"Have you never taken your head in your hands for my sake? Besides, I am curious to see this de Caldoet who even William of Gloucester could not stand. His brother was hung two or three years since and this one is reputed to be a worse man yet."
Hereford smiled slightly acknowledging Radnor's mild jest. "You are old enough to know your own mind and too big to manage. Well, then, let us go. We have nothing to wait for." Radnor moved aside toward the horses and Hereford turned to his brother. "I charge you, Walter, as you would have me rest in peace, to have my wife out of that keep whatever happens. And have a little sense; do not loose arrow or sword upon them unless it be really needful."
A few moments after they arrived at the meeting place, the drawbridge groaned its way down and the gates opened briefly to let ten full-armed men ride out. Radnor glanced briefly at them and leaned toward Hereford.
"I could have saved myself the trip. The foul-mouthed oaf at the postern was de Caldoet."
For once Hereford did not respond to his friend's effort to lighten the tension. He was too caught up in the sensation of being whirled along against his will to an unknown destination. Seldom had he striven against a more unpleasant feeling, for although he had had as many fears and more worries than most men of his age, previously he had always felt that he controlled his own life within the limits of God's will.
"You are de Caldoet?"
"And you the earl of Hereford?"
"Is your master sending out my wife and my men?"
"You have no right to ask that. You are a rebel against your king, and your wife was taken as a prisoner of war. You have further outraged law and justice by willfully burning Lord Peverel's lands without even due notice of hostility. My lord is generous, however; he does not wish to bring needless suffering to anyone."
Lord Radnor made a low sound of contempt between a snort and a snicker but Hereford, expressionless, did not even shift his eyes. De Caldoet, speaking formal words that everyone knew were empty of meaning, cast one glance of envy and hatred at the pair and hurried on.
"Therefore, if you will withdraw your forces and pay for the damage you have done and, of course, a reasonable ransom, Lord Peverel will be happy to restore your wife and men to you."
Hereford lifted his rein preparatory to turning his horse. "I will pay nothing. I have come to take what is mine and avenge the insult done me. If this is what your lord sent you to say, you have wasted my time and your own. If anyone has suffered damage, it is myself, for whatever I am, no man has the right to make war upon a woman and you have attacked and injured the men of my household who offered you no provocation."
"High words and mighty, Lord Hereford, but hard to put to the proof. Nottingham is not so easily taken, and you dare not wait, for my lord's messengers have gone to the king and he will be upon you long before you can hurt us. Furthermore, Lord Peverel bid me say that if you attack us, he will kill your wife."
Hereford's bowels tied themselves into knots. Fortunately he was already so pale that his color could not change, and he had full control over his expression which remained totally impassive. The faintest indication that he could be moved by fear for Elizabeth's safety, that his attachment to her was emotional rather than financially and politically expedient, would have changed the entire course of the interview.
"If one hair of Lady Hereford's head has been discomposed when I come into your keep, I will spare no living thing in this county—except mayhap yourself and Lord Peverel. He, at least, I will keep alive—parts of him—for many, many years."
The tone was so pleasant, so even and measured that the men behind de Caldoet instinctively drew closer together for comfort. De CaIdoet himself felt cold, and, experienced as he was in brutality, he had to repress a shudder. There were things far worse than death that could happen to a man, and Hereford was known for keeping his promises. There was a tale of how he had gained information some years before, using methods that had caused that old-time persuader, Chester, to plead for mercy for the victims. De Caldoet's emotion was fleeting. He knew, of course, that Peverel had not the slightest intention of harming Elizabeth in the first place, and in the second he was secure in the knowledge that he could change sides if things did not work as he expected and save his skin that way.
"You are stupid and stubborn as an ass," he snarled at Hereford. "You would do well to accept an offer so generous. Lord Peverel, however, expected no less, so he has empowered me to make one more offer out of mercy to your men and his, who are innocent of wrongdoing but who would be the sufferers. You say you are injured; he says he is. Let God decide between you. The Constable of Nottingham offers you trial by single combat to decide who is in the right."
