The Sword and The Swan (34 page)

"Hold the men to their work," he cried, "I must call up the full battle and find us mounts." Then, bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Follow Geoffrey of Sleaford."

"Je combattrais! Je combattrais!"
The young voice called the rallying cry above the clangor and cries of battle, and the men drew together and moved forward a step as if to prove they understood.

As Rannulf backed, someone pushed past to fill the space he had left, and Rannulf recognized Andre. "Guard him," he gasped.

"With my life," Fortesque replied shortly.

Perhaps the forces Rannulf gathered could have been arranged better; perhaps his instructions to the men could have been clearer. Driven by so violent a craving to return to the field of battle that he could barely think, Rannulf did not care.

Mounted and leading a horse for Geoffrey, with his own reserve troops bringing mounts for the other knights, he galloped back without waiting for Stephen's or Northampton's men. He had sent a message to both saying the gates were breached. Let them come or not as they pleased.

"My lord!" The voice was desperate and Rannulf pulled up a bit. "My lord, why did you desert me?" John was nearly in tears between his fear and his hurt pride. "I have been seeking you high and low. I rode back to give orders to the men as you bade me, and when I returned, you were gone."

Rannulf signaled him alongside, laughing grimly. "I thought you were beside me. That devil's spawn that I thought before to have been an obedient son took your place. God knows where he came by such willfulness. It comes not from me, and I would not have dreamed that the pale nothing who was his mother had such blood in her. Pray God he still lives. I will teach him so to diddle me."

"I thought it was by your order," John gasped. "He came late to your tent last night and said he would ride with us. I never guessed—"

His sentence was broken off as they almost rode into the wain carrying the battering ram, the men with it patiently waiting for the order to attack the gates which had never come. Ahead through the steadily thinning fog, the bridge was vaguely discernible.

"Follow the troop," Rannulf ordered. "The gates are open, but you will be of more use to us in forcing the tower doors."

Swift as he had been, Rannulf found that he had nearly been away too long. His men had been forced back and broken into two groups, but the main objective had not yet been lost. The gates still stood wide. Before each of them, backed against the oak, bloody and exhausted, the vassals and household retainers fought on. Mute but eloquent testimony to their grim devotion were the dead and wounded that lay between the spot where Rannulf had left them and where they now stood.

"Mount Geoffrey and see that he comes to no hurt," Rannulf cried. He did not permit himself to look for his son, merely passed the reins of the riderless horse to John and spurred his own horse forward. His battle cry rang out, harsh and compelling, promising rest and protection—a breathing space in battle—for those who had so faithfully obeyed him.

Swift redemption of the promise came in the thunder of hooves across the bridge as the second group of vassals rode to support their lord. Those who could of the .initial group would fight again when they were rested and mounted; Rannulf alone could not withdraw until a man of sufficient rank came to replace him.

It was a long, bloody day. The defenders of Wallingford bridge, no less than those who attacked them, understood what was at stake. Their devotion and courage were phenomenal, and even Rannulf's lust for blood was more than sated before the towers fell.

His memory of the battle was strangely rhythmical, the strokes of his sword seeming tied in some mysterious way to the strokes of the battering ram. Those dull thuds, a beat spelling out inevitable doom, were no lightener of the spirit, even to him who had begun their relentless movement. And when the splintered wood of the tower doors was torn from the hinges, the rhythm of death did not cease. The archers would not yield; they threw down their crossbows and fought Rannulf's men step by step, a body for every step of those bastions of safety, which had become bloody sepulchers.

Few prisoners were taken; the defenders fought back and died. Nor did the fall of the towers break the courage of the men of Wallingford keep. Again and again they poured forth from the castle itself, at times pushing Rannulf's weary troops back to the very gates, at times being themselves driven to take refuge within their own walls. Again and again the earl of Soke rallied his forces, becoming, as the battle progressed, so covered with his own blood and that of others that, except for his harsh voice, no man would have known him.

The light was failing in the faint mist that had persisted throughout the day when the knights of Wallingford keep rode out for the last time. Now even Rannulf's voice was gone and he was reeling in the saddle from fatigue and loss of blood. Northampton's men had come and had fought ably for Rannulf, knowing their lord could not lead them. Had they not, the bridge and the strip of land before it could not have been held.

