Knight's Honor

by Roberta Gellis

  He told himself that a greater immediate problem was his sexual frustration. He had not practiced so much continence since his first experience—at twelvewith a girl in the fields, and it did not agree with him. Elizabeth had virtually given her permission for him to take another woman, but he was not fool enough for that. He would not make her ridiculous in the eyes of her peers by taking a mistress to his bed while the guests were assembled for the wedding. Other men did so, perhaps, but even if Hereford had not loved Elizabeth he would not have done so because he was naturally kind. Nonetheless, his sense of righteousness made it no easier for him to sleep, and the sleeplessness gave him too much opportunity to think. The sense of futility that had been suppressed by active planning returned, and the physical fatigue of hunting instead of bringing him sleep only intensified his depression.

  Women, however, were a central point in Hereford's orientation, and he could close the door on matters he knew to be more important temporarily while he attended to them. "As you say, I have well deserved it, but not for my stubbornness, Elizabeth, for my stupidity. Nay, I will not make myself worse than I am. I am so tired that it is no wonder I did not realize you had something special to say to me. Have I been coldly polite to you? Then we are even, for if you hurt me, I have surely done the same without meaning to."

  Elizabeth made no direct reply, but she was pleased with Hereford's graceful acknowledgment of her apology. "I can see you are tired, the whole world can see it. You look dreadful. Even if you cannot sleep you could lie down and rest." She took his arm persuasively. "Come, let me see you lie down."

  Hereford's smile illuminated his tired face. "Elizabeth, you delight me. For all your sharp words, you are going to spoil me worse even than my other womenfolk."

  "Now you are flattering me so that I will forgive you for denying what I ask. Is it not so?"

  "Yes." Hereford was still smiling. "I cannot—I was winning. The gentlemen will never forgive me for retiring suddenly with their gold in my purse."

  "It is no matter for jest, Roger. In spite of what you say, I am not given to coddling my men, but you will make yourself ill."

  "I am never ill."

  "As you will."

  Elizabeth might have urged him further. He was plainly willing to listen and to be cajoled, but she was ashamed of seeming tender and a little afraid because any prolonged private contact with Roger woke both his sensuality and hers. His eyes were already brighter.

  "Kiss me, Elizabeth." It was as if he read her mind, however, for he spoke gently and added, "For courtesy's sake, to seal our mutual pardon. I will not touch you."

  "I will sell you a kiss."

  "Sell it! Holy martyrs, listen to her. Chester has brought me a changeling, a tradesman's daughter, worse, a usurer's." He was holding her hand tighter now, smiling with a more relaxed expression. "What is your price?"

  Elizabeth colored; it was not easy for her to display the softer emotions that came so naturally to most women. She had buried them too deeply in her struggle for recognition as an individual and she was now awkward and ashamed.

  "One kiss for one hour's rest, two for two, and if you will allow me to undress you so that you can go to bed I—I will give you whatever you ask for."

  She was afraid; it was plain on her face, but she was more afraid for him. That near hysterical laughter still echoed in her ears. Hereford slowly closed his eyes and reopened them as slowly.

  "Do you care so much?" His voice was unsteady. He was continually surprised at the violence of his reactions to anything Elizabeth said or did. He no sooner convinced himself that her influence was only slightly greater than that of any other woman when she would show another side of her character that threw him off balance again.

  "That is a fine question," Elizabeth replied tartly. "Of course I care. A fine sight it would be if my bridegroom fell flat on his face on his wedding day. There is enough scandal about me without adding the fact that marriage to me is enough to fell a man." The tone and words could not hide the sentiment; Hereford's answering smile was as uncertain as his voice.

  "I wish … What excuse can I offer for leaving?"

  Swallowing nervously, Elizabeth moved closer. She had proposed a bargain and now it seemed must yield her surety. "Your face is your excuse. Everyone has been telling you to go to bed for hours. What excuse do you need? Come, let me remove your gown."

