Gifts of the Queen (30 page)

'So, Ann of Cambray,' he said, 'what matter? I have found you again. There were too many things left unfinished when last we met. But the world has treated me well in the end. Henry has taken my castles as I said he would, but he pays me a fee for them, not what they're worth, but enough. And, as you see, I still have my head.'

'Your loss of the castles seems of small concern,' I said, looking pointedly at his furs, his jewels, 'and you the little worse for it. Less, I suppose, than your friends' deaths. At least their silence assures your gain.'

He flushed at that, his skin as delicate as a girl's, pulled the cap right off so the black curls came cascading out, as thick and glossy as a girl's, too. 'Lady,' he said, 'how shall I swear, what oath shall I use that you Celts might accept, to prove my innocence of that charge. I know your husband brands me murderer. But since I do not blame you that he failed to help me, why should you repay me with such wickedness? Am I the man to dip my hands in another's blood?'

'No,' I said. That at least was true, and others had hinted it of him. Sweet words were the weapons he used, not violence. But if not him, I told him, then his minions, his friends, at his command.

'Now by the Living Cross,' he swore. 'I mislike that word. "Minions" has an ugly sound. They said your tongue was shrewd.' He dropped my arm, rounded on me. 'It is easily done,' he said, 'to lay blame at my door. Were you brother to a king, you would find there are always hangers-on who expect the worst. And there are always favors to be bought, monies to be lent in expectation of greater times. Is that my fault? You would not have me shuffle abroad in rags. Nor I think when you were down-at-heels at Sieux did your noble lord cavil to have dealings with the Jews.'

I looked at him, a lack of propriety to put murder and vanity on a par, a selfishness that I had glimpsed in all these Angevins, from king to brother to little prince, that they must have their way at all costs.

He had a knack of guessing what I thought. His voice grew cold, cold to threaten with a flicker of fear. 'You betrayed me,' he cried, 'I have not faulted you for that. And even if I did, I would treat you kindlier than the queen. Did she care if your enemies at Saint Purnace left you dead? All she wanted was for them to get her gold back. Did she want
you
in England or just your
skill,
to ensure she would have another son? She blames you now for her daughter's birth; she blames you that I wanted you. Indeed, I shall turn her to my enemy if I do not do what she would like. Wanting to protect her own estates, fearing Henry will give me lands of hers, she would have had me wed the lovely Isobelle and be satisfied with Boissert ones.' He shrugged. 'Henry has saved me from that fate. And there are other heiresses for the taking yet. They'll find me another, but I would have had you if I could.'

His audacity overwhelmed me. His easy explanation of the queen's treachery overwhelmed me, that treachery which Raoul had tried to shield me from. But before I could speak, Geoffrey was continuing. 'Why should we talk of unhappy times? De Boissert's death was no man's loss. I would not expect you to argue on his behalf who would have killed your husband first. The Lady Isobelle is no innocent, nor is the queen. But neither, Lady Ann, are you. I saw how you smiled and threw your favors at men as your husband bid. I remember how you aped a servant maid to lure me on. I saw how you looked for me at the feast. When my noble brother was still a count, at home in Anjou, before inheritance swelled his head, a man came to our court. From the west of England he came, a big dark-browed man, and many were the tales he told of you, to persuade Henry to give him your lands.' His voice took on a slightly jeering note. 'You grow pale. Lady Ann. His name was Guy of Maneth and I think you knew him well. I myself did not believe all that he said, nor have I permitted others in my hearing to call you witch, as Isobelle and her father claimed: but if Raoul of Sedgemont was bewitched to marry you, does not that blame lie on you? I think I could be so bewitched myself. I have not lifted murderer's knife against anyone. I have not schemed against you. Marriage with Isobelle de Boissert was my only plan, that and my lawful inheritance; and Henry has taken both away. But seeing you, I willingly would have relinquished them. I do not think I have conspired against Henry, rather, he broke faith with me. If someone else has encouraged conspiracy, I give you leave to guess who it is.'

