Knight's Honor (38 page)

"But, Elizabeth, Roger says nothing about your leaving here. Indeed, he is very angry, and you should not fret him further by taking action on your own, even if you are insulted by what he says …” She hesitated and then went on with pursed lips. “And I must say, you have not much right to be taking it ill. At present, and, indeed, I mean this kindly to you, I would go nowhere without his order. You know what happened the last time you spited him." Lady Hereford could not resist that, and Elizabeth did drop her eyes, but the pain of the deliberate prick was much less than she had expected to feel when her trespass was mentioned. "If you think to go because of what he says about being a good daughter-by-law, do not trouble yourself over it. I do not expect it, and I will tell him nothing more since he does not desire my advice. Whatever is between us will be our affair."

That was fair enough, and Elizabeth was moved to volunteer a little more information. "I do go by his order. It was in the letter I received yesterday. I must go to Chester. I will return as soon as I may."

Elizabeth still did not wish to go and was still somewhat troubled about her ability to deal with her father, but now she was determined to try. Hereford's strictures had done something to improve her resolution by raising a tiny spark of resentment in her, resentment she had not known she could still feel. More important, however, was a brief, bald statement in his mother's letter that he still wanted and needed his wife, Elizabeth's lips curved into a faint, unconscious smile. He had not meant her to see that. How she would prick him for playing the heavy husband in her letter and not realizing that two women, even two who did not like each other, would combine against a man who sought to discipline them.

An excessively cold, wet March had run away into a lovely, soft, bright April. On the peaceful farm lands of Chester, the corn sprang from the earth in thin, pale-green blades, young, fresh, and tender. The oaks, beeches, larches, and aspens showed a mist of the same tender green on their branches, promising the rich shade and whispering grace of summer. Elizabeth, riding home to Hereford, broke into a soft humming of a song in praise of spring out of sheer lightness of heart. Perhaps in the core of her soul there was still a black spot of despair that could rise and overwhelm her, but today it was buried deep. She had a great many things to be glad of, even though her father had received her initially with anything but kindness.

Indeed, from Chester, Elizabeth had received the beating she had been longing for. He had heard of her folly through Lincoln, who had been only too glad to twit his half brother on the results of the way Elizabeth had been raised. Enraged almost as much by the shame she had exposed him to as by the things she had done, Chester had received his daughter with a blow that had knocked her flat. Elizabeth picked herself up only to be smacked again while her father raved at her. Apparently Chester believed that she had come to him for protection against her husband's wrath.

At first she tried to explain, while warding off his blows, but Chester was beyond reason. He continued to strike her and shout curses at her until Elizabeth was forced to defend herself as she knew full well how to do. She was badly bruised, however, and in a full-scale fury herself before her father was tired, her indignation at being misjudged and misunderstood going a long way to lift her depression. In the end she cursed Chester with the fluency and originality of a man-at-arms and drew her small knife on him. From sad experience, Chester knew that her poniard could inflict nasty cuts and he gave over, father and daughter facing each other flushed with rage and panting for breath.

"Out," Chester shouted, "out! I will not have you here. If Hereford kills you, it is his right. Go hide from him elsewhere." Suddenly the anger on his face died out and changed to an expression of sorrow and bitter disappointment. "Elizabeth, why? How could you do such a thing? Why?"

"I would not answer you now if my life depended upon it. Nor need you be troubled with me. I will go. I would not spend an hour more than I must here for a king's ransom. Hide! I am more able to defend myself, from Hereford or anyone else, than you are. I would die on the rack sooner than crave your succor." She drew a trembling breath and steadied her voice. "I come upon my husband's business, and it is for him alone that I have borne so long with you."

"Hereford's business? That boy is mad to trust you now. I do not believe you. He is not so addlepated as that."

Elizabeth's angry flush subsided as she saw a way out of her dilemma. It was well that her pride had been humbled by her folly for she could never before have brought herself to say what she now must. "He had no choice. He could not send a courier past Shrewsbury. Nor does he trust me overmuch, accursed that I am, for he told me nothing save that I should bid you summon your vassals and gather your mercenaries in readiness for the second week in May."

