Ann of Cambray (27 page)

They came before dawn, like shadows, drifting down from the moors on their swift-footed ponies that stole across the heather and brush. They made no sound at first, sliding towards the camp, where Raoul and his men waited for them. It was the sound of that first clash of arms, the shouts, the snarl of trumpets blaring the alert, that wakened me from the dark dreams where I had fallen. I ran to the entrance of the tent, where my womenfolk had already huddled, as sheep before a storm. Over the crest of the hill, where we had watched them leave, they came swarming back again, like dark ants, a string of running horsemen, bundled in their furs, circling and circling again. Giles was already at his post, leather coated, steel coifed, sword ready. There were more shouts, answers, the scream of horses and the sudden acrid smell of fire. With a thunder of hooves, Lord Raoul rode past, hauling at the reins to bring his horse to a stop. For all my boasting, I would not have known him then, with his battle helm on, his shield and lance set. Only by that black horse and the red banner would I have recognised who he was.

‘Guard her,’ he cried to Giles, ‘away to the wagons, down yonder with the boys, Lady Ann, stay close; it is but a raiding party. Mount, mount, man, they are upon us.’

Then he was gone again, thundering back towards the gates, his household guard at his heels, swords swinging. I had no chance to bid him farewell, wish him Godspeed, as he rode to take the most dangerous place before the main entrance. I watched him afar off, how he rode easier after a while, hand on hip, stopping to joke with this group, reposition that one. The other mounted men swung out behind him and he was hidden from view.

‘They have overrun the outer pickets,’ Giles said, ‘even the double watch that we had set there. They must have crawled past them in the dark.’

He brought up my horse, swung me on, then mounted himself.

‘They must have spied upon the fortifications yesterday. Treacherous dogs!’

‘Not my uncle’s men,’ I cried. ‘He would not attack without cause.’

Giles did not reply. He led the way down towards the spring and the hollow at the lower end of the camp, farthest from the gates. The food carts had been hurriedly drawn there last night. The pages and younger boys were already stationed there, fingering their short knives and muttering excitedly. My women cowered within the shelter of the wagons.

‘Do not be afeard, my lady,’ Giles echoed Raoul’s tone of voice, ‘we are out of harm here.’

A shout came from one of his men, ‘They are circling, Giles. Watch to the right.’

Then nothing, silence, a clash of conflict, screams, farther off to our left. We moved down the hollow a little towards the cliff where the stream fell softly over the escarpment, feet below. It was damp and cool in the hollow, sheltered by some wind-bent trees and bushes that grew on the cliff edge. One of the horses dipped its mouth into the water and swung up, dripping like silver. The morning mists curled across the open field above us. Silence.

Then again shouts, a cry cut off short: ‘Behind, behind.’ We turned in our saddles, the horses shifting nervously, nostrils flaring at the smell and sounds. Before my eyes, as in my dream, I saw the inner wall and hedge close to us break apart, as if churned underfoot. I saw three men in Sedgemont red stumble and fall like dolls upon the bank as a handful of men poured over them like water. Following them, a group of horsemen rode both over, friend and foe alike, bent over their ponies’ sides to shield themselves. Giles thrust my horse behind his; a bowman at his side fitted arrows to his bow and drew again. Where was Raoul? I strained to see through the shifting shadows towards the main gates, half-hidden now by the curve of the inner bank. Where were his guards? They would be taken from the rear, pinned back against the great wooden planks of their own gate. But the horsemen did not ride out towards the gates; they veered instead and came straight towards us, towards the supply wagons, the unarmed boys, the womenfolk.

With a cry, Giles and his men rode out to meet them. I sat on my horse in the cool shade while the light of the early dawn began to burn and shimmer on the glittering blades. There was a sudden violent shock as sword and shield came together. Then they were all woven into one another, a tangled mesh of steel and hooves and flesh. I could still count our men: two had fallen, another fell with a strangled cry. Giles was out in front, his short sword rising and stabbing. I thought, Oh God, he is no horseman, he is not a soldier born. Where is Raoul?

