Ann of Cambray (16 page)

Nor ever have where I have been concerned, I thought, but had the sense to keep that to myself.

‘I shall not hinder Lord Raoul’s men about his business,’ I said.

He nodded, not even having the grace to look satisfied. ‘The convent is old,’ he went on, ‘endowered by his grandmother, first Lady of Sedgemont, when she came here from Sieux. His mother was raised there. It is no ordinary place, but bound to his family by many ties. The lady prioress is his devoted kinswoman who will keep you safe in these troublesome times. Take comfort in that. Lord Raoul has had a care for you . . .’

It was true, of course, all he said. Lord Raoul had treated me more gently than the others would have done. Sir Gilbert would not have been so lenient, nor Sir Brian himself either. I looked at Sir Brian again. He was an old man beneath that armoured coat. He had grown old in the service of his lord and would have died on his behalf. He disliked me but he loved Lord Raoul.

‘So be it, Sir Brian,’ I said. ‘We part in haste but yet I hope in peace. One day yet, I may do good to your lord.’

And we rode across the bridge.

As he had warned, we rode at top speed, swords drawn, lances ready. For fear of attack, for certainly the men expected it, and were nervous, eager to see their charge bestowed so they could join with the rest of Sedgemont troops. But we heard nothing, saw nothing. Yet everywhere were signs of fear and distrust. The great meadows around the castle were empty; no horses, no cattle. Peasants with strained and anxious faces went scuttling from our path. They must have known who we were. Some of them I knew well from my early days at Sedgemont, but they would not return greetings or look at us.

Suddenly, any armed men, even those they recognised, were menacing, a warning of what worse was to come. All they could think of, and you could see it in their faces, was how to bring the remnants of their flocks and herds and their families as fast as possible within the shelter of the castle. They would stay there then until, they hoped, some better news would give them chance to scuttle out to tend the fields for the spring sowing. Or if bad news came, at least they would be safe and only their homes and plantings would be lost or destroyed. But if what Lord Raoul feared came to pass, all the land would look as deserted soon. It was a frightening thought.

I turned back once before we entered the forest. Behind us rose the towers and parapets of the castle of Sedgemont, built and enlarged so carefully by its former lords and by the earl himself. There flowed the river, deep and swift, under its walls. As we watched, we heard the ominous sound of the great gate being wound down, of the bridge swinging back into place. Thus was Sedgemont bolted up, as I remembered as a child. It seemed impossible to imagine those proud walls torn down, these meadows and fair lands destroyed by siege. But now it seemed that I should never see it again. The forest closed about us, and we rode far away.

It is not my intent to tell you all my story during the next months. For all your prodding, scribe, poet, I cannot write of despair. That is the burden of your songs, or so you tell me. But you are still young and innocent. You write of despair as your invention romanticises, not as it is. Remembering, I should only sink into it, like a stone thrown into the waters of your mountain lakes, down to peat-black depths. Sufficient to say, I came safely to the convent. It too looked secure, set at the foot of those distant hills that used to tempt me from Sedgemont battlements. High walls surrounded it, although a determined man could have scaled them easily. Yet their massive strength and brooding quality gave them the appearance of protection, and their complexity, set one within the other like a series of boxes, made them seem impenetrable. But the place was gloomy, placed within a hollow of hills, and the swiftness with which the main gate opened a crack to let me in, then slammed, without chance to say farewell, enhanced the feeling of isolation, of gloom. Lord Raoul’s men must have ridden off with a sense of relief. Yet this had once been a happy place. Both Lord Raoul and Sir Brian spoke of it as truthfully as they remembered it. And had they known the changes that had taken place, would they have acted otherwise? I think not. As Sir Brian had said, a man hard pressed stands not on niceties. How could they have known that the old prioress, the gentle soul whom Lord Raoul loved for the love she bore his mother, was dead? Had they known her place was taken by another, younger woman from France, trained in another regime and rule, with regulations already formed to beat the devil out of gentler souls, would that have concerned them? No again, for they would have reasoned that even if Sedgemont castle should fall, was not the right of sanctuary still preserved there, for the lord’s ward? Who would have thought enemies would come creeping in so close on the borders of Sedgemont? But I digress. Sufficient to say that these White Nuns, as they are called, grow apace everywhere now. They double their energies yearly to show their virtue and so double their possessions. Even in the Celtic lands are they spreading, in the unfilled parts, like mushroom patches in damp hollows. Aye, I shall be careful what I say. I know it is not wise these days to speak too openly. Yet I dare affirm that humans made by God in His image, in love, have no need to worship, in such bleakness and despair, Him who is the source of all life and joy. And I tell you, the cloisters where once the ladies of Sedgemont had walked and played had become a fearful place, inhabited by fearful and self-righteous ghosts who crept, white-robed, into our lives.

