The Sword and The Swan

by Roberta Gellis

  Rannulf, aware that Stephen's attitude toward him had altered strangely but hoping it was mere irritability, ignored most of what the king said. He looked around the circle of seated men. "Did you all, indeed, agree to this?"

  "Why not? Northampton asked.

  "Why not?" Rannulf roared, at the end of his patience. "Waleran is Leicester's twin brother. Is it safe to infuriate Robert at this time by attacking de Meulan when he has not offended us? If that is not sufficient reason, we are almost successful here. Why should we raise the siege and run off on some harebrained plan of an enemy's choosing?"

  "Calm yourself, Soke," Simon replied without heat. "We will thrust the blame for the attack on Waleran onto Hereford, naturally. Also, we said nothing of raising the siege. You know how we have been bedeviled by Hereford's attacks. Because of them, we did not dare assault Wallingford, leaving our backs naked. Let Hereford but take his men off to Worcester, and we will use the chance to assault Wallingford."

  "With what force? More than promises will have to be given to Hereford before he will draw his men away. Do you realize that the terms of service of many of the men here are drawing to a close?"

  "Money will be found to pay the men to stay here longer," Stephen put in, "and we will be rid of Waleran who is a curse of the worst sort."

  The mention of money brought an expression of uneasiness to many of the faces of the council. Northampton frowned. "It is getting less and less easy to find gold, my lord. Let us borrow the time from next year's service. If we can but put down the rebels firmly once, there will be no need for fighting men next year. Besides, it will not matter even if they do not stay. So much of our strength has been taken up in guarding our rear from Hereford that scarce a tithe of difference will be made by what we send to Worcester."

  A younger voice added eagerly, "It is true that Waleran is in Worcester keep. So much we have made sure of, and also that William Beauchamp is his prisoner."

  "Then let Hereford go to Beauchamp's aid alone," Rannulf snapped. "Then we will be sure he, not we, enrages Leicester, and we will be eased of his annoyance as well as if we lent him aid. He is bound to help Beauchamp for his honor's sake."

  There was a restless murmur from the younger men, and Rannulf rubbed his head, which ached with fever. His hand was so cold on his own forehead that he shuddered, The impatience of Stephen's younger vassals was comprehensible to him; a siege was weary, dreary work. It was depressing to think of the brave men within the keep, of their women and children, starving and thirsty. Besides, the lands around Wallingford had been so ravaged that food was scarce for the besiegers also, and even the sport of raiding was withdrawn.

  That the younger men should desire action was understandable. What was incomprehensible was that men like Northampton and Warwick seemed to agree with the young hotheads. Rannulf wondered if his illness and his ever-growing desire to be free of this war were clouding his mind, and he addressed himself to Warwick who had been silent throughout the previous exchange.

  "You, too, agree to this? But wherefore? Where is our profit? We divide our forces, send them to another siege or exhaust them with another hard battle—for what purpose?"

  "So that all men may see that Hereford had need to come to the king for help," Stephen snapped before Warwick could open his mouth. "They can see also that even the worst rebel receives that help when it is humbly asked. Will that not shake Hereford's supporters?"

  Stephen glared at Rannulf and continued, "Do you not see profit in that? Or do you see it too clearly? You were eager enough to have me offer clemency to Hereford before he asked it, thereby, perhaps, showing that we feared him. Now that he sues humbly, you oppose the making of terms. Perhaps you are unwilling for all men to perceive the rebel's weakness."

  The reasoning was good and Hereford was an honorable man; in spite of this Rannulf's body was braced as if to face an unseen danger. Stephen had all but accused him of treason. Rannulf met his lord's eyes steadily, but he was heartsick. There was a trap here somewhere, he could feel it, almost smell it as one could sometimes smell men hidden in ambush, and he dared not argue because Stephen in this mood would only become more obstinate.

