by Mary Lide
To his sister Robert was more open. “Farewell,” he said, taking her in his arms, “sister of my soul. I did you wrong to wish Gervaise upon you, and I do you a wrong to wish that you would not leave us, since that is what I do. But if in the end your choice falls on the Prince of Afron, I shall grieve to have you gone so far, nothing more. As I leave now, so should you then.” And he kissed her cheek.
But to me he said, through my ready tears, “I leave you to the Lady Olwen, Urien the Bard, in whose employ I think you have been since the start.” He smiled. “One day will I send for you again; until then cherish her.” He suddenly held me close. “I could have loved you well, Urien the Bard,” he said, low voiced.
He rode away to join with Prince Richard and to take his part with that prince in King Henry’s Great War. Ah, pity father, sister, mother whom he left behind; pity him, noble heart, who could not have a woman that he could love; as pity him I did, who knew the reverse, unable to love the woman I would have.
“Pitié, pitié,” we cry to the vacant sky,
“Nowhere, no place,” the implacable gods reply.
Since his story is one not for the telling here, I will only add in brief that Robert went with Richard as he intended, saw that prince knighted by King Louis, the only good thing to last from those days. And when in due course news came of the Old King’s revenge (for all this while King Henry the Older had not sat idly by to let his realm disintegrate), hearing then of Henry’s ravages in Aquitaine, Richard rode there to protect his lands, and Lord Robert rode with him. They say Prince Richard, hearing of his father’s attacks, swore a great and solemn oath and, banging his hand against a tabletop, bade his older brother a scant farewell. “Aquitaine is mine,” he cried, “my inheritance since birth, doubly given at Montmirail. Our father shan’t deed it away to brother John. By Christ, I keep what’s mine. And if you want to keep yours, brother Hal, then fight for it, too.” Off he went with Robert by his side. How he and Robert rode and fought and conquered their enemies, inseparable as brothers, is another story, I say. And how in the end they rode to the holy wars, as long ago the Lady Ann had prophesied, and how I went with them.
One other parting I must explain, before our arrival at Sieux. At least a parting it was, although by proxy, not in person. For it must be obvious that Gervaise of Walran, too, had dropped from sight, ever since that day of Prince Taliesin’s triumph at King Louis’s court. Now he sent a message, greetings to the earl, written with a flamboyance that he could not have produced himself, often boasting like other men of his rank that he could not read or write, such employment fitted for priests, not knights.
“My lord earl,’’ he had dictated, then, full of flourishes and fine words, most of which were misspelled. “I go to fulfill my oath sworn in Canterbury to King Henry. I join with him. I honor you in your neutrality; I cannot accept your sons’ choice, but I do not fault them. And with full right, I make formal request for your daughter’s hand. I am my father’s oldest son. All of Walran is mine, together with more lands north of Leeds and two other manors as my father decides, to be mine now while he still lives, as well as gifts of jewels, armor, horses, if I require. And for bridal gift I offer 3,000 livres, and so many bushels of corn and barley, fresh from the mill, and the keys of my largest manor at Chepelhurst.
“In token of this I set my seal and send her, as gift in advance, a handkerchief of worked silk, a wreath of gold, and, for her girdle, a purse of fine embroidered leather ...” And so on, very properly writ out, as if he had been an estate clerk listing a master’s wealth. But the earl read it, I think, as it was intended, for he, at least, could read, and tucked it away in his sleeve after showing it to the Lady Olwen.
What said my lady of these events? I think she was stunned by them. Suddenly our world dissolved to fragments; brothers, lover, friend, all gone; she alone as solace to her parents. And she certainly had to weigh Prince Taliesin’s offer with her father’s just reply. That was a charge upon her, the last child of her house. I think she ached to share it with someone, and of all of us on that ride south to Sieux, she must have longed most to see her mother again and feel her comfort. Yet I think secrecy had begun to work on my lady, too, giving her endurance beyond her years. As shall be shown.
