Gifts of the Queen (15 page)

Not knowing what I did, I hurled myself from my horse, went slithering down the hill, briars catching at my face and arms, pebbles and dirt showering beneath my feet. They did not hear me, still intent about their work, nor did they see me, backs toward the land. I caught Dillon about the waist, hauled at his arm with all my weight, dug in my teeth wherever I could reach, clawed with my nails. He gave a great cry of alarm, back-handled me, clutched me to him so we both fell together into the lake. Head over heels I went, my skirts billowing out else I would have sunk up to my neck. Beside me Dillon floundered to his knees, mouthed and sputtered, flailed for his sword. On the bank, Raoul, still staggering from surprise, himself plastered with mud and wet, watched as if struck dumb; a fine sight, his companion and wife wallowing in the reed bed.

The oath he let out I'll not repeat. It scorched my ears. Nothing worse than the ones Dillon let fall. I felt myself flame with disgrace, every womanly precept broke at once. To come between lord and man is bad enough; to dispute him at sword point folly beyond belief. Poor Dillon. Spitting out mouthfuls of sand, liberally festooned with duckweed, he dragged himself out upon the bank, where he sat down heavily, feet still in the water, not having the sense to drag me after him. Spent for breath, he leaned upon his sword and observed me. The hounds, thinking to join in the sport, were already paddling about. It was Raoul at last who hauled me out. I wiped my eyes on the wet corner of my gown, tried to wring out my skirts, tried to make coherent speech. All that came forth was simply this: 'I thought he had killed you.'

'Mother of God,' it was Dillon who replied. 'I thought rather you who would kill me.'

He looked at Raoul, opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and took up his sword, still dripping with weed, to clean it. Raoul too reached behind him, pulled free his shirt, began to mop the cut running down his arm, not much more than a scratch, no more than those which the thorns had left on me. Neither man looked at me, nor at each other, but I felt a ripple pass between them, gone upon the thought. Unnerved by it, I began to scold.

'I thought this oaf,’ for so I called Dillon to his face, ‘I thought this lout would tear you apart. I thought you spitted like a piece of meat. How could you let him use you thus?'

At a jerk from Raoul's head, Dillon clambered upright. 'I tell you what I think . . .' he began, then swallowed hard, took up his shield and leather coat, called off the dogs. Dragging on his horse's rein, he went wearily up the hill. After a while we heard him catch my horse and, leading it, ride off toward the castle grounds. I was left alone with my noble lord.

The start was quiet enough. 'So, lady,' he says, not looking at me, staring straight ahead, legs apart, wiping at his arm, 'you think to become an expert with a sword, when to thrust perhaps, how to use a shield. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I remember when you were but a child, you tried to hack my heart out and nearly took you own. A swordsman now is it I have as wife, as no doubt last night you played at courtier.'

I knew the sound of that voice very well, low, almost pleasant. He might have smiled. Beneath, the calm was ominous. I said not a word, sat still, wringing out my clothes.

'Well, well,' he said, pulling his shirt over his head, his voice muffled by its folds, 'a brand new weapon for our use, your head, with about as much sense in it as a mangonel.'

I pursed my lips, began to drag off my boots to empty them. They squeaked at every move, my skirts sagged above my knees. 'So let us count the ways,' he said, numbering them upon his fingers, one by one, 'that, in six months of marriage is it yet?, you have been so free with your advice, to toss my men upon their backs, challenge my command, spread scandal throughout Normandy . . .'

'And give you a son,' I said.

'Aye, that too,' he said, 'I have not forgotten that. Else should I have pushed you back to drown, fit ending for such a scold. Count that debt well paid. God's wounds, girl, are you not abashed? Look at you, even your face is streaked with blood.’

I had forgotten my bitten lip, and tested it gingerly with my tongue.

'Your Sir Renier would not know you.'

'He is not
my
anything,' I replied waspishly, angered at the injustice. 'He merely gave me advice once again when I needed it. As I have reason to suspect he offered it to you.'

'Which I refused. Then is he well paid to whisper secrets with my wife.'

'No secrets,' I said, 'except those which you hide. The queen's message to me was simply put, to keep you safe. Which all of Sieux would wish save you yourself.'

