The Sword and The Swan (26 page)

As the days passed and point after point of an acceptable agreement was hammered out, a spirit of genuine optimism began to infect both the earl of Hereford and the earl of Soke. When the blue eyes met the gray, there was now confidence and respect where suspicion and caution had previously reigned.

Rannulf saw that Roger of Hereford really wished to compose a pact of which he could keep both the spirit and the letter. Hereford recognized that Soke was as anxious as he to avoid ambiguous phrasing or vague commitments that could cause claims of violation where no violation was intended. For men of short temper and sharp tongues, both showed great restraint in dealing with each other and, although angry words were exchanged often enough, at no time was the conference in danger of breaking up.

The agreement was exceedingly detailed; even minute points, such as what type of raid or the numbers of men involved in a raid that could or could not be cited as a violation of the pact, were considered. This was necessary, for it was inconceivable that all hostilities could be brought to a halt.

Private quarrels would continue unabated; indeed, neither man thought or desired that they should stop. It was every man's right to settle his personal quarrels by force. All that was necessary was to decide what level of quarrel merited interference by an overlord and what that overlord could do for the defense of his vassal without violating the treaty of peace.

"I believe," Rannulf said, frowning thoughtfully at the innocent cleric who was writing down what had been decided, "that if the battle is not carried outside of the lands of the vassals concerned, either in offense or defense, that the overlord may be said to be blamelessly performing his duty in succoring his man."

Hereford considered that. "You mean that if Salford, who is Oxford's vassal, should attack Evesham, who is my man, I could go to Evesham's aid if the battle was kept within Evesham's or Salford's property?"

"Aye. To restrict either overlord to the defense only of his own vassal's lands would be unworkable. You could attack Salford, but not, for instance, Evenlode."

"But I would need to pass through Evenlode. It would be almost impossible . . . Yes? What do you want?"

The page so addressed backed away. Hereford was usually very good-natured, but he could land a stinging blow when interrupted inopportunely. "There is a messenger below for the earl of Soke."

"From whom?" Rannulf asked sharply, and then, before the page could answer, he turned to Hereford, his eyes shadowed. "If he be from the king, I will not receive him here. It will be safer for us both if I were outside the walls."

The flash of concern died out of Hereford's eyes. Even if the king had sent a writ, Rannulf had sense enough to see that he would only be trapped himself if he accepted it. He nodded to the page.

"From Leicester, my lord, so he says."

Rannulf rose eagerly to his feet. "Robert must have succeeded with him then. Let us see what he says. We will have to try to finish this matter today so that I can set out at once to obtain his approval before someone can shift his mind for him."

He seized on the scroll bearing Leicester's seal and broke the wax impatiently with a grim smile. A quick jerk unrolled the parchment and Rannulf's eyes fell on the words hungrily. Now he would need only bring Hereford's signed agreement to the king and he could go home again, home to his wife and his children.

Hereford, watching, saw the eagerness, even the life, drain out of Rannulf's face as he read and his own heart sank. It was all useless; they were too late.

As if he had read Hereford's mind, Rannulf groaned, "Useless—all useless. Maud's death has unsettled his reason. Hereford, I must go at once. Leicester writes that he could do nothing—worse than nothing. Stephen is on the march."

"He planned it from the beginning," Hereford snarled.

"No," Rannulf denied instinctively, "he is a good man, and—" His voice cut off sharply and he shrugged. "He has been different since Maud's death, more . . . Hereford, there is still one chance to bring him to our way of thinking. Come with me and speak with him yourself. You know how easily Stephen is moved by soft words. Perhaps face to face—"

So firm was Hereford's confidence in Rannulf's honor that he felt not a flicker of anger or suspicion. "I could not chance it. Even a fool like Stephen could not fail to grasp such an opportunity to have me at his mercy."

"Nay, I will ride before and have his safe-conduct for you to come and to go."

"Can any man trust Stephen's safe-conduct?"

