by Mary Lide
She gazed at him intently, aware, perhaps, more than he knew of the sudden spilling of his own thoughts and fears that he had unwittingly revealed, realizing that he was not yet truly aware of hers.
He took her silence for concern. “I would not hurt you,” he whispered. “God’s breath, why look so feared? I would only take speech with you.” But once more his hands stole around her waist beneath the covering of his cloak.
“Aye,” she said, still fierce, “so say all men. And if I came with you and spoke with you in the dark, what should I be on that morrow’s morn? How should I be different from those other women you have known? What would men say of me?” Again he let her go. In a tone that was meant to be reasonable, he said, “Come, lady, I did not swear to be a monk to please you. You sing to one tune. And what should a gentle maid like you know of men? You still speak like a child—”
“Which I am not,” she cried, vexed by him. “Nor did you think so at Cambray, Prince Taliesin.” She smoothed the folds of her dress. “At the queen’s court men look at me,” she burst out. “Would they look at a child?”
He stared down at her for a moment, his eyes hidden, and stepped back. “No, no.” His voice came out muffled, almost against his will. “I grant you your years, if you will have it so.”
“Nor was it a child who helped you once,” she was continuing, but he caught her arm and bid her hush.
“What would you have me to do?” he asked her, trying to keep his voice light, trying to tease her into smile, although what he said was not exactly jest. “If I were to ask you, as woman, to come with me this night, would you come? True, a man does not woo at his best before the world, nor do I look to make love openly, but as man to woman, would I please you?”
“Love.” She interrupted him. “Aye, that, too, is a word to bat about, to speak of as casually as you would the time of day or the turning of the tides. You speak too carelessly, my lord.”
“But if I asked you, if I so begged?” he insisted.
She was suddenly racked with indecision, rocked with it; her little breasts panted with it. “Oh, God,” she said, almost to herself, “it is not easy to be a maid. How could I come? I am watched. I am the last child of my house, the only daughter; shame cannot come from me on them. They would not let me even if I would.”
Her intensity took him by surprise a second time. His eyes narrowed in thought, and he almost whistled below his breath. It was on his tongue’s edge to mock at her. “You have thought of it, then,” he wanted to say. “In truth, you have not forgotten me.” But he held back the words. He sensed, I think, suddenly, that this was not a time for jest; for a moment he caught a glimpse of her uncertainty, even as she tried so hard to disguise it.
Perhaps it made him realize how young she was, how vulnerable, despite her playfulness; how innocent, despite her quick talk. It caused him to cross his arms about her, under the cloak, gentling along the spine as he would any young and tremulous thing, his fingers warm through the thin silk, his breath soft against her cheek. She hid her face against the broad expanse of his chest, suddenly burrowing against him as if to find safety, as if together they could hide from all the world of Louis’s court, spinning past, with its listening ears and spying eyes.
“We are blood brothers,” he reminded her. “See here, the scar.” He smiled at her. “It reminds me of a day when you had time for me.”
She shuddered. “Forget that day,” she told him in her forthright way. “But do not forget the friends who helped you.”
“Sweet Jesu,” he protested softly. “Of all men here I have most need of friends. Do you not think I know that? Whatever else you think of me, grant me at least some sense. And if not tonight, at least sometime soon, I shall look for you.”
The dance had ended, the dancers scattered, their little moment together done. Reluctantly he put her to one side. “As friends,” he said, almost formally, as he had spoken to the queen, “that I swear.” He clasped her face in both hands so that her hair framed it and she was forced to look up at him. “I swear,” he repeated, and kissed her full upon the lips.
It was her brother who brought her away, led her to his horse, set her before him, rode with her out from the peering eyes and wagging tongues, another source of gossip for the court to savor in full.
It was Gervaise of Walran who, almost mouthing in rage, shouted, “Marry me she shall or be cursed before all men as strumpet to lead me on.”
And it was her father who told both of them, his eyes dark gray, the scar on his cheek white, “Let her be. I order so. Her mother was such, as I know to my cost.” His eyes were dark with remembering. “Loyal are these ladies of Cambray,” he said, still thoughtful, “true to their word, true to their loves. Fair is my daughter, and virtuous, and I keep her so. But to force those ladies to our will is to break them, for they will not bend. I shall keep my daughter safe, not destroy her.”
Gervaise heard him out in silence, heard the earl’s order for silence to be kept. But in private, they say, that Norman knight clapped his hand to his sword hilt and swore by the cross it bore that never should the lady see Prince Taliesin again, such was his rage and jealousy. And further, in private, he cursed, ugly-tongued, vowing that had the lady been his, he would have had her flogged; a whipping would soon bring her to her knees. And Gervaise vowed also that whereas her father and brother were weak where women were concerned, he would not be; married to him, the lady would know her place. And other such oaths, which young men swear when they feel thwarted in their love affairs, but with a bitterness twice as deep that although he offered marriage in honorable wise, she dared look at a man to whom he felt superior and who was not even able to offer her that much. Well, Gervaise pitted himself against opponents worthy of his idea of himself: a lady whose will was to prove as strong as his and a rival who certainly was an honorable man. And he pitted himself against a worse enemy than both of these: against himself, love against honor, love against pride, and in the end, pride against envy. Such were the conflicts that burned in him, such were they to destroy him. And from that time, there began to grow in this young Norman lord a hatred and desire for revenge (feelings foreign, perhaps, to his younger self) against this Welsh upstart who, he felt, had publicly put him to scorn.
