In a window seat that commanded the main entrance to the hall, Catherine waited for the eager huntsman's return. The afternoon passed, the long summer evening, and the night. When Geoffrey returned, Catherine did not know. She was up with the dawn to catch him when he broke his, fast, but he was gone already.
Another morning, another dinner hour, another night. Geoffrey had changed his hawk for hounds, but still he hunted. It is the cruelty of the very young, Catherine thought, the young whose hearts are so light, who think that none can suffer when they are happy or that none but they can suffer at all.
The third day it rained hard, and Catherine knew that Geoffrey must have stayed within the keep. When he still did not come, she thought for the first time that Rannulf might have bidden him avoid her. Did he think she would turn his son against him? The thought caused her such pain that she gasped for breath and shrank in upon herself.
In a moment she had straightened her body and her chin lifted. If it were true that Rannulf had forbidden Geoffrey to speak to her, she had to know that. Calling her maids, Catherine assumed her own armor—a tunic of a deep rose to reflect color into her face and a gown of grayish-blue silk so thin that the rose glinted through it. She decked her hair with threads of gold and scattered pearls and went to seek her answers from her stepson.
Geoffrey looked up at the fair vision before him with blank eyes. At first he did not recognize her, but suddenly he leapt to his feet. "I beg your pardon for not coming to you. Indeed, I beg your pardon most humbly. I should have waited upon you at once, madam, but—but I have been so mazed. I do beg pardon, but I forgot—forgot that my father," his voice choked on the word and he swallowed convulsively, "my father had a new wife."
Then he stared, amazed at seeing a fair woman blaze into glorious beauty before his eyes. Color rose in her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, and her full lips lost their disconsolate droop and turned up mischievously at the corners. The silly boy had only forgotten so small a thing as a new wife—and not so new at that—in his lust for a holiday and his desire to chase the crane and the fallow deer.
"Nay, you are readily pardoned." Catherine smiled and seated herself in a chair opposite the one Geoffrey had been using. Her lovely hand invited him to sit too. "I should have sent a message to you. I should have remembered that you have been long at war and that pleasures are made more sweet by absence from them."
Geoffrey merely looked utterly distracted at this civil speech and offered another slightly more coherent apology.
"I am not offended," Catherine soothed. "Nor do I mean to fret you with endless questions. Only tell me how my lord does and I will leave you to enjoy your pleasures in peace."
"Peace and pleasure!" Geoffrey began to laugh. "I think I shall never have peace or pleasure again."
He tried to check the near-hysterical laughter because he had been trained to shield women from trouble. They were powerless to make or mar, and therefore should be protected from worry over what they could not mend.
The color receded from Catherine's cheeks, the animation from her eyes; a retransformation had taken place wiping out her sparkling beauty and leaving her only a fair woman with a nobly held head and frightened eyes.
"I—I did not wish to leave him," Geoffrey sought for something to explain his distress. "He is not well. A wound on his thigh festers and gives him much trouble."
Men did not usually die from festering wounds, and Geoffrey knew it. Unless . . . Sometimes angry red lines grew out from a wound that had no apparent connection with the sore, or suddenly the neck would grow stiff and the jaws would lock. Then the men died, horribly, screaming through the locked jaw.
"He is not like to die?" she questioned sharply. Geoffrey winced away, as if she had touched him on a raw hurt. "Where is he?" Catherine cried, getting to her feet. "How can I come to him? Geoffrey, in mercy, tell me and let me go. If I can come to him, perhaps I can cure him. Oh, I am sure I can cure him."
"There is no way for you to go where my father is, madam." Geoffrey struggled with his exaggerated fear and then cried out despairingly, "They are besieged, and he is sore sick. If he goes out to fight, his weakness will kill him; if he stays within, hunger and thirst will kill him."
Geoffrey was nothing but a child, for all that he was considered a man in matters of war. Knowledge that a child was sick or afraid always brought Catherine a surface calm. Her face blanched parchment white, but she set herself to soothe her stepson and have the whole story from him. It did not take much effort; a few gentle questions, a few calming assurances, and it all tumbled out. Catherine patted the boy's heaving shoulders.
