The Sword and The Swan Read online

  CHAPTER 20

  Rannulf grunted with pain and tried not to wince away from the hands that were probing the angry-looking, suppurating wound on his thigh. The leech muttered angrily to himself about men who expected miracles of healing when they would not even offer the minor cooperation of permitting themselves to be bled. He had just offered that remedy to Rannulf and been refused curtly.

  "I do not know, my lord," Sir Giles said, "that it is wise to refuse. It will abate your fever somewhat."

  "Aye, and lay me flat on my back for two days. Can we afford to give our enemies that much time?"

  "Perhaps not, but you have so bedeviled them that I believe I can keep them from gathering their strength."

  Rannulf gestured impatiently. "If I thought it would really help, I would do it, Giles. Four times these past months have I let them drain me white. So the fever abated—for two days or a week. Then the ague returns and I am no better."

  "Because you will not lie still and let the poultices and potions do their work, my lord."

  Rannulf cast Andre a glance fun of mingled exasperation and affection. He wondered what he could have done to inspire such infuriating devotion. Andre was worse than Geoffrey, plaguing him constantly with appeals to rest, to attend to the leech's recommendations, to take this or that remedy suggested by this or that herb-wife or witch-wife. Rannulf had wondered, passingly, if Andre could be in Eustace's pay and desire to poison him, but as he was regularly worn down by the young man's nagging, regularly took the remedies, and certainly suffered no adverse effects except occasional nausea from the taste, it was obvious that the intentions were excellent if the result was not. Now he did not trouble to answer Andre, turning to Sir Giles again.

  "Believe me, it is no lack of faith in your ability that makes me unwilling, but I am most anxious to drive them farther yet from our border. As long as the king continues to press from the south, our opportunity is great, for Bigod himself must remain there. If Stephen is called away, which I fear will befall any day now because of the ill news I hear, Norfolk's attention will turn to us. Then there will be a bitter battle, and I would as lief it took place on Norfolk's land than on ours."

  Sir Giles nodded reluctant agreement. The earl was perfectly right. The trouble was that he looked, and plainly felt, ill, and after more than three months of close contact as his battle companion, Sir Giles was deeply concerned for Soke's health. Nor was he concerned from the point of view of safety for the lands. His contact with Geoffrey had been reassuring in the extreme; the boy would be a worthy heir to his father. Geoffrey, however, was young and, more than that, Giles was growing very fond of Rannulf.

  The earl bit his lip and stifled a groan as Geoffrey came in, pushing back his mail hood and wiping sweat from his face. "How is it, papa?"

  "How is it ever?" Rannulf snapped irritably. "Well, what said the herald?"

  "The castellan—if castellan he can be called who holds such a miserable daub of planks and mud—will be here anon to speak with you. I am sure they will yield on your terms."

  "Then why did you not wait to escort them in as I bade you?"

  "I left Sir John and the men. A royal messenger hailed me in the road asking for you. I brought him hither and he is without."

  Rannulf and Sir Giles exchanged knowing glances.

  "Make haste," Rannulf said to the leech, bringing on another spate of grumbling and muttering.

  When the leg was bandaged, Rannulf drew up his chausses and refastened his robe, signaling Andre to bring in the messenger. His face grew grimmer and grimmer as he perused the scroll, and, after a while, he handed it to Sir Giles as if he could not trust his voice to repeat its contents. There was an initial hesitation caused by Fortesque's unwillingness to display what might be an ignorance of higher strategy, and Rannulf, seeing his growing indignation, sent Geoffrey and Andre off with the messenger. They were to entertain him, the earl said significantly.

  Sir Giles had come to the conclusion, after some thought, that no strategy could be deep or devious enough to account for the orders in the letter. "My lord," he said doubtfully, "I am sorry if I am about to prove myself a dolt, but—but what is the sense to this?"

  "You know as well as I," Rannulf said furiously. He pulled himself to his feet, took a couple of steps, and returned to Sir Giles. "There is no sense flying into a temper, as well I know." He sighed then. "No more sense than is in that command. What sense can there be in pulling me away from a successful campaign, dividing men who are fighting well together in a common cause all believe in, sending half those men to fight in a place they care nothing about and replacing them with men who care nothing for this land? What sense—" Rannulf stopped abruptly. There was no sense, but perhaps what Stephen wanted of him had nothing to do with the war.

