Ann of Cambray (47 page)

‘My lady Queen,’ I said, from a deep curtsy that the Lady Mildred would have approved. ‘And I of you.’

She had gone to sit now in a high-backed chair, her feet propped up upon a stool while her ladies massaged her swollen ankles.

‘God’s wounds,’ she swore, ‘it is tiring, these everlasting requests for this and that. I think no one has had anything in England these past twenty years. And does the sun never shine?’

‘Sometimes,’ I said. She had not spoken directly to me, but I alone seemed willing to answer. ‘We sometimes have a full day of sun in spring and autumn. But you must search for it.’ 

She turned her look back at me. ‘You can live with that?’ she said. ‘But you are English yourself, of course.’

‘Nay, my lady Queen,’ I said, ignoring Sir Renier’s look, his gestures to me to rise, who ever contradicts royalty, who ever curtsies so she cannot stand up, ‘from the west, we claim an older kinship.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she said, losing interest again. ‘You speak differently from the others.’

‘As you do, Lady Queen,’ I said, ‘because we have a language of our own. I have been listening to Sir Renier talk. The language of the south must be beautiful. So is mine when we speak it among ourselves.’

She shot me a quick look, opening her eyes suddenly although she had kept them closed before.

‘Why are you sitting on your heels?’ she asked.

I strove again to rise, but could not. They all were looking at me now, whispering. I felt my blushes start. At last I said, vexed at myself, ‘I cannot. My skirts are caught at the back somewhere.’

She laughed out loud then, a hoarse deep laugh at contrast with her soft whispering speech, and waved her hand at the courtiers.

‘Help the Lady Ann to her feet,’ she said, ‘before she freezes to the stones.’

They rushed to obey her, Sir Renier among them, tightening his grip upon my arm to give me warning. Warning of what? I had not yet said a word that would help or hinder my cause at all. As they set me on my feet, there was a tearing sound.

Forgetting myself, I let slip one of Raoul’s soldier oaths, which set the ladies whispering again.

The Queen Eleanor sat upright and laughed.

‘By the Rood,’ she said, ‘both Sir Renier and Sir Gautier promised I should find you amusing. Come closer, child, never mind your torn skirts. Let me look at you.’

I walked forward, trembling, abashed at my clumsiness, frightened.

‘Or is it merely you are more used to men’s wear?’

At my blush, she laughed again. ‘Nay, blush not for that either. I have ridden with an army myself. They called me Lady of the Golden Boots when we came to Constantinople, because I dressed in Amazon fashion. But I have never worn mail coat or sword.’

‘Nor I, but once,’ I said. ‘And only at Cambray. But that was a small war, not a great one as you speak of. Although I would have my castle back, and was willing to fight for it.’

‘Those wars were not so small,’ she said shrewdly, ‘that they did not almost cost my husband, the king, the throne.’

I did not flinch at her words. ‘I will not deny,’ I said, ‘that as loyal vassal to my overlord, I let my men fight for him on the side of his king. We served that king, Stephen, loyally. As now, in turn, we will serve the new king, Henry, God willing.’

She grunted at that, closing her eyes again, waving her hand as if to dismiss me. But I lingered. The expression on her face shocked me with its lack of colour, its sag of pain.

Disregarding the looks of disdain, I knelt beside her and took her hands in mine, surprised by their cold, clammy feel. She let me chafe the cold flesh, while her courtiers nudged and murmured at this disregard of convention.

‘Cold, cold and sick,’ she said so low I had to strain to hear her. ‘This child will be the death of me. I am too old for bearing children.’

Her ladies gave a moan, but I spoke briskly above their cries.

‘Not so, my lady. You have had a baby son before.’ For I had already spied the nursemaid carrying him in the background. ‘you shall bear one again.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘two children within three years for King Henry. Will not that be well done? Except this time, I fear it may be a daughter, like those brats I gave to Louis.’

‘A daughter will also be a joy, a gift,’ I said, ‘as were you once.’

Her eyes flew open at those words, deep blue they were, thick lashed, bright. ‘Now before God, you speak to my own heart,’ she said. ‘Except that I would please my lord, I would as lief have a daughter as sons. Men are born to rend and tear you. I would have a girl close to my heart.’ She winced at another stab of pain. ‘But although I have had three children,’ she panted out, ‘none before has bedevilled me like this, like to kick his way from the living flesh.’

