A quicker beat; a galloping messenger came toward them. Although they could not see the raised hand of their leader, the troop pulled to a halt.
"Who rides by night?"
The moonlight gleamed on a horn raised to blast a warning.
"Rannulf, earl of Soke." He rode forward alone, pushing back his helm and unlacing his mail hood. "Do you know me?"
"Aye, my lord." It was one of Stephen's squires, and the horn was lowered. "You have been looked for, and I rode out to take you to your place in the camp."
Within the ring of fires, the squire led them to an empty area not far from the king's own pavilion. Rannulf dismounted, silent still. There was no need to give orders, for his men were well-picked, experienced soldiers. He need only wait, and his little village of tents and fires would spring up within the camp city. Fortesque's voice came clear, giving orders to the household guard, who would be placed closest to Rannulf's tent. John of Northampton was giving orders too, interlarded with a good kick to a slow-moving servant now and again. In a little while, Rannulf knew, he could disarm and his cot would be ready.
Rannulf's armor was gone, the night was mild, and a soft woolen coverlet shielded him from the damp. Still his body was no lighter, and even heavy winter furs could not have warmed his inner cold. Softly, softer than a sighing breath, Rannulf groaned.
Who would believe that the love of a good woman could bring such pain? Her fear and helplessness unsettled his very soul. And even here, there was room for indecision. Fear or rebel sympathy? Which drove Catherine to infect him with doubt? It was as if she instilled poison with her kisses. He could not doubt her love for him, but he had not slept through any night except the first that he had spent at home. He dreamed ever of a peaceful land and the love that was his to take and have at will, and he woke ever with an oppression of guilt as if such dreams were treason.
This was the price of his honor, this restless wrestling with endless doubt. Eyelids swollen and polished by sleeplessness lifted slowly and fell. There was the dawn. The Lord was merciful even to weak sinners, for in this coming day the planning and fighting would begin and he would have such burdens to occupy his mind and tire his body that he would dream no more of peace. He would sleep as a man slept after the labor of war.
"My lord."
Rannulf pulled his shoulder from the hand that shook it and groaned.
"My lord, it is full morning and the king desires your presence."
Unwillingly, heavy lids were opened. It was true enough; the sun was blazing through the drawn tent flaps. Squinting against the light and trying to move slowly so as to ease his aching head, Rannulf levered himself upright.
"Wine," he croaked, and a goblet was thrust into his hand already filled.
John was learning that if his lord was not up and stirring before dawn these days, he needed an eye-opener to get him started. Soke looked awful, with swollen, red-rimmed eyes, crevices etched into his drawn cheeks, and his grim mouth so set that the lips had disappeared into an invisible line. Nonetheless, once he had donned his armor, he became less sluggish, and his stride was steady and determined when he entered the king's quarters.
"You are late in coming to us, Soke," Stephen said.
"I am two days before my promised time. How am I late?"
"I mean this morning. Did you wish to avoid the council?"
"I knew not one was to be held. I came late in the night and had words with none. Then I slept late in the morning. Why should I wish to avoid council? What goes forward?"
"The taking of Wallingford. What think you of our labors thus far? You have ridden over the land. Are we ready to move on the keep?"
What Rannulf thought had better be kept to himself. He shrugged his shoulders and moved toward an empty stool. Sharply Stephen repeated his question.
"If you wish to know, I think that when you take Wallingford, you too will starve—so well have your labors been performed. And, if you are not ready to take the keep now, you will never be ready. There is nothing here except the keep left to destroy."
"You approved this plan a month since. Now you return, having had none of the labor, to cavil at its outcome."
Rannulf's eyes narrowed. "You sent me hence and told me what day to return. You asked my opinion, and I have given it. These are not my lands. If you are content with what is done, then I must also be content. What is done cannot now be mended by talk in any case. Let us plan forward, not look back. Is this a council or a wake?"
"You are, as I said, late," Stephen snapped. "For your part, how would you go about taking Wallingford?"
An aching head and heart do not make for patience and soft answers in a man of hasty temper. "If I must do your thinking as well as your fighting, I am in bad case," Rannulf snarled in reply.
"Soke!" Northampton protested.
Stephen laughed, Rannulf's exasperation seeming to have restored his good humor. "I once said that if Rannulf said a respectful word to any man, I should call my best physician to attend him. I am glad to know you to be in good health, Soke, but I still desire that you answer my question."
"There are only two ways to take Wallingford, across the bridge over the Thames or by mustering an army from the west. Or, of course, by crossing the river above or below the keep in boats to attack from the west."
"And which of these methods would you employ?"
"What, am I a child being tested in tactics? Oh, very well," Rannulf sighed, as though humoring an idiot, "all, if I had men and time. I have not seen the western side of the keep, and I cannot say whether there is any hope of scaling the walls, but to try would be to draw some defenders from the bridge—and the bridge must be taken."
"Then we are all agreed," Stephen said approvingly, "for your judgment falls in with ours. Warwick tells us there is little hope of taking the keep from the west. He has been encamped there."
