Knight's Honor (42 page)

"That is no affair of yours, and all the more reason my wife should give no cause for similar rumors to be spread about me."

Despite the sharp words, he was comforted and bid Henry and Elizabeth farewell with commendable if not perfect calm. Subsequently he was too busy to spare them more than a passing thought now and again, so that it was not until a few hours before he himself left for Chester that his uneasiness returned. It was sparked by a note from Henry saying briefly that he assumed Hereford's permission would be granted to take Lady Elizabeth on with him to Chester since there could be no doubt of her welcome in her father's house.

Hereford boiled. He liked neither Henry's calm assumption of authority over his wife nor Elizabeth's apparent docility, for she could surely have sent him word of Henry's intention in time for him to frustrate it had she so desired. What was more, he was furious at Elizabeth's being brought to Chester again. The farther she was separated from her father these days the better he liked it. Of course Chester would be leaving with them so that Elizabeth would not be alone with him, but …

Hereford could have spared himself a great deal of mental anguish if he could have applied his intelligence and what he knew of Henry to the problem instead of allowing himself to be carried away by his emotions. It was quite true that his overlord had no moral scruples, but he had an extraordinarily keen sense of what was to his advantage. It would have been criminally insane of him to take the chance of alienating Hereford for an hour's sport with his wife. At present Hereford was Henry's ladder to the English throne. Thus Henry would not have wooed or shown any for desire to Elizabeth no matter how much she attracted him. On the other hand, Henry was a born tease and crazy for a jest. He could not resist the chance of tormenting his liege man—for he had seen that Roger was jealous—and twitting him later on his susceptibility.

It was not Elizabeth's wish to infuriate her husband that had prevented her from writing; indeed she was now almost morbidly anxious not to displease him. She had admitted her love in the wake of her tempestuous outburst, had admitted too that she was willing to let down the sexual barrier she had built against him. Her temper had twice brought her serious defeats in her handling of Roger, a thing that had never happened in her dealings with her father, so that she had no weapons to use against him, and, worse yet, she was no longer sure that he would trust her with his confidence.

For all that, Elizabeth was strangely happy, even though she felt uncertain of what she wanted or in which direction she wished to move. It was very difficult for her to concentrate on any long-range object at all. When Roger had made a definite demand of her, unconscious though it was, her mind leapt into action to obey with its usual agility, but it seemed as if she needed some external force to activate her. She was content, as she had never before been, to drift on the current of things without desire to steer them or propel herself. It was partly because of this languor that she had not written and partly because she did not know what to say. She wanted to go on to Chester because she wanted to see Roger again and because she enjoyed Henry's company; she wanted to return to Hereford because she knew that Roger would prefer her to do so and because pleasing him was now an object to her.

The drawn curtains of her own bed at Chester allowed only a dim red light to bathe Elizabeth. She sighed and turned on her side. She had long since missed Mass and there was nothing to get up for. They were all gone. For the first time in many years, since her childhood, in fact, Elizabeth was filled with a burning resentment at being a woman. A woman who was left behind to wait—wait and embroider and wonder what would happen if her menfolk did not return.

Elizabeth had not had that fear either for many years, but it had haunted her ever since she had watched Hereford fight de Caldoet. Now and again she had nightmares in which she saw her husband, unhorsed and helpless, waiting for death as a whole army rode down upon him. She wrenched her mind away from that, but not far away. It slid only to the scene between herself and Roger before dawn that morning.

Roger had been coldly polite and very angry, not asking any questions or even giving her a chance to explain her actions in the two days they had all spent at Chester. Even his love-making had been cursory, an act to satisfy his own need with no regard for hers, unprecedented behavior in Roger that had reduced her to mute terror.

In the last few hours he had become somewhat gentler, and Elizabeth's oppression had lifted sufficiently to permit her to help him dress and arm. She lingered about her duties, in fact, knowing that it might be many months before she saw him again, until he snatched his belt from her hands in impatience. She watched him belt his surcoat—the same belt he had tried to remove to beat her with, and reach for his sword belt. Suddenly she thought it might be more than months before she saw Roger again; he might never return.