Warwick, de Tracy, and Peverel had done and were doing what they had promised also. Stephen alone had not appeared to relieve his hard-pressed vassal. Nonetheless Rannulf formed his battle line, riding up and down before it so that the men might see that he was still leading, still fighting, even if he could not cry out to encourage them any longer.

"Out swords," he croaked. "We will not yield what we have won so hardly."

They formed, exhausted but determined, knowing the men of Wallingford were as weary as they were, knowing it was the last charge. If they could hold the position until the light failed, fresh troops would carry the burden the next day and there would be no need to take the bridge again. They formed and they would have fought, but when the sounds and cries of Stephen, at last at the head of his own troops, came across the bridge, some unashamedly wept with relief.

Rannulf was too weary even for that. He let his sword arm drop and bent limply over the saddle bow. Consciousness receded as the will relaxed, making the sound of battle no more than a nightmare noise in the back of the mind. Consciousness did not recede far enough; not blackness but terror engulfed him. Not once since he had thrust him forward to lead the men, not once in that long day, had Rannulf seen his son or heard his voice. Consciousness returned; Rannulf could not even faint or die until he knew what had happened to his child.

"Where is the earl?"

Slowly Rannulf lifted himself upright, squared his shoulders, and forced his face into rigid blankness. "Here," he whispered hoarsely.

He could barely make out the man under the coating of mud and blood, but he knew the voice. "Geoffrey is with John of Northampton. He is very badly hurt. Can you come, my lord?"

In the pause that followed Andre Fortesque staggered, and Rannulf reached across his left thigh, from which blood dripped slowly, to steady the young man. "Take my stirrup," he said as firmly as his cracked voice allowed, "and lead on."

They went very slowly, Andre barely managing to put one foot before the other. Still at one moment it seemed too fast, far too fast, and in the next Rannulf felt as if he would set spurs to his horse and ride Andre down to end his agony of suspense. It was nearly dark now, and the two young men were in the shadow of the gate, one slight figure stretched on the planks, the other leaning against the oak for support.

Thus it was in such a land, in a place where men endlessly tore each other to bits, that the old outlived the young. The drooping head of the standing man, unhelmed and with the mail hood thrust back, lifted at the sound of their advance. Rannulf's hand trembled so violently that the reins quivered on his stallion's neck and the beast laid back his ears uncertainly. Surely under the matting of dirt and sweat, surely that hair was Geoffrey's gold, not John's black. Rannulf tried to swing from his saddle, but his injured leg failed and he fell heavily, Andre, on the right of his horse, unable to help him.

"Papa!"

"Naught ails me but a little bloodletting and a hurt leg. Give me your arm that I may come to John. Does he live?"

"Aye, and I have staunched the blood as well as may be. But he does not wake, and I fear …"

Rannulf sank down beside his squire, his breathing as labored as that of the ashen-faced young man. Hardened in war, he still winced at the blood-soaked rags that stopped gaping wounds in side and shoulder. It was one thing to deal such hurts to your enemies, another to look upon them on a young man almost as dear as your own child.

Hope, however, there was. John's breathing was strong and Rannulf found his pulse readily.

"Andre." No response but a soft groan. "Andre!" Rannulf called more peremptorily.

Fortesque made an effort to heave himself off the ground and collapsed again.

"Let him be," Geoffrey begged softly. "He saved us both. My horse was broached and John leapt down to give me his. In that moment he was struck and a crowd of footmen drove the beast away. I stood above him as long as I might, but they were very many and I went down too. I was not hurt, papa. I believe someone struck me on the head. When I came to myself, Fortesque had pulled us both to the tower wall—how I know not for there was not another man of ours in my sight. From the dead around us, he must have held off an army. They must have seen your arms, papa, and thought I was you."

Or known they could make me dance like a puppet on a string for my son's life, Rannulf thought, but of that he would not speak. "Mount my horse, Geoffrey, and bring help for John. And put on your hood and helm! Have you no sense at all? There are still arrows flying about and a man here and there who can wield a sword. A head with an ache is better to bear than a head with a hole in it."

