Walter's face hardened with consideration. Hereford sat down again as if his knees had gone weak and, desperately trying to hold his brother, made a bad mistake.
"I can promise you very little immediate gain," he continued in a low voice, "nothing to what you would have if you continued with the plans we made earlier. If we fail, also, I can promise you a rope's end for a necklace. But if we succeed, Walter, there is almost nothing you will not be able to ask—land, an earldom, any heiress in the country to wife …"
Walter's eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Watching, Roger was aware that he had trod amiss again. He wanted to cry out to him to come back, not to recede into hatred or indifference.
"Your price is not high enough," Walter said finally. Roger always tried to buy him like a common mercenary and always that action aroused in him the same burning shame and bitter resistance. He failed to realize that he himself had blocked his brother from all other methods of approach by his venomous tongue and manner.
Elizabeth cried out softly at the expression on her husband's face, but neither man looked at her. They were totally absorbed in the struggle between their wills. Walter now had his bloody lower lip between his teeth again, defeated already because he knew that Roger always won, but unable to give up the struggle. With a sharp intake of breath Hereford looked aside. He had realized that this was one thing in which it was more dangerous to force Walter to his will than to be without help. He must follow willingly or not at all.
"Forgive me, Walter. I have no right to push you where you do not wish to go. I thought I had learned that lesson. I can only plead my great need to excuse me. What will you do now?" He laughed shortly then but not pleasantly. "Nay, you need not tell me. You are a man, not a boy in my care. You may do what you will."
Walter did not answer, but he did not seem to be able to leave either. Hereford lay down, shaking, incapable of further effort of any kind.
"Can I do something for you, Roger?" Elizabeth asked quietly, coming closer.
"You have done enough for me already," he replied.
It was a cruel thing to say, but Hereford was beside himself, on the thin edge of complete loss of control. Elizabeth winced; she felt, however, very strongly that she was receiving her just deserts and made no effort at extenuation.
"Curse you, Roger," Walter burst out. Elizabeth started, thinking amazedly that Walter was about to defend her, but he had not even heard the exchange. "If you want me, I will come with you. You are a fool to ask me though. I am no man of yours, and I care nothing for your cause. One day you will say or do the wrong thing, and I will turn on you." He came up and looked down at his brother. "You cannot buy my loyalty, Roger, for you have by birthright the only thing I desire, and I hate you for it." Hereford did not look up. His face shone a little in the dim tent, possibly with sweat, but Elizabeth wondered if he could be crying. If he was, Walter gave no sign of noticing as he bent over his brother and put a hand on his sound shoulder. "You are right in one way though. You once said you were flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. I can refuse you nothing you ask of me for love."
He straightened up and walked away, turning again almost immediately to say more briskly, "Let us settle it thus. I will come and do my duty as long as I may. Do you meanwhile look about you for another man who will suit you. When you have him, give me leave to return to my own affairs—or, if I can bear you no longer, I will give you warning and go when I must."
CHAPTER 11
THE SUN SHONE ALL THAT DAY, BUT FOR THREE MEMBERS OF THE PARTY that rode from midafternoon to late evening its brightness was overcast by the shadows on their spirits. Walter, leading the force, wondered, panic-stricken, whether he would come out of the commitment he had made with a whole soul. Hereford with Elizabeth beside him, unarmed and with his left arm bound lightly to his body to protect his shoulder against the jolting of his horse, traveled well in the center of the group where he was best protected.
Hereford had accepted the suggestion from Walter without comment, indifferent. He understood that he would be of no value either front or rear if they were attacked and actually an additional source of danger to his companions who would be obliged to protect him, but he would have accepted the suggestion anyway because he simply did not care. He was silent, absorbed in his thoughts, struggling with the pain of his partial comprehension of his brother's problem and the depression caused by his emotional turmoil over Elizabeth.