"Roger."

"Yes?"

"Roger, I have asked you nothing of your plans. I know too that you are angry, but—"

"Please, Elizabeth.” Hereford interrupted, “I have not the time—nor, in truth, the desire—for excuses or recriminations. Let us part as pleasantly as we may."

"You must listen. I will be brief for I have no excuses to offer and no recriminations to make. I only wish to ask you …" she hesitated and bit her lip.

Hereford turned away impatiently, eager only to end an interlude he had found uninterruptedly painful, and Elizabeth caught his sleeve desperately. Her need was greater than her pride. Indeed, it looked very much as if she would soon have no pride at all where Roger was concerned.

"Roger,” she cried desperately, “I beg you, do not let me live week after week in fear. Write to me—even if it be no more than five words to say you are well. You do not know," she faltered, "you do not know how dreadful it is to do nothing but wait helplessly."

Hereford had started to pull away without replying, for he was still smoldering over her docility to, as he put it, everyone but himself, when the sick sensation he had lived with while Walter fought at Burford recurred to him. He swallowed; it was no light thing to live thus for weeks or months on end. That was a far bitterer punishment than any he had in mind for his erring Elizabeth.

"I will write." His wife looked strangely soft in the candlelight with her hair loose and a robe carelessly corded around her narrow waist. "Do not fret, Elizabeth, I will write everything I safely may to you. Shall I send here to Chester or to Hereford?"

"I had planned to ask Gaunt to send a force to take me home. He often has troops traveling to Rhos. It would not be far out of their way."

That was for his sake, and Roger had recognized it. He pulled her to him and kissed her, gently and gratefully.

"I have not been kind to you, Elizabeth. You are generous to seek to please me nonetheless. If I have been unjust, I am sorry. I will write to Hereford then every chance I have, but do not be troubled if time goes by and I am silent. We may have heavy work in the north. Always remember that if there is bad news, you will hear that most quickly of all."

The reminder was a small comfort, but time stretched before her in a vast empty track. Who cared who was king, Elizabeth thought suddenly. If Roger had been a little man of no account, this lovely spring and the coming summer would have been a time of joy. A time to hunt together, to hawk together, to stroll in the garden and pick flowers in the meadows.

Their greatest troubles would be the minor evil-doings of their serfs and the vagaries of the weather. Even the autumn and winter would be pleasant in their own way. Elizabeth could read tales by the fire, or together she and Roger could listen to the minstrels sing through the long evenings, then to seek the warmth and comfort of their bed—together. Elizabeth pulled back the bed curtains and prepared to rise. There was no warmth and little comfort in an empty bed.

Hereford leaned back against the bole of the tree behind him and yawned. They were making good time and should be at King David's court easily on the promised day. Then the knighting, then the fighting—all to the good. The quicker they were at it, the quicker it would be over, one way or the other. Chester and Henry had been in repulsively good spirits all the morning, and he might well have been too … except. Except for that nagging sensation he could not kill that the enterprise was doomed from the beginning. Nervously Hereford yawned again.

"Short on sleep, Roger?"

"A little, my lord."

Henry looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure that Chester was well out of hearing. "You have a charming wife—charming."

"When she wishes."

"Still turning on the coals, Roger?" Henry chortled. "I had not thought a man so hot with rage could be so cold with courtesy." To that Hereford made no reply and Henry waited with a rather birdlike air of expectancy that was odd in a man of his solid appearance. At last he gave up and spoke again. "You disappointed me. I had hoped for a little more warmth in your manner when you met us at Chester. It needs only a small spark to set her off, and I have never seen a woman to match your wife in a rage. Even my mother is nothing to it." Henry did not yet know that he was to marry a woman whose temper would make Elizabeth's rages seem like hymns of praise. He could still afford to laugh. Obviously Hereford was thinking that remark over.

"I am glad she afforded you amusement," he replied flatly.

