Elizabeth nodded. The irritation of her husband's tone and the clarity of his gaze having convinced her that he was perfectly in his right mind.
"Very well. We need, then, to spread the word that I am dead. Of course, Henry, Gloucester, my brother, and my chief vassals will need to know the truth, but for the others it is better that they believe the lie. Then you will leave carrying with you my coffin—"
"Roger! No!"
"This is no time for superstition."
Looking at her husband, Elizabeth knew that she, Gloucester, and Henry had all been wrong. Roger's fears, whatever they were, would never break him. Whatever demons pursued him could kill him by wearing out his physical strength, but no mental or spiritual torture could destroy his emotional endurance. While he lived, his spirit would not fail.
In the very moment in which he bid her cast away superstition, he was grappling with his own terror and bearing it down. That was the struggle which had whitened his face and clouded his eyes, but he had emerged triumphant from it as he would from all those of the future. Content at last, with nothing to fear for but her husband's physical safety, Elizabeth bowed her head in submission.
"Very well, Roger. I will do whatever you command."
"Good." He raised his voice. "William!" The squire appeared on the instant, sword drawn. "Put that up and listen closely. We are going to pretend that that creature succeeded in his attempt. Never mind why, it will all come clear later, for now just do as I order. Kill him now and unbind him and be sure to get yourself well bloodied. Then run at once to my lord Henry and to Gloucester crying aloud for all to hear that an attempt has been made upon me, but see that none enter here except those lords, my brother, and the chief of my vassals."
Five minutes later four white-faced nobles burst into Hereford's tent to be met by a bloody vision who smiled cheerfully and signaled silence urgently. Low-voiced, Elizabeth explained as Hereford had directed her since he did not wish to take the chance that the crowd rapidly gathering about the tent would hear his voice. A few minutes more brought the sound of lamentation to those anxiously waiting outside. Henry, still white enough with shock to enforce the idea that Hereford was indeed dead, ordered a guard set about the tent, ostensibly to protect Elizabeth, and further ordered a coffin to be hastily constructed.
By the early afternoon the sad cortege, bearing the coffin containing the body of de Caldoet in place of Hereford, was ready to leave and Roger of Hereford's vassals were showing signs of breaking camp. The entire army was becoming restless and disordered, as if Hereford's death had broken its purpose and discipline. Plainly the men were in no condition to fight. A few weaker ones even broke away; some carried the tale to de Tracy and sought sanctuary in his keeps. His spies told the same story as those deserters and de Tracy watched more closely, readying his men.
Meanwhile, Henry was working like a beast of burden, endeavoring to spread his forces so that they would seem to be breaking up purposelessly and yet be close enough together to fall upon de Tracy if he should be tempted to attack. He needed to see the leader of each small group also and hearten them without disclosing the truth. It was to the credit of his forceful personality that the men regained confidence, promising readily to conceal themselves as they were directed and to fight with courage when de Tracy emerged from Bridport.
Not nearly as truthful as Hereford, Henry hinted broadly that de Tracy had a hand in the assassination for the purpose of disorganizing them and placing them at a disadvantage. He urged boldness in revenge to prove that they were not men to be trifled with. Generally such an approach went a long way to stiffening the purpose of even those warlords who were not personally attached to Hereford. No man liked to think that such a deed could be carried off with impunity. Assuredly they would help draw de Tracy out and destroy him, they told Henry, and he hurried away to convince another group.
A large group had to follow Elizabeth's men also, so that she would be protected in case de Tracy decided to test the truth by a look into the coffin. Walter of Hereford was the most logical person to undertake that duty, and the force he commanded was used to concealment and lightning dashes from one place to another. Walter was most willing to go. In a short but blazing interview with his puzzled brother, Walter terminated his service to Hereford with this last duty.
"I will see her safe out of this country, Roger, but I am through with you. I will not return."
"As you wish, Walter. I do not believe that we will need your men, and this is as good a time as another, but why are you so angry? Whatever have I done now?"
