Roger had been coldly polite and very angry, not asking any questions or even giving her a chance to explain her actions in the two days they had all spent at Chester. Even his love-making had been cursory, an act to satisfy his own need with no regard for hers, unprecedented behavior in Roger that had reduced her to mute terror.
In the last few hours he had become somewhat gentler, and Elizabeth's oppression had lifted sufficiently to permit her to help him dress and arm. She lingered about her duties, in fact, knowing that it might be many months before she saw him again, until he snatched his belt from her hands in impatience. She watched him belt his surcoat—the same belt he had tried to remove to beat her with, and reach for his sword belt. Suddenly she thought it might be more than months before she saw Roger again; he might never return.
"Roger."
"Yes?"
"Roger, I have asked you nothing of your plans. I know too that you are angry, but—"
"Please, Elizabeth.” Hereford interrupted, “I have not the time—nor, in truth, the desire—for excuses or recriminations. Let us part as pleasantly as we may."
"You must listen. I will be brief for I have no excuses to offer and no recriminations to make. I only wish to ask you …" she hesitated and bit her lip.
Hereford turned away impatiently, eager only to end an interlude he had found uninterruptedly painful, and Elizabeth caught his sleeve desperately. Her need was greater than her pride. Indeed, it looked very much as if she would soon have no pride at all where Roger was concerned.
"Roger,” she cried desperately, “I beg you, do not let me live week after week in fear. Write to me—even if it be no more than five words to say you are well. You do not know," she faltered, "you do not know how dreadful it is to do nothing but wait helplessly."
Hereford had started to pull away without replying, for he was still smoldering over her docility to, as he put it, everyone but himself, when the sick sensation he had lived with while Walter fought at Burford recurred to him. He swallowed; it was no light thing to live thus for weeks or months on end. That was a far bitterer punishment than any he had in mind for his erring Elizabeth.
"I will write." His wife looked strangely soft in the candlelight with her hair loose and a robe carelessly corded around her narrow waist. "Do not fret, Elizabeth, I will write everything I safely may to you. Shall I send here to Chester or to Hereford?"
"I had planned to ask Gaunt to send a force to take me home. He often has troops traveling to Rhos. It would not be far out of their way."
That was for his sake, and Roger had recognized it. He pulled her to him and kissed her, gently and gratefully.
"I have not been kind to you, Elizabeth. You are generous to seek to please me nonetheless. If I have been unjust, I am sorry. I will write to Hereford then every chance I have, but do not be troubled if time goes by and I am silent. We may have heavy work in the north. Always remember that if there is bad news, you will hear that most quickly of all."
The reminder was a small comfort, but time stretched before her in a vast empty track. Who cared who was king, Elizabeth thought suddenly. If Roger had been a little man of no account, this lovely spring and the coming summer would have been a time of joy. A time to hunt together, to hawk together, to stroll in the garden and pick flowers in the meadows.
Their greatest troubles would be the minor evil-doings of their serfs and the vagaries of the weather. Even the autumn and winter would be pleasant in their own way. Elizabeth could read tales by the fire, or together she and Roger could listen to the minstrels sing through the long evenings, then to seek the warmth and comfort of their bed—together. Elizabeth pulled back the bed curtains and prepared to rise. There was no warmth and little comfort in an empty bed.
Hereford leaned back against the bole of the tree behind him and yawned. They were making good time and should be at King David's court easily on the promised day. Then the knighting, then the fighting—all to the good. The quicker they were at it, the quicker it would be over, one way or the other. Chester and Henry had been in repulsively good spirits all the morning, and he might well have been too … except. Except for that nagging sensation he could not kill that the enterprise was doomed from the beginning. Nervously Hereford yawned again.
"Short on sleep, Roger?"
"A little, my lord."
Henry looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure that Chester was well out of hearing. "You have a charming wife—charming."
"When she wishes."