He stared. 'God's wounds,’ he said again, 'you would believe what she says? You are more simple than I thought. I doubt if she has my interest at heart these days. And what else?’

'That I hie home to Cambray,' I said. 'I am not so simple that I would not welcome it. Better than here. Although for foolishness what place more apt. You will kill yourself before you've done or have Dillon do it for you. Cannot you find other ways to pass time profitably?'

'I am a soldier,' he said, belting on his sword to prove his point. He snapped his buckle close. 'What else should I do with a right arm? Dig weeds, plough oxen with my peasants in their fields? Write script in a monastery, pray there that my enemies run away? But since you would spy out men's affairs,' he reached out with his right arm, caught the slack folds of my gown, pulled me on my feet, 'feel that,' he said. 'Almost as good as new. Were you a man, you'd not wish to come within reach of it.'

I thrust my own right arm out, tried to break his grasp. 'And were I a man,' I said, breathless, 'you'd not threaten me. I stand to my word. I thought you hurt, no more, no less. But since you speak of Sir Renier, what do you plot behind my back for Cambray, what for Sieux, that I should learn it from other men? What will Henry do in France that we must protect ourselves from him?'

'God's teeth,' he swore, 'lady, will you never give up? Your audacity would make a strong man blanch. Should I cower behind your skirts? If you want a mannequin, look to your son. These be men's affairs.' He towered above me, a full head taller, broad of shoulder, his wet shirt plastered to his skin, his eyes their darkest gray, narrowed like a cat's. I could see his fingers itched to box my ears. But I had never let him see that I was afraid.

'Should not I have some knowledge of your plans?' I asked. 'You mock me that I am no wife to you . .'

'Wife,' he said. 'Of late I've had but little evidence of that. Look at your sad face, like widow at a burying. This is a day to rejoice in; you turn it to my funeral. Not that as widow you'd make a man's heart leap, more like to half-drowned sheep than wife.'

'Not much better yourself,' I cried, scorn completing what his anger could not do. 'One of your serfs picking reeds.' I would have kicked at him had I my boots on. 'Go romp with them if you lack for sport. No doubt you've had your fill of village maids these past months.'

He eyed me, not smiling exactly, as always perverse. When he had prodded me to rage, his own was gone.

He said, 'Had
your
Sir Renier come one day late, you could have blurted all the truth out. This is a day to celebrate. At least you could wish me joy. I have been wounded before; I know when a wound will heal. If I can use my right arm once, I can again.'

I could wish anything as long as it not be here,' I said. 'I wish he
were
my Sir Renier. He treats me with courtesy.'

'Courtesy is as it is found,' he said. 'Kind words do not always mean kind friends. "Go romp with the peasant maids," you said. Perhaps I shall.'

He spun on his heel, whistled to his horse. It came trotting up on its tethering rope, a workaday horse, yet it answered to his call. He caught at its bridle, loosened the rope, vaulted on its back.

'Perhaps I shall,' he repeated, 'likely to afford me better game.'

He kicked his horse with his soft boots; it cantered off. At the cove's edge, he wheeled, leapt off, then on again, came galloping back. I stood and watched him, tugging at the knots in my hair. In England once last year, Henry had mocked at him.
At my knighting,
Henry had said,
I could leap upon my horse, full-armed. Raoul, can you?
Raoul, scarcely able to walk, had not replied. Today he wore but shirt, braies and soft boots, was not armed except for sword and belt; one day again in full mail, I was sure he would show the king that he could equal him. He veered to my right, splattering sand. I felt the rush of his passing brush me, as once more he leapt and wheeled, putting all his weight on his right side. His long hair blew back, he smiled, dropped the bridle, stretched out both hands, thus balanced, rode as if with wings. I thought suddenly. Dear God, even anger today is but a show. This is his pleasure welling up from his heart core, that he must display it to the world. I looked at him, a man turned into boy, or a boy who feels himself a man, his strength restored and, with it, his hopes, his pride. Once more he swept round to gallop past.

