Hawks of Sedgemont

by Mary Lide

  “All set to kill me, then, if they had not.’’ Prince Taliesin’s voice was dry with relief, too. He had pushed aside his cloak; his tousled hair had crisped into curls, and his face had grown suddenly lean in that half-light. “Christ’s bones, lady, were you a man as you once wished, I’d put an end to your meddling. Why are you here in this forsaken place? What fool business set you to bid me here? To watch my death? Who were those men in the crypt; who ordered them? Were I the earl, I’d have you in a nunnery straight, not run amok to do men harm. Six dead men there, five of your own, how many more of mine would you have risk their necks?’’

  He had dropped her almost randomly upon the upper steps of the church, inside a kind of portico, and stood in front of her, staring down at her. It was almost dark now, a dim glow in the sky, an evening star low down across the river’s edge. His voice was soft, but underneath it ran an anger’s streak. “Ill luck dogs you. Whenever I see or hear you, disaster follows as night day.’’

  Lady Olwen heard that anger. She sat down suddenly, as if her legs had given way, and against her will her hand stole to her ear, where he had given her a clap as she fought with him. He saw the movement and pulled away her hand. “That for biting me, ’’ he said, and for a moment his fingers gently touched her skin. “And if you curse me again, I wash out your mouth as I once promised.’’

  She struggled to keep her own voice low, to match his calmness with like calm, knowing her brother was within earshot, knowing his men were a few paces off, and determined not to show him any fear.

  “And you,’’ she said, “why did you send for me?’’

  “I send?’’

  His astonishment must have been clear. She reached beneath her cloak and silently drew out a gold band, so like the one he wore, the one he had given and she returned, it was difficult to believe it was not the same. “I told you I would come,” she said simply, “if you needed me. Someone told me there was danger, you wanted help. So I came as I had promised. I did not know it was a trick. In a nunnery, you said; that’s where plots are hatched these days, my lord prince; that’s where court ladies are trained to lie and cheat. Nowhere safe.” Her voice was suddenly sad, betrayed. “I thought one of the old ladies of the court was my friend,” she said in a child’s voice, bewildered by treachery. “I thought she spoke to comfort me, not to use love to trick me. I did not know who she was; I did not recognize her as that Isobelle de Boissert who has long been an enemy of my house. And I thought you wished me well, not come here to threaten, too, because you live.”

  “A trick,” he repeated. “Then one to catch us both. I also received a message, lady, sent from you, from someone who claimed she spoke in your name, a lady of the queen’s court, to tell me that you had need of me in turn and would wait for me here. Is this lady the same as the one you speak of? Who is this Isobelle de Boissert?”

  When she had told him, falteringly, what in the interim she must have learned, as she waited with our men, stopped by them as she and her squire came hurriedly through those streets, he almost groaned, balled his fist, and smote the wall with such force that the plaster on the stones crumbled in a shower and a line of blood started along his knuckles, down to his fingertips. “By Christ,” he cried, “I did not think to be the means to kill you, Olwen the Fair. Christ’s blood, but that must be answered for.” He stood fighting his anger and regret. Then, as his thoughts cleared, “But lady, God forgive me, the malice, the revenge, those I make sense of although condemn; God forbid that any vengeance should fall on you. But why me, as its instrument?” Lady Olwen began to speak, bit her lip to silence. She could not say, “Because I spoke of you with love; because that woman guessed and used my love; because she used my hope of yours as bait. And for her, to know that moment of false happiness would be turned to death, yours first, perhaps, to torment me, or mine to torment you, anticipation of that would have crowned a lifetime of De Boissert malice.” Nor could she say, more simply, “You, my lord, because all the world knows what I feel, save only you yourself.”

  But he was quick. “Love.” He was repeating her word. “You spoke of love? Was that what set the trap?” She could not answer him. To tell him would throw away her last defense.

