Ann of Cambray (43 page)

A scratching at my door that night brought me wide awake. I heard Cecile run across the floor and whisper at the crack. A castle servant slipping in with wood brought news. If during the darkness we could send food and supplies, a serf waited at the forest edge to guide the way to where Raoul lived, hidden but in great want. I threw on my clothes, Cecile beside me in tears that I should not go alone.

‘I shall be back at dawn, you silly child,’ I said, for so her hysterics made her seem, although when held to the work, as I had seen happen in need, she could be as steady as any.

‘I must confer with him, with Geoffrey, decide what we must do. There is no danger. No one will see me slip out. I have done so a hundred times. I am only frightened that the thaw will give our guests thoughts of leaving. Listen.’ We could hear the dripping of the snow as it began to melt. ‘You must watch for me, and if they are up betimes, prepare to leave with them.’

‘Leave?’ she gasped. ‘Where are we going? I cannot. . .’ 

‘Yes, you can,’ I said. ‘You knew what to do after Maneth’s death. You can find the way, the courage. Choose the best horses, the fastest, strongest. Choose three men from those left, the best recovered, most stout hearted. Prepare food, warm clothing. And yourself.’

‘I cannot,’ she said. ‘Before, it was to save Geoffrey. That seemed easy.’

If there had been time, I would have smiled at her ingenuousness.

‘Then think you do it for him again,’ I said. ‘Would you have him live an outlaw all his youth?’

‘But why me?’ She ran behind me as I hurried to the little staircase where once I had hidden and listened to Gwendyth’s killers as they passed by. I had never gone there since. Now I ran past the steps as stealthily, laden with a basket of food, wine, and warm clothes for the men.

‘Because I need a woman attendant,’ I said, as we paused at the small sally port, unlocked it as I used, tiptoed through. She stood to close it tight behind me. ‘Watch for me before dawn. Have all prepared. I think they may leave today and we must be ready to go with them.’

‘But where are we going?’ Her voice floated soft and mournful after me as I ran over the frozen grass under the shelter of the wall until I came to where the stream was shallower and I could cross. Time to tell her that when I had seen Raoul and talked to him.

Crossing the frozen river was difficult. I ducked and dodged among the boulders, hoping no one would mark me from the castle walls, although I guessed not. There were too few men to keep close watch, and the storm had made us feel safe from further attack at least. But I could not help thinking of the wild animals we had seen, and in my thoughts ever I heard the wolves’ howling coming closer. But I crossed to safety. A man standing in the shadows drew me to shore and began himself to run towards the safety of the trees. I could not hurry faster because of the drifts, but at the forest’s edge he had left a wood hurdle of some kind used for hauling wood, and where the snow was deep and hard he could pull me, having tied fur skins about his own boots to make the walking easier. Without him I could not have managed at all, and the effort that we made so sapped our energy that we had no time for speech. We must have plodded on for at least two hours before he left the pathway and began to cut through the trees, turning this way and that as if through a maze. At last we stopped in a small clearing. He shrugged the heavy ropes from his shoulders, standing upright for the first time, and nodded silently towards the hut, half-hidden in the undergrowth. It must have been used by woodsmen, set in a stand of trees I did not remember, and would not have recognised it anyhow; the snow had changed all things so, turning the forest into something wild, older than men themselves. But I recognised Geoffrey at the hut door, and the other men standing guard in the circle of trees. Yet he, too, had changed. I had not remembered him so thin, so white, or his face so lined with weariness and concern.

We dragged the supplies over the frozen ground. Here in the forest it was still ice cold, but yet I sensed the thaw would come here, too, with the daylight. That would ease their plight somewhat.

‘We did not look for you, Lady Ann,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘We feared that others might come behind and follow where you went.’

‘No one has seen me,’ I said. ‘Nor would I have risked it if I had thought it possible. And I must see Lord Raoul to talk with him.

He did not respond.

‘Lord Raoul is . . .’

‘Alive, lady,’ he said abruptly, ‘but sick unto death. He lost much blood before we could get him here. He does not mend as he ought.’

‘Who tends him?’

‘I do,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and his squires; we take turns. Lady, you must not go in.’ He tried to bar the door. ‘He must not be disturbed.’

