Gifts of the Queen (11 page)

Men will die for you.
But not this way, not now. 'No,' I think I said, 'Raoul, stop. There has been enough bloodshed as it is.'

He looked through me, a stranger who does not understand, battle lust so fierce in him that he was numb to all things else. Well, that too is the way of fighting men.

I thrust myself free from my trooper's arms until he let me down. I pushed my way outside the shield wall, advancing into the center of the square. Even the townsfolk quieted on seeing me. I had not thought how I must look, stained with other men's blood, drenched with it.

'Let God provide,’ I think I said. 'I will have no death upon my head. If they want me, here I am.'

And even as I spoke, I felt another thrust of pain, like to a spearpoint thrusting through. It weakened and tore. I felt myself bow to it, unknowingly. 'Let God provide,' I think I said. 'Here is your church behind our backs. I claim the right of sanctuary in the name of your saint, who is patron to all things lost and found. Let those who built your church and those who worship there honor its pledge.'

And a second wave, a new gush of blood, forced me to my knees, no weapon this to cause such pain, save only that which God uses against all womenkind when their time is come. Except I knew it untimely come, too soon, and fear gripped my vitals in a vice.

God, I think, put the thought and words into my brain, as he has done before, to save us. The right of sanctuary is as old as men, and few are so impious as to disdain its claim. Certainly not the townsfolk of Saint Purnace. As Walter had pointed out, they were no less superstitious than other men and they were proud of their saint and his miracles. To invoke his name was to touch upon their honor, too. And then, to condemn men to certain death was one thing; they might have watched Raoul and his men hacked down without remorse. To condemn a woman, great with child, is grievous sin, to cut off an unborn soul from grace is an offence to God; but to kill a woman at her birthing is an affront to God and man. When they realized what was happening to me, there, before their eyes, they might think again. All these ideas then, although perhaps without form, without name, made them hesitate. But there was one thing else that made them pause. As for its worth, count it more or less than these other reasons as your own tastes dictate. For, since in townspeople's affairs there are always factions, sides, old enmities waiting a chance, old quarrels rising afresh, a town quarrel was to rescue us.

A second group of men burst through the first, as resolute, as armed as the others were. 'Stand-back, masters,' their spokesman cried. A tall, broad-shouldered man he was, with calm face, short-cropped black beard, small, sharp eyes. His voice had an air of authority. He spoke out words as if they were made of stone, to be hewn in shape and made to last. 'You do yourselves harm,' he said, turning to face the mob, 'and those who urge you on are fools.'

The effect was like cold water flung. Those who before had cried the loudest now began to shout his name. 'Master Edward,’ they cried, 'Master Edward, our guild master. Hear him.' But others shouted, 'He and his stone workers have most to gain. Pay no heed but thrust Count Raoul out.' He held up his hand, imposing in his short fur-lined gown, not as long as a knight's, better made than a serf's, silver-belted about his broad waist. His men stood their ground behind him. I have seen Raoul's men stand thus to back their lord; these men would be as hard to budge.

'My lord Count,' he turned now to face Lord Raoul, 'my lord, although I think you have greater English titles that come not now to mind, many have been the prayers said in our church for your safe return. Saint Purnace is a free town; we are not part of your lord's domain, yet your forefathers since time began have been benefactors of our church and town. Disgrace it would be for us to betray you and your lady wife. The greater disgrace since we have had nothing but good from you.'

He swung back to face the townsfolk who listened to him, open-mouthed. 'And greater disgrace,' he roared at them, 'if we deny our patron saint. This church was of my father's make. I know every stone that houses the holy relics beneath the high altar. I helped cut and shape its tower. Now, by Saint Purnace, whom we all love and revere, shall we deny help to men sore pressed? You have all heard of the sack of Sieux. Those Angevin soldiers had no pity on the men they hanged. Shall we look for pity when we need it? I tell you plain, unless we are beasts, not men, we must help this lord and lady home. And I also tell you this. Unless we see Sieux rebuilt, we'll not rest easy in our fine, free town. Murder we'll have, and robbery, and knavery, creeping in to lure citizens to devil's work. On your knees, yourselves, that Count Raoul not thrust the truth of what I say through your spines. Peace brings prosperity to all of us, not more to one group than another one. It is the castle of Sieux that guards our peace.'