Rannulf's tired eyes moved to the older man who nodded. "We have made some small sorties to give them something to think about," Warwick said, "but I believe it hopeless. Truly, I think any assault is hopeless. We will have to starve them out. But while they hold the bridge, we cannot keep them from the river, and while they have the river, supplies may be readily brought in."
"The use of boats is also hopeless," Northampton put in. "The waters are too low for large ships, too swift for smaller craft to cross without much drifting, and the banks are well defended. We could not muster sufficient force in boats to do aught but die."
"Yet we will try that path also," Stephen said. "We have gathered boats for the purpose up and down the river."
Rannulf shuddered. He could swim and enjoyed doing so in the quiet pools of the Slea, but the Thames at this point was a swift and angry river, beginning to swell already with the late summer rains. For a man in armor there was nothing but a certain watery death if he should be tipped from the boat, a helpless death in which he could not save himself nor strike a blow for his own protection and revenge.
The banks, too, from the quick glance he had given them, were steep and unfriendly, a trap for a heavily armed man. Perhaps there had been a ford here once, but either the river itself had scoured a deeper bed or the defenders of the keep and town had dug out the banks after the bridge was built.
"You do not like that path to Wallingford, I see," Stephen continued with a faint note of contempt. "Very well, you will not be asked to take it."
Color surged into Rannulf's face. "I did not say I would not take that path. True, my men have come to fight, not to drown, but yours is the ordering of the battle. If it is your will that good, mounted, and mailed knights be cast helpless into the water and, even if they reach the bank, need to fight afoot under the weight of their armor—order, and it shall be done."
Stephen frowned and looked anxiously into his liege man's face, then slid his eyes away as if he were ashamed of something. "Nay, the least of the footmen with leather jerkins silvered over to look like mail will be sent by that path. If they are cast over, they wil
l have a chance to swim, and if they come to the bank in safety, they will be light enough to fight."
The king's glance returned to Rannulf, anxious, even pleading, torn with uncertainty. "Thus are the men disposed, Rannulf. Warwick holds the west, de Tracy the south—that is entirely hopeless but we have set his small force there to see that none escape over the walls to call for succor or to bring in food. Peverel sits upon the north, many men but with little heart. Something has broken the faith of Peverel's men in their leader. They will hold the land, but not much more can be hoped from them. Northampton and I lie here before the bridge with those few men sent by Essex and Ferrers, and now you have come. A man does best what he does willingly. What part would you play in this game?"
The flush had already faded from Rannulf's face. He had been pale when he entered the tent, and no man could see whether he became paler. His eyes closed, possibly to hide some expression, but equally possibly because he could hold the swollen lids open no longer. In the tent, in spite of the distant sounds of the army of men going about their business, it was so quiet that Stephen's great vassals could hear each other breathe. The silence stretched until every man there longed to break it with a scream.
There were several paths Rannulf could take, all honorable. He could cast the responsibility of decision back where it belonged by telling Stephen again to command him. He could ask a day or two of grace to survey the field of battle so that he might choose where his men would be employed to their best advantage. He could say that he and his men would follow Stephen wherever he led them.
"I suppose," he said at last, very slowly, "that it must be my part to take the bridge."
The tension relaxed as if a rope had been cut with an ax blow. Warwick nodded approval, Northampton sighed and shifted uneasily on his stool, and Stephen dropped his head into his hands.
"You have had heavy labor here already," Rannulf continued, "while my men are fresh, and—"
"Have you seen the bridge?" Stephen cried as if the words were wrung out of him.
"Barely," Rannulf replied, "but it would make no difference if it were the gate to hell. Cross it we must and hold it we must. Either that or take up our tents and crawl back to our keeps."
"There are towers and gates on the Wallingford side. All the span is within bowshot of those defenses and it is scarce wide enough for four horsemen abreast."
There was no change that anyone could see in Rannulf's expression. "When has a bridge been otherwise?" he asked calmly.
"The gates open outward," Stephen continued in an agonized voice, not knowing himself whether he wished Rannulf to reconsider his decision or whether he intended to fix his vassal's purpose by making him ashamed to go back on his word. "If you tried to batter them down, the defenders need only open them suddenly to sweep you all into the river."
"That, too, I expected," Rannulf answered evenly. Then, suddenly, he smiled. "You need not fear for me, I will look close."
Equally suddenly Stephen dropped his head into his hands and began to sob. "I should never have broken the peace. I should never have begun this madness."
"We will give you all the aid we can," Warwick said firmly to Rannulf, paying not the slightest attention to the king's outburst. "Some hours before you ride out, I will throw every man I have into an assault on the wall. De Tracy will second me with whatever force he has, and Peverel's men will at least make a sufficient show so that they will not dare leave that quarter undefended either. To the best of our ability, we will continue until dark or until we have some sign that you have succeeded." He did not need to add—or failed. Every man understood what was left unsaid.
"For my part," Northampton added, "I will make sure that the boats keep moving, filled with footmen. You must not expect much from them, they are largely rabble, but each boat-load will have at least one steady man-at-arms who will try to rally them and drive them against the towers and against the defenses of the banks and the road that leads from the keep to the bridge. Thus, some of the tower archers will need to look behind them and not be free to let loose at you. Also, not knowing what force we intend to send across and believing, I hope, that better men will follow the weaker, they will not dare strip defenders from the road or banks to swell the forces in the towers or behind the gates."