I kept her hand in mine, rubbing it to restore the circulation as Cecile had taught me.

‘You are too cold, madame,’ I said. ‘You should lie abed with down quilts to keep you warm. We should light fires, put charcoal burners by your side. This is a northern winter. Not as in France . . .’

‘It is no worse here than Paris,’ she said.
‘Dieu,
as you remember, Renier,
mon amour'
There was a laugh, he loudest of all. ‘But then,’ she said, ‘I had a priest-king as husband, who spent more time on his knees than in bed.’ There was another laugh.

‘But pains and agues seem of less account when the sun shines,’ she said again, although I could see the effort it took to speak. ‘I wish your King Stephen had died at another time. Then would this child have been safely born. Then perhaps that one summer day would come to England. I would have taken that as courtesy.’

‘My lady,’ I said, still by her side. ‘I have little knowledge of childbearing, in truth, but I have some knowledge of herbs. It is a gift we of the west have. If you will permit, I will make you a warming drink to ease your pains. Let me but send my people to fetch what I need.’

‘Send, send,’ she said, ‘but do not leave me yourself.’

‘This is madness,’ Sir Renier hissed at my other ear as I turned to give my orders to Cecile. She stumbled away, her round face fixed with fright.

‘What if it goes amiss?’ Sir Renier insisted. ‘What then?’

I paid him no heed. What if the queen should die for lack of comfort?

‘I had an old nurse,’ I said aloud, partly to give him confidence, partly to amuse the queen, ‘who had more skill with plants and roots than anyone I have ever known. I used to watch her as a child. I have not her skill, alas, but what I learned from her I have not forgotten.’

‘Do not the Celts have other strange skills?’ she asked. ‘Cannot they foretell what the future will be? I have heard they can.’

‘Then was her death not foretold,’ I said almost bitterly. ‘That skill could not save her. Nor any of my kin.’

She made no comment to that. Alarmed by her pallor, I bade her servants bring a litter and bear her out to her own chambers, which were richly decorated but as cold and damp as a church. I had them bring hot coals to slide under the bedcovers, and buckets of hot ashes to heat the air, and more and more tapestries to cover the stone walls against the draughts.

When Cecile came panting back with all I needed, it did not take me long to mix the draught as I had done for Raoul, but in lesser quantity that she would be soothed, rather than lose consciousness. I tried the mixture myself and can avow to its pleasant taste and smell.

This was the way I came to meet Eleanor the Queen, and helped her, as any woman would another in distress. And as God is my witness, I did not think of myself, or Raoul—only of her and of her unborn child and the pale little princeling who slept in his nurse’s arms.

Later, Sir Renier came to me, perspiring now in his red finery, his face warm and relieved.

‘Rooms are prepared for you, my lady,’ he said. ‘You will lodge here. I shall make place for your men in the guardroom, and they can stable your horses within the courtyard below. I congratulate you. The queen will not let you go now, will have you among her ladies-in-waiting.’

He watched to see the effect of his words.

‘That is a great honour,’ he said. ‘They are highborn ladies. You have done well for yourself.’

I straightened my back painfully, wishing, if truth be told, for some of the potion myself. ‘I hope,’ I said, ‘you do not think I have done this to advance myself.’

‘Nay,’ he said, startled into honesty, ‘you have not the guile, Lady Ann. Sir Gautier sent a letter by me to the queen. I do not know, nor do I wish to know, its contents, but I know she has read it over many times. You will not need my services again. She will not forget anyone who has done her a favour.’

‘Nor must I,’ I said, dimpling at him despite my weariness. ‘I shall need you, Sir Renier. There are so many things I do not understand.’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘But I think it better not to try to change you.’ He hesitated until I smiled again. ‘I am at your command, my lady,’ he said, then kissed my hand. I remembered Sir Gautier’s words and so learned another lesson in this southern diplomacy.

