The Sword and The Swan (28 page)

The king's guards scarcely glanced at him, for the earl of Soke was one who had access to the king whenever he desired it, but a young man squatting in the shadows leapt to his feet.

"Father!"

With immense reluctance, Rannulf turned toward the voice. Nothing, he told himself, could be wiser than the practice of fostering. Northampton was fond of Geoffrey, but not with the gripping, protective love of the father who had steadied his son's first steps and who still saw in the boyish lineaments the infant that needed protection from everything.

For him, the father of the flesh, it was agony even to know surely that his son would be among the fighting forces; how then could he lead him or send him into battle? Northampton cared enough for Geoffrey, having had him in his charge from the time he was eight or nine years old, not to send him into excessive danger, but his heart was not wrung with the memory of infant kisses and infant tears.

"How long have you been in camp? Are you hurt? Are you well?"

"I have just come with a message to Northampton from his eldest son. I am very well, papa. And you?"

"I am never ill," Rannulf replied, smiling at the indifference in his son's voice. It was not that the boy did not love him, but thus far Geoffrey seemed to believe him invulnerable. Rannulf was very willing to encourage the belief. There was no reason for the child to suffer, fearing for him. "I am camped yonder," Rannulf pointed. "If you have your master's leave, come and spend the night with me."

The boy nodded and Rannulf smiled, patted his shoulder fondly, and again made to enter the king's tent. Geoffrey plucked at his sleeve; then, incomprehensibly, took his hand and pulled him away into an open field. Whatever protest Rannulf was about to make died at the expression of anxiety on Geoffrey's face. When they were well away, behind the tethered horses, Geoffrey faced his father.

"Papa, may I say something to you that I would say to no other man?"

"You may say anything to me."

Geoffrey continued to look worried. "I do not wish to betray my foster brother, but there is something I am sure you should know."

Now Rannulf looked worried. If Northampton's eldest son was planning or engaged in some mischief, it would be very useful to know of it, but not at the cost of Geoffrey's honor. Right or wrong, a fosterling owed loyalty to his foster family. He might, in an emergency of conflicting interests, give notice and leave them, but he might not betray them. To encourage Geoffrey to tell tales of them might set a dangerous precedent. On the other hand, it was acknowledged that the bond of blood was a tie of even greater importance.

"What you have to say," Rannulf temporized, "would it bring danger to the house of Northampton or dishonor?"

Geoffrey thought it over. "Not danger. It is not of such great moment, being but a straw showing which way the wind blows. Nor can I say that what I have to tell is shameful . . . honorable it is not."

Rannulf bit his lip. "We are one flesh and one blood—speak then—but remember that when you speak to me it is as if you were alone. To speak to any other on such a matter—"

"You need not fear me," Geoffrey interrupted, then continued, voice low and eyes on the ground. "You know that Northampton has written to his son to gather the vassals and hold them in readiness? Well, I have just come with the reply—that he is presently too sick to obey his father's command. Indeed, when I received the letter from him he was laid upon his bed, but … but, papa, he is not sick."

"Are you sure?"

Geoffrey looked up, eyes worried, voice still very low. "I am no leech, but the day the letter came he was hawking and I with him. I will swear he was not sick then. Nor did he have the heavy eyes, the complexion, or the listless manner of a fevered man or a man in pain when I received his commands."

"Does Northampton know?"

"That I cannot tell. Certainly I did not speak of it to him, but there was more than one letter in the packet I carried."

It meant nothing but a few days' or a few weeks' delay. A vague apprehension passed through Rannulf and dissipated almost simultaneously. He shook his head at his son, warned him again to silence, and told him the matter had no significance.

That Geoffrey continued to look troubled did not disturb him. Earnest youngsters mistook caution for more serious matters frequently, and Rannulf's more sanguine hopes received confirmation from the good cheer with which he was welcomed by both Stephen and Northampton. The story was told to him again, and Rannulf judged that Northampton took the excuse, if it was an excuse and not the truth, as genuine.

"It is unfortunate," the old man said, "but the indisposition is not serious and I am sure he will be ready soon."

