The Sword and The Swan Page 15

  "We might do it in many ways, Warwick." Leicester agreed sourly. "We might send money to buy mercenaries; we might send promises to the King of France. But I wonder why Soke did not answer my question. Out with it, Rannulf. What will you send with Eustace, and will you go yourself?"

  "I cannot go," Rannulf said slowly, flushing slightly, "but I will send the full strength that I am pledged to give Stephen if that is what is asked of me." The other men shifted in their seats, and Rannulf went on hurriedly, "Wait, my lords, I have a proposal to make that may suit us all. Leicester has asked if I would trust my vassals to Eustace's governance, and there is merit in the question."

  "Oh, so he has been tampering with your men too," Leicester said on a caustic note of satisfaction.

  "Not that I know of," Rannulf admitted, "but I have heard others complain. What say you, my lords, to making up a force of younger sons?"

  "But—"

  "Wait, Simon," Rannulf said to Northampton, "I realize that such a force would cost heavily in gold for they cannot support themselves, but there are other benefits to be gathered. Our sworn vassals will be clear of Eustace's meddling. Those young men are strong and eager for battle. They will fight for the love of fighting alone. Some may win patrimonies in France, some will certainly die, so that, best of all, we will rid the country of them. You know they are the worst plague of all upon us. Out of ten penniless younger sons, nine gather the scum of the earth about them and go out to ravage the countryside for a livelihood."

  There was silence as eye met eye and the men began to add the benefit against the cost. "Certainly it is a proposal to be considered most carefully," Warwick said slowly. "Let them plunder France instead of England."

  "I do not think the king or Eustace will welcome the substitution of that rabble for reliable fighting men," Northampton protested, but there was consideration in his eyes.

  "You have opened your mouth finally to some point, Rannulf," Leicester added, "and it may well answer, but I am curious about one matter. Why cannot you go to France?"

  Rannulf reddened noticeably. "You will have your jest, Robert, so have it. You well know that Eustace refused my attendance. He made no secret of it."

  "Aye, I know well, but you interest yourself so earnestly in his well-doing that I wondered if you did. Eustace is no friend to you and you will not soften him by any display of loyalty—remember that. He has called you traitor openly in the council."

  Between gritted teeth Rannulf grated, "1 will not be forsworn. I will not raise my hand against my liege lord's heir no matter what that ungrateful—"

  "My lords!"

  Every head snapped around because there were tears and tragedy quivering in the young voice. There were tears and tragedy too on the dust-stained young face of a page of Stephen's household.

  "The queen is dead!"

  CHAPTER 8

  "Oh, God!" Warwick and Northampton breathed together.

  "It is too soon. We are undone," Leicester cried, leaping to his feet.

  The flush of rage drained from Rannulf's face and the natural color followed it, leaving his weatherbeaten complexion an ugly, pasty brown.

  "How did she die?" he asked.

  The page, a year or two older than Geoffrey, wiped the tears unashamedly from his face. "She said she was tired and that she would go to Hedingham in Essex to rest. That was in the third week in April. When we came there, her ladies saw that she was not well, but she would not confess it nor send for the king. Then, it must have been the 28th day or 29th day of April, she could hide her sickness no longer and she sent for her confessor. He came in time so that she died shriven and at peace, but the king did not come in time and he is greatly distraught."

  No one else had any questions. They stared at each other in an appalled silence until Rannulf shook himself and sent the messenger off to eat and rest. For a while the four men merely sat, staring at each other.

  To continue their discussion was fruitless, since every plan was now subject to drastic change. A little desultory conversation followed, praising the queen and regretting her loss, but each man truly desired to be alone so that he could think over the news in private and consider what was best for him to do.

  Leicester broke away first, saying he had to write to his wife, and Northampton rose too, seizing the same excuse with relief. The Warwicks soon followed, leaving Rannulf alone with Catherine. He did not look at her, but he felt her presence and felt, too, strangely removed from the event that had taken place. As long as Catherine sat with her beautiful eyes fixed upon him, Rannulf could not grieve for the queen nor even think clearly of the future. He was suddenly afraid of this woman with rebel sympathies who could so bedazzle him that he could think of nothing but his desire to be with her.

