The Sword and The Swan (19 page)

It was just as well that the day started mirthfully for it did not continue so. Northampton and Leicester arrived as scheduled, but they brought more open disunity with them, rather than any spirit of cooperation. Leicester said plainly that he could do nothing. He did not deny that he thought it well to send Eustace to France, but since Louis of France was Eustace's brother-by-marriage and was the one most nearly concerned in Henry's possession of Normandy, he felt that Louis should provide Eustace with forces.

Warwick agreed partially with this view of the matter, but held that they should send a token force to please Louis and Stephen. Northampton insisted vehemently that Eustace should receive full support. He held that Eustace was going as Stephen's deputy to fight against the claimant to the throne, not to support his brother-by-marriage. Rannulf held his peace.

His situation was difficult in the extreme. He believed firmly that as great a strength as could be gathered should be sent to Normandy with Eustace. He was not only ready to send his men but to go himself, except that Eustace had stated flatly that he would not have the earl of Soke with him.

For Rannulf to send his men without himself at their head entailed many risks. They might not fight willingly for Eustace in a country in which they had no interest. His own vassals might do so simply because he ordered them to fight, but his wife's vassals certainly would not. They would resent being sent to war at all, and to send them all the way to Normandy without going himself would certainly provoke them to rebellion of one type or another. Eustace, too, was not to be trusted. Either he would push the hated earl of Soke's men into the most dangerous situations or he would endeavor to convince them to violate their oath of homage to Soke and become his own men.

Rannulf's silence did not go unnoticed. After dinner, Leicester turned upon him eyes reddened by sufficient wine to make tact unnecessary.

"You are unnaturally quiet, my dear brother and friend. Let us hear your voice."

Rannulf shrugged. "My voice can but repeat what it ever has. Do you not remember the state of the barons under the first Henry?"

"I do—and not unkindly," Leicester retorted. "At least then the churches we built were not burned before the ornamentation was finished."

"You groaned loud enough that you were tethered to the king's heels like a dog. I tell you this Henry is another of the same cut."

"We are not talking of Henry but of Eustace. Will you trust your vassals to his governance?"

"But it is Henry of whom we speak whenever we speak of Eustace." Rannulf sighed. "It is either one or the other of them. If Eustace conquers in Normandy, Henry will not come to England to trouble us."

"That is what I say also, Leicester," Northampton threw in. "So strongly do I feel, that I would go myself if I were a stick of use, but I am so crippled that I cannot hold a sword in my hand." He held out his hand, gnarled and twisted as evidence.

"I too am old," Warwick said, "and I too would gladly go, but if we send the flower of our strength to France, what surety have we that Henry will not come when we are naked and unprotected? Nay, I do not side with Leicester," Warwick added, "and I agree that it would be well to keep Henry in Normandy, but might we not do it with a smaller force?"

"We might do it in many ways, Warwick." Leicester agreed sourly. "We might send money to buy mercenaries; we might send promises to the King of France. But I wonder why Soke did not answer my question. Out with it, Rannulf. What will you send with Eustace, and will you go yourself?"

"I cannot go," Rannulf said slowly, flushing slightly, "but I will send the full strength that I am pledged to give Stephen if that is what is asked of me." The other men shifted in their seats, and Rannulf went on hurriedly, "Wait, my lords, I have a proposal to make that may suit us all. Leicester has asked if I would trust my vassals to Eustace's governance, and there is merit in the question."

"Oh, so he has been tampering with your men too," Leicester said on a caustic note of satisfaction.

"Not that I know of," Rannulf admitted, "but I have heard others complain. What say you, my lords, to making up a force of younger sons?"

"But—"

"Wait, Simon," Rannulf said to Northampton, "I realize that such a force would cost heavily in gold for they cannot support themselves, but there are other benefits to be gathered. Our sworn vassals will be clear of Eustace's meddling. Those young men are strong and eager for battle. They will fight for the love of fighting alone. Some may win patrimonies in France, some will certainly die, so that, best of all, we will rid the country of them. You know they are the worst plague of all upon us. Out of ten penniless younger sons, nine gather the scum of the earth about them and go out to ravage the countryside for a livelihood."

