Knight's Honor

by Roberta Gellis

  "I was thinking," Hereford replied to the look, "that I have been startlingly faithful to my wife. In four months of marriage—at least two of which we have been separated—I have not even looked at, not to mention touched, another woman."

  "Is that something to laugh at? In your case I would suggest an immediate consultation with a good physician. Do not tell me you are in love with her."

  Hereford laughed again. "Yes, I do love her, as a matter of fact, but truly, I fear, it was not love but exertion that kept me pure. Nonetheless, my lord, I am moved to reprove you—by your leave, of course—for your misspent life."

  That sent Henry off into giggles. "Four months of holy wedlock and he wishes to reprove me. Roger, we shared the same whores in France, and even I was brought to admire your work. You have bettered me by one in the matter of bastards—and in the years in which you fathered them too. If you turn sanctimonious on me, I will hang you for a traitor. Still, who could better reprove me from a wealth of experience? By all means, you have my leave."

  Both men were fatigued, both very young, and both overburdened with responsibility. The sweet spring air, the silent, starry night were headier than wine, and, drunk with the momentary release of tension which they knew would return all too soon, both became very silly. Hereford proceeded to preach a sermon on the joys of chastity that would have edified a saint; Henry, listening in awe, nearly fell off his horse with laughter.

  The same sweet air and peaceful night were not affecting Elizabeth in a similar manner. She had returned from Chester just in time to witness the arrival of Hereford's courier, and the fact that he brought not even so much as a verbal greeting to her broke the peace that she had been achieving so slowly and painfully. Her mother-in-law's frantic activity to ready the castle for Henry's reception only embittered her further, for there was nothing for her to do. More bitter than gall was the knowledge that she was not even the lady of the keep, not even worthy to help in the labor of preparing for an exalted guest, more surely exalted because he was unnamed.

  Possibly she might have regained some equanimity and sufficient reason to realize that her husband had not meant to slight her had she been able to vent her emotions. That solace was denied, however, by her pride, for she would not weep before the other women of the keep. She could not even creep into bed to cry herself to sleep, because she did not know what bed to go to. If the guest was Henry, which both women suspected, there could be no doubt that Hereford's own bedroom would be yielded to him.

  Where Roger would decide to sleep then was anybody's guess. He might decide on the semi-privacy of his mother's quarters just above the main hall; he might wish for greater proximity for ease of communication and choose to sleep in the hall itself; or, he might wish to be free of the exhausting presence of his guest and choose to go to the solar of the old keep. In any case, Elizabeth was not even sure that he would wish her to share his bed. She had worked herself into such a state that when the exhausted foreriders arrived to announce that Lord Hereford was a few minutes behind them, she fled from the hall up to the women's quarters. Whatever happened she would not be shamed by being slighted before the man she believed would be the next king of the realm. She would come down only if Roger sent for her, and sent for her civilly.

  Lady Hereford did not see Elizabeth leave and quite honestly forgot all about her in the joy of welcoming her dearly beloved son and the excitement of welcoming Henry of Anjou. Elizabeth stood in the stairwell, listening. She heard the confused noise of arrival, a man's voice which she judged rightly to be Henry's, and her husband's light laugh. She heard servants come with food and wine, but Hereford never even mentioned her name, and no servant came with a summons to her. Fury replaced guilt and self-reproach; whatever she had done, she had meant no harm and did not deserve this. Step by step she was drawn down those stairs by her rage and her curiosity until at last she stood just beside the foot of the stair.

  Had she been an active part of it, nothing could have been more pleasing than the scene that met her eyes. The room was ablaze with light, both hearths filled with roaring fires, every wall holder with a lighted torch, and every table and chest high enough to hold them supported candelabra of burning candles. Both men looked tired but satisfied, Henry as usual talking and gesticulating vivaciously as he stood near Lady Hereford's chair. He nudged Hereford with his goblet, and Roger turned to fill itand caught sight of Elizabeth.

  "Elizabeth! Where the devil did you spring from?"

