The Sword and The Swan (5 page)

A very faint flush darkened the master of Sleaford's weather-beaten complexion, giving a brighter gleam to the keen eyes. "I am an old man, and very stupid, my lord of Leicester. If you would warn me that I have an enemy, speak out and name him, and if you have other matters in mind, speak out of those things also. Do you think that I will be overpowered with fear if I hear that one hates me or that I will run quickly bearing tales if—"

"Nay, nay, Rannulf, rise not so in your stirrups. If ever I knew a man with a more touchy pride! When I speak out, you growl for one reason, and when I go softly, you growl for another." Robert of Leicester glanced carefully around them to be sure that no one was in hearing distance and spoke in a lowered voice. "To speak out then, there is a portion of both in what I say. I have never seen in Eustace's eyes the glance he bestows upon you. Moreover—"

"Oh, he is a hot-headed young cub, and I sat somewhat firmly upon him throughout that last campaign. Just now, he loves me not. Stephen, too, can be angry, but not for long, and the son is like the father."

"No!" There was real urgency in Leicester's voice, for he thought that Eustace's hatred was based upon more than the disagreements of the campaign.

"What means this, Robert?"

Leicester had a heavy body and a slow, deliberate manner of speech that deluded many people into thinking that his mind moved slowly too. It did not.

"Speak low. I know not whether he has cleverly concealed what he truly is by intention all these years or whether this fruitless battling without hope of decision has soured and destroyed his true nature, but Eustace is not the man he was before Henry came. There is a bitterness under his smiles. Worse, he now seems the very opposite of that generous man Stephen and grudges every man his own livelihood. You have not been to court since he rode home from Devizes—you bury yourself at Sleaford in spite of my urgings of you to come here—and therefore you could not know of this, but he seizes whatever he can now, rightly and wrongly."

"But wherefore? Stephen has never denied him aught; why should he take what is not his when he could have as much rightfully merely by asking?"

Leicester glanced around again. "Because he does not wish his father to know how much he has. I have no proof, but I believe he plans to buy mercenaries secretly. I tell you, Rannulf, he will not keep to the old ways. He is as bad as Henry … and not as honest."

"I am growing deaf," Rannulf said. "I did not hear that last remark at all. What you said of the prince, I hope you are wrong. I will not believe it without the evidence of my own eyes, certainly. What is more important to me is why you tell me things like this just now."

"Have I had a chance to tell you anything sooner? Have I been such a bad friend to you all these years? Is it so strange that I should warn you when I see danger?"

"What danger that I need fear?" Rannulf laughed harshly. "Not even Eustace would dare meddle with my lands. My vassals know me of old."

"I never thought you a fool before. No, he will not meddle with the vassals of Sleaford, but what of those of Soke? You are suddenly doubly rich and burdened with men who owe you as yet no loyalty. Would that not attract a greedy man's attention, more especially when he believes he owes you a grudge? There is no harm in Stephen, but Eustace . . . He hates you, Rannulf. And if I were you, I would listen to what Hereford has to say. It is not about the Angevin."

"Oh ho! The young firebrand, eh? I thought you too old to be caught by a scent of bad fish."

"But what if it is not a scent of bad fish? He is hotheaded, but he is honest. I have never known him to lie and if he does not speak treason, which I warrant you he will not to you, you should listen to him and judge what he says."

"I always listen, but," Rannulf's eyes were attracted by a flash of light and he realized that two of the young bucks who danced attendance on Maud's ladies were surprisingly close, "your attention wanders from the game. You were not wont to be so easily caught. Your king is checked."

Leicester caught the infinitesimal alteration in his companion's tone, looked at the board, and swiftly moved a knight. "My man stands between," he murmured meaningfully, "and the Church looks kindly from behind."

Rannulf frowned. He hated these allusive conversations, but Leicester wanted to tell him something, and they could neither talk freely nor leave their game suddenly without giving their discreet audience too much to think about. Rannulf could see Leicester's bishop trained on the square to which he had just moved the knight, protecting it from Rannulf's rook, which also covered the square. However, it was also true that the churchmen of England favored the Angevin cause.

