Hereford's face which had been flushed with excitement went dead white. So that was what Pembroke had been hinting at. "I will hold them full hard and question them most straitly," he said furiously.
"Ay, but I want them alive and talking when you are finished. Do not lose your head, Hereford, whatever happens."
The signal given, the lines of knights crashed together. The fighting at first was eager but not hard, and mixed with the cries and grunts of pain there were good-natured calls of, "There's for you." "Does that taste good, my buck?" "Watch, there's a horse down."
Sir Harry, a little to the left and behind Lord Radnor, had still not made up his mind. At present it was not necessary, since his master was cleaving the usual open space around himself with his tremendous reach. Beaufort did notice that the men before Hereford and Chester were holding their ground with every ounce of strength and skill, while those opposing Lord Radnor were giving way remarkably easily. Radnor saw it too, saw that he was faced with the problem of breaking through the opposing line or retreating to find new opponents.
For a few seconds it was an agonizing decision; life and Leah tugged at him so strongly that he flashed a single glance backward to the safety of Chester's and Hereford's troops. Cain knew they would fight with him and for him, that he would be safe surrounded by their men. Unfortunately he knew also that every stroke they gave to defend him would hack away the chance he had to ensure their future freedom by capturing the assassins Maud and Pembroke had paid to kill him. With a violent thrust, Radnor disabled the last man opposing him and broke through, wheeling his horse as if to charge back and begin again.
There was, however, no way back now. All at once Radnor and Beaufort, who had been carried in the wake of his lord in his indecisiveness, were surrounded. The temper of the group opposing them had changed also. They drew closer, and instead of opposing single man to single man, the slashes and thrusts of a dozen swords at once took on a new deadly character. Plainly these men were fighting in earnest; there was no implication whatever in their behavior that they wished Radnor to yield as a prisoner for the sake of horse and armour ransom.
Radnor, now, was fighting in earnest too. One man went down with a choking cry as Radnor's sword caught him between neck and shoulder. Another toppled without a sound except for the clang and crunch as the same blade bit through helmet, hood, and brain. To Radnor's left a third fell away, his sword arm dangling uselessly, crushed by a blow from the edge of the black and gold shield. The lift of that shield was dangerous, however, and blood began to dye the red surcoat from a thrust that missed piercing Radnor's ribs and instead tore through mail and flesh at the waist. If his lord felt the thrust, he gave no sign, and Sir Harry, fighting well enough to protect himself but by no means at the peak of his ability, had time to wonder if the man was entirely human.
Now there were only seven men left in the group that separated Radnor from his friends, and a cry went up from these that was no known battle cry of any house engaged on the field. From several places knights disengaged hurriedly, sometimes from nearly successful encounters, and came to swell the ranks of the attackers.
Of one thing Sir Harry became increasingly sure, that the weasel-faced man had neither been jesting nor speaking more than the truth. Still he hung undecided, his instinct driving him one way and his self-interest another. It was instinct, perhaps, that made him ward off a blow that would have severed Radnor's right leg, but his reason began to back his instinct as man after man fell to Radnor's attack. His lord was tireless, and admiration and enthusiasm began to stimulate him so that he fought harder, accounting in quick succession for a knight in green and gold and one in blue and silver.
Radnor thrust and drew, but his blade was stuck in bone and mail and the dying victim fell forward almost into his lap, flooding his gauntlet with slippery blood. It was just as well, because in trying to free his weapon Radnor dropped his shield slightly, and a sword slid over its edge. The slash came right through mail and spine, severing the head of the dead man from his shoulders, and even after the head rolled clear across the bow of Radnor's saddle the sword continued downward cutting Cain's left leg above the knee.
Little by little, in spite of all the opposition could do, Lord Radnor and Sir Harry were winning back to their friends. Beaufort's breath was coming in painful gasps, his sword arm ached with the ferocity of its use, and the burning pain of several new wounds maddened him, but none of these things could still the exultation in his heart. They would make it! He would not need to make the dreadful choice! "Into the valley of the shadow of death. Into the valley of the shadow of death." Over and over the phrase repeated itself in his mind like a rising paean of victory.