Of all the offers Hereford had expected, this was to his mind the least likely. His mouth dropped with surprise. "Peverel offers to meet me in single combat?"
De Caldoet laughed. "No doubt that would just suit your courage—to meet a man thirty years your senior and long out of practice in feats of arms." His tone was deliberately, insultingly contemptuous. "At that, even at his age and in his condition he would probably beat you for your successes are well known to be between sheets of linen not of steel."
Hereford's pale face flamed with rage. He knew he was being baited deliberately, but his response was instinctive, not intellectual, and was beyond his rational control.
"No, my little lordling," de Caldoet continued, sneering, "I have offered myself as his champion. Ah, that you like less. Nay, I told him you would have no lust to meet a man in the field and that, unprotected by an army, you would shrink to your proper size. Come now, pay his price and you may go scatheless."
Radnor had hold of Hereford's forearm. "Do not do it, Roger. You cannot—"
"Done!" Hereford gasped, restraining himself with difficulty from falling upon his tormentor then and there. His hand clenched upon his sword hilt. "Where and when you will. Name your time and place."
"Wait," Lord Radnor protested, "will you trust that snake? Say you fight and win, what surety do you have that he will open his gates?"
"And what surety do I have that when I win the little lordling's men will not fall upon me? We take even risks."
The scars on Lord Radnor's face turned from white to red with fury. There were few men who dared openly question his honor. He pushed back his helmet and mail hood violently so that de Caldoet could see him clearly. "Do you know who I am?"
"Certainly. You are the devil's spawn who has taken the name of Gaunt. So what? I do not fear you, be you man, beast, or demon."
"You may have cause therefor some day."
Radnor mastered his temper with an effort, realizing that the angrier he and Hereford became the less chance they would have of making an arrangement which would protect Hereford's interests. Plainly de Caldoet was trying to enrage them to the point that they desired nothing but to kill him. A better revenge for his insults was to bring him to their terms.
"Let that craven beast who shames a once honorable name send out the Lady Elizabeth and Lord Hereford's men under guard—up to three hundred men—to the east side of the keep wall on this field. I will bring an equal number—my men, not Hereford's, so they will not fight unless I order it—to the west side. The army will withdraw beyond that ridge so that they are no danger to you. You can fight between us."
The bargain was not readily made, for Peverel had indeed hoped that Hereford would, in his rage, fall into the trap of agreeing to fight without such precautions. He had every intention under those circumstances of doing exactly what Lord Radnor suspected. He was reasonably sure his henchman would win, but he could see no reason to take any chance at all. Furthermore, even if Hereford won it was likely that he might be too badly hurt to pursue his attack on the castle, so that if he kept Elizabeth within he would have lost nothing.
Radnor could not be moved by any argument however, and Hereford by this time had cooled sufficiently to agree with him.
De Caldoet then began to play for time, attempting
to put the day of combat off for a week. It was possible that for once Stephen would be spurred to rapid action and would arrive before that date, in which case Hereford would probably be defeated or forced to retreat. In this too de Caldoet failed, largely because he really did not care to be adamant on the subject. He was very certain that he could beat Hereford without great difficulty, and his personal interests would be more fully served by that than by having the king intervene. He was already looking forward with pleasure to seeing the Earl of Hereford crawl and weep and beg for mercy and could see no reason to wait a week for that pleasure. Therefore he did not really become insistent upon his own terms until the actual method of fighting came under discussion.
In this he was successful in arranging three passes with the lance to precede the battle with sword or mace. Radnor argued long and bitterly, for Hereford was no great jouster and de Caldoet was one of the best. He was defeated finally by de Caldoet's rigid insistence and by his own principal's impatience, Hereford saying irritably that one or three made no difference, for God would protect him. Lord Radnor slammed one mailed fist into the other and gave up, muttering that even the Lord needed some help from a little good sense once in a while.
