Knight's Honor (6 page)

"Because my father is often not very wise and is sometimes too talkative. Say what you wish, Roger."

"Well then, Gaunt met me at Seaton and proposed—I hardly know just how to put this, but I suppose it is best to speak plainly. I am no hand, you know, at talking around a subject."

"If you are going to speak plainly, we may be safer in my solar. Come up with me. Are you hungry? Dinner will be a little late."

"We broke our fast in the field, and not too liberally. I was anxious to get here in good time so we rode half the night. If you have something to hand, it would be welcome."

"Go up, then, Roger, you know the way. I will just tell the maids to bring you some cold meat."

Two chairs faced each other in the solar before the fireplace, high-backed, in a wood deep-carved with stylized lions and fleurs-de-lis, smooth as satin and dark with continual polishing. The cushions were of a bright blue sarsenet, embroidered by Elizabeth's skilled fingers in the same stylized pattern as the chair carvings. The room was lighter than the great hall because the walls of the keep were thinner on this third floor, and, behind the heavy screens which separated Elizabeth's quarters from the sleeping and working area of the other women, voices and the soft sounds of female activity came faintly. Hereford paced restlessly, his thoughts divided between the fierce reawakening of his passion for Elizabeth and the problem of whether or not to include Chester in his political plans. He started nervously when the screen scratched as Elizabeth passed too close to it and spun on his heels, hand on his sword hilt.

"You remind me of Lord Radnor when you do that, although I cannot think of two men more different in looks and disposition."

Hereford smiled a little sheepishly. "Sorry. I have been under arms so constantly these past two years that I find it hard to remember when I am with friends."

"Were you not among friends in France?"

"Friends? To whom is the Empress Matilda a friend? Henry is loyal enough, but sometimes I think he too looks over his shoulder when he is among his mother's adherents. The woman is—is like a ravening beast. Even Geoffrey the Fair cannot live with her, and you would not think that anything a woman could do would disturb him. She hated me, moreover, because I preached caution to her son."

Elizabeth came up close and took him persuasively by the arm. In her interest in what he had to say, she had completely forgotten his reasons for being there. "Come and sit down. I can hardly imagine you preaching caution, even to a madman, and Henry, from what I have heard, is not without sense."

"No. He is wise far beyond his years. Young as he is, I believe he can whip the curs of this land to heel. Nonetheless, he
is
young and sometimes his spirit chafes at this continual delay. He would be king and try his wings."

"He is a far cry from king and not like to see that state soon—if ever. When Gloucester died, the driving force behind the rebellion crumpled. You cannot have failed to hear."

"That is what I wished to speak to you about. You are no ordinary woman, Elizabeth, and I feel that, being as you are, you have a right to know what I plan to do. If I succeed—if I succeed my name will stand next to the king's at the head of the council. But if I fail, I will be ruined." Roger's eyes flickered, their blue incandescent. "When I offered for you, I did not know this was coming."

Elizabeth had not yet taken the seat opposite his. Her hand, which was still on his arm, tightened as her muscles contracted involuntarily, but she did not move away when she consciously relaxed her grip. What was coming? Was Chester's daughter not worthy of the honors Roger of Hereford expected to reap? He had turned his face under her fixed stare and she could feel the knotted muscles of his arm quiver.

"I want you, Elizabeth," he said, his voice suddenly choked with sincerity because a sense of power seemed to flow through him from her touch. "I want you as I have never wanted another woman in my life, with my head as well as with my body." Hereford stopped on a deep drawn breath, grinding his teeth in his effort to retain at least the external appearance of control. "But I have no longer the right to hold you to the promise your father gave. Wait—let me speak. It is never easy for me to find words, and now I am so”

Elizabeth stared down at him, paling a little, but she did not speak.

