The Sword and The Swan (18 page)

"Of course I am not cold. I am going out—to the village."

Instantly the flames of wrath mounted to Catherine's cheeks. "Have you not mortified me sufficiently? Must you go into the village to seek a whore on the first night of your homecoming?"

"Hold your tongue! You should count yourself fortunate that I do not really wish to mortify you. I could take one of your maids to my bed and set you to wait upon us. Be satisfied that I am a patient man—for all that some call me hasty—and I have not sought to repay you in the false coin you have given me."

"False coin?" Catherine gasped. "In what have I failed you? Have I not been a dutiful wife? Have I cared ill for your children or your interests?"

Rannulf burst into bitter laughter. "For such matters a man can hire a nurse or a bailiff, if he cares to."

Catherine gasped again. To a remark such as that there could be but one meaning. "If I have given you no heir to the lands and title of Soke, you can scarcely blame me. It is you who prefer the commonest slut—"

"They have their advantages."

"To one who craves sin instead of decency, I can well believe it to be true!"

"What?"

Rannulf was stunned by the obvious explanation for Catherine's coldness which certainly had seemed to intensify as his own warmth increased. It was something he had overlooked, but it was entirely possible that she believed it sinful to enjoy the physical relationship between husband and wife. The priests were always preaching about the sin of lust, and there were many of them who insisted that it was almost as sinful to enjoy one's spouse as to commit adultery.

If he could be sure that it was no personal revulsion she felt for him, he could be satisfied to accept her coldness while she was reeducated. Tomorrow, Rannulf thought, I will speak to her chaplain and speak with some point. If that priest will not listen, there will be a score of other hungry clerics who will be very anxious to take his place and do as they were told.

"You heard me very well," Catherine was replying breathlessly. "I need not lower myself by repeating what I am ashamed to have to say about my own husband. But I will not be blamed for what is no fault of mine. It is sufficient to know that nothing I can do can please you. Take anyone you like to—"

"Catherine, hold your tongue," Rannulf said again, but this time quietly and with a hint of amusement in his voice. "If anyone heard what you have said to me and what I have listened to without lifting your hide with my belt—buckle-end forward—that person would think I had gone mad."

She was too angry to notice the humor. "I pray you, do not hesitate a moment. It needs only that to complete my happiness. My labor you scorn. My care for—"

"Mayhap if you were not so hungry for compliments you would receive more."

Rannulf was teasing her, but Catherine did not even know he was capable of such light behavior and, besides, was in no mood for a jest. "Oh," she choked, speechless with
rage, "oh!"

"That is already an improvement," Rannulf laughed, "A speechless woman is always better than a railing one. And, since you are so anxious to provide me with an heir, that, with God's help, may also be arranged, but only if you will continue to be still."

"I did not say that I desired—you are foul-minded as well as foul-mouthed. I said I would not be blamed unjustly for what—"

Her husband laughed again, giddy with his sensation of relief, and Catherine felt that she would die of shame. It was bad enough that he did seem to prefer the village whore, but to be told that he believed her to have asked for his favors was unendurable. Her eyes filled with tears of impotent rage.

"If you spread that story about me, Rannulf, I—I will run away!"

"Run away? Where do you think you could go that I could not fetch you back? What story?"

"That I asked you—" Her face was crimson, her eyes averted, and tears sparkled on the long blonde lashes.

"Nay, Catherine," Rannulf said pacifically, realizing that what he had meant as a jest had really hurt her. "It was but a jape. Even if it were true, you should know me better than to think I would tell such a tale of my wife. I have other things to think about and to talk about when I am among my friends."

Her color receded, but she was still thoroughly angry. Naturally he did not think about her; she was the least important and the least valuable of his possessions. He had never wanted to marry her, and was too lazy and too arrogant to make sufficient effort to attract any woman but a whore. Look at him! As dirty and ill-kempt as when she first met him, and he had made rags of the clothing she had left in London. It was no wonder Lady Adelecia had done nothing; probably she had given up in despair.

