Like most of Radnor's little plans this one worked well. The rage that should have come earlier and passed was rekindled. Hereford walked purposefully into his tent and sat down. He did not glance toward the figure standing in the shadows, which he knew was Elizabeth. William had returned with a flagon of bad wine, culled from Lincoln's men, and Roger seized it and drank, choking a little in his haste.
Elizabeth, whose eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, saw more than shadows, but she neither moved nor spoke. She looked at her husband, whose face was gray with fatigue, pain, and grief, his bright curls matted with blood. More than anything, she wanted to throw herself at his feet and beg his pardon, but her stubborn knees were locked and her eyes were dry. She could only wait.
"Did Peverel do you any hurt, Elizabeth?"
"No."
"Where were you going, Elizabeth?" Herefords voice was quiet and deadly cold.
"To Corby." She spoke too low to be heard.
"What?" He turned toward her then, his right hand clenched into a fist on his knees.
For a moment Elizabeth had the surging hope that he would beat her, but he did not move and the hope died. "To Corby Castle," she said a little louder, "to Anne and Rannulf."
"Why?"
Elizabeth's lips parted to answer, but she could not speak. She would not lie, and she could not bring herself to confess that she had acted in a fit of childish chagrin, not yet. She thought she had suffered for her mistake, but she could not even guess at the refinement of torment that was to come. She thought she knew what it was to bear guilt, but she was still too proud to confess her folly.
"I asked why you were going to Corby. Do not tell me that you, of all women, have become mute."
"I am not mute. I—I do not wish to answer."
Elizabeth's tone was as calm and proud as it had been in Peverel's keep because that was her automatic reaction to the threat in her husband's voice. They looked at each other, and, as Elizabeth saw the pain in Roger's eyes, both her pride and her calm were washed away in a wave of remorse. Her eyes dropped.
"Oh, Roger, I am sorry—so desperately sorry for the harm I have done. I will cause you no more trouble, I swear it. I will never do such a thing again."
Her voice, now broken and unsteady, for once failed to move him. He could only believe that she had been about some private business of her own or her father's. Hereford did not think for a moment that Elizabeth would willingly become involved in anything detrimental to himself, but in the midst of his other troubles the feeling that she cared more for anyone's interests than his and that he could not relay upon her absolutely was simply too much to bear. He took one step toward her, not sure whether he was about to ask again what she had been about or whether he could kill her, when they were interrupted.
"Roger, I thought I had better— Oh, sorry, I can come back later."
"What is it, Walter? I am at liberty." That was said as a deliberate insult to his wife, his manner dismissing her presence as of no account.
Walter looked uneasily from one face to the other. "I only wanted to be sure that de Caldoet was to go with Lincoln. I—"
"Yes, I am glad to be rid of him. Wait, Walter, I have something to ask you."
"Later, Roger, I must—"
"There may not be time later, for we move soon and you must decide the path you will take. I have lost—" Hereford stopped to clear his throat. "I have lost my right hand in this disaster. Alan of Evesham is dead."
There was a small choked gasp from Elizabeth, which Hereford heard but ignored.
"Alan!” Walter exclaimed. “I am sorry, Roger. He was a good man to you and a good friend also. I could ask for no one better to be back to back with in a desperate strait."
"Not now, Walter. I cannot bear it. One more word and I will begin to weep and be good for nothing. I spoke only because I wanted you to understand what I am about to ask you. I need you. Will you come with me and fight behind my banner?"
Walter's face hardened with consideration. Hereford sat down again as if his knees had gone weak and, desperately trying to hold his brother, made a bad mistake.
"I can promise you very little immediate gain," he continued in a low voice, "nothing to what you would have if you continued with the plans we made earlier. If we fail, also, I can promise you a rope's end for a necklace. But if we succeed, Walter, there is almost nothing you will not be able to ask—land, an earldom, any heiress in the country to wife …"
Walter's eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Watching, Roger was aware that he had trod amiss again. He wanted to cry out to him to come back, not to recede into hatred or indifference.
