"And he can always drive the woman out to her dower castle when the need is past or her father dead. Even if she bears him nothing, he has his brothers to follow him. Walter is nothing but trouble, but Miles is said to be a promising child."
Alan of Evesham looked with surprise at William. "You have been with him nearly four years, how can you say that? I came with him at Faringdon—I too would have rather died there than yielded—and I knew what a man he was even at sixteen. Yet when I saw his softness to his mother and his sisters, I nearly left him again before I did him homage, thinking that the one act might have been childish bravado or had drained his courage. Soon enough when he was well of his wounds and I of mine we went to fight again and I saw that he was split in two parts. With men he is one way, good-humored but not soft. With women … they can make him jump through a hoop like a whipped dog. Lady Elizabeth may spoil his temper, but we will suffer for it, not she."
"His mother and sisters are one thing. It is true that he melts like snow in summer for a drop of water in their eyes—and mayhap it is no bad thing. He lives in a house of laughter. Those women run to meet him, and fawn on him and pet him. Are they ever sad? Ever too tired to sing to him, play for him, sew for him, make sport for him? Now I think on it, Alan, you have a point. He was not so happy or even-tempered as he used to be in France. I had grown used to his new ways and forgot that in the old days in England he never stopped laughing."
"Ay. He needs the coddling. Some men are like that, and I do not deny that it is a happy house. But what possesses him, Beauchamp, being as he is, even for Chester's alliance, to take a shrew to wife? He will never cast her out, only grow more and more sour."
"I am not so sure. That was what I was about to say. He is so with the women of his own blood, but with the others … He may speak soft words, but when he is bored or annoyed, that is the end. Tears avail nothing, nor anything else either."
"Blast the man, what ails him?" Evesham exclaimed, as a shout and a squeal made him turn and he saw one of the baggage animals founder. "Ride up, Beauchamp, and tell him to slow down again. Let him bite your head off for once, I will go and see about the animal."
Hereford, however, had also heard the shout. He had a good leader's faculty of being aware of any disturbance in his troop no matter how occupied he was with his personal affairs, and he had stopped and begun to return prepared to fight when he saw the cause of the excitement.
"Who is in charge of those animals?" he snapped at Beauchamp when the younger man came up. "Why can they not keep them steady?"
"You are riding too fast, my lord," William replied stolidly. "That cattle cannot keep up with your destrier in this soft snow."
"If the men paid more attention to where the beasts set their hoofs and less to their talk, there would be less trouble. You tell them that if another animal falls I will have their skins for it—and yours too."
"As you say, my lord."
"You are carrying my lance in a damned funny way, William. Is that what I taught you?"
"I am sorry, my lord. I hurt my wrist in that fall I took. I will correct it."
"Young fool! Give it here, I will carry it myself. Did you think to have it bound up? How badly are you hurt? Let me see."
"It is nothing. I can use the hand, but the lance is heavy."
"As you like. Keep it warm or it will stiffen, and you may have a use for it sooner than you expect. If you cannot wield your sword when I need you, I will have a few warmer things than 'young fool' to call you."
William Beauchamp, as wellborn as Hereford and in no need of his favor for a livelihood, lost his temper. A squire owed even his life to the man who taught him his trade in arms in exchange for service, but he did not need, in William's opinion, to accept insults. "When I have first failed you, you will have a right to speak to me in that manner. If I no longer—"
"Hold your tongue, William. I am responsible to your father for you. How would I ever be able to explain a crippled sword arm to him? Now take care of that wrist; put no strain on it, and when we get to Painscastle let Lady Leah see to it."
Beauchamp dropped back, fuming, and it was Evesham's turn to laugh. "Heated you a bit, did he?"
"It must be more than the woman, Evesham, even that she-devil of Chester's could not bring him to this state."
William Beauchamp was perfectly right, for Hereford, capable of holding only one serious idea at a time in his head, had almost forgotten Elizabeth's existence. He was trying to find the cause for his feeling of predestined failure and had reviewed his meetings with Gaunt and Gloucester from every aspect. It was hopeless. Everything about the plans he had formulated to present to the others appealed to him. He would attack the king's strongholds in March, just after the early thaw had passed enough to allow the ground to harden. This would doubtless draw Stephen out of London away from Maud's advice and the information about rebel movements supplied by her spy system. Hugh Bigod would attack, if they could bring him to agree at the proposed meeting, a week or two later so that Eustace would be drawn to the northeast.
Henry should then be able to land secretly and safely in April with the king and Eustace far too occupied in defending their lives and property to concern themselves with his movements. Then he and Henry would ride north, picking up Chester and his army on the way. That would permit Hereford to leave almost all of his own command behind to continue the diversionary action.
The end of April or beginning of May should find them in Scotland where they could lend David some help either in beating back the Norse or in attacking Stephen's northern allies. These actions, particularly if they were successful—and about that Hereford felt perfectly confident—would proclaim to all England Henry's presence and prowess as a leader and warrior. More, it would promise an alliance with David which would stop the sporadic fighting in the north if Henry became king. The culmination of this activity, once sufficient notice of it had been gained, and word of that would come from Gloucester and Gaunt, would come with Henry accepting knighthood from King David. That would make him an English knight, knighted on English rather than French soil.
