Ann of Cambray (8 page)

I hesitated to answer that.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘it will be easier if you tell all you know.’ 

‘I had gone to the kitchen,’ I said finally, ‘for food. Well, that is the way we lived. And we lodged in a small room above. I heard men running and hid.’

I gulped, remembering again that stealthy clink, those soft running feet, the hissed whispers.

‘I marked them as they passed. They spoke Norman-French as you do, my lord.’

‘From among my men?’ he said. ‘I think that impossible. How were they dressed? Saw you their faces? Who was at Sedgemont that night?’

He limped back and forth, the hounds padding beside him. ‘Who would dare?’ he said again. ‘How looked they?’

‘Armed,’ I told him, ‘with heavy cloaks drawn over their heads. And spurred for riding.’

‘We feasted in the Great Hall,’ he said, running over names aloud of guests, messengers, and envoys who had been there. When he came to Guy of Maneth’s name, he stopped.

‘Guy of Maneth,’ he repeated then. ‘But he rode out next morning. He and his men. And they are from the border, speaking as you do.’ He turned to me. ‘What do you know of this Lord of Maneth?’

‘Little enough, my lord,’ I said truthfully. ‘He used to come to Cambray from time to time. He was, I think, a minor lord, vassal to another, not to Sedgemont. His son Gilbert was Talisin’s age.’

‘You do not like him,’ he said sharply. ‘Your voice betrays you.’

‘He has a weasel look, my lord,’ I said at last, lamely, for I could not then put into words the dislike that seeing him had roused in me—dislike and unease. ‘His eyes are set too close...’

He laughed at that as if relieved.

‘By the Rood, lady,’ he said, ‘if that is all, I shall not set great store by your likes or dislikes. It is not by a man’s looks that he is judged. He seemed in good spirits when we feasted that night. He seemed concerned for you. And he has border men about him.’

‘Not all,’ I said. ‘They say, in the stables, that he gets his men wherever he can find them. And they say,’ I hesitated again, ‘that although in public he spoke fair, in private he was angry; that he shouted and raved. . .’

Lord Raoul’s face grew thoughtful.

‘A man may lash out at his underlings for many faults,’ he said at last. ‘Maneth had no need to plot against Cambray or its heir.’

He paused now, as if thinking, seemed to be about to speak again, limped from side to side, then said abruptly, ‘You spoke the truth, Lady Ann. There must be plans made to secure Cambray. If war comes again, the king must be sure of the western marches. And war is coming, of that you may be convinced.’

‘I thought that now all was peaceful at last,’ I cried. ‘Is not Stephen accepted as king?’

He said, ‘Henry of Anjou is not about to sit peacefully and lose his hope of inheritance.’ He paced about. ‘A while ago, you asked what your life had to do with his. Lady Ann, let this be your first lesson in diplomacy. Anything that the great do has some effect on everyone. Henry of Anjou is as yet occupied in France, but he will not bide there long. When he has made himself secure in all the lands that he covets there, then will he turn his attention back to England. He was raised up here as a child. You should remember he knows England well. He will not let his mother’s claim go begging.’

‘I did not know all this, my lord,’ I began timidly, when he broke in.

‘Well, that is the advantage of a safe fortress at least—not even news can get in. By his father’s death is he Count of Anjou. By war has he won the duchy of Normandy and the King of France has given him title to it. And if what is rumoured comes true, the divorced queen of France, Eleanor of Aquitaine, will wed with him and bring with her all her vast possessions in southern France. Then will Henry of Anjou own more land in France than the French king himself. Then will he have time and money enough to come back to England.’

‘And do all men fear him so much my lord?’ I asked again, for, in truth, this was the first time I had thought of such things.

‘Do not lions breed true?’ he answered. ‘Even as a child, they say his mother brought him to watch condemned men die that he might grow used to blood. He has been bred up for a purpose. They are clever, these Angevins. When they are stronger than the French king, whom they despise, they will not make the same mistake, letting their vassals become too powerful for their control. And they are ruthless. I have seen tor myself in France how his father, Geoffrey, has destroyed his own followers when it pleased him. The Angevins are noted for the way they will sack their own vassals’ estates if they think it will enhance their power. Henry of Anjou has grown into the man that he promised as a boy. Having France, he will unleash a pack of war hounds when he comes back to England. He has wealth and power enough to buy the scum of Europe as his mercenaries. . .well, these be unfitting thoughts for maiden ears. . .’