"Your price is not high enough," Walter said finally. Roger always tried to buy him like a common mercenary and always that action aroused in him the same burning shame and bitter resistance. He failed to realize that he himself had blocked his brother from all other methods of approach by his venomous tongue and manner.
Elizabeth cried out softly at the expression on her husband's face, but neither man looked at her. They were totally absorbed in the struggle between their wills. Walter now had his bloody lower lip between his teeth again, defeated already because he knew that Roger always won, but unable to give up the struggle. With a sharp intake of breath Hereford looked aside. He had realized that this was one thing in which it was more dangerous to force Walter to his will than to be without help. He must follow willingly or not at all.
"Forgive me, Walter. I have no right to push you where you do not wish to go. I thought I had learned that lesson. I can only plead my great need to excuse me. What will you do now?" He laughed shortly then but not pleasantly. "Nay, you need not tell me. You are a man, not a boy in my care. You may do what you will."
Walter did not answer, but he did not seem to be able to leave either. Hereford lay down, shaking, incapable of further effort of any kind.
"Can I do something for you, Roger?" Elizabeth asked quietly, coming closer.
"You have done enough for me already," he replied.
It was a cruel thing to say, but Hereford was beside himself, on the thin edge of complete loss of control. Elizabeth winced; she felt, however, very strongly that she was receiving her just deserts and made no effort at extenuation.
"Curse you, Roger," Walter burst out. Elizabeth started, thinking amazedly that Walter was about to defend her, but he had not even heard the exchange. "If you want me, I will come with you. You are a fool to ask me though. I am no man of yours, and I care nothing for your cause. One day you will say or do the wrong thing, and I will turn on you." He came up and looked down at his brother. "You cannot buy my loyalty, Roger, for you have by birthright the only thing I desire, and I hate you for it." Hereford did not look up. His face shone a little in the dim tent, possibly with sweat, but Elizabeth wondered if he could be crying. If he was, Walter gave no sign of noticing as he bent over his brother and put a hand on his sound shoulder. "You are right in one way though. You once said you were flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. I can refuse you nothing you ask of me for love."
He straightened up and walked away, turning again almost immediately to say more briskly, "Let us settle it thus. I will come and do my duty as long as I may. Do you meanwhile look about you for another man who will suit you. When you have him, give me leave to return to my own affairs—or, if I can bear you no longer, I will give you warning and go when I must."
CHAPTER 11
THE SUN SHONE ALL THAT DAY, BUT FOR THREE MEMBERS OF THE PARTY
that rode from midafternoon to late evening its brightness was overcast by the shadows on their spirits. Walter, leading the force, wondered, panic-stricken, whether he would come out of the commitment he had made with a whole soul. Hereford with Elizabeth beside him, unarmed and with his left arm bound lightly to his body to protect his shoulder against the jolting of his horse, traveled well in the center of the group where he was best protected.
Hereford had accepted the suggestion from Walter without comment, indifferent. He understood that he would be of no value either front or rear if they were attacked and actually an additional source of danger to his companions who would be obliged to protect him, but he would have accepted the suggestion anyway because he simply did not care. He was silent, absorbed in his thoughts, struggling with the pain of his partial comprehension of his brother's problem and the depression caused by his emotional turmoil over Elizabeth.
His wife did not dare address him, not because she was afraid but because the sight of his dumb suffering was steadily swelling her remorse. She watched him, however, with her heart in her eyes. It was unfortunate that Hereford never looked at her, for he did understand women and could not have misinterpreted her expression. The knowledge that would have given him would have cut his burden in half.
They made camp that night, Walter and Lord Radnor having decided that it would be better to take the chance of camping in hostile territory than of pushing Roger past his endurance. He did not argue even against that, suppressing his sense of urgency, partially because he was exhausted and in pain but largely because the next day would bring them to the parting of the ways. Radnor would take Elizabeth due west to Hereford and Walter and he would travel south to Devizes. Roger would not admit it to himself, but he really had offered no objection to camping in the hope that somehow in the privacy of that night he could mend matters between himself and his wife. When the raiding parties had returned with food and he was alone with her, however, he sat stupidly staring at the fire.
"Roger," Elizabeth ventured at last in a voice that trembled slightly, "eat something."
