Brien was mounted on Maclou who was blowing and shivering from contact with the dyke. ‘Aye, moving out over there. If only this damned rain would stop we’d have a better idea of their deployment.’
Briefly and rapidly the Earl issued his orders and Brien, rubbing his chilled hands together, moved off to see that all his men had come safely through. Ingelric and Gilbert Basset were assembling them on a swampy piece of ground and as he came up Gilbert said with feeling, ‘I’m getting too old for this kind of junketing. Holy Mary, my lord, I’m past sixty and should be warming my old bones by a fire, not soaking them in icy water.’
Brien laughed. ‘And if I tried to tell you so, you’d have your battle harness on before the rest of us.’ He called out to de Sablé as the latter rode up with a dozen other knights.
‘It’s shallower further down,’ Guy said. ‘All our men are across.’
The light was improving now for the rain had dwindled to little more than a drizzle and the King’s army could be seen more clearly, forming up across the flat ground between them. He did not seem to have a great deal of cavalry. Brien with the men of Wallingford found himself attached to Robert’s horsemen in the centre. Ranulf was on the left of this detachment with the Welshmen from north Wales while Robert’s men from Glamorgan flanked Reginald and Baldwin of Redvers on the right. When they were all in position, the Earl called on his chaplain to bless them, and Brien, crossing himself, gave his life into the care of the Blessed Virgin, commending his soul to Almighty God. Then the Earl pulled his horse forward and rode up and down facing them all, raising his resonant voice so that all might hear. He told them they were fighting for the Empress’s right to her father’s throne, that they had justice on their side and need not be afraid for God would look favourably on their cause.
At the head of his men, wet and cold, Brien steadied Maclou with one hand, holding his spear in the other, his sword loose in the scabbard against the time when he should break the spear. Since the triumphant sack of Nottingham he had waited his turn to strike a blow for the Lady, and the secret knowledge he now kept within himself added fuel to today’s determination. Fora brief moment he indulged one thought of her, seeing her not as the Empress but as the woman he desired, and then with the discipline that was a part of his nature thrust that haunting and cherished picture aside. This was no time for softer emotions and he gave his whole attention to the matter in hand as they began to move slowly forward, noting the placing of the King’s men, recognising his half-brother’s gonfanon away to his left, seeing others that he knew proclaiming their presence – the Beaumont twins, Simon of Northampton, William of Warenne, Gilbert of Hertford representing the great Clare family. They were all men with whom he had eaten, hunted, sat in council, but the momentary qualm was as nothing compared to the claim of the one whose royal standard was carried now by Mahel FitzMiles, the Sheriff’s son, riding behind Earl Robert.
He couched his lance and sat well back in the saddle as the distance shortened between the two armies. At that moment several of the high-born lords on the King’s side rode forward alone, slowly, prepared to open the battle in single combat in the manner of a minstrel’s ballad and Brien stared at them and then at Earl Robert, wondering what the latter would do. But before he could issue any order the Welshmen from Glamorgan, excited by this sight of half a dozen stately riders alone and with rich accoutrements, burst from the ranks, yelling and brandishing their weapons, to fall upon the knights. In a moment all thoughts of any chivalric opening were gone. The two armies came together in an explosion of shouts and the clashing of weapons. In the centre Robert and Ranulf attacked the King’s division, Ranulf’s personal grudge lending ferocity to his arm. On the left Alain of Richmond and William of Ypres were meeting the attack of the Welshmen and driving back the ill-disciplined troops, but it was only a momentary success for the weight of numbers told and the Welsh in a disorganised mass fell on their opponents, so berserk with battle fever that within a few moments the King’s flank began to give way. Screaming with triumph the wild men from the hills began to slay with a brutality that struck terror into Stephen’s soldiers. Headed by Alain and the Flemish captain they turned and ran and the Welsh went after them, killing and stripping their victims, taking no prisoners so that only the leaders and a few others escaped.