A touch of color came into Rannulf's face. This was the hardest part of being Stephen's vassal—the knowledge that, well-meaning or not, your overlord's word was worth nothing. Desperately he offered the only thing he had left to offer.

"I will be your hostage. Upon my honor, you will go out of court as free as you come in, even if I must raise my men and fight to free you."

Hereford's blue eyes caught and held Rannulf's. Although nearly twenty years lay between them, the blue eyes were, in this moment, older and wiser, bitterer and more cynical, than the gray.

Seldom had an opportunity more golden fallen into the earl of Hereford's hands. All he needed to do was to agree. There could be no doubt that the safe-conduct would be offered; less doubt that it would be violated; and still less that Rannulf, earl of Soke, would, indeed, raise his vassals and fight against the king for Hereford's freedom. Then Rannulf would be lost to Stephen as a supporter. He could not, in all probability, be brought to join Henry's cause even then, but he would be forced to stand aloof.

Leicester was more than half-convinced to break with Stephen already. The loss of Soke's powerful support for Stephen of Blois would probably be the deciding factor to drive Leicester into Henry's camp. Northampton was old; Warwick was also old and his wife, like Leicester, would jump to whichever side seemed strongest.

The struggle was bitter, but brief, and Hereford laughed aloud. "Nay, it is too late for that. It was too late the day Maud died, but you and I, deluded by our dreams, did not wish to see. Go then in peace, until we meet in war, and remember that the earl of Hereford, though bespattered by filth, was not yet so sunk in the mire that he set advantage above honor."

CHAPTER 12

The day upon which the earl of Soke rode away from Hereford Castle was as perfect as that upon which he had arrived. This time, however, Rannulf saw neither the blue skies nor the green fields. There was now no time for consideration of such trifles nor for vain regrets. He had desired peace so fervently that it had been like a physical ache within him.

Yet, if it was not to be, it was not; and the quickest road now to that goal was a hard enough and successful enough war. Accordingly, that part of Rannulf's mind that was not wondering where the king had gone and the quickest way to find him was taken up with the problem of where to notify his vassals to meet him.

At home, his heart cried, go home. The men will come quickest to Sleaford which they know best. Aye, replied the hard voice of duty, and then you will be farthest from the king. Go to Oxford.

The heart cried out again, but hopelessly, for Oxford was of all places the most logical. It was the favorite stronghold of Stephen and Eustace outside of London, the place where the king was likeliest to be if he was not already in action. It was on the direct road to London from Hereford and on the direct road from Sleaford toward the Angevin strongholds of Devizes and Wallingford in the south. Leicester had given no hint of where Stephen would go—it was possible that Stephen himself had not yet decided—but whether the king planned to attack Gloucester or Hereford or the southern fortresses, he would certainly pass through or stop at Oxford.

They moved fast and openly as long as they were on Hereford's domain, riding due east so that they could avoid passing too close to Gloucester. It was possible that Leicester's messenger had outstripped those whom the rebel spies had sent from court, or it was possible that the spies would wait to discover where Stephen meant to launch his attack, but it would be foolish to count too heavily on that possibility and chance being taken prisoner. Better to ride hard to Winchcomb, rest a while there, and continue on to Oxford through the night.

It was easy to decide once the longings of the heart had been subdued, but there were discomforts to be endured in the accomplishment. They were no longer riding at a foot-pace with every reason for delay, so that the faint breeze could cool the armor upon which the sun blazed. There was now no time to idle through the streams they forded, dismounting to drink themselves and allowing the horses to fill their bellies. A full belly makes a slow mount, and the cursing men dragged up their horses' heads and drove spurs into the lathered beasts, hating the sparkling, chuckling waters that were beyond their reach.

Rannulf alone was impervious to heat and thirst, not because his body was any different or any harder than those of his men, but because he alone had things other than his body to concern himself with. The men of his household guard were free mercenaries, serfs of his land in whom he had recognized a spirit and willingness to fight, or the younger sons and brothers of his lesser vassals to whom he gave employment. They rode when and where he told them; they fought when and where he told them; most of them cared for nothing except the rewards they won from their master for their service.

