Hereford released a long breath of relief; for good or ill his decision was made. He looked up at the sky again. If the weather held they would have dry ground to fight on, but it would not hold unless it grew colder. Tomorrow, Hereford thought, let it rain tomorrow, and rain and rain. Mayhap we will be wet and slip in the mud, but Stephen's men will need to ride through the mud and drown in the swollen fords. That will teach him to trust an English spring and chance attack before the first thaw dries.
In the late afternoon of the second day out, Alan of Evesham was looking at the sky. He, however, was not pleased in the least to see it graying over, not knowing that rain suited Hereford's purposes. Thus far they had made a really remarkable distance for a troop traveling with women. Her ladyship, he thought, rode as well as any seasoned trouper, cared nothing for the comfort of her attendant ladies, and was plainly anxious to reach her destination. She had ridden, that first day, from dawn until after dark without a murmur of complaint and was up and ready to ride again at dawn the next day. Nonetheless, if it rained they could go no farther than Geddington that night. It would make a long ride to Corby the next day and a miserable one if the rain continued.
When Elizabeth felt the first drops she bit her lips with nervous chagrin. She had long since recognized her folly and bitterly regretted it, but it was more dangerous now to go back than to move forward. She desired only to reach the safe haven of Corby so that when Sir Alan asked if they should return a half mile to Kettering she said that the wet was nothing.
"Let us press on, Sir Alan, I beg you. I am not made of salt."
The knight looked up at the sky. Dusk was gathering quickly now over the gray clouds, but Geddington was only a few miles ahead. "Very well, my lady," he replied.
A mile further down the road, however, he would have given much to have made a different decision. Behind them he could plainly hear the sound of a large body of mounted men coming. They were gaining steadily on Alan's troop and, having no way of determining whether they were friend or foe, he had no desire to meet anyone at that hour and in such an indefensible place.
"My lady—"
"Who is that coming?"
"I do not know, my lady. Mayhap it would be well for us to move off the road."
"You know best, Sir Alan, but look, there are only open fields. Where can we hide?"
"There is a small copse ahead. See that shadow? Let us spur forward. It may be that we may reach that shelter in time."
Walter of Hereford wiped the wet out of his face and expended a good part of his not inconsiderable store of obscenity. He was miles and miles from Oundle and separated from his companions. He cursed the stag he had been coursing; the dogs that had lost the scent and, finding a new scent when his horse was too tired to follow, had left him; the weather; and himself for being so absorbed in the chase as not to realize how far it had taken him. He was not even sure just where he was, but plainly there was a road ahead. At least he had a purse heavy with gold and was, as his habit was, well armed. There was nothing for it but to take to the road and seek the first shelter he might find. He walked his tired horse slowly toward the opening in the trees and then pulled it up suddenly. Just below him were the unmistakable sounds of battlethe clash of arms and the hoarse cries of men. Walter edged closer cautiously. It was most unlikely that anyone would notice him even though it was not yet completely dark, and he was curious.
A small troop was engaged with a much larger one—that much was clear—and the larger group were plainly well-drilled soldiers fighting under a banner. Walter shrugged and began to back his horse. He could not make out whose banner it was, and the outcome was clear although the small group fought well and desperately, clustered about a central point as if protecting something precious. It was dangerous to stay longer, Walter thought, and of no real interest to him until a girl's voice rose over the sound of the fighting in a shrill scream of pure terror.
"Help! Lady Hereford, help me."
"Hew them down to a man if you must," was Ralph de Caldoet's harsh reply, "but do not harm the women. One among them is Hereford's bride. Our lord will make us all rich if we bring him this prize."
