Ann of Cambray (7 page)

When the summons came for me to attend upon Lord Raoul himself, I had not the strength to resist. Yet I had been half expecting it, like a soldier who knows a battle is coming and keeps one thought always to his defence. The messengers waited at the door in their brilliant reds and golds, while the women braided my hair and hastily cobbled up some dress for me to wear. I heard them tell me how to walk and smile and curtsy, thus and thus, to turn my lord’s anger aside, but paid their advice scant heed, too. But before I left I took care to slip the little hunting dagger Giles had given me into my sleeve. Thus armed and ready, I followed meekly while the guards clashed and swaggered through the castle halls.

Lord Raoul’s quarters were in a far part of the castle which had been seldom occupied as long as I remembered. Now there were fires blazing in the stone hearths and men-at-arms everywhere in the courtyards and on the stairs. I noted too how even the common men went armed, and the guards kept all their accoutrements about them as if ready to march at short notice. It was unexpected, this martial readiness. And yet, looking about me as we went towards his chambers, I wondered which of these fine fellows was so much Lord Raoul’s man that killing of harmless womenfolk was not accounted a sin. Who among them then was so loyal that a bribe would not ease him into betrayal?

Lord Raoul believes himself safe, I thought, with his armed companions about him, but if there are murderers and villains in the pack, let him beware. They will slit his throat one day, too. When he is alone and out of favour, let him look for loyalty. I little knew how close my thoughts came to the truth later, how close and how far. But that lies ahead. Then I knew only that for all my brave thoughts, I was shaking when I came to the large room where he was waiting.

‘Lady Ann,’ he said, ‘you are welcome.’

His voice, when he spoke in courtesy, still had that timbre of laughter, a vibrancy about it that I remembered from my childhood. It was, I thought, the only attractive thing about him.

‘I trust you are recovered,’ he was saying. ‘You are kind to grace our presence.’

Courtly words. No sign of that anger that they had warned me against. I made him no reply, but curtsied as low as I could, to do Gwendyth credit, although it galled me to make him obeisance. And if I had not come, I thought sourly, no doubt you would have had your guards haul me here by the hair if it pleased you. But I said nothing, kept my eyes downcast, hands folded together, as was fitting in a great lord’s presence. I had been watching Lady Mildred’s maids; I knew humility now well enough to ape it.

‘Sit you here, then,’ he said at last.

‘Nay, my liege lord,’ I simpered, ‘I had lief stand as it pleases you.’

‘Well, stand,’ he said more abruptly. He heaved himself out of his chair and limped towards the open fireplace, leaning against it while he kicked a fresh log into place with the heel of his boot. Two brindled hounds that had been lying close by stretched and padded behind him. In a corner of the room a chest stood open, its contents spilled out carelessly.

But his war gear, coat of mail, shield, and sword belt were neatly laid upon a bench, and his war helmet and great sword lay unsheathed near by. This was a campaign room of a man who expects to be called to duty momentarily. I had thought Sir Brian would be beside him, but he was alone, save for the guard that stood at the door. That gave me more courage. Presently, when I still said nothing, he gave off playing with the dogs and called for his squire to bring him wine. He took the goblet then, and offered it to me formally.

‘By your leave, lady,’ he said, and bowed to me to drink. Again, it was a courtly gesture that none had made to me before but I held firm to my intent.

‘’Tis not fitting, my lord,’ I said.

He scowled at my words, tossed off the wine himself, poured more, and limped from one side of the room to the other with his halting stride. I watched him beneath my lashes.

‘God’s teeth,’ he said at last, broke out with, as if he had meant to remain calm, ‘but will you not even sit or drink in my presence? What ails you?’

‘I do not know what your lordship means,’ I said, smiling to myself.

‘God’s teeth,’ he swore again, then, slowly, as if willing himself to manners, ‘this is a change, is it not, from she who came storming into my Hall, sword in hand, demanding vengeance but days ago.’

‘I had cause,’ I said.

‘I do not deny that. I have called you to hear it. But this,’ he waved his hand in my direction, ‘does not help.’

‘What does not, my lord?’ I asked, echoing his words, as if simple.

He gestured again, a gesture that took in meek face, meek hands, the carefully arranged clothes and hair.

