Knight's Honor (8 page)

"But, Roger—" Elizabeth interjected.

"Do not 'but, Roger' me," he said with sudden bitterness, turning on her. "He will bring us peace—peace to marry, and breed, and die. Do you think, Elizabeth, that I look forward with pleasure to rising from my wedding bed to make war, to knowing that even if you conceive a child of me it is like as not that I will lie cold in the field before I ever see it? As long as Stephen is our king, every man's hand will be set against every other's for a word of insult or a strip of land.”

Chester bit his lip and drew breath to speak, but Hereford went on passionately.

“Who is there to judge between the barons? Who can say them nay? I am no coward. I do not mind fighting for my right and my king or to protect my lands, but I wish to accomplish something. I do not wish to lay down my arms one night to have to pick them up in the morning to fight the same battle over again. I wish to be able to swear a clean oath with a clear mind, not to think of disgusting artifices to avoid doing my duty. It is my duty to fight
for
the king of this country, not to make rebellion against him. Do you think I am not sick inside when I think of what lies before me, and sicker when I remember what lies in the past."

He shook free of the hold Chester had taken on him.

"Let me be.” His voice choked. “Let me go and wash the filth from me, if I can. I can talk no more."

CHAPTER 3

THREE DAYS HAD PASSED LAZILY. IT HAD BEGUN TO SNOW THE NIGHT
Hereford had arrived, and, although Chester and his son-by-law-to-be had hunted the next day the sport was poor and dangerous. William Beauchamp's mount had fallen in a hidden hollow, throwing his rider and breaking his own foreleg. After Chester had put the poor horse out of his pain, they had followed and killed the stag they had wounded. Beyond they all agreed it was too dangerous to continue and returned to the relative warmth of the keep. Confined within, the gentlemen had idled away their days playing chess and gambling or drinking hot spiced wine and listening to Elizabeth sing and play the lute.

The marriage contract had been signed, Elizabeth joining the discussion and arguing various points with such heat and success that the clerics who were writing the document and witnessing it had often stared at both men involved with blank amazement. Since Hereford and Chester seemed to take her behavior as a matter of course, as often deferring to her opinion as contesting it, they had made no comment, but when the contract was signed, the Bishop of Chester had read her a long sermon on her unmaidenly and unmannerly conduct. Whether this had an effect, which was unlikely as the bishop had been lecturing Elizabeth with no visible result for years, or some other matter preyed on her mind, neither Hereford nor Chester could decide. In any case, Elizabeth was very subdued and peace descended upon the house.

Midmorning of the fourth day brought a half-frozen courier, the perspiration of exhaustion nearly congealed on his face, with letters sent on from Hereford Castle. Roger opened the bag and first extracted the note in the chaplain’s hand from Hereford’s mother. Laughing as he read, he passed it on to Chester, remarking that she had gotten along fine without him for two years when she knew he was inaccessible but now could not live a day without his presence.

Two other letters were perused in silence, the first brought only a mild look of consideration to his face, but the second brought a steadily darkening expression. Elizabeth watched her betrothed with silent concern, unwilling to question him before her father, but Chester was not so nice.

"Well, what is it, Roger? What makes you look so black?"

"I have sufficient cause," Hereford snarled. "Here, read this." He passed along the second letter, which Chester saw bore the royal seal. Elizabeth looked anxiously from one man to another as her father's brows also contracted with anger and Hereford, catching her eye, motioned impatiently that she too might read.

Chester passed her the parchment to finish since she had been reading over his shoulder but he looked at Hereford. "How did Stephen know you were back? How dare he address you in such terms?"

"How dare he?" Hereford nearly choked with the rage which had been rising steadily as he considered what he had read. "Because he is safe behind his walls." He sprang to his feet, nearly weeping with frustration. "Oh, God, I will make him eat those words. I will send him back his 'legitimate offspring' piece by piece—first his ears, then his eyes—" He struck the chessboard between himself and Chester a blow that brought blood to his knuckles and sent the pieces flying all over the room.

The bishop, just entering, hurried across to the raging man. "Gently, my son. How often have I said that this is a game of the devil's invention. See how it makes enemies of father and son."