"Still turning on the coals, Roger?" Henry chortled. "I had not thought a man so hot with rage could be so cold with courtesy." To that Hereford made no reply and Henry waited with a rather birdlike air of expectancy that was odd in a man of his solid appearance. At last he gave up and spoke again. "You disappointed me. I had hoped for a little more warmth in your manner when you met us at Chester. It needs only a small spark to set her off, and I have never seen a woman to match your wife in a rage. Even my mother is nothing to it." Henry did not yet know that he was to marry a woman whose temper would make Elizabeth's rages seem like hymns of praise. He could still afford to laugh. Obviously Hereford was thinking that remark over.
"I am glad she afforded you amusement," he replied flatly.
A furrow appeared between Henry's brows. This was going a little too far. It was true that Hereford had said once that he loved his wife, but there had been so many other women he had professed love for with almost the same type of laugh. Almost, Henry thought suddenly, not quite the same. Now Henry was worried. Apparently this went deeper and Hereford was not concerned merely with his own honor but with his wife's feelings. It was ridiculous for Henry to protest that he had not touched Elizabeth. Plainly from his manner Hereford knew that. It would be no jest at all if Hereford were to remain in this temper over a woman, and Henry knew that, unlike himself, Hereford was capable of bearing a grudge for a very long time. A man whose heart harbors a grudge is a bad friend to have on the battlefield, even if his mind is loyal.
"I say, Roger, a jest is a jest, but our affairs are no laughing matter. If you are angry, say what is in your heart and be done. To carry such a burden is heavy work and grows heavier with time. You and I will have burdens enough without adding this load to our packs."
A jest, Hereford thought, it was a jest? I will teach him to jape thus with me. "I am sure you would do me no dishonor, my lord," he replied icily, "what then could burden my heart?"
"You are not sure at all, you great ass, although you should be. Nay, Roger, I do not pretend that your wife would be safe from me either because I love you or because you are my man. Nor do I make any promise for the future, but just now I would not treat the Virgin Herself with more respect. You hold the keys of my kingdom. Without you there is no gateway to my desire. You should know I would not throw away the chance of a throne for any woman, least of all for another man's wife who can bring me nothing."
Hereford had meant to hold out and give Henry a good lesson, which might prevent him from a similar form of amusement in the future, but he could not. Henry's candid appraisal of himself was totally disarming; Hereford had to laugh, and that heartily.
"I am not that much a fool,” he said. “If I thought you had smirched my honor, you and I could not be sitting here in talk. Although I made an oath to support your claim to the throne, I made none to refrain from personal quarrels with you. You know, my lord, I make no fuss over other women. As you yourself have said, we shared our whores in France, but this is a question of my wife. I have been so gay a dog in the past that many are waiting for her to set a step amiss so that they may crow. Elizabeth … Elizabeth is too proud to let me fear dishonor through her, but her manner might give rise to talk. I have no desire to set up as a laughingstock."
"Well, she is safe enough now, so bend your mind to your advancement and mine and leave off this brooding over nothing."
"What is there to think about? We go to Scotland to your knighting and mine." Hereford laughed again. "I
t comes a little late in our fighting careers I fear, but better late than not at all, I suppose. We will have time enough to think when that step is taken."
"Are you going to be like all the others—fight today with never a thought for the morrow? Wake up, man! Do you think that David is a fool? What will he want for what he offers? How much may I yield him?"
That opening was too good to resist. "That is easy,” Roger said, laughing. “From your view, 'too much' is what he will want and 'nothing with ease' is what you will yield." Hereford then sobered and shrugged. "I can be no help to you in this, my lord. I have never had acquaintance with your uncle nor am I wise in the problems of Scotland. Old Gaunt is a great loss in this matter. I know little of King David's character and less of the needs of his realm."
