The Sword and The Swan (40 page)

For the sake of her husband's safety, it would be best to act like an irresponsible woman who merely wished to exercise her own power in his absence. At first that might make Rannulf even more furious, but in the period that must intervene between his receipt of the letter and his meeting with her, he would surely come to understand her behavior.

By morning she had constructed a small masterpiece of featherbrained nonsense containing, among other things, the idiotic statement that a husband should request politely, not demand in a cold official order, the service of his wife's vassals. That should infuriate not only Rannulf but every other man who laid eyes upon it. If there were repercussions, they would be verbal criticisms of herself, and Rannulf would be the recipient of sympathy rather than suspicion. Any man who had a wife who could make such a lunatic statement deserved pity, not punishment.

Catherine's next step was to refuse to deliver this missive to the royal courier. When he asked her for a reply, she said only that she had been grossly insulted and she would not be hurried. At last, but not until he threatened to leave without an answer, Catherine delivered her letter to him with an angry pout and a pettish command that it be given into Rannulf's hand alone.

"And you may tell my husband," she added, compounding the felony, "that I am not a servant and am not to be ordered about like one."

CHAPTER 18

The earl of Soke received the answer to his letter in unlooked-for publicity. As Catherine suspected, the messenger had not gone to her husband directly but to the prince, his own master, and now Eustace came with the messenger to see Rannulf's reaction. His fury at being refused the service of the vassals was much mitigated by the manner of the refusal, but he was still suspicious that Rannulf had somehow contacted his wife and prearranged the reply. Certainly, Eustace realized, Rannulf had not arranged the time of the reply, because he appeared at call, a ridiculous figure in a hastily donned shirt, clutching a naked sword.

"The messenger has returned from Sleaford," Eustace said.

Rannulf dropped his sword point to the ground and rubbed sleepy eyes, wondering where Geoffrey was. "For that you shriek my name at the door of my tent? Could you not send the man within? Well, what says my lady? When do the men come?"

Eustace nudged the courier and glanced at the recent favorites among the vassals who had accompanied him. Now if Rannulf had not planned this, they would see some sport. The royal courier took a hesitant step. He had laughed when he recounted the tale to Eustace initially, but he did not laugh now. Rannulf's scowl was not inviting, and he had a reputation for acting first and questioning later. Moreover, the muscles hidden by that silly-looking shirt could strike through mail and bone to cleave a man in two. His voice trembled.

"I beg pardon, my lord. It is no fault of mine."

"Why should you beg pardon for doing your duty?"

Rannulf asked, but he deliberately broke the seal without looking for signs, which, indeed, he would have found, that someone had lifted it with a hot knife.

"Did not the lady send some verbal message to her lord?"

The messenger licked his lips; he was between the fire and the bottomless pit. "She said—it is no fault of mine, indeed it is not—that she is not a servant and not to be ordered about like one."

"What!"

Plainly, whatever Rannulf had expected, a message like that was not part of it. Eustace had a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that Rannulf was not receiving unalloyed pleasure from his unmerited reward of the earldom of Soke.

Meanwhile Rannulf had begun to read the parchment with staring eyes, and Eustace was further amused at the stunned, disbelieving incredulity in his face. Halfway through, Rannulf shook his head as if dazed and began again. Either Catherine had gone insane, or she had not written the letter.

He did not complete the second reading of the missive, either. It was unnecessary. "The countess of Soke," he muttered, "denies her men." He swallowed with an effort. "What would you have me do? I can bring them if I go to summon them in person."

"By that time they will be needed no longer. We have already delayed too long waiting for the levies of my father's ungrateful barons. Now he must march with what force he has at hand, and if his efforts are not attended with success, it is your fault and the fault of those like you."

Rannulf did not reply; he had not even heard. His ears were filled with Catherine's voice in every tone he had ever heard her use to him, but whether he imagined the quivering fury of her brief tempers or the icy rejection of their long estrangement, he could recall no tone in which she would have spoken those words. There had always been the chance that she would refuse openly to summon the men because she and they leaned toward the rebels, but the way in which she refused was false.

