Ann of Cambray (15 page)

‘But may not Anjou change?’ I cried again. ‘Are there not laws, rules, to bind our kings?’

He laughed. ‘A tyrant will make his own rules,’ he said, ‘not caring for what he will find here. Besides, what customs, laws, can he find? England is not one country but three. What customs are there in common among Norman, Saxon, and Celt? See how great difference there is between your race and mine. It will not be difficult for Henry to make his own laws.’ 

‘But what of me then?’ I cried, for as he spoke, an idea had come into my mind, so strange I almost fell over at its daring. ‘I too can be tenacious of purpose. Because two men have bid for me, one too old, one too stupid, does not mean that Cambray should not be commanded by my husband. You still could have someone.’

‘Devil fry us,’ he said, ‘I speak of state affairs, lady, life, death, a kingdom . . .’

‘And I am tired of such things,’ I said, with a coolness I felt far from. ‘Your affairs of state, a king, a duke, have led you to gamble with Cambray to achieve one man’s crown, another’s support, a third’s defeat . . . My wants are less complicated than that—home, husband, children perhaps.’ 

‘So be it,’ he said, controlling himself with effort. ‘You speak but as women do . . .’

‘I am glad you grant me that at last,’ I said waspishly. ‘And it is clear to me you have scant respect for women, although I suppose in that you are no different from most men. My father and your grandfather would not have a woman on the throne. Is not that the cause of all these wars, that you men would not have a woman, Matilda, to rule you?’

‘You jest,’ he began. ‘She was imperious, overproud, thinking to drag England to her husband’s rule. We’d have had the Angevins run wild, tearing at our throats before a month had passed. . .’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but she would have understood, as you seem not, that I would have my rights, too.’

‘Rights!’ he shouted. Then, ‘So be it. Quick. Although the words be shaking about us, what paragon of virtue have you in mind? Or is it thought of convent life that frights you, that you’d change it for wedded bliss?’

‘No convent would alarm me,’ I lied. ‘It will be quiet there away from men and their plots. But I plan to marry to my liking.’

‘Liking, is it now. You seek much from this married state.’ 

‘My father and mother married for love,’ I said roundly. ‘But I am not such a fool to hope for that, merely that it not be with such men as the lords of Maneth.’

‘Enough of them,’ he shouted at me, resuming his pacing back and forth. ‘I would not have wed you in any case. Betrothed was all I had in mind. And you need not have feared for Gilbert. They say he has little liking for maids, which should have kept you safe. As for love, look what it has done for our king that he must overmourn the queen’s death. And I heard that your parents were bound to make a peace.’

‘Peace came after,’ I said, ‘and that is much to look for, in marriage as in affairs of state. But I have no mind to be betrothed for years, as your poor lady in France was. Men may wear such betrothal easily, for who is to overwatch their faithfulness when they are far away? Maids are more easily tamed, that they sit chastely by and let their youth slip past.’ 

‘Give no thought for my French bride,’ he shouted again. ‘If I was not so chaste nor was she either. There was no love lost between us.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ I said primly, ‘for I know now it is no paragon I seek. I can be as practical as the rest. I suggest my lord, you marry me.’

He stopped in mid-bellow.

‘Listen now,’ I said, stumbling over the words in my haste before he outshouted me. ‘You need Cambray. Maneth will take it if he can. The Celts hold it. If I come with you, they may listen to me, and save you much effort and pain. And when we have it, why do not you keep it? Take it back as part of your own demesne. You most of anyone knows what needs to be done with it.’

He sat down, dazed, upon one of the chairs, brushing aside the spilled chess pieces.

‘I have learned much these past months,’ I said. ‘From the Lady Mildred, as you bade me. I am strong, well made, quick. My father was old when he wed and my mother old when I was born, but they say children of such unions are blessed. And Celtic women are fruitful beyond their prime. My years number more than fifteen. My courses flow every month that you may know I am in truth a woman. I know I am not beautiful, but no man, I think, would call me ‘skin and bone’ as you did this spring. I could bear you many sons. And I can win the Celts to your cause.’

It was the longest speech I think I had ever made.

