The Sword and The Swan Read online

  His shock past, Rannulf shrugged. "The quicker the better, really. There will be less blood shed, I suppose."

  "For God's sake, Rannulf, it will be such a little time. Could you not sit quietly at Sleaford?"

  "No, I cannot. I told you that I lust after blood."

  Probably Catherine would follow Gundreda's path, give her promise of loyalty to Henry when he was away. Rannulf felt only relief. That would save Geoffrey and Richard and might well be what she had planned all along.

  Leicester, unable to read Rannulf's thoughts and shocked by the viciousness of the tone, looked away. This was no normal desire for the thrills of battle. There was something desperately wrong with his foster brother. Leicester could do nothing. Rannulf never permitted any discussion of his inner emotional life, never admitted that he had one. Whether he endured joy or grief, he endured it alone, and that reserve showed no signs of breaking.

  "Very well, if you must kill for reasons of your own, you must. But cannot you confine yourself to Bigod? Rannulf, listen to me," Leicester said, grasping his foster brother's arm and shaking it. "In a few weeks I will have Henry's ear. He likes Bigod as little as Stephen does. Confine yourself to fighting Norfolk and all will yet be well—I swear it."

  Rannulf's eyes were bleak and hard as the stones of the keep walls. "Do not raise such hopes in me, Robert. It is not kind. If Stephen calls me, I will go to him. Would I not come to you, no matter what the cost, if you were in your death struggle?"

  Then Leicester understood and reasoned no more. He urged Rannulf to stay with him, but Rannulf understood the turmoil that would be caused by Leicester's switch in loyalties. No matter what his personal reluctance, his place was at home where he could quell rebellious ideas among his vassals and defend his borders against Norfolk.

  Drenched and freezing foreriders brought the news of the earl's imminent arrival to Catherine. An hour later she was drenched herself as she embraced her sodden husband, held his face between her hands, kissed his eyes. In her joy at having him at home and safe, the night had come before she realized how cold and restrained his response was.

  "Rannulf, are you still angry with me?" she asked out of an uneasy stillness which had fallen between them.

  "Angry? For what? Oh, the refusal of the men of Soke and that message. No, I understood."

  "Then what is wrong? Where is Geoffrey?"

  She worried about Geoffrey, Rannulf thought, even though she knew him so little. Doubtless she would fight for his children in ways he could not, fight as Gundreda of Warwick did.

  "Geoffrey is with Northampton again," Rannulf said civilly. "Simon is dying, I believe. His older sons guard his land, and John is too sick still to nurse his father. If Bigod moves and I need Geoffrey, I will summon him to come to me."

  He had avoided her first question. "What is wrong, then?" Catherine insisted.

  "I am tired and I face ruin." Now Rannulf spoke coldly, "Is that not enough?"

  "You run to seek ruin," Catherine responded.

  "Perhaps. It is my own affair. Let me be."

  "You are my husband. It is my affair also."

  "I bid you let me be," he repeated sharply.

  "I will not let you be. There comes a time when honor costs too high. Do you think I desire to be a penniless outcast? Do you think I am so silly a woman that I do not know what is happening? I have written to Leicester and received a reply, and I have letters from Gundreda of Warwick also."

  "Then do as she does," Rannulf bellowed. "Do more even! Here—here is a knife and my naked breast. Strike and save yourself the trouble I will cause you."

  Catherine snatched the knife and flung it across the solar, terror in her eyes. "Rannulf, you would not—you would not!"

  "Nay, I have sins enough without seeking everlasting damnation."

  "Rannulf," she panted, "we need you, all need you. I have no lust to be a widow again, to be put upon the block and sold to the highest bidder. Would you lay the burdens of these times on Geoffrey's shoulders? Would you see Richard's bright star dimmed?"

  She clutched at him, but he pushed her away and began to laugh, the peals rising higher and higher until the solar rang with them. "None needs me now—none of you," he gasped when he had breath. "You closed that passage to life upon me, Catherine—you!"

  "I? I love you."