  Fortunately he did not wait for a reply but ran across to her to embrace her most heartily. For once in her life, Elizabeth was struck dumb with surprise and pleasure. Roger led her forward and presented her to Henry, saving her another few moments in which to collect her senses for she sank to the floor with bent head in the curtsy reserved for royalty. Those moments, however, also permitted Hereford to recover from his simple surprise and wonder what she was doing there.

  "For God's sake,” he exclaimed. “Have you not set out for Chester yet? You knew my haste. If this is a new scheme of yours to bedevil me, you have gone too far this time. I will beat you witless."

  That did it. All the resentment which remorse had swallowed up, rose at once in Elizabeth's breast and she rose from her curtsy as if she had sat on a hot coal. Henry took one look at that magnificent, flaming countenance, gave a low whistle, and began to laugh soundlessly.

  "Whoreson! Is that a way to bespeak me before a guest! Watch lest I return to you better measure than you deal out to me. When you ask a question like a man instead of braying like an ass, mayhap you will receive a reply."

  Hereford turned crimson and stuttered. His hand went to his belt, Elizabeth's to her knife. Henry laid his hand on Lady Hereford's arm to restrain her from intervening.

  "Nay," he murmured, shaking, "let them have at it. Such love-talk is a wonder and a pleasure to hear. Doubtless they missed each other.” He shook his head and grinned, promising, “I will not let them come to harm."

  "You will answer however I speak to you, you lousy bitch, before guests or before the whole world, or I will flay you alive in the public square to make sport for my serfs."

  "You and what other ten men? Toad! You will have to lay hands on me first. My hero! Call up your armies. With their aid surely you can subdue one woman."

  Hereford was so enraged that his hands shook and he could not open the buckle of his belt. Henry, turning his head from wife to husband as if he were watching a game of catch-ball, suddenly gave way to his amusement, spluttered, and then howled with laughter. The sound hit Elizabeth like a pail of cold water. She was proud and in private would gladly have fought Roger to a standstill or been beaten unconscious. To shame her husband before his overlord was far beyond any salve her pride needed.

  "Oh, stop, wait, oh, my accursed temper," she stammered. "Indeed I went to Chester. I returned from there only this forenoon. My father will be ready. I stayed to see the muster begin."

  She stood her ground then, although she wished the earth would open and swallow her, more flushed and as magnificent in her shame as she had been in her rage. Before Hereford could speak, Henry stepped forward.

  "Let her be, Roger," he said, very low. "You have won this round. Be generous." What he thought, though, was that Hereford should not tempt his luck. From what he saw of Elizabeth, the next passage at arms might easily be hers.

  To say that the situation was not strained would have been ridiculous, but Henry, suppressing his amusement as well as he might, did nobly. For a time he carried the whole weight of the conversation, while Hereford glowered and Elizabeth struggled to command herself. Eventually he was able to draw Elizabeth into talk with perfectly unexceptional questions about her father. Long practiced in public poise that covered private turmoil, she was able to respond politely, if briefly, at first. Then, as she warmed to her subject and her listener, she spoke with such intelligence that Henry, in his absorption, forgot all about his reason for beginning the conversation.

  Henry wa
s not in the least shocked, although many men might have been, by such wifely behavior because it was the norm in the household of which he was a son. The only essential differences were that Elizabeth was far more beautiful than his mother and seemed to have better taste. Quite apparently she preferred to quarrel privately, whereas Matilda seemed to enjoy public squabbling. Henry was charmed and exerted himself to be charming. Elizabeth responded, warming steadily under his open admiration until she was flashing her magnificent eyes as flirtatiously for him as she ever had for Roger himself.

  Completely incapable of joining them because of his inability to address his wife civilly, Hereford seized the opportunity, once he had caught his breath, to give his mother instructions about supplying a comely girl for Henry. Not a serf, he ordered, and preferably not a virgin, but above all one who was willing—Henry liked complaisant women.

