Ann of Cambray (30 page)

‘It will not be such as we have at Sedgemont,’ he said, ‘but better stuff than we have known these past few months. And what if we eat rough and forage like horses a few more days. Soon it will be time to go home.’

They gave a cheer at that, drinking to it willingly, and bit into the tough scraps of food without complaint. Tired they were, weary of counting over their losses, tending their wounded, yet not downhearted. I sensed again even stronger the bond among them that let them all sit together in silence. So we stayed, some asleep, some watchful, while the moon rose. All the cruelty of that day seemed washed away at last. Later there would be time to explain, to grieve. That night I thought we lay like ones disoriented after a nightmare, waking to find all things beautiful and fair.

We were off again before dawn. Enchantment has its limits. I was still too stiff to walk or ride and my face was swollen and dark. Raoul was on edge, his voice harsh as he ordered the line of march. His men, who had fought two battles and ridden a hundred leagues or more within days, were foul-mouthed and bleary. Hunger did not improve their tempers. And we still had a long way to go before we could count ourselves free of pursuit. They had taken the horses at the village, but were loath to turn their own mounts loose for fear of their giving us away, and, if truth be told, not being willing to lose a chance at returning with two horses in the stead of one if they could. We rode more slowly than Raoul wished, burdened therefore with pack horses and lead animals, yet as the cavalcade wound its weary way through these deserted lands, we found the time, at last, to talk of all the things that must be said. In this way, sitting before him on his war horse, whose black body still seemed coiled to rage and energy, I could tell him how Guy of Maneth had boasted of the Celtic attack, how he had watched for my uncle’s coming as the perfect chance to spring the trap, how he and his son had sent out their own men disguised among some Celtic scavengers whom they had wed to their service, and how they had waited for our return in the village where Raoul had found us. But of the part the red-haired woman had played, how her information about the camp had helped and how she had revealed my presence there, told Maneth where to find me, that I did not tell. It would have been an unfair charge that he must have borne.

Lord Raoul, in turn, did not speak of Giles, not then, although I learned their losses had been heavy, not only among the fighting men but also among those who had waited by the stream. Many of my former friends were gone, pages and younger boys I had known well, and the old Celtic woman and her daughters who had been cut down as they hid. As he had boasted, Maneth had planned carefully. Once I had been taken, the attackers had fallen back. Lord Raoul’s men, infuriated by the unprovoked killing of the noncombatants, had taken this as proof, if proof was needed, that such cruelty, contrary to the rules of war, was the work of barbarians. Those of the attackers who were left behind they cut down without mercy. Lord Raoul’s first thought then had been as Maneth had surmised, to send out a search party to follow hard upon the tribesmen over the boundary. But then, as tempers had cooled, signs appeared that all was not as it seemed. There were plenty of Celtic dead, it is true, no doubt of that, and some of the attackers had obviously returned to their mountain lairs, presumably paid in advance by Maneth.

But a few bodies were found with Norman gear beneath their furs; a man cried out in Norman-French. One lived long enough to taunt them with stupidity. Raoul began to remember my uncle’s words, that there were always renegades who could be coaxed across the border in return for loot. He recalled, too, what had been told him of Maneth before, that he got his men wherever he could find them. He did not have time to deliberate. If it were true what he then suspected, Maneth’s forces would have already turned north, heading for the safety of their castle. He had divided his forces then, abandoning the camp altogether, sending one fast group across the border, the other under his command taking the most direct way to Maneth castle. At first, it seemed he had misjudged, there being such little evidence. But then they came upon the Celtic ponies that had been left behind. The villagers where we had made our first stop came creeping out, seeing who it was, to give what news they had, the double burden on one horse, the cast-off Celtic dress, the signs they knew, only too well, of a war party from Maneth. Except the lords of Maneth this time did not lead it themselves.

In turn, I told him what I had learned of Maneth’s plans, letting him piece together the scraps of news, for my brain ached at the thought. He reined up on hearing that Lord Guy had already left to join Henry of Anjou in France.

‘Now, by God,’ he exclaimed when I repeated that Henry of Anjou intended to sail for France, ‘before God and Saint George, that is the best news yet.’

