Ann of Cambray (53 page)

It was the first admission I had ever heard him make, albeit grudging, that Henry was capable of any good.

‘Raoul,’ I said, the name slipping out too easily before I could choke it back. ‘Raoul, what did you do at Rouen that Henry should remember it?’

He said, ‘I kicked him down the cathedral steps. Well, it was a Mass held by the Angevins to celebrate his father’s latest victory. Against my will was I bidden to attend by the then Duke of Normandy. Henry, as his father’s son, would walk first before me in the procession. So I helped him to it with my boot.’

I had a sudden image, clear as day, of the crowd of watching nobles with their retinues, the fluttering priests, the stout, redfaced boy sent sprawling headlong. And of Raoul leaping upon his horse, making it pivot close to the bottom step where Henry lay and howled. Panic welled up in me. I struggled within his grasp, catching at him at the same time as if to shield him.

‘He will not only never forget that,’ I cried. ‘He will not forgive it either.’

Raoul smiled again. ‘Perhaps not. I might find it difficult myself. But I do not expect much more. We have only found another temporary respite, an interlude, God knows how or why. This has been the first of many struggles in this new reign. It will not be forgotten either.’

‘But he will send someone to hunt you down,’ I cried, ‘to track you wherever you go, as he did before.’ And as I spoke, it seemed to me the room became dark, full of shadows, danger.

Raoul said reasonably, simply, ‘I think not yet. He may already be regretting the impulse that bade him move against so many at one time.’ He might have been speaking of something far off, impersonal, not of his life, his death. ‘De Luci, whom you shall meet again, said once that to contest Henry as king even in peace would be as in any battle, none knowing who would be spared or why. It seems that despite all my efforts to the contrary, I am to be spared awhile yet. But do not look for a lasting truce, although you came here to plead for it.’

‘As to that,’ I said suddenly, ‘why came
you
here? Sense alone should have bidden you stay far away if your own men’s warnings would not persuade you. Henry would have done more than string you up.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Ann,’ he said, ‘I sometimes have thought, have feared, you saw in me something that was not there, someone else. I have said before, I am not Talisin. I am not your brother come back to life, although you wished it, thought it, when I first met you as a child. I am not what you have ever yearned for come back to you . . .’

‘No,’ I said. I drew breath. ‘No. Talisin is dead. That, too, I have come to accept, perhaps never more so than in saying it. But doubly have you avenged his spirit. My quarrel has become yours. What more could you do?’ I drew another breath. ‘I would not hold you to an unwelcome match for any favour you have done me, or I done you . . .’

He went on, almost as if I had not spoken, ‘Once at Cambray I felt that God had forsaken us. Forget that day? Ask me rather to forget myself, my name, my honour. But since then, it seems to me, He has found a way to show His favour again, although by what means, to what ends, is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps it may be that even now, far off, we can escape the envy of the world. I came here, Ann, to find you.’

‘Then you have found me,’ I said, ‘and shall know where I go.’

‘Where will that be?’

‘To Cambray,’ I said.

‘Why there?’

‘It is my home.’

He said softly, so softly I almost could not hear him, ‘Pride, pride, you will choke of it. I would have my son born at Sieux.

‘Let me take you back to Sieux, my fierce little Ann, and show you the long meadows full of flowers, the gentle river, the vineyards in the sun. I shall take back my castle there, hold it safely. I shall have wife and child, children, to content me.’

He had drawn me full upon his knees, was tracing with his sound hand through my hair, ruining the curls and braids.

Once, I thought, he would never have wanted such simple things, would have laughed at me because I did. The queen’s words flashed through my mind again.

Such men cannot endure unless they will change their ways.

Was he admitting that he could, that he would be content to live away from court and intrigue and war? And even if he said he would, could he keep his promise? Would the world come crowding about us as it had before? Would Henry seek us out another time? I felt a shiver run along my spine.

‘Cold, my love,’ he said, and drew the cloak around us both. The fire sputtered and smoked. There was no sound outside the room, none other than that within.

He said, as if echoing my thoughts, ‘What can I offer you, little Ann; a dubious future where before was none, a hope where before was none. But there is no security in anything. We can but try for it. And to have a son. A man does not think of it,’ he said almost shyly, ‘but that, too, would be something.’

‘Then let us be wed and off at once,’ I cried.

At that he did laugh, almost that lighthearted laughter I remembered, although his torn muscles cut it off short.

