"I cannot tell you what to think. God have mercy on me, I do not know what to think myself. I can only tell you how to act because, right or wrong, I have given my oath, before God, to Stephen of Blois to be his man. For me, there is no other path. As long as Stephen lives, I am his man."
Geoffrey lifted his head from his father's knees where he had allowed it to rest momentarily and his eyes were alight with adoration and gratitude. His appeal had been sincere, but within him was also the burgeoning pride of his growing adulthood. He cried out for security, but he also desired to be forced into freedom no matter how dangerous.
"That is good enough for me, father. It must be so if you have pledged your faith. May I ask something else?"
"You may ask anything."
"Why does Eustace hate you? I have heard it whispered behind my back, and the earl of Leicester said it aloud today, that the prince has accused you of treachery. This must be a lie, but what is his reason for missaying you?"
"I do not know, other than he chooses to blame me for our defeats at Dursley and Devizes. Are you troubled by these whisperings, Geoffrey?"
"No. I have belabored the few who dared whisper in my hearing in such a way that they do not speak at all now." The blue eyes were clear and trusting. "To me it does not matter, except that it goes against the grain to fight for one who befouls my father with lies."
Rannulf's mouth twisted with pride and pain, but he could not command his voice to reply. Instead he kissed his son who, taking that as a dismissal, returned the salute heartily and left. Before Rannulf could move, Catherine had taken the place that Geoffrey had vacated. When she laid her hands on her husband's she could feel that he was shaking.
"I pray God," she said softly, "that I may bear you a son. Whether you are right or wrong in the king's matter, I do not know, but surely no man can be wiser in the handling of his children. No son could have a better father."
Pulling his hands roughly from her grasp, Rannulf turned away. "Could he not?" he asked bitterly. "My pride and my honor may cost that boy his lands. Oh, God, what am I to do? Stephen loves me well, but I cannot pretend even to myself that he is other than a weak reed. Now that Maud is dead he will be blown hither and thither like the dead leaves of autumn with every breath of advice and rumor. Eustace— Now who is at the door?"
"I am, Rannulf," Leicester replied. "Forgive my intrusion in your women's chambers, but what I have to say to you needs walls with no ears. Why do you look so tired?"
"I fear I suffer more from my age and from my dismay than from any weariness."
"Nonsense. My age is close to yours, and it troubles me no whit. I would say from looking at you that you are somewhat disordered with a superabundance of black and yellow bile, but that is no surprise after what you have endured these two years past. No, I thank you, Lady Soke, no wine. I am sorry for it, Rannulf, but I have come to add to your troubles."
"Can you?" Rannulf asked, laughing wryly.
"Is this a time for laughter?"
"I cannot think why not. If I do not laugh, I must weep. Is it not better to laugh?" Rannulf accepted a goblet of wine handed him by Catherine. In the process their hands touched, and he was seized with an impatience for all matters of state. He turned to Leicester with deep concentration. "Very well, you wish me to be grave—I am grave."
"It is a grave matter enough. While Maud was alive there was good mixed with the ill of Stephen's reign, but Stephen must be ruled by someone. Eustace will try to fill his mother's place."
Rannulf began to laugh again. "What surprising news."
"Has it come to your mind that Maud was patient with Stephen's waverings and Eustace might not be? Stephen might not long outlive his wife."
There was no mistaking the implication that Stephen's death would not be natural and would come about through his son's doing. Rannulf was so revolted that he started out of his chair as if he could physically avoid the words Leicester had said.
"No!" Then his mind rejected the fantastic, and he laughed uneasily and sat down. "Hey, Robert, mind your tongue. If you fright me again like that, I will die under your eyes. It is not kind to kill a brother with an unhealthy jest."
"You fool," Leicester said furiously, "this time I will not let you be blind. If Eustace comes to the throne you may well die under my eyes—with your head on the block. That is no matter," he continued caustically, "for the way you use your head, you would be as well off without it as with it. But do you realize that Geoffrey's head and Richard's too must follow yours? Man, I do not ask you to abandon Stephen. I know you gave him sword-oath. But if he dies—"
Rannulf knew what was coming and interrupted Leicester before he could say it. "And now that you have filled my mind with this filth—be it true or not—you must be satisfied. Will you leave me in peace?"
