Hawks of Sedgemont

by Mary Lide

  I tell this part of our story from hearsay, since I was not present when Prince Taliesin came to King Louis’s palace, and in our household neither Gervaise of Walran nor the Lady Olwen spoke of it. Nor yet Lord Robert. Although in later years he did mention it, suddenly laughing and saying, “God’s wounds, man, Taliesin swept those silly demoiselles off their feet, in more ways than one. If I had thought a fox cloak and a pair of boots would have done me so much good, I’d have put them on myself.’’ But silence in the earl’s entourage, a new scandal brewing, did not mean silence in the rest of the world. Talk of Prince Taliesin became a commonplace, as the Paris citizens took him to their hearts. He himself used to say, with a shrug, “Better any prince than none,” meaning that in the general uproar of those times he may well have been mistaken for Prince Henry; when all was said and done, one prince was worth as much as another one. But certainly for a while Paris was abrim with gossip so that even honest citizens, who perhaps had never heard of Wales, and certainly never of that little principality of Afron, now spoke of both familiarly as something all men should know, as one might say “as handsome as a Taliesin” or “as proud as Afron,” both expressions that passed into general use.

  All the world was at Louis’s court that day, I think. Affairs of state, those long and heavy council meetings, had been put aside, and lords great and small, all those who could cram under the royal roof, had come to celebrate the news of Prince Henry’s escape. (Not his arrival yet; that still was looked for. For some strange reason Prince Henry, having reached King Louis’s lands and safety there, had begun to dawdle along, although good sense, if not policy, should have dictated to him to make haste. This large, uneasy confederation was not like to last in any coherence for long.) And presiding over this noble gathering, King Louis sat, jubilant. Not since he had set out on Crusade had he felt so much in command nor been accorded so much respect, and he reveled in it. As did his queen.

  Queen Adela was also present, with all her ladies, for once well content to be in the capital city, on this day of her husband’s triumph. She viewed the court with her self-satisfied, placid smile, seeing, at last, her husband accorded true esteem. In her heart she believed that in the future he would be regarded as a monarch of skill and resource, who alone had found the courage and ability to crush these all-powerful Angevins. And she, at his side, was determined to preside with him, revealing the brilliance that her secret rival, Queen Eleanor, once had known. So while she waited for her stepson-in-law, to ensure her husband was tendered all due appreciation and thanks, she was determined to enjoy herself. And it is true that since the time of that other queen (whose name was never mentioned in the presence of the current one), the ancient court of the Capets had never shone with such splendor and grace.

  Into this gathering Prince Taliesin strode, expecting to find the king in council with his men, prepared to negotiate in martial terms. He was obviously surprised to find what was, for him, a serious affair decked out instead as for carnival. He was dressed in his homeland style: his red-fox cape swung about his shoulders, clasped with a golden pin; his leggings were of worked doeskin, and he wore soft boots to his knees. His shirt was white, of the finest stuff, not silk but embroidered in wonderful stitchery, and his sword belt was wide, fastened with a buckle of Celtic design, also in gold. And at his throat and wrist, those golden bands picked up the gleam of his copper hair. Now these were clothes more of hunting style and as such were familiar to the Norman world, as elsewhere, but never worn like this, on ceremony. Had the prince been anyone else, alone, he might have seemed a country nobody, unschooled in court etiquette, out of place, and the other courtiers could have found a way to laugh him down. With his six bodyguards, also so dressed, their spears and round shields held at salute, he suddenly appeared as exotic as perhaps a Moor from Spain or a bird of different plumage, a hawk among a gaggle of geese. He made those French courtiers, with their long silk gowns and their slippered feet, look womanish, even effeminate, and those of them who wore their mail coats beneath their robes began to curse that they had not worn them above, at least to show the world they were men.

  Taliesin had come, I say, expecting to have discourse with a king, and finding he was mistaken, he had made a quick retreat toward an open doorway, where he stood watching, hands on his belt, his dark blue eyes coldly appraising the multitude. He could not have chosen a better spot if he had so planned to set off his accoutrements, his person, his furs, outlined as he was by the light behind his head and the play of torch flares from the walls. He did not even notice Queen Adela’s interest until a scandalized courtier approached and nudged him. And when he spun around on his heel, his cloak flaring, to look at her, his expression of startled disdain so intrigued her that she is said to have leaned forward, in her breathless way, and whispered to her intimates, “Jesu, who is that god?” and beckoned to him to approach.

