Ann of Cambray (41 page)

Raoul of Sedgemont, they called him thus, those arrogant French lords, without title or rank, Raoul of Sedgemont had the right to choose the weapon, the mode of battle. Never looked he more a lord than that day when he trod the arena they had built in his courtyard, tall, and lithe, only the bruises on his face and arms, the long slash on his cheek, to show what had happened the day before. I was appalled when I heard his choice: with sword and shield, on foot. I had thought he would ride his great black horse, come sweeping down from his upright stance to knock his enemy from his saddle with one swift blow. But Geoffrey comforted me. The ground was too short, he explained, the turning space too limited for that kind of manoeuvring, and the ice had made the stones too slippery to manage horse and shield and lance. But on foot, neither man would have the advantage, or rather, since Raoul was young and fast, he would not tire so easily.

This comforted me until I thought of the disadvantages. ‘For Maneth is older, experienced,’ I cried aloud, ‘I remember how my father said he was a strong man in a fight. . .’ 

‘Nay, lady,’ Geoffrey comforted me, and even in my distress, I noticed how he stood always at my side, no doubt as Raoul had bidden him, ‘my lord is as an eel, you will see for yourself. Maneth will not get close to him.’

There was no more time to brood. Now was the hour when we must all go forth to watch. Yet, before we went, the Lady Mildred came to me herself and took me by the arm to the women’s room. There, with her ladies, she helped me prepare myself, combing and braiding my hair and changing my gown for another.

‘It is one of mine,’ Cecile said, tears of mirth and anguish mingling. ‘Ever before you have returned them in shreds. Pray God it keep you safe.’

I embraced her without words, standing there among them as it seemed to me I had done years ago. But this time death himself waited for us outside.

‘Hasten,’ Lady Mildred said, as if this were an everyday affair. ‘There are times one must show all men what we are made of. If the Lord of Sedgemont goes forth, then honour is due to him through us. So shall we all dress, ladies, although we perish of the cold, that no man need say we do not know what is fitting.’ True to the end, did she exhort us in courtly ways. But before we went out to the courtyard, she drew me aside and flung a long, furred robe about my shoulders. Of great value it was and old.

‘The day is cold,’ she said, her eyes fierce with unshed tears. ‘I would not have you tremble with the cold, Lady Ann.’ And she curtsied.

For the first time had she acknowledged me, who had been part instrument in her husband’s death, who might yet kill her liege lord and mine. At that moment, I longed for words to tell her how, despite all the griefs I had caused her, I, too, knew how to value her and all her services. But the moment passed too long in silence; I made her a curtsy, the first I think I had ever given her.

‘Come then, Lady Ann of Cambray,’ she said, and her dry hand was firm upon mine like withered parchment, like steel. ‘In God’s name go we forth and see justice done for all your wrongs.’

It was perhaps already two hours from noon and yet the day was dark as if new risen. The men had swept most of the snow away and scattered straw about. At one end, a fire had been lit to give heat and light. Most of the men stood behind the barricades that had been raised along the sides. I noted quickly, as I took my place on the bench, how the Cambray men seemed to have scattered through the crowd, how some lingered at the open gate. I glanced upon the battlements, but to my surprise they were empty, the Celtic bowmen having left their post to come into the yard. Maneth, I thought, could no better control his men than he could his son. It must have been against his orders that they left the gate and courtyard unguarded. Yet, except for the French envoys and their guard, only the two combatants were armed. I watched as Raoul came forward, saw how his men had polished his shield until the hawks of Sedgemont flared upon it, how his mail shone about him.

Yet it was the Lady Mildred herself who buckled his sword belt in place, her thin fingers so nimble with silk and thread now fumbling with the heavy straps. Raoul stood by patiently until she was through, settled belt and sword against his thigh, and led her gently back to her seat. Then he waited, below us, his sword flashing once as he drew it on command. Lord Guy was dressed in his long mail coat, no device upon his shield, no colour to him at all, a death figure as he loomed out of the mist. I remembered, in that way we have of thinking of little things, how once they had measured against each other here in the Hall of Sedgemont, the older man, an oak tree, seamed and powerful; the younger pliant, a sapling, yet both of a height, both strong.