Automatically Hereford started to reach out to tear the chicken before them in half and stopped with a grunt of pain. Elizabeth paled a little and dropped her eyes. She was the cause of his discomfort and felt that he would be reminded of her guilt. Hereford's mind, of course, did not work that way. He associated wounds with battle, and his recollection of how he had broken his collarbone, if it could have any effect at all, could only lift his spirits. He would be very proud of that encounter when he had time to consider it in a less emotional moment.
"Let me, Roger."
Elizabeth broke the chicken into quarters and offered them to her husband, who looked at her without being blinded by wrath for the first time that day. He was shocked by her appearance, having been too taken up with his own emotions to consider that Elizabeth, knowing the havoc she might have caused, must have been living in hell herself for an interminable week. He took a quarter of the bird slowly, seeking for some ground of conversation.
"You had better eat something too. You will have a long ride tomorrow."
Elizabeth did not raise her eyes because they had filled with tears at the kindness of Roger's tone. "I am not hungry," she faltered.
"Neither am I, but that is no reason for starving oneself."
"Are you ill? Do you have fever?" Elizabeth was now too distressed by more important matters to be ashamed of displaying her tenderness. She reached over to touch Hereford's face, lifting the hair off his forehead to feel it, and then, still dissatisfied, she came closer and put her lips to it. "No," she sighed, torn between relief and regret. Perhaps if he had been feverish she could have brought him home to Hereford Castle for a while.
Her husband permitted the caress with pleasure, allowing his eyes to close sensuously. "I am only tired, Elizabeth. Tired and sad."
That was unfortunate; it reminded them both of their quarrel. Hereford stiffened slightly and Elizabeth withdrew. There was a silence in which he began to eat, finding it surprisingly difficult to swallow and watching his wife surreptitiously. Perhaps his rage should have reawakened, but Elizabeth was so close to him now, her beautiful head drooping disconsolately, that there was no anger in him, only a desolation of sorrow in which he wished to comfort and be comforted. Had he been sure she was willing, he would gladly have taken her into his arms to kiss and caress. He had not yet forgiven her for what she had done, he might never be able to do so, but he could not live in a wrangle with Elizabeth and he was growing increasingly certain every moment that, no matter how angry he was, he could not live without her.
"I wish I knew—" he began, only to be interrupted.
"Do not ask me, please, Roger. I am sorry, as God is my hope of salvation, I am sorry for the hurt I have done you. You may beat me, or lock me up. I will not complain nor defend myself for I have surely deserved it."
Elizabeth began to cry then in a horrible, wrenching, unaccustomed fashion. She really wept so seldom that she did not know how, and her sobs racked her apart. They tore Hereford's strained emotions to tatters too. He was always affected by women's tears, yielding readily even to the gentle weeping of his mother and sisters. To stop Elizabeth's violent grief he was ready to give or promise anything. He cast down his uneaten meal and pulled her against him.
"I will ask nothing. Do not weep, Elizabeth. When you are ready you will tell me whatever you like, or nothing at all if you like. I pray you, do not weep."
At that Elizabeth's sobs choked and a moan like a tortured animal was tom from her. She slipped out of his embrace down to the ground and embraced his knees. "Oh, do punish me, Roger. Do. Do not be kind to me, I cannot bear it." She did not realize that she was kneeling before him; the posture was no attempt to soften her husband's heart, it was an unconscious attempt to ease a sense of suffocation and the pain that gripped her across the breast. "I am sorry," she moaned, "I am sorry. Oh, the pain I have wrought you, the harm I have wrought you. Your men, your plans … What have I not brought to naught? But I meant you no harm. Mary be my witness, I meant not to hurt you thus. Roger. I cannot live if you will not believe that."
He lifted her to sit beside him again. "I believe you. Nay, Elizabeth, calm yourself. Even when I could have killed you for rage I never thought you meant me harm." He kissed her, holding her against his good shoulder. "All in all, it was not so bad as it might have been," he began, trying to quiet her, but a sudden vision of Alan's dead body rose before him, and he choked on the words. He could kiss her and love her, but that he could not forget or forgive.