It came to him slowly, and then he did not know whether to shriek with laughter or roar with fury. So Catherine thought he needed to hide behind a woman's skirt! Well . . . perhaps she was right. Then both anger and mirth left him, and he was filled with a great desolation. The king, one of his frightened children, had rejected him, and Catherine, the other, had grown up and needed him no longer.

Geoffrey found him still standing where the others had left him, and his anxious inquiries aroused Rannulf sufficiently to permit him to dress and arm. Whether he truly absorbed the information that a large contingent of men had arrived, Geoffrey could not tell. Rannulf's eyes were dazed and withdrawn, his actions and orders the automatic result of long habit. For the next week more men drifted in, answering Rannulf's summons to his own vassals, but he did no more than receive them, waving them off into Geoffrey's care. He listened to what Geoffrey suggested about provisions and the order of the march, but to questions he replied only with vague grunts.

It did not matter that week, nor even while they were marching west, for Geoffrey and Andre had become an efficient team perfectly capable of handling routine military matters. When they arrived at Malmesbury about midnight, however, and could see the campfires of another army on the far side of the Avon, the situation became acute.

"Where shall we make camp, my lord?" Andre asked in a solicitous voice for the second time in a few moments.

The face that turned to his showed nothing but blank incomprehension for the space of a short breath. Suddenly, terrifyingly, the expression altered to one of naked hate.

"How have I offended you, my lord?" Andre gasped.

There was a tense, breath-held silence, and Rannulf let his eyes slide away from Andre, who cared for him as if he were a child. He began to laugh. "You have offended me in nothing. Life has offended me. What did you say before?"

"Where shall we camp, my lord? Look." Andre gestured to the fires of the army across the river.

Instead of answering the question or following Andre's outflung arm with his eyes, Rannulf lifted his head sharply and sniffed. Then, with a growing frown he watched the scudding clouds. "Camp?" he asked, again vaguely, but now as if his mind was on a more immediate problem. "Do not camp at all. Let the men eat and bait the horses. Do not move until I return."

In the mass of milling footsoldiers and knights, it was almost impossible to find Northampton's camp. Most men were too tired, too busy seeking what comfort they could find, to wish to answer inquiries. Rannulf had his own methods of inducing cooperation, however, and after a few false casts which left certain individuals cursing him as they nursed bruised arms or shoulders, he found someone to lead him right. Simon of Northampton was huddled over a fire and raised a face twisted with misery to him.

"Go away!"

"Simon, there is going to be a storm—a bad storm."

"You think that I do not know? Is not every bone in my body screaming? I am in agony, Rannulf. In Christ's name, have mercy. Go away."

"We will never be able to ford the river in the storm, and it is my guess that Henry, knowing this, will either continue to ravage the town or form his men in battle array and challenge us."

"Rannulf," Northampton sighed, "I do not care what he does. Go away and leave me in peace."

"But Simon, this is a dangerous situation. If we withdraw, Henry will do nothing during the storm anyway, and we will be able to fall upon him as soon as it is over. On the other hand, if we seem to be powerless against him, those in the keep—if it still be ours—may lose heart and open to him. You must go and make this plain to Stephen. Indeed, I am sorry that you are not well, but—"

"Go away!" Northampton screamed. "You are a little late with your news. The king has been told and will not withdraw."

Rannulf shrugged his shoulders at this piece of information. He was a fool and should have realized that he would not be the only one to see which way the straws lay in the wind. Naturally, having been criticized for shifting his purpose at Wallingford, Stephen would now hold firm when he should shift. Rannulf shivered slightly in the damp blast of wind that caught and tore at his furred cloak. Shielding himself on the leeward side of his horse, he made his way back to where his men grumbled and crouched with their backs to the wind. When he tripped over Geoffrey's feet, he stopped and laughed harshly.

"Have you been to confession of late, my son?"

"Do we fight, papa?" Geoffrey came to his feet with lighting eyes. Then, answering the question, "Yes, on Sunday as was meet. Nor do I have need to go again—I think." The last was a slightly doubtful response to the expression which crossed his father's face.

