Ann of Cambray (11 page)

‘My lord,’ I gasped, ‘you will harm your leg if you walk so fast.’

‘I have endured worse than that,’ he said, although he lied, for it was the leg that he had hurt before and that wound must have been scarce healed.

I thought desperately then of ways to curb his temper. Even my father had never been so angry as this.

He crashed into his room, thrusting aside the door with his shoulder. The pages who had been crouched before the fire scrambled to their feet as if fearing he would boot them from his path.

‘Who gave you leave?’ he said again. ‘Who helped you?’

‘I myself.’

‘You could neither catch nor saddle such a brute. Who?’

I was silent then, for the first time fearful for Giles.

But he had already remembered him, before I had. We waited without speaking, while the men below found Giles and brought him up, white-faced himself, hands bound together. They thrust him into the room so that the three of us stood apart, Lord Raoul, Giles, and myself, while the pages cowered in a corner.

‘Was this the man who helped you?’ he asked. I was silent again.

‘Did you do the Lady Ann’s bidding?’ he asked Giles.

I suddenly saw the trap that I had made for him. ‘It was not his fault,’ I cried desperately. ‘He only did what I asked.’

‘I took you from the stable,’ Lord Raoul said, ignoring me. ‘I gave you post as squire. Your duties were not heavy but clear. Think you that you have fulfilled them?’

‘It was not his fault,’ I said again. But both men ignored me.

‘Nay, my lord.’

Lord Raoul waved him towards his men. Then take him outside and thrash him,’ he said coldly. ‘You deserve worse.’

I threw myself towards Giles, not caring now what they thought or who heard. ‘You may not, you dare not,’ I cried. ‘It was my fault, I tell you.’

‘Lady Ann,’ said Giles, forced to speak although nothing would have made him plead on his own behalf, ‘I beg you. I knew the danger. I knew it wrong.’

Lord Raoul had turned away, his face set. Once more he gestured, and although I clung tightly, they put me aside, gently enough, and hustled Giles towards the stairs. Then did I turn and run at Lord Raoul himself.

‘You cannot,’ I screamed. ‘It is unfair to an innocent man.’ 

‘I do not hold him innocent,’ he said, ‘nor does he himself.’ 

‘Why not punish me,’ I cried, ‘if so great a wrongdoing it is? Punish me, if it please you.’

‘It would please me well enough,’ he said. ‘If you behave like a child, you must be treated like one. But I am not your father to whip you as he ought these years ago.’

‘I will make a bargain with you,’ I cried as passionately. ‘Spare Giles and whip me. See, I am not afraid.’

I forced him to look at me, challenge and rage like weapons between us. Even the men watched open-mouthed. Fine tales they would tell this time, but I cared nothing for that. Even as he made signs for them to go, which they did reluctantly, I have no doubt, I shook the sleeves of Cecile’s gown from my shoulders so that the bodice hung to the waist. Then with a great breath, I tore the stuff of my shift so that it too came undone and my back and neck were bare.

My hair came untied; I gathered it before, and with head bowed turned my back on him.

I heard him breathing heavily, breath of pain and anger. I saw, under the cloud of hair, his hands fumble with his sword belt, until it swung free and I heard it snap in his hands. I felt his arm rise, heard the whistle of leather, and braced myself for the blow. The buckle crashed upon the wall behind me.

I spun round and looked at him. He was staring at it and at his hands.

‘No, Lady Ann,’ he said, and his voice was suddenly calm. ‘I have never yet beat a woman, although you have made me come close to it, near enough to have found pleasure in it. Had hurt come to you, God forbid, any kind of death, you cannot know the mischief it would cause. If you care not for your own safety, think of that.’

‘And Giles,’ I said, ‘what of Giles?’

He shrugged.

‘I pity the fellow,’ he said, ‘on my oath, I pity him. But he did not speak against the sentence. It is already done, easier, I think, than I would have done with you.’

‘It can’t be so,’ I said, stunned with disbelief. ‘We made a bargain. . .’

‘Not on my side,’ he said, suddenly smiling. ‘God’s teeth, I made not one. But he has felt worse, I warrant you. They will not kill him.’

His laughter made me lose what little restraint I had left. As I tell it, it seems mad that I should have thought to overthrow him, yet I sprang at him with that intent. Crying, screaming, what words I care not to repeat, I clawed at him, beating at him with all my strength. He tried to fend me off, but his leg buckled and we fell to the ground, he rolling underneath with a grunt of pain, I on top, scratching and tearing while I called him all the names that are vile in Celt and Norman-French. So we rolled on the floor, my legs locked around his, heels drumming in his side, oblivious of dirt and blood, bare flesh to flesh. Then, as abruptly, it was over. He straddled my body, pinning my arms to my sides, kneeling on my hair to keep me still.