De Caldoet smiled, silently agreeing, but satisfied. Capable of judging men only by himself and his personal experience, and to a certain extent misled by Hereford's apparent physical delicacy, he was rather contemptuous of his opponent. He was not overly clever and had the stupid person's habit of forgetting what was unpleasant to him, so that at the moment he did not remember that twice the same day Roger of Hereford had almost frightened him by his expression alone. His basic reason for wishing to fight and beat Hereford, however, was far more rational and practical than a mere sop to his ego. De Caldoet believed that when he had Hereford at his mercy the defeated man could be forced to cede a handsome share of his property to save his life. This would restore de Caldoet to independent status as a war lord, the thing he wanted most in life.
The terms of the agreement finally made were essentially what Lord Radnor had proposed, and the following morning was set for the time of combat. Hereford had held out for some time for that very afternoon, but both Radnor and de Caldoet had opposed him, Radnor because he wanted Hereford to have some rest after their grueling ride and de Caldoet because he wanted a good night's sleep so as to be at his best. That was not, of course, the reason he had offered. Aloud he had insisted that he would need time to have Peverel ratify the agreement and did not propose to have the battle terminated by darkness.
"I do not desire to offer you that method of escape," he had sneered at Hereford, "and I wish all men to see clearly how you kneel before me."
CHAPTER 10
WHEN DE CALDOET AND HIS MEN HAD RETURNED TO THE KEEP AND THE drawbridge had screamed its way up again, Hereford turned his horse toward the camp. If he had heard de Caldoet's final remark, he gave no sign. It was true that he had accepted the offered challenge in a fit of temper, but he would have accepted it even had he been perfectly cool. He could do nothing else. The captains of his army had attended the parley, and to refuse would have been tantamount to admitting either that he was personally afraid or that he knew his cause to be unjust. Hereford's hand tightened on his rein as if holding it firmly would improve his control on a situation that seemed to be slipping out of his grip. Lord Radnor had been equally silent, although he kept his horse standing beside Hereford's while the others had ridden ahead to spread the word among the men. His dark face worked momentarily as he came to a difficult decision.
"Roger."
Hereford started. Lord Radnor called him Roger only when he had something intensely personal to say or when he was emotionally much moved. "Yes?"
"You had better let me fight as your champion."
With eyes widened with shock and insult, Hereford studied the expression of the man who had made that flat, unemotional statement. "What?" he said, doubting his ears.
"Curse you, Roger, I like to say this no better than you like to hear it, but let us speak plain words without flattery. That man is a jouster that even I think twice about meeting. You cannot hope to withstand three passes with a lance against him. He will kill you."
The delicate mouth, fine and sweet despite a week's growth of beard, took on an ugly, stubborn line. "I am not so easy to kill."
"Have some sense," Radnor cried, his husky voice sharp with fear and exasperation. "This is no time to be proud. Your wife's safety and, more, the success of our venture hangs upon your life."
The earl shook his head. "No. No to all. If I am killed, Elizabeth will be safe because she will be valueless. Chester will pay her ransom—or Walter even—and Peverel will let her go. Stephen will not want her if he cannot use her to control me. About the other matter—I do not know. You know my feeling about that. Mayhap it was not meant to be, or I was not meant to be part of it. Such great things are in God's hands."
"Ay," Radnor answered furiously, repeating his previous sentiments, "but sometimes God needs a little help on earth. Man has free will, and yours seems to be directed to destroying yourself."
"Do not fret me, Cain," Hereford said miserably. "You mean to be kind, I know, but even if I desired to accept what you have offered, I could not. I agreed to fight. My men expect it of me. How will they believe in me if you guard me as if I were a helpless child? How will I face my wife, proud as she is, if you ride for me in that field?" He smiled wryly. "Nay, what is more to me—how would I face myself?"
There was a little silence. Radnor muttered to himself, but no matter how strong his impulse to interpose his own great strength and skill to save his friend he recognized the truth of what Hereford had said.
"Besides," Hereford continued, his tone becoming more brisk and animated by interest, "I am not so doubtful of my prowess as you are. That de Caldoet thinks I am nothing is all to the good. I have a lust to meet that great braggart."