While Catherine fed her rage, Rannulf had propelled her ungentIy, but this time because he was in a hurry and not because he meant to be rough, up the stairs. He gave her a last push into the solar and stood in the doorway looking around the room. From a shadowy corner, Mary and two maids came into the light.

"Out," Rannulf said briefly. "Neither of us are crippled. We can do for ourselves."

The maids fled at once, but Mary moved to her stepmother's side, conscious that Catherine was trembling. "I will not leave you," she whispered.

Catherine neither wanted nor needed protection, but she was far too distracted to choose her words with care. "No, no," she murmured in reply, "do not enrage him." And then, trying to collect herself because of Mary's look of horror, "He will do me no hurt."

"No," Rannulf said, grimly amused and unconscious of the effect he was having on his daughter, "I always beat my wives in public. Then no explanation of the bruises need be given."

He pulled the screen closed behind his daughter, and watched avidly as Catherine struggled to unknot the laces of her bliaut. Then, thinking that his close attention might be embarrassing to her, he turned away and began to undress. When he had shed all of his own clothing, however, Catherine was still no further advanced in her disrobing. Her hands trembled pathetically, and Rannulf was sorry he had dismissed the women for Catherine was plainly in no state to help herself. Her obvious distress destroyed his elation. It was clear enough that she did not really want him and yielded only to salve her pride.

"Shall I call your maids again?"

"No!" If he called, Mary would come and Mary disliked her father enough without crediting him with reducing his wife to hysteria. "If you will but undo the laces for me, I can manage. I cannot see how they are tied."

The silk was soft as cobwebs, and Catherine's tugging had pulled the knots tight. Rannulf bent his head under her lifted arm. Her scent, sweet and faint, of lilies and roses, came to him. He swallowed nervously, keeping his hands from shaking only with great effort. What he would have liked to do was break the laces, but he did not wish to annoy or frighten Catherine further, and he knew she set great store by her clothes.

"At least you can see that I am no hand at this work."

Catherine had been staring straight ahead, but the uncertain and embarrassed tone of that remark drew her eyes to her husband. With a pang she saw how much grayer his hair was, how the bones stood out in his thinning flesh.

He was not dirty either, although his hair was uncut and he needed a shave. His body was as fair as hers and the skin was fresh and smooth where it was not knotted and discolored by scars. Nor was his odor the sour smell of unwashed filth; faintly acrid it was, but only with the pungency of a healthy man. The knot gave and Catherine turned to present her other side. As she moved, her hand brushed Rannulf's shoulder and she felt with surprise that he, too, was trembling.

"Thank you," she said when the other lace hung loose.

"A service I will be glad to perform at any time." He meant to mock, but the shaken note in his voice made him sound gallant.

"Then by your mercy," Catherine said when she had pulled off the bliaut and dropped it on the floor, "undo my tunic sleeves also."

Her hands were icy cold. "Are you still afraid of me, Catherine?"

"Only a little, when you are raging. Are you not to be feared then?"

"I am not angry now. Why are your hands so cold?" He finished with the sleeves and moved away. When Catherine was so close, he could not think. "I have meant to tell you for long, but somehow I never did. I killed him of necessity, not of my own will or spite, for he spoke what could have harmed the king."

"Who?" Catherine asked.

Rannulf faced her again. She had shed the tunic now and the light from a branch of candles behind her shone through the thin shift outlining her figure clearly.

"Osborn," he said.

His voice was shaking and so low that she could scarcely hear him. He does desire me, Catherine thought, and he is afraid. But of what? Totally absorbed by this revelation, Catherine made no reply. Indeed, she could not imagine why he should mention a thing two years dead and gone except if he were talking at random.

"If you hate me for that," Rannulf said with a sudden return of bitterness in his voice, "I can do nothing. I am not sorry. I would do it again today if needful."

Catherine had bent slightly so that she could pull the shift over her head, but she straightened up with a start. "Hate you for killing Osborn? I never gave it a thought. Why should I?" For the first time she realized that her husband believed she loved Sir Herbert and lied to him out of policy. Hurt, she lashed out. "If I hate you, believe me, it is for reasons nearer to my heart than Sir Herbert ever was."

