Gifts of the Queen (35 page)

Behind us, on his little bed, Robert suddenly called our names. He was awake, his blue-gray eyes conscious although they did not focus yet but gazed beyond us as if looking at something only he could find.

'See, young sir,' Raoul's voice was as warm and comforting as his hand about my waist. 'I have brought you a something from Poitiers.' It was a little carved shield, with a gold hawk painted on the crimson wood. Robert held it in his hand until he slept. Well, he would live, and all the castle rejoiced, not such rejoicing in our time there, not such happiness since we first returned. And that night Raoul held me in his arms and plighted again his troth to me.
This is our wedding night.
Now had I what I long had dreamed of, then were those days at Cambray recalled, now did my lover lie with me without stint. By
Jesu,
he had once said, I
shall love you until you it is calls cease.
 
That night neither of us had reason to hold back, now did we truly know what it meant to be man and wife. Warm flesh, warm skin, to bury out the winter colds, we lay as one. 'And now,' he said, his breath warm too against my throat, 'now shall I know what loves you promised me.'

We were to leave in the middle of May month, and early began to prepare for this. How the ladies chattered as they sewed, how the young squires and pages bustled importantly about, how at times I found myself skipping along. But with the spring came other news: Henry's answer to Raoul. He was clever, I tell you, Henry who was England's king; and his call to arms was not what I had expected although I should have done. No move is made without its counter one. Revenge is never forgotten although it lags one step behind. Henry had spent the winter in France, and went back to England a scant month before we did, having made a peace with his wife.

The reasons for this truce are obvious when you think what she most wanted was a son, and he too must have felt the need for another heir to ensure his inheritance. And she must have sensed she had gone too far, tried Henry too far; after all, Henry was young, and other kings had put aside their wives. I myself do not think she felt remorse. That concept was not part of her personality, but she may have realized the quarrel between them had to be mended sometime. What concessions were made or what conditions laid down or how arranged we did not know, but, as Sir Renier had said, in royal households as with ordinary men, wives and husbands have to come to terms if they are to live together at all. (And beget sons Eleanor did, the next one born at Oxford in the autumn of that year, a Richard who was to become king, and a brother to follow him, another Geoffrey, and at the end, England's curse, John Lackland.) I think, too, on considering it, the reason Sir Renier had helped me, helped us, was not so much because he cared for me and felt he owed us some recompense (both of which were true and so he may have felt) but because, loyal to the queen, he wished to save her from herself, wished to prevent her being embroiled in such an ugly episode. Yet how far she was involved or how much she knew, that I cannot say.

A truce then was somehow arranged between the royal pair, and a royal triumph planned through the southern lands. They were well received. Great feasts and merriment attended them—even Count Raymond of Toulouse put on displays of loyalty—but it was also said that in order to rid the queen of a vassal she accused of treachery, Henry attacked and sacked the castle of the Viscount of Thouars, that young lord whom I had met. They say the queen called him troublesome, a nice euphemism to cover her displeasure; but the great are ever fickle in their choice of friends, and once the viscount had smiled at me!

In any event, the king attacked his lands; the queen appeared content, and harmony was restored. By what means she won Henry to her will I have said I cannot guess and still cannot, but two other points I should like to make. First, Henry did create his brother count, so was Geoffrey's ambition gratified, but not at the expense of Eleanor's lands. For, as has been mentioned several times, Brittany was uneasy, and among the restless cities there, one of the greatest, the port of Nantes, was in revolt. Nantes is a rich city, they say, a harbor on the west Atlantic coast, a city of ships and trade where the river Loire comes to the sea. The Loire is the lifeblood of Anjou, the artery down which all its goods and commerce flow, and to have the means to control its major port would delight the Angevins. The matter was simply arranged. Disliking their ruler, Count Hoel, the citizens of Nantes asked Henry to find them a new one, and he, encouraging them, gave them Geoffrey Plantagenet. Thus was every one pleased; and although neither Henry nor Geoffrey, raised even a finger to take the prize, it fell easily into their hands, a bribe perhaps to keep a royal peace. I missed the sage comments Walter would have made when we first heard
that
news. The second point was something on which Walter had already said his say: Isobelle de Boissert's wardship to the king. Now it was openly proclaimed, her lands and estates were held attainted in traitor's fee and she herself banished for life to her nunnery on pain of death. Since it had been obviously true that she could not have mounted such a group of soldiers on her own or armed them after her father's death, this public humiliation meant that Eleanor's support too had been withdrawn.
I would be loyal to you.
So much for women's loyalty, even that of a queen. And Isobelle's loss was Geoffrey's gain.

