The Sword and The Swan (42 page)

There Catherine would wake his desire to live, not for the things for which a man should live, not for duty and service, but for carnal pleasure. For the joy of seeing the sun rise and smelling the new-turned earth of spring, for kissing a woman and seeing grandchildren grow. Those things were well enough, but they should not draw a man from the path of duty.

Rannulf's long agony was over. He was not now torn in two, but he ached for those joys he had not even known were joys before Catherine awakened him to them. Catherine had given and Catherine had taken away. Rannulf was not aware of the blasphemy of his substitution.

He knew only that her strength and courage had given him a glimpse of burdens shared so that they became pleasures and yet had removed his last excuse for clinging to the life he desired. He almost hated her for being what she was instead of the helpless, clinging thing that needed his protection.

Nature itself had seemed to set its face against Rannulf's desire to avoid his home. Northampton's troop arrived the day after Stephen left, and the sun came out the next morning. Perhaps the sun alone could not have forced Rannulf to move on, but he could not refuse to accompany his old friend, for Northampton was now nearly totally paralyzed.

It was under twenty miles to Towcester where Northampton's son met them, and it took three long days to cover the distance because Northampton had to be carried in a litter every step of the way. To make matters worse, no sooner were they too far from Oxford to make a return practical when it started to sleet and hail again. Rannulf would have been happy to go to Northampton's keep, but Simon's son was so plainly ill at ease in his presence that they rode forward the next day in spite of the inclement weather.

Warwick was their next haven. It was slightly out of the straight path home, but closer than any other place where they might rest. Here, too, they stayed only one night; here, too, Rannulf found that he was not welcome. Warwick was not at home, true, but it was not that which made the countess stiff and cold as the ice that bordered the river.

Gundreda did not like him nor he her, yet it was Rannulf's habit to stop at Warwick keep in any journey he made, and Lady Warwick had often played hostess to him when she was alone. Ordinarily she was warmer than usual at such times, finding any masculine company that provided news and sensible conversation valuable when her husband was away. This desire to be rid of him in haste had nothing to do with their mutual dislike and was something new. Bitterly Rannulf thought how swiftly even those one had known for years changed with the breath of favor.

Gundreda did not know that he and Stephen were reconciled, and Rannulf was too proud to tell her. He gathered his men and moved on toward Leicester's keep. Rannulf was almost afraid to stop, but here at last he found someone who was glad to see him.

"I had begun to think that I was carrying the pox," he said, sipping hot wine and standing well away from the fire.

"Why?" Robert laughed.

"Northampton's eldest boy could not sit nor stand quiet while I remained with him, and Warwick's lady all but told me to go."

Leicester dropped his eyes. "You had better let my daughter see to those hands of yours, Rannulf. They are so chilblained that they are bleeding. That is what comes of waging war in the winter. Are your feet as bad?"

"No," Rannulf replied indifferently. "Robert—"

"Then why are you limping so much?"

"I was hurt in the taking of Wallingford bridge, and the wound does not heal. Robert, there is no use dragging in side issues, particularly such bad fish as old wounds and chilblains. I must ask and you must answer. Is it the end?"

Leicester did not look up. "For some it is the beginning."

"For you, Robert?" The heavy, stolid man remained silent. "Do you think I would ask such a question of you if my knowledge of the answer could hurt you?"

"No. I was wondering if I could find words with which to explain the unalterability of events and the uselessness of resistance. There is a pattern in things. Once a new pattern is formed, no amount of clinging to the old will save it. Those who will not change are only destroyed."

"So much I know, but there are many ways of being destroyed, and all different for all men. For me to save life would destroy the soul. It is not so for others—I understand."

"And Geoffrey and Richard?"

Rannulf smiled. "Geoffrey's decision is different from mine, and he understands that my oath binds him only so long as I live. No one can blame a boy for loyalty to his father." There was a hesitation, and then Rannulf continued steadily. "I hope you will make so much clear where it will help my son in the new pattern of things."

Leicester's mouth thinned angrily, but he nodded.

"There is something more, Robert," Rannulf continued. "I believe Simon is dying."

