by Mary Lide
From the back of the courtyard there was a stir, and the prince now advanced. He was new-shaved, so that he looked even younger than he had the other time. The sun shone on his golden torque, on his brooches and clasps, and although he, too, wore a Norman mail coat, booty of war, I suspect, he still looked different from a Norman in it; he wore it, walked, held himself differently from those lords. “Lord king,” he said in his foreign way, in his slightly broken French that was to set new fashion in Paris that spring, “for so are you now called, and so I come to address you, three things have I in mind: to right my father’s wrongs, to claim vengeance for my brothers’ deaths, and to find restitution that is just.”
Puzzled by this form of speech, which although not exactly offensive was certainly not what he was used to, being too decisive and overproud, Prince Henry bent to listen to King Louis’s councillors whilst the ladies of the court, for there were ladies sitting in the upper tiers, again as at a tournament, smiled and waved their hands at him. (All save the Lady Olwen. What she did I will tell you presently.)
The French councillors buzzed like a beehive, and the young king, grimacing at their suggestions, rubbed his hand across his forehead where the gold crown of sovereignty had left a red mark. “Now, prince,” he said, in an easy way that had often won him friends before, “a title I know full well, having but recently given it up for a new one” (a remark which brought a laugh at the thought that this Welsh prince could in any way compare with him). “We are both inexperienced at this, you with request, I with judgment. But this I know. My father’s wrongs are not mine. Ask him to right your claims. But since you speak of things done before our birth, certainly before we were old enough to remember them, I suggest rather that they be forgot in the general amnesty of this day.”
“I remember my dead brothers.” Prince Taliesin’s voice was cold. “I am not so young that I do not remember them alive, nor the day they rode out willingly to be hostages to your father’s peace. Nor so old that the news of their death did not cast its shadow across my boyhood.”
There was a silence then, a great intake of breath. Prince Henry tried to laugh it down. “Well, then,” he said attempting joviality, “as compromise, why not join forces with mine, combine your claims into those of the general weal?” A nice touch that, which made his companions clap their hands and nod their heads, pleased at the prince’s sagacity. “Here is a prince of worth,” they seemed to say, “here a king worthy to follow.” Prince Taliesin took a step forward, and his sword swung dangerously. “I am not come to join in rebellion,” he said, his voice low but with that note in it that made men take care. “What you do is your affair. But justice I claim, as your father has proclaimed his justice to the world. Your father unlawfully slew my brothers in shameful wise for a war that was not theirs. Three brothers I had, my father three sons. This, then, is his complaint; these are his three demands:
“One: Give back the lands he has lost, all those borderlands that were seized by your father’s men.
“Two: For his sons, give him three hostages of equal birth and rank to do with as he will.
“Three: And for the part of a faithless king, penance, as was done for another shameful murder, public penance, before the world.” The court was stunned. No wonder Earl Raoul had dismissed the prince’s suit last year! The Prince of England was flabbergasted, certainly never having heard its like, nor having been spoken to in such a way, and left with no doubt that had Henry the Older been there in his stead, the Prince of Afron would have made exactly the same request, not changing it one jot.
King Louis gaped; his mouth worked like a fish, and the English lords snarled like cats. Only one man threw back his head and laughed. That man was Earl Raoul. He had been standing at one side, having, true to Robert’s promise, presented Taliesin, and perhaps of all the men there, he was the only one who had guessed in part what the prince might say. “Come, lad,” he said, and no one was sure to which prince he spoke, but the words were kind, not meant to offend. “Come, lad, you are mad. No man, least of all a Norman, would do penance for a crime he did not commit, although crime it was. And no Norman would put his head into a noose to be hostage to three murdered men. But the lands along the border, that’s a different case. As warden of the marcher lands, I think those could be restored to make some fitting recompense.”
