Knight's Honor (53 page)

Read Knight's Honor Online

Authors: Roberta Gellis

Tags: #fantasy

Hereford stirred and the cot creaked protestingly. In her sleep Elizabeth turned and reached out to touch him. Her hand was cold, and Hereford pulled the covers higher over her shoulders. He kept her hand in his, rubbing it gently as if to warm it but in reality clinging to her. When he held her, he did not feel himself helplessly drifting away from everything; he did not feel overwhelmed by the onrush of events.

Elizabeth was his haven and his anchor in the violent tempests that were battering his life—not a quiet haven certainly, for she was frequently cross as two sticks, but a safe one. Whether they loved, or laughed, or fought, he came away from each encounter with her better able to deal with himself and others. She did not calm him or relax him. With eyes still closed Hereford smiled ruefully at the idea; he often left Elizabeth so enraged that he shook. Somehow, she gave him strength. She slept heavily, exhaustedly, and yet they had done nothing that day that could tire her physically. With a sudden revelation, Hereford thought, I eat her; that is why she is so tired and pale.

Tomorrow would bring an end to the situation, both its good aspects and its bad. The terms of service of Elizabeth's vassals were over now, and their last duty would be to see her safely home to Hereford. And, Roger thought, he had better concentrate on how to draw Henry de Tracy out of his holes and forget about Elizabeth. Away from him she would have a chance to recruit her strength.

They had been encamped before Bridport for a week now with no result. It was true that they were living off the fat of the land, for no opposition had been offered to their raiding parties and the summer-fattened cattle and garnered crops had supplied their tables plentifully. There was even some plunder from small keeps and a small town here and there, but they were no nearer to the opening of Bridport. De Tracy would not fight so large a force with Hereford as its leader, and Bridport would not open its gates to themnot so long as de Tracy had his full strength and they could not openly demonstrate their ability to beat him.

"Move over, Roger, I wish to get in with you." Hereford started awake, not realizing that he had been mumbling and tossing in an uneasy sleep. "I am cold," Elizabeth explained, and her husband was too dazed to wonder why, if that was her reason, her body was so warm. He accepted gratefully the discomfort of being cramped for the brief heaven of relaxation which came with her embrace, and then slept without dreaming.

"Be sure," Hereford was saying to his wife a few moments before she left the next morning, "to follow exactly the route I have outlined. It is somewhat longer, but this way you will never be more than a few miles from a friendly keep. The men I have assigned as foreriders are experienced, so if they even suspect trouble, do as they say."

"I am not a fool, Roger, and you have said all this before. I know, I know, if de Tracy takes me you will be ruined and I know he will be watching. I will take every precaution."

She stepped back out of the way as a scarred and branded serf, apparently some low hanger-on of the troops, staggered in bearing a load of firewood. Neither Hereford nor his wife glanced at the creature, and the truth is that they would not have recognized him if they had. Without ears or nose and after eight weeks of near starvation, de Caldoet was no longer anything resembling a human being. As if the place was empty, which to his way of thinking it was, Hereford took his wife into his arms. He kissed her long, lifting his lips from hers only to kiss her eyes and her cheeks and return to her lips.

"God bless you, Elizabeth, and God keep you, my dear love. Do not be angry because my fondness makes me urge you so often to caution. You are so dear to me, and I blame myself that I have allowed you to be in this dangerous place. God knows what would become of me if harm came to you through my folly."

"Do not fret yourself, Roger. I will be safe and I will take care."

Elizabeth not only yielded to her husband's embrace but returned it cordially. She was immeasurably grateful that he had noticed nothing of the change in her body and that she had resisted the urge to tell him of her pregnancy. He was in a considerably better state of mind than when she arrived, but plainly the less worry he had the better off he would be.

"For Heaven's sake,” she went on when their lips parted, “do not worry about me when you should be thinking of other matters. You are so near a great success and one that may lead to still greater victories. Do not permit yourself to be distracted by fears for me or" —she pressed herself still closer against him and lowered her voice "or any other considerations. You can only do what you think is right, Roger. Who knows whether dreams are not sent as temptations to turn us from the true path."

