Ann of Cambray (33 page)

Except for lack of furnishings, even of the most rudimentary kind, the Hall looked more as I remembered it. A fire was burning in the central hearth. Pages were running with flagons of wine—those, at least, Dylan had rescued—the wine being, I suppose, too sharp for Celtic taste. I could smell the meat roasting on the spits. Lord Raoul had his back to me, but I could tell from the expression of the man he was speaking to that he was warned of my approach. I stopped one of the pages and took a goblet from him.

In my father’s time there were heavy cups of pewter and a great one of silver that he had won at a tourney in his youth and kept all these years as security for his old age. He had redeemed it from France when he came here, and used it with pride for all honoured guests. He would have served his overlord with it himself.

I picked a flagon from the table, pouring the wine with hands that trembled for all my care, and offered it to Lord Raoul. He was dressed as I had seen him earlier in the day, but there was no disgrace in that. I could see the faint marks where his mail coat had chafed at neck and wrist. At least, he had ridden out fully armed and had returned, as was proper, to his own keep.

It swept over me like a wave how much I owed to him that we were here. Slowly, almost without thought, I found myself on my knees before him, on my outstretched hand my father’s ring.

‘My lord of Sedgemont,’ I said, loud enough for all to hear, his men, my own, the Celts in the rear. ‘I, Ann of Cambray, do now, in turn, recognise you as liege lord, having over us at Cambray command of title and lands within your gift as in my father’s time. I acknowledge your help in restoring what has been lost. I acknowledge your wardship over me, as is fitting. In return for these favours, I do you homage, swearing to keep faith and loyalty to you as your loyal vassal, commending myself and those who serve me to your protection and defence.’

There was silence at first, followed by a murmur, I think, of agreement.

Lord Raoul took the ring I offered him and turned it slowly about. When he spoke, it was as formally as I had done, but better phrased, no doubt; I having but the feelings of my own heart to guide me.

‘I, Raoul, liege lord of the lands and honour of Cambray, Lord of Sedgemont, Count of Sieux, of Auterre’—how long the list of titles and names, of places he no longer controlled, yet still in truth were his—‘I, Raoul, acknowledge Ann of Cambray as sole heir of her father, loyal and loving vassal to me, holding this keep and lands for me in return for watch and ward upon the marcher lands beyond. For which service, as her father, Falk of Cambray, rendered unto me, to her I give Cambray in equal friendship and trust.’

There was a ragged cheer at that, from my own men loudest of all.

He put the ring upon his finger then—how strange to see it worn again—and helped me to my feet. And as he had done once before, he kissed me full upon the lips, the kiss of peace.

‘Now, Ann of Cambray,’ he said, and smiled at me, ‘is your liege lord made welcome to Cambray.’

We dined well that night, all of us seated about the fire as if still on the march. The cooks brought steaming platters—the huntsmen reported that the woods about teemed with game as all the borderlands are reputed to—and each new course roused a cheer. We ate and drank and talked of past adventures, old friends. And when it was grown late and the men were settled to their drinking, he took me by the hand and led me up the narrow stair to the upper chamber.

Since I had been there earlier in the evening, someone had come to make improvements, I suppose you would call them, although they were simple enough: a covering strung across the little passage to hide the stone doorway, a fire lit, although I had never known the fireplace used before, and it had smoked mightily; the bed, which, too, I have said was never used, spread with fresh cloaks and furs for comfort. The page who walked before us to light the way threw more logs upon the fire so that it sputtered and flared. But even as I took note of all these things, the page was bringing Lord Raoul his wine, his cloak, handing him, unsheathed, his sword to set in its place beside the bed. The door closed softly behind and we were left alone.

I said, half-foolish, half-worried, ‘My father slept below with my brother and his men.’

‘Indeed. And where slept you?’

I told him of the trestle bed, of Gwendyth, stumbling over explanation, as if it were of interest to him. But once my parents must have lived and loved here. That, too, I had never thought on before.

I eyed him warily. ‘And you, my lord?’

‘Why, here,’ he said, as if it were the most natural thing. I knew his calm would anger me eventually. I strove for my own.

‘Your men lodge below.’

‘I should hope so,’ he said. I knew he mocked me, although his voice was even, and he went about the preparations for the night, setting his belt in its place, his cloak, sitting on a stool before the fire to unstrap his boots.

