Gifts of the Queen (23 page)

It was quiet in the tent then; outside, the movement of his men, the faint murmurs of their voices, the distant sound of all the camp, seemed lost to another time. He roused himself. I saw for an instant in the dimness the signs of fatigue, quickly dispelled as he heaved himself upright. He had fought today and won; tomorrow he must fight again, a harder fight. 'At dawn,' he said, 'prepare to leave. Better so. I should not have brought you here, no place for women harpies, howling for blood.'

I felt the sting: was it of chagrin or disappointment?

'Nor look for me at the feast this night,' he said, 'there is, are,' he hesitated, 'thing to be done.'

'Will they include de Boissert and his kin?' I said, still trembling, almost not daring to mention her name aloud.

He hesitated a second time. 'What is done, not undone,' he said, 'will be arranged. That is all you need to know.' He looked at me, blank-faced, pale now with weariness beneath the brown, the scar etched clear, his eyes green-gray like the sea. 'Although you will not be here,' he said, almost formally he spoke, 'tomorrow, Countess, I fight for you.' And he was gone.

Left in the tent, I might have wept, for foolishness, for grief, and for something else still not understood, some conflict between us that was not resolved. But presently, as I grew calmer, it began to seem that once again he had had the last word, and that, when I thought back over all that had been said, he had not explained anything at all, had sent me off for all the world to mock. Nor had he told me any more than he wished me to hear, what were these 'things' that must be arranged, with whom? And so gradually out of pride, building up resentment to new height, I resolved I would not 'sulk apart' as he had put it, would go to the feast, would watch Isobelle de Boissert queen it over us. Well, these things are all a foolishness, woman's whims, and I do not wish to dwell on pettiness. Yet, had I not quarreled with Raoul, had I not gone out of stubbornness to the feast, had I not looked for another man to taunt him with, our story would have ended here. So out of small griefs something good can grow.

I went early then to the feasting, my squires subdued at my heels. He probably had dealt with them as roughly. Matt looked to have another bruise on his cheek, to match the one he had won yesterday. But we never spoke nor asked about that. Nor did I loiter to look at all the sights and sounds of carnival, but went straight in; and although I found no pleasure, you would not have known. I have been taught, too, to smile when grief gnaws, and the man beside you bores to tears; I know how to hide my thoughts. The feasting was more formal today; those knights who had done well sat with their friends to celebrate. Those who had fallen drowned their defeat in wine. I stayed with the knights from Sieux at first, had them wait on me and listened patiently as they re-enacted every bout. Since each in turn had to explain how he had looked for me, I almost began to believe it true, and since each in turn also praised Lord Raoul, until I thought I would scream, my fault became most obvious, to have turned my back on him. Then, as well, they all expressed amusement at the way the women had thrown ribbons at them.

'For it is new custom,' they said, 'Lord Raoul mocked it; said we were like oxen hung for slaughtering. Once women did not drape us in women's gear; tomorrow, we will not have time for frills. Tomorrow the mêlée is serious work. But since those eight of us who fight and win have right to choose a lady, then we shall choose you.'

I did not have the heart to say I would not be there, but their enthusiasm, their confidence, gave me hope. I scarcely noticed when the Lady Isobelle entered, all clad in gold again, nor Raoul himself, although when I did, I saw he walked with a slight limp, as if favoring his side. They rose to greet him, stood with him; I thought them the youngest, the most alive men there, handsome in their patched finery. And a surge of pleasure, I suppose, filled me that these were our men, the men of Sieux, although I tried to stifle it. Lord Raoul saluted me but did not stop, although I still half-thought he might, then went forward with Ralph de Boissert, Jean de Vergay, the Lady Isobelle . . . So be it.

