The Sword and The Swan Page 30

  "No, for whatever I say only makes matters worse."

  "You remember what I told you the night before you took the bridge at Wallingford." Northampton shook his head significantly. "Nonetheless, he must soon see his error with regard to you. Continue only to have patience. Stay, that is not what I wanted to speak of really," he added as Rannulf shrugged cynically and prepared to move away.

  Northampton shook his head and went on, "I do not understand why you were not pleased with what went forward. Do you disbelieve Jordan? After all, he is the castellan of Malmesbury and must know what is happening there."

  Rannulf laughed mirthlessly again. "Of course not. What Henry does is logical enough and to attack Malmesbury is a matter of great profit to him and to Gloucester. I have no quarrel with the march to save Malmesbury, but believing what you do, are you still content to see Eustace go to Norfolk instead of coming with us to Malmesbury?"

  "What else can be done? It is certainly necessary to save Malmesbury, which is our one strong point near Gloucester's lands, but if Stephen moves so far west, Norfolk will take the chance to attack. Someone must withstand him also."

  "If Stephen were not mad," Rannulf gestured dismissal of Northampton's cautious glance around, "he would send me to face Bigod, for it is plain that men fight best to protect their own. Then he and Eustace together could go against Henry. Failing that, he should hold Bigod himself, and let the young cubs oppose each other. Aside from the fact that a defeat would then not have such generally disastrous results, Eustace has recent experience of the Angevin's ways."

  "But—" Northampton began to protest.

  "It does not matter that he was beaten before," Rannulf snapped, stilling the protest he saw coming. "That will but lend rage to strengthen Eustace's purpose and, moreover, the prince is on his own ground now. In any case, anything would be better than leaving this to Stephen's vacillation."

  "Nay, Rannulf, in your hurt you wrong him. He will not turn aside now. His purpose must be firm."

  "As it was before Wallingford, eh?" Rannulf rejoined bitterly, and then, surprised by Northampton's agonized expression, he turned to see the king directly behind him with Jordan of Malmesbury.

  For a frozen instant no one moved or spoke until Geoffrey, pushing rather rudely past Northampton to stand shoulder to shoulder with his father, broke the tableau.

  Rannulf faced his master with no change in expression, but he put a hand surreptitiously on his son's arm.

  "I never claimed my judgment to be perfect," Stephen blustered angrily, "but it was not I who made the agreement to join forces with Hereford. My wise council pressed me into it, you not least of all, Soke, by your talk of Hereford's trustworthiness. Ever I have bad advice and ever am I blamed for the ill result. Even when I go my own way and find success, I have no good of it. Then my barons nod at each other and clap each other on the back for their wisdom in acceding to the king's demands."

  There was a hysterical note of self-pity in the voice, and Rannulf frowned and cast an anxious glance at Jordan who looked more and more worried by the moment. What Stephen was doing among his major vassals, men who knew him well and long, was bad enough, but to expose his weakness constantly to men who were not accustomed to his ways was to lose badly needed supporters.

  "Is not your criticism a trifle ill-directed, Soke?" Stephen continued with a sudden assumption of dignity. "You speak largely enough of standing firm to a purpose, but I do not see that you have offered any help to forward that purpose."

  "My men have served their time, and more than their time," Rannulf replied, his grating voice covering the indignant gasp Geoffrey gave. "However, I assure you that I will summon them again. There is no term of service for a defensive war, and Henry will no doubt attack."

  "Very clever," Stephen snapped, "you will wait until he launches his attack, send from the very gates of Malmesbury across the length and breadth of all England. That way you will be sure that your vassals come too late."

  Rannulf's grip tightened excruciatingly on Geoffrey's quivering arm. He was barely able to control his own temper, but he dared not remind Stephen of what he had already done for him in Jordan's presence. Evidence of such ingratitude might well destroy what small faith the master of Malmesbury still had in his king.

