Walter meanwhile had been frowning over his mother's letter, not because he was angry but because he was puzzled. He read it through once to make out the words and again for the sense, but was little better off after the second reading.
"Roger," he said imperatively, "do you know what Mamma is writing about? Roger, what the devil is the matter with you? I never thought you cared for the old man; I thought it was Radnor you were attached to."
Hereford turned slowly. "I was just thinking of death in general. It is very hard to realize that I will never see Gaunt again, that Alan is lost to me in earthen bonds he can never break … What did you say about Mamma?" he asked briskly, trying to shake off his mood. To Walter least of all could he confide his fears.
"I asked if you knew what this damn letter was about. Surely you cannot be considering breaking your marriage with Chester's daughter. You would do better, if you do not trust her, to keep her prisoner. To ask for an annulment and bring Chester down upon us at this time is madness."
Irritation was an excellent restorative in Hereford's case for depressed spirits. He came back and seized the letter, rereading it quickly. When he finally looked up, there was such a mixture of fury and humor in his face that Walter did not know which emotion to comment upon.
"Women!" Hereford exclaimed, "Women! As if I had not troubles enough. I swear God made men and Satan made women to be sure that all men would go to hell. It will be a miracle if I do not slay them both. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Did you? One insane creature is cross with me—God knows why, for I swear I had done nothing to enrage her—so she rushes across the breadth of England like a bitch with a sting in her tail, disrupts the plans I have painfully spent months bringing to the point of fruition, nearly costs me my head, destroys my household guard and my best and most loyal servant—and then she will not deign to tell me why. No, she must spill the tale to my mother—who loves her not. Heaven help me! I will beat her black and blue when I see her next. Then the other idiot—and how my own mother could be so addlepated I cannot tell—not content with the damage the first has done me, proposes that I should rid myself of my wife, and of course her revenues, to the tune of my entire fortune and hers, and, that loss not being sufficient to satisfy her love for me, bring political disaster upon myself also." Hereford gasped for breath, feeling much better already. "I will beat her black and blue too," he continued, when he had mastered a fit of coughing. "This not being enough, she informs that proud bitch of a wife of mine that she intends to write this to me and that I will surely obey her." He began to cough again. "I have not obeyed her since I was seven and left the women's quarters, but doubtless my wife, having less brains and more stubbornness than a sow, will believe her and write to her father craving redress."
Having worked himself up into a royal rage, Hereford became literally speechless. That rage was the best thing that could have happened to him at the moment for it permitted the transfer of all his frustration to a real object and his fury temporarily obliterated his fear. Moreover, it was not a rage that was likely to last long. Already his sense of the ridiculous was striving with his anger, and Walter, his head down on his arms on the table, was frankly helpless with laughter.
"It serves you right, Roger," he crowed, when he had breath to speak. "You will involve yourself with them. It does not matter though. You need only write to Chester and assure him it is only women's nonsense."
"I will write not only to Chester. Oh, could I but lay my hands upon them, I would mend their ways. I tell you I will blister both their ears for this." Hereford was still panting faintly, but a rueful smile was already curving his lips. In a few seconds more, he too was laughing. "The cream of the jest, Walter, is upon me, you know. I would not harm a hair on either of their heads, and I love them both, perhaps more dearly than ever, for being so—so like women."
Walter made a disgusted gesture. "I cannot see why you wonder about Mamma's brains being addled when you are so much like her after all. I have always said so and always will."
"I must suppose you are right, yet I have had much pleasure from this disorder. Strangest of all is that I would not part with Elizabeth even if she had acted in malice, though I was sure she had not even before she told Mamma— Can you imagine that?" he asked, growing heated again. "Can you imagine such idiocy? The course of a whole kingdom's fate might have been altered by the mad whim of one woman. Perhaps God is not against us after all. Had He been opposed to our cause, that was the moment to destroy us."
And Hereford, greatly refreshed and restored by the release of his emotions, stormed off to write his letters and further relieve his heart. Having dispatched his couriers, Hereford emerged from this epistolary episode like a giant revitalized, to plan his next move with his brother. The violent surge of energy provided by his fury had made decisions easy. Suddenly all seemed clear. With good fortune he and Walter should be able to take another small keep in the next week or two and begin an attack on a third. That attack he would leave in Walter's capable hands while he took a small troop of men as secretly as possible to meet Arundel and Henry.
Depending upon the success of Walter's lone venture, he might well be able to leave the raiding in the south to him. It was something he liked to do and would not readily tire of—and to Salisbury and John Fitz Gilbert, while he himself rode north with Henry to Scotland, picking up Chester on the way. All that remained was to plan where to direct his attacks.
There was, of course, not the slightest need for Hereford to assure Elizabeth that he did not intend an annulment. She might be stubborn, but she was not stupid at all and did not trouble herself for a moment over that part of Lady Hereford's outburst. She knew her value politically and financially to her lord too well, and that would outweigh in the long run any amount of ill will he had toward her. Nor in any case would she have written to her father in her present state of guilt and depression.
