Cold and white, Roger of Hereford looked at his liege man's bloody face. "I do not think it. Go, Beauchamp. Alfred has ever been a true man to me, as he said, and to my father before me. What does it matter anyway," he added savagely. "Could I take such a chance? Would you?"
Grimly Radnor shook his head. "No, I would not. But where shall we go, Roger? What use to go to Kettering? They would not keep her there. It is no small robber band that has taken your lady. Doubtless there is some purpose behind this and you will hear what—"
"Are you friend to me or enemy? Ay, I could wait here, wait until she was in the White Tower or a stronghold equally safe. What would be the price of her ransom then, think you? My lands? My faith? My head? What use to go to Kettering? Someone must have seen that troop and known who it was. Someone must have seen them passing later, bearing prisoners. I will have that information even if I must burn every house and cot and keep and rip the bowels from every man, woman, and child for a hundred miles around Kettering."
"So be it, Roger. I go bid my men also arm to ride."
"For what? If the king has her, which I greatly fear, you will lift no hand to help me for your oath. You had better stay here—"
"For the rape of my friend's wife I will lift my hand, oath or no oath, against any man. What can I do here? The keeps are safe against Stephen. There are yet no crops to burn. We can take no serious loss except the loss of the chance to defeat the king. I have three hundred good fighting men in my train, and we are like to need every man who will fight with a will."
They rode out hours before dawn, more than two thousand men, armed and angry, for Hereford had made plain the cause for which they rode. "Is that honor?" he had cried aloud. "Is the coward so much afraid of us that he needs to make war upon women traveling in peace?" And those who could hear passed the message through the ranks. Some of the men knew the hot-tempered and beautiful Lady Elizabeth because they belonged to her dower property and were her own men; some because they were Hereford's own troops and they had seen and heard her during the stays she and their lord had made in various strongholds. Many thought of their own wives and sisters who might be similarly treated, and all desired to right the wrong done their master.
Even in his haste, Hereford had chosen only those troops who would have a personal interest in this fight because a few men hot with rage were better for this kind of work than a huge army halfhearted and unwilling. Any man would fight when threatened, but it took a different kind of man to assault a well-defended keep, and that was exactly what Hereford planned to do when he found who had his wife prisoner.
Day dawned and the morning passed. Those who were hungry ate dried meat and hard bread on horseback and drank water from the leathers at their saddlebows. The sun reached its zenith and began to decline; still they rode, until the beasts went with hanging heads, stumbling at every unevenness on the track, while the men on their backs dozed in the saddle, too worn to be watchful. In all those hours the Earl of Hereford had spoken not one word, nor had he looked elsewhere than at the track before him. Lord Radnor looked at him often, but forebore to break the silence. He could offer no comfort, and mere words at such a time were better left unsaid. In the dusk, however, he at last touched his companion.
"Hereford, call a halt. The beasts can go no further even though the men are willing to ride until they drop. Look, my own Fury and your Shadow can barely stand, what must be the state of the weaker beasts?"
Hereford looked at him sullenly. "We have miles yet to go."
"Not far. I do not know this country well, but I think not more than ten. The men must rest, Roger, if they are to fight."
"Very well. For an hour. We cannot arrive before nightfall anyway."
When they had dismounted and were about to eat, Hereford and Radnor raised their heads simultaneously, looking into the gathering dusk across the fields toward their right.
"'Ware arms! Horsemen to the right."
The tired men mounted again and drew their ranks closer, but only one horseman approached. Stopping at a respectable distance, he called out to know whom he faced.
"The Earl of Hereford. You have leave to approach but not to depart."
A clear laugh rang out. "You would be ill able to catch me, Roger, if I desired to go. My men and mounts are fresh, and we know this country well."
"Walter!" Hereford exclaimed. "What do you here? You should be across the breadth of England by now."
"To speak the truth, dear brother, I was waiting for you. I have had spies set on every northeast track for two days now. What delayed you? Did not my messenger reach you in good time?" The tone was light, a mocking triumph filling eyes and voice as Walter of Hereford approached and sat looking down at his brother.