  “If it is love,” he said, softer still, “if that was the reason you came, have not I right to know? But say the word. There are my men. They and I could bear you hence, far from here. Then would you know what that word means; then at the morning’s end would it be you who would cry desist.”

  She turned her head aside, a blush started in her cheek. “What should I know of that sort of love?” she said, almost painfully. “I am a virgin, not yet a woman wed.”

  “Wed?” he said. “There is a word women are overfond of. I do not know of wedding, but what is so special in marriage vows to make a loving flower between man and maid? If love it is you want, Olwen of the White Way, I could love you. See how your stars shine tonight, so should I love you all night long.” She was silent, her head still turned aside.

  “But do not wanton with me, lady,” he cried, and suddenly his voice was grim. “Three times to my loss have you played with me. Who else have you wantoned with?”

  “Wanton?” she said. “That is a harsh word.”

  “Aye,” he said. He was silent for a moment. “In the city,” he said, “men still claim that Gervaise of Walran, that ‘wine-drunk’ boy, that Norman lord who is ‘nothing’ to you, will give you the marriage that you want. Will not that satisfy you? Remembering him, I almost did not come tonight. Having him, what do you want of me?”

  “Arrogant,” she cried suddenly, “proud, who thinks all women run to his beck and call. Go back, then, and crow on your own dung heap.”

  “Perhaps I shall.” His voice was thoughtful, but he did not move away from her. “One day you may find it a refuge. But remember, Olwen, words are like blows, they leave hard marks. They can say things that later you may regret. You cannot marry two men at once, nor love two, nor wanton with two. You must choose.”

  “Your words harm not me,” she cried, proud now herself. “I do not care ...” But she lied, and he showed her how, his fingers suddenly warm and soft, tracing down the cheek that he had bruised, tracing softly with his bloodied hand the silver shimmer from the contours of her long eyelashes, down the rounded cheek, along the trembling chin.

  “Take care, Olwen of the White Way,” he whispered softly against her ear. “A child may wanton and do no harm. A woman’s wantonness can ruin the world. I did not come to Paris looking for you, but now I have you, should I let you go? Is that an answer to please you, Olwen, who would be my bane?”

  “One day,” she said, “of your own free will you have promised to seek me out. When that day comes, ask me then.”

  He suddenly smiled, his teeth white in the starlight. “Is that a curse,” he whispered again, “your curse on me, a Celtic curse for the Celtic part of you? Hear mine. Three times have you of your own will sought me out, and never told me why or how. For the first time, then, I shall claim your lips, a hundred times like this, like this. And for the second time, your skin, white and delicate like the name you bear.” And his hands were already slipping between the lacing of her gown, seeking out her little breasts that seemed to rise of their own accord.

  “And for the third time,” his voice was urgent with desire, “but one thing, and that the best, your maidenhood, which if I have it not, no man shall.”

  And with each word his hand flicked along her body length, tracing out the curves, the peaks, soothing her breasts beneath her gown.

  “You’d not dare.” But her lips scarce could open to speak before his own had covered them, his tongue caught between.

  “Dare not me,” each word a whisper, a caress. “I am a man so sworn to deeds.” And now one hand was firm against her back, its print dark with blood along her spine. “If I were to hold you thus, ride up your gown, and touch you thus, tell me now you did not come for me.”

  One hand caught about
her waist, the other drew her down upon him; she seemed to sink upon him, caught between his knees. “There, there,” each word a touch, she surged against him, soft as wax, her young flesh pliant and warm, her breath against his lips, her body lustered with a new warmth. “When my quest is done,” he said, “until then, to set my mark on you, no room for any other man.”

  Behind them the stars rose, the river flowed, the wind stirred among the drifts of fallen leaves. In the darkness there he showed her how a maid may be first gentled by a man.