Fresh from his knighting, Henry, with Hereford, Chester, and David, if possible, would make a feint at York which would, they hoped, draw Stephen northward while he sent Eustace into Gloucestershire to continue the fight there. Leaving Chester and David to occupy Stephen, Henry and Hereford would hurry south to engage with Eustace. If they could take him prisoner then their primary objective would be gained and negotiations with Stephen could proceed.
The whole plan, precluding some unforeseeable catastrophe, was nearly perfect and, provided they were better men, almost certain to succeed. If Eustace came north instead of Stephen, it would be even simpler, for Henry and Hereford would save themselves a grueling trip south, or, if he remained to fight Hugh Bigod, they could all move east to attack him in force. They had sufficient men, money was not wanting, and the allies were bound together with a combination of blood ties for Chester and himself, deep-seated honor and long-standing enmity to Stephen on the part of Gaunt, Bigod, and Hereford, and hope of great gain for Gloucester as well as all the others. The whole should have given Hereford the uplift of complete confidence instead of the continued and increasing sensation of foredoomed failure that he suffered, as if in punishment for something.
The great brown destrier stumbled, and Hereford, jerked from his thoughts again, pulled up his horse's head and steadied him with caressing hands and words. The Dee had curved westward already; they would soon have to ford it and would doubtless find some town at the ford where they could stop to eat, warm themselves, and rest their mounts. Hereford glanced at the sun.
"Alan."
"My lord?"
"Send some men forward to the ford of the Dee to arrange for food and fire for the men and fodder for the beasts. Buy if you can. I do not wish to enrage the Welsh—use force only if you must. Wait, take my lance a moment. I have letters here from Chester and Gaunt. If there is a keep or manor ho
use there, one seal or the other will bring us courteous treatment."
"Yes, my lord."
"Come back when you are done. I wish to speak to you."
The twenty chosen men spurred their mounts forward eagerly. They had wondered, considering the pace that Hereford was setting, whether they would be allowed to stop at all, and were most eager to see his lordship comfortably installed so that they might have the longest rest possible. Alan exchanged glances with William and rode forward again.
"How long have you been my master-at-arms, Alan?"
Evesham raised his brows. Normally Lord Hereford's memory was excellent and he wondered what such a question could preface. "Six years—a little more or less."
"You rode with me out of Faringdon and saw me take this there." Hereford touched his chest lightly where his clothing hid a scar that ran from nipple to navel. "Have you ever had cause to doubt my courage?"
"No." Alan answered flatly, startled by the similarity of Hereford's thoughts to his own such a short time before. Then, wondering if his master's sharp ears had picked up the conversation, he covered himself. "Once when we newly came together and I saw how soft you were to your womenfolk, I did wonder, but now I know the two things are separate."
"You have been a true man to me, Alan, and you are your own master. I have a great task before me, and a bitter and dangerous one. If I were sure of success, there would be no need to say this, but I have a great foreboding of evil. I would release you from your homage to me."
"My God!" Evesham exclaimed. "How have I failed you? How have I displeased you that you must cast me out?"
Hereford laughed without humor or relief. "On the contrary, it is because you have done neither that I wish to release you. Nay, Alan, I would not send you succorless into the world. I will arrange a new position for you before we part. Gaunt is growing old, he would doubtless be glad to have you on my word, or Lord Radnor—he has a young son who will need a tutor in arms. If you like them not, I have connections in England and in France where you might be better suited."
"But Beauchamp and the others stay with you. What cause have you to doubt my loyalty?"
"William, Harry, and Patric are not their own masters and have nothing to say to this. I have written to their fathers that my state is precarious and left it to their wisdom to withdraw their sons or bid them continue to serve me." Hereford laughed again. "Your loyalty is not in question, Alan, but your safety is."
"I have not displeased you, you do not doubt my loyalty, yet I am not offered the same choice as the others. Why? You talk about my safety as if I were an old woman. Have I never fought back to back with you in a place as near hopeless as could be? Speak your meaning plain, my lord, for I am a plain man."
"I too, Alan, but I can speak no plainer. What you say is true. I have led you without consideration into many places where you risked your neck. Still, that was different. I always felt all would be well if we but bore ourselves like men. Now … I do not know."
"You may say what you like about coming evil, but I do not take it kindly that you treat me like a child. I am old enough, ten years older than you are—to know what I must face and decide for myself. I am too proud to take your charity, my lord. I have given you good service; if that no longer contents you, cast me out, but if I have done no wrong give me leave to know my own good and ask for my own freedom."
Hereford stared dully at the snow-covered track that snaked away before him. "I can tell you nothing," he said slowly, "except that I go in the near future either to glory or to defeat and disgrace—and my heart misgives me of the outcome. Your protest is just, however. You are no child and the choice should be yours. Think on it and let me know. There is no hurry."
"I need no time. I came with you out of Faringdon because I preferred death to yielding. I have served you six years and found you a man after my own heart." Alan smiled wryly. "In this country and these times, disgrace can be more honorable sometimes than great favor. You are not the mother of my husband, yet will I say unto you 'Whither thou goest, I will go.'"