  "Do not missay me, my lord, my patience is not without limit. I have done you good service through the years, and—"

  "And you would like to rest on that. To speak of your patience has an ugly sound of threat, Soke." The new voice, sharp and angry, was Eustace's. He had returned to England soon after Henry's arrival, and he had already managed to set half the vassals into a rage by his accusations.

  "I say that we need every man we can muster," Eustace continued. "When that weak-livered brother-by-marriage of mine made peace with Henry, the Angevin fiend flew back to Barbefleur and took ship. He had an army ready in wait there. What do you think he has come here for—to go on pilgrimage for his sins? It is time to summon the vassals and over time. I say that any man who does not respond to that call is a traitor."

  Perhaps it was useless, but Rannulf had to try. "I do not deny you. As little as I like the cast of things, I know what you say is true. But, my lord," he said, turning to Stephen, "my men are weary and have no heart to fight in a strange place no matter how just the cause. Let me go and withstand Bigod. You know they will give their all to defend their own lands."

  The fitness of the request could not be doubted. Warwick and Northampton were willing to fight in the west because the only direction in which Henry could move with profit was east; and their lands lay in his path. Rannulf's men had more to fear from Norfolk, being well out of the way of the Angevin's probable advance, and would resent being drawn away from their own property when there was danger of Bigod's striking at them. Even Jordan, anxious for the safety of his own keep and town, could understand and nod approvingly. Stephen frowned doubtfully, his military good sense fighting against the suspicion that had been planted in him.

  "You have shown yourself so consistently wise in matters of war," Eustace snarled, having his own reasons to keep Rannulf away from his earldom, "that we cannot spare you. Perhaps some compromise might be had. I understand that the men of Soke, your wife's vassals, have as yet done naught to aid their king—summon them. And, so that your lands be not left defenseless, let your son come with me. Surely your vassals will follow him."

  Had such a proposition been made in 1149 and had Geoffrey been old enough then, Rannulf would have agreed. At this moment he did not doubt that to let Geoffrey go would be tantamount to murdering him. Directly or indirectly, Eustace would see that the boy did not live a week, and, in addition to the satisfaction of his revenge, Rannulf's vassals would fall into Eustace's power. There was no need for even one word of denial. Eloquently, Rannulf's hand dropped from his belt and fell to his sword hilt.

  "Geoffrey is not free to go," Northampton interposed bleakly, knowing Rannulf too well and being too fond of Geoffrey himself to hope for acceptance of such a plan. Outwardly it had sufficient merit to place Rannulf in an even more unfavorable light when he rejected it as he must. "My son who was Rannulf's squire was hurt nigh unto death when Soke took Wallingford bridge. I have given him Geoffrey to do John's service."

  Eustace was a brave man, but he knew when he had gone too far. Rannulf regarded him with a cold hostility that no threat or insult against himself had been able to engender, his hand still resting suggestively on his sword. Northampton was also angry, and the blaze of hate that made Geoffrey's blue eyes incandescent could not be misread. Judging others by his own background, Eustace decided that Geoffrey would be no safe vassal to carry with him. One who bore such hatred could slip a knife between his sleeping lord's ribs or change sides in the middle of a crucial battle before he could be controlled or eliminated.

  "If you say you need Geoffrey, of course I will not wrest him from you. Naturally your convenience must come before the welfare of the country," Eustace spat at Soke.
<
br />   Rannulf whitened and bit his lips; even Northampton's old face showed a touch of color. Stephen, aroused almost too late, now became alarmed. Eustace's tongue was alienating vassal after vassal, and Northampton was far too powerful to be freely insulted.

  "Eustace!" he protested. Then, "You must pardon him, Simon, and you also, Rannulf. These are bitter days for us and make us all do and say things we do not mean. Part of Eustace's suggestion, however, is most meet and fitting. We gave you Soke that you might be stronger in our defense, Rannulf. You have used it to enrich your coffers without adding one sword to our force. We had better left the lady to her own choice for all the benefit Soke has brought us. If, as you say, your own vassals are weary of their king's service, it is time to press your wife's men into action."