  Lord Robert’s voice seemed to come from a mile away. It rang out loudly, ordering his men to untie the horses, making sure Taliesin and his sister heard, discreetly making his presence known. After a moment or so of grace, he called again more urgently, “My lord, your men await you, and so do mine. Lady Olwen, we must return before this night’s work also be spread abroad to be a shame and a regret.”

  Prince Taliesin gave a start. I think he had forgotten where he was. He let the lady slip between his fingers, almost as water does, glimmering in her silver gown, and he hesitated for a moment over her as does a man who sees illusion or a dream fade before he has completely grasped at it. Then he turned half aside, remembering, I think, the world of men. And after a while he strode down from the church porch to where Robert awaited him.

  “My lord.” Taliesin at first still spoke hesitatingly, as if his thoughts had not yet cleared. “My lord, I have not thanked you for my life. A second time I owe you it.”

  Robert smiled his sweet smile, so much like his sister’s that it always astonished those who saw it. “Nor I thanked you,” he said as simply, “at least not with as good a will. So are we quits, Taliesin. But I believe you would do well to walk warily. You have other men with you, I mean other than these your bodyguard? I would suggest you lodge with them outside the city, only enter when Prince Henry’s arrival is confirmed; then let my father present you at court, ensuring your claim be given just hearing. But do not,” he hesitated, “expect great things.” Prince Taliesin inclined his head. One of his guard led up his horse, that black charger of whom stories had been told. But Robert set his hand upon the bridle to halt the prince. He said, hesitatingly again, “Nor would I be just, my lord, not to tell you, man to man, frankly, that were you any other than what you are, I would welcome you to my heart as a brother, especially after this night’s work. I did not think so before, and that I also freely admit. Not because of you yourself or any fault in you but because of circumstance. My sister is the only daughter of my house, my father’s last born, child of my parent’s love that endured so long apart. It would break their hearts, I think, it would break mine, to have her go far away from us, into a world she does not know, into a future that may not even exist.”

  Again Taliesin inclined his head. Seeing his gesture Robert suddenly put a hand on his, that gesture of friendship he often used. There was genuine regret in his voice. “In my foolishness,” he said, “I advised my father wrongly, I think. When I can, I will undo that wrong. I shall look for you again, Taliesin. I shall tell my father you were here. I will guard my sister well. And that also I will tell my father.”

  It was a fair speech, honest, and, in its way, not unjust. And so Prince Taliesin accepted it. Had the lady been one of his own house, he would have said the same. He nodded, took up the bridle, vaulted onto his horse’s back. His hand lifted in salute, he led the way, and his men followed him in line, cantering easily back along the road they had come in on. And when the drumming of their hooves was gone, we brought the Lady Olwen home.

  Well, I am but a chronicler. These are the things I write in later times, what I saw and what I knew, no more, no less. It is God’s will that makes us what we are although we weep for it. I told you there was little joy in this for me. I would not wish to remember it, this day that my love was lost to me.

  Chapter 11

  Rather I will tell you instead how, the next morning, Prince Henry and his entourage finally reached Paris and, having dawdled their way along for whatever cause, now made amends by holding full council of state in the open courtyard by King Louis’s fortress. There, under an ancient tree (which men claimed had been standing when Louis’s ancestors had ridden out at their army’s head to drive back the Huns in the early days of Christendom), benches were put along the sides, as if for a tournament. And on a raised dais, two thrones were set, for the King of France and the King of England. Below this upper dais were two other chairs, apart, for Prince Richard and Geoffrey, brothers of Prince Henry, who on this occasion had been well instructed to play their part with more respect than at Montmirail. Below them, according to rank, were arrayed the lords and barons of France and England, a great and impressive crowd, in which my masters were certainly conspicuous, both by their height and their noble mien. Today they were dressed accordingly, not exactly in Norman style, rather in their border one, their mail coats covered in red and gold, golden chaplets on their silver-blond hair. But they kept their hands clasped on their great long swords. Around them stood their household guard, dressed also in Sedgemont red, and in front of them, pushed forward so I could see, was I, Urien the Bard, the earl having heard of my part in the night’s affray and being pleased to notice me. So it was that I, son of a serf, witnessed royalty in all its glory, both English and French, and saw three royal princes in their prime. And saw, too, what befell when Prince Taliesin came to make his claim.