For a while Hereford made no reply, and Evesham waited impatiently. He had bared his heart in those few words more than he had ever done so before. Hereford was less sensitive to men than to women, and he did not recognize that Alan of Evesham was very like himself. Bred to regard honor and his given oath as more important than life, he expected to serve one master only until that master died.
At last Hereford sighed, but when he turned to Evesham his most mischievous smile curled his lips and lit his eyes. "Well, that will teach me in the future to try to save my friends from themselves. If I had held my tongue, perhaps you would have seen how the straws lay in the wind and asked for your freedom. Now you will be constrained by your overweening pride to cling to me. Let us hope—since you have become so eager to speak in old saws—that your pride goeth not before my fall."
Painscastle, the home of the Earl of Gaunt and his son, Lord Radnor, had always given Hereford a most uneasy feeling. It was a hard, ugly keep, old and scarred as its owner by hundreds of assaults, set high on a barren hill. In the early evening of winter it looked colder and more desolate than ever, the cleared, untilled slopes before it a sad contrast to the neat village that clustered at the foot of the hill. Hereford marveled anew, passing through that village, at the relative fearlessness and content of the serfs on Gaunt's land. He knew they were well guarded and well treated because Gaunt had a crazy theory that satisfied and fearless men worked harder.
Hereford shrugged and dismissed the problem; his own serfs were reasonably well off because he was a good-humored man, just and not grasping, but he was not going to make a fetish of caring for those animals, as if they were his children, as Gaunt did. It was true, Hereford thought, that he preferred his serfs to be comfortable and not starving, but that was because he valued his own comfort. Gaunt and Radnor, on the other hand, never seemed to know whether they were comfortable or not, and part of the reason Hereford disliked visiting them was that they also did not care whether their guests were comfortable or not. Painscastle was as barren and ugly within as without.
When he was across the drawbridge and inside the bailey, Hereford received several minor shocks. The first was the excellent order of the bailey, the outhouses and cooking areas in that courtyard between the inner and outer walls of the keep clean and in perfect repair, the clear space free of refuse and scavenging animals. Hereford heard the animals, but they were either confined to pens or kept out of the portion of the bailey most often used by those who lived in the castle. The second was that he was greeted not by Gaunt or Radnor but by a sandy-haired, middle-aged man of pleasant countenance and graceful manners who looked only very vaguely familiar.
"I do not suppose you recall me, Lord Hereford, but I am Harry Beaufort. Please come in and warm yourself. This is terrible weather we are having. I do not remember such a bitter winter in my whole life."
Hereford dismounted stiffly, feeling for the ground with caution because his feet were so cold they were numb. He took Sir Harry's proffered arm gladly. "Has Radnor been delayed again?"
"No, my lord, we arrived yesterday, which is why I am so busy offering you sympathy. I too was nearly frozen."
Hereford was just about to ask where the men of the keep were when he entered the great hall and stood stock-still, speechless. The last time he had seen the great hall at Painscastle it had been a shambles. Rats had fought the dogs and cats for the refuse on the floor; the fire was choked in its own ash; light was supplied by smoking, resinous torches, so ill-made that they stank and caused the eyes to smart. Surely this place was not the same.
The rushes on the floor looked almost fresh and gave off their own faint sweet scent. With this odor was mingled not the usual spice odors but lavender; Hereford had a swift memory of the fact that Lord Radnor's young bride loved lavender, her clothing and hair being permeated with that scent. Two lymers, Radnor's special pets, nosed through the rushes for bones and stale bread, but they
were the only animals present, both cats and rats were gone. The fires were clear red and the torches clear yellow, both giving light and heat without smoke or soot.
"Will you come and sit down here, Lord Hereford," Beaufort said, touching his arm and leading the way through the huge, high-raftered room. "Lord Gaunt will not go and sit in Lady Leah's solar. He says he is too old to be coddled and that men do not belong in the women's quarters, so she arranged this part of the room for him. At first he pretended to be angry and would not sit here, but she rules him now as easily as the other."
There could be no doubt that a woman had arranged that part of the hall. The rushes were swept back and held by thin, shaven logs so that a rug, as fine as those in Hereford's own room, could be spread before the hearth. Facing each other at an angle away from the fire were two well-carved chairs cushioned in dark crimson. The low-backed one was pushed away from an embroidery frame as if a woman had leapt to her feet in haste, but Beaufort invited Hereford to take the high-backed chair with a gesture and sat in Leah's chair himself.
"I am grateful for your kind welcome, Beaufort, but where are Lord Gaunt and Lord Radnor?"
"The Earl has gone to a nearby village to sit in judgment on some local disputes. Lord Radnor is here."
"Here? Where? Am I not a sufficiently important guest to have the lord of the manor welcome me?"
Beaufort laughed easily. "You are most eagerly looked for, my lord, but nothing is as important as that." He glanced upward in the direction of the women's rooms in a manner that could not be mistaken, and Hereford could not avoid laughing too. His further comment was interrupted by a low voice from the stair entrance.
"Roger! I am glad at heart to see you."
Knight's Honor Page 8
