He raised his sword over his head and brought it down hard, hoping hopelessly to cleave head or arm of the slight man with glittering eyes who smiled so tauntingly and surely into his face—but Hereford was no longer there. As he bowed with the power of his own blow, Hereford's blade came down on his back, missing the nape of the neck at which it was aimed. The edge was not perfectly aligned and de Caldoet's mail held, but he was slightly cut and badly bruised. He twisted aside, gasping and crying out, and Hereford's leg was behind his. With a shriek of terror, de Caldoet went down.
Hereford would have liked to kill de Caldoet. He felt that he would be ridding the world of something strong and evil, but he knew he could not do it. It was no spirit of mercy nor any psychological repugnance for the act of murdering an enemy who was already beaten; it was simply that he recognized his physical inability to strike hard enough and quickly enough. The best he could do was to set his sword point at de Caldoet's throat and lean against it.
"Drop your sword. Ay, I know there is mail at your throat and I have not opened it, but I need only lean my body against the point. You will choke, de Caldoet, even if your mail holds."
Lord Radnor turned his head and issued a low, sharp order. Five men set spurs to their mounts and galloped off toward the rise behind which Hereford's army waited word of the outcome of the battle. Another word and the whole group moved down the field, not toward the combatants but to block the entrance to the drawbridge.
Radnor’s men drew their horses close against the wall uneasily, expecting a hail of arrows or worse, heavy stones and hot oil, but there was no other method, to Radnor's way of thinking, of preventing Peverel's men from making a dash for the castle, carrying Elizabeth with them and bringing the battle Hereford had fought to naught. Radnor knew his troop only had to hold their ground for a little while; soon the entire army would be pouring over the ridge to reinforce them.
On the wall of the keep, Peverel screamed curses and danced with rage. De Caldoet was down, and that spawn of Satan, Lord Radnor, had read his mind. He still had one chance to bring off his planned treachery successfully. He could have ordered his men to shoot the five messengers—clever Radnor to send five rather than one. Then he could have brought the full defensive measures of his keep to bear on the few hundred men beneath the walls.
Peverel’s own terrors once more defeated him, for he was frozen with indecision, unable to give orders until too late. Far better now, he told himself, to pretend innocence, give up his prisoners, seal his castle, and hope that Hereford would keep his part of the pact and, having his wife and his men, retreat. In any case, with Radnor blocking the entrance he might lose the prisoners and sacrifice men badly needed for the defense of his castle.
De Caldoet's sword dropped from his hand without even a token protest. He was finished fighting and had been finished from the moment Hereford killed his horse. Had he known Hereford was so soft as to accept his yielding, he would have thrown down the sword while he was still on his feet. Like most men who were as nearly irreligious as a man could be in the year 1149, de Caldoet was deeply superstitious. To him it was obvious that Hereford, inferior physically and in experience to himself, had been aided by forces beyond man's power to defeat.
Had he not seen with his own eyes and heard with his own ears the murmured incantations of Lord Radnor? Indeed, it was easier and pleasanter for de Caldoet to believe that than to acknowledge that his own powers were waning or that Hereford was cleverer than himself. He did not blame the supernatural or Radnor, however. Hereford was the man who had brought him down, the first man who had defeated him personally, and it was against Hereford that the full hatred of his brutal and limited mind was directed.
As he cried aloud the formal words of yielding and the acknowledgment that Hereford's quarrel was just, de Caldoet vowed revenge and sought an escape route, for although Hereford had spared him, Peverel's assassins would not. He shook his shield loose so that he was totally without armor or weapon other than his mail and caught at Hereford's ankle as he was about to step back.
"My lord," he said softly and intensely as Hereford raised his sword again, "listen quickly. Lord Peverel has instructed his men to carry your lady back into the keep if I should fall. He thought I did not know …" His voice died as Hereford's expression did not change. De Caldoet did not know that Hereford, standing, had seen Radnor's men move in to guard the gate.
