The Sword and The Swan (21 page)

"Nay, Soke," Warwick said hastily, "I have matters to attend to at home. I must ride to Warwick first."

"And I to Northampton to bring my wife and son to Feversham."

Rannulf looked from one to the other. Both were making excuses to dissociate themselves from him. Warwick had planned to stay at Sleaford for several weeks and had received no message from his lands; what then could be so urgent to draw him home? Northampton's eldest son, Simon, was a man full grown, perfectly capable of coming himself and escorting his mother anywhere in England.

"Perhaps," Rannulf said coldly, "you would like me to withdraw my son from your service, Northampton? Are you not afraid that he will carry my taint?"

"Do not talk nonsense," the old man replied, although he had the grace to look somewhat self-conscious. "I have a great regard for Geoffrey."

Rannulf was about to remark caustically that he was sure Northampton's regard for Geoffrey was in direct proportion to his hope of controlling the property through the young man after his father's death or disgrace. He restrained himself, however, realizing that someone would have to help Geoffrey, and Northampton was honest and honorable, even if he did not wish to be dragged into Rannulf's personal feud with Eustace.

"And you, Robert, you must go back to Leicester to escort your wife also, no doubt."

"Aye, I must." Leicester laughed, but his eyes were hard and cold. "You will not take out your spleen on me, Rannulf. You are more than welcome to ride with me home and from there to Feversham."

"I thank you for your gracious kindness, but I will not so burden you."

The sarcasm drew no more than another laugh from Leicester, this time a somewhat more genuine one, but as soon as he was free he sought Rannulf out. Soke was discussing the final arrangements for his departure, but he stopped mid-sentence when Leicester came in view and turned a face of stone with blank gray eyes on him.

"You cannot freeze me, Rannulf, I have known you too long. You should not go at all. Nay, be still. I know you were fond of Maud and would wish to do her honor, but hard on the burying comes the council, and that you must avoid."

"I have no intention of avoiding it."

For a moment Leicester stood silent, a rich color dyeing his face. Then the color faded and he laid his hand on Rannulf's arm. "Fool! I do not think there are ten like you in the world. If you must go, then I beg in all sincerity that you come first to Leicester with me so that we may ride to Feversham together."

"No."

Again Leicester flushed with rage. "You are the most pig-headed— Whom do you spite but yourself and your family by this behavior? There is a chance that proof of our continuing bond may do you good."

"Even now I need no man's charity," Rannulf replied harshly. He raised his eyes to Leicester's face and the set look softened. "Nay, Robert, it can do me no good. I must stand or fall alone. My heart is heavy enough. Think how I must feel if you should be involved in my troubles."

"God keep you, Rannulf," Leicester sighed, and surprised his foster brother by embracing and kissing him warmly.

In the women's quarters an even more unusual embrace was being given and received. Mary pulled her lips free of Sir Andre's, her eyes filled with tears. "I should not have permitted that. Now you will think I am such another as my mother was."

"Nay, dear heart," the young man murmured. "I know nothing of your mother except that she must have been a woman of virtue. Had she not been a maid and forced into the earl's bed, he would not have acknowledged you as his daughter. If there is a fault in one kiss, the fault is mine."

"But you did not need to force me," Mary whispered.

"Thank God for that. You do love me, do you not, Mary? Sweet love, do not hang your head. Let me see your eyes. Let my heart live on the knowledge of your love."

"What can my love matter when my father is master here? What do you want of me?"

"You know I desire you for my wife. I love you. You cannot believe I would wish to dishonor you."

"I do not know what to believe," she sighed. "If you are true, why did you not offer for me? His lordship has no value for a bastard daughter. He would give me to a beggar on the road or a serf of the domain."

"Mary, you know not whereof you speak. You are young and—and very comely. There will be offers enough." The young voice was suddenly bitter. "What would we live on? Where? How? I have nothing but my horse and arms."

She sobbed and he caught her back into his arms, kissing her eyes and cheeks and hair.

"Mary!"

They sprang apart. Mary gave one glance at Catherine's face, uttered a low cry, and fled. Sir Andre sank to one knee, crimson with shame.

