Ann of Cambray (38 page)

Sedgemont

No word of endearment then, nothing to suggest any bond between us; yet something crossed through that could not be read. But even from the seclusion of Cambray, could fill in the gaps. Especially of the warning of what was to come from the south, from France. The messenger could add a little more. I plied him with questions as with food and drink, and between mouthfuls, he told me that Raoul was well, and when he had left, that the king still lived. But all men were fearful of the end, and the court itself was half-empty. All was distraught, grief-stricken. Raoul had dismissed many of his guard. He himself was bidden to seek service with me here at Cambray. Nothing more, except the date and time of his leaving: October, the twenty-third day of the month, at seven in the morning, had Raoul brought him the message and bidden him ride out. Ten days had he been already on the road. Over a month, then, since Raoul had left Cambray, and no likelihood of his returning. While the messenger had battled through the storms to reach us here, and while we at Cambray had hurried to have the harvest done, Stephen, King of England had died. And, as de Luci and the others had decided, Raoul had returned to Sedgemont to throw open his gates and await the new king, who on the twenty-fifth of the same month obtained his heart’s desire.

Later again, much later, we understood that these same storms that had blown up the Channel all the month had kept Henry from crossing it to claim his throne. No king before had waited so long to be crowned. News reached him soon enough, but he was in no hurry. He was at Torrigny, where, in typical fashion, he was engaged in siege against one of his local lords. He lingered to tear down the castle before proceeding leisurely to Barfleur to join his queen and infant son. Having no wish to risk a second White Ship disaster, which had drowned his grandfather’s hopes, drowned the boy who should have inherited to spare us so much woe, he waited again. Already his spies had their instructions, his envoys knew what had to be done. So Raoul had time to see to King Stephen’s burial, had seen the king laid in state with all due respect before being entombed beside his wife and son at Faversham Abbey. Having done that, he, in turn, had left for Sedgemont. It was the end of the world as we had known it—the beginning of a new age.

What brought Raoul back to Sedgemont? De Luci had phrased it well with his precise mind. Pride, I think, and loyalty, that same stern sense of loyalty that would not have him bound to me, that would release his own men from their bond to him. Instinct would have told him to bar the gates, defy the new king. But then there would be no escape for him, or, worse, for those who held the keep with him.

There has been enough bloodshed.

He had said it himself. I had said it; all men I think felt it. Or perhaps it was none of these thoughts, but simply the weight of responsibility for other men’s lives, which, as you have seen, he could take in white-heat anger, yet felt the waste of afterwards. Or perhaps it was the sight of all those honest old friends who came to greet him as he rode back across the drawbridge that December day. Sir Brian, the Lady Mildred, all the women of the castle, the castle guard, how was he best to keep them free from harm?

I told you before that the Earl of Sedgemont had built his keep so it would last, that Sedgemont would not fall by siege. I am glad I was not there that day to see how joy turned to grief on hearing what his grandson intended to do. Having decided, he worked with calm efficiency, relying on Sir Brian’s obedience, if not his agreement. Did he explain himself to them? I doubt it. But they may have known. Certainly the men would, as he steadily set serf and peasant free, disbanded his squires and men-at-arms, distributing them among his vassals, who, like me, would in this way be unaffected by his fate. What moneys he had, the jewels and plate of Sedgemont, he also gave away or pawned as security for those who were old or could not find a place elsewhere. He had no heir; I was far away and safe. With clear conscience and proud mind then could he wait out Henry’s men. And fast behind him they came, outrunning their king, already at work to gather in the malcontents.

But in two things did they and he miscalculate. One, that from the nearest southern port, braving the storm for fear and greed, the new claimant to the lands of Sedgemont, Lord Guy of Maneth, was already gathering his men to press towards his new estates.

And seconds, from the west, I, Ann of Cambray, was also riding east to join him, with his son and heir already conceived.

So would in due course, by God’s will, we all meet there. God had us in His keeping, I think, that we met at such a time and such a place, against all expectation.