Sometimes to the highborn members of his troop, Rannulf would explain why he undertook a certain action—largely for the sake of having someone to talk to—but none of them would dare ask for an explanation that Rannulf did not offer voluntarily. Their safety was in his hands, and he had never failed to guard it well in the past; therefore, the men had nothing to think about beyond the heat of the sun, their thirst and fatigue, and where and when they would stop to rest.

The path of safety having been considered and chosen, Rannulf was free to think of other matters. What had happened at court while he was gone? What had spurred Stephen to action? Why had Leicester failed to move him, and how much unrest among the barons had Leicester caused in attempting to force the king to change his mind? Leicester's hurried note had answered none of these questions.

The men and horses rested at Winchcomb, filling their stomachs, slaking their thirst, and snatching a few hours of sleep in preparation for the long night ride that they faced. Rannulf, just as he had been unconscious of discomfort, was unmindful of the amenities their refuge offered. He ate and drank, it was true, but only because the food was set before him. He
could
not send out summonses to his vassals to request the forty days' service for an offensive war before he knew positively where to tell them to meet him, or before he knew positively from the king himself that there would be war.

Rannulf wrote only to Robert and to Catherine, and it took every minute of his time in Winchcomb to compose his letters. Leicester was easy. Rannulf thanked him for his warning, told him that he would be at Oxford the following day, and asked for a full explanation of what had happened. He sat for hours, however, wondering how to explain to Catherine just what he wanted of her.

She was to tell her vassals nothing, yet she was to manage so that they would be in readiness to march to war on a few days' notice. She was to assure them that he had every intention of backing her promise to them that they would not be called to war, yet she was to word her assurances so that, if their strength would bring victory, Rannulf could summon them nonetheless. She was to arrange the strengthening of
all
castles and fortifications fronting on the lands of the earl of Norfolk, but in such a way that Norfolk would have no cause to suspect that any attack would be launched against him. She was to wring what more money was possible from the land, but on no account to borrow against the future because still more money would be needed for next year. She was to levy an excess tax upon all merchants traveling in Rannulf's domains, but not to make the tax so exorbitant that trade would be brought to a halt.

When Catherine first received the letter and had skimmed through it, looking more for a personal message or a sign in Rannulf's handwriting of his state of mind and health, she giggled faintly. He was explaining everything so minutely because he thought her an idiot that he ended by following every command with a negative and every statement with a qualification. Catherine patted the parchment fondly, realizing that her husband loved her all the more for thinking her a fool.

Tenderly, almost as if it were part of Rannulf himself, Catherine unrolled the parchment again and set herself to read between the lines. As the real sense of the missive came across to her, the fresh color faded from her cheeks.

Here there was no matter for laughter at all, not even in the qualifications and contradictions. Although Rannulf did not state specifically that the period of truce was over and war had broken out, that fact was plain. Once she had prayed for a man of action; now she had one. Catherine pressed a hand to her side, for her heart was fluttering with fear.

"Madam, what is it?"

Mary, ever watchful, was beside her. Catherine swallowed. "Nothing that need concern you, my child."

She could control her voice, could even force her lips to smile, but her will could not bring back the bloom to her cheeks. Mary's eyes flicked to the close-written sheet, to the broken seal, which displayed the dagger and chevrons of the Master of Sleaford.

"He is coming home?" Nothing else, to Mary's mind, was a matter of sufficient weight to drive the color from her stepmother's face.

"You should speak more respectfully of your father, Mary. You should call him 'father' or 'my lord' or by his title."

The words were an automatic response to Mary's reluctant designation of Rannulf as "he." She rarely spoke of him in any other way and, in spite of all of Catherine's efforts, Mary, docile in everything else, persisted in fearing and disliking her father. Catherine was not really thinking of that, not really thinking about Mary at all, or she would have realized that there was more hope than fear in the girl's question. Mary, too, had an interest in Soke's return. Catherine had forgotten that, forgotten everything in the wave of longing that her stepdaughter's question awoke.