Hereford strode off across the hall, incapable of reply, pounding his fist into his open palm. Chester too was in no mood for a discussion with the man of God and turned away angrily. It was left to Elizabeth to enlighten him.

"It was not the game, Father." Her eyes flashed, bold and yellow as a she-wolf’s. "See, only see the way our king—may the Lord smite him for his presumption—takes upon himself authority over the Church of God." Elizabeth was angry, but as her pride was less than the men's her rage was less overwhelming and she saw a way to turn this threatened setback to an advantage. "Look," she cried, handing the bishop the letter, "see how he sets his authority higher than God's. He forbids Lord Hereford and myself to marry. My father has granted his consent; the Church acknowledges that we are outside the bonds of consanguinity and through your sacred hands has given its consent, and I am willing. Is not wedlock a sacrament of the Church? How dare King Stephen interfere in a sacrament of God?"

"My daughter, let me read," the bishop protested, but Elizabeth's aim was already accomplished. The prelate, as jealous of his rights as any temporal lord, had been predisposed by her introduction to think of Stephen's prohibition as an infringement of his spiritual authority. He passed lightly over the point that Stephen was Hereford's overlord, although this was not technically true because Hereford had never done homage to him, and therefore did have a right to forbid the marriage, and moved on to consideration of a matter that was clearly within his realm.

"This is nonsense. If you are not consanguineous and are married by an ordained priest, neither of you having a previous spouse living, your children must be legitimate and must inherit your lands. No king can deny that right to a man's children. He cannot even deny it to the children of a serf, so how much less right must he have over the children of a free lord of the land. Perhaps for other causes," the bishop hedged, thinking that possibly he had gone too far, "a king may sequester estates, but not on the grounds of legitimacy if the parents are properly married."

"Yes," Elizabeth said, her bosom heaving, "but what priest would have courage to marry us in the face of this prohibition?"

Chester shifted his eyes from the bishop's face so that he could hide his recognition of the trap his daughter had set. The Bishop of Chester was notorious for literally taking up arms to defend his rights in a most unpriestly fashion and for boasting of his courage and prowess.

"I will marry you myself," the priest said with determination, neatly snared by Elizabeth's net.

"But we are to be married at Hereford, and within a few weeks," Elizabeth added appealingly, "and I know the Bishop of Hereford will be afraid."

"That old woman is afraid of his own shadow. So much the better. It would be a shame if a beautiful lady like yourself and a lusty young man like Lord Hereford were to be joined by those feeble and trembling hands. I will come to Hereford and if that sniveling dotard objects, I will see to him."

"Thank you, my lord," Elizabeth murmured, dropping a deep curtsy and kissing the prelate's hand. "You have lightened my heart and reassured my conviction that courage is not lacking in a good priest to do God's will. Now I must go and see if I can quiet my lord before he does someone some hurt in his rage."

Hereford was standing before the second large hearth in the hall, the male retainers and women servants having scattered into colder areas to be away from his wrath. The women, watching Elizabeth approach, nudged each other and commented on her lack of fear.

"She," one maid remarked bitterly, having felt Elizabeth's hand that morning, "she fears nothing—man, beast, or devil. She is Satan's daughter, not Chester's, and the fires of hell burn within her."

"Let me be, Elizabeth," Hereford said in the same strangled voice before she could speak, "I am in no temper to have speech with anyone, even you."

There was a new type of respect in Elizabeth's face as she looked at her betrothed. The Hereford she knew did not have this type of control over himself; that young man would have beaten his servants, destroyed the furniture, possibly even have armed and galloped off to call his vassals to make war.

"If it will ease your heart to beat me, Roger, you are perfectly welcome to do so,” Elizabeth said, knowing she was perfectly safe and hoping the shock would help calm her betrothed, “but I have already found a way to turn that addlepate's blow from us."