"What does this mean? Is this the way you repay my husband's kindness?"

"Madam, forgive me. I did her no harm. I love her."

"Do you think it no harm to put such thoughts into a girl's mind? Have you her father's permission—or even any hope of such permission—to court her?" Catherine was furious, more furious with herself for allowing matters to get to the state they were in than she was with Andre. "What if her father should contract her elsewhere? You say you love her. Is it love to fix her affections dishonestly so that she will not be able to give them to her chosen husband and will live in torment?"

The young head bent beneath the rebuke. "It was the hopelessness that drove me. Just to touch her, only once . . . Madam, you do not know what it is to see a thing so dearly desired so very close and know you cannot grasp it."

But Catherine did know and she responded to Andre's pain. "Do you wish to marry her?" she asked more gently.

"Wish! What would I not give—" A harsh laugh followed. "What have I got?"

"Nothing, of course, and Mary has nothing also, but Lord Soke is not a greedy man and is tender of his children. This, however, is no time to speak to him about anything. If you behave with propriety in the future, I will do what I can for you;" Catherine heard the door open and lowered her voice to finish what she had to say—the maids if they heard would spread the matter all over the keep. "I offer you no hope—you must understand that and you will have to wait a long time, but— Oh, my lord, how you startled me."

"Did I?" Rannulf's eyes moved from the kneeling man to his wife's crimson complexion. "The message we have awaited has come."

"Oh!" Catherine's gesture sent Andre from the room. "Was there aught of note in it?"

"A summons to council as well as to attend the funeral."

They were both speaking somewhat at random, Catherine's mind leaping from the complication of Andre and Mary to fear for Rannulf and back again. Rannulf's mind did not leap. From an initial, agonizing shock of jealousy he recovered immediately because his belief in Catherine's virtue was absolute.

The receding sensation left a small core of uneasiness. There was something she was keeping from him deliberately. Rannulf now had what he had assured himself he would be content with—the knowledge that his wife did not hate him and that she welcomed his caresses. Having achieved that distant good, once desired as passionately as a saint desires heaven, Rannulf found it without value. Like most mortals, he had asked for a finger and, having received it, discovered that what he truly wanted was the whole arm. He wanted, in fact, what he would not give to Catherine, complete trust and faith.

"When must you leave?" she asked anxiously.

"Straightaway. I came only to tell you I would go as soon as my men are ready."

"So soon? Surely the few hours cannot be of significance. Go tomorrow."

There were many reasons for keeping Rannulf another day, both emotional and practical, but although Catherine sincerely loved her husband, the practical reasons were paramount at the moment. If she had a little time, she might be able to convince him to take Andre with him without the necessity of betraying Mary.

It would be an excellent thing all around for Andre to go. True, Richard was an imp and not easy to handle, but his need was less desperate than Mary's. Anyone could tutor Richard for a while. With Andre gone, temptation would be removed from Mary.

Furthermore, Andre in the keep of Sleaford could win neither advancement nor particular notice. If he were with Rannulf, Catherine was sure that her husband would grow to appreciate him. If worse came to worst and Rannulf was unjustly accused and needed to fight his way home, Andre might be of great value. He was strong, young, and skilled in the use of arms. Certainly he would exert himself to the uttermost to protect Rannulf because he was grateful to his lord for his position, because Rannulf was his beloved's father, and because he might, through impressing the father with his strength and devotion, win the daughter as a reward.

Searching his wife's lovely face, Rannulf was even further disturbed. There was sincerity in her voice; she did not wish him to go—so much was plain. There was also a certain abstraction that brought deep doubt of her motives for wishing to keep him.

"Do you have some particular reason, Catherine, for wanting me to stay? I thought it would be best for me to reach the king as soon as possible. In his first sorrow he might well cling to an old, familiar friend, and if I am there the tongues that wag against me will have less freedom."

"Then you must go, of course. If it is for your good to go, I would not keep you for any purpose of mine." Rannulf turned away. "Oh," Catherine cried, catching hold of him, "you cannot mean now, this very instant."