  "Rannulf?"

  "What?"

  "What did Lord Leicester mean when he said you were undone? Why are you all so distressed? As long as the king still lives . . ."

  Rannulf frowned, and Catherine misunderstood the expression.

  "I do not mean to pry into your affairs, my lord," she went on, her voice colder. "You know I have never questioned you or complained of your management of my vassals. I do but wish to understand what is taking place."

  "Your vassals, eh?" A day previously Rannulf would have been enraged by her presumption. Today, in spite of his knowledge of how she might use the men, he merely raised his brows and said softly, "They are mine until I am no more, lady. Do not forget it."

  Catherine dropped her eyes and flushed; she wanted no new quarrel with her husband. Rannulf kept his face expressionless with an effort. He remembered too well what she had said the night before, but he could not threaten her. If she turned to ice on him again . . . He would speak of the queen. That would distract her.

  "The queen's death—"

  Rannulf paused and looked at the mass of servants and retainers in the hall. They talked and they listened. What he planned to say to Catherine had better be said in the privacy of her solar. Upstairs, the maids had no need to be told a second time to make themselves scarce; they slipped from the room before their master spoke. The door was not quite shut, however, when someone scratched for admittance.

  "Come then," Rannulf growled. "Who is it?"

  A blond stripling opened the door cautiously. "I am sorry to trouble you, father, but I must speak privately with you."

  "Very well, what is it Geoffrey?" He saw his son's eyes slide to Catherine and gestured impatiently. "Yes, speak. There is no need to trouble yourself over Lady Catherine."

  Perhaps that was not wise, but Rannulf was not concerned with absolute wisdom. Rebel or not; just now nothing was more important to him than that Catherine have no further cause to be angry.

  "May I sit down?"

  "Sit down." Rannulf sighed resignedly, understanding from the request that the conference was to be an extended one. "What trouble are you in now?"

  "I am not in trouble, father, but I am very uneasy in my mind."

  "In your mind, eh? Well, is it a woman or money? Out with it quickly—which?"

  "Neither." Serious blue eyes gazed earnestly into Rannulf's gray ones. "I have been listening to the talk today, and to a great deal of other talk in this past half-year. I know no one in the world who speaks the truth as you do, so I have come to you to have my questions answered. Why am I to hate Henry of Anjou?"

  Rannulf blinked. "Whoever told you to hate Henry? Did I?"

  "You never told me to hate any man, but others say you hate him, and I can see for myself that you are unalterably opposed to him. Why?"

  "I do not hate him," Rannulf replied slowly. "As for my opposition, that comes from two causes. The first you know. I have given my sword-oath to Stephen of Blois. Henry would wrest the throne from him and, of course, I must oppose that. The other cause is harder to explain, for it concerns the theory of governance."

  Geoffrey sat forward on his stool, his eyes bright with interest.

  Rannulf went on, his expression intent. "I
believe that the barons should be able to share in deciding what will happen in the realm. Henry's grandfather—also Henry believed that the king alone should decide. This Henry believes as his grandfather did, and I will not, if it be in my power to prevent it, have such a man as king."

  "But father, how can any man simply decide such a thing? Mayhap, the first Henry, through having governed so long, encroached little by little, stealing power until all lay in his hands. Surely this Henry, coming into a realm where the barons are established in their might, could not do the same. Another thing: has any man, baron or common, the right to say who will be king'? Is that not a matter for God? Is not Henry of the true line?"

  The patch of sunlight in which Rannulf was sitting shifted perceptibly before an answer came. Even then, it was not an answer to the problems that Geoffrey had propounded.

  "What does this mean, my son?" Rannulf asked warily. "Are you trying to tell me that you wish to be free of my rule? Do you really believe that the Angevin should rightfully be king or do you fear for your patrimony?"

  The young man jumped as if he had been hit. "No, father." He rose and went to kneel at Rannulf's feet. "You know I do not mean that. You know that I would follow you landless and homeless even if I knew you to be wrong. I know you are right, but I do not understand and I wish to understand."

  Rannulf turned his face away from the searching eyes. Absently, he fondled his son's hair. "You know far more than I do, if you know me to be right," he said sadly. "Only God is always right. All men err. I can give you no answer because I am not sure that there is an answer. Of a certainty the way we live, torn by constant strife, is not good. At least there was peace in the time of the first Henry—even if it was a little like the peace of the grave. Mayhap that peace is better than this unrest—I do not know. Whether it is man's right or God's right to choose a king, I know not either. But I do know that a king is only a man, and since all men err, the way of wisdom is that the king, too, be governable. My son, to think about these matters, so long as your thoughts lead you not into treachery or any other dishonorable action, can only be good."

  "Papa, only tell me what to think!"

  Rannulf heard the child crying out to the all-wise father, rejecting the painful responsibility of manhood, rejecting the knowledge that the human father was not all-wise, not perfect.

  Body and soul, Rannulf responded to that cry. He remembered how he had held Geoffrey in his arms when his son was an infant, how he had taught him to ride and hold a sword, how he had answered all his questions—as he still did for Richard—about right and wrong with calm certainty. The impulse to answer now, to shield his child from the pain of manhood and the pain of decision, was so strong that his eyes stung with tears.

  "I cannot tell you what to think. God have mercy on me, I do not know what to think myself. I can only tell you how to act because, right or wrong, I have given my oath, before God, to Stephen of Blois to be his man. For me, there is no other path. As long as Stephen lives, I am his man."

  Geoffrey lifted his head from his father's knees where he had allowed it to rest momentarily and his eyes were alight with adoration and gratitude. His appeal had been sincere, but within him was also the burgeoning pride of his growing adulthood. He cried out for security, but he also desired to be forced into freedom no matter how dangerous.

  "That is good enough for me, father. It must be so if you have pledged your faith. May I ask something else?"

  "You may ask anything."

  "Why does Eustace hate you? I have heard it whispered behind my back, and the earl of Leicester said it aloud today, that the prince has accused you of treachery. This must be a lie, but what is his reason for missaying you?"

  "I do not know, other than he chooses to blame me for our defeats at Dursley and Devizes. Are you troubled by these whisperings, Geoffrey?"

  "No. I have belabored the few who dared whisper in my hearing in such a way that they do not speak at all now." The blue eyes were clear and trusting. "To me it does not matter, except that it goes against the grain to fight for one who befouls my father with lies."

  Rannulf's mouth twisted with pride and pain, but he could not command his voice to reply. Instead he kissed his son who, taking that as a dismissal, returned the salute heartily and left. Before Rannulf could move, Catherine had taken the place that Geoffrey had vacated. When she laid her hands on her husband's she could feel that he was shaking.

  "I pray God," she said softly, "that I may bear you a son. Whether you are right or wrong in the king's matter, I do not know, but surely no man can be wiser in the handling of his children. No son could have a better father."

  Pulling his hands roughly from her grasp, Rannulf turned away. "Could he not?" he asked bitterly. "My pride and my honor may cost that boy his lands. Oh, God, what am I to do? Stephen loves me well, but I cannot pretend even to myself that he is other than a weak reed. Now that Maud is dead he will be blown hither and thither like the dead leaves of autumn with every breath of advice and rumor. Eustace— Now who is at the door?"

  "I am, Rannulf," Leicester replied. "Forgive my intrusion in your women's chambers, but what I have to say to you needs walls with no ears. Why do you look so tired?"

  "I fear I suffer more from my age and from my dismay than from any weariness."

