Ann of Cambray (21 page)

‘I come from Sedgemont itself,’ I said, as close to the truth as I could. ‘Sir Brian and his lady are close-mouthed about outside affairs, not eager to know anything that lies outside Sedgemont lands.’

They nodded at that. It was a fact that all who knew the Lady Mildred would jest at.

‘But it is not Lord Raoul himself, I mean, I seek his vassal who serves him . . .’ I babbled on of sickness, family news, mixing it with fact about Sedgemont life that none should doubt my story. And I saw how their eyes glazed with boredom under the spate of words. Yet they would have caught me soon enough at an outright lie. And had I evil intent in mind, they would have known it. They were simple men, not stupid, not overeager to untangle my tale upon a cold wet road.

‘You had best ride on with us,’ the older man said, cutting in upon me, giving orders so that from the moment on, I had no choice.

‘You will wander too far otherwise before you reach the camp, and the guards may not let you pass. We have been there before and remember the way, or should do, if the devil does not make us lose our footing in the bogs. Go you with us.’

I went along with them, cursing, as I have had reason before, my own thoughtless tongue. Yet, without them I should in truth have been lost. Their story as they told it was as simple as they were themselves. Their leader was a small lord, holding lands of Sedgemont, and perhaps he had been present at the great boar hunt, for we talked of it and he remembered it, although not so vividly as I did. After Lord Raoul’s departure, he had followed him, joined him for the spring offensive, and returned to his own lands after Malmesbury, his days of feudal service then having run their course. And now was he come back again, as was his duty, to serve a second time, having had chance in between to see to his own affairs. A good man he was, loyal to his overlord and to his feudal oath. Our land knew many such men once, and might have need of them again. It was pleasure to ride on with him and hear his talk, news of Sedgemont and other places that I knew well. And in this way we came to Lord Raoul’s camp, which lay at the edge of high waste grassland, or moor, stretching south for many miles.

The camp was made in a pass where one of the high plateaux cut down to the valley floor, following a woodland stream that widened into an estuary, still far from the open sea. It had the taste and flavour of the sea about it and in some ways reminded me of Cambray, especially the open moors that stretched down from the hill on all sides. Lord Raoul had set his pickets and lines within the confines of some old fortifications, partly made of stone like the one the soldier had shown me, partly older still, great mounds of dirt thrown up to form an encircling triple barricade. Within these outer dirt walls were open spaces where the outlines of former buildings could be traced, so straight and angular you could have drawn lines from each corner of the great rectangle that had enclosed them. The main gates, which had been freshly hung, faced the moorland; the opposite side faced a cliff, where a river fell into the estuary. The horse lines had been placed there, with small paths made to give access to the water below.

And in the centre of it all, the red standards of Sedgemont were set before Lord Raoul’s own pavilion. Whoever had first built that fort had stationed it well, for it guarded the only way south at this part. And on the moors around watchtowers had been built, or rather the remains of old stone towers still stood, linked one to the other with a series of protected paths so troops could move between them under cover even if attacked. Had I ridden on alone, sooner or later I must have fallen among those guards. And things might not have gone so easily as they now did.

We were challenged by the keepers of the tower long before we were within distance of the main fort. I say ‘we’ because it was the older lord who gave response, singing out his name and title proudly, as was his due, and so I passed on with him as part of his company. By this time I could not have turned aside had I wanted to—all paths led towards this one gap—and had I tried to ride apart, I should have soon been spotted and hunted down. No wonder so many generations of soldiers had made their fort here, guarding their lair like wolves. The best I could do was follow as unobtrusively as I could and hope to slip into the camp unobserved. And here again, fate helped me.

The old lord had but one horse, which he cherished, it being, of course, life and death to him. Along the way it had lamed itself, and to help lighten the load I had offered to bear his shield. A great heavy old-fashioned affair it was, so that I was almost bowed beneath its weight. When we were stopped at the outer bank to prove our full identity, I had difficulties in keeping abreast of the others, my pony grown skittish at the unaccustomed sound of camp and horses, and the shield caught in my way as I tried to force the beast on.

