by Mary Lide
From her sick lord’s side, at first the Lady Ann sent word that she herself would ride to Falaise, but no man would hear of that, each swearing by his sword or whatever thing he held most dear that never should the lady put herself in Henry’s power again. Through tears the lady thanked those loyal men.
I knew some of them now myself: Dillon, the master swordsman; Matt the Younger, master of the horse, who although he could no longer ride knew every horse in the stableyard; and many others equally famed. Dillon, old and grizzled, notched with scars like an old blade, spoke for them all. “You must not go.”
“Dear friend,” the Lady Ann told him, “friends all, to whom we owe our lives a hundred times, you have braved this king before. Who then will ride to see that Henry will not rob me of my son?”
“I do not think he would refuse me.” Lady Olwen was equally determined. “If Gervaise will help as he promises, I should try. I am the last child of our house.” And if she remembered when she had used that phrase, and to whom, she showed no sign. Loyal are the women of our house. Steadfast was she now in her turn, resolute and calm, without counting her own personal loss, prepared to beg what her father could not.
On one other point was Lady Olwen equally resolute. “Three men,” she said, “I will take only three men. With that number my mother rode to save Earl Raoul. Make ready horses and supplies. Bar well the gates when we leave; let no one in. But choose well those three.”
A hard choice it was, more difficult than if none had begged to volunteer. Chosen these men were by Dillon for swordsmanship and by Matt, the horse master, for horsemanship. But also they were men who knew Hue, who knew Normandy and the Sieux borderlands, and, most important of all, who knew King Henry well. But for me, who had no skills of any kind, the Lady Olwen did not even ask, and on my own I prepared to leave. Now was the fulfillment of my childhood dream made true; now was my oath kept that I had doubly sworn. And so it was, come the daylight, when we departed on our quest, I rode, too.
The parting between the Lady Ann and her daughter did not take long. They sat on either side the couch where the earl lay, while Lady Ann gave such advice as she could, what supplies a prisoner would need, what care. With her long, thin fingers she smoothed and resmoothed the coverlets. The earl’s eyes were closed; his face had not lost its color nor his hair its luster, but he neither spoke nor moved, not asleep, not awake, as if some hidden wound drained his life force.
“My love.” So spoke the Lady Ann to her daughter that night. “I do not wish anything on you, nor beg what you yourself cannot do.” She smoothed the coverlets with her hands. “When I was born,” she said, “my mother died, and all the grief of the world was due to me. My father never forgave my mother’s death, and when my brother was murdered, so died he. And when I was a child, a prophecy was made that in my life I should know much sadness, little joy. High on the moors above Cambray there stands an old, old circle of stones, which all men shun. And there a Celtic witch made her claim on me. ‘Many men will woo you,’ she said, ‘and die for you. And landless will be the man who marries you. Yet in the end, your last child shall heal all wounds.’ Dear daughter, when I was a girl, I loved one man, your father, who was my overlord, although I fought against that love. And when Henry’s men took him away, I thought that my child, my unborn son, would be the only remembrance I would have left when they had had their will of him. I thought Henry’s hate would kill my love and kill my child. Yet God in His mercy spared us then. We came to France, and despite all odds, we survived attack, defeat, and treachery. My dearest friend, who was the queen, turned her back on me and with her friends sought vengeance of her own. To go against king and queen is a grievous crime, and dearly have they made us pay.
“When Hue was born,” she suddenly cried, her eyes fierce, “alone, far from home among my Celtic kin, I used to talk with him. Who else in that Welsh hinterland was there to talk to? What Henry the King accused me of had prevented my return, as surely as if he had barred the gates. I did not ask Geoffrey, his brother, to woo me; I never thought Geoffrey would betray me to the king; I never expected Henry to lie to Raoul that I had been his whore. Yet it is true that Henry imprisoned me in the castle of my enemies, the castle of Maneth that used to haunt my dreams. And it is true that there, one night, I swore, and so swore the king, that we two at least would never do each other wrong. How long did Henry keep his word? But I kept faith with him. And when he told your father that I had slept with him, your father swore a great oath himself, by all he holds most dear, that he would help Henry no more, nor aid the king in his Welsh campaign. He would nothing have of the king, or England, or me, who alone had power to do him hurt. A landless knight, he lived, a wandering knight, searching the world for some sign that would render him his honor back.