At that instant, Radnor's horse reared and screamed, split open from chest to groin. The beast went down, taking Radnor with him, tangling him in the now hanging entrails, and threatening to disable him completely with convulsively flailing hooves. In a single smooth movement, Radnor cut the stallion's throat and beat back the thrusts of several mounted men. Now was the moment of decision. Sir Harry could push his way through the ring of attackers and yield Radnor his own horse, the act that honor demanded, or he could pretend that it was impossible for him to break through to his lord. He raised his sword, wrenched with the agony of indecision because the man was worth dying for but life was sweet, and then, as his eyes took in what had happened in those few seconds of doubt they bulged with horror. There were foot soldiers on the field of mounted knights!
From some place of concealment on the edge of the crowd, footmen had appeared, and Lord Radnor had disappeared under their onslaught. All thought of self-interest gone, Beaufort howled the Gaunt battle cry again and again and began to hack his way through the mounted attackers. Why he called for help and why he fought he did not know; he knew only that, although he had done many things of which he was not proud in the past, he could not live with the memory of this shame.
He had no hope of saving Radnor. Nothing could live under that mass of striking men even though it did seem as if the mound heaved from time to time and muffled cries came from it. It did not matter. Dead or alive he would have his master's body out of that heap or be dead himself. When a new band of horsemen rode down upon him, Beaufort did not even look up to attempt to protect himself. He had no interest in anything except the bloody mound of men on the ground, and nothing existed but the regular rise and fall of his sword arm.
Hereford and Chester had both been enjoying their own battles. No one had been seriously hurt; no one had been taken prisoner of their men; and they had four members of the opposing party as prisoners to their credit. Long experience had taught them to leave Radnor to his own very efficient devices, and what with his mild success and the violence with which the opposition was defending itself even Hereford was not troubled by his friend's disappearance until he heard the note of Beaufort's cry. Since there was not another man of Gaunt's on the field, that cry could not be meant to marshal forces; it could only be a desperate appeal for help.
As men with a single mind, Hereford and Chester broke off their personal combat and organized their own forces. They met with surprisingly little resistance as they beat their way towards Beaufort's voice because Maud's men were not only sure their work was done but were appalled by the method used to accomplish it; they were only too willing to go. Hereford was not equally willing, however, and a group of knights who fought under his banner were told to engage and hold fast at least some of the retreating mounted group.
"Treachery!" Hereford screamed at the top of his lungs when he saw the bloody, heaving mass that Beaufort was striking at. "Treachery and murder. Take them alive for witness."
While Chester's men and his own dismounted to follow orders, Hereford wrenched his horse around and arrived wild-eyed before the lodges in which Stephen sat.
"I will bring charge against you, Stephen of Blois," he called, his words broken by sobs. "I will bring charge against you before your council that you did willfully
try to murder or permit the murder of one of your faithful subjects. There are foot soldiers on the field of mounted knights. They have broached Lord Radnor's horse and dishonorably brought him down. Call off your curs, or I will shout your foul deeds to the high heavens until you stop my mouth with blood and earth also."
Stephen of Blois was on his feet and over the rail in an instant, his face flaming with shame. In another instant the recall was sounding from every herald's trumpet, and the noise of the fighting died down slowly. The king was on horseback now, as pale with rage as he had been red with shame before.
"Where, Hereford? Where? If there is one alive I will have the author of this outrage out of him if I must choke it out with my bare hands."
Even to Hereford, boiling with anger and grief, Stephen's sincerity was patently obvious. He was a weak man, often a foolish one, but generous and forgiving to a fault and genuinely aghast at the breach of the knightly code which had taken place. Moreover Stephen liked Lord Radnor personally in spite of their political differences. With a generosity seldom found in human relationships, the king admired in his subject many of the qualities he lacked himself.