"I would not put my keep in jeopardy too lightly," Leicester continued, punning on the other name commonly given the rook—a castle.

Whatever Leicester was trying to say to him was unhealthy. Rannulf moved a pawn so that the queen behind it could overshadow the square upon which the knight stood. "But when the men march out," he said firmly, "the queen still stands guard. It is best to play all games slowly, and strictly according to the rules."

Ordinarily Stephen of Blois was extremely dilatory in matters of business, but the hard fighting of the past year had aroused him to unusual activity. The effects of this quickening of the blood still lingered sufficiently so that it was only a day after Maud brought him word that Rannulf had changed his mind and decided to marry the heiress of Soke that he summoned his scribes and dictated to them the proclamation that would announce the name of their new master to the late earl of Soke's vassals. He had just completed the complimentary opening when Eustace, who had been staring moodily into the fire, a practice that was becoming unpleasantly frequent, raised his head to listen.

"To whom do you write, father?"

"The vassals of Soke."

"Why?"

"To tell them that I invest the new earl a month from this day. I invite those who can to come to court to do their homage and instruct those who cannot come to meet the future Lord Rannulf meekly and do his bidding."

Eustace scowled heavily, the expression marring his handsome face. He looked, at first glance, very much like his father, being tall, fair, and heavily built, but on closer examination his features were less prepossessing. The son's jaw was more brutal than the father's, his mouth thinner lipped and held more rigidly. There was a still greater difference in the upper face. Stephen's forehead was broad and his balding had given it a height that could pass for nobility; his eyes were large, slightly protuberant, and their expression decidedly benign. All in all, Stephen looked to be what he was, a very kind and generous man with excellent intentions.

With very similar features, Eustace looked no such thing. Perhaps it was the full head of blond hair, crisp and curly, which gave the broad forehead an unpleasant shallowness; perhaps it was the setting of the eyes that gave the appearance of cunning. Whatever it was, when the deceptive smile was absent, Eustace's countenance proclaimed that he was being consumed by not very pleasant emotions.

"Have you not done enough," the young man snarled, "in making him this offer? Let him make his own way with the vassals. Has he merited complaisance from you by his arrogant and disrespectful behavior?"

Stephen laughed good-naturedly. "If Rannulf Tefli spoke a respectful word to any man living, I would at once call my best physician to attend him—he would be sick unto death." Then he grew more serious and a worried frown creased his brow. "My son, he has merited any kindness I can bestow, any gift in my giving, for that he has preserved you to me."

"Preserved me!" Eustace gasped, trying not to scream. "He has shamed me. All men heard me say I would take Devizes or die. And he has dishonored you also. If it had not been for his cursed interference, I could have had the Angevin in my grip on the retreat from York or have trapped him in Dursley. Always Rannulf counseled caution and delay, and he was so cautious that we delayed until we missed our prize, I tell you he is a traitor and that his caution and delay were planned for the Angevin's benefit."

"Nay, my child, I know your bitter disappointment, but that you did not take Henry was neither Rannulf's fault nor yours. Such things happen in war. Yes, even three times. Come Eustace, I do not rest my opinion on his word alone, although I would take it above any man's in the land. All who were with you agree that he could have done no other way."

"Cowards all!"

"Nay, Eustace, it is not true. They are all brave men, and Rannulf especially. I have fought with him and against him too, remember. I beg you to guard your tongue. Only think how comfortable is our present situation. The land is at peace; Hereford and Chester sit in the council—"

"To preach rebellion!"

There was the sorrow of hopelessness in Stephen's eyes, but he smiled again. "While they are here, at least we know what they do. The last time I drove them from the court as traitors, they gave up all pretense and raised armies against us. You should not always look ahead to seek out trouble. Mayhap, if we look aside, speak softly, and are generous in our pardon of their treachery, this time they will not break faith."

