Knight's Honor

by Roberta Gellis

  Elizabeth had not yet taken the seat opposite his. Her hand, which was still on his arm, tightened as her muscles contracted involuntarily, but she did not move away when she consciously relaxed her grip. What was coming? Was Chester's daughter not worthy of the honors Roger of Hereford expected to reap? He had turned his face under her fixed stare and she could feel the knotted muscles of his arm quiver.

  "I want you, Elizabeth," he said, his voice suddenly choked with sincerity because a sense of power seemed to flow through him from her touch. "I want you as I have never wanted another woman in my life, with my head as well as with my body." Hereford stopped on a deep drawn breath, grinding his teeth in his effort to retain at least the external appearance of control. "But I have no longer the right to hold you to the promise your father gave. Wait—let me speak. It is never easy for me to find words, and now I am so”

  Elizabeth stared down at him, paling a little, but she did not speak.

  “There is no sense in my broaching this matter to your father,” Hereford continued. “He is not only ambitious but incurably optimistic, and would see only the glory; he would not see—would not permit himself to see—the degradation to which I might drag you. He would say at once that you must hold to your promise. By my faith, Elizabeth, I did not think of this when I came here, but when I saw you again, so lovely as you are, so—so more than a woman only … Can I bring you all unknowing the chance of being an outlaw's wife, of being hunted from keep to keep, or, worse yet, being a landless fighting man's lady, dependent upon some foreign lord's bounty? My heart fails me, Elizabeth. You are used to so much more, to being like a queen in your own castle. I know well in what honor your father holds you. You cannot be forced like some mindless maid into a pit of your husband's digging. You must be permitted to think on this matter and decide for yourself."

  She continued staring at him, suspended between wondering whether he simply wanted to be rid of her, for Chester's daughter might well be an encumbrance if he was planning complicated political maneuvers, or whether he spoke the plain truth.

  "I—it is not fair to urge you, Elizabeth, but I have told you only the worst that might be. You may trust me to do all a man can do to avoid that eventuality. I will sell my life full dear before I come to that. I only ask you that in weighing these things in your mind you add to the scale the fact that I—" He closed his eyes and swallowed. It was unnatural for him to appeal to a woman for any but sexual favors. "I want you—nay, more—I need you."

  A log burst in the fire sending sparks flying. Elizabeth tightened her lax grip on Hereford's arm. He could have made no appeal that was surer of winning her. A reflection on her courage was to Elizabeth like a deep-driven spur in a horse's side, and the open recognition of her ability to think and reason was a tentative guarantee that Hereford did not plan to use her as a brood mare, obliterating her from his mind between conceptions.

  "I am not afraid of disgrace. I have suffered that before. Dishonor I need not fear as your wife, I know. But you have not told me what this is all about. How can I answer when I do not know what I must face?"

  Hereford raised his eyes to her, and Elizabeth's heart checked its beat and then began to pound. Written plainly on his face was the reason it was necessary for her to answer without previous explanation. He might or might not ask for her counsel, but it was necessary to him that she have blind faith, not perhaps in what he was about to do, but in him personally. But she had no time to think about whether she did have faith in him, and her personal fear struggled with her smothered desire for him, effectually blocking her ability to think at all.

  Roger cleared his throat and looked away; the rigidly straight back sagged a little. Had he mistaken the softness he thought he saw at times in Elizabeth's face? Was she all Chester, so ambitious that she had to know if the goal was great enough before she would take the risk? More important, did she care so little for him that the goal and not his need was the essential fact? He ran a hand through his hair, impatiently pushing the blond curls off his forehead.

  "Gaunt—"

  "Wait, Roger." The flat tone of his voice, usually so vibrant with some emotion, hurried her into speech. She had no idea what she was going to say, and the words, when she heard them, surprised her more than they did him. "I thought I had answered you, but I realize that you may not have understood. No consideration of future trouble could make me void my promise. If you still want me—you may have forgotten what Elizabeth of Chester really is, for it is long ago that you offered for me—I am yours for the taking."

