Gifts of the Queen (45 page)

'I smoothed her hair as I have smoothed yours. "Do not go, my love," I said. "You will break your father's heart. And mine!"

' "And if not," she said, "they will break down our walls. So they have sworn and so will do. Wish me well, sister of my soul. If I wed, I shall bring peace. And joy to him who would wed with me although that joy may not last long. I shall never see you again. But remember me."

'Next morning, they led her out; her father had aged twenty years in that night, her brothers came sadly to bid her goodbye, her sisters cried out for her to stay.

' "Nay," she said, "it is writ." She was dressed simply as she had been that other day, her hair knotted back, her tunic as short as a boy's. They did not tie her feet, but as hostage had bound her hands behind her back and led up a horse which she rode astride.

'Lord Falk scowled down at her, for he had had his horses too brought up and the path beaten down so they could ride.

' "Come you as maid or boy?" he asked.

' "In my father's name," she said, "I come as boy. But for you I come as maid." And for the first time, she smiled.

'Well, that was years and years ago. Your father escaped that iron-tipped arrow she aimed at him, but not the one that now pierced him. He cut the ropes that tied her hands, himself led her horse down the path. And when it stumbled, he set her before him against his heart. She never came back again, nor did he. But peace was made between his kin and ours. Bound was he to her by bonds of steel, that when she died, his heart died, too. And so I think, Ann, is love like that for you, so strong it cannot bend nor break without tearing you apart with it. So perhaps it is for your lord, rare in men. If you would see him again, remember him. You lord is not dead. I cannot swear he will return, but when your son is born, go back to Cambray and wait for him. No man will harm you here or there. Keep Raoul of Sedgemont in your thoughts to draw him back to you. You have the skill; you have the power.'

She paused, 'And if it is a girl sometime you bear,' I thought she said, 'give her your mother's name that we may have a princess of our race again, as fair as mother and mother's child, to grace our halls. Do not forget me, Lady Ann, as I do not forget your mother, sister of my soul, as I have not forgotten you.'

I did not see her again. Was she a dream or not, or fever's shape, culled from memories and wishes that I had deep buried? Or was she formed from my own heart's needs? Even when she was there no more, I felt her presence still, as real as the bitter wind, the scent of ripening fruit. And certainly too, from the start of those first winter days, I began to mend; the sickness abated and the nightmares; and although the frost was so thick that year that it coated trees, low growing shrubs, and plants as white as if with snow, the cold weather suddenly saw me revive. And one other thing: when I felt for the chain, it was gone and with it that royal gift that had seemed such a heavy weight about my neck.

Never since have I sought from king or queen a royal favor; their friendship comes with too high price, although it was a man's life that time I bought. Nor ever since have I trusted royal word, although it has been asked of me. And one other thing: although I did not speak what was in my mind, ever in my secret thoughts I remembered Raoul and willed him to come back to me. They say, churchmen say, that the prayers they make rise up in columns to God, unendingly. And in this way are all men blessed and are kept safe by holy rituals. So went my thoughts. In all my waking moments, even when I did something else, I never ceased to think of him until, at times, he seemed more real than the world where I found myself. And so I lived and waited in Prince Owain's court until the birth of my second son.