De Caldoet, watching and listening while he pretended to fumble about making a fire was just barely sane enough to prevent himself from laughing aloud. When his mutilations had been half-healed he had been cast out upon the road. The horror of what he had endured before his wounds had been totally healed and he was quick enough to steal a loaf or fowl here and there was such that his memory had blanked it out completely. And even when his mind had returned to him in some degree, it was not a whole mind. There remained in it no more than an animal cunning that enabled him to remain alive and the fixed idea that he must destroy the Earl of Hereford who had done him some great injury—although he was no longer sure and did not care what that injury was.

It had taken de Caldoet six interminable weeks to win his way south to Hereford's army, a week more of cringing and begging before he had been allowed to exchange the filthiest and most menial tasks for a mouthful of leftovers, and still another week to find out where the Earl of Hereford camped. There was some advantage in being less than a beast, de Caldoet soon found, for no one ever paid the slightest attention to him except to kick him if he were in the way. It was easy to pick up a load of wood and bear it into Hereford's tent.

Outside the tent, William de Montfort, who would have stopped and questioned almost anyone else, did no more than glance briefly at de Caldoet’s excrement-clotted, louse-infested, rag-clad body before he returned his attention to cleaning and paring his nails. Even Hereford and his wife regarded him so little that they made love before him and did not notice how long he was puttering about.

All of this struck de Caldoet as funny because he knew he was more dangerous to the earl than de Tracy's whole army. Even funnier was listening to Hereford and his wife worry about the future. De Caldoet alone knew that Hereford had no future. In a few minutes, as soon as Elizabeth stepped out, Hereford would die. Die, with his sins upon him, without time for confession, prayer or even the last rites.

A momentary doubt that Hereford would go out with his wife shook de Caldoet, but another quick look reassured him that the earl was not dressed. True, the squire would come in to dress him as soon as Elizabeth left, but all de Caldoet needed was a few seconds. A quick thrust with the stolen knife he was fingering with his left hand, and all would be over.

Hereford and Elizabeth kissed once more, clinging, Elizabeth with closed eyes to hold back her tears. And then, to conceal the drops she could not restrain, she turned very swiftly and went out without further farewell. William started to rise, but Elizabeth stopped him with a gesture as she wiped away the tears.

She would go in again, she had decided, and say farewell smiling. Roger should not have the burden of her fear to bear. Above all she must seem confident at this time.

"Roger!" she screamed from the doorway, and Hereford turned and flung up an arm.

He was guarding automatically against a right-handed blow so that his arm struck nothing, but the twist of his body spoiled de Caldoet's aim. The knife slashed a long cut in his upper arm and sank only a little way into his shoulder instead of piercing his heart. Then Hereford's instinctive reactions disarmed and overthrew his greatly weakened enemy. By then William had bounded in, sword drawn, and Hereford, pressing his robe against the gushing wound gasped at him to hold his hand.

"Stop, William. I want to know who sent this creature and why I was to be slain. Hold him."

"Roger," Elizabeth faltered, and Hereford moved toward her quickly because she had turned a fine shade of green.

"All right, Elizabeth," he said, letting go of his bleeding arm to support her, "I am not hurt. Sit down."

"It is not that," she breathed, sinking onto a stool, "but I do not think anyone sent him."

No matter how she felt, it was important for her husband to know that. For him to add a dread of assassination to everything else would really destroy him. She had been staring steadily at the wretch William had at sword's point and recognition had come to her. "It is de Caldoet. He said he would come back and destroy you; he told me so."

"Impossible!"

"No, do you not remember what I wrote to you? Ask him."

That, however, was plainly useless. With the failure of the one plan that had anchored his mind to reality, de Caldoet's sanity had crumpled to nothing. He gibbered and wept uttering incoherent sounds and making bestial, senseless gestures. When William spoke to him and prodded him with the sword, he collapsed on the ground and fouled himself from fear.

"Oh, God," Elizabeth got out, her voice shaking, "in mercy, Roger, destroy him."

When she glanced at her husband, however, she forgot de Caldoet. Hereford had gone parchment-white and blood was staining the fingers of the hand with which he was unconsciously clutching his wounded arm. "You are hurt!" she cried. "Let me stanch that blood."

