Elizabeth bore the brunt of much of the questioning since she was well known to be deep in her father's counsel. As she fenced off question after question with harmless tidbits of information or laughing rejoinders, she could not help seeing that it was her own pride and vanity that put her in this fix. She had always been eager to have the world know how high she stood in her father's estimation and now she was bound by the pattern she had established.
She could not help envying Lady Radnor who had all of the advantages of her position with none of its disadvantages. Leah had adopted, since her first appearance in public, the manners of a sweet, innocent simpleton. Thus she had gained much information, since no man or woman was afraid to speak their mind before her, believing she would not understand, and she could spread much misinformation with which to help her husband's cause.
Leah had even tried to establish the fact that her husband was indifferent to her, caring nothing for the sneers of the other women if she could serve Lord Radnor's purposes better that way, but in this she had failed because Radnor would not cooperate. He was passionately in love with his wife and made not the slightest effort to hide it, hanging over her even in public, jealous and protective. That, thought Elizabeth, watching Lady Radnor laugh like a child with her big, soft eyes open as wide as they could get, she did not envy Leah; such attention would smother her. Roger might wander, but he would never dote.
Elizabeth stiffened slightly as her mother-in-law made a remark about Roger not being able to take a much needed rest, prepared to cast her reputation, his, or both to the wind, and then sighed with relief as a page ran up to tell them that the hunt was on its way home. This caused a natural flurry and changed the thread of the conversation. Elizabeth was amused by watching the reactions of the different women. Lady Salisbury and Lady Warwick were clearly indifferent and did not even hesitate in their talk; Lady Lancaster was mildly pleased and interested, while Lady Gloucester was mildly annoyed; the longer her husband stayed away the better she liked it. Lady Radnor rose at once to run to the door or even down into the courtyard to greet her darling. Someone would expect a man so anxiously awaited by his wife to be handsome and delicate, possibly in ill health, instead of a redoubtable giant, ugly, arrogant, and deformed.
Having made these observations, Elizabeth laughed at herself wondering what she would see in her own face if she could watch it. Her first move, however, was to Anne's side where she urged the girl, nervous and frightened again, to go forward and greet Rannulf. So much initiative unsupported was impossible to Anne, however, and Elizabeth took her hand and went with her.
Fortunately their bloodstained husbands arrived together, exhausted but happy. The women's reactions were typical. Anne ran forward crying, "Rannulf, you are hurt, oh, let me see. Is it bad?"
Elizabeth stood still, placing her hands on her hips, and remarked in an exasperated tone, "Roger, how could you? Could you not be more careful? I hope, considering where you keep them, that your brains have not run out."
The men's reactions would have been equally predictable to anyone who knew them. Rannulf looked embarrassed, although Anne's concern had done a great deal toward making him forget and forgive her behavior the previous night, and said in a low voice, "It is nothing. Do not make a fuss here."
Roger seized his wife by her ears, effectively paralyzing her, and kissed her soundly, laughing. "I have been accused of having my head screwed on wrong, and of keeping my brains in my ass, but never before of keeping them in my ankles. Anyhow, what kind of a greeting is that to a wounded hero? You should swoon all over me, weep floods of tears, and marshal every leech in the castle to attend to my hurts."
"Let go of my ears, you pest. Do you want them to grow pointed like a witch's? That is all I need to add to my good name. Roger, you stink. Come and change those foul clothes."
"All right, but I still think I deserve a little more sympathy. Look at Anne—that is proper behavior. For pity's sake, Rannulf, go with my sister and let her see to you before she faints from anxiety. She will never believe that you are not dying if she cannot see with her own eyes."
Rannulf hesitated for a moment, then smiled faintly at his wife and went with her to the room they were using. At first neither spoke, both were embarrassed, but when Anne removed the bandage from Rannulf's arm and he winced, she murmured that she was sorry.
"It is nothing," he said indifferently, reminded by the place and being alone with her of her rejection.
"N—not for th—that alone," Anne faltered, her eyes filling with tears. "I—Rannulf—please, forgive me. I—did not understand."
