The Sword and The Swan

by Roberta Gellis

  Rannulf was mute, surprised, still a little suspicious. Henry read the emotions in his face. Now he had only to offer to Rannulf what was his own, and he would have gained a loyal and willing liege man, a workhorse of the finest breed, and all without cost to himself outside of a little conversation and a little wear and tear on Rannulf's nerves.

  "I like to look forward," Henry began again, "and have all matters clearly settled. I do not wish, because of a word carelessly spoken or misunderstood, to fight my barons. It is bad for all to have a land torn apart by war. Peverel of Nottingham, Hugh Bigod, and the earl of Lincoln are the last sort of men of whom I spoke. They are to be bound by nothing at all. I will expect of you, that you keep them pent within their own lands where their borders touch yours. Keep them busy. I do not wish them to trouble me."

  This was the crux. Rannulf stopped and turned so that Henry faced him and they stood almost breast to breast. "Are the lands still mine, then? I sent you the patent and the charters, and they have not been returned."

  "They have not?" Henry gasped in well-simulated surprise. "But I gave order that they be sent to your house in London after you came. I wished to try you, but not so high as that. Of course the lands are yours. What good to me is a penniless and landless vassal?"

  "Catherine!" Rannulf said in a horrified voice, surprising Henry by the non sequitur. "I have let her believe you wanted my head."

  Henry burst into laughter. "Another slave to a lady's whim. You and Hereford should deal excellently together. Come and have a drink of wine with him, he is sadly oppressed these days. You can mend your wife's impressions later."

  "You do not know my Catherine," Rannulf replied. "If she thinks you mean harm to that which is hers, she is like to go summon her vassals and assault the White Tower. I must go to her."

  "Stay," Henry laughed. "At least let me find your charters that you may take them with you and not blame me if they be lost."

  Catherine, of course, had no such foolish notions. She knew what was and what was not within her power. She managed to conceal from Geoffrey, who bubbled with good spirits and sang the praises of the new king, how terrified she was, and she sent him back to court with a light heart. Then she sat with her hands folded in her lap, gathering her resources for a last battle. The scrape and slide of a horse pulled too suddenly to a halt in the courtyard made her bite her lips. Whatever the news, she must not give way to womanish weakness. She must husband her strength and plan what to do.

  Her surprise was complete when Rannulf came bounding up the stairs with a step as light as Richard's. He burst into the room, his hands full of rolls of parchment from which the wax impressions of the Great Seal of England hung. So eager was he that he forgot his still-weakened leg, and almost fell sprawling. Catherine leapt from her chair to steady him on his feet.

  "Look, look," Rannulf cried, not realizing that he had thrust her roughly away in his excitement. "I have not read them through, but I do not think a word is changed in them. All is here, signed and sealed. And look here, Catherine, what I did not ask for, nor even think of desiring if the truth be told, a commission of warden of the northeastern parts."

  "That is most excellent, my lord," she said gladly, although she could not smile. That cold thrust of rejection meant that the passing of Rannulf's political trouble had not mended the rift between them.

  Rannulf gave a shaken laugh and set the parchments down on the top of a high chest. "He is a better man than I thought. He honors honor, and few do. I am sorry to have been so long in coming to you, but Leicester stopped me to ask my pardon for the part he played in this trial of spirit and to ask also that I release Geoffrey to be squire of the body to Henry. In a way it is bad, because I have need of him, but I suppose I can recall Andre to service, and there will be many who wish to give their sons to me for training now. Moreover, for Geoffrey, the training in the court—"

  "Do I understand you aright, Rannulf?" Catherine interrupted, seeing that he would talk all night about things that meant nothing to her just now. "Are we safe? Is our danger past?"

  "As safe as a man may be in a mortal world full of erring beings, I believe we are," he replied happily.

  "And all things are exactly as you would have them?"

  "Aye," he said doubtfully, now conscious of her coldness and anger, "everything is as I wish."

  Catherine stood in silence, wondering if it was worthwhile to abase her pride yet again and try once more to breach the wall between them. "Not everything," she said bitterly. "You are still burdened with me. Give me leave then to go to Bourne, or to some other place pleasing to you, where I may live in peace."

  "Come, Catherine. Do not be so wroth for a tap. You missaid me, and I was so overburdened with fear that I could bear nothing with patience. I am sorry I struck you."

  "I do not care for that," she cried. "You want a helpless, mindless thing as wife, or no wife at all. If I could be that for you, I would, so much do I love you, but I cannot be other than I am. Will you love me, Rannulf, if I swear never to meddle again? Do you wish me to sign some charter or renounce my vassals' service in public? Bid me what to do, and I will do it. Tell me what will make me helpless enough to be again a woman in your eyes."

  "Catherine!" He took her in his arms, and she could feel his hard body go soft, as if it would engulf her. "I would not have you other than you are. Did you not know that for a word from you I would have cast all aside—life, name, honor—all. But then I would have hated myself and you also, and I knew I could not live and hate you. So I fled temptation. It was not too little love I felt, but too much."

  "Could you not have said that?"

  "I wished to spare you pain. I did not wish you to be torn apart between conflicting loves as I was. I loved Stephen too. I thought if I withdrew from you and angered you enough you would follow your father's faith and go to Henry. Then you and my sons would have been safe."

  "Did you never think of the pain you gave me?"

  "I did not think at all. I could not bear to think." He fell silent, backed away a little, and lifted one of her braids to trace the curving line with a forefinger. "Look, Catherine, the realm has made peace and begun anew tonight. Let us also begin anew. If I have burdens, I will share them with you—I swear it."

  For a moment Catherine searched her husband's face seriously, then, helplessly, she began to laugh. "Dreadful man," she sputtered, "you will not. As soon as a shadow falls, you will withdraw into yourself again and make me, incontinently and immodestly, run after you pleading to know what I have done amiss. You will not leave me a rag of pride, Rannulf."

  "Nay, for I need not fear that you will weaken me with your weakness. You are the only woman I have ever known whose heart, mind, and spirit I can admire. You are the only woman I have ever known that is deserving of the kind of love a man gives to a man."

  Laughing even harder, Catherine cast herself into her husband's arms again. What a compliment to give a wife! Doubtless, however, Rannulf believed he had given her the highest praise he had to bestow. Rannulf did not understand what was funny, but Catherine was warm and scented in his arms; she was happy, his world was whole and stable, he had bright new dreams of joy. He laughed with her.