The Sword and The Swan Page 5

  She dared not suggest delay now; the smallest thing could reawaken all Rannulf's suspicions and expose Catherine to even more gossip than she had already heard. Moreover, to delay the marriage would delay Rannulf's investiture as the new earl. The vassals were reluctant enough to take an earl who was loyal to Stephen. To leave them longer in freedom might make them totally unwilling to obey such a master. The sooner … That was it!

  When the vassals of Soke came to do homage to their new overlord, she could rightfully celebrate the event with a grand tourney. It would flatter the vassals that such an event was held in their honor and, yes, that would solve another problem too. Let Rannulf stand off a selected number of his new vassals in the lists, that would give the worst disaffected a chance to work off their ire and give them a healthy respect for him. Then let him lead the remainder in the melee. Any hard feelings remaining should melt into loyalty when they fought behind his banner.

  CHAPTER 3

  "My lord, if you wish to bathe and eat, you must rise now." John, youngest son of Simon of Northampton, shook his master gently.

  "I am awake."

  "The queen bade me give you these garments, my lord, and also ordered me straightly to tell you that the king's barber waits to shave you and cut your hair."

  Rannulf burst into laughter. "Very well, when I have bathed you may send him to me, but if she hopes to mend my looks thus, she will be sadly disappointed. There is nothing better to be seen under the bristles."

  Sure of his prowess and courage, proud of his family, of his reputation for integrity, and of the respect of all men, Rannulf of Sleaford feared only one thing—women. A man could be reasoned with or challenged fairly to fight, but what could be done with a woman? Except for Maud, Rannulf knew them to be utterly without the power to reason, and, although they could easily be beaten into submission—he had sufficient experience of that with Adelecia—it made him so sick to strike such weak and mewling things that his gain was not worth his pain.

  Rannulf surveyed himself with brooding eyes in the polished silver mirror the barber held up for him. Here he was, about to be married to a great lady, a lady whose lands and wealth equaled or exceeded his own, a lady who, his friends told him, was very beautiful, a lady whose father and husband had been his enemies, and he had made it plain to all the world that he desired neither her nor her lands.

  The barber, seeing the expression of impotent fury in his client's face, began to expostulate hesitantly, assuring him that he was trimmed and furbished in the very latest fashion. Rannulf waved him irritably away.

  No matter how distasteful to him, he would have to settle the fact that he was to be master in his own household at once. At the first sign of opposition, he would bring her to heel, and then perhaps . . . perhaps not.

  He remembered that when he beat Adelecia, no matter how many apologies and promises of amendment he wrung from her, she became worse and worse. Not that kindness had improved her behavior; if he offered so much as a civil word, she would think she had won all and could go her own way.

  And this one was Soke's daughter, whose enmity to him was likely bred in the bone. A horrible and unaccustomed feeling of inadequacy shook him, only to be followed by a burst of laughter when he remembered how often he had faced death in battle without a shudder.

  Lady Catherine did not need to be awakened. She had lain awake all night recalling her talk with Gundreda and trying to recall every word the queen had said about Sir Rannulf. Her mind was no longer dulled by grief, for it had been quickened by sharp pangs of fear.

  If Catherine could have preserved her son's life or her father's by the sacrifice of her own, she would have made that sacrifice without a moment's hesitation. They were dead now, however; no sacrifice could recall them, and she could do no more than pray for their souls and pay the priests to do likewise.

  Gundreda had said nothing one could put a finger on, yet Catherine felt it was her life that was now threatened, and she discovered in herself a passionate desire to live. She walked to a shutter and opened it, fear giving sight to eyes that had been sorrow-blinded. There were the blue of the sky and the gilding the sun gave to the walls and roofs. Shaken free of her grief, she knew she desired to see the sun rise and set and take pleasure in its beauty; she desired to see the new corn spring from the earth, watch the fruit ripen, gather the harvest in the fall, read and sew by the fire in winter.