He said when it was done, ‘By the Mass, lady, I would not call you that again. God knows you are not that.’ He bit back other words. ‘But I will echo Gilbert of Maneth. I think you bewitched.’

‘But you do not hate me so greatly?’ I cried, suddenly anxious. For having offered him so much on an impulse, I feared his reply.

‘Hate you!’ he said. ‘One does not love or hate a gadfly that stings. God’s teeth, but how you do knot up words. What of liking? I thought rather that you hated me.’

I looked at him curiously. For the first time I heard a hint of laughter in his voice. And yet, I thought, remembering his warm breath and tight arms, the mocking words he had spoken,
A maid could do worse than marry him.

‘I prefer you, in truth,’ I said bluntly, ‘to those lords of Maneth.’

Then he did laugh. ‘Dear God,’ he said, ‘it is well all maidens do not set my worth so high. Why, Ann, what would you offer if a kingdom were at stake?’

‘I have nothing more,’ I said.

He caught his breath. ‘No, and no and no again,’ he said. ‘I shall have you safe to a nunnery before and there’s my oath on it. Thank me not,’ as I struggled with words. ‘Let me rather thank you for your offer, the first such that I have received. But I cannot wed you. Such a marriage stands not within my intent.’

‘I was not thanking you,’ I cried. ‘I was about to show you where you are wrong. It would solve all.’

He drew me to him so that I stood trapped within his knees. ‘Little Ann,’ he said more gently than I had heard him speak before, ‘I have done you wrong that I have not taken in seriousness all that you have thought and said. I will not mistake you for a child again, if you will have it so. But I will not wed you. There are many things of this world that you know not of, and I would not be the one to teach you. Yet, beshrew me, although you run upon the spear points like that old boar, I would not have you change.’

‘You treat me as a child,’ I cried, tears forming. ‘I am nothing more.’

‘Not so,’ he said. ‘By my troth, if you were any maid and I any man, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have you in my bed. Have I not also shown you that a hundred times since I first saw you in my Hall? But we are not any maid, any man. You see how we are caught up, in spite of ourselves, in greater things. The lords of Sedgemont are not the highest in the land, nor yet the least either. I am not free to do all that I would like, although you may think so. As I hold oath to Stephen, so hold I it to you. I will not seduce you, although you have tried me hard enough. There is the protection you seek of me.’

‘I do not understand you,’ I cried.

‘Then think of it this way,’ he said. ‘I will not have it said that Raoul of Sedgemont could not keep his own ward safe. And I will not marry to get your lands because I could not keep them otherwise. I have not kept you ward to put that slur upon my name.’

‘You will forget all that when you are gone from Sedgemont,’ I cried.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I will not swear to be an eunuch to give you joy. But I shall not forget you. Strange wild thing. I would as soon chain a bird and watch it beat its wings apart. No, do not cry,’ more hopelessly, ‘I have never thought of love to understand its meaning.’

‘Nor I,’ I said amid tears, ‘but I shall sorely lack you and Sedgemont if we must be parted.’

He smoothed back my hair.

‘Stay safely in your nunnery,’ he said. ‘I promise I shall get back Cambray. And when it is in our hands then shall I send word. Then shall you find your brother’s enemies. Then, if luck be on our side, shall we find you a husband.’

‘I made an offer that was fair,’ I said. ‘Do not send me away.’

‘As fair an offer as any man could want,’ he said softly. ‘I would have bartered your lands for my own ends, but you have bartered with yourself. I have known many maids, little Ann, but none as just as that. But by my feudal oath shall I keep you safe, and by my feudal oath I shall go. May God have each to his care.’

I could only say ‘amen’ to that.

Later, there would be time enough to think. Now all was put in readiness for immediate departure. Today, in calmer seasons, great lords are used to journeys. They move from one part of their lands to another, just as the rest of us set out on a short morning ride. But that is how the great of this world live: travelling back and forth, even across the sea that divides England from France, seeing to their estates, ministering their rough sort of justice, overlooking the peasants who work their fields for them, and eating up the produce that has been gathered in their barns. Then, like a swarm of locusts, they move on again, leaving seneschal or bailiff to act for them until their next return. I have even become used to it myself, although it does not please me. But in less frantic times, there is some warning; households have a chance to pack, put all in order. A castle called to war is another matter.