In the distance the battle noise reached a new crescendo and Rannulf briefly lifted his head to listen. Cries of "no quarter" drifted back faintly. No quarter for whom? Had Stephen lost what had cost him so much to win? Rannulf's eyes, half-blinded with tears he would not shed, dropped to John's still form. He had taken the bridge for Stephen; he had fulfilled his pledge and he would do no more.

Shocked by the thought, Rannulf's hand instinctively moved to his sword hilt, then dropped away. It made little difference since, crippled as he was, he could not return to the fighting. He looked at his left leg, wondering how badly he was hurt. It had stopped bleeding again, but it felt strangely dead and would not bear his weight. Well, it was his own fault. He had been in too much haste to take a proper shield or even to tear one from an enemy and had used that cursed footman's bauble which could not protect his leg. Now he would be rightly served if . . . A low moan cut across his thoughts. Rannulf bent low as John's eyes fluttered open.

"It is all finished, John," he said very firmly. "There is no call to arms. The battle is done. We hold the gates. Geoffrey is safe and I am safe. Your charge is well fulfilled. Now it is time for all to rest."

Whether or not John understood the words was impossible to say. The face of his master and the voice of authority was enough. He closed his eyes again and made no move until Geoffrey returned with the men and litters—two litters. Rannulf scowled.

"For whom is that second carrying case?"

"You cannot walk, papa, and I am sure you should not—"

"I did not intend to walk. If you can pry yourself from the back of my mount, I will not need to do so."

"Papa, you should not ride either," Geoffrey said, dismounting nonetheless.

"Whelp!" Rannulf snorted, but not unkindly. "Do you want to frighten to death what remains of my vassals? All they need now is to see me carried in a litter and come to believe that I will not be able to rule them or succor the families of those who are dead or dying. Fool! Get me up on that horse."

The pang of agony which seared his leg as he was lifted to the saddle was comforting, although the wound spurted blood again. That was normal; it was better to endure pain than to feel the limb dead and senseless.

"How badly are you hurt?" Rannulf asked his son.

"Not at all, I think. I am bruised and battered all over, and a little dizzy still from that stroke on the head. Between Sir Andre and John, however, no man could come at me, and I scarcely was given a chance to land a blow. Papa, if I am so straitly guarded, how can I ever—"

"Hold your tongue! I have a few words to say to you which will fully explain, but this is not the time or place—others need our care. Get yourself a horse and gather together my men. For them this battle is finished. They are to return to camp and take their ease."

Several of the leeches who traveled with Rannulf's forces were already in attendance in his tent, and the next interval was painful but satisfactory to him. No real damage, the physicians assured him, had been done to his leg. The cut was very deep and would take long to heal, but if he took the proper care all would go well.

It was easier to believe them—physicians often lied—in that when the large gash was treated and sewn and bandaged, the leg settled down into a steady throbbing occasionally heightened by a stabbing pain which Rannulf, no novice at battle wounds, accepted as normal. The rest of his wounds were superficial; myriad bruises and nicks, none of which would trouble him after a few days.

John's condition, too, was judged as desperate but not hopeless. No vital organ had been touched, and if his body was strong enough to fight off the fever and putrefaction which would certainly occur in the case of such large wounds, he would live. He was young; one could hope, but Rannulf knew that John's service was lost for many, many months.

Since Andre would be more than ever needed to reorganize the decimated household guard, Geoffrey would have to be recalled from Northampton's service. There was no help for it; since he must have someone of perfect trustworthiness at his back, someone known to the vassals who could bear messages and orders. Until John recovered or until another squire could be adequately trained, Geoffrey would have to serve his father.

Rannulf dispatched a messenger to Northampton with news of his son and a request for Geoffrey to attend him as soon as he could be conveniently freed from his duties. He sat up in bed and tried his leg tentatively, shook his head once more at his own carelessness, and ordered a crutch to be made at once. Then he ate, dry bread and dried meat, standard army supplies which were all that was available after the ravaging of the land, drank half a small skin of sour wine, and lay down to sleep.