‘Have you nothing to say? You intimated much that night. Or perhaps you prefer to forget what you said.’

His anger gave me heart. That I had come prepared for. ‘Perhaps, my lord,’ I said, choosing words carefully, ‘perhaps since then I have learned discretion. Perhaps I have also learned to be afraid.’

He swore again at that, a soldier’s oath that sat ill with his more formal words.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing, then, my lord,’ I said, ‘as your lordship pleases.’ ‘Devil take it,’ he cried, ‘does your fear so prevent you from sitting or drinking in our presence? Or do you think I shall try to poison you with the first mouthful?’

I said nothing.

He said slowly, ‘This murder hath grieved and startled you, lady, as it must all God-fearing men. I wish only if there be cause or reason perhaps that you know of . . .’

His echo of Sir Brian’s words began to anger me in turn. Yet I had sworn not to lose my temper, because then I might say too much.

‘Cause, cause,’ I said, ‘what cause could there be to kill an old woman who lived as a pauper in my charge. Except, my lord, it has occurred to me, if not to you, that she was killed in my stead. Next time, the murderers will not be so foolish as to make the same mistake. But forgive me, my lord, that I prefer there be no second time. And until I know who are my enemies, it is hard to guard against them.’

He drank another stoup of wine, seeming perturbed by what I said. I still watched him beneath my lashes. Good, if I did but goad him further, it would be sweet revenge.

He said at last, ‘Why speak you of enemies?’

‘My lord,’ my reply came pat, ‘I have long lived here at Sedgemont as ward and dependent, against my will and liking, God knows. But no hurt came to me until now.’

He scowled. ‘What mean you by that?’ he said again, gritted out. I could see the pulse beat in his cheek. Later I came to know it as a sign of mounting rage, held in check by will. But now his anger was plain.

‘Nothing, my lord,’ I said, and slid the last barb neatly into place. ‘You have heard tales enough of how we lived. I make no complaint. But we lived at peace with all until your lordship’s return.’

We stared openly at each other then. I suddenly felt moved to say what was in my mind, even if it threw away the advantage I had won.

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘it is your lordship’s plans that cause my enemies to rise. Perhaps, although I am of little worth, Cambray is more.’

It was a shrewd blow. I saw he had not expected it.

‘I have no plans,’ he said at last, lied, had I not heard him talk of them? ‘None that could wish you ill.’

I was silent still, hands folded. Underneath the stuff of my sleeve, I held the handle of the little dagger. He would not take me off guard again.

‘Lady Ann,’ he was saying, ‘you do me wrong in this. I do not deny that Cambray is the chiefest fort held by the king’s faction along the western border. If I can use it to secure the border for Stephen, it will be to our great advantage. Henry of Anjou will look for help from the west as his mother did before. The death of Gloucester has left a hole in his support there. Cambray may be of more value than you know. And only a fool would let Henry of Anjou take advantage of the lack of a lord of Cambray to call the Celts across the border to his aid.’

Henry of Anjou, Henry of Anjou, I thought. They use his name as a shadow to frighten children. Who is this Henry of Anjou?

‘And what have I to do with Henry of Anjou?’ I said. ‘I want to go back to Cambray, back to my own lands, that is all.’

‘I cannot send you back now,’ he said.

‘But they are my lands.’

‘No, by God, they are not,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘God’s wounds, but you hold them from me. And you are my ward until I give you leave otherwise.’

‘Then have a care of them, my lord,’ I said smoothly, ‘and of me. Else your wardship may be found wanting.’

‘Rot me,’ he said, ‘but you try the patience of a saint.’

He loomed over me, taller by a head, powerful in his open jerkin and linen shirt, his arms braced against a chair. I would not flinch. Within my sleeve I felt the cool steel of Giles’s knife.

‘Show not your rage to me, my lord,’ I said. ‘I could hold my father’s men to my will. You need not fear the Celts either. The Celtic princes swore peace with my father.’

‘Who had a Celt as wife,’ he said, still staring at me. His eyes were dark and stern. Strange eyes, I thought them, large and set wide apart like a deer’s. I would not show him I was afraid.

‘She was my mother, lord,’ I said. ‘I am half-Celt, as you have often baited me with. I am kin to those Celtic princes who rule the lands and people across the border. They will keep peace with me.’

