Gifts of the Queen (17 page)

Yet still no other knights of note, no vassals, sent their sons to act as pages, nor ladies sent daughters to grace our hall. Instead some visitors of other kinds, such as Master Edward had spoken of. Soon, scarce a day went by but that some local lord did not come 'trotting along' to see what he could make of us. At first they came with some excuse: a hound had strayed, the deer they chased had foundered in the swamps, a horse had cast a shoe—all those neighbors who could have offered help and comfort nine months before when we needed it. In normal times, as I have said, such visits would be welcome; it is part of castle life to offer hospitality and, on winter days when it is too wet to ride or hunt, what else should men do but sit with friends, talk over old times, play at chess or dice? More like the last, although the Church has forbidden it. I have played at dice myself, and think it apt for a soldier's game; so are our lives arranged, turned on a single throw. But sometimes I could have resented these visitors. They were, for the most part older, stout-faced men, with hearty appetites for food and drink; their hunger and thirst were a drain upon our meager resources. Many of these lords reminded me of my father in his age, running a little to fat across belly and thighs, but strong-armed and lusty. And amorous. I kept my servant women out of their way, easy prey if caught alone; and these Norman knights never brought their women folk with them. Their talk, when I was by, was usually restrained, the talk of country men, of harvest, of the dry summer, whether it would have spoiled the wine. They seemed fonder of stable and hounds than polite company. But when they did speak of news, of King Henry and how he fared, and how they hoped he would stay abroad, there was something in their turn of phrase, their harsh stubbornness, that reminded me of Falk too, so that I often lingered to listen to them. Most of all, it was their talk of war that reminded me of my father. God's bones, I thought, rebellious one day when for the tenth time we heard how one was bloodied, and another won his spurs, do they never tire of it? I remembered how my father and his companions used to sit, reliving old campaigns along the borderlands, and how my brother and I would hang on their words.

One day, there was a commotion in the inner yard. By now we had come to the worst time of year, dank February, with all its attendant frosts and hail. It was a dreary day at best, the wind blew the rain in gusts and the cobblestones were slippery with a thin coating of mud and ice. I had been busy in the dairy shed, not that there was much to do since the autumn slaughtering; but we kept a goat, and I had been helping the village maids to milk.

Two of us now came together into the yard, carrying a heavy pail. I had on my woolen gown, a shawl flung about my head; as ever in the wet, my hair had flared into wisps and snarls, and the cold had whipped color into my cheeks. Heads bent against the wind, feet thrust into wooden clogs, we were trying to run with the bucket and never noticed how many men there were, a dozen or so, newly arrived, the retinue of two greater lords. I had not heard the guard sing out or the great gate unbarred to let them in, and it was too late to turn aside. One of the older lords, loud-voiced with complaint about the storm which had driven them out of their way, angered at our lack of stable space, backed into us. I did not like his looks when he swung round on me with a curse. Tall he was, upright under his heavy cloak of squirrel fur, his hair scant locked but worn in the old Norman style, and a face so seamed with scars that one eye, on the left, seemed pulled into a sort of wink. Among my women, I heard later that that eye never closed; he slept, they said, with it agape, and so he appeared to have fixed it upon us now. The village girl let out a squeak of fear, dropped her hold upon the pail so the milk slopped out, and tried to run. It irritated me sometimes that these village girls were so in awe of greater folk. I was always urging them to stand and speak their minds, but they seldom would. They were free with me, as friends are, but never at ease with someone they did not know; an air of authority made them as wary as a bird and one command would turn them into stone. It did not occur to me that the girl showed such alarm exactly because she did know this lord and may have had good cause. I caught her skirts with my free hand to restrain her, made to pass on in a normal way. He thrust out his boot to bar our path.

'So Raoul keeps pretty milkmaids at least,' he said. 'I thought perforce he led a eunuch's life these days. Such red hair would warm a man's bed. What say he lend me you for an hour or more? I'm cold enough.'

His voice was loud, the louder that our men, who had come to hold his horse's head, were stunned to silence. The village maid gave another squawk. I swung the pail with all my might. It was heavy, made of wood, iron-flanged, and it caught him about the shins to make him jump with a howl, half-stumbling on the slippery stones. I let the pail drop so that milk sloshed all over his feet and would have turned to run myself, dragging the girl, had she not perversely now hung back. And had not one of his men, as rough-voiced as his master was, grabbed my arm and twisted it.