"Do not weep. You have done what is right, except in not coming to me at once with this tale. We will yet find a way."
Geoffrey mastered his sobs, wiped his face, and looked into the quiet countenance of his stepmother. "But I can do naught. He bound me with oaths not to go to Eustace or Stephen or return to him. He is right, but it is bitterly hard to sit here—"
"He bound
you
with oaths, but not me. Now tell me plainly, for I do not well understand matters of war, how many men and what weapons will be needed to free our lord or make the taking of Crowmarsh impossible."
She was so sure. Geoffrey felt a flicker of hope. "Not many men, unless Henry brings up his whole army—and then nothing could save the little hold. To make it safe now and ensure my father's escape, our own vassals would be a force sufficient. What is mostly needed, more than men, is food and such things. The ground is such—nay, I cannot explain it to a woman, but any good knight experienced in battle would understand what was best to do an hour after coming there. Madam, you do not understand. There is no leader there except my father, and he is too weak to fight."
"Do not trouble for that. I know such a man. Food and medicines for siege I also understand. Now, aside from the need to keep you out of Eustace's hands, is there any reason not to call the vassals from Norfolk's border? Will Norfolk overrun us?"
"Nay," Geoffrey replied eagerly. "Eustace would not dare permit that. He would sooner make truce or call up more men."
Catherine pursed her lips and sighed, and fear choked Geoffrey again.
"What good is all this talk?" he cried. "How will you come by the vassals of Sleaford without me? Do you think they will come for a message not in my father's hand nor sealed by his seal? Even if there were such a message, do you think it would ever reach them?"
"I know nothing of the vassals of Sleaford. If they wish to come they may. The vassals of Soke will surely come, for I will fetch them myself."
"You? You will go onto a battlefield? Into a camp of armed men?" Geoffrey was beginning to realize what Rannulf would think of this. "It is too much for a woman to dare. Let us try—"
Catherine laughed. "I have dared worse things than to outface that fool of a prince. I have dared your father's wrath once or twice, and he has the right of life or death over me."
"Madam, if you could bring them here, and I could speak with this man you say can lead them—"
"No, I must go myself, all the way to that place, Crowmarsh. An evil name for an evil place."
From Geoffrey's fear something more than military problems beset Rannulf. Sickness of body and spirit was best nursed by a woman.
"Madam, madam, papa will not like it. Better perhaps for me to break my oath, lead them there, and return." Geoffrey swallowed nervously. He could not decide which course of action would bring less of Rannulf's fury down on his head. "He will slay us both," he muttered.
"Nonetheless, I must go," Catherine insisted. "You say that Eustace will not dare leave the lands of Soke and Sleaford exposed. Perhaps you are right, but from what else I have heard it is plain that he so hates our lord that no man can tell what he will do. What if, knowing Rannulf to be sure of freedom from Crowmarsh, he be taken with a madness of spite and think his loss small if Soke's lands are destroyed?"
"I do not—"
"Lord Geoffrey," Catherine interrupted, "I can gather supplies and lead my vassals to where my husband is, but I cannot gather together a force of untrained men and train them to protect the lands if Eustace should decide to depart. Also," she added as a clincher, "I
can cure your father's leg, which apparently no man can do."
Geoffrey was glad to yield. He had no particular desire to have to confess that he had embroiled a woman in war. If he felt a twinge of conscience at letting Catherine walk alone into the lion's den, he was sure that his later punishment would be severe enough to ease that conscience.
Moreover, what she said was true. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the hall, making plans. He would send the men-at-arms with her to Eustace's camp. She should try to come first to her own vassals, but if she could not find out in advance where they were camped, she should make a great noise upon entering the encampment. Thus, if she should be taken by Eustace, she would still need to fear nothing because it would be impossible to muzzle everyone who had seen her come. Her vassals would soon hear of her arrival and come to her rescue. When the men were ready to follow her, she could send the men-at-arms home. There was no need to come back to Sleaford for supplies. She should take what gold there was and buy along the way. She could also take a half-dozen of his father's famous horses. They could be bartered for great good.
