The Sword and The Swan Read online

  That Geoffrey continued to look troubled did not disturb him. Earnest youngsters mistook caution for more serious matters frequently, and Rannulf's more sanguine hopes received confirmation from the good cheer with which he was welcomed by both Stephen and Northampton. The story was told to him again, and Rannulf judged that Northampton took the excuse, if it was an excuse and not the truth, as genuine.

  "It is unfortunate," the old man said, "but the indisposition is not serious and I am sure he will be ready soon."

  "In a way," Stephen put in firmly, "it is not unfortunate at all. Not the illness of your son Simon, but the delay. I wish to clear the small keeps that could distract us by raiding before we attempt Wallingford. For that I have forces enough already under arms and for scorching the earth so that Wallingford can gain no sustenance during this harvest. It will do us more good to have the forces a month from now."

  "And what of my men, my lord?" Rannulf asked.

  "As close as possible to the day that Northampton's forces are gathered. There is no need for haste because the news from France remains good. I have fair hopes that Louis and my boy will crush the Angevin there. If so, the men who hold by him will yield, having nothing for which to fight. In any case, Henry will not come here, for he cannot afford to lose Normandy."

  Both vassals nodded in agreement. Stephen had many faults, but when aroused he had always been capable in military matters.

  "As soon as I have cleared the ground," the king continued, "we will fall upon them. Warwick's men and the others who are already here will have but a few weeks more to serve. Nonetheless, we will have our full force to fling at them in one or two assaults."

  "Aye," Rannulf said with satisfaction. "And even if the assault fails and the vassals' term of service is over, we will still have forces enough to besiege them. If they cannot harvest crops and store food, they will not long be able to resist us."

  "You have it." Stephen nodded energetic agreement. "Do not forget also that the little victories that precede the assault of Wallingford will reassure many who are cautious and hold back. With each success they will come to swell the ranks."

  Rannulf scowled. "It is not well to trust overmuch to such men. True, they come to join the victor, but at the first failure they fade away."

  In reply Stephen smiled, but Rannulf's scowl deepened.

  These days there was something in the king's smile that he did not like. If Stephen noticed his vassal's uneasiness, he neither commented nor changed his expression.

  "Who knows better than I?" he asked. "I do not think they will have cause to leave me this time, but I do not intend to be at their mercy either. That is why I wish to be very sure that your men, Soke, and yours, Northampton, are the best—the best-equipped, the best-trained, the staunchest-hearted. Your troops will be my hard core and that is why I ask you, Northampton, to wait patiently on your son's well-doing so that he may go himself to each vassal and hand-pick the men. You, Soke, I ask to return to Sleaford and do the same."

  Rannulf was stricken mute with joy. He had come to Oxford greatly against his desire to perform his duty, and his virtue's reward was that he was being sent home for a month. Nearly a month, his conscience corrected, and there will be little time to idle, but behind an expression held rigid by his fear of exposing his happiness his emotions danced and sang. He would take Catherine with him when he went to summon his vassals. They would ride together through the hot summer days and lie together through the sweet summer nights.

  "You do not approve of this plan, Soke?" Stephen asked, misunderstanding the cause of Rannulf's silence. He smiled again, and this time the expression was warm and natural. "You bloody old devil, you do not wish to miss the fighting!"

  "No!" Rannulf exclaimed, conscious of a terrible revulsion of feeling.

  He did not wish to fight. He was not afraid nor unwilling, but he did not wish to fall upon the small keeps that were defenseless in the face of the army Stephen had mustered. It was true that the lords or castellans of these minor castles had rebel sympathies, true that they had harbored or aided Henry in the revolt of 1149, but for more than two years they had done nothing to offend any man. They had kept the truce. Worse even was the notion of scorching the earth, of killing the serfs who tilled the soil and setting torches to the ungarnered crops.

  Stephen's military strategy was excellent, and Rannulf should have approved it. Instead, he was shaken by the notion that it was a sin to destroy wantonly what God had caused to spring from the earth, insensate cruelty to kill those creatures who, like the unthinking, obedient beasts, merely performed their natural functions in sowing, tilling, and harvesting.