Let me rather tell you first what became of Lord Raoul and his men, and all the great events that shook our island kingdom at that time. Long after did I hear of it, and Giles told me, in fits and starts as I drew it from him. For we met again, as you shall learn, and he showed how it was that Giles, a stable boy who scarcely knew the further side of the castle gates, rode forth with an army and saw the world. So while I sank within those convent walls, so mewed up that any life outside seemed almost unreal, Lord Raoul and his men rode swiftly towards the western border and Cambray.

‘A hard ride it was,’ Giles admitted at last, when I pressured him. ‘And we have complained of living roughly before. This was nothing but rain and cold and damp so that you could not sit or lie or ride but the water dripped and fell upon you, and all your gear was wet, even the horses’ reins slippery to the touch. Our Yuletide was a camp upon sodden ground, with a saddle over our head and bread that was mouldy enough to sprout. I have eaten poorly at Sedgemont, but never as poor as that. And these were Norman knights too, who crave their meat and red wine, and will not make a move without a jug of ale in the morning. I will say this for them, they may grumble but they do not give in easily. They keep on moving like wheels that turn over and over.

‘And so we came to Cambray. Dreary cold it was, and the sea white like frost. Not that we saw much of it either, for we circled the castle from a distance. Dark and desolate it seemed, to beg your pardon, and all the fields about it run wild. Whoever was inside answered neither greetings nor challenge, and when we brought up a battering ram to try the main gate, they still gave no word. But on the walls above they appeared a raggle bunch as ever I have seen, not a knight among them. And they carried those great long bows I have heard Dylan speak of; so strong are they, they can put an arrow through a breastplate and stick out the point at the back. Those bows drove us out, and we were too few to make a close siege round. And then news came as we had expected, that the Lord of Anjou had landed.’

‘Where was that?’

‘They said that he came to Wareham in the south, sometime in the middle of the month of January, although we heard of it later. But he, it seems, had heard of us, for instead of heading towards the border as he had intended, he swung north towards Devizes, where he was joined by many great lords. For he dared not come too close to us, putting our numbers far higher than they were. Which was perhaps fortunate for us. The guards from Sedgemont were perhaps fifty, and we had lost some of them from the winter cold, although they recovered later to be of service when we needed them. Half that number again of squires and men-at-arms. And half again of knights and men riding with Lord Raoul’s vassals; all these, with some of his lesser lords, made up our total, perhaps to one hundred and twenty. Yet all came willingly, out of feudal love, that was one thing. Henry of Anjou had perhaps one hundred and forty knights, and three hundred foot, to say nothing of those troops who rode with the greater lords. But few of those had any real love or duty for him. All was expediency.’ 

‘Those great lords, who were they? Would I know them?’ 

‘Great earls they were, of Chester, Salisbury, and Hereford, who, they say, had already quarrelled with King Stephen and were therefore forced to Anjou’s side. And the earl of that land which lies even further west than Cambray, of Cornwall, where they say all men are giants. But Anjou’s main troops were mercenaries, whom he had hired in Gascony. And more ruffian soldiers there have never been.’

So spoke my gentle Giles, as if he had been bred a soldier for war.

‘For when we caught up with him at Malmesbury, his Gascon mercenaries went wild. They seized the city first, and killed all within it, women and children too. It was my first sight of battle, Lady Ann. The city was a shambles. They had not even sorted through the piles of dead who sprawled in clusters as if taking comfort of one another. Yet they would never have seized Malmesbury castle had not the king’s castellan opened it to them, treacherously.’