The problem needed to be faced, however, and even Hereford began to be concerned with it after a while. King David's greeting was so cordial, his welcome so magnificent, and his plans for the knighting so elaborate that Roger's relatively unsuspicious nature was aroused. He came to Henry's lodging late the night of their arrival, unceremoniously interrupting his overlord's amorous activities. Henry had been a little surprised, but not really annoyed. He did not dismiss the girl but suggested to Hereford that they walk out together.
"You know she is probably in David's pay and would listen” Henry said, but with good humor. “A large open space is best for talk such as ours."
"What does he want?"
"Nothing. He tells me it is for love and to honor the bond of our blood, his wife being my mother's sister."
"Do you believe that?"
Henry laughed silently. "He is a fool. Seeking to gain all, he will gain nothing. Because I am eighteen and he is past forty, he believes I am a child. Child! Was I ever a child?" he asked bitterly and then laughed again. "But he has done my work for me. He will fall into the pit of his own digging. A child I shall be to him. 'Yes, uncle,' 'You are wise, uncle,' 'So, if I can, I will do, uncle.'"
"And I?"
"My unwise councilor are you, my dear Roger. Have you not a reputation for hot-headedness and amorous dalliance? Indulge it. If David suggests something wise, oppose it. If he suggests something foolish, approve it … unless it be so silly as to be a trap. In a word, I wish him to believe that when I am set on the throne, he will rule England. Thus will I buy him at no cost."
"Henry …" Roger’s voice trailed off.
"Yes?" Henry questioned briskly.
Hereford swallowed his sickness. "He seeks his own advantage, it is true, but—"
"But?" A sharp interruption. There was a hardness and brittleness to the tone that Hereford had heard before.
"But he may do us good service. Is it fair to pay him back in false coin?"
"What will I do with you, Roger?” Henry was plainly exasperated, but there was a fond tone in his voice. “There is a time and place for honor. Are we dealt with honorably in intention? You are four years older than I and yet younger. Will you never learn the way of the world? Moreover, who says I shall pay in false coin? As he aids me against my enemies, so will I aid him against his when that power is mine. Is it false to deny him the whole when he has paid only for a small part?"
"No, but to allow him to believe—" Hereford stopped speaking abruptly.
Practically speaking Henry was right and he was wrong. There was no other way if they wanted David's wholehearted support. He would never make the effort they needed for the questionable benefit of armed support in some unspecified crisis in the future that might, after all, never arise. Only if he thought he could direct the actions and policies of the English king and perhaps siphon off a substantial portion of English gold or gain dominion over the northern provinces of England, gradually eating his way down to the rich midlands, would it be worth his while to set so much at stake.
"Roger, if you block me, or foul my game, I will not be pleased."
"Not by my will." Agreeing, Hereford's heart sank further. "But I am no great play-actor and no safe ally for you in this."
"You think I do not know you? Do your best. Doubtless the eyes will be on me so long as you do not try to change their direction."
The mild military activity of the next two weeks—the attack on some small strongholds of Stephen's in the north, largely to call attention to Henry's presence, was sufficient to occupy the minds of David and his courtiers; they saw nothing unusual in Hereford's alternating silences and bursts of gaiety. Henry could not avoid showing his true colors in these encounters because he judged it to be more important that all should praise his military wisdom and his valor.
Nor was the exposure of Henry’s cleverness in military matters very dangerous. It seemed reasonable enough that a young man might be a most valorous knight and effective soldier without being astute or certain in matters of state. Only Chester, the wily old fox, smiled and called his son-by-marriage aside to thank him again for his warning about pinning Henry down with written promises.
They were just preparing to begin the feasting before the knighting ceremony, and Roger's squires could cheerfully have murdered Chester for interrupting the lengthy process of dressing him. The Lord knew that his temper had grown steadily worse and worse and nothing exasperated him more than discussions while he was preparing for an important function these days.