"Northampton dying? Of what? Was he hurt?"

"No, he is only old. His body is—frozen. He may linger a while, but not in a state to steady a youngling in his path. Will you guide Geoffrey and take Richard into your household?"

"I would do that without asking. But Rannulf, you talk as if you were already dead. You are not as old as Northampton."

"No, but there will be more fighting. Eustace will not permit Stephen to make the truce he desires."

"You have done your share and more, Rannulf. You cannot think you owe more to an overlord who—"

"Do not missay Stephen to me. He is torn in two—and that I understand too well. No, Robert, I have a lust to fight. I desire it. I need it. It will take no urging to thrust me into the thickest press."

Leicester sighed. He would try once more. "Rannulf, you see how the wind blows, but do you see how strongly? Do you know why Lady Warwick desired to be rid of you?"

"Of course. She thinks Stephen has thrown me aside and that Eustace waits only the merest chance to send home the death thrust. She did not wish to be tainted by me."

"No. You must not speak of what I tell you now. You could not prevent it anyway. Do I have your word on it?"

Rannulf nodded. "I will die for Stephen, but no man can save him. I will make trouble for no one."

"I have already sent messages to Henry, and when the time is fitting for us both, I will do him homage." Sure as he was that Rannulf had guessed so much, Leicester was relieved when his foster brother again nodded without emotion. "If my vassals' keeps offer no resistance, Henry will most swiftly move eastward. To come back to Gundreda at Warwick—I know that she will yield all after a token siege or only a threat."

"Warwick! But Warwick is with Stephen now."

"Warwick knows nothing of this, and if he were told, he would not believe it." Leicester shook his head. "Even if he were there, he could not stop her. She does this for her children. You tell me Northampton is dying. His son waits only for that before he, too, gives Henry fealty. Who is left?"

His shock past, Rannulf shrugged. "The quicker the better, really. There will be less blood shed, I suppose."

"For God's sake, Rannulf, it will be such a little time. Could you not sit quietly at Sleaford?"

"No, I cannot. I told you that I lust after blood."

Probably Catherine would follow Gundreda's path, give her promise of loyalty to Henry when he was away. Rannulf felt only relief. That would save Geoffrey and Richard and might well be what she had planned all along.

Leicester, unable to read Rannulf's thoughts and shocked by the viciousness of the tone, looked away. This was no normal desire for the thrills of battle. There was something desperately wrong with his foster brother. Leicester could do nothing. Rannulf never permitted any discussion of his inner emotional life, never admitted that he had one. Whether he endured joy or grief, he endured it alone, and that reserve showed no signs of breaking.

"Very well, if you must kill for reasons of your own, you must. But cannot you confine yourself to Bigod? Rannulf, listen to me," Leicester said, grasping his foster brother's arm and shaking it. "In a few weeks I will have Henry's ear. He likes Bigod as little as Stephen does. Confine yourself to fighting Norfolk and all will yet be well—I swear it."

Rannulf's eyes were bleak and hard as the stones of the keep walls. "Do not raise such hopes in me, Robert. It is not kind. If Stephen calls me, I will go to him. Would I not come to you, no matter what the cost, if you were in your death struggle?"

Then Leicester understood and reasoned no more. He urged Rannulf to stay with him, but Rannulf understood the turmoil that would be caused by Leicester's switch in loyalties. No matter what his personal reluctance, his place was at home where he could quell rebellious ideas among his vassals and defend his borders against Norfolk.

Drenched and freezing foreriders brought the news of the earl's imminent arrival to Catherine. An hour later she was drenched herself as she embraced her sodden husband, held his face between her hands, kissed his eyes. In her joy at having him at home and safe, the night had come before she realized how cold and restrained his response was.

"Rannulf, are you still angry with me?" she asked out of an uneasy stillness which had fallen between them.

"Angry? For what? Oh, the refusal of the men of Soke and that message. No, I understood."

"Then what is wrong? Where is Geoffrey?"

She worried about Geoffrey, Rannulf thought, even though she knew him so little. Doubtless she would fight for his children in ways he could not, fight as Gundreda of Warwick did.

