Gifts of the Queen (41 page)

'A Norman warhorse,' their leader repeated, a tall, slender man, young, although his heavy, reddish beard made him seem older. Since he was the only one with such a beard, I found myself wondering if he wore it to give the effect of age. But the questioner was straightening up, dusting off the grass and ferns from his knees, dusting his hands as if his mind was made up. 'Norman horse, Norman saddle, Norman harlot sent to spy.'

That judgment put a different aspect to the affair. I began to feel ill at ease, nervous. It suddenly occurred to me how I must look, how I might seem to them.

'No Norman spy,' I said in his language, but the word that came out most clearly was still that 'Norman'; remember I had not spoken in the Celtic tongue for many years, was but a child when I spoke it last, sometimes I think I got the rhythm of it wrong. And, understandably, what I said infuriated them.

'If not Norman,' they sneered, 'then Celt, more the shame, to traffic with our enemies. Or is it you hope to betray
us,
and have come here to seek news of us, where we are and what our ranks. You should know us better than to think as Norman decoy you'd find out our plans. A spy then, for some Norman lording, to whom you'll report back when you've lured us into betraying secrets.'

'You have no right to think that of me,' I began to argue, seriously alarmed, but the words came croaking out, and no one paid them any heed. The spokesman was already addressing his captain, this young bearded man who was listening intently to all he proposed, a veritable fantasy, such as Celts like to invent, yet it seemed possible, they, being on edge, over nervous, looking for scapegoats, might find one in me.

'Do I look a spy?' I now tried to ask the other men. 'Why should Normans send a woman to do their work?'

For answer, one reached up, carefully, so as not to touch me in any way, and pulled back the cloak. They gave another hiss, of surprise or pleasure, or desire, I cannot tell, but it did not help me.

'No one thought the Normans such fools as to send a squint-eyed wench. But we've no time to dispute that with you today.'

Their captain nodded, turned back to talking with his other officers; the spokesman came forward nimbly and seized the reins.

'Take this spy,' he mocked the word, 'hang her high, so her Norman masters will know what little she achieved for them.'

Then I did begin to struggle as they tried to force me from my horse, kicking and scratching to tear myself free from their hard and sinewy arms.

'By God,' said one, spitting a tooth I'd knocked loose, a wildcat. What say we try her wares, pity to waste such charms.'

In the end, my skirts hampered me and they threw me to the ground.

'Let's see if she's worth the struggle,' another grinned. Suppose the body matches the face?'

'If made like other women I've known,' another said, 'no matter what the face is like.'

But all the same, in a single move, he snatched at my gown, tearing the fabric neckline to waist so that my bare flesh was exposed. They paused to stare as I tried to cover my nakedness, gave another hiss.

God's Paradise,' at last one breathed. 'The pigs have sent a prize after all.' Their voices were soft, those western men I had known as a child, I could not believe even then what they said could be meant so cruel; I did not even think they meant to threaten me, not until they tried to tie my hands and gag my mouth.

'I am no Norman.' Then I did cry out, fear giving me back my voice. 'I am kin to both Norman and Celt. I am Ann of Cambray.'

They laughed at me, hands on hips, observing me. 'And I the Lord of Maneth,' one jeered, 'who is dead, who thought to whip us with his Norman rods. I've marks on my back still that are his.'

'And here's my rod,' another made a crude gesture. 'See how you dance to that.'

'Stuff in the gag first,' a third, more practiced, advised, 'lest she tear it off with her fangs.' So they spoke, every word an obscenity to urge them on, dragging my hands behind my back with a strap, the leather biting into the flesh, trying to push a thong from their hair across my face. I bit the man who held the gag, struggled long enough to shriek out my name, again and again, until the air rang.

'Silence her.' Their captain rode forward angrily. 'Enough noise to rouse the entire Norman army. Who shouts the name of Cambray?'

He swung himself off his horse, came to stand above me, his booted feet planted on either side. I looked up. He was younger than I had thought, with long red-gold hair, like to the others in build and looks except for the beard which, now, seeing him close, I saw but partly covered the great gash that had seared his face from chin to ear, a sword cut or thrust along his left cheek.

'Who shouts Cambray?' he repeated impatiently; he poked me with his boot.

