by Mary Lide
Chapter 8
Well, Gervaise was there in the flesh; nothing could be done to change that. And full of himself, telling us at once of his visit to Canterbury, where he had prayed for service in God’s holy cause and “for other things.” What they were he would not say, but from my lady’s blush I guessed she knew.
“So much for Crusade, boy.” The earl interrupted him to take his daughter’s hand, looking at her with troubled eyes. He noted at once, as others should have done, her silence, her trembling stance, her downcast eyes. The earl knew women better than his son did. His own eyebrows drew close. If this were love, then his daughter loved like no woman he had ever known, and sharply he bid Lady Olwen’s maids take her indoors at once, to bring her to food and warmth. His look was thoughtful when he turned again to his son and threw his arm around his neck as a sign of affection. “There’ll be no Crusaders here this year,” he told us. “A pack of wolves with Louis as huntsman leading them. I hope they will not swallow him whole first. And Henry, about to let his empire crumble apart in his absence. But come, lads, a cup of wine. I am glad, at least, to have you here.”
The earl, too, had grown thinner, I thought, in these past months, his limp more noticeable; and although he showed his son his usual courtesy, it was clear to me he had many cares on his mind. Which, as soon as he had gone about his own affairs, Gervaise of Walran did not hesitate to reveal.
“You should have come earlier,” he cried to Robert when they were alone (and as Robert’s page I followed, as was correct, although Gervaise glowered at me, more openly showing his disfavor now that he was so well entrenched, holding grudge, I suspect, for the affair at Cambray and disliking the Lady Olwen’s protection of me). “I had not seen King Louis before,” Gervaise now went on, settling himself and his intended future brother-in-law in a comfortable niche against the broad staircase steps, which were wood-wrought, with a carved balustrade, a nicety I had never seen and found less comfortable to lean against than our old stone pillars at Cambray. “I had not thought King Louis so old. I thought ...” And for a moment he was silent, musing perhaps to himself on what he imagined a crusading king would be, as he saw King Henry, or even perhaps himself, a perfect knight, in burnished mail, surcoated in white, a soldier of God.
“Louis rode on Crusade almost twenty-five years ago,” Robert told him in his wry way. “He is no longer young.”
“Aye,” Gervaise agreed, “and he looks his age. His face is thin, and on it are engraved deep lines, signs, they say, of the illness that has begun to plague him since Montmirail. They say,” he hesitated, “they say in the midst of some discourse he goes apart and, wrapping himself in his cloak, falls asleep as peaceful as a child. They say,” and now he did lower his voice, “his words are husks of grain, blown here, now there, by the wind. I myself heard Earl Raoul praise God that the king was still in Paris since he was more like to have turned tail and fled back to Reims or retreated to some monastic cell.”
Again he mused. “But there is another thing,” he said after a while. “King Louis is proud. Illness, defeat, three wives, and the son who was born at last still too young to rule if Louis dies, his kingdom all but lost, and he himself prepared to risk the rest in one desperate throw; nevertheless, he still believes in his undisputed right to be God’s envoy on earth. His most faithless words are spoken to air, as if he expects God to take them and firm them up, as if God’s voice speaks through him. Yet he was not even born to be king. His older brother should have reigned and Louis been placed in church choir or monastery, where he is happiest. He showed his worst side when he saw Earl Raoul, or Count Raoul, I suppose, as I should call him here. I wish you had been there, Robert,” he said, and now his voice was all respect; he spoke as becomes a man of sense in the face of nobility. I admired him then, afire with an enthusiasm that honored him as well.
“Were I King Louis,” he was saying, “and had invited such a count to give advice, I’d think up ways to placate him first. Count Raoul is not the man to speak softly to your face and say another thing behind your back. For when we came to Louis’s court, an old, damp sort of place, with corridors so wet they seemed to soak up the water from the Seine—hard to believe that from such spongy walls a king of France hurled defiance at the invading Norsemen two centuries ago—the king’s guard led us along in haste, showing us no courtesy. Ill-groomed, ill-favored, ill-mannered are they, slouching and spitting, making show of force only when they think it will not be returned. I wonder King Louis permits their disrespect. The king was standing with a group of men in an anteroom. He reminded me of my father’s old boarhound that growls with toothless gums and fawns and whines all in one breath. So was the king, pretending fierce, pretending sweet.
