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 t
he 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."
"I will be grateful for your company," Catherine said sweetly.
Sir Giles bowed his head again in recognition that her ladyship intended to leave nothing to chance. She would make her demand personally of the vassals, reaffirming their loyalty to her as she picked their purses.
In spite of her promise to ride with the sun, Catherine sat up late that night writing a letter that she would not trust to her scribe. First she relayed the good news that the money Rannulf had demanded would be forthcoming within the period he had specified, and the better news that she had managed to obtain it as an extra levy, not a borrowing against future rents. After that she sat for a time with wrinkled brow, wondering how to tell him most soothingly of the promise she had given Sir Giles.
"My dear husband," she wrote, "I have been guilty of sweetening you with good tidings first, but you have lived too long to think that any good comes without need for payment. You have told me in the past, however, that I must never borrow money."
Catherine's pen hesitated. Rannulf had forbidden her to borrow, but that had been for personal things and had nothing to do with the present situation. He would consider her as empty-headed as a sheep for not knowing the difference. Well, it was better so.
She inked her quill and bent forward to write again. "Therefore I could not ask the sum as a loan. I spoke much of the king's necessity, but they questioned me so straightly that I had great need to give them some assurance that this was not a plot to wring them doubly dry. I dared, in this necessity, to promise the vassals of Soke that they would not be called to war except it be a matter of our own defense or safety. They took my word as yours, but I knew not what else to say, having no orders from you. If I have done wrong, I pray you to forgive me out of your own indulgence, which has always been so great, and out of the knowledge that I desire only to do what is best for you and to be always your dutiful wife, Catherine, countess of Soke."
He would despise her for an idiot. Catherine's lips trembled. Then her mouth hardened. She would not permit Richard to become a beggar, not laughing Richard with his generous heart, nor even Geoffrey whom she knew so little but already loved because he was so like his father.
If Catherine was not quite the same woman as she had been when Rannulf married her, her husband seemed equally changed in Robert of Leicester's eyes. That worried gentleman had arrived in Rannulf's house not half an hour after Soke had entered it himself on his return from the south. In whatever state of fatigue or irritation Leicester had expected to find his friend, he had not anticipated that he would discover him consumed with laughter.
"May I ask," he queried caustically, "what you find to be so merry about in times like these?"
A dust-smeared countenance with eyes heavy from lack of sleep was turned to him. "Women," Rannulf replied, laughing even more heartily, "are extremely disobedient and untrustworthy creatures—God bless them."
"You are mad!"
"Very likely," Rannulf replied without heat. "At least you are said to be a wise man and you have been telling me that for years. Andre, bring some wine to cool the earl of Leicester."
"I do not want wine," Leicester snapped. "You pass all understanding. For two years, while all went well with us, you were not fit to be spoken to. Now, when the rudder of the ship is gone, the helmsman mad with greed and self-interest, the captain lunatic, and the crew rebellious, nothing can exceed your constant good humor." He paused and regarded Soke searchingly. "Do you know something I do not, Rannulf?"
"Nay, Robert. I do not see things as black as you paint them. All goes well with regard to Eustace's departure. If he is as forward as it seemed he would be when I left, another few days should see him hence. When the gadfly is gone, I hope Stephen will be more manageable. If all goes well in France, and I can but bring Hereford to mouth platitudes—"
"In France! With Louis and Eustace pitted against the Angevin? He will grind their bones between his teeth for the
first course and swallow us whole for the second."
Rannulf laughed no longer. "If that is true," he answered with a recurrence of his sick feeling, "then Eustace may not return." He could not go further with that thought and added quickly, "Perhaps I have been wrong all my life and what is needful is an iron hand to rule men who cannot rule themselves."
"So you see at last that a firm guide keeps all straight. Tell me, Rannulf, if—"
"No! Do not break my peace, Robert. Stephen is my king. Let us pray that Eustace's mind and temper will be healed by victory. At least do not speak treason to me—"
"Faugh! I wish to speak reason, not treason, but if you are so sensitive, let us confine ourselves to the trouble in hand and leave the future to itself. I came to tell you that Stephen wakes again from his long stillness. He has been very active in Eustace's business of late and has been asking for you, desiring to know what your answer from Hereford is. I sent you word. Did you not receive it?"
"Of course I received it. Do you think it is my practice to ride day and night without sleep for pleasure? Well, I am ready. I have not the word he desires, but I have other news that will gladden his heart. The Cinque Ports are fitted and ready. Eustace may march tomorrow if he chooses."
"So soon?"
"I have applied much golden grease to make all run smooth," Rannulf said drily.
"In this case it is well, but you do agree with me that in the matter of Hereford we desire not smooth running toward war but another truce?"
"If you mean you wish to keep Stephen from attacking Hereford—yes, I agree with that."
"Then for God's sake, do not lose your temper because of Hereford's hasty words. He will have plenty to say that you do not agree with. If you return here in a passion, it will be none so easy to find another excuse to prevent Stephen from calling up the vassals."
The Sword and The Swan Page 18