‘God’s wounds, girl,’ he gasped, but the coldness had gone from his voice; he might almost have been laughing again, ‘but you fight like a wildcat still. Perhaps it is no matter you are so slow with sword and knife. You would tear a man’s heart out. Leave over. I am too lame to go wrestling with a half-naked maid.’

His words made me aware of what I must look like, breasts naked, arms naked, clothes rucked around me.

‘God’s wounds,’ I swore myself, the words out before I could stop them, ‘the Lady Mildred will have my blood for this.’

He did laugh then, easing himself upon his back.

‘If she cannot control you,’ he said almost to himself, ‘who am I to try? Such a devil needs a church to whip it forth.’

I took the ends of the cloth and tied them into a knot. Poor Cecile would never recognise her dress again, I thought, as I forced my arms back into the sleeves. The rips perhaps I could mend, but the bloodstains would never go away. ‘God’s wounds,’ I swore again, ‘she’ll make me rue this.’ 

‘Then that will be punishment enough, I think,’ he said. ‘See, Lady Ann, how we seem to maul each other when we meet. We shall hack each other apart before we’re done. Let us agree to speak no more of this. Giles, your squire, will smart for a while, but less, I wager, than I do. And he still shall be your squire, although I could send him back where he came from. He also will have learned a lesson, I think.’

I swallowed my pride at that ‘also’. For it was true, he could have had Giles killed for disobedience.

‘And you must deal with the Lady Mildred as best you can. But remember, she has long been chatelaine, since I was a child, and Sir Brian was my grandfather’s oldest retainer here at Sedgemont. Do not expect me to protect you against them. However,’ as I turned to protest, ‘you are not forbidden our Hall. I expect your presence, nay, will command it. And when we ride out again, you shall stay where I can see you.’ He was laughing at me, I knew, yet I could not fault what he had said.

I scrambled to my feet, hair flying but more presentable. ‘Yes, my liege lord,’ I said and dropped him a curtsy.

‘I have told you before,’ he said, ‘mock servility does not please me. Use your wits. I cannot rise unless you give me a hand, for this scratch has stiffened. You will not be so churlish as to refuse.’

I stretched out my hand gingerly, not sure what trick he meant, but he merely grasped it and, with the help of a chair, pulled himself upright. I could see the half-healed scar that this new gash cut through.

‘My lord,’ I said, ‘I have some knowledge of healing. That cut should be seen to. A wild beast is unclean.’

‘Have you now,’ he mocked me, seating himself in the chair, stretching his leg carefully. ‘Hensbane you speak of, no doubt, rubbed in tenderly to make it fester. Or salt perhaps to make it burn.’

I refused to rise to his baiting.

‘Our people have understanding of herbs and plants. Ask anyone. Gwendyth was well loved because of it. And I have watched her often enough. You should steep soothing herbs that will draw the poisons out and make it easier for you to move, so you do not limp for days, or months, as you did last time.’

That was a shrewd remark. I could see him digesting it.

‘And you should not move now until the bleeding halts.’

He eased himself into a chair, eyeing me curiously. Yet he looked as disreputable as I did, with his torn and bloodied clothes. Any peasant among his huntsmen would have been better dressed.

He said at last, ‘Well, try then. I yield me to your care, lady. There be salves aplenty in the coffers yonder, although what leeches do with them is beyond my understanding. He who tended your arm must count you the first success in many months.’

I stifled a smile. Gwendyth would have said the same, yet the man had spoken on my behalf and I should speak him well in turn.

‘I will say this for you, Lady Ann,’ Lord Raoul was adding, as I turned to seek the things I needed, ‘for all that things go awry when you are near, you are a good comrade to have at one’s back. I may have saved your life, lady, but you helped at least save mine. Half the women I know would have swooned at the sight; the other half would never have got close enough to see it in the first place. . .’

His half-compliments and jests unnerved me. I had never known anyone who spoke with such a mixture of mockery and sense. I ignored him, moved to the fire where I put water to boil, took one of his fine shirts—I recognised the Lady Mildred’s work before I tore it with my teeth—and set it to soak. There were dried herbs in plenty, although none as fresh as Gwendyth would have used, but I put all I could to steep, and before he could complain, slapped cloth and herbs as hot as could be borne upon the open wound. He gave a cry like a scalded cat.

‘Judas,’ he shouted, ‘do you think to boil me alive!’

But I forced him back into the chair.

