by Mary Lide
Before one of the larger cells the guards stopped and motioned Gervaise to step ahead, alone. The door was unlocked. We heard murmuring within, a curse, a scuffle, the sound of a blow. Hue was dragged out. In the dim light I would not have recognized him, his red hair lank, his face covered with bruises, one eye half closed. But it was his hands that were worst. I had not realized what chains can do to a man, for they had fastened him by the wrists to the walls, and once, when he had cursed too loud, strung him up by his thumbs.
“By the holy Virgin, let me pass.” Olwen pushed through the guards. She tried to stifle a cry, biting deep into the back of her hand as she saw her brother shuffle toward her.
He cocked his head on one side and gave a grin. Between his bruised lips the blood still showed where they had shoved him with a spear butt. A prisoner of a king counts but little as earl’s son. “Jesu,” he croaked, “by all the saints how came you here, my sister and her hobgoblin? Where is my father?” And he, too, tried to peer around her as Gervaise had.
When she did not reply, I cannot tell you how the light died from his face. Even beaten, in such a dreadful place, even with his hands broken and raw, Hue had kept his spirit high. He could even try to grin; he certainly knew how to curse and shout defiance at his guards. That silence, saying all, defeated him. Our hurried explanations of the earl’s fall (for we would not tell him what the earl had said) hardly reached him, I think. Hearing that his father had not come, he blocked out thought, so intent had he been that his father would rescue him. His body, thinner than I ever remembered, seemed to sag. He shivered in his shirt, for they had taken away the rest of his clothes. Too distressed for speech, we busied ourselves with the bundles we had brought; Gervaise knocked the spout off the wine and held the flask so Hue could drink. He downed it in great drafts and, when he was done, set it aside as best he could, stared at us, his eyes too large. “Not come,” he repeated.
“Nay.” Olwen tried to comfort him. She drew closer so the guards could not hear. “We’ve friends without, ” she said, “three of them. And a Breton army on the march. And as your sister’s husband, Gervaise of Walran will plead for you.”
But even to herself she did not sound convincing, and Hue, looking from her to Gervaise and back, said only, “Friends.
Well, friends or not, I thank you, but let me be.” And to Gervaise, suddenly fierce, he said, “Get her away. Never bring her here again.”
Olwen picked up her bundles without a word, turned her back, and let Gervaise lead her along, so blinded by tears she scarcely saw where she went. But to me Hue spoke again. “Manikin,” he whispered; he raised his chained hands and felt for me as a blind man might, grasping for sight. “Now tell the truth. Why would not my father come?”
It was a cry from the heart. Yet I did not know how to answer him. “Not for lack of love,” I wanted to say, “not for its lack, but for some old wrong, of which you, alas, are part.” I looked at him. Where was the arrogant boy who used to hurl his boots, whose whip used to strike the wall above my head? Where was that vitality that used to spill over like quicksilver into laughter, eagerness, anger, by turns, taking up the slack of the world, working on our dull selves as yeast, changing us, making the air around us come alive? I could not express those thoughts aloud, but I let them pour out to him, and I think perhaps he understood. His face lightened for a moment. “So be it,” he said. Then, after a while, “But they will never let me go.” He tried another grin. “Better a quick, clean death than this.” And he raised his manacled hands and suddenly with an oath beat his chains against the wall until the blood spurted from his wounds. The guards, hearing him, came rushing to thrust him back inside. I watched for a moment and then on an impulse pulled off my cloak and threw it around him, I who had never been touched by him since that day at Cambray and had never dared touch him but once, when I tripped him in the great hall. In the face of the startled guards I began to sing, a song of love and loyalty; what other weapons has a bard but words? I clung to the bars, and he within his cage listened to me until I in turn was dragged off, pulled out from those lower cells where even death is hope. In Welsh I sang, the second time before him, to give him heart, to give it to myself, until I was sure he knew what I meant, until the walls silenced me and I stumbled up the stairs, wiping blood from my own face.