  She was about to add that she wished to understand the situation in order to consider whether Chester's daughter would be more hindrance than help and whether, with that consideration in mind, it would be best to go ahead with their marriage, delay, or break the contract entirely. She never had the chance to say another word, however. Roger was on his feet and her words were smothered by his embrace. He reacted at once, thanking her for her faith in the way he knew best how to thank a woman, with physical caresses, not realizing until hours later that she had not offered him her faith, only exhibited her proud determination to keep her word.

  Elizabeth was a powerful woman, but her strength was like a child's compared with his and in his excitement he did not realize that she was fighting to be free. In fact, she did not fight him long; her mind could control her body only for the first few seconds. When Roger freed her lips she was so dazed by the impact of his passion that she made no protest as he drew her with him to the chair and pulled her onto his lap. He kissed her again, her throat, her ears, the corners of her mouth. His hands made no attempt to restrain her but caressed her breasts and thighs; and now she could not have moved even if she had wanted to because her limbs were trembling so that they could not support her. The greatest effort her pride was capable of was to keep her passive. Her longing to reply to his kisses, to touch his body as he touched her, made her sob, but something in the back of her mind cried that if she yielded she would be lost.

  Women were chattel. Like horses or dogs they belonged to the men who were their masters. Their dual purpose in life was to provide these masters with creature comforts—food, clothing, sexual satisfaction—and to bear them children, men-children to be their heirs, females to sell for a bride price and to make alliance between houses by a mixing of blood. In her father's house Elizabeth had risen above this state for, although she was an excellent housewife, she was also Chester's most important confidante and adviser. There was no wife that Elizabeth knew of, except Queen Maud, whose husband was a fool, who enjoyed both a satisfactory marriage and independence, and she unconsciously associated sexual yielding with loss of the freedom of thought and action she had achieved. The conflict between the terror of losing that independence, so dear to her, so hardly won, and the violent pressure of her desires was robbing her of her senses.

  "Please, Roger, oh please," she sobbed, not knowing herself whether she was pleading with him to stop or to take her then and there and end her agony.

  Her pleading stopped his caresses, and Hereford drew back to look at her so that he could judge what she meant by it. Elizabeth's eyes were closed, but their lids quivered, and her pallor was so deep that it gave a greenish cast to her complexion which even the rosy firelight could not counteract. His passion was quenched by his concern for her.

  "Elizabeth." He was holding her gently now, supporting her so that her head rested against his upper arm, her face turned up to his. "Elizabeth, I would not hurt you for the world. What is it?"

  "Let me go, please let me go."

  "I will not hold you against your will, but see how you are trembling. Are you ill? Shall I call your women?"

  "No," she cried, biting her lips to restrain her tears. She would die before she would allow the other women to see her in such a state.

  "Gently, gently. Only tell me what you want me to do, and I will try."

  Elizabeth was silent, struggling with herself. She wanted to tell him to kiss her again.
Instead, she whispered, "Go away. Leave me in peace."

  She made no effort to get off his lap, however, and Hereford was confused. Had she been another man's wife, such behavior would have been an open invitation to him to take further liberties, but she was promised to him. There was no need for pretense of this kind to save her face, and besides, her pallor and distress were beyond pretense. But the wildest leap of Hereford's imagination could not have offered him an answer to the problem because to him there was none. Women did not crave independence because they did not think of it and were not capable of it—so much he accepted, as all men did, as an article of faith. However, he did not class Elizabeth as "a woman" and was prepared to allow her to continue to act as she did with her father. Indeed, her pride and strength were what he found stimulating, for beautiful women, although not perhaps always as beautiful as Elizabeth, were a commonplace in his life.

  "If that is what you desire, I will go, of course, but how far am I to go and for how long? Do you mean that you are upset now and want a little time to recover, or do you mean that you do not desire to be my wife?"

  "I have promised," she said softly, and there was something in her voice that certainly was not gladness.

