of Sieux,” he repeated, sliding to the ground. “And for good measure I leave you my horse.” He gave his grin, half boy, half man. “In truth it belonged to you in the first place.”
Robert, with scarcely strength to breathe let alone talk, nodded to him, and Dylan let the horses be led aside. Many of the Cambray men, seeing what was planned, dismounted, too, and came to help the Celts embark. Apart from Taliesin’s horse, the rest were mainly moorland bred, and we turned them loose, unsaddled, to roam. But the prince’s stallion we kept. “Someday,” the prince told them, “I shall claim it again.” And he stood leaning against its side, pulling its ears as one by one his men, obedient to his will, like hounds, packed up their gear, saluted him, and started down the cliff path. Brave men they were to go like that. Yet such was their loyalty and such their trust, that Celtic honesty that the Lords of Walran had sneered at.
They were not long in their leave-taking, for as I have said before, they travel light and carry most of their goods upon their backs. It may well have been that the provisions we had packed would seem luxuries to them. And, in truth, the crossing would not take long if wind and tide favored them, as now seemed possible. Soon only the six bodyguard were left with the prince. He gave his horse one last pat, saluted Robert in his formal way, and threw his shield across his back. At the cliff’s edge he stopped to pull loose his sword, sheathe it, unstrap his spurs, and come on again. Three steps below the headland, he suddenly stopped once more and bent, as if searching something out. So he moved sideways along until he came to where we were half hid, as if he knew we had been there all the time.
“Ha,” he said. “I thought I sensed a spy in our midst. Here with your manikin, I see.” (An unkind cut.) He reached through the gorse bush and catching hold of the Lady Olwen by the arms drew her out. Up she came easily, as a fish is caught, her wooden clogs slipping from her feet as they swung in air before he set her down upon the ground. There she stood, and he leaned toward her, resting his hand on his hip as he stared at her intently.
“And where’s your mousekin?” he next asked, pretending to peer under a blade of grass. “Don’t tell me it is left at home. Came you on wings?”
“We came by boat,” she told him breathlessly.
“Without his knowing?” He jerked his head backward to indicate where a white-faced Robert still remained on guard to supervise from horseback the outgoing Celtic army. “Were you my sister, I’d have you whipped for venturing forth on such a madcap scheme. And without escort, too, except for this bag of bones. ...” (Another cut, although, like the first, not ill-meant.)
“Who makes more sense than you do,” she interrupted loyally, “especially since the madcap plan was first his to save your skin. Were you my brother, I’d have you flogged for tearing yourself to bits.” She nodded at his bandaged arm, which still ran red. “You and Robert both, fools to fight when one cannot and one should not. That’s madness in this world.”
“A scratch,” he said, “a nothing. But, Lady Olwen, do you mean you and your page” (which sounded better) “worked to save us? Why did you come? To see my discomfiture, to watch me lose? Was Lord Robert’s anger worth that much? For angry he will be when he finds you out.”
“Certainly not to see you win,” she cried, his voice with its teasing undertone catching at her beneath the skin, “who beat me last time by a trick.”
He suddenly laughed and threw back his head so his white teeth gleamed. “By Saint David,” he said, “how you like to twist at words. Why, lady, I think that rather you tricked me. You thought then to win my horse by stealth. Better stick to your little mousekin. My stallion will never let you on its back. ”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps not. You have been proved wrong before, Prince of Afron.”
At his puzzled look, she ticked off the times on her thin fingers, one by one. “You said you would not see me again, who was of Norman blood. But I am half Celt. My name is Olwen, a good Celtic name, and I have another, given me at birth. Efa am I also called, Efa of the Celts, whom my grandfather took as hostage and afterward wed and loved. And you see we meet again. And a third time are you misspoke. You said you had no quarrel with my house, and yet you would have killed my brother had he stood in your way.”
