The Sword and The Swan Page 12

  With a face as yellow as parchment, Rannulf drove home the blade, right through the mail, cutting the jugular. It took a frantic effort, and he laid the whole weight of his body behind the thrust to still the voice before the heralds could reach them and hear. The bright mail turned red; the bright blade turned red; the green grass turned red. Only the future was black as Rannulf of Sleaford denied mercy to a fallen opponent in loyalty to his king.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mary, Rannulf's bastard daughter, sighed with relief as she took her seat and raised her spindle. She liked to spin. It was very pleasant to twist the soft fleece between one's fingers and feel the twist as the spindle dropped. It put all sorts of strange thoughts in one's head. Strange, pleasant thoughts, far removed from washing and fulling clothes, cleaning and airing beds and bed-furnishings, and endlessly polishing silver and gold plate.

  Spinning still, Mary looked out through the open window over the fields of Sleaford, which were fresh and green with the burgeoning life of May. It was two years exactly, no, there was an extra three weeks, since Lady Catherine, countess of Soke, had come to be mistress of the forbidding keep at Sleaford. Now the spindle slowed as Mary looked around her at the women's quarters. She had grown used to them of late and hardly noticed, but they were nothing like what they had been in Lady Adelecia's time—nor in any other time, for that matter.

  The entire keep had changed in the past two years, but one noticed it less than the change in the women's quarters because these, the least important, were the last to receive Catherine's attention.

  Casting her mind back, Mary remembered Lady Catherine's cry of consternation when she first entered her new home, remembered how she had stood, clinging to Richard as if the child alone kept her from running away. Mary remembered herself too as she was then and laughed. There had been a change in herself as great as the change in Sleaford. Then she had been a half-wild child of thirteen, snatching crusts of bread off the tables between the men-at-arms.

  She raised a hand to stroke the smooth braid that lay on her shoulder and jumped a trifle as she realized she had made a fault in her spinning. The spindle was lifted, the fault corrected, and the spinning began again. It was a great pleasure to have smooth clean hair instead of ragged and louse-infested tresses and a pretty, if plain, gown instead of filthy rags.

  Only one thing had not changed at Sleaford—its master. Mary frowned and the spindle turned faster. She had developed a fanatical devotion to Lady Catherine who, like an angel of heaven, had made all these changes and given her every blessing she enjoyed.

  It was the master who made Lady Catherine so sad. Every time he came home, which, praise God and the blessed saints, was not often, her ladyship drooped anew. She was never very lively, but Mary guessed that it was oppression of spirit that made her so subdued. When the effect of the master's infrequent visits had worn off, Lady Catherine could show flashes of great merriment if she were playing with Richard or herself.

  The spindle turned faster and the fleece flew through the nimble fingers. He was coming home again. That was why all the bedding was to be cleaned and aired and all the silver polished. That too, no doubt, was why Mary heard Lady Catherine weeping in the night, and why she sat so silent over her embroidery.

  Catherine's mind too was on the past on this bright May morning, but she was not considering what had changed, only what had remained the same. In two long years she had come no closer to her husband's heart. If anything, they were more strangers to each other than they had been when they were first married.

  Despairingly, Catherine wondered why every effort she made to attach Rannulf only seemed to drive him further away. To the best of her ability she had patterned her behavior on what she believed he desired. She cared for his children with great tenderness; she made his home comfortable; to him she maintained a manner courteous and respectful without any hint of affection.

  Perhaps, she thought, bending the bright silk over and under to form the central knot of the flower she was embroidering into the neckline of Richard's tunic; she had not been careful enough. Perhaps her love had shown through from time to time and that was what disgusted him and drove him away.

  The movement of her needle was suspended for a moment while she fought back the tears that were obscuring her vision. She had tried so hard, even denying herself the pleasure of responding to his lovemaking, keeping herself cold and still when she desired nothing more than to render passion for passion. It was so hard not to betray oneself. How often she had stifled a sigh of pleasure or turned her face from his kisses to conceal her joy.