  Had Rannulf been twenty years younger, he would have burst into tears of frustration and chagrin. Had not a stranger been present, he would have told Stephen what he thought of him in no uncertain terms. As it was, Stephen's injustice left him choking. Men were not all that made a war, and the earldom of Soke had been squeezed unmercifully to pay for Eustace's expedition to France and the fruitless siege of Wallingford. He bit back his angry self-justification, his hand clenching on his sword hilt.

  "If the men who hold Sleaford are reluctant to leave that land when Bigod stirs, think how much less eager will be those whose keeps face his borders." So far Rannulf had controlled his boiling emotions, but the stubborn refusal to listen to reason that was mirrored in Stephen's face tore that control from him. "I tell you they will be less than useless, not only because their hearts will be on their own lands but because they have never taken part in this war before. In fact, they are not to be trusted against Henry. You well know, my lord, their sympathy is for the opposite cause." Jordan or no Jordan, that warning had to be given.

  All pretense of civility now left Stephen. "Did you swear sword-oath to me?" he shrieked. "Are you my man or will you declare yourself openly a traitor? If you are grown too feeble to control your men, another must be found who can do so. I command you to summon the vassals of Soke to my defense—and woe betide you if they come not."

  A stillness like death had fallen in that portion of the great hall while vassal and servant alike waited for Rannulf's reaction. White-faced, torn between his love and his contempt for the man to whom he had given it, Rannulf stood mute in the flickering light of the blazing hearth.

  "How dare you speak so to one who all but laid down his life in your cause only a few months since!"

  The young voice, trembling with fury, spurred Rannulf into action as nothing else could. Swiftly, he blocked Geoffrey's leap at the king's throat, and, forgetting all in his need to protect his child, said aloud the only thing which could calm the boy. "He is mad, my son!"

  With the words, a frightened conviction came into Jordan's face, fear filled Stephen's eyes, and Eustace looked both angry and satisfied. Desperately, Rannulf tried to pass the words off as a momentary display of his usual habit of allowing his tongue to run away with him.

  "Nonetheless," Rannulf continued, seeming to recover himself, "a king's command to an homage-bound vassal must be obeyed. Bring me pen and parchment, and I will send to the countess of Soke and bid her order her vassals to come to me."

  The letter was written there and then given to Stephen to read so that he might be sure it contained nothing but the summons. Rannulf even suggested that a royal messenger be sent instead of one of his own men. "I would not wish to be suspected of sending my wife a message by word of mouth. There, my letter is sealed—do with it what you will."

  There was some chance that Stephen would never send the summons now that he was assured of having his own way. There was also a chance that Catherine, whose sympathies were with Henry, would refuse outright to act on the orders. What was likeliest of all was that Catherine would be confused and terrified by such an order. She knew nothing of summoning men and had never received an order from Rannulf before without the minutest instructions on how to carry it out.

  In addition, although Rannulf had ordered Catherine to gather the vassals, he had not written a word of needing them in haste nor given a specific point at which to gather them. Perhaps she would have sense enough to write for more specific instructions. Perhaps she would try to fumble along as best she might. In any case there would be a delay. If that delay lasted long enough, it might be possible for Rannulf to countermand the order entirely. Not that Rannulf intended to cheat Stephen out of the service he owed. Even now he could not do that. He had given sword-oath and he would fulfill his obligations—but in his own way.

  Stephen and Eustace departed to discuss what best use could be made of Rannulf's letter. Jordan appeared to go with them and then melted into the shadows behind the fireplace. Northampton watched until the king and his son were out of hearing and then turned to Rannulf.

  "Thank God you still hold by us. I swear I do not know if I could have done the same under equal provocation."

  "One does not lose one's patience with a man made half mad by overgreat burdens, nor with a mooning youngster—at least I do not for long. But perhaps I have suffered more from my children than you have from yours," Rannulf replied with a glance at Geoffrey.

  "I am sorry, papa. I know I should have held my tongue, but when I heard him abuse you, I—"

  Rannulf smiled wryly. "It did no harm to let them know we cling together or that there is fire in the cub also. And that brings me to my thanks to you, Simon, for saving me the denial I would have needed to give Eustace."