'Speak up. I know Cambray well. And have little love for it since it gave me this.' And he fingered the side of his face as he spoke.

I looked up at him and despaired. Despite the years, the beard, I knew him, too. But would he remember me, a heap of rags thrown disjointed at his feet? When he had seen me last I had been the lady of Cambray. His father, a Celtic warlord, had taken my castle once and held it until Lord Raoul had won it back again.

I said, as steadily as my voice allowed, 'Your wound was taken in fair fight. Lord Raoul fought with your father and his men, captured Cambray for me, who am the lady of all its lands. I know you, Dafydd, son of Howel. Do not you know me?'

He bent to look more closely, his eyes narrowing in thought. I knew what he was remembering and why.

At last, 'Aye,' he said, 'aye, I remember Cambray,' as if even that much stung his lips.

I bit my own, willing him to fairness. He had been cut down in a surprise assault, a young boy then, almost too young to bear arms; his father had died and we had tended him and his companions as best we could. But we had also kept them chained like dogs, in fetters, to make them work for us. I heard myself plead with him in a voice I hardly knew. 'Lord Raoul dealt fairly with you. He bears as bad a scar himself, and the Lord of Maneth gave him it, whom he killed. He comes as warden of the marcher lands, to keep the peace as my father and Lord Raoul's grandfather did in their day . . .'

'Who does she say she is?' he next asked, never taking his eyes off me. I do not think he heard half I said, lost in his own thoughts.

They told him, cutting short their jesting as they saw his expression change. They pulled me up at his command, dragged back the hair from my eyes, wiped off the blood and dirt. I felt myself blush beneath the bruises, those of today added to yesterday's, and shook myself free. His eyes followed every move I made as, when a boy, he had fixed them on me, when, like a wolf cub on a chain, he had panted for liberty.

'By Saint David,' he said at last. He whirled on his men, snarled at them to untie me, threw a wool cloth to cover my nakedness.

'I thought you hated all Norman swine,' one grumbled beneath his breath.

Dafydd, son of Howel, rounded on him, his eyes black with remembering. 'I do,' he said, 'but she, I owe her a life, mine, twice saved by her. She is who she says she is.'

They worked faster then, although balked of their prize. And, in truth, Cambray is a word they all would know, and think of with liking as they thought of Maneth with hate.

When they were done, 'I have no quarrel with you, Lady Ann,' he told me. 'Save wonder that you ride without escort among my border watch. Where is your noble husband, where his men?'

When I did not reply, he eyed me narrowly, sharply bid his men bring food and drink. He took my wrists to make the blood flow back, himself fed me water and their harsh brown bread. I was not hungry, although I had not broken fast for so long, the thought of food choked me, but I drank the peaty tasting water while he sat beside me, talking of old times, how Lord Raoul and I had ridden away from Cambray, and how, after we were both gone, he and the other prisoners had been given choice, either to stay at Cambray as part of its guard or go free, never to return.

'I chose freedom,' he said; 'who would not? They gave us food for our journey, gave us back our swords; we parted, I think, as friends. But I have never been back to Cambray since, never thought to hear word of you. By Saint David, who is my namesake, patron saint to me and my kin, to forget Cambray would be to forget part of myself. You saved my life when your men would have tossed us over the cliff at the battle's end, you saved it a second time when you tended me.' And he fingered the scar on his face.

'Lady Ann,' he said, 'you claimed just now to be both Norman and Celt. So, I think, am I, not by birth but by what I learned of your Norman ways and the promptings of my own thoughts. There was much to admire at Cambray. So that, although it is true I hate all Normans in a general way, I also remember some good of them, although I do not tell my men that. Your squire, of the fair hair and merry smile, many were the hours we spent together; Jesu, how he struggled with our language as if a rope were tangled in his tongue.'

Sorrow broke over me like a wave, I bowed under it. 'He is dead, killed yesterday among my escort ambushed by a Norman lord.'

He crossed himself, muttered prayer for the dead man's soul.

'God have him to His care,' he said, 'he was a brave and trusty man. But what manner of men would attack you, what Norman lord, without cause?'

That, too, was a grief better not spoken of. 'He is not known to you,' I said, 'but his brother is, Henry, King of England.'