‘But then,’ he added when I did not rise to his bait, ‘we have lived in each other’s pockets long enough. I weary of them as bedfellows.’

He cocked his eyebrow at me. ‘You seem nervous, Lady Ann. Look how safe we are. If you peer out of yonder windows, you will see the watch is already set. And I have put guards on the strand so no one can pass that way again.’ He drew aside the hanging to show me the thick beam of wood that barred the stone door as I had noticed earlier in the day.

‘And another here.’ He thrust home the one across the stairway. ‘And all my men to fight through in the Hall below. No one can get in.’

‘Nor yet get out,’ I said sourly.

‘Who wishes to?’ He was openly smiling now.

‘I,’ I said, ‘or rather you.’

‘I shall be comfortable here.’

I began again, ‘My lord Raoul, your men and mine are not so drunk or confused with sleep they will not notice what you do . . .’

He said slowly, wrestling with a buckle, ‘They drink because they deserve it. They sleep because they are weary. They think highly of you. They take you as fellow comrade, have you not seen it? It is a compliment they pay you. Why should they care what we do?’

He was standing by the fire, drinking the wine, my father’s wine, my father’s gold ring gleaming on his hand.

I said, not angry yet, reasonably, ‘Say rather, it is that they care not what
you
do. You are all men together. No doubt, they think it a compliment you show me. But I will not play a whore to please you.’

He said, ‘The choice of words, as usual, is yours, not mine.’

My control snapped. I screamed at him, loud enough for all to hear, as no doubt they did, for afterwards the very walls seemed to hold their breath, ‘I will not be another woman for your desire. I am no Celtic harlot for you to use as chattel.’

He said softly, ‘What has made you think I value women so low?’

I could have told him then what I had heard of him: Two-Handed Raoul, who charmed women to his beck and call. I could have told him what I had guessed from the first, when, unknowing, he had put that charm on me. I could have accused him then of his Celtic mistress who had betrayed him and me for love, and died for it. But I did not.

He said, ‘If indeed, as you have cause, you have come to hate all men, I would not fault you. You have had scant luck of them.’

He smiled at me. I felt my defences weaken when he smiled like that; a wide generous mouth he had, meant for smiling.

‘When you were still young,’ he said, ‘you offered me strange things. But I think then I was innocent as well. I still believed the world could be saved by high thoughts, high deeds. We have both seen ugliness and cruelty since then. Where is honour or law now? I did wrong, I think, to refuse you.’

‘I offered marriage,’ I said.

‘I remember all you offered,’ he said. ‘Marriage for Cambray, I think you told me.’ He made a gesture. ‘Here is Cambray. What will you give me for it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That is ungenerous,’ he teased.

I said, shouting at him again, ‘You laughed at me once. Why should I give you anything? It has not stopped you sleeping with half the world when I was not at hand . . .’

‘But I have never forgotten you,’ he said softly. ‘I have not forgotten what you said. I have waited until now to claim it.’

‘But it is sin,’ I said.

‘And where is church,’ he said, ‘or monk, or priest to tell us what be sin, or shrive us of it if we do wrong? I have come to believe something else, Lady Ann, while the world is tumbling about us. Out of all reason have we been given some respite, a breathing space here. We should use it to good purpose while we may; it would be sin indeed to turn our backs on it.’

‘It is not marriage,’ I whispered.

I had put out my hand to fend him off, but he took it instead in both of his. I could feel the strength of them although he held me lightly. His nearness, his arguments, flustered me. He spoke to charm my thoughts away from sense. I slipped my hand free and backed again, ending up against the frame of the great bed that blocked the centre wall. While he did not touch me, I could resist his arguments.

‘What is marriage,’ he said, ‘but legal oath, church oath, to bind two people, perhaps against their will, that their offspring should inherit what lands and names and wealth they combine together ... I cannot marry you, my little Ann. But I thought after all this, we did not need the sanctity of the church to tell us what we should mean each to each.’

‘My lord,’ I said, ‘you woo with sweetened words. It is true I owe you much.’

‘I unsay that,’ he said. ‘I will not put such discourtesy before you.’

‘It is true,’ I continued, ‘that you are a great lord, far above me, your vassal. You might woo and wed any woman in the land. But I am not so low, my lord . . .’