She had shown him Hereford's letter after that, and Chester asked her no questions, believing her explanation of why no further information was offered. That hurdle past, all was easy. Chester readily agreed to do what was asked, so Elizabeth had succeeded where she had feared to fail for the very reasons she had expected to fail. In spite of Chester's angry words and her own, she had stayed several weeks, long enough to see the muster begin and to make her peace with her father. Therefore Elizabeth was happy. There was only one small dark cloud on her horizon; she had not heard from Roger again, but she buried that fear and enjoyed the spring and her success while she could.

The spring showed a far less pleasant face in the war-torn south through which Roger of Hereford was riding. The fields lay untilled, often showing still the burnt stubble of past raids, and what few miserable serfs remained on the land crept into gullies to hide or, so weak with starvation that they could not do so much, stretched out their hands to the passing men with whispered pleas for alms. Sometimes Hereford threw a few copper coins or ordered a bag of wheat to be left behind, but largely he did not notice, for the sight was so common as to render the senses numb, and, besides, he was taken up with his own thoughts.

By and large these were satisfactory. Salisbury and John FitzGilbert had been successful and had moved on to other targets; Walter and he had reduced Bampton, and Harwell had yielded without resistance. Walter was engaged at Shrivenham at present. If he took it, Faringdon would be virtually surrounded. A faint qualm rose in Hereford's breast at the thought of Faringdon, for he had once come very close to losing all there—not his life, but his honor and his power. He repressed the sensation fiercely; they were not yet trying for Faringdon. Perhaps after Henry and he returned from Scotland, but not yet.

He was looking forward to seeing Henry. For one thing, a good part of the burden of his responsibilities would be lifted when Henry of Anjou arrived; for another, that young man's forceful personality and invincible if cautious optimism were difficult to resist. Shaky alliances would become firmer with the presence of the young claimant to the throne, and many would join them who did not previously believe that Henry would keep his promise and come. Independent holders of keeps would yield much more readily too, for Henry could confirm their holdings with surety, while Hereford could only promise.

There were only two shadows on Hereford's present satisfaction. One, the deep, abiding sensation of futility that he strove in vain to conquer, recurred periodically, largely in the dark hours of the night after one of his nightmares or at times of enforced inactivity. The other was a very active distaste for the necessity of bargaining with Henry.

That unpleasant task he had to undertake at once, even before relating what had been won and what could be expected. Hereford felt that his demands were very reasonable, since they were mainly confirmations of what he already held by hereditary right or had won by his own prowess in war. He also wanted a title for Walter, another small matter, for the lands to support the title were Walter's already, although perhaps the method of winning them would not be completely to Henry's taste. Nonetheless, Hereford knew that Henry would not grant even reasonable demands with great readiness. He was closefisted with both lands and titles, feeling very justly that the less he gave the more he would have to give or to hold out as prizes in the future. Hereford had everything all written out for Henry to sign, and he knew Henry would sign in the long run, but he dreaded the thought of the wrangling.

"William." Beauchamp came forward. "Send a man ahead to Arundel—no, better, go yourself. Say whatever is proper. I believe Lord RadnorI mean the Earl of Gaunt, I will never get used to calling him that—has already written to Arundel, but in case he has not, explain why I am come in his stead."

"Yes, my lord."

"William …"

"Yes?"

"Explain tactfully. Do not set up Arundel's hackles."

Beauchamp laughed. "You mean I should not say out and out that you do not trust him and that you think his wife is a lovely idiot? Nay, I will restrain myself. Shall I ride back to you?"

"Not unless he will not receive us."

Arundel did, of course, receive them, but he made no pretense of being happy about it. He had opposed the choice of Hereford as the leader throughout the councils, feeling that he himself had a better claim to that position. In a certain sense he had, being a more mature man and having been a partisan in Henry's cause far longer, but old Lord Gaunt had trusted his foresight less even than Hereford's, and, more important, Gloucester had set his face solidly against that arrangement. In Gloucester's opinion Arundel was already too powerful; he would not cede his authority into those hands. Also, Arundel's main fortresses were not in such easy striking distance of Gloucester's property as Hereford's. William of Gloucester knew well how to fight, even if he would not, and believed firmly in having deterrents to use against his allies.