In the open courtyard Lord Gervaise and Lady Olwen were waiting for me. Lady Olwen was twisting the rope fastenings around her bundles, back and forth, much as her mother had twisted the coverlets. She spoke tonelessly, a voice in which no color showed, no life, as once Lord Robert had spoken when he faced his oldest enemy. “I swear,” she said, white-lipped. “Gervaise of Walran, I swear to marry you; before my page and before the world I give my oath. Why else have I come, my brother’s life for myself, what else have I to bargain with?”
It was clearly stated, no pretense. And a hard bargain, I think, for any man to accept. But Gervaise was forced to. I do not think he believed her at first, so long had he wanted her. He swallowed twice, as if his throat were parched, and he ran a finger under his mail coat as if it were too tight about the neck. Twice he tried to speak—a dream come true, and yet even he must have known how unlike the dream he once had had. I could almost have found it in my heart to pity him, a man possessed, who still did not have what he longed for, who, having it, had found it turned to dust. He did not even try to embrace her, he who before had been so insistent in his wooing, but stared at her, his hands slack by his side. “Judas, lady,” he tried to say, “you speak too blunt.” But she turned aside, for pity, too, I think, pity for him, perhaps for herself. For a brother's life there is no choice. Gervaise was as caught as we all were.
“Lady,” Gervaise was saying, recovering himself somewhat, hiding disappointment under a more stoic air, “if we are betrothed, I claim the right to order you. The Bretons have broken through the borderlands and are pressing hard upon Falaise. Dear God,” he cried suddenly, “this war we make has been hard. Slaughter, revenge, looting, for the most part upon miserable villagers. It is not ...” He bit his lip. A soldier does not complain of soldiering. “A castle under siege,” he went on, “even as strong as Falaise, is no place for you. Christ’s wounds, had you come but a scant hour or so late, you might have been taken by those Celts along the road, God forbid.” He crossed himself fervently.
I thought, a scant hour late, or a scant hour soon. But there it was, we within the castle, Prince Taliesin without, no way to alter that. Yet God has ways we mortals know not of.
Olwen did not flinch. “I am your betrothed, ” she said as firmly as before. “Now I shall see the king.”
That was a decision, too, that Gervaise clearly was not pleased about. In company with an earl such audience would have been another thing. Alone, himself to take responsibility, it was an idea that he had not agreed upon. Muttering to himself angrily, at last he reluctantly agreed to show her where the king kept state. Well, of course, a young knight, even brave, the oldest son of a border lord, does not walk up to a king and ask to speak to him. It began to dawn on me that Gervaise of Walran’s help was not as much as he had boasted of, and the fact of our suspicion began to work on him. But the Lady Olwen did not dispute with him as her younger self might have done; she merely went about finding us a place to bestow ourselves in company with all those other fugitives; shabby lodgings they were in a crowded yard, not what a lady of her rank should have had. Within the small niche of an outer wall I hung a cloak to give her privacy, and since she had no maids, no help, I will not deny I did what woman’s services I could, straightening her long sleeves so that they hung to proper length to her fingertips, fastening the girdle swung low about her hips, snatching a handful of wild weeds that grew in crevices in the stones to bind into a chaplet for her hair; flowers there were none, this being a fortress, not a place for living in.
Nor will I deny that now she did tremble as she prepared to meet this king whose name had long been anathema to us. And yet her beauty that d
ay was such that even Gervaise was blinded by her. He led her along, almost as if in a daze; poor soul, how he strained to catch what slipped through his fingers, the harder he grasped, the farther away, a flower that withers, a butterfly crushed. Myself, I had no idea what she would do or say, but I felt apprehension rise.