The French envoy was on his feet. When he spoke fast, as he did now, the cold whipping beneath his short cloak to make him shiver, I could not follow all his speech, but it sounded well enough. The older man, Sir Gautier, gave the signal. And in the silence that followed the first clash of sword blades was a lightning flash, almost blinding, almost unlooked for.

I could not take my eyes from the two men below. They stood a sword thrust apart and hammered at each other, stroke upon stroke, until you felt their arms must falter from it, stroke upon shield until the echo ran back. I sat there wrapped in the cloak of some lady of Sedgemont, and felt the heir of Sedgemont safe beneath my folded arms, and watched its lord batter and heave and strike until the sweat ran down my cheeks and my hands were wet with it.

Stroke upon stroke, parry and thrust. Neither man yielded ground, neither bent under the blow. Yet, gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, I saw how Raoul had changed the beat, altering his attack, no two strikes alike now, each falling from a different angle, an unexpected slant. His body swayed and dipped with each movement that he made, and his feet turned and pivoted upon the slippery stones. How could he move and bend as if the pull of that heavy mail coat, reaching to his knees, had no weight?

Guy of Maneth had to retreat now. Step by step, he was forced back out of the central court into a corner where the light was dim, where he would have his back to the fire outside the barricade. Now all of us could sense the changing rhythm, faster, both men not striking as one but one striking, the other parrying. There was a hiss, a long breath held too long, as Raoul missed a low slash, stooped to avoid the return, drove on as before. There was another cry, even Cambray men cried out, for Maneth had slipped upon a loose paving stone, or was it where the ice had formed again, and for a moment tottered off balance.

‘Strike, strike,’ I heard Geoffrey whisper at my back. But Raoul did not strike then; he waited until the older man had recovered his balance before the restless beat began again.

Maneth was tiring. You could see his uneasiness. From time to time he shook his head as a bull does when it is baited, and his small eyes cast their restless look from side to side, the furtive look I remembered so well, so that he might estimate where he was and escape from the corner where Raoul was penning him. He had come close now to the barricade at the farthest side from the gate. His black shield rang dully, in places hammered so out of shape that the blows were not deflected but slid at angles towards him. You could hear the panting, too; both men were panting, but Maneth’s was louder, almost sobbing for air. You sensed that the end of his endurance was near.

Then, although I was watching with the rest, I know not how it happened, then he seemed to brush across the barricade. Someone gave a cry of warning. Guessing what Maneth was about to do, Raoul tried to duck. Bits and pieces of debris left by the firemakers came flying through the air, for a moment blinding Raoul. It was a second’s distraction only, but it was enough. Maneth lunged at him, thrusting at him viciously, his sword falling straight down. Again there was a cry; even the French knights stood up and cried aloud and so did I. For with that thrust, Maneth had driven through Raoul’s guard, slashed down across him so that, for a moment, he seemed to fold in upon himself, cutting through shoulder to the bone, rending sword arm useless.

It had been a massive stroke and Maneth had put all his energy into it so that he, too, had to lean a space to catch his breath. For only Raoul’s quickness had prevented him from being torn apart. As it was, his right arm hung limply, the sword tip almost touching the ground. You could see the torn gap in the mail coat where the blade had caught and ripped the woven rings of steel across his shoulder and side, and pierced the leather undercoat, so that flesh and linen shirt flared white to scarlet, and even as he stood, the ground at his feet splashed red. I willed my eyes to shut, willed that I not see the rest, and felt my nails dig into the hands that caught at me on either side to hold me upright on my feet. I willed myself not to see and I did not see.

It was Geoffrey’s roar of pleasure, disbelief, that gave me sight back. Somehow, as they had watched, that drooping figure had changed his sword and shield. How had he done it, with one easy practised motion, throwing heavy shield right, catching sword hilt in his uninjured left hand shouts came to a crescendo then, each man turning to his neighbour, the French shouting out as loud as any.

Two-Handed Raoul.
Was not that what his men called him?