Fortunately Hereford and Arundel did not have to bear each other's company for long without diversion. Henry was as good as his word, for the weather was fair and the breeze blew sweet and pungent with the fragrance of spring and salt spray from France.

May the first, May Day. Wherever there was peace it was holiday. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in their best and went to Mass, then to ride out, not to hunt or fight on this day, but to pick flowers, eat in the fields, and dance. It was holiday even for the serfs. Their lords had provided food and drink in plenty, Maypoles were up to dance around, the priests either watching with sympathy or turning aside from these forbidden totems. A few preached against the heathen practice, but it was May Day, and there was spring in all men's hearts. Lords smiled indulgently, as serfs, normally forbidden to enter the woods without specific permission and payment, brought back load after load of wood for the huge bonfires that would burn that night. They too would come with their ladies to watch the antics of the serfs, half drunk and half wild, as they danced in their uncouth manner in the red glare.

Hereford had no time for celebrating May Day, but its spirit caught him so that his eyes were bright with laughter as he ran up the plank to greet his lord. He beat Arundel by minutes because of his greater agility and lack of dignity, and he had been raised from his bent knee and caught in an affectionate embrace by the time that more pompous gentleman had arrived.

"My Lord Arundel," Henry said, extending a hand to be kissed. The older man started to kneel stiffly, not because he had any reservations about kneeling to Henry but because he disliked doing so while Hereford was still being held fondly by the shoulders. Henry was too keen to let that pass. He prevented Arundel from bending his knee with a gesture, since he cared nothing for the dignity of kingship, desiring only its power.

"There will be time enough for that, Arundel, when I wear the crown. You are looking well. How is your lovely wife?"

"In excellent health and perfect looks, sire, and waiting most anxiously to greet you."

"And yours, Roger?"

Hereford laughed. "I shall put Elizabeth in a box, my lord. She is too lovely for you to let alone and has too good an eye for a strong man to resist you. Truly though, I have not seen her for some time. I have been a little occupied on your affairs."

"Ah, what a reputation you will give me. For shame. Do you wish my vassals to withdraw their allegiance for fear I should tamper with their women? Not yours, anyway, Roger. After a face like yours, all other men must look like moles."

"If I ever see a mole with freckles and red hair, I will take the cloth—or eschew wine."

Henry struck Hereford a friendly blow that staggered him. He was somewhat shorter than his liege man, being a little less than middle height, but considerably broader. At eighteen his body already promised its full strength, square and stocky with tremendous shoulders and a neck short and strong as a bull's, The hair was not really red but sandy, and the face was liberally sprinkled with freckles. A mobile mouth, smiling now to expose good teeth, softened somewhat the square, determined line of the jaw that could easily look brutal.

Beyond all else, however, the eyes above an indeterminate nose drew the attention. They were not large, and the lashes were short and sandy, but their gray was so bright and their look so keen that few except the dullest men were totally misled by the generally bland and good-humored expression of the face. Not that Henry was not good-humored, for he certainly was, although he had a fierce temper. Therefore, he looked, and was truly concerned when Hereford gasped and whitened at the blow.

"Good Lord, Roger, did I hurt you?"

"Ay, you are strong as an ox. I broke my collarbone a few weeks since and it is still tender. No matter, no harm done."

"Broke your collarbone? What a boy's trick! Were you climbing trees or did you fall off your horse dead drunk?"

"My lord," Arundel broke in, shocked and disapproving of this light badinage between king and liege man, "we should go ashore."

Arundel disapproved too of Henry's garb, both his own and Hereford's being far more magnificent. The young man was properly enough clad in excellent mail, but his chausses were of russet homespun as were his cloak and surcoat. Shoes and belt, instead of being decorated with gilding, gold wire, and jewels, were perfectly plain leather and, although of the best quality, were stained and marred by long use.