"In a way," Stephen put in firmly, "it is not unfortunate at all. Not the illness of your son Simon, but the delay. I wish to clear the small keeps that could distract us by raiding before we attempt Wallingford. For that I have forces enough already under arms and for scorching the earth so that Wallingford can gain no sustenance during this harvest. It will do us more good to have the forces a month from now."

"And what of my men, my lord?" Rannulf asked.

"As close as possible to the day that Northampton's forces are gathered. There is no need for haste because the news from France remains good. I have fair hopes that Louis and my boy will crush the Angevin there. If so, the men who hold by him will yield, having nothing for which to fight. In any case, Henry will not come here, for he cannot afford to lose Normandy."

Both vassals nodded in agreement. Stephen had many faults, but when aroused he had always been capable in military matters.

"As soon as I have cleared the ground," the king continued, "we will fall upon them. Warwick's men and the others who are already here will have but a few weeks more to serve. Nonetheless, we will have our full force to fling at them in one or two assaults."

"Aye," Rannulf said with satisfaction. "And even if the assault fails and the vassals' term of service is over, we will still have forces enough to besiege them. If they cannot harvest crops and store food, they will not long be able to resist us."

"You have it." Stephen nodded energetic agreement. "Do not forget also that the little victories that precede the assault of Wallingford will reassure many who are cautious and hold back. With each success they will come to swell the ranks."

Rannulf scowled. "It is not well to trust overmuch to such men. True, they come to join the victor, but at the first failure they fade away."

In reply Stephen smiled, but Rannulf's scowl deepened.

These days there was something in the king's smile that he did not like. If Stephen noticed his vassal's uneasiness, he neither commented nor changed his expression.

"Who knows better than I?" he asked. "I do not think they will have cause to leave me this time, but I do not intend to be at their mercy either. That is why I wish to be very sure that your men, Soke, and yours, Northampton, are the best—the best-equipped, the best-trained, the staunchest-hearted. Your troops will be my hard core and that is why I ask you, Northampton, to wait patiently on your son's well-doing so that he may go himself to each vassal and hand-pick the men. You, Soke, I ask to return to Sleaford and do the same."

Rannulf was stricken mute with joy. He had come to Oxford greatly against his desire to perform his duty, and his virtue's reward was that he was being sent home for a month. Nearly a month, his conscience corrected, and there will be little time to idle, but behind an expression held rigid by his fear of exposing his happiness his emotions danced and sang. He would take Catherine with him when he went to summon his vassals. They would ride together through the hot summer days and lie together through the sweet summer nights.

"You do not approve of this plan, Soke?" Stephen asked, misunderstanding the cause of Rannulf's silence. He smiled again, and this time the expression was warm and natural. "You bloody old devil, you do not wish to miss the fighting!"

"No!" Rannulf exclaimed, conscious of a terrible revulsion of feeling.

He did not wish to fight. He was not afraid nor unwilling, but he did not wish to fall upon the small keeps that were defenseless in the face of the army Stephen had mustered. It was true that the lords or castellans of these minor castles had rebel sympathies, true that they had harbored or aided Henry in the revolt of 1149, but for more than two years they had done nothing to offend any man. They had kept the truce. Worse even was the notion of scorching the earth, of killing the serfs who tilled the soil and setting torches to the ungarnered crops.

Stephen's military strategy was excellent, and Rannulf should have approved it. Instead, he was shaken by the notion that it was a sin to destroy wantonly what God had caused to spring from the earth, insensate cruelty to kill those creatures who, like the unthinking, obedient beasts, merely performed their natural functions in sowing, tilling, and harvesting.

Nonsense. This time he would not yield to the promptings of weakness or age. "I mean yes, I do approve it," he said a little too loudly, and flushed under Stephen's startled eyes.

CHAPTER 13

Sir Andre Fortesque touched his brown destrier again with the spur, and the horse corrected its stagger and forged on ahead. He would not last much longer, however, without some rest. Anxiously, Andre fixed his eyes on the gray mount of his master just ahead.