In the long sleepless hours of darkness, however, Hereford wished more than once that he had accepted his friend's offer. He was afraid and desperately ashamed of being afraid. Finally, some time after midnight he went to find his brother. Walter responded so quickly to his low question that it was plain that he too was lying awake.
"Walter, I have a few things to say in private to you. Tomorrow … Do you go with the men or stay with Radnor?"
"I would not miss that sight for the throne itself, nay, not for the assurance of salvation."
The voice was hard and cold. Hereford had to pause a moment to be certain that his own would be steady before he spoke again. Whatever his aching need for comfort, he would not find it here. He suppressed the angry impulse of self-pity that urged him to leave, reminding himself that he had misjudged Walter in the past and that his brother's bitter tongue did not always accurately describe his emotions.
"Mostly I have come to ask that you have a care for our mother and our sister Catherine."
"Oh, ay, I need that warning. Doubtless you think I will wrest their dower rights from them and sell them as slaves. You alone can be fond."
Hereford sighed faintly and moistened his dry lips. He knew Walter would care for their womenfolk, he had only wished for a gentler tone even if not addressed to himself. "About matters of the estate, you will find written instructions if you wish for them, but I do not feel that I have the right to leave orders. As for the political matters in which I am involved, heaven only can tell whether I have done well or ill. With you as a man, I have certainly done ill, yet I know not wherein I have failed. I only pray you, Walter, if you know where I have trod amiss that you guide Miles more kindly."
Hereford waited, but there was no reply. He could hear Walter's steady breathing, nothing more. He continued to sit for some time after all expectation of an answer had passed, simply because he did not wish to be alone, but finally his pride asserted itself. There was one thing more only that he had to do, for he had already arranged with Radnor about Elizabeth's ransom. He touched Walter's face, briefly an
d gently, and went out to seek quietly through the sleeping camp for a priest to whom he could make confession.
Freed by his brother's departure from the self-imposed necessity of denying emotional reaction, Walter of Hereford clenched his jaws and cursed silently. Roger was a devil, he thought, a devil. No one else could devise more subtle tortures; no one else could so wrench the soul in his body. He had been contemplating with self-satisfying amusement the vision of Roger overthrown and humbled, it was true, but such a vision had no reality for him. Walter had for his elder brother, in spite of his struggles against it, an admiration that amounted almost to worship.
He could not really believe that Roger could be defeated by anyone, and to dream of his humbling up to that moment had been only a childish act of rebellion against his brother's authority and a sort of emotional revenge for the many times Roger had curbed his actions and desires. Hereford's words, presupposing his death, had brought sudden reality to Walter's conception, and the violence of his reaction made him turn on his face and bite the mail-clad arm his head rested on. When Roger was dead, he, Walter, would be the Earl of Hereford. He would have everything that was now Roger's, the wealth, the respect, the position, the power. Roger would be gone—gone forever, never again to say him nay, never again to chide or shame him.
Walter clung to those thoughts desperately, but tears came anyway. Roger would be gone, never to laugh again, never to hunt with him, fight with him, play chess with him, never again to praise him for a clever thrust when they fenced, or, with eyes clear and shining with amusement, to give him advice on how to manage a recalcitrant mistress. Walter was torn apart. From the depths of his being he desired Roger's position, but in those moments of agony he admitted for the first time since childhood that he loved his brother. He did not know whether he wanted him dead.
Morning brought him no closer to a resolution as to which desire was uppermost, and Walter's face was more haggard than Roger's when they ate a meager breakfast and prepared to mount up. Hereford himself had slept well for the remainder of the night. Confession had calmed him and absolution brought him comfort. His affairs were in good order, and, best of all, the bright sun, the first they had seen in days, brought him confidence, shining on him like an omen of good will. He was able to smile easily and naturally at Radnor's absorption in testing the girthing of his destrier and the sharpness and soundness of three jousting lances. The only shadows he had to contend with were his natural fear of death and his regret that he might not be able to keep his promise to support Henry's try for the throne. Radnor moved away to give last minute instructions to his men. Hereford glanced at the sun to judge the time. Walter stared stiffly at Nottingham Castle across the burnt-out fields.
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