  Northampton looked uneasily from the king to his friend. "My lord, there is no harm in a just caution. The earl of Soke is right to question, and it is better to be sure his fears are groundless than to quarrel among ourselves. Rannulf, we are all in agreement that it would be expedient to accept Hereford's submission. We do not intend to send more than a token force to support him. Indeed, we are come together now to take thought for the best disposition of our forces to accomplish our purpose."

  A general murmur of approval drove home to Rannulf the hopelessness of his position. The argument of who should go and who should stay rose and fell around him unheeded, until, at last, a question asked directly aroused him.

  "Since I cannot stand against the full council, nor yet bring myself to agree with it," Rannulf replied wearily, "I must seek to salve my conscience as best I may." He turned to Stephen, and the memory of years of kindness, of unasked favors freely bestowed, of genuine affection, made him purposely blind to the look of fear and suspicion in his overlord's face. "Do not ask me to decide what is best on a matter of which I disapprove. Give me orders, and I will obey."

  The weary weeks dragged into months, the warm rains of September yielding to the bright, nipping days of October. Time proved to Rannulf, who had been told that since he favored the siege of Wallingford he could abide there, that his instinct had been right. Worcester did not fall to assault, even though Stephen drew more and more men from Wallingford, and in the end, Wallingford did not fall either.

  The forces were spread too thin; time and again breaches were made in the encircling camps of the besiegers and supplies were brought in to the keep. Not much, perhaps, and not often, but enough to keep life in the bodies of the defenders. At last it became a moot question whether the besieged or the besiegers would die first of starvation. No good was to be gotten from the ravaged land, and what supplies were sent from other counties went to the king at Worcester.

  Nothing went well. Rannulf's health was not much improved for he had an intermittent fever and the thigh wound still drained, although most of his strength had returned. Far more important was that the news Rannulf had from Leicester concerning the campaign in France grew steadily worse. Henry, as if merely stimulated by the defeat at Neuf-Marche, ravaged the valley between the rivers Isca and Andelle, took and burned the castles of Baskerville, Chitrey, and Stirpiney. With hardly a pause for breath, he added Brueboles and Ville to the score of keeps destroyed. Then he besieged and conquered Mount Sorel, bringing to heel his brother Geoffrey who had joined Eustace and Louis in a fit of dissatisfaction.

  With his customary indulgence to those he loved, Henry promptly forgave Geoffrey and enlisted him in his own service. Together they turned upon Louis, who was attacking in Normandy, driving him off before he could complete the destruction of Bourg Reguliar.

  "That is all the matter of fact I have to recount," Leicester wrote, "but I have heard rumors as strong as these facts. It is said that Louis will compound with Henry in spite of Eustace's will and that Henry, who in the flush of his successes might profitably refuse a truce, will accept the terms. I have heard that he will do this because Hereford has sent letters and messengers plainly stating that if Henry does not come now, he will have nothing to come to—all matters moving themselves to consort to Stephen's will."

  Rannulf blinked and laid down the letter for a moment. That last sentence—the first part so horribly true and the last a flat lie. It did not sound like Hereford, but . . .

  He read again, "This does not sound like Hereford's way, but he may be desperate, and his actions tend to confirm it, in that he has withdrawn the major part of his forces from the action at Worcester. So much as this I have written to Stephen, begging him to leave Waleran to his own devices and leave me to manage him and bring him to depart from Worcester in peace. Whethe
r Stephen will act upon it, God alone knows. For the love I bear you, I add this: in spite of the near-success of most of Stephen's ventures, the temper of the barons is very bad. The tenacity of Henry's desire to have the English throne, added to the increase of his power from marriage with the Poitevin she-wolf, has convinced many that there will be no peace until his desire is satisfied. If Henry comes, it will be necessary to take him or kill him at once in one great battle. Should he withstand or defeat Stephen even once, there will be a rush to his standard. Take heed, Rannulf, and God keep you."