The king had made his quarters in a small tower, added by his grandsire to the first keep, more comfortable than the rest. He was lolling at the table with some of his lords, hashing over plans with his captains, this Breton advance like a fly’s bite, and, like a fly, as quickly to be brushed aside. Although Lord Gervaise would have waited at the door to have the guard announce him as was fit, she brushed him aside, glided between the men like a shadow. Her dress swished over the floor where piles of refuse were littered, and as she held it high, for a moment I caught a glimpse of her little feet sliding to and fro. I myself will swear I saw the king start back and cross himself, his prominent gray eyes almost bulging from his head. He stopped talking, a crust of bread halfway to his lips. “By the living Christ,” he swore, “what apparition is that?”
From the doorway where the lady had left him, Gervaise tried to speak but scarce had the breath to summon up the words. I think for the first time he realized what sort of lady he was bound to wed, and even he was awed. But Olwen did not heed him now, or anyone. “Lord king,” she said, “I am come in my father’s stead, to claim his son, whom you have wrongfully imprisoned.”
Beside me I heard Gervaise groan, not the way for a suppliant to talk. Henry had recovered from his shock, leaned easily back against his chair, continued gnawing on his bread. I was curious to see him, the second king I had ever laid eyes upon. He was dressed more casually than his French counterpart—his mail coat on, his tunic unlaced—more like a huntsman himself, I thought. As our man had done earlier today, he ran his hands through his hair, cut cross-cropped against his skull, although, at the neck (thick like a bull’s), where enough was left, it curled in ringlets. Unlike King Louis he alone in that room wore a sword, although weapons there were in plenty stacked against the door, yet like King Louis (albeit royalty did not sit on him full of pride) a king he seemed when he moved and talked.
“And what,” said King Henry of England, throwing out his question as swiftly as he tossed the scraps of bread to his hounds, “should I get in return for all the trouble this young man has caused?”
When my lady did not reply, his face unexpectedly broke into a smile. “Daughter of Earl Raoul,” he said, “come, I thought you could do better than that. But in truth, lady, I’d rather you than Raoul himself, breathing fire and gloom. You know, of course, what your brother is accused of,” he went on, with a touch of sarcasm. “Assisting my son to escape, helping my wife, the queen, run from me, setting war in all my lands but part of it. A nothing to you, I suppose. But all the same, you are welcome, Olwen of Cambray, in your mother’s name.” He knew her, then, at once. And gesturing, he had her join him at the table, a place set beside him on his right hand. There sat my lady, as much at her ease as if she wined with a king every day. He bowed to her, most courteous, then drank from a heavy silver cup and had it passed to her so she could drink to him. She made her curtsy, drank, but did not set her lips where his had touched. Beside me Gervaise groaned a second time, not wise to slight a king. I myself was merely stunned. To think my little lady of the tattered dresses and bare feet would drink from a loving cup with royalty.
The king leaned back and eyed her at his leisure. He had pulled a dagger from his belt and was playing with it, twisting the handle this way, now that, so that the lights from the flares caught first the blade, then the hilt, sending shafts of brilliance across the wooden tabletop, for he dined roughly, too, no sign of feasting here.
“So, lady,” he said after a while, “what is your will?” All the men around him seemed to hold their breaths, as did I. I had no idea, I tell you, what she would say. Gervaise was already purple with embarrassment. He had not thought to present his lady like this, he mute, she alone.
She said quietly, but since everyone was listening the words rang out, “My father claims back his son. I offer myself as prisoner in his place.”
Henry’s courtiers began to nudge and grin among themselves. Gervaise would have leapt forward in protest, had not I, overbold myself, caught him by the tail end of his cloak. The king eyed her narrowly again, then threw back his head and laughed, too, a great guffaw that sent the nesting pigeons in the high rafters fluttering. Hearing him, his lords began to laugh more openly.
“By God,” Henry cried. “I should have known you without your looks; you have your mother’s tongue and your father’s effrontery. Prisoner is it, lady? What should I do with you? Do you want me to hang you first?”