Walter pulled up so sharply that his horse nearly slipped. Lady Elizabeth! What was she doing here? He began to laugh, but carefully and silently. So the omniscient Roger had at last made a mistake. Good for him, let him win his own way free of it. He moved back into the shadow of the trees, and the sounds began to fade, but his mount moved ever more slowly as an unconscious guilt made his hand heavier and heavier on the rein. Finally the horse stopped. Who was the lord of whom they spoke? What did he want with Hereford's wife? Hereford's wife. Hereford was his name also and his father's. Roger said always that he brought shame upon his name. What shame? He touched his horse with his spurred heel. All men gained what they could for themselves in these black times. So he was worthless and shameful. Then let Roger mend the shame of sending his wife ill-protected through a country hostile to him. Fool. It was more shame to be a fool than a thief.
With a soft-muttered oath, Walter of Hereford turned his horse again and moved to the edge of the wood. It was his name and he would do as he liked with it, but no other man would smirch it under his very eyes and go scatheless. Now he could do nothing—one man on a tired horse—nothing but follow and see where his enemies went.
William Beauchamp yawned and rubbed his eyes. He wondered why, just because his master had given up sleep, he too must do so. They had ridden a day and a night, stopping only for an hour or two to rest the horses, from Wallingford to Devizes. After that it was true they had slept—for three hours. William could not even remember clearly the passing of the following days. They were full of scribes writing messages and riders going forth and returning. Men accoutered for war poured in from all sides and camped on the downs around Devizes, small parties riding forth day by day to spy out the countryside and to discover what they might about the king's advance.
Something had apparently delayed Stephen, possibly the rain that Hereford had wished for and which had certainly come in abundance. William wished that the elements had not been so thoroughly at the service of his master; he was tired of being wet and cold. He lifted his head, which had dropped to his breast, as Hereford's voice rose in argument against some proposal of Lord Radnor's. Great leaders of a great army—William shook his head. No one looking at them now could tell the difference between the leaders and the meanest landless knight. Both were unkempt and unshaven with surcoats and chausses so splattered with mud as to make the original color unrecognizable. No, William thought, smiling grimly to himself, there was one way to recognize them. The lesser knights did not have eyes sunken an inch into their heads; they got to sleep once in a while.
He looked at his master consideringly. Sunken or not those eyes were bright and clear now as they had not been since the return to England. For all the hard labor, discomfort, and anxiety, it was plain that his master had recovered his spirits. He was ready to be merry whenever he had time, and nothing but outright disobedience to his orders seemed to have the power to discompose him. Perhaps it was the prospect of the fighting. William was looking forward to that himself because fighting behind Hereford's banner was thrilling and inspiring. He did hope, though, that he would be able to get some sleep before the battle took place; his head dropped forward onto his breast again.
Moments or hours later, he never knew which, he woke with a shock as a man-at-arms stumbled over his feet and fell headlong into the tent, crying out as he fell. William was on his feet at once, sword drawn to protect his master. For that there was no need, the man made no effort to rise; it was clear that he was at the end of his endurance.
"My lord," he gasped, "your lady is taken."
CHAPTER 8
THE FROZEN SILENCE FOLLOWING THOSE PAINFULLY ARTICULATED words endured only for a moment. Hereford was on his knees beside his man, turning him face up roughly to recognize with horror that it was Alfred of the Southfield, truly one of the men
sent to escort Elizabeth.
"By whom? Where?"
"Easy, Hereford, you will throttle the man and he is sore wounded already. Beauchamp, wine. Lift his head and pour it down his throat."
"Where was she taken? By whom?" Hereford insisted, blind and deaf to all else, shaking the fainting soldier.
"I know not by whom. It was nearly dark and they set upon us so suddenly— It was near Kettering, a mile or two north."
"Kettering! You lie!"
That gave the wounded man more strength than the wine. "My lord, I am your faithful servant and have ever been. I do not lie. Lady Elizabeth commanded us to go to Corby to your sister, and thither were we riding."
Hereford had turned a ghastly color, even his lips white.
"How long since?" That was Lord Radnor, almost as pale but less disabled by shock.