  Rannulf was torn as he had never been torn before. If he thought he had reached the ultimate in pain when Catherine had shaken his confidence in war, he now knew better. In a way, it mattered very little to him what happened, for he was a loser whether Henry came to the throne or Stephen held it. These new defeats would turn Eustace into a ravening wolf, and if Louis made truce and Henry came to England, Eustace would follow.

  That Rannulf knew he could still follow Leicester's advice, go back to his lands and remain quiet, merely intensified his agony. He had not realized, until he lost it, how much Stephen's love had meant to him. In spite of the king's weakness, possibly even because of it, he loved that kind and foolish man. Kind and foolish and so bitterly lonely now that Maud was dead. Rannulf's hand tightened on another scroll of parchment, which he had held all the time that he was reading Leicester's letter.

  That one held much better news, but did nothing to improve Rannulf's spirits. Catherine's letter reported that the earl of Norfolk lay quiet on his northern border, that the castles fronting that border had been stuffed and garnished for war without his taking offense, that Richard was well and all things ran smoothly on his lands. Little space was spent on these facts, and yet the letter was long. It was filled with fond inquiries about his health, gentle protests at his long absence, and tender questions about the possibility of his return.

  It would not matter if he went for a little while. Nothing could or would happen now at Wallingford. But, though he longed for Catherine as a man on fire longs for cold water, Rannulf dared not visit his wife. She would soothe him, but she would also weep and plead. She would hold Richard before his eyes and fill him with her fears, which were all the more horrible now because they were more real. Rannulf did not believe he had strength enough to resist either Catherine or those fears, yet he could not let Stephen go down to defeat alone like a lonely child crying in the dark. That was why Stephen could not recover from Maud's death—because he was a frightened child who would never grow up, a frightened child who spoke cruel words because he was frightened. When two children cry for a father's help, to which does he go?

  He goes to the child whose need is greatest and most immediate. Catherine was frightened, but she was competent enough to manage his lands as long as no emergency threatened. Even if worse came to worst and he was lost to her through death or imprisonment, Geoffrey would protect her—he had given his oath on it. Slowly Rannulf drew pen and parchment to him to ask to be summoned to Stephen's side. Perhaps he could win the king to trust and love again. Even the darkness of a final defeat is not so fearful when hand locks in hand and a voice whispers courage.

  CHAPTER 17

  Henry of Anjou, even more squat and bullnecked than his companions remembered him, looked with well-hidden dismay at Roger of Hereford. To William of Gloucester, who examined them both with a detached amusement, Henry had changed very little in other ways. He still dressed like the least of his own mercenaries; he was, if anything, even more physically and vocally restless, talking incessantly and fidgeting constantly with everything movable in the chamber. He laughed as readily, often on so slight an excuse that one might have thought him simple. For all of that, there was a poise and power in him that gave William pause and would surely give determination and confidence to the barons who came to support him.

  "Do you mean, Roger, that you will not hold by your oath to support me? I cannot believe that!" There was a humorous asperity in Henry's voice, almost a parent's impatience with a well-meaning but wrongheaded child.

  "No, my lord, I do not mean that, as well you know. But what I said in Devizes some years since, I still mean also. I will not lead your army."

  "I remember as well as you what you said in Devizes. You said you would lead no more lost hopes. Do you fear the failure of this venture?"

  "No," Hereford replied quietly. "This time you will have it, which is why I think it no shame to do as you order without thrusting myself forward."

  "Thrusting yourself forward! Roger, what ails you? You summoned me hence. I could have swallowed half of Louis' realm and brought him to his knees except that you told me my people here were in the last extremity. I abandoned a winning war. I indebted myself to the moneylenders to the tune of half my revenues so that I might come well-armed and in haste. Have I not fulfilled my promise to return? Was it not worth the few years to come again with this show of power?"

  It was useless to try to explain that he had not summoned Henry, Hereford thought. Not only useless but dangerous, because that summoning was wise and well-judged. He should have done it of his own free will, as he should have offered the truce to Stephen of his own free will. Honor accomplished nothing. Had William not been dishonorable, Wallingford and Worcester would both have been lost. Now Worcester was Beauchamp's again—not through his efforts, not through the blood he had shed, but because William and Robert of Leicester had induced Waleran de Meulan to take gold and leave the keep as soon as Stephen had abandoned the siege.

