"It is not you alone. He looks askance at us all from time to time and no longer really trusts any man. Then he repents and flutters like a leaf in the wind again. That is why I said I think he is mad. He has spent this day first crying out that you offered to take the bridge only with intent to fail and then he weeps aloud for fear you will be lost to us."
"I cannot see that he is much changed from what he was." Rannulf shrugged "Except for his suspicion. So long as he does not permit his madness to interfere with his military action, it is of no account. I think he is still unsettled by Maud's death." He sighed. "We could use her steadying hand just now."
"Well, you have been warned, although I do not know to what purpose. Even if he shows himself to be mad as a hornet—what can we do? I came to speak of another matter also. Where will you place yourself tomorrow?"
Rannulf looked surprised and offended. "At the head of my men. What sort of a question is that? What would you have me do, shout for them to charge while I remain safe behind their wall of shields?"
"No, I thought you would lead them. It has ever been your way. Therefore must I come to my next question. What would you have me do with Geoffrey?"
"Geoffrey?" Now, even in the dim firelight, Northampton could see that Rannulf had gone white. "That is a cruel question, Simon, heartless even in the light of the pain you bear. Shall I make my son less than a man by bidding you hide him in safety, or shall I bid you send him where the fighting is fiercest to prove his valor and take his death?"
"Rannulf, control yourself. I know the purpose of fostering as well as you do." The old man shook his head reprovingly. "That is not what I meant, as you would understand quickly enough if you allowed your head to work instead of your bowels. This day I have kept him so busied that he had no time to seek you out nor question what your part in the assault would be. What I wish to know is whether I should send him elsewhere tomorrow—not to protect him, my forces will not be engaged unless you are successful and we can move forward over the bridge. But if he remains here, I cannot keep him from seeing what takes place."
The question had been cleverly phrased, but Rannulf understood what Northampton was really asking. Did he or did he not want Geoffrey to watch him die? He started to tell Northampton to send the boy away, then checked himself, for there were other matters to consider than his desire to protect his son from such an experience.
The likelihood that Geoffrey would actually see the strokes or the arrow that felled him would be small, and from that point of view it would be little worse than hearing of his death and suspecting that he had been sent away to spare his witnessing it. More important was the danger that Geoffrey would be so grieved that he would throw his own life away seeking revenge. That, however, Northampton should be able to prevent and might be true whether or not he saw the battle.
"Let him stay," Rannulf said at last. "It will be well for him to be here to rally the vassals—if any remain to be rallied." He paused to steady his voice and continued, "I cannot believe that Stephen, mad or not, has become such a monster that he would send a child to be slaughtered. Yet, if that be the case and my men are beaten back, it will be Geoffrey's duty to try to finish what I could not." Rannulf bit his lip. "Oh, God, until this moment I have not feared my death in this venture."
"You need not fear it for that reason. Stephen will be more like to call you back than to send Geoffrey forth. In any case, I am not mad, and I am still Geoffrey's master. If the boy can lead your vassals in such a way as will profit him, well and good. The sooner they learn to respect him the better. He will lead no lost causes at any man's bidding, even at the king's, while under vow to serve me. Content yourself. Well, I have said my say. If there is time on the morrow, send John to me that I may bless him."
The old man stood up, looking past Rannulf into the darkness. "What joy it is to be a father in these times! If your son does not turn against you, looking sidelong toward your enemy, then you must send him forth to die without knowing whether the cause be worthwhile."
Rannulf stood, too, grieved for Northampton, but so relieved by the knowledge that Geoffrey would be safe that he could not truly offer sympathy or even comprehend the implications of what had been said to him. When the torch that lighted his visitor back to his own quarters grew faint, Rannulf moved eagerly to the smaller tent to his right.
"Andre, summon my vassals, and do you come also. Tomorrow there will be more to our labor than to charge straight ahead and bear down those who oppose us. We will have need of much planning if even a tithe of us are to escape with our lives."