"My lord," he cried more desperately, "I am Peverel's man. I needs must do his bidding. I fought against my will. I did not fight my best—you must know that." Something came into Hereford's face finally, an expression of revulsion which did not endear him to de Caldoet any further. He added it to the score he owed the earl and hurried on. "You have spared my life, you are accountable for seeing that I receive mercy. Peverel will kill me. Take me out of his hands as your prisoner."
Hereford wrenched his leg free and stepped back just as Walter came up leading his horse. He did not glance at the man still lying on the ground.
"Are you all right, Roger?"
"Yes, but you will have to give me a leg up into the saddle. Something went in my left shoulder. Will we have to fight, think you?" Hereford sheathed his sword without wiping it and put his left foot into Walter's hands to be thrown up into the saddle.
"I think not. You, at least, certainly not. You have had fighting enough for one day." Walter's voice was angry, but it was still the anger of relieved tenderness for he had not had time to readjust his emotions.
"My lord!" de Caldoet cried aloud.
A spasm of acute distaste crossed Hereford's face. He would not turn and look at de Caldoet, but he acknowledged his responsibility. "Walter, if there are two men to spare, let them take that—that thing prisoner."
A little surprised, for one did not usually make a prisoner of one's opponent in a trial by combat and Hereford was ordinarily a stickler for the rules, Walter did not answer directly. He urged his brother instead to go back to camp and assured him that he would oversee the arrangements for transferring Elizabeth and the remainder of the household guard to Hereford's protection.
The next half hour passed in a daze of horror for Roger. The black reaction of his fear overwhelmed him as it always did while his wounds were treated by the rough and ready methods available in the camp. He remembered later that he had screamed when his squires dragged off his mail shirt and again when the bone was set. He remembered also that both Walter and Lord Radnor had troubled him with excited remarks and questions, but what they had told him and what answers he had made were lost in a fog of nausea and dizziness. Finally he gave up the struggle to control his body and vomited wrenchingly, clinging to William Beauchamp for support, groaning with pain and then, as if he had cleared the fog from his head as well as his undigested breakfast from his stomach, his mind was clear again.
Only when he looked up after wiping his mouth he thought for an instant that he was seeing things. The Earl of Lincoln was looking down at him and laughing.
"Well, Hereford, I know many people do not love me, but I did not expect you to react quite so violently."
"Lincoln!" Hereford gasped, amazed. For the moment his own arrangements had completely slipped his mind.
"Who did you expect? Did you think fairies or elves had set Peverel's fields alight? After all, it was you who urged me to it."
Hereford wiped his mouth again and looked at Beauchamp. "Find me some wine if you can." When the squire left he turned to Lincoln. "Sit down, Lincoln. I have had little enough time to think of anything. But why did you—where did you go?"
Lincoln laughed again. "Peverel keeps strongboxes in places other than Nottingham, places easier of access than this keep. I merely wished to cause a diversion and keep his attention fixed here. Therefore did I burn the ricks, for that could mean only an assault without a siege. Had I known you were on your way I would have saved my men a hard night's riding, but I do not grudge you the help I lent. I would have been back last night. The men I left as spies to watch what he would do gave me news of your coming, but it took me a little longer than I expected to reduce Carlton." Lincoln raised his brows at the expletive Hereford shot at him.
"Nay," the young man added hastily, "that was not meant for you. But had I known, our forces together could have …Well, last night would not have been soon enough." His face was bitter. "I have passed my word that I will do him no hurt and that I will withdraw my forces. May he rot piecemeal, he has tricked me out of roasting him over a slow fire and you out of my help in taking him. You know what brought me here?"
Lincoln nodded.
"And how it was settled?"
Another nod.
Hereford shook his head angrily, and then winced. "Mayhap I have done you an evil turn unwitting. His henchman told me that he had sent for the king. I know Stephen would not be like to come merely to lift a siege for Lord Peverel, but to catch me—that would be worth his while. If you plan to stay, watch the south."
"I do not know. There is a good beginning here, and Stephen is ever slow. Still, a long siege …" Lincoln’s voice faded as he thought.
Hereford shifted his eyes to the floor. He did not wish to expose his thoughts to Lincoln. Possibly he was making a mistake, he decided, but mistake or not, he would not keep de Caldoet near him if he could help it.
