"But—"
"In this case," William interrupted smoothly, "it matters not whether a man be for or against the king. The destruction of Waleran of Meulan would be a most laudable act. You owe your protection to William of Beauchamp. You are close-tied to his family, and he has a right to your help. If you go to fight Waleran and free Beauchamp, which you are bound in honor to do, Wallingford will fall into Stephen's hands in a week or two and be lost as Faringdon was lost."
"Oh, God!" Hereford groaned miserably. "Do you need to remind me? Why do you think I have come crawling to you for help? Would I do so if my need were not tearing me apart?"
"And I have refused my help," William said calmly. "Nay, Roger, it is no good to curse me. I do not do it for spite, nor to hurt you, nor to hurt the Angevin cause. Not even because I wish to hold my men and my gold safe—I have risked both before and I will do so again. But I risk only when there can be some gain in the risk."
Even in the dim room William could see the way Hereford's jaw clamped, and he added, "There is no sense in beginning to rage again. You will need to listen to me in the end. Consider instead that, if you attack Waleran alone, you will anger Robert of Leicester. We have spent much time and effort in cozening Leicester, and he is nearly promised to us. If Stephen joins us in fighting Waleran, the blame can be divided, and perhaps divided unequally so that another wedge may be forced between Leicester and the king."
Mute and trembling, Hereford stared at Gloucester with fascinated eyes. He loathed and feared this man whom he could break in two between his hands, loathed him because he hated his dishonesty, feared him because he knew that in the end he would be forced to dance to his piping. There was nothing openly dishonorable about William's suggestion. Hereford knew there was much precedent for two enemies making a truce while they attacked a third party dangerous to both of them. This was what William wanted; that he should suggest to Stephen that they join forces to destroy Waleran of Meulan. He would not be asking Stephen to abandon the siege of Wallingford, only to send what extra forces he had to help in driving Leicester's brother from Worcester castle. That keep belonged rightfully to William de Beauchamp, who was now a prisoner in his own stronghold.
Every instinct Hereford had, however, cried out that William had some deeper deception in mind than easing the siege on Wallingford. If a large portion of Stephen's forces were drawn off to Worcester, the men of Wallingford might win free by their own efforts, but if Stephen helped Beauchamp, might not Beauchamp's loyalties be shaken?
"Well," Gloucester prodded, "will you see Beauchamp murdered by Waleran? Will you see Wallingford fall into Stephen's hands? Will you see us lose Leicester just as he was about to give his strength to Henry? Or, will you abate one jot of your overweening pride, write as I ask you, and let my courier go to the king?"
"I must think," Hereford said desperately, playing for time. "I could not believe you would deny me help. I have never considered the effects of such an act."
"By all means, take your own time." Steel rang under William's soft purr. "But while you are thinking, Stephen's men may be climbing Wallingford's walls or William de Beauchamp may be stretched on the rack. For me—there is no hurry."
"William, if you plan by this to betray me—or, more important, Henry—"
Gloucester laughed, not his usual contemptuous snicker but a true guffaw of amusement. "Strangely enough, I plan neither. If you were not such a pigheaded ass, you would have done just this the day after Soke—bless him, how I miss him, he is as easy to draw as you used to be—crossed the bridge. As it is, you have allowed Stephen's forces to become too firmly entrenched. They may try the assault anyway."
It was true enough. Hereford's bright head drooped. In the past years he had swallowed bitter draught after bitter draught, but this was the bitterest of all. To need to write to his enemy, pleading for help, offering, even if only by indirection, a desire for conciliation between them. Could he force his hand to it? He must. It would be the greatest wrong to permit Beauchamp to die, Leicester to swing back to the king, or Wallingford to fall, only to salve his own pride. In the end it might come to nothing anyway. Stephen might have the wit to refuse the proffered truce, in which case Hereford felt he would have a strong arguing point with Gloucester.
A grizzled head bent low over a delicate, white hand, freshly ungloved. "It is so good of you to receive me again," Catherine said gently, and the old warrior fumbled out some complimentary phrases one would have thought he had long forgotten. Catherine blushed delicately with pleasure, and Sir Giles Fortesque was torn between a desire to laugh and a vast uneasiness. The slyness of women!
Thus she cozened them all—some of them men who had knocked the teeth out of their wives. She cozened her way into their keeps—not that any man had a right to keep his overlord or his overlord's deputy out—but the custom was weak by default in the earldom of Soke, where for long the previous master had allowed the men to do as they pleased. Had Soke himself come, there would have been angry looks and possibly dangerous words.
"My husband," Catherine was continuing, "was so grieved that he could not join me in this second visit either."
Sir Giles' lips twitched. Visit! She called it a visit; she asked to see nothing; but somehow she cozened her way into every nook and cranny, every tower and storeroom in the keep. Then she wrote half the night. Sir Giles did not know for certain what Lady Catherine wrote, but he had seen the results of that writing right here.
When they had first "visited" this holding, there had been men in plenty, but the defensive engines were old or outworn and few. Catherine had commented that she thought the baron very wise to keep his new engines of war safe under cover. He had mumbled some indefinite reply to which Catherine said brightly that, since he was so careful of them, she would have sent to him one of the newest trebuchets. That it had arrived there could be no doubt because now, a bare month later, four similar instruments stood side by side on the walls. Three of them, quite obviously, had been newly constructed on the spot.
"Oh," Catherine had exclaimed, smiling seraphically, "I see I had no need to send one, you had them all the time and just wished to pretend that you liked the old style better."
Why should it work? Why did they melt like overheated wax? Did none of them have wives and daughters? None so wondrous fair, perhaps, but there was something else too. Catherine saw what others did not. Time and again Sir Giles had watched men wince under the lash of what seemed to him a perfectly innocent statement on a subject he had never dreamed that man sensitive about. He had seen them wince and flush, and then melt still further at the application of some, to him, equally incomprehensible salve of flattery.
Certainly she played no similar tricks on him—or did she? What did it matter, he thought, swallowing his uneasiness, when her aim had his fullest approval and was being accomplished apace. By the end of harvest, every keep that faced Hugh Bigod's earldom would be fully provisioned, fully armed, and fully manned. That was important, not what tricks Catherine played, and it was nearly done.
"My lady," Giles said when they were alone, "you have made these lands more secure than ever they were in your father's time. You know I tried often to bring this about, and I was very much disheartened when the new earl did not bend himself to the task in the first days of your marriage. Lady, what threatens us?"
The mask of maidenly amiability and curiosity was displaced, and the face of an anxious, tired woman appeared. "You know as much as I, Sir Giles. Why do you call me 'Lady'? May I not be Catherine to you?"
"Catherine in love, if you desire, but you are a child no longer, and I must call you 'Lady' when my judgment leans upon yours."
No more than Rannulf, did Sir Giles love to be ruled by a woman. Perhaps the Catherine of his old memory, the maiden in her father's house or the young bride of a gentle husband, would have trod amiss. Perhaps not, for the inner person does not change and only responds to outer circumstance. This Catherine was neither frightened by knowing that her vassals leaned on her decision nor worried that she could not hold them to whatever duty she wished them to perform. In
this case it would be best to tell Sir Giles the absolute truth.
"Do not credit me with more than I deserve, Sir Giles. This tightening of our defenses was no plan of mine delayed until my husband was too busy elsewhere to notice what I did." Her smile changed to a soft laugh at the curious mixture of disappointment and relief on his face. "What I do, I do by Lord Soke's direction, and I must say that his judgment and mine have ever been one on the management of these lands."
"On all matters, Catherine?"
A suddenly piercing anxiety wiped the laugh from her lips and pinched the firm mouth. "Thus far," she replied cautiously, knowing quite well what was worrying Sir Giles. "It is plain to me that Lord Soke does not desire to draw the men of the earldom into this war. It is also plain that to his way of thinking it may be necessary . . . before the end."
"To
his
way of thinking," Sir Giles repeated with a slightly different emphasis, "and to yours?"
Catherine did not wish to answer that question. There was still a chance that it would not require an answer. "How, after these years, does your duty bind you, Sir Giles?"
"To you," was the prompt reply. "As long as you live, Lady, we are sworn through you. Mind you, Catherine, I have no word to say against your husband. He is a worthy man and a good lord. Had he been born to the honor, I would have followed gladly where he led, for honor's sake, although my head tells me this war is senseless. I hope to follow his son with an undivided loyalty—or, perhaps, I should say that my sons will follow his."
Sir Giles stopped abruptly, troubled by the tears that filled Catherine's eyes. She was disappointed, he thought, in not breeding, but how could a wife conceive when her husband was forever at court or at war. Or perhaps . . . It was no business of his, yet she was dear to him, and she had no mother, no father, no brother. That question about where his duty lay, did that refer to the war alone?
"Catherine," he said gently, "if you need protection, every man of this holding will stand behind you. You have a home in Bourne or in my keep whenever you desire it."
"How kind you are," Catherine said, but the tears were gone and a wry smile succeeded them. "Indeed, it is Rannulf's fault that I am sad, but not for desire to fly from him. I would fly to him if I could. May the plague take the king and the duke also, aye, and all their heirs on either side."
"Alas, Catherine, leave us at least one." Sir Giles laughed and shook his head. "Someone must needs be king, and it will be worse if there is no clear line to follow. I take it that you do not regret the decision you made in London some years since."
"In no way. If it were not for this war, I would love Stephen for choosing so well for me in the matter of a husband. This talk of a clear line to follow and the loyalty of the men puts me in mind of something that needs saying. Here, alone with you, I am free of any coercion, am I not?"
"Most certainly."
"Then I would make arrangement that if anything befall me before a blood heir be vouchsafed the earl of Soke and myself, that you follow the earl as my true heir, or, failing him, his heirs. Nay—" she laughed "—I do not think to vanish into thin air, and I am young and strong, but life is as God wills. I would not like to think of my vassals struggling among themselves for supremacy. I would take oath of them to make all plain."
"You have great faith in your lord." Sir Giles frowned. "If this comes to his ears—which it will—he will be free to handle you as he pleases. He has two sons already, and I know he did not seek a third wife. I have said he is a good man, but to place such temptation in any man's path is not right. To leave yourself thus naked to your husband's whim is not wise, Catherine."
A blush and a confident trill of laughter was all the answer he received. Plainly Catherine did not fear nakedness would be any temptation to her husband to dispense with her company. Sir Giles wished he knew Rannulf better, wished he knew the elder son better. Probably Catherine had judged right with respect to her husband for she understood and could manage men, but sons were too often unlike their fathers.
If it had been the younger boy, Sir Giles would have been easier in his mind. Catherine had brought Richard along with her so that the vassals would get to know him, and quite plainly he adored his stepmother. Richard would never be a danger to Catherine, but he was not Soke's heir either. Sir Giles opened his mouth to urge caution again, but was interrupted.
"One last matter," Catherine said more seriously. "Would you be content to make a blood bond with my husband?"
Now Sir Giles was thoroughly distressed. What Catherine was trying to do was totally beyond him, but he was certain that whatever her influence on her husband she could never convince him to pledge either of his sons to the daughter of a mere baron.
"What are you up to, Catherine?" he questioned sharply. "If you think I will be any party to pledging a child behind his father's back for any profit, you are wrong. Beyond that, my willingness is not in point. Soke can look as high as he likes for daughters-by-marriage."
"I was not thinking of the sons. Rannulf will choose well for them—as he does well for them in all things. My lord has also a bastard daughter, a sweet girl whom I have put in the way of becoming a good woman. Rannulf sees her not and sets no store by her content. He will give her something—someday—but she grows ripe for wedding and, because he has not pledged her and she had no person on whom to set her affection, she has given her heart to Andre. Now, if you would be willing to settle some small sum upon him, I hope—"
"Settle something upon him! I would sooner settle him! Andre! How could he dare?" Sir Giles gasped. "How could he have dared cast his eyes on his overlord's daughter? Good God, that my brother should so shame his upbringing. The ungrateful devil!"