There was silence as eye met eye and the men began to add the benefit against the cost. "Certainly it is a proposal to be considered most carefully," Warwick said slowly. "Let them plunder France instead of England."

"I do not think the king or Eustace will welcome the substitution of that rabble for reliable fighting men," Northampton protested, but there was consideration in his eyes.

"You have opened your mouth finally to some point, Rannulf," Leicester added, "and it may well answer, but I am curious about one matter. Why cannot you go to France?"

Rannulf reddened noticeably. "You will have your jest, Robert, so have it. You well know that Eustace refused my attendance. He made no secret of it."

"Aye, I know well, but you interest yourself so earnestly in his well-doing that I wondered if you did. Eustace is no friend to you and you will not soften him by any display of loyalty—remember that. He has called you traitor openly in the council."

Between gritted teeth Rannulf grated, "1 will not be forsworn. I will not raise my hand against my liege lord's heir no matter what that ungrateful—"

"My lords!"

Every head snapped around because there were tears and tragedy quivering in the young voice. There were tears and tragedy too on the dust-stained young face of a page of Stephen's household.

"The queen is dead!"

CHAPTER 8

"Oh, God!" Warwick and Northampton breathed together.

"It is too soon. We are undone," Leicester cried, leaping to his feet.

The flush of rage drained from Rannulf's face and the natural color followed it, leaving his weatherbeaten complexion an ugly, pasty brown.

"How did she die?" he asked.

The page, a year or two older than Geoffrey, wiped the tears unashamedly from his face. "She said she was tired and that she would go to Hedingham in Essex to rest. That was in the third week in April. When we came there, her ladies saw that she was not well, but she would not confess it nor send for the king. Then, it must have been the 28th day or 29th day of April, she could hide her sickness no longer and she sent for her confessor. He came in time so that she died shriven and at peace, but the king did not come in time and he is greatly distraught."

No one else had any questions. They stared at each other in an appalled silence until Rannulf shook himself and sent the messenger off to eat and rest. For a while the four men merely sat, staring at each other.

To continue their discussion was fruitless, since every plan was now subject to drastic change. A little desultory conversation followed, praising the queen and regretting her loss, but each man truly desired to be alone so that he could think over the news in private and consider what was best for him to do.

Leicester broke away first, saying he had to write to his wife, and Northampton rose too, seizing the same excuse with relief. The Warwicks soon followed, leaving Rannulf alone with Catherine. He did not look at her, but he felt her presence and felt, too, strangely removed from the event that had taken place. As long as Catherine sat with her beautiful eyes fixed upon him, Rannulf could not grieve for the queen nor even think clearly of the future. He was suddenly afraid of this woman with rebel sympathies who could so bedazzle him that he could think of nothing but his desire to be with her.

"Rannulf?"

"What?"

"What did Lord Leicester mean when he said you were undone? Why are you all so distressed? As long as the king still lives . . ."

Rannulf frowned, and Catherine misunderstood the expression.

"I do not mean to pry into your affairs, my lord," she went on, her voice colder. "You know I have never questioned you or complained of your management of my vassals. I do but wish to understand what is taking place."

"Your vassals, eh?" A day previously Rannulf would have been enraged by her presumption. Today, in spite of his knowledge of how she might use the men, he merely raised his brows and said softly, "They are mine until I am no more, lady. Do not forget it."

Catherine dropped her eyes and flushed; she wanted no new quarrel with her husband. Rannulf kept his face expressionless with an effort. He remembered too well what she had said the night before, but he could not threaten her. If she turned to ice on him again . . . He would speak of the queen. That would distract her.

"The queen's death—"

Rannulf paused and looked at the mass of servants and retainers in the hall. They talked and they listened. What he planned to say to Catherine had better be said in the privacy of her solar. Upstairs, the maids had no need to be told a second time to make themselves scarce; they slipped from the room before their master spoke. The door was not quite shut, however, when someone scratched for admittance.

