The words barely made sense to Hereford because his desire was drowning his reason with the irresistible pressure of the incoming tide. With his last bit of resistance he asked steadily, "Will you tell him, or shall I?" But then, without waiting for her reply, he rose roughly and walked away. "I cannot bear to be so near you, Elizabeth. I am no more than a man, after all. You want of me what I cannot give. I cannot love you without desiring you. If that must lower me in your eyes to the level of a beast, then a beast I am."
Elizabeth stood up too, frightened by the change of mood. He had hidden his feelings so well that she had no hint of what was coming. An impulse to run away touched her briefly, but she was not the kind who ran away, and even if she had been, he was back beside her too quickly to have allowed her to act on it.
"Let me kiss you, Elizabeth. Let me have you. It is only six days more until our wedding. We are already betrothed—"
"If you have such a need," she gasped, "there are other women."
His eyes were almost black and glistened with the tears of his aching desire. "I do not want another woman. I am only a man, and I love you. Let me but touch you. If you are not willing I will force you no further."
Elizabeth went livid with her fear. She was only a little afraid of the act itself, having heard much both good and bad about it and seen every variety of domestic animal mate. What terrified her into near paralysis was the fact that she was willing—at least her body was willing. Her mind cried out that once she showed that willingness she would be only one more body. She would be Elizabeth no longer, no longer the companion whom a man could ask about the thoughts and temper of the queen, only another breeder of young who warmed a man's bed. Worst of all, though, was the little whisper that ran under all the thoughts telling her that the struggle was useless for once she gave in she would like it better so.
While she was frozen immovable between her strong will and her stronger craving, she lost the time in which she could have acted. Hereford pulled her hard against him, her back to his chest so that he could hold her, caress her, and press himself against her all at once. It was, perhaps, not the usual way to hold a woman, but to Roger of Hereford love was a fine art and he was not content with the usual. As long as he held Elizabeth thus, every sensitive part of her body was open to his hands while against her buttocks rose the insistent demand of his manhood.
Her lips alone he could not reach, but her lips were given often to her father, her brothers, and even for courtesy to favored male guests. He had accessible areas that were most unlikely to have been touched by other mouths, her throat, her shoulders if he could open her tunic, her ears, and the little spot just under and behind the ear lobe that had brought shudders and sighs from more women than Hereford cared to remember.
He had won many reluctant females to his will, from terrified serfs to previously faithful wives, and he was familiar with the rigid resistance that melted into uncontrollable trembling or helpless weakness. He knew too just the stage at which the trembling or weakness would change to voluptuous moans of acquiescence, only it had all been a game to Hereford previously and now he was in earnest. If by some chance he brought a woman so far in the past and she still rejected him, he might have been a little piqued but he had always known that any other woman would do just as well. Now the contrary was true; there was no substitute in the world, for him, who could take Elizabeth's place, and his recognition of that fact made him clumsy. His hands were not quite as sure as usual—he himself was trembling—and when he had brought her almost to the point of yielding his urgency robbed him of his controlled gentleness and he hurt her.
For some time Elizabeth had been leaning back against him without resistance, and he was no longer making any attempt to restrain her. He was unprepared, therefore, for the sudden desperate effort that tore her loose from his arms when that tiny, unexpected pain woke her from her sensual trance. The thrust carried her some three feet away and she faced him; both were panting, both trembling. Roger raged inwardly at his own stupidity. It was too soon for pain; that would come later when every aspect of gentler pleasure had been often savored. He moved slowly, cautiously, to his left to block the path to the door.
"Roger, do not—" Elizabeth faltered, with a pathetic attempt to keep her voice from openly pleading, "you said you would not force me."
"If you were unwilling! You cannot lie to me. I care not what your mouth says, your eyes, your hands, everything, tells me different. Elizabeth …" He came toward her, his gait a little stiff because he dared not move quickly for fear he would stampede her into flight. He could have rushed her; she would not run, now or ever, from him or anyone else.
