Ann of Cambray (45 page)

‘You do not think to sell yourself easily?’ Sir Gautier’s voice broke in upon my reverie. He and Sir Renier had come spurring up, and leaned now upon their saddles while their horses heaved and pawed, foam spraying from their bits. He pointed with his sword to my hand where I still held Giles’s knife.

When I could speak, ‘And what would you do with that?’ I said, pointing in turn to his sword.‘Do not tell me that it was used on our behalf?’

‘Dieu,
I did but course after hares,’ he said.

‘What waste of effort,’ I replied, scarce caring what I said as long as the sickness kept its distance whilst they were there, ‘to turn you back so far from your path.’

My men had drawn up behind me now as I sat, Raoul’s men, I should say. I had seen them exercise that formation a hundred times across the great meadows of Sedgemont and in the camp on the border.

‘Who trained them to that?’ Sir Renier asked. ‘Who serve you?’

They looked at him disinterestedly, cleaning their swords upon their cloaks, resettling their shields, their straps, without word.

Fighting the return of faintness, I said breathlessly, ‘While they ride with me, they serve me.’

‘No woman . . .’ Sir Renier began. Then Sir Gautier who had been observing me narrowly, broke in, ‘Then were you better served, my lady, to ride slower with your men. Have them bear you in a litter. Hire more men. Ride slower.’

‘I can keep up,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I have no choice.’

‘Why not?’ he said, still watching me. ‘I do not understand your haste.’

‘So that the people whom I know and trust,’ I said slowly, forcing myself upright against the tree, ‘will not be reduced to living like these poor wretches, so that they are free to hunt among their own lands.’

‘It will kill you, lady,’ he said again, pulling at his beard, his round face suddenly drawn with worry.

‘Should that concern you,’ I said bitterly, beckoning them to bring my horse so I could mount, ‘what will one more death be to you?’

He bit his lip, his colour darkening as I had seen before, and turned away. It was Sir Renier who dismounted, helped me to the saddle, escorted Cecile, who had clung to her own horse this while, half-dead with fear, and brought us to the lodgings for the night. That night again I sank away to sleep before I could take food or drink, and dreamed that I was back at Cambray, running through the sand dunes towards the beach. The sea was out, and the breakers fell with a far-off murmur on the shore. And at the water’s edge a black-hooded figure waited for the tide to turn to drag Raoul, to drag Talisin, against the rocks.

The next morning was clearer, warmer still. We did not shiver as we usually did as we awaited the Frenchmen’s departure. My guard were not talkative, but even they looked more cheerful than before, as if a taste of victory had heartened them. But when the Frenchmen appeared, they looked straight ahead as they always did, as if they saw no one.

Sir Gautier came over to me. ‘Ride you beside me,’ he said abruptly. ‘We pass through a lonely place today, where there be more vagabonds. Keep your men close behind.’

‘I would thank you,’ I said, suddenly smiling at him, ‘if I knew why your change of heart. . .’

‘I have not time,’ he said, smiling at me in return, the first smile he had given since that night at Sedgemont, ‘to pant back and forth upon your trail. Although I do not think you wise to keep up this pace.’ And there was a question in his shrewd look that suddenly made me want to turn away as if he might have guessed a secret that I thought hidden from everyone. I made pretence at gathering up the reins, putting on my gloves, settling my dagger at my side.

When his refusal to move forced me to reply, ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I said at last, lamely. ‘If Cecile can, so can I.’ 

‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I would not have thought her capable.’

‘If we cannot, then shall you leave us again,’ I said. And with that he had to be content.

Sir Gautier was a good companion on the road. What he had guessed at, hinted at, never for decency did he mention again, at least not then, and it may have been my own guilt that suspected he knew more than I wished any man to know. He did not make concessions to Cecile and me; but by now she could manage as well as anyone, and I, well, I would, too. You come to know men when they are doing what they are best at. Sir Gautier was a good leader. Less open than Raoul with his men, less on easy terms, he was efficient and spare. And shrewd. Both he and Renier were more shrewd and cynical than I had reckoned them, both of them having had long practise at the courts of Anjou and Aquitaine.