"I do not know. They left me for dead, else I had not been here. I know not how long I lay beside the road nor how long I have been in coming hither. There was no other man alive there and no horse within sight or call. I crawled along that road till I came to the nearest cot. There I waited for night, stole a horse, and I have ridden since, when I could for weakness, stealing other mounts when that I had fell or wandered away."
"My God, my God," Hereford moaned, "what possessed her?" Before Radnor could protest that this was no time for useless lamentation, however, he was in full control of himself. "Go call Elizabeth's and my own vassals to arms, Beauchamp. Let them take riding food only. We do not stop day or night until we come to Kettering."
"Wait, Hereford," Radnor said, laying a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Is it not possible that this is some trick to drive you and your men from a position of strength to where you may be easily destroyed?"
Cold and white, Roger of Hereford looked at his liege man's bloody face. "I do not think it. Go, Beauchamp. Alfred has ever been a true man to me, as he said, and to my father before me. What does it matter anyway," he added savagely. "Could I take such a chance? Would you?"
Grimly Radnor shook his head. "No, I would not. But where shall we go, Roger? What use to go to Kettering? They would not keep her there. It is no small robber band that has taken your lady. Doubtless there is some purpose behind this and you will hear what—"
"Are you friend to me or enemy? Ay, I could wait here, wait until she was in the White Tower or a stronghold equally safe. What would be the price of her ransom then, think you? My lands? My faith? My head? What use to go to Kettering? Someone must have seen that troop and known who it was. Someone must have seen them passing later, bearing prisoners. I will have that information even if I must burn every house and cot and keep and rip the bowels from every man, woman, and child for a hundred miles around Kettering."
"So be it, Roger. I go bid my men also arm to ride."
"For what? If the king has her, which I greatly fear, you will lift no hand to help me for your oath. You had better stay here—"
"For the rape of my friend's wife I will lift my hand, oath or no oath, against any man. What can I do here? The keeps are safe against Stephen. There are yet no crops to burn. We can take no serious loss except the loss of the chance to defeat the king. I have three hundred good fighting men in my train, and we are like to need every man who will fight with a will."
They rode out hours before dawn, more than two thousand men, armed and angry, for Hereford had made plain the cause for which they rode. "Is that honor?" he had cried aloud. "Is the coward so much afraid of us that he needs to make war upon women traveling in peace?" And those who could hear passed the message through the ranks. Some of the men knew the hot-tempered and beautiful Lady Elizabeth because they belonged to her dower property and were her own men; some because they were Hereford's own troops and they had seen and heard her during the stays she and their lord had made in various strongholds. Many thought of their own wives and sisters who might be similarly treated, and all desired to right the wrong done their master.
Even in his haste, Hereford had chosen only those troops who would have a personal interest in this fight because a few men hot with rage were better for this kind of work than a huge army halfhearted and unwilling. Any man would fight when threatened, but it took a different kind of man to assault a well-defended keep, and that was exactly what Hereford planned to do when he found who had his wife prisoner.
Day dawned and the morning passed. Those who were hungry ate dried meat and hard bread on horseback and drank water from the leathers at their saddlebows. The sun reached its zenith and began to decline; still they rode, until the beasts went with hanging heads, stumbling at every unevenness on the track, while the men on their backs dozed in the saddle, too worn to be watchful. In all those hours the Earl of Hereford had spoken not one word, nor had he looked elsewhere than at the track before him. Lord Radnor looked at him often, but forebore to break the silence. He could offer no comfort, and mere words at such a time were better left unsaid. In the dusk, however, he at last touched his companion.
"Hereford, call a halt. The beasts can go no further even though the men are willing to ride until they drop. Look, my own Fury and your Shadow can barely stand, what must be the state of the weaker beasts?"
Hereford looked at him sullenly. "We have miles yet to go."
"Not far. I do not know this country well, but I think not more than ten. The men must rest, Roger, if they are to fight."
"Very well. For an hour. We cannot arrive before nightfall anyway."
