by Mary Lide
Our cavalcade was not numerous, most of the men being left to guard Cambray. Lord Robert, restored by now to health, took only a handful of knights and squires, myself, and the Lady Olwen with her maids. I heard the older men grumble at riding nurse to a pack of womenfolk, deeming the care of women more onerous than a score of skirmishes, although I myself, and my friends, being young, enjoyed their company. And, in truth, these ladies seldom complained as older ones might do; never pretended to be afraid, never forced a knight to dismount on foot to lead them along, never pretended to faint for lack of food or rest, or made us fetch and carry for them like pack mules. Lady Olwen rode her white horse, but there was a look about her that made me think of Hue, the way she held her head and the quietness with which she met each day. But once, when we were beset, she showed her courage like a man of her house.
We left, then, on a day when autumn was full come. The very air of Cambray made one think of harvest and tranquillity. There was a good homey smell of peat smoke and salt marsh, and late heather patches covered the moors like a tattered cloak. Dylan and the Cambray guard accompanied us to the eastern border for courtesy and to ensure, I think, that we passed Walran lands without reprisal (for since Prince Taliesin’s leaving, we had seen neither hide nor hair of those lords, who had slunk back into their fortress to sulk). So Dylan left us finally with many words of warning such as an old retainer is free to give and with few regrets on my part, although the sight of those familiar castle walls slipping behind the hills unsettled strange yearnings, which I beat down. The greater world was where I had set my hopes (although when I got there, I did not find it as great or as pleasant as I thought).
Travel with an earl’s son makes for luxury. Each day messengers were sent ahead to prepare the next resting place; we traveled with our own gear, to the very feather pillows that we would use, and although I had never traveled anywhere before, and certainly never slept on goosedown, I soon became used to this new style of life. Comfortable beds, fine clothes, good food and wines: such were the delicacies of life as I had always imagined great lords enjoyed. I scarcely had time to appreciate these luxuries before we had to relinquish them—but I rush ahead. First, we came by slow degrees, no war party this, through a pleasant countryside, until, in quick succession, two events occurred to break our peace and reveal clearly that in the world we know, such comforts do not last long.
The first encounter had all the familiarity of an old friend. We had come by now to the end of the foothills, and before us stretched the woods that in those days spread to the boundaries of Sedgemont lands. I remember we were chatting in a desultory way about the last night’s lodgings, talk in which I joined, by now as nice as the next man about a resting place, when there was a shout behind us and a tumble of rocks and dirt as a horse came breasting up through the underscrub. Even as we turned in our saddles, several more horsemen approached over the crest of a small hill. Their leader was in full armor, riding a bay horse, whilst beside him, on leading rein, his charger galloped along easily. An unknown knight, armed and fast, was a sign of danger, even I knew that!
“Ware arms.’’ Lord Robert’s shout scattered our men, a maneuver I had often watched on the practice fields, to form a ring around the women and the sumpter mules, enclosing the weakest of our cavalcade, while Robert and the rest of the household guard unstrapped their shields, unsheathed swords, and rode out to meet an enemy. Once in position they reined back, forming a shield wall, waiting to resist a charge. None came. Petrified, I had watched all this, and no man thanked God more gratefully than I when the leading rider identified himself, Gervaise of Walran, with a dozen of Walran men at his command.
Up he rode, young Gervaise, drew off his helmet, unlaced his coif. His Walran colors of blue and gray were smothered in dust, and his father’s crest, a rough wolf’s head, was almost hidden upon his shield, but his voice was cheerful when he hailed us.
“Save you, Lord Robert,” he cried. “By the Mass, I thought you would never come this way. God’s breath, I have been looking for you this past week.” I noticed at once, as all must have, the red mark that scored one side of his round face, the mark of a mailed fist, and it was certainly true that he and his men showed all the signs of unseemly haste: straps left dangling, saddlebags jammed on, horses ungroomed, faults Dylan would have clouted us for. Gervaise noted Robert’s quick appraisal and flushed. “I make request, my lord,” he said more formally, drawing himself up, “leave to attend you on your march east. My men and I would make part of your company, at least until our paths diverge, you to Sedgemont, I to the coast.”