His laughter was kind, I say, not only tolerant but even approving, that of an older man who applauds some feat of daring by a younger one. And his words were clever in that, by seeming to address the Welsh prince, he gave the English prince sound advice how to answer him. Advice Prince Henry again ignored. He leapt up, so suddenly that his crown rolled off under a chair, an omen that many men were quick to note. “By Saint George and all the English saints,” he shouted, “you speak out of place, Earl Raoul. As for you, Prince, what you are, never mention that holy martyr in the same breath with your Welsh scum. Run home before my patience snaps. I’ve men here who would whip your insolence.”
The worst thing he could have done was threaten Taliesin; pride thrives on scorn. The prince leaned forward so both hands rested on his sword, and his eyes darkened. He said, even more stiffly, as if he sought now for words in a tongue not his own. “That was my father’s message; that was what I was bid to say, and so it has been said. Now hear my own. I am sworn to uphold his claim, and with my sword and shield so shall I do.
I offer combat to you or your champion.” And again there was a sudden hush.
“Get you gone, Prince Taliesin.” Henry’s voice cracked with anger. He had come off the dais and was pacing back and forth in front of it as if the earth constrained him, that royal gait. “Tell your father I grant you your life. Let him have that for recompense. Never come near us or our court again, on pain of death. Never set foot on English soil. Go back to your Celtic moors and stay there. Outlawed are you in all my lands. None of my lords will cross swords with you.”
Prince Taliesin heard him out in silence, too. When he was through, “Then I bid you good day, Prince,” was all he said, not even a trace of anger, only contempt. He clashed to salute as did his men. “We shall never meet in converse again. Look for me on the battlefield. And when you and your lords do, by God, let them call for help upon their English saints.”
He was about to stride away when there was a rustle from the seats where the ladies sat. Now Olwen had come with us, her father permitting it, partly I think to keep her where he could see her, partly to show the world that all was well. And she, she came partly from pride and partly because she knew already what she would do. She stood up then, her face pale except for that faint bruise along one side, reminiscent of the one he had given her at their first meeting in Cambray. “God speed you, Prince of Afron,” she cried. “God keep you safe from harm and prosper your enterprise.” The ribbons from her dress, gold and red, fluttered down toward him. He caught them midair, held them up, and saluted her. So was her open admission made, before the king, before the court, before her father, before her brother, and before Gervaise of Walran. And made, too, to Prince Taliesin, that he should know her choice.
What a rush of noise in the wake of that, what stampede, everyone busy making his view heard, the earl and his son caught off guard by her defiance, the queen trying to smile, protesting at the same time, King Louis suddenly furious in a way not seen since his vindictive youth. He began to whisper hasty instructions to his guards, while the English prince, mottled with indignation, his eyes hot-flecked as his father’s, seemed almost ready to mount and spur after the prince, had not his companions held him back. Those English earls, who thought on policy, were grave with concern, seeing the Welsh support that they had relied upon suddenly disintegrate. And from the back of the courtyard, where Prince Taliesin’s men had been holding his horse, a great cry rose up. Together those Celts shouted, breaking their long self-imposed silence, one mighty shout that struck terror in all the English there, and in many a French lord. In Welsh they cried and beat their spears. “Men
of the western seas, the flames are rising, the rivers run red.” It is the cry of our race to war and death. And from my lowly place I echoed them.
Well, the earl’s men, snapping to salute, made a shield wall to batter our way out. The earl already had reached his daughter and brought her forth; Lord Robert, grim-faced, hauled me along. “Father,” he cried, “leave now, as best we can. Prince Henry, in such mood, will strike at friend or foe, indiscriminate. He knows he has not answered this prince as he should; he will be mad with rage at having thrown away Breton help and with having another man outshine him. He will blame you for putting him in such a quandary. And he will not forgive Olwen’s speech.”
And true enough, as we left, the prince howled at us, his face twisted into a sneer that was frightening to see. “God sod you, Raoul of Sieux; look for Sedgemont when I am in England. Tell your daughter to hold her tongue. Were Hue not your son, I’d have your head. And if Hue fails. I’ll have his.” Another indiscretion his supporters tried to hush. So did the first council of the new reign begin, so did it end; not much hope of patching up a compromise after that.