When he spoke thus, his face flushed, I did not know what to think of him. He juggled words convincingly. Sometimes I heard an exaggeration that might hide a lie, sometimes a sincerity that seemed to argue truth. Conspiracy is twisted and dark, damning the guilty and the innocent. Even today I cannot decide. I only know this was a man, Geoffrey Plantagenet, like his father who swept down in the night and fired the vines for spite, like his brother who ordered the guard of Sieux hanged on a castle wall for vengeance's sake, a man who killed his own companions to free himself from complicity. I only know this was a queen whom I had loved, who would have had me killed to ensure her plans. I sit in no judgment on my fellow men—God does that—and God, I think, had judged me too, that even then I could not decide right from wrong, that even then, after hearing what the queen had done, I could not believe the worst of her, that even then, after my husband's life had been at stake, I could not completely fault the man who would have murdered him.

Geoffrey Plantagenet stood still and before I could stop him, ran his hand through my hair, as I have seen a woman feel a piece of silk. 'I would not call it red,' he said. 'Guy of Maneth called it so, the red headed witch of Cambray was his name for you. It is more like bronze new-coined. And your eyes like pools. I should have met you long ago. There could have been a time and place for us.'

Strangely enough, those simple words touched me more than his other extravagances. True or not, there was a truth to them that made his own youth seem old, lost, damned before he had achieved his age, even though his skin was as unlined and fine as a child's, even though his melancholy smile hid the world's sins.

'I am not highborn,' I told him, trying to conceal my grief beneath a brisker voice, 'my lands are small, unknown. You'd never have thought of me without Sieux.'

'Perhaps,' he said, 'perhaps not.' He shrugged. 'We cannot guess what may be, what is not. I would not have Isobelle de Boissert without her lands, yet could still think of you without yours.'

All this while, paying little heed to where we had gone, he had drawn me into the center of those twisting paths, a place he must have known, for it was some sort of inner square, with a fountain, dry and overgrown with weed, and a stone bench, mossy in the shade of one large tree.

'Sit here,' he said, 'rest out of the sun. Frightened,' he said, 'like a captured dove. If I were to sit beside you thus,' he said 'and hold you until your heart's fluttering has ceased, and if I were to put my arm about your waist, then no danger could creep up unawares. And if you were to lean, and put your troubled head against me thus, then should you feel at ease.'

And as he spoke, he drew me back, carefully, gently, with such skill that soon my head was bent against his own, and both his hands were clasped in front. 'And if,' he said, softer still, a wind's whisper on the warm and sultry air, 'and if I were to put my hands into your lap, then were I at the gates of Paradise.' And he smoothed along the folds of my gown, ever lower where I sat. 'And if you opened them,' he said, and with his foot he stirred between my own, as his fingers began to move and fret, 'a place of softest folds and pools where, if I trace their secrets out, then should you know Paradise as well.'

His voice could have been a murmur lost, the afternoon drowsed away. I opened my eyes, not even knowing I had them closed, and as from a long way off, saw us sitting there, fitted together like two carved stones, two statues not yet locked into embrace, but on the verge. A moment more and it would be too late, sunk in on him as he on me. With an effort so strong it rocked me, I sat up, pushed away his hand.

His breath came ragged then, hot, in gasps. Sweat had matted his curls against his face. 'I burn for you,' he almost groaned, and pressed my hand to feel the hardening of his desire, 'it is too late to stop.'

'I cannot,' I cried, more afraid than I have ever been, of myself as well as him. 'I am married and have a child. It is sin.'

His voice was sharp with lust, 'Was it sin to lie with a man unwed? Did you preach so to Count Raoul then? What gives you the right to preach to me? Play not the coy, there is fire in your veins.'

But the mention of Raoul's name again steadied me. I saw him as he had paced and paced about our little room. 
No one to hurt us save we alone.
I would not be the one to bring the hurt. I said, my voice a long way off, deep dredged up, 'I am no witch, no whore. Let me go. You keep me against my will.' And I tried to fend him off.

He said, 'You sought me at Boissert Field of your own choice, judge not that you yourself not be judged. Lie still. I shall not hurt you unless you make me to. We are alone, no one will know.'