"Come then," Rannulf growled. "Who is it?"

A blond stripling opened the door cautiously. "I am sorry to trouble you, father, but I must speak privately with you."

"Very well, what is it Geoffrey?" He saw his son's eyes slide to Catherine and gestured impatiently. "Yes, speak. There is no need to trouble yourself over Lady Catherine."

Perhaps that was not wise, but Rannulf was not concerned with absolute wisdom. Rebel or not; just now nothing was more important to him than that Catherine have no further cause to be angry.

"May I sit down?"

"Sit down." Rannulf sighed resignedly, understanding from the request that the conference was to be an extended one. "What trouble are you in now?"

"I am not in trouble, father, but I am very uneasy in my mind."

"In your mind, eh? Well, is it a woman or money? Out with it quickly—which?"

"Neither." Serious blue eyes gazed earnestly into Rannulf's gray ones. "I have been listening to the talk today, and to a great deal of other talk in this past half-year. I know no one in the world who speaks the truth as you do, so I have come to you to have my questions answered. Why am I to hate Henry of Anjou?"

Rannulf blinked. "Whoever told you to hate Henry? Did I?"

"You never told me to hate any man, but others say you hate him, and I can see for myself that you are unalterably opposed to him. Why?"

"I do not hate him," Rannulf replied slowly. "As for my opposition, that comes from two causes. The first you know. I have given my sword-oath to Stephen of Blois. Henry would wrest the throne from him and, of course, I must oppose that. The other cause is harder to explain, for it concerns the theory of governance."

Geoffrey sat forward on his stool, his eyes bright with interest.

Rannulf went on, his expression intent. "I believe that the barons should be able to share in deciding what will happen in the realm. Henry's grandfather—also Henry believed that the king alone should decide. This Henry believes as his grandfather did, and I will not, if it be in my power to prevent it, have such a man as king."

"But father, how can any man simply decide such a thing? Mayhap, the first Henry, through having governed so long, encroached little by little, stealing power until all lay in his hands. Surely this Henry, coming into a realm where the barons are established in their might, could not do the same. Another thing: has any man, baron or common, the right to say who will be king'? Is that not a matter for God? Is not Henry of the true line?"

The patch of sunlight in which Rannulf was sitting shifted perceptibly before an answer came. Even then, it was not an answer to the problems that Geoffrey had propounded.

"What does this mean, my son?" Rannulf asked warily. "Are you trying to tell me that you wish to be free of my rule? Do you really believe that the Angevin should rightfully be king or do you fear for your patrimony?"

The young man jumped as if he had been hit. "No, father." He rose and went to kneel at Rannulf's feet. "You know I do not mean that. You know that I would follow you landless and homeless even if I knew you to be wrong. I know you are right, but I do not understand and I wish to understand."

Rannulf turned his face away from the searching eyes. Absently, he fondled his son's hair. "You know far more than I do, if you know me to be right," he said sadly. "Only God is always right. All men err. I can give you no answer because I am not sure that there is an answer. Of a certainty the way we live, torn by constant strife, is not good. At least there was peace in the time of the first Henry—even if it was a little like the peace of the grave. Mayhap that peace is better than this unrest—I do not know. Whether it is man's right or God's right to choose a king, I know not either. But I do know that a king is only a man, and since all men err, the way of wisdom is that the king, too, be governable. My son, to think about these matters, so long as your thoughts lead you not into treachery or any other dishonorable action, can only be good."

"Papa, only tell me what to think!"

Rannulf heard the child crying out to the all-wise father, rejecting the painful responsibility of manhood, rejecting the knowledge that the human father was not all-wise, not perfect.

Body and soul, Rannulf responded to that cry. He remembered how he had held Geoffrey in his arms when his son was an infant, how he had taught him to ride and hold a sword, how he had answered all his questions—as he still did for Richard—about right and wrong with calm certainty. The impulse to answer now, to shield his child from the pain of manhood and the pain of decision, was so strong that his eyes stung with tears.