'King Henry,' he said, starting up, 'but he has sent word he will meet us at Caer at July's end. He has bid the Princes of Northern Wales attend him there. They but wait his message to ride to his camp.'

I did not recognize the place at first, for he gave Chester its Celtic name, Caer, which also means 'camp' or 'fort,' in memory of the great Roman one that had once stood there.

'No,' I said, 'Henry is not there yet. He lodged last night at Maneth. He waits the mustering of his troops on the seventh of the month. And he will cross the river at Basingwerk . . .'

'Jesu,' he swore again, 'here be news.'

He spun round on his heel, ready to shout an order to his men, then, recollecting, turned back to me.

'Lady Ann,' he said loudly, and beckoned for them to pour him a horn of their fermented drink, mead, it is called, which the Celts prefer.

'Lady Ann,’ he said, 'I drink to the honor of your house, ever were they loved by us. You are welcome in their name, to ride among our company.'

He drank to me formally, as a Norman would; his men raised up a cheer, then quickly scattered to whatever post they were assigned; the cooking fires were doused; we were ready to set off. A faster parting than a Norman army makes, no pack trains, no baggage carts, whatever Welshmen need they string over their shoulders. One of their small ponies was led up, I straddled its broad back, and we jogged off. Listening to the men chatter as they worked, listening to them-whistle as we rode along, I might have been a child again, riding with my father's men above Cambray. But I had seen another side of them I had never seen before, cruel and angry, bitter against their enemies.
They love their freedom and will die for it.
So should Henry find to his cost if he attacked. And so we rode together over the moors, until the day had ended, and came by darkness to their Celtic camp high up in the mountain pass.

Their camp was such as my father had often talked about, like the one I think from which he had taken stones to build Cambray, an old place, made in Roman times. The outlines of gate towers, barracks, stables, were still clearly visible, and where the walls were intact, new roofs had been hastily thatched over with straw and great gates hung at the entrances, the whole laid out neatly in rectangles and lines. There was even a commander's house, brick-built originally, its marble facing long since disappeared, and only three columns of the ten that had once supported its front porch. The High Prince of Northern Wales was quartered there, and there we went after his guards had let us through. They were truculent, those guards, and my presence with Dafydd's men led to much dispute, it being considered lack of decorum to escort a lady into an armed camp. Dafydd was forced to pick a quarrel with them until, by dint of threat of fisticuffs and worse, he pushed his way past. He was quick-tempered, Dafydd, son of Howel, and proud. I do not think he liked not to be recognized, but that was a sign of his youth, although I have heard my father often say that Celts were vain, desirous more than most men not to lose face. And as he rode through the camp, I noticed how his men now ran beside him, one on either side, holding his stirrup irons as mark of respect.

'Look well at them,' he shouted back at the discomforted guard, spoiling the effect, 'You'll see their faces often enough.'

I marveled again at the lack of formality between him and the common soldiers yet, on the whole, I do not think that was a handicap. When the time was ripe, they would fight; well, it was their land and their freedom they fought for. Preparations for war were going forward in every corner of that camp; archers, footmen, spearmen, the whole entourage of a high prince in movement, messengers riding constantly in and out of the gates, stacks of weapons sharpened, harnesses and leather coats restitched.

Sweet Jesu, I thought, if the Celts are so arming themselves, how will Raoul avoid a war, with Henry's men equally well prepared? Dafydd tried to explain who each man was, warlords all as his father had been, their names a jumble in my head, all sons of this prince, or that, as they style themselves, all famous men. Afterward, I thought I should have remembered some of those names from my father's time. But the highest prince of all, of the north, of Gwynedd, as the Welsh name is, Owain Gwynedd, his name I did recall. I had heard my father say that he was the most dangerous man he had ever fought, a stack of gold offered for his head, with little hope of ever catching him.

'Crafty as a mountain cat is Owain,' Dafydd now explained, proud of him, 'for twenty years or more, he has been a thorn in the Norman side. So strong is he that he took back Oswestry, used its castle for his own fort, won us land that has not been Celtic ruled for five hundred years. A just man, a peaceful man, but when aroused, their opposite.' So I think my father had spoken of him. But for all that he called himself a prince, he was not yet a high king!