The Sword and The Swan Read online

  "For whom is that second carrying case?"

  "You cannot walk, papa, and I am sure you should not—"

  "I did not intend to walk. If you can pry yourself from the back of my mount, I will not need to do so."

  "Papa, you should not ride either," Geoffrey said, dismounting nonetheless.

  "Whelp!" Rannulf snorted, but not unkindly. "Do you want to frighten to death what remains of my vassals? All they need now is to see me carried in a litter and come to believe that I will not be able to rule them or succor the families of those who are dead or dying. Fool! Get me up on that horse."

  The pang of agony which seared his leg as he was lifted to the saddle was comforting, although the wound spurted blood again. That was normal; it was better to endure pain than to feel the limb dead and senseless.

  "How badly are you hurt?" Rannulf asked his son.

  "Not at all, I think. I am bruised and battered all over, and a little dizzy still from that stroke on the head. Between Sir Andre and John, however, no man could come at me, and I scarcely was given a chance to land a blow. Papa, if I am so straitly guarded, how can I ever—"

  "Hold your tongue! I have a few words to say to you which will fully explain, but this is not the time or place—others need our care. Get yourself a horse and gather together my men. For them this battle is finished. They are to return to camp and take their ease."

  Several of the leeches who traveled with Rannulf's forces were already in attendance in his tent, and the next interval was painful but satisfactory to him. No real damage, the physicians assured him, had been done to his leg. The cut was very deep and would take long to heal, but if he took the proper care all would go well.

  It was easier to believe them—physicians often lied—in that when the large gash was treated and sewn and bandaged, the leg settled down into a steady throbbing occasionally heightened by a stabbing pain which Rannulf, no novice at battle wounds, accepted as normal. The rest of his wounds were superficial; myriad bruises and nicks, none of which would trouble him after a few days.

  John's condition, too, was judged as desperate but not hopeless. No vital organ had been touched, and if his body was strong enough to fight off the fever and putrefaction which would certainly occur in the case of such large wounds, he would live. He was young; one could hope, but Rannulf knew that John's service was lost for many, many months.

  Since Andre would be more than ever needed to reorganize the decimated household guard, Geoffrey would have to be recalled from Northampton's service. There was no help for it; since he must have someone of perfect trustworthiness at his back, someone known to the vassals who could bear messages and orders. Until John recovered or until another squire could be adequately trained, Geoffrey would have to serve his father.

  Rannulf dispatched a messenger to Northampton with news of his son and a request for Geoffrey to attend him as soon as he could be conveniently freed from his duties. He sat up in bed and tried his leg tentatively, shook his head once more at his own carelessness, and ordered a crutch to be made at once. Then he ate, dry bread and dried meat, standard army supplies which were all that was available after the ravaging of the land, drank half a small skin of sour wine, and lay down to sleep.

  No amount of pain could combat the combined effect of deep satisfaction and physical exhaustion; Rannulf was immediately unconscious. He nearly slept the sun around also, waking in the afternoon of the next day to find his group alone upon the camping ground. The remainder of the army had moved during the night and the early part of the day, settling firmly into the area between Wallingford keep and the bridge. More cause for satisfaction. Stephen had kept what he had won and the men of Wallingford were well and truly penned inside of the castle.

  That was the first piece of news that Rannulf had from Andre Fortesque, who was up and about although each movement he made brought grimaces of pain. He had no wounds of any note, he told his lord, proud of the skill which protected him and others; he had merely been battered into total collapse. John of Northampton was no better, he replied to Rannulf's anxious questions, but none could say he was worse either. Geoffrey had not yet arrived and was presumably busy in Northampton's service, not belatedly showing injuries, because Andre had heard that he had come in the night to inquire of how his father went on.

  "Very well, tell one of the servants to send him to find me as soon as he comes. Now, give me that crutch and your arm also to steady me upon my feet." Rannulf was about to thank Andre for his service and tell him that a reward would be forthcoming, but the young man interrupted him.