The more knowing eyes of the court did not follow the king; they were fixed upon the queen. At Hereford's announcement Maud had first turned pale and then almost purple with fury. Now she was pale again, her eyes fixed on the rail before her, seeking, seeking a way to squirm out of this accusation. She had no illusions about Hereford's ability to squeeze information out of her adherents; right now he could probably squeeze it out of a stone, and there was no way in which, without exposing herself further, she could block him.
How to twist the information to save herself and damn Pembroke was her problem. Tears of frustration rose to her eyes. How, knowing what she did, could she have been so stupid as to allow herself to become embroiled with that man? No matter how tempting the proposals Pembroke had made, she should have known better. In her wildest dreams, Maud would never have guessed that he could dare to arrange for foot soldiers to attack a knight at a tourney—a royal tourney.
By the time Stephen reached the scene, two of Chester's men were engaged in restraining and calming Beaufort. Most of Hereford's had disappeared with those assassins who could still talk, and the remainder were making sure that those who were not worth taking prisoner would not talk at all to anyone. The king dismounted and flung himself unarmed into the group of men, seeking for one who could tell him who had betrayed him, but neither Hereford nor Chester cared what Stephen did.
Hereford was beside himself. "How will I tell his wife?" he wept. "Merciful God, she will go mad."
"His father," Chester groaned in reply. "Gaunt's only son. How can I explain that his heir is dead and I was there and did nothing? If he tears me apart, I will not blame him."
"What would I not give to have him alive!" Hereford cried.
"Well, I am alive." Radnor's voice, considerably muffled and rather breathless but expressing irritation, came from the bleeding mound of men. "If you would get the rest of these bodies off me instead of indulging yourselves with useless lamentations I would better appreciate your display of affection."
"Praise God, a miracle," Hereford breathed, down on his knees in the slimy mixture of entrails, torn grass and earth, and horses' and men's blood.
"Gently, gently," Radnor gasped as Hereford pulled at him violently. "I think some of my ribs are gone, and there's a pike pinning my sword arm to the ground."
Once he was free, Radnor stubbornly rejected every offer of hospitality and attention from the king, Hereford, Chester, Gloucester, and everyone else. He insisted, more and more weakly, upon being carried home, until Hereford and Chester, afraid to excite him any more and terrified that he would bleed to death because they could not tell how badly he was wounded, acceded to his wishes. Away from the crowd of good Samaritans, Radnor seemed to recover a good deal of his strength.
"You have them, knights and foot soldiers, safe for me, Hereford?" His voice was low and speaking plainly caused him pain, but his eyes were clear and triumphant.
"Yes, yes—safe from the king and safe from Oxford, but be quiet."
"I am not so bad, I only wanted to be free of all those others and so pretended to fail. Can we go no faster? My poor Leah will be frantic, thinking me dead."
"She will soon recover. You cannot afford to be banged and jolted over these ruts. I dare not increase the pace lest you be dead in earnest. It is a miracle that you are alive."
"Nonsense! It is no miracle at all—"
The expression in the blue eyes that Hereford turned upon his friend stopped Radnor for a moment. "I tell you," the young earl said, "that if it was no miracle of God's, I do not desire to know how you escaped. No mortal man could live in such case, and I— How could you save yourself? Where were you when they fell on you?"
"Do not make me laugh, Hereford, it hurts me. If you would but think! I was half under and half inside the horse. Surely you do not think this was the first time I ever had a horse broached in battle. It is an old trick. Have you never played it yourself?"
It was just as well that they hit a particularly bad spot in the road at that point so that Radnor shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. He was spared the mingled expression of love and fear in Hereford's face; the desire to believe the explanation mixed with a brief terror that it was not true. The road grew worse and Radnor forgot Hereford's question, concentrating on maintaining his customary stoical attitude towards physical discomfort.