I turned to a man who sat on my right, who had been trying to bore me with his talk, square and solid like the bench he sat on. He grinned and perspired in his velvet gown, drew pictures with his dagger point to show how he made this move, then that. On his other side, his Norman wife scowled and poked. Presently, the feasting began, such quantities of food served on thick trenchers of fine white bread, the scraps alone would have fed us at Sieux for a month. Roast boar and venison and beef and lamb, capons dripping in their own fat, pheasant stuffed and pigeon and duck, pies of quail and eggs and hare, and saffron flavored pork and pike—even eels, jellied, and laced with some sort of fermented drink—all washed down with barrels of ale, and more and more casks of wine. My Norman partners ate as if their lives depended on it, spearing their food if they had time or remembered their manners, otherwise they used both hands. When they had the chance they offered me the choicest parts, but since I had no appetite, they settled down in earnest, juice dripping from their chins. Even at Henry's court, I had never seen such display of greed.

As I have said, most of the knights who had been in the jousts and who could still walk were there with their ladies, but when the cloths were drawn and the tables stacked, I noted that the older lords, Raoul himself, disappeared, no dancing for them; then what else? And since the Lady Isobelle and her maids had gone as well, I felt a jealous pang, sharp and cruel. Where were they, with whom? That turned my resolution up another notch; I began to laugh and jest with these Norman knights, and let my glance flutter from one red face to another to set them all at odds, began to think of the young knight I had met earlier on. If Raoul could dally, so should I, if only there were someone worth the risk. Two-Handed Raoul, I thought, he'll not find me pining for his other arm. Well, jealousy is a sin, as we all know, and the pain it gives deep as a sword thrust. I tell you, I could flirt with any man, and yet, the more I tried, the more apprehension grew. I sensed it as an animal does; the hairs rose at the nape, my palms grew damp. Yet nothing had changed, no one to look or spy on me, they had already done what they could for that; Raoul off with some other company, not even chance to say Godspeed, no good wish for tomorrow's success. But other, younger men, left behind, willing to dance and teach me the steps I did not know, lascivious enough to throw their partners in the air and let them slide against their chests, their thighs. There was one dance I did recall; we had danced it once at Sedgemont in happier days, the 
tourdion,
where men must advance, women retreat, faster and faster as the music faster goes. The musicians with viols scraped and scratched; the sweat flew from them as it does from a horse; I thought they would saw the strings right through. My partner advanced to thrust me back, back and forth as on a marriage bed; a hand caught mine and drew me out.

There was a dark corner at one side where the tapers cast no light, and a stack of wine casks made an alcove. I could not see who it was, but remembered the touch of that soft white hand. And that voice with its strange accent. 'So,' it said, 'sleep did you good. You have woken up.'

I was hot and out of breath and, in truth, a good deal flushed with embarrassment. I fanned myself to hide my thoughts, tapped my feet to give myself time to respond.

'Do you always dance so vigorously?' he next asked, catching me to keep me still.

'Let me go,' I said tartly, 'it's not so dark that no one will notice us.'

'Nor so dark,' he said, 'that your beauty does not glow, like candlelight.' Another flatterer, I thought, yet nevertheless his words were not as displeasing as they might have been.

'And has "your lord" let you out,' I said, 'to plague all the ladies with sweet tales?'

'Lord?' he said.

'Oh,' I said, 'I looked for you among the greater lords. I presume, of course, you were too young for them; bid your master, whoever he is, give you some years before you think to ape him, scarce old enough to grow a beard let alone have pretensions to high rank.'

Too late, I saw his smile. 'At least,' he said, 'you looked for me. I thought you would. I told you we would be here, Countess of Sieux.'

I freed myself. 'How do you know who I am?' I cried.

He shook his head, 'Not difficult,' he said. 'Only one girl we have heard of with red hair who has the spirit to outrank us. And the only one,' he added, with another smile, 'to lie asleep waiting, I've no doubt, for some knight to come riding up, waiting to be woken with a kiss.'

'You would not dare.' Again I spoke too soon, and almost blushed to have taken his meaning so plain. He laughed, showing his chipped teeth, a strange laugh he had, too, almost without mirth, as if he had not much practice with laughter. 'When you are angry,' he said, 'the air sparks. I like my women with fire. But if you fear to be seen, here, hide beneath this.'

He slid off the cloak he wore; it was plain but heavy, lined with fur and underneath I saw for the first time his surcoat, blue, gold embroidered, and the glimpse of mail.