  It was indifference he wanted, was it not? The ever-recurring hope that she had misread him caused a faint color to bloom in her pale face, but the pink did not live long in her cheeks. There was always that rejection of her tenderness before the tourney to remember. Also, for a time after that, while she had still been furious with him and shown it by her coldness, Rannulf had seemed satisfied with her, even pleasant in his hard way.

  When she had been ready to forgive his rudeness and willing to smile on him, however, he had turned cold again. Then there was that night when her sadness had made her take a cup too much of wine, and she had … Deliberately Catherine put that thought aside, but it was after that night that Rannulf had left Sleaford, and he had been away for months.

  Catherine's hand lay still on the embroidery frame as the slow tears trickled down. He had come so seldom to her bed after that—so seldom—and for almost a year now, not at all.

  Lady Warwick touched her horse with her heel and left her husband to ride beside Lord Soke. "I hope your wife expects us, my lord."

  "Yes," Rannulf replied dully.

  He is aging fast like my own husband, Lady Warwick thought. How his face has fallen in! It is well that I should speak with the countess of Soke at this time. She may be a widow again before she thinks to be, and it will be well that her mind be given a proper direction.

  "Surely the news is ill," she continued in an effort to bring some life into her companion, "but it is no more than was rumored beforehand. Is there some reason I do not know of for your being so cast down?"

  "Am I cast down? Nay, there is nothing the whole world does not know of. Henry is now duke of Normandy, count of Anjou, and having snatched the divorced wife of the king of France, will soon be count of Aquitaine and Poitou also. God, it seems, is never tired of showering good on that young man."

  "He is a most capable young man, from all I have heard."

  "Capable of making a bitch howl in bed," Rannulf growled with such bitterness that Lady Warwick was startled. "What is he capable of? Geoffrey the Fair—he was a good man, it is true—won Normandy for him. Having done so much, he did more. He took a fever and died, giving his son Anjou and Maine also. Now a woman hot with lust is about to give him Aquitaine and Poitou."

  "Nay, Lord Soke, there must be more to him than that. Hereford says—"

  "Hereford! Hereford! He has dinned in my ears also till I am almost deaf with his talk. I believed him once an honest man. I believe so no longer. First he is a king's man, then—"

  "You shall not missay him. He was never a king's man, never gave oath or did homage."

  Rannulf bit his lip, conscious that his personal unhappiness was making him unjust. It was true that Hereford had made a truce with the king, but he had done no more than that ever. He had never said he would forswear his rebel sympathies or his loyalty to Henry. The truth of the matter was that Rannulf envied that bright and beautiful young man the close understanding he had with his wife.

  "One good thing, at least, has come of this," Lady Warwick continued. "Even you must admit that it will benefit everyone that Eustace should go to France."

  Again Rannulf made no reply. What she said was incontrovertible, for Eustace had grown worse and worse so that all men looked at him askance. Maud was being racked apart between her conflicting loves, and even Stephen, blindly fond, agreed that Eustace needed action. Still Rannulf would speak no w
ord against the prince, not though Sir Herbert's death, useless as it was in retrospect, had precipitated his marital misery.

  Catherine would never forgive him, he thought, staring between his horse's ears, deaf to Lady Warwick's voice. He had almost believed her when she swore she cared nothing for Osborn, but after he had killed the cur, she turned to ice. He had given her the tourney prize, hard-won, for he was sore all over with his wounds, and she had thanked him as if for an insult. The only time since then that she had offered him the slightest response of any kind was when she was lightheaded with drink.

  Unbearable. It was unbearable the way she endured his caress, cold and stiff. It was unbearable the way she turned her head to avoid his lips, her teeth gritted together. Better far to let her be, even though he ached so with desire for her that his stomach fluttered in her presence and he could not eat, even though no other woman could truly give him ease.

