"I will be grateful for your company," Catherine said sweetly.
Sir Giles bowed his head again in recognition that her ladyship intended to leave nothing to chance. She would make her demand personally of the vassals, reaffirming their loyalty to her as she picked their purses.
In spite of her promise to ride with the sun, Catherine sat up late that night writing a letter that she would not trust to her scribe. First she relayed the good news that the money Rannulf had demanded would be forthcoming within the period he had specified, and the better news that she had managed to obtain it as an extra levy, not a borrowing against future rents. After that she sat for a time with wrinkled brow, wondering how to tell him most soothingly of the promise she had given Sir Giles.
"My dear husband," she wrote, "I have been guilty of sweetening you with good tidings first, but you have lived too long to think that any good comes without need for payment. You have told me in the past, however, that I must never borrow money."
Catherine's pen hesitated. Rannulf had forbidden her to borrow, but that had been for personal things and had nothing to do with the present situation. He would consider her as empty-headed as a sheep for not knowing the difference. Well, it was better so.
She inked her quill and bent forward to write again. "Therefore I could not ask the sum as a loan. I spoke much of the king's necessity, but they questioned me so straightly that I had great need to give them some assurance that this was not a plot to wring them doubly dry. I dared, in this necessity, to promise the vassals of Soke that they would not be called to war except it be a matter of our own defense or safety. They took my word as yours, but I knew not what else to say, having no orders from you. If I have done wrong, I pray you to forgive me out of your own indulgence, which has always been so great, and out of the knowledge that I desire only to do what is best for you and to be always your dutiful wife, Catherine, countess of Soke."
He would despise her for an idiot. Catherine's lips trembled. Then her mouth hardened. She would not permit Richard to become a beggar, not laughing Richard with his generous heart, nor even Geoffrey whom she knew so little but already loved because he was so like his father.
If Catherine was not quite the same woman as she had been when Rannulf married her, her husband seemed equally changed in Robert of Leicester's eyes. That worried gentleman had arrived in Rannulf's house not half an hour after Soke had entered it himself on his return from the south. In whatever state of fatigue or irritation Leicester had expected to find his friend, he had not anticipated that he would discover him consumed with laughter.
"May I ask," he queried caustically, "what you find to be so merry about in times like these?"
A dust-smeared countenance with eyes heavy from lack of sleep was turned to him. "Women," Rannulf replied, laughing even more heartily, "are extremely disobedient and untrustworthy creatures—God bless them."
"You are mad!"
"Very likely," Rannulf replied without heat. "At least you are said to be a wise man and you have been telling me that for years. Andre, bring some wine to cool the earl of Leicester."
"I do not want wine," Leicester snapped. "You pass all understanding. For two years, while all went well with us, you were not fit to be spoken to. Now, when the rudder of the ship is gone, the helmsman mad with greed and self-interest, the captain lunatic, and the crew rebellious, nothing can exceed your constant good humor." He paused and regarded Soke searchingly. "Do you know something I do not, Rannulf?"
"Nay, Robert. I do not see things as black as you paint them. All goes well with regard to Eustace's departure. If he is as forward as it seemed he would be when I left, another few days should see him hence. When the gadfly is gone, I hope Stephen will be more manageable. If all goes well in France, and I can but bring Hereford to mouth platitudes—"
"In France! With Louis and Eustace pitted against the Angevin? He will grind their bones between his teeth for the first course and swallow us whole for the second."
Rannulf laughed no longer. "If that is true," he answered with a recurrence of his sick feeling, "then Eustace may not return." He could not go further with that thought and added quickly, "Perhaps I have been wrong all my life and what is needful is an iron hand to rule men who cannot rule themselves."
"So you see at last that a firm guide keeps all straight. Tell me, Rannulf, if—"
"No! Do not break my peace, Robert. Stephen is my king. Let us pray that Eustace's mind and temper will be healed by victory. At least do not speak treason to me—"
"Faugh! I wish to speak reason, not treason, but if you are so sensitive, let us confine ourselves to the trouble in hand and leave the future to itself. I came to tell you that Stephen wakes again from his long stillness. He has been very active in Eustace's business of late and has been asking for you, desiring to know what your answer from Hereford is. I sent you word. Did you not receive it?"