"Geoffrey is with Northampton again," Rannulf said civilly. "Simon is dying, I believe. His older sons guard his land, and John is too sick still to nurse his father. If Bigod moves and I need Geoffrey, I will summon him to come to me."

He had avoided her first question. "What is wrong, then?" Catherine insisted.

"I am tired and I face ruin." Now Rannulf spoke coldly, "Is that not enough?"

"You run to seek ruin," Catherine responded.

"Perhaps. It is my own affair. Let me be."

"You are my husband. It is my affair also."

"I bid you let me be," he repeated sharply.

"I will not let you be. There comes a time when honor costs too high. Do you think I desire to be a penniless outcast? Do you think I am so silly a woman that I do not know what is happening? I have written to Leicester and received a reply, and I have letters from Gundreda of Warwick also."

"Then do as she does," Rannulf bellowed. "Do more even! Here—here is a knife and my naked breast. Strike and save yourself the trouble I will cause you."

Catherine snatched the knife and flung it across the solar, terror in her eyes. "Rannulf, you would not—you would not!"

"Nay, I have sins enough without seeking everlasting damnation."

"Rannulf," she panted, "we need you, all need you. I have no lust to be a widow again, to be put upon the block and sold to the highest bidder. Would you lay the burdens of these times on Geoffrey's shoulders? Would you see Richard's bright star dimmed?"

She clutched at him, but he pushed her away and began to laugh, the peals rising higher and higher until the solar rang with them. "None needs me now—none of you," he gasped when he had breath. "You closed that passage to life upon me, Catherine—you!"

"I? I love you."

The gasping laughter stopped. "Aye, I believe it, but need me you do not. You taught me that when you kept your vassals from the war and yet set matters so that even Eustace could find no fault with me. Know that I call them
your
vassals. Widow you may be, but no man will have you without your will to it. Nor need I fear for my children. You will shield Richard against the devil himself, if need be. My death will free you and Geoffrey to flee to the Angevin, and Henry will receive you kindly for your father's sake and because of Leicester. None needs me but the dying king."

He was near enough to catch her when she fell, ignorant enough to believe she had really fainted, not realizing that she only sought time to draw another arrow from her armory with which to transfix him. The blue eyes fluttered open, tears trickling from their corners.

"You do not love me," Catherine whispered. "You cannot or you would not speak of your death to me. Naught will happen as you say, for if you die, I too will die of grief."

"No one dies of grief," Rannulf replied wearily, thinking that he and Stephen both would long since have been underground if anguish could kill.

"You are cruel and selfish. You think no worse can befall than your own death. What if you are taken prisoner or exiled? Then my estates as well as yours will be forfeit, and Geoffrey will not go to the Angevin but spend his life trying to free you or as a beggar in a foreign land."

Rannulf laughed again, but more quietly. He did not wish Catherine to be torn apart between her love of him and her love of the children. A hurt now would save her much agony in the future.

"If I am imprisoned, you will do as Gundreda did for the sake of the children, and perhaps, to save the gold to ransom me. If I go into exile, I will go willingly, and Geoffrey will keep the lands because I will order him to do so. You offer me love because you think with that you can bend me to your will and make me a traitor to the king. I have known it, but you are mistaken. Only one of us can rule in this household."

His face was colder than on their unfortunate wedding day, and Catherine gasped with the pain of his rejection. He turned and left her before she could speak again, and later sent his servants to remove his clothing chests from her chamber. It was a public announcement of their estrangement that hurt Rannulf more even than it insulted Catherine, but it was the surest way to be certain that she would follow Gundreda's path.

No one was happy. Richard, overjoyed at first to have his father at home, could not understand why Rannulf was so moody and so bitter, why nothing he could do could please him or raise his spirits. Mary and Andre were no better off. Although Catherine had become little more than a pale shadow, she did manage to guard Mary so sedulously that she and Andre could not even exchange a glance.

Fortunately the situation did not endure long. Scarcely was the first ploughing of February under way when an urgent message from Sir Giles reported suspicious activity on the Norfolk side of the border. The letter was directed to Catherine and was given unopened into her hands, Rannulf having summoned her to the hall for that purpose.