"Awake, but still like a bear in winter. Are you coming to the chapel this morning?"
"Yes, I am coming. Do not wait for me, Mamma. Send William in to help me dress and you go ahead and tell the chaplain to wait. Save a place beside yourself for me and set the girls elsewhere. I want to talk to you about Catherine."
"During Mass?" Lady Hereford asked, her eyes opening wide with surprise.
That was a mistake that might get him a long lecture. Hereford took his lower lip between his teeth. He had forgotten that his mother was truly pious. He had been too long with Henry of Anjou who always used his time in church to write letters or plan strategy or just gossip.
"No, Mamma, but for a few moments before and after. With Lincoln here and the press of your duties and mine, I will have little other time."
"As you like, Roger, but do hurry. I do not like to ask the chaplain to delay."
The chapel was even colder than the manor house since it was not fitted with a fireplace. Hereford's mail struck cold through tunic, gambeson, and shirt, and his scabbard banged against his calves painfully and clanked on the stone floor as he genuflected to the Living Presence in the tabernacle. The mass of servants who stood at the back and sides, shifting uneasily from foot to foot and surreptitiously rubbing their arms and hands in the cold, hastily made a broad path for their master. He was usually kind, but in winter even Hereford's temper was strained by the continual minor discomforts he suffered and he had been known to knock someone in his way clear across the room when he was crosser than usual. He genuflected again just before he reached his mother, but absently, and began to speak almost before he had risen from the bow.
"It would be very nice if I could settle the preliminary contract for Catherine's betrothal at the wedding since it would save time and trouble. There are not too many young men available, but—well, I cannot decide whether it would be better to contract her now, thereby gaining another firm ally or wait until … until later when I may well be able to look as high as I desire for a husband for her."
"How much higher can you look anyway? Roger, what are you about? What is this thing that is hanging over us?"
"Not an affair for a woman to trouble about, but if I succeed I will be one of the first men in the kingdom."
"You are not far from that anyhow, and what if you fail?"
The chaplain had entered and begun Mass, but Lady Hereford did not even notice.
"Then if I do not contract her now, you will have to settle Catherine as well as you can yourself, or, better, leave her to Walter." Hereford smiled grimly. "It is too bad Radnor's son is so young. That would be perfect, but he is not yet two. If she were the man it would not matter. Oh, wel …"
"There is Shrewsbury's eldest boy—"
Hereford's complexion changed color and his eyes darkened. "Mayhap I have sinned in uniting one sister to the son of a greedy boar, but I will not unite the other to the offspring of a serpent. Let me not hear that name again."
Lady Hereford looked somewhat startled, since the events that preceded her son's hasty departure for France had never been fully explained to her. Shrewsbury's treachery had contributed largely to Hereford's troubles at that time and he was not likely to forget or make alliance with that house.
"Chester's son is out too," Hereford continued more calmly, "the Church would never permit that, and it would be ridiculous anyway since Chester is more tied to Elizabeth than to the boy. I favor Bigod's second boy—I would like to make alliance with the east, but I have never seen him and they are a hard family."
"That is so far away, Roger. Norfolk is across the whole breadth of England. What of Gloucester's son? He has a boy of Catherine's age, has he not?"
"Yes …" it was a long-drawn-out sound, "a sickly creature like his mother with his father's vices, I fear. Of course I wish to marry Catherine well, but I also wish that she should be content. You have put me in mind, however, of someone quite suitable—two young men, in fact. Best of all, I like John FitzGilbert's eldest—"
"FitzGilbert is a bastard!"
"So? The son is not. He will inherit FitzGilbert's lands without let or hindrance. Robert of Gloucester was also a bastard. Patric's mother, moreover, is Salisbury's sister—"
"And his grandmother was a tanner's daughter!"
"So was our late king's. William the Bastard's mother was a tanner's daughter and he honored her all his life." Hereford laughed. "Speak well of tanner's daughters, Mother, they breed good men."
"There is no sense in my arguing with you, Roger, you will do as you like anyway."