Eustace's lips parted to reply, but an instant later he shut them tightly. He was flooded with shame, with a misery beyond expression. Thus his father always was, hopeful without hope, seeing good in all men, fooled thereby, tricked, played upon, but never wiser.

What joy it was to be son to the king of England—son to the king but not heir to the throne. Even that his father had thrown away, openly promising to make Henry the heir and secretly scheming, if anything that Stephen could do could be secret because he was too open to hide anything, to circumvent the promise. And all men knew it! What joy to be the son of him who might be the most feared and respected man in the land and who was, instead, its standing jest.

Eustace's eyes filled with tears. If he were to die, that butt of England's humor, that king who was no king, a strong hand with sufficient mercenaries could weld the realm into unity. It needed only to root out the founding stones of the rebellion—Chester, Hereford, and Gloucester. Now, while they were at court, it might be lightly done. A knife in a dark passage, an arrow on the hunting field, poison in a cup—and it would be over. But, dishonored a thousand times over by breaking his word, his father called such thoughts dishonorable. None would dare call him dishonorable or anything else—if his father were dead.

Meanwhile, Stephen had signaled to the scribes to go. If it troubled Eustace to hear of these arrangements, there was no need to make them here and now. Just at this time the boy's blood was hot against Rannulf; it was foolish to torment him. Stephen studied his son's averted face in silence for a while, then rose and embraced him fondly.

"My beloved son, do not let your unease make you angry with me. If I have not always done well, I have always tried to do well."

For a moment Eustace remained rigid in the embrace, but only a moment. His arms came up around his father's neck and he pressed the older man to him frantically, protectively, and broke into sobs.

"Alas, my son, why do you weep?"

"Because I am afraid, papa, afraid of myself. I have such thoughts! I do not know what evil thing possesses me. Papa, I do not wish to see you die before me!"

"My child," Stephen soothed, smothering a sensation of shock, "my child, it is the will of God, the course of nature, that fathers should die before their sons. If you love me, do not desire for me the greatest grief any man can know. Any other loss I can bear, but not the loss of my children. When your brother died—it was so long ago and my heart still bleeds for him—I thought that if I had to bear such grief again I could not live. Yet you are dearer far, Eustace . . ." Stephen tightened his grip and then relaxed it." What fools we are. Last year we bade each other farewell full blithely and went to fight. Now, when we are at peace, we weep and speak of death. Come, we grow stale from too much sitting within."

Maud, sitting among her women, listening and embroidering, felt it too. They were all stale from their winter confinement and a vast restlessness pervaded the entire court. Men rose suddenly from their seats to pace the hall; women laid down their needles and pushed open the shutters to stand shivering, staring out at the quickening grass.

Low and seldom at first, but louder and more frequently as the last weeks of February passed and the first days of March came, was the sound of agricultural talk. Now the serfs would be breaking the earth as the ground thawed; now they would set the seed. Deep within the breasts of mail-clad warriors and befurred and bejeweled ladies stirred the basic love of the land.

In itself the thing was good, but Maud knew it was also dangerous. The trouble was that the knights and ladies of the court were too far removed from true union with the soil. They were close enough to be caught up in the recurring tides of the seasons, but they were not country squires and housewives. These men and women would not be satisfied to oversee their serfs' work nor even play at joining the labor. They were no longer close enough to the land to obtain satisfaction from giving advice on what grain to plant or how often to freshen the cattle.

Such bucolic joys could hold their attention for only a limited time. Then the restlessness, which was basically a frustrated desire to create—and Maud knew this because she had seen for years that the pregnant women alone were free of the feeling—would drive them to seek other outlets.

Maud knew these people; she knew that the outlet they would seek first because they knew it best was war. A neighbor's strip of land would appear greener, his cattle fatter, his serfs meeker. An insult would be thrown and men would be in arms.

The time of the first ploughing and planting was the worst. If she could hold the court together until the soft, listless days of April, the queen knew that the deep urgency to be up and doing would pass. Last year there had been no need for devices because Hereford had been gathering his armies to renew the civil war and the barons faithful to the king had more than enough to occupy their energies.