On horseback, his fair hair tousled, his face pink and white with a glow of youth, he looked the epitome of a Norman knight, and I heard the women whisper so. I was jammed in among them, caught knee to knee, between another page and one of Lady Olwen’s maids, and I felt the ripple of interest his appearance now aroused, like the stir in a carp pool when a piece of bread is thrown in.
“Lovestruck, more like,” I heard one woman say. “Run off, with little of his father’s blessings, I’ll be bound,” showing that she, too, had noticed the telltale sign of a blow, whilst another, more shrewd, muttered aloud, loud enough for our men to hear, at least, “Lady’s delight, look how he craves it, poor sot.” And she began to titter, as did all the ladies, behind their hands, poor fools themselves, besotted, if anyone was, by a handsome face and a strong back. Yet it is true Gervaise looked his best on horseback; afoot, for my taste, he had always seemed too broad for his height, as if his legs fitted better curled around a horse, as if he were more graceful mounted, the sort of grace that men acquire with learning to ride before they can walk. But he was his father’s oldest son, heir to all the Walran lands; no border lord would let his son go skirmishing abroad without just cause.
Perhaps Lord Gervaise sensed the wave of sympathy his appearance had evoked. He certainly took advantage of it. He sighed. “God’s wounds, Robert,’’ he said in a more normal voice, “I thought you like to cut me down. I know we have had our differences, or rather, you and my father have, but since the incident is closed, I pray it may be closed for us. Your friendship is all I ask, I swear.’’ And as he spoke, he glanced sideways quickly to where the Lady Olwen waited for the order to ride on. He did not address her openly, but his next remarks were meant for her. “I trust we meet as friends, as friends we have been this long while. And since I feared I should not see you again, I rode in haste after you. My father has permitted me to seek service with our lord king. I have his permission and his blessing.” He had a boyish way of speaking, when he would, that also became him well, and now he added eagerly, “Or rather, he gave me them in the end. For is it not true a man must seek his own destiny, not sit meekly bawling for it like a slaughtered calf? I go to Canterbury, to the tomb of the murdered archbishop, Becket, then to join Henry in France and accompany him on Crusade.”
There was a noticeable gasp at those words, several of our men crossing themselves, others muttering a prayer, and the Walran men looked smug. Even the women stopped their tittering and gazed at Gervaise more seriously. As did the Lady Olwen.
Crusading knights are the blessed of our times, those noble men who go to fight on God’s behalf, over distant seas, against the infidel, and certainly excuse sufficient for Odo of Walran to allow his son to depart. For those who take the cross are deemed the favorites of God, to be accorded all honor and respect, and even at Cambray we had heard how such knights would sometimes up and take their leave upon the thought, abandoning their homes, their lands, their families, such a wave of enthusiasm sweeping over them as to drown all reason or sense—and few of them returned, poor souls, to reveal all the horrors that crusading entails, more horror than honor, I vow. But Gervaise was continuing. “When King Henry leaves, I leave with him; two hundred knights he swears shall go, and at Thomas Becket’s grave will I offer my sword to be counted among those knights.”
He spoke well, I do not deny, yet I felt uneasy; such words came too
pat. Lord Robert perhaps sensed it, too. “I doubt,” he said in his dry way, cutting through the general excitement, “that King Henry will make good that promise. He swore that oath because he was forced to it, as punishment for the murder of the archbishop.”
“Just so.” Gervaise’s blue eyes burned; he missed entirely Robert’s point. “Two hundred knights, I repeat, himself to lead them, within three years, a vow then to appease God for Becket’s murder, for which the king was responsible.”
Robert smiled his grave, sweet smile and gave an almost imperceptible shrug. All he said was, “Papal legates set Henry that task; my guess is that papal legates will help him find a way to wriggle free. My horse for yours, he’ll never leave. But come,” for he had noted how Gervaise’s face had darkened with chagrin, “you are welcome to ride with us. And if not in the Holy Land, you may yet find action closer to home.”
