Ann of Cambray by Mary Lide

his as he raised the sword higher, repeating my cry, ‘To me, Cambray.’ Then I could not move. The cloak fell from my shoulders; my blood mingled with the other stains upon my gown. I heard them all clearly now, panting and pushing. I was some animal whom the hounds circle, smelling the scent of wounded flesh. They were all around, servants, guards, soldiers making a circle. My grasp upon the sword slackened against my will; he caught it before it fell and lowered it so that it rested, point to the ground. I tried to pull the cloak back in place to hide from their prying eyes, but the circle grew smaller.
    ‘You are hurt,’ he said sharply, ‘where, how?’ his hands rough on my shoulders and along my ribs. I tried to tell him that it was Gwendyth’s blood, not mine, her blood he must avenge, but could not. Something tore and jerked in my throat; the circle grew so small that it disappeared, and I within it fell through into darkness beneath. . .
    When I came to myself, how much later I do not know, and where and when it was not at first clear, I lay cocooned in a comfort that I had never known. The room was large, too large to make out all of it in the dimness that surrounded me. The bed was softer than down, spread with silk coverlets and rugs and curtained round with rich material whose design I presently made out in the flickering light of a fire. At first I lay still as if in a swoon, seeing all these things but not aware of them. Then gradually awareness came back, and with it grief and pain. Beyond the curtained bed, I could hear now the sounds of people moving, talking, of furniture shifting as a chair scraped upon the stones, the thud of a man’s boots as he strode back and forth.
    ‘Nay, my lord.’ A voice I did not recognise at first, hushed and unctious, as if used to explaining things to the old and ailing. ‘Nay, my lord. There is no danger: Great exhaustion, but no fever.’
    Another voice, impatient, curt: a young man’s voice.
    ‘Deep, my lord, not dangerous. The flesh is healthy. ’Twill heal with a scar, but that is all.’
    Another question. I strained to hear the reply.
    ‘Her father’s, my lord. She bore it into the Hall beneath the cloak. Dragged it more like. It is old and heavy. She could not draw the blade clear.’
    ‘So much the better.’ That was Sir Brian who spoke now. ‘It was madness to come upon you, so armed. What did she expect to gain?’
    I lay within the cocoon of the bed and listened to them talking, almost idly, detached, as if they were speaking of someone else. The only things that were real were the softness of the bed and the ache along my arm. Perhaps I even dozed for a while. But the talk went on.
    ‘Your concern does you credit, my lord. But remember who and what she is. The Celts are never to be trusted. They are as sly and smooth as snakes. Who knows what plan she had in mind, or what use she meant to make of such an exhibition? There are men who can use this to their advantage.’ Sir Brian’s voice was full of scorn, like the one which had sneered at me as a child for my birth. It would sneer at me again.
    ‘I think not,’ said Lord Raoul. I recognised him now. ‘I think she acted on impulse, out of shock and fear. I do not think she counted the consequence.’
    ‘If Anjou comes to England again, as he purposes, the western borders will be of consequence,’ Sir Brian said. ‘The Celts may rise on his behalf as they did for his mother. That might be motive enough for her to win their sympathy.’
    ‘Guy of Maneth thought of that also.’ Lord Raoul’s voice was thoughtful. The walking back and forth continued. I even knew his walk now, a slight limp, as if favouring one leg.
    ‘But she has had no converse with anyone, not even with Cambray, let alone the Celts beyond,’ he went on as thoughtfully as if continuing an argument with himself. ‘Nor is there any proof the Celts will rise, nor rally to Anjou