  "You do not mean to rise, my lord! You will bleed again."

  "Then bleed I must," Rannulf said grimly.

  Andre was too young and inexperienced to be given a castle as a reward for saving Geoffrey's life, Rannulf thought; he did not yet know the duty of a leader. I will give him money, a horse, and new armor, Rannulf decided—and I will teach him. When he is ready, I will give him a keep to hold for me and a portion to buy him a wife.

  "I must see what case my men are in," Rannulf said deliberately, beginning the lessons. "I must send news to the keeps of those who are slain so that the heirs may do me homage, and give what comfort I can to those who are like to die. There are some younger men, in particular, who have no heirs or only young sons. For those I must take especial thought if they be dead or sore wounded."

  Andre was silenced. There were joys in a great estate, but there were also burdens. A victorious lord could not, it appeared, even enjoy the rest he deserved. He went from tent to tent with his master, watching Rannulf grow more haggard as the tale of casualties grew, seeing that he did not spare himself even when blood began to seep again through the bandage on his leg and stain his surcoat. Not even when his sad duty was done, however, did he return to his tent. He moved to a spot from which he could see across the river to the tents of his allies camped before the walls of Wallingford. There was no triumph in his face.

  "They are brave men," he said to Andre at last in his harsh voice, flat now with fatigue. "For the hurt they have done me, I cannot love them. Yet I do not hate them either. They fight for what they believe right, and I cannot but feel that it is hard that they must die by thirst and starvation. It is better to die in the field with a sword in hand."

  "Father—"

  Geoffrey had found them. With a gesture, Rannulf dismissed Andre. He was going to give Geoffrey a lesson of a similar type to the one taught Andre, but on a different level.

  "What I have to say to you, Geoffrey, may best be said here where there are none to listen. If you were not too old to beat, I would use my belt buckle on you until I could lift my arm no longer. As it is, you are nigh a man—and I must hurt you more than a beating to make you understand."

  "But papa—"

  "You are about to say that you did not die, and thus all is well. Is it? How many commandments that I and Simon of Northampton have labored to teach you have you broken? Are you not puffed with pride, pleased above all with your own wisdom in flouting our orders?"

  Rich color stained the fair skin, but the blue eyes met the cold gray ones squarely. "No man gave me an order that I flouted. You say I am nigh a man, yet you shield me like a child, denying me my birthright which is to stand beside you and defend my name."

  No expression moved the iron countenance of the father, gray with sorrow and rigid with pain. "You deserted the duties Northampton laid upon you to satisfy your lust for praise."

  "No," Geoffrey flashed. "What he bade me do was done before I came to you. Nor did I neglect to ask whether he had orders for me to be carried out upon the day of battle. I had my freedom from my master."

  "One small splinter of the shaft is thus removed, but one small splinter alone. You are proud of your cleverness, are you not—coward!"

  Geoffrey's face went white, blazed, and went white again. "What right have you to use such language to me? Did I not do my part as well as I might? Is it a fault in me that you command your men to gua
rd me as if I had no skill to defend myself?"

  "I have the right of proof," Rannulf replied in measured tones. "I said naught and meant naught against your courage in arms, but there are other, higher, forms of courage—and that you have not. Oh, you are most brave to ride forth in attack or withstand a charge, but you have not that strength of spirit that is needed to bear the burdens of your station. Coward, I say again, did you never think what would be if we both fell?"

  Now the boy was trembling from head to foot, but he still held his father's eyes. "Do you call me so? Then what are you, who, for what you call love, would make me less than a man so that you need not bear the grief of my loss?"

  His passion beat and broke against the older man's stolidity. Here was the crux of the matter, the point Rannulf needed to pound home. "To fight together in fair battle is one matter—I have begged your release from Northampton to do just that. The taking of this bridge was no such battle. You, above all men, must learn to distinguish what is utterly hopeless from what is nigh hopeless but must be done. When a thing is nigh hopeless, provision must be made to lessen the foreknown evil. This I tried to do, and you all but destroyed my work."