  The sounds behind her were those of the maids bringing in her bath. Catherine moved away from the window and closed the shutter. Perhaps she had read too much into Lady Warwick's words. But why had the queen urged her so straightly to do all to please her new husband? The master of Sleaford must be a dangerous man. And had not her father had some quarrel with him?

  Still, Catherine decided, seeking for calm as she stepped from the bath and dried herself, the matter could not be urgent. Surely Sir Rannulf would try for an heir out of her before he looked for other ways of securing her lands to himself. Suddenly she threw off the cloth she was using as a towel and looked at her body. She could not help but be pleased by it, and she felt that any man would also be pleased by it. Her pregnancies had not marked her nor destroyed the slender litheness of her waist and hips; the delicate, blue-veined skin of her full, firm breasts must be attractive. Clearly there was one way to save herself.

  Laying aside all thought of the indifference toward him that she had intended to show, Catherine began to choose the outward instruments with which to trap her new husband into love. First, a thin woolen shift, bleached to perfect whiteness; next, an indigo tunic, its neckline and cuffs blazing with gold-thread embroidery to set off her fair complexion; last, a gown of paler misty blue that matched her eyes. Now to braid pearls into her moonlight hair, to bite her lips and pinch her cheeks; all must be done to bring forth her greatest beauty.

  It was the path to safety, and Catherine never doubted she could tread it firmly. Even when she was brought to Rannulf's side and a quick glance showed that his face was set and cold, she did not falter. Her hands did not tremble, and her voice was low and sweet and steady as she repeated the marriage vows. The only thing she could not command was her complexion, and the pink she had pinched back into her cheeks faded until she became so pale that Rannulf took her arm to support her, fearing she would faint.

  The priest was finished; the affirmative shouts of the crowd of noblemen and noblewomen who had witnessed the marriage were over; Rannulf had touched his wife's lips in the kiss of peace. They were mated.

  Now the grooms brought the horses forward, and Rannulf threw his wife up into the saddle to return to the White Tower for the wedding feast. He wondered if she could sit a horse in her present state.

  "You are so pale, madam. Are you ill?"

  Catherine looked down into the expressionless face turned up to her. "No," she murmured, quelling a desire to burst into tears now that she knew herself to be irrevocably in this man's power, "I am afraid."

  "Afraid? Of what? You have been a wife before." Rannulf scowled, annoyed with himself because fear could do her no harm and him much good.

  "I am afraid of you, my lord," Catherine sighed, "of the new things I must learn and the new life I must begin."

  Rannulf's scowl deepened. Perhaps it was good for her to be afraid, but he did not like it. Her voice was sweet as a child's; she did not whine or threaten, but spoke with a child's simplicity and looked with a child's simplicity for assurance.

  "You need have no fear of me. I am not a boy to be impatient with an honest mistake or a little folly—and I have some knowledge of women."

  That last statement made Maud, who was coming to see what was delaying the bride and groom, turn away rapidly. She was convulsed with laughter for a moment, for it was perfectly plain to her that Rannulf had not the faintest understanding of women at all.

  As much as Maud had disliked Lady Adelecia, it was necessary to admit that Rannulf's stupidity had caused most of the trouble, since his behavior alternated irrationally bet
ween brutality and complete yielding. Look at him, Maud thought despairingly. Face to face with an oncoming army, he could decide matters of life and death. Now, face to face with one gentle woman, he must clear his throat as if to spit on her, look down at the ground, and scowl all the while as if the poor girl were his worst enemy. God grant her understanding, Maud prayed, or she will become another Adelecia, and I will have made him my enemy instead of binding him closer. She was about to touch her horse and go forward to relieve the situation when the wind rose and Catherine shivered. Maud pulled up her horse again as Rannulf spoke.

  "Have you no furred cloak, madam?" He reached up to the clasp of his own. "Here, take mine, and order one for yourself as soon as may be. You are too frail to bear the chill wind."