That question was unanswerable because Walter had recognized at last that he could no longer bear the constant conflict between gladness and sorrow, hope and fear, that close contact with Roger brought him. He also could struggle no longer against being eaten alive by his overwhelming brother; he must yield and be absorbed by Roger's protective and enveloping affection or run away. When he had heard the news that Roger was dead, he had thought he would die himself, so fierce was the pang of grief that tore him. Only moments later, however, seeing his brother slightly damaged but obviously very far from dead or even the danger of dying, Walter was fit to finish him himself, so great was his regret for the lands, titles, and independence that seemed to have been snatched once more from his grasp.
"I simply cannot stand you," he choked in reply to Hereford's question. "You have done nothing wrong. You never do, perfect as you are. Still, I do not deserve to be so near such perfection. You make me sick, and I can bear it no longer."
Hereford raised his beautifully arched brows in surprise and hurt and shrugged. "Very well. What will you do now?"
"None of your affair."
That stung too. Biting his lips and flushing as he controlled his temper, Hereford replied briefly, "True. Do you need money?"
"No. Oh, curse you, Roger, I know you say things like that to shame me and I fall into your snare each time. I will do nothing. I will go back to Shrivenham, which I won for myself. I need nothing from you."
Satisfied, with profound relief Hereford kissed his protesting brother good-by. Walter was extremely useful in a fight but too unpredictable for comfort at other times. In his present nervous state, Hereford could only be grateful that he would not need to worry about what Walter would do next, at least in his immediate vicinity. There was nothing to do now but to be smuggled to a farm he had taken a mile or two from the keep and then rest until de Tracy made up his mind.
The fruits of that decision became apparent early two mornings later when de Tracy, having spent the intervening time gathering his forces, descended upon the half-empty camp. Messengers from that camp rode out in several directions as soon as it was clear de Tracy was going to attack. Their departure was concealed by the reaction of the trusted troop still in the camp. The men shouted in well-simulated fear and surprise and apparently retreated in disorder before de Tracy’s superior force. They drew de Tracy through the camp into the open fields. Behind those fields in the surrounding low hills, Henry lay with the largest portion of the mounted troops.
Hereford's men, barely protecting themselves, broke right and left for the patches of woodland that separated the cultivated fields. It looked like a complete rout, but before de Tracy could order his troops to follow the fleeing bait, those who seemed to have fled reached the patches of woodland. There they turned, ready to come behind de Tracy to prevent his escape back into Bridport.
And down from the hills came Henry with the mercenary troops and Gloucester's vassals.
Meanwhile Hereford was riding as hard as he could with a few of his own vassals, who knew he was still alive, to join the men who had circled round through the woods. With the reinforcement of his troop those who barred de Tracy from seeking escape into Bridport would be strong enough. Thus when Henry’s army reached the fields, Hereford was able to fling himself upon de Tracy's rear.
"Hereford!" Henry shouted above the sounds of battle as the colors of his friend and vassal appeared on
the field, "Hereford lives. It was a trick to draw our enemy. Have courage, help is at hand." And Hereford's own clear voice calling his fighting motto and urging on his men gave proof to the words.
If more proof had been needed, the quick destrier, somewhat lighter and faster than the larger horses of the other mounted men, marked Hereford. His fighting style too, darting forward in the fray and the swift stroke and recover that wrought such havoc among his enemies identified Hereford. Temporarily relieved by his activity of his sense of futility, the young earl was enjoying himself. He always enjoyed fighting, in spite of the fact that this time in particular he was living dangerously. His squires had been sent on with Elizabeth, of course, to give more credence to the tale of his death, and, although his vassals were very faithful—their devotion being at least half terror that if Hereford died Walter would inherit—there was no man specifically ordered or trained to protect his back. And it needed training to keep up with Hereford in battle. He was not given to mowing down his opponents in a straight line. Instead he rode to and fro across the lines of battle, choosing any place where his men seemed hard pressed to fling himself forward personally and give them heart.