He made no reply, a little awkward about how to accept her apology and wondering also whether it would not serve his purpose best to frighten her a little. He had almost forgotten his hurt arm in spite of the dull ache, for like most men he was accustomed to the pain of minor wounds, so that when Anne pulled off his leather jerkin, tearing the clots loose, he cried out more in surprise than pain. Anne began to weep in earnest, thinking he would be more angry because she had hurt him, and the jagged tear began to bleed again.
"You had better stop the bleeding, Anne," Rannulf said quietly. "What do you mean, you did not understand? What do you understand now that you did not before? To whom have you been speaking of us?"
"Lady Elizabeth told me—told me—oh, Rannulf, I am ashamed to have been so stupid." Her voice trembled but her hands were steady as she washed the wound and rebandaged it.
Rannulf’s lips twitched. At least they were keeping matters in the family. He complained to Anne's brother, she to his cousin. He looked at his wife's tear-wet face.
"Have you changed your mind then about leaving me? Do you still wish to ask your brother if he will offer you his protection?"
Anne slid down to the floor and embraced her husband's knees. "Please do not tell Roger," she whispered, "he will tell my mother and everyone will laugh at me. Please—"
Rannulf pulled his wife up rather roughly. He did not then mean to hurt her or frighten her but the position disgusted him; he had seen his mother and sisters kneel that way too often. "Do not kneel to me like that, Anne. I do not like it." There was a pause while he studied her expression. "I am glad that you have mended your manners with no need of schooling from me," he said more gently, "and perhaps it was also my fault. I should have been more gentle with you." He bent his head then to kiss his wife's lips. They were yielded willingly now, although the quivering tension of her body still proclaimed her fear. Rannulf forgot about dinner, forgot he would be honored by the presentation of his kill, forgot his steadily throbbing arm. There was something intensely exciting about that fearful eagerness, something different at last from the harlot and the serf.
The conversation taking place in Roger's bedroom was far different.
For one thing Elizabeth was certainly not either silent or embarrassed. At first she asked eager questions about the hunt, plainly regretful that she could not have been present, which Roger answered with willingness. Then as it was borne in upon him that Elizabeth was pouring water for him to wash with and laying out his clothes he stopped in the middle of a spirited description of the second kill.
"Really, Elizabeth, you could not yet have spent all my money nor alienated all of my servants. Will you tell me why, considering our circumstances, you feel obliged to act like a maidservant?"
Elizabeth merely cast an exasperated glance at him. "Because I have something to say to you that I do not wish all the servants in the keep to know about. My women do not come to me unless I bid them, and I have taken the liberty of telling that pasty-faced manservant of yours to adopt the same custom. I hope you do not mind," she added as an afterthought on a note of sarcasm.
"A lot of good it would do me if I did. Well, what is the bad news? Good can always be shared."
"Not bad, just private. Anne has behaved like a little fool with Rannulf—"
"I know, but how did you hear of it?"
"From Anne. I suppose Rannulf blabbed the whole to you. Men!"
"Why men? Did not Anne come running to you with her troubles? Why you, by the way? Why not my mother?"
"She thought I would have more influence with you and would urge you to keep her here and send Rannulf home."
"She did, by God's eyes, did she?" Hereford said, flushing slightly with anger. "That is what comes of being kind to a woman. I hope he takes a stick to her."
"Well, it was not her fault, poor thing," Elizabeth retorted hotly, flushing in turn. "She was told nothing to the point and he must have acted like a stud in rut."
Hereford bit his lip; he had forgotten that this was still a rather sore point
with Elizabeth. "Was all else quiet?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Untie those chausses and let me look at your leg, Roger. I hope so. It took me most of the morning to calm Anne, but the talk was innocent enough when I joined it. If I get a chance to talk to Leah I will ask." She had been removing his clothing as she spoke and then pushed him toward a chair.
"Take it easy, Elizabeth, that hurts," Roger said sharply as she loosened the bandage and pulled at the chausses.