"Of course I received it. Do you think it is my practice to ride day and night without sleep for pleasure? Well, I am ready. I have not the word he desires, but I have other news that will gladden his heart. The Cinque Ports are fitted and ready. Eustace may march tomorrow if he chooses."
"So soon?"
"I have applied much golden grease to make all run smooth," Rannulf said drily.
"In this case it is well, but you do agree with me that in the matter of Hereford we desire not smooth running toward war but another truce?"
"If you mean you wish to keep Stephen from attacking Hereford—yes, I agree with that."
"Then for God's sake, do not lose your temper because of Hereford's hasty words. He will have plenty to say that you do not agree with. If you return here in a passion, it will be none so easy to find another excuse to prevent Stephen from calling up the vassals."
Suddenly and incomprehensibly Rannulf began to laugh again. "You will need some excuse," he choked, "but I
,
who have a foolish and disobedient wife who loses my letters and cannot remember what I said in them, I am already excused." He thrust Catherine's letter into Leicester's hand. "The countess of Soke, instead of borrowing against next year's rents, as I bade her, has levied an extra tax on her vassals, promising them in return that they would not be called to war except in defense of my person or their own lands."
"And you find such behavior a source of merriment?"
Leicester's amazement, which was based upon the change in Rannulf's attitude toward women rather than on any objection to what Catherine had done, was misunderstood.
"You always seem to doubt Catherine's actions. Why should I not find this a source of merriment, even if she did forget what I told her? It admirably suits my purposes. The money was spent in the king's service, and Stephen has the choice of accepting that in lieu of service from the vassals of Soke, accepting the personal service of the vassals of Sleaford alone, or commanding me to use the vassals of Sleaford to fight the vassals of Soke and bring them to obedience to me in disregard of my lady's word. Or, he might repay me the gold to return to them, but you know how likely that is. Where has Catherine acted ill?"
Leicester had been reading the letter while Rannulf spoke. "Nowhere," he said, and after a thoughtful pause, "she has done well—very well indeed."
CHAPTER 11
In the fresh bloom of early summer, before the ripeness of the full season brought a sense of decadence to it, the countryside seemed like a Garden of Eden. The sun was warm, the breeze cool; large white clouds decorated a deep blue sky, and shade delicately dappled the winding road.
A gentle lowing from a small herd of cattle waiting patiently for their afternoon. milking added a deliciously mournful note to the regular clip-clop of the horses' hooves on the hard-packed earth. To crown the picturesqueness of the scene, several wisps of smoke from a small village hidden by a stand of trees curled upward through the clear air.
Rannulf looked about him, for once really seeing the countryside instead of just noting the weather or signs of an ambush. Why could it not always be thus? Why was it necessary to see the green fields smoking black, to see the cattle wallowing in their own blood, to see the peaceful wisps of smoke changed to a raging inferno of flames that would devour the village and the wood?
He jerked his mind away, because those thoughts were leading steadily to treason. True, he could speak to Hereford of the peace, could urge him to maintain it by agreeing to those demands of the king that were reasonable. Unfortunately, there were unreasonable demands also, which Rannulf was bound to state but which his conscience must prohibit him from urging even if his reason did not assure him that no sane man would agree.
The situation was impossible, and war was inevitable in Stephen's present mood. Of course, Leicester was doing what he could, but the king was strangely adamant, and the plea for peace to Hereford was a waste of time. It was the king who would break the peace this time, not the rebels. The whole world was upside-down. Why go at all? Why not make one last desperate effort to wipe out the rebellious barons? Because their chance would be better later.
Earnestly Rannulf searched his heart. It was true that their chance would be better if Louis and Eustace were successful, but it would be far worse if the attack in Normandy failed. No, he was riding to Hereford because he, personally, desired peace with such fervency that he no longer cared much how that peace was achieved. He was putting himself to this labor, snatching at a few days' delay, hoping for a miracle.
What ails me, Rannulf wondered, his eyes following the stain of smoke that gave the clear blue sky the mistiness of Catherine's eyes. I am growing old, he decided. It was impossible to blame this longing to lay down his arms upon ill health. True, he remembered that once or twice when he had been wounded very badly and had lain long abed recovering, he had been taken by these sickly fancies. But his health was at its best now.
In spite of his worries, his food had savor, firm flesh covered his bones again, and he was full of energy. Only it was the wrong kind of energy. He could see himself hawking, hunting, teaching Richard, playing at single-stick with Geoffrey, even breaking horses or lending a shoulder to the uprooting of a stubborn stump. He could see anything except war. He was tired of death. He must be getting old.
Old or young, this was the beginning of the end of delay. There across the valley, on the rise of ground beyond, stood Hereford keep. Rannulf pulled up his horse and sent Sir Andre ahead as messenger while he and his men followed very slowly. Midway into the valley Fortesque returned with the news that Hereford would not receive them.
Then this was not the beginning of the end, but the end. Rannulf cast his eyes again over the rich fields and woods and upward to that single stain of smoke that made a patch of sky misty. Then, resolutely, he spurred his horse forward.
"He must receive me," he said stubbornly, and his men, with wondering eyes, followed.
The earl of Soke, in the opinion of his men, was the best leader in England. He was both brave and cautious, leading in battle with such ferocity that he cleared a path for his troops to follow, but never taking them where no path could be hewn or where there was no road back.
From Hereford keep, however, there was no road at all—neither back nor forward. Such a small band could not besiege the great keep of Hereford nor assault it. To encamp before it and arouse its master and the townsfolk to resentment was tantamount to self-slaughter.
The men need not have troubled themselves; neither siege nor assault was in Rannulf's mind. When they had made their way past the tight-shut gates of the town of Hereford, up the winding road to the foot of the eminence upon which the keep sat, Rannulf bade his men dismount and wait.
"I will go forward from here alone. Hereford must receive me."
"No, my lord."
Rannulf turned his head to the young voice. Not since his father's death, when he had shaken off his tutor, had a man of his flatly contradicted any statement he made in a military matter. Fortesque blanched at the cold anger of his lord's expression, and tried to explain himself.
"You cannot go alone into Hereford's power. They could shoot you from the castle walls and claim innocence in saying they did not recognize you. Tell me what to say—I will go."
Rannulf wondered if that scene between Catherine and Andre could have been misread by him. Had his wife commended him to the young man's care because she thought him aging? Whatever his reason, it was certain that young Fortesque was in earnest.
"Sir Andre, you are a young man of most peculiar notions. When you first wished to recommend yourself to me, you tried to overthrow me in a tourney. Now, perhaps, you think to show your devotion by risking yourself in my stead. That is commendable, but unwise and unnecessary, and your manner—flouting my commandis offensive. If you think me a fool or an old dotard, keep it to yourself. Give me credit for being old enough, and not too old, to know my own mind."
The reprimand was harsh, but the eyes were considering and even kind. Andre blushed under the lash of the sarcasm, but he was not resentful, recognizing the fact that he had been impulsive and foolish. There was no reason for Hereford to make any attempt on Lord Soke. It was merely that Sir Andre was frightened by the notion of going all alone into the power of one's enemy, and he transferred those feelings to his master.
However, Sir Andre's offer had not been made solely out of love, although his respect and admiration for the earl of Soke grew steadily with every day he spent with him. What really drove him was the desire to prove himself brave and loyal. He wished to impress the father of the girl he loved with his value.
Now Andre watched the figure of the earl dwindle as he rode to the edge of the moat alone. He transferred his gaze to the silent keep with its raised drawbridge and imagined the vigilant eyes of the men who watched the lonely figure through the deep, narrow arrow-slits in the walls.