‘Best?’I repeated. I was still sitting before him, and he slid back upon the broad seat of his saddle to give me room to turn. ‘Best, when there he will be coiled, Maneth, coiled at your enemy’s ear to win favour for himself against us. And when he hears news of his son’s death?’

‘He’ll not get news of that awhile,’ Lord Raoul said more soberly. ‘We have buried that evidence well. And who is left to accuse us? A hundred of his enemies it could have been, even the Celts, who have as much cause to fear and dislike him. Lady Ann, you cannot know what monsters these lords have become, how many poor souls they have captured and robbed and tortured. Their licence this past year runs beyond any man’s reckoning. But we have witnesses who have escaped their torture racks to bring the proof. They lack not for enemies. It is only thanks to God they did not have you fast within the cursed place.’

We were both silent for a while, thinking our own thoughts.

Then he said, ‘But if Henry of Anjou has gone from England, if only briefly, well then, here comes the respite we all have been waiting for. If England is free of him, so are we. That is news worth all this hard ride.’

‘You mean to go back to Sedgemont?’ I asked.

My face must have revealed my thoughts because suddenly he began to laugh. I had almost forgotten how attractive his laugh was, and his teasing voice, when he said next, ‘Why, Lady Ann, see how small a group we are. Look round about you. Here we are, the men of Sedgemont with dulled swords and week’s beards. You can count us as you ride. My other vassals I have sent across the border, and if my messengers do not reach them first before the Celts attack them, they will be dead by now. If stopped in time, then they, too, will be heading home. No, no, I do but tease you. They are safe, thank God. But I have not the heart to lure them back upon a personal quarrel. Even you would see the fairness of that. And where should we go, our camp being overrun?’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly, ‘they have done enough. And so have you.’

He laughed again, showing his teeth white against the growth of beard. At the sound, his men seemed to sit firmer in their saddles; their horses even pricked their ears.

‘By Jesu,’ he said again, ‘we are free then. But I did not say I would go home again, not yet.’

I stared at him, not understanding.

‘Why,’ he said again, with that flash, that lilt, that was part of his personality, ‘if Gilbert of Maneth was so sure to take Cambray, perhaps we can do for him that much honour to take it in his stead. What, shall we have our enemies call us fools and not give them the lie?’

There was a ripple among the men.

‘Where is Dylan?’ he said. ‘He knows Cambray better than any soldier here.’

A man came pushing forward, Dylan it was indeed, to whom I had not spoken since that day in the stables at Sedgemont. He looked at me, a dirty cloth about his head, another, darker stained, about his forearm.

‘My lady.’ He saluted me, his dark eyes impudent, although he did not smile.

I hid the memory of that last meeting when we three, he and I and Giles, had talked of Cambray. Now as I unwound the cloths about his wounds, he and Raoul spoke while the other men gathered round to listen. But first they made me repeat all that Gilbert had said, and his boasts that he could find a way within the castle without setting siege to it.

‘Dylan,’ said Lord Raoul when I was through, ‘What think you of that?’

‘We have all seen Cambray,’ Dylan said slowly, taking no more heed of what I was doing to his arm than if I had been a fly. ‘We are too few to hem it round and it is too strong to take by frontal attack. If someone would open the gates, as was done for the Celts . . .’

‘Or by some secret, other way?’

Dylan considered. ‘It could be, my lord,’ he said at last. ‘Lord Falk of Cambray was clever. He had a long life living by his wits. In attack or defence, none was more skilful.’

‘I think that was what Maneth meant,’ I broke in, excited suddenly despite the calm way they spoke. ‘It sticks in my memory how he seemed overjoyed as if at some secret. He boasted mindlessly, yet I think he had some knowledge that he believed in. Wrung from my father’s old comrade, poor soul.’

‘My lord,’ Dylan said, grimacing at last as I pulled a rag tighter across the slash on his arm. ‘My lord, if I understand you right, what Gilbert of Maneth hinted at was that somehow Lord Falk had built an escape passage from Cambray. He would have thought of it as safeguard, the last route by which the defenders could flee if the castle was ever taken. I myself do not know of it, nor have I ever heard tell of it. But it is possible one of his longtime followers who came with him from France would know. In giving away that information, he would have told an enemy how to get inside the castle. Retrace the path and there you are. But that, too, I do not know. I was not there when the castle was built. And Lord Falk was close-mouthed, as you know, about his affairs.’