He flushed. “As to the last, lady,” he said proudly, “I let facts speak for themselves. But do not always think you are right, mistress. If I am to bid you farewell, let it be properly done. I go to war, far across the seas, joining with my Celtic kin, and God knows how or when I shall return. I have never before left my native land.” And for a moment, unaware, a sudden note crept into his voice, a wistfulness, gone in a flash, as if, a boy, he sensed the vastness of his enterprise, as if he guessed at its futility. “My father looks for word from me. Would you send that word? Say I am safely embarked. Say I am gone to France; say I will safely return.”
“Aye,” she said. She shaded her eyes to look up at him. The sun had come full out and was making a halo around her head; her skirts, salt-blotched and wet with dew, were moulded by the wind against her long legs, caught between them, flattened to her body curves. I could see right through to where her little breasts, like buds, strained against the wet cloth. I averted my eyes hastily, but not the prince.
He stared at her, as if the wet rags were gauze, were a film of mist, which the wind would blow naked away. “By Saint David,” he swore softly, his voice husky as comes to men, “you have grown, little Olwen, from what you were. And were you alone and I alone, and this any other day, I swear I would not leave you here, nor I leave yet. You could make me forget myself, Efa of the Celts. Why did you come?”
She did not turn herself or straighten her skirts or try to hide, but never taking her eyes from his she fumbled beneath her waist and drew out the golden bracelet he had given her. “This,” she said. “You may need it again. I return it to you for luck.” He took the bracelet in his larger hand, cupping his around hers, not letting go, both gentle and firm. His blue eyes were almost black against the sun, but the smile that stole across his face was the smile of a man who thinks on one thing. “Sweet Jesu,” he whispered in her ear, “you tempt me more than you can tell. For the third time, why did you come?”
She still did not move, their bodies almost touching, line to line, yet not quite, his hand still cupped about her own. With her free hand she reached out and pushed back his sleeve. The trickle of blood had almost stopped, but the rag was sodden with it. She gently touched the edge of the cut so that her fingertip was dyed red and lifted it to her lips. Out came her pointed tongue like a cat’s, and she delicately licked the smear of blood. “Now are we sworn kin in truth,” she whispered back. “I share your blood. Now I shall not be forgot.”
He said, “Efa of the Celts, you were stolen long ago from us. Shall I bring you back one day? For the last time I ask, why did you come?”
She made a little moue but still did not turn her body aside nor modestly avert her eyes. But she would not answer him.
“I cannot tell,” was all that she would say. “As for the future, who knows it? But if you do not forget me quite, perhaps somewhere, sometime, we shall meet again. And I shall send my loving prayers with you. Those I gladly give.” He lifted her hand, palm uppermost, and spread out the fingers singly, between his own. Still not taking his eyes from hers, he raised her fingers to his lips. She began to shake, as if the wind would sweep her away, her hair as red as flame to match his own, her face afire, her lips red.
“I thank you for my life,” he said simply. “Had you not brought the boats, where should I have gone? I thank you, I thank your page, and I praise you. One day, perhaps, you shall be repaid.”
There was a shout from the fisherfolk; the tide was running fast. His household guard had come filing past and were waiting silently for him. He released her hand, and with the golden bracelet she had returned still firmly clasped, he strode after his men, his leather boots slipping from time to time. We heard h
is footsteps beating down the track, saw him gradually disappear, he and his six men like shadows at his back. In a while, on the beach far below, we heard the fishermen shout again as their boats scraped on the shingle when they dragged them out. There was a creak of leather, the rattle of sail, the rasp of oars. Within our view the little fleet began to move outward with the tide, going west until the mists came down and shrouded it.
“Praise God,” I heard my lady say, the first words she had spoken since he left. “Praise God that he is safely gone.” And she turned as if resolute. “Courage, Urien the Bard,” she said. Her face was pale where before it had been red, and I saw how the blue veins stood out on her white neck and her heart beat fast as does a bird’s if you trap it unawares. “Now come we up to pay the price.” In truth, worn out with so much excitement, taut with emotion and some other strain, which then I could not name, my hands shaking, wet with sweat, I had not even given thought to how we were to get back ourselves. But she had. “Follow me,” she said in her old way.
