Ann of Cambray (12 page)

Cecile now, and her yellow-headed Geoffrey, did not she tie him to her will by promises of delight? I think we held our courts of love and lust at Sedgemont in those days, and all hearts turned to thoughts of marriage then.

One afternoon, it was as still and fair as a May day, we had come into the woods as usual, and were sitting in our little groups, talking softly among ourselves while the Lady Mildred tried to bring order to the work she had set that morning. Geoffrey was strumming to himself upon a lute. Some of the other knights had brought their horses to the water’s shallows and were letting them drink and stamp to cool themselves after a long ride at the tilting yard.

Cecile said to me, ‘He watches you, Lord Raoul. Did you know that?’

I looked up, surprised. I had not spoken with him since the day of the hunt, although at night I dined in the Great Hall as he had ordered. It had seemed, sometimes, when I looked up quickly from my place, that his gaze slid past as if it would not be caught. I cannot say if that pleased or displeased me. He seemed, perhaps
thoughtful
is the word, but I supposed it was his wound that made him morose; and since he went out each day about his affairs, I presumed some worries of his own made him preoccupied. I had not given thought to what they might be. Certainly I did not imagine he was concerned With me.

‘He watches you,’ said Geoffrey, ‘because I think he must make plans for Cambray soon. Now that he has lost Sieux, Cambray will count the more.’ At my stare of surprise, ‘You did not know that Sieux was lost? Well, Geoffrey of Anjou took it for his own in his last campaign before his death. Henry of Anjou is Count of Sieux now. It is a hard loss to Lord Raoul.’

‘They say he is no longer betrothed,’ Cecile said, ‘is that true also?’

Again my surprise must have been obvious. I had not thought Lord Raoul a man betrothed. He had not acted like one.

‘I cannot speak to that.’ Geoffrey said uneasily, that he was spreading unwelcome news. ‘We went not to see her in France. Well, she was older than he was. Not all her lands and wealth would have made me bed her. I think he had as little liking, by all I have heard. The Lady Mildred had best look to her maidens now.’

‘Hark how he talks of wealth and lands who has yet to win them by his sword,’ Cecile said, smiling to herself. ‘I can reach higher than a landless squire.’

Geoffrey seemed so abashed at that that I felt sorry for him, remembering my father’s life.

‘When I come back to Cambray,’ I said, ‘there will be place and lands for all.’

They all smiled at that, indulgently, at hearing something that a child dreams on. Once I would have resented their smiles as mockery. Yet all the same, underneath my words I felt discomfort grow. I had not known that misfortune had hit him so close. I had not known that he had plans to be married. Yet both Dylan and Geoffrey had hinted that he treated all women lightly—well, he would not make light of me.

Geoffrey sighed. ‘If Cambray is to be of use to us,’ he said, ‘you must look for a husband, Lady Ann. While Lord Raoul holds you as his ward, we are helpless here.’

‘Why not indeed,’ I said to make them laugh. But I thought, why not, since I have little to gain or lose.

‘The soldier Dylan has promised to serve you well. I, Geoffrey, shall be your knight, and you, Cecile, lady-in-waiting.’

They laughed again, play-acting their roles. Well, it was long ago; did we ever then expect things to turn out as they have?

‘And you, Giles, her squire.’

He smiled with the rest, more serious, not jesting as they did. It was after all what we had planned for him long ago. Yet Giles too had changed. I cannot say it was the beating that had caused the change—a stable boy is always in the way of cuffs and blows—but this time had been different. I could not put into words how I became sure of this; he never spoke of it again, who once had had no secrets from me. He had not been so angry as I would have thought, nor yet so uncaring either. And he was changing in other ways, filling out, becoming broader. Each day now he trained with the other squires, learning to use sword and buckler and handle a horse, although he would never be as skilled as those who had begun this work when they were children. But he took these things seriously. Was that the difference, that when the others played at games, he did not? One thing I knew: although more loyal friend, devoted companion, I would never have, he had found a sense of fitness, duty, that had nothing to do with me. My squire he might be, but not my lover now. And that both saddened and excited me.