Sieux is a noble castle built in Norman style upon the edge of a spreading lake, perched on a cliff top like to the prow of a ship. It has the feel of age and strength. Its foundations stretch down into granite cliffs, with inner and outer baileys and a keep, overlooked by battlements that command the countryside for miles. The walls are still white with new stones, where the damage Henry II once caused is still being restored. Even in the brief time I was there that year, it seemed that workmen were constantly about, forever busy with plummet, windlass, and pulleys, adding layers of stone, extending them, building them up. And workmen there were of various kinds, constantly on the move, reinforcing here, digging there, chipping here. In the spring season each year, they say, these masons return full force from their winter headquarters at Saint Purnace, and the noise of their work is constantly heard, a background to the other sounds of castle life.
But I speak the truth. I have never liked Sieux well. For many dreadful deeds have been done there, and in its undercrofts there are deep passages winding under the cliffs, used now for storage space, kept clean and aired by currents that seem to pass naturally through the rock—to me they had a feel of age so old I did not want to consider when they were made or by whom. Nor, despite its size and strength (those things I do not deny), was Sieux noted for its wealth, much of the earl’s resources always having been used for defense and to rebuild the fortress after Henry’s men had destroyed it, little left for rich furnishings or display, no fine tapestries or rugs or wooden carvings such as other castles had begun to boast of. Yet the Lady Ann had given this grim place touches that would have made it homey to anyone who knew Cambray. A herb garden had she built within the walls, where grew all the flowers she is famed for, with many plants of use, such as fennel, coriander, and parsley. And fruit trees of apples, quince, and cherry were trained against the inner walls. Among these pleasant walks the ladies spent much of their time, and I with them, while the earl, at a loss, I think, without his sons, spent his hours hunting along the borders of his lands or rode, as once Hue had done, beside the banks of the lake. And here in these pleasant walks we heard the news of Lord Hue and his fate that was to shatter the earl’s last thought of peace.
For beyond us, in the great wide world, how fared the war of Henry’s reign? While we enjoyed a brief respite here, a joyous one in some ways, in others sad; whilst the spring advanced on all sides, this is what occurred elsewhere.
First, as to King Henry the Elder. After leaving Chinon in haste, Henry wasted no energy crying over his vanished sons. He had no time for that. His sons had lingered long and carelessly, and even after their arrival at Paris, still did not act as quickly as they should have. Henry, wiser in war affairs than they, took advantage of their inactivity and himself, like a maelstrom, a war god with eight arms, a thunderer, struck at several points at once. He had no choice. Any appearance of delay on his part would seem admission of defeat, and even a hint of defeat would encourage his enemies to achieve it. And he must have known, as it seems his sons did not, that the war would be won or lost in those very lands his oldest son, Henry, first claimed, namely England and Normandy.
So first, after the disaster of Chinon (although among his enemies it was always called the “rape”), Henry made a lightning sweep back to England, so quick that Louis complained that like his ancestress, he must have flown. Returning to France, he reappeared along the borders of Anjou, whence he sent out troops under seasoned captains to harass his enemies on all sides. He understood that to enhance the impression that he was everywhere at once would not only demoralize the opposition but make it doubly difficult for them to concentrate. (And since his plan succeeded, it should be explained that when at last the new king and his allies did march
to invade Normandy at Rouen, their troops were so disorganized, their plan so ill-advised, that their attack came to a grinding halt. A disaster, then, that the death, by a crossbow, of the Count of Boulogne, Louis’s brother-in-law, made complete. This count was heir to the Count of Flanders, and his death so distressed his sister, Queen Adela, that she begged King Louis to retreat. This ignominiously he did, leaving the way clear for King Henry the Older to fall upon the remaining troops and tear them to shreds. But to Sieux, which guards that gateway north and south, Henry never came. He circled Sieux lands but never thereon set foot himself. At first, that is.)