Andre leapt to obey with alacrity. Nothing could please him better than a bitter battle in which he might win his lord's favor. No hopeless battle either, as rumor had predicted, or the earl would scarcely look so well pleased. Lord Soke might say grave words, might look heavy-eyed still, but he now had a spring to his step and an eager note to his harsh voice. There would be much blood spilled, but there must be good hope of victory.
CHAPTER 15
No sun affronted sleepy eyes when John of Northampton presented his lord with a brimming goblet in the dawning of the day. Rannulf drank, but this morning only to warm himself, for a gray mist hung over the field, damping the clothes laid ready and chilling the body. He was rested and at peace; all that needed doing was done. Each of his vassals and each band of foot soldiers knew what part he had to play and, though each understood how high the bridge would cost in blood and life, each seemed to be imbued with Rannulf's conviction that it could and would be taken.
From Geoffrey, whom he had awakened in the night, he had received a promise that Richard would be cared for and Catherine protected until she decided what she wished to do with her life. Rannulf had been sorry to waken the fear he saw in his son's eyes, but it was well to prepare him and, if by any chance his life were spared, it would merely deepen Geoffrey's conviction of his invulnerability.
His last visit had been to a priest. It had been long since Rannulf had confessed himself, and he was surprised at the lightening of his heart when he had at last, after much prompting, poured out not only the sins he recognized as sins but the doubts and fears that tormented him. For those too, he had been absolved, and he had returned to his bed to sleep very peacefully until John's touch brought him awake.
Now he looked out on the shrouded figures of his men with mingled satisfaction and mild regret. For his military purposes, the weather was ideal—he had counted on some mist, of course, but was being blessed with an unexpected density.
There were minor drawbacks. Boats would doubtless go astray, men slip in the greasy wet, and anyone who needed to use his eyes at a distance, like the fishers on the crossbars of the bridge, would be hampered. Still, the fog—if it continued as thick as it was at the moment—would hinder the defenders far more than the attackers.
The archers of the towers in particular would be virtually blinded and their accuracy reduced almost to nothing. The trouble was, Rannulf thought, looking up into gray nothingness and smiling at his own foolishness, that he had wished to bid the sun farewell.
Very vaguely, muffled by the mist, came the sound of horns. Again they called, more loudly, from the left, and after a while even more faintly than the first calls, the signal for attack came from the right. Warwick had been as good as his word, and Rannulf smiled his grim satisfaction.
The original plan had been to wait until some of the defenders were drawn from the bridge to other parts of the walls. The trouble was that the men of Wallingford knew the value of the bridge as well as their attackers. They might not fall into the snare and—worse—the heavy fog might thin. Rannulf smiled more broadly. They would not wait; they would attack now.
John nudged Sir Andre who stood beside him. "This will be a bloody battle."
"So I learned at the council last night. Were you listening in secret? I thought you had duties elsewhere."
"I do not need to listen, I know my master. Look you how his lordship smiles. I have fought with him
before and seen that smile before. He has forgotten even what he fights for. What he desires now is blood and killing. Pray God the bridge does not fall too quickly. If he is not sated, he will lead us on to assault the keep itself."
Rannulf turned toward them, and it was plain he had not heard their talk although they were close behind him. He was deaf and blind to everything beside his own feeling of release. He could strike out now—not at Catherine, who was blameless of his pain even if her sympathies were rebel—but at enemies who had been thrust upon him so that he could not be said to have sought the battle. When Adelecia had been his wife, he could not have fighting enough, and now, again, the blood raced through his body and pounded in his ears.
"Andre, bid the heralds summon the men to the attack. I do not wish to lose this mist. Bring my horse when you return."
John was right, Andre thought as he set off on his errand. His master's eyes, normally quiet and considering although keen, held leaping points of light that cried aloud of the fever in his brain. Well, the bloodier the better. The fewer men who remained, the greater his importance to his lord would be.