That night, I spent longer than usual preparing for the feast. Cecile was kindness itself, lending me another overtunic to hide the deficiencies of the poor-fitting gown beneath, binding my hair with ribbons until I felt like some ox going decked to a country fair. When she had finished, she showed me her handiwork in the small hand mirror she had. Yes, I too had changed, filled out. I had not Cecile’s prettiness, my eyes were still too large and dark, my hair was still the same shade, still flared out in wisps and webs and not smoothed to sleekness, my complexion had not her pink and white, but no one, I think, would have called me ‘skin and bone’. That night I wore my mother’s chaplet as my sign of rank; that night I sought among the men at Sedgemont for someone to win me back Cambray.

When you are bound to a course, it is a chain that binds you tight. Perhaps I would have been more discreet had not Geoffrey’s words made me hasty. I cannot tell how well I practised all the tricks I had been watching in the ladies’ bower. But I had noted that beneath their downturned eyes, they knew how to look as fierce as men; their low-tuned voices rang out clearly when they would. If they said little, it was with intent. If they talked of walking here or riding there, it was to let someone know the time and place. If they smiled at one man, it was to tease his neighbour. If they moved restlessly for lack of air or heat, it was to expose a glimpse of breast or thigh. Well, despite all the Holy Church says contrary, it makes no sense to me that of all the female kind, women alone should not find pleasure in their mates, nor seek them out as do the lowly beasts. Nor can I see, to speak plain, why men should know more pleasure in their beds, except that they expect women will not, who often do not dare express what they feel. Well, I am no laggard. I learned how easy it is to look and smile when you want, and then, when you have forgotten why you must, easier still. That night, I, who was always silent among the rest, a stranger, showed how I laughed and flirted. And at the meal’s end, when they spoke of dancing in the lower hall, my voice was raised as high as the rest.

The menials ran to brush back the straw and clear a space before the fire. The dogs crept to the sides and the men waited by the wall benches to watch. Others brought out viols and flutes, and even the Lady Mildred’s foot began to tap. And at the High Table, Lord Raoul sat with a face of thunder and drank alone.

Some of the dances I did not know. Others I remembered from childhood days and called for those again and again. I danced with older, heavier men who made an effort to keep themselves light of foot. I danced with Giles, who knew as little as I and complained of dizziness. I danced with Cecile’s Geoffrey and smiled at him, for practice, no more. ‘He dances as he talks,’ I told her, ‘trippingly. You must scold him, Cecile, to take more pains.’

‘It will not be I who scold,’ she said.

‘Who else?’

She jerked her head to where Lady Mildred and Sir Brian stood, to the table where Lord Raoul sat.

‘They are too old to care,’ I said laughingly. But I wanted Lord Raoul to care.

‘I think you mean to anger him,’ Cecile said shrewdly. ‘Beware. He is not one to bandy nonsense lightly.’

I took a hurried look. He still sat alone, drinking heavily but not sottishly as some men do. I vouch there was not one woman there who would not have left all the rest to go with him had he beckoned.

‘He will be too far gone in his cups to remember anything,’ I said.

Perhaps I spoke too loudly; perhaps he guessed what I said. The next dance was new from France. I thought it safer to sit at the back and rethread the ribbons in my hair and keep myself out of his black looks. I wanted to anger him, but not too much. I wanted him to notice me, but not too closely.

‘So you will not dance to Norman tunes, lady?’ His voice coming unexpectedly made me start.

‘Why should I, my lord?’ I said. ‘They do not interest me.’ He swore under his breath.

‘Then learn you shall with me,’ he said, jerking me to my feet. ‘Dance you shall when I bid you.’

‘Your courtesy demands my obedience, my lord,’ I said angrily, until common sense told me to keep my temper. I made an effort to be pleasant. Was it my fault he took it amiss?

‘Your wound will pain you. You should take care.’

‘You count me a dolt,’ he said, ‘or an old man, that I must creep across the floor?’

And in truth, since the wine did make him lurch so that he put out a hand to steady himself, I was forced to hide my smile.

‘Why, nay, my lord,’ I said, looking at him in this new way I had been learning, ‘but I thought men of war had not the time for such gentle arts.’

He swore again at that.

‘So you prefer games after all,’ he said, holding my hand tightly, forcing me to trail after him. ‘It seems but yesterday you were begging for rescue from them. . .’

‘Ah, my lord,’ I said with a sweet smile, although I could have kicked him for such mean memory, ‘but look how much I have changed since then.’

