Ann of Cambray (20 page)

He gestured with his knotted hands at all the broken doors and walls. ‘Many passed through here last spring,’ he said, ‘going east, as doubtless you have heard. Then back they came again, twice within months.’

He spat among the nettles that still grew through the shattered floor.

‘Back and forth like hounds baiting. From France most of them came, panting to devour us.’

He spat again. ‘I’ll show you where one company camped,’ he said. ‘If you’ve a mind to go there. Up yonder.’ He nodded to the hill above the village ruins. ‘Only fools would stay down here to tear at what had already been stripped bare. But up there, great walls of stone they built, wondrous to behold, and set up camp in proper-wise.’

Against my better judgment, I went up with him. Yet I was curious, too, to see what manner of men these raveners had been. It was still light, although the sky was studded with the wrack of clouds, scudding along behind the storm. We climbed slowly, for the ground was iced with hail and sleet. We went at his pace, but I took care that he walked in front, and kept my hand upon my knife hilt for security. It was a strange place he brought me to, yet he was right that it was better kept than the ruins below. Walled round it was with large stone blocks, and divided by stone pillars into storage areas, stalls, and barracks. It was also clear no men could have built it recently—it was too well made for that—and yet the walls had clearly fallen in places too, and although the pillars marked the different parts, the dividing walls there were quite gone. I had heard Talisin speak of such stone fortresses as these along the border. My father had used stones from one to build Cambray, having not the time or skill to quarry new ones.

I wandered through it in the cold, wrapping my cloak twice about me for warmth, noting how the most recent troops had bestowed themselves, wondering who were the original builders and what had befallen them.

The old man coughed and spat again. ‘No one will come up here,’ he said, using a local term that meant ‘churl’ or ‘serf’, or ‘peasant’ perhaps, a term, in any case, of contempt. ‘They are afeard.’

I remember how my father had talked of camping in such a place when he had first come to the borderlands, before Cambray was built. ‘Better to sleep with some protection,’ he had said, ‘even if the ground be haunted by godless men. Evil it may be, but those who built there knew their craft.’

‘But they who camped here,’ the old man said, ‘were not so bad. They were Norman-French themselves, and they carried red banners with falcons of gold.’

I felt myself start at his words.

‘Which way went they?’ I asked, pleasure making me throw caution aside.

‘East, I told you,’ he said snappishly, ‘where there was a battle. Then back again towards the border where the Giant Causeway stretches between us and the Celts. Where serves your master?’

Again he must have felt my start of surprise. Intent on hearing any news about Sedgemont, I had almost forgotten what I had told him of my own purposes.

‘Nay, lad,’ he said, ‘it is all one to me. But if you should serve him of the golden birds you’d find more favour here. Or do you serve the Lord of Maneth? I’d not boast of that, although they say he has a taste for boys.’

‘Are these Maneth lands then?’ I said, frightened, searching for words that would not show my interests, afraid he might be a spy.

‘No one’s land,’ he said, his voice suddenly swift and bitter. ‘Once they were as fair as any man’s, when I was young and served with their overlord, he who was the great Duke Robert of Gloucester, half-brother to the Empress Matilda, who claimed to be Queen of England. I was one of those who were spared at the Battle of Winchester, the “Rout of Winchester” they call it, when we were captured at the battle’s end at Stockbridge ford. A goodly man was the duke. Since his death, no man has claimed these lands, and all men have fought over them. So if your master,’ he made the word sound an obscenity, ‘be the Lord of Maneth, tell him from me, we are weary of being playthings for his pleasure. We have given him our share of crops and herds to fill his barns and stalls; he has taken our young men without right for his castle guard. He has taken our young women for their amusement. Look around you. Who is left to take but ancient men and sick, the ugliest of women, the ailing? We belong now to no man, so all men claim us.’

His old weak voice echoed what Lord Raoul had said, what Giles had said: that people without protection, lordless men, know the worst fate of all.

‘My master fights for Stephen,’ I said at last, ‘King of England.’