We broke through to our horses, mounted quickly, rode forth, lances set. At the bridge across the river we came to a check. Prince Taliesin and his six men were already halted there on our side of the bridge, and on the other, a group of King Louis’s cavalry was massed in battle array.
Prince Taliesin turned to us, bareheaded, his eyes dark with suppressed anger. “My lord,” he said, “you gave good advice last spring. I did not expect overmuch from this new king, got even less. But I did not think to have myself held to such small account.”
“As little as I got.” Earl Raoul suddenly smiled. In the open light you saw his age. He was older than King Henry, whose sons had already defied him, and these weeks of inactivity had left their mark. As ever when he was weary, the thin line on his cheek showed clear, a scar he had received in his youth for honor. But he did not hesitate, and when he spoke, his voice was young. In his just way he offered the prince honorable amends.
“Paris has become too hot for us,” he said. “Best that we both ride clear.”
“If we break through that.” The prince jerked his head toward the French soldiers, peering over their lances. He turned slowly to face them.
“Well.” Earl Raoul was cheerful. “There is but one way to try. Will you join me, my prince? A handful of Celts, a border lord, his son and daughter, we should be a match for any French army today.” And he laughed as a young man might and drew his sword. Beside him without speaking Lord Robert drew his.
Prince Taliesin understood. A great smile broke across his face. He did not hesitate. Behind him his men fell into step, the lady in their midst. And ahead of us, those three lords rode, the three of them abreast, side by side, knee to knee, advancing steadily, first at walk, then trot, their horses tossing their heads against the bits as their hooves thudded hollowly on the wood, those three heroes of my youth, pace to pace, their swords steady as rocks, their shields unslung into a line of red and gold and the green of the Welsh dragon.
“Sa, sa, sa,” cried the Celts. They raised their spears and clashed them. “Sa, sa, sa.” And they clashed again. The drumming quickened, edged to a gallop as the lords advanced. Before their onslaught the French line broke, splintered into a hasty rout, all looking for the fastest way to escape. Some leapt into the river; some turned tail down the narrow streets; some threw themselves off their horses and crawled under the bridge; all ran without a blow being struck. Over the bridge we rode, down the streets to the city gates, to the white tree-lined road, the dust spiraling beneath our feet. Sa, sa, sa, rang the shields.
At the parting of the ways Earl Raoul reined up. “Farewell, Taliesin,” he said. “We may not meet again. Or if we do, it may be that we shall serve on different sides, in a conflict that threatens to overwhelm us. But I am proud to have ridden this once in your company.”
“And I in yours.” Prince Taliesin responded to the earl’s courtesy eagerly. “Although, my lord, if I can, I shall rob you of your greatest treasure.” The earl did not pretend he did not understand. “As to that,” he said, grave on the instant, “I cannot answer. I thought the lady bespoken.”
Before he could say anything else, Lady Olwen replied herself. “Father,” she said, “since I am here, should not I have a word to say? Should not I talk on my own behalf?”
“God’s wounds,” her father swore, “you have already said enough, sufficient to lose me my head and perhaps this prince his.” But although he sounded gruff, his eyes were kind, and he smoothed his scar as he did when perplexed. Yes, I think the earl was overfond where his daughter was concerned. That fondness, perhaps, made part of her difficulty.
She said, “I would not claim anything more than custom allows, nor good sense; I am sensible of my place as daughter to your noble house. But, my lord father, I do not wish to be wed to Walran lands.”
“But you would be wed to Taliesin?”
She suddenly blushed and hung her head. “He has not asked me,” she whispered.
Prince Taliesin had been listening to this exchange. He broke in upon them, very young and stiff. “I do not boast of my estates,” he said. “They are large. Although not so wide or fair as these about us, yet I hold them fair. I am my father’s sole heir, as well born as any of your sons,” a delicate way of referring to the Lady Ann’s Celtic kin. “In all ways a Norman counts worth I think that I can show mine. But I am still not finished with what I must achieve. If, at this war’s end, when I have met the English king (I care not which one, young or old), when I have fought and bested him, then shall I come again. Will the lady wait for me?”
