The Sword and The Swan Read online

  "Not if you overset the table and your trencher. Sit still. Are you fed only upon rabbits that you jump so?"

  "And not if you bang it upon the floor and spoil the edge as you did with your wooden one," interjected Lady Catherine.

  Rannulf looked from his wife to his son and bit his lips. There was a strong conspiracy here. He had heard nothing about the damaged sword. Doubtless she had provided the child with another or had one of the men-at-arms repair it. Or had she taken it from him? This was a good time to test out a small fear he had. Sometimes women who doted upon children would not permit a boy to grow into a man.

  "Go," the father said. "Go and get your cloak and wait for me below. I see you will eat no more, nor permit us to finish our meal in peace." When the boy was gone, he turned to Catherine, "What say you, shall he have the sword?"

  Catherine's heart sank further. To ask such a question of her betokened no little trust. "Yes, he is more than four. It is time for him to learn how to care for it. But not too sharp an edge, my lord, or we will not have a stick of furniture left." She smiled involuntarily. "He duels mightily with the stools and bed-curtains."

  Her husband laughed shortly, but his eyes were considering, and he tested further, glad of the natural opportunity to sound her on the management of male children. "He does, eh? Then it is time for him to have a tutor in arms who can give him more steady attention than I can. I will look about me."

  He expected a protest at the threatened removal of the child from her influence, but Catherine nodded approval. Because of her first husband's gentleness and disinterest in the usual male pursuits, she had thought long and often on how her own son should be raised to make him more manly.

  "It is not my place to tell you how to raise your sons, but I have thought so, and wished to speak to you of it. He is large and very forward for his age. For a tutor, too, it is time."

  "You see more of him than I. You always have my leave to speak your mind about the children—mine, and those I hope will be yours." He cocked an eye at Catherine expectantly, but she did not respond. Perhaps she had only pretended a desire for Richard's company in the beginning to impress him and now, still not wishing to harm the child, wanted to be free of him. "Perhaps you find Richard more trouble than you expected," Rannulf remarked to test this hypothesis. "I can send him home if he is a burden to you."

  "Oh, no! I love him dearly, indeed I do. Do not take him from me completely."

  There could be no doubt about the sincerity of that plea. Rannulf gave up. Whatever was troubling his wife, she would have to settle it for herself or tell him outright. He could do no more for her than reassure her of his approval of her handling of Richard.

  "Nay," he said, "if you do not desire to be free of him, I care not where he bides. I see you are to be trusted. You will put no women's garments on him, nor give him a spinning wheel in place of a sword and shield. Good God," Rannulf exclaimed as a loud crash and considerable laughter came up the stairwell, "I had better go before he wreaks greater havoc. The men are fond of him and let him do anything."

  Richard was returned by a contingent of the men-at-arms in time for his supper and bed, but Rannulf did not come with him. As the usual hour for his return passed without sign of him, Catherine grew more and more nervous. Her guilty conscience kept telling her that he had met one of her father's vassals and heard from him what she had said to Sir Giles.

  Slender as was the actual possibility of such a chance meeting taking place, it seemed to Catherine that it would be in perfect conformity with her uniform bad fortune. She had to speak before Rannulf met Sir Giles in the morning—that meant this night—and if she confirmed any rumor he had heard of her desire to come between her men and himself … Catherine shuddered as she heard his step on the stair and shuddered again as he came in scowling horribly. She turned pale, knowing that her worst fears had been realized, but her lips and hands were steady and her eyes met his squarely.

  "Sir Herbert Osborn was your father's vassal, was he not?"

  No greeting, as usual, and a voice deadly quiet with fury, but the opening was not the one Catherine had feared. Unless Catherine was conscious of some guilt, Rannulf's rages had no longer any power of really frightening her.

  "Yes, my lord."

  "He has laid a complaint that I married you falsely against your will, and that you were promised to him. Woman, did you hold your tongue for fear and put this shame on me?"