  Nonsense. This time he would not yield to the promptings of weakness or age. "I mean yes, I do approve it," he said a little too loudly, and flushed under Stephen's startled eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sir Andre Fortesque touched his brown destrier again with the spur, and the horse corrected its stagger and forged on ahead. He would not last much longer, however, without some rest. Anxiously, Andre fixed his eyes on the gray mount of his master just ahead.

  If only Rannulf's horse would fail, he would stop and rest the beasts. The strain of gray chargers that Rannulf bred in his own stables, vicious animals that could be half-broken at best, was now showing its mettle. While every other mount was moving painfully with hanging head, that devil had strength sufficient to lash out at another horse that came too close.

  The destrier stopped, trembling, and Andre thought he would kill it if he urged it forward again. Yet he could not be left behind. Whatever had happened at Sleaford keep that necessitated this mad race northward, he had to know.

  The life of the horse was unimportant, although it was the only thing of value that Andre owned aside from his arms and armor. What was important was that if the beast gave out he could never make Sleaford on foot. His heart was in Sleaford; the only two people in the whole world that wanted him and needed him were there, and if danger were there, he must be there too.

  "My lord," he called desperately as his horse staggered a step forward and stopped again.

  Rannulf pulled up his reins and turned his head. "What?"

  Andre dismounted, nearly falling in the process. They had ridden so long that his legs were numb. "My lord, we have lost at least a third of the men because their horses could not keep the pace and now my own mount is failing. If you go forward, you will soon go forward alone."

  A single glance proved Andre to be speaking the truth. The men, too, looked at their master with dumb, pleading eyes. They could doze in the saddle a little, but it was no way to rest, and the dried meat and grain in their saddlebags were even less satisfactory when snatched at in dry handfuls than when boiled together and eaten as a stew.

  "Very well." Rannulf glanced around and heard the trickle of water in a patch of woodland off to the right. "This place is as good as another. We can stop for a few hours, at least until it is cooler."

  He moved off into the shade of the trees, dismounted, and signaled one of the men to take his horse to the stream to drink. As he pushed off his helmet and unlaced his mail hood to push that back and allow what breeze there was to cool his head, his eyes fell on Andre forcing his wineskin into his horse's mouth and trying to make the beast drink. Rannulf walked closer and watched, judging the condition of the animal quickly.

  "You would do better to let him rest. In any case, do not trouble yourself. I will furnish you with a better mount if this fails."

  "Thank you, my lord. If he will but take me to Sleaford, I will be content."

  The young man's anxiety was so apparent that Rannulf was pricked by curiosity again. "And why are you so anxious to reach Sleaford?"

  The guilt of an unconfessed desire, of a stolen kiss, crimsoned Fortesque's complexion and made him shift his eyes under Rannulf's steady gaze, Mary was his overlord's daughter, and should have been as inviolable as his own sister.

  Rannulf, watching the telltale discomfort, was rather am
used. He had no distrust of the young knight to whom he was becoming very attached and wondered when Andre would confess the purpose Catherine had when she sent him with her husband. The time was not yet, but it was coming. He listened to Sir Andre mumble something about his duty, kept himself from smiling with an effort, and walked away. Then he slaked his thirst at the stream and dropped to the grassy verge that bordered it.

  Andre watched his overlord, cursing himself for a coward. Why had he not spoken? The moment was very opportune because Soke seemed calm, even strangely contented, despite his great haste to be at home. At least he would have cleared his conscience by speaking out, Andre thought miserably.

  Yes, cleared his conscience at the risk of being dismissed from his lord's service, and his lord was dear to him, almost as dear as his love. He would not only be separated irrevocably from Mary but reduced again to a pensioner on his brother's generosity.

  Not that Giles was ungenerous or would not receive him kindly, but in Giles' keep there was no chance at all for him to lift himself to a state where he could hope to ask for Mary. If he stayed with Soke, particularly in view of the coming war, he might either serve his master so well as to be rewarded with money and advancement, or he might take a valuable prisoner for ransom.