"Yes, I will, but not so much as I like as what I think is best. You know I will listen to anything you have to say that is reasonable. That is why I am speaking to you about this matter at all. It is not reasonable, though, to object to a marriage because a man's father is a bastard."
"It is a sin to breed children out of wedlock! A punishment will fall on those—"
At that Hereford laughed so loud that the chaplain turned protesting and admonitory eyes upon him. "Most certainly, but look where you step, Mother, you are pinching my toes now."
"It is as great a sin for you as for another, even if you are my son."
"No doubt," the son replied, still chuckling, "so you had better pray for me. The other boy is not blackened with that pitch, but he is of more doubtful quality and less weight. That is Salisbury's third. Patric I know. He has fought on his father's right hand for some years now; he is some ten years Catherine's elder, and that is about right. William is younger, not much more than Catherine's age, and for two people so young to mate, Catherine being somewhat headstrong, I doubt—"
"You are full of wise saws and good advice that you do not follow. Elizabeth is scarcely your junior in years, and as for being headstrong—"
Already, Hereford thought. Winter or no winter, it would be hot as hell in Hereford Castle when Elizabeth arrived. "I am not fourteen, mother," he said pacifically, "and although it is true that Elizabeth is double the twelve years which would make her ten years younger than I, and, as you say, headstrong, you need not fear that she will rule me." A wry smile flitted across his face and was suppressed. "I can give as good as I get. What I desire from you, is that you watch Catherine and see if she looks kindly on either of those two lads—or on any other who seems suitable to you—and let me hear where her fancy lies if you can. If God is willing, I will be able to be generous, and a strong fighting arm, even if not backed by a great alliance, is not to be scorned."
"Roger, you put me out of all patience. I raised you to love your sisters, it is true, but you carry a good thing too far. It can make no possible difference where Catherine's fancy lies. She must love the man you choose for her. You did not ask Anne's opinion."
"And I am not asking Catherine's. I will allow her to do nothing unsuitable, I assure you, but Catherine is different from Anne. You are their mother, have you not seen it?"
"I see only that if you go on as you are there will be two Elizabeth Chesters in one family."
His patience was rapidly slipping, but he drew a deep breath and held it. There was no advantage in losing his temper and this was not the place for it. "You must not speak of Elizabeth like that," he said quietly, but it was plainly the end of the conversation, "and you must not fret her. I will have peace in my household even if there is war everywhere else."
When Hereford arrived home just before the light failed in the late afternoon, frozen, soaked, and panting almost as hard as his hunting dogs, the peace of his household had not yet been broken in spite of the fact that Elizabeth was there. The atmosphere, however, had all the aspects of a brewing thunderstorm rather than a quiet and settled calm. He kissed his betrothed's hand, which had been extended rather coldly, and then her lips, although she had not offered those, and escaped to the welcome and soothing ministrations of his squires and his sisters.
At the late supper, a full meal including potage, roasts, and pasties, as Hereford had eaten nothing since his breakfast at
dawn, the clouds hung even lower and he could almost hear the thunder rumble. He was tired right into his bones by the chase—they had killed five does and three stags and the stags had fought hard—but he exerted himself to soothe Elizabeth, and failed. She was perfectly polite and proper, her manners left nothing to be desired in company at any time as a matter of fact, but she was cold as the weather outside.
"What is wrong, Elizabeth?" Hereford asked, drawing her out of the circle that was listening to a tale read aloud by the chaplain after the meal.
"Wrong? Nothing. You have a beautiful home and I see that every preparation for a magnificent wedding is being made."
"Come into my chamber where we can talk. There is a fire there and comfortable chairs."
"And display further my immodesty and impropriety? I am shocked that so gently nurtured a man as yourself should put forward such a suggestion."
The sarcasm in the voice made Hereford raise his brows but told him what he wanted to know. Apparently his mother had wasted no time in expressing, in the most deferential manner, her surprise at Elizabeth's acquiescence to this hurried marriage and her hints of why the bride was so agreeable. Hereford would not have put it beyond his mother to indicate, in the politest way, that. Elizabeth had seduced him. After all, her son could do no wrong.