‘Nay, my lord,’ I protested, ‘but it strikes me strange that you and he both should be caught up betwixt France and England in your loyalties. Are you not of one place or the other? Could not France content him?’

He shrugged as if he had not thought of that before.

‘It is the way,’ he said at last. ‘The lords of Sedgemont were counts in Sieux and Auterre long before we came to England. It is to our advantage, too. For I am returned to Sedgemont now to call up my feudal levies here upon the coming of Anjou. Then shall I go to France and wait upon my French knights there and raise money upon my lands for arms.’

His easy roll of names and titles frightened me. I had not thought of him as so great a lord. But I persisted still.

‘And Cambray?’

He paced about in his halting stride as he said, ‘I can do little now to free the passage of your revenues until I go there in person to put things in order. But it is a charge I shall take upon myself. More to the point is your safety here. You shall be well treated here at Sedgemont as is your right. Men to guard you, womenfolk to wait upon you . . .’

‘I do not want womenfolk about me,’ I said. ‘One man to guard would suffice.’ And I thought suddenly, if he will agree, we can go on as before.

‘There is one man, my lord,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘a groom of your stables. He would watch me well. His name is Giles . . .’ 

Lord Raoul stared at me. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I have heard report of him also. But if you wish it. . .’

‘Indeed I do.’

‘Then let him wash off the muck of the stable and dress as squire and attend you, with the Lady Mildred’s permission.’ 

‘But I had not her in mind,’ I cried, dismayed. ‘I did not think to be locked up with her.’

He laughed at that.

‘I am sure not. But there are some things that she can do that I cannot, and she will certainly hold you safe until I return from France. You are growing, Lady Ann. Cambray will need more than a hoyden to rule it one day.’

As my look grew sulky, he said, ‘Come, come, when I return, we shall go hunting in the forests of Sedgemont. It is overlong since I rode there. I hope you have left me some deer.’

He was teasing me again.

‘Have you not missed Sedgemont while you have been so long gone, my lord?’ I asked him shyly.

But he was staring at the fire now, and his thoughts had gone far away.

‘I think of it as you do,’ he said, ‘a place to live but not my home. That is best remembered in Normandy. One day, please God, we shall all be free to live in peace and travel on our own lands.’

‘When there is peace, will you come back to live in Sedgemont?’

He still stared at the flames. His eyes were green now and the silver-gold hair curled with the heat.

‘I have had so much of camp and battle,’ he said, ‘to tell you truth, I have not thought overmuch what else I should do.’ He suddenly turned to me, one of those abrupt movements that I was never prepared for.

‘Why did you leap at me when you were a child?’ he said. ‘I did but seek to help you free of your blindfold.’

‘I thought you were Talisin,’ I said at last. ‘I thought for a moment he had come back to me.’

‘I never met your brother,’ he said, ‘to my loss. But I shall always bear the mark of his sister on my arm. Look.’

He thrust it out laughing. I did not notice then the faint white lines on his hand; my eyes were drawn to the vivid scar that ran across his right wrist. He saw what I was looking at.

‘Not that, God’s death,’ he said. ‘That all but cost me my fighting arm, if not my life. Even you could not do that, Lady Ann. But have we leave to hope that your scars of Sedgemont will be less painful?’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ I smiled at him at last, ‘you may at least hope so.’

He stood aside then to let me pass.

‘When you smile,’ he said, ‘you almost look as I imagined you.’

And so he had the last and better word after all.

One thing I did after leaving him. Knowing that once Lady Mildred was in charge, such escapades would be difficult, I sought out Giles in the stable. The guards let me pass easily enough from Lord Raoul’s quarters and I had no difficulty finding Giles. He was grooming a tall, rangy black stallion that started and shied at any sudden noise.

‘Wild it is,’ Giles said good-naturedly, standing on tiptoe to reach its head, ‘mad-tempered, worse than your Cambray grey, you’re so fond of.’