‘You speak proudly,’ he said. ‘Who would have guessed your race from your looks and speech? They say your kind have power to change shape at will. From raging harpy to demure nun? You will not sit or eat or drink with me for a childish fret that once I was angered by your tantrums. Yet you dare draw sword against me at my own table. Do you know what doom is decreed for those who come armed into their liege lord’s Hall? Death it is, lady, slow and painful, to raise weapons against your lord, and he unarmed.’

With a swiftness that unnerved me, he caught hold of my arm and shook it until, with a clatter, the little dagger fell hilt-foremost between us, on the floor at his feet. He bent to pick it up, and still grasping my arm, pulled me towards a small table where he dropped the dagger and stood looking at it and me.

‘And you could not even have used it,’ he said suddenly. ‘Any child at an army’s tail could tell you that you have but one chance to strike and kill, and if you miss ... If you would sleeve a knife, then have the blade at hand, not the hilt, like so. How can you hope to strike with a handle? And hold it firm so that when a man runs upon you, his weight gives you the force your own arm lacks.’

He showed me how to hold the knife so that the sharp edge slid point-first into the palm of my hand.

And then he threw it abruptly on the wooden table so that it struck there quivering.

‘And by the troth, lady, I do well to show you how to kill me,’ he cried, half-angry, half-laughing. ‘Come, can we not forget what has passed between us? When first we met, you were a child and I, forgive me, was not much older than you are now and should have known better than to cross you. And I have a wound that is half-healed and like to lame my leg if I cannot rest it. And I care not to sit if you will not, and I have overthrown the wine so that we cannot drink. Shall we not let bygones be bygones and sheath all weapons for a while? I owe you some amends of neglect and you shall allow me to nurse my present hurts before inflicting new ones.’

The smile he gave me was infectious, the hand warm and steady. I let him lead me to a chair by the fire and waited while he shouted for more wine and food. Seated then like that, with his leg propped before him, he did not look so threatening after all, nor so different in some ways from the teasing lad I remembered.

‘I am not handy with weapons,’ I said at last, hesitatingly. Then he did laugh, the young laugh I also remembered. ‘Only with slingshots,’ he said. ‘They say you are a great huntsman with stone and sling.’

I blushed at that.

‘And rider, too. But there may be time for such pleasures without stealing my horse. We can find more-fitting mount than a knight’s charger.’

I made no reply but noted the words
stealing my horse
for future thought. Perhaps he marked my displeasure, too, for when the food had been brought and the wine (all of which I would have eaten or drunk from hunger had not I remembered how he called me ‘skin and bone’, so sat and nursed pride and determination), he said slowly, as if thinking of ways to please, to recall old times, ‘I knew your father well.’ I was too startled to reply. I had not looked for that.

‘He came often to Sedgemont,’ he said, ‘before these wars began. He was my grandfather’s best friend. He took me on my first hunt. He bore me before him on the saddle of his grey horse.’

I felt him looking at me as I sat there, saying nothing.

‘He was the best horseman I have ever known, And the grey horses of Cambray were famous even then. And I was my grandfather’s only heir, my parents being dead before this. Yet, from among all others, my grandfather chose him to bear me from Sedgemont to our lands in Sieux in southern Normandy.’ He paused before going on, ‘So heard I of your brother, Talisin. And of the little sister with red hair. I knew of you long before we met, Lady Ann. Think you not that it is better to be friends as Lord Falk and Earl Raymond were? For my part, I would not have enmity between us.’

There was a silence then that lengthened until I broke it.

‘It has been long, my lord,’ I said awkwardly, ‘since any have spoken to me kindly of Cambray. Even Gwendyth seemed to have forgotten it.’

‘She who was killed?’

‘Yea, my lord.’

We were silent again.

‘My lord,’ I said abruptly, ‘I have had no traffic with the Celts these many years. And they were not Celts who killed Gwendyth. I saw them. They passed me on the stairs.’

He leaped to his feet, grimacing with pain, and limped towards me.

‘Which stairs? Why spoke you not of it at once?’

‘They lead from the kitchen, a small spiral stair almost built over, where no one goes . ..’

‘I remember it,’ he said; and when I looked at him, surprised, ‘Well, I once was a child here, too. What were you doing there?’