Hawks of Sedgemont

by Mary Lide

  “Hold.” Lord Robert’s voice had aged, too, this past hour. It was his father’s voice, heavy with command. The old men gaped at him. But there were a couple of younger men among them, coarse-faced men with bullying looks, who had the air and stance of cutthroats. One of our knights, riding up to them, brought their horses to a halt, beat all the men to a stop with the flat of his sword so that our master could snap his questions out. Their quavering replies conjured up my lady for me, with her sparkling eyes and her flame hair and her merry innocence, a simple maid, walking with the great ladies of this land, their pet, no harm coming to her.

  “Stand aside, young sir,” the spokesman said, rubbing his toothless gums with a sort of glee. “We have no truck with knights. Nor maids, worse luck.” He made to urge his companions on. Nonplussed, our men might have fallen back had not Lord Robert spurred forward himself, right up to the bier, making the horses shy. With a hand that visibly trembled he pulled at the heavy leather curtains so that the rings that held them clattered apart.

  A voice within screeched in protest, fingers jerked at the thongs to hold them fast, a head came out to peer around. At first it was difficult to tell who it was, such a froth of headdress, so many ribbons, coif, gold bands, as if a dozen young maids were hid beneath those fripperies. And the voice, which originally had been shrewish, shrill, mellowed into honey as she saw she was surrounded by men.

  “Young sirs,” she chirped, tremulous, almost flirtatious, “we are a lady all alone. Unprotected, helpless. Chivalry demands your defense. Pray let my men go forth. We have seen no one.” She peered around the corner coyly, almost beckoning, as a young girl is supposed to do.

  “Lady.” Lord Robert again thrust his horse alongside, although it snorted and pawed. “I beg leave—” Whatever else he would have said was lost to her screams. Terror was in them, terror, stark and raw.

  “No, Raoul,” she cried, throwing up her hands. Like sticks they were, stuck out from her thin wrists. “No, Raoul, I meant no harm. Holy Mother, preserve me, no harm, no harm.”

  She began to gabble, prayers, perhaps, vows, mouthing in a frenzy of fear. Robert observed her for a moment, silently. When he saw her like that, I think, his own fear began to evaporate; what but skin and bones was left of that dark image who had haunted his nightmares, what was there to fear from her who was fear personified? He suddenly sat back in the saddle, gathered up the reins, and waited for her fit to pass.

  “So, Isobelle de Boissert, your sojourn in convent has done some good,” he said, and with the tip of his sword he dragged the curtains full back. “Yet you mistake me for someone else. Not Raoul of Sieux. Robert am I, his son.”

  Within the shelter of her litter, exposed now to the full light, the old woman, for such she was, rocked back and forth upon her cushions, also embroidered in black and white. She reminded me suddenly of something that scuttles forth when a rock is overturned, something pale, unused to light. Her hand clutched a crucifix, and her headdress was knocked askew so that underneath, the heavy coil of hair, gold-tinted, padded out with sheep’s wool, began to slip. Her face turned palsy white where it was not rouged with paint and crumpled into an old mask, dissolving to grease and sweat.

  “Christ save us,” she whispered, “from the dead returned, from the past reborn. Not Raoul of Sieux? Then you are his ghost, his twin. What do you want of me?”

  “My sister.”

  “Sister, sister,” she muttered as if her wits were gone; her head shook like a chicken, and she clawed at the cushions with her nails as if searching for escape. Lord Robert did not give an inch, although seeing her fear exposed he might have. I saw how his hip jutted forward so that his sword swung within easy reach. With one gauntleted hand he seized her wrist, like to snap a bone.

  “Forgive, forgive,” she wept. Her tears, whether real or feigned I cannot say, made tracks across the painted cheeks. “False were you to me, Raoul of Sieux, whom once I loved and thought loved me. Yet you abandoned me, married with that Celtic whore, and left me to wither all these years, Henry’s prisoner. Should I wish you joy in a son?”