The whispers grew, ebbed away, one last attempt. 'We'll have no bastards born within our holy church..'

Now, during this talk, I had somehow managed to creep aside and found myself seated, I know not how, on the broad steps of the church. Someone had opened the doors and the cool air, dark and stale with incense, flowed about me where I sat. I had the impression of many tall pillars crowned with leaves, and long dim aisles, and at one end, a window that glowed with rose and gold.

Master Edward stretched out his hand. 'Bastard is it?' he questioned, suddenly sharp. 'The great Duke William was bastard born, yet he lived and died a king. I'd not throw that word for crows to eat.'

I think that he smiled. 'Come, lady,' he said, 'we'll bear you home.' His smile was gentle, his small eyes shrewd. I saw how his men ran to throw him a cloak; a boy led up his horse, leading it as if Master Edward was a knight, although he scrambled upon it as ungainly as a sack of wheat. I thought he turned and smiled again, showing yellow teeth.

'My lord Count,' he said, 'we had a meeting planned, you and I. Now, since our place of rendezvous has been disturbed and time is pressing for the lady here, perhaps we have your leave to take advantage of your protection back to Sieux.'

The look on Raoul's face changed; he almost laughed. 'Now by the Mass, Master Edward,' he said, 'you are a cunning man and wise. Protection is it that you seek? Rather I think you will protect us.' And he smiled. That rueful laugh, that smile, made others join in. Some men ran to fetch their own mounts, ponies for the most part and donkeys; others, still armed, came with us on foot. There was even a churchman or two issuing down the steps, carrying the blue banner of their saint, and a
pax 
with a bone or so for extra help.

I sat in the cool shade, unable to move nor think, not even when Raoul himself rode up to the steps and looked down at me.

'What more's amiss?' he began. I almost laughed at him then for his blindness.

'Hurry, my lord,' Master Edward trotted past, 'if you would have your son born at Sieux.'

I looked at Raoul and he at me. His face had paled, all laughter gone. 'Is that so?' he almost whispered. 'I had not thought. Ann, I had not known. Dear God, forgive me. It is too soon . . .'

And I thought he said, almost too low for me to hear, 'Forgive me, Ann, that I take such poor care of you.'

And I, I thought I said, 'Raoul, acknowledge him, and love him well.' Another wave of pain from the belly burst up, drowned me in its aftermath so I cannot be sure we said anything at all.

Well, that is how we returned to Sieux, how we escaped despite all expectation of our loss. And that is how my son was born. All of France has heard the scandal of that birth. No hope then to hide an eight-month child after three months of marriage. Even a patron saint cannot claim such a miracle! Sometimes I think that much that was said and done that day took on a dreamlike feel, as if it happened to someone else. And sometimes too parts of it stand out so clear I can reach and touch them after so many years. There are two memories more that I will share with you, because they show how real, unreal, all things then became.

I thought we were still onboard ship for France. The sailors hoisted upon the ropes; the white sails dipped. The coast heaved like some humped sea beast, the deck boards tilted and leaned.

'Shall we go to France, my lord?' I thought I asked.

'Not so,' said Lord Raoul. He leaned against the ship's side, the wind blew his hair back from his face, his eyes were blue-green like the sea. 'First to Flanders, longer by twice the distance. I'll not have my son born on Norman soil.'

'It is too far,' I thought I said. 'If we do not hurry, we'll not reach Sieux in time. They will call me peasant slut, to bear my child like a beast in the fields.'

Lord Raoul laughed, a laugh that went echoing underground, down a long tunnel with points that pierced and ripped.

'Upon the ground then,' he said, 'no better place. So did my Viking ancestors see their sons born, upon the rocky shores at the world's rim. If that be his fate, let him seek no better one and no more gracious lady to grant him it.'

The second image is clearer still, death cold, ice cold, etched white and black. I thought I was again at Sedgemont the last Yuletide. It was the day of Christ's birth; all men rejoiced, but there was no joy for us. We thought Raoul near death in the woodcutter's hut where he was hid. I crept out at night from the castle gates, through the storm. Raoul's men stood round the hut, cold as ice, pinched with grief, their faces pale. Snow fell on their cheeks like tears. I thought this pain that nagged and tore was his, that he had suffered it for my sake. I thought their grief was mine that he might die. I stretched out my hands to comfort them, hope, despair, contending which was which, and felt Raoul's own hand, as firm and steady as his courage, take mine.