  The gasping laughter stopped. "Aye, I believe it, but need me you do not. You taught me that when you kept your vassals from the war and yet set matters so that even Eustace could find no fault with me. Know that I call them your vassals. Widow you may be, but no man will have you without your will to it. Nor need I fear for my children. You will shield Richard against the devil himself, if need be. My death will free you and Geoffrey to flee to the Angevin, and Henry will receive you kindly for your father's sake and because of Leicester. None needs me but the dying king."

  He was near enough to catch her when she fell, ignorant enough to believe she had really fainted, not realizing that she only sought time to draw another arrow from her armory with which to transfix him. The blue eyes fluttered open, tears trickling from their corners.

  "You do not love me," Catherine whispered. "You cannot or you would not speak of your death to me. Naught will happen as you say, for if you die, I too will die of grief."

  "No one dies of grief," Rannulf replied wearily, thinking that he and Stephen both would long since have been underground if anguish could kill.

  "You are cruel and selfish. You think no worse can befall than your own death. What if you are taken prisoner or exiled? Then my estates as well as yours will be forfeit, and Geoffrey will not go to the Angevin but spend his life trying to free you or as a beggar in a foreign land."

  Rannulf laughed again, but more quietly. He did not wish Catherine to be torn apart between her love of him and her love of the children. A hurt now would save her much agony in the future.

  "If I am imprisoned, you will do as Gundreda did for the sake of the children, and perhaps, to save the gold to ransom me. If I go into exile, I will go willingly, and Geoffrey will keep the lands because I will order him to do so. You offer me love because you think with that you can bend me to your will and make me a traitor to the king. I have known it, but you are mistaken. Only one of us can rule in this household."

  His face was colder than on their unfortunate wedding day, and Catherine gasped with the pain of his rejection. He turned and left her before she could speak again, and later sent his servants to remove his clothing chests from her chamber. It was a public announcement of their estrangement that hurt Rannulf more even than it insulted Catherine, but it was the surest way to be certain that she would follow Gundreda's path.

  No one was happy. Richard, overjoyed at first to have his father at home, could not understand why Rannulf was so moody and so bitter, why nothing he could do could please him or raise his spirits. Mary and Andre were no better off. Although Catherine had become little more than a pale shadow, she did manage to guard Mary so sedulously that she and Andre could not even exchange a glance.

  Fortunately the situation did not endure long. Scarcely was the first ploughing of February under way when an urgent message from Sir Giles reported suspicious activity on the Norfolk side of the border. The letter was directed to Catherine and was given unopened into her hands, Rannulf having summoned her to the hall for that purpose.

  Happy or unhappy, Catherine did not permit herself to fail in her care for her appearance, but Rannulf felt she could have chosen colors that would have become her better. The dark blue gown over a pale gray tunic lent no color to a face that had the blanched look of a long-time prisoner, and the silver embroidery of neck and sleeves had more luster than her hair. He remained rigid with eyes fixed upon her while she broke the seal and read, but when she held out the parchment to him with a hand that trembled sufficiently to make the letter crackle and took a faltering half step in his direction, Rannulf could not resist moving closer.

  "I know nothing of such matters," C
atherine whispered. "Do you order all to your own liking. If you are content, I shall be also."

  "You know nothing, eh? But Sir Giles must think you know for he asks strange questions of an ignorant woman. Should he await attack or attack first himself?" Rannulf smiled coldly.

  "Will you go to him?"

  "It is the king's command that I guard the land against Bigod. I will go. Hugh Bigod may have thought that he could wrest keep and sheep, man and maid, horse and hamlet from a helpless woman. I am almost sorry I am here. I wonder what you would have done. Tell me, Catherine, would you have donned armor and led the men yourself?"

  A faint color rose in her cheeks at the gibe. "Whatever I would have done, I would never have sought death as an escape from my troubles."

  "Nor do I," Rannulf muttered. Even to quarrel with Catherine raised such a fire for living in him that he knew he could not yield life tamely.