I shall not deny that, as the months went on, I achieved a sort of tranquility in Prince Owain's court. For the first time in my life, I suppose, I became part of a family, loving to its members, giving support and comfort in time of need, cherishing each other in happy days. Prince Owain was a loving man himself, considerate to his wife and womenfolk, and a good friend to his sons and followers. The word prince in the Celtic tongue means 'one who leads,' and so he did, a most exemplary man. And for this reason his brother's treachery was deemed that more treacherous and was more deeply felt. And when his daughter Lilian told me the truth of that quarrel, I grieved for him, as did all honorable men. For his brother, that Prince Cadwaladr, who had been the cause of Henry's campaign, was a schemer; fickle, inconsistent, and cruel. Although he had inherited lands of his own, he was one of those Celtic lords who had hoped to profit by the civil wars in England, so had supported first one faction, then the other, and on returning to Wales, had tried the same tactics there. Finally, in some minor boundary dispute over some minor boundary right, he had fought and killed Owain's nephew and son-in-law, a death that Owain had taken hard, for his nephew was a young man, beloved son of a beloved sister, and a youth upon whom he had pinned his hopes. That murder had plunged Owain's house into deepest mourning. Lilian herself did not well remember the dead man except as a tall and laughing presence on the fringes of her memory, but all of Wales had been shocked by such a wanton killing. For that reason then had Prince Cadwaladr been driven from Wales and had been forced to ask help from the English king. Such was the evil man that Henry had befriended as he had other evil men. Lilian 
told
me many things during this time, and showed me many more so that, as from a sister, I learned the ways of my Celtic kin. She taught me how to bind my hair under the white veil they wore, crimped up in folds or pleats like a crown; it never looked as well on me as it did on her, for her hair was short and curled about her ears and cheeks. She showed me how she took care of her teeth, brushing them with the green shoots of hazel twigs, and explained how she never ate food too hot or cold since that would darken the whiteness she admired—a practice which may have explained the state of the kitchens. For although the food was copious, it was badly served. It could have disgraced a Norman hall—Celts seem to eat but once a day and dine without benefit of tables, linen, or table napkins, plunking the food down on a bed of rushes or fresh grass, and letting you pick at a trencher of bread, three to a slice. Yet Welsh hospitality is proverbial; and if a guest of rank came to stay, Prince Owain himself and his lady wife would serve the visitor first, and if need be, go without food themselves.

Lilian even tried to teach me how to make the Welsh oaten cakes which she rolled out thin and sliced, but I was so bad at that, she dissolved into gales of laughter as she often did when something amused her. She told me once that she would wed only with a man who knew how to make her laugh. She herself was a laughing, joyous girl, who would make a man happy one day, although when I looked carefully around Owain's court, I saw there were few enough men of marrying age. They were either old, or boys, all the rest in between were dead, I think; dead for honor or for liberty. But best of all, I liked to hear her sing. Poet, you would know those songs of heroes long ago and valorous deeds, songs you sing now and we still enjoy. And sometimes, when Dafydd had the time, we would talk together, and he would tell us of his adventures since he had left Cambray those years ago. These were simple pleasures, simple ways such as I prefer to pomp and ceremony. But always, underneath them were my silent, constant thoughts that made Raoul appear to me as clearly as Lilian and Dafydd did, sometimes so real I felt, if I stretched out my hand, I could touch him and bring him back.

What of Lord Raoul? This I know. He tore off the trappings of an earl and repudiated a title which since it had been bestowed on him had brought him nothing but rancor and sorrow. He disavowed those oaths that he had in honor made to a king without honor, and sluffed off those cares of faith and loyalty which had marred his life.
I bear the weight of the kingdom on my back
—now he rode alone without thoughts, without plans, unencumbered by them. I do not know what words to use to tell of a man choked with rage and pride, perhaps no woman does. But even as dying horsemen keep in the saddle until their last breath is gone, by instinct only they ride, so I think did he. South he went, across that land that at the best of times takes eight days to cover coast to coast; he and his horse, tireless, beat down those miles, gone beyond all normal needs of food or rest. I cannot tell you what drove him thus, except the pain and the numbing cold of grief, those I can share with you and him.

At the southern coast he turned west and shortly came to the Cornish ports where Geoffrey Plantagenet had hoped to lure me. The harbors there are small and quiet, havens for fugitives and exiles seeking a quick passage to France, and the fishermen, although rough and loud-voiced, are good-natured at heart, and for a fee in ready gold will take you where you will, no questions asked. Good sailors are they in their tiny boats, who know the Channel and where to find a quiet cove or inlet for a secret landing. Where Raoul meant to go and what he meant to do on getting there was still not clear, and perhaps he himself did not know. But, praise God, he did not really ride alone. One of his knights and a squire secretly followed him. So in the past had other men for love shared his exile, so now
did these two.

