Knight's Honor

by Roberta Gellis

  Elizabeth did not wish to move and murmured that Roger should drop the curtains. She wanted to remain in the warn dimness, savoring this new total release of physical tension, recalling the piercing pain-pleasure of her new experience. To Roger, of course, the sensation was not at all new and not in the least remarkable. Nonetheless, under ordinary circumstances he would have been happy to lie with her, teasing, caressing, possibly even renewing the pleasure. Instead he turned back quickly.

  "Nay, love, I know what you would like, but this is not the hour for it." He smiled kindly, but there was sufficient firmness in his voice to admit of no argument. "Up, vassal, I have work for you."

  "Do not give me labor greater than my strength, Roger."

  "I know no limit to your strength when you will exert it. I can only give you the task I need you to do. Will the men of your dower lands obey you—even in matters of war?"

  "I believe so." Elizabeth was now frowning. Surely Roger could not be mad enough to plan to use her as a fighting captain. It was true she knew a great deal about tactics, and there were women who had donned armor and gone to war, but both her knowledge of tactics and their actions had always been in matters of defense when their husbands were gone. To plan to use her offensively, however, would be so great a blow to his prestige that she could not, not for all the vassalage in the world nor all the love in the world, permit him to carry through such an idea. Very soon it became apparent that that was not Roger's intention, and Elizabeth relaxed and listened attentively.

  "I will recall your men from the south, at least the mounted troops. Unless the fighting and losses have been heavier than I expected, that will give you near seven hundred tried men. With that force you should be safe to travel anywhere. After Henry and I go south, you will ride north to find your father. We parted with no great love, so that I cannot tell you exactly where he will be. You must keep him steady to us, Elizabeth. Or, if not steady, at least you must keep him from joining Stephen, or, even more important, from coming south. I care little enough what he does in the north so long as he does not hinder our work. Do you understand what I want? Can you do it?"

  "Can I?” Elizabeth shook her head. “I do not know. Often I can bend him to my will, but sometimes I believe the devil enters his soul. Then no one can move him. It depends a little on what has taken place since you parted. I will do my best, Roger, but I tell you this—for all the duty I owe you, and all the love I bear you, I will not even try to stop him by force, not my father."

  "I do not expect that, nor, I believe, could you make your men go against him who has so long led them, but I do expect that you will send me word if you fail to hold him. Write to Devizes, always. They will know where to send your message farther."

  "You would not fight him, would you, Roger?" Elizabeth pleaded.

  Hereford set his jaw. "I do not know. I love him also, Elizabeth, but what I have sworn, I have sworn. If you do not wish to be ripped apart between us, you had best not fail. Let me be now, I must write and that is never easy for me."

  After one brief effort to keep Elizabeth away from Henry, Roger gave up. Henry flirted disgracefully with her during the few days that they remained at Hereford, Elizabeth naughtily aiding and abetting him. Nonetheless after Hereford's initial resistance Henry could not succeed in getting much reaction from him. For one thing, having conquered his wife's sexual reserve, Roger was much more sure of her and for another he was fully occupied.

  Hereford, unable to do two and three things at once, as Henry could, was preoccupied with military matters and scarcely saw his overlord, even when they sat side by side, unless he was conferring with him. It was a mark of Henry of Anjou's real brilliance as a leader and Hereford's grim application to duty that they just about kept pace with each other, Henry grasping instantly the possibilities and leaping to the conclusions that Hereford labored hours over.

  They were now in perfect agreement; Henry had learned that however skilled he was at sizing up terrain and arraying his battle order, Hereford better understood the reliability of the forces and the temper of the people through experience. Tactically Hereford generally bowed to Henry's decisions, but if Hereford said a certain plan of action could not be successful and gave his reasons, Henry did not argue.

  Elizabeth's dark, glossy head lifted away from Henry's abruptly as her husband came from another part of the chamber and spoke. "We can do no more here, my lord. The next step is to perform what we have planned."

  "I thought you wanted to wait until you heard from your brother," Henry said.

  "I did, but Walter is not a reliable correspondent."

  Hereford did not say that he also thought Walter was an unreliable ally and, not having beard from him, was most anxious to return to the scene of action personally. He was also disturbed at not having heard from Gloucester. It was possible that after the news of the fiasco at York had reached that squeamish duke, he was again hesitating about committing himself fully to Henry's cause by leaving the court to join the rebel forces. Hereford did not wish to find the city of Gloucester closed against them and said so, proposing that they ride directly there on the morrow. Depending upon the news they were able to obtain in that city, they could move east to Shrivenham or south to Devizes.

  Henry shrugged and agreed readily. "Only I am a little tired of this tour of England. When do we see some action?"

  "We go for that purpose, my lord, not to tour. If Walter has taken Shrivenham, we should try for Faringdon. That taken, we have the south blocked off from Oxford, which is a favorite stronghold of Eustace. He will not stay long away when he has the news of what we are about, if he be not there already. If we are agreed, then, I will go to give the orders."