  Catherine saw her chance and leapt at it. "Mayhap people do not die of grief, but there are worse things than death to a woman who loves. Do not condemn me to such pain. Swear that you will fight to live, Rannulf, not to die."

  "I swear," he said hurriedly as he turned away, "I swear. On this field I will fight to live."

  Four men sat at ease at the high table of Warwick castle. Before them lay the remains of as excellent a dinner as late March could afford. The platters and trenchers were pushed back now to make room for pitchers and goblets filled with wine, and the flickering torches and steadier glow from wax candles lit the table, warming the yellow gold of the drinking vessels to a ruddy blaze. From the long tables in the hall rose the good-humored noise of self-satisfied men who were not yet drunk enough to begin quarreling. The wine in the goblets at the high table, however, sank only imperceptibly, and the voices of the men, although confident, owed nothing of that satisfactory emotion to the uplifting quality of the liquor.

  "Well," Henry of Anjou said gaily, "I am becoming rusty for want of action. Since you have given us your countenance, Leicester, all we need do is knock on the gates and they are opened to us."

  "Are you complaining?" Robert of Leicester asked.

  "Only that I will need to spend gold on a tourney, it seems, if I am to keep my skill with sword and lance. No, seriously, I have never been so glad, and it is not for the ease of achievement that I am glad but for the sparing of the country. It does my heart no good to see the land ravished. It is my land, and I do not love to destroy it."

  Leicester nodded his satisfaction. Here was one of the truly important differences between Stephen and Henry.

  Whether it was a basic love of the soil or only a long-range comprehension that a country burned and bloodied by war yielded little profit, Henry did have a true and deep consideration for the well-being of the land that Stephen never had.

  William of Gloucester lifted his goblet and drank. He had taken no part in the foregoing discussion and could see no part for himself in the one that would follow. He had no interest in military objectives, since he had no intention of taking part in any military action. Altogether the presence and plans of his three companions were exceedingly dull, and he would not have come except that to stay away would have given too much food for thought to Henry's suspicious mind. He had lost interest even in baiting Hereford, for that gentleman merely gazed at him with lackluster eyes. Leicester was no source of amusement, his monumental stolidity offering no weak spot to be pricked. Something would have to be done, and that right soon, to save him from extinction by boredom, Gloucester thought.

  "We will have sufficient to do with sword and lance, my lord, if we go to relieve Wallingford. Stephen will not relinquish that readily because it is too close to his precious Oxford. He has even built a permanent camp decked out to look like a keep but almost defenseless at Crowmarsh. Still, it is a beginning. We should take that before he strengthens it and sends more men into it."

  Acutely, Henry said nothing, turning courteously to Leicester as if he wished to hear his approval of Hereford's suggestion, But Leicester did not approve—as Henry had known full well he would not.

  "I am sorry, Roger, I cannot agree that Wallingford should be the next step. I hope I am no coward, but I agree with my lord that what can be gained without bloodshed, or with little bloodshed, should be taken first."

  Leicester held up a hand as Hereford appeared to be about to break into his rather ponderous speech and went on, "I have good reason for what I say. If we fight a well-entrenched and deeply hostile force, we are like to lose some of our strength. With each loss others will become bolder to resist."

  "Perhaps, but the men in Wallingford have resisted with great bloodshed and almost without hope for nigh on six months."

  "Nay, Hereford, you are letting your emotions rule your reason," Henry said calmly. "There has been much bloodshed at Wallingford, so much is true, and that has made both king's men and ours more stubborn. Neither will yield now unless they are literally destroyed. Besides, Wallingford has hope sufficient to its needs. They know I am here and that we have not forgotten them. We have shed a little blood also so that they have not starved."

  "Nor will we be able to free them if we are caught between two fires. Do not look so black, Hereford. I know that Wallingford is in good case. Waleran—and there is no use scowling at my brother's name for he has served your purpose well and did William Beauchamp little harm except in his dignity. Waleran, as I began to say, is looking about in that neighborhood. Now and again he gives the men in Crowmarsh and the camp enough to think about so that supplies may be brought in. Wallingford is safe, and we must make sure our rear is safe."