In two other regions, also, Henry made great effort to regain control: in Aquitaine and in Brittany. Thus, in Aquitaine. Once he had accepted the fact that his sons were gone, Henry must have made a reassessment of his advantages and weaknesses. The greatest danger, he felt, was in the south, where his queen, Eleanor, had long held sole control, the more so that between him and her was a deep rift. As gossip smirked, once she was past childbearing age, he had quickly replaced her in his bed with a host of mistresses, of whom the Fair Rosamund was but one favorite. King Henry rightly now blamed Eleanor for his sons’ defections, especially the younger sons. His anger was intensified when, sending priests to admonish Queen Eleanor at Poitiers, where for many years she had lived, he found her gone. And Hue gone with her.
This is the way it was. After the escape from Chinon, the prince and his companions had ridden toward Paris, but Hue, as had been planned from the start, circled south to act as escort to the queen. At first the queen was gracious and welcomed her son’s messenger. She had long been holding court in Poitiers, that graceful southern city which pleased her more than any other and which she had always called home. She had been glad to return to its charming streets, its churches, walls, and towers, to a climate mild and sweet, away from that cold, damp English one. Eleanor was proud of her ancestral domain with its new-built palace, which Henry had tried to imitate, and she received Hue in the great hall beneath the line of new windows, a luxury that even Henry could not boast of. Gossip has it that although she hid the thought, she dreamed of making a grand entrance in Paris once more, scene of many of her former triumphs as Queen of France, and hope of it made her sparkle with pleasure. That day she had dressed carefully in blue to complement the blue of the spring sky framed behind her in the long arcade. Her gown was edged with small seed pearls, simple jewels for a lady of her rank, and her maids had woven a chaplet of spring flowers for her hair, so that, from a distance, tall and slender, she still looked like the girl whom once two kings had vied to have, the maid of whom poets sang praises in every European court.
When she beckoned to her guards to let Hue in, it is said he fell upon his knees, smitten with her beauty and charm. Perhaps that was true. Hue had a Celtic flair. Certainly it is true he did cry aloud, “God preserve me, my lady, I am blinded by your grace. Your royal son sent me to escort you hence. He did not tell me I should be messenger to the gods.” A nice beginning to his new assignment. His own person in its workaday clothes (for, you remember, his departure from Chinon had been hasty), his cloak hem ripped, his boots mud-splattered, his red curls matted about his cheeks, seemed proofs of his devotion and zeal, and enchanted the queen. At first. For when the queen, flattered as she could not fail to be by his open admiration, bade him rise, herself served him wine, herself had her maidens prepare a bath (and if gossip be believed, herself tested its warmth, its fragrance, herself unbuckled his sword belt), there was no doubt of her favor to him. It was only afterward, when the tale of the escape from Chinon was revealed, that her favor died. You would think that a tale which had so much of romance and high adventure would appeal to her, at whose court the chansons de geste had had their start. But in the telling of the tale, Hue revealed who he was. His rise in the favor of the queen, faster than any other man had known, ended there. Her current favorite, Raoul de Faye, who overnight had seen his own fall from grace, was responsible in part for Hue’s fall. This Raoul had long been close to the queen, one of her southern nobles, her kinsman, as were many of her favorites, as if she felt most at home with men of her own race. Raoul de Faye had been captain of her guard, master of her revenues, and, rumor had it, so close that even at night she could not bear to part with him. He did not intend to let a young upstart, half his age, supplant him long, certainly not the son of Earl Raoul of Sieux.
“What?” The queen is supposed to have started from her chair so violently that the string of pearls her ladies were fastening around her swanlike neck broke and cascaded over the floor, an unfortunate memory of another time when the Lady Ann herself had come to Poitiers to beseech Eleanor to be her friend. Her white forehead furrowed, her eyes shadowed with thought, the queen paced and paced about the long-columned porch. “Not that son, not son of the Lady Ann, born in Wales. Not Hue.” Never had been the queen so fierce, they say, like a tigress balked of her prey. The book she had been holding was torn in shreds where her long nails had ripped, and she ground her pearls underfoot. “Not the bastard Hue, who was said to be Geoffrey’s get.”
