Ann of Cambray (23 page)

He swung himself out of the saddle, and someone came running to take his horse. I felt them inspect it for damage. Yet all this while I lay face down upon the saddle like a bundle of clothes. But before I could get back breath to speak, he had reached up, dragged me off still bundlelike, and slung me inside upon the floor. I rolled over as small as possible, knees under chin, hood pulled down over face, not thinking, not daring to think. But I have noticed, when you 
are
forced to a decisive stand, how it is the small trivial things that catch attention, blotting out those that are more important. I was aware of his striding back and forth across the floor of his tent; I heard him give orders, although what they were I could not have said. I heard the clatter of his sword belt and spurs; pages ran with softer tread to undo the mail coat and take the sword and gauntlets. I saw his sword propped against a wooden chest. It was as large as my father’s and I had thought his the largest in the world. More pages came running with water, wine. I heard him pace again, and order the commander of the guard to set the watch, to close the main gate for the night, to bid his vassals dine with him to plan the next day’s patrol. I watched him pacing to and fro, and when all else was done, heard a woman’s voice speak out, not speak perhaps, but rather heard her move, a rustle of skirts somewhere in the background, and heard his answer, sharp and decisive. Like a rolled-up rug, I lay and waited. And it could not have been worse to have cowered in the horses’ stalls.

Yet gradually, during this time, blind panic had ceased. I became aware of the bustle and sounds outside, of the silence within. I became aware of the aches of my own body, ringed around as with fire. I heard the panting of my own breath.

Suddenly he let out a great oath that I blush to repeat.

‘Come hither, boy,’ he said so softly that my blood froze. ‘Come hither.’

I did not move. He said nothing, but waited like a cat with mouse, drinking his wine and waiting.

With all my strength, I forced myself upright, knees buckling with the effort, straightening my back against the entrance pole. The tent was cool and dim. Outside, the sentries paced. It was still light enough to see them and the outline of the arrogant banner whose folds fell limply in the evening air. The hum and murmur of the camp seemed a lifetime away. They would be sitting at their rations now, no doubt discussing me and my fate.

He was seated in a carved chair, legs outstretched as was his habit, goblet in one hand, shirt unfastened at neck and wrist, booted feet upon a stool. Beyond him were heaped rugs, furs, chests, a hinged table spread with parchment. A leather curtain framed an inner room, and as I watched, I thought I saw a hand stretch out to close the gap and heard steps pass from time to time, stealthily.

He waited, I moved towards him.

‘Closer yet,’ he said, not looking at me, examining the side of the goblet as if all that interested him lay within it. ‘Closer again.’

Step by shameful step, I came to stand within a hand’s reach.

As suddenly he snarled at me, ‘What meant you?’

I did not reply. If I spoke, he would certainly know me.

‘Speak, boy,’ he said, and I knew from his voice that he mocked me. ‘What do you here?’

‘You live well, my lord Raoul,’ I snarled back at him then. ‘Better than your men in the field.’

His head flew up at that. I saw his eyes at their darkest grey, the twitch in his cheek obvious.

‘With wine, and soft rugs. And women.’

Then his hand did come out, catching at the slack of the torn and ragged shirt, whilst with the other hand he pushed back the hood that hid my hair. Well, there too I had miscalculated. In the past weeks it had already begun to grow, and although not long, it was already wisped and flared about my cheeks. His feet came crashing to the floor. With both hands he forced my head towards the light. I would not blink or drop my gaze, yet I felt the trembling begin at his touch.

‘And how long,’ he said, so quietly that only I could hear, ‘have you been in my camp?’

As near as I could reckon the days, I told him.

‘And how got you away from the lady prioress?’

Part of this only I told him, the how of it being that much easier than the why.

With one of his soldier’s oaths, he hurled me to one side.

‘Will nothing content you?’ he said.

His voice was low, so cold it frightened me. But I would not show my fear.

‘I shall not go back, my lord,’ I said, the more loudly that he spoke low. My nether lip stuck out as it does when I am determined.

‘You cannot shut me up there again. I mean to have Cambray.’

‘God’s teeth,’ he roared out then. ‘Do you stand there as if at Sedgemont, as if no time has passed, and argue trivialities with me? We are in a war camp. Do you bear a charmed life that you set it in jeopardy? Do you think to make a mock of me before my men?’