Up she clambered, out of the gorse bush, and began to walk along the cliff edge, where, far beneath us, in the blue-gray sea, the fragile walnut shells beat westward with their leather sails. There was a shout. “Walk on,” she hissed, forcing the pace. “Do not look back. Stand firm.” She threw up her head, proud as a peacock, and walked faster than before, openly now upon the path, until her brother himself, thrusting forward on his great stallion, blocked the way. He had looped the prince’s reins around his own, and between the two great beasts the Lady Olwen stood her ground, almost overwhelmed by their height. I felt my legs tremble with fright, but not so she.
“What is that man to you?” Robert suddenly shouted at her, worn with effort and fatigue. I had never heard him shout so sharp, certainly harsher than she was used to. She never flinched. Hemmed in by Prince Taliesin’s horse, which towered over her, snorting and stamping, she put out her hand and let the great head come down to blow gently against her palm. But she did not reply.
“By my troth. ” Lord Robert spoke more softly now, in much the same way the prince had done, the sort of voice men use to their womenfolk. “I hear it was your plan. I hear it was Cambray gold you used to bribe your way. By God, Odo of Walran was right, you speak overloud for a maid. No thanks you’ll get from anyone, still less from me, if I find my sister lacking in the laws of propriety. When met you that man before? Where did you meet?” Now you saw her stubbornness in turn match and lock with his; you saw her refusal to answer him; you saw her scorn at his suspicion.
“By the Mass.” Robert’s voice had regained its habitual calm. “Lady, you do yourself more wrong. By God’s wounds, my father shall hear of it. I’ll have you betrothed myself, and wed, to keep you safe. There is no hope with that man, Olwen, no way for you. Disgrace, dishonor lie with him.”
She looked at him, still smoothing the gray horse’s head. “Then death,” she said. “Do not put disgrace on me or on him. Those are words I do not know.” And such was her look, he dropped his gaze, suddenly uncertain what to do.
“Take her up,” he ordered one of his squires. “Lady, attend me when I bid.” But to me he said, when she had gone, “I did not order you to my service to lead my lady astray. In my father’s absence I speak as he would. Death should follow for a maid disgraced. I spare you that as I spare her. But take him away and have done with him.”
They pulled me roughly along, past Dylan, who watched without saying yea or nay. Well, that, too, was a lesson learned. A fair lord in many ways was Robert of Sieux, and just, but conscious of his sister’s rank, conscious of her name more than she was herself. And one of life’s small ironies, I think, the whipping Hue had threatened, in the end Robert ordered it. Not such as Hue would have done, but enough. For Robert was a just man. I know I should not have let her come. As for my lady’s confidence, well that day I served as her whipping boy. I did not regret it nor hold rancor. I live to serve you. So a second time, in my modest way, I did.
But from that day on Lady Olwen was shut up with her maids, almost under guard. Poor soul, I think she suffered longer and as hard in silence and alone. Dylan, having seen me whipped, to his satisfaction, no doubt (perhaps word having reached him of that earlier escapade), showed me, afterward, more attention than I merited, redoubling his efforts to make me ride. He himself had me mount, dismount, trot up and down, fall off and climb back up again until, as much from that as from any blows, I scarce could stand and thought to die. Yet there, too, I owe him my life. For if in the end I could straddle horse at all, or pull sword, it is because he drilled skill into me, although in future years he used to swear I almost broke his will, such lack of skill, such clumsiness, more like a bag of chaff or sack of grain than coordinated man. Lord Robert’s wound did not break open or fester again; he received no hurt, praise God, nor did he show resentment once just punishment had been rendered. With every passing day he grew stronger, until he, too, was prepared to leave. But between his sister and himself hung those words that were to overshadow these last days. Betrothed and wed. Such was the punishment he had for her. Such is the fate of maidenhood, such I despaired of, and such the Lady Olwen now was forced to fight as best she could.