"One good thing has come out of this," he said slowly, "I have taken his most skillful captain, one who knows the keep well, inside and out. He has adherents within also, I think."
Lincoln's eyes gleamed. Whatever might be said of him, he was no fool. Briefly he considered what Hereford's purpose might be in offering such information, but he replied automatically and characteristically. "How much do you want for him?"
"Nothing,” Hereford said, repressing a shudder. “I will give de Caldoet to you for love, because I hate Peverel. No doubt he will ask his own price to betray his master, and what that will be I do not know." Hereford hesitated, then stung by his conscience and the knowledge that Lincoln was his wife's uncle and his sister's father-in-law, doubly related to him in blood, he put his hand on the older man's wrist. "For love also I will give you this warning—whatever you pay him, however you seek to bind him, do not trust him."
Lincoln did not bother to reply, merely laughed again. He trusted no one—at this moment certainly not even Hereford—and scarcely needed the warning. A shadow fell across them and both looked up at Lord Radnor.
"Greetings, Lincoln. Roger, how are you?"
"Well enough."
"Then finish your business, for if we do not stay to attack, since you have passed your word, the sooner we are away the better."
"We are finished." Lincoln rose. "I will get back to my men. We will stay here this day at least, whatever I decide, Hereford, so you may be sure of a good start. Where may I find de Caldoet?"
"Walter has him—my brother Walter. Fare you well. If you send word to Rannulf, send also my love and blessing to my sister Anne. Radnor, where are my men … what is left of them. I have need of Alan." He spoke a little irritably and then, more irritated by Radnor's silence, looked up. His friend's expression was not lost upon him, but he kept looking at him for a moment longer almost pleadingly. Lord Radnor shifted his eyes, knowing what was coming. "I should have known," Hereford said quietly. He rubbed his good hand across his face, strove for control, and then burst out bitterly, "Is he missing altogether? May I not even have the comfort of knowing him to lie in peace in hallowed ground?"
"Gently, Roger," Radnor said softly. He too had retainers who were really dearly beloved friends, closer in tie than blood. "He is here. I have found a priest to give him extreme unction …"
Hereford rose hastily, "I will go to him. If he is not yet dead—"
"He is dead,” Radnor interrupted harshly. “He was still warm so the priest was willing. I thought you would wish it. Do not go, Roger. Why tear your heart further? He fought well for you, that was plain. I will care for him with all honor."
"Nay, dead or alive, I must bid him farewell. My heart, I think, can come to no further hurt through Alan. What worse could befall?"
Lord Radnor could not find the words to tell him, but as he watched Hereford's face when he looked at the mutilated thing that had been his master-at-arms, Radnor almost wished he had restrained him by force. Hereford turned away from the body and spoke quietly to the remnant of his household guard. When they had been dismissed he returned to look again at Alan of Evesham.
"That is enough, Roger, come away."
"Why?" Hereford whispered to no one in particular. "He was a good man, none better. Why should he die in such a way?"
"Because men die as God wills. You know not how he died for there was neither fear nor pain in his face. You were like to be finished yourself today in no better manner. Come away and rest while you can. If your weakness holds us back, more men than one may die. You will have time for grief when we are safe."
"I am well enough. I am glad I came. I will grieve less for his death now. I could wish no man to live in such case. Certainly not Alan. You will—"
"Yes. Trouble yourself no further. In any case we must part soon. If it agrees with what you desire, Hereford, I will take Alan and those of your men who are wounded too badly to go south with you back to Hereford. It is on my way home." Radnor hesitated and stopped his companion just before they reached the tent. "I would be happy to escort Lady Elizabeth home also. You have not seen her yet, but do not—"
"You manage your wife in your way and leave my own to me," Hereford snapped, his white face flushing slightly. Radnor dropped his eyes to hide his satisfaction for the stunned, dead quality had disappeared from his friend's voice. He knew that his remonstrance would make Hereford furious, not with him but with his wife, and he was perfectly willing to sacrifice Elizabeth so that Roger, venting his anger on her, would suffer less.