He spat again, hacking his lungs out on the shrivelled grass. ‘And what has that King Stephen done for us?’ he said. ‘Had I my strength as when I was young, you’d not dare talk to me of him. There has been but one king, he who was Henry before these wars. There was a king. There was a man. He it was who first gave us fair laws. We had need of them. The Norman-French took our land and language and customs. But Henry gave us justice, the “King’s Law”, he called it, to protect the rights even of our people. Where is there justice in your Stephen’s time? Yet that young lord I spake of, he who camped here, was better than most. He did not let his men come down to loot and burn in the village. One might do worse than serve with him. But it’s all one to me now.’ Before I could prevent him, he put his hand, cold and thin, about my face. I could have pushed him over in a trice, he was so light, yet it was not to do me harm that he felt at my skin. Had not the cloak been wrapped round twice, his other arm would have been about my waist.

‘And had I my strength,’ he said in his old voice, ‘you’d not trick me. I know a maid when I see one, although she hold her hand to her dagger hilt like a man. You keep your legs too close together, even when you walk, and you sit as if with gown about your knees. Well, if you run after one of those who serve the golden birds, I’d not fault you, although things were different in my day. But there were lusty men among them. My sister’s girl is already big with child and that’s the first begetting here since Duke Robert died. I’d say the man you seek would be as lucky.’

He stretched out his hand again. This time I did not turn away.

‘Darken your face,’ he said, suddenly angry, ‘toughen it with sand and water so it look not so smooth. And your fingers, look how dainty you hold them. Throw back your shoulders. God’s wounds, were I a young man, you’d not fool me. And were I as I was, your traipsing abroad would end here.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but leave I shall. I’ll remember your words when I see Lord Raoul.’

‘Lord Raoul,’ he said, pouncing on the name. ‘Lord, is it. You’ve mighty thought above your station. Better to stay here and tend for an old man. He’s not the one for you.’ 

‘You may be right,’ I said to humour him. I could not be downhearted. Just to have some glimpse of news brightened my hopes.

‘You’re no whore,’ he said, his sharp eyes peering. ‘I’ve known them and honest women both. I can smell virginity on you like honey. What great lord would value it? Why hasn’t he taken it before now, then? Great lords are no nicer than younger men, and twice as like to take what they want whether it is offered or not. You’re no camp follower yet. And that’s a harsh life for a tender skin. Something sits not right here.’

He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

‘You see too much,’ I said, suddenly aware of what he might say next. He had only to shout to the village below and they would all be about me. How was I to tell if he was lying about Maneth, about Raoul, about all things?

‘I’m no man’s spy,’ he said as if guessing my thoughts. ‘No need to blab out to other men what I can see for myself. I’ve wits enough to keep secrets quiet, and what I’ve said to you would string me up from Maneth’s walls. But what you do makes not sense. Go home, lass. You’ll break your heart running after great lords. Or stay with me. Eh, my sweeting, if I were younger, had my strength, you’d not look further than here. Not that I’m so old there isn’t green life somewhere.’

He spat again.

‘Down there, the churls are gone to ruin, rotting they are in their sloth. But not all’s done for yet. It makes no sense to run after lords who can have free picking wherever they go. He’ll have long ago forgotten you.’

The words rankled.

‘Best bide with me,’ he said, his smile a caricature of what once it must have been. ‘Stay here with me.’

His sticklike hand was harder then, clawlike, clinging. An old soldier, he had kept his best tricks to the end. I thrust myself free, scraping his hand against the wall to loose its grasp, weeping for fear and all his broken strength that left him gasping for breath on the ground.

Fear made me run, fear and pity, although his panting cries came floating down afterwards. Back in the village, I threw on saddle and gear, rode very fast away through the night, and slept once more out in the open. Yet long after I thought I heard his voice following me, and what he said has haunted me. And once, in dreams, I saw what he must have been. So I went on, sickened by neglect and poverty and despair that brought to waste all things which once were fair. And everywhere I rode, decay came thrusting up. That is the underside of all those marches, countermarches, skirmishes, with which Henry of Anjou, duke, and Stephen of England, king, blighted the land they both wanted
. . . a decisive battle or peace.
What use is peace if there be no way to implement it? I reached the borderland at last with a feeling that I had come through a sort of hell, not red-hot and blazing, but cold, despairing, and empty.