When Hereford's first letter directed to Elizabeth arrived, Lady Hereford was so incensed that she actually considered making Elizabeth's life in Hereford untenable. She too had come to the realization that her son could not afford to part with Elizabeth, but she had hoped that he would be furious enough to drive his wife out to one of her dower castles. Even that hope was destroyed when Elizabeth heard from him so soon after their quarrel, and Lady Hereford saw that the only way to be rid of her unwanted daughter-by-law was to drive her out herself and pretend Elizabeth had gone of her own free will.
One day, exceedingly uncomfortable for both ladies, although for far different reasons, passed before Hereford's second courier arrived. Lady Hereford had begun the ousting operation and was completely miserable about it, while Elizabeth, absorbed in her own problems, was so unhappy that she had not even noticed. Lady Hereford's uneasiness was caused to a very small degree by fear of what would happen if Roger discovered what she had done, but primarily her distress came from her own kindliness.
Elizabeth did not look well, her skin having that greenish tinge pallor gave her; her eyes were sunken and ringed with dark circles; and she spent a good part of the day mutely staring into space. Had Hereford not interfered by writing either letter, his mother would very soon have been forced by her own compassion to try to comfort the girl. She told herself that Elizabeth was bad for Roger, trying to stiffen her purpose, but she was a pious, truthful woman, and the knowledge that she was acting out of jealousy was slowly forcing itself upon her.
For Elizabeth also, Roger's demand that she act as intermediary between himself and her father came at a bad time. Normally she would have greeted such a request with enthusiasm, feeling it to be a mark of her husband's recognition of her worth and being sure she could accomplish exactly what he asked. Now, although it was true that the worst of her agony had passed, she was in a numb state of convalescence in which her soul had begun to heal itself. What he wrote, however, flung her again into a bottomless pit of despair, because her faith in herself was broken.
She was sure she would be incap
able of handling her father properly, that he would ask questions to which Roger had given her no answers and that she was still too shattered to chance answering on her own. Chester was a difficult man to deal with sometimes—none knew that better than his daughter—and if something in her manner or his own situation set him off, he could easily refuse to have anything further to do with Hereford's cause. Elizabeth knew also that her father was quite capable of stubbornly adhering to a plan of action disastrous to himself to spite someone else, and she was terrified that in her present state she would do or say something wrong and start him on a path inimical to her husband and his own welfare.
The mirror before her reflected a face that Elizabeth stared at without seeing for some time as she automatically unbraided her hair to go to bed. When she finally focused upon it, she dropped her head on to the table before her and began to weep. If she showed her father that countenance, so drawn, so hollow-eyed, with a disconsolately drooping mouth, he would immediately conclude, no matter what she said, that Hereford was cruel to her, and again her very existence would bring about the failure of her husband's plans. She could not go to Chester, she could not.
Besides, she did not wish to go. If Roger came home—perhaps, though, he would not wish to see her. After all, it was very likely that when she was not there to show him how very sorry she was and, she had to add, stir his passion, he might dwell more on the enormity of her actions. She reread those last lines in his note in which he said she was not to trouble herself over his welfare and that she took to be a cold rejection of her concern for him and then crept miserably into bed. How she longed for his warmth beside her; how she longed for the caresses she had so often repulsed.
Elizabeth did not realize it, but it was a sign of the restoration of her emotional balance that she now wanted Roger to comfort her whereas previously she had clutched her unhappiness fiercely to herself. His assurances of affection would no longer burden her with greater guilt. They could not erase her consciousness of evil-doing. Elizabeth would bear the scar of what she had done to her dying day, would treasure it in later years, in fact, when she came to realize that her sorrow had made her a whole woman, but now Roger's love could heal her heart.
The next day began evilly with the deaths of two more of the wounded men and blossomed into complete horror with the arrival of Hereford's second courier. Lady Hereford read her son's missive with wide, unbelieving eyes. Never before had Roger written in such a way to her. He was bewitched. That she-devil had enchanted him. Only, when she looked up at her daughter-by-marriage, who was also reading a letter of Roger's, she could see that Elizabeth had turned even greener. Apparently, enchanted or not, Roger was not writing love letters to his wife.
"I must leave Hereford keep, madam," Elizabeth finally said in a dull voice.
So Roger had ordered her out of the keep. Instead of being glad, Lady Hereford's heart was wrung. How could she have written that letter and betrayed Elizabeth's confession to him. "There is no need, Elizabeth,” Lady Hereford said. “Roger is angry now, but it will not last. I know him well. If you go, you will only have to return for he will surely ask you to do so by his next letter. See," she said, holding out her own letter to Elizabeth, "he is furious with me also."
At first Elizabeth did not take what Lady Hereford offered, knowing full well that if Roger had intended either of them to see the other's mail he would have saved parchment and effort and written one letter to both. Her hesitation was brief, however, for she was moved by a sense of unity with Lady Hereford against Roger, another sign of her improving spirits, as well as by curiosity. The first glint of humor she had felt since her unfortunate decision to go to Corby Castle flickered in her eyes as she took one letter and handed Lady Hereford the other. Roger would have a fit if he could see them, she thought.