"Perhaps you are right, Roger," she whispered, "but do not make me do this. Do not take my maidenhead from me before my wedding. Do not break my pride."
Pride, it was what he loved in her, what made her different from other women; he would not touch her pride. "Then tell me you are willing. Let me hear you say you love me and you want me and I will let you be. It is not easy for me to let you go—give me something."
What he asked of her was far more difficult, however, a greater blow to her pride than physical yielding. Unwittingly he had twisted a knife in a bleeding wound. Elizabeth's eyes were suddenly as alight as the golden flames leaping in the hearth.
"Yes, I am willing. Because I am sinful, because my will is not as strong as my lust, therefore I am willing. You will rule my body, I see it. No matter how I struggle, you always win because my lust answers yours. I cannot help it. Only remember that my soul is not willing, and when you have your desire of me the more eager I seem the more I will hate you, and myself, and the tie that binds us."
Hereford looked at her helplessly. "Elizabeth," he protested, "Elizabeth." But he was drained of strength and even of will, and he let her go, hurt more deeply than he realized himself.
CHAPTER 5
THE SIX DAYS THAT FOLLOWED WERE A NIGHTMARE TO ALL CONCERNED in what Lady Hereford silently referred to as "this unhappy match." The nightmare quality was intensified to the Earl of Hereford who was living a life split in two parts and who was temperamentally totally unsuited to it. With the majority of his guests he had to remain madcap Roger while all the time his mind was busy with treason and his soul was sick with the knowledge that it was treason he was engaged in.
From Elizabeth, who could have eased his burden greatly by carrying on many of the negotiations with the men of the court who knew her and trusted her of old, he was completely estranged. It seemed, on top of everything else, horribly appropriate that with his companions he should hunt and hunt, kill and kill, until even that passionate sportsman, Chester, when wakened to ride out in the dawn of the day before the wedding, groaned that he never wished to hunt again.
"This is not sport," Chester grumbled at table that morning, "we are no better than butchers cutting the throats of sheep."
And Hereford, sitting beside him with hanging head, too tired to eat, felt that Chester was predicting his future. That was what he was to come to, a butcher. First a butcher of animals for the table and then a butcher of men. Of the two, the first was more laudable for that at least had some clear purpose. Was he to spend his life thus, drenched in blood?
Crazed, he told himself when the thought first passed through his mind. You are crazed. What is a little blood? Always there was blood, hunting as a boy, fighting as a man. Why does it matter now? But he drove his uncomprehending sisters distracted with his demands to be washed and to have his clothes cleaned, ignoring their pleading that he release them to serve the multitude of guests who by now had arrived, and his squires cursed him with elaborate oaths as they labored every night far into the dark hours to clean his armor and hunting equipment.
Still the odor and feel of blood hung about him, and he felt like the little stuffed figures that the jongleurs sometimes amused them with, laughing and jesting with his guests as the dolls did, without reality. Stuffed with odds and ends of fleece and rags as they were too, witho
ut bones, he went moment by moment in dread that the soft stuffing would collapse leaving him in a shapeless heap.
That evening was the worst of all, and Elizabeth, hearing her lord's high-pitched, nervous laughter, had ample cause to regret her hasty words. She had been regretting them all week, blaming herself with clear insight for more than Hereford realized she was responsible. She had tried more than once to have a few private words with him, but although he was unceasingly kind, courteous, and painfully gay, he had avoided any personal conversation, and his eyes were like blue ice, clear and cold and fathomless. Elizabeth swallowed the tears that rose in her throat and looked down at her hands to hide her emotion from the women with whom she was sitting.
"Elizabeth," said the sharp voice of her stepmother, "Lady Hereford is speaking to you."
"I am sorry, madam, I did not hear."