I was too young to remember the last time Lord Raoul had called his levies out. Now I could see for myself, and admire even as I deplored, the haste and purpose that set all in motion. Everything moved smoothly, like some contraption whose wheels mesh into place. You saw how all had been planned to this end, how all the labour from smiths and armourers, the training of squires and knights, the preparations in stables and byres had fallen to this pattern. Since his return from France, this work had been going forward, although I, at least, had not marked its importance before. Now, when the need came, the weapons were sharpened, the armour repaired, the supplies at hand. Lord Raoul did not even wait for his vassals, those lords he had tried to entertain at the great boar hunt, although they and their men would make up a large part of his troops. For the moment he must rely on his own guard at Sedgemont, calling upon the others to follow him as best they could. Nor could he leave Sedgemont defended by a woman this time. Openly at arms against an avowed enemy for an unpredictable king, he feared for its safety, did all he could to keep it secure. Sir Brian would be in charge with a carefully chosen group of men. Supplies that could be ill spared would be left, and space made within the keep for the peasants of the surrounding villages. His own men would have to travel light; they would have to hunt for their needs as he had said. There would be no long baggage trains. Nor any womenfolk. They must remain at Sedgemont, weeping the while, Cecile in floods of tears for father and lover both, children screaming. Despite the noise and confusion, each knew his allotted place, what he must do. Except for me, who had no place left at Sedgemont and went out by another road to another destiny.

From the castle walls I watched them leave as I had watched them come. Lord Raoul rode at their head on that shifty-eyed, bad-tempered black stallion which I would not have mounted for all the gold of Araby. His helmet was on, his face hidden, his mail coat buckled; he rode armed and fast. At his heels came his flag bearer, the red standard of Sedgemont fluttering with its golden hawks. Behind them marched the men-at-arms. A great cry rose up at their leaving. Almost all were married men with families they left behind, and knew not when they would meet again. Yet they clattered over the drawbridge in good array, well armed, too, in padded jerkins fitted with plates of steel, steel caps close to the neck, their bows slung for safer keeping on their backs in oiled skins to keep the strings dry. Behind them came the knights and squires, lances up, their red coats marking them the castle guard. They rode out most gallantly of all, the young men setting their horses rearing and stamping to make a braver show. Giles rode among them, grim-faced with determination.

‘You shall see Cambray before I do after all,’ I said to him, trying to smile as with trembling fingers I set his sword belt and hooked the scabbard in place. But Giles was as excited as the others, behind the calm he pretended.

‘Have no fear for me, my lady,’ he said. ‘I have become so expert at the tilt yard here that no one will knock me from my horse.’

His boasting was to make me laugh, but I was far from laughing when I saw him gallop across the drawbridge, his gloved hand raised in salute. At least he had saluted. Lord Raoul had looked neither right nor left, had made no sign, had not spoken to me again. A last group of mounted men as rear guard, then all were gone, banners streaming, dust settling. A fast, determined group. But few. They expected others to join them. But few, to hold a border and save a kingdom.

There was time after to bid Cecile and the other women farewell. I would not have thought it such a hard parting, even from the Lady Mildred. To Cecile, her fair face stained with tears, I promised to send news when I had any, but no one knew when that would be or by what means.

‘Yet I will send,’ I said to her with an assurance I did not feel. And with that thought we comforted each other.

Then before Sir Brian gave the order to wind down the portcullis and raise the drawbridge for the last time, I too set out on my journey. It seemed fitting that he should have the last word as he had had the first.

‘A hard journey you will have,’ he said, standing there in the morning sun, venerable in his armour and responsibility, his shield and helmet at hand, although his task was not to ride but to wait. I think it was the first time he had been left behind. He must have felt his age that day, who had served the lords of Sedgemont all these years.

‘Your escort will take you to the convent, then swing west to join again with my lord,’ he said. His words implied the waste of time and energy.

‘You must keep up as best you can. We cannot stand on ceremony . . .’