‘Now beshrew me,’ he said, ‘how she does lust after me. Why, Ann,’ he teased, ‘I thought it was affairs of state that interested you. Or hopes of being countess after all. Well, love, there should be time for such things hereafter. Now let us seek to enjoy each other.’

He mocked me, although the words he said were true, although once it was not he would have said them.

I lay in his embrace and felt the smoothness of his skin beneath the cloak, contrasted with the puckered scar along his side, the bandages that strapped his shoulder. I could not bear to think that golden body marred, his strength impaired.

A sudden sputter from the fire lit up the room. His eyes shone for a moment as I remembered them, blue-grey; his hair was crisped, his mouth smiling. I lay in his embrace and felt his left hand smooth along my spine.

‘I would not break open your wounds,’ I said, whispered against his ear, yet could not keep my hand still either.

He said,
‘Ma mie,
there are many ways to pleasure each other. We should let the rest of the world go by while we savour them all. I cannot swear to anything else, only that.’ His hand was on my face again, feeling, as a blind man who does not trust what he touches, eyes, mouth, throat.

Great men are not as other men, their pleasures greater, their danger greater.

To wed and live happily belonged to Cecile, to Geoffrey, not perhaps to us.

But. ‘It is enough,’ I said.

The marriage of the Earl of Sedgemont and the Lady Ann of Cambray took place immediately thereafter. Arranged at the king’s express command and under such strange circumstances, it is not surprising that the world took note, although it was also observed that the king seemed not so pleased as might have been expected. For there is a sense of uneasiness, mystery perhaps, that runs through those old memories, as if even in recalling them, people are still not sure what was gained, what expected. Yet people in general remembered, so that many years later, when I, Urien, the Welsh bard who writes this epilogue, questioned them, as I love to do, being always curious about human nature, they spoke of an event that had happened years before I was born as if it had happened yesterday. No one could say openly what disturbed them most; some hinted at one thing, some another, but none, I think, not even the king, as Lord Raoul had shrewdly surmised, knew the real reason for the haste, that the child might be born in wedlock.

But there were so many other strange things surrounding this wedding that the haste with which it was solemnised, though scandalous, was not the worst. First was the matter of the new earl’s investiture. It will be remembered, for example, that Lord Raoul had divested himself of all his assets, his plate, his jewels, all that he could raise upon his estates before Henry’s envoys had reached him at Sedgemont. The few moneys that the Lady Mildred had given the Lady Ann had long been spent. Lord Raoul had arrived in London as poorly equipped as any fugitive, with a horse, lame and half-starved, a leather jacket, a sword ... the relief or tax levied upon him now by the king for the new earldom was heavy, heavier than was rightly due since the lands were not new, only the title itself.

For despite Henry’s having acquired the four grey horses from Cambray, he now demanded eight more, four of these to be saddled and richly bridled, and hung with breastplate, helmet, shield and lance, all the accoutrements of war. (And in this way did he lay the foundations of his stable, which, in time, came to rival that of Cambray itself.) And other payments were also demanded: wools and hides and grain that would have strained the natural resources of the land even had there been no war, again an unjust levy since full payments had been made already to the crown when the late earl had died and Lord Raoul had first come into his inheritance. It was not surprising that the bridegroom came to the wedding feast in borrowed finery, or that all bridal gifts were lacking.

As for the bride’s own dowry, that was lacking, too, since all she owned was her husband’s, by virtue of his overlordship. Then, too, the oath taking left much to be desired, both king and earl speaking their party with dignity, to be sure, but rapidly, with little display of cordiality, more shamefaced than otherwise. Few would have doubted Lord Raoul’s bond, once it was made, although many might have wondered why he permitted himself to give it under such constraint. As for the king—but there was no judging what the king wished, for he looked so sour and spoke so fast. Yet, when the marriage Mass was celebrated the following day, he was present as chief guest, and fidgeted his hour away while the archbishop droned slowly along. The only sign of interest he gave was to stare at the bride. Yet all stared at her, for she, at least, was fittingly arrayed in brocade and pearls, although her smile would have been dazzling enough without the rest. (And where such riches came from can only be guessed at, the queen’s records for that month being more outrageous than ever—I know, I looked at them. She had a reputation for extravagance, but in this case, the purchase of silks and furs, and such miscellaneous items as bedcovers, linens, carpets, and excessive feminine trinkets of gold, may reflect her generosity rather than her own desires.)

