Gifts of the Queen (37 page)

These were the last days of my youth, so let me savor them in the company of my childhood friends. Now like a thundercloud, the pent up storm was about to break.

After a day or so, we left the forests to cross farmlands which still showed signs of civil war, were still in part unoccupied where battle had wrecked homes and fields. I could not help contrasting them with those fair and placid lands of Anjou, and felt anger in me rise that, keeping his own territories free from want, Henry should be at liberty to jeopardize again these English ones.
High King of Wales will fit him very well.
Ambition never is content, I thought, it feeds upon itself; not count nor duke nor king will satisfy him until the whole of the world is his. And I thought, too, what his brother had said, a god he had called him, that his grandfather would have all men bow down before, so as a child, so now a man. He has changed, King Henry, Sir Renier said, he has grown to kingship; as soon expect the seasons to swing in reverse, as soon stop the turning of the tides.

We were come by now to a stretch of road that seemed familiar to me, bearing west, before turning south once more, toward Cambray. Sometimes the road, or track would be a more fitting word, was faintly visible when you scanned ahead, sometimes it dipped into a hollow where there should have been good grazing, had there been cattle or sheep; and sometimes, when it rose up to high ground, you could see the round whaleback foothills stretching ahead in undulating lines. They reminded me of those hills Raoul had shown me on his chart those months ago, almost unreal, round and soft and green.
Safely home.
Well, Cambray was my own true home I suppose, and I supposed safety waited for us there. Toward noon one day then, we clattered through a village, rare indeed to find one still intact though sparsely inhabited, more an intersection of several paths with a scatter of houses in between. We followed the more deeply rutted road which led to the well, and when we stopped to drink, we sensed rather than saw how anxious eyes watched us from behind locked doors. At length, guessing we meant no immediate harm, a young lad ventured out to ask what news. In his border way, he gave his tidings first, then his question, the one I think that gnawed at all men.

'Throughout this week,' he said, 'armed men have been on the move, going west. Banners flying, soldiers marching, provision trains. My sire says not since Stephen's time has he seen men so armed, so marching. There'll not be war here again, lords?'

'Nay, nay,' Sir Geoffrey, ever kind, comforted him, 'no fear of that. They go further west.'

Catching my eye, he was silent, threw the lad some coins, bid the men mount up. War planned indeed, but not against these miserable souls, but yet a war to make other men miserable so that a king, great king, could add the name of Wales to his titles list, to balance nicely perhaps the dukedom of Brittany, when he got round to coveting it!

We mounted and rode on, Sir Geoffrey talking of this and that, as was his way, to put our minds at ease. Beyond the village, the path rose steeply between a hedge of hazel bushes. A narrow path it was, winding in and out until it came to the crest of a hill. And as we passed a battered hayrick, lying on its side these score of years, a group of armed men rode out behind us.

'Ware, arms,' Sir Geoffrey roared; he snapped his scabbard round, jerked free his sword, put spurs to horse. He snatched his shield from his squire and wheeled to face what danger threatened from our rear. His men, scrabbling for their shields, threw them up to make a wall, backed two by two to surround me. Between them, I peered out. This was certainly not a comfortable place for an ambush.

But I knew the leader of the men well, even before his soft voice cried out, 'Hold. God save you masters, you start like fox before the hounds,' he reassured my escort, 'Your mistress recognizes me, if you do not.'

He pushed back his coif with its sprig of broom, the black curls blew. Over his mail he wore the Angevin surcoat, embroidered in gold the Angevin lily for purity. And he smiled as if we had met but yesterday and met as friends. 'Why, Lady Ann,' he said boldly, riding up to us, his horse that one he had ridden once into my life at Boissert, thrusting its powerful way through our line, 'you have failed to greet us; I am but a traveler like you through these deserted wastes. We go to join my brother's mustering. And you?'

He and that other Geoffrey, each so-called, as unalike as beer and wine, one plain and honest, dependable, the other fickle, capricious, treacherous, they stared at each other stony-faced as I named them both. Already the Angevins had flowed round us. They did not unsheath their weapons as we had done but came on empty-handed with arms outstretched as if in welcome, as if to say Godspeed, friend, or Good day, or any word that one kindly group would pass another with, meeting by chance like this on a lonely road. Yet this was no chance meeting and so I knew. Our men fidgeted, wiped their hands, looked foolish with their drawn swords, and turned to Sir Geoffrey for command.