"Do not be so silly. I have something important to say to you—something I would prefer the others not to hear." He allowed his irritation to show on his face. "Go in, Elizabeth dear, and make yourself comfortable." The softness of his tone, however, made it plain to Elizabeth that it was not she he was annoyed with. "I will follow in a moment. I have a few words to say to my mother."
Elizabeth's rigid expression softened. It was plain that she thought Roger was going to remonstrate with Lady Hereford for being rude to her, and Roger knew what she thought and held his peace although nothing was further from the truth. It was odd, he thought, how little women understood each other. Nothing could be more disastrous to him or to Elizabeth's and Lady Hereford's future relationship than for him to intervene in Elizabeth's favor. When he reached his mother and bent over her to whisper in her ear, nothing but the physical weariness he could not hide showed on his face.
"Mamma, will you do me a favor?"
"Anything, darling."
Roger sighed. "Be kind to Lady Chester. Keep her occupied; talk to her. She frets Chester unbearably and then he comes to me with his troubles. I am too tired to deal with him, and it is important to me that he be in a good humor."
"Of course I will, love. You go to bed."
"I will, but I must have a few words with Elizabeth first."
This time there was no softness in Hereford's voice and his mother was also allowed to think that his interview with his betrothed was to be rather unpleasant. Again the woman was wrong. Hereford knew Lady Mary Chester only very slightly, but he knew that her personality and ideas would be exactly what his mother liked least. If such a woman complained about Elizabeth, as Lady Chester was bound to do since she hated her stepdaughter heartily and with a certain amount of justice, Lady Hereford would rise in Elizabeth's defense. Thus Hereford's work would be done for him without his speaking a word.
He went into his chamber and sat down opposite Elizabeth, allowing his body to sag into the chair. The posture was unusual for him and drew Elizabeth's attention. She looked at him closely, really seeing him. Even in the candlelight the mauve shadows under his eyes and the grayish hollows under his cheekbones were apparent.
"Perhaps we had better leave this talk until tomorrow, Roger." Elizabeth was moved in spite of herself. "You look tired to death."
"That is kind of you, for I am sure you are curious about what Gaunt had to say." He smiled. "I will not lie to you, my very bones cry out for my bed, but it is pointless to delay. Tomorrow I shall be only a day more weary. As soon as I lie down, Elizabeth, my mind whirls with plans and dreams and I cannot sleep. You will do me a great kindness by letting me talk. Mayhap if I talk the matter out with you I will be able to rest."
Elizabeth glowed with pleasure. This was what she wanted. With an impulse wholly unplanned she went to sit on the footstool at his feet and took his hands in hers.
"I will listen to anything you wish to tell me. Take your own time." Hereford closed his eyes. She was leaning toward him, her breasts lightly pressing against his knees and he had to fight the desire to take her in his arms. He permitted himself no more than to turn his hands so that he now held hers and could press them lightly. She was warm now and alive, but was it only for the news?
He began to relate the decisions arrived at during his stay at Painscastle, giving her without hesitation details that could ruin his plans and destroy him if they came to the wrong ears. He had no doubts about Elizabeth's loyalty or her ability to hold her tongue, and she knew some of the people involved better than he did so that she could advise him as to whether his estimates of them were correct … only Hereford did not care about that just now. The question of paramount importance to him just then was a purely personal one. He wanted Elizabeth's estimate of her own affection for him, not of other men, and the question tugged at him until his voice faltered.
"What is the matter, Roger? Can I get you something?"
It was her first interruption. Until now she had listened to him silently, her eyes almost unnaturally bright, unconsciously pressing closer as her admiration for him increased. As he talked it had become less important that he was sharing his ideas with her, more important that the ideas were his. There was more to Roger of Hereford than she had guessed. He shook his head.