“ ‘Save you, my lord count,’ he says. His tone was mild, but underneath his thin eyelashes, his pale blue eyes darted looks, the shifty glance of uneasiness. ‘God preserve you, Count Raoul, and grant you peace.’
“Earl Raoul came straight to the point. They say of him he grows more like each year to his grandfather, your great grand-sire, of blessed memory. I like his way. He speaks his mind; men know where he stands, and where they do. Not many men dare that these days. ‘If God wills, we shall have peace,’ Earl Raoul said. ‘We mortals seem intent to kill it at birth. Angels, we need, to disperse these war clouds, and seraphim with flaming swords to defend us from these warlords I see gathered here today.’ For he had noted at once that many of the nobles were full-armed, to their hauberks and shields, and all wore swords in defiance of courteous custom.
“The king cringed; his courtiers, gathered around him, hissed in outrage and whispered suggestions as to how the king should reply. Presently King Louis pushed his courtiers aside. ‘Ever quick with advice, Raoul,’ he said. ‘Hotheaded like your son.’ He raised his thin hand, where a red ruby gleamed like a drop of blood. His voice was bleak but had a curious undertone, almost triumphant. ‘There are other lords who do not agree with you. They would dispute that remark.’
“He drew aside, holding up his robes like a monk, so Raoul could see who stood behind him. Earl Raoul knew them, I think, four English lords, who advanced, all smiles. A moment, I shall remember their names. One was the Earl of Leicester, a bitter, hard-faced man who resents that his family’s power has waned since Henry’s rule. He was followed by the Earl of Derby, angry because Henry has confiscated his northern estates. The third man was the Earl of Chester, fat-faced and merry with wine, and, I think, of the four most dangerous, too young, your father said, to remember the civil war, not old enough, or wise enough, to consider its consequence. The fourth and last man was Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, from whom Henry has taken East Anglia. All four, then, with grievances a mile long, all four hot with resentment sufficient to make them willing to act as one.
“Count Raoul’s greeting to them was terse. ‘So, my lords,’ he says, ‘come begging for scraps? What do you offer to the feast?’ They laughed as at a joke, trying not to take offense, fingering their dagger hilts. They were in full armor, I tell you, beneath their robes, and although their belts were gold-laced, the swords were not for show but were real. King Louis seemed not to mind. I think he felt their battle gear was a compliment, meant to remind him of his martial youth. He laughed and rubbed his hands, a miser counting over his gains. ‘These great earls,’ he emphasized the word ‘great,’ a whisper of satire almost as quickly swallowed, ‘these lords have promised their support. In England their vassals will rise at their command, and they themselves have offered certain English lands to whatever French lords pledge their help in return. ’
“At this thought King Louis’s jubilation did break out. He laughed so heartily that he choked and spat and allowed the earls to beat him on the back in a familiar way. ‘Dover and Kentish lands,’ he spluttered, when he could speak, ‘a gift that wins the Count of Flanders to our cause; the soke of Kirton in Lindsey for the Count of Boulogne; and to the King of Scotland, ready to overrun the northern border at our command, the
whole of Northumbria.’
“ ‘Which is, by right, already his,’ Hugh of Chester broke in. When he spoke, the smell of liquor on his breath was like a pothouse.
“ ‘A veritable feast indeed.’ Earl Raoul’s voice did not rise, but his color did, and his hands whitened along the joints. ‘England quarters up well to your huntsman’s knife. Which of your vassals do you destroy to supply the game? What French lands are you promised in return?’
“King Louis’s face grew long; the thin nostrils flared, and his mouth grew hard. It made me think how he must have been in his youth, when he himself lopped off the hands of rebels who defied him and set fire to a church of frightened villagers. Their screams, they say, so haunted him that he was driven to go on Crusade. For a moment even King Louis showed himself as a man who would not brook the slightest interference with his will.