A smile passed around the circle of women; Lady Hereford repeated her question, some unimportant query about Elizabeth's clothes for the morrow, which she answered without really being conscious of what she said. All she could hear was Hereford's laughter. She started as a small, warm hand touched her cold one and looked up to meet Lady Radnor's large, greenish eyes. For days she had dared meet no woman's eyes, for her behavior had been unnatural and the glances she met were so often filled with contempt, compassion, or jealousy that she had been hard put to control her tongue. Leah's eyes held nothing but warning, however, and Elizabeth focused on the conversation around her with a sense of urgency.
"She is nervous, poor thing," Lady Hereford was saying, and speaking with sincerity. She did not like Elizabeth and told herself, untruthfully, that she never would, but Roger's treatment was working. So many women did not like Elizabeth that Lady Hereford was forced to protect her to vindicate her son's choice, and that sense of protectiveness was unconsciously making a place for the girl in her heart. "Roger keeps talking about great doings in such a mysterious way that he has even made me quite nervous. It is no wonder if the girl is upset. What with pushing her into this sudden marriage and threatening to run away almost the moment it is consummated to—"
"Surely not, madam," Elizabeth intervened. "He has said nothing to me of leaving Hereford, except, of course, to make a tour of my dower lands. It is true"—she laughed self-consciously—"that his lordship was so kind as to offer to allow me to stay behind because of the dreadful weather, but I could not allow that and I will attend him."
Another series of glances and smiles passed around the circle. Apparently Hereford had no intention of giving up his loose way of living and was already seeking to make his shackles as light as possible, while Lady Elizabeth seemed equally determined to watch her prize closely. Elizabeth recognized what they thought, but she did not object to blackening her husband's character or making herself ridiculous in a good cause. Lady Leah's hand closed imperceptibly on hers. Elizabeth cast her brilliant eyes around the watching group, daring any comment, but Leah leaned a little closer and spoke, her soft voice lowered but clear enough to carry well.
"I think Lady Hereford is right though. My lord has also been restless since Lord Hereford has come home, and I know messages have traveled to and fro from our keep to Hereford."
"I do not think," Elizabeth replied stiffly, "that these are matters we should discuss."
Leah opened wide the innocent eyes of seventeen. "Surely we are among friends here. Lord Radnor is not one who allows me to know too much of his business."
Elizabeth resisted a sudden impulse to laugh in spite of the seriousness of Lady Hereford's slip and the desperate effort she was making to cover it, for a woman more closely in her husband's counsel and looking less like she might be was impossible. Leah was party to every thought and plan in Lord Radnor's head and was not unlikely to have put some of the ideas there.
"But," Leah’s childish voice continued, while an expression of happy vacuity played over the innocently pretty face, "I listen, and it seems to me—"
"Lady Radnor, I think you should not discuss what you hear talked of among your menfolk," Elizabeth interjected sharply, playing the game.
"Let the child speak," Lady Warwick said. "What she says will go no further."
Elizabeth looked acutely uncomfortable, as was necessary if anyone was to believe what Leah said. She herself could not make idiotic statements, she was well known to be in her father's counsel if not in her husband's, but she could give weight to Leah's wild remarks by pretending reluctance to allow her to make them. She blessed Lady Warwick, who was her senior by many years and at least her equal in social position, for providing the necessary opening which she could not with courtesy oppose.
"Well, I think that Hereford and my lord intend to settle a few old scores," Leah said, looking smug.
"Old scores?" Lady Warwick was, by virtue of her husband's association, at peace with King Stephen, but she always had an eye to the main chance and kept both ears open.
"Yes.” Leah nodded decisively. “The Earl of Shrewsbury caused both of them a great deal of trouble some years ago, and I believe they intend to make him pay for it. They know the king is powerless to stop them; they are too big for him. Also Shrewsbury has fallen out of favor, and—"
"Leah," Elizabeth interrupted again, "I never showed you my wedding dress. Perhaps you had better come and see it now since you will have to help me dress tomorrow."
"I would love to," Leah cried, getting up at once.