The others had already passed through when I arrived on a rush, fretting and pivoting with the shield banging uncomfortably before me. They let me in with bawled oath for oafishness, shouting out my rank as inadequate shieldbearer to the lord who had gone ahead. He, in turn, preoccupied with clambering down from the high saddle and seeing to his horse, paid me little heed. I thrust the shield upon one of his men, muttered farewell, and wheeled past them without ceremony, down the lines of tents to where the horses stood in their stables. I tethered my poor pony there, and wrapped in my cloak with head upon my knees, waited until darkness fell. And considered what next to do.

Since then, I have met many women who have travelled with fighting men, not just the whores and camp followers but honest wives and daughters who have gone to the wars, yes, and fought in them when they had to. I have never yet met a woman who lived as a man among them. Yet, as you can see, I had not planned to do so, although rumours have said it ever since. I have planned little in my life, save only once, and that in time you shall hear. But then I had made no plans, was caught by my own unruly tongue, and did not know what next to do. The more I thought, the more advantageous my disguise seemed to me, the more sensible it appeared to continue as I was and remain here, hopefully undetected, until suitable time. To begin with, I reasoned, no one knew who I was or where I was; there was no one to betray me except myself. If any thought about me, they reckoned me shut away, safe, in the Sedgemont convent. The last thing the prioress would want was that word of her betrayal reach Lord Raoul. Then, too, I had taken pains in the last week to darken my skin with bark and leaves, and although there was little I could do about my speech or walk, or manner of sitting, at least my travelling companions had not suspected me, and that gave me heart. Then, too, if I was lucky, I might not meet many as observant as that old lecher. Provided I kept clear of former friends like Giles or Geoffrey or even Dylan, there were few who would be likely to recognise me. As for Lord Raoul—but that did not bear thinking on, so him I put out of mind.

Then, too, there was the fact that I had nowhere else to go. Cambray was still occupied. Even if I had gone there, I might not have been well received. I could not return to Sedgemont. And unless I came full-heralded, escorted as was fitting, welcomed, in short, as to my rightful place and accepted with due pomp and dignities, I meant to have no dealings with the Lord of Sedgemont at all.

When the time is ripe, I thought, not knowing when or how that would be, but feeling that it was due me at some time, only then will I show him who I am. It did not fit my self-image to be caught skulking about his camp.

I know as well as you that it is sin for women to go abroad in men’s guise, but what would you have me do else? I could not have crept among the camp women; indeed, would never have thought of that had not the old man in the village put me in mind of it. No doubt, there were many women attached leechlike to this camp as to all others, if not within, then close without the walls. What army moved without them? Older perhaps, more experienced, I might have attempted it. I believe I could at least have spoken like them still; they would be Celts, most of them here, although it was long since I had talked in my own tongue. But other things were beyond my counterfeiting at that time, not so much because I had led a sheltered life, but because I had had no practice at any other. And within the camp itself, there were added advantages that, in my case, made life easier for me.

First of all, I was not unaccustomed to work about stable and yard. Had not I lived at Sedgemont as I had, I could not have managed it. Then, too, I was slight enough to be taken for one of the younger pages, who were always underfoot, doing the most menial of tasks. Then, too, most of the men who served Lord Raoul were like my friendly companion: plain, serviceable lords not given to flaunting rank and badges in the Angevin style. Except for the hawks of Sedgemont, worn by Lord Raoul’s household guard in Norman fashion, his vassals were content as my father had been with plain colours, plain gear. Today a page who does not wear his master’s device even to the toes of his long shoes is an object of ridicule. Then I could merge without difficulty into a group of nondescript youths, whose ranks varied, depending how their masters came and went. For this was a feudal host, not mercenary troops; they served a few weeks at a time, as long as their feudal bond ordered. Some stayed longer, some less. Some welcomed the chance, perhaps, of life in the field as place of adventure, although the routines, when one learned them, were not so exciting as all that. Had my old lord spoken to anyone of me, he would have found it hard to track me down, to say nothing of a ‘father’s overlord’. And all this coming and going gave me opportunity to hide myself away from too-close contact, from scrutiny.