On the other hand, neither man was cautious about his life at court, speaking more openly of it than ever Raoul had done. It was from Renier, a Frenchman, that I learned most of London and the pleasures that awaited us there, the feasts, the fairs, the shops, which made it more large, more prosperous than any place I had ever imagined. And from Sir Gautier, all the further detail I could glean of Henry and his queen. And then again from Renier, descriptions of that hot sultry land in the south, which I never thought to see, dust-dry and hot, so unlike these muddy wet trails we rode across in this wintry landscape here, that Aquitaine, which he despaired of returning to once more.

One night we lodged at a monastery, well entertained by the abbot and his monks, far removed from those frugal silent meals I remembered. Anything less like my experience within cloistered walls cannot be described; those good men turned up their noses at Cistercian piety, sneering at the hypocrisy that made pretence that starvation and silence were sources of holiness. They munched upon the pastries and pies and haunches of venison, caught, no doubt, in the king’s forest, while the abbot explained his idea to us, waving his pudgy fingers with enthusiasm. ‘For things will be different,’ he said, ‘now that Henry is king. We shall have no more interference as we had under Stephen. We have had too many people poking their fingers into English Church affairs. This Henry will have learned his lesson not to meddle with us.’

‘I am not sure,’ Sir Gautier answered, smoothing his beard as he did when thoughtful. ‘I have known Henry a long time. He makes us all grow old with his energy. He will not be like his French king, squatting on his throne complaining of his wrongs. You may find, my lord Abbot, he puts his finger deeper in than anyone you have known. And he may out argue you to boot. He is skilled in many languages including priestly Latin.’

‘He will find me ever generous.’ The lordly abbot waved his hand again. ‘I will offer him the hospitality of his own hunting grounds, which I have made good use of whilst he was away in France.’

‘Do not suggest that to him,’ Sir Gautier said almost dryly. ‘He is generous in many things, but not his hunting privileges. Jesu, I have known him work the whole night through, trailing from one room to the next, with his scribes running behind him, and when he had worn them out, kicking us awake to send us hawking before dawn. Nor does he welcome easy living, good food, as the rest of us do. I think he delights in bedding down upon the open fields just to watch his retinue bicker with drawn swords over the privilege of a straw pillow. I have slept so myself many times with only a cloak to cover me.’ He sighed. ‘But he is young, you see, my lord Abbot. We who are older need enjoy our creature comforts more. If he grant us them.’

The abbot, who was older by thirty years, had paled at the hint, the threat implicit in those words. ‘Then will he find London a paradise, after these harsh customs,’ he said, attempting to jest.

‘I doubt that.’ Sir Gautier’s tone was brisk. ‘I doubt if London has held him long. Once crowned, he will not have wasted time before riding about his new kingdom to see to things himself. Look for him here, my lord. He will turn up one day without warning.’

‘The king is not in London?’ It was my turn to stammer forth. Here was unexpected news. ‘How then shall I see him?’ 

‘Unless you mean to quest across the length and breadth of England,’ Sir Gautier said, ‘you must wait like the rest of us.’

I slowly pushed aside my platter, the rich food cloying in my mouth as I spoke. All about me, the red, flushed faces laughed and ate and drank, enough food to fill a town, whilst in a hovel, a woodcutter’s hut, Lord Raoul and his men lay half-starved and hoped for help from me.

‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘Where shall I find him? Do you not go to meet him?’

‘Yes, lady,’ he said, ‘but for you, that would be impossible. I shall have to cast and cast about me in the hunting field. Where he is today, God knows; where tomorrow, when I have caught up with today?’

I stood up slowly, feeling for the back of my chair. The others eyed me, curious for a moment, as I forced my legs to carry me away. I had thought London would be the end of my search. To hear now that it must go on and on near broke my resolve. And I did not have time to waste. Time was my enemy. I must find the king and plead for Raoul before the king’s messengers should hunt him out again, or he try to resist them ... or before all men would know I pleaded in a special case, for the father of my bastard child . . .

‘But I thought you sought London, Lady Ann.’ Sir Gautier’s voice was almost perplexed. He had followed me to where I leaned against an outer wall. ‘You are unwell, you look unwell. Allow me to call your woman to tend you.’

I could sense the concern in his tone. His dark eyes were fixed upon mine. He tugged at his beard.