  "You should not go, sense or not. I do not mean for the danger to the lands either, but because, in truth, you are not well."

  "That does not matter. I will be as well or as ill with the king as elsewhere. I have given Stephen an oath of loyalty, and I must hold by that." Rannulf had his private reasons for going to Stephen, but it was a good chance to impress the necessity for loyalty on a vassal's mind. "But I will not permit the men to be broken up. Eustace may send part of his forces back to Stephen if he wishes. If not, so much the better for our purpose here."

  Rannulf took with him only his household guard, Andre, and Geoffrey, whom he did not dare leave where Eustace could reach him. He was greeted by Stephen with a strict formality which puzzled him. If Stephen had not called him to have a friend to lean on, what was his purpose?

  It was not new suspicion. Stephen was pleasant, spoke standard words of welcome, proffered a civil invitation to dine, and dismissed him to rest. At dinner the king's behavior was no clearer. He sat next to Rannulf, urged him tenderly to eat and even touched him caressingly from time to time, but he would not meet Rannulf's eyes.

  Stephen spent the meal explaining his purpose. Rannulf was to go to Crowmarsh. That tiny keep, mud and sticks though it was, commanded the bridge at Wallingford, kept the men in Wallingford, and prevented them from going to Henry's aid. It was also a symbol of Stephen's power. As long as it stood, Henry could not turn his attention east. He spoke, indeed, so glibly and so much that Rannulf had no opportunity to open his mouth, and he went to bed with a dozen unanswered questions that had not been permitted to pass his lips.

  "Rannulf."

  The whisper woke him, but he could see nothing for the tent flap was down and even the starlight was shut out. Rannulf's hand moved toward his sword and dropped away. A man who wishes you hurt does not wake you except with the blow he strikes.

  "Who speaks?"

  "I, Stephen. Nay, do not rise. I wished words with you that none would hear."

  The king dropped to the pallet beside him. Rannulf understood the formal greeting and talk. Eustace set spies upon his father, and Stephen still could not bear to cross his son.

  "You called me mad, Rannulf, and perhaps for a time I was," Stephen continued. "But I am not mad now, and I would not have you think me so and therefore abandon my purpose."

  "Then why did you call me from a successful campaign?" Rannulf asked testily.

  "I am old. I am tired. It is too late for me to drive Henry from this land at once. Nay, listen, I am not mad. Eustace and I plan to crush and drive out Bigod—to destroy him utterly. This land is fertile, easily defended, and the people are docile. Henry will not help Bigod, for he knows what he is and he is busy in the north and west. When we have a secure kingdom here, mayhap we can make truce or win back that part of the realm we desire."

  Rannulf was silent; the plan was not mad.

  "For this purpose," Stephen continued, "we need time. Henry cannot come to fight me while Crowmarsh stands. In honor, he must relieve Wallingford and also he dare not leave an army faithful to me behind him."

  "Why me? Why should I be torn from the defense of my own lands and sent to Crowmarsh?"

  "You are one of the
few faithful left to me—faithful even when my eye is not upon you, I mean. Simon is dead. Warwick is dead of a broken heart. What Gundreda did killed him."

  Rannulf gasped with surprise. He had not heard that news, but Stephen laid his hand over his vassal's lips urging silence and Rannulf lay still, listening.

  "I cannot permit what happened at Malmesbury to happen at Crowmarsh. If the keep cannot hold, I must at least have warning that it is attacked and about to fall. If it is yielded secretly and Henry comes upon me by surprise I will be undone."

  Rannulf was sick with disappointment. If Stephen's purpose succeeded, Eustace would rule Bigod's land, and that would be worse than having Bigod there. Yet to refuse Stephen or to go to Crowmarsh and yield it was outright treason, outright violation of his sword-oath. That was a different matter from a passive yielding to fate, and Rannulf knew he could not bring himself to it. He must go to Crowmarsh and hold it as long as it could be held.