  Her voice suddenly became cunning, low, as if she were recalling where she was and to whom she spoke. “And should I let such a pretty maid die of grief? Should I refuse her aid? I only gave her the help that she begged for; I only told her where to meet her lover; what harm in that?” Her voice whined as does an old woman’s, such as she was beneath her powder and paint, that whine, that appeal to age, the last of her tricks. “Child of love is she,” she cried, “child of joy, born when Raoul returned from exile. I only told her where happiness is to be found tonight; I only told her lover where to find her. Come, Master Robert.” She gave him a grin, a caricature of what once her smile might have been. “Have you no sympathy for lovers? Have you no heart of your own?”

  “Nay.” Robert’s voice was bleak, and there was suddenly such a nakedness in his look, such an old despair, that I turned away. “You have already had your will of me. Numbed am I by your poison’s curse, never knowing love’s charms. There is your vengeance, Isobelle de Boissert. I give it to you again, full force. Savor it as you will. But tell me where my sister is.” He let her go so violently that she collapsed and lay whimpering to herself, her eyes bright as a snake, cradling her head in her hands.

  Robert heeled his horse aside. With his back to the litter he summoned the captain of his guard. “By Christ,” he said through whitened lips. “Enough of games. Bring forth those men; question them. Deal with them as you will.”

  Well, the order was rough, confession not a nice business. Our men were quick and thorough. It did not last long, one of her ruffians ready to throw himself upon his knees, ready to scream her plans away for mercy. “I heard it all, the place, the time, the lady you seek already gone to meet her prince as was planned. And word sent to him, in her name, to meet him there, a lover’s tryst beside the old western gates, in the Church of Mary of the Holy Cross, new named, new built. In the crypt will they meet. And there lie our hired men in wait for them.” Thus will a sword prick make cowards of the meanest villains. When he was done, my lord ordered, “Take them away. Witness to a crime; have done with them.” But when they came to drag the old woman forth, “Let be,” he said. “She and her waiting woman have paid a price for one crime they did; the one is dead, hanged after death as a poisoner. This one has lived out her life away from the world back in her convent, so let her finish it, cold as the hell wherein she lives. She and I were bound before my birth, and by my death she hoped for revenge against my parents’ love. Her mark is on me, bleached by poison’s touch. I have no further use for her.”

  So we left her beneath the trees that soon would bear new fruit and rode on, two men remaining to finish the hangman’s work and to warn Earl Raoul of what had been done; the remaining two, the captain of the guard, my lord, myself, riding along the riverbank, taking the fastest way to the western gates. And as we rode, as never before or since, hoping against hope at every turn we would see my lady’s quick figure ahead or pick out that of her sturdy squire, I managed to gasp out, “My lord, what of the prince?”

  Robert, still taut-faced beneath his helmet, said only, “We do not know if he will come, or what he intends, or by what means a message was given him, only that he would take my sister as his own. For that alone is he suspect.”

  By now the streets had begun to clear; the long evening shadows were athwart our path. I imagined my lady walking fearlessly forward, earnest and quick, joy and anxiety struggling within her. I thought of the dark crypt where murder lurked to cut short her joy and would have ridden on ahead had not now my master held me back. “Gently, gently,” he said, as if recollecting himself, “we cannot rush in unprepared. We will find her, never fear. And when those murderers come, we will be waiting for them.” And for the first time he smiled to give us heart.

  The square where the church stood was small and mean, although once the church had been well known, sacred to the saint of travelers, now
renamed in honor of the Virgin, mother of God. We came cautiously up the one street that led to the square. The evening had begun to chill; a wind had risen to scatter the winter leaves that had blown in heaps, and across the river ripples spread like a film of ice. This part of the city, I think, was so old that it had almost been abandoned: the buildings fallen into ruin; the western gates, once a main thoroughfare, long blocked; no people in sight, just a stray dog or two. The square ended at the church door. All was quiet, undisturbed, no sign of life, no marks of horse or men; and where the steps ran down beneath a new facade, the iron links that blocked them had not been unhooked, the moss that covered them had not been touched.

  We swung ourselves off our own mounts and gazed around.

  I heard one man mutter a prayer of thanks. But where was the Lady Olwen, where her squire, where Prince Taliesin? And what should we now do, since it was clear we were here first?