"But, Elizabeth, Roger says nothing about your leaving here. Indeed, he is very angry, and you should not fret him further by taking action on your own, even if you are insulted by what he says …” She hesitated and then went on with pursed lips. “And I must say, you have not much right to be taking it ill. At present, and, indeed, I mean this kindly to you, I would go nowhere without his order. You know what happened the last time you spited him." Lady Hereford could not resist that, and Elizabeth did drop her eyes, but the pain of the deliberate prick was much less than she had expected to feel when her trespass was mentioned. "If you think to go because of what he says about being a good daughter-by-law, do not trouble yourself over it. I do not expect it, and I will tell him nothing more since he does not desire my advice. Whatever is between us will be our affair."
That was fair enough, and Elizabeth was moved to volunteer a little more information. "I do go by his order. It was in the letter I received yesterday. I must go to Chester. I will return as soon as I may."
Elizabeth still did not wish to go and was still somewhat troubled about her ability to deal with her father, but now she was determined to try. Hereford's strictures had done something to improve her resolution by raising a tiny spark of resentment in her, resentment she had not known she could still feel. More important, however, was a brief, bald statement in his mother's letter that he still wanted and needed his wife, Elizabeth's lips curved into a faint, unconscious smile. He had not meant her to see that. How she would prick him for playing the heavy husband in her letter and not realizing that two women, even two who did not like each other, would combine against a man who sought to discipline them.
An excessively cold, wet March had run away into a lovely, soft, bright April. On the peaceful farm lands of Chester, the corn sprang from the earth in thin, pale-green blades, young, fresh, and tender. The oaks, beeches, larches, and aspens showed a mist of the same tender green on their branches, promising the rich shade and whispering grace of summer. Elizabeth, riding home to Hereford, broke into a soft humming of a song in praise of spring out of sheer lightness of heart. Perhaps in the core of her soul there was still a black spot of despair that could rise and overwhelm her, but today it was buried deep. She had a great many things to be glad of, even though her father had received her initially with anything but kindness.
Indeed, from Chester, Elizabeth had received the beating she had been longing for. He had heard of her folly through Lincoln, who had been only too glad to twit his half brother on the results of the way Elizabeth had been raised. Enraged almost as much by the shame she had exposed him to as by the things she had done, Chester had received his daughter with a blow that had knocked her flat. Elizabeth picked herself up only to be smacked again while her father raved at her. Apparently Chester believed that she had come to him for protection against her husband's wrath.
At first she tried to explain, while warding off his blows, but Chester was beyond reason. He continued to strike her and shout curses at her until Elizabeth was forced to defend herself as she knew full well how to do. She was badly bruised, however, and in a full-scale fury herself before her father was tired, her indignation at being misjudged and misunderstood going a long way to lift her depression. In the end she cursed Chester with the fluency and originality of a man-at-arms and drew her small knife on him. From sad experience, Chester knew that her poniard could inflict nasty cuts and he gave over, father and daughter facing each other flushed with rage and panting for breath.
"Out," Chester shouted, "out! I will not have you here. If Hereford kills you, it is his right. Go hide from him elsewhere." Suddenly the anger on his face died out and changed to an expression of sorrow and bitter disappointment. "Elizabeth, why? How could you do such a thing? Why?"
"I would not answer you now if my life depended upon it. Nor need you be troubled with me. I will go. I would not spend an hour more than I must here for a king's ransom. Hide! I am more able to defend myself, from Hereford or anyone else, than you are. I would die on the rack sooner than crave your succor." She drew a trembling breath and steadied her voice. "I come upon my husband's business, and it is for him alone that I have borne so long with y
ou."
"Hereford's business? That boy is mad to trust you now. I do not believe you. He is not so addlepated as that."
Elizabeth's angry flush subsided as she saw a way out of her dilemma. It was well that her pride had been humbled by her folly for she could never before have brought herself to say what she now must. "He had no choice. He could not send a courier past Shrewsbury. Nor does he trust me overmuch, accursed that I am, for he told me nothing save that I should bid you summon your vassals and gather your mercenaries in readiness for the second week in May."
She had shown him Hereford's letter after that, and Chester asked her no questions, believing her explanation of why no further information was offered. That hurdle past, all was easy. Chester readily agreed to do what was asked, so Elizabeth had succeeded where she had feared to fail for the very reasons she had expected to fail. In spite of Chester's angry words and her own, she had stayed several weeks, long enough to see the muster begin and to make her peace with her father. Therefore Elizabeth was happy. There was only one small dark cloud on her horizon; she had not heard from Roger again, but she buried that fear and enjoyed the spring and her success while she could.
The spring showed a far less pleasant face in the war-torn south through which Roger of Hereford was riding. The fields lay untilled, often showing still the burnt stubble of past raids, and what few miserable serfs remained on the land crept into gullies to hide or, so weak with starvation that they could not do so much, stretched out their hands to the passing men with whispered pleas for alms. Sometimes Hereford threw a few copper coins or ordered a bag of wheat to be left behind, but largely he did not notice, for the sight was so common as to render the senses numb, and, besides, he was taken up with his own thoughts.
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