He tipped her back on to the bed and she offered no resistance. She felt at first no passion or excitement, only a warm joy which made her soft and receptive. Roger must have shared her sensation for he was in no hurry, in spite of his claim that he lacked time. He moved slowly, stopping altogether from time to time to kiss her and fondle her, twisting his body to caress her breasts with his lips and to stroke her thighs. Elizabeth sighed, softly at first, then louder, and when Roger hesitated again she made an impatient movement. A slight frown of concentration marred the previous peace of her expression, but she was as unconscious of that as she was of clutching her husband closer.
"You know, Elizabeth," he said some time later, lying flat on his back and staring at the gathered bed curtains above him, "I once said I should some day make you howl like a bitch in heat—and I have."
Elizabeth shuddered. "What a horrid thing to say."
"But expressive and appropriate." He had turned to look at her and even while his eyes misted with tears of tenderness he sought escape from sentiment in laughter. "Did you know too that your skin turns violet when you blush. You look good enough to eat."
"You had better hold your tongue. You will look green, not violet, if I tell what I know about you." Elizabeth was not to be beaten, she would give as good as she got, teasing or loving.
Hereford's eyes opened wide with surprise. "What can you know of me now that you have not always known?"
Elizabeth giggled. "I can say, and with perfect truth, if you go about calling me a bitch in heat, that you are so depraved a wretch that you have taken to going to bed with your vassal. I would love to hear you trying to explain that."
"Bitch," he said fondly, nipping her shoulder, "ungrateful bitch, biting the—the hand that feeds you."
That made her gurgle with laughter again, but her husband was distracted from his love play by a beam of early sunlight, and his mood changed swiftly. He had so much to do and he felt the pressure of time, always. It was not that there was really any hurry any more, except for Henry's natural impatience. Once Henry was safely in England, theoretically they had all the time in the world to win the throne and actually there was not much urgency, only that caused by the possible discouragement of their allies if the war dragged on too long. When it came to the point, Hereford did not know why he felt he had to rush, felt that if he did not hurry, hurry, everything would fall to pieces. He only knew that he did feel that way, and, being in many ways a simple person, he responded directly by getting out of bed.
Elizabeth did not wish to move and murmured that Roger should drop the curtains. She wanted to remain in the warn dimness, savoring this new total release of physical tension, recalling the piercing pain-pleasure of her new experience. To Roger, of course, the sensation was not at all new and not in the least remarkable. Nonetheless, under ordinary circumstances he would have been happy to lie with her, teasing, caressing, possibly even renewing the pleasure. Instead he turned back quickly.
"Nay, love, I know what you would like, but this is not the hour for it." He smiled kindly, but there was sufficient firmness in his voice to admit of no argument. "Up, vassal, I have work for you."
"Do not give me labor greater than my strength, Roger."
"I know no limit to your strength when you will exert it. I can only give you the task I need you to do. Will the men of your dower lands obey you—even in matters of war?"
"I believe so." Elizabeth was now frowning. Surely Roger could not be mad enough to plan to use her as a fighting captain. It was true she knew a great deal about tactics, and there were women who had donned armor and gone to war, but both her knowledge of tactics and their actions had always been in matters of defense when their husbands were gone. To plan to use her offensively, however, would be so great a blow to his prestige that she could not, not for all the vassalage in the world nor all the love in the world, permit him to carry through such an idea. Very soon it became apparent that that was not Roger's intention, and Elizabeth relaxed and listened attentively.
"I will recall your men from the south, at least the mounted troops. Unless the fighting and losses have been heavier than I expected, that will give you near seven hundred tried men. With that force you should be safe to travel anywhere. After Henry and I go south, you will ride north to find your father. We parted with no great love, so that I cannot tell you exactly where he will be. You must keep him steady to us, Elizabeth. Or, if not steady, at least you must keep him from joining Stephen, or, even more important, from coming south. I care little enough what he does in the north so long as he does not hinder our work. Do you understand what I want? Can you do it?"