Abstractedly Hereford allowed himself to be attended to, seeming dazed. He roused himself only once to countermand sharply an order given by Elizabeth to call for help and to tell William to gag and bind de Caldoet and then go and sit outside as if nothing had happened but to keep everyone out. For the rest of the time he sat, staring at nothing, barely wincing as Elizabeth washed and bound his arm and shoulder.

"Lie down, Roger," she said finally. The wound was not serious, but she was worried by how much shaken her husband seemed. "You are not badly hurt, dear. You will feel better when you have rested."

Hereford suddenly began to laugh in a singularly ugly fashion. "You are wrong, Elizabeth. I am very badly hurt indeed. Worse than that—I am dead."

"No, no!" Elizabeth cried, sinking to her knees and taking Hereford's hand in hers. "No, love, you are not. In a few hours you will be much better. Rest now, do not talk so wildly."

"I tell you I am dead," Hereford replied irritably. "Dead. What could be better? It is the answer to our present troubles. God bless the man—de Caldoet, if you say it is he. He has been more help to me than all my friends."

Elizabeth wished she were dead herself; dead, blind, deaf, anything at all before she had come to see the day when her husband's courage broke and he seized on such an excuse to run away. "Roger, please," she began to sob, "be a man. Do not let your courage fail. This cannot be the first time you have faced an assassin's knife. What ails you to turn lily-livered for a scratch?" She would say anything. Possibly if her words were cruel enough they would sting him into resistance.

A pair of exceedingly surprised blue eyes met hers. "What ails me? What ails you to speak such words to me?" Hereford asked in a stunned voice.

"Praise Christ, praise Mary," Elizabeth whispered, "he was but mad for a moment. It is passed." She dashed the tears from her eyes and summoned a smile. "Nothing ails me. I think you were a little dazed by the shock. You spoke so wildly for a moment about being dead"

"I tell you I
am
dead. I must be. Nay, Elizabeth, do not look like that. Can you not see that thus we may trick de Tracy out of his keep?"

That last sentence sounded all right, but the beginning … "No, I do not see anything, but that is not surprising because you have fairly frightened me out of my wits," Elizabeth replied with asperity. "If you are not out of yours, would you mind explaining?"

"You should understand without explaining." Hereford was impatient. "You are leaving with about seven hundred men, right? Well, why cannot we make that seem as if our whole force is breaking up? I thought of that before, but could think of no reason for it that de Tracy would believe. Now I have the reason."

"What reason?" Elizabeth regarded her husband with a fascinated but suspicious eye.

"I have told you three or four times. I must be dead."

"Roger!"

"Elizabeth, if you would only stop thinking that I have suddenly gone as mad as that—" Hereford gestured with his head, "or turned into a bloodless and spineless coward in five minutes—and what reason I have ever given you to suspect me of that I know not—you would have no difficulty in understanding me. If I have been assassinated, my vassals and the mercenaries I pay would have no further interest in this conflict. Right?"

Elizabeth nodded. The irritation of her husband's tone and the clarity of his gaze having convinced her that he was perfectly in his right mind.

"Very well. We need, then, to spread the word that I am dead. Of course, Henry, Gloucester, my brother, and my chief vassals will need to know the truth, but for the others it is better that they believe the lie. Then you will leave carrying with you my coffin—"

"Roger! No!"

"This is no time for superstition."

Looking at her husband, Elizabeth knew that she, Gloucester, and Henry had all been wrong. Roger's fears, whatever they were, would never break him. Whatever demons pursued him could kill him by wearing out his physical strength, but no mental or spiritual torture could destroy his emotional endurance. While he lived, his spirit would not fail.

In the very moment in which he bid her cast away superstition, he was grappling with his own terror and bearing it down. That was the struggle which had whitened his face and clouded his eyes, but he had emerged triumphant from it as he would from all those of the future. Content at last, with nothing to fear for but her husband's physical safety, Elizabeth bowed her head in submission.

Other books

Love Drunk Cowboy by Carolyn Brown
Freeze by Pyle, Daniel
Phantasos by Robert Barnard
A Winter of Ghosts by Christopher Golden, Thomas Randall
Necromancer by Jonathan Green - (ebook by Undead)
Scavenger Reef by Laurence Shames