  Andre sat down beside his horse, thirsty but reluctant to approach the stream because Soke was there. He wiped the mouthpiece of his wineskin, drank that, and closed his eyes. He might do even greater things—save his lord's life, take a keep by his own efforts. Sweet dreams to dally with, and possible as long as active service was before him.

  The moon was misted although the evening was soft and lovely, and it would likely rain on the morrow. Catherine leaned on the battlements looking out across the peaceful fields and wondered if Rannulf would have sense enough to change his clothing if he got wet. She smiled into the night, conscious of her foolishness, but when the equally foolish longing to have him beside her to look also at the moon entered her mind, she did not resist it.

  Perhaps the war would soon be over and he would be free to return home in peace. She sighed. They had had peace, and they had wasted it in bitter misunderstandings. Catherine sighed again. True, she longed for her husband, but it was just as well that they could not be together again until this war was over. Convinced as she was that her actions were for the best, Catherine was equally convinced that Rannulf would not agree with her and knew that in his presence her conscience would trouble her. What if he asked what she had done or wished to speak to her men himself?

  A figure moved, a darker shadow in the darkness of the battlements. Catherine waited peacefully, for no matter how dark or how stealthy-seeming the walk, there was no living soul in Sleaford that wished her harm.

  "Yes?" she questioned softly.

  "Richard is abed and all the maids also. Is there aught more you would have me do, my lady?"

  "No, Mary my love. Get you to your bed also."

  A good girl, Catherine thought, a clever girl, and a glutton for work. She had been permitting Mary to manage the keep almost completely, partly as training for her own future as a wife, partly because Catherine intended to be away for several months inspecting and fortifying the keeps that bordered the earl of Norfolk's land. It seemed the simplest way to fulfill Rannulf's instructions.

  The training of men, stocking of foodstuffs, and furbishing of gear would all seem natural enough if the countess of Soke were inspecting the property. And, if the countess came alone, even Norfolk would not think that Soke's vassals were making ready to attack.

  The only thing wrong with the arrangements, Catherine thought, still smiling, was that they left her too idle. That was why she tormented herself and longed too much for Rannulf. When she was ready to go and was absorbed in her new labors, she would not suffer these vapors. Catherine looked once more on the misty moon and quiet fields, shook her head, and took herself off to bed.

  A touch brought her from the peaceful depths to the border of consciousness, a touch on her lips. It was very pleasant, like a physical manifestation of her dream, the hard masculine mouth on hers, the prick of an unshaven face against her smooth skin. For the span of time that might encompass a deep breath, Catherine gave herself up to the kiss. Then her eyes snapped open in horror, and all at once she wrenched her mouth away, screamed for help, and employed her well-sharpened nails like talons to rake the face and throat of the man bending over her.

  One scream alone passed her lips before a hand of steel closed over her mouth. Catherine fought in deadly, desperate earnest, writhing her lips back to bite the hand, kicking and clawing, blind and deaf with terror.

  "Catherine, for God's sake, do not cry out and struggle so. Your women will think I am murdering you. Catherine!"

  The struggles stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Cautiously the muffling hand was withdrawn from her lips.

  "Rannulf?"

  "Aye—" he laughed softly "—and may I be damned if I ever try to wake you with a kiss again. In future I shall stand well off before I speak."

  "What are you doing here?" Her eyes strained into the darkness. "You are not hurt?"

  "Not hurt!" he gasped with mock indignation. "I have been mauled about as if I tried to embrace a she-bear. Next time I come upon you suddenly, I will come fully armed. Do I dare try again?" He bent over her once more.

  No cold hand was offered him, no averted eyes, no stiff, formal words of welcome. The arms were warm and around his neck, the eyes closed over tears of joy, and the lips offered as loving and informal a greeting as any man could wish. But not for long; fear followed joy. Catherine unclasped her hands from her husband's neck to run them anxiously over his body, pulled her lips free to question him.