I could not stop him,” she said simply, “I could only wait until he and Henry met again, man to man, to fight to the death. I used to tell Hue that. He lay in my arms and listened to me. ‘When you are grown,’ I used to say, ‘your father will come back for you. He will set you on his great black horse, ride far away, and bring you safely back to Sedgemont. He has not forgotten you or me,’ I used to say. ‘Be patient. One day he will come for you.’ Oh, God,” she cried, “now he cannot come.”
The Lady Ann calmed herself as she soothed the silent earl, with her white hands smoothing his coverlet. “And when Raoul came back to me at Cambray at last, his own quest done,” she said, “I thought the world reborn, I thought life returned. Down the hill I ran, the curse broken at last, and when he swept me on his horse and carried me within the walls, I thought happiness was come to stay. I thought to make of you, our last child, the girl of our house, our child of joy, who had been promised long ago to bind both Celt and Norman as once in the past. Your sign was made for happiness, Olwen of the White Way. I put no restraint on it; you are free to choose. You were born to unmake a curse put on me as a child, not live cursed because of us.”
“For my brother’s life,” my lady said, “what choice is there?” They embraced each other then, mother and daughter, alike in looks and thoughts and deeds. Now went forth the younger to rescue her brother if she could, even if her own hopes were lost. So have other ladies, whose names are writ in the chronicles, queens of England, wives of lords, princesses of our own race; they have not hesitated to lead out men when they must. Among the list, among those Matildas and Adelas, write the names of the ladies of Cambray in gold. And say I went with Olwen of my free will.
It is said, when things look bleak to bring a man against a wall, then even the weakest of us can show determination if we must. All through that night, through the next days, I clung to that thought as we rode north toward Normandy. A traitor’s death is death thrice wrought, no fate for any man, to hang you like a side of beef, to tear out your vitals from your guts, to tear out the parts that make you man, to hack, until even crows know not what flesh is. Dear God, I choked on the thought. So had Prince Taliesin’s brothers died; so now should Lord Hue. Better any death than that—a clean sword stroke, a dagger thrust in the dark. Without words, without forethought, I knew then why I was come and what the final bond was between Lord Hue and me, what, failing all other hope, my part must be, to ensure him honorable death.
The road to Falaise is rocky at first, leaving the grassy plains around the lake and rising through hills whose flinty stones crumble like shards underfoot. After a while we dipped along the borderlands into the vast forest that stretches toward the castle, the ducal hunting grounds. Here we went along easily and would have made good time, had not the way been blocked by serfs and peasants, even some townsmen, fleeing with their herds and goods. Like mice those peasants scuttled aside, and when we tried to question them, they stood mute; in a country at war any armed knights are a potential threat. Lady Olwen bid us throw them alms to pry out news, and so we heard, for the first time, of a new threat; in this world of armies always on the march, another one approaching fast toward Falaise, all these fugitives looki
ng for safety there.
News of this unrest gave my lady her idea. And so once more I say God works his will of us to his own device. Had we known what army approached, deep into Norman heartlands, or that among its Breton leaders again came Prince Taliesin, would that have helped our cause? Suppose instead Prince Taliesin had tried to rescue Hue; knowing Hue was inside Falaise would he have succeeded where we could not? Would Taliesin have been killed in the attempt, and we with him? But we did not know what army marched, nor did anyone among those terrified souls, so we did not wait and had not that choice either. Knowing only that fugitives sought refuge within the walls, we went with them. And in this decision, too, I see the hand of God.
Lady Olwen called a halt as we neared Falaise. “The castle guards,” she told us, brow furrowed in thought, as brisk as any lordling giving his first command, “will be on the outlook for armed men. Even had my father come, they would not have let him in at such a time. But those serfs, they’ll pour in like a flood since the duke bears the responsibility of sheltering them, the more that Henry in his time has put whole towns and villages to the sword. He owes his Norman peasantry some refuge from similar attack. A woman alone, with her page, will have no difficulty getting in.”