  Catherine's color came rushing back. "No. He lies. Neither by my word nor by my father's was any promise given him. He offered for me, so much is true, but I could not even think of such matters at the time. He was no favorite with my father either, and I cannot believe so kind a father would have promised me without my knowledge."

  "He says he has a letter bearing such a promise from your father. Moreover—" Rannulf was about to add that Sir Herbert said more than that. He said that Catherine had known of the promise and had been terrified into silence by the threat that he would be killed if she spoke.

  "I cannot believe it!" Catherine cried, and then, incomprehensibly even to herself, she burst into tears.

  It was the first time Rannulf had seen her cry, and it took a self-control made strong by many years of practice to allow him to maintain an apparent indifference.

  "There is no need for this caterwauling," he said repressively. "I hope you speak the truth and that you have not dishonored me and yourself by coming, promised to another man, to my bed. Be quiet, I say. What good will this do now?"

  He passed a hand across his face and came farther into the room, watching her strive to control herself. "Very well," he went on more quietly. "It is like enough that no more will come of this since the king and queen are surely my friends in the matter. Probably it will amount to nothing else than a challenge for swords as well as lances at the tourney. I will lesson him well, and he will hold his tongue."

  In spite of all efforts, Catherine's tears still flowed and Rannulf was so wrenched with jealousy that he scarcely knew what he was saying. "I would give much," he burst out bitterly, "to know whether you weep for the loss of the chance to have him to husband. For him you need not weep; I will not slay him unless he forces me to it."

  That brought her head up as if she had been hit, the tears like clear pearls clinging to her cheeks. "I would not weep for the loss of any man I have yet seen," Catherine spat, but the shock to her pride did her good. Pig of a man, she thought, no one but he may have honor or worth. It will do him good to learn I am no cipher and that he must walk warily lest I outfox him. "You asked me at dinner why I was so silent, and I said I was not well," Catherine began, swallowing the last of her sobs and dashing the tears from her eyes. "That was a lie. Now I will tell you."

  "You knew of this?"

  It was a bellow that brought a restless cry from Richard on the other side of the room screen. Catherine turned her back on her husband and went to quiet the child as if Rannulf was of no more importance than the meanest servant.

  She eyed him coldly on her return. "Not of the formal complaint, of course. No doubt care was taken that it should not come to my ears, but of talk among the vassals of Soke I did know. I had hoped that you would not need to hear of it for the sake of the men involved. Sir Giles Fortesque, chief of my father's vassals, came to me this morning to ask if I had been forced against my will into marriage. I told him that it was not true and that, since the king had given me to you, I was content."

  Rannulf turned to the sideboard to pour wine to soothe his throat, which was aching strangely, but his hand shook so that the wine slopped over the goblet onto the floor. If any man had told him a month before that a woman's word could cause his throat to ache with unshed tears, could cause his hand to tremble so that he could not hold a cup of wine, he would have laughed—and struck him down.

  "Was that all he said?"

  "No," Catherine replied, her path clear now. "He asked me to tell you of Sir Herbert's faction, which does not wish to see a strong man m
ade the earl of Soke—at least, not a strong man other than himself. He also begged me to tell you that as my father's men they had lived long at peace and to pray you not to press them into this thankless war."

  "He comes to a woman for a strange purpose."

  "Some men," Catherine said icily, "are fond of their wives and are moved by their prayers and entreaties. Then too, I am all that is left of my father, and Sir Giles was ever attached to him and to me. Perhaps he is thus blinded to my imperfections and thinks all men must look upon me with favor."

  The fragile golden stem of the goblet bent and twisted in Rannulf's hand. The next day he discovered that one of the leaves that was chased upon that stem had pierced his palm. Just then he felt no pain except that in his heart.

  How did a man show a woman his fondness without making himself a fool? He had done everything he knew how to do—given her the keys to his money-boxes, entrusted her with his son, not failed a night in her bed so that she might know there were no other women. If she desired words, he was lost. He had none and knew none. What did she want of him? It was a woman's form of sport to make a man confess his love when she felt nothing, that she might boast of it among her friends. Did she sound so fond that he must open his heart to make her sport?