But not all his curses, his oaths, his prayers, could dismiss his rival out of hand. Nor could his hatred of Prince Taliesin diminish that prince nor prevent the prince from seeking out the lady whom both men desired. For Prince Taliesin was in like predicament—not able to show all that he felt, perhaps not ready to consider it, a man committed to a certain course and unable to turn aside. What he truly thought I cannot say, myself being neither warrior nor prince, nor yet embarked upon a hopeless task. Yet had I been, and had I held that lady in my arms, I’d not have let her go. And so, perhaps, was he as reluctant. And because he was the man he was, and knew her, he may well have decided it was not right that he should allow time to pass without seeing her and trying to explain. But mostlike, as now I believe, it was none of these thoughts (which come with age and are heavy with logic rather than desire). The prince was young and eager, riding, for that moment, on a crest of hope. He could no more prevent himself from seeking out the lady than keep iron from running molten through the flames. He saw her because he must, as once she had him. I shall keep my daughter safe. Of course, Earl Raoul meant so to do, but in his youth what daughter had been safe from him? Prince Taliesin and the lady were destined to meet again; as soon dim the sparks when a sword blade beats on anvil steel as keep them apart. But when the prince heard, in his turn, of a rival for her favors, jealousy, too, may have spurred him on.
As for my lady, what said she, what felt she? For the first time in her life, I think, she began to know what all who love must feel, the complexities, and the restraints that love imposes, whether we will or no. That she cared for Prince Taliesin with more than a child’s infatuation I have no doubt, and that she sensed its force and perhaps feared it. Her mother was such.
And her mother’s mother, Lady Efa of the Celts, who against all odds loved her enemy and found happiness. But if my lady may have been shaken by these conflicting ideas (she who before nothing in this world had dismayed), again, she had nowhere to escape. Wherever she turned, iron bonds closed her round, of convention, custom, and her own respect for family ties. Aye, pity her, my little lady, who now began to know true love and had neither means nor words to express it, ripe to be tricked by a hostile world into revealing it.
Since I was privy to the second time she and Prince Taliesin met (I mean the second time in this new state, on the verge of things, not yet committed, cautious, testing out), let me speak of it. It reveals, better than my words, the lady’s mind and the prince’s own. It shows him for what he was, bound by honor, caught also in a trap in which he could neither speak nor not speak, move nor not move. Yet he sought her out (although afterward he was to claim that she had so sought him). And she was more than willing to be sought.
There was no waste of time. The following day brought them together again. For feeling free to walk with my lady, and her squire and maid, on their way to church, to humor her, I had made a detour along the riverbank. By then I had come to know this part of Paris well, and being always curious, and small enough to slip in and out and find things to amaze, I had long wanted to show her the wharves and piers and boats, where traders from all over the world plied their wares. The Seine had been a route for merchants since Viking times, and doubtless before, and to these large warehouses, or halles, that Louis had built came traders from all over the known world, each bellowing out in his own tongue the goods he had for sale. The mixture of noise, sounds, smells, tastes delighted my lady, as I had hoped, almost as much as the students did when I had showed her them. “One day,” she cried, standing on tiptoe, stretching out her arms, “we shall be carried out to sea, far, far away. You, too, Urien.” And she had laughed, a prophecy of her own, I suppose.
That morning, then, the Lady Olwen and her maid had seated themselves on the verge of a pier that jutted out over a sandy strip. She wore a blue dress, I remember, golden woven, etched with flowers, but had pushed her skirts out of the way and rolled up her sleeves, dipping her hands into the water to attract the schools of small fish that darted around the wooden piles. She had a happy look that I remember also, as if for a moment all troubles had rolled aside, and her laugh was the one I loved to hear. Myself, I was seated carefully out of the dirt at the wharfs edge, parchment in lap, diligently practicing my writing craft, when a sudden shadow blocked my page and slanted across the bleached wood boards. Startled, I looked up, ready to shout alarm, when I recognized those same Celtic guards, stiff, like trees edging a dusty road. I opened my mouth to give them greetings, to warn my lady, I was not sure which, when the prince swung off his horse and, putting his fingers to his lips, strode out lightly upon the wharf, moving with his quick tread, which I would have recognized anywhere. Even full-armed he walked like a man used to picking a path through the undergrowth, light on his toes, a walk a true Norman knight could never hope to imitate, used as Normans are to having their horses do their walking for them.
On reaching the end of the pier, where the lady and her companions were bent, intent on their game, still in silence the prince threw aside his cloak and sword belt, drew his gauntlets off, and pushed back his steel coif so that his hair blazed in the sun. Then, in one easy movement, he leaned down beside the Lady Olwen and dipped his hands beneath the water alongside her own. Lady Olwen started back in fright as he knelt close to her, his shoulder in its mail coat touching hers, her gaze attracted by the golden glitter from his bracelet as he thrust it into the stream.