  "We will not have time to finish our game, Lady Elizabeth," Henry said to her when Hereford was gone. Henry played chess well, but so did his hostess, and they had been involved in a very protracted struggle which showed no sign of an early termination.

  "I am sorry for it, but I will mark the places and then, when you come again, we may go on."

  "You seem less distressed at this parting than at the one at Chester. Do you have no fears for your husband's safety?"

  "Roger's safety? No, he bears a charmed life." Elizabeth's calm manner and fathomless golden eyes gave no clue to her inner tremors. It was never safe to display an emotional attachment that might be turned into a weapon against one. Presumably there would never be a reason to fear Henry's knowledge, but Elizabeth firmly believed that the less anyone knew about her, the better off she would be.

  "Does he too believe that?"

  Henry wondered whether Elizabeth knew what was troubling her husband. He did not expect to learn anything from her; indeed, she had not dropped a single piece of information relative to her husband or herself in all the talk they had shared, but there was no harm in trying.

  "I have no idea. Certainly he never says anything to show that he worries about himself."

  Henry laughed. "Lady Elizabeth, if I asked you what color hose your husband planned to wear tomorrow, would you put me off with equally literal truthfulness?"

  "No doubt I should, my lord." Warm affection, admiration, and amusement lent additional color to her face and a leaping brilliance to her eyes. "After all, I should wonder why you wanted to know—and—not believe you if you told me. My lord," she added seriously, "it is no distrust of you that makes me thus. So would I reply to my own father, who I know loves Roger tenderly." And with more cause, Henry thought, but did not interrupt her. "It is a woman's only defense, not to trust."

  It was true, however, that Elizabeth was parting with Roger far more easily this time, and doing so even though she now acknowledged that she loved him more than life. In fact she loved him so much that she could hardly manage to speak about him or use his name. Every time she thought of her husband these days her bowels stirred and a strange soft pain under her breasts made it very hard to breathe. Her fears for his personal safety were greater under the circumstances, but now she
could face those fears with resolution.

  Several factors contributed to her equanimity. Roger's renewed trust in her had reestablished to a great extent her faith in herself. Her sexual satisfaction, established and repeated so that she had confidence in her ability to give and receive that pleasure at will, removed an immense core of frustration and unhappiness that Elizabeth had not known to exist until its weight was lifted from her soul. Moreover she had discovered that, yielding this, she had gained everything and lost nothing, so that she was sure that the more she gave Roger throughout her life the more he would give her of trust and confidence in return. Most important of all, however, was that she knew she would not need to sit still in fear and ignorance, waiting, waiting.

  She was afraid for him, so afraid that after their passion was spent that night she crept back into Roger's arms and kept him awake a full hour with demands to be fondled. It might be the last time, she kept telling herself, fighting sleep, the last time. It might be the last time, and Elizabeth was determined to savor it to the full, but though she feared for Roger she was not afraid of the future anymore. If her husband were killed, her heart would be torn apart, but her life would not be broken. She no longer felt weak or defenseless or wondered what would become of her.

  If God were good and she had conceived a child—Elizabeth stopped at that thought and smiled, she had never considered having Roger's child before, not seriously considered it with pleasure. Well, if she did, she could hold the lands for that child against all comers, of that she was sure. If there was no child, there were many other paths to follow. One thing was certain, however, if Roger was not there to give her orders, she would take them from no one else. To her mind there was not a man in England who was his match, and she would have no other.

  On the morning of their separation, the Earl of Hereford seemed more distressed than his wife. He was plainly reluctant to leave the room where Elizabeth had helped him dress and arm, and he paced about giving her detailed instructions about what route to take north and what to do in all possible and impossible situations. Again and again he looked toward the spire of the church in Hereford, bitterly regretting Alan of Evesham's death. One part of him knew that Elizabeth was strong and capable, another part cried out that she was a woman and he loved her and was deliberately sending her into danger.

  "For God's sake, Elizabeth, be careful. Be cautious even if caution will make you lose your point. Do not be afraid or ashamed to run away. I will have no word of blame to say to you. Above all, do not fail to send a courier daily—every day, without fail from wherever you are—even if you have nothing to tell me." He lifted her heavy braids and kissed them.

  "I will not fail in that, if you desire it, but you should not count too much upon it. Many things may happen to a single rider over the distance that will be between us. You know I will be safe once I find my father, and so many couriers will deplete my men."

  "A single man, changing horses, should not take above three to five days to find me, and I will send him back again once he is rested. That will mean that no more than twenty or thirty riders will be needed. I do not wish ever again to feel the terror of not knowing where to look for you. You have no doubts as to what you are to do?"

  "No. I am to keep my father in the north and against the king if possible. You …" she hesitated, studying Roger's face. He had aged ten years, no twenty, in the past months and even after several days of rest showed silvery shadows below his cheek bones and mauve-ringed eyes. "You will be careful too, will you not?"

  "As careful as duty and honor permit. Our cases are not the same, Elizabeth. Well, that is all, I think. Have courage …” he hesitated and smiled. “But not too much, dear heart."