“Nor can I answer to that.” The earl’s reply was again grave. “In the end she must choose; I trust her to make the right choice.”
“That I do not debate.” Prince Taliesin gave a smile. “Nor will I in the end discuss merit or rights. Only what I shall do. If I can achieve it, I will.”
He saluted the earl and his son in his formal way, a salute, I think, of the old times, inherited perhaps from Roman days. But he saluted the Lady Olwen in his own style. Riding up to her, under the earl’s very eyes, he held out his arm. “You threw me these ribbons,” he told her. “In my country a gift like this could mean only one thing. If you tie them on, then I shall wear them until you untie them yourself.”
She struggled to loop them over his mail, her fingers cold and trembling and slipping on the knots, such was her haste, her nervousness. “Now,” he cried, “am I bound in truth to you, Olwen of the White Way. Let no one else be so bound.” And he took her hands and kissed them slowly, as he had done that other time, wheeled his black horse once, and rode on. Back he went to the borderlands, where his Breton allies expected him. Waiting no longer for a general call to arms, they refused to help Prince Henry’s cause, instead struck forward on their own, almost achieving the victory that would have ended the war, as shall be told.
We watched him leave. Earl Raoul sighed. After a while he said almost to himself, “That, too, is a man I could have as a son; he, too, is a man I could trust. ” Beside him the Lady Olwen stared ahead, said not a word, as proud and tearless as if her heart had been turned to stone. Years of breeding and endurance showed in her look, her head unbowed even if her hopes sank low.
So we in turn took our leave of a city that under all its smiles had shown us little more than treachery, murder, and intrigue. Back we rode to Sieux, that castle I had heard so much of, all thought of persuading the royal council to make a truce come to naught. But only the earl and his daughter rode together in the end. We had scarcely gone another league when Lord Robert slowed his pace and faced his father squarely in the path. He had been quiet, Robert, since our leave-taking of the court, not the ending he had hoped for, certainly, an end, then, to his plans. Now he told his father what they were. How will Robert choose? So made he his choice.
“My lord father,” he began in a formal way; then, his voice breakin
g a little, “father, I will not deceive you. Around that corner,” for we had come by now to a place of winding paths, between deep stands of trees, cut by many pretty streams, which I think we had all ridden through lost in our thoughts, “by that oak copse wait Prince Richard and his men. He has come out hunting for the rest of this day and has asked me to join with him. Moreover, he has asked me to stand sponsor for him when he is knighted, and that I, too, intend. I shall ride no farther with you this day.” He allowed his father time to answer, his horse twitching and fidgeting against the flies.
“I do not ask for your leave, my lord,” he said after a while, in his quiet way, determined and resolute, “not even for your blessing, although I would willingly take both. Only your farewell.”
“And if I order you to stay?” The earl and Robert faced each other squarely.
“Then, my lord,” Robert spoke slowly, every word like a drop of rain falling slowly on a dusty road, “here is my sword.” He clapped his hand to the hilt. “I have used it to keep my word, as you, in your time, have done. Do you think I would not use it now if I were forced to?”
Around the line of trees we saw a group of riders approach, a band of men, Prince Richard at their head, a giant himself although still but a boy, his hair, like his brother’s, deep red. He and his guard were dressed for hunting, so must they have left the council when we did; they must have arranged to meet Robert here. This meeting was no sudden whim, the choice had already been made, and Robert now prepared to implement it.
Earl Raoul was thoughtful and stern, his arms folded about the pommel of his saddle. Nor did he reply again, but gazed steadfastly with his sea-gray eyes, like a man who has received a violent blow, the second in so many hours. They looked alike that day, these two men, both honorable, both unable to give way, but not like brothers, for the earl suddenly seemed his age, his face set into lines. Although he had long expected some misfortune of this kind, I do not think he had felt it would come so soon, nor yet knew how to answer his son. In the end he sighed, as he had when Prince Taliesin rode away. “Go then,” he said. That was all; no word of reproach, none of encouragement, no kiss of peace exchanged between two men who were as close as men can be.