In the centre Brien found himself momentarily surrounded by Tamworth men under Robert Marmion. He struck out with his lance, rode down several assailants beneath Maclou’s hooves and for a brief moment, how long he could not guess, he fought alone and furiously until his men came in behind him and relieved the pressure. It was in fact no more than a few seconds but in that time his lance was broken and his leg sliced open by an enemy spear. He wrenched his sword free and struck out coolly.
All along the line the fighting was chaotic. There was no chance to speculate on what was happening elsewhere – all Brien could do was to lead the men of Wallingford forward to break their section of the enemy forces. Mud and dirt spattered them, churned up by the plunging hooves and the rain, heavy again, drove in their faces, but there was no cause now to complain of the cold. Sweating, his right hand sticky with it, blood spilt over him, Brien was conscious of little but the swing of his own arm, of Ingelric stolidly beside him, of young Roger gasping and clinging doggedly to his gonfanon, and Gilbert grunting with satisfaction every time he drove his sword home.
There was a sudden shriek and Maclou, his belly pierced with a spear, went down into the morass of mud and broken bloodied bodies, pitching his rider over his head. With a furious yell Bernard the staller flung himself at the enemy, slaying the slayer of Maclou, but for a moment Brien was too stunned to see this, his helm striking a stone, his limbs sprawled awkwardly. Then he felt strong hands tug at his shoulders and heave him upright.
‘Here, my lord,’ Ingelric said, ‘take my horse.’ His face was streaked with sweat and dirt and rain, but he was grinning broadly. ‘See – they run!’
Brien, with one brief grieving glance at Maclou’s large fallen body, swung himself up into the saddle of Ingelric’s grey and glanced round. He saw that he had been swept along the line and was confronting the men of Beaumont. He had one brief glimpse of the head of the house jerking his horse hard back on its haunches and pulling its head round, and then all he saw was Waleran’s back as the count fled the field followed by his brother, the Earl of Leicester.
Everywhere he looked now there were flying men. On the far flank the Welsh had slaughtered so that the ground was thick with the dead and they were now gone in pursuit towards Lincoln; Earl Ranulf had driven off the men of Yorkshire, and Brien was briefly thankful that little as he liked his half-brother he had not had to meet him face to face. Here in the centre the mounted men were turning from the fight and one by one the King’s great lords were leaving the field.
In sudden disgust he realised they were deserting their master, that the King still fought on, on foot as he had chosen to do, a knight beside him bearing his standard, the white figure of Sagittarius against a black ground. One blow of his had brought Earl Ranulf to the ground but the King’s sword had broken and by the time Stephen had seized a big two-handed Danish axe from one of his followers, Ranulf had regained his feet. Meanwhile Stephen, laying about him with superhuman courage that was worthy of better support, was left only with his faithful Baldwin of Clare, William Peveral of Nottingham, and a few others.
Brien paused, resting momentarily on his borrowed horse as Ingelric came to join him. Pockets of Wallingford men still fought but for the most part the enemy before them had disengaged and were on the run.
‘Shall we go after them?’ Ingelric asked, wiping his face with his sleeve. He glanced at Brien’s leg, and ripping some cloth from his torn under-tunic, began to bind the wound tightly to stop the bleeding.
Brien shook his head. ‘There’ll be time enough for plunder when we go into the city. My thanks, Ingelric – we’ll aid Earl Robert now.’
There was a last wild scurry o
f fighting in the centre, Brien and his men on the flank of it, pressing forward until the King’s men were surrounded. But Stephen still refused to run and fought on with astonishing tenacity – it was not until a stone struck his helm that he fell to his knee and a knight of Earl Robert’s, one William of Cahaignes, seized him and yelled, beside himself with excitement, ‘I have the King! I have the King! ’
Earl Robert wrenched his horse round and roared out, ‘Leave him! Leave him! I charge you not to harm him.’