  Northampton gestured wearily. "Nothing. I am sorry I cannot do more."

  "You should not even do so much again. Nay, I do not suggest this for your safety, although it is good to know it will be increased. What I wish to prevent is the weakening of your influence with the king. Anyone who is connected with me in opinion or love will be suspect—of what I am damned if I know, but suspect nonetheless—and there must be some influence on Stephen besides that of Eustace."

  What Rannulf said was true, but the earl of Northampton was now so aroused that he hated to give the appearance of weak-kneed yielding to Stephen's vagaries. They decided, after some talk, that the good to come was more important than appearances. Rannulf remained staring into the flames after Northampton had gone. A movement in the shadows at the other side of the hearth caught the comer of his eye and he looked up, but no one seemed to be there and Geoffrey, beside him, moved impatiently.

  Rannulf chewed his lip. They would need to fight at Malmesbury, and if Catherine acted as he hoped she would, he would have only his personal guard with him. That would not be sufficient. Geoffrey and he were alone in the hearth; the other petty nobles who ordinarily gathered around a great man to draw his attention were now fearful of contamination with Soke's taint and kept their distance.

  "When you have finished your duties, ride to the abbey over the hill and buy me parchment, pens, and ink. I have some letters to write. Lady Catherine is a very timid woman," he added smiling faintly. "I hope she will be so frightened by what I have written that she does not act at all or only writes to ask me what I mean. If she does that, the vassals of Soke will come too late, if they come at all. Still, I would not cheat the king of the duty I owe him—"

  "He does not deserve your loyalty. What benefit is it to us if he wins?"

  "Probably it is of benefit to no man any more," Rannulf's voice faltered, "but I gave him sword-oath once, and for fifteen long years he gave me love. When I am sick and mad, will you desert me and let me die alone?"

  Geoffrey shook his head in angry denial; he could not conceive of such weakness in the father he knew.

  "I cannot leave him," Rannulf continued, sighing, "but remember that you owe Stephen nothing and neither of us is bound to Eustace. When I am dead, you are free to follow your own path. Meanwhile, I wish to gather a force of younger sons and brothers from my vassals. There should be enough to give us a pretty band of young men to lead. I will have to pay them, since they ow
e me no service, but it will be cheap at the price to know that our lands are guarded against both Bigod and Eustace by having our own vassals in their own keeps. Here is a piece of silver to give to the monks."

  Jordan, still shadowed, nodded to himself and moved away quietly. The earl of Soke was far from a traitor; he was a man tried beyond bearing by a bad or—maybe worse—a mad overlord.

  "My lady," Mary said, coming into the solar where Catherine was embroidering by the fire, "there is a royal messenger below."

  The needle remained poised above the cloth while every bit of pretty color faded from Catherine's face. Even her hair, which had gleamed gold in the ruddy firelight, seemed to become wan, dulling to silver. She put a hand on her frame and attempted to stand, but her legs would not support her. Rannulf was dead! There could be no other reason for a royal messenger to come to her house.

  "Send him here," she whispered.

  It would be better that no one see her until she had mastered her first shock of grief. If she were to hold these lands for Rannulf's children and save herself and Mary from being snatched into hasty marriages, she would need to give the appearance of confidence.

  The seal she broke was a blob of wax, its device invisible to her tear-blinded eyes, but the sprawling, uncertain hand made her gasp. Hastily, making no attempt to decipher what was written, Catherine looked at the bottom of the scroll. Thank God, there was his name, no half-written letter finished by another hand to say that he would write no more. In her first relief she could do no more than press the senseless parchment alternately to her breast and her lips. If she had not lost him, nothing else mattered.

  Rannulf's device very nearly cost him his aim, for when Catherine finally read what was written, her grief and despair were not much inferior to what she had felt at first. What difference did it make how you lost your husband? Would his death divide them any more surely than her refusal to obey him in so important a matter? Caught in the fresh memory of her agony of loss, Catherine's first impulse was to throw all else away and yield to Rannulf's demand.