  Briefly Roger had thought of making the same demand for his own amusement in order to insult Elizabeth, but the notion was gone as quickly as it came. He did not desire any other woman when Elizabeth was obtainable. Angry as he was, his wife stirred his senses; he would never be sufficiently angry with her to forego that pleasure.

  "My lord," he said finally, interrupting without apology Elizabeth's description of a tactical maneuver that been beaten off at Chester Keep, "it is long past midnight. We would all do well to seek our beds."

  "Yes, yes," Henry replied absently, and returned to his absorbing interest. "But, Lady Elizabeth, it was the stupidity of your enemies, not your own strength which defeated them. With such a force they needed only to dam off the water supply of the moat and fill it. Then—"

  Elizabeth smiled. "Our water supply is not damable, sire. It is supplied a little by springs, but mostly by an underground outlet of the river. Chester is a hopeless place to attack; it will stand forever."

  Henry's eyes flickered. Chester was for him at this moment, but Chester was sure only in his changeability. "Where is the outlet?"

  "I do not know, my lord,” Elizabeth replied, with every appearance of sincerity. “Nor does my father. He told me once that he had tried to find it because the fish from our stew pond escape that way and he thought to place some kind of barrier there—but he did not succeed."

  Perhaps she was telling the truth, Henry thought, but very likely not. That was the trouble with intelligent women. They were interesting to talk to but not of much use, for a woman lied by nature and, also by nature, trusted no one. Such a combination allied with brains made them useless as sources of information unless they were overmastered by love.

  "But I should not keep you longer with my foolish talk, my lord," Elizabeth continued, curtsying again. "I know you have come far and over a rough road. I am sure you desire your rest."

  "Your talk is far from foolish, Lady Elizabeth, nor am I tired. Nonetheless, if I do not rest now I may well be tired tomorrow. I will hold you to your promise to tell me what you know of Maud in the morning, however."

  Hereford led his lord away, murmuring that he should take whichever of the maids waiting in his chamber that pleased him best. On his return through the hall, he passed Elizabeth, who had backed away a little, without a glance. At the door, however, he stopped to see whether she was following, and when it was apparent that she was not, he returned. His grip on her arm was brutal, his beautiful features distorted.

  "And whose bed, madam, were you waiting to try? I assure you I have provided for Henry. You need not stretch your generous hospitality that far."

  Elizabeth made no reply and did not attempt to pull away. When Hereford tugged at her she followed docilely, wondering what he would do. He dragged her out of the manor house and across to the keep. As they mounted the outer stair of the donjon, Elizabeth shivered, fearing he was going to imprison her in the dank lower floor or in one of the cheerless and unfurnished tower rooms. He never hesitated at all, however, and continued to yank her unmercifully across the great hall toward the stairwell that ascended to the old women's quarters.

  "If you will tell me where you want me to go, I will go willingly," Elizabeth ventured to protest. She won no reply and when they had mounted the stairs, he thrust her into the old solar so roughly that she staggered.

  "What were you waiting down there for?"

  "Because I did not know where to go. Oh, Roger, have some sense. Do stop quarreling with me—"

  "Me?" Hereford nearly choked. "Quarreling with you? You foulmouthed bitch. Every time your lips part you spew venom. It is a wonder that your own spit does not poison you."

  "Your own tongue is gilded with honey, is it? You have your just deserts of me. I warned you not to take me to wife. Now you have me, enjoy me."

  "That is just what I propose to do."

  That was not, of course, what Elizabeth meant, and she struggled against him in earnest, but for once Hereford made no attempt to win her by caresses. He knocked her down and overpowered her, his rage as it mounted being such that even Elizabeth did not dare to fight any longer.

  Considering his initial fatigue and the violent venting of his passion, Hereford should have slept like one stunned. Instead he found himself wide awake when he moved away from Elizabeth. Her body had been unresponding, so cold as to be almost inanimate. Ordinarily Hereford was not a jealous man. In the past he had been too sure of his powers and not deeply enough involved emotionally to care whether a woman was unfaithful. Now everything was upside down. He was not afraid that Elizabeth's passions would lead her astray but that her ambition would.