  "—and I do not think it will be possible to turn him from that path."

  "Who?" Rannulf asked, realizing that he had missed what Lady Warwick said in his self-absorption.

  "Leicester, of course. He has listened very attentively to the so-charming Hereford, and, what is more, Eustace has pricked him soundly."

  "I do not know what Leicester will do, and if I did, I would not discuss it with a woman, madam," Rannulf snapped. "To me it matters little what any man, even my foster brother, will do. I have lived so long in one pattern—do you think I can change now? Nor, though you are my guest and I owe you courtesy, does any man owe any woman so much as to talk of the doings of kings with her. You follow your lord's bidding, and all will be well—or, if it is not, no one can lay any blame upon a virtuous wife."

  Lady Warwick's face flamed. She should have known better than to try to speak sense to such a hidebound, stiff-necked, self-righteous boor. It was really for the best that she had urged her husband to press Rannulf to make his keep the place of meeting of the barons. What was to be decided was who should go with Eustace to France and what force should be furnished.

  The problem presented no easy solutions. First of all, Eustace had managed to alienate even those men who were steadfastly loyal to his father through his greed and dealings with their vassals, which bordered on the dishonorable. Second, although the great magnates of England were not happy about Henry's steady aggrandizement in France, by and large they were shortsighted men and would not recognize the implications this increase in power had for England. They could see little reason, they said, for wasting men and money in trying to wrest from Henry what, after all, was rightfully his and which cost them nothing.

  Warwick, who was growing old, wished to settle the matter in a series of private conferences in London. This, his wife pointed out, was completely unsuitable for two reasons. One, Maud had spies everywhere in London and, through them, would hear of who had said what. Therefore, no one would speak his true mind for fear of her displeasure. Worse yet, any promise given in private could easily be violated. To that Warwick, who was an upright and honorable man, objected, but his wife laughed in his face, asking with derision how many fools like himself he thought there were.

  The second reason Lady Warwick proffered for objecting to private meetings was that each man would suspect he was doing more than the others. It was a matter that should be talked over in an unrestricted atmosphere where everyone could hear what everyone else was offering and hold him to it.

  Wearily Warwick agreed, suggesting that they hold the meeting in their own keep where, if his conscience must be troubled, at least his body would be comfortable. To this, Lady Warwick objected also. She did not present her private reasons for being opposed to the idea, which was simply that, if the conference produced insufficient support for Eustace, the holder of the conference might be blamed. She merely pointed out that their keep was so much on the border of the rebel territory that any great gathering there might be suspect.

  Sleaford was finally chosen as being the most out-of-the-way spot and the least likely to be sown with the queen's spies. Rannulf was by no means enthusiastic about holding the meeting in his castle either, but since his reasons were personal, merely a disinclination to be at home, he yielded to what he felt was his duty.

  Now, riding home, he was bitterly sorry he had agreed. Matters never seemed so bad when he was away. Catherine's letters, although concerned solely with the children, estate problems, and household matters, were almost warm. It was only when he was actually in her presence, when he was forced to take her ice-cold hand in his and see her glance shrink away, that the full weight of his misery fell upon him.

  Sir Andre Fortesque craved admittance to Lady Catherine's solar and was invited to enter. His eyes passed over his mistress with absent approval. Certainly she was a beautiful woman and when she took pains, as she had today, with strings of pearls braided into her moonlight hair and a bliaut of silvery-blue silk floating around her, she did almost look like the angel Mary called her. It was unfortunate she should be so pale and have so little vivacity.

  "Madam, I can get no attention from Richard at all today. You know how he is about his father. He desires most earnestly to ride out to meet him. May we do so?"

  Very faintly Catherine smiled. "Yes, of course. But do not ride beyond the borders of the holding, and take some twenty or thirty men-at-arms. I suppose there really is no need, but his lordship does not like the boy to go unprotected."

  "Thank you, madam."