There was satisfaction in that. Whatever her reason, it was honey-sweet to have her cling to him. "The sooner we go, the less need to ride in the dark. I will arm, and then I must go." But he made no move toward his armor, holding Catherine close and resting his cheek against her hair.

Catherine decided to make her request without reason. If Rannulf suspected the affection between Mary and Andre, so much the better; it would be less of a surprise to him when the offer was made. She hurried into speech, the realization that he was really going pushing practical matters from her mind. Catherine wanted to use her final moments with her husband for kisses and a fond parting, not for discussion of other people's affairs.

"Rannulf, I have a favor to beg of you before you go."

He released her, shed his gown, and began to don his arming tunic before he replied. Catherine came to help with the stiff garment.

"A favor?" His voice was muffled by the gambeson.

"Yes. I pray you, take Andre Fortesque with you. I will find another tutor for Richard. He is brave and strong and loyal. Every man of that kind must be of value to you at such a time."

Rannulf's initial expression was concealed as he started to slide into his mail, but when he had pushed his head through the neck-hole he searched Catherine's face as he laced the hood. Did she wish to set a spy on him? The misty blue eyes that looked up into his were so unshadowed that Rannulf was immediately ashamed of the thought. More likely she had discovered that Andre was in love with her and wished to remove him from temptation.

"If you desire it, I will take him."

Voluntarily, for the first time, Catherine walked into her husband's arms. "You are so kind to me, Rannulf." Her voice quivered. "You do not even ask me why I desire this, but give it freely."

So much gratitude for so small a thing was suspicious. But for what could Catherine need a spy? Her face was turned up to his in mute invitation, and so much passion was evident in her when their lips met that Rannulf was enlightened. She was jealous—jealous of him. Oh, God, what fools women were; what silly fancies controlled them. He did not laugh or expostulate, for that would hurt her. He merely kissed away the tears, which were now forcing their way from under closed lids. More tears; more kisses; the minutes flew by.

"Catherine, I must go. I need not tell you to care for the children."

"Where shall I send to you in case of need?"

"I wish I knew. I will go direct to Feversham, but after that, I know not where I may be."

"Rannulf, I pray you, write to me often. Do not leave me to eat out my heart with worry."

"I will write."

He lifted his arms to loosen hers from about his neck, fighting the frightening desire to change his mind and stay. Rannulf had done many hard things, but at the moment this seemed to be harder than all the others.

"Do not cling to me so, my love." He was unconscious of using the endearment, hardly conscious of what he was saying at all. "You must send me forth, or I will never find the strength to go."

It was a parting to keep the heart warm through a long, sad ride. For a man in love, it was a parting to lighten the heaviest load of worry. All other doubts and dissatisfactions could be submerged in the memory of clinging arms and lips, and if Rannulf's face was drawn with anxiety when he entered the presence of the king, his eyes still held more peace than they had for two years past.

Stephen, sitting by a window with blank, unseeing eyes bent on the pea blossoms in the abbey garden, did not hear the squire announce the earl of Soke, did not turn his head until Rannulf's hand fell lightly upon his shoulder.

"My lord, I am come to you."

Rannulf was prepared for anger, for coldness, for recriminations, but sympathy warmed his normally hard voice. Stephen had loved Maud, and Rannulf, in love himself, could feel the king's grief sincerely.

That sympathy and sincerity touched emotions rubbed raw with sorrow in Stephen, and the one reaction Rannulf was not prepared for left him wordless and embarrassed. The king burst into tears and flung himself physically on his liege man.

"I am alone," he wept, "all alone. She was the only one who loved me and she is gone."

The reaction was not unusual, nor was it shameful for a man to weep for his grief, but Rannulf was not one to indulge himself with such behavior. He had no close friends who had yet needed to call upon him to comfort them, and he did not consider using the methods he employed with his children to soothe his king. As a result he stood silent, very much at a loss.

"Thank God," Stephen choked after a few minutes of unrestrained sobbing. "You, at least, do not mouth platitudes and texts at me. She is with God, these accursed priests tell me. I know she is with God. Was she not the best woman in the world? But she is not with me—and I need her."