"Can I?” Elizabeth shook her head. “I do not know. Often I can bend him to my will, but sometimes I believe the devil enters his soul. Then no one can move him. It depends a little on what has taken place since you parted. I will do my best, Roger, but I tell you this—for all the duty I owe you, and all the love I bear you, I will not even try to stop him by force, not my father."
"I do not expect that, nor, I believe, could you make your men go against him who has so long led them, but I do expect that you will send me word if you fail to hold him. Write to Devizes, always. They will know where to send your message farther."
"You would not fight him, would you, Roger?" Elizabeth pleaded.
Hereford set his jaw. "I do not know. I love him also, Elizabeth, but what I have sworn, I have sworn. If you do not wish to be ripped apart between us, you had best not fail. Let me be now, I must write and that is never easy for me."
After one brief effort to keep Elizabeth away from Henry, Roger gave up. Henry flirted disgracefully with her during the few days that they remained at Hereford, Elizabeth naughtily aiding and abetting him. Nonetheless after Hereford's initial resistance Henry could not succeed in getting much reaction from him. For one thing, having conquered his wife's sexual reserve, Roger was much more sure of her and for another he was fully occupied.
Hereford, unable to do two and three things at once, as Henry could, was preoccupied with military matters and scarcely saw his overlord, even when they sat side by side, unless he was conferring with him. It was a mark of Henry of Anjou's real brilliance as a leader and Hereford's grim application to duty that they just about kept pace with each other, Henry grasping instantly the possibilities and leaping to the conclusions that Hereford labored hours over.
They were now in perfect agreement; Henry had learned that however skilled he was at sizing up terrain and arraying his battle order, Hereford better understood the reliability of the forces and the temper of the people through experience. Tactically Hereford generally bowed to Henry's decisions, but if Hereford said a certain plan of action could not be successful and gave his reasons, Henry did not argue.
Elizabeth's dark, glossy head lifted away from Henry's abruptly as her husband came from another part of the chamber and spoke. "We can do no more here, my lord. The next step is to perform what we have planned."
"I thought you wanted to wait until you heard from your brother," Henry said.
"I did, but Walter is not a reliable correspondent."
Hereford did not say that he also thought Walter was an unreliable ally and, not having beard from him, was most anxious to return to the scene of action personally. He was also disturbed at not having heard from Gloucester. It was possible that after the news of the fiasco at York had reached that squeamish duke, he was again hesitating about committing himself fully to Henry's cause by leaving the court to join the rebel forces. Hereford did not wish to find the city of Gloucester closed against them and said so, proposing that they ride directly there on the morrow. Depending upon the news they were able to obtain in that city, they could move east to Shrivenham or south to Devizes.
Henry shrugged and agreed readily. "Only I am a little tired of this tour of England. When do we see some action?"
"We go for that purpose, my lord, not to tour. If Walter has taken Shrivenham, we should try for Faringdon. That taken, we have the south blocked off from Oxford, which is a favorite stronghold of Eustace. He will not stay long away when he has the news of what we are about, if he be not there already. If we are agreed, then, I will go to give the orders."
"We will not have time to finish our game, Lady Elizabeth," Henry said to her when Hereford was gone. Henry played chess well, but so did his hostess, and they had been involved in a very protracted struggle which showed no sign of an early termination.
"I am sorry for it, but I will mark the places and then, when you come again, we may go on."
"You seem less distressed at this parting than at the one at Chester. Do you have no fears for your husband's safety?"
"Roger's safety? No, he bears a charmed life." Elizabeth's calm manner and fathomless golden eyes gave no clue to her inner tremors. It was never safe to display an emotional attachment that might be turned into a weapon against one. Presumably there would never be a reason to fear Henry's knowledge, but Elizabeth firmly believed that the less anyone knew about her, the better off she would be.