He too was caught unprepared by this show of friendship. 'Lady Ann,' he tried to ask, 'what are these men?'

I knew he asked, are they friend or foe—if foe, in a moment it would be too late, they would have surrounded us and our hope of a sudden breakthrough would be lost. They outnumbered us, looked well-armed, well-horsed but—friend or foe, how was that to be reckoned, how to know on which side anyone fought these days? Geoffrey Plantagenet had crowded past our ranks toward me. His blue cloak was tipped with fur, his squire close behind him carried sword and shield and bore his helmet with the Angevin crest. He looked himself a prince.

'So, Ann,' he said, as easily as if we walked along the garden at Poitiers, 'is this the way to meet after such a while? Hearing of your convoy hence, for at the coast there was talk of storm, delays, I thought to wait to offer you protection along the road. I thought you might have need of another horse, having taken mine last time.'

I heard our men suck in their breath; his insolence offended them, there was a mutter at his insults. Geoffrey of Sedgemont tightened his hand upon his sword. To him, beside me, I said beneath my breath, 'Forbear, no harm in him. Let me deal with him, stay calm.'

Which was a lie; seeing him, I felt all my old apprehensions grow.

To the other, 'My Lord Plantagenet,' I said, as casually he spoke so should I, 'or is it Count I should call you these days? My husband is not here. I am sure you look for him. He rides ahead to attend the king.'

Geoffrey Plantagenet smiled his beautiful smile, but without warmth or mirth. 'I also serve the king,' he said, 'see, I carry his coat of arms upon my back. But I was looking for you; Countess of Sieux. I guessed you must pass this way. It was not difficult to learn your husband's plans for you.' He had noticed how my men eyed him, and for caution or courtesy, spoke low. I felt myself blush with chagrin. Looking at him with the wind blowing through his hair, blowing color into those fine-cut cheeks, you would have thought him the epitome of knighthood, like to charm a woman out of mind. Yet with what effrontery he spoke, and when he stretched out his hand, the scar upon it was still marked clear.

'You parted with me coldly,' he was protesting, his voice full of reproach, I looked for joy on seeing you. What harm, to ride as companions on this open road? Your face is as melancholy as your words. I told you you were niggardly. Well, I thought, since I'm to serve my life in Brittany, what better chance to find out all there is to know about the Celts than join the king in his Welsh campaign. . .'

Every other word a lie or half lie, yet also half a truth. As always, I did not know what to believe of him.

'Not likely to learn much,' I said, 'a land of mist and fog until a Welsh arrow takes you by the throat. Best for you to retreat now to southern parts, more to your taste and style than here. I thought fighting was not in your line. Besides,' I hesitated, 'when you speak of fighting, remember it is
my
kin you fight.'

'God's life,' he said, 'the mist does not dampen your tongue. But who speaks of fight?' He looked at me, bold as brass. 'The quickest way to get what you want,' he said, 'is to woo a woman to your bed. Most come willingly I admit. But then, not all are as beautiful as you are.'

I shook my head to deaden the sense of what he said, tried to push my horse on. It was impossible—our men and his were already intertwined—there was no room to pass; we were all mingled together in the narrow path. As I have explained, on both sides hazel trees grew on a hedge, planted in west country style, first a wall, stone made, ranked with turf and flowers and gorse, with a line of trees on top, making it impossible to break out of them. It was also impossible to ride more than two abreast, which he, taking my reins as if in friendship, now did. I felt Geoffrey of Sedgemont move in place behind. 'Come, beautiful Lady Ann,' Geoffrey Plantagenet whispered, 'you welcomed me at Boissert. If I had won, I would have made you queen. Nor did you scorn me first at Poitiers.'

"You had not then planned my husband's death,' I said, 'nor yet my son's.'

'By the Rood,' he swore, 'always the same tune, each time another sin to curse me with. Isobelle de Boissert acted alone, she and her tiring woman. And the queen. I promised I would never harm you or yours. Did hurt come to you from me at Poitiers? I think rather you hurt me. Did I complain that you stole my horse? I could have kept you there had I wanted.'

'And my husband knocked you down into the mud,' I said, 'where you belong.'