  A little stir of wind came again, like a breath. The bank of clouds that had begun to mask the sun would bring an early dark, and beneath them a thin red line shone rustily along the water’s edge. From the church undercroft rose up the smell of age, ruin, death, so strong that my hair stood on end. And while above ground the men worked quickly and efficiently, one to lead the horses aside, tied out of sight behind the church; another to sweep away all our traces; these two left to guard the entrance to the square, out of sight themselves, with orders to detain the lady when she came, but to let all others pass, we—Lord Robert, the captain of his guard, and myself—tiptoed down into the vault. “And if the prince comes,” Lord Robert’s instructions were clear, “let him pass as well. But look alert. Whoever and whenever, the assassins will be more numerous than we and must not see you to spring our trap for them too soon. Below ground, in the dark, let’s pray their numbers hinder them.”

  Down we crept, in furtive haste, treading carefully in each other’s steps to leave no mark. The stairs were old and slippery, broken at the sides, so that a man, lacking care, could tumble there and break his neck. They led to a dim, short entryway— empty, no place there to hide; beyond it a larger vault, already dark, held up by six squat pillars that seemed to bear all the weight of the upper church upon their backs. I sensed an oldness there, thick and foul, like a taste or smell. Whatever Christian church had been reared above those pillars, this was no Christian church beneath; the very darkness cried out with heathen sound. Since then I have heard that in ancient times there never was such a building made without its offer of human sacrifice, and it seemed to me that the air around us was heavy with the stifled cries of men whose eyes and mouths were stuffed with earth, so did those victims’ deaths clamor about us, unavenged. I felt the skin on my hands grow cold and the hairs on my neck rise up like a dog’s. I could have thrown back my head and howled.

  Lord Robert steadied me. Like his father he was rational in danger’s face; like his sister he went about dealing with it in a practical way. With one hand he thrust me back against the farthest wall, he on one side, the captain on the other, this last a man noted for his courage and skill, myself a weak third between. They drew their swords, tested the blades, the edge, then held them loosely, tips pointed down, so that there would be no light reflected from them. We waited. The air grew cold; the little rectangle of light at the steps’ entrance dimmed. A sudden bird’s call, fluting through the pillars, made us start. Once, twice, thrice it fluted through the vault, and I felt Robert stiffen suddenly—the cry of the Cambray guard, their secret call, repeated three times. One was to let us know that the lady was safe; the second told us that the ambushers had arrived; the third, after a slight delay, alerted us that the prince had come.

  Then all were here, and Isobelle de Boissert’s game was to be put into play.

  We waited, holding our breath. The little patch of light we had been staring at so intently suddenly was blocked as a figure crossed in front of it. There was a whisper, magnified by the echo in the undercroft; a form came stealing down the stairs, hand outstretched against the wall to steady himself. No man on honest mission creeps like that. Five more times the patch of light was dimmed; six times in all we heard the drag of mailed feet, the quick curse as someone’s spurs caught, the shuffle as each figure fumbled in the dark against another, taking a place beside one of the thick pillars. There was a grunt as one man’s sword rattled from its sheath, then silence, save for their panting breath.

  I felt Lord Robert’s arm tense again, his shoulder grow taut beneath its mail coat. This time a single figure darkened the rectangle of light, paused, looked down. I recognized its height, its shoulder’s width under the cloak of fur, yet still the figure hesitated, puzzled by the place, and we heard him speak softly, perhaps to one of his men, although they could not all have been with him. Then he turned and took a step forward, peering intently into the dark, and a ripple like a sigh satisfied moved below, as imperceptible as the wind’s stir, yet to us as palpable as a shout.

  Now I cannot say what would have happened next. I do not believe Lord Robert would have let Prince Taliesin walk unknowing, unarmed, into that trap. Nor do I think he would have waited until the ambush had closed the prince around. Nor do I think Prince Taliesin was completely unprepared. But I felt I could not take the chance. My father’s sword was in my hand, somehow, although I do not remember drawing it; I felt my hand move of its own accord. My body lunged forward almost as if drawn on strings; the sword tip slid between a pair of shoulder blades even as beside me Lord Robert and his captain moved also in step.