  At that period Queen Adela was still young, a vigorous and lusty matron, albeit plump. When she wished, she could be as haughty as any queen alive, and such was her piety that her honor was never in doubt, a situation that makes for marital bliss. But there was no mistaking, as she sat there beside her husband, who had already fallen into a doze, that she revealed herself as a lady full of energy and well-being, appreciative of men.

  The prince made obeisance in proper style in a slightly old-fashioned way, his men clashing to arms behind him. Together they made a perfect foil, wild-looking, masculine, a contrast to the queen’s gentle pink and white, which she could not fail to note. And when the prince answered her, his voice, with its Celtic lilt, neither hard nor soft, having in it all the sound of the western sea, his slightly foreign pronunciation of French enchanted the queen again. She beckoned to the servitors to bring him wine, asked him many questions about himself—his name, his rank, his standing, whence he came. All questions having been replied to in his correct and old-fashioned way, he prepared to take his leave, a state of affairs that scandalized the queen’s courtiers anew and intrigued her.

  She suddenly leaned toward him again and asked in her gentle voice (for when she wished she could be as gentle as a maid), “Do we seem so strange to you, Prince Taliesin, that you would turn your back on us? Are you so bored that you are ready to leave so soon?”

  “My lady,” he said, confused by her question and yet courteous. “I should indeed be unchivalrous if I turned my back on so fair and rich a gathering. It is only,” he hesitated, “that these festivities are new to me.”

  “Did not you have feast and joyous society in your house?” she asked.

  “My lady,” he replied, “for as long as I remember, our house has known nothing but grief.”

  There was such a genuine sadness in his voice, such sudden and direct appeal, that the queen’s good nature was touched. She gave him her hand; he took it by the fingertips and handed her down from her throne. “I insist,” she cried. “This once, in my house, today, you shall find joy with us.” She beckoned to her musicians with her free hand and bid them strike up a tune.

  Now there are not many men, I think, who, expecting discussion, politics, strategy, council of war, find themselves instead called on to dance, or at least, being so obliged, do not themselves look foolish. Realizing what the queen had in mind, neither fawning over her nor showing bumptious disregard, the prince stood back a moment and let the queen dance by herself, to show him the steps, which, being neat and quick on her feet although so plump, she was not loath to do. He watched her for a moment dance the galliard, long enough to shuck off his cloak and unbuckle his sword, which he threw deftly aside before taking her hand, hesitant at first, following her, then as he understood, laughing down at her and joining her. The tune was vigorous and the dance complicated, such as the queen loved; her feet in their violet silk kicked and swirled, and her long blonde braids beneath her elaborate headdress bobbed about. She seemed as nimble as a girl half her size. Her blue eyes sparkled to match the much darker ones of the prince, and her cheeks glowed r
ed; she danced as heartily as any country woman might in Champagne. And Prince Taliesin matched her, step for step.

  The courtiers had cleared a space so that they danced in a semicircle before the throne, where King Louis nodded in his sleep and smiled, and where a third throne stood vacant for the new king. Prince Taliesin was quick and lithe, as I have said. He did not dance as courtiers do, with sweeps and airs, but, taking his clue from the queen, began to execute steps of his own, complementing hers, deferring to her yet sometimes leading her. And being young and, I think, fond of music, like all Celts, he did what no courtier would dare, he began to hum in tune, whistling under his breath and smiling at her with sudden pleasure that lit up his face. And all this, too, enchanted the queen, so that when at the dance’s end he would have led her back, with all due respect, she stopped him and said in her calm voice, which at times makes one think of honey and cream, “Well, my lord prince, you have danced with me, dances of my homeland. Show me now what, in happy days, you would do in your own.”