  Possibly William and Robert could have done it before the truce was made with Stephen. That would have been the honorable course, but then Wallingford would have fallen. It was all wise and expedient, but Hereford's soul was sick. Since he was sure Henry's cause would now prosper with or without him, he would perform his obligations without seeking to go beyond them.

  Hereford met the puzzled exasperation in the gray eyes of the man who would certainly be the next king. "Partly it is that show of power I do not like. I will not lend myself to leading foreign knights in the looting of my own land."

  "Roger, you will drive me mad. You know how uncertain of faith and temper most of the English barons are. Except for you, William, and Cornwall, they wait to see who will win before they do aught. Had I come naked and alone—as I have tried before—half would have leapt into Stephen's embrace and the other half remained aloof. If they see me already strong, they will come to me. I swear to you that I will send the troops I have brought back to France as soon as my position here is secure. Now are you content? I do not swear lightly."

  "You did not let me finish." Henry's charm, his genuine affection and desire to please, were having their irresistible effect on Hereford's own affectionate disposition. He thawed appreciably and though his disgust at the situation did not decrease, he absolved Henry of responsibility for it. "The other more important matter is that you do not need me, not as a leader in your enterprise. Henry, you are a man now, not a boy. It would be better to stand alone at the head of your vassals with no man your equal."

  For the first time William's voice entered the conversation. "About that, my lord, Roger is right, as he is also about the foreign knights. Perhaps it was wise to bring them as a show of force, but it will be wiser still to send them off as soon as may be. The grandfathers of these English barons won their land by conquest—therefore these men have no love for invading armies. Since the case is thus, let us take some major stronghold of the king's. If he marches upon us and we defeat him, you will have all but accomplished your purpose, for few besides the very old men now hold by him."

  "Take a stronghold!" Hereford exclaimed. "Let us go to relieve Wallingford. They have suffered enough."

  Henry shook his head. "William is right in this, Roger. Wallingford is now in little danger. The few troops still besieging them are worn out and indifferent. We will gain little by lifting that siege completely."

  Hereford opened his mouth again to protest, and t
hen shut it. What William and Henry said made good sense. Honor alone directed that Wallingford, so long faithful, should be relieved and rewarded, and honor was an outmoded and useless commodity. Swallowing the physical nausea engendered by his mental turmoil, Roger of Hereford applied himself to the discussion of which city it would be most profitable to take.

  ***

  It would have been so easy, Rannulf thought, listening in a detached way to the military arguments around him, to call his men together and go home. No one really wanted him here. To Northampton and Warwick, possibly, his opinion was still of value, but since Eustace had arrived he dared not open his mouth in council. Whatever he approved the king would turn against, and whatever he argued against immediately became the bright hope of the realm.

  He had tried before Eustace's return to win Stephen's confidence, and there he had erred greatly. Had he not seen the terror and longing in Stephen's eyes then, he could have gone as soon as those eyes and the heart, too, were shuttered against him. Rannulf knew he was turning bitter and spiteful under the treatment he was receiving, that he was doing the king more harm than good by his presence, but now that the plans were made it would really be treason to withdraw without Stephen's permission.

  During the council meeting none spoke to Rannulf and few dared look at him. When it was over, however, and the king had retired, Northampton drew Rannulf into the hearth. Soke smiled encouragingly over the old man's shoulder at a flushed and visibly trembling Geoffrey.

  "Thank God," Northampton began, "you keep your head, Rannulf."

  "Come now," Soke replied smiling wryly, "surely Stephen is not so lunatic yet that he will demand that."

  Northampton frowned. "You make the most untimely jests. I meant only to compliment you upon the restraint of your temper for your looks were black enough and I expected moment by moment that you would burst into speech."