Now, he could not know, nor anyone, that as a child, my dearest wish had been to see my brother ride like this, to have him leap upon his horse, set me before him, ride across the sands at Cambray. And, as suddenly too, it seemed to me that the years had rolled back, there was no time, and I was as young, as happy then. My brother, Talisin, still lived, my father lived, and all my life was centered here. Almost without thought I stepped full into his path, raised my hands. The woolen gown slid about my feet in a sodden heap; in kirtle only, I waited for him. Back he came at a gallop straight for me. I never flinched. At the last second he reined back, bringing his horse to its haunches, snorting and panting. I stretched my foot for the stirrup iron, too high, until he bent to pull me up. I sat in front of him, his other hand clamped about my waist. He flicked his horse's sides; we galloped off through the rush beds, water spilling beneath our heels. I clung to the pommel and let the wind carry us away. There was no time, I say, carefree we rode, Sieux and its dangers gone from thought, count and countess lost somewhere else. And after a while I leaned against him, felt his body's heat through the damp linen on my back, felt his exuberance mounting like a sap in a tree, felt the thudding of his heart.

Gradually, we dropped back to walk, came to another sandy stretch. Without speech, he swung me off, dismounted himself, stripped off belt and shirt, his hose, his boots, let them fall where they dropped. He took me by the hand and drew me into the lake; when its creamy depths swirled about my waist, my cuts and scratches burned.

'Jesu, Ann,' he said, 'you have been missed.' He smoothed the hair back on either side of my face. 'Ann,' he whispered, 'I would not hurt you again or do you more harm. I thought to see you die that day. Not remember how my son was born? Each day I have thought of it.'

The sun fell on us, gold-flecked, the levels of the lake stretched into a heat mist. I smiled up at him. He reached down, tore off my shift, it floated away. He put his hand upon my neck where the pulse beat. 'I hoped,' he said, 'to prove that you had not forgotten me.'

I smiled again, and stretched out my hand to touch his face. The line of the scar ran faint beneath my fingertips. He swallowed hard, 'Dear God,' he said, almost to himself, 'what should a man do and still be man?' He slid into the water in front of me; with his long legs, he parted mine, dived beneath, brushing between with all his body's length. Up he came, slowly along the spine, breathing warm against each bone, tracing out each knot until he came to the shoulder blade. The water fell in great drops on my breast; he bent and kissed each drop as if drinking it. Then beneath the water he went once more; I felt his mouth brush each thigh, felt it travel from cleft to waist and down, running like fire. His hands tightened along my back, fingers parting at the crack, thrusting, as he reared up; my legs caught high above his, he leaned me on the pillow of the lake, bent over as he thrust within.

Sun and fire, the water's cool, his flesh like silk, I wore him as a second skin, buried in, no space for breath, only light that fell in golden showers. Before even that time was done, he had carried me to the grass bank, stretched me out, parted me, slid in again. The air blew up the wild scents of mint and thyme; against my ear he breathed, running with a fingertip along each arm, each breast, each inner thigh, a circle cupped with but one liquid core. And when he rolled upon his back, he fitted me to his body, a coverlet to keep him warm, a sheath into which to plunge himself. I arched back to his desire. 'Take me,' I cried, my heart cried, 'a hundred different ways.' And at my neck bone he mouthed the same.
‘Embrasse moi, touche moi, ma mie.'
Impaled, imprisoned, imprisoning, we came to peace; nothing but sun and sand, the water lapping far away.

It seemed a lifetime before the world spun round. Perhaps it was. One can live a lifetime in a few hours. The day had grown chill when we thought of time. Within his saddlebag, he found a cloak to cover my nakedness, for my kirtle had drifted off somewhere and my gown lay waterlogged upon a bank. I helped him strap on sword belt, and sword, and, by and by, gather his other gear where he had left it. It was these things, men's gear, war gear, that brought the present back. And with it came those questions which had burned in my brain all night.

'Why should those Normans plot and plan? What does Sir Renier seek for the queen? Why does King Henry come to France?'

He reached round to clamp his hand across my mouth.

'Mother of God,' he said, 'like to swamp me, more questions than this lake has floods. Be patient. They will be dealt with in due course.'

I wriggled free of his grip, exasperated that he still would not answer me. 'And you,' I cried, 'what will you do at Sieux, what of your English lands?' He tried to silence me again. When I resisted, he slid back on the saddle to give me room.

'Careful,' he said, for the horse had begun to start and skiddle about, 'like to toss us on our backs—although I could become used to it.' And he grinned, that lopsided grin that made my blood run warm.