Chapter 6
Our leave-taking from Cambray, at the autumn’s end, was all I had envisaged and more. Dylan oversaw us younger lads, suddenly as anxious as a broody hen. Each day he drilled us mercilessly, himself sitting motionless on his steed, his face a mask of gloom while he lad us rehearse over and over again how to take care of ourselves upon a journey that he seemed to think would end disastrously. “A horse is worth a hundred livres,” he used to say, “ten times the cost of a serf; a hundred times your cost, you gormless louts.’’ And many other maxims of this kind, such as, “You’ll find stable help wherever you go, but the care of your horse is yours alone.’’ And “An unhorsed knight is as helpless as a hedgehog on its back; best way to get a throat slit.’’ And “In surprise attack, mount first, arm last; a horse can carry you away faster than a sword can.’’ He furnished us with a list of goods that should form part of our gear and a verse, God save us, to help slow learners with their memory. Since half of the things he named I had never owned, I could not imagine what use they were, but the verse I still remember:
A bodkin, a knife, a loaf of bread,
A curry comb, saddle, stiff sewing thread,
Shirt, and laces to tie its sleeves,
A cloak, for shelter against the breeze
Mail coat, sword, gloves of fine leather stitched . . .
And so on and so on. And the equipment to be well taken care of, we being responsible for it to the Cambray armory.
“God’s head,” a youth next to me complained, “with that much stuff we could journey to the Holy Land.”
Dylan heard him, reached from his horse, and plucked him forth by the ears. “God’s head is it?” he whispered back, his black eyes glinting and his mouth curled. “More like I’ll claim your own. Who knows in truth what God plans, or how long each journey takes? Prepare as if each day were your last, then perhaps you may survive.” Well, an old campaigner Dylan was, and a wise one. I did not find his advice ill-placed, only tedious. My mother stitched for me a saddlebag to hang behind the cantle, and the castle women made me two shirts, which, since I had not yet begun to grow, were still too large when I put them on. My companions took that for a mockery, a jest upon my humble start, like an ill-planted herb stunted at birth, and wagered that I would never survive the trip, more like to slip between paving stones and be lost to sight or trip over a tree stump and break in two. I let them mock. Determination can be acquired by any man, and I have always found that wits are as sharp as swords. At least I had the will to survive, and even if I boast in saying so, I lived to see my mother housed in a hut of her own, and her daughters, those half sisters, grown to comely age, with husbands of their own (although in womanhood they still showed a tendency to whine that always made me grit my teeth).
But it is the
parting with my father that I always recall. He must have been studying me unseen and doubtless took his share of jests to have revealed how inept I was, not new to him but now put on public display. But the part I played in Prince Taliesin’s leave-taking he must also have known, and that may have convinced him I was of some use. The day before I left he appeared, red-faced, gruff, having no words to express what he meant. Perhaps it was a true father’s concern (which coming unexpectedly took him also by surprise), or perhaps it was a sudden desire to have me think well of him now that we were to part and I had risen in the world. In any case, with many fits and starts and scrapings of the feet, he presented me with a gift. It was a sword. I had never seen its like before, too small and light for a grown man’s use, too long for a dagger, yet honed sharp, its hilt carved in some strange shape, black with age, although the steel blade was bright from having been wrapped these many years in oiled rags.
“I got it off a French squire in a fight,” my father explained, but I think he lied. For later, when I came to use it, the wax that had stained the hilt rubbed through, revealing gold beneath too valuable for any mere squire, and its markings, when I had time to study them, were more like Norse runes. Yet its steel was supple like a new-forged blade, and at the time I was touched by the gift (although had my father known of the gold, he might not have parted with it). So I strapped it on with pride, although it was clear, at least to me, that the path of squire and knight would never be mine.