‘Cambray is made of stone,’ Raoul mused. ‘Although it is built to simple design, a square within a round, a keep within an encircling wall, it is made of stone. Few border castles are. They are mainly thrown up in haste of wood. But there are castles in Normandy, more elaborate ’tis true, which have many secrets built within their walls. If there was a passage, it must be from the keep. The keep would be the last place where they would make a stand. That, too, is made of stone.’

Lord Raoul turned to me. ‘Lady Ann, do you know aught of this?’

I said slowly, afraid they would mock me, ‘Gilbert’s words stuck in my mind the more they seemed to recall some memory, something that Talisin once said. But I cannot get it straight.’ And I thought again of how I used to dream in the camp of recapturing Cambray, how even then, elusive memories had clung to me, although never before had I put words to them.

‘If anyone would have known, the young Lord Talisin would,’ Dylan said slowly. ‘My lord, there may be something to it. It would be a family secret, perhaps entrusted also to one or two faithful retainers, but to no one else.’

‘How stands the castle, the keep? Refresh my memory.’

Lord Raoul had turned again to Dylan. I watched them as they spoke, lord and soldier, yet man and man as well.

‘Here, my lord.’ The two men swung off their horses, the others crowding round, although I noted how, without orders, several remained watchful on the outskirts.

Dylan squatted on the ground, drawing faint lines in the dirt with his dagger point. A circle for the outer crenellated walls, a space for the bailey, a square to indicate the keep, wavy lines to indicate the cliffs and sea.

‘Here be the outer walls, my lord,’ Dylan explained, using his dagger as marker. ‘Of fitted stone, not dressed. Lord Falk, they say, took the stones from an old ruined fort nearby. I have not seen stones cut so before. The main gate here, facing east away from the shore. On the opposite side, the walls go down to the cliff face. The keep, thus. A guardroom beneath, a narrow circular stair up to the Hall, another narrow stair to the women’s quarters in the solar above. I know not how they are arranged.’

‘Built on solid ground?’

‘Nay,’ said Dylan almost proudly, ‘on rock, my lord. Rock that goes a hundred feet into the sea.’

These last words too seemed to ring into my ear. ‘Raoul,’ I cried in excitement, not noticing that for the first time I had called him by his given name. ‘Raoul, listen.’

They looked at me expectantly, those tired dirty men, their armour ripped and stained, hacked like beggars’ cloaks at a fair. Yet there was a glint about them, you could feel it, almost touch it. I tried to put coherently what Dylan’s words had conjured up, a sunlit day when as a small child I had played at some game with the women in the solar. The ball had rolled behind a tapestry. The tapestry was long and hung from the ceiling, covering a narrow gap between two walls that led to a window set up high at the end. Talisin had snatched the ball away from me and pushed me back from behind the tapestry, where I had crept to retrieve it.

Don’t play there,
he had said.
It leads a hundred feet into the sea.

I said, concentrating, ‘In the solar, there is only one side that faces the sea. It is a large, squarish room with several narrow cells set into the thick walls for storage and sleeping space. On one side, I think, over the main gate to the east, there are three window openings. You can look out of them. On the opposite seawall there is but one window space, set up too high to look out, and a passage leading to it, never used, a short corridor if you will, cut into the thickness of the wall, hid by a curtain before it. And it seems to me that you can hear the surging of the sea, as if the wall goes down to the sea itself . . .’

‘The western wall.’ Raoul and Dylan spoke as one. They turned back to the rough sketch in the earth. ‘On the seaward side.’

Raoul pointed again to Dylan’s marks, questioning this one, then that.

‘And at sea level?’

I was leaning over the edge of the saddle, as intent as the rest.

‘I can tell you that,’ I said. ‘Caves. There are caves—the cliffs are riddled with them.’

‘Tide-washed?’

‘Some yes, completely. Others are large and I think above sea level, at least during the neap tides. You think a passage there, then?’