  There was a gasp, a gurgle of breath, worse than a scream. It funneled out into the passageway, into the open air above Prince Taliesin’s head, and the prince, hearing it, leapt back and drew his sword. As he now leaned down, intent, every nerve alert, Robert gave the cry of his house. “À moi, Sieux, à moi, Cambray,” he cried, and stormed forward. There was an answering shout, my own, as I, too, leapt, as I, too, thrust, the three of us moving as one, each aiming at a different post.

  The effect in that constricted place was chaos. The sound echoed and rolled like a wave which, caught in a cave, rushes against a rock and rushes back. The ambushers, taken off guard, were attacked from behind as they had planned to attack; they ran in circles in the dark, stabbed at air, stabbed each other, threshed on the ground. Those who were not cut down at once fought each other or, throwing aside their weapons, raced for the stairs, where Prince Taliesin waited for them. Within seconds of his arrival the ambush was done. Our charge carried us to the foot of the steps, where already one body blocked our path and where the prince, one of his companions now backing him, held the entrance.

  “We meet again, Prince of Afron.” Robert’s voice was calm for a man who has just broken out of a death trap. “Hold back your men. We come as friends.”

  At the head of the stairs Prince Taliesin pointed his sword menacingly. “Who are you?” he snarled. “Who shouts, ‘On Cambray, on Sieux’? Where is the Lady Olwen of that name?”

  “And who are you,” Lord Robert told him, cold as ice, “to name that lady to me? With what right?” He came up the steps stiff-backed, still holding his naked sword, and we followed one by one until we stood level with him.

  It was the prince’s turn to give ground. He bit his lip, indecision in his eyes and voice. What could he say that did not implicate her? And so you saw he realized, even as he frantically thought of where she was or what might have happened to her. “I am here,” he said at last, “because I was bid. The lady—”

  “Is safe,” Robert told him, “with my men beyond the square.” He looked at Taliesin full, without blinking. “She should not be here,” he said, “nor you. Malice brought you here, a trick, to lure her and you. Last time we met, lord prince, she came between us, between your oath and mine. That, too, was ill-done. My sister is not for you.”

  Taliesin began to sheathe his sword slowly. Behind him in the gloom, two of his men, his constant shadows, were, as ever, silent, watchful. “I think,” the prince began, but wha
t he was about to say was lost. There was a scrabble at our backs, a cry, the thud of feet. Across the square, running, her squire in hot pursuit, our two men hot after them, came the lady, skirts looped up, dagger drawn. Mistress and squire, between them they seemed ready to take on all the world, and so I think they might have had not she seen us in time to stop. Or, to be precise, I do not know if the lady saw us at all, but she did the prince. She passed her brother without a word, straight toward Prince Taliesin; the dagger went clattering to the ground as she ran upon him, beating at him with both fists, crying out her mixture of relief and fear. And he, regaining balance where her leap had almost toppled him, seized her by the wrists and swung her off the ground, almost laughingly trying to defend himself. Yet still she fought him, using feet and teeth, all the while, I hate to admit, berating him with curses that would have made a trooper blink. Finally catching her about the waist and uptipping her, backhanding Joycelyn, who now had come rushing up, Taliesin strode off toward the church, her legs flailing at air, her hands still pummeling his broad back.

  We watched them go until suddenly Lord Robert gave a grin. He took a draft of the clean evening air as if he were breathing for the first time. “Mother of God,” he said almost to himself, “who am I to interfere? Whatever I could do or say is about to be done or said by someone, I think, with more experience and who has more right. At least in this instance,” he hastily amended. He watched for a moment, his usual tolerant look replacing the harsh, unforgiving one. Perhaps for the first time he began to feel some sympathy for the lovers as the prince set the lady down, dodging her blows and in the process giving her a good whack or two, as I have no doubt she well deserved. For now my lord turned his back, shouted for his men to quiet the horses, straining at the smell of blood, ordered out the body count, a grisly business not fitted for women’s eyes, conferring quickly with the prince’s men, keeping us all well occupied away from the church door. I worked with the rest. But I am what I am. A watcher does not always have choice over what he sees. He watches and records because he must, not because he wishes to. So this: