The Sword and The Swan Read online

  Suddenly and incomprehensibly Rannulf began to laugh again. "You will need some excuse," he choked, "but I, who have a foolish and disobedient wife who loses my letters and cannot remember what I said in them, I am already excused." He thrust Catherine's letter into Leicester's hand. "The countess of Soke, instead of borrowing against next year's rents, as I bade her, has levied an extra tax on her vassals, promising them in return that they would not be called to war except in defense of my person or their own lands."

  "And you find such behavior a source of merriment?"

  Leicester's amazement, which was based upon the change in Rannulf's attitude toward women rather than on any objection to what Catherine had done, was misunderstood.

  "You always seem to doubt Catherine's actions. Why should I not find this a source of merriment, even if she did forget what I told her? It admirably suits my purposes. The money was spent in the king's service, and Stephen has the choice of accepting that in lieu of service from the vassals of Soke, accepting the personal service of the vassals of Sleaford alone, or commanding me to use the vassals of Sleaford to fight the vassals of Soke and bring them to obedience to me in disregard of my lady's word. Or, he might repay me the gold to return to them, but you know how likely that is. Where has Catherine acted ill?"

  Leicester had been reading the letter while Rannulf spoke. "Nowhere," he said, and after a thoughtful pause, "she has done well—very well indeed."

  CHAPTER 11

  In the fresh bloom of early summer, before the ripeness of the full season brought a sense of decadence to it, the countryside seemed like a Garden of Eden. The sun was warm, the breeze cool; large white clouds decorated a deep blue sky, and shade delicately dappled the winding road.

  A gentle lowing from a small herd of cattle waiting patiently for their afternoon. milking added a deliciously mournful note to the regular clip-clop of the horses' hooves on the hard-packed earth. To crown the picturesqueness of the scene, several wisps of smoke from a small village hidden by a stand of trees curled upward through the clear air.

  Rannulf looked about him, for once really seeing the countryside instead of just noting the weather or signs of an ambush. Why could it not always be thus? Why was it necessary to see the green fields smoking black, to see the cattle wallowing in their own blood, to see the peaceful wisps of smoke changed to a raging inferno of flames that would devour the village and the wood?

  He jerked his mind away, because those thoughts were leading steadily to treason. True, he could speak to Hereford of the peace, could urge him to maintain it by agreeing to those demands of the king that were reasonable. Unfortunately, there were unreasonable demands also, which Rannulf was bound to state but which his conscience must prohibit him from urging even if his reason did not assure him that no sane man would agree.

  The situation was impossible, and war was inevitable in Stephen's present mood. Of course, Leicester was doing what he could, but the king was strangely adamant, and the plea for peace to Hereford was a waste of time. It was the king who would break the peace this time, not the rebels. The whole world was upside-down. Why go at all? Why not make one last desperate effort to wipe out the rebellious barons? Because their chance would be better later.

  Earnestly Rannulf searched his heart. It was true that their chance would be better if Louis and Eustace were successful, but it would be far worse if the attack in Normandy failed. No, he was riding to Hereford because he, personally, desired peace with such fervency that he no longer cared much how that peace was achieved. He was putting himself to this labor, snatching at a few days' delay, hoping for a miracle.

  What ails me, Rannulf wondered, his eyes following the stain of smoke that gave the clear blue sky the mistiness of Catherine's eyes. I am growing old, he decided. It was impossible to blame this longing to lay down his arms upon ill health. True, he remembered that once or twice when he had been wounded very badly and had lain long abed recovering, he had been taken by these sickly fancies. But his health was at its best now.

  In spite of his worries, his food had savor, firm flesh covered his bones again, and he was full of energy. Only it was the wrong kind of energy. He could see himself hawking, hunting, teaching Richard, playing at single-stick with Geoffrey, even breaking horses or lending a shoulder to the uprooting of a stubborn stump. He could see anything except war. He was tired of death. He must be getting old.

  Old or young, this was the beginning of the end of delay. There across the valley, on the rise of ground beyond, stood Hereford keep. Rannulf pulled up his horse and sent Sir Andre ahead as messenger while he and his men followed very slowly. Midway into the valley Fortesque returned with the news that Hereford would not receive them.

  Then this was not the beginning of the end, but the end. Rannulf cast his eyes again over the rich fields and woods and upward to that single stain of smoke that made a patch of sky misty. Then, resolutely, he spurred his horse forward.

  "He must receive me," he said stubbornly, and his men, with wondering eyes, followed.

  The earl of Soke, in the opinion of his men, was the best leader in England. He was both brave and cautious, leading in battle with such ferocity that he cleared a path for his troops to follow, but never taking them where no path could be hewn or where there was no road back.

  From Hereford keep, however, there was no road at all—neither back nor forward. Such a small band could not besiege the great keep of Hereford nor assault it. To encamp before it and arouse its master and the townsfolk to resentment was tantamount to self-slaughter.

  The men need not have troubled themselves; neither siege nor assault was in Rannulf's mind. When they had made their way past the tight-shut gates of the town of Hereford, up the winding road to the foot of the eminence upon which the keep sat, Rannulf bade his men dismount and wait.

  "I will go forward from here alone. Hereford must receive me."

  "No, my lord."

  Rannulf turned his head to the young voice. Not since his father's death, when he had shaken off his tutor, had a man of his flatly contradicted any statement he made in a military matter. Fortesque blanched at the cold anger of his lord's expression, and tried to explain himself.

  "You cannot go alone into Hereford's power. They could shoot you from the castle walls and claim innocence in saying they did not recognize you. Tell me what to say—I will go."

  Rannulf wondered if that scene between Catherine and Andre could have been misread by him. Had his wife commended him to the young man's care because she thought him aging? Whatever his reason, it was certain that young Fortesque was in earnest.

  "Sir Andre, you are a young man of most peculiar notions. When you first wished to recommend yourself to me, you tried to overthrow me in a tourney. Now, perhaps, you think to show your devotion by risking yourself in my stead. That is commendable, but unwise and unnecessary, and your manner—flouting my commandis offensive. If you think me a fool or an old dotard, keep it to yourself. Give me credit for being old enough, and not too old, to know my own mind."

  The reprimand was harsh, but the eyes were considering and even kind. Andre blushed under the lash of the sarcasm, but he was not resentful, recognizing the fact that he had been impulsive and foolish. There was no reason for Hereford to make any attempt on Lord Soke. It was merely that Sir Andre was frightened by the notion of going all alone into the power of one's enemy, and he transferred those feelings to his master.

  However, Sir Andre's offer had not been made solely out of love, although his respect and admiration for the earl of Soke grew steadily with every day he spent with him. What really drove him was the desire to prove himself brave and loyal. He wished to impress the father of the girl he loved with his value.

  Now Andre watched the figure of the earl dwindle as he rode to the edge of the moat alone. He transferred his gaze to the silent keep with its raised drawbridge and imagined the vigilant eyes of the men who watched the lonely figure through the deep, narrow arrow-slits in the walls.
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  "Hereford, come out, I wish to speak to you," Rannulf bellowed across the murky water.

  He had guessed right; Hereford himself was on the walls. A figure moved out upon the battlements near the main tower, the sun glinting on golden hair.

  "I have nothing to say to you, Soke. Nothing to say to any man who comes from Stephen of Blois."

  "Then you are more a fool than ever I thought you, Hereford. Do you fear one single man that you must bide armored and shut up behind your walls?"

  "Neither single man nor all the forces of the man who calls himself king do I fear. You are the fool, not I, to come upon a thankless, fruitless errand."

  "If I am such a fool, why guard yourself so carefully from me? What harm can I do?"

  "I never thought you to be a maker of trouble, Soke. Why should you be the one to be sent with the king's writ, except that they wish to use you as a scapegoat? You cannot enforce the writ to bring me to court. In mercy to yourself, go and shut yourself into your own keep."

  Rannulf laughed without mirth. "I have no writ from the king, although I do come from him. Must I bellow at you across this water all day, or will you let me in?"

  There was a pause, then Rannulf saw the mailed figure on the battlements make a sharp gesture and the drawbridge groaned slowly downward. Alone, Rannulf rode across. Alone, he dismounted in the bailey. Equally alone, the slight, upright figure of the earl of Hereford came across to him.

  "Your men?" Hereford asked.

  "Let them bide. Too much mixing might lead to words—though they care less than nothing one way or the other, as yours do, no doubt."

  "Enter then."

  Within the keep the hospitality offered was gracious, if not warm. If it had been ten times as cold, however, Rannulf would not have noticed for he was so much struck with the building to which he was taken that he had eyes for nothing else.

  The thick, carefully guarded walls and eight great towers of Hereford keep, Rannulf passed without a flicker of interest other than that aroused by tactical considerations. Sleaford was as strong or stronger, although not as large. It was the only weak thing in Hereford keep, the manor house built as living quarters for the earl's family that drew his attention and held it.

  A house within the walls of the keep itself and, therefore, safe. A comfortable house, warm and light and dry, whose walls did not seep moisture from the earth filled walls, which were ever wet. Catherine would love such a house.

  Thus far Rannulf had made no answer to several icily polite inquiries about his trip that Lady Hereford had put to him. Her large amber eyes grew brighter, golden f1amcs of wrath leaping within them for she knew Rannulf of old and knew his opinion of women.

  Rannulf could be rude as he liked and think what he liked of women, but not in her house, Elizabeth thought. Roger of Hereford's expression grew wary; he understood all too well the burning eyes and the two spots of bright color his wife's cheeks displayed. It would be amusing to see how Rannulf reacted when a real woman he could not lay hands upon lit into him, but it was far more important to hear what his unwelcome guest had to say and be rid of him.

  "Elizabeth."

  The gentle note of warning in Hereford's voice pierced Rannulf's abstraction as nothing else could. His glance flickered from the earl, whose expression expressed nothing, to the magnificent flaming countenance of his hostess.

  There was nothing in the warning to concern himself, Rannulf decided. Lady Hereford was merely about to fly into a rage about something. She was always flying into rages—and very beautiful she looked when she did, he thought indulgently.

  He had started to look back at the walls to judge, if he could, what kind of masonry had been used to point the stone when it occurred to him that Hereford might be embarrassed by his presence at a quarrel. Catherine, he knew with the stirring of warmth that always came with her name, would never misbehave in such a way.

  "I would like to look around," Rannulf said abruptly.

  Permission to do so would serve two purposes; it would remove him from the scene so that husband and wife could have their battle out, and it would give him a chance to fix the details of construction of the manor house in his mind.

  Hereford's mouth dropped open with surprise. He knew Soke to be a brave man, but to enter an enemy keep alone and boldly ask to inspect it so that one might know best where to attack was not bravery but insanity.

  "You expect me to show you—"

  "You need not come," Rannulf said indifferently. "I can see what I want for myself."

  "I have no doubt that you can," Lady Hereford replied in dangerously gentle tones, the sarcasm of which passed right over Rannulf's head.

  "Yes. It does not seem a difficult structure."

  "It does not!" Hereford snapped. "Yet I think it could well withstand all that Stephen of Blois could muster against it were there no traitors within."

  "Surely not," Rannulf exclaimed, "unless your masons have discovered some secret unknown to all others. A few blows with a good catapult must certainly destroy these thin walls."

  "Thin! Why they are twelve feet—" An expression of puzzlement replaced the outrage in Hereford's face.

  "Nonsense," was the rude reply. "Anyone not blind can see that the windows are less than a foot recessed."

  Lady Hereford caught it first and burst out laughing. "You mean you wish to look around the manor house?"