If only Rannulf's horse would fail, he would stop and rest the beasts. The strain of gray chargers that Rannulf bred in his own stables, vicious animals that could be half-broken at best, was now showing its mettle. While every other mount was moving painfully with hanging head, that devil had strength sufficient to lash out at another horse that came too close.

The destrier stopped, trembling, and Andre thought he would kill it if he urged it forward again. Yet he could not be left behind. Whatever had happened at Sleaford keep that necessitated this mad race northward, he had to know.

The life of the horse was unimportant, although it was the only thing of value that Andre owned aside from his arms and armor. What was important was that if the beast gave out he could never make Sleaford on foot. His heart was in Sleaford; the only two people in the whole world that wanted him and needed him were there, and if danger were there, he must be there too.

"My lord," he called desperately as his horse staggered a step forward and stopped again.

Rannulf pulled up his reins and turned his head. "What?"

Andre dismounted, nearly falling in the process. They had ridden so long that his legs were numb. "My lord, we have lost at least a third of the men because their horses could not keep the pace and now my own mount is failing. If you go forward, you will soon go forward alone."

A single glance proved Andre to be speaking the truth. The men, too, looked at their master with dumb, pleading eyes. They could doze in the saddle a little, but it was no way to rest, and the dried meat and grain in their saddlebags were even less satisfactory when snatched at in dry handfuls than when boiled together and eaten as a stew.

"Very well." Rannulf glanced around and heard the trickle of water in a patch of woodland off to the right. "This place is as good as another. We can stop for a few hours, at least until it is cooler."

He moved off into the shade of the trees, dismounted, and signaled one of the men to take his horse to the stream to drink. As he pushed off his helmet and unlaced his mail hood to push that back and allow what breeze there was to cool his head, his eyes fell on Andre forcing his wineskin into his horse's mouth and trying to make the beast drink. Rannulf walked closer and watched, judging the condition of the animal quickly.

"You would do better to let him rest. In any case, do not trouble yourself. I will furnish you with a better mount if this fails."

"Thank you, my lord. If he will but take me to Sleaford, I will be content."

The young man's anxiety was so apparent that Rannulf was pricked by curiosity again. "And why are you so anxious to reach Sleaford?"

The guilt of an unconfessed desire, of a stolen kiss, crimsoned Fortesque's complexion and made him shift his eyes under Rannulf's steady gaze, Mary was his overlord's daughter, and should have been as inviolable as his own sister.

Rannulf, watching the telltale discomfort, was rather amused. He had no distrust of the young knight to whom he was becoming very attached and wondered when Andre would confess the purpose Catherine had when she sent him with her husband. The time was not yet, but it was coming. He listened to Sir Andre mumble something about his duty, kept himself from smiling with an effort, and walked away. Then he slaked his thirst at the stream and dropped to the grassy verge that bordered it.

Andre watched his overlord, cursing himself for a coward. Why had he not spoken? The moment was very opportune because Soke seemed calm, even strangely contented, despite his great haste to be at home. At least he would have cleared his conscience by speaking out, Andre thought miserably.

Yes, cleared his conscience at the risk of being dismissed from his lord's service, and his lord was dear to him, almost as dear as his love. He would not only be separated irrevocably from Mary but reduced again to a pensioner on his brother's generosity.

Not that Giles was ungenerous or would not receive him kindly, but in Giles' keep there was no chance at all for him to lift himself to a state where he could hope to ask for Mary. If he stayed with Soke, particularly in view of the coming war, he might either serve his master so well as to be rewarded with money and advancement, or he might take a valuable prisoner for ransom.

Andre sat down beside his horse, thirsty but reluctant to approach the stream because Soke was there. He wiped the mouthpiece of his wineskin, drank that, and closed his eyes. He might do even greater things—save his lord's life, take a keep by his own efforts. Sweet dreams to dally with, and possible as long as active service was before him.

The moon was misted although the evening was soft and lovely, and it would likely rain on the morrow. Catherine leaned on the battlements looking out across the peaceful fields and wondered if Rannulf would have sense enough to change his clothing if he got wet. She smiled into the night, conscious of her foolishness, but when the equally foolish longing to have him beside her to look also at the moon entered her mind, she did not resist it.