Now all this while the Lady Olwen had been listening intently. She and Gervaise had not spoken yet, and he had not looked at her openly, remembering, perhaps, their last meeting. Now, abruptly, as if she had made up her mind, she nudged her little horse out of line and spoke to him first.
“Save you, Lord Gervaise,” she cried breathlessly, as if her decision had been so forced from her as to cause exertion above the norm. “Why, you give greetings slow like cheese curds. I swear you’ve never missed our company these past weeks. But your cheerfulness will enliven many a weary mile.” She feigned a yawn. “It will be pleasant to have you ride with us and cheer my brother from his gloom.”
I saw the look Robert gave her, surprised, so long a speech she had not made since we had left Cambray, and certainly not before. Since the parting with Prince Taliesin, as I have explained, she had kept apart, or was so kept by her brother’s command, and seldom had speech with anyone. I guessed at once what she was about, but certainly Gervaise did not. He flushed and stealthily began to move his horse forward, closer to hers. But although he flushed, an expression of triumph, quickly suppressed, also crossed his face. I suddenly thought of a second argument he must have used to persuade his father to let him depart, for argument there must have been, that I do not deny. But the possible, even probable, loss of the Lady Olwen and her lands might also have been a decisive reason for Gervaise to pursue her, as well as pursuing honor in a far-off land. As for Robert, he was startled by his sister’s effusiveness. He loved her well and was distressed that she might already have become entangled with Taliesin, a man he could not approve of, and certainly his father could not, a renegade prince, on the run, a fugitive with a hopeless quest; his sister merited better than that. Now Gervaise of Walran was someone Robert knew; comrades-in-arms had they been this past year; Gervaise would make a better brother-in-law than enemy. Since Robert was so little used to women and was afraid of them (and the story he revealed in his delirium certainly had showed he had reason enough to hate and fear), I believe he was quickly deceived. And that was exactly what my lady intended.
I knew her well. I could imagine what these past weeks had been like for her, shut up, almost a prisoner, with only her thoughts for company. Betrothed and wed. Maids have little choice, especially noble ones, and few defenses in this age we live in. She knew Robert well enough to recognize that he would stand to his word, and when she reached Sedgemont she would also have her father to answer to. Had she been another daughter, in another house, she might already have been married off at her age, to unite two families’ worth or to give an heir to someone’s lands. She must have been thinking these things, suddenly aware of them and dreading them. Too proud to dispute or plead for reprieve, she must have been looking for some way to escape a trap from which, within the narrow confines of her world, there was no way out. And she, too, was young. I cannot say I realized all this at the time, but now I do. How young she was, and innocent. She had not acknowledged yet all her feelings for Prince Taliesin, not their full force, nor yet the full force of Gervaise’s own. And in her innocence, for she was innocent, as a young girl is, not knowing yet the extent of her own sensuality, the thought occurred to her of encouraging Gervaise in the hope of concealing her own dreams, in the hope of distracting her brother’s mind.
Nor do I mean she “used” Gervaise deliberately; she did not know how to “use” anyone, but she must have seen him as someone she was familiar with, an old friend, an unexpected gift from the gods, behind whose attentions she could hide. And as they now rode forward, Gervaise secretly congratulating himself upon his good fortune to be so quickly restored to the lady’s grace, she, in turn, seized upon Gervaise as a drowning man does any piece of rope. Beneath her smiles, her looks, I sensed a sadness, so deep that it was like to drown them both.
And one other thing. When at the day’s end we waited in yet another courtyard for our horses to be unpacked, she, still on horseback, leaned down to me and whispered, “Urien the Bard,” for so she always called me those days, “what will you sing at my betrothal feast?” She looked at me sideways with her large and luminous eyes. “Nay, never frown. In a world where babes are betrothed in their cradles, I am already too old. No great lord will bid for me, a crone. I should have been chosen long ago.” She smiled, but her eyes were dark. In them I read what she should have said, what she herself perhaps did not yet know. “Alas, I was chosen, I did choose. No other hope for me.”