  "No, dearest." Relief and chagrin mingled almost comically in her face. Hereford would have laughed had he not been so moved. He drew her close and held her gently against him, rubbing his face on her hair. "I will go to bed, since you desire it, but you shall not undress me. Therefore you need pay no forfeit. That was what you said—if I allowed you to undress me. You shall have your will of me and yet go scot free, but you must remember not to mock me for keeping the word of a promise and violating its spirit."

  William Beauchamp shrugged his shoulders at Hereford's two junior squires. "Do you remember when we were envied because our master was the best-humored and most considerate of men? Do you know what has come to him this last week to make him walk about half the night?"

  Patric glanced up briefly from running a thread of coarse wool through the links of Hereford's mail which looked now as if it were made of silver rather than steel. "I can guess. What need to lie abed if there is nothing to keep you warm in it?"

  "Ay, so what is he doing there now when he should be up and preparing to fill that empty space? All week he kicks us out of bed before dawn when we need only throw any old rag over him and ourselves. This morning when it will take us hours to get everything just so—his chausses perfectly smooth, the tunic to show just so much at the neck, the gown to have only certain folds and no others—when he will feel his face ten times over for one hair missed in shaving and keep us an hour combing those silken locksthis morning he sleeps."

  The youngest of the three, Harry, straightened Hereford's scarlet velvet robe, just a shade off the so-called royal purple, where it lay ready on a chest. "Mayhap it is better he sleep," the boy interjected shyly, "he surely looked to need it last night."

  William laughed. "He will get little enough tonight, if I know him—or she either. But at least he will not be walking the floor and waking us for one thing or another. I can only pray that this new wakefulness will mend his temper."

  "If there were special prayers for it, I would pay the priests well to say them, and join them myself,” Patric said. “We will have to wake him soon anyway. How long do you judge the sun has been up, William?"

  "What sun?" William pushed back a shutter cautiously and pulled it to again with a disgusted grunt. "It is raining soft ice. By Christ's holy blood, even heaven is cold and weeping at this match."

  "It must be almost Prime,” Harry ventured. “I heard the chapel bell some time since."

  "Good boy, Harry. Go, you wake him. He is usually soft of speech to you."

  Hereford would have been soft of speech to anyone that morning. He woke easily and gently from a deep, dreamless sleep, greatly refreshed and, after lying for a while, drowsy and relaxed, allowed himself to be helped out of bed and bathed. He had been shaved and half dressed in the same lazy, acquiescent mood when some comment of William's about Rannulf’s clothing made Hereford start upright and say, "Anne! I must speak to Anne."

  "Oh, God, what new crotchet is this?" William groaned. "Not now, my lord, there is no time."

  "Time or not, I must see her at once. Look you, dress yourselves now to save that time at least. I will not be long away. Give me that box of jewels."

  "At least let me finish with your cross garters, my lord."

  Hereford was looking hastily through the contents of the chest he had unlocked with a key chained around his neck. "Make haste then." He extracted a ring engraved with the arms his father had borne before he became Earl of Hereford.

  "Haste," William grumbled, "if you wish them to lie properly I cannot make haste. Will you go with baggy chausses to your wedding?"

  Fon
d of clothing as he was, Hereford had to laugh. "As long as something else is straight and tight I hope to be satisfied."

  William choked, pleased at his masters apparent return to normal. "Thanks be to God I do not have the arranging of that. Now, whatever you do, do not sit down. Those are molded like marble to your legs. If you crease them, I will die of a broken heart."

  There was a mad flurry of excitement in the women's quarters when Hereford demanded admittance, for he rarely invaded his mother's private apartments personally. Lady Hereford came into the outer chamber to him.

  "What does this mean? Are you crazy, Roger? We must be at the church in two hours and look at you."

  "I want to see Anne, Mamma."

  "Anne! With two women to dress in bridal clothes, do you think we have time for your nonsense? This is no time to tease your sister. Go away."

  "I am perfectly serious. I do not intend to tease her. Let me go in."