  "What is it about me that offends you?" There was an edge to Hereford's voice; his pride was hurt.

  Elizabeth recognized the tone. One push more and he would be willing to withdraw his offer; she would be free. He put her off his knees gently and stood looking at her. Her eyes were so wide that they seemed nearly starting from her head, tears trembling in the comers but unshed. Again what she said had little relevance to her conscious thoughts. It was as if her tongue had a life of its own and was not under her control.

  "Oh, Roger, have pity on me. I am afraid. I have never been so afraid of anything in my whole life as I am of you."

  He melted like the rare morning frost of April, which disappears the moment the sun touches it. "Of me?" Elizabeth sank into the chair and he went down on one knee with the graceful motion of a man trained to physical activity all his life. "I would not harm a hair of your head, and I would kill anyone who even looked crosswise at you. Of all men on earth you have the least to fear from me."

  Elizabeth shuddered. Of all men on earth, he was the only one she had anything to fear from for he was the only one to whom she had ever desired to yield. Hereford took her hands.

  "I am not afraid that you will hurt me," she whispered.

  "Then what?" He kissed her hands and she began to tremble again.

  A faint glimmer of an idea illuminated Roger's mind, but it left him even more puzzled. Elizabeth had always been rather bold in her dealings with men; Hereford could distinctly remember times when her advances to him had been so open that he was rather embarrassed and a little disgusted. Now he wondered if that boldness was not bravado, as a frightened man will boast of his prowess before battle to reassure himself. But a man had to fight and Elizabeth did not have to deal with men—or did she? A girl so beautiful, so dowered, and modestly behaved in addition would have been snatched up in childhood. Perhaps her boldness had protected her well from what she feared.

  "Nay," he said, very gently, "you need not answer. I will press you no further. If you like I will go and let you rest, but if you can bear it, I would like to tell you what I started to say when we first came up here." He had risen and walked out of her range of vision so that she jumped and cried out faintly when he stroked her hair. "I can see that you are really in no state to hear me, but once your father returns we will not be able to speak freely."

  "I am all right," Elizabeth replied, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "I can listen."

  "Good. Listen then. Gaunt and I had not been together half an hour when he proposed—straight out—that I should lead the forces of Gloucester and reorganize the rebellion."

  Elizabeth had been slouched in the chair, her face turned away from the fire to keep it in shadow. Now she jerked upright and turned very quickly to face Hereford. This was greater news than she had expected.

  "But what of Gloucester?"

  "We, Gaunt and I, met him the next day in Bath.” Hereford turned toward the other chair and almost bumped into a small table set nearby. “Ah. Here is that food you promised me. I never heard the maid bring it in."

  Neither had Elizabeth, and she spared half a thought wondering whether the woman had seen and heard anything which should not be spread all over the keep. Her attention, however, was now focused on Roger with great intensity, and the maid was only a vague unease at the back of her mind.

  "I cannot understand Gloucester.” Roger’s lips twisted. “I hardly like to call him a man. I tell you, Elizabeth, he nearly flirted with me." That made Elizabeth laugh, and their eyes met briefly with understanding before Hereford, not feeling safe when their glances locked, picked up the flask on the table and poured wine. "Well, that is neither here nor there, but I swear I wish you could have seen him. He turned the rings on his fingers and looked up at me under his lashes—faugh! Yet Gaunt told me he bore himself like a man before Castle Cary and turned a very shaky thing into a decisive victory."

  "Yes, yes, Roger,” Elizabeth said impatiently. “I know William well and have seen and, indeed, borne most of his tricks and ways. But what did he say about his army? For someone who says he does not talk around a subject, you seem to be having great trouble in keeping to it."

  "That was all of a piece. Does a maid lead an army? He was not only willing, he was urgent with me to take his mercenaries under my command."

  "Then you agreed?"

  "Of course, do you think I could turn away from such an opportunity? I am not alone in this—"

  "Roger,” Elizabeth interrupted, “you cannot have thought. Even if my father were to help you and you had my revenues to add to your own, you could never support that force."