  "Never fear," Rannulf said with grim hopelessness, "I will hold it as long as any man can."

  To his surprise, Stephen was shaken with silent sobs. "I will try to send you more men and supplies. Do not curse me, Rannulf, if I fail. This war with Bigod must come first." He bent and kissed his vassal's lips. "And do not hold the keep at the cost of your life. With aught else I will buy time, but not with that. Remember, not with that." He rose as if to go, then bent close again. "If you are taken prisoner, I will ransom you. Do not doubt my faith if it takes a little time. I will ransom you."

  Across the tiny moat, a thing to jest at and to fill with brush and mud in an hour, and across the silly palisade of sharpened logs, Rannulf gazed at the small hill where he had scolded Geoffrey the day after the battle of Wallingford bridge. Now, again, he would have to impose his will upon his unwilling son. Geoffrey must leave him in Crowmarsh and go home.

  Rannulf cursed softly at himself for being so mazed between his illness and his distaste for his task that the true meaning of Stephen's last words had not come to him until after they were in Crowmarsh. The king wanted him to be taken prisoner. To Stephen's muddled mind, confinement would keep Rannulf safe and please Eustace. Perhaps Stephen did not understand that it would also give Eustace an opportunity to seize Rannulf's lands, or else Stephen knew but believed he could "requite" Rannulf for the loss.

  Rannulf laughed wryly. Eustace did not know Catherine. Still, Catherine could not don armor and lead the men in spite of his jest. Geoffrey must go home. For one thing, he must be free to serve as a focal point of loyalty to the men; for another he must not fight against Henry of Anjou in a desperate losing battle, which might wake hatred in so young and so passionate a heart. Rannulf sighed, wishing that Geoffrey were a little older, wishing that he had not such a passionate nature, even wishing that the boy did not love him so much. Geoffrey counted as desertion what was only good sense.

  He should have sent Geoffrey away before the boy had seen Crowmarsh and realized how indefensible it was. But then he had not known what Stephen's intentions were and later, when he had been training the raw plough men that Stephen had given him as levies, he had needed Geoffrey too much. Young as he was, the son of an earl had more authority than a bachelor knight like Andre, and Rannulf had been so often ill that authority other than his was a necessity.

  Now, although his eyes were glaring with fever and two bright spots of color mantled cheekbones that protruded like a skull's in a pasty gray face, his illness did not matter; he had a disciplined fighting force that would follow orders. They were not many, but they were of very good heart, well trained and eager for the fray. And, as if God favored his desire, a small Angevin force without either Hereford or Henry to lead it was approaching them.

  The Angevin attack was truly a crowning mercy. Had Geoffrey gone before the men had proved themselves in a fight, they might have lost heart with a leader who was much abed. But Rannulf knew he had strength enough in spurts to fight, and this first battle they would win.

  First, all but fifty of the men who were quartered at Crowmarsh would leave that pitiful defense to hide in the marsh and where else they could. Those who hid would include Geoffrey and the household guard. When Henry's men fell upon the little keep, the hidden troops would burst out and attack the attackers. According to the information Rannulf's scouts had brought in, the force sent to reduce Crowmarsh was small. It was a test of strength, perhaps, but it should be easy enough to drive them off in this first attempt.

  Geoffrey would aid in the fighting, but instead of returning to the keep as most of the others would when the attack was over, he would ride for Sleaford. From there he would send messengers to acquaint Stephen with the fact that Henry's men were finally attacking Crowmarsh and give particulars of the men and supplies necessary to repulse them.

  Up to that point in the plan, Rannulf was sure of his son's obedience, for he had agreed readily to that much. Geoffrey's objection was to Rannulf's decision that his duty ended at that point and that he was to bide at Sleaford after the messengers were sent out. Unfortunately the boy's confidence had been badly shaken by the battle of Wallingford and Rannulf's inability to recover from his wound. He was certain Rannulf would die if he was left in Crowmarsh.

