"And I?"
"My unwise councilor are you, my dear Roger. Have you not a reputation for hot-headedness and amorous dalliance? Indulge it. If David suggests something wise, oppose it. If he suggests something foolish, approve it … unless it be so silly as to be a trap. In a word, I wish him to believe that when I am set on the throne, he will rule England. Thus will I buy him at no cost."
"Henry …" Roger’s voice trailed off.
"Yes?" Henry questioned briskly.
Hereford swallowed his sickness. "He seeks his own advantage, it is true, but—"
"But?" A sharp interruption. There was a hardness and brittleness to the tone that Hereford had heard before.
"But he may do us good service. Is it fair to pay him back in false coin?"
"What will I do with you, Roger?” Henry was plainly exasperated, but there was a fond tone in his voice. “There is a time and place for honor. Are we dealt with honorably in intention? You are four years older than I and yet younger. Will you never learn the way of the world? Moreover, who says I shall pay in false coin? As he aids me against my enemies, so will I aid him against his when that power is mine. Is it false to deny him the whole when he has paid only for a small part?"
"No, but to allow him to believe—" Hereford stopped speaking abruptly.
Practically speaking Henry was right and he was wrong. There was no other way if they wanted David's wholehearted support. He would never make the effort they needed for the questionable benefit of armed support in some unspecified crisis in the future that might, after all, never arise. Only if he thought he could direct the actions and policies of the English king and perhaps siphon off a substantial portion of English gold or gain dominion over the northern provinces of England, gradually eating his way down to the rich midlands, would it be worth his while to set so much at stake.
"Roger, if you block me, or foul my game, I will not be pleased."
"Not by my will." Agreeing, Hereford's heart sank further. "But I am no great play-actor and no safe ally for you in this."
"You think I do not know you? Do your best. Doubtless the eyes will be on me so long as you do not try to change their direction."
The mild military activity of the next two weeks—the attack on some small strongholds of Stephen's in the north, largely to call attention to Henry's presence, was sufficient to occupy the minds of David and his courtiers; they saw nothing unusual in Hereford's alternating silences and bursts of gaiety. Henry could not avoid showing his true colors in these encounters because he judged it to be more important that all should praise his military wisdom and his valor.
Nor was the exposure of Henry’s cleverness in military matters very dangerous. It
seemed reasonable enough that a young man might be a most valorous knight and effective soldier without being astute or certain in matters of state. Only Chester, the wily old fox, smiled and called his son-by-marriage aside to thank him again for his warning about pinning Henry down with written promises.
They were just preparing to begin the feasting before the knighting ceremony, and Roger's squires could cheerfully have murdered Chester for interrupting the lengthy process of dressing him. The Lord knew that his temper had grown steadily worse and worse and nothing exasperated him more than discussions while he was preparing for an important function these days.
"He nearly fooled me with that boyish good humor and the way he nods when you make a suggestion, but, praise God, I believed you, Roger, and made him sign. Now that I have seen him in action, however …” Chester hesitated and dropped his voice even lower. “Roger, are we doing the right thing?" Now he leaned forward to embrace Hereford and was speaking directly into his ear to frustrate eavesdroppers. "When this one mounts the throne, as you said, will ride us all, and I fear greatly that he will not spare the whip. We are tormented with unrest under Stephen, but under Henry we are like to be too quiet—like men in prison. Mayhap the ills we have will be less hard to bear, being ills of too much freedom, than those we will bring upon ourselves by this enterprise."
"Father, in God's name do not falter now." Hereford shuddered under his father-by-law's hands as a chill passed through him. Was this to be the desertion that would ruin them? "There is no path to return to Stephen's favor for either of us. Even if he were willing, we have too many enemies too close to his ear. For good or ill, Henry is our only hope."
"Are you sure, Roger?"
"Father," Hereford whispered desperately, "do not tear me apart. I have given my oath to support Henry, and you are bound in blood to me through Elizabeth. Do not make me choose between breaking my word and raising my hand against my blood kin. Oh, God, if you care not for me, think of Elizabeth's suffering. You will kill her."