  Smiling, Hereford could not resist caressing her with his eyes. She was quick as a man—quicker than he had been—to add it up and come out with the right answer. "Do you take me for a fool, Elizabeth?" It was better just now to sound indignant; if he began to praise, he would also begin to kiss. "The matter of supporting the men was easily settled. I will give you the details of how it will work another time, but Gloucester will continue to pay them through my hands, and—"

  "Gloucester does this for what reason?” Elizabeth interrupted again. “To honor his father's memory? Nonsense, he hated Robert's guts. Because he loves you? Roger, I do not like this. William is not that kind of man."

  Hereford still smiled, but now there was a wry twist to his lips. "I do not trust him either, but it is not so bad as that. He has good reason for his generosity. He takes one half of the noble's share of the booty—when there is booty."

  "One half!" Elizabeth shrieked, starting out of the chair. "You did not agree to that! It is your blood that will be spilled while he sits safe lapped in scent and silken cloth. A tenth above his costs is ample reward for his exertion."

  "Now, now, Elizabeth, he does more than that. You know he is our ear at court. Moreover he takes no small risk in trusting his men to my leadership. What if I turn against him? What if I fail?"

  "What if the sun did not rise tomorrow?" she retorted hotly. "He risks nothing, and you know it, Roger. Your word is better than his gold. And if you did fail, what would it cost him? A year's revenues from chests already overflowing? You will belike lie dead in the field …" Her voice faltered as the sense of her words penetrated, and she pushed back her heavy hair. Hereford paused with his wine goblet halfway to his mouth, very curious as to what her reaction would be, but he was not rewarded with anything of note for she recovered at once.

  "I suppose," Elizabeth continued, a little less angrily, "that Gaunt and Radnor take the other half and you have the glory remaining."

  Hereford laughed in the middle of his drink, spluttered, and choked. "I say, Elizabeth, do not make me laugh when I am drinking. You should know the Gaunts better than that—and me too. They requested only that their costs b
e returned if possible, and that Henry, when he comes to the throne, should grant such favor as is consonant with their help to Radnor's wards. Gaunt insists, and in a way it is true enough, that they are doing nothing and deserve no reward."

  "Then they are as great fools as you. Hark, the dogs. My father is returning."

  "Hereford," Chester cried and started forward across the hall almost at a run, "by God, I am glad to see you."

  The men embraced warmly, for although Chester was the elder by many years, their relationship was that of equals, and Hereford was not given to a display of formal ceremony.

  "It is good to have you here, my boy—nay, my son—and I speak the truth of my heart when I say I am not prouder or fonder of my own blood."

  "Now that," Hereford said, detaching himself from Chester but maintaining an affectionate grip on one hand, and turning to Elizabeth, "is the way a man should be greeted."

  "Do not tease me, Roger," Elizabeth replied sharply, but smiling. "I will give you as good as I get."

  "Do I not know it! All your daughter could say to me in greeting was that I made extra work for her. I tell you, if I was cold when I came in, she soon warmed me well with the back of her tongue."

  "Roger!"

  "Elizabeth!" He mocked her tone.

  Chester smothered a smile. He had done well to write to Hereford and had done well to be absent when the boy arrived. "Well, Roger, you are better off than I am. I have been offered nothing to warm me—not even angry words."

  "Alas," Elizabeth cried in mock dismay, "I am abandoned by all." She went to kiss her father and then with a brief curtsy left the men to themselves as she crossed the hall to order hot wine and more torches, for the daylight was fading.

  "How comes it that you are not unarmed, Hereford? Was Elizabeth really in such a rage when you came that she would not attend you or do you fear treachery in my house?"

  "All jesting aside, that daughter of yours is hot at hand, Rannulf, but that nor the other is why I am still armed. I had something to settle with her pertaining to our marriage and we both forgot. Truly, I have scarcely shed my mail for a day these two years so that I hardly know that I bear it."