"Messenger?" Hereford's face which had been white flamed suddenly. "What messenger?"
"Ah, now you are less anxious to have me across England. Nonetheless, dear brother, I am so eager to please you that, although I have something of note to say to you, I will gladly leave right now."
"Do not play with me, Walter. I am far past the mood for sport. If you have aught to do with my purpose in being here, I—"
"Roger!" Radnor caught at his friend as he started forward.
"Sweet Roger, clever Roger—oh, stupider than any ass to send your wife nearly unguarded into the hands of your enemies. Did you think the terror of your name alone—"
Radnor's grip slipped as Hereford wrenched loose and tore his brother from the saddle. Too angry to reach for a weapon, he used his hands like a beast, seeking to tear the jugular from Walter's throat. His fingers were foiled of their purpose by the close-fitting mail hood, so that Radnor had a chance to drag them apart and interpose his bulk between them. William Beauchamp and two others hurried up, permitting Radnor to consign Walter to their care while he wrestled with Hereford himself.
"Hold him and let me speak," Walter gasped, "my precious, loving brother who tries to choke the life out of me before he will hear one word. God knows, I am close to holding my tongue and letting him sweat blood, but my revenge is too sweet."
"Say what you must and quickly," Radnor growled, fighting to hold Hereford, "or I will stick you like a pig myself."
"Pig am I and foul? Evil am I and black? Always it is Walter that is black and Roger white. Why then did I go two days and a night without sleep or food to discover where the lady that bears the name Hereford was taken? You think I took her? You think I am so common that there is no deed too filthy for me to touch?"
The young man was trembling, his eyes filled with tears of pain and pride. Still clasped in Radnor's arms, Hereford had stopped struggling. As far as Lord Radnor could tell, he had stopped breathing too, so quiet had he become.
"What will you give me, Roger? What price will you pay for the news I bring?" Walter tried desperately and without success to keep the sobs from his voice.
One of the men holding him growled and spat. He took the sobs for fear and the words for open greed. Lord Radnor, wiser by bitter experience, bit his lips. He could hear his own voice saying just such venomous words in the not distant past. He could have told much, had there been time, about what happens to a man whom others believe to be evil. But there was no time, and it was not his place to meddle between the brothers. He released Hereford and limped away; he would be witness to no more of this scene by his own will.
"Let him go," Hereford ordered his men. "William, pass the word for the men to dismount and take their rest."
"Do you not fear that I will bid my troop fall upon you in the dark for the booty you carry?"
Hereford ignored that. "Walk down the road a way with me, Walter. I am tired and cramped from riding. I would stretch my legs."
They moved off into the gathering dark silently.
"Well," Walter prodded with an ugly laugh, "what will you offer me? You are out of hearing now. Your men will know nothing of your chafering with your commoner of a brother."
"Nothing. I offer nothing, neither price nor threat. I have an hour's time—until the stars are clear, if we can see them. I would make my peace with you. Walter, for love, will you tell me—not where Elizabeth is, that you must do as you like about—tell me what man you sent as messenger to me."
Walter stopped and turned to face his brother squarely, striving to see his expression in the dark. "What difference can that make to you?"
"If it makes no difference, answer my question—if you please."
"How polite you are grown."
"Am I by custom so rude?" Hereford asked in a smothered voice.
"I do not believe you have ever used those words to me before. For them, then, not for loveyou do not know the man, though he knew you, but his name was Red Olaf the Scot. Now are you the wiser?"
"Ay, I am the wiser and the sorrier too."
The anguish of guilt was so clear in Hereford's voice that Walter was startled, the more so as neither answer nor emotion made any sense to him. He had always been unaware, and always would be, of Roger's unease in dealing with him, because uncertainty was the one emotion that his brother had learned to mask completely. Walter noticed only the positive aggressiveness or condescending kindness with which Roger covered his sense of failure, and now he put down his brother's pain to hurt pride.
"Sorry? So you should be. The all-wise Hereford has made a mistake, and who must pull him out but the brother who can do nothing right. Nay, if you offered me the crown for the information I have I would not take it. I desire only that you know yourself for a fool and the satisfaction of hearing you beg me for the whereabouts of your lady."