He leaned forward and regarded her intently. “I warrant you your father does not know,” he said, suddenly shrewd. “What put that thought into your pretty head? Christ’s bones, we’ve fret enough without a silly maid playing at heroine. Any moment now those Celts will swarm like a hive of bees. Not many maids walk into such a noose, let alone tighten the rope themselves. Not many would hope to walk out of it.” He let that thought sink in. “So what else would you ask?”
“Better treatment for my brother,” she said without hesitation. “Surgeons for his wounds. And a promise that you will do him no more harm until my father is well enough to treat for him.”
“Which he will never do willingly, if I know him.” Henry’s voice was silky smooth. “Those requests, then, for a brother whose guilt includes treachery, deceit, revolt. And what do you have to offer me that I do not already have the right to claim, as king?”
He stretched out his hand—a long, fine hand it was, too, for a man who rode and used a sword as much as he did, thinboned, supple—and took her chin between forefinger and thumb. “Like your mother,” he said softly, “in all things, whom all men praise.”
She did not flinch or turn away, nor even blush and pretend she did not understand, as a well-brought-up maiden should. “I am betrothed,” was all she said. “But my mother sends you a message, too. For the memory of a time you spent with her at Maneth castle, long ago; for the confidences you once exchanged there, let Hue go.”
At those words the king snatched back his hand as if it stung and with a curse thrust the dagger point into the tabletop. Curses formed and died upon his lips, even as his companions drew aside, silent before all the signs of a royal storm. Only she did not move. What he might have done or said, or she also, we shall never know. Praise God, say I, for that mercy at least. A clamor arose from the door where I had been hovering; a man burst through the crowds, and outside, high on the battlements, a bell began to toll. Even the king bit his lip and turned expectantly. A messenger came in and fell to one knee. He was covered with mud, cut about the cheeks as if tree branches had scored him as he rode, breathless with haste. “My lord king,” he cried, “I am come from the outposts. The Breton army has arrived. ”
Henry pushed back his chair, bounded up light as a boy. “Jesu be thanked,” he cried. “Now we will have done with them. Prepare to mount and ride.”
But the messenger did not budge, still kneeling, and I saw his eyes flicker shut for a second in a private prayer of his own. A royal messenger does not always get respect, especially if he brings unwelcome news. “My lord.” His voice was cautious, restrained, scratching at the surface of all he knew. “This is a large army, no scavenger force, both Bretons and Welsh. Your captains report they have already seized Avranches, taken it but not plundered.” He hesitated again. “Your outposts here have surrendered.” At last he faltered. “By dawn Falaise will be surrounded. And the Welsh prince holds their line.”
The king’s expression changed. He caught hold of his messenger by the hair. “You lie,” he shouted, and shook him as a terrier does a rat. “No one besieges me.” But the alarm bell still continued to ring, and the messenger, although he frothed with fear, would not admit he was wrong.
Henry’s anger veere
d back and forth like a weather vane. “That Welsh cub,” he snarled, “who outspoke my son. The only thing of sense Prince Henry did was to dismiss him, his demands as preposterous as the lady’s here. And Raoul supported him. God’s wounds, I’ll have that Welshman’s head, too, hanged from these very battlements. You, lady, prepare to sit out a siege; see if that pleases you. ” He was already striding toward the door, his men trailing behind him, all signs of mirth gone. “And you, Gervaise of Walran,” the king snapped as he pushed past, proof that not much missed his eye when he wished it. “Keep your lady under guard. God’s wounds, man, if I were you I’d knock sense into her, else as wife she’ll pin you by your ears.”
The warning bell boomed; the king’s companions, knights and squires, went streaming after him; the castle sprang to alert, a besieging army no laughing affair. Lord Gervaise fretted again, scarce knowing where to look or what to do. “I warned you,” he howled. “Worse than if you had not come at all. Turn the king against us, what hope for any of us.” And he struck her deliberately on the face, a Norman knight berating the woman he would wed as sign of strength.