  "It did not turn out evil."

  "That was none of your doing, but God's—and God gives his help to those who try, in honor, to help themselves. I bid you think again what would have befallen if we both died. Our vassals would have been leaderless, to be preyed upon by any man who so willed, to destroy themselves by fighting one against the other for supremacy. Thus you would have, at one stroke, violated their trust in their lord to bring them succor against their enemies and to judge justly between them, keeping or making the peace. Further, you would have violated my oath to my overlord to bring the vassals to his aid."

  Rannulf drew breath, pushed away his growing need to lie down and rest, and plodded on. "Your brother, your own flesh and blood, would have been left—a child of six—defenseless against those who would destroy him or seize him to have his inheritance. Thus you would have violated the bond of blood that commands you to protect your own. Twofold is that sin, for your sister—little of account as she is—would also have suffered. Would you desire to see her thrust into the arms of some filthy serf or destroyed utterly so that none could say my line could breed through her? You say I gave you no order. Did I not bid you protect your brother and the women? Could you do that when you were dead? What would you not have cast aside to fulfill your folly and your pride."

  No longer did Geoffrey's eyes hold his father's. He had turned his head aside, almost as though Rannulf had struck him in the face.

  "Protect you!" Rannulf said finally, bitterness filling the hitherto passionless voice. "If I could protect you, it would be from bearing that burden while you are yet so young, not from a quick, clean death. There are ways and ways to die. A man may die inside his body, and that is the only death that is everlasting with no hope of redemption."

  The silence that fell when Rannulf's harsh voice ceased was, surprisingly, without tension. Rannulf studied his son attentively and was well satisfied with what he saw. Geoffrey's color had returned to normal and his brows were contracted in a frown that spelled thought. At last a long shudder shook him, and he moved his head so that his eyes met his father's again.

  "Nay, I am a fool, but not a coward, father. Merely, I did not think at all, in spite of the many times you have described my duty to me. Nor do I think I desired praise for my courage and hardiness. In honesty, I thought not of that either. I am guilty still, it is true. I do not seek to shirk your blame, but rather count me guilty of that fear for which I blamed you. When you came to me and spoke as if your death were a certain thing, I had not courage to face that loss."

  "Sooner or later you will need to face that loss. I am not young and all men must die. Think on it, and do not permit your passions again to lead you astray." Rannulf turned away.

  "Papa, wait! You have spoken largely of my duties to my blood and to my overlord. Should he not guard my brother for me if I have done my duty properly? Even separately we both might die—what then?"

  This was a turn Rannulf had hoped the conversation would not take. "Because other men are weak is no reason for you to fail," was the only answer he could make. He shrugged his shoulders with bitter contempt and beckoned Geoffrey to him. "Help me back to my bed. I have strength for no more."

  CHAPTER 16

  Two men faced each other in one of the dark, dank wall chambers of Gloucester castle. There was little comfort in the room, since its floor was of damp earth and moisture beaded the rough plank ceiling and trickled down the stone walls. What light there was flickered unsteadily from two resinous torches, which added their smoke to the dark they were supposed to dissipate. Surroundings less appropriate to the two elegantly clad gentlemen who were within would be hard to find, but one most necessary item was provided here that they could find nowhere else—privacy. When the oaken door of that chamber was closed, even the loudest shrieks of agony were no more than a dull murmur in the great hall outside.

  William of Gloucester, clad in the silks appropriate for the late-summer weather outdoors, shivered in the bone-chilling damp but congratulated himself for this foresight. Hereford was, as he had expected, enraged beyond all self-control and was, indeed, shrieking at the top of his lungs. Lord Gloucester listened indifferently, not really hearing because it did not matter what Hereford said. In the end he would have to take William's path; there was no longer any other to tread. The volume of sound cut off suddenly, and Gloucester raised his eyes languidly to Hereford's flushed face.