'Stand,' he said, as if to a horse, 'when my lord speaks.' And grinned. I opened my mouth to say what I thought. Before I could answer him as I should and he deserved, Walter followed by Matt, broke through the crowd, hands to their dagger hilts. The rest of our men muttered and scowled. Another movement, another word, and weapons would be out, then there would be vengeance to pay. A brawl in our court, knives drawn, was a serious offense, a hanging affair. Even the man who held me let go, unnerved by the suddenness of the attack. The older lord straightened himself, brushing aside the droplets of milk that had cascaded down his squirrel fur. His face had darkened, his lips drew tight. His men, half-dismounted, felt for their sword belts.

'Insolent varlets,' he hissed, 'and insolent maids. A lesson is needed to tame them all. Take the men; I'll see to the girl.'

'If lesson is needed, my lords,' Raoul's voice was cool, 'we can give it in our own time.'

They made space for him as he came to the tower door.

'Well, lad,' the older man spoke in a familiar way to give offense, 'a whip would do it and I've one at hand.' He nodded to the fellow who had held me and grinned again.

Since Raoul's answer would have been equally terse, another man scurried between, the second lord, his face gray with alarm. A slight, gray-haired man, he was, with long gray face, and longer nose, his chest caved in as if he had no innards to hold it in place. His voice was breathless as he bleated out, 'My lords, my lords, no need to quarrel over a serving wench. Save you. Count Raoul. We have ridden through this storm, having but recently heard of your return. A cup of wine would not be so amiss in this wet and cold. You'll not refuse old friends now we are here.'

He babbled on, all his lies cunning in their way. The other lord stopped in his tracks, made a gesture to quiet him. Walter and Matt hastily removed their hands from their knives; the village maid had already gone, slipped aside in the way of her kind. I picked up the bucket, angry at the waste of good milk, moved back myself. The men made passage for me, closed ranks behind. With luck, I thought, it will be forgot.

'Save you Raoul,' the older man said in a softer tone, hitching up his cloak, 'but you've a wretched litter of curs in your yard. They've raised a rumpus about how the horses were to be bestowed. And now . . .'

'And now we shall forget it', the gray-faced man squeezed his arm, 'and drink a toast for old times's sake. It is long since you were here, lord Count. We would pay our respects.' Well, his lies were at least courteous. He made great show of unbuckling his sword belt, propping his sword against the steps out of the rain. Those of the men who were his reluctantly followed him.

The older lord and Raoul never took their eyes off each other; Raoul, simply dressed in tunic and shirt, but with his household guard at his back, two of his squires who already had shown how quick they could be; the first lord, full-armed as were his men, as I now could distinguish them. Black and white surcoats they wore beneath their cloaks, ragged and damp, and beneath again, their mail hauberks. I thought it strange that they should ride abroad on such a day; certainly not to hunt. And to ride so armed, not by chance. Yet, for a war party, they were few and, once inside our castle gates, had no hope of retreat if they attacked on our home ground. The older lord must have come to the same conclusion himself. Perhaps he had hoped, not knowing how many we were, or how bestowed, to catch us off guard, to have us at his mercy if he got in. Or perhaps, not knowing the state of Sieux, he had come with no fixed plan, prepared for any chance. Or perhaps, as had many other lords before, he came but to spy. Whatever his thoughts had been, he relinquished them, dropped his gaze.

'Well, Raoul,' he said, pretending dismay, 'this is sad change from what you were. What, no walls, no keep?'

Raoul said evenly, to hold his anger tight curbed. ‘The keep will come, as will the walls. We've better than that, two towers at least to serve in good stead as a double keep. But you remember, my lord, the tale I'm sure of how the Prior of Justin would build a tower. A belltower it was, as I recall, and two great bronze bells to hang therein. Every day that tower was higher built so the prior could boast that his bells would ring for thirty miles. Well, the tower was finished, the bells were hung. For a month, he rang them in his pride. The first autumn storm, down tumbled tower and bells and all. When I build, I build to last.'

There was a guffaw, hastily suppressed. Someone whispered to me behind his hand, 'The Priory of Justin belonged to him,' and nodded toward the older man, who had grown mottled red.

'But wine we have for those who are here as friends,' Raoul's voice became brisk. 'As such, you are welcome then to come within.'