I remembered the way he had slammed his fist before. ‘Then you should know better than I it will not be possible to send me back,’ I said as coolly as I could. ‘You cannot spare even a few men of your guard as escort. Keep me here under your own eyes, where I shall be safe. Let Giles watch . . . Nay,’ as he made a movement, ‘he does not know I am here. No one knows, but you.’

‘And how explain your sudden arrival?’ he said. ‘God’s wounds, but your affrontery would frighten the most hardened of men. This is no time for trickery.’

‘You would not have known me,’ I said, ‘had not that bully forced me into a quarrel. Say what you will. They have not seen through my disguise and I shall not speak of it.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but they have an eye for whores who come creeping where they’re not welcome.’

‘If you mean by that,’ I shouted then, ‘that I have lost my virginity, put not such slanders on my name. I have had rough lying without insult as well.’

‘You must bear best witness,’ he said.

‘As to that, my lord,’ I retorted hotly, forgetting my appearance, my helplessness, ‘reputations are kept or marred without as within convents. You keep your men too busy to have them chasing after maids. If my reputation is safe with them, so will yours be with me, if that most concerns you . . .’ 

‘Now, by God,’ he said, rising, ‘you speak too shrewishly. Who bade you, girl, woman, what you are, meddle in men’s affairs?’

‘Then kill me,’ I cried passionately. ‘Have done with your mockery. There is your sword. All your men know that a half-fledged boy tried to unseat you from your horse. He deserves death for that. But I tell you, I will kill myself in getting free again, or die shut up. I would at least die as a human being now. Thus will your reputation be upheld.’

We stared at each other. I think he almost hated me then, and yet I did not hate him, although I would not give way before him.

He ground out at me, ‘This is no place for a woman.’

His echo almost of the mother prioress’s arguments stung me to even more rash reply.

‘But, my lord, you have women here. Is there not a redheaded wench within the inner tent?’ I pointed to where I had sensed rather than seen the shadow move against the curtain, although I think it had long slipped away.

He choked with rage.

‘So how is that different?’ I pressed home the advantage although I knew no man likes to have his arguments turned against him.

‘I can be as safe as she is. If you keep her safe, why not me?’

But I had gone too far. Few men, I think, would have listened to me this long. But I fight most fiercely when I am undermost, and I had not learned restraint.

His arm shot out again, dragging me towards him, tearing the rest of the shirt off my back. I tried to duck, half-turned aside so that the blow fell with a crack against my ear, making me stagger with the shock. But I would not cringe before him. I gritted my teeth although his hand was raised to strike again. Then I heard his gasp. He pulled me towards him, turning my back towards the light.

‘Who did that?’ His voice was taut with fury.

I had forgotten the marks of the convent whip. The scabs had long since healed but I had not known the scars would last so long.

His grip tightened. ‘Who?’

Still smarting from the lash of his open hand, I muttered at him, ‘I had forgotten it. But it is not for that I will not return . . .’

As he still held tight, ‘The lady prioress, then. She had not your scruples . . .’

He spun me round once more to face him. ‘You have not told me all,’ he said. ‘What prioress would dare use you so? I have no time for slippery evasions.’

So I told him, all, what I would not before have said, and he heard my halting story without comment, although his fist whitened until the bones showed through when I spoke of Maneth’s messenger. But, God help me, I did not speak of the manner of his death, not then, only that on seeing him I had realised my peril and had fled.

‘You were not to know, my lord,’ I said at last when the tale was done and still he did not speak. ‘All who remember her talk of the old prioress with affection. This is a new regime, a new rule.’

He stirred at last. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I was not to know.’

‘And so you see, my lord,’ I said overeagerly, ‘I have spoken the truth when I say only here will I be safe.’

He sat back watching, a strange look on his face. I held myself upright, for all my body ached and where he had struck smarted as flame. I could feel weariness against my backbone like to cut it in two.

Suddenly he stretched out his hand again and pulled back the shreds of shirt into place.

‘Before God, Ann,’ he said almost wonderingly, ‘it seems but a day ago when we last warred with each other. I know no other woman who can bring me to such a froth of rage, and then show me why I should not feel it. Well, once you thought to win me to your way, but in the end had I the best of you. Yet see how we are confounded that our enemies make a liar out of me, a fugitive of you. I do not know anymore what a man of sense would say. But since on all counts have I been proved wrong, let us try another plan.’