Of course our men demurred, argued, cursed, shouted, all in vain. My lady was adamant. “We should not go foolhardy into that place,” she said. “This is my suggestion. Three men my mother took to save my father, and when she came to Henry’s court, she left those three outside its gates so that, in need, she could rely on them. Inside the castle we have Norman help. We leave you here, out of sight; we shall summon you when we must.” And she showed them, solemn as a knight, the seal ring of her father’s strung around her neck, the maps and charts she had found in his campaign chests, and as a last resort, she reminded them of that fluting bird’s call that border men use to communicate.
Finally they smiled among themselves, as men do, persuaded against their will, and she at them, her brother’s smile, companions all. Their spokesman, an honest knight, enduring and battle-wise, regarded her soberly. He was dressed for war, his helmet slung at his saddle bow, his lance propped against his boot, and now he pushed back his coif and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “By the Mass, lady,” he admitted after a while, “my men and I have been chosen to defend the honor of Sieux. We must do as you bid. Perhaps your idea is sound, I do not know. To come against a fortress with only three men is like trying to beat down a stone wall with a thistle’s head. Before you lies a dangerous place, a mission well-nigh impossible, a cunning foe. God knows I do not shrink from it. All I have to say is this. One day, years ago, the Lady Ann came through the storm to where your father lay. I was a squire then, and guarded him. Dying he was, and so were we. To us the Lady Ann said, ‘Take heart. God will succor you, and with His help I will undertake to save my lord.’ And so she did.” He said simply, “God provided then. I think we must call upon Him today. I cannot say what will be or not be, but in God’s name at least this I swear.”
He swung himself off his horse, stiffly, for we had been many hours in the saddle, and came up to her. Kneeling in the dust, he and his companions made their oath. “If all the gates of hell were closed, we should break them down at your command.”
She took each man’s hand between her own, as do lords when they accept fealty. She bid them await her sign and absolved them of all responsibility. Then without more ado she prepared to go on, on foot. I shouldered our bundles as best I could and went with her. When we looked back, those three horsemen, leading our mounts, had already vanished like deer, hidden in the undergrowth where bracken and ferns grew to shoulder height. Ahead, the massive walls of Falaise loomed above the trees, a solid block of stone set on a great outcrop of rock.
I cannot say I felt much or thought much as we now advanced toward its gates, skirting the little village at its foot, where once its duke had spied a peasant girl and on her fathered the child who was to be known as Conqueror. Remembering how that girl had crossed the drawbridge, proudly, my lady held up her head, as proud as her father or his sons, and took my hand to draw me along. “Come, Urien,” she said, as if we were children hiding in the straw from Hue’s rage, or as if we were planning to outwit Prince Taliesin. Her hand was firm, no tremble now; I told you, in adversity she could be steadfast. And in her eyes the light of battle glowed; her own courage ran high.
As Lady Olwen had foreseen, as could anyone used to war, there was no difficulty being granted admittance. With all the world around Falaise upon the run, the forest athrob with alarm, all we had to do was join another group of fugitives intent on scrabbling for safety while there yet was time. We let them beat upon the gates, and when those gates were opened, in we went, up a narrow causeway winding beneath flanking walls, where the Norman guards hung, stern-faced beneath their heavy helmets. This causeway wound about, crossing the moat, almost like a culvert, the main way in and under guard for all its length.
Of all the Norman castles I have known, Falaise was the strongest and the worst. It smelled of age and decay like that old church undercroft, and when we were let into the first courtyard, it seemed steeped in blood; even the peasants’ animals sensed it, straining piteously to break free. But the Lady Olwen was without fear. Had we not found Lord Gervaise or had he not been there, it is more than possible our mission would have ended here. A girl and her page, neither one knowing anything of siege castles or of kings, we were not well provided for such a task as rescuing a king’s prisoner or getting free ourselves. A few carefully worded questions, a discreet exchange of coins from the sack I carried, brought us to the main guardhouse in the great square keep at the far end of successive courtyards, where, on an evil night, Hue had been routed up from sleep and where we now found Gervaise.