Uncertain what to do, the gray-faced lord rocked back and forth upon his heels, almost gnawing his lips. The older one, half angry, half resigned, thrust back his cloak. His squire came running, knelt there in the mud to unbuckle him, and held the sword belt and sword, although his master, venting spleen, smote him for some fault. Both lords then followed Raoul slowly inside. Their men, disarming themselves, for the most part trailed behind them, although some, left without, no room for all, were forced to shelter in the stables built of wood along the cliff (where, for courtesy, to keep them quiet, we gave them food and ale).

Inside the tower, I slipped among the men, unnoticed I hoped, and gained my place with the other women on the far side of the fire. They kept their eyes downcast as is their style, but listened intently as did I, making a great show to work their looms, although little work we did. The men stood now about the hearth, the wet from their clothes dripped and spat and their heavy boots caked mud upon the floor. Our serviteurs came with mulled wine, served decently on bended knee. The older lord took a cup, but at first did not drink, eyeing the room. For a gateroom, guardroom, it was strongly made, one great massive door, a winding stair, only part built to upper stories still planned, more stairs, covered with a trapdoor, leading to our supplies below, no window space, mere slits, that would serve for defense to shoot arrows through. Even half-finished, a few men could have held such a place against a siege. He nodded to himself, as if satisfied on that score, turned back to Raoul.

'And you, my lord,' more polite, once in his hall, 'I marvel to see you on your feet. We heard that you were hacked apart.'

Raoul said, 'Rumours are often exaggerated, or misspoke. It is a mistake to rely on them.'

'We shall see that, come the spring,' said the older man. 'Without the art of war, we live in dream. Your reputation was once well known, but reputations, like castles can fall fast.'

His companion, ever peacemaker it seemed, rushed in. 'They say, my lords, that with the spring Henry will return to France, what say you to that?'

'He is already here.' Raoul's voice was taut.

'Aye,' the older lord spat. 'And has met with Louis, weak-livered knave for king who turned his back on Geoffrey's claim and welcomed Henry with open arms. And Henry, too, ten days ago, on the fifth of this month, at Rouen, met with Geoffrey and denied him. A proper man, to swear and break such holy oath to keep his father's will! If indeed it is a father's will he breaks.'

'What else?' Raoul's tone meant, 'What the devil is it to you?'

'There is a story,' the gray-faced lord took up the tale; he pushed back his long gray hair, opened wide his pale blue eyes, and his voice grew warm as men's do when they gossip among themselves. He reminded me of someone, but I could not be sure. 'They say that when Count Geoffrey of Anjou was first wed to Empress Matilda, a marriage made for gain if ever there was for she was older, ugly, and a shrew, Geoffrey
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could not abide her. He sent her away and they lived apart. She came back to Anjou only when she was with child. Not his. So another man's. And if this Henry is not his son, then he is certainly not the older one.'

'I heard otherwise,' Raoul said. 'That had she been a man, she would have been as great a king as her father was. Not that I have much liking for her, cold and ruthless and arrogant. But beautiful and chaste. Which is much to look for in a wife.'

The older lord smiled, a twisted smile he had. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'perhaps too much. Myself, I'd not expect even that. Except no man would wish a bastard for heir if there were hope of legitimate get.'

'Bastardy is as the word is used,' Raoul said, still evenly, 'and for sure only wives can tell. Or daughters for that matter, too. A whore as daughter can ruin a father's plans.'

There was a pause at that, a heavy one, weighted with many things unsaid. Raoul broke it. 'And men,' he added almost pleasantly, 'who are the cause of both, the last to know.'

The gray-faced lord tittered nervously. The other drank his wine, dark-faced. The jugs went round, the tensions eased. Presently, their talk veered to generalities of war, of Henry and his plans, of how Count Geoffrey had fought to win him Normandy and how another Henry, his grandfather, earlier still, had fought to keep it. A bloodstained patch of ground this Normandy. But nothing was said of Geoffrey Plantagenet and his claims. The grayfaced lord, who had been drinking steadily to calm his nerves, called for a lute. Someone gave him the one Walter used and he began to sing. A stronger voice he had than I would have thought for one so frail, the more so after they said he liked better to speak of war than fight himself; a battle song then that soon had all of them thumping out the chorus lines. He gave us but part of it, adaptation of a more famous song that a southern poet had written. It was like him, I think, to suggest it was his own: