That Rannulf knew he could still follow Leicester's advice, go back to his lands and remain quiet, merely intensified his agony. He had not realized, until he lost it, how much Stephen's love had meant to him. In spite of the king's weakness, possibly even because of it, he loved that kind and foolish man. Kind and foolish and so bitterly lonely now that Maud was dead. Rannulf's hand tightened on another scroll of parchment, which he had held all the time that he was reading Leicester's letter.
That one held much better news, but did nothing to improve Rannulf's spirits. Catherine's letter reported that the earl of Norfolk lay quiet on his northern border, that the castles fronting that border had been stuffed and garnished for war without his taking offense, that Richard was well and all things ran smoothly on his lands. Little space was spent on these facts, and yet the letter was long. It was filled with fond inquiries about his health, gentle protests at his long absence, and tender questions about the possibility of his return.
It would not matter if he went for a little while. Nothing could or would happen now at Wallingford. But, though he longed for Catherine as a man on fire longs for cold water, Rannulf dared not visit his wife. She would soothe him, but she would also weep and plead. She would hold Richard before his eyes and fill him with her fears, which were all the more horrible now because they were more real. Rannulf did not believe he had strength enough to resist either Catherine or those fears, yet he could not let Stephen go down to defeat alone like a lonely child crying in the dark. That was why Stephen could not recover from Maud's death—because he was a frightened child who would never grow up, a frightened child who spoke cruel words because he was frightened. When two children cry for a father's help, to which does he go?
He goes to the child whose need is greatest and most immediate. Catherine was frightened, but she was competent enough to manage his lands as long as no emergency threatened. Even if worse came to worst and he was lost to her through death or imprisonment, Geoffrey would protect her—he had given his oath on it. Slowly Rannulf drew pen and parchment to him to ask to be summoned to Stephen's side. Perhaps he could win the king to trust and love again. Even the darkness of a final defeat is not so fearful when hand locks in hand and a voice whispers courage.
CHAPTER 17
Henry of Anjou, even more squat and bullnecked than his companions remembered him, looked with well-hidden dismay at Roger of Hereford. To William of Gloucester, who examined them both with a detached amusement, Henry had changed very little in other ways. He still dressed like the least of his own mercenaries; he was, if anything, even more physically and vocally restless, talking incessantly and fidgeting constantly with everything movable in the chamber. He laughed as readily, often on so slight an excuse that one might have thought him simple. For all of that, there was a poise and power in him that gave William pause and would surely give determination and confidence to the barons who came to support him.
"Do you mean, Roger, that you will not hold by your oath to support me? I cannot believe that!" There was a humorous asperity in Henry's voice, almost a parent's impatience with a well-meaning but wrongheaded child.
"No, my lord, I do not mean that, as well you know. But what I said in Devizes some years since, I still mean also. I will not lead your army."
"I remember as well as you what you said in Devizes. You said you would lead no more lost hopes. Do you fear the failure of this venture?"
"No," Hereford replied quietly. "This time you will have it, which is why I think it no shame to do as you order without thrusting myself forward."
"Thrusting yourself forward! Roger, what ails you? You summoned me hence. I could have swallowed half of Louis' realm and brought him to his knees except that you told me my people here were in the last extremity. I abandoned a winning war. I indebted myself to the moneylenders to the tune of half my revenues so that I might come well-armed and in haste. Have I not fulfilled my promise to return? Was it not worth the few years to come again with this show of power?"
It was useless to try to explain that he had not summoned Henry, Hereford thought. Not only useless but dangerous, because that summoning was wise and well-judged. He should have done it of his own free will, as he should have offered the truce to Stephen of his own free will. Honor accomplished nothing. Had William not been dishonorable, Wallingford and Worcester would both have been lost. Now Worcester was Beauchamp's again—not through his efforts, not through the blood he had shed, but because William and Robert of Leicester had induced Waleran de Meulan to take gold and leave the keep as soon as Stephen had abandoned the siege.
Possibly William and Robert could have done it before the truce was made with Stephen. That would have been the honorable course, but then Wallingford would have fallen. It was all wise and expedient, but Hereford's soul was sick. Since he was sure Henry's cause would now prosper with or without him, he would perform his obligations without seeking to go beyond them.
Hereford met the puzzled exasperation in the gray eyes of the man who would certainly be the next king. "Partly it is that show of power I do not like. I will not lend myself to leading foreign knights in the looting of my own land."
"Roger, you will drive me mad. You know how uncertain of faith and temper most of the English barons are. Except for you, William, and Cornwall, they wait to see who will win before they do aught. Had I come naked and alone—as I have tried before—half would have leapt into Stephen's embrace and the other half remained aloof. If they see me already strong, they will come to me. I swear to you that I will send the troops I have brought back to France as soon as my position here is secure. Now are you content? I do not swear lightly."
"You did not let me finish." Henry's charm, his genuine affection and desire to please, were having their irresistible effect on Hereford's own affectionate disposition. He thawed appreciably and though his disgust at the situation did not decrease, he absolved Henry of responsibility for it. "The other more important matter is that you do not need me, not as a leader in your enterprise. Henry, you are a man now, not a boy. It would be better to stand alone at the head of your vassals with no man your equal."
For the first time William's voice entered the conversation. "About that, my lord, Roger is right, as he is also about the foreign knights. Perhaps it was wise to bring them as a show of force, but it will be wiser still to send them off as soon as may be. The grandfathers of these English barons won their land by conquest—therefore these men have no love for invading armies. Since the case is thus, let us take some major stronghold of the king's. If he marches upon us and we defeat him, you will have all but accomplished your purpose, for few besides the very old men now hold by him."
"Take a stronghold!" Hereford exclaimed. "Let us go to relieve Wallingford. They have suffered enough."
Henry shook his head. "William is right in this, Roger. Wallingford is now in little danger. The few troops still besieging them are worn out and indifferent. We will gain little by lifting that siege completely."
Hereford opened his mouth again to protest, and then shut it. What William and Henry said made good sense. Honor alone directed that Wallingford, so long faithful, should be relieved and rewarded, and honor was an outmoded and useless commodity. Swallowing the physical nausea engendered by his mental turmoil, Roger of Hereford applied himself to the discussion of which city it would be most profitable to take.
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It would have been so easy, Rannulf thought, listening in a detached way to the military arguments around him, to call his men together and go home. No one really wanted him here. To Northampton and Warwick, possibly, his opinion was still of value, but since Eustace had arrived he dared not open his mouth in council. Whatever he approved the king would turn against, and whatever he argued against immediately became the bright hope of the realm.
He had tried before Eustace's return to win Stephen's confidence, and there he had erred greatly. Had he not seen the terror and longing in Stephen's eyes then, he could have gone as soon as those eyes and the heart, too, were shuttered against him. Rannulf knew he was turning bitter and spiteful under the treatment he was receiving, that he was doing the king more harm than good by his presence, but now that the plans were made it would really be treason to withdraw without Stephen's permission.
During the council meeting none spoke to Rannulf and few dared look at him. When it was over, however, and the king had retired, Northampton drew Rannulf into the hearth. Soke smiled encouragingly over the old man's shoulder at a flushed and visibly trembling Geoffrey.
"Thank God," Northampton began, "you keep your head, Rannulf."
"Come now," Soke replied smiling wryly, "surely Stephen is not so lunatic yet that he will demand that."
Northampton frowned. "You make the most untimely jests. I meant only to compliment you upon the restraint of your temper for your looks were black enough and I expected moment by moment that you would burst into speech."
"No, for whatever I say only makes matters worse."
"You remember what I told you the night before you took the bridge at Wallingford." Northampton shook his head significantly. "Nonetheless, he must soon see his error with regard to you. Continue only to have patience. Stay, that is not what I wanted to speak of really," he added as Rannulf shrugged cynically and prepared to move away.
Northampton shook his head and went on, "I do not understand why you were not pleased with what went forward. Do you disbelieve Jordan? After all, he is the castellan of Malmesbury and must know what is happening there."
Rannulf laughed mirthlessly again. "Of course not. What Henry does is logical enough and to attack Malmesbury is a matter of great profit to him and to Gloucester. I have no quarrel with the march to save Malmesbury, but believing what you do, are you still content to see Eustace go to Norfolk instead of coming with us to Malmesbury?"
"What else can be done? It is certainly necessary to save Malmesbury, which is our one strong point near Gloucester's lands, but if Stephen moves so far west, Norfolk will take the chance to attack. Someone must withstand him also."
"If Stephen were not mad," Rannulf gestured dismissal of Northampton's cautious glance around, "he would send me to face Bigod, for it is plain that men fight best to protect their own. Then he and Eustace together could go against Henry. Failing that, he should hold Bigod himself, and let the young cubs oppose each other. Aside from the fact that a defeat would then not have such generally disastrous results, Eustace has recent experience of the Angevin's ways."
"But—" Northampton began to protest.
"It does not matter that he was beaten before," Rannulf snapped, stilling the protest he saw coming. "That will but lend rage to strengthen Eustace's purpose and, moreover, the prince is on his own ground now. In any case, anything would be better than leaving this to Stephen's vacillation."
"Nay, Rannulf, in your hurt you wrong him. He will not turn aside now. His purpose must be firm."
"As it was before Wallingford, eh?" Rannulf rejoined bitterly, and then, surprised by Northampton's agonized expression, he turned to see the king directly behind him with Jordan of Malmesbury.
For a frozen instant no one moved or spoke until Geoffrey, pushing rather rudely past Northampton to stand shoulder to shoulder with his father, broke the tableau.
Rannulf faced his master with no change in expression, but he put a hand surreptitiously on his son's arm.
"I never claimed my judgment to be perfect," Stephen blustered angrily, "but it was not I who made the agreement to join forces with Hereford. My wise council pressed me into it, you not least of all, Soke, by your talk of Hereford's trustworthiness. Ever I have bad advice and ever am I blamed for the ill result. Even when I go my own way and find success, I have no good of it. Then my barons nod at each other and clap each other on the back for their wisdom in acceding to the king's demands."
There was a hysterical note of self-pity in the voice, and Rannulf frowned and cast an anxious glance at Jordan who looked more and more worried by the moment. What Stephen was doing among his major vassals, men who knew him well and long, was bad enough, but to expose his weakness constantly to men who were not accustomed to his ways was to lose badly needed supporters.
"Is not your criticism a trifle ill-directed, Soke?" Stephen continued with a sudden assumption of dignity. "You speak largely enough of standing firm to a purpose, but I do not see that you have offered any help to forward that purpose."
"My men have served their time, and more than their time," Rannulf replied, his grating voice covering the indignant gasp Geoffrey gave. "However, I assure you that I will summon them again. There is no term of service for a defensive war, and Henry will no doubt attack."
"Very clever," Stephen snapped, "you will wait until he launches his attack, send from the very gates of Malmesbury across the length and breadth of all England. That way you will be sure that your vassals come too late."
Rannulf's grip tightened excruciatingly on Geoffrey's quivering arm. He was barely able to control his own temper, but he dared not remind Stephen of what he had already done for him in Jordan's presence. Evidence of such ingratitude might well destroy what small faith the master of Malmesbury still had in his king.
"Do not missay me, my lord, my patience is not without limit. I have done you good service through the years, and—"
"And you would like to rest on that. To speak of your patience has an ugly sound of threat, Soke." The new voice, sharp and angry, was Eustace's. He had returned to England soon after Henry's arrival, and he had already managed to set half the vassals into a rage by his accusations.
"I say that we need every man we can muster," Eustace continued. "When that weak-livered brother-by-marriage of mine made peace with Henry, the Angevin fiend flew back to Barbefleur and took ship. He had an army ready in wait there. What do you think he has come here for—to go on pilgrimage for his sins? It is time to summon the vassals and over time. I say that any man who does not respond to that call is a traitor."