Another shout, an answering echo. I saw some of the Sedgemont men leap down from the circling banks and begin to run in our direction. But they were too far off, and the horsemen at the gates were already engaged. Giles and his little band were forced back as more Celtic horsemen flowed across the gap. The silver stream turned to mud as they flailed and slashed across the water. Beside me, the bowman fell in a gout of blood. There were other enemy archers on the banks now; I recognised their long Welsh bows before they shot down upon us. Some of their horsemen wheeled to cut off a countercharge. The rest drove headlong into the clearing, slashing at the boys and womenfolk as they came. The air was thick with noise, with clash and blare and shout, breaking like a wave of sound that deafened the ears. I thought again, Oh God, I have heard this noise before, I have seen all this before. And I watched again, as in a dream, how Giles’s horse suddenly reared and stretched, and he fell sideways across its neck, one hand curled up to grasp the rein, the other arm flung wide.

‘Giles, Giles,’ I screamed, throwing myself to the ground. I began to run towards him, running without motion across the torn and bloodied grass. He was lying sprawled at the water’s edge as I had seen him those years ago in the forest. In a moment he would leap to his feet, laughing and wiping the mud from his eyes. ‘What ails you, Lady Ann,’ he would say, ‘I did but slip . . .’

Around me all was noise, confusion, death. I ran without motion, without colour, without sound, and knelt beside him on the blood-soaked bank. I took his shattered head within my arms, but all the smiles were gone, the eyes already closed, the last breaths faint upon his lips.

‘Giles,’ I whispered into the silence, but he did not speak, did not move, and the silence washed over us like a cold, dark wind.

I do not know how long it was before the darkness lifted. Hours, days ... I remember odd snatches of things, disconnected, like escaped fragments between sleep and wake: being caught up somehow, the feel of fur and leather, the bite of rope about hands and feet that seemed not to belong to me. Above all, a recurrent theme, the outstretched arms, the brown hair awash in the stream, the blood-furrowed face. I think I slept, or perhaps not slept, put consciousness away, so as not to see.

We stopped once, again, we rode on, I carried before or behind some trooper like a bundle slung across a saddle. We changed mounts, bigger and faster now, prepared for us in some valley. Somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, between sleep and wake, I knew we were going north, across the desolate region I had traversed but a few months before—north, not west. Somehow I came to realise that although at first we had ridden Celtic ponies, these new ones were not, and that the men who rode them, although some were Celt, the others spoke Norman-French, wore Norman mail, and carried Norman weapons beneath their Celtic furs and capes.

But all these were fragments, flung splintering out of silence, making no sense until at last we came to a full halt, and all came jarring together, coherent, real. I can only explain it as if a veil had been thrust across my eyes, and suddenly now it was torn back and I could see things about me as they truly were. It must have been high noon, although of which day I could not say. We had come to a halt in one of those deserted villages that I have spoken of, in the shadow of hovels whose broken walls gleamed against fire-blackened timbers. A soldier held me upright before him, his arm slack, as if I were a burden he was familiar with, as used to as any other part of his equipment. I felt the ache of my own body, stretched and tight against the roughness of his leather coat. I felt the sweat on my skin, caked like dust, and the dried blood. Most of all, I became aware of the stares of the other men, those who had been riding with us and those who lounged in the village square, waiting, it seemed, for us to arrive.

Lord Guy of Maneth rode out from behind the cottage wall. Beside him, his son Gilbert, and behind him, the guard of Maneth, armed and ready.

‘Is this the one?’ he said. ‘No mistake this time.’

‘Aye, good, my lord.’

‘Where is the Celtic woman?’

There was a scuffle inside the ruined house. Two soldiers dragged a woman forward, kicking and scratching in the dust. They threw her down in front of Lord Maneth’s horse in the dirt and she lay there until one of the men kicked her to her feet. It was the red-haired woman I had seen in Lord Raoul’s tent, the one I had watched and envied in the camp.

‘You,’ said Lord Guy of Maneth, his voice dark and ominous. ‘Is this the one?’

She flung a look at me sideways, tossing her long red hair. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she said in her singsong voice. ‘Would I lie to you? Did I not show you where, and when; show you the way through the lines? Why would I lie about her?’

I heard a clink of metal, a fall of coins.

‘This for your pains. So do I reward those who serve me well. Those who do not, or seek to cheat me, or talk too much . . .’ There was a squeal of pain. Then she went on scratching in the dirt. I raised my head and looked upon them all—the lords of Maneth on their horses, full armed in the sun, their men-at-arms leaning forward to miss nothing, the red-haired woman hunting for the scattered coins.