“There is no sense in my broaching this matter to your father,” Hereford continued. “He is not only ambitious but incurably optimistic, and would see only the glory; he would not see—would not permit himself to see—the degradation to which I might drag you. He would say at once that you must hold to your promise. By my faith, Elizabeth, I did not think of this when I came here, but when I saw you again, so lovely as you are, so—so more than a woman only … Can I bring you all unknowing the chance of being an outlaw's wife, of being hunted from keep to keep, or, worse yet, being a landless fighting man's lady, dependent upon some foreign lord's bounty? My heart fails me, Elizabeth. You are used to so much more, to being like a queen in your own castle. I know well in what honor your father holds you. You cannot be forced like some mindless maid into a pit of your husband's digging. You must be permitted to think on this matter and decide for yourself."

She continued staring at him, suspended between wondering whether he simply wanted to be rid of her, for Chester's daughter might well be an encumbrance if he was planning complicated political maneuvers, or whether he spoke the plain truth.

"I—it is not fair to urge you, Elizabeth, but I have told you only the worst that might be. You may trust me to do all a man can do to avoid that eventuality. I will sell my life full dear before I come to that. I only ask you that in weighing these things in your mind you add to the scale the fact that I—" He closed his eyes and swallowed. It was unnatural for him to appeal to a woman for any but sexual favors. "I want you—nay, more—I need you."

A log burst in the fire sending sparks flying. Elizabeth tightened her lax grip on Hereford's arm. He could have made no appeal that was surer of winning her. A reflection on her courage was to Elizabeth like a deep-driven spur in a horse's side, and the open recognition of her ability to think and reason was a tentative guarantee that Hereford did not plan to use her as a brood mare, obliterating her from his mind between conceptions.

"I am not afraid of disgrace. I have suffered that before. Dishonor I need not fear as your wife, I know. But you have not told me what this is all about. How can I answer when I do not know what I must face?"

Hereford raised his eyes to her, and Elizabeth's heart checked its beat and then began to pound. Written plainly on his face was the reason it was necessary for her to answer without previous explanation. He might or might not ask for her counsel, but it was necessary to him that she have blind faith, not perhaps in what he was about to do, but in him personally. But she had no time to think about whether she did have faith in him, and her personal fear struggled with her smothered desire for him, effectually blocking her ability to think at all.

Roger cleared his throat and looked away; the rigidly straight back sagged a little. Had he mistaken the softness he thought he saw at times in Elizabeth's face? Was she all Chester, so ambitious that she had to know if the goal was great enough before she would take the risk? More important, did she care so little for him that the goal and not his need was the essential fact? He ran a hand through his hair, impatiently pushing the blond curls off his forehead.

"Gaunt—"

"Wait, Roger." The flat tone of his voice, usually so vibrant with some emotion, hurried her into speech. She had no idea what she was going to say, and the words, when she heard them, surprised her more than they did him. "I thought I had answered you, but I realize that you may not have understood. No consideration of future trouble could make me void my promise. If you still want me—you may have forgotten what Elizabeth of Chester really is, for it is long ago that you offered for me—I am yours for the taking."

She was about to add that she wished to understand the situation in order to consider whether Chester's daughter would be more hindrance than help and whether, with that consideration in mind, it
would be best to go ahead with their marriage, delay, or break the contract entirely. She never had the chance to say another word, however. Roger was on his feet and her words were smothered by his embrace. He reacted at once, thanking her for her faith in the way he knew best how to thank a woman, with physical caresses, not realizing until hours later that she had not offered him her faith, only exhibited her proud determination to keep her word.

Elizabeth was a powerful woman, but her strength was like a child's compared with his and in his excitement he did not realize that she was fighting to be free. In fact, she did not fight him long; her mind could control her body only for the first few seconds. When Roger freed her lips she was so dazed by the impact of his passion that she made no protest as he drew her with him to the chair and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed her again, her throat, her ears, the corners of her mouth. His hands made no attempt to restrain her but caressed her breasts and thighs; and now she could not have moved even if she had wanted to because her limbs were trembling so that they could not support her. The greatest effort her pride was capable of was to keep her passive. Her longing to reply to his kisses, to touch his body as he touched her, made her sob, but something in the back of her mind cried that if she yielded she would be lost.