"He nearly fooled me with that boyish good humor and the way he nods when you make a suggestion, but, praise God, I believed you, Roger, and made him sign. Now that I have seen him in action, however …” Chester hesitated and dropped his voice even lower. “Roger, are we doing the right thing?" Now he leaned forward to embrace Hereford and was speaking directly into his ear to frustrate eavesdroppers. "When this one mounts the throne, as you said, will ride us all, and I fear greatly that he will not spare the whip. We are tormented with unrest under Stephen, but under Henry we are like to be too quiet—like men in prison. Mayhap the ills we have will be less hard to bear, being ills of too much freedom, than those we will bring upon ourselves by this enterprise."
"Father, in God's name do not falter now." Hereford shuddered under his father-by-law's hands as a chill passed through him. Was this to be the desertion that would ruin them? "There is no path to return to Stephen's favor for either of us. Even if he were willing, we have too many enemies too close to his ear. For good or ill, Henry is our only hope."
"Are you sure, Roger?"
"Father," Hereford whispered desperately, "do not tear me apart. I have given my oath to support Henry, and you are bound in blood to me through Elizabeth. Do not make me choose between breaking my word and raising my hand against my blood kin. Oh, God, if you care not for me, think of Elizabeth's suffering. You will kill her."
"Oh, you need not trouble yourself about that. If you do not think with me, I will not involve you. If it is needful for me to change my plans, I will keep well out of your way. Whatever happens, we will not come to blows."
Chester patted Hereford's shoulders fondly as he left, but the young man was anything but comforted. He returned to the ministrations of his squires with a set expression, replying so absently to their questions that William Beauchamp lost patience.
"My lord, whatever greater problems you consider, will you kindly pay some mind to those lesser but more immediate ones that trouble me. Will you wear the blue or the green gown now?"
To Hereford, made hypersensitive with tension, everything had special meanings just then. Symbolically, blue was the color of truth, green the color of loyalty. Hereford looked from one gown to the other. Must he warn Henry of Chester's vacillation? Henry was suspicious enough. It would be a dreadful blow to Chester and one that he would never have dreamt would fall, for he trusted Hereford to keep their talk, which he regarded as personal, in confidence. Not tonight, at least, Hereford thought. Tonight after dinner they would bathe ceremonially and stand their knightly vigil. Hereford drew a deep breath. He would have time enough to think then for they would have to stand before the altar in the church from sunset to sunrise.
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"Green," he said finally. "Let me wear green."
Beauchamp looked at his master, for the phrase was peculiar. He had no time, however, to worry about Hereford's peculiarities just now. When he was rid of the trouble of dressing him, the clothing for the vigil had to be prepared, and the mail recleaned and checked for the jousting the next day. Somewhere also William planned to find time to enjoy the festivities. Hereford could stand on his head for all he cared. He had no time for discussions.
The feast was like all others. There was too much to eat and far too much to drink. If Roger of Hereford's gaiety was febrile, it passed easily without comment in that roaring place. The bath, taken just as dusk fell, was warm and scented and soothing, except that Chester attended his son-by-marriage, for whose knighting he was the sponsor. The vigil, to Hereford, was endless. The first few hours he spent moving restlessly from one foot to another, wrestling with his problem, but the more fatigued his body grew, the less clearly could he see any honest solution.
It was his duty to Henry to tell him Chester might defect; it was his duty to Chester to hold his tongue. His eyes rested on the steady flames of the votary candles on the altar, flames that were like two tiny, rosy hands cupped and lifted to pray. Hereford went down on his knees on the cold stone flags and sought prayers, but none of the ones he had been taught seemed suitable to his situation. He set his sword point down into a crack in the flags, holding it by the hilt, and leaned his forehead against the holy relics set in the pommel.
Now his mind kept drifting away from Chester to Chester’s daughter. Elizabeth would have loved the panoply and excitement and the honor done him in knighting him with Henry. It was too bad he could not chance bringing her, for his pleasure as well as her own, because he missed her. Not that he lacked for female companionship. Of that there was, if anything, too much, too willing, too often. Hereford had to smile.
Knight's Honor Page 33
