The Sword and The Swan (23 page)

Another roar of approval clinched the matter. No man wished for so hopeless or thankless a task, and it was a relief to have it settled quickly with Stephen alone to bear the resentment the suggestion might cause.

Not a muscle of Rannulf's face quivered, but his eyelids dropped to conceal his eyes. He had brought it upon himself and could
not complain. No amount of persuasion could convince Hereford to supply men or money for the king's campaign against Henry. It was no secret that Hereford had done homage to Henry and not only his personal profit but his honor was involved in the hope of an Angevin succession.

Nonetheless, it might be possible to bring Hereford to court and induce him to offer condolences on Maud's death. Stephen was easily moved and might be temporarily satisfied with that much. Then if the plan of sending only money and young men to Normandy could be carried through, the threat of retention of Stephen's full strength in England might keep the rebels quiet while they waited on the outcome of the fighting in France. If Eustace died there—

Perhaps all would
be well even if Eustace did not die.

If he conquered Henry and his self-esteem was thus restored, perhaps he would recover his past good nature. It was a very slim chance, but it was the only one they had as far as Rannulf could see.

If Stephen provoked Hereford and his allies, the country would be wasted to no purpose at all, and if Stephen should die in the fighting, the worst would befall at once. Rannulf was prepared to throw himself into the breach again to put forward his notion of a knight errant army, realizing that Stephen was already so angry with him that he could not make himself more detestable. Leicester, however, took the words from his mouth.

Robert of Leicester genuinely loved Rannulf as a brother and valued him as a friend, but that was not his reason for making the proposal. Thus far in the eighteen years of civil war he had managed to maintain almost perfect neutrality, twisting, shifting, and making excuses, devoting himself to building churches, giving Stephen money from time to time when he could no longer avoid it, but never calling up his vassals to fight.

In his own fashion Leicester had been loyal to the king, always giving him excellent counsel, but he had also kept open a line of communications with the rebels. They wooed him constantly, hoping to win his wealth and power to their cause, so that between their hope and Stephen's trust, Leicester's lands and his vassals' keeps had remained inviolate through the long years of strife.

In this crisis, it was plain that soft words and shifting promises would not be sufficient. If Stephen called him and his vassals to war, he would either have to go or break with the king, and he was not yet ready for the latter action. On the other hand, if Rannulf's plan was adopted, he would need do no more than he had done in the past. Someone had to make the proposal, and Leicester was afraid that if Rannulf did so Stephen would reject it out of spite without consideration. He spoke and listened to Eustace's rude rejection of the offer with a scowl. Robert of Leicester was not accustomed to swallowing insults from men young enough to be his son—but just now it was dangerous to answer as he would have liked.

"Be still," Stephen snarled at his heir. "I am still king, and I think the earl of Leicester's plan has much merit."

A more controlled murmur of approval followed the king's statement. Leicester and Soke exchanged glances which spoke volumes although neither permitted his face to assume any expression.

"Let the council depart," Stephen continued, "to discuss this matter as it seems best to them. Tomorrow morning, by the prime, let us meet here again, that I may have the considered advice of my loyal liege men. If it seems good to you that it should be so, we will set the time for the men and tithes to be ready. If this plan is not to your liking, see that another giving me no less than my due is ready in its place."

They were only too ready to go. Another day's grace had been given them. That was valuable in itself, and the idea had, as the king said, merit. Many a man was already sighing with relief, thinking that he would soon be rid of an expensive, unwanted, and dangerous younger son, or brother, or cousin—some land-hungry young man who was a drain on his coffers and who, perhaps, plotted his death or overthrow to steal his lands.

The war in Normandy would be a drain on the coffers too, but it was better than going to Normandy oneself or fighting in England where one's own lands might be ravaged when one was away. Moreover, a man could always lie about money, and demands from Normandy would come slowly, the distance being great. Truly the earl of Leicester was wise, and his proposal had great merit.