But to return you now to Cambray with the arrival of Raoul’s messenger and his harsh letter that hid many of the things he could not bring himself to say—we did not know, of course, that Stephen by then was dead, nor that already all these new forces had been set in motion. But the very brevity of Raoul’s message gave chance for other interpretation. I had kept myself busy whilst he was gone, not allowing myself time to sit and think. All that we had set out to do at Cambray was now accomplished. The harvest had been gathered in and the field ploughed for the winter sowing. So when we closed the gate at night, those dreams as a child I had locked in my heart had come true. I moved as mistress of my own lands, my own men guarded my keep, the keys of command hung at my waist. The Lady Mildred would have been proud of me that her teaching now stood me in such good stead that I might do all these things that were needful. But I was not content. The man I loved was in mortal peril and far away. And I already knew that beneath my waist there grew the fruit of sin, of love, that my love should not die.

It was this knowledge then—not unexpected, for I had taken no precautions that month, none of those herbs that Gwendyth had taught me how to use; I willed this child forth that gave me courage to do what must be done. Within three days of Raoul’s message was I ready to call my men out. This was no sudden whim. Like any lord, I had thought of my lands before I left, meaning to take with me only those who could be spared. For, in the long watches of the night, when there had been time to think, I, for my part, had come to accept many ideas that before had been strange to me.

Once long ago, as a child, I had maintained that I wanted no part of the greater world.

‘What is this Henry to me?’ I had cried. What would he be to me now, the murderer of lord, of lover, of father of my child? I came to know what Raoul had hoped to spare me. But I also believed that no man, not even this Henry, would kill for spite. Like de Luci, although for other causes, I argued that no king would wish to start his rule branded with the name of murderer. I also reasoned, knowing little of the ways of the world, as you are aware, that even if Raoul was taken, there must be friends, companions, who, wishing him well, would speak on his behalf. I judged the great, you see, by those old-fashioned rules of my own life. But I did not mean to let my man be killed because I had not tried to save him.

Such were the things I would have explained to Dylan when I revealed my decision. Dylan was beside himself. I think it was fortunate that only his inborn sense kept his right hand from twitching too close to blows, but he minced no words. And I stood out against his wrath with that same determination that once had persuaded Giles to my way of thinking.

‘I go as free vassal,’ I said patiently. ‘Cambray stands in no danger. Nor do I. I shall seek to hold it of the king, since Lord Raoul’s hold seems so precarious.’

For I thought then that it would be an easy matter to ask audience of a king and cry my wrongs that all should hear them.

He muttered oaths against Henry of Anjou, who did not know an honest man from a villian, against me, against Lord Raoul. I let him rage, that small squat soldier with the tenacity of a bull.

‘Lady,’ he said at last, ‘I have served your father well, and Lord Raoul in his wars. I am an old man. But I tell you to your face, you meddle where no man may dare.’

‘And you are the best to hold Cambray whilst I am gone,’ I said.

‘They would never have lost it in the first place,’ he muttered, ‘had I been here as I ought. And I would have been here had not Lord Raoul hauled me off about his affairs. What were those wars to us? I see no reason to traipse across the kingdom to hold what is ours and can be best defended here. Lady, you do wrong. And you will not save Lord Raoul. God have him in His keeping, but if he is marked, no man can save him. I do not say that to grieve you,’ he added, seeing how my face paled at his words.

‘Lady Ann, I have known you since you were a child, and as a slip of girl when Giles first brought me to you.’ He sighed suddenly. ‘How long ago that seems. And now you will throw all we have won away.’

‘You promised me then,’ I said quickly, ‘that you would gladly serve me. Or the man whom I would wed.’

I held his gaze with my own that he should know what I meant, until he looked away, rubbing his head for perplexity. I almost felt sorry for him then, that I should so knot him up.

‘Well then,’ he said slowly, reluctantly, ‘if that is the way it is . . .

He lapsed back to his dour, unyielding self, refusing to be further moved by pity or fear, but his advice was invaluable to me. It was he who suggested what men, what horses to take—I had not thought that so complicated a choice — suggested that I have Geoffrey as highest-ranking squire to lead them, and who, before we left, led out four of the half-broken greys that Raoul had brought back to Cambray. Even half-trained, their value in barter was high. And despite his original belief, it was he who came to a solution about the Celtic prisoners, whom we could not keep chained up much longer.