He fell silent then, as if the memory was too strong, and it was long before I could get him to continue.

When he did, it was a sad tale he had to tell.

‘We came upon Henry of Anjou’s army the next day, having spent the night bivouacked in the woods beyond the river there. Our arrival was well timed. For on the selfsame day the king himself arrived, with all his lords and barons, and camped on the farther side of the stream. That day should the battle have been joined. For the Angevin troops had run amok and could not be brought to discipline. And Stephen had with him a great army. And at Henry of Anjou’s back, we waited.’

‘So, what happened then?’

‘All day we sent messages to alert the king. Four times we sent, and three times our men were taken before they forded the river, by those same Gascons who would as soon spit a man as look at him. The last time, Lord Raoul would have ridden forth himself, but his other lords dissuaded him, for he was a-froth with rage, that we should sit there idle while the king deliberated. I think he would have charged alone for very shame had not finally King Stephen sent word that we too must wait.’

‘And then?’

‘All night long the rains came back, a deluge, sent from God perhaps. The ground along the river became so deep in mud that even the horses could not keep a footing, and had the men-at-arms marched out, they could have sunk down to their waists. And the king sent word again—wait.

“We have him in a pincer,” Lord Raoul cried. He had been in the saddle three days and the rain ran down his face like tears. “If we let go, he will slip out. What better chance than now?”

‘But the rains continued; there came warnings of more floods. The king turned back to London and ordered Lord Raoul to follow behind Anjou where he went, to keep him from the west and drive him farther east towards better battle sites.

“What better than here?” Lord Raoul said again, and swore a great oath that for weakness or fear of his own men, the king missed his chance to rid the country of the blight that had fallen on it.’

‘Then what did Lord Raoul do?’

‘As the king ordered. But this was the hardest part. King Stephen had many Flemish mercenaries among his army. They rioted when he would not satisfy their demands for more pay. The Gascon troops, as poorly served, took out their anger in pillage as they went. Between both contending sides, there was not much left that they did not destroy. I would not tell you all, to sicken your ears with horror. But I have seen half of the great places of the land: Coventry, Bedford, Leicester . .. They all look alike, full of dead and dying men and broken stones.’

‘And Henry of Anjou?’

‘Like quicksilver. You cannot pin him down. Trap him, and he slides away. If the king had spared us some troops, if we had had a larger force ... if Prince Eustace could have been persuaded to join with us instead of striking off on his own . . . They say battles are lost for want of a horseshoe nail. We wanted a little more than that, but not so much that Lord Raoul should not have had it. But we kept our part of the bargain. Anjou could not turn west and so at last we pushed him to another confrontation with the king.’

He hesitated, then blurted out, ‘I tell you, Lady Ann, by then it was high summer and I am not sure which is worse: the winter’s rain or to be riding armed all day in the heat and dust, with a stubble bed at night and vermin to make you itch and sweat. And fever. I would have a hundred times been in the stable at Sedgemont.’

‘And Lord Raoul?’

He hesitated again, not because he feared to displease me with his new loyalties but because, in some ways, he had already said it all. His speech was laced with Raoul. His very words were Raoul’s. But Raoul had been angry. He had always taken risks; a waiting game was not his strategy. Finally, he had baited the trap that brought Henry ‘out of nowhere’ to the River Thames, there to seize the bridge that crossed it at Wallingford. But first Henry had to take the king’s siege castle at Crowmarsh. This was the king’s chance to hem him round again.

‘And then?’

Giles shrugged, a perfect parody of Raoul’s shrug if he had but known it. ‘It was the same as before. The king and all his men on one side, Henry of Anjou with his army on the other. And they skirmished across the wretched stream, among the water reeds, as if hunting for duck. Finally there was a meeting.’

‘With whom?’

‘The king, Prince Eustace, and the lords of England. Lord Raoul was summoned. I went with him. Ann, I, a stable boy, saw the King of England!’