  "You cannot. Elizabeth is in there as well as Anne."

  "Oh, Lord. Send Anne out then."

  "She is not dressed."

  "God damn it," Roger said impatiently, "send her out naked then. What harm do you think I will do my sister? I tell you I have something important to say to her."

  A moment later Anne came out in her thin linen shift, looking frightened. "What is it? Is something wrong? Rannulf—?"

  "Nothing wrong, love. I did not mean to frighten you." Hereford took her by the shoulders and looked her over frankly. "Well, he is a fortunate young man. You are very well, very well indeed." He took her face between his hands and kissed her gravely, first on the forehead, then both eyes, and then her lips. "Listen to me, Anne, my love. I have done the best I know how for you and I have every expectation that with your sweet face and your gentle nature you will be very happy. Mischances, however, can befall even the best of plans."

  "Oh, Roger, what is it? Is this a time to speak of mischance?"

  "Dear heart, in a few hours you will be mine no longer to care for. I think I have chosen well, but— Anne, love, I will always be your brother, and, as long as I live, you will never lack for a protector. This is your father's old ring. I do not believe anyone except myself and your mother will remember the crest. If—now I do not want you to be afraid, but if Rannulf should prove to be different from what I expected and prove unkind or if, God forbid, he should be hurt or killed—nay, child, such things happen—then you must write to me. Listen closely and try to understand. Do not write of your troubles. Write a letter as if all were well. Write that you are in good health and desire to know of our well-doing, or any such matter, and seal the letter with this ring instead of your husband's seal. When I receive a letter sealed with this seal, I will come to you at once. Do you understand?"

  "I—I think so."

  "Now, love, be very careful. Do not lose the trinket and do not seal any other letter with it. It would be a terrible thing if you made a mistake and I came to ravage your husband's lands with fire and sword. I could destroy him, and you, and myself also if you were careless."

  Anne began to tremble. "At such a cost, I would not wish to be saved. Do not give it me, Roger."

  "Now, now, you will not be so foolish as to make such a mistake." He kissed her again. "And be a reasonable girl too. If your husband gets drunk and knocks you about, you are not to send for me to settle your quarrels. Run away or hit him back. Only for really serious trouble—and I do not mean another woman in his bed either—are you to use that seal."

  "You are always so kind to us, sweet brother."

  "Who else will be if I am not?" He held her close and patted her shoulders. "Now, for lesser matters you may write and complain, and if I can help, or your mother can, with advice or admonition, we both will. Do not ever feel that we have deserted you. God keep you, love. God make you happy."

  Anne began to cry. "You sound as if we would be parted forever. I do not go so far. You will come to visit me, will you not? And Rannulf will let me come home sometimes, is it not so?"

  "You must not cry, Anne. You will spoil your face and make your poor husband think you are unwilling, You would not wish to grieve him so. Your home is in Rannulf's keep now, and do not forget it," Hereford said firmly, and then, softening, "but you and your husband will be welcome guests at Hereford whenever you wish to come. I will also very gladly come to visit you—if Rannulf should be willing to invite me. You must go and dress now, dear heart, you are cold." She clung to him, sobbing. "Enough, Anne, I must dress too. Hide that ring well and tell no one—no one at all—that you have it or what its purpose is. It might be used to set a trap for me that would cost my life. Have a care to your tongue. Now go."

  Lady Hereford received her sobbing daughter with thoroughly exasperated affection. As she comforted her, she felt a surge of gratitude for her daughter-by-marriage’s perfect calm in that roomful of bustling excited women. Elizabeth was a little pale, but not enough to spoil her complexion, and was completely collected. She was fully dressed already except for her bliaut, which she chose not to put on until the last moment because it was so stiff with gold-thread embroidery that sitting in it might damage it.