How did I live, then, in a camp of men? Among the boys, keeping myself to myself, running errands for the older among us, helping the younger, speaking seldom so I gained a reputation for moroseness. The weather improved, which was fortunate; mild now with sudden promise of spring, which comes earlier to the western reaches of the country. Night caused most difficulties, but I bedded near my horse, wrapped in my cloak with bundles of leaves and twigs to soften the ground. Sometimes then I would lie back beneath clear skies and try to imagine what my life would become. At times that seemed as difficult as remembering what it had been. At other times, when the soughing of the wind over the moors was like waves upon a beach, a long slow sound, I would think of Cambray and wonder if, after all, like one of those Celtic women warriors of old, I would ride my horse up to its walls and storm them with my men. Or, in more thoughtful mood, I would realise again that if Lord Raoul and all his men could not take it by force then we must think of some trick, some subterfuge, and I would rack memory for some clue as to how the walls might be breached. Or, best of all, I would imagine how it might be that Lord Raoul himself would come to me and beg for help, and pledge my full right to Cambray at last. But these were all childish imaginings, the last I would have. Childhood had long gone.

It was a rough life. The Lady Mildred, I thought, might have swooned for horror of it, and yet perhaps not. She was harder than she seemed. When grief came to her, she endured with more grace and courage than I would have done. Lord Raoul kept his men occupied. He worked to form them to a coherent group, and when they were not on patrol, he tired them at drills and exercises. They were often restless with each other though, wild and angry, mainly because they saw no end to their work, more than a year of it. A thankless task is a border watch, chasing strays for the most part, like dogs, back where they belong. There were often fights among the common men, once a knifing that left two dead. The younger boys crowded avidly after such sights, partly no doubt because it satisfied their desire for action. I saw men punished for wrongs they had done, and the punishments, although just, were swift and hard. A flogging I saw, a branding of a thief. I went quickly away to stop my ears from the screams, but they echoed on. We ate roughly, but in this warmer, milder weather—better than Giles’s reports would suggest—I learned to scrabble for myself at the communal kitchens, and water was to be had in plenty from a spring in a dell or niche at the cliff’s edge among a scrawny stand of trees. Our greatest lack was bread, for grain was always in short supply along the border; and under pain of death, it had been forbidden to take supplies without payment of some kind. Lord Raoul’s vassals dined apart from the common mass, waited on by their squires and pages, but they ate no better or worse than we did. And so the pattern of life continued.

We rose at dawn, when the mists were still thick like crusts and frost sometimes lay like shards upon the grass. We took the horses to be watered down the steep cliff paths to the river, and we groomed and saddled those that were to be ridden out. Many a cuff for some imagined flaw I had dodged myself. Yet it was easier than now. The horses’ gear was plain and serviceable, like the men who rode them; neither needed cosseting, finery, or favours. The patrols rode out in the early morning and returned by late afternoon. Once I saw Lord Raoul at their head, his standard flying. Once I saw him return and watched how the Celtic women, who, as I had thought, had leave to roam into the camp, came running to cheer.

Like the womenfolk of Sedgemont, I thought, turning aside, and remembered what the old man had warned:
He will have forgotten you.
Well, when the patrols were gone out, those left behind rode at the tilt, or practised sword play (I watched Giles at that one day; he had improved, but he did not win the bout), while the boys ran errands, cleared up the debris of the camp, and cleaned arms and tack, that everlasting cleaning of sword and shield. Yet I learned the value of it. A rust spot will catch as you seek to draw your sword free of its sheath, and that delay will kill you if your enemy is faster. A dented shield cannot deflect a blow as rapidly as a perfect one. Bowstrings that are not coiled will not tighten around the bow. A warped arrow will not fly true. So a knight relies upon his pages and squires to see that all his accoutrements are in order, as once he served his lord. Each in turn knows that if he fails, another man’s life rests on his conscience. That, too, is a trust among fighting men, one bound to the next as in a chain. And in the evening, when the patrols had returned, with game, if we were lucky, caught on their way back, the great wooden gates that had been fitted to the entrance were swung into place. Then, when horses were cared for, and weary men pulled off their sweat-stained mail coats—then was there time for gossip and talk. Sometimes the older boys who waited on their lords at table would bring back some piece of news which we fastened on as eagerly as we did the scraps of food they smuggled out. Sometimes, someone would take up a lute or pipe and sing songs, bawdy, most of them, but funny for all that. Sometimes we would even creep to the main tent where Lord Raoul and his friends dined and hear him play, although I never stayed to listen myself for fear of discovery. And sometimes we would go down to the outer bank where the Celtic women would dance and sing for the men, if they did not scare us away. And if one of these, a tall red-haired woman I had noticed before, often left by herself and slipped towards Lord Raoul’s tent, well then, that too had to be borne.