Hearing her say that, Raoul de Faye dropped his second hint, his second shaft, to damage again. “Geoffrey Plantagenet’s bastard,” he is supposed to have whispered in her ear, “or the king’s?” Of all things he could have said, that wounded most. In a fury the queen sent him away, too, and seating herself before one of those windows that gave a view of the placid countryside, she wept such tears of rage not known since the end of the Crusade, when King Louis had ordered her ignominiously home. From that time her hatred grew against Hue, although he knew it not, for she hid it in cunning wise, pretending still to favor him, although she never again led him into her inner rooms nor let him lie with his head in her lap while she herself combed his hair. There are those who claimed it was because of Earl Raoul that she turned her hatred against his son; others say it was rather his mother, the Lady Ann, whom the queen most envied, the more that her own lover, Geoffrey Plantagenet, those years ago had abandoned her to woo that lady instead. The truth was somewhere in between. For although Henry had taunted Raoul that the Lady Ann had slept with him, afterward he admitted that he had lied and ever since had testified to that lady’s integrity. Seeing Hue, the queen began to feel a jealousy never so strongly felt since Henry had taken his last mistress, the Fair Rosamund, to Woodstock and installed her in the queen’s favorite hunting lodge, where her favorite son, Richard, had been born. She began to think that Hue’s resemblance to her son (which many people were whispering about and which I myself have commented upon) could not be explained otherwise. She had always believed that in Henry’s youth he had been faithful to her. As a young man, much younger than she, he had been besotted by her, trapped by her beauty, numbed by desire. He had looked at no other woman, so she had claimed, and such had been her hold over him that although he admitted to fathering two sons before being wed, in those early days of marriage he had been loyal to her, a gift not many kings bestow upon their wives. Seeing before her each time she looked at Hue proof positive in the flesh of her husband’s perfidy, Eleanor felt the knife cut deep.
I do not mean to say that the queen need have believed all of this (there are other reasons for men’s looks, and many men have red hair, gray eyes, white skin), but she let herself believe. It gave her an excuse to whip her hate; it gave her reason to explain Henry’s neglect of her; and, in the final instance, it gave her cause to justify her own acts. If Hue were not Geoffrey’s bastard, she must have argued to herself, then Henry’s own; if not Henry’s, then his brother’s, in either case a Plantagenet, illegitimate heir to Angevin lands, a threat, then, to her legitimate sons. And that thought, too, was a weapon to keep at hand.
But she was clever. She did not dismiss Hue entirely, nor did she show her hostility. In secret her malice grew, the more her spies revealed how much her oldest son had relied upon this young man as friend. She let Hue prepare her departure; in haste they were supposed to ride, so that when Hen
ry’s messengers appeared, in truth she was already gone. But gone in such a wise, in such disarray as to make success almost impossible. And this she did, too, deliberately, as if she wanted to have Hue fail, just as a wild creature rends its own flesh rather than let a huntsman take it alive.
It seems that Hue (and so he himself later explained) had planned to ride to Paris with a large armed escort, one of the ways to placate King Louis being a full mustering of southern lords who would follow the queen’s lead anywhere. Instead, the queen had her lover, Raoul de Faye, take most of her men. She, with but a few, and herself in disguise, forced Hue to ride north toward Anjou. “Our only hope,’’ she told him, cold, in her way of showing displeasure, “is to ride fast. A big convoy will alert Henry’s men, will slow us down. Let Raoul de Faye order the rest on ahead. Instead we shall slip along the borders of Sieux, which you must know well enough.”
To this plan Hue agreed reluctantly. For Hue was also in love, I think, the romantic love of the young chevalier for the older lady of the chansons. Smitten by the queen, having tasted but once the sweetness of her intimacy, he could not believe she would reject him, and the more cold she seemed, the more warm grew he. If she had wished to torment him, the queen could not have sought a more clever approach. Now there are those, too, who claim emotion marred the young man’s judgment. I do not say that myself, but it might be so. He certainly was not prepared when the queen appeared for the ride in man’s attire, as a trooper of her guard.