  Well, first King Louis greeted his son-in-law as once he had greeted his father, effusively, lovingly, offering to knight Prince Richard immediately. On learning that English royal messengers had been sent by the Old King to persuade the prince to return, Louis listened to them impatiently and broke in with a phrase that has become famous. “Messages from the King of England?” he cried. “Impossible. Here sits England’s king. Whoever bade you come must be an imposter.” A fine start to a council that might have reconciled father and son instead of driving them further apart. Worse, when these bishops—for King Henry had sent bishops to plead with his son—when they reminded the prince he had no royal seal to sign his papers with (the one his father had previously prepared for his use being left behind), King Louis triumphantly produced a replica, which he had had made in advance. In this way he ensured there should be no further delay in having the prince sign treaties with his allies, who gathered around avidly, wolves indeed snarling for bones. And in this Earl Raoul had but spoken truth: the king who in his own lifetime crowns his son cuts off his own head with his own hand.

  Since this was the first and only time I saw Prince Henry, I will tell you truly what I thought. He was handsome, charming, not so like his father as his father’s father, that Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, who was called the fairest knight in all of France. And to my eyes, Henry was strikingly similar to Lord Hue. In many ways he was affable, good-natured, generous, as exemplified when once he had summoned all the knights in Normandy who bore his name to wine and dine with him as friends. Yet if King Louis was indecisive, Prince Henry was like wax, as charming as an April day and as unreliable. He it was who, finding that his servants had packed one bottle of wine for him alone, unstoppered it and poured it on the ground, not willing to drink if his companions went athirst. But he it was also who, after his first crowning at York, being served by his father and being rebuked for insolence, that a prince should allow a king to wait on him, had replied, even more insolently, “Not so, for should not the son of a king be waited on by the son of a count?’’ (A play on his father’s rank before becoming king, which although true was not courteous for him to comment upon.) A charming man, then, endowed with that Angevin charm, which no man knows how to define but all men recognize. And in rage, cursed with the Angevin temper, as hot as ever his father’s was. And, this I guess at, not always as loyal to his friends as he would have them be to him. And when he beckoned to his young wife to join him on the dais, he almost seemed a child, playing at royalty.

  However, he had the sense to show respect to King Louis, sufficient to k
eep that monarch pleased, nor did he neglect those English earls, clumped together in a solemn group, who, of all men there, were least inclined to acknowledge the charm and first to look for ratification of the new reign.

  The one lord who did not acknowledge him at all was Earl Raoul. What the earl had said to Louis he said as bluntly to the prince, whom he alone addressed by that title. Well, the attempt was useless and only made the prince scowl, the more so that the earl admonished him almost as if he had been his son.

  “As you are young,” I heard Earl Raoul say, “you should be guided by wiser heads. Your father will not brook this flight.”

  “Nor I more admonishments,” the prince said with a pout. “When we need advice of this kind, we’ll ask for it. But have you no other favor to ask, my lord?”

  “None.” The earl was firm. “Only news of my son.”

  “Hue.” The prince laughed. “Why, my lord earl,” he said, as if he did not know his remarks would provoke, “he is gone to Poitiers to escort my mother to our side. Not here to Paris,” he hastily added, as King Louis looked bleak, “but I still have hopes she will join us. Then look for Hue.” But the earl continued grave, his dislike of Queen Eleanor almost as great as hers of him. It did not please him to think of his son in her company.

  “Well,” said the prince in a more expansive mood, “if Earl Raoul has no further business of me—”

  “But I do,” Earl Raoul broke in. “Leave to present a border prince to your majesty’s notice. Taliesin of Afron claims the right to speak with you.”