"You are a woman, Elizabeth, and you know Maud. She is the weakest link in my knowledge for if I cannot fool her, she can keep Stephen and Eustace both from acting as I know they would if left to themselves. Is my reasoning right? Will she think the way I expect?"
Elizabeth's hands stiffened under his and she dropped her lids as she drew her mind from the man before her to concentrate on her knowledge of the queen. "Not completely. The very fact of all the military activity will warn her that something more is going to happen, but you can do nothing else, and if you begin long enough before Henry comes she will be forced to let Stephen protect his vassals. Certainly Radnor and Arundel should be warned to take great heed lest her spies be in their entourage."
Hereford nodded. "Radnor is no problem. He can hold his tongue and so can that babe who is his wife, surprisingly. For a girl so seemingly innocent she has a mind that amazes me sometimes."
Suddenly Elizabeth's eyes were dancing with merriment. "Yes, Lady Leah is wily as the serpent. Did you ever find out, Roger, how you fell into that quarrel with—with Lady Gertrude just before you left London to go to France?"
"Lady Gertrude?" For a moment Hereford's eyes were blank and then he did remember. He had gone to stop the Earl of Pembroke from coming to court and had been drugged and fooled. On Pembroke's evidence he could have been imprisoned as a traitor, and, in a desperate attempt to make the evidence one man's word against another, he had been about to spread a tale that he had spent the time with a woman.
Matters had been taken out of his hands, however, by Lady Gertrude, who had been his mistress briefly. In front of Elizabeth and a whole crowd of loose-tongued court hangers-on, she had accused him of infidelity, raging and weeping and reviling. The tale had spread like wildfire and Hereford, embarrassed, chagrined, and unable to defend himself, had been believed to have been illicitly disporting himself in a manner that no efforts of his own could have brought about.
"Yes. That was Lady Leah's doing. She came to me and told me of your trouble. Even I could not think of how to help, but she bid me set Lady Gertrude on to you. How we laughed; I nearly choked to death trying to look outraged while that—that whore let you have the edge of her tongue. Not that you did not deserve it in general, even though that once you were innocent. Leah told me that Radnor nearly had a fit when she described the scene to him."
Hereford had to join her laughter although he was st
ung. "No, I never knew. I have a score to even with her then—and with you too. Could you not warn me of what was to happen?"
Shaking with remembered merriment, Elizabeth leaned her head against Roger's knees. "Oh, no. We counted on your shock and surprise to give veracity to your dumbness, and it did. Oh, Roger, Roger, never will I forget the look on your face." She sighed and sat up again, the laughter fading. "But this other affair is no laughing matter. If any definite hint of Henry's place or time of arrival comes to her or if she finds out that Arundel is involved in it, I would not put it beyond Maud to lead an army herself or risk military disaster in Norfolk or Gloucestershire to recall Eustace or Stephen. You know what taking Henry would mean to her."
"I do know. I wish I could meet him myself, but—"
"That would be worse. Once the fighting starts, not all your vigilance will be able to exclude her spies from the mass of men surrounding you and you will be watched closer than any other. If you move any force other than your own household guard, she will know. Another thing, be careful how much you drink at the coming celebrations so that your own tongue does not wag too freely."
"Do you think I need that warning, Elizabeth?" Hereford frowned and bit his lip to prevent himself from pointing out that if she slipped a word to her father or uncle they would be far more likely to be indiscreet sober than he would be drunk.
"Every man needs that warning. When the wine flows at table, men are all children together," she retorted dryly. "I think," she added, as if reading his mind, "that perhaps it would be as well to tell my father nothing more of Henry's coming. So long as you plan to take him to Scotland with you, his interests will be well served by that exhibition of his loyalty. You must tell him something, however, or he will look for trouble. It could do no harm to confide the plans for the fighting in Gloucestershire and Norfolk to him. He will be content to stay clear of it, I believe, if he knows he is to go to Scotland, and if he does talk it will not matter too much, because you want Stephen to know you are launching that attack."
Knight's Honor Page 11