"Oh, you need not trouble yourself about that. If you do not think with me, I will not involve you. If it is needful for me to change my plans, I will keep well out of
your
way. Whatever happens,
we
will not come to blows."
Chester patted Hereford's shoulders fondly as he left, but the young man was anything but comforted. He returned to the ministrations of his squires with a set expression, replying so absently to their questions that William Beauchamp lost patience.
"My lord, whatever greater problems you consider, will you kindly pay some mind to those lesser but more immediate ones that trouble me. Will you wear the blue or the green gown now?"
To Hereford, made hypersensitive with tension, everything had special meanings just then. Symbolically, blue was the color of truth, green the color of loyalty. Hereford looked from one gown to the other. Must he warn Henry of Chester's vacillation? Henry was suspicious enough. It would be a dreadful blow to Chester and one that he would never have dreamt would fall, for he trusted Hereford to keep their talk, which he regarded as personal, in confidence. Not tonight, at least, Hereford thought. Tonight after dinner they would bathe ceremonially and stand their knightly vigil. Hereford drew a deep breath. He would have time enough to think then for they would have to stand before the altar in the church from sunset to sunrise.
"Green," he said finally. "Let me wear green."
Beauchamp looked at his master, for the phrase was peculiar. He had no time, however, to worry about Hereford's peculiarities just now. When he was rid of the trouble of dressing him, the clothing for the vigil had to be prepared, and the mail recleaned and checked for the jousting the next day. Somewhere also William planned to find time to enjoy the festivities. Hereford could stand on his head for all he cared. He had no time for discussions.
The feast was like all others. There was too much to eat and far too much to drink. If Roger of Hereford's gaiety was febrile, it passed easily without comment in that roaring place. The bath, taken just as dusk fell, was warm and scented and soothing, except that Chester attended his son-by-marriage, for whose knighting he was the sponsor. The vigil, to Hereford, was endless. The first few hours he spent moving restlessly from one foot to another, wrestling with his problem, but the more fatigued his body grew, the less clearly could he see any honest solution.
It was his duty to Henry to tell him Chester might defect; it was his duty to Chester to hold his tongue. His eyes rested on the steady flames of the votary candles on the altar, flames that were like two tiny, rosy hands cupped and lifted to pray. Hereford went down on his knees on the cold stone flags and sought prayers, but none of the ones he had been taught seemed suitable to his situation. He set his sword point down into a crack in the flags, holding it by the hilt, and leaned his forehead against the holy relics set in the pommel.
Now his mind kept drifting away from Chester to Chester’s daughter. Elizabeth would have loved the panoply and excitement and the honor done him in knighting him with Henry. It was too bad he could not chance bringing her, for his pleasure as well as her own, because he missed her. Not that he lacked for female companionship. Of that there was, if anything, too much, too willing, too often. Hereford had to smile.
He would not have been so tired if Elizabeth had been here to protect him—nor so frightened either. Elizabeth would have known what to do; Elizabeth would have handled Chester; Elizabeth would have told all the right lies at all the right times to the right people. She would have left him with nothing to do but fight so that his heart could have been at peace. Hereford closed his eyes. Elizabeth would break her heart if Chester were disgraced.
The shriek of steel on stone as his sword point slipped woke Hereford just before he fell forward. He judged that he had been asleep for some time because his knees were numb from kneeling and his hands from clutching the sword hilt. It took him four tries to get to his feet, and, at that, he probably would not have made it but for a strong hand that lifted and steadied him from the right.
That would be Henry. Hereford did not dare look at Henry. Although Hereford himself was not very pious, he was usually respectful of the Church and all religious ceremony, while Henry's behavior bordered on the blasphemous. Roger knew if he turned his head, sure as he lived, Henry would begin to talk. Besides, he did not want to talk to Henry just now nor to look at him because he felt guilty. Sometime during his sleep he had made up his mind. As long as Chester made no active move against Henry, he would hold his tongue; he could not, and would not, hurt Elizabeth for a scruple of his conscience. What was the addition of one more feeling of guilt to the load of it he already carried compared with her pain? He was used to it, and she had been hurt enough by her father's ways.
