first.' He was silent for a while until again, the words broke out. I had never heard him speak so unguardedly. 'Ann, I am caught here in a trap. I must endure it best I can, but it will be hard on you. If we go back to England, then are we truly in Henry s grasp. If we bide here, the wait will be long and dangerous. We shall have to shift to defend ourselves. Will you mind that? Will you mind to be so far from friends and home at such a time? By the Holy Rood, I did not bring you here for this.'
I tried to tell him what was in my heart; if only he would be safe, then could we all be safe from Henry's reach.
He said, almost unexpectedly, 'Long have I known Henry of Anjou, since we were both lads here in France. And ever since that boyhood, he has pitted himself against me. Ambition gnaws at him that he must be first, and he has inherited the Angevin rage along with their lands. That rage will choke him yet; it twists him from man to beast. He is a good soldier, that I grant, but rage destroys his reasons, turns him mad. It is his greatest enemy.' He smiled his rueful smile, 'And to think I showed him once how to hold a lance. Got rot me, that he should ride as I do. Or did.'
He was silent for a while after, shifting and turning on his hard pillow.
‘It is not easy to fight with your left hand,' he said, as if admitting to a weakness. 'I can do it if I must. It is the strangeness that takes your opponent off his guard. Although, after the first surprise, he has your weaker side exposed to his counter thrust.'
Again, silence. At last, he said what I believe was truly in his heart. ‘I thought to bring you here to keep you safe until your child was born. By my knightly oath, no less an that.'
When he spoke me fair, I wanted to put my finger to his lips to stay his words. Hard was it for me to tell him openly how I felt for him. But God had given us each other back; we were man and wife by God's grace; an archbishop had seen us wed; surely, by God's mercy, we should live to know each other's worth. Yet he had been forced to marry. Without Henry's threat, might he have still thought on his past loves, and remembered his old betrothal, his former pledge to the Lady Isobelle? Would he resent marrying me?
He had lived long alone, trusting no one's counsel but his own; since boyhood had he fended for himself, pitting his wits against the intrigues of Stephen's court, I think it was hard for him to trust anyone, or to put his naked thoughts before the world. I know his pride was cut to the quick that his physical weakness left us so exposed. Once the most active and brave of men, he saw weakness as failure, and failure was more painful than those unhealed wounds. When he spoke of such things, simple as his words were and often hidden beneath a jest, they seemed forced from him as if he confessed to some crime. Beneath them, I sensed the hurt of a vulnerable man, sensitive to the needs of all he felt his duty to protect. And what he said was simple indeed.
'Nor hold it against me,' he said, 'that I make so poor a show of protection for you.'
'And you,' I whispered back, my confession to match his own, 'you will not mind, who could have married a great lady, to take me of so little worth?'
'Mind,' he said, 'and what is worth more than one who would have died for me.'
He stretched out his hand and took mine in his own. 'You have been great comfort to me these past months,' he said 'Without you, I would be dead. What other friend stood by me in Henry's court ? What other woman have I known who would have endured today with such grace? It was to have been other than this, our homecoming. But lady, this day is done. Passed, if not forgot. Since we cannot go back, we must go on. We have scarce had any time to ourselves since our marriage day, so long since first I took you to my arm: on such another day when we won Cambray for you.' He smiled, that rueful smile. 'I thought to have had you to myself this
I tried to tell him what was in my heart; if only he would be safe, then could we all be safe from Henry's reach.
He said, almost unexpectedly, 'Long have I known Henry of Anjou, since we were both lads here in France. And ever since that boyhood, he has pitted himself against me. Ambition gnaws at him that he must be first, and he has inherited the Angevin rage along with their lands. That rage will choke him yet; it twists him from man to beast. He is a good soldier, that I grant, but rage destroys his reasons, turns him mad. It is his greatest enemy.' He smiled his rueful smile, 'And to think I showed him once how to hold a lance. Got rot me, that he should ride as I do. Or did.'
He was silent for a while after, shifting and turning on his hard pillow.
‘It is not easy to fight with your left hand,' he said, as if admitting to a weakness. 'I can do it if I must. It is the strangeness that takes your opponent off his guard. Although, after the first surprise, he has your weaker side exposed to his counter thrust.'
Again, silence. At last, he said what I believe was truly in his heart. ‘I thought to bring you here to keep you safe until your child was born. By my knightly oath, no less an that.'
When he spoke me fair, I wanted to put my finger to his lips to stay his words. Hard was it for me to tell him openly how I felt for him. But God had given us each other back; we were man and wife by God's grace; an archbishop had seen us wed; surely, by God's mercy, we should live to know each other's worth. Yet he had been forced to marry. Without Henry's threat, might he have still thought on his past loves, and remembered his old betrothal, his former pledge to the Lady Isobelle? Would he resent marrying me?
He had lived long alone, trusting no one's counsel but his own; since boyhood had he fended for himself, pitting his wits against the intrigues of Stephen's court, I think it was hard for him to trust anyone, or to put his naked thoughts before the world. I know his pride was cut to the quick that his physical weakness left us so exposed. Once the most active and brave of men, he saw weakness as failure, and failure was more painful than those unhealed wounds. When he spoke of such things, simple as his words were and often hidden beneath a jest, they seemed forced from him as if he confessed to some crime. Beneath them, I sensed the hurt of a vulnerable man, sensitive to the needs of all he felt his duty to protect. And what he said was simple indeed.
'Nor hold it against me,' he said, 'that I make so poor a show of protection for you.'
'And you,' I whispered back, my confession to match his own, 'you will not mind, who could have married a great lady, to take me of so little worth?'
'Mind,' he said, 'and what is worth more than one who would have died for me.'
He stretched out his hand and took mine in his own. 'You have been great comfort to me these past months,' he said 'Without you, I would be dead. What other friend stood by me in Henry's court ? What other woman have I known who would have endured today with such grace? It was to have been other than this, our homecoming. But lady, this day is done. Passed, if not forgot. Since we cannot go back, we must go on. We have scarce had any time to ourselves since our marriage day, so long since first I took you to my arm: on such another day when we won Cambray for you.' He smiled, that rueful smile. 'I thought to have had you to myself this
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