  Surprise pierced the new shell of terror Rannulf's scowl had been building around Catherine. "Nay, my lord, I am very strong." A faint smile touched her pale lips. "I have a furred cloak, but it was folly—and vanity—that made me leave it. It is brown, you see, and would not be fitting with my gown."

  A laugh was startled from Rannulf. He did not doubt Catherine's statement that she was afraid, and it was ludicrous that in the midst of her fear she should concern herself with the colors of her cloak and gown. Amusement further tempered his general dislike of the female as he wrapped his cloak around her for Catherine looked very diminutive in the voluminous garment—like a child.

  "Now you are justly served," he said in a voice he might have used to reprimand his son, "for surely mine suits you worse than yours could have done, no matter what color. Can you ride, madam, or must I lead your horse?"

  Maud was delighted with the turn the conversation had taken; nothing could be better than what Rannulf had said and done, and nothing more satisfactory than Catherine's surprised assurance that she could indeed ride. Catherine, after all, had not known Adelecia nor the ways she had of tormenting her husband, one of which was claiming illness and lack of trust in the grooms and making him lead her horse on foot. She was so pleased that she was just about to hasten away and leave them to themselves when Rannulf, true to form, ruined all.

  "Good," he replied. "Find the queen and return with her. I have some business I must see to."

  Catherine was shocked. The queen had told her that Rannulf was an ill-mannered man and she knew he did not wish to marry her, but to be absent from his own wedding feast, no matter how unwelcome, was to be ill mannered to an absolutely unparalleled degree. No affair could be so pressing.

  She did not have a chance to protest, however, for in that instant Rannulf turned his head, saw Maud, and, without waiting for a word with either woman, took the few steps to his horse, leapt into the saddle and rode away. Maud hastened up, revising her estimate of Catherine's sweetness and docility and cursing Rannulf of Sleaford under her breath. There was no way she could soothe Catherine, for the insult was beyond reason. All Maud could do for Rannulf now was to show Catherine that, although she was heiress to Soke, her public consequence as well as her private comfort depended upon her husband.

  Rannulf had no intention of missing the wedding feast, for his errand took him only a few streets away. He expected, indeed, to catch up with his wife before she reached the Tower, and would have done so had not Maud hustled her away. He felt very virtuous, as a matter of fact, as he set spurs to his horse and careened down the muddy road, for his business was to determine whether he could offer his wife a home of her own in London.

  The master of Sleaford owned a house in the city, but he had not lived in it for some time and needed to know whether it was still habitable. If it was, he would write to Sleaford to have his clothing, bed, linens, and other household items sent to him, and he and Catherine could live in comfort and privacy—things not to be obtained when lodging with the king—until his investiture as earl of Soke had taken place.

  A brief visit assured him that the walls and roof of the place were sound and that such trifling damage as had been done could easily be repaired. When he realized, spurring even more hastily along the road that led to the castle, that he had missed Catherine, he was a little annoyed, but no comprehension of the apparent enormity of his behavior disturbed him. He was sure that his bride would scarcely notice the absence of a groom so unwelcome in the press of well-wishers that must be surrounding her.

  Accordingly, Rannulf did not hurry while he made his way to the head of the room. Catherine was not in the seat of honor. Well, there was no rule that she must remain seated, although it was customary. He would have liked to sit down himself, but it was also customary for the bride and groom to receive good wishes together. Rannulf turned his eyes on the crowd, seeking any large knot of persons that could indicate the presence of the bride. There was none near him, and he sighed and began to wander through the hall seeking her. Rannulf was very puzzled when he came across Catherine, who was sitting in a window seat.

  "How now, madam," he said mildly, "What do you here? Why are you not at the top of the room?"

  That was the last straw! Catherine was too well bred to shriek in public, but if a woman could be said to snarl, she did so. Her full lips drew back from her perfect teeth and her cheeks turned scarlet with the rush of her blood. Let him take what revenge he would. It was better to be literally destroyed than to die of shame.

  "Because," she spat, "no one saw fit to take me there. Am I to push my way forward myself? Should I stop the passersby and bid them wish me well?"