"I cannot help it," Elizabeth replied without a trace of sympathy. "If you had come directly home when this happened the cloth would not have stuck to the flesh." She looked more closely at the wound. "That is an ugly tear," she said more gently, "perhaps it would be better to have it sewed. Do you want me to take the time to soak the cloth loose?"
"No, only be quick."
The cloth off, Elizabeth could see better and decided that it was unnecessary to stitch it. The wound was long and ragged but not deep and would heal well, she thought, with just a dressing. Hereford made no pretense of hiding his sigh of relief; he was stoic enough when necessary but did not believe that pretending to be a hero about such things was necessary.
"You might tell me," Elizabeth said, wrapping linen smoothly around his calf after salving the wound, "what catastrophic form of game you are planning to amuse us with tonight. I want to know whether it is safe to wear a light-colored bliaut."
"I can tell you nothing," Hereford replied in a whisper, "I am too faint."
His voice was, indeed, so unsteady that Elizabeth jumped up and was just about to lean over him anxiously when she saw one eye open slyly to see the effect of his statement. Pretending not to have noticed, Elizabeth came closer and then with sudden violence boxed his ear.
"Faintness," she cried, leaping out of reach, "is due to a failure of blood in the head. That is the best treatment I know for it."
"Fiend! If I ever saw such a woman. You have not a drop of compassion in your soul. I could bleed to death and—"
"Not in this room," Elizabeth interrupted severely. "If you plan to bleed to death, do it outside or in the hall. In here you would get blood all over the rugs and I do not approve of such filthy habits."
Hereford gave up and laughed heartily. With a movement swifter than her own in spite of the hurt leg he seized her, running his hands over her with the passionate insolence of ownership.
"Let me go, Roger. We have wasted enough time talking. Roger, let go! Do you wish to offend your guests so that they all depart in anger?"
"Yes." He spoke with surprising intensity, all trace of laughter gone from his voice. "I wish there was not a living soul in this keep save our two selves. I could eat you from the shoes up, Elizabeth." She made a convulsive movement, and pain shadowed Hereford's eyes as he released her. "Perhaps if I had you to myself—all to myself with nothing else and no one else to think about, I could some day come to understand you."
CHAPTER 7
ELIZABETH WOKE WITH A STARTLED CRY OF PAIN. SHE HAD JUST BEEN
struck with great violence. Gasping, she struggled upright, prepared to defend herself before she was awake enough to realize that she was in bed and the man who had hit her was her own husband. She dodged as Roger struck at her again, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes and thinking he must have gone mad when she realized that he was still asleep and was again struggling with phantoms.
"Roger!" She shook his shoulder. "Roger, wake up. Roger!" she shrieked, a real note of terror in her voice as he reached smoothly for the naked sword lying beside the bed.
"What is it, Elizabeth?" The sword gleamed as Hereford sat up and put it in his lap. "Hush, do not cry out. Of what are you afraid?"
"Are you awake, Roger?"
"Of course I am awake. How could I sleep with you shouting in my ear? Were you dreaming?"
"No, you were. Roger, do put that sword down. You have already blacked my eye, I fear. A fine time I shall have explaining what happened. You were fighting something in your sleep."
"I am sorry, Liza. Did I hurt you?"
"No," she replied sarcastically, "there is nothing I like better than a black eye and a swollen jaw."
"I would not hurt you for the world, Liza, you know I would not," Hereford murmured, lying down and pulling Elizabeth on to his breast.
"What were you dreaming about that disturbed you so much?" she asked hastily. Roger knew of a number of methods of soothing women, but only one would occur to him in bed.
"I cannot remember," he said vaguely, tightening his grip on her. Elizabeth had learned in the two months of her marriage that it was fruitless to tell Roger to let her alone. Whenever she did so he compromised by caressing her until she was willing and, however pleasant the experience was, it was humiliating to her to appear so weak-willed. He could be distracted sometimes by jesting or by questions.
"Having done trying to beat me to death, I see you are now about to strangle me." Her voice was still sharp, but she wriggled an arm free to touch his face and hair in the dark. "Was it demons or something real?"
"Real enough. Let us talk of something else," he replied shortly, and Elizabeth could have wept with frustration.