  What Geoffrey desired was to ride from Sleaford to where Eustace was besieging a keep of Norfolk's. There he would gather Rannulf's men, and those of Soke also if they would come, ride back to Crowmarsh and either drive off the Angevin troops or have a large enough force to escape from Crowmarsh when they pleased.

  Rannulf bent to drop his head on his arms. He did not want Geoffrey to fight Henry, and, if Geoffrey went to Eustace, he might not return to Crowmarsh anyway. Eustace would never lose so excellent an opportunity. Like as not, Geoffrey would never see the vassals at all, would disappear, or die of some mysterious complaint. Thus far, Rannulf had tried no expedient beyond reasoning. He had asked for no promise, no swearing of oaths, hoping to bring Geoffrey around to his way of thinking without putting that additional pressure on him. Now the time for reasoning was over; Henry's men were on their way. A light step sounded on the planks behind him, and Rannulf lifted his head and turned.

  "The men are ready. As soon as the light fails, we will go."

  Rannulf nodded and drew Geoffrey toward him. "Look there," he said, pointing to the hillock. "Do you remember that place?"

  A frown creased the fair brow. "No, papa, I—oh, yes!"

  The last words held a stricken note, and Rannulf seized the advantage. "Do you remember what I said to you there?"

  "I remember, but it had nothing to do with this case."

  "It is more true now than it was then, for now our enemies are closer upon us. Do not think I have lightly cast away the answers you gave me. I have thought of them much, but I know that for you to go to Eustace is but to invite the trap to spring shut, is but to give him our lands and murder your brother. Do you understand me, Geoffrey?"

  "I understand that you have given me a sweet choice—that between murdering my father and murdering my brother!"

  "I am not so easily killed. Besides, you have no choice at all. If matters do turn out ill, that must be your salvation. You must obey me. If I bid you sacrifice your life, would you say me nay? Of course not, your pride would uphold you. Then let it uphold you now. Down! Down on your knees!" Rannulf drew his sword and held the hilt out to his kneeling son, but Geoffrey turned his head obstinately and would not stretch his hand toward it or raise his eyes.

  "Papa, for the rest of my life I will carry this. Do not make me do it!"

  A spasm twisted Rannulf's face. He did not expect to die in spite of Geoffrey's fears, but he was ill and might not fight as well as in the past. If he should be killed, Geoffrey was too young a child to bear so heavy a burden of guilt.

  "You must do it," he said harshly, "for if I should die, upon you rests the salvation of our family and the continuance of my line. If I am to die in battle, your presence could not save me. Such a death is no man's fault. Child, the pain of my loss w
ill fade. You will wed, and bed, and breed—and order your own sons to do things they will not like."

  Rannulf thrust the sword hilt toward Geoffrey so that it made a cross. "Geoffrey, look up. Look at me. There is no cause yet to despair, but you are moved too much by love. I will take sword-oath of you that you will obey me. Lay your hand upon this cross—and swear."

  In the solar of Sleaford keep, Catherine waited for Geoffrey to come to her. Surely, even if Rannulf had sent no message, courtesy would compel his son to greet his stepmother. Surely he would not refuse to tell her of Rannulf's health and present situation.

  But he did not come in the morning. Boys are sometimes careless of courtesy, she thought; I will see him at dinner. But Geoffrey did not appear at the dinner table. He was out, the servants said, out hawking. He had not sat five minutes in the keep, only changed his clothes and his horse and ridden out.

  In a window seat that commanded the main entrance to the hall, Catherine waited for the eager huntsman's return. The afternoon passed, the long summer evening, and the night. When Geoffrey returned, Catherine did not know. She was up with the dawn to catch him when he broke his, fast, but he was gone already.

  Another morning, another dinner hour, another night. Geoffrey had changed his hawk for hounds, but still he hunted. It is the cruelty of the very young, Catherine thought, the young whose hearts are so light, who think that none can suffer when they are happy or that none but they can suffer at all.

  The third day it rained hard, and Catherine knew that Geoffrey must have stayed within the keep. When he still did not come, she thought for the first time that Rannulf might have bidden him avoid her. Did he think she would turn his son against him? The thought caused her such pain that she gasped for breath and shrank in upon herself.