  It was a royal command, and a royal favor, not often so openly shown by a queen who was always discreet. They say Prince Taliesin nodded, retrieved his cloak and sword, and snapping his fingers, had his men step forward. All this while they had been standing apart, at attention, as if on guard. Now two put aside their armaments; one drew from beneath his cloak a kind of pipe; the other unstrapped from his back a harp. With a shout that startled everyone, the remainder broke into step, a true Celtic dance, as intricate as the windings of their ornaments or the interweaving of their art. Their soft boots beat a rhythm faster than the French dancers recognized, to the sound of music none there had heard before, wild and haunting, like birds’ cries. Their cloaks flared, and at each turning in the maze traced by their footsteps, they beat their swords upon their shields. In truth, they say, their dance was so fast, so intricate, that for a moment King Louis’s court caught a glimpse of another world, which hitherto they had despised and which now revealed itself, as mysterious and as strange as it was unknown.

  Some men sweat when they dance and have to stop to mop away the heat; others lumber heavily, thumping on their heels; others put on sheepish grins as if they expect to be ridiculed. These four men with their prince to lead them were grave and dignified, and their dance so old, it seemed to have been created before time was thought of. And at its end there was a hush, more gratifying than any applause.

  Afterward, applaud the court did, taking note how the king, awake again, smiled genially, how the queen whispered eagerly in his ear, realizing that here was a new favorite to be reckoned with. The queen was certainly delighted. They say she cried eagerly, “Bravo, Prince Taliesin. You put us all to shame,” which she did not believe but liked to hear contradicted. “I beg you to take one of my younger ladies and teach her such gracefulness.”

  Prince Taliesin had begun to round up his men (who, although obviously not understanding all that was being said, had allowed themselves the luxury of a grin or two). He turned at the sound of the queen’s voice and listened intently.

  “My lady queen,’’ he said, in that tone that made the ladies sigh. “I think no one here needs to be taught anything of grace.’’ A fine-turned compliment, which was a crowning touch.

  The queen clapped her white hands. “I insist,’’ she cried, “to please me. ” For the first time the ladies who attended her pushed forward, some thrusting themselves eagerly, others hanging back for shyness. He scanned them carefully, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration, his brown, clean-shaven face with its strong jaw and sensuous mouth causing many a maid’s heart to beat fast. Slowly, deliberately, he looked them over, one by one, hands clasped behind his back, his legs in their supple boots apart, as much at ease as if he were indeed standing on his own hearth, a prince who there was free to pick and choose as he desired. And when he found the lady he sought, he made no sign to her, spoke not, simply flicked his fingers again to start up the tune, never taking his gaze from her, waiting for her to join him, his eyes suddenly as blue as the summer sea.

  Lady Olwen all this while had been standing between her brother and Gervaise of Walran, still as a statue, in her green gown, her hair caught back in a net of pearls. They say she had not said a word either nor made any sound since Prince Taliesin had appeared but had watched him dance with the queen, silent as she had promised, sight of him enough. So had she said, and so she did. But she had not promised what to do if he sought her out. Before her brother or her lover could protest, Gervaise already paralyzed with rage, she came through the crowd, which parted on either side to let her pass, and took the hand that Prince Taliesin offered her.

  He held her in Celtic style, not a Norman one, arm about her waist, and as the music again reverberated through the hall, step by step, foot by foot, hands entwined, bodies molding together, swaying apart, the lady and the prince began the dance. She knew the steps, of all the ladies there the only one who did; she knew the tune; she knew its meaning, a courtship dance, danced only at betrothal feasts or weddings, yet she danced it with him openly. Hair floating free, for her cap of pearls had fallen off, waist caught in border style, bending and dipping at his touch, she danced, never looking at him straight. But he looked his fill and held her tight.

  “Mother of God,” Gervaise of Walran is supposed at last to have spluttered out. “I’ll kill him first. Jesu, to put such shame on me.” He struggled with his sword.

  It was the earl who caught his wrist in a strong grasp and would not let it go. “Be still,” he said. “We are here, no cause for alarm. No need to spread more gossip.” But they say also that afterward the earl watched his daughter through hooded eyes, watched as her hair floated loose from its bands, as she smiled; saw the glint of the prince’s quick smile in return, and was suddenly silent, remembering days long past, when a maid had so smiled at him, had so danced before him, at Sedgemont.