  "Wait, Andre. Richard makes good progress, does he not?"

  "Indeed he does. He is as forward as any child of his age and more—but a devil."

  "I know. That is all high spirits and boyish pranks. Do not—do not tell his father of his mischief."

  "Some things may be overlooked, but what am I to say of the laming of the brown destrier? And the serfs assuredly will complain of the sheep that was slain."

  "I believe Richard will confess those matters himself and it is better so. I reminded him last night, and he promised me he would not fail. We may wait out this day at least. If he does not keep his promise, it will be soon enough to betray him tomorrow."

  "Very well, you know I—" Andre's voice checked as Mary tripped in, also specially clad and looking very pretty. There, he thought, forgetting what he had been about to say, was true beauty. Perhaps the features were not so perfect, and assuredly Mary was less wondrous fair, but she had spirit and countenance, which was better.

  "You what?"

  "I—I—oh, yes, I love the boy. I would not wish to cause him any grief, but to spoil him with indulgence . . ." His eyes wandered away again and Mary blushed under his glance.

  Catherine frowned slightly. "I know you truly care for Richard, nor do I wish him spoiled. The real harm he has done must be confessed and, if our immediate punishments were not sufficient, he must bear what his father lays upon him. I merely wish the confession to come from him without urging. You had better take him now." A rueful smile crossed her face again. "If you do not, he will likely ride out by himself and truly enrage Lord Soke."

  Dismissed, Sir Andre went at once, but he looked back in the doorway, and Mary's eyes followed him. Catherine sighed. More trouble. She attended absently to her stepdaughter's message, noticing more the girl's confusion. What was to be done about this? The attraction between the pair was plain and had been growing steadily stronger in spite of all efforts to check it. Mary was ripe for marriage too, and should be given at once, but Rannulf had made no reply to her repeated messages on the subject. Catherine did not know whether he simply could not decide, whether he did not wish to dower the girl, or whether he was reluctant to acknowledge her publicly.

  What increased the difficulty was that Sir Andre had not declared himself. True, he was the youngest of a number of sons and had nothing but the arms he bore and his horse. Therefore, under ordinary circumstances, he could not marry unless his father or his suzerain could find an heiress for him. Mary too had nothing in her own right, her mother having been a maidservant whom
Rannulf had taken casually to his bed between his first two marriages. Still, if Andre had asked for Mary, Catherine would have had a reason to go to Rannulf and demand some settlement of the girl's future.

  If only she had some influence with her husband, the matter could be easily settled. She would gladly have parted with some of the revenues from Soke temporarily if Rannulf was straitened for money.

  There was nothing for it but to demand a settlement for Mary anyway. Once Mary had a portion, she was sure Andre could be brought to admit his desire for her, and the portion would not need to be given up at once. They could continue to live at Sleaford while Andre tutored Richard. Later, when the affairs of the country were more settled—if ever such a time came—Andre could be made castellan of one of Rannulf's or Catherine's properties.

  Of the three minds at work on the same subject, Mary's was the least depressed. She had little faith in or affection for her father, but her dependence on Catherine's ability to bring about a miracle was enormous. She did not know how it would be or what would happen, but she was absolutely sure that Lady Catherine would give her her heart's desire.

  Sir Andre had considerably less belief in miracles and had not even considered soliciting Catherine's help. He was in no doubt whatsoever about who was the master of Sleaford. If he was to make an offer for Mary, it had to be directly to Lord Soke, but he was not at all certain that he should even try.

  It was not that he did not love Mary, nor that he was greedy and wished to wait until he knew what her portion would be. What troubled Sir Andre was that he could not believe he had the slightest chance of success. True, Mary was a bastard, but she was acknowledged to be Lord Soke's daughter, and the earl of Soke could look higher than a mere penniless knight for the husband of even a bastard daughter. Many a petty baron would be willing to take her, even with a small dowry, for the assurance of Soke's good will and influence.