Knight's Honor

by Roberta Gellis

  "Dance," he said to the girl, "quick." And then focusing on her for a moment so that her terror penetrated to him, he smiled gently. "Have no fear, I will not hurt you. Dance."

  He did not hurt her, and as her confidence grew and more and more of her body was exposed without a prick she abandoned herself to the rhythm, hypnotized by her own movements and by the flashing blade. She did not even realize when Hereford won his wager and the last rag dropped from her, but continued to dance, the uncertain light gleaming on her fresh body, her high immature breasts and her rich rounded thighs moist with her exertion. A sensuous smile curved Hereford's mouth as he drank, watched, and drank more. Eventually the girl dropped and Hereford caught her. With his free hand he fumbled in his purse and drew two more golden coins, which he flung to the father.

  "My lord," the man cried, knowing when it was safe to speak, "she is a maid."

  Hereford shook his head at that and laughed. "Then you are fortunate in having a gentleman to pluck the bud."

  He was too wise, even drunk, to be taken, and besides he was too drunk to care what the girl was. Vaguely he thought that he would give her a few coins more or one of the many gold chains that decked his garments if it were true. Some days later he remembered that and wondered whether she had been a virgin and whether he had suitably rewarded her, but he could not recall what had happened, and it was a very unimportant incident in the rush of events that followed.

  These events were introduced in the most horrible way possible, by a hand roughly shaking a sore shoulder and a voice that pierced a much sorer head. "Roger, wake up!"

  "Go away," Hereford replied thickly, burying his head in the pillows.

  "Don't be a fool, Roger. Wake up. Devizes is under siege."

  Jerked upright by an involuntary reaction of his muscles, Hereford gasped, "What?" and then gagged as the excruciating pain in his head really gripped him.

  "I have had word, not ten minutes since."

  Henry was mercilessly pressing a parchment into his hand, and Hereford, controlling his nausea with a mighty effort, took it. Try as he would, however, the words would not come into focus until he closed one eye and turned his head sideways to squint at the message. There could be no doubt about it. The short, frantic note was more than an appeal, it was a demand for help, immediate help. Hereford dropped the letter and seized his aching head in both hands, groaning.

  "Pull yourself together," Henry said sharply, and then laughed in spite of his rage as Hereford painfully looked up at him.

  The brilliant sunlight was a torment, but there was some comfort in Henry's own haggard countenance, which gave evidence of a discomfort similar to his own. "Wine," was all he found himself capable of mumbling and Henry, too impatient to call for a servant, brought it with his own hands. A few moments after that had gone down Hereford, wincing but rational, bent to pick up the letter again. That nearly brought disaster, and a cold sweat covered him as he fought to keep the wine down.

  "The hand looks like the castellan's scribe, but” Hereford stopped and then asked, “Who brought the message?"

  "What can it matter?" Henry said impatiently.

  "For God's sake, keep your voice down, you are killing me. It matters because it may well be a trap. To draw us out of here in force, leaving our prize unprotected … to draw us along the shortest, best-known route to Devizes so that we may be ambushed—"

  "Nay,” Henry interrupted. “Harry Fortesque brought it. Do you doubt him?"

  "No. What says he?"

  "Eustace!"

  Hereford uttered a brief obscenity and then said, "I thought Hugh Bigod was keeping him busy."

  Henry snorted. "Plainly he is not. Make ready, Roger. Fortesque tells me it is a really desperate attempt on the keep. They have every variety of siege engine and a huge force. Eustace recks no cost this time. He says he will take Devizes or die."

  "How came Fortesque through the lines?"

  "Ask him yourself! Do I look as if I spared the time for useless questions?"

  Certainly he did not. Henry's powerful body was naked beneath a hastily corded robe, his feet bare in the rushes on the cold stone. He looked sick and angry, his gray eyes cold as granite. Devizes and Wallingford were the two keeps most fanatically devoted to his cause. Not once since 1135 had they wavered in their allegiance, and thus far no attack, no matter how vicious, had even threatened to overthrow their great strength. So many years had passed since Stephen had even cast an eye in their direction that Henry had blithely left only a token force to defend the castles when he summoned the men for the taking of Bridport, and Hereford, usually more cautious because of previous bitter experience, had agreed without a protest to this folly. It was useless to cry over spilt milk now; haste was essential, but haste with safety.

  "Listen, Henry—"

  "What ails you? Will you speak more of treachery? We cannot take the chance of losing Devizes even if this is a trap. We must go—now! By God's bright eyes, I will go alone if you will not."

  Hereford stifled another groan. "Yes, yes, we must go, I agree, but listen. It would be madness to leave this place as naked as we left Devizes. Dare we trust him who opened without protest to you after he had sworn to Stephen? Gloucester cares nothing for Devizes and, as you know, will not fight. Let him stay here. I warrant you he will be happy enough to do so."

  "Nonsense. We need his men."

  "Ay. So go smile at him and wheedle him. Let him bid his vassals obey you until their service be finished or until he calls them elsewhere. Some may stay here, together with the wounded who anyway cannot ride far or be of use in heavy fighting although they may well be able to help defend this place at need."