Rannulf was appalled at what he believed was the beginning of an open confession of rebel sympathies. He would not listen to what would divide them forever. "There is no need for you to endure me then, not even to salve your pride and save yourself mortification. Get you to bed. I can sleep by the fire."

"No!" The protest was startled out of Catherine before she could control her tongue. "Oh . . . I . . . oh." Totally unnerved by the conflict between pride and desire, Catherine stretched pleading hands. "Rannulf," she whispered, "I do desire children. I grieve still for my lost ones. I have Richard, but I want—I want a baby."

Rannulf was so hurt by her clinging to a cause he hated that he was about to ask caustically whether she wanted
his
child, to remind her that he was old and she was young and there would doubtless be other opportunities for her with one of her dear rebels, but Catherine burst into tears and, fortunately, he held his tongue. Instead, he took her in his arms and held her against him, comforting her as he comforted his sons when they were little and bruised by life. He stroked the bright hair and kissed it.

"Catherine, if I can give you your desire in this or in any other matter, I will do it. You must know that you have only to ask me for anything. Do not weep."

It was the work of a moment to carry her to the bed, to strip her of the thin shift. To quiet her took longer, but Rannulf felt no impatience even though at first she wept harder in spite of all his attentions. Her crying had not quenched his desire, but he was in no hurry to satisfy it. Tonight, driven by the fierce longing that many women have for children, she was willing.

There could be no doubt of it, because she clung to any part of him she could reach and, sobbing, returned the kisses he showered on her. Tonight he need not hurry to his climax so that she might be sooner free of him; he could savor his pleasure without a shadow. And in that savoring, he brought her to joy more than once also.

The low rumble of a male voice made the earl of Soke open his eyes.

"Hush," Mary said softly but intently, "Lady Catherine is not here and my father is asleep."

"No, I am awake."

Rannulf put aside the bed curtain and sat up. He was a little surprised at the embarrassed expression of chagrin on Sir Andre's face, but it was too unimportant a matter and the expression was too fleeting to absorb him long.

"Richard would like to speak to you, my lord."

"Send him in then."

Again Rannulf was surprised for his ebullient son came in very slowly and made no attempt to leap on the bed or climb up the curtains. He looked, indeed, so apprehensive that Rannulf groaned aloud with a mixture of humor and despair.

"Now what have you done?"

"I did not mean to do it, papa."

"No, you never do," Rannulf growled, struggling not to laugh, "but do not make yourself sound lily-livered by offering excuses. Tell me what you have done and how you came to do it. Then take your punishment without whining."

"I lamed Geoffrey's brown destrier and I shot two of the serfs' sheep. One died."

Rannulf turned his back on his son. It was immediately apparent to him how Richard had come to commit the crimes he confessed, but his silence and his unresponsive back frightened the child. Richard stumbled through his explanation which, indeed, was so close to Rannulf's expectations that he was inwardly convulsed. Then by natural transition, Richard's fear changed to resentment.

"I cannot see why you are so cross. I have been punished already, for I was made to bring the sheep home on my own pony and butcher it like a common servant. And Lady Catherine took my favorite cloak-clasp to buy another sheep for the serf."

Very well pleased that fear bred anger and not more fear in his son, Rannulf found his voice. "And what of the horse?"

"Oh, I had to tend his injury myself and sleep in the stables applying fomentations and poultices. Mayhap," the boy added in a small voice, "I should be punished for the horse, for, truly, I did not mind working in the stables a bit. It was far more pleasant than learning to read and write and such-like with Father Philip."

That was the finishing stroke. Rannulf hurried into speech knowing that if he listened to Richard any more he would laugh and irrevocably destroy the discipline his son badly heeded. If only he was not so happy; if only he were not in such total sympathy with his son's feelings' about education.

"Very well, we will say no more about the sheep, but for the horse, you shall bring me—written fairly in your own hand—an explanation of why it is unwise to attempt to ride a beast for which your tutor says you are not ready. When you have finished that," Rannulf's voice shook and he paused to steady it, "bring the writing to me and you will receive my pardon."