  She was watching Anne with a rather reflective softness in her lovely eyes while she braided gold thread into her thick, black plaits. The tunic she had chosen was a soft wool of coral color, its tight wrists and high neck also embroidered so thickly in gold that they were stiff. The bliaut had called forth gasps of astonishment from the attendant ladies; it was a dull gold velvet covered all over with a branching pattern of oak leaves and acorns in glittering drawn gold. The magnificence was not what startled the women, however, that they had expected. It was the color. Yellow was the color of mourning and Elizabeth's dress was barely a shade removed from that sad tint.

  No one could deny its perfect suitability for her. The tunic, close to her face, gave her skin warmth, and the gold matched her brilliant eyes and set off the black braids that hung beside each breast well below her hips. Elizabeth had just been helped into the garment by Leah, who was holding the bride's icy hands in her own warm ones, when a page asked for admittance. He carried a soft leather pouch and a small piece of folded parchment that he said must be delivered to Lady Elizabeth alone. She went forward slowly and took the note first and then the pouch. Opened, it poured a necklace of gold and rubies into her hands. The women had cause to gasp once more.

  Elizabeth swallowed once, then again, and reread the note accompanying the necklace. "Elizabeth: I send you this, not as a dower gift, but for yourself. The stones are my own to give as I choose, having been paid for in France with my own blood and agony. I beg of you to wear them for love of me, but if you love me not, do else with them as you will. Hereford."

  Clever Roger, he never gave her time to think, and he made it so easy for her. She needed to say nothing, only don the necklace. What woman could resist that rich beauty? Moreover, if she did not wear it, she would need to explain to all the women there why she chose to ignore a gift of such value.

  "Who is that from, Elizabeth?" Lady Mary was upon her, the sharp, peevish voice even shriller than usual with the hope that she would catch Chester parting with some of the dower property, or even better, that she might catch Elizabeth receiving something from a lover. "Let me see that note. Who could send you such a costly gift?"

  She reached for the note, and Elizabeth tore it away from her, dropping the necklace in her anxiety to hold the parchment. Whatever was between herself and Hereford, now or in the future, it was their business alone, not that of a roomful of gossiping women. She folded the scrap of parchment and pushed it up the tight sleeve of her tunic, her face crimson with anger and excitement.

  "The gift is from Lord Hereford," she cried. "Who else would send it to me?"

  "That is no part of the dower jewels of Hereford, Elizabeth," Lady Hereford put in slowly and reluctantly. She did not wish to seem to support Lady Mary Chester, but she felt obliged in Roger's interests to inquire.

  Elizabeth's body g
rew rigid, drawn up to her full height, which was not inconsiderable for a woman, and she fixed her mother-by-law with eyes that made the older woman recoil a step.

  "They must be something his lordship brought from France," Lady Radnor said softly, picking up the necklace and putting it back into Elizabeth's unreceptive hands. "He would wish to give her something private for a wedding gift, something for herself alone. The dower jewels she may only use, but they cannot be hers, belonging as they do to the sons who will come after her. Here, Elizabeth, let me put this on. It will be more beautiful than the topazes you had chosen to wear."

  Now, of course, Elizabeth was trapped. If she did not wear the necklace, every woman there would think that Hereford was not the giver and that she was trying to hide the jewels from him. She started to tell herself that she was angry at being forced into the situation, and knew that she was lying. She was glad that she could wear it without having to confess that she did it only to please Roger of Hereford.

  Leah was still speaking in the gentle, aimless way she adopted in company, rambling on about Lord Radnor's gifts to her and displaying an armband with necklace to match of square-cut emeralds bound in silver, which, she said, he had given her upon the birth of their son. That was no part of the Gaunt collection either, she pointed out, but hers alone, and the women came to examine the work and exclaim so that the cold silence was covered and Elizabeth had time to regain control of herself.

  Finally it was time to go. Leah did not sigh with relief, for she was too well trained to give expression to such an emotion, but she sent up little thankful prayers as she wrapped Elizabeth in her fur-lined cloak and pulled the hood up to protect her head, and, since neither of the elder women who had that right did it, she kissed her friend.