‘It will draw what poisons are left,’ I said primly. ‘It may hurt now, but it will take the pain out in time. Let it lie until it cools, then get your pages to heat more.’

‘Of a certainty,’ he said, ‘such treatment takes fiendish thought. And now, lady, look to your own repairs. Else scandal will be a-brewing as well.’

His gesture to my torn bodice and skirts angered me.

‘I can fend for myself,’ I said waspishly. ‘And if you would listen to me, there would be no trouble as you term it. Give me leave to go back to Cambray. . .’

‘That so fills your mind,’ he said, almost curiously. ‘That is all you want?’

‘You went back to France,’ I said, ‘to Normany, to Sieux, which you count as home.’

‘And found it not to my liking,’ he said abruptly, his mood changing. His eyes darkened; he shouted to his pages who still skulked nervously outside.

‘We cannot have all we want,’ he said, dismissing me suddenly. ‘In good time, as God wills, you may yet see Cambray.’

‘As God wills, or you,’ I retorted unwisely. ‘Take castles, revenues, lands, but let me at least breathe fresh air again, western air, that is.’

‘When you are angry,’ he said, ‘you are like a wet hen, all froth and feathers. Mind your speech, lady.’

‘And you yours,’ I snapped back. ‘You curse as freely as a peddler at a fair, although less skilfully. I see little to choose between your tempers and mine, except that you are older, who should be wiser, and a man, who should speak a lady fair.’

‘And your liege lord,’ he added.

‘I forget it not, my lord,’ I said. ‘Every day, every hour, do I recall it. With every mouthful, every stitch, is your bounty impressed.’

‘Now, by God,’ he said, dragging himself up, ‘you do me wrong at that. You have an evil tongue, Lady Ann. Perhaps this will stop it since nothing else does.’

Before I knew what he was about, he had pulled me against him, crushing my arms against my sides as if to break them off. His mouth clamped down on mine to choke off breath. For a moment, I felt his rage flare against my own. Then a new emotion that I did not know took hold instead. His tall frame was hard against my own. And my weak body, instead of fighting back, seemed to fold and bend into place against the lines of his ... I should have struggled, but could not any more than I could have moved that day in the sunlit glade. And where there had been anger was something else I did not then know, but as strong and forceful. He released me violently, thrusting me from him. Did he feel a similar like and dislike? Did he sense in me the conflict of resistance and compliance together? He sprawled back in his chair, shirt torn, leggings stained and bloodied, as oafish as a peasant in the fields. I felt a blush of shame and pleasure stain my cheeks as he watched me. Then I swirled round, almost running into the startled men at the door, and fled away to safety in the women’s bower.

Strangely enough, the Lady Mildred did not scold as much as I had feared. Cecile received back the wreckage of her dress in silence. Perhaps they thought Lord Raoul’s anger was enough. Nor did they question me. No doubt there was no need, for rumours of what had happened would have flown far and wide. But there were many things that seemed strange at that time, and gossip was the least of them. My own moods confused me; by turns happy, sad, angry, pleased, I was furious with myself and with him. At best, I thought, he had bested me, making me seem a plaything, of little worth; at worst, he had revealed thoughts and longings that should have been kept hidden.

It was difficult even to say what those feelings were. Remember, I had lived much on my own, not knowing people of my own age or rank. Among the common folk, it is enough to live and exist; they have no time for subtleties. Thoughts came to me slowly. I was still unknowing, not of the facts, but of the ways of the world. But gradually I resolved that since Cambray and I could come together only when some man took me to wife, the obvious solution lay there.

Today, maidens are not so blunt, so practical. And yet I think that not only practicality brought the idea to mind. The season continued warm and mellow, a summer-out-of-time, they call it, when everything seems ripe to overflowing. Even the Lady Mildred’s censoring could not dampen our spirits on days like these. We lazed that autumn away, as if there should never be an end to it. Often we would find shade in the forest among the beeches and old oaks, and as we lay or sat under the trees, Giles and the other young men would climb the branches and send nuts falling into our laps. The peasants, off in the meadows, would be tying up the last stooks of corn. The slow curl of smoke would mark where they were preparing the fields. Then Geoffrey or one of the other men would tell us of the courts of love that this Eleanor of Aquitaine, new Countess of Anjou, used to hold among the nobles of her southern court to bind them to her will. I would lie upon my back and watch the leaves float down from a pale blue sky and wonder what the future would hold for me, and whether one day I would have poets sing my praises and young men faint for love of me. What harm was there in such thoughts? Do not all young girls dream sometimes? I had grown up in a sterner world, but there could be no harm in dreaming.