  CHAPTER 16

  ELIZABETH HEREFORD TOOK ONE LAST LOOK AT HERSELF IN THE MIRROR and smiled at what she saw. Her heavy braids were looped up and pinned as close as possible to her head; the russet homespun tunic and bliaut she wore were nothing like her usual luxurious garments and in no way flattered her dark skin, which looked rather sallow. She removed her earrings and added them to the rest of her jewelry in the coffer before her, then began to tug at her betrothal ring. It resisted her first effort to take it off and Elizabeth desisted, suddenly pushing it back over the knuckle of her finger with an odd sinking sensation. Not that. She would not remove that, ever. She turned the stone in toward her palm and pulled her riding gloves over it. With her hood up, she might easily be taken for a boy of no high degree.

  Her last act at Hereford Castle was to seal her note to Roger and give instructions to the messenger. She had said her good-bys to Lady Hereford, Catherine, and Roger's daughters the evening before and would not repeat them now. There was nothing left to do and nothing left to linger for. Without a backward glance or a backward thought, for with Roger gone there was nothing dear enough to bind her to Hereford, Elizabeth mounted her mare in the courtyard and ordered her troop northward.

  Knowing her father's habit of indecision, Elizabeth had decided to move as quickly as possible to Yorkshire. It was very likely that Chester was still there, unable to decide whether to make overtures to Stephen or attack his forces. She had already sent out foreriders to Chester Castle who had instructions to meet her near Winsford in case her father had gone home, but she wished to pass well east of Shrewsbury to avoid danger and because the roads were better in England than in Wales. Roger would approve of that, she thought with satisfaction, and did not realize how different her point of view had become since December.

  At the moment, however, Hereford had not a single thought to spare for his wife. He was about ten miles north of Bristol, vibrantly alive with the expectation of an early, easy, and unplanned end to the conflict. He and Henry found, when they arrived at Gloucester, that they had misjudged Earl William. That gentleman was not at all perturbed by the setback in the north and the only reason they had not heard from him was that they had outrun his messengers, who were still seeking them around York and Chester.

  Actually they had found William fuming because he had made a little plan of his own that seemed about to fall through because of their absence. He had expected them two or three days before—and had his couriers caught them they would have arrived in time—so that they could be at Dursley as he had informed Eustace they would be through a common confidant. Revealed, the simple plot made Henry and Hereford nod in agreement.

  Eustace had arrived in Gloucestershire according to his father's orders, and William had greeted him and readily given him the right to ride through the lands to seek for whatever he would. Then he had dropped the hint into ears he knew would carry the tale that the prize Eustace sought was at Dursley. He could not mention it to Eustace himself, he had murmured, because his father's friends still faithful to Henry's cause would kill him, and he was afraid.

  "And that is where you should be," Gloucester said in his silky petulant tones, ignoring the averted eyes of his listeners who were horrified to hear that a man had made such an admission to one whom he knew would carry the tale.

  Gloucester could barely stop himself from laughing at them, the proud fools. "We can only hope that you can beat out his foreriders and spies,” he went on, swallowing his contempt. “Bristol is already raised in expectation of your coming and a large force is ready and waiting at Almonersbury. Once Eustace is sure you are at Dursley you need only pretend to flee south to the greater security of Bristol. My men will not open the keep at Dursley but will say that you have gone on to Bristol. Eustace, God willing, will follow, young and hotheaded as he is, unless Rannulf of the South Riding can stop him. If you can lead him to Almonersbury, you will have him."

  "My dear William," Henry praised, flashing his most charming smile, "if we take him so easily, you will not be sorry."

  "If I thought I should be, I would not have made the plan, my lord," William replied smoothly. "Nor do I wish to seem inhospitable, but if you intend to be in time, you had better go."

  Mounted and riding, Henry asked again, "Is it
a trap?" And this time Hereford shrugged in reply, because he could not even guess what was in William's mind.

  Nonetheless, suspicious as it sounded, thus far everything had run smoothly. They had waited at Dursley almost until the van of Eustace's force was in sight and then slipped out about midnight with only the small force they had arrived with. They had refused the castellan's offer to augment their troop, partly because they did not wish to carry possible traitors with them, but also because it was possible that Eustace would stay and attack Dursley. In that case they felt that it would be unwise to reduce the number of defenders so much that the keep would be unable to hold out until they could return to protect it.

  William's spies had warned them well in advance of three separate ambushes set on the southward road and had led them safely around Eustace's men so that they had made contact with the army sent out from Bristol without difficulty. Any moment should bring their pursuers into sight. Hereford stroked the back of his purple and gold gauntlet with the bare fingers of his left hand, an unconscious nervous gesture. Even Henry's tongue was stilled as they listened.

  At last there was the dull thunder of hundreds of horses coming at a quick walk. Hereford's breath quickened, his mouth set hard into the cold, merciless smile he wore when fighting, and his eyes brightened to a pale, burning blue as he drew on his left gauntlet, tightened his helm, and fixed his shield. A low-toned order brought William Beauchamp close up behind his master to receive whispered orders, which he transmitted.