It was my turn to stare, not believing what I heard.

‘It is no trick,’ he said, ‘although you gape as if expecting tail and horns to sprout. By the Mass, you turn all to madness as you go. How could I have forgotten it . . .’ He stopped and began again. ‘You have lived within my camp to know what comfort I have to offer you, although better perhaps than the ground you have been lying on. We’ll have no explanations of your arrival. Let them think you flew in on the wind. And as far as I know, you may have. Well, since you are here, we’ll use you as bait. Wooing these Celtic kin of yours is like coaxing a fox from its den. With your permission, or without, we’ll tempt them to us with news of you. How like you that?’

‘Better,’ I said, ‘if I knew to what purpose.’

Then he did smile at last, throwing back his shoulders as if to let a weight drop.

‘There speaks the canny Celt I know,’ he said. ‘Why, lady, if you had not asked me that, I should have thought they’d beaten out your brains as well. To good purpose, Lady Ann, as you shall see. You shall be privy to all my plans. But now,’ and his fingers touched my cheek as if to feel that I was there, as if to repent perhaps of his blow, ‘as host, let me offer you courtesies. Beneath that dirt, you have a hungry look. As fellow soldier, I can guess your needs.’

He began to walk about, eyeing me, no doubt, as he would a tethered pig or goat. As ever, his jesting made me nervous, ill at ease.

‘When you lie on the ground, my lord,’ I said, ‘I suspect you have an unwashed air. I do not like sleeping on stones, or fending for my food, or breathing the dust of your horses. I did so because I must.’

‘You even complain like a trooper,’ he said. Then, with that sudden sense of justice that always caught me off guard, ‘Why, Ann, you owe me no explanations, to whom expiation is due.’

At my look, he began to laugh. ‘And I could threaten you, beat, nay, put you to torment,’ he said. ‘You’d spit defiance with every breath. Look not so fierce when I praise you. No man in my command would have outfaced me as you did today. Recognise you! I knew your style even before you came as slowly as you dared from beneath that shield. There are few women who would have borne so much as you with so little complaint. And if my men could ride as well, we’d rid England of its troubles within the month. Take me as a simple man who would do you honour.’

He shouted for his pages, who came at a run, bringing food and wine and, at his orders, a large wooden contraption filled with hot water. When they had withdrawn, I asked, ‘What, my lord, is that for?’

‘Washing,’ he said abruptly.

I was appalled. ‘With you here?’

‘You do not expect me to skulk outside my own tent,’ he said reasonably. ‘I did not invite you within it. But I tell you plainly, you will not stay unless you rid yourself of dirt. And vermin.’

I could not suppress a cry.

‘Or did you think,’ he continued, ‘because you are highborn, lice and fleas will leave you alone? Be comforted. Had you stayed with us much longer, you must have been discovered. Soldiers have little regard for such things, but if the fine weather continues, I’ll have us all stripped in the river for health’s sake.’

‘I’d rather the river,’ I said, eyeing him dubiously, although I cannot tell how the thought of warmth and cleanliness seemed inviting.

‘With a hundred men to watch?’ he said.

‘Rather that than one . . .’

‘Disinterested.’

‘I do not know that,’ I said, retreating before his laughing look. ‘And I have nothing to wear afterwards.’

He made a careless gesture. ‘There are shirts enough,’ he said. ‘I do not carry a woman’s coffer to war. Take what you will, all or nothing, it is the same to me.’ And he still advanced.

‘Or would you rather I borrow from your women,’ I said. ‘They may not need their kirtles as much as I do.’

He stopped, taken aback. ‘What do you know of them?’ he said at length.

‘Enough,’ I said. ‘I have eyes and ears. Not that it is my concern . . .’

‘By God, it is not,’ he said, still staring. ‘You fight roughly these days, Lady Ann. But since you welcome plainness, I tell you plainly. Call her here, for any reason whatever, she’ll have your eyeballs forth, and worse from me.’ He gave a grin. ‘In truth, she holds me so dear as to carve me to flesh and bone rather than let you close . . .’