  "Yes," Rannulf looked surprised. "What could I have meant else? You could not think me mad enough or discourteous enough to expect to examine your keep with matters as they are between us."

  Now Hereford was laughing as heartily as his wife. "You must forgive me, Rannulf. After this trip here and your coming alone into my power, I can believe you mad enough for anything."

  "Nonsense," Rannulf repeated. "Perhaps my hopes are not high for making accord between you and the king, but even faint hopes are better than nothing. And, with regard to my personal safety, you have proven yourself to be an honorable man. You would no more do me hurt or keep me against my will than I would you, if you came to my keep."

  "I will not gainsay you," Hereford said slowly, realizing that what might not be generally true was certainly true for Rannulf, earl of Soke. "Well, then, let me show you what you like and tell you what I can. I know little enough, for the house was built in my father's time and my mother is no longer with us."

  Rannulf shook his head rather regretfully. "It does not matter. I had some thought to build such a place for my wife. Catherine loves beautiful things … but I will build nothing if it comes to war and if it does not, I will have time enough to ask my questions. The king desires to know, Hereford, why you did not come to pay your respects when the queen was buried."

  Hereford laughed again, but with a cold and bitter undertone to the sound. Before he could speak, his wife laid a hand on his arm. She knew that Rannulf had been fond of Maud, quite aside from his duty to her as queen, and she had warmed toward him when she realized that he loved his wife enough to expend a large sum in building a house just to please her.

  Since it could do no good for her husband to offend Rannulf by telling him outright that they were glad Maud was dead, let him give other reasons that were equally true. Although Lady Hereford was braced for war and would face it as courageously as she faced every other trial of her life, she no longer desired a quick victory at any cost. With the passage of the years she had grown more patient, more wary, as the circle of those really dear to her who could be hurt by war expanded.

  "Lord Soke, why do you ask a question to which you know the answer already?" Lady Hereford asked in gently reproving tones. "You must know that he did not attend the burial for two reasons. My father was sick unto death—praise God he is so greatly recovered now that he needs us no longer—and it was needful for Roger to be there to guard the lands for my brothers who are so young."

  Rannulf nodded without comment and Elizabeth added sharply, "Even you could not desire the lands of Chester to fall into Lincoln's powe
r or perhaps others still worse. Also, it was no secret that Stephen was to call a muster of the vassals to attack Henry—God knows why, for Henry has offended no man in England by taking what his father bequeathed to him and what carne to him in his wife's name."

  Hereford, too, was not anxious for war although ready for it. He had decided that he could do nothing to stop the attack on Henry in Normandy. Even if he prevented Eustace from setting out for France by beginning hostilities in England, Louis would attack alone. That would be sufficient to tie Henry to Normandy for some time, at least until he was certain that his vassals were loyal and would resist the French king even if he were not present to spur them on.

  In council with the other pro-Angevin lords, Hereford had discussed the probable result of Eustace's mission. The decision had been against interference, the general opinion being that, considering Eustace's and Louis's dispositions, they would soon be at each other's throats. The rebels hoped that the dissension that would arise might make the combined attack less effective than either alone might be.

  Aside from these considerations, there were others even more basic and practical. An attack on Stephen of Blois in Henry's absence would be futile. One could not put an absent king on such an uneasy throne. Furthermore, Hereford had sworn, not long since, to lead no more lost causes. He was not ill-pleased, under the circumstances, to catch a definite gleam of satisfaction in Rannulf's eyes. If soft words alone could keep the peace, Hereford was well prepared to follow his wife's lead.

  "I thought, Lord Soke, that it would cause less trouble if I absented myself rather than refusing openly what Stephen has no right to demand. Neither I nor my father before me recognized his right to the throne. Neither I nor my father swore fealty to Stephen of Blois. Whatever right he has to demand service of his own vassals, he has no right to demand anything of me. Nonetheless, I did not desire to argue such matters in the moment of his grief nor to provoke him to particular anger."