Then I began to struggle in earnest, but he was strong; the more I pushed, the more he smiled, his legs entangled now between my own, my body pressed against his. I always carry a little knife hidden in my sleeve, a trick I learned from childhood days; and now I sat still and let it slide point first into my hand, as Raoul had taught me. A woman has but one chance to strike—seldom is she given a second—and yet I hesitated. You see the effect he had on me.

‘There is no hope for us,' I said, 'too late. Too many things done, not done. Let me go.'

'First I shall love you,' he said, 'then you will talk of leaving me.'

I drew the knife and thrust hard with it so it cut across his palm. He started back, releasing his hold, and I sprang to my feet. But even then I did not run.

‘Devil's dam,' he cried, sucking at the line of blood, 'they said you were full of devil's tricks. Will you cross weapons with me as a man?'

‘No,'I said, 'I will not fight you, Geoffrey Plantagenet. Nor will I lie with you.'

'Then what they said of you is true,' he said, 'a devil's strumpet, to torture men, to make them lust while you turn to stone. We have a name for such in France.' He stood up, followed me, the cut still welling red. Desire had faded from his face, all was smooth, unlined, and cold. He said, 'I shall have you. And when I'm done, they shall drag you through the streets. When they plunge you in the river at Saint Purnace, think on what delights you've missed. "Give us a witch to burn or drown," they'll cry. Look for help from me then. As Raoul's widow, you'd have made a man a wife; as mistress, there are others where you come from.' He made a half leap, I dodged away. He was not armed, but strong and quick. He thought one blow would knock the knife from my grasp, and yet he too hesitated. I think perhaps he still hoped I would surrender willingly, at least I could wish he did. Then he said, to end that hope, 'Take what comes. What should be sweet, you have turned sour; what I would have, you've made me rip from you. Your loss. Let your devil comfort you.'

And he came on again. I threw the knife instead of letting him run on it as I should, so lost my hope of escape. But God, they say, cares for the weak. He smiled, having won, and bent to pick the knife up. That was his mistake, my second chance, and only a man too sure of himself would have given it me. I took to my heels. And now those winding paths, those crisscross ways, gave me a start. Looping up my skirts, I could twist and turn faster than he could; his spurs scraped upon the gravel, tripping him, his boots not made for running in, nor his clothes. I heard him slide and stumble after me, swearing most foul, and those hissed words gave me wings. I would not wish to meet him balked of his plans. Soon I had left him out of sight. Then a new fear took me. For if still in the maze, how did the paths intersect, where did they lead? Did he stand in the shadows, with a smile upon his face, and wait for me to run into his grasp? Numbed by that thought, I now crept along, starting at every shift and sound, even a leaf's fall enough to startle me into a sweat. Sometimes the paths were long and straight, and those I learned to avoid, for if the end was blocked then I would be trapped between the rows of narrow trees. Sometimes they were short, cut by several other paths, each of these as dangerous, each to be manuevered round. I tried to walk on tiptoe, although my whole body ached to run; I tried to anticipate the openings, a flight worse than the one at Saint Purnace, for there Raoul had come to rescue me, and here the fault was all my own. When I saw again the outer walls, the open gate, the grazing horse, I thought it a mirage of my own imagining. I forced myself to creep those last few yards, scarce believing that he would not have doubled back, but no, all was quiet in the hot sun. I scrambled on the horse's back, stirrups too long, saddle too big, but it must do, unhitched its tethering rope, rode off. I dare not ride openly into the park, instead made a circuit of those outer walls and so returned after several miles to the main courtyard where I had first come in. Not wanting either to ride on a horse so richly bedecked, so known, that many men would recognize it, I slid off before I reached the yard, lopped up the reins, sent it galloping back the way we'd come. Nor did I think, knowing what I do of men, that he would admit to my having taken it so easily. Then strolling past the queen's guard as if returning from some leisured walk, although how explain the state of my gown, my disordered look—let them seek an explanation for that—I summoned my own men and bid them prepare to leave at dawn.