I stayed with the queen for the next weeks until her child was born. What did we do, what did we talk of during those times? Many things except perhaps those closest to my own heart. Often I sang to her as she kept to her bed, those long Welsh poems that I had learned in Raoul’s border camp. I told her of my childhood in Sedgemont. Sometimes, too, we talked of woman’s things, of babies and their care. In my growing up there had been no young woman of childbearing age, nor at Cambray either. Serfs have children, but they seem to grow like weeds. Perhaps it was knowledge that this soon must be my lot that made me thoughtful. Serfs have children that grow like weeds, yet they die as easily, too. Princes should live and thrive. Yet it was clear to me that the little firstborn son was weak, could scarce sit or stand by himself, was always ailing. A second son would be double surety for this new kingdom. But sometimes, as I held the listless body of that firstborn, I felt pity sweep over me, that already he seemed displaced, set aside. An unloved child, I thought as I cradled him, is more exposed to death and want than any peasant brat who lacks all comforts, even food and warmth. And an even sharper pang filled me that my son should be such a one, unwanted, unloved, a bastard, displaced before all men.

So that was how I stayed with the queen, and saw another Henry born in England, a second son, amid all the rejoicing and public ceremony of a royal birth, and marvelled that, even at such a time, she should remain so great a lady. And when it was all over, and the queen slept without need of drugs at last, and the new prince lay mewing in his basket by the fire with forty nurses to attend him, I felt the lack of my own hopes, the waiting, like a weariness stifle me. I turned to Cecile, who hovered near, fascinated and appalled by all she saw.

‘Will it be like that for you?’ she gasped. ‘Will all the men stand round and stare when the heir to Sedgemont is born?’

I know she gave no thought on what she said. It was my answer that shocked her back.

‘He will be lucky to find the shelter of a serf’s hut, like his father.’

‘Say not so,’ she said, her hand against her mouth. ‘Lady Ann, my tongue has run away with me. I have overstepped my place. I would not have offended you. God knows, your son has right to be born as high as any noble in the land, whoever is the father. It is not my place to seek his name.’ Her distress comforted me. I put my arms around her.

‘I am not offended,’ I said. ‘Dear friend, if I do not speak of it, it is because confidences are dangerous. It is news of small import, yet ill used could undo our plans. Secrecy we need to save Lord Raoul.’

‘I shall not speak of it,’ she said, ‘nor has anyone said anything to me, not Geoffrey, nor the other men, no one.’

‘It is not for myself,’ I said, ‘but for the child. He is a child of sin. What should he hope for?’

‘Say not so,’ she repeated. ‘He also is a child of love. I saw that long ago before you did. At Sedgemont, remember, I warned you. But . . .’ She broke off. I knew what the rest of the sentence must be: ‘But I thought to warn you against Lord Raoul.’

After a while she went on, ‘Lady Ann, when you have spoken to the queen and she to the king, then all will come right again. I know it. Do not be downhearted.’

No word then of blame or reproach she made, only the constant repetition of hope.

‘You have not lain with Geoffrey,’ I said almost angrily. ‘You have not broken any holy laws, offended God and man, and paid for it as Raoul has.’

She flushed scarlet as she spoke. ‘I have not had the chance,’ she said, suddenly defiant as she spoke. ‘We are separated, he and I. We see each other but fleetingly. Except for the vagrancies of war, or fate, which are all men’s lot, he is safe. Great men, Lady Ann, have greater privilege, but also greater danger. We are safe so we can wait. Great men have not such certainty. Why should I judge what lies not within my experience? I have come to help, not judge you.’

She began to speak of other things, of how the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thibault, in his red robes, had picked up the newborn infant and blessed it, solemnly handing it then to the new chancellor. This man, tall and thin, with a pale, interesting face, had held the child up close as if peering at it with short-sighted eyes. But it may have been a scholar’s look, deliberating over some page of text. All the womenfolk had remarked upon it, giggling to themselves at his curious expression. And all the other courtiers, even those who seemed most vapid and disinterested, had crowded round as if fascinated by this miracle of policy that would create new source of power and influence.

And all because a child, a little prince, was born.

So we comforted each other. I thought, as we talked, how far we had both come since that autumn day at Sedgemont when I had felt she mocked me for my poverty and ignorance. Strong is the bond that binds us each to each, stronger than any feudal tie, for it is made of friendship.

Perhaps it was reflecting on these things, thinking as I did over and over upon the fate of my own unborn babe, that what happened next occurred. I had not thought to remember it. Yet I have sworn to be truthful. I do not explain or condone. But because the queen was there when it happened, so was the chance made for me to tell her all that was in my heart. I did not seek that day any more or less than I had before. Some paralysis of will had prevented me from baring my hopes. Afterwards though numb from the effect of shock, I could talk freely at last.