‘Strike, my lord, strike now,’ Geoffrey was shouting, not whispering, and the other men cried out aloud as once more Raoul’s sword beat out its heavy sound, faster than ever upon Maneth’s shield. But the rhythm had to be fast. With every step, the blood flowed. You could see the stain of it on the ground like red hawks falling. He kept his shield arm tight against his wounded side, so that it must have acted as a pad to stem the first heavy flow, but that would not serve him long.

‘Faster, faster,’ Geoffrey cried again, for that was Raoul’s only chance, to strike whilst he had the strength before loss of blood stopped him. Maneth dropped backward, was trying to keep his shield in place to fend off the blows that fell again from unexpected quarter, being driven once more in a corner where he could not swing his sword, where he could not move. But he had only to stay hunched beneath his shield and he was safe.

Then suddenly, so quickly that the eye could not remember what it saw, Raoul leaped in that beautiful, controlled way he had. Somehow his shield swung up, knocking Maneth’s from his grasp so that both clattered away to the side.

For a moment, both men were latched together, then Raoul stepped back. His left arm straightened, sliced through and out. As he drew the blade forth, the black hulk of Maneth seemed to hover about him. Then it toppled slowly forward, falling as it seems all dead men fall, like empty clothes, like rags. There was only one man on his feet, and on the ground, a black thing clawed and writhed to silence. And a vast humming filled the air as if all the watchers at once had drawn breath. Raoul half-turned. Even from this distance I could see the sweat on his forehead, the matted curls, the red cut that glistened against his white face as he pushed back his helmet with his uninjured arm. He held up his sword hilt so that it glittered in the firelight, tried to say something, sank upon one knee. The blood spilled out and he, too, fell upon the ground, face forward.

I stood as stone, still clutching at the Lady Mildred and Cecile’s hands as to safety. My voice when I spoke was as stone. I did not know the words I said, not thinking, not knowing.

‘Geoffrey,’ I said, ‘what Lord Raoul bade you do for me, do you now for him. At my command.’

It is to Geoffrey’s credit that he did not hesitate. Before I had finished speaking, he had vaulted from the bench where we sat and crossed the courtyard. A strange cry floated out — I had heard it before—and at the gate, mounted men appeared, thundering in upon us, striking back the French, who tried to head them off.

Among the crowd, each of our men turned as at a signal. Some stood and chatted with arms thrown across the shoulders of their neighbours. Some argued with them violently to distract them. Two others came running with a makeshift stretcher, while a third, having snatched a sword as his comrades rode by, stood guard above Lord Raoul.

As numb as stone, I turned to the French envoys on their feet before us.

‘By God,’ Sir Gautier said, shaken from his usual aplomb. ‘I did not know he had men without. I did not think that he could win.’

‘My lord,’ I said, leaning towards him, smiling, that men afterwards should say I laughed and smiled while my dear lord lay wounded before my eyes. ‘You did not think they would leave without him.’

On the other side, Cecile had thrown her arms about the second knight so that he could not break free.

‘What happens next, my lord?’ she cried. ‘I am so afraid. Is he dead?’ And she made him look to where the body of Maneth lay with some of his men about it, but it was clear he would never move again.

The Cambray men had made their turn of the courtyard. Where they could, their companions in the crowd had jumped behind them, both men striking on either side to keep the rest back from Lord Raoul. Geoffrey and two others had stripped off his armour, had put some clamp about the wounds, were bearing him at a run towards the gate. As we watched, they hoisted him in front of a horseman who waited there; the others thundered out again. Using Lord Raoul’s bloodstained sword, Geoffrey single-handed beat back the French guard, snatched at the last bridle as the horsemen went by, and swung himself up and away. The French gave a great shout of anger, thrusting us from their side. Before they could give the word to mount and follow, the Lady Mildred herself stood before them.

‘It is God’s will,’ she said, her voice carrying like flint through the noise.

Sir Gautier bit his lip for rage.

‘Aye, madame, in this case. Both he and this lady here are safe. He was not dead when he fell. And he was alive when they put him on that horse. But he is still our prisoner . . .’

‘Praise God for mercy,’ I said, and swooned across them, so that they were forced to catch me when all their energies should rather have been to raise the pursuit after. Men have eyed me askance for that ever since, thinking it but pretence.