“ ‘These English lords do as their king commands,’ he whispered, the long s sounds making him seem more ominous. ‘Their former king, Henry the Older, is deposed by a younger one; the son has taken the father’s place. And you, Earl Raoul of Sedgemont, with holdings of your own in England, which king will you serve?’
“Earl Raoul took a step forward, and the king drew back. ‘Do not look for me to divide my lands,’ the earl said. ‘I covet no man’s estates, but I keep my own. Sieux has been ours for more than three hundred years, and Sedgemont and Cambray since my grandfather’s time. No man touches them.’
“The king made a tushing sound. ‘Come, come, Raoul, we shall never have a chance like this again,’ he began, when the Earl of Leicester broke in—a tall, haughty man he is, not one to cross. ‘But King Henry took your castle once,’ he cried. ‘You owe him naught. Do you know where Henry is? Gone south, to treat with the Count of Maurienne, who in return will open the mountain passes through the Alps; all of Italy defenseless beyond, within Henry’s grasp. A monster we have supported, Raoul, an ogre, who looks to swallow the world.’
‘And what in return for that ride south?’ Earl Hugh of Norfolk took up the tale. He certainly is old enough to remember the anarchy of civil war. ‘A marriage between the Count of Maurienne’s infant daughter and Henry’s youngest son, John Lackland, justly called, for lands he lacks. Except his father now grants him some, as marriage settlement, three castles, three border forts. And where did they come from? Why, they were ones the king had given first to his oldest son and now takes away. God’s breath, you’d think with all the world his to give, Henry could find some better way to bestow gifts than to rob his heir.’
“ ‘Who will no longer support such injury, such insult.’ Now the Earl of Chester spoke, smiling the while at news that must have struck a blow to Earl Raoul’s hopes. ‘And your son rides with the Young King. What will you do when they come here?’
“ ‘When they come.’ Count Raoul echoed him. ‘Between that when and now much may happen. King Henry may be a monster, but he is no fool. Nor is the prince so young, so foolish, as to defy a father who is stronger than he. Prince Henry should be advised to go back home, not hustled into a rebellion he will regret. And you, my lords of England, should bid your prince make his peace with the English king rather than let the French one tempt you into war. You play with fire. Take care it does not burn.’
“By God, Robert,” Gervaise went on, “that was blunt. The Earl of Chester’s round face drew down into lines older than his age, and Hugh Bigod fingered his sword hilt. ‘Mayhap, mayhap,’ the Earl of Norfolk said finally, his pig eyes small, ‘as sound advice as your grandfather gave in the last war. Much good it did you. Henry tore down your walls at Sieux fast enough!’
“ ‘And forced you to marry with your ward.’ This last from the king, whose voice could not conceal his malice.
‘As much sense as your older son when he let a Welsh army through. Such advice will cut you off from everyone, my lord,’ William of Derby piped up.
“ ‘Well,’ Count Raoul answered them. He wore no sword, carried no weapon; his voice was cold and rang like steel. ‘You speak of old wrongs,’ he said, ‘put aside if not forgot. Before you dismember the present world we live in to create new ones to satisfy your own revenge, think first. Faith is sworn to vassal by overlord, by overlord to king, a binding oath on both sides sworn before God, not easily ignored. Faith is the cornerstone of our world, not only faith in God but faith in man, face to face, land in return for military service, land in return for protection. How will you protect your vassals when you give them to another overlord? Destroy the faith between them and you, you plunge us back into a darkness such as the heathen Norsemen brought. Remember that, my lord king, when you wreck the peace of Montmirail.’
Gervaise paused for breath. “Christ’s wounds,” he swore, “how your father quieted them. But, Robert, they say those English earls spoke truth. Prince Henry waits but a chance to break away from his father’s guard and will make his escape to join King Louis here. And not only that prince.” He hesitated again. “They say his brothers will come with him.”