I watched him affectionately. I had wanted to tell Giles of his good fortune myself. For it was good fortune and so I told him, tactfully, for no one likes to know that his menial position is clear to everyone. But from a place where he would be bound for the rest of his life, from which he could never have risen anywhere, a non-free man, he had, by one stroke, moved to squire’s rank, halfway even to that of knight, the highest of all. Even a king has to be a knight first. It was advancement he could never have expected, and how great a difference it would make, he must know better than I. But like many things, what seems done for good often turns out for ill. Although I swear that day none of us thought so far ahead.

Giles was stunned by the news. ‘It cannot be,’ he kept saying, collapsing to the straw under the forefeet of the great horse, which, in the contrary way of bad-tempered things, beasts as well as men, took no more notice of him than of a fly, although if I had done the same it would have broken me with its hooves.

‘It cannot be, Ann, I’m not sure it’s right.’ He was more agitated than I had ever known him, running over in his mind all the changes—leaving of a way of life, habits, and customs that were not only his own but had been the way of his folk for generations.

‘A groomsman is a groomsman,’ he said despondently, yet at the same time eagerly, as if hoping I could convince him. ‘I know horses, no one better. But I don’t like them much. And as for fighting—I’m good with a dagger. I’d be as clumsy as you with a sword . . .’

It says much for our friendship that I did not clout him for that unfortunate remark, but instead worked to convince him. It was true he was not a horseman, a rider I mean, but, 'Look,’ I told him, ‘how you lie sprawled beneath that brute’s feet. No one else I know would dare that. The other things you can learn. And, Giles, we’ll not be parted. We shall see each other all the time. We can still ride together. And we can talk.’

‘Ann,’ he said soberly, ‘but it will be different. Better for us, I think, if I stay where I am and tend your horses all my life.’ He searched for words to explain what I think he foresaw more clearly than I; how great the difference between us would be. As stable boy and hoyden, to use Lord Raoul’s word, we had run together, free enough, but as lady and squire there would be an immeasurable gap between us. Perhaps, being older and a man, he sensed it; or perhaps, because he loved me, he resented it. But I knew so little then of love or all its subtleties. I could think only how happy I would be to have him still as a friend, still converse with him sometimes, and I let my happiness convince him.

When we had settled these affairs to our mutual satisfaction, at my request he went to find the one man who had called out in the Great Hall that night, the only one who had answered the Cambray battle cry. I had been curious to know who he was. His name was Dylan, a small dark man, like many from the border lands; I did not remember him well, yet he had been one of the escort who had ridden with me from Cambray those years ago, one of some dozen of them, and only he had survived to come back.

When he and Giles returned, I squatted down, as in the old days, upon a bale of hay, eager to question him. I took no notice of the surliness with which he greeted me at first. Border people are like that, cautious and leery, not wearing their charm on their sleeves for all to see, like some.

Bit by bit, I drew out from him what I wanted to know and he warmed to the task as a soldier does when he speaks of old battles. I will not tell you now all he said. Sufficient that he and the other men of Cambray had seen war enough, and those who had died had died like men, for all their ill-fashioned gear and ways. Lord Raoul could have found no fault with them, the men my father had trained. But it saddened and angered me to think how many were gone, who had survived all the hard years my father had given them when he had first built Cambray and pushed the Celts back from the surrounding lands. And at Cambray itself, Dylan said, there were few fighting men left, some of them having come with me, others scattered; only a handful of the house guard remained.

‘But that, too, will change,’ he said, ‘for there is talk of our return there soon. But, look you, Lady Ann, such fighting we have never seen, harder than any in your father Lord Falk’s day. There is nothing worse than civil war, friend against friend, brother against brother, so you know not who is friend or foe. Please God, say I, it be ended with this truce.’ And he took a great pull on the flagon of ale that Giles had thoughtfully given him, as if to drown his thoughts.

‘And Lord Raoul?’ I had been longing to ask. ‘What sort of man is he?’

‘A bonny fighter,’ said Dylan, shattering my hopes of hearing ill of him, ‘leads well, asks nothing that he won’t do himself. Now I remember at the second battle of Lincoln, a slash near took off his right arm. But he learned to fight as well with the left: Two-Handed Raoul, they named him, for that, and because with all the women about him, he had both arms full. . .’