‘Speak my name,’ he interrupted me again. ‘You were freer with it before. And high, low, what meaning have these words for us here? Who counts among the highest of Sedgemont men? He who leads the way? He who falls at the first charge? He who opens the gate to let his comrades through? Far are we from the great world, and I, for one, am grateful for it at last. I have longed too much for those courts of kings and princes. Here is neither high nor low; we are comrades all, not made for passing judgment on each other. Here is there neither high nor low, nor bargaining for power and prestige. We are all simple creatures of God here, left to the justice of our own desires.’

I knew he lied; he twisted words to his own ends, but the lies were sweet.

‘Desire,’ I cried. ‘It is all you men think of.’

His smile grew wider. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘when all else is lost, it is the only thing worth thinking on. Perhaps it goes before us even without our knowledge.’

His voice grew quiet. ‘Perhaps love and loving are all that will be left us in the end.’

I should have been on guard. He was most dangerous when he was quiet, and his spring towards me took me by surprise. I turned to flee across the bed. There was a creaking as he thrust his weight upon it, a resounding crash. The old slats and withies that had bound the frame gave way beneath the covers newly spread upon them. We fell together in a tangle of broken lathes and slivered wood.

When he could catch breath, ‘Judas,’ he shouted, ‘where have you trapped us now?’

He struggled to his knees, caught fast by one arm where his greater weight had borne him to the floor. With his free arm, he tried to haul me up, smashing through the broken edges with his fist. I came up slowly, feet first, bundled in the clothes that I had caught up to protect myself.

He swore again. ‘Strapped down like . . .’ He struggled for words.

‘Like a rutting boar, my lord,’ I said demurely when I, too, could speak.

He turned to shout again at me, although we were separated by inches, his hair on end, great red marks scored across his arms and forehead. We faced each other across a network of shattered wood that shifted ominously as we moved.

‘God’s wounds,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘When I get loose of this . . .’

He struggled with the slats but could not shift them.

‘Easier said than done,’ I said as demurely as before. ‘And as you have just been pointing out, who is to get inside the room to free us?’

He opened his mouth to speak, but I reached up my hand and stopped him.

‘If you swear by God’s wounds again,’ I said, ‘I shall scream. Think up some other oath. My cuts are smarting as it is. I was as weary as you, fellow comrade. These are my wounds that bleed.’

We eyed each other, almost face to face, scowling, until the tears of laughter eased their way down our cheeks. We laughed until our sore ribs ached of it and the whole bed shook.

‘By the Mass,’ he said at last, ‘if that oath pleases you better, what should we do?’

‘If you can stretch out your left hand,’ I said, ‘I can try to push your sword within your grasp.’

‘Take care,’ he said. ‘You are so handy with weapons these days, you may take my head off instead of yours.’

I paid him no heed, strained to reach the sword hilt, and finally pushed it where he could take it up himself. He began to saw at the jagged ends, no easy task, for the blade had not been honed for such homely work, and if it slipped it might indeed take arm or leg. Two-Handed Raoul—the skill that gave him that name came in useful that night. But at last we had made room to break his shoulders free. Then, with foot and knee, he could widen the gap to let us both pass through. But we were weak with mirth by then, so spent with laughter that he had to pick me up and sling me forth across his shoulder, still bundled up in furs and wraps. He dropped me unceremoniously upon the hearth, both still festooned with shreds of linen, the mass of scratches dried by now, except one long one across his forearm that still ran red.

‘Well, lady,’ he said, ‘who would have her lover pull down dragons from the sky to show his devotion, see what a rescue I have performed. Have not I done greater work than handing you your enemy’s head on a platter?’

‘You have already given me that,’ I said.

‘Forgive me, love,’ he said, contrite. His arms were about me to unwind sheet and coverlet until there was nothing between us save the fabric of my gown, and that, too, he was stripping off, ‘forgive me, that I should have you remember that. Had Gilbert done you harm that day, then had the world lost half its light. Then would there be but little left for us to hope for in this desolation. See how the gods have smiled upon us even in this. Little Ann, look not so frightened. Not for all the kingdom would I have you frightened. Since first I saw you defiant and alone in my Hall, I have longed to comfort you.’