  "That is good sense." Henry's face became slightly less rigid. It was a plan he approved of in all aspects, for the present need and for the possibility of impressing Gloucester's vassals sufficiently so that they might lean to his side if a quarrel ever arose between himself and their master. Hereford was not ignorant of this and, although he did not entirely approve of Henry's ways, felt that the need outweighed any consideration he owed Gloucester. Let Gloucester be more active and see to his own vassals, Hereford thought, I am not above keeping mine on a tight rein.

  "Meanwhile," Roger said, his complexion turning grayish green as he got out of bed and the movement initiated a new wave of nausea and head-throbbing, "I will see what can be done about rousing the men." He managed a wry smile. "No light task if, as I know well is true, the better part of them is no merrier than myself."

  Whatever the weight of the task, it was done. In spite of their rebellious murmurings both lordly vassals and common men-at-arms dragged themselves into their clothing and armor and onto their horses. It was fortunate that a long ride faced them before it would be necessary to engage in fighting, for a more wretched army would be hard to find. The two leaders alone seemed capable of doing anything more than moaning and clinging to their mounts. Cursing and cajoling the men had cleared Hereford's head, although it still ached abominably and his stomach still occasionally heaved.

  Henry, on the contrary, seemed in fine fettle, for he had thrown off the effects of overindulgence with the same resilience that he threw off fatigue or depression. He was tense and eager, anxious to rescue the only home he had in England from the results of his own error. It was well indeed that they had not delayed an instant, well that they had ridden through the night, well that Henry had protested taking any rest except a brief two-hour stop to feed and water the horses and take some nourishment themselves when they were only a few miles from Devizes.

  The long ride had cleared the men's hangovers, the rest and food restored their vigor so that when they came in sight of the keep they were prepared to throw themselves upon its attackers immediately. And they were not a moment too soon. Fortesque had spoken no more than the truth. Indeed, for an agonized few moments both Henry and Hereford thought they were too late.

  Smoke rose from fires through the keep where the Greek fire cast over the walls
by giant catapults had set outbuildings ablaze. The moat had been filled in several places with earth and brush so that two giant beffrois, towers constructed of timber and covered with rawhide, could be rolled up to the walls permitting Eustace's foot soldiers to scale that height perfectly protected and attack the defenders. Great trebuchets, three of the largest they had ever seen, burled huge stones at the walls, which were already breached in one place, and, although the immense oaken gates still held, they were obviously being shaken by the blows of the battering ram.

  The vision of the destruction already accomplished had almost convinced Henry that the keep had fallen, and he flew into such a rage that even Hereford, who had seen his ungovernable temper many times before and had a temper of his own, was startled. He too thought the keep was taken and briefly wondered whether it would be necessary to restrain Henry by force from throwing his life away in a hysterical, disorganized attempt to regain it at one stroke.

  A moment's longer observation, however, showed that only the outer walls were breached and even these were being defended. Shrieks of agony rose from time to time from the attackers as cartwheels soaked in pitch and set aflame were tossed down into their midst. Wherever scaling ladders went up, they were cast back again, and large stones were rolled off the walls onto those attempting to mount them. Again and again, too, a whole section of wall would be cleared as huge cauldrons of pitch or boiling oil were raised by willing hands and poured down. The beffrois were not making much progress either, for the catapults and trebuchets of Devizes had been drawn into position against them and were firing stones or very large arrows with deadly regularity.

  "Steady," Hereford said, clutching Henry's arm, his voice trembling a little with relief, "the keep is still ours. How best may we fall upon them?"

  Henry grunted sullenly in reply. He had also seen the situation. Now his eyes ranged over as much of the field as was visible, hard and calculating. "It would be better if we had time to send riders around and discover if their full force is here or if more lie outside of our vision—but there is no time. Look, Hereford, while we are watching their spirits or maybe their numbers fail. The defense grows weaker; they are preparing to abandon the outer wall."

  "I am not blind. Quick. I will fall upon those at the breach, you take the parties by the gate and towers."

  "Accursed litter of accursed parents!” Henry bawled. “When I lay my hands upon him, I will tear him limb from limb. I will return him to his father piece by piece—"

  "Let us fight, not talk." Hereford cut in.

  Henry made another effort to control himself. He took a deep breath and said through gritted teeth. “Wait, I will have their camp too. I swear, not a man will go from this place alive, except he be naked and on foot.” He turned his horse back to where Gloucester’s chief vassals rode and said to them. “Let your men fall upon the camp." Giving specific orders, ending with, "Kill them—man and boy—whoever is in the camp. Cut the horses loose or slay them also. What cannot be taken or guarded—burn! They will not fall upon my keeps again, I swear it."

  "Keep your eyes also upon our flanks," Hereford said to Gloucester’s men more quietly and collectedly, since they were less likely to be involved in heavy fighting. "If a force should seek to fall upon us from either side, stop them, or give us warning. I do not wish to sup of the same soup that we fed de Tracy."

  Hereford was anxious not to lose Devizes, but he was less emotionally involved than Henry; he was also anxious not to blunder any further, and less set on complete destruction of the opposing force.