A pocket bulged the line of fighting men, and Hereford spurred his horse toward it, crying his usual "A moi" to his desperately following vassals. He found himself face to face at the peak of the bulge with Henry de Tracy himself.
"Treacher!" de Tracy cried. "Liar! What could not be achieved with honor you seek in the filth of lies."
"Coward!" Hereford replied, his eyes glittering under the shading headband of his helmet. "Rats must be cornered before they will fight."
De Tracy's reply to that was a blow that made the wound de Caldoet had given Hereford bleed again. The earl gasped with pain and thrust forward, but de Tracy's shield sent the blade sideways. Hereford grimaced but disengaged so quickly that de Tracy could not guard against the slashing return. Blood welled from a gash in his exposed thigh and he brought his sword across to cover. Again the return was too swift for him, Hereford's blade rising in an arc that would have cut the tendons in his right arm had the edge landed true. Unfortunately the sword point, the distance being misjudged by half an inch, barely caught de Tracy's shield, and only the flat of the weapon hit. Still the blow was numbing enough to knock de Tracy's sword from his hand.
With a cry of triumph, Hereford lifted his weapon high over his head to give it enough force in the downward swing to cleave helmet and skull. The lift, however, took time and de Tracy, as experienced and skilled as his opponent, had a moment's time in which to snatch his mace from his saddlebow and swing it in one smooth motion. Hereford lifted his shield, but his arm was stiff and painful and this time he was not quick enough. The spiked, lead-weighted iron ball, large as a big man's fist, came straight across at his temple in the same instant that de Tracy's squire, seeking to protect his master, thrust his sword between them and stabbed Hereford's horse in the throat.
Horse and man crashed to the earth. De Tracy, whose mace was useless for such work, called to his men to dispatch the fallen earl and spurred forward, more anxious to escape from a field where his defeat was a foregone conclusion than to win the hollow victory of killing Hereford himself.
The men were no more eager to die in a hopeless cause than their master. Some followed him directly without a glance at Hereford, who was struggling to his feet; some hesitated fractionally and would, perhaps, have done his bidding, but it was too late. Hereford's vassals had closed a wall of steel around, him. The closest swung himself off his horse, and Hereford gasped, "Sir Thomas, I will not forget," as he leapt into the saddle in his man’s stead. The service was one each vassal owed his overlord, but since in a battle a man in mail on foot was at a very great disadvantage, the yielding of a horse was a service often overlooked.
"After them!" Hereford called, suiting the action to the word. "Let them not go scatheless from the field. Slayer of horses, turn and fight."
De Tracy was too wily to allow an insult to turn him, however, and he now had a good start on Hereford. The earl pulled up, signaling the men who had followed him to continue the pursuit. It would, of course, be better if they had taken de Tracy, but they had already accomplished their purpose and inflicted a punishing defeat upon him. The gates of Bridport were closed, and they would not open for de Tracy. The destruction of better than half of de Tracy's force, which was what Hereford estimated, would guarantee that and also greatly inhibit his ability to raid in the area for some time.
Almost casually, Hereford knocked a fleeing man-at-arms from his horse and caught the mount. He looped the reins around his saddle pommel and moved forward again into the field, seeking Sir Thomas. He would not, if he could prevent it, allow a faithful vassal to die so that he could win a little more honor by destroying a few more enemies. It was dreadful work, for Hereford was fighting his way forward against a stream of men trying to escape through the break de Tracy had made in the encircling forces. To the left Henry was striving mightily to close the gap, but desperation gives superhuman strength and the tide of fleeing men could not be stemmed.
By the time he found Sir Thomas, Hereford was bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig, and the hand he extended to his vassal to help him up trembled with fatigue. For him, however, it was the wholesome fatigue of martial exercise instead of the deadly tiredness of too much "chewing on his own guts." He spoke cheerfully to his muddied and bloodied man, and they both returned to the fighting, knowing the end was not far and that there would be warm baths, clean robes, and soft beds waiting for them that night.