Mercifully Leah had lost sight of her husband soon after the melee began. She was very nervous, but William of Gloucester, who had found a position beside her, so irritated her by his assiduous attentions that the edge was taken from her fear. When Hereford galloped up to fling his distraught accusation at Stephen, however, Lord William had called to Giles, showing for an instant the steel of his will behind the softness of his face.
"Take your mistress home. That is my command and you may disregard anything she says. Use force if you must—the blame will be mine. My men will go with you. We will bring … him … as soon as possible."
He had gone off immediately, and Giles faced his mistress. Whether it was the note of command in Lord William's voice to which she responded automatically, or shock, or indifference, Giles could not decide, but she docilely left the field with him. Not only that, but once at home she did things that left him, as he guarded her from the doorway, agape with surprise.
First she had stripped the big bed and remade it with clean sheets—clean sheets for a dead man. She had made the bed with her own hands, rejecting offers of help from her maids in a courteous, indifferent tone of voice. Then she had ordered water to be heated for washing—why warm water to wash a corpse? Certainly, Giles thought, tears of grief rising to his old eyes, Lord Radnor would no longer feel the cold.
Ignoring Giles’s presence completely, she had changed her dove grey and blue clothing for a soft wool robe of greyish green and occupied herself with brushing and rebraiding her hair. Even now, when the sounds of the group bringing Radnor home were clear in the courtyard, she did not run to the window or to the stairs but stood calmly in the center of the room, looking about as if she were considering what household task to embark upon next. The only sign she gave that she was not deaf to the heavy treads on the stairs was a tremulous sigh.
"Even dead he shall lie nowhere but in his marriage bed," Leah was thinking, her eyes surveying the room and seeing that all was in its accustomed place. "Even dead he shall lie nowhere but in his marriage bed. Even dead—" Not another thought had crossed her mind in the entire period between seeing Hereford accuse the king of murder and this moment.
The task of conveying a man of Radnor's size and weight, who could not be overly bent or jostled, up a steep flight of stairs was no light one, but his retainers nearly trampled each other down for the privilege, every man being sure that he alone would be sufficiently careful and sufficiently gentle. Their excitement was so great that none had a though
t to spare for Leah, and it was only Giles, seeing their care in handling Radnor, who gave her a few seconds' warning by his cry.
"He is alive!"
Then she ran to the antechamber to be brought up short by horror. There was not one spot from the helm to the shoes that was not dyed the sickening reddish brown of dried blood. Irrationally in that moment she thought, not of her husband, only that she would always hate Giles for awakening the hope that opened her dead emotions to pain. No man could bleed like that and live, not even Cain. She did not think he was conscious, although his eyes were open, and did not speak to him.
"Put him on the bed." The covers were already drawn back and now she swept the pillows to the floor so that he might lie flat. "Call the armorer—that mail must be cut off."
"No!"
Leah whirled to look at her husband who, stimulated by the fear that his precious mail shirt would be spoiled, had found the strength to protest even after the agony of that trip upstairs.
"Oh my love, oh my darling," she whispered, "but you bleed—"
The worst of the pain had passed again, and Radnor's lips quivered in an attempt to smile. "Most of it is the horse's—and other men's."
The words unstuck her brain as hope had unfrozen her heart; she began to think and to function once more. It had to be as he said, of course. If it were he who bled, it would have been the bright, wet red she would have seen. Now tears stung her eyes and she kissed the filthy face very, very gently, once on the cheek and once on the lips before she turned her energies and resources completely to the task of keeping her lord alive.
The worst agony, the removal of the mail shirt, was fortunately over the soonest. When that was done and the extent of Radnor's injuries could be ascertained, Chester and Hereford, who had been waiting in anxious attendance, sighed with relief and left to undertake the pressing business of hiding their prisoners even more securely and squeezing information out of them. Unless the wounds putrefied or he was seized by the mysterious and greatly feared stiffening sickness, the hurts he had would do him no great harm.
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