He started up on seeing us, his fair face flushed. War had broadened his broad shoulders, hardened him. His blue eyes that used to shine so arrogantly were heavier, ringed as if with fatigue, and there were creases of worry where before all had been complacency. He, too, looked older, coarser, all illusions gone. Whatever he had expected of war in a king’s company, he seemed not to have found it. And whatever he had hoped of the Lady Olwen and his courtship of her, he obviously had not expected her herself. Seeing her approach, his greeting was less than flattering. He was appalled.
“Holy Christ,” he cried, for once saying to her what he truly thought, “Mother of God, what brings you here? Where is the earl, where his troops?” And he searched about him frantically, as if expecting them to spring from the air.
“You do not seem so glad to see me, my lord,” Olwen answered him steadily. She looked at the man who would marry her. “I am come on Hue’s behalf.”
But when the whole story was told, Gervaise’s mood only worsened. “Christ’s wounds,” he stormed, “I looked for a show of force, such as King Henry would understand, not a mad woman and her, her, her ...” He mouthed at me, not sure what to call me in his rage and disappointment. “You make me look a fool, to ride in here alone, like a man yourself.” He almost added, “As an earl’s son-in-law I would have some worth; you, like this, bring none.”
“I am come to keep my part of your bargain.” Lady Olwen’s voice did not change. “So keep you yours. First to Hue, then to the king.”
Gervaise, whose face had begun to blotch with rage like his father’s, cried, “Jesu, he’d eat us alive. We cannot walk up to a king and demand a prisoner. I am but a knight of his guard. And you have come at a most unsuitable time; the king is about to be caught here by an army he did not expect. No danger to us, but for the moment, when all are prepared to resist attack, no time to look for favors. Pray God those Bretons you admire so much begin to squabble among themselves and turn back. As for Hue, I have done what I could, but no sight for you.” So he fumed, pacing back and forth. “I do not know which is worse,” he admitted finally, “for the earl not to have come, or to have sent you.”
As a lover’s greeting it was not overwelcoming,
the lover torn between his obvious fear of King Henry and his desire not to lose face with the lady he had wished to impress. He must have regretted the message he had sent. Meanwhile, his mention of the Breton army had had its effect. Gervaise did not speak to wound, and my lady, too proud to question him, did not ask, but it must have crossed her mind for the first time how near Prince Taliesin might be and how cruel fate would seem thus to separate them. But she said only, “My lord, as my betrothed, you claimed the right to speak for us, and I ask for an audience with the king. But first I shall see Hue.”
Gervaise began to bluster like a man who hopes half-truths will hide his intent. He seemed almost to have forgotten his promise to help his friend, and I certainly had the impression that he did not stand as high with the king as he would have had us believe before. When Lady Olwen persisted a third time, he grew shrewd. “If you will swear to marry me, before witnesses,” he began. “There stands the castle chapel; there shall we be wed.” He caught at her arm to drag her along. “Before the priest himself shall you swear,” he insisted, but she interrupted him.
“No need before anyone, but if it pleases you, I will. Afterward.”
Gervaise was forced to bow to her will, although it did not please him. “Come, then,” he said angrily, “on your own head be it.”
Hue was imprisoned in the depths of the square donjon, or keep, the oldest part of Falaise. Its upper crofts are wide, wooden-floored, lit by lamps that burn there constantly. One passes easily from one level to the next, down wood ladders bolted against the walls. The walls themselves are lined with barrels and casks, set up on benches out of the damp and away from rats. The goods of a great fortress are kept there, more than a year’s supply, as I can attest; so well victualed is this castle that even with a besieging force on the march, wine was spilled, and grain, as only men confident would dare. Below these levels were the armories; they, too, were neatly kept in Norman style—weapons oiled against the damp, hung with shields and helmets on wooden pegs, all in order for instant use. Beneath them again was disorder, darkness, despair. The steps that led to the lowest levels were foul and damp; a vile smell rose up to choke us. We must have been below some waterline, deep in the rock, for now you could see the green slime of damp upon the stones, all the refuse of a castle thrown therein, privies, offal, the vilest filth. But not all the smells and sights came from rubbish tipped above. The guards who, knowing Lord Gervaise, had let us pass now hurried us, but not before we caught glimpses of souls in purgatory, arms outstretched, bearded faces like animals, eyes that stared from hell.