I would have known the border as soon as I saw it, without the old soldier’s reminder, by the great ditch or dyke that twists along its edge, running roughly north and south. I came upon it midway, too far north towards Maneth for comfort, yet not so far that I could not know that Cambray lay somewhere beyond its most southern tip. All I must do now was ride along the eastern rim and I would come home. And that was what I planned to do; at least I told myself it was. It does not make for easy riding, that countryside, being overgrown and the dyke itself is fallen down in places so that you have to beat about to find it again. Sometimes it is easier to go on foot than ride, so we made slow progress. But sometimes when I came up upon a high ridge, I would see the great scar, twisted like a snake below, and would remember all the stories I had heard about it: how giants from the most western parts had come here to fight their enemies, bringing with them stones and boulders as weapons, and how they had scooped out the soil with their bare hands and thrown it in the distance to make the mountains, which now came much clearer into view. Others claim the Celts built the dyke in the old days when the Saxons first came, but that I doubt, as any will who walk beside it, for it was clear to me that it was made to keep the western men hemmed in, not the eastern Saxons out. But behind it, to the west, is Celtic land. And at times when the clouds lifted long enough, you could see the highest mountain peaks, dark and threatening. Under their shadow lived my mother’s kin. Somewhere to the south lay Cambray; somewhere in between, Lord Raoul and his men.

I might have been wandering yet along those silent lands had not carelessness, I shall call it that, but fate, if you prefer, decided things for me. The hour was late; my little horse was tired, but I was forcing it on against a cold wind, trying to make up lost time, when I came upon a group of men. Armed they were, lances set, and their faces stern and ready. Had I seen them in time, I would have turned aside, but muffled up, head down, I blundered upon them.

They rode horses that could have outrun mine and there were four to my one. I had no choice then but to come on, praying hard. Three were men-at-arms, as I judged, escort to an older man, their lord. I noticed how they paused, regrouped, closing together. They were four to one but were taking no chances. I might look harmless but I also might have a band awaiting my call. I might be a Celtic decoy. I tried to sit my pony easily, look nonchalant, ride on with arm upheld in greeting. And that is hard, when you also see the way their leg muscles tighten against their chargers’ sides, their hands twitch to their sword hilts. I was frightened as I approached, I tell you, yet as we observed each other closely, suddenly fear left me. They did not have an evil air about them. They did not weigh me as heavily as cutthroats would have done. They had a solid comfortable feel of men about their own business, not eager to interfere with mine. They looked as out-of-place on that lonely trail as no doubt I did. Relief made me thoughtless again. I should have passed them by then, without further delay, had not I begun to talk in that self-important way I had adopted of late.

‘Art alone, lad?’ the older man asked kindly enough. ‘These be dangerous parts. The Celts across the border there have a liking for lone travellers.’

‘I am seeking my lord,’ I said in Geoffrey’s best manner. On impulse I added, ‘At Cambray.’

One of the men-at-arms whistled, edging his horse closer to mine.

‘You are far from the mark,’ he said, eyeing me curiously, ‘unless you serve a Celt.’

‘How so?’ I asked boldly, although my heart sank. I knew the answer before he gave it, yet I suppose I had been hoping for some different news. And I had given myself away, which was worse.

He said, ‘Why, the Celts still hold it. A ruffianly crew. Since they took it a year ago, no one has edged them out, although Lord Raoul of Sedgemont tried last year.’

‘But it is my lord of Sedgemont I seek,’ I said foolishly. To this day, I cannot tell you if I said what I had always meant to say and it came out against my knowledge, or if I wanted to allay their suspicions. I do not know.’

‘Sedgemont,’ they said together in surprise.

The older man spoke afterwards. ‘Then you should know where he is,’ he said curtly. ‘Have they kept you so short of news to let you roam at will among these hills?’

I guessed from the way he spoke and held himself that he was what I had thought—a minor lord, not wealthy enough to have great entourage, but sure of himself and his standing — a blunt, plain man who would brook no inconsistency.