Walter stopped and turned to face his brother squarely, striving to see his expression in the dark. "What difference can that make to you?"
"If it makes no difference, answer my question—if you please."
"How polite you are grown."
"Am I by custom so rude?" Hereford asked in a smothered voice.
"I do not believe you have ever used those words to me before. For them, then, not for loveyou do not know the man, though he knew you, but his name was Red Olaf the Scot. Now are you the wiser?"
"Ay, I am the wiser and the sorrier too."
The anguish of guilt was so clear in Hereford's voice that Walter was startled, the more so as neither answer nor emotion made any sense to him. He had always been unaware, and always would be, of Roger's unease in dealing with him, because uncertainty was the one emotion that his brother had learned to mask completely. Walter noticed only the positive aggressiveness or condescending kindness with which Roger covered his sense of failure, and now he put down his brother's pain to hurt pride.
"Sorry? So you should be. The all-wise Hereford has made a mistake, and who must pull him out but the brother who can do nothing right. Nay, if you offered me the crown for the information I have I would not take it. I desire only that you know yourself for a fool and the satisfaction of hearing you beg me for the whereabouts of your lady."
"Your price is too low. I would beg on my knees the whereabouts of Elizabeth from the merest stranger—to you, Walter, I owe more, for I have wronged you and you are my brother. Will it ease your heart to see me on my knees, Walter?" Hereford took his brother's hand preparatory to kissing it as he kneeled, but Walter jerked away nearly oversetting them both with his violence.
"You make me sick," he stuttered, and although it was the literal truth he realized that there was something wrong. He should have been enjoying his triumph or have been filled with contempt; instead he felt frightened, as if he were about to lose something of importance, something without which he could not continue to live. "Nay," he added hurriedly, "if the woman means so much to you as that— She is at Nottingham. Peverel has her."
Instead of thanking him, or for that matter cursing him and turning away, to Walter's amazement, Hereford made a sick sound and staggered. The younger brother caught the elder in an unkind but steadying grip. "What ails you, Roger? At least she is not yet in Stephen's hands. It could be worse."
"No," Hereford groaned, "no, it could not." And then, without thinking, racked for the first time by a real fear for Elizabeth's personal safety instead of the political danger to himself, he poured out the tale of her relationship with the Constable of Nottingham.
Walter listened without a sound, keeping his grip on his brother's arm. At last out of a stunned silence that had endured for several minutes after Hereford had stopped speaking, he said uncertainly, "He would not dare touch her. Not Hereford's wife." And there was no mockery in his use of the name then. "Have sense, Roger, he means only to give her to the king, for what could hurt you more?"
Hereford shuddered and made a defeated gesture. "I fear that it is not me that he wishes to hurt. Mary shield her—oh, my Elizabeth, my Elizabeth," he cried remorsefully. He had been so angry through all the long hours of the ride, dwelling with increasing rage upon the disaster that her thoughtlessness might bring upon him that he had not spared a thought for her fear or danger.
Tightening his already excruciating grip, Walter growled impatiently. "Brace up, man. Call your men and let us go. If this tale of yours is true—nay, he could mean no such insult I am sure, for he must know that to lay a hand upon her would be to write his death warrant—still, the sooner we wrest her from his grip the less the chance of trouble."
Hereford shook his head. "My men can go no further, Walter. Certainly not to assault Nottingham. We came from Devizes last night and we have ridden without rest since three hours before dawn."
"Fool! Fool again. Did you not trust my word—but no, I know you did not. I sent Red Olaf to you four days since, but you are so wise, you needed to believe me a liar and send to Hereford—"
"No, Walter. Your messenger never came. Do you not see that that is how I came to think—God forgive me—that you …"
"Never came! Then how did you know to come here? Where were you going?"
"One man of mine escaped and made his way to me. He knew no more than that they were set upon past Kettering, and I was going there to harrow the countryside until I found a man who could tell me who had taken my wife."
"What could have come to Olaf? He was as hard and trusty—never mind. It is true, however, that if your men have come from Devizes they will never win to Nottingham this night. So be it. I will go. I have five hundred armed men, fresh and ready. We will wake the Constable of Nottingham early. I will knock on the gate in such a way that he is not like to forget that Hereford will not be trifled with."
"Walter!"
"What now?" Hereford's face was invisible, but Walter stiffened at the familiar imperiousness of the tone. "Do not fear, the price for my service will not be too high," he sneered.
"If you do not have a care what you are about it may well be too high for me to pay. I will not pretend that I do not hold the woman very dear, but not so dear that for a day's more time I would sell my brother's life. You also are dear to me, and five hundred men will not take Nottingham Castle."
"I am no child to be thus chidden."
"Walter, if my tone was sharp, you must pardon me. I am so weary I can barely think. I do not mean to chide. You have done me a great kindness and are offering more—"
"You mistake me. I had no mind to do you a kindness. You are ever telling me I smirch the name of Hereford—well, if I do it is my own name and my own affair, but no man else will hold it lightly while I live or insult those under its protection. Take not unto yourself what I do for my own pride's sake."
"Whatever your reason, your actions have been kind, and I will take it for kindness. I have great need of kindness from you, Walter."