His wife did not dare address him, not because she was afraid but because the sight of his dumb suffering was steadily swelling her remorse. She watched him, however, with her heart in her eyes. It was unfortunate that Hereford never looked at her, for he did understand women and could not have misinterpreted her expression. The knowledge that would have given him would have cut his burden in half.
They made camp that night, Walter and Lord Radnor having decided that it would be better to take the chance of camping in hostile territory than of pushing Roger past his endurance. He did not argue even against that, suppressing his sense of urgency, partially because he was exhausted and in pain but largely because the next day would bring them to the parting of the ways. Radnor would take Elizabeth due west to Hereford and Walter and he would travel south to Devizes. Roger would not admit it to himself, but he really had offered no objection to camping in the hope that somehow in the privacy of that night he could mend matters between himself and his wife. When the raiding parties had returned with food and he was alone with her, however, he sat stupidly staring at the fire.
"Roger," Elizabeth ventured at last in a voice that trembled slightly, "eat something."
Automatically Hereford started to reach out to tear the chicken before them in half and stopped with a grunt of pain. Elizabeth paled a little and dropped her eyes. She was the cause of his discomfort and felt that he would be reminded of her guilt. Hereford's mind, of course, did not work that way. He associated wounds with battle, and his recollection of how he had broken his collarbone, if it could have any effect at all, could only lift his spirits. He would be very proud of that encounter when he had time to consider it in a less emotional moment.
"Let me, Roger."
Elizabeth broke the chicken into quarters and offered them to her husband, who looked at her without being blinded by wrath for the first time that day. He was shocked by her appearance, having been too taken up with his own emotions to consider that Elizabeth, knowing the havoc she might have caused, must have been living in hell herself for an interminable week. He took a quarter of the bird slowly, seeking for some ground of conversation.
"You had better eat something too. You will have a long ride tomorrow."
Elizabeth did not raise her eyes because they had filled with tears at the kindness of Roger's tone. "I am not hungry," she faltered.
"Neither am I, but that is no reason for starving oneself."
"Are you ill? Do you have fever?" Elizabeth was now too distressed by more important matters to be ashamed of displaying her tenderness. She reached over to touch Hereford's face, lifting the hair off his forehead to feel it, and then, still dissatisfied, she came closer and put her lips to it. "No," she sighed, torn between relief and regret. Perhaps if he had been feverish she could have brought him home to Hereford Castle for a while.
Her husband permitted the caress with pleasure, allowing his eyes to close sensuously. "I am only tired, Elizabeth. Tired and sad."
That was unfortunate; it reminded them both of their quarrel. Hereford stiffened slightly and Elizabeth withdrew. There was a silence in which he began to eat, finding it surprisingly difficult to swallow and watching his wife surreptitiously. Perhaps his rage should have reawakened, but Elizabeth was so close to him now, her beautiful head drooping disconsolately, that there was no anger in him, only a desolation of sorrow in which he wished to comfort and be comforted. Had he been sure she was willing, he would gladly have taken her into his arms to kiss and caress. He had not yet forgiven her for what she had done, he migh
t never be able to do so, but he could not live in a wrangle with Elizabeth and he was growing increasingly certain every moment that, no matter how angry he was, he could not live without her.
"I wish I knew—" he began, only to be interrupted.
"Do not ask me, please, Roger. I am sorry, as God is my hope of salvation, I am sorry for the hurt I have done you. You may beat me, or lock me up. I will not complain nor defend myself for I have surely deserved it."
Elizabeth began to cry then in a horrible, wrenching, unaccustomed fashion. She really wept so seldom that she did not know how, and her sobs racked her apart. They tore Hereford's strained emotions to tatters too. He was always affected by women's tears, yielding readily even to the gentle weeping of his mother and sisters. To stop Elizabeth's violent grief he was ready to give or promise anything. He cast down his uneaten meal and pulled her against him.
"I will ask nothing. Do not weep, Elizabeth. When you are ready you will tell me whatever you like, or nothing at all if you like. I pray you, do not weep."