The expectation was more than fulfilled, for Bridport not only opened its gates without further ado but also its kitchens, wine cellars, and brothels. When the men had slept off the initial exhaustion of killing, gathered up their wounded, and buried their dead, they turned to making merry over their success, and their leaders joined them with wholehearted enthusiasm. For Hereford it was a triple celebration. Of course he was pleased by their victory, even priding himself, with a certain amount of truth, on the fact that his cleverness had brought it about, but he had other causes for being joyful.
Word was waiting for him when he came off the field that Elizabeth was safe at Bristol, that Walter had ridden eastward in a slightly better humor than that in which he had left the field before Bridport, and that the coffin had been broken up and burned. That coffin had weighed on Hereford's spirits. Although he could manage to ignore a recognizable fear such as that, superstition touched him as well as it touched Elizabeth. To build your coffin before a battle was tantamount to putting yourself to death—said the old wives' tales—yet here he was alive, hardly hurt, and victorious. The relief encouraged high spirits.
Already flushed with drink, Hereford laughed wildly, lifted his goblet again, and returned to the sport of shredding the clothes off an all-too-willing wench with the point of his sword. It was a mad scene altogether, the two great hearths blazing with fire, the remainder of the flickering light supplied by the resinous torches along the walls, which also filled the huge hall with smoke. Above the carousing men, the blackened rafters could not be seen through the murky dark, but the shouts and laughter mixed with the beat of drum, the rattle of tambourine, the wail of the flutes, and the trill of the harps, echoed down from them.
At the high table Henry, with Gloucester on one side and Hereford on the other, made merry, applying every ounce of his immense energy to enjoying himself in the same way that he applied it to fighting or planning when necessary. Lacking his strength and ability, many of the men at the long tables that lined the sides of the hall had given up. Some lay across the boards, their faces and clothes stained with wine and food, some lay underneath, and the dogs nuzzled under them seeking the garbage thrown into the rushes. Some, however, still sat more or less upright watching the jugglers, acrobats, and dancing girls perform.
It was from this group of entertainers that Hereford had picked his wench, her flashing dark eyes and loose, oiled hair having
caught his attention. A gold coin flipped upward and caught once or twice had drawn her closer and closer, followed by an elderly man who played the flute he held in one hand while he rattled a tambourine with the other.
"Up." Hereford laughed and gestured, and the girl leapt nimbly onto the table.
Hereford steadied the trestle table with one hand and threw the coin, which the girl caught with practiced skill as she whirled about. He drew his sword. At that a swift expression of fear crossed her face—some of the lords were unbelievably cruel and could get pleasure only from inflicting pain. However the fear was replaced just as swiftly by laughter as he used the weapon to sweep the table clear of food and drink and not to cut her.
"Dance!" Hereford cried, making a low, slow swipe at her legs.
Laughing, the girl leapt over the blade; laughing, Hereford wielded it more quickly and still more quickly.
The bells on the dancer's ankles tinkled, her swinging skirts exposed lovely, dark-shining legs, her hair flew wide, now and again striking the faces of the watching men. Suddenly Hereford lifted and twisted his newly sharpened weapon and a whole section of the girl's skirt drifted slowly to the floor. Henry roared his appreciation, pushing aside the woman he was holding to see more clearly, and Gloucester put down his drink to watch with avid eyes.
"I'll lay you ten golden pounds that you cannot strip her naked thus without marking her skin," Henry wagered.
"Done," Hereford agreed.
"You cannot do it, Roger. You are three parts drunk and your eye is out for such fine work. Moreover that longsword is no weapon for stripping women. Hedge—take your poniard." That was Gloucester, soberer than the others and thinking it a shame to slash such a pretty wench.
The girl had stopped, and stood trembling through this exchange, and her father had come forward. He dared not protest, not when their lordships were obviously hot with wine, but he was drawn forward irresistibly. It was at that point that Hereford had lifted and drained his goblet again.
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