But I had already pushed past him, ducking under the low lintel into the hut. It was bitterly cold within, as cold as outside, and there was a smell of sickness, neglect. There was no light but I could see dimly the faint outlines of other men, the low pallet or bed stretched in a corner. The men did not move, but stood staring at me with eyes that gleamed in the dark. I beckoned to Geoffrey behind me, fumbling among my bundles until I found a tinder, which he struck. Even its pale light seemed too bright in that room. I looked at them and scarce suppressed my gasp of dismay. They looked like scarecrows, bearded, dirty, half-starved. The charcoal burners I had disturbed in the forest when I fled through it could not have looked more wild, more neglected.

I took the torch that someone silently handed me, and, almost against my will, approached the corner. My heart contracted upon itself as I looked down. Was that Raoul? I am not sure I would have known him, his hair grown long and matted, his face unshaven, his skin waxen. His eyes were closed, but whether he slept or lay between consciousness and unconsciousness I could not tell. They had covered him with their cloaks, yet the sweat that stood out on his forehead came not from heat, and the unstrapped arm that lay outside the covers plucked at them with nerveless fingers. Thus did Raoul of Sedgemont pay for our love. Thus was God requited of him, for our sin . . .

And I thought, Dear God, he will die here.

His men stood round me, their faces mirroring my own fears, as if I had shouted them aloud. Yet, what more could they have done? Despite myself, the thoughts that once I had had about him rose up to haunt me.

When he is alone and out of favour, let him look for loyalty
.Without heat, food, without real care, was Raoul of Sedgemont now as poorly lodged as any serf in any hovel. Yet, without their loyalty, without the love of his men, he would already have been dead.

I thrust them back, tearing at the bundles I had brought. They stood aside and watched me, uncertain what to do or say, as hopeful as children. Again I felt pity overwhelm me, the household guard of Sedgemont reduced to this pitiful group. Yet their swords were unsheathed by their sides, they wore their mail coats day and night, kept watch, and would sell their lives bitterly if anyone trespassed here. What could they do? No men could have done more. First I brought out the wine to give them heart, then bread, meat, all the goods that the Lady Mildred had hoarded for their use.

‘Light up the fire,’ I told them. ‘Warm this broth. It will put heart in you else you perish of the cold.’

‘We dare not, lady,’ Geoffrey said, ‘for fear of discovery where we have hidden here.’

‘No,’ I said, more firmly than I dared, speaking curtly to hide my feelings. ‘I’ll wager those French tomorrow will be gone, sick of our winter welcome. Even if they stay, the Lady Mildred will seek means to send you more supplies. No one will find you here. The worst is over.’

They threw logs on the fire until it burst into flame and I could see them clearly, thin and pale, shivering in their shirts beneath the mail, without cloaks.

‘Drink, all of you,’ I scolded. ‘What have you eaten? A sick man would starve in your care. Take off those covers. Lord Raoul needs warm air, not weight.’

So I chided them to make them bestir themselves. Little by little, I set them tasks to keep their spirits up, giving them to eat and drink, for in truth they had been living off scraps, the best of what they had caught going to Lord Raoul, who could not swallow their rough soldier’s fare, half-raw, half-cold. I showed them how to prepare the broth, and whilst it was heating had them unwind the rags that bound him, forcing myself close to look, cursing that strange sickness that made all things sway before my eyes. It was a hideous wound. The sword edge had sliced down upon the shoulder bone, breaking it and laying back the skin, then had slid down his side to his hip. This second wound was not so deep, for the blow had lost some of its force, and you could see where the leather undercoat had deflected part of it, yet it too would have felled most men. They had stitched the cuts, clumsy soldier work, as tightly as they dared, setting the shoulder bone with a rough splint. But the stitches had been pulled too tight, making the whole arm swell with anguish, so that, unknowing, he groaned when we tried to move it.

‘We did the best we could,’ Geoffrey said. Well, we both knew why, not only to cobble the torn flesh together but to give hope that the tendons and muscles might heal as well. A man without full use of his right arm is as a cripple. They had taken that risk on his behalf, or perhaps he had urged them to it, if he had been able to make a conscious choice. But the arm could not mend if left like that.

‘It is the fever that is worse,’ Geoffrey said, looking at me for hope as I stood thinking. ‘When he tosses, he dislodges the dressings, breaks all open again. It takes our strength to hold him down . . .’