  "You have done everything you can—I agree," William said in his silken purr. "You have harassed Stephen's forces constantly and, while even a yard before their gates was their own, you sent supplies and men into Wallingford. What good has this brought us? No strength of arms can dislodge Stephen now, and in a few weeks more he will have Wallingford."

  "No! They will never open to him."

  "Perhaps not, although I have heard that it is not so easy to die of hunger and thirst. Nonetheless, soon they will be too feeble to man the walls, and Stephen's men will take what they wish by assault. Do you think they have sat idle all this time? What siege engine have they not built and made ready?"

  "If you had joined me or sent your men out at least, it would not have come to this."

  "Perhaps that too, but I do not believe it. And I do believe that it is useless and senseless to waste our strength to gain what can be had more easily in other ways."

  "By lying and dishonorable practices!" Hereford sneered, but William only laughed softly; and Hereford bit his lips, ready to burst with frustration.

  "You have written to Henry?" William asked finally, except for his laugh, seeming not to have heard Hereford's insult.

  "Yes, but I have not sent the letter. What is the sense in crying for help where no help is? Henry's heart is first in France, and even if it were not he has sufficient to occupy him where he is."

  Gloucester's eyes dropped as if he were considering what Hereford said. He was not, for the matter needed no consideration. He was wondering, instead, whether he dared set one of his servants to search through Hereford's possessions and find that letter. With a few lines of his own added to it, it might not be nearly as useless as Hereford thought. William had information from France that Hereford had not yet heard and which, if William could arrange it, Hereford would not hear for some time. Louis and Eustace were already quarreling, and Henry's forces were moving forward steadily. Very soon now, if nothing unexpected occurred to disturb the trend of events, Henry would be free to come to England.

  Unfortunately, William of Gloucester knew that it would not be soon enough to save Wallingford if the pressure on that keep were not relieved. To drive Stephen off by force of arms was nearly impossible. Hereford had tried and tried again. The king's forces were too strong and too firmly entrenched.

  For a moment, as he sat with lowered eyes, William wondered why he bothered with either
side in this stupid rebellion. Certainly not because his father, Robert of Gloucester, had been committed to it heart and soul. He had little affection and no respect for his late father, a man of direct nature and honorable purposes. Another Hereford in fact, just as pigheaded and just as stupid, unable to see his own advantage through the haze of his "honor." Nor was it for personal advantage that William schemed. True, if Henry came to the throne he would be rewarded and he liked gold, but he was rich enough.

  It amuses me, William thought. It amuses me to make them move about like puppets. He raised deceptively sleepy eyes in which no man could read aught. He would set his new little mute boy to find that letter. Once he had that request for help in Hereford's own hand—Henry loved Hereford almost as much as he loved his blood kin—his purpose would be all but accomplished.

  "If you have not sent to Henry for help, Roger, I cannot see why you are so hot against my proposal. Look you, the count of Meulan is a robber baron, even if he is Leicester's twin brother. Waleran is as much an enemy to Stephen as he will be to Henry when Henry comes to the throne."

  "But—"

  "In this case," William interrupted smoothly, "it matters not whether a man be for or against the king. The destruction of Waleran of Meulan would be a most laudable act. You owe your protection to William of Beauchamp. You are close-tied to his family, and he has a right to your help. If you go to fight Waleran and free Beauchamp, which you are bound in honor to do, Wallingford will fall into Stephen's hands in a week or two and be lost as Faringdon was lost."

  "Oh, God!" Hereford groaned miserably. "Do you need to remind me? Why do you think I have come crawling to you for help? Would I do so if my need were not tearing me apart?"

  "And I have refused my help," William said calmly. "Nay, Roger, it is no good to curse me. I do not do it for spite, nor to hurt you, nor to hurt the Angevin cause. Not even because I wish to hold my men and my gold safe—I have risked both before and I will do so again. But I risk only when there can be some gain in the risk."