"Face into the wind and see where it is coming from—and then use your wits and do not ask foolish questions. Nay, this is a time for miracles, and I have heard tell that those are brought about only by the pure in heart. Pray, Geoffrey—you are more like to be heard than an old sinner like myself—pray that the wind will shift."

He turned from Geoffrey, leaving him to puzzle out for himself the relationship between wind and battle, to give instructions to Andre. Before they had a chance to do more than consider whether it would be worthwhile to try to set up shelters, a herald arrived to summon Rannulf to a king's council. His immediate reaction to the message was to refuse to go. Stephen certainly did not want him there and either he had been informed because the king had said generally to "summon the barons" or because it was impossible to ignore so powerful a vassal.

More sober consideration drove him to follow the herald meekly. For safety's sake he had to be present to know what was going forward, even if he could exert no influence on the events that would transpire. His oath of homage to Stephen would end with his death, and Geoffrey would then be free to choose his own master. From the boy's reticence on political matters, Rannulf was certain that Geoffrey would swear to Henry—and that choice might well be the best way after all. A despot was better than a madman. Force or reason might control a despot. Nothing could control a lunatic.

In Stephen's tent the younger men drew aside a trifle, but Rannulf did not pass through their ranks to the front of the group. He had nothing to do or say, and listening might be accomplished as well from the background where he could lean against a tentpole and ease his still-aching leg. Stephen was glancing about now, checking the arrivals.

"Where is Northampton?"

"Sick, my lord," one of the heralds replied. "He will not come."

Stephen grunted. Rannulf's lips twitched. He doubted that the king had seen him, but noted that he was not asked for.

"I have called this council," Stephen began, "to arrange the order of battle for the morrow."

"My lord, the storm does not abate, nor does the wind shift. It may not be possible—"

"That, too, I have considered," Stephen said sharply. "Let us do one thing at a time and come to that anon. There are three fords. One below the town that enters directly into the Angevin's camp, one that leads directly to the gates of the keep, and one that comes up behind the keep at a bend a mile or two up-river. Now, has anyone a particular choice of passage and a reason for that choice?"

There was a babble of voices, which soon sorted itself out into a general disposition of the troops. Rannulf's lips twitched again as he found himself relegated to following the king through the central ford. He felt a twinge of impatience, for he would have preferred to lead a group as his station and experience would normally entitle him to do. Nonetheless, he acknowledged silently that Stephen's force would be the most likely to see heavy fighting, and he had an urgent desire to fight.

That part of the council was satisfactory enough and gave Rannulf no reason to regret his decision to hold his tongue. He was disquieted, however, by the reserve of many of the older men. They did not hang back nor object; in fact they were far too indifferent and agreeable and, from his point of observation, Rannulf noted more than one exchanged glance.

"Now," Stephen continued when everyone seemed sure of the part he had to play, "Jordan has offered to cross the upper ford tonight. He has arranged a signal with his men who will permit him to enter through a small postern gate. If we are successful in crossing the river, the men of Malmesbury keep will issue out to help us."

Rannulf closed his eyes wearily and thought he should have stayed in his own camp and gone to sleep. Nothing had happened here that was worth the hour he had spent on his feet.

"If we cannot cross the river, Jordan will destroy Malmesbury keep from within so that it cannot be taken and used against us and so that the Angevin's effort will be turned to naught."

"No!" Rannulf shouted the word, surprised to hear his own voice but shocked past restraint.

Jordan would never commit his keep to the flames—so much Rannulf could read in the indifference with which the man had attended to the entire proceedings. A good number of the barons also knew this, and Rannulf could read which from the expressions of resentment on their faces. They were not traitors in the absolute sense of desiring a victory for Henry of Anjou; they were merely men who did not wish to fight for Malmesbury, men from the north, from the southeast, and the far east, who had little interest in what happened to the west and midlands. Rannulf looked for Warwick who would surely support him, but Warwick had gone with Eustace.