I took Geoffrey to one side, his laughing face drawn and pale, gathering my wits about me, trying to remember what Gwendyth would have done in such a case, a man she had tended once with such a slash across his arm.

I said, ‘The shoulder must be restitched. It will mortify as it is now. I must resew the underpart, in layers so that it has a chance to heal.’

‘He cannot bear it,’ Geoffrey said hoarsely. ‘It will kill him.’

‘Then he will die in any case,’ I said brutally. ‘The wound as yet is clean. If we wait longer, it will be too late. It is the only chance he has. And I need your help. I cannot do it alone. Geoffrey, you must help me.’

I willed him to agree, although perhaps he, more than I, knew what the agony would be. Then we had to hasten, first getting Raoul to drink warm wine in which I steeped herbs that I remembered Gwendyth used in such instances to cloud the mind and nerves. He drank eagerly as if parched with thirst, not knowing what he drank, for although his eyes opened once, they were glazed with pain and there was no sense in them. We laid him back upon the dirty bed and I put my hand upon his chest. The skin was still brown from Cambray sun, but dry and hot to the touch, and beneath I felt the labouring of his heart. I forced back my own sickness, and forced my hand not to tremble as I turned to empty out the bundles that we had prepared so carefully.

‘He will feel nothing,’ I said, my voice even, as if I spoke of everyday affairs. ‘I would not attempt it if he moved, so you must hold him still. First, there must be hot water to clean the wound and fresh wrappings. These old rags must be burned for fear of infection. And see, I have brought all things needful, thread, scissors. I need light and steady hands to help.’

I spoke on a monotone to give myself courage as much as them, and with Geoffrey to help, I began the work. With the small gilt scissors that so often the Lady Mildred had used, I plucked at the swollen flesh and then, with smaller careful thrusts, retied each stitch separately, restitched each layer of muscle and flesh. He did not move. He lay so still I almost would have thought him gone, except that his breathing sounded slower than normal yet constant, so that each time he breathed, I felt my own lungs contract in sympathy. I do not remember how long we laboured to do all that was needed, packing the whole with wadding smeared with unguents that stop bleeding, showing Geoffrey how to wrap him in ice if the fever should return, as I was sure it would.

But when it was done, I could say with certainty, ‘He will sleep on for hours yet. When he wakes, give him broth to drink, warm wine, and more of these herbs that will let him sleep undisturbed again. Then when the flesh has healed, you must cut the outer stitches loose.’ And I showed them how to lift the thin thread and pluck it out.

‘The ones beneath will loose themselves,’ I warned, ‘but if the flesh again begins to swell or discolour, you must start afresh with hot cloths and herbs to draw the poisons forth.’

As brisk as Gwendyth was I then, explaining, correcting, whilst they listened like sheep, admiring, God, I thought, those small painful stitches I had taken, who could not seam a fold of cloth straight.

‘And if we leave soon, as I think, then will the castle send you word. But hold him here until my message comes. He is safest here.’

By then we had already stepped outside, and with a pail of ice water I was trying to cleanse my hands of their work, letting them tremble now that it was done.

‘Lady Ann,’ Geoffrey said, a shadow by my side. ‘Will you go with them?’

‘I must,’ I said. ‘I had hoped before I came to have word with Raoul. But since that is impossible, I shall go to London myself. I came from Cambray with that thought in mind. So shall I achieve it.’

‘How?’ he said, worried. ‘What will you hope to do in London?’

I said, ‘They would have killed him, you know that as well as I. Had he remained at Sedgemont after the fight, they would have taken him away. You must stay and hide him here. Strange chance has saved him once, chance or God. He may be saved again, by that same chance. Without his knowledge or agreement was he rescued from Sedgemont. Without his knowledge while he lies here will you keep him safe from harm.’

‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘I should come with you, but I cannot be spared here.’

‘Dear friend,’ I said, and took his hands in both of mine, ‘without you, he would be already dead. Long is the debt we owe you. Since those happy days in the forest has it been promised. Guard him. Do not let him move an inch without you, although I do not see that he will be able to move for months ahead. By then, I may have found the means to forward our suit, plead for his life, which he would not do himself.’