‘I must see the king,’ I said, not caring now what I revealed to him. ‘It is a matter of life and death. Time to me is all. Take me with you, my lord. Have I not shown I can keep up as a man?’

He did not answer me at first, tried instead to lead me to a bench that stood within the columned walks, and when I did not move, stood looking out across the dim-lit garden, all shrouded now in January greys and browns. In the spring it would be pleasant here, a garden within these monastic walls, as rich and lush as the food they ate, the life they knew.

‘Lady,’ he said at length, and I saw how he kept his gaze fixed on the far side of the court, as if he did not wish to note what was happening underfoot. ‘Lady, I told you I do not need to know your affairs. What you seek, who and why, are not for me to know. I have scant knowledge of women, a bachelor knight am I. My life has been wrapped up in court. I stand close to the king, as close, that is, as any man. I tell you this not to boast, but to show you something of what I am. I am older than you by some twenty years. Before you were born was I with Count Geoffrey of Anjou, King Henry’s father. I knew his heart like my right hand. The court and its ways are no secret to me. They are to you. What hope will you have, unknown, young, poor, without friends, to trail your suit before the great lords of this land?’

‘Someone will help me,’ I said. ‘I am not so unbefriended. There will be someone who will speak for us.’

‘Do not count on it,’ he said dourly, as dourly as Dylan had warned me before. ‘You dare to thrust where other men will hold back.’

‘God has spoken on our behalf already,’ I said. ‘Forget not that when you tell your tales.’

‘I tell no tales,’ he said, flushing again. ‘I can only report what I saw happen at Sedgemont: no more, no less. Do not ask too much of me.’

‘It was little enough I asked,’ I said proudly, ‘an audience, that is all, to state the truth. As God has already proved it.’ 

‘They all think that they state the truth,’ he said, still staring away from me. ‘Who is there who does not think he is in the right?’

‘Between right and wrong you can judge,’ I said. ‘Court life has not ruined that for you.’

At that he did turn round, and beat his fist against the wall as once Raoul had beat his for rage. I saw the indecision in his gesture, that I should put pressure on him, that he should jeopardise his standing with his king.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know the court. Nor am I so unworldly that I do not know the facts of life. Speak not to me of right and wrong. You, I think, are with child . . .’

I gaped at him, stopping my hand that instinctively would have moved to cover my belly. Then I faced him.

‘Then what wrong is there,’ I cried, ‘that my child’s father should live? Were you in such distress, my lord, would not you wish your mistress to speak for you? Who else is there who has greater right?’

He made a gesture as if to stop his ears. ‘I do not want to know the whys and hows,’ he cried. ‘They are not my concern. But they will mock you for a wanton in the streets.’ 

‘I daresay Guy of Maneth has already branded me,’ I said. ‘His son would have had all his men take turns to make me whore. I am used to slander. Well, what if it is true I know no great lords, as you taunt me with. But I have friends, unknown, lowly, you would call them, who have given their lives for me. I owe them much.’

I looked at him dry-eyed, emotion spent.

‘I thought you, too, might be my friend,’ I said.

‘What would you have me do?’ he said. ‘I know you have cause. There, I have said it. But I tell you, if you speak what I think you will to King Henry, he will not listen. Even if God himself speaks for you! Henry,’ he paused a moment, ‘Henry of Anjou is not as other men. He will not listen. Or he will listen and promise and not do. Or, since you would have me speak openly, as you are young and fair, look not so surprised, he will listen and promise and demand payment for his services. And that is worse.’

‘Then is there no hope at all?’ I asked, half-whispering.

He said abruptly, ‘Go with Sir Renier. Tomorrow our ways part. He will go south to the queen, I north to track down the king. The queen has settled with her court and her young child at Bermondsey, south of London, close to the river there. Sir Renier will get you audience of her.’

‘But will he help me?’ I said, stretching out my hand to detain him.

His look told me what I needed to know. ‘He will do it,’ it said, ‘because I order so.’ But what he said was quite different. ‘If you smile at him, Lady Ann,’ he said, ‘or look at him as you look now, he will do anything you ask. But for good measure, I tell you this.’ He smiled at me. ‘I am not versed in women’s ways, but I know the queen will soon give birth again. A second son will win the king back to London fastest of all things. She will have his ear as I have not. And your secrets will be safe with me.’