  Understanding being readily established, the men settled their gear firmly and rode forward, ready massed for attack but as quietly as possible. The closer they could come to the keep before the attackers noticed them, the more surely the pincers would close and the fewer would escape their swords. If no great force was hidden by the bulk of Devizes their situation was good, except for the fact that they were already battle-weary, strained, and tired from their merrymaking and their long ride.

  In the quiet period that followed as they rode slowly closer, free of the tension and anxiety of their hurried travel, Hereford suddenly realized that he felt none of the satisfaction he should for arriving in time, none of the joy of battle that should be rising in him at this moment. He shifted his shield nervously to a more secure position and winced slightly because his left shoulder and arm still bothered him. He was not specially thinking about himself, but subconsciously he knew that his whole body was sore and that he would not be quick as usual.

  Suddenly Hereford’s mouth went dry and his breath became uneven as he looked around the smoke-filled, burnt-out landscape. Why, he thought, this is the place of my dream. I did not recognize it because I have never seen Devizes under attack. He began to shake with the terrible desire to set spurs to his horse and charge. A terrible feeling of waste, of having delayed too long in seizing life, possessed him. Henry raised a hand, and the arbalists moved forward, the pikemen and other soldiers with them to make a wall of protection with their shields for the bowmen.

  In the eons that intervened between the moment of the first flight of arrows which fell on the unsuspecting backs of Eustace's men and the one in which Henry cried the charge, Hereford at last looked straight into the eyes of his specter. This was the battle, there would be no more waiting. If the dream were true, he would die. Hereford drew a deep, shaking breath. Whatever else happened, now he would know the best or the worst. Now, too, it seemed that nothing would ever equal the torment of restraint he endured waiting for Henry's order to charge to release him for that revelation.

  Relief came at last in the cry that ordered the attack. Eustace's men had seen them and turned at bay, but clearly above their shouts and curses came the cries of welcome and relief from the exhausted defenders within the walls. Hereford was unconscious of both. Forewarned that he had come face to face with his destiny, he was conscious only of the greatest feeling of freedom he had ever known. It did not matter, he realized, what he did now, for his end and the end of this battle and of all things was foreordained. Until he clapped spurs to his horse in the charge, his free will might have altered matters. He might still have turned tail and chosen life and shame; now he had made his choice.

  Armed by the knowledge that all things were in the hands of God, Hereford fought like a wild thing that had abandoned hope. In a very short time the breach was closed, not with stone but with the corpses of Eustace's dead men piled one upon the other—a grim joke—and Hereford set out to find Eustace himself. In this he was unsuccessful, but he left a swath of dead and dying in the ranks of his enemies wherever he sought and passed such that the sight of his banner alone was sufficient to turn a retreat into a rout.

  Henry had even greater success. He split his forces so that he could attack the men attempting to roll the beffrois into position, but so well had the archers done their work that he found almost no resistance. It was then only a labor of minutes to seize several kegs prepared for making Greek fire, coat the timbers of the beffrois with this mixture, and set it ablaze. Henry had a moment's regret for the destruction of siege engines so useful and difficult to construct, but he had not the men to leave to guard them and could not chance their falling into enemy hands again if the battle should turn against them.

  His next objective, the troop assailing the gates, gave somewhat more satisfaction to his enraged spirit, for they fought valiantly and stubbornly. Their case was hopeless, however; Henry's forces outnumbered them, and the defenders of Devizes now readily opened the gates, which previously they had fought desperately to keep closed, to pour out and aid their rescuers. To them Henry left the destruction of the shattered remnants of Eustace's troop and, calling his own men, set off to find the prince.

  He missed Eustace by bare moments, for the young man had been trying courageously to rally his men in spite of the protests of his older and wiser vassals who recognized a major defeat when they saw it. Rannulf of Sleaford it was who saved the prince fro
m death or capture at the last possible moment. A deeply embittered man, whom his contemporaries said had reverence for neither king nor God, swung a mailed fist the size of a ham and with the strength of a mule's kick against Eustace's temple.

  Mouthing obscenities on the nature and intelligence of the king he served and his son also, he lifted Eustace's inanimate form across his saddle bow and fled, his vassals, Eustace's, and the pitiful remnants of a once-proud army following as best as they could.

  Henry saw the band of men flying across the plain, but the prince's banner was not among those displayed. He did dispatch a troop to pursue and take them if possible, or to give him news of where they went if they could not be caught. This, however, was done more in the spirit of efficiency in eliminating his enemies than in any expectation of their carrying with them a great prize. It was not until he had searched and searched round Devizes, meeting Roger engaged in the same search, and through the enemy camp, that he recognized the perfidy that had been practiced. He should have flown into another rage, but he did not. In the flush of his second major victory in arms in a week, he was merely contemptuous of a man so afraid that he would strike his colors and hide himself among his vassals.

  Those men who had the strength and the desire for it, continued to pursue stragglers of Eustace's force through the afternoon and night of that bloody day. The major proportion of the army, however, staggered in through the battered but welcoming gates of Devizes and collapsed. Among these were Hereford and his overlord who, having heartily embraced and danced, caroling, around the hall, found when their breath gave out that they were fit for nothing—not even celebration.

  CHAPTER 19