'Who are you then?' I said, suddenly awed, and felt uneasiness stir near me, a wind's breath. 'Who comes armed to a feast?' It was my turn to catch his arm, feel beneath the silk cloth the ripple of the supple mail, not like other hauberks I have known, but all of a piece, fitted low about the hips, small links riveted together in one shining sheet. I said again, 'Who are you?'

We stood close together between the casks of wine. On foot, he was not tall, but strong made, broad, young. His eyes, as I had noticed before, close up, were more gray than black, and as I looked, it seemed to me I remembered that feline glance. There is only one other man I knew who outstared women in that way. Dear God, I thought, fear hot and rank. They were not alike in anything else—coloring, expression, stance—save that. And the same husky voice. I bit the question back but he knew what I had guessed.

'Aye,' he said, 'there is only one who resembles me, or rather, whom I resemble, he being the older, the stronger, the wiser, the king, King Henry of England, Count of Anjou, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, my older brother and my curse.'

'Then why are you here, Geoffrey Plantagenet?' I said, and could have cut off my tongue to have asked him so outright.

'You see,' he said, almost good-naturedly, 'you do know me. Well, since you have accused me of so many lies, I could lie again, tell you I was come to join in the mêlée , look for a Celtic wife of my own, or, tell the truth, to find out for myself, secretly, what these Normans plot and plan.'

'Are you not afraid I shall give you away? I could scream . . .'

'No more,' he said, 'than you should be afraid of me. Look here.'

He moved slightly so that over his shoulder, some distance away, I caught a glimpse of one of my guards, back discreetly turned.

'The count has ordered you well watched,' he said, 'you told me so. Shout to him if you will; I should warn you my own men are nearby. Now, since neither of us would want to sound the alarm to cause a greater scandal than we have already caused, and since you would not have me tell the count you lured me here with offers of your favors, as indeed I hope you have . . .'

'He would not believe you,' I cried.

'Yes, he would.' He smiled again, and this time the smile was all wild, the smile that a pagan god might have. 'Now you may be virtuous for all I know, but husbands always think the worst of wives, and I have yet to meet a woman who is chaste long. But if he would not believe, because of you, he would because of me. I have a reputation to uphold if you do not.'

I suddenly remembered the stories told of him, and of his father, Geoffrey
le Bel,
the greatest lover in all of France, whom he so resembled in looks and name.

'Nor was Queen Eleanor so loath,' he said, as if a second time he guessed my thoughts, 'despite what you may have heard, to scorn my suit.' He suddenly pulled at the chain about my neck, brought up the ring from its hiding place. 'Still warm,' he said. 'I should not mind she gave it away to find such resting spot. But I gave it her to plight my troth, duplicate to the one I wear. My grandfather brought both back from the holy wars, and when we parted, she took it from me as a pledge. She promised me much in return.' His voice had hardened as he spoke, grown bitter with an old and festering wound. 'It lasted long, her pledge,' he said, 'scarce long enough to take her from King Louis's court to Aquitaine. Within the month of our rendezvous, she had wed with Henry, the king. And so another time does my older brother steal a march on me. But as she gave the ring to you, so I have restored it in good faith. I hope in turn you will befriend me.'

'In what way, my lord?' I asked him cautiously.

'Niggard,' he said, 'weighing all, giving naught. As did she. And yet she likes me well enough, may count me better lover than my brother, better than my father who enjoyed her first to test her charms for his sons, or so he claimed. She helps me.'

'You do not think highly of women,' I said, almost frightened by the sudden anger that marred that attractive voice and twisted that perfect mouth out of shape. And frightened by his mention of the queen.

'And should I so?' he burst out. 'Even a mother who played the whore. And the queen, no trust in her, to marry with my brother because he was the older. And you, Ann of Cambray, I have heard enough tales of you. You told me that I lied today. Were the stories about you lies, that Raoul of Sieux should have fallen prey to them? Although this, at least, is true; your beauty and your spirit, no man could deny you those.'

"You should not say such things,' I said, trying to slip around him. 'I am a married woman, as you know.'

He steadied the casks, so that his arm came across my waist. 'Not happily wed, I think,' he said. 'Among the stories that too was told, that you were constrained to be man and wife. Well, Lord Raoul will not find you out tonight. Be comforted; you need not fear him.'