  The owner of a fine, full-fledged temper of his own, Rannulf could respect a round rejoinder. Apparently the woman—she did not look like a child now—could speak honestly what was in her mind. Rannulf did not understand why she was so angry with him, since he had nothing to do with the behavior of the guests, but that thought could not hold his mind as he stared in amazement into Catherine's flushed face. He had been startled by her pale beauty when he first saw her, but he was dumbfounded by her passionate radiance now. An urgent sense of desire touched him, a sensation far different from his usual impersonal need for a woman.

  "I had no opportunity to give these to you earlier," he said finally, ignoring her outburst. "Here is your bride-gift."

  He dropped the pouch gracelessly into her lap and stood somewhat bemused, waiting for her to open it. Catherine wanted to throw it back into his face, but again the fact that it was a public place restrained her behavior. As she slowly untied the string that secured the mouth of the pouch, her fear returned.

  Rannulf of Sleaford was not the man, by the look of him or by reputation, to accept opposition meekly. Possibly his indifference to her temper meant that he did not intend to endure it long. As soon as possible she must repair the damage she had done and return to the role of cheerful and graceful compliance.

  The drawstring gave and the jewels slid into her lap. Catherine gasped, her temper and fear alike momentarily forgotten, for she had an inordinate love of beautiful things and a passion for finery. Rannulf, watching her, almost smiled. The leaping from tantrum to pleasure for a new toy was a child's trick that he understood. If she was always so easily distracted, she would be no trouble to manage.

  "I—I thank you, my lord," she murmured, somewhat mollified. Perhaps it was this he went to get, she thought.

  "You are welcome to them," Rannulf replied. The jewels were worth a goodly sum, but there were plenty in Sleaford keep that could be doled out to maintain peace.

  The faint humor in his voice did not escape her, and her heart began to beat more quickly. Why should he not give her the best of everything? In the event of her death, it would all be his again. "My lord," Catherine said urgently.

  If she wanted more, peace would not be cheap. "What now do you want of me?" Rannulf snapped.

  What little color had remained in Catherine's face faded away. "I only wished to beg you to pardon me for my hasty speech. What happened could be no fault of yours."

  Rannulf stared at his wife attentively. Certainly it was true that what had happened was no fault of his—he did not even know wha
t had put her out of temper—but that a woman should set aside emotion for reason and, moreover, that she should admit herself wrong on the basis of reasoning, was astounding. He noticed that Catherine was very pale again and was sorry for her; he understood very well how hard it was to admit oneself at fault.

  "Very well," Rannulf said approvingly.

  That nearly brought another burst of rage from Catherine, but he had led her away from the window seat and she was forced to return with civility the belated compliments she was now receiving. She smiled charmingly and extended a graceful hand to a young man whose fair handsomeness almost took her breath away. Roger of Hereford kissed her hand, murmured good wishes, and moved on to her husband whom he addressed more jovially.

  "I do not need to wish you well—you are well. Who could believe that such a face would go with such a dower?"

  "Your wife left nothing greatly to be desired on either score," Rannulf replied good-naturedly. He was far better pleased with Catherine than he had expected and was perfectly willing to display his satisfaction.

  "Ah, but my wife is not here. She was lightened of a daughter some weeks ago and is still confined."

  Rannulf's brows drew together. Childbirth was a serious and dangerous matter. He had lost his first wife to it. "We did not see eye to eye, but I remember the lady kindly. She does well, I hope."

  "Aye, and the girl is already a shrew like her mother, God bless them both. When I first held her in my arms, she struck me soundly on the mouth."

  "There speaks a new-made father." Rannulf laughed, recalling his own feeling of pride in similar circumstances.

  "But I am not a new-made father, at least, it is the third time. All I seem to get is women . . . not that I regret this one. I wanted a maiden this time for I have her already bound in marriage, but the next, I hope, will be a son. There is my brother Walter to succeed me, but my brother … But this is no time to speak of political matters."