  "Nonsense. My age is close to yours, and it troubles me no whit. I would say from looking at you that you are somewhat disordered with a superabundance of black and yellow bile, but that is no surprise after what you have endured these two years past. No, I thank you, Lady Soke, no wine. I am sorry for it, Rannulf, but I have come to add to your troubles."

  "Can you?" Rannulf asked, laughing wryly.

  "Is this a time for laughter?"

  "I cannot think why not. If I do not laugh, I must weep. Is it not better to laugh?" Rannulf accepted a goblet of wine handed him by Catherine. In the process their hands touched, and he was seized with an impatience for all matters of state. He turned to Leicester with deep concentration. "Very well, you wish me to be grave—I am grave."

  "It is a grave matter enough. While Maud was alive there was good mixed with the ill of Stephen's reign, but Stephen must be ruled by someone. Eustace will try to fill his mother's place."

  Rannulf began to laugh again. "What surprising news."

  "Has it come to your mind that Maud was patient with Stephen's waverings and Eustace might not be? Stephen might not long outlive his wife."

  There was no mistaking the implication that Stephen's death would not be natural and would come about through his son's doing. Rannulf was so revolted that he started out of his chair as if he could physically avoid the words Leicester had said.

  "No!" Then his mind rejected the fantastic, and he laughed uneasily and sat down. "Hey, Robert, mind your tongue. If you fright me again like that, I will die under your eyes. It is not kind to kill a brother with an unhealthy jest."

  "You fool," Leicester said furiously, "this time I will not let you be blind. If Eustace comes to the throne you may well die under my eyes—with your head on the block. That is no matter," he continued caustically, "for the way you use your head, you would be as well off without it as with it. But do you realize that Geoffrey's head and Richard's too must follow yours? Man, I do not ask you to abandon Stephen. I know you gave him sword-oath. But if he dies—"

  Rannulf knew what was coming and interrupted Leicester before he could say it. "And now that you have filled my mind with this filth—be it true or not—you must be satisfied. Will you leave me in peace?"

  Leicester stood up, his normally equable temper aroused. "I wash my hands of you. Go your own way to your own destruction. Think whether your promise, even an oath, lightly spoken in other times when affairs were far otherwise, is worth your estate, the destruction of your children, the loss of all you hold dear. I will tell you once in plain words, whether you will or nil, that there is much good in the Angevin."

  "Robert—" Rannulf began.

  But Leices
ter's voice overrode his. "Henry of Anjou has the right on his side and, as Hereford says, if the barons stand together we can keep his lust for power in check." The anger passed and Leicester gripped Rannulf's shoulder. "If you will not act wise, at least do not act the fool. Stay out of Eustace's way. Go not to court. Sit here on your own lands where no man can harm you—you will not have long to wait."

  The soft closing of the door brought no reaction from Rannulf other than that he allowed his head to drop into his hands. Catherine stood paralyzed, slowly gathering to her the full acceptance of what Lady Warwick had told her, that Stephen's reign was doomed. She knew that a woman's pleas could have no influence with Rannulf so she was silent, retreating at last to the window where her embroidery frame stood.

  The patch of sunlight moved slowly across the floor, touching the bright crimson cushions of an empty chair, touching the carved, curved bedposts, the blue bed curtains. It came to the edge of the room and reddened as it began to crawl up the wall. Then, as if the effort was too great, it faded slowly.

  Catherine tried to match an orange silk thread and found that she could not judge between two shades that she knew to be different. She fastened her needle into her work, glanced toward Rannulf, who might have been carved from stone for all the movement he had made during the hours that had passed. It was useless to address any remark to him, she decided, and went down to make excuses for his absence at the evening meal. When she returned, he was still sitting where she had left him, unconscious that the fire was dead and the room dark as pitch.

  "Rannulf," Catherine said firmly, setting a branch of candles down on the small table she had moved to his elbow after lighting the fire again, "I have brought you something to eat."

  Her husband closed his eyes and turned his head from the light. "I have outlived my time. I cannot save the king I have sworn to. I am less than valueless to you and to my children. I can see no way out of this morass."