Women were chattel. Like horses or dogs they belonged to the men who were their masters. Their dual purpose in life was to provide these masters with creature comforts—food, clothing, sexual satisfaction—and to bear them children, men-children to be their heirs, females to sell for a bride price and to make alliance between houses by a mixing of blood. In her father's house Elizabeth had risen above this state for, although she was an excellent housewife, she was also Chester's most important confidante and adviser. There was no wife that Elizabeth knew of, except Queen Maud, whose husband was a fool, who enjoyed both a satisfactory marriage and independence, and she unconsciously associated sexual yielding with loss of the freedom of thought and action she had achieved. The conflict between the terror of losing that independence, so dear to her, so hardly won, and the violent pressure of her desires was robbing her of her senses.

"Please, Roger, oh please," she sobbed, not knowing herself whether she was pleading with him to stop or to take her then and there and end her agony.

Her pleading stopped his caresses, and Hereford drew back to look at her so that he could judge what she meant by it. Elizabeth's eyes were closed, but their lids quivered, and her pallor was so deep that it gave a greenish cast to her complexion which even the rosy firelight could not counteract. His passion was quenched by his concern for her.

"Elizabeth." He was holding her gently now, supporting her so that her head rested against his upper arm, her face turned up to his. "Elizabeth, I would not hurt you for the world. What is it?"

"Let me go, please let me go."

"I will not hold you against your will, but see how you are trembling. Are you ill? Shall I call your women?"

"No," she cried, biting her lips to restrain her tears. She would die before she would allow the other women to see her in such a state.

"Gently, gently. Only tell me what you want me to do, and I will try."

Elizabeth was silent, struggling with herself. She wanted to tell him to kiss her again. Instead, she whispered, "Go away. Leave me in peace."

She made no effort to get off his lap, however, and Hereford was confused. Had she been another man's wife, such behavior would have been an open invitation to him to take further liberties, but she was promised to him. There was no need for pretense of this kind to save her face, and besides, her pallor and distress were beyond pretense. But the wildest leap of Hereford's imagination could not have offered him an answer to the problem because to him there was none. Women did not crave independence because they did not think of it and were not capable of it—so much he accepted, as all men did, as an article of faith. However, he did not class Elizabeth as "a woman" and was prepared to allow her to continue to act as she did with her father. Indeed, her pride and strength were what he found stimulating, for beautiful women, although not perhaps always as beautiful as Elizabeth, were a commonplace in his life.

"If that is what you desire, I will go, of course, but how far am I to go and for how long? Do you mean that you are upset now and want a little time to recover, or do you mean that you do not desire to be my wife?"

"I have promised," she said softly, and there was something in her voice that certainly was not gladness.

"What is it about me that offends you?" There was an edge to Hereford's voice; his pride was hurt.

Elizabeth recognized the tone. One push more and he would be willing to withdraw his offer; she would be free. He put her off his knees gently and stood looking at her. Her eyes were so wide that they seemed nearly starting from her head, tears trembling in the comers but unshed. Again what she said had little relevance to her conscious thoughts. It was as if her tongue had a life of its own and was not under her control.

"Oh, Roger, have pity on me. I am afraid. I have never been so afraid of anything in my whole life as I am of you."

He melted like the rare morning frost of April, which disappears the moment the sun touches it. "Of me?" Elizabeth sank into the chair and he went down on one knee with the graceful motion of a man trained to physical activity all his life. "I would not harm a hair of your head, and I would kill anyone who even looked crosswise at you. Of all men on earth you have the least to fear from me."

Elizabeth shuddered. Of all men on earth, he was the only one she had anything to fear from for he was the only one to whom she had ever desired to yield. Hereford took her hands.

"I am not afraid that you will hurt me," she whispered.