A furrow appeared between Henry's brows. This was going a little too far. It was true that Hereford had said once that he loved his wife, but there had been so many other women he had professed love for with almost the same type of laugh. Almost, Henry thought suddenly, not quite the same. Now Henry was worried. Apparently this went deeper and Hereford was not concerned merely with his own honor but with his wife's feelings. It was ridiculous for Henry to protest that he had not touched Elizabeth. Plainly from his manner Hereford knew that. It would be no jest at all if Hereford were to remain in this temper over a woman, and Henry knew that, unlike himself, Hereford was capable of bearing a grudge for a very long time. A man whose heart harbors a grudge is a bad friend to have on the battlefield, even if his mind is loyal.

"I say, Roger, a jest is a jest, but our affairs are no laughing matter. If you are angry, say what is in your heart and be done. To carry such a burden is heavy work and grows heavier with time. You and I will have burdens enough without adding this load to our packs."

A jest, Hereford thought, it was a jest? I will teach him to jape thus with me. "I am sure you would do me no dishonor, my lord," he replied icily, "what then could burden my heart?"

"You are not sure at all, you great ass, although you should be. Nay, Roger, I do not pretend that your wife would be safe from me either because I love you or because you are my man. Nor do I make any promise for the future, but just now I would not treat the Virgin Herself with more respect. You hold the keys of my kingdom. Without you there is no gateway to my desire. You should know I would not throw away the chance of a throne for any woman, least of all for another man's wife who can bring me nothing."

Hereford had meant to hold out and give Henry a good lesson, which might prevent him from a similar form of amusement in the future, but he could not. Henry's candid appraisal of himself was totally disarming; Hereford had to laugh, and that heartily.

"I am not that much a fool,” he said. “If I thought you had smirched my honor, you and I could not be sitting here in talk. Although I made an oath to support your claim to the throne, I made none to refrain from personal quarrels with you. You know, my lord, I make no fuss over other women. As you yourself have said, we shared our whores in France, but this is a question of my wife. I have been so gay a dog in the past that many are waiting for her to set a step amiss so that they may crow. Elizabeth … Elizabeth is too proud to let me fear dishonor through her, but her manner might give rise to talk. I have no desire to set up as a laughingstock."

"Well, she is safe enough now, so bend your mind to your advancement and mine and leave off this brooding over nothing."

"What is there to think about? We go to Scotland to your knighting and mine." Hereford laughed again. "It comes a little late in our fighting careers I fear, but better late than not at all, I suppose. We will have time enough to think when that step is taken."

"Are you going to be like all the others—fight today with never a thought for the morrow? Wake up, man! Do you think that David is a fool? What will he want for what he offers? How much may I yield him?"

That opening was too good to resist. "That is easy,” Roger said, laughing. “From your view, 'too much' is what he will want and 'nothing with ease' is what you will yield." Hereford then sobered and shrugged. "I can be no help to you in this, my lord. I have never had acquaintance with your uncle nor am I wise in the problems of Scotland. Old Gaunt is a great loss in this matter. I know little of King David's character and less of the needs of his realm."

The problem needed to be faced, however, and even Hereford began to be concerned with it after a while. King David's greeting was so cordial, his welcome so magnificent, and his plans for the knighting so elaborate that Roger's relatively unsuspicious nature was aroused. He came to Henry's lodging late the night of their arrival, unceremoniously interrupting his overlord's amorous activities. Henry had been a little surprised, but not really annoyed. He did not dismiss the girl but suggested to Hereford that they walk out together.

"You know she is probably in David's pay and would listen” Henry said, but with good humor. “A large open space is best for talk such as ours."

"What does he want?"

"Nothing. He tells me it is for love and to honor the bond of our blood, his wife being my mother's sister."

"Do you believe that?"

Henry laughed silently. "He is a fool. Seeking to gain all, he will gain nothing. Because I am eighteen and he is past forty, he believes I am a child. Child! Was I ever a child?" he asked bitterly and then laughed again. "But he has done my work for me. He will fall into the pit of his own digging. A child I shall be to him. 'Yes, uncle,' 'You are wise, uncle,' 'So, if I can, I will do, uncle.'"