“Hush,” he told her, not looking at her, his eyes fixed upon the riverbed. “If you would play at fishermen, you must be patient.” His brown hands had caught hers beneath the water, brown skin against her white, and he opened and shut her fingers with his own, carefully trailing them with the slow current.
Nearby, Olwen’s maid and squire peered into the clear depths, where the fine sand glinted and where, midstream, large trout lay, speckled gray and black, among green beds of weeds.
“See.” The prince spoke, soft-voiced, as a fish, attracted by the slow and steady movements, began to stir. “To catch fish you must copy them; lie calm, watch, wait. ” And more urgently now he began to play with her hands, pressing them back and forth upon his own palms, luring the fish out from its hiding place.
Suddenly Lady Olwen pulled herself free and tried to stand up. She was panting, her lips soft, and there was a bead of sweat along her brow. “Let me go,” she said, almost incoherently, “I must leave. I shall be late.”
He did not ask “Late for what?” nor did he move, but lazily continued to kneel and trail his hands, as if in truth he had come here expressly to fish. “Look.” He pointed after a while, as the largest of the fish began as lazily to swim toward the pier, fascinated by the steady movement in the water, the golden gleam. “In a moment you’ll have a fat trout to grill.”
Almost angry with herself, both afraid to show what she felt and yet feeling deeply for him, she scooped up a pebble and threw it into the water with a little splash. “No,” she cried. “I’ve done with trapping living things. I’ll not be used for bait for anything.
“Not even for me?” Taliesin showed no surprise at her sudden change of mood, no resentment, merely rocked back upon his heels and began to roll down his tunic sleeves beneath his mail coat. But his voice was grim. “I thought now you like to angle for men.”
She said, biting her lip in that familiar gesture, “What do you mean?” She hesitated again, not sure what words to use, went on, “Last night you swore to be good friends. ...”
“Am I not now?” he said, as if surprised, still not looking at her, still staring in an abstracted way across the river into the heat haze.
She tried again. “You were more gentle last night,” she said.
He interrupted her. “Aye so, but last night I had not heard of Lord Gervaise.” There was a silence then between them, hard and long.
“Gervaise.” She repeated the name almost stupidly.
“Just so,” he said. “Nor had I then heard your name mouthed aloud by him in the Paris stews, as freely as that of any Paris whore.” He paused. “What gives him right to speak of you? How is it you are so named and no man to smite the speaker dumb, as he deserved?”
The violence of the expressions he used, in contrast with his almost casual tone, struck her full force. She almost recoiled from it as from a blow. She turned pale a second time, tried to pull away, then forced herself to gather her courage up. “And what were you doing in such a place,” she asked, “that you should hear those things spoken of?”
“I slept alone last night,” he told her bluntly, “as did you, I trust. As did not that Gervaise of Walran.” At the repetition of the name, he began to frown. “That Norman knight is not for you,” he cried. “In the city streets they say that you will be wed.” He paused again. “What is that man to you?” He rapped the question out.
“Nothing,” she answered him passionately. “Nothing, nothing.” When he did not reply, she went on, “Gervaise has made a marriage bid for me. Can I help that?”
He said slowly, “In the city streets I also hear your father spoken of. They say the earl will consider first your happiness. What joy for you!” There was an edge of bitterness to his voice. “Had I daughters,” he went on, “I’d not give them such liberty. Freedom always brings responsibility. Have a care, Olwen of Cambray, as you walk abroad so freely, pause so freely, talk so freely with any passing knight. Harm may come to you.”
She tried to recover her composure, tried to laugh his words off, all the while struggling to release her skirts where he stood on them. “What harm?” she challenged him as she had Bernard of Poitou. “You remind me of our old seneschal, Dylan, more full of danger than a gorse bush thorns. What harm in a queen’s court? I have no enemies.”
“Your
father does,” he told her harshly. “One day in Paris, and a man senses the city like a forest, ringed with wolf traps, and courts abrim with mischief, envy jousting there with hate. Your name is spoken; that alone is a danger sign. And were I in the mood, what would stop me now, here, from having my will of you, as that Norman lordling boasted of?”
She flushed, tried again to drag herself away. “A silly boy,” she cried, “wine-drunk, not meaning half he says.”
He caught her by the arms and pulled her up, almost shaking her so her head rattled. “By Saint David,” he gritted out, “you talk like a maid possessed, as if you were still wandering at will, safe in Cambray. I am not a silly boy meaning half I say. I suppose you’d run to hold his head in the gutter if he moaned loud enough, although yesterday when I asked an hour of your time, you refused. Am I a nothing, too, less than a nothing, perhaps?”
Her skirts were still hooked about his spurs; his hard grip left marks along her arms. The harder he held, the more she seemed to slip between his grasp, like trying to catch a moonbeam or a snowflake. He could have shaken her apart, and yet she would not yield to him. “What gives you the right,” she dared him, “to order me? No one hurts me, save you.”