The great hall was deserted and Stephen looked, by habit, at the chair beside him for his wife's approving glance. The chair was empty; tears rose to mist his vision, but through the mist the outraged expression of Eustace's face showed clearly. Stephen lifted a placating hand.

"My son, do not be angry."

"Do not be angry!" Eustace gasped.

"Nay, I am angry myself, and that is how I was tricked out of the immediate muster I planned to have. One thing I have discovered, however, is that my soft heart has led me astray again. Rannulf of Soke
is
a traitor. But for him, I would have had them following and approving like sheep."

Eustace had gasped with rage a moment past; now he gasped with surprise. His father nodded at him encouragingly. "Aye," he continued, "your mother always trusted him and so did I
,
but this time you have seen more clearly than either of us what lay in his heart. Still, nothing is lost, only delayed a few weeks, and in the end he worked more good for us and ill for himself than he planned. Listen, my son, we will have two full armies out of them yet."

"Two?"

Eustace could scarcely believe his ears or his eyes. The features were his father's, but the hushed secretive voice, the sly, angry eyes belonged to someone he did not know. A deep sensation of revulsion made him feel as if his bowels were weak. Even if this stranger accomplished what he desired, he did not want to know him. He wanted his own father, cheerful, perhaps foolishly trusting, but essentially good, unselfish, and well meaning.

"Aye, two, and as much more as we need. You will take the young men and the gold—as much gold as we can wring from them. With the gold you will buy more men, good, mercenary troops, and Louis of France will give you great aid for he still loves the woman who is now Henry's wife, or if not, he loves her lands. Therefore he hates Henry bitterly."

Stephen paused, but Eustace did not speak and Stephen continued, "Let the young wolves free on the Angevin lands; pay them nothing and feed them nothing. Let them wrest more from their kin in England if they have need, or wrest it from Henry, or die. Any way it falls, we profit. Meanwhile, I will let Rannulf appeal to Hereford. If he fails, I have just cause to call up my vassals. If he succeeds and brings the rebels to court, they will fall alive into my hands. Again, either way we profit."

"And what if Soke goes over to them completely? Have you thought of that?"

"It is you who should have thought of that and not insulted him," Stephen spat. Then, more calmly, "No, he will not do that, for Simon of Northampton is at court and Soke's eldest cub is with him. The old boar will not twitch a whisker while the young pig lies in my grasp."

"Well," Eustace replied ungraciously, "I suppose you are right."

He turned away sick at heart. He was furious with Stephen and furious with himself. He had what he wanted; his father, if he continued this new pattern, would no longer be the dupe and jest of the barons of England but was it worth it?

"Stay, Eustace," Stephen cried suddenly, gripping his son's arm. "Have you nothing more to say?"

"What is there to say? You have planned all better than I could."

"Oh, God," Stephen choked, dropping his son's arm and burying his face in his hands. "I have said those things, but I do not believe them. If what I plan is right, I were better dead, and if I am wrong, I will be dead. Aye, that is best of all, to lie in peace beside your mother."

"You will have peace in this life."

"I do not know . . . perhaps . . ."

The anger and assurance had faded from Stephen's face. He looked old and tired and glanced again, uncertainly, at the empty chair beside him. Eustace strove for reassuring words but found none. He too looked at Maud's empty seat and, although he did not tremble visibly, he could feel a shaking hollowness within his body.

Making a hasty excuse, he fled from the dim chill hall into the bright warm sunlight, but the noise and bustle of the bailey brought no comfort. Wherever he walked conversations were suddenly suspended, eyes shifted, or greetings were over-hearty.

"Have a care where you walk, my lord."

That harsh voice was unmistakable as was the fine gray stallion reined back upon its haunches. Eustace looked up into the thin, hard face past the mouth with its tight-drawn unhappy lips, and into clear gray eyes. They did not shift, but returned his glance squarely, and Eustace had to fight the temptation to scream insults or strike out because the glance was filled only with bitter amusement.

"It is you who should have a care!"