'He shall live,' I said, 'I promise it.'

But whether it was of Raoul I spoke, or Raoul's son, I do not know. The snow fell in great gouts of white, the cold buried us. All else sank to darkness and was lost.

So darkness then, ask me not how long. Imagine if you will a sleep so profound, that when you emerge from it you do not know at first if that dark place where you have been is sleep or death. I suppose there must have been a time when I knew I could think, could breathe, when perhaps I moved or knew I lived, and later still, when I could begin to have a memory. But it was the noise, a continuing throbbing noise, a tap-tap-tapping, irritating as a water drip, that made me concentrate.

'What is it?' I cried, pulling myself up.

The woman beside my bed rose to her feet, called to the others clustered round the peat fire, crossed herself for fear or relief. The lady speaks,' she cried in her rough dialect, more strange a language than any French I'd ever heard. 'She speaks and recognizes us. God be praised. Why, lady, as you know, it is the masons at their work. They build up Sieux, God praise that, too.'

I wanted to ask her what should I know of them, but found the question would not form, as if my tongue had forgotten what sense to make of words. I did not even recognize where I was, smoke-grimed walls, earthen floor, a small dark room. For a moment almost I imagined I was still back at Saint Purnace and would have cried out my fear. The women gathered round sensed terror's hold on me and told me many times until I accepted the fact at last (that day, another day perhaps?) that I was in the village at Sieux, I and my child, in the village midwife's hut, and she had saved us both. They pushed her forwards then, a wizened old dame, her brown face like an apple kept too long, its soft wrinkles splitting for pride.

Although she wrapped her fingers in her apron strings, and wiped them for embarrassment, she was nothing loath in the end to have the other women sing her virtues, praise her skill. The story of how she had been summoned to the castle for the birthing of my son, she was not shy about telling that. It would warm her memories for a score of years, if she lived so long, although she had come too late for his birth. He had already been born, yet barely lived.

'Why, lady,' she told me many times, as if with each telling she would improve upon the last, 'we had heard the town bell of Saint Purnace ring out alarm, as we do when the wind is right. And I heard the horse hooves beating up the village street. Well, there I was, sitting by my own hearth stone as now, warming my feet, never dreaming what it meant, or how they'd come for me. Three men from Sieux they were, clattering in, all in their mail coats, battle-stained. I thought they'd draw their swords to prick my heels. 'Run?'said I, 'I'm old. I've not run to a birthing in a score of years. I could have known your fathers and your mothers both as babes. Get someone else if it's running you want.' But when I heard the way of it, then run I did, picking up the skirts of my gown, and they, letting their horses fend for themselves, they ran behind, never caring that those great beasts trampled down my own meadow grass. Well, well, grass will grow again. First babies take their time, but not our darling boy, our little lord. Twice we thought he'd ceased to breathe. But I blew air into his lungs so, so, and dipped a cloth in wine to make him suck.'

The women showed me the child then, unwrapping the swaddling clothes they had bound him in, that I might see him for myself.

'Look how long his legs,' the midwife said, as proud as if she'd given him them, 'and his narrow feet. Proof of noble birth although he came too soon. And his cockstub for a man, a Norman lord in every part. See his eyes, how gray, and his hair, as silver fair as any Viking's, like to his father and his father's father, whom I saw both come out upon such a summer day, long ago.'

Her voice flowed on, as soothing as the lapping of the lake. I let it pass, lay with the child crooked in my arms, and knew happiness. Oh, I know other children are born and are beloved, but this one had many reasons to be cherished: the first child and a son, conceived out of darkness and despair; a bid for life when his father's life hung by a thread, and out of fear and death to be so snatched back to life. And I remembered, almost marveling, how when Queen Eleanor brought forth her son, in view of all her courtiers, amid the greatest luxury, I had wondered what it would be like when my turn was come. How like, how unalike. And yet, some have claimed my son was a peasant, born in a peasant's hut. Not so.