When they had dismounted and were about to eat, Hereford and Radnor raised their heads simultaneously, looking into the gathering dusk across the fields toward their right.
"'Ware arms! Horsemen to the right."
The tired men mounted again and drew their ranks closer, but only one horseman approached. Stopping at a respectable distance, he called out to know whom he faced.
"The Earl of Hereford. You have leave to approach but not to depart."
A clear laugh rang out. "You would be ill able to catch me, Roger, if I desired to go. My men and mounts are fresh, and we know this country well."
"Walter!" Hereford exclaimed. "What do you here? You should be across the breadth of England by now."
"To speak the truth, dear brother, I was waiting for you. I have had spies set on every northeast track for two days now. What delayed you? Did not my messenger reach you in good time?" The tone was light, a mocking triumph filling eyes and voice as Walter of Hereford approached and sat looking down at his brother.
"Messenger?" Hereford's face which had been white flamed suddenly. "What messenger?"
"Ah, now you are less anxious to have me across England. Nonetheless, dear brother, I am so eager to please you that, although I have something of note to say to you, I will gladly leave right now."
"Do not play with me, Walter. I am far past the mood for sport. If you have aught to do with my purpose in being here, I—"
"Roger!" Radnor caught at his friend as he started forward.
"Sweet Roger, clever Roger—oh, stupider than any ass to send your wife nearly unguarded into the hands of your enemies. Did you think the terror of your name alone—"
Radnor's grip slipped as Hereford wrenched loose and tore his brother from the saddle. Too angry to reach for a weapon, he used his hands like a beast, seeking to tear the jugular from Walter's throat. His fingers were foiled of their purpose by the close-fitting mail hood, so that Radnor had a chance to drag them apart and interpose his bulk between them. William Beauchamp and two others hurried up, permitting Radnor to consign Walter to their care while he wrestled with Hereford himself.
"Hold him and let me speak," Walter gasped, "my precious, loving brother who tries to choke the life out of me before he will hear one word. God knows, I am close to holding my tongue and letting him sweat blood, but my revenge is too sweet."
"Say what you must and quickly," Radnor growled, fighting to hold Hereford, "or I will stick you like a pig myself."
"Pig am I and foul? Evil am I and
black? Always it is Walter that is black and Roger white. Why then did I go two days and a night without sleep or food to discover where the lady that bears the name Hereford was taken? You think I took her? You think I am so common that there is no deed too filthy for me to touch?"
The young man was trembling, his eyes filled with tears of pain and pride. Still clasped in Radnor's arms, Hereford had stopped struggling. As far as Lord Radnor could tell, he had stopped breathing too, so quiet had he become.
"What will you give me, Roger? What price will you pay for the news I bring?" Walter tried desperately and without success to keep the sobs from his voice.
One of the men holding him growled and spat. He took the sobs for fear and the words for open greed. Lord Radnor, wiser by bitter experience, bit his lips. He could hear his own voice saying just such venomous words in the not distant past. He could have told much, had there been time, about what happens to a man whom others believe to be evil. But there was no time, and it was not his place to meddle between the brothers. He released Hereford and limped away; he would be witness to no more of this scene by his own will.
"Let him go," Hereford ordered his men. "William, pass the word for the men to dismount and take their rest."
"Do you not fear that I will bid my troop fall upon you in the dark for the booty you carry?"
Hereford ignored that. "Walk down the road a way with me, Walter. I am tired and cramped from riding. I would stretch my legs."
They moved off into the gathering dark silently.
"Well," Walter prodded with an ugly laugh, "what will you offer me? You are out of hearing now. Your men will know nothing of your chafering with your commoner of a brother."
"Nothing. I offer nothing, neither price nor threat. I have an hour's time—until the stars are clear, if we can see them. I would make my peace with you. Walter, for love, will you tell me—not where Elizabeth is, that you must do as you like about—tell me what man you sent as messenger to me."
Knight's Honor Page 19