"You," the younger brother vented an ugly, jeering laugh, "you have need of nothing—you are perfect; beautiful of face, faithful of word, rich—let me go or I will lose my temper and not go at all."
He left Hereford standing in the road, and a few minutes later his troop thundered by, headed north. Roger returned slowly and gave orders that the men move off the road and make camp. They could rest until dawn, after which they would ride to the assault of Nottingham. He told Lord Radnor briefly that Elizabeth was held by Lord Peverel, knowing that the fact that Peverel was a king’s man would be sufficient explanation, and wrapped himself in his furred cloak to pretend sleep and escape discussion.
Lady Elizabeth was not asleep either. She had, indeed, slept very little since she had been taken six days previously, but it was not because she was frightened. She was only tormented by guilt. There was little doubt in her mind that she could hold Peverel at bay, and no doubt at all that Roger would come to her aid as soon as he knew where to go, but she was sick with the thought of what her freedom would cost him either in money or in men and time. Hour after hour, day after day, like a squirrel in a cage her mind circled seeking the smallest possibility of escape.
The first two days of her imprisonment had been horrible, for Peverel was not at Nottingham and the men had cast her into a foul den. She had been well fed but cold and uncomfortable, and she could hear nearby the groans of the wounded and dying men-at-arms that Hereford had sent to protect her without being able to give them aid or comfort. When Peverel had returned, she had been moved to much more comfortable quarters, though just as closely guarded. Personally, thus far, she had been treated with every courtesy, but when she had unbent from the attitude of scornful anger she had maintained so far as to ask politely that the men be eased, Peverel had laughed in her face.
Her women, also, had not fared overly well. They were with her now, but they had been brutally misused, first by de Caldoet, the captain of the group that had taken them, for h
e had the distorted nature which took pleasure only in unwilling women. When he was finished, he had cast them to his men. Peverel had finally returned them to her, but they were helpless and terrified still and Elizabeth knew that they would be of no assistance if she found a way to win free. She still hoped, but more and more faintly. She had no jewelry with which to bribe the guards, all had been taken from her. Nor did Peverel allow the same man to bring her food or mount guard for more than one day at a time. He in no way underestimated Elizabeth's cleverness or beauty. She did not even know where her men were being held with relation to her own prison, for she had been blindfolded and carried to her new quarters. All that she knew was that she was in a tower room and that it was an inner tower of the keep since each of the three arrow-slits showed only inner courts and gray stone walls.
A key grated in the lock, but Elizabeth did not look up. Peverel again, no doubt. Hands folded in her lap, her eyes upon them, she remained outwardly unaware of his presence.
"Good even, Lady Hereford."
No reply.
"Are you comfortable, my lady? Is there aught I can do for you?"
No reply.
"You do not ease your situation by this sullenness. Much might be gained by a little courtesy, Elizabeth."
She raised her eyes. "I will give you thanks if you will not foul my name with your tongue."
"You are not at all wise, madam," Lord Peverel snarled. "Do you not realize you are totally at my mercy? If I were you, I would mind my manners."
Elizabeth laughed and looked insolently up and down her captor. "If you were me, I would be groveling on the floor craving mercy, but I am not a miserable wretch who preys on women. Nonetheless, you have some merit for you have begun a good work. Men who have no quarrel with the king will rally to my husband to punish one who has unjustly and without provocation taken his wife prisoner. You, no doubt, will call on the king for help. Then will the battle be truly joined. And, if you do not call for help, how long will you endure against the might of Hereford, Chester, Lincoln, Gaunt— Will you have me go on and list the names of those welded to Hereford and myself by blood and love?"
"You have said all this before, madam."
Ay, Elizabeth thought, and I shall say it again, for each time I do your face grows more uneasy.
"But you do not say how the Earl of Hereford will know where to find you. You know that every man who was not slain outright was taken prisoner."
Elizabeth wondered too, because although Roger would soon know, if he did not already, that she was missing, how he was to tell that she had gone east instead of west she could not guess. She did not allow the doubt to show in her face, however. The smallest sign of weakness would be the key that unlocked all of Peverel's malice, now held in check by the fears engendered by her calm and scornful manner.
"Doubtless when he does not hear that I have arrived safe at my destination he will follow my road to make inquiries."
"And what was your destination?"
For a brief flash Elizabeth felt as if she were merely having a bad dream, so often had they been over this conversation. "That is my affair," she answered, as if by rote.
"See here, Elizabeth, let us have done with this dicing. I have come here one last time. If you will be reasonable, I myself will send to your husband and he can have you—for a price. I know you think I am an enemy to you, but it is not so. I am very fond of you, very fond indeed. You can make all easy—"
He came closer, and Elizabeth drew back into her chair although her eyes held his.
"You have no choice anyway. If you are willing, I will sell you to Hereford; if you are not—" he laughed, but it was an ugly sound, "I will have my will of you anyway and then I will sell you to the king."
He was leaning over her then, and Elizabeth spat full in his face. Startled for the moment, Peverel stepped back and she had a split second's time to leap to the wall and seize a flaming torch.