  "You are not wounded? Not sick? Oh, Rannulf, light the candles. I will not believe you are whole until I see with my own eyes. Why are you come? What is wrong?"

  "Nothing is wrong," he soothed, still laughing. "Nothing. I am perfectly well and unhurt. I cannot see how I could have been hurt since I have not yet drawn my sword."

  He struck the flint, nonetheless, breathed upon the sparks which flew into the tinder, and lighted candles from the tiny flame. When he saw how anxiously Catherine was examining him, he laughed again.

  "I always used to consider you a very calm woman, Catherine, and a peaceful one also. You are changing all my views at once. Nay, in truth, all is well. I have only come home to call up my vassals."

  Fortunately in her struggles to rid herself of the tangled bedclothes and sit upright, Catherine's face was shadowed and Rannulf did not see her new expression of terror. Was this all she was to have, the one kiss, before they were locked in a struggle of wills from which their marriage could not emerge unscathed?

  "All of them?" she whispered.

  He took the breathlessness as a natural result of her physical struggle, the low tone as a mark of intimacy, and his answer was as low as her question as he seated himself beside her on the bed.

  "No. Praise God, the king laid no specific commands upon me. Those who have paid in lieu of service, I will not disturb unless I must. It would be no easy thing for me to find the gold to return to them, and I certainly do not wish to pass the debt on to cancel next year's rents at this time. I may well need money next year, and just now there is no pressing need for men."

  Catherine did not need to mask her sigh of relief, only to explain it. "Then I am glad you are here, Rannulf—so glad."

  He had leaned toward her, but pulled away, frowning at her words. "Is there trouble here? Do not the servants and the men obey you?"

  "May I not be glad for my own sake? Must I regard you only as a curer of ills?"

  It was worth the effort, all of it—the crazy ride pressing on day and night, the dead horses and exhausted men. He had saved two days at least, and those two days wrested out of time by his own strength were his to do with as he pleased.

  Rannulf could have sung and danced, capered like an idiot. He had not mistaken the warmth of Catherine's fare
well, nor had she reassumed her armor of indifference in the months they had been parted. He said nothing, equally afraid he would say too much or too little, and simply took Catherine back into his arms. She was willing, so willing that Rannulf soon detached his lips so that he could get into bed. His breathing was uneven, and he sighed trying to steady it.

  "Oh dear," Catherine said in a distracted tone, fumbling around the bed for her robe, "You must be so hungry and thirsty. How could I have forgotten?"

  "I am, but that can wait," Rannulf replied, lying down and opening his arms.

  "You are too tired to eat." Catherine's voice was redolent with self-accusation. "Sleep, my lord, while I go and rouse the maids so that there will be food for you when you wake."

  Rannulf glanced sharply at his wife, wondering if she could mean to put him off. It was ridiculous. She would not have kissed him with her heart on her lips one moment to turn to ice the next. He put a hand on her shoulder and pulled her toward him impatiently.

  "Catherine, you are a more reasonable woman than any I have ever known—except Maud, perhaps—but you can also be silly beyond measure. I can wait to sleep also. Just now there is something more important to me."

  "Oh," Catherine said faintly, "what is it?"

  He had heard what she had done and guessed her intentions, she feared, her sense of guilt making her misread perfectly obvious actions.

  Rannulf lay for a moment, watching the way Catherine's hair glowed gold and then faded to silver in the flickering candlelight. Guiltily, she turned her face under his gaze, and he was both amused and enchanted, thinking she was suffering a sudden spurt of modesty. Smiling, he pulled her face toward him, a finger under her chin.

  "How now, Catherine, we have been man and wife for more than two years. Why do you hide your face from me? Is what I desire repugnant to you?"

  Catherine did not answer. Even guilt could not now cloud her realization of what was more important than sleep or food to Rannulf. She blushed rosily, conscious of her stupidity, thereby confirming her husband's opinion that she was embarrassed. Very satisfied, Rannulf laughed softly.