Imagine then the young bride, decked out in newest fashion, beautiful enough to make the court, usually immune to these events, remember. Fifty years later, they would remember.

As for the groom, he was tall and handsome, with pallor to render his looks interesting to the ladies, and pride to make his cobbled clothes, a trifle too short for him, of no importance.

The king was restless, as I have said, petulant, having the air of one who would rather be off coursing hares, biting his nails in the front pew and falling asleep at the slower parts of the service.

But the queen sat serene and detached, secretly triumphant perhaps, giving her favour to the newlywed couple despite the king’s impatience.

Such was the wedding itself. But worse was to follow. For if the ceremony itself had been hastened forward, for reasons that no one seemed to have understood, the most obvious one, for some strange cause being totally ignored, the subsequent festivities were meagre to the point of scandal. A marriage of this high degree, even if an unequal match by social standing, expected, yea, demanded feasting of lavish proportions, jousting, masques, entertainments. None was offered at all. For thrift? For haste again? Not even the semipublic bedding of man and wife, a ritual, it was well known, which the king, with his still-youthful enjoyment of earthy pranks, especially delighted in. It was dispensed with entirely, much to the disappointment and chagrin of the courtiers who would willingly have seen the charms of the bride displayed. But no, the weakened state of the new earl and his recent wounding must serve as excuse, that and the queen’s own express request that there should be no rough games, which she said she found distasteful and crude ... so no, again, not even the display of the wedding sheets the next morning, which any cynic knows can easily be arranged.

So disappointment there was then, and a sense of anticlimax, of something lacking. After all, men marry; women breed; kings must be pleased or they will sulk. There was general feeling that a more fitting climax to the story should have been expected. The next morning provided it.

At first dawning, the king was off, in great rage, it was claimed, although accounts of the reasons are confused. But he stamped and swore in usual style, setting the confusion of a royal hunt aswirl about him. Footmen, hounds, horses, all the clatter and noise of Bermondsey, reaching up to the bridal room itself, where, perhaps for all his wanting, he could not find excuse to enter in. But as he mounted, the half-broken grey horse pivoting with fear and rage at the raking of his spurs, an equally loud, disorganised hubbub came swelling towards them along the cobbled street outside Bermondsey. Within seconds, rumours were flying as high as a falcon swung from huntsman’s wrist—an army, it was said, advancing to take the king, a band of rebels, fearful of nothing. The king was seen to draw his sword and his face to brighten at the thought. Those who were mounted turned and seized what weapons were at hand. No one expected the small group of ragged men who came riding up to the gates. Lady Ann had well described them, miserable as curs driven to fend for themselves, homeless as peasants in the fields, the remnants of Lord Raoul’s men whom he had left in hiding at the forest edge.

What had happened was this. When news of all that had befallen at the court was sent to the Lady Mildred at Sedgemont, as was fitting, that those who waited restlessly there could know the outcome (and some stayed to give loyal service; some left upon the hour), the messenger found opportunity to detour from his path to find his old comrades and tell them of their good fortune. They, in turn, had ridden hard towards London to be at hand upon such a joyous occasion. On reaching the city, a day, or rather a night, too late, they had milled outside until, with the dawn, they could pass within the gates. Thus, they came at this hour to Bermondsey, bursting in upon the king. The confrontation was short; the effects long-lasting. The Sedgemont guard, as villainous a crew as ever roamed the London streets, for looks, I mean, as one man swung themselves off their horses, dropped amid the filthy puddles, and, having recognised the king in their midst, with one voice hailed him as Henry, protector of rights, arbitrator of wrongs, source of law and forgiveness. For seconds, Henry eyed them, his sword blade lifted, glinting in the first sunlight, the words of command trembling on his lips. But he hesitated too long. The hoarse but hearty voices reverberated among the narrow streets and overhanging roofs. Already, honest citizens had thrown back shutters, come running to their doors to see what was amiss. To attack undefended men who had thrown themselves at his feet would have been a coward’s act. He rammed the sword back into its sheath, muttered his replies to their greetings, allowed his name to be shouted over and over again, coupled with the name of Raoul and his lady wife, and finally proclaimed their general pardon back from outlawry to the command of their rightful lord. With how ill a grace he uttered these words cannot be said. They were greeted with even louder rejoicing; cheers that echoed to the chimney tops and sent the scavenging birds wheeling along the riverbanks.