"John," Rannulf continued gaily, "do not let your hot blood tempt you forward. You are to cling at all costs behind my left shoulder. This is no battle in which a wall of vassals will be behind me, for we will fight in narrow space, man upon man, with enemies behind as well as before. Be faithful, for if I believe you there, I will not guard myself. Do not fail me out of eagerness."
"If I can keep pace with you, my lord. Do not outrun me."
Rannulf laughed. "Outride you, I might. Outrun you, I will not, for nigh on twenty years and some little girth burden my legs. Back to back then, John. It will not be the first time."
"Nor the last neither, my lord."
Rannulf looked up into the swirling mist and drew a deep, happy breath. "Mayhap not, after all. Nonetheless, John, I charge you, as you love me, if I fall do not try to revenge me. Win free and go to Geoffrey. He will have great need of you."
A puzzled frown wrinkled the squire's brow. "Of course, I would do that in any case, but will he not be—aie!" John barely leapt aside in time as the newly arrived stallion lashed out. "The devil take your horses, my lord. How many times have I given him favors from my own plate, and thus he greets me."
***
The mist was thicker and thicker as they rode toward the river, until man followed man by dim shadows and muffled sound alone. Somewhere to the right there were men's voices, the grating sound of wood drawn over stone, and fitful splashes as boats were launched. Northampton was at work.
Rannulf shook his head. Fog was most welcome, but this was a trifle too much of a good thing. If any of those boats reached the opposite shore anywhere within striking distance of Wallingford, it would be a miracle. Even for his own purposes, the mist was too dense. If he did not know that John rode to his left and Andre to his right, he could not have recognized them. Perhaps it would be well to wait a time after all. Just now a man could not tell friend from foe and was as likely to launch a blow at a comrade-in-arms as at an enemy.
Behind him, a light laugh from one of the younger vassals drew Rannulf's ear. "No doubt," the youthful voice said in reply to some question, "the Lord God favors our cause. This mist will destroy every arbalest they have better than fire or sword. Nonetheless, we are like to need to crawl on our hands and knees to find that accursed bridge."
No, Rannulf decided, they would not wait. From this and other remarks it was plain that the men's spirits were as high as his own. Better to chance an odd blow going astray here or there, a man falling into the river, than to permit the enthusiasm to falter. If it were as thick on the other side as here and they made no sound . . . ah, if they made no sound.
Rannulf told Andre to pass back along the ranks and warn the men to be silent. If the fog held as dense as it was here and they were quiet, he pointed out, they could walk right up to the gates and knock on them before they were seen.
Knock on them! Another notion.
"John," Rannulf said.
"My lord?"
"Ride back to your father—try not to fall into the river while you are about it—and tell him to send me a small battering ram if one is prepared."
"Yes, my lord."
Andre was back and Rannulf could hear the voices behind him die away as the order for silence was passed from man to man. He beckoned the young knight closer so he could speak softly.
"We will not need the shield wall if the fog holds, but go and tell the men who are to set the spikes that they are not to begin driving them in until they hear the first stroke of the ram. Belike that sound will drown all others and they should be able to come right around the towers without being seen or heard. It will be safe enough to use the ram—"
Rannulf stopped speaking and then went on thoughtfully, "It will not hurt the gate, but the noise makes for fear and they will not be able to see to shoot so it cannot hurt us either. Mayhap they will open the gate to drive us off." He laughed and added abruptly, "Let some footmen wait in readiness with grappling hooks. Mayhap it will not be so easy to close as to open."
A horseman approached gropingly. "I thought I would never find my way back," John muttered. "The wain is ready, but where is it to go? Do you know where the bridge is, my lord?"
Rannulf's tension vented itself in a guttural laugh which was nearly a giggle. "Nay, no more than you, but forward we all go. If you hear a loud splash, you will know I have fallen into the river. Do not fail to pull me out—then we can work our way along the bank until we find the bridge."