He almost reined back then, with that sudden flash of more than anger distorting his face, but he kept his voice low. 'Ever swift-tongued,' he said. 'I like women with fire, but not to burn. Ann, be reasonable. Why argue over old wrongs. I am made a count at last, my needs are well taken care of. I make no bones I admire you. No,' he gestured for silence, I do not deny that the lands and titles of Sieux became you well when I knew who you were. But it was not as a countess that you caught my eye. And although I admit I have no love for Count Raoul, is not all fair in love and war? As for war, if I told you I will join Henry in his campaign, would that endear me to you? I think not.'

A shrewd remark, and again half true, half lie.

When I tried to speak, he warned me. 'Be careful,' he said, 'my men are restless, so are yours. If we fight with words, they may with weapons. I'd not want more blood on my hands.'

We rode on in silence for a while, and again I sensed that flicker of another life, another possibility, another way behind those deep-set eyes, a loneliness, a regret perhaps. He knew what I had sensed. 'It is no sin to love,' he wheedled me, 'I have never pretended otherwise than that I would have you if I could. Come away with me, Ann. I have horses waiting and men to attend us. We can be at a Cornish harbor within days. The Cornish sailors are rough and ready men, but they know the coast of Brittany like their own; they'll take us safely back to Nantes.'

'I cannot,' I said.

He said, 'Your marriage is a forced one at best; there are French cardinals who would annul it if I so requested. Trust me. If a learned council could permit Eleanor so easily to leave the King of France; if yet another council let a King of France, years ago, steal a beautiful Countess of Anjou, my granddam, I suppose, why then, we'll make a third Council of Beaugency to end your marriage with Count Raoul, give you to me.'

When I could speak, 'No,' I said. My lip jutted out as I know it does when my mind is set. 'I'll not break oath.'

'Then Heaven help us both,' he said. 'You did not think Henry or his queen would show me so much favor without some favor in return. You have had a chance to choose. Take me, and be saved. Unloved, we both are lost.' He had almost reached the top of the hill, before us stretched the first range of the high mountains, some of them still snow-peaked. And immediately ahead lay the boundary ditch or dyke with its mound of earth, thrown up centuries ago to make the border between Celtic lands westward, non-Celtic east. South of it lies Cambray.

'I will not ride on with you,' I told him stubbornly. 'Our way parts here.'

'No,' his answer was equally abrupt. 'We ride on together, north.'

He repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, 'North, of course, to join my brother, who has planned on meeting you. He has come out hunting along the border here and expects me. I told him you would not disappoint us. He is not so particular as I am about receiving another man's wife. Especially a wife of Raoul of Sedgemont. He'll welcome you with open arms.' He let go of my bridle, threw his hand out, the red scar was etched across one palm to remind him of me each time he looked at it.

'Henry is my brother. Lady Ann,' he said; now the mask was shut down, all thoughts were hidden and all hopes of what might have been put aside, 'you do not think he would give away a title, a city, with its wharves and piers, without some recompense. Bringing you to him will more than pay my debt.'

I sat back as if contemplating the choice. And even now, I am not sure he would have done what he said, take me to Henry, that is, although I think he might have tried abduction as an easier alternative. But I could not be sure, and not knowing forced me to act as if he would. At the hilltop, there would be open ground, space for the Sedgemont men to filter through and regroup where the narrow path ended and open moors began.

I leaned toward him, said as loudly as I could, 'No choice then, why should I run? Take me with you. Come closer, love.' I caught the scandalized look on Sir Geoffrey's face, the shocked look of disbelief; the Angevins heard me as well and, seeing their lord lean toward me with a smile, held back. And Geoffrey Plantagenet, God forgive me, in his complacency, for a moment he believed me, too. It gained us a second's respite. I took it. I rowelled my horse forward against his, jostling his out of line. It was bigger, stronger, yet I forced the pace in such a way he was pushed off balance down the facing hillside.
‘A moi, Sedgemont,' 
I screamed, again crowding him. I was on the uphill side so that, although his horse was more powerful, I had a slight advantage. With whip and spur I urged my horse on; I saw his look dissolve to astonishment and anger; I heard behind me the rasp of weapons as Sir Geoffrey gave the order to attack. The other Geoffrey, that dark Plantagenet, as dark as was my old friend fair, struggled to control his horse, tried to catch mine, curses breaking from that carved mouth, the more foul, he the more beautiful seemed. On the hilltop, a man cried out in pain, I heard the Angevin's battle cry,
'Vallée! Vallée!' 
as his men rallied.
Men will die for you.
God forgive me again, but I let them die that day.