‘Let them go,’ was his advice. ‘Or those who wish it can stay and settle in the village. There be cottages empty enough if they will work to make them whole.’ He suddenly gave me one of his sly grins. ‘Such a one was I once,’ he said. ‘Are we not all half-breeds, Lady Ann, along these border parts? Let those go who wish, those stay who will work for it, to make something of their lives. Like me again, who never thought to wear the title of seneschal.’ And he grinned at the thought, like a boy.

Before we left, I gave him formally the keys and named him guardian of Cambray in my stead. It is a title he has worn even since. In this way was one of the bravest men rewarded for his courage and faith.

Well equipped, then, well led, almost as if Raoul himself rode before us, Geoffrey brought us out from Cambray towards Sedgemont. It was a journey he knew well by now, and had there been no cause for haste, I could have enjoyed the ride that had caused me so much pain when I made it before. But we had to force ourselves that we should not arrive too late. Had not the weather worsened—whenever had we heat or cold in proper season in those days, Nature herself seemed disordered, out-of-joint with the times—we would have missed Raoul at Sedgemont after all, and with him the French envoys who, as he had expected, had followed him soon thereafter. And always following at our heels came Maneth, panting with his new-culled men to savour his revenge.

The French envoys were not so many after all, and not so uncouth as to hack a man to pieces in his own Hall. Nor did they refuse his hospitality; it gave Raoul grim amusement that they should be so willing to dine at his expense before they took him away. Nor did they cavil that his keep seemed unwatched, his guardroom empty, his Hall scarce waited on. If they took note of those things, as they did, for I heard them speak of them myself, they gave no outward sign. Their orders had been plain: to find Raoul of Sedgemont and deal with him; the whys and wherefores of the case lay not within the scope of their concern.

All over England were the new king’s envoys dealing with such matters under guise of settling the Treaty of Westminster. Even I remember the wording of the treaty now, it has been quoted at me so many times. Even I see the sense of de Luci’s fears that it would be turned against the nobles to Henry’s great advantage. Raoul did not try to argue with his captors; he did not even take offence that they were at such pains to deny him his titles and lands. Sir Brian and the few men who were left did so doubly to make up for such discourtesy. Like one of those ancient Stoics of olden times who faced danger without flinching, Raoul had put his affairs in order as best he could and awaited what came next with patience and endurance. Not I. I would have screamed and fought them as I stood.

I have said, had not the weather worsened, we should not have met. They would have left and I would never have known what had become of Raoul.

In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight.
And naebody kens that he lies there . . .

It is a familiar story, that. But had not some fear made us ride on through the storms, we should have taken shelter by the way and arrived too late. As it was, we picked the last miles through fogs and mist so thick they seemed to choke the air we breathed. But what was hindrance to us was hindrance to them, so that when we came to Sedgemont, they were still there. For caution then, Geoffrey bade us hold.

The day was still not yet done, but despite the weather, the uneasy times, the winter twilight, the gates of Sedgemont stood wide open, the walls were unmanned, and however hard we craned, we could not see the red pennon flying at the battlements. Fear grew on us heavy as lead, while we waited at the edge of the great meadows, so shrouded now in mist that they stretched like grey, flat wastes towards the forest behind. For caution, then, we divided our small group, ten to come with us, ten to wait in the shelter of the trees.

The rest of us rode slowly forward, Geoffrey in the lead with drawn sword. We picked our way towards the drawbridge, crossed it with hollow clatter, and came again into the great courtyard of Sedgemont.

It was not the coming that I had anticipated, nor yet the one I could have wished for. But there came Sir Brian down the steps, dressed in his long robe. Heavily he walked, feeling the wall for support, and beside him a page carried his sword and shield. There stood the groomsmen nervously holding the saddled horses that were at least familiar. Against a farther wall, the Lady Mildred and her women with their wraps and bundles waited silently. They were the first to notice us, yet gave no sign or nod, not even Cecile, who would have darted out on seeing Geoffrey, had not someone—it must have been the Lady Mildred—hauled her back and closed her mouth. Not one word of welcome from Sir Brian, who paused, horror-struck, as looking at the dead. Nor from Raoul, who waited to one side, bare-headed, unarmed, dressed for riding forth. But the other men who stood about him, in their short-cut cloaks and close-cropped hair, their armour worked with a strange device although all know it now, they made clamour enough.