"Does he too believe that?"
Henry wondered whether Elizabeth knew what was troubling her husband. He did not expect to learn anything from her; indeed, she had not dropped a single piece of information relative to her husband or herself in all the talk they had shared, but there was no harm in trying.
"I have no idea. Certainly he never says anything to show that he worries about himself."
Henry laughed. "Lady Elizabeth, if I asked you what color hose your husband planned to wear tomorrow, would you put me off with equally literal truthfulness?"
"No doubt I should, my lord." Warm affection, admiration, and amusement lent additional color to her face and a leaping brilliance to her eyes. "After all, I should wonder why you wanted to know—and—not believe you if you told me. My lord," she added seriously, "it is no distrust of you that makes me thus. So would I reply to my own father, who I know loves Roger tenderly."
And with more cause
, Henry thought
, but did not interrupt her
. "It is a woman's only defense, not to trust."
It was true, however, that Elizabeth was parting with Roger far more easily this time, and doing so even though she now acknowledged that she loved him more than life. In fact she loved him so much that she could hardly manage to speak about him or use his name. Every time she thought of her husband these days her bowels stirred and a strange soft pain under her breasts made it very hard to breathe. Her fears for his personal safety were greater under the circumstances, but now she could face those fears with resolution.
Several factors contributed to her equanimity. Roger's renewed trust in her had reestablished to a great extent her faith in herself. Her sexual satisfaction, established and repeated so that she had confidence in her ability to give and receive that pleasure at will, removed an immense core of frustration and unhappiness that Elizabeth had not known to exist until its weight was lifted from her soul. Moreover she had discovered that, yielding this, she had gained everything and lost nothing, so that she was sure that the more she gave Roger throughout her life the more he would give her of trust and confidence in return. Most important of all, however, was that she knew she would not need to sit still in fear and ignorance, waiting, waiting.
She was afraid for him, so afraid that after their passion was spent that night she crept back into Roger's arms and kept him awake a full hour with demands to be fondled. It might be the last time, she kept telling herself, fighting sleep, the last time. It might be the last time, and Elizabeth was determined to savor it to the full, but though she feared for Roger she was not afraid of the future anymore. If her husband were killed, her heart would be torn apart, but her life would not be broken. She no longer felt weak or defenseless or wondered what would become of her.
If God were good and she had conceived a child—Elizabeth stopped at that thought and smiled, she had never considered having Roger's child before, not seriously considered it with pleasure. Well, if she did, she could hold the lands for that child against all comers, of that she was sure. If there was no child, there were many other paths to follow. One thing was certain, however, if Roger was not there to give her orders, she would take them from no one else. To her mind there was not a man in England who was his match, and she would have no other.
On the morning of their separation, the Earl of Hereford seemed more distressed than his wife. He was plainly reluctant to leave the room where Elizabeth had helped him dress and arm, and he paced about giving her detailed instructions about what route to take north and what to do in all possible and impossible situations. Again and again he looked toward the spire of the church in Hereford, bitterly regretting Alan of Evesham's death. One part of him knew that Elizabeth was strong and capable, another part cried out that she was a woman and he loved her and was deliberately sending her into danger.
"For God's sake, Elizabeth, be careful. Be cautious even if caution will make you lose your point. Do not be afraid or ashamed to run away. I will have no word of blame to say to you. Above all, do not fail to send a courier daily—every day, without fail from wherever you are—even if you have nothing to tell me." He lifted her heavy braids and kissed them.
"I will not fail in that, if you desire it, but you should not count too much upon it. Many things may happen to a single rider over the distance that will be between us. You know I will be safe once I find my father, and so many couriers will deplete my men."
"A single man, changing horses, should not take above three to five days to find me, and I will send him back again once he is rested. That will mean that no more than twenty or thirty riders will be needed. I do not wish ever again to feel the terror of not knowing where to look for you. You have no doubts as to what you are to do?"