As for us, we journeyed to the north coast in the spring, in luxury, our entire household in state, a journey such as Alyse de Vergay had coveted—turn memory back, stop thought. I do not wish to speak of her; she lives where darkness dwells, when in the night not even prayers can keep remorse or memory at bay. We were to sail from Barfleur, and on our arrival there, Robert and I came down to the quay to watch the loading of our ships and admire the careful way the barrels and crates were bestowed on deck, the bundles of gear without which no noble household moves a step. I myself prefer, like snail, to carry my goods upon my back. The mariners scrambled in the riggings, barefoot, as nimble as Master Edward's apprentices, and the master mariner, like a good general, supervised all their maneuverings from the center of the deck. I thought, as I watched the white sails furled, dripping wet with dew, how from this selfsame port those years ago, a Prince of England had set out. The only heir, his father's sole legitimate son, he would have inherited England had he lived. His ship was the fastest in the royal fleet; but since the weather had held calm, he and his companions, sons of his father's lords, allowed the other ships to leave without them, idled the hours away on shore. When they hoisted canvas it was late, they had drunk too much. The helmsman carelessly let the ship drift on the rocks. And so was drowned that prince, that William, who if he had lived, would have spared his country so much harm. Thirty-seven years earlier had he been drowned; and yet his death has overshadowed all our lives so that it could be said our wrongs, our griefs, can be traced to him. Yet certainly he and his friends had never thought of what awaited them when they set sail that day . . . Nor did we. Fate had not done with us yet.

As I say, my son Robert and I were watching the loading of the ship, and had discovered a place in a sail loft with a view, out of harm's way. It smelled of tar and fish; there were bundles of rope and crab pots, things to keep a small boy amused while I sat at the door and listened to the sailor's songs. Lord Raoul eased his way toward us through the stacks of barrels that lined the wharf. He had been supervising the men-at-arms, who in tower-like structures, two wooden castles at either end of the ship, would guard our passage and keep watch for pirates lurking along the Channel coasts. He was gnawing on a scrap of bread, throwing the crumbs for the gulls. They swept downwind to snatch them from the air.

'So here you are, lady, tucked away,' he said, 'as snug as worm in sea biscuit.' Not a felicitous comparison. Nor did I like to have those seagulls swoop so close, yellow-eyed and yellow-beaked, their hoarse cries reflecting their greedy selves.

They made me shiver, but Robert, suddenly seeing them, laughed and opened wide his arms. The gesture reminded me of the way his father had ridden along the shores of the lake when he knew his strength returned, and I took that as a sign, an omen of Robert's return to health. Raoul reached down to lift the child, holding him to let him throw out the rest of the bread.

'By the Mass,' he said after a while, 'I prefer the look of these ships better than the three tubs that brought us here, more like to drown than carry us, jammed to the rails. Remember how the women screamed. . .'

He choked back that unfortunate memory. 'And remember how the mariners cursed? Women on board bring bad luck they say. Be assured. This time we've the best craft that sail this route; the king himself could not have better. The master mariner is worthy of his hire, and we've enough men to fight off all the world.'

He was still throwing the bread to the gulls and had hoisted Robert on his shoulders. With one hand, the child clutched his father's hair, as once he held onto his wolfhound, and beat on his back with the other. I smiled to see their happiness.

'King Henry sailed in April,' Raoul said; carefully he threw the bread, as carefully he threw the words, 'in a goodly company. Queen and children, prince and princess, all his court. He goes west to Chester. I should join him there.'

'Why the haste?' I asked.

He shrugged. 'Oh, Henry knows the west of England well enough, I suppose,' he said. 'In his youth, he was under his uncle's tutelage, he who was Duke of Gloucester and spent time there. I should like to think he pays a visit for old time's sake, but in case not, I should be there when he is. Chester is not the best of meeting places.'

'Meeting place?'

He said, quietly, 'Henry has called his feudal army out. Not quite all, one third perhaps, and those who are not summoned must pay a tax, a scutage, so that with the revenue, he can hire more men if he must. Not a new tax, but one, having found, he will use to fill his coffers. I've no doubt.'

'Army?' I asked.

'And for ships, to equip a fleet.' He went on talking as if I had not spoken; afterwards I thought there was a sort of nervousness about him that I had never known in him before; but now I only heard the words that were to dim the brightness of the day. 'Those Celtic princes of yours,' he said, 'not satisfied with quarreling among themselves, have let their quarrels spill abroad, as if civil war within their own territories was not enough. There has long been enmity between the rulers of central and northern Wales, both sides claiming land the other holds. Now a prince of the northern line has escaped to Henry's court, moaning for help, maintaining that his brother has robbed him of his estates. You might as well ask a lion which of two fat calves he'll swallow first. Henry has promised this Prince Cadwaladr, a mouthful of a name, to support him, and so attack the northern Celts.'

'Support?' I asked, a drumming in my ears and brain, 'Attack?'

'God's bones,' he said, apprehension suddenly bursting out. He handed the child back to me, began to pace up and down, his head almost at a level where I sat on an upturned keg. His squire, who had been standing behind him, had to skip out of the way. 'God's wounds, how can Henry hope to attack the Welsh? How can he march a feudal army through such a land? The Celts live on air, can run barefoot uphill and down if they have to, have skill to vanish when you think you've trapped them, like one of their highland mists. I know; I have sought them out myself often enough. They carry what they need like porters, food, weapons, especially their long Welsh bows which can put an arrow through a coat of mail. Henry's feudal knights need open fields, space to maneuver, level ground to charge, an enemy they can see to charge against. The likes of us are easy pickings for the Welsh.'