  "And you, no doubt, gave answer for me," he said bitterly. "Well, what did you say? Tell me, that I too may speak by rote as you taught my child."

  "I said that he should wait upon you at the prime tomorrow morning and that you would doubtless explain fully to him what you desired. And now, in truth, I am ill. I can speak with you and listen to your insults no more."

  She could have dealt with the vassal in no more proper or dutiful way. Filled with remorse for his sharp words, Rannulf lifted a hand toward his wife in an unconsciously pleading gesture, but Catherine had turned away to join her women. She did not return to their bed that night, and Rannulf spent the long hours until morning cursing marriage, cursing women, and, most bitterly of all, cursing his own hasty tongue.

  CHAPTER 5

  The beginning of April was not the best time of the year to hold a tourney; the earth was still soft with rain and the grass had not yet formed a solid mat. Needs must, however, is a master that is obeyed, and the queen's purpose was best served by setting that date. Rannulf made no objection to the time because it could not be soon enough for him. If he was to be earl of Soke, the sooner he took homage of the men and proved his ability to rule them, the better. Leaderless barons were likely to take the bit between their teeth, and then it was no small labor to check-rein them into docility.

  The day before the tourney, Robert of Leicester had come, surprisingly, to offer himself and some of his vassals to back Rannulf in the melee.

  "What the devil do you mean by making an offer like that?" Rannulf asked testily. "I lead the vassals of Soke against all comers. If you want to fight, fight against us," Rannulf shrugged and then smiled, "but not too hard."

  "I mean what I appear to mean. I do not believe the vassals of Soke are to be trusted. I think they will sooner run a lance through your back than through the opposing party."

  Rannulf was not shocked; it was not unknown to happen in spite of oaths of homage when vassals were desperate to be rid of an overlord. Usually, however, the overlord had to be completely insufferable before such drastic action was taken, and Rannulf knew himself to be well-liked by his own men and of good repute as an overlord in the world at large.

  "What reason have you to so missay these men, Robert?"

  "I have two good reasons, neither of which you will like, but it were better for you to credit them. The first is that they have long sided with Henry and take no pleasure in vassalage to a king's man. Second, you know your wife was promised to Sir Herbert Osborn before the queen pressed her into marriage with you."

  Rannulf shook his head, but before he could speak, Leicester continued, "Nay, there is no use scowling at me, you have seen her father's letter. Well, Osborn says at large that the father was unwilling and it was the woman who urged the match. Add but this, that the whole party speaks of the lady as the countess of Soke and makes no pretense but that they will follow her will over yours. Rannulf, save your black looks for her or for her men, I am your friend. I have been much interested to see what the lady would do since the coming of her men, so I have watched. She has been closeted with their leader more than once—a little thing that perhaps you did not know."

  "You are wrong, Robert. I did know it." By now Rannulf's face was an ugly mahogany color, but he made an effort to control his temper. "My wife herself told me of the matter and the second visit of Sir Giles was to me. Moreover, she has sworn that the letter is not genuine, seal or no seal, and that, even if it is, she knew nothing of it. She told Sir Giles as much, and he confirmed her words."

  "The witch," Leicester said slowly, "she has entrapped you already. Who would have thought that at your age you would be so easily enamored by a pretty face?"

  "I pray you, Robert, for the years we have been brothers, say no more. I stake my life that she is as virtuous as beautiful. "

  "You fool! You are staking your life on it. Let my men fight behind your banner."

  "No!"

  "Very well," Leicester snarled, "even if Catherine is a saint, the men of Soke are not to be trusted for a third reason. This you will not like either. But Eustace has been in close conference with Sir Herbert, and it is said that he will yield estates to Eustace for the title of Soke when you are dead, and hold of Eustace instead of Stephen."

  "Oh, God!"