Rannulf nodded his thanks to both. "So I hoped. Is there aught to wait for?"
An uneasy, unhappy frown crossed Northampton's face. "Not unless you wish to wait for Simon, my son. Most of the men have arrived and he, himself, should have been here a week since with the rest. I do not know what delays him now, but I can send to him again urging haste."
"There is no need," Rannulf replied, swallowing a queasy sensation. "We do not lack for men—at least, not to make this assault. When it is over," he added heavily, "then you may indeed need to send for him." He paused, thinking of the coming losses, then continued briskly.
"Very well, if you can be ready in time, Warwick, I cannot see that any day will be better than the morrow. What say you?"
Warwick nodded and rose. "I will ride at once. It is many miles to a safe ford and many more through back paths to my camp. Thank God, however, hearing is easier than going or seeing. At the dawn, I will let blow the trumpets for the assault as also will de Tracy and Peverel. You will hear us. If aught fails, do you reply with the sound for retreat. If all is well, keep silence until you need to urge your own men forward."
"Good enough."
"Wait." Stephen had wiped his face and looked up. "Where is the need for such haste? Let your men rest a few days, Rannulf, and do you take some rest yourself. You do not look well."
Impatiently, Rannulf shook his head. "The need for haste is in the scorched fields. Men do not gain stomach for fighting by camping in a desolation nor by eating camp rations. Also, they will hear, somehow, what is before them. It is not well to let them sit still and consider overlong on such a subject. They have come to fight and know it. They are hot for it now. It is unwise to let the blood cool."
By nightfall, although he knew he was facing almost certain death, Rannulf felt much better. For one thing, even death was better than doubt. He did not wish to die, but if he must, it was good to die sword in hand.
Somewhere John of Northampton had found a chicken and had it broiled over the coals for his master. Rannulf sat on a camp stool tearing at it hungrily, happily, his mind busy with what he had discovered about the bridge and what he would tell his men.
There were certain hopeful aspects about the construction of the bridge. The side walls were unusually high so that it would be possible to make a shield wall for men to crawl under to the very edge of the towers. While the defenders were occupied with attackers in the middle of the bridge, some men might find a way with metal pins and leather ropes to climb around the towers and come behind the gates. Also, the arches of the bridge were braced above the waterline with crossbars. If men could be set on those crossbars, especially on the down-river side, they might use grappling hooks to rescue from the water such knights as were thrown over.
One other path to the far shore had come to light in Rannulf's careful inspection. The bridge was low to the water, but not so low, the river not being at flood, that some men lying down in boats might not pass under it in safety almost to the foot ·of the towers. Then, if the ropes and pins of the climbers held, those in the boats might be drawn up to lie hidden right against the base of the towers, where they might well be invisible to the defenders. Possibly, by fixing stakes and ropes to the towers themselves or to the banks shielded by them, a considerable force might be assembled hanging in the water to burst out suddenly and open the gates. Certainly the task was not hopeless. It would cost many lives, but it could be done.
"Now what, at such an hour, do you find to smile about, Soke?"
Rannulf looked up into Northampton's worried face. "If a man sees a path to victory, even an uncertain and dangerous path, is that not reason enough to smile?"
The old man rubbed his gnarled,
aching hands together, and John ran in to give him a stool to sit on and kiss him in greeting. Northampton stroked his son's cheek and patted his shoulder, and Rannulf stood up suddenly, his throat constricted with grief and remorse. He had forgotten that his squire was as like to die as he was. John's father had come to bid his son farewell.
"I will go out and stretch my legs," he said huskily.
"No, Rannulf, I have come to speak to you. What I have to say to John can be briefly said, and they are words that all men may hear. Bear yourself like a man, my son."
"I will not fail you, father, nor my lord either."
"No, I do not think you will. Go, child, my talk with Soke concerns no one but himself."
Northampton passed a hand over his face, and Rannulf waited his convenience with averted eyes. He would have no more to say to Geoffrey, but he would not care to have any man see him after he had spoken.
"I think Stephen is mad," the old man muttered wearily after a moment.
Respecting the anguish which had called forth the words, Rannulf held his peace. Actually, he did not agree, even though he had little expectation of enjoying the victory he hoped his men would win. It was better to die thus than to live tearing at your own gut or, like Northampton, so crippled that you needed to watch your sons go out to fight when you could not go yourself.
As if he had read Rannulf's mind, Northampton shook his head. "No, not for trying to take Wallingford. There is sense enough in this action, but . . . Perhaps I do great wrong to speak to you of this now. Indeed, I have thought about it most of the day and my mind is still not clear. Nonetheless, we have known each other long, Rannulf, and fostered each other's sons. Do you know—did you realize that Stephen intended from the first to prod you into taking this desperate work in hand?"
"I suppose I knew . . . yes. Why he should think he needed to prod me into it, I cannot tell. Mayhap the poison Eustace instilled into his ears regarding me has seeped at last into his brain. It makes no difference. I was fittest for the task, and it must be done."
The Sword and The Swan Page 24