The amusement faded from Rannulf's eyes as he watched Eustace storm past him. He eased his reins and touched his mount gently with his spurred heels. Behavior that was funny in a child like Richard, or even in an ordinary spoiled young man, was not funny at all when it was indulged in by the heir to the throne at a critical moment.

God only knew to what imprudences this unreasonable hatred and envy would drive Eustace. To send this furious, hag-ridden youth to Normandy would at least permit him to vent his spleen where it might do some good. Certainly to prevent him from going was disaster. Rannulf shrugged his heavy shoulders; he knew he could do no more than he had done, and resignation had taken the place of despair. At least there was a flicker of hope in the present situation.

A week passed and then another. Rannulf threw himself with immense energy into the task of gathering and outfitting the army that was to accompany Eustace to France. No man, no matter how suspicious, could claim that he was not exerting himself in the king's interest, and such success attended his continual harassment of the barons of England in the rapid accumulation of men and money for the expedition, that even Eustace could not cavil that he had not as yet set off for Hereford.

Rannulf was, as a matter of fact, in the grip of a surge of optimism. If Henry could be destroyed in Normandy and Eustace could ease his heart and restore his confidence with that victory, all might yet be well.

With everything in excellent trim in London, Rannulf took another fortnight to ride south to stir up the lords of the Cinque Ports so that sufficient shipping would be available for the men and supplies. The Cinque Ports were doubtful and moved slowly; Rannulf soothed their doubts and quickened their interest with gold. Ships were out of repair or busy with trade in the good weather of summer; Rannulf hastened repairs and guaranteed against loss with more gold.

Now his coffers were nearly empty. To return to Sleaford in order to wring more from his people was impossible. It would wake all Eustace's suspicions and, worse, what he had done here might be undone in his absence.

Some wives, like Gundreda of Warwick, took the burden of collecting money on themselves. Probably Catherine was incapable of getting everything that was owed to him, but if she could send something the fleet could be readied. He wrote, telling her how much he wanted and describing methods for obtaining the sum. To his surprise exactly what he asked for arrived and much sooner than he had expected. Rannulf was too busy to consider the meaning of this efficiency, but he accepted its results gratefully.

More sweat-soaked couriers arrived on exhausted horses at Sleaford demanding gold and more gold. Desperately Catherine squeezed the serfs, made bold demands of the churches and the merchants, and finally took to her horse to drain her own lands to satisfy the demands. Rannulf's serfs and vassals groaned, but paid; Catherine's paid also, but they growled.

"This is not our war, madam," Sir Giles Fortesque protested. "We have paid our dues and no man has attacked us that we should pay more for the defense of our lands."

The blue eyes that he had always known so softly misty were now opaque and hard. "It is every man's war. If Henry comes again with the wealth and power that is now behind him, you will need to decide whether to violate your oath to my husband and fight for the Angevin or violate your belief and fight against him. For now, all men's safety lies in keeping him locked in France."

The voice was gentle still, but the utterance was very firm and the vassal suddenly noticed that Lady Catherine's softly rounded chin was attached to a remarkably determined jaw. He wondered how he had missed that characteristic previously, and realized that he seldom looked at anything but the broad white brow and large eyes.

Also his lady had pushed back her hair because of the heat, and the lines of cheekbone and jaw showed clear, unobscured by the heavy braids. Nonetheless, it was not that alone. Her carriage was different, her hands were roughened and tanned from much handling of reins, and a vital force emanated from her. It was Sir Giles' duty to obey her, but it was also his duty as leader of her vassals to reason with her for their benefit.

"And if we pay? There are still rebels in the land. What if we are called to war to attack them? Will we not have paid double?"

The soft, red lips, so womanly, so appealing, tightened perceptibly. "Have you any complaint against me or against my husband in the management of your affairs? Has aught been done or asked of you that was not to your best interests?"

"No, my lady, but—"

"Then you should trust me. This demand, too, is in your best interests. If you pay, you will not be called to war, except it be a matter of life or death."

Sir Giles bowed his head. "As you will, my lady. I will ride with the sun tomorrow to do your bidding."