His squire I never saw, lost to fever at some time in some dank and sordid hut, but the knight I did. Sir Piers, a comrade since they first had fought in Stephen's war. Having no kith nor kin of his own, this knight took it upon himself to accompany his lord, keeping a distance behind, not too far to be unable to come to his aid if he needed it, not too close for him to notice. But Raoul might not have noticed in any case, lost to the world in his own thoughts. Sir Piers brought his armor, his sword and belt, for Lord Raoul rode in tunic, uncloaked, unarmed, a mad fool he must have seemed to ride so heedlessly through so many wild and lawless parts. Yet those who, on seeing him, might have been tempted to attack, were frightened off, either because they sensed that madness, that carelessness in him, more threatening than a drawn sword, or because they saw behind him a more tangible threat, those two menacing figures of his guard.

Well, at the Cornish coast Raoul never paused, passed without hesitation down those narrow winding lanes between high banks of fern and flowers, came to the nearest port. Often in my own dreams I followed him there, a place I have never seen except I could describe it to you: a small village smelling of pilchards and crab with rocky gray cliffs and granite walls. Raoul paid no heed to anyone, not even to the women who ran after him, the most handsome man ever to ride their way. He dismounted by the harbor wall, stormed on board the nearest ship, threw himself upon the deck and slept in an instant with his cloak wrapped about his head, the sleep of the weary or the damned, after those days and nights without rest.

Sir Piers, spurring after him, found the black horse cropping along the cliff edge. Lord Raoul on board, and the Cornish fishermen whispering like housewives among themselves. Since Raoul had never left a horse uncared for, certainly never that black horse that was his second self, it showed more than anything how deep his distaste for himself had gone, that, if he could, he would have flayed off his skin to be rid of all that he had been and all that Henry had taunted him with. Sir Piers then, on his lord's behalf, made peace with these suspicious sailors, and having persuaded them to jettison whatever cargo they had in their stinking hold, went on board. To pay for the passage, he was forced to use those monies which Raoul had left in his charge for largesse to the public when he rode out on the king's business in the marcher lands. (And for this reason, too, it had been decided hastily among Raoul's friends, that Sir Piers was the most fitting of Lord Raoul's knights to accompany him. For Sir Piers was the keeper of this wealth, which all agreed should now be most justly used to succor the warden of those lands in his own need, rather, that is, than be returned to King Henry to squander in a useless war.)

This embezzlement Henry might well have levelled charges against, but never did—all the other rolls and accounts having been most carefully and accurately kept by Sir Piers's scribes as Lord Raoul had instructed. But strangest thing of all, that black horse, which in ordinary times would never let anyone come near it, walked of its own accord up the plankway to the ship as if it too could tell there was something amiss. So for pity and loyalty and for some unnamed thing that I think is between men. Sir Piers and Raoul's squire followed him. They did not speak or interrupt his sleep, and bedded down near him upon the open deck and slept too. At first, that is.

For hardly had they sailed a day away, knowing nothing of their destination for Raoul said no word to anyone, a storm blew up that drove them to the Irish coast. Heavy seas swept the decks and even the horse stalls below were awash. Stripped to the waist, Raoul's men were forced to tie themselves and their lord to a mast to avoid being swept overboard; so did the sailors, all hope lost. But when the storm blew itself away, as quickly as it had blown up, Raoul at last roused himself, drank rainwater, broke his fast on whatever waterlogged food was at hand, seemed come back to life, although changed. And this I could understand, having experienced something of the same myself at Prince Owain's court.

Sir Piers explained it thus, in more soldier-like terms. 'When a boy,' he said, I was wounded in the leg, a scratch that, turning septic, was like to have been my death, for the arrow-head had buried beneath the skin. It was a small campaign to kill me, a night skirmish only, and my companions tried at first to bear me on their backs. They had to wade around a cliff face in a cold stream, the current so swift it seemed like to run the cold into their bones if the water's race did not carry them all away. Believing I was done for, certain sure of drowning if they stayed, they left me on the bank, tied to a tree bole, thinking never to see me again. All night long the water rose; I sat there to my knees in it. When they returned next day, I credit them that they came to bury me, they found me new-born, weak but alive, the fever gone, the poisons in the wound washed clean. Yet even now when the weather changes or I am tired, that scar I bear throbs and burns. So I think it was with my lord, a wound washed clean yet beneath the scar, it was still raw. His eyes were clear, although he spoke only little, his voice was normal, he looked and lived like any man—but beneath, hidden, there was some deep and dreadful wound.'