We had come to the far side of the room. He suddenly pushed me by the shoulder out of the small doorway there that gave onto one of those inner courtyards which was hemmed in by walls all round. Someone long ago had planted a bush at the side, perhaps the same lady who had planned the pleasure gardens without the walls, and in the warm weather its white flowers still shone as if it were full summer. He pulled me before him until I had almost gone head first into the bush and would have been buried in its leaves had he not stopped in time to swing me round, so that we faced each other. I could feel the soft fur that lined his tunic against my cheek, but his face was in the shadows.

‘My lord,’ I said, striving to speak calmly to hide my fear. ‘Your men will wonder where you are. They will follow. . .’ 

‘No, they will not,’ he said, ‘unless I give them leave. And I have not given them leave. They remember, which you do not, that I am master here.’

‘No, my lord,’ I protested. ‘I too remember it.’

‘Damn your eyes,’ he said. ‘Who taught you to look so?’ 

‘There seems little to please you, my lord,’ I said. ‘Speaking or looking, I give offence.’

He said, ‘I prefer your jabbering. When you are quiet there is mischief abroad. So now, mistress, what devilry are you about to have my men tripping on their swords to serve you?’ 

I smiled to myself at that. ‘They do me courtesy, my lord,’ I said, ‘or perhaps they have learned from you what ways to pleasure women.’

‘God’s teeth, brat,’ he said, ‘you take much upon yourself. No woman is worth so much fret. . .’

‘Not even your betrothed, my lord?’ I asked sweetly.

‘You speak out of turn,’ he said, sobered. ‘Out of ignorance.’

‘Or perhaps she is far away in France. And you forget your troth. . .’

‘No,’ he shouted, ‘I do not forget it. But I have no mind to wed.’

‘I beg your pardon, then,’ I said, ‘I thought to have heard you were betrothed in France and wished to give you joy.’ 

‘Where got you your news?’ he said. ‘It is outdated, lady. No bride waits for me in Sieux. Or anywhere else, I trust.’ 

‘Do not you wish for one?’ I said. ‘Do not you want heirs to your estate?’

‘To have heirs, Lady Ann,’ he said, cold-voiced, in the deliberate way that always made my anger flare, ‘to have sons, one should have something to leave them. Heirs must inherit, no?’

I started to reply but he broke in, ‘Your news is not only outdated but ill-placed. I have not lost a bride but Sieux itself. I told you the Angevins were free with other people’s demesnes. They long have eyed Sieux and now they have it. And my bride, whose lands run close to mine, has quickly found new interests to her father’s better liking. I doubt if she thinks overmuch of me, although she would have liked to be Countess of Sieux. So do not grieve for her or me. It was my grandfather’s choosing, not mine. Sieux and its adjoining estates of Auterre and Chatille, those you may grieve for. But speak not of marriage to me. I have no wish or thought of it.’ 

The bitterness in his voice gave me pause. I had not thought he would mention it, yet something of the loss he felt struck a cord in me. But I steeled myself. I had not come to pity him, merely to force my own will.

‘But I do, my lord,’ I said.

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I am afire to know more.’

I flushed at the sarcasm but went on. ‘You still have Sedgemont, Lord Raoul. All your English lands. And Cambray.’

‘And so?’

‘If once you thought to be betrothed, to wed to knot up your lands in France, why then I think to do the same. I ask you, as you have wardship over me, to find me a husband of my own.’

He stared, and laughed.

‘You may find much in me to mock,’ I said stiffly. ‘But I think that this is so. My father was your loyal vassal and held those lands of Cambray loyally. I have inherited it but cannot claim it until some man holds it of you. Then I will have a man to hold it in my stead.’

‘You are overbold, lady,’ he said. ‘It is not for you or any maid to make such a demand. Even your father, had he lived, must have waited at my pleasure. That is my right as overlord.’

‘She who was Queen of France, this Eleanor who now is wife to Henry of Anjou,’ I said, ‘did not she leave the King of France and take a new husband of her own choice? And did not she take her lands with her?’

‘You do but guess at great affairs,’ he said, still half-amused. ‘Do not think to ape your betters.’

‘If you had not kept me mewed up in Sedgemont,’ I said hotly, ‘I could be as capable as any, how to judge these things. You do not explain yourself overclearly, my lord. Perhaps it is because you are not willing to admit women are capable of thought at all. I do not set myself up against the highest. I know my place, far beneath you great lords. But the worth of Cambray I know. You have already told me its importance in a future war. It would be better settled soon.’