From that day forth Gervaise rode with her, never left her side; he, too, had not much time to waste. And having sent word back forthwith to Walran to ensure Lord Odo knew his son came of his own free will (an easier message than the one we had sent to Afron), Robert allowed them to ride together, thankful, I believe, to see his sister’s spirits revive, wishing her happiness. Gervaise was full of talk, mostly of Canterbury and the miracles there: three days after Becket’s death, the first, a glowing youth with flaming sword, an angel, sent to guard the tomb; then, children cured of blindness and cripples made to walk, a sainthood promised for the holy murdered man. I listened, interested despite myself, the story of this Becket fascinating me although in my heart I felt envy’s full bitterness that Gervaise could so ride, so talk. Yet jealousy is a sin that one day God will demand payment for, and so it was with me. And so with Gervaise when in his turn jealous rage led him astray. Yet it is strange, I think, that this Norman lord, solid as seasoned oak, plain-spoken, self-satisfied, should burn in his way with envy as he burned with crusading zeal. Yet that, too, was part of his Norman heritage. He was, after all, his father’s son, showing all the virtues and faults of his Norman race— practical, hard, and yet at the same time visionary. Such a mixture has helped the Normans conquer half the world. And strange, too, that despite himself he should prove Robert a prophet. For he never went to the Holy Land, but Robert did, who had not looked to go there. But war Gervaise found, and fame of sorts, although neither the war nor the fame he sought.
Gervaise must have known of Prince Taliesin’s leave-taking, and of Lady Olwen’s intervention on the prince’s behalf. He must have heard rumors of the scandal of their parting. As I have said, he was determined, shrewd, that mark of his father’s fist but one sign of a hard upbringing, true to Norman custom. Now, as we rode along, he by the lady’s side, breathing in her every word, weighing the nuance of her smiles, caught like fish on line, yet he was not held so fast that he did not hesitate to make good his advantage. He seized the opportunity to show her how the Norman world would judge the prince as a barbarian, half wild, without sense, whose actions were worthless (although, in fairness, a Norman lordling who had done the same would have been credited courage at least). With these criticisms Gervaise perhaps set his own fears to rest and gave Robert peace of mind. But one day he overstepped himself, and the lady dared to talk him down, revealing, to me, at least, what her real thoughts were.
Gervaise was speaking in his artless way, for as he felt himself more at ease in Olwen’s company, he began to show himself as he truly was, a simple man, like many Normans I since have met, happiest with horses and hounds, more comfortable w
ith warlike talk among men than in women’s company, not over-nice in courtship, and given to harsh judgments, with which he expected the lady to agree.
“I hear this prince, so-called,” he began, “is fled to Brittany. Let him look for help.” (You see how he spoke disparagingly of Taliesin, “so-called prince” and “fled,” as if both his title and his bravery were suspect.) ‘‘King Henry has beaten those Bretons to their knees. Only in one part, the far northwest, will those wanderers find someone to take them in, Viscount Guiomar of Leon, overlord of Finisterre, a monster of a man, a self-proclaimed murderer, who openly boasts of a bishop’s death, his own uncle’s no less. King Henry almost took his land once. What saved it was not Guiomar’s skill, only the sudden death of the dowager Countess of Anjou, Matilda, Henry’s mother, she on whose behalf civil war was begun, to make her queen.” In his pleasure at revealing Taliesin’s folly, Gervaise forgot that the house of Cambray had certainly not supported that lady in the civil war. It gave Olwen the chance to unsay Gervaise’s words; even Robert could not fault her for that.
“That Matilda was a tigress,” she cried, “who would have made a cruel queen. Mother to King Henry, you say; perhaps he learned his ways from her. And Guiomar no worse a man than that king you so openly admire. Henry ordered Archbishop Becket’s death although he did not strike the blow. Why is the murder he planned excused and not the murder of a Breton priest? Or rather, to put things right way round, why should not both murderers be condemned? Why should Henry claim Brittany at all? It is not his. It had its own duke, its own laws, its own ways.”
Lord Gervaise was startled by her outburst and did not know how to reply. He was not used to having women interrupt, and his lips tightened, much as his father’s were wont to do. Yet being still a wooer, not yet a husband, he answered patiently, “The Bretons asked for Henry’s help. He merely gave what they asked.”