"Back, cur, before I singe you. Have your will of me?" Elizabeth laughed too, on the border of hysteria, "You will need help for that. Go call your men and bid them take and bind me. Show yourself in your true light—so weak, so foul, such a craven coward that one feeble woman, alone and helpless, a prisoner in your keep can hold you at bay. Back, I say, I will set your clothes alight and give you a foretaste of what you will come to in the hereafter."
For a while Peverel merely gasped with fury. He would have killed her then, could he have got at her, but he soon recovered. Self-interest ruled even his lust and he knew without being told that Elizabeth was of the kind who would gladly destroy herself to gain revenge. He had thought that a week's isolation without hope would frighten her enough to make her yield to win her freedom. Had her spirit broken, she would have held her tongue to protect herself. As it was, if he forced her she would not be still. She would cry aloud to the world what he had done and sooner or later, whether he recovered her or not, Hereford would hear. Peverel was brave enough for the ordinary chances of war and life but not brave enough to face the thought of the relentless quest that would be sparked by that insult. He had known Miles of Hereford, and it was plain that his fierce pride burned in the spirits of his sons. Even if Roger of Hereford did not care for his wife, the infamous act he had planned could not go unavenged. Peverel felt himself go cold. Even now he had gone further than was safe, perhaps. If Hereford took him, it would not be for ransom or to kill. Death would be a thing to pray for and plead for. There was no other way to be safe in this but to be rid of the woman. For a moment Peverel coldly considered killing her, but that would not help, for it was known in Kettering that his troops had been there shortly after Hereford's men passed through. He could not muzzle the whole town. His greatest safety and profit would lie in sending her to the king at once with no dickering over price. Then if Hereford came he could deny that she was there, even open the keep to him and allow him to search. He would have to admit that his men had taken her, but he could truly say he was not at home at the time and that they had carried her direct to the king.
Elizabeth was doubly fortunate that Peverel did not know that she had told her husband of his earlier attempts on her or that Hereford really had no idea of her destination. His knowledge of either of those two facts would have been her death warrant for the first would have pushed Peverel’s fear past the point of reason and the second would have given him a great although erroneous security.
"Very well, madam, have it your own way. Plainly my desire had blinded me temporarily to your need for chastening, but your torch has shown me the light. At dawn tomorrow you will be taken to the king and queen. No doubt your husband will rejoice greatly to hear of your safety. No doubt his joy will be such that he will be happy to have you as hostage for his loyal behavior to King Stephen."
Elizabeth gasped and went white. Not for an instant had she thought that Peverel would yield his prize to another, at least not without force or long bargaining. The torch trembled for the first time in her grip and her eyes stung with tears. For a moment she was so shocked and terrified that she considered casting away her weapon and yielding. Anything seemed better than knowing that she—out of pure spite—had brought disaster upon all of her husband's plans and dreams.
She was never given the opportunity, and even if she had acted Peverel would not have accepted her offer now. Her terror had salved his pride, and he suddenly saw that sending her to Stephen without asking a price for her would be a triple act of genius. Not only Hereford but Chester too could be controlled if Elizabeth were in Stephen's grip, and he, who had put this power into the king's hand, would be raised higher than ever in the royal estimation. High enough, very likely, for an earldom of his own. Peverel laughed all the way back to his quarters, thinking of Hereford and Chester dancing on a chain which he could twitch as he liked.
He lay in the dark somewhat later that night, remembering Elizabeth's blanched face and terror-filled eyes. It was not any man, he told himself, who could make Elizabeth Hereford tremble, and his
ego was such that he never realized that it was not Peverel Elizabeth feared but Hereford.
Another man was seeing Elizabeth Hereford's face that night, not as it was then but as it had been a week since. Alan of Evesham, temporarily free of the fever which had been consuming him, cast his mind back to the orders given by her ladyship that dawn. He tried to remember every word she had used, every expression on her face, seeking for a clue that would indicate whether Lord Hereford knew of their destination. It was useless. It had been too long ago and he was not, at the time, paying close enough attention. One of them had to get out. One man must win free to his lordship even if it cost the lives of all the rest, for he had news thrown at him by a guard when he asked about her ladyship's welfare that sometime very soon she would be transported elsewhere. That was the moment to strike. No matter how large the force traveling with her, it would be easier to overwhelm them in the open than to take Nottingham keep, and once gone from Nottingham, God alone knew where they would hide her.
If Lord Hereford did not know where his lady was and was searching to the north, a man might bring him in time to strike down the party moving her; if he did know, then someone must warn him not to strike and not to make his presence known for a day or two. Alan of Evesham closed his eyes, and tears of weakness, pain, and despair ran down his face. It was such a tiny, tiny hope, so far away. How was a man to get free? All were wounded and even those who had been lightly hurt were now much weakened by near starvation and the effects of the filth and vermin of their prison. If one was to go, which one? He could not; he tried again to move and groaned aloud. He did not even know who of his men were left to him, or where to tell a man to seek his lordship except at Devizes; and, if Lord Hereford were at Devizes still, he could not come in time or, if he were in the district prepared for battle, it was too late to hide his presence and Peverel would not dare send her ladyship forth.
Knight's Honor Page 20