  At the queen’s behest other dancers began to join the prince, following the music as best they could. Soon the empty space was filled with courtiers eager to prove how much they liked this new style. Under cover of their noise, the prince drew his partner to one side.

  “So, little mistress,” he is supposed to have said, standing back to observe her, although he kept his hands about her waist. “Here is strange sight, in all your new gewgaws; where are your bare feet these days?”

  His teasing confused the Lady Olwen. Willingly had she come to dance with him; eagerly had she hoped for some sign from him; long had she wanted to see him again. The moment arrived, she hardly knew what to say, she who had a word for everyone. When she spoke, so indistinct was her mumble that the prince had to bend his head to catch what she said, for an instant both copper curls meeting as one.

  “But glad to see you certainly,” the prince was continuing cheerfully. “Dear God, in a world full of strangers, true comfort to find another Celt, even if she must be bewitched to fly here so fast. How come you here, dressed up so fine?”

  Again her reply was low. “I thought you would never find me among the crowds.”

  “Not find!” He laughed, a man’s laugh, full of confidence. Prince Taliesin, too, had learned things these past months. “Why, lady, did not I promise never to forget you?”

  His laugh, his words put Olwen on her mettle. She suddenly looked at him, her eyes bright. “So you say,” she said, almost in her old way, “so you promise, no doubt, to all the ladies you have met in their courts. I know what promises men make to maids, broken before they draw a second breath. I know what trust to put in you.”

  There was something in the fierceness in her tone that made him pause.

  “Now, by Saint David,” he began, taking a step back, “you do me wrong. These past months have not been a royal progress through royal beds. In a world of war I’ve not had much time for pleasantries, to say nothing of ladies, maids or not, which most, I suspect, have not been. You speak harshly, Olwen of the Celts. Rather, I thought you might have been pleased to see me.” When she did not re
ply, her eyes downcast once more, he went on, “Prayers you promised for my safekeeping in God’s hands. Is that all it meant, to scold as soon as we meet? I think other ladies would be more generous.”

  “Then choose another,” she cried, tears almost starting with chagrin. “I do not hinder you. Take all the time you wish; there are plenty to choose from, and the night is not yet begun.”

  “Nay, Olwen,” he said, contrite, “do not fight with me. Rot my tongue, why be so cross? I looked for you from the start, having heard the earl was already here. And now we have met, cannot we find a place apart from all this throng to sit and talk? I would hear your news, give you mine.”

  “Is that how you woo, Prince Taliesin?” she asked, putting her head on one side and looking up at him, slantways, beneath her long eyelashes. “Is that how you please your other ladies, just sitting, talking in the dark? For shame, to deceive poor souls with such lies.”

  Under the eyelashes her eyes still gleamed, and her lips trembled although she spoke so valiantly. Beneath his touch he felt her body shake, so slight he could have spanned her waist, and again the intensity of her voice and looks caught him off guard. He suddenly swore a great oath, took her by the hand, and as the dancers swirled and spun, shouldered a way through them toward a side wall, where there was a deep embrasure cut into the thickness of the stone. It was more like an alcove, with an opening giving to the river far below, and he set her at its end and stood in front of her, shielding her with his body. When she shivered against the cold wind that blew through the window slit, he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her, for the first time letting his hands brush along her skin.

  “Lady Olwen,” he began, “if this is the best we can do, listen a moment. Tomorrow or tomorrow’s morrow will my quest be done, when this new king arrives. Who knows how it may end, for good or ill as God decides, or how that king will hear my demands, who is not used to having any demands made of him. But today, this night, I can be free.” He suddenly gave a smile, his teasing smile, his teeth white against the color of his skin, his eyes deep blue as she remembered them. Where the opening of his fine white shirt showed, the column of his neck was smooth and brown, and a pulse beat against the skin, so that she longed to put her hand upon it to keep it still. “Even the Queen of France has given me leave for joy tonight,” he said. “I thought you would share it with me.”