"But, Lady Radnor," the Countess of Warwick tried to hold the young woman, "do you not think—"
"You must pardon me, madam," Leah replied with a light-minded giggle, "I have been teasing Elizabeth to show me her things all day and she has been too occupied. I cannot forego this pleasure. I will return straightaway." They escaped. Leah's voice and expression changed at once. "Elizabeth, you had better go and tell Hereford to stop his mother's tongue. Good Lord, how can a woman of that age say such things! I will tell Cain what is going forward and what we have done so that he can drop similar hints among the men, and then I will go back and see what other bad fish I can cast along the trail." Elizabeth nodded and began to turn away. "Elizabeth," Leah said, detaining her, but with averted eyes, "Roger looks horrid and you look unhappy. If I can help you in some way, I beg you will allow me that favor."
Elizabeth shook her head and murmured her thanks. The bed she had made, she would sleep in without complaint. She found Hereford without trouble in a group of gambling men.
"Roger, I must speak with you," She could see the muscles bunch in his jaw as the teeth set together.
"Just now?"
"Please."
"Very well. You must pardon me," he said to his companions, "if this lady speaks, I must obey." He followed her docilely into his own room but stopped a few feet past the door and spoke in a rigidly polite voice. "How may I serve you, madam?"
"You are not going to like what I have to say, but it is more important that you act upon it than like it."
"Elizabeth, if you have any sense, do not now tell me that we are making a mistake and you do not choose to have me. I will not argue with you, and I will marry you even, as I have said before, if I must drag you to the altar by the hair."
She bit her lip. "I am not that much a fool. This is something far different. Roger, your mother is telling a whole group of women that you have been talking mysteriously of great plans. Leah and I turned it so that it would seem that you plan to attack Shrewsbury, but if she begins to speak of your having met Gloucester—"
"Women!" Hereford groaned. "She loves me more than her life, she says, yet she will get me hanged. I wish she loved me less and thought a little more. Who was there?"
Pressing a hand to her lips, Elizabeth looked away. In a quieter way than Hereford, she was equally unstrung, and little things loomed as large as mountains. "I am sorry, Roger," she faltered, almost sobbing, "I have failed you in this. I know I should have paid attention, but I did not. I do not know. My stepmother was there, and Lady Warwick, and Lady Lancaster." She covere
d her face with her hands. "There were others, five or six, but I do not know. I was not thinking or listening. Your mother must have said other things too, because Lady Leah drew my attention. I am sorry, I was thinking of other things."
"So you might. Do not be so troubled about so little. I can do nothing now in any case. To call her away would but make her words of more note. Tomorrow I—I will see what I can do."
His voice slipped off into indefiniteness and Elizabeth spoke impulsively. "Go to bed, Roger. You are pale and cold as death." To that he made no reply, almost seeming not to have heard; she went and grasped his wrist as he started to return to the main hall. "Roger, you are asleep on your feet. Have some sense—go and lie down."
"It does no good," he answered dully after a slight pause. "I am so tormented—"
He stopped. There was no need to load his problems onto Elizabeth's shoulders; she had troubles enough of her own. Without meaning to, once again he hurt her for she took the remark as a deserved reproach to herself instead of a general comment. She flushed painfully; Elizabeth did not like to apologize but she knew she had been wrong to speak as she had and this was her first opportunity to try to redeem herself.
"If those words said in haste and shame hurt you, Roger, I am sorry. You know I often say things I should not. Nonetheless, it is your own fault," she added, quickly reverting to a more natural imperative tone, "I have tried all week to tell you this, and you would not listen. I swear," she cried, her voice rising, "if you have suffered you have deserved it for your stubbornness."
Hereford's face started to come alive then; he covered her hand, which still held his wrist, with his own. He would not for anything disabuse her of the notion that she was the single cause of his unhappiness although it was not completely true. One of the surest roads to a woman's love was that she should believe that the man loved her beyond anything else. Hereford had been greatly distressed by Elizabeth's reaction to his love-making, but he knew enough about women, when he was calm enough to consider the situation objectively, not to be hopeless of winning her or alarmed by the violence of her words.
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