Leicester stood up, his normally equable temper aroused. "I wash my hands of you. Go your own way to your own destruction. Think whether your promise, even an oath, lightly spoken in other times when affairs were far otherwise, is worth your estate, the destruction of your children, the loss of all you hold dear. I will tell you once in plain words, whether you will or nil, that there is much good in the Angevin."
"Robert—" Rannulf began.
But Leicester's voice overrode his. "Henry of Anjou has the right on his side and, as Hereford says, if the barons stand together we can keep his lust for power in check." The anger passed and Leicester gripped Rannulf's shoulder. "If you will not act wise, at least do not act the fool. Stay out of Eustace's way. Go not to court. Sit here on your own lands where no man can harm you—you will not have long to wait."
The soft closing of the door brought no reaction from Rannulf other than that he allowed his head to drop into his hands. Catherine stood paralyzed, slowly gathering to her the full acceptance of what Lady Warwick had told her, that Stephen's reign was doomed. She knew that a woman's pleas could have no influence with Rannulf so she was silent, retreating at last to the window where her embroidery frame stood.
The patch of sunlight moved slowly across the floor, touching the bright crimson cushions of an empty chair, touching the carved, curved bedposts, the blue bed curtains. It came to the edge of the room and reddened as it began to crawl up the wall. Then, as if the effort was too great, it faded slowly.
Catherine tried to match an orange silk thread and found that she could not judge between two shades that she knew to be different. She fastened her needle into her work, glanced toward Rannulf, who might have been carved from stone for all the movement he had made during the hours that had passed. It was useless to address any remark to him, she decided, and went down to make excuses for his absence at the evening meal. When she returned, he was still sitting where she had left him, unconscious that the fire was dead and the room dark as pitch.
"Rannulf," Catherine said firmly, setting a branch of candles down on the small table she had moved to his elbow after lighting the fire again, "I have brought you something to eat."
Her husband closed his eyes and turned his head from the light. "I have outlived my time. I cannot save the king I have sworn to. I am less than valueless to you and to
my children. I can see no way out of this morass."
Catherine's heart leapt. He was speaking to her as a person who could understand, and he saw the hopelessness of his position. "But Lord Leicester told you of a safe path. Who could harm us or take us when we have our full strength on our own lands? If you cannot save the king, surely sitting still can do him no harm."
"All women are fools," Rannulf muttered wearily. "Every man who withholds his support in such times is an active traitor. Do not speak to me of Leicester. Leicester and I live by different rules. The king once gave my life and these lands to me. Are both not truly his? I have wrestled with myself all of this long day, and I cannot throw off this knowledge. I must go when the summons comes. If I cannot live with honor, I cannot live at all."
Catherine's little hope died unborn. Rannulf knew what was coming, but instead of avoiding disaster he was about to rush headlong into it. The dreadful vision of Richard murdered or, at best, in Sir Andre's position rose up to drive sharp spurs into Catherine's protective instinct. The child was dear as flesh of her flesh, and she could not bear the thought of his death or even of his eking out a precarious living by traveling from tourney to tourney or living on another man's bounty in a position of servitude.
She could not permit that, but to argue or plead with Rannulf would not change his mind. Still worse, it might make him distrust her so that he would set a guard upon her that would hinder any future attempt to save the child. She could not leave Rannulf in his present despairing state either. His mind was like an ox on a treadmill, going round and round on the same path until it could travel no other way. If he was jolted from the path, he might yet find a new one.
"No doubt you know best what to do," she said indifferently, "but it cannot be done tonight nor yet tomorrow. Meanwhile, the soup I have troubled to bring you grows cold. Do eat it now, because I wish you to try on some clothing. I have measured three old gowns of yours and each is a different length so that I cannot tell where to place the hem of the new ones I have made."
"Madam," Rannulf roared, rage rapidly replacing despair, "are you deaf? I have been telling you—"
"Certainly I am not deaf, but I will be if you shout so right into my ears."
"How can you speak of—of soup and new clothes when—"
"Even if the world were to end tomorrow, we must eat today. And I cannot see why you should be hungry or dressed in a gown either too long or too short."
"God save me from women! Because of the death of one, I am to be destroyed, and because of the stupidity of another, I am to be driven mad first."
"God save me from men," Catherine retorted tartly. "Will it help our state or the state of the realm if you are starved or ill-clothed? I would go naked on the king's highway myself if I believed it would do us good, but as it cannot, I am resolved to live with decency until it is beyond my power to do so."
Color returned to Rannulf's face with a rush. "Are you calling me a coward?"
Wondering how far she dared enrage him, Catherine retreated a step or two. "I would not dare," she replied truthfully. "But since you have determined on a course that you know to be disastrous, it seems to me that it were more fitting not to repine in public."
"I shall take good care in the future to show you only a good face. I see that I was mistaken in my belief that we had come to better terms with each other so that in your presence at least I could be only what I am and no more."
This turn of the conversation was totally unexpected, and the inference Rannulf had drawn from her remark was the last Catherine wished him to make.
"Indeed, my lord, you need put no face on for me—good or bad—for whatever you are or do I am your chattel and I go your way." That was not sufficient to soothe him, the look of personal hurt remained. "I did but wish to prick you to anger," Catherine confessed desperately, "thinking it was better for you to rage than to despair. Trust in the Lord, Rannulf. Surely He will find a way to extricate us from this trouble."
Rannulf was suddenly conscious of the warmth of the leaping flames, of the cheerful yellow glow of candlelight. He had a passing thought that the Lord would have little enough cause to extricate him from anything, since he had, from time to time, offended Him mightily. It made very little difference, because he was as flooded with pleasure by his wife's confession of anxiety for him as if he had discovered that the messenger's news and Leicester's deductions were both a nightmare.
"So you wished to prick me to heat, eh? Well, you have succeeded. Now let us see whether you enjoy the fruits of your victory."
He spoke with a lowering frown, levered himself stiffly out of the chair, and advanced purposefully. Catherine backed away, surprised and frightened. She had heard so many tales of his violence toward Lady Adelecia. Judging from her own experience, Catherine would not have believed that a few sharp words could make Rannulf angry enough to hurt her, but he had endured much this day and it was not unusual for a man to relieve his frustrations by beating his wife. A few steps more brought her up against the bed and she could retreat no further.
"I will teach you to jape with me," Rannulf said softly, and with battle-trained swiftness pushed her so unexpectedly that she toppled over backward.
"Rannulf, stop!" Catherine faltered as he bent over her.
"Thus are wives with overmuch sauciness punished."
"Oh, Rannulf, stop," Catherine whispered a few minutes later. "You will tear my gown. Someone will come in."
"You have a hundred gowns, and I will give you gold to buy a hundred more."
"Rannulf—"
"I will cut the eyes and tongue out of anyone who opens that door."
"Oh, Rannulf."
CHAPTER 9
The sun, which shone on the fields rich with the promise of abundant harvest, was a mockery to those who dwelt within the dark keep of Sleaford. Two tense days passed, days in which master and guests alike avoided each other's eyes and endeavored to kill foreboding with pleasure. They rode madly after their hawks; they played chess and gambled with marked bones; they drank, laughed at the antics of minstrels and jongleurs, and listened with well-simulated attention to the tales of love and war that the chaplain read. Outdoors, however, all eyes turned repeatedly to the track that led south to Essex and London, and within, all ears were cocked for the hasty tread of a royal messenger.
To all, the courier's arrival was a relief. As they had expected, he bore a summons to appear to attend the queen's funeral, and unexpectedly one to attend the king's council. Rannulf, having read the messages aloud, shrugged.
"We are summoned within the fortnight. I suppose we may rest here a while longer and ride together direct to Feversham."