He caught at John's arm before the squire fell back and added, "Go back to the camp, John, and bid the grooms and kitchen hands to form along our path to direct the other knights and men-at-arms—and the wain also."
John disappeared from view for a little while, reappeared with surprising swiftness, and shortly vague shadows formed to Rannulf's right. He laughed again, touched his horse with his spurs, and moved forward noting with satisfaction that the hooves were almost silent on the wet grass. They might just as well find the bridge before they left the horses, which they would not need until the gates were opened.
They did not actually fall into the river, although it was a near thing. Straining ears at last caught the sound of a shoe grinding on a stone and the creak of leather harness. Rannulf stopped and touched Andre to stop him. John slid from his horse, dropped his shield, and drew his knife.
They waited tensely, the men silent behind them, and Rannulf found himself fighting the desire to follow John, resenting the fact that any man should taste blood before himself. The silence was only minutely disturbed by a soft, choking cry. Rannulf drew his sword. If John had failed and that cry was his, the warning to the defenders of the bridge would come now.
"Sorry, my lord," a peculiarly muffled voice murmured, "my hand slipped from his mouth in the last moment. You are too far north. The bridge is below us."
"John?" Rannulf questioned. "Are you hurt?"
"No, my lord." The voice was still muffled and husky and was now at a little distance. "Dismount and follow, my lord. I know where we are."
Could it be the enemy man-at-arms? No, he would be wearing the ordinary armor of metal plates sewn to leather and Rannulf knew that he had heard the harsh whisper of mail when the owner of the voice moved. Beyond that, there was a distinctly familiar quality about the voice under its peculiar muffling. Merely, it did not sound like John. Rannulf dismounted and heard Andre coming down from his horse beside him. Another shadow led the horses away.
God, the mist was driving him mad. Rannulf trod cautiously in the wake of the shadow that had waited for him, his feet aware of the soft earth and rank grass of a riverbank he could not see. Now, however, he could hear the water, and almost at once, the change in the river's voice as its free flow was impeded by the supports of the bridge. If a man loses his eyes, his ears become clever, Rannulf thought, and immediately stopped thinking at all. Where a dim, leading figure had been
, now there were two locked together, struggling.
Suppressing his usual hoarse war cry, Rannulf leapt, his dagger already clear of its sheath. He had to loosen the handhold of his shield to grab the leather-clad form, but he knew the shield would cling by its arm strap. It was the work of a moment to drag off the helm, slit the leather throat-guard.
Rannulf heard the scrape of his knife as it slid across his squire's mailed glove and saw the blood pulse out, dark but strangely colorless in the enveloping grayness. There was not much noise, the thud of their feet and the sound of the man's body as it fell, the rasp of their slightly quickened breathing. It was enough, however, to warn nervous listeners. From ahead came the cry, "Ware! Arms!" and Rannulf was free of the restraint he had imposed upon himself.
"Je combattrais!"
The mist muffled both the warning and Rannulf's fighting motto, so that defenders and attackers alike were surprised to come upon each other seconds later. Rannulf had nothing but his knife in hand when he was suddenly faced by a half-dozen shadowy figures. He hurriedly sheathed one weapon and drew the other as his young squire leapt before him, sword drawn, to engage the men-at-arms until his master should be ready.
Before the blades had clashed twice, Rannulf was ready by his squire's side and behind them the battle cry was echoed from a hundred other throats. One man went down before Rannulf's first swing; the others broke and, ran when they realized that it was a full-scale attack and no small scouting party that they had to face.
"Do not lose them," Rannulf called to the squire who was a good deal fleeter of foot than he was. "And do not go on to the bridge alone."
His caution was unnecessary. A few steps more brought Rannulf himself to the hard earth of the road while his squire's form was still visible. He turned right, calling his motto to guide his men. The ring of steel on steel drew him forward, but by the time he came to his squire's shoulder, the defenders of the bridge had disengaged again and were running, their feet pounding on the bare planks.
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