  Henry frowned slightly. "Safety is a good thing, but not if it is achieved at the cost of advances."

  "How will Earl Ferrars and the towns of Bedford and Stamford added to your victories stand in your opinion of advancement?"

  "Most excellently, my dear Leicester." Henry chuckled.

  "If that is your opinion of seeking safety—to take Tutbury, Bedford, and Stamford—I shall hide under the bed when you begin to talk of war."

  Leicester smiled. "My foster brother, Rannulf, earl of Soke, has roused Bigod. Once that monster is wakened, he strikes out in all directions. Stephen and Eustace are both safe as far east as Ipswich. I doubt much that they will return to help Ferrars or the others." Hereford's head, which he had allowed to sink on his breast, came up at Rannulf's name, but Leicester again silenced him with a gesture. "I did not say that Soke did this for our sake. In truth, I am sure as man can be without proof or confession that it is his lady's doing."

  Interest gleamed in Henry's keen eyes. "Her father was most sincerely our friend. Do you think she may lead him to us?"

  Leicester shrugged, then shook his head negatively. "I think not, although she has some power over him."

  "Can Soke be won by gold or soft words?"

  Regretfully Leicester shook his head again. "He can be won by nothing because he is bound by a lunatic's sense of duty and by a pitiful love which grows stronger as the king grows weaker. However, if Stephen yields or dies, Rannulf will not oppose you. Believe me, my lord, it would be most wise to let him go his own way. Moreover, he has not set his son against you, and Geoffrey will follow you willingly—if you do nothing to harm the father. They are blood and bone of each other, the children and the father."

  "He loves his children—good. When I am king, coddling the children will doubtless win the father. What else does he love? Every man rises to some lure."

  William of Gloucester yawned delicately and thought that one of the joys of his life had been removed when Soke's company was denied him. No one rose so easily to the lure; no one was so dangerous and therefore so satisfactory to torment. There would be no problem in catching Soke when Stephen was gone; he could put Henry in the way of doing so in five minutes. Henry need only set that dutiful idiot some difficult and dangerous task.

  Actually the sooner Stephen was gone and they could be united into one court the better. In the beginning when it was n
eedful to play Maud and Stephen like fish, there had been some sport to this war, but the brainless bashing and slashing was a bore. And these idiots, taking one keep at a time, might be another ten years at it without accomplishing anything. William slid his lidded eyes over his companions and stifled another yawn; his decision hardened.

  "When do you plan to move on Tutbury?" he asked.

  "A day or two," Henry replied cautiously. "There is nothing to bide here for."

  "You will scarcely need me for that enterprise. Do I have your leave, my lord, to follow some small plans of my own? Only for a short time."

  There was an immediate profit in the suspicion that leapt into Henry's eyes and was quickly masked. William's heavy lids drooped even more sleepily. Delightful. Henry would set spies on him whom he would need to avoid, for his plans involved what would certainly appear like trafficking with the enemy. And all for Henry's good too—how amusing.

  "Do you wish to leave us, William? Perhaps we might be some aid to you in these plans."

  "Nay, my lord," William replied. "Of all things, your presence would be the last I desired." He permitted an expression, frankly sensual, to appear on his face, adding, "My plans concern a lady and a young, and rather handsome, man."

  The statement was literally true, for William's plans concerned Eustace and Constance. His expression was a blatant lie, assumed to deceive. Roger of Hereford stared fixedly at the wine in his goblet, trying to hide the revulsion he felt for William. It was bad enough to desert so serious a business in pursuit of pleasure, but somehow to do so for a pleasure composed of abnormal vice seemed to make matters worse.

  Henry did not know whether to believe William or not, but the color of his complexion displayed the fact that the emotions he was concealing by a bland and unmoved expression were akin to Roger's. Leicester alone considered William without reaction other than a deep speculative interest, and William, enjoying himself for the first time in months, gave the stupid-looking earl full marks for an unusually keen intelligence.