At that Elizabeth's sobs choked and a moan like a tortured animal was tom from her. She slipped out of his embrace down to the ground and embraced his knees. "Oh, do punish me, Roger. Do. Do not be kind to me, I cannot bear it." She did not realize that she was kneeling before him; the posture was no attempt to soften her husband's heart, it was an unconscious attempt to ease a sense of suffocation and the pain that gripped her across the breast. "I am sorry," she moaned, "I am sorry. Oh, the pain I have wrought you, the harm I have wrought you. Your men, your plans … What have I not brought to naught? But I meant you no harm. Mary be my witness, I meant not to hurt you thus. Roger. I cannot live if you will not believe that."
He lifted her to sit beside him again. "I believe you. Nay, Elizabeth, calm yourself. Even when I could have killed you for rage I never thought you meant me harm." He kissed her, holding her against his good shoulder. "All in all, it was not so bad as it might have been," he began, trying to quiet her, but a sudden vision of Alan's dead body rose before him, and he choked on the words. He could kiss her and love her, but that he could not forget or forgive.
Elizabeth who had become quieter sensed his withdrawal and began to sob again. The vision of Alan faded as Hereford directed all his attention to soothing her, first with wordless caresses and finally, as she lay against him limply, shuddering intermittently, with reflective speech.
"At least this has brought me to some understanding—or rather to some working arrangement with my brother. Understand him, I never will. There is good in him though, which it has lightened my heart to know. Then too, that business with de Caldoet was not all bad." Elizabeth shuddered and Hereford kissed her. "Come now, you were ever a woman who appreciated skill in arms, I flatter myself I did right well, for I was overmatched in weight," Hereford smiled a little ruefully, "and not a little in skill with the lance. Ay, I did right well." He began to laugh outright as a thought completely foreign to his present troubles occurred to him. "It will behoove me to improve my jousting now. Word of this will spread, as I guess, and there will be many who wish to try the man who endured three passes and conquered de Caldoet."
Elizabeth drew a shuddering breath, turned her face into his breast, and put her arms around his neck. For Hereford the memory of that encounter was becoming steadily more pleasant as his fears faded from his memory and his success stimulated his ego. Elizabeth would never see eye to eye with him on that subject. She had only to close her eyes to see him standing there, waiting, while de Caldoet's horse thundered down upon him.
"Go to," Hereford was saying, almost gaily, "you are acting like a cloistered maid. Have you never seen men fight before?"
"Not in such deadly earnest and when one of them was my husband." She tightened her grip and Hereford winced.
"Easy, you will unseat that bone again, and it was not lightly set." He smiled at her and pulled her back as she jumped away. "You need not leave me altogether. Only do not hang upon my neck. It is warmer together, the night has turned cold."
Elizabeth nestled against him very willingly, and not because of the cold, although Hereford did not know that. Nor was she comforted by his embrace, for the kinder Roger was, the more he attempted to soothe her, the more enormous her sin seemed. She was crushed beneath the weight of her guilt and she sought some way to lighten it. "What will you do with me, Roger?"
"Do with you?" He shook his head and smiled with rather twisted lips. He loved her, but she had cost him seventy good men, one as dear as a brother. "I suppose I should lay the buckle end of my belt to you till I could lift my arm no more, but I am scarce in a condition for that. Truly it would hurt me more than you. What would you have me do? I love you. I cannot even be angry with you any longer."
Desperately Elizabeth tried once more. "Roger, please! I have done ill. Let me suffer for it."
You are suffering for it, Hereford thought, gazing at her. Perhaps I am more cruel than kind to let you go scatheless. All he said aloud, however, was, "I cannot bring myself to hurt you, Elizabeth. Not now when we must be parted for so long and so perilously. You go to Hereford tomorrow and I—mayhap to meet the king."
"Tomorrow? Am I not to go south with you, Roger?"