The safest way was to skirt Norfolk's lands on the west and go due south, as near as might be by watching the sun, to Epping, or to Enfield if they missed Epping. There they were to turn sharp west and, going by Watford, would come to Crowmarsh near Wallingford. "It is a little longer than the straight line that way, madam, but it will take you by two good markets and also avoid both the king's men and the Angevin's unless they have moved far and fast."
Catherine listened attentively and nodded meekly. "If you think it will be right to take your father's horses, I will, but he sets great store by them. Also, if you will be so good as to write down the way we must go, I will be glad. I might not remember, and my men have not traveled that way, my lord."
Geoffrey was back beside her in two leaps. "You must not call me 'my lord' nor 'Lord Geoffrey' neither. I would be Geoffrey alone to you, if you will favor me so far. So my mother would call me, and tender as a mother have you been to me this day—and as loyal to my father."
Catherine put out her hand to stroke the golden curls. Geoffrey was almost as much hers as Richard was. "Indeed, I will call you Geoffrey with a good will, and love you as I love Richard and Mary, if you will allow me."
It was not until a day later, when her anxiety for Rannulf had sunk from a stabbing agony to a dull ache, that Catherine thought about the love she had promised Geoffrey. It was a strange way to love, to give him what he desired even though the desire was poison. To tear her men from Eustace was not such a great matter. Eustace hated Rannulf beyond all mending anyway, and probably that hatred would be carried over to Rannulf's heirs. Once her vassals had come to Crowmarsh and fought against Henry's men there, however, the gate to the other side might be closed. Catherine's eyes filled with tears. If she had to lose the struggle to save something for them, why could it not have happened before she had so enraged Rannulf? At least they could have comforted each other.
Had the future not been so dark, Catherine could have been amused at the way everything fell out to suit her. Within the hour in which she rode into camp, Eustace had called a war council, and to this council, uninvited, came Catherine, leaning gracefully upon Sir Giles' arm. The appearance of a woman at his council of war so surprised Eustace, for he had not heard of Catherine's coming, that he was struck mute.
"My lord," Catherine said gently while Eustace's mouth still hung open, "I have come for the vassals of Soke."
"What!"
Eyes demurely on the ground, Catherine spoke louder, as if she believed the word gasped out in shock to mean literally that Eustace had not heard her. "I have come for my vassals. I am the countess of Soke. My husband's son, Lord Geoffrey, tells me that the earl, my husband, is pent in a place called Crowmarsh and besieged about by the Angevin's men. He has written to the king for succor—and to you—but no succor has he received. Therefore come I, as should a dutiful wife, to bring my men to my husband's aid."
"What woman's folly is this?" Eustace asked. "A breath of rumor is to a woman a high gale of truth. Where did you hear this nonsense? I have had no messenger. How do you know the king has sent no aid?"
"I have told you, my lord. My husband's son is in Sleaford. There is no rumor."
Eustace turned pale but did not lose control of his voice. "If this is not woman's nonsense, then it is a woman's lies and treachery. If Geoffrey of Sleaford is at home, why did he not come for the men?"
Sir Giles' mouth twitched, but it was still Catherine who answered with sweet calm.
"Perhaps you know that best. Also, they are
my
men, not his."
It was incredible, the effrontery coupled with that modest demeanor. Eustace passed a hand across his face, dreadfully conscious of Sir Giles' hostile stare and the unwinking gaze of Rannulf's own vassals who trusted him not a whit.
"You lie," he burst out, "you have no letter from the earl of Soke. This is a scheme you have concocted for some womanish reason of your own—as a few months since you denied your husband your vassals for that he spoke you not fair enough."
"Alas, I greatly repent of that, my lord. Do not cast my foolishness in my teeth. I did not wish to deny my husband, only to keep my men from useless harm. In truth, I have no letter from Soke because he is so loyal a man that he had rather die succorless than draw his men from your purposes." That point took well, for Rannulf's vassals growled.
Catherine lifted her head a little higher and went on. "I have, however, a letter to you from Lord Geoffrey reporting the sad condition of health and the great danger in which his father lies." She pushed the scroll into Eustace's unwilling fingers and thought, from the brief glance she snatched at him, that she was near to her goal; the prince looked about ready to burst. "Will you read it now, my lord, so you do not missay me more?" Catherine pleaded meekly—and all the men growled.