"His blow! Who cares for that. If I could not force the Bishop of Hereford to marry us—and I do not doubt that light persuasion would make him willing enough—there is always the house chaplain who will do my bidding." He ground his teeth and began to tremble, crimsoning again. "It is the insult. How dare he write in those terms of command! The—"

Elizabeth raised her brows and smothered a smile as she listened to five minutes of the most elaborate obscenity that even she had ever heard. Some of the terms were so picturesque and surprising that they made her eyes open and once she spluttered a little. Finally, however, even Hereford's invention ran out and he subsided, gasping.

"That was lovely, Roger," she said calmly, "but cannot you see that you are directing it against the wrong man?"

Shock quieted Hereford, and he turned to face her. "What does that mean?"

"Have you ever known Stephen to speak or write in such terms to anyone with so little reason? The king may be God's greatest fool, but even you must admit that he is gentle and conciliating to a fault, unless he be thrown into a great rage. What about our marriage could offend him?"

"Who knows? And so what if he is in a rage! Do you think I am blessed with the calm of heavenly harmony just now?"

"Yes, but why should he be in a rage? Roger, be quiet and try to think."

"I do not need to think. What is there to think about. He knows I am here and what I am here for. Is that not sufficient?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "How can he know? That you are here, doubtless he has heard. Maud has spies everywhere and you have not tried to hide yourself. But your business with Gaunt and Gloucester, who knows of that except ourselves? I do not suppose you made plans such as those at the top of your lungs in the main hall. Besides, even if he knew of your plans, why express his anger by forbidding our marriage? Are there not more direct ways?"

As Elizabeth’s reasoning penetrated, Hereford took a deep breath and frowned thoughtfully. "You are right there. Besides, even if someone did overhear Gaunt and myself, there would not have been time. This letter must have been written only a day or so after I arrived. What the devil does this mean?"

"It means that there is someone close to the king who does not wish us to marry and join our houses."

"Ridiculous. I have been your father's ally for years, and I am not changeable in that way."

"No. But as a simple ally you would not be likely to intervene in his private quarrels, whereas as his son-by-marriage you would, since his sons are so young. Another thing, there can be no doubt that if anything should befall my father you would become the guardian of his sons once we are married."

Hereford blinked, then shrugged. "Very well, all that is true, but I still cannot see what this has to do with our marriage. Why should Stephen care about any of those things. Granted he does not love Chester, but he is not a covetous man and does not desire his vassals' lands. Possibly it might be feared that my coming would involve your father in political affairs again, but it would do so whether we married or not."

"That is what I have been telling you. Of himself Stephen would not care if we married ten times over. Someone has deliberately enraged him and fixed the idea that our marriage would be a danger to him in his mind. It is the marriage itself, not a military alliance which Peverel wishes to prevent."

"Peverel! The Constable of Nottingham? He is your father's cousin, is he not?"

"Yes, may he die a leper." Elizabeth flushed suddenly with remembered rage and shame. "You may not know that when my father was taken two years ago, he was committed to Peverel's care. I believe Stephen meant well. The Earl of Chester has many enemies at court and Stephen chose a man whom he thought was at once loyal to him and fond of my father. Peverel entertained Papa nobly—so nobly that his three companions died of poison and my father was sick unto death for a month."

"You cannot mean that!"

"Mean it? Ask Lord Radnor if the Earl of Chester could sit a horse when he was released from prison. I nursed him, who should know better?"

"I never heard a word of this. Why did Chester make no complaint?"

"To whom should he complain?" Elizabeth nearly shrieked, her eyes filling with tears of fury. "Is there a just man in Stephen's court who would carry the tale against such a favorite as Peverel? Could my father personally approach the king who had sworn to cut him to pieces?"

Hereford was physically sick with disgust. Two years of involvement in the intrigues of the Empress Matilda's court had not been sufficient to harden him to the subtler forms of treachery. He was a perfectly direct individual, prone to avenge insult or injury with a blow, quick to anger, and slow to forgive, but forgiving when he did with complete sincerity. He had never borne a tale for the purpose of discrediting anyone and could never bring himself to tell a direct lie, except to women for obvious reasons. It was terribly difficult for him to conceive of a nobleman behaving in the manner Elizabeth had described. Instinctively he sought for excuses.