"Your price is too low. I would beg on my knees the whereabouts of Elizabeth from the merest stranger—to you, Walter, I owe more, for I have wronged you and you are my brother. Will it ease your heart to see me on my knees, Walter?" Hereford took his brother's hand preparatory to kissing it as he kneeled, but Walter jerked away nearly oversetting them both with his violence.
"You make me sick," he stuttered, and although it was the literal truth he realized that there was something wrong. He should have been enjoying his triumph or have been filled with contempt; instead he felt frightened, as if he were about to lose something of importance, something without which he could not continue to live. "Nay," he added hurriedly, "if the woman means so much to you as that— She is at Nottingham. Peverel has her."
Instead of thanking him, or for that matter cursing him and turning away, to Walter's amazement, Hereford made a sick sound and staggered. The younger brother caught the elder in an unkind but steadying grip. "What ails you, Roger? At least she is not yet in Stephen's hands. It could be worse."
"No," Hereford groaned, "no, it could not." And then, without thinking, racked for the first time by a real fear for Elizabeth's personal safety instead of the political danger to himself, he poured out the tale of her relationship with the Constable of Nottingham.
Walter listened without a sound, keeping his grip on his brother's arm. At last out of a stunned silence that had endured for several minutes after Hereford had stopped speaking, he said uncertainly, "He would not dare touch her. Not Hereford's wife." And there was no mockery in his use of the name then. "Have sense, Roger, he means only to give her to the king, for what could hurt you more?"
Hereford shuddered and made a defeated gesture. "I fear that it is not me that he wishes to hurt. Mary shield her—oh, my Elizabeth, my Elizabeth," he cried remorsefully. He had been so angry through all the long hours of the ride, dwelling with increasing rage upon the disaster that her thoughtlessness might bring upon him that he had not spared a thought for her fear or danger.
Tightening his already excruciating grip, Walter growled impatiently. "Brace up, man. Call your men and let us go. If this tale of yours is true—nay, he could mean no such insult I am sure, for he must know that to lay a hand upon her would be to write his death warrant—still, the sooner we wrest her from his grip the less the chance of trouble."
Hereford shook his head. "My men can go no further, Walter. Certainly not to assault Nottingham. We came from Devizes last night and we have ridden without rest since three hours before dawn."
"Fool! Fool again. Did you not trust my word—but no, I know you did not. I sent Red Olaf to you four days since, but you are so wise, you needed to believe me a liar and send to Hereford—"
"No, Walter. Your messenger never came. Do you not see that that is how I came to think—God forgive me—that you …"
"Never came! Then how did you know to come here? Where were you going?"
"One man of mine escaped and made his way to me. He knew no more than that they were set upon past Kettering, and I was going there to harrow the countryside until I found a man who could tell me who had taken my wife."
"What could have come to Olaf? He was as hard and trusty—never mind. It is true, however, that if your men have come from Devizes they will never win to Nottingham this night. So be it. I will go. I have five hundred armed men, fresh and ready. We will wake the Constable of Nottingham early. I will knock on the gate in such a way that he is not like to forget that Hereford will not be trifled with."
"Walter!"
"What now?" Hereford's face was invisible, but Walter stiffened at the familiar imperiousness of the tone. "Do not fear, the price for my service will not be too high," he sneered.
"If you do not have a care what you are about it may well be too high for me to pay. I will not pretend that I do not hold the woman very dear, but not so dear that for a day's more time I would sell my brother's life. You also are dear to me, and five hundred men will not take Nottingham Castle."
"I am no child to be thus chidden."
"Walter, if my tone was sharp, you must pardon me. I am so weary I can barely think. I do not mean to chide. You have done me a great kindness and are offering more—"
"You mistake me. I had no mind to do you a kindness. You are ever telling me I smirch the name of Hereford—well, if I do it is my own name and my own affair, but no man else will hold it lightly while I live or insult those under its protection. Take not unto yourself what I do for my own pride's sake."