‘Welcome then, Lady of Cambray,’ said Lord Guy of Maneth.’ At last we meet up with you again. You recall my son and heir, I think.’

My lips were cracked with heat and dirt. It was difficult to speak and I could not yet think clearly.

Gilbert, at his side, gave a roar of laughter. ‘We have long awaited you,’ he said. ‘Ladies, you should know each other.’ And with the end of his sword he prodded at the woman on the ground so that she left off her scrabbling and for a moment looked at me straight.

We knew each other then, who we both were, why we both were here. There was no surprise. I knew her as she knew me, what she had done and why. Then she turned around quickly, fitting the scattered silver into her pocket, limping out of sight. I felt no anger, she no remorse. Had our positions been reversed, might I not have done the same? Revenge is sweet, to the lowest as to the high.

Gilbert laughed again, that braying laugh I remembered from before.

‘And like to two peas in a pod,’ he said. ‘There is Celtic kinship for you. On the ground, there’s no telling base-born from noble.’ He laughed again. ‘And both the castoffs from Sedgemont’s bed. Which is best jest of all.’

His words had not the power to wound. Yet I felt then, and feel even more, what I deserved of them. I had not cared what became of her. And she, had she betrayed Raoul for vengeance? And what, I wondered suddenly, will any of it mean to him, not knowing what has become of either of us?

Great lords feel not the lack of bedmates.

There would be plenty more for him to pick and choose.

Lord Guy urged his horse forward to stop his son’s mirth. ‘Peace,’ I heard him say, ‘are you a fool to babble her ill fame abroad for all men to make a mockery of?’

I saw the flush on Gilbert’s face as he pulled back, muttering. Lord Guy turned to me once more, triumph and caution battling for the upper hand.

‘Your silence becomes you at last, Lady Ann,’ he said. He snapped his fingers at his men. ‘I would have bid you welcome to my castle myself, but failing that, have waited to see you safe on Maneth lands. My son would still have you as bride, although your reputation be not so spotless as once it was. Better to have stayed at your convent and let us fetch you from there. But be thankful for his courtesy. Other men might not show such indulgence.’

Then I did find speech.

‘You cannot think to hold me against my will. Lord Raoul. . .’

‘Lord Raoul!’ Gilbert spat out the words contemptuously. ‘Far away, chasing Celtic shadows across their border. He did not think how easy it was to gather up some ragtail Celts and slip our men among them. Tricked he was, as neatly by a mock Celtic host as by a Celtic whore.’

He grinned at his father, his sallow face abrim with spite. ‘Lord Raoul is not so lightly tricked,’ I cried. ‘He is a true and caring lord. . . which is more than you can boast of.’ 

‘You still have some spirit left,’ sneered Lord Guy. ‘Well, we have means at Maneth to break it. I regret that I shall not be there to watch.’

He nudged his horse against the one that I was on, the skirt of his mail coat crushing my leg.

‘Your Lord Raoul is a fool who sends his vassals to their death. A fool again that he jeopardises the treaty he was ordered to make. You see, I know many things. We have been waiting for the Celts to make a move so we could make ours.’ 

‘And like a fool he walked into the trap,’ Gilbert brayed again. ‘True, you say. To which king? There is but one king and my father sails with him now as he leaves for France. Ask Henry of Anjou, next King of England, how he will repay the loyalty of Raoul of Sedgemont.’ Again his father motioned to him for silence.

I must remember what Gilbert says, I thought. He is the fool who gives too much away.

Lord Guy was pressing against me, making the man who held me saw at his horse to keep it steady.

‘Tell your Lord Raoul, if ever you see him again, that only fools set themselves up to be the better of their neighbours. These are not times to vaunt honour. Only a madman follows loyalty when the choice is life and death. Oath keeping will not save his lands or titles.’

‘The Celtic princes will not let you hold me prisoner,’ I cried. ‘In tricking Raoul, you trick them.’

‘Once we have you,’ Gilbert laughed, ‘they’ll make their peace with us. As soon us as him. They’ll come knocking at our gates. But first we’ll let them deal with him. What price his honour that he attacks them unprovoked on their own lands? Is that not what they have feared? Short shrift they’ll make of him and his treachery. Your Raoul is as a dead man already.’