Hereford glanced impatiently at the high window slits. As yet there was no sign of dawn. He should be using this time for prayer and contemplation, but the knowledge only made him smother a smile. How could a man lift his heart and mind to heaven when his feet hurt? Mayhap a saint, but saint he certainly was not. Besides, what need had he to pray to be a good knight? He
was
a good knight, and a better man than most. Damn Henry and Chester also. How could a man tread the path of honor when those around him … No, he would not cast the blame elsewhere and he would think no more of the matter lest his tongue betray him by accident.
The coming of the morning light brought priests to say Mass and to release the young men from their vigil. The real ceremony was only just under way. First they would have a chance to eat, then out on to the jousting field, where a platform had been raised and draped in cloth of royal purple so that King David could give Henry the buffet of knighthood clearly in all men's sight.
Hereford glanced quickly at the sky and sighed with relief. The day promised fair, which would make everything pleasant. That knightly buffet was no joke. Hereford half-expected to be knocked right off the scaffolding and was just as pleased that he would not have to land in a mud puddle.
He did not, in the event, actually fall off the platform, but his head sang for hours and when he undressed that night there was a huge bruise between his ear and his shoulder where David's mailed fist had caught him. He heard Henry laugh as he staggered and shook his head and stepped back to join his overlord while David knighted fifteen other young men.
"You ought to put on some weight, Roger. You nearly went off," Henry whispered. He had stood his ground like a rock when David struck, and although the king had doubtless tempered his blow to his nephew, it was still a feat of strength not to have reeled.
"How can I put on weight when you never allow me time to eat or sleep?" Hereford rejoined, laughing softly. "I have shed a stone, at the least, since I have returned to England."
"That was not because of my affairs," Henry said so firmly that one might have thought him serious, "that's lechery."
"Then you should be a wraith."
Henry dug his elbow into Hereford's ribs. "Have some respect for your betters. Is that the way to talk to the man to whom you are about to do homage?"
"I am only trying to protect you from the mortal sin of pride,” Hereford replied with mock mournfulness. “You should be grateful for my efforts on your behalf."
"Be quiet, madman, everybody is looking at us. You have a fine way of saving me anyhow. To preserve me from the hell-fire for pride, you send me there for lechery."
"It is because I love you so much.” Hereford batted his eyelashes at his liege lord. “At least for that we will go together."
Henry stifled a chuckle. "Likely enough, but you will get there as fast as I for the first cause as well as the second. Why not go to hell with dignity?"
"There's nothing dignified about pride. If your pride goeth before a fall and you miss your leap because you weigh as much as an ox, I'll have my turn to laugh, and the dignity of your pride will only make it funnier."
Henry laughed softly. There was about as much chance of his missing his leap into the saddle of his horse without touching the stirrups as there was of his flying straight up to heaven in a fiery chariot. He had practiced that first trial of knighthood too long and too well to worry. He had no time to reply to Hereford, however, because David was stepping down to make way for his nephew to take his place.
The laughter faded from Henry's eyes, and when he mounted the small additional rise that lifted him above the men who would do him homage, his young face was very set. The mobile mouth had thinned to a hard line, the brutal jaw was thrust forward; Henry fully intended to keep every one of these men to the letter of their vows. Kingship was no light matter or empty phrase to him, and so plain was his determination and so strong the force of his presence that a hush fell over the crowd gathered to watch the ceremonies.
Hereford, the first in importance, was the first to come forward, kneel, and raise his ungloved hands to his lord. Henry took them in his in a painful grip and the two pairs of eyes, blue and gray, deadly serious, deadly earnest, locked.
"Sire, I enter into your homage and faith and become your man, by mouth and hands, and I swear and promise to keep faith and loyalty to you against all others, and to guard your rights with all my strength."