"I cannot risk that." He spoke slowly, seeking briefly for a reason to take her, or to go home himself, but his sense of duty would not permit him to think seriously of such a thing, not even briefly. He was conscious now of Elizabeth's body, warm and soft against his own, for he wore no mail, conscious that the preparatory stages of his rebellion were over and that there would be fighting to come. His ever growing sense of foreboding was increased by his depression over Alan's loss and Walter's unpredictability, and Hereford felt suddenly that he might not live to see Elizabeth again. The knowledge that this might well be the last chance he would ever have to enjoy Elizabeth made her infinitely desirable to him. He began to tremble slightly, and color rose into his pale face, making his eyes intensely blue.
"Elizabeth," he murmured in an entirely different voice, bending his bright head over her dark one, "Elizabeth, you are a fire in my blood. Will you share my bed tonight?"
She was startled. It was the last request she expected of him, but immediately it seemed perfectly logical to her. He said he loved her, yet he could no longer trust or respect her after what she had done. What other use could Roger have for her now? She deserved it; she deserved it. That at least she could give him, however, willingly, with no reservations. Perhaps her complete yielding, free of the initial resistance she customarily displayed would make up in some small measure for the trouble she had caused. Love, Elizabeth knew, was very important to Roger. She lifted her mouth to his.
"Yes, with all my heart, but—"
He smiled faintly although his face was already rigid with passion and his trembling had increased. "Do not worry," he said through rather stiff lips, reading her mind, "I will show you a way that will not hurt me. I know many ways, Elizabeth."
They kissed good-by very tenderly in the morning, but the eyes of both were shadowed. Hereford's burdens weighed heavily upon him after the sweet oblivion of that night, increasing with the light, and Elizabeth, recalling every word and act of his tenderness, could scarcely breathe under the weight of guilt she carried. Her state was far worse than his. The pressure of Hereford's duties and military anxieties would soon blot out everything but a distant uneasiness. Elizabeth, on the other hand, would return to a peaceful household which ran itself smoothly needing no attention, to a mother-by-law who disliked her and from whom her pride and honesty would forbid her to conceal her misdeeds. She faced days, weeks, perhaps months of idleness in which she would have nothing to do but consider what her bad temper and lack of consideration had wrought.
Walter of Hereford shouted orders at his men and opened his mouth to give directions about the disposition of men, the pace to be held, and the path to take. With a sudden expression of distaste he closed it again and went to find his brother. He had pledged himself to
service, he reminded himself, for such matters he needed Hereford's approval. He found Roger remarkably easy to please, though not in terms of the indifference he had exhibited the day before. The elder brother listened attentively to everything Walter said, but he displayed none of the inclination to make unnecessary changes in the plans that was typical of the petty tyrant. Walter breathed a sigh of relief and thought that things might not work out so badly after all.
"The only thing I cannot plan on is how far we may go. I do not know how much traveling you can bear, Roger. You do not carry yourself much easier that I can see."
Hereford laughed. "No, and I feel, if anything, worse. Still I doubt not to go as far as is necessary. We need make haste only into the borders of Gloucestershire, however. Once there, except for certain keeps, we are safe. It might be well worth while to plan only as far as Cheltenham this day. I admit that I have a mind to spend one night in a comfortable bed, and I can command one there. It will make an easy ride to Devizes tomorrow, and what has been lost by my delay will not be changed, I suppose, by one day more."
They accomplished their intentions without any hindrance at all but were met at Devizes by Patric, Earl of Salisbury, with the bad news that Downton had fallen. Hereford expressed himself fluently and at great length when he had this piece of news, repressing with difficulty an impulse to write to Elizabeth so that she might have another score to credit against her willfulness. In honesty, however, he could not do it. He had known that Downton was under siege for some time, but had not considered their plight to be serious. The failure to go to their relief was all his own, and he confessed as much to Salisbury, striding up and down the hall in a rage at his own stupidity and seeking a way to revenge his frustration on Stephen. The king was well out of his grasp, however.
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