  "Elizabeth," he said in the soft voice he often used when he was in deadly earnest, "on my oath, if you ever betray me with your body for any purpose whatsoever, I will kill you."

  "Lecher," she replied, but without heat, almost indifferently, "because you crave every woman you speak with, do not think that I am made in the same filthy mold."

  "I do not think so. You are not honest enough for that. I could understand, if I could not forgive, an honest passion. You have none. When you sell yourself, it will be for gain. You have the heart of a trull."

  Elizabeth should have been hurt, but she was not. Since she had a very honest passion, and since it was for Roger himself, the shaft was so wide of the truth that it did not prick her at all. She shrugged disdainfully.

  "And you say I have a venomous tongue. If I am to die for betraying you, I have consolation, for I will doubtless live forever." She turned on her side to look at him instead of staring at the bed curtains as she had been doing. "I have this to say to you, Roger, and I may as well speak even though you are in no mood to hear me. I am sorry I missaid you before your overlord. Mind, I am not sorry for what I said—that you deserved—but for the time and place of my speaking."

  Hereford gave no sign of hearing her, but he had. The whole of his impossible relationship with Elizabeth was running in bright flashes through his mind. Elizabeth wantonly tempting him before his journey to France; Elizabeth coldly rejecting him when he returned as her accepted husband. Elizabeth warmly encouraging him in his political ambitions; Elizabeth nearly destroying them and himself because of a fit of temper. Above all the image of that very night returned. Elizabeth's dumb and joyous surprise when he greeted her so warmly, he had not missed that; her towering rage that met and matched his, and her sudden, unexpected capitulation. Interwoven with every memory of her was one of himself, invariably and inevitably doing and saying the wrong thing. Suddenly, helplessly, he began to laugh. He was remembering Henry's blatant admiration for his raving wife.

  Startled by this most peculiar reaction, Elizabeth sat up. "What is it, Roger?"

  "Elizabeth, oh, Elizabeth, we shall never act like ordinary people. We shall always laugh when we should weep, apologize when we should be angry, argue when we should make love, make love when we should sleep, and make ourselves a scandal and a hissing in all men's eyes and ears. When you do not drive me mad with rage, you drive me mad with love."

  "Do you love me still, Roger?"

  That made him sit up too.
"Why not? Why should you doubt me? What sort of a love is it that fails for a little quarrel? Can I not be angry with you and love you also?"

  She did not answer that. She wanted to ask what he meant by love, but did not dare. Instead she asked a little bitterly why he had written to his mother instead of to her regarding Henry's coming.

  "Because," Hereford replied, his voice going cold and bitter too, "I was sure you would be still at Chester. I was certain once you were 'at home' with your father whom you love so dearly and in the only place where you are happy, as you have told me so often. I thought that it would not be so easy to tempt you back to Hereford."

  "My home is here now, Roger, and—"

  "And?"

  She spoke so low he had to strain to hear. "I love you too."

  Her head was hanging. Hereford lifted it with a hand under her chin. "Those words are the sweetest I have ever heard from you, Liza. Why do you hang your head as if ashamed?" But she would not answer nor meet his eyes, and when he drew her against him, her head drooped again so that he could see only the white parting in her glossy hair. "For all I said of you in a rage, you are a truthful woman. Answer me. Why do you tell me this now?"

  "Must I have some purpose other than that you have ever used me kindly—even when I deserved little kindness from you? You must think ill of me indeed to think me insensible of that."

  "I do not know what I think of you. To speak the truth, I cannot think of you at all, for one way or another you put me into such a passion that I can do nothing except feel." He lay down pulling her with him, partly because he was tired but partly also to spare her his scrutiny. "I will ask you something I know you do not wish to answer, Elizabeth. Nor must you answer, although I desire to know. Why is your body so cold to me? No, not cold, that is not what I mean for I know that you desire me. You are not cold, you are … You will not let me bring you to joy. Why do you deny me, and yourself too, that final pleasure? Is that no part of your love?"