Robert’s face, which had grown still and quiet at Gervaise’s news, suddenly brightened, as if a lamp had been lit. But he made no move, asked no question. It was Gervaise who told him what he wanted, hoped for, yet at the same time must have despaired of. “Prince Richard will ride with his brother. Prince Geoffrey, too. All the eaglets, then, who are old enough to fly. And when your father heard that, he smote his hand against the wall, just as you are doing now, and swore, just as you are thinking of doing, ‘God’s breath, all the eaglets from the nest. But the king eagle is still aloft. And not even Paris will be safe until he gets them back.’
Such were the tidings that Gervaise gave, told part in admiration, part in awe, and part, I think, out of curiosity, to know how the house of Sieux would stand. But he did not dare ask what Robert had already asked himself, “When Richard comes, whom will I serve?” Nor did he ask, what of Hue? How would the house of Sieux stand? Rather, how would it divide? Those were questions that must have racked the earl, afraid for both his younger and his older son. Although between Robert and the earl all continued as before, the earl as affectionate, generous, and tolerant as a father could be, the son loving, respectful; underneath, that current, sensed at Cambray last spring, began to tug and tear. For the earl held firm to his conviction that in the end reason would prevail, while Robert, who longed to see Richard, King Henry’s son, almost hoped the prince would not come, to avoid quarreling with the earl. But both father and son knew that sooner or later a decision would have to be made.
Then, too, there was the current flowing, full force, between Gervaise and the Lady Olwen. For Gervaise was not backward in his wooing, and to tell the truth, I suppose there could not have been many maids who would have looked at him unfavorably. Young, ardent, he was not bashful in his suit. It was only that Olwen did not respond as he had hoped or felt he had been led to expect. What was said between him and Earl Raoul, or what between Earl Raoul and his son about Gervaise’s claim, what asked for, what promised, what laid aside, I cannot say, nor what messages were sent posthaste, of war and love, back to Odo of Walran. Gervaise remained with us, guest of my lord, friend of our house, as before at Cambray. And while he waited for King Henry’s return (for in this also he held firm, that he would support the king, come what may), he used the time to advance his own cause. I do know that, like many of the young men of his class, Gervaise was confident. He was used to harshness, no milksop, his father’s parting blow no doubt the last of many before he came to manhood; what he was not used to was defeat. And so, expecting victory, acting as if the prize were his, the more he pursued, the more the Lady Olwen retreated from him. I saw him not once but many times, walking with the lady in those gardens that backed upon the earl’s house. Gervaise often seemed to crowd upon her, almost thrusting her into some quiet alleyway bordered with vines, and once taking her hand and pressing it to his lips, actions enough to make me snatch for my sword, had I worn one. Nor was he patient in his wooing, making no secret of
his lusts. I know he often visited the whores in the stews, Paris being crammed with them, like all cities I have been in, and, like many other young lords, he boasted of his prowess there. Yet strange, although such habits were common to most men, and I am sure Prince Taliesin was no prude, such talk would not have offended me coming from the prince. What seemed vicious in Gervaise might have been normal in another young lord, the main difference being, I think, that Taliesin would never have had to boast.
As for the Lady Olwen, why was it now she turned away from the man she had tried to hide behind? Why felt she safe to do so? Her mother’s absence must have been a blow to her, but her father proved an unexpected ally. For the earl was wise. Gentle, too, I think, in a way not common to many of his rank, he would neither give his consent to a betrothal nor allow Gervaise of Walran to pursue too hard until the earl had returned to Sieux, there to consult with the Lady Ann. Time is what the earl gave to Olwen, and time is all she had ever bargained for. But once, when I heard her plead with Gervaise to let her be, there was an understanding in her voice new to her, as if she pitied him, making her seem older than he was. His stern reply frightened her. “I am not one,” he said, his Norman harshness very clear, “to be fooled with. Nor do I bend and sway as is the fashion of this court. Your father does not frown on an alliance; your brother welcomes it, and so does Odo of Walran. If you say so, we could go back to Walran now. I could give up Henry’s wars,” he said, “but not you, Lady Olwen. That I shall not do.” Feeling she had only herself to blame for his intent, despairing then of dissuading him, the lady withdrew in distress, avoided him, and found solace suited to her needs and place.