  "So, finally you see the light. I will send some thirty knights to you before dark. They—"

  "No, no. This changes nothing for me. I know of Osborn's party against me. It was largely that which Sir Giles came to discuss with me, but I have watched Eustace close and I cannot doubt your words. This will break Stephen, and we will be lost. If the boy turns against him, he will have no heart to fight to keep the kingdom."

  "So I think also, which is why I say you should guard yourself well. We will need every man in the days to come."

  Rannulf shuddered, unhearing. "So loving-kind a father. Who could believe that a child so cosseted would turn like a serpent to sting what protected him? Nay, I missay the snake. Not even the venomous reptile is so unnatural Only man destroys what loves him."

  "In the name of God, Rannulf, this is no time for philosophy on the ingratitude of children. When I want to hear a sermon, I will call a priest. If you will not have my men, what will you do about the melee?"

  "Sir Herbert Osborn will not fight in the melee, and I hope that the chastisement visited upon him will somewhat cool the blood of those who follow his lead. I have thrown his lie in his teeth—Catherine swears that the letter could not have been truly from her father unless extorted by force." Leicester snorted and Rannulf cast him a warning glance. "I have challenged him to make the lie good upon my body."

  "Oh," Leicester groaned, "you are mad! Mad! Why I have maintained an affection for you all these years, I will never know. You have spoken with the Lord, perhaps, that you are so sure of success? Osborn is under thirty and a strong man—I have seen him."

  "Am I so old?"

  "Plainly your mind is like a babe's, but your body is too old to play games with trial by combat."

  Rannulf looked startled but not angry. "In truth, Robert, have you heard that I am less strong a fighter of late? That creeps on a man without his knowledge, and it might be that I have not seen what other men have and are too kind to speak of."

  "Nay, nay," Leicester soothed, "it is nothing of that kind. But it is one thing to fight on the field where a man may draw behind his vassals to breathe when he has need of breath, another to oppose a man more than ten years younger in single combat."

  Robert of Leicester was not the only one distressed by the trial by combat. Maud was, at the same moment, confronting her husband with a mixture of rage and despair.

  "How could you allow this to take place? Who is this upstart
Osborn that he has the right to challenge Rannulf of Sleaford?"

  "He too is a baron, my dear, and not yet less in rank. Moreover, he did not issue the challenge—Rannulf did."

  "Did you say nothing? Did you not try to point out to Tefli that he only demeans himself and dishonors us by giving credit to the man's ravings by such a challenge?"

  Stephen laughed. "Did you ever try to reason with Rannulf when he was in a rage?"

  "Yes, I have," the queen snapped, "and I have always found him to be a reasonable man, in spite of his hasty temper."

  "Not when his pride is touched. Another thing of even greater importance is that perhaps Sir Herbert has the right in the matter. It is no fault of ours, for the woman said nothing, but Eustace has examined the letter and says it certainly bears Soke's seal."

  "Eustace?" Maud faltered. "Was it he that brought this before you?"

  "Aye."

  "Oh . . . oh." Maud seated herself beside her husband and took his hand in hers, but she looked into the flames before them with tear-blinded eyes.

  She had striven so hard to keep her family free of the all-too-common power jealousies. Stephen had never been a problem; he loved his children well and tenderly, and was only too willing to give them anything they demanded. Never had he shown the faintest sign of fear that his son wished to succeed him before the natural event of his death.

  Six months ago Maud would have sworn that she had succeeded with her son also, but since this last campaign Eustace had changed. Was she now to choose between her husband and her son? Maud wondered. Her hand tightened convulsively on Stephen's, and he pulled loose so that he could put his arm around her shoulders.

  "You trouble yourself too much with such matters, my love. Let Rannulf of Sleaford do his own fretting. He is no easy man to match on the field, and we have done as much as we can for him."

  "Yes," Maud sighed. "Oh, Stephen, I am so tired. I could almost wish . . ." She let her voice drift away, telling herself for the space of a few breaths that she would strive no more.