The fighting was over. With the King taken, his last loyal knights flung down their arms and yielded, but half a dozen wild young men headed by Philip of Gloucester and Roger FitzMiles fell on them, slaying indiscriminately until brought to order by a furious bellow from their commander. The Earl rode down on them and treated them to a few blistering words on the subject of military chivalry.
Philip, staring sulkily at the bleeding corpses at his feet, at wounded men groaning in their pain, lowered his weapon. ‘What would you do with traitors?’ he asked derisively.
The Earl ignored him and went back to the King who stood, now that the battle was over, shaking as if he had an ague, between the knights who held him so triumphantly.
‘Your weapon, if you please, cousin,’ Robert said sternly and Stephen in a sudden despairing gesture flung the axe from him.
‘I was betrayed,’ he cried out, ‘my earls deserted me. Cowards, cowards! If they had stayed I could have held – ’
‘God’s will has been done this day,’ the Earl said.
Shivering fiercely, Stephen’s courage was running out. Lifting his helm and coronet he threw them to the ground.
With the briefest look, Earl Robert nodded to a knight to retrieve them. Then he said, ‘You will be treated with honour, but more I cannot promise. It is for my sister to decide.’ He called to the Sheriff of Gloucester. ‘Miles, I leave him in your charge.’
Miles came up, steadying his great destrier with one hand. He was mud and blood from head to foot, but cheerful for he had enjoyed the fight and had come through without a scratch. ‘I’ll hold him fast. You will take the town now?’
Earl Ranulf who had joined them gave a short laugh. ‘By the Cross, a good day’s work. Half the enemy are fled, the rest slain and the usurper taken. Will you shackle him, my lord?’
The Earl looked about him at the carnage, the blood, the severed limbs and heads, the corpses of men and horses trodden into the mud, the whole hideous scene, and then at the shattered figure of the King. ‘No,’ he said in a voice that allowed of no argument.
‘As you will,’ Ranulf shrugged. ‘I cannot hold my men off the town much longer.’
‘Then let them go,’ Robert said, ‘they fought well today.’
Stephen looked up and with one hand caught hold of the Earl’s stirrup. ‘Have mercy, my lord.’
‘You had none,’ Robert answered coldly, ‘when you marched upon Lincoln. This sack is your doing,’ and as Miles and his men hurried the prisoner away, with a great sweep of his arm he called his triumphant army forward.
They fell on the city that had defied them and their leaders did not attempt to deny them the plunder they had earned by their victory. Every house was ransacked and then given over to the flames; men stormed through the streets carrying anything that might be taken away, killing any who opposed them, seizing screaming women, trampling luckless children beneath their feet. Drunk with victory as well as stolen wine they fleshed their teeth on the place until it was a burning ruin, stinking with blood, strewn with corpses. Only the castle where the great lords met in triumph, and the Bishop’s palace around which Earl Robert set a guard escaped the flames.
As Brien rode through a narrow street towards the castle on its hill he was revolted by what he saw. The fight was one thing, but this was another, and though he would not hold back his men he was thankful that his own household for the most part kept with him, the knights who attended him riding behind him now as always. He stared at the corpses, at a woman with blood staining her dress, leaning against a wall paralysed with terror, at a child screaming, a small girl running sobbing from a blazing doorway, at a man staggering across their path with a bleeding stump where once an arm had been. On both sides of the street the flames were spreading over the wooden dwellings and beams crashed as what had been homes turned to cinder and rubble. He shouted to a woman with a child in her arms standing too near a wall, but he was too late for it fell on them both, crushing them beneath a sheet of flame.
‘Jesu,’ he said under his breath and rode on. As he passed what had once been a peaceful nunnery half a dozen nuns, screaming in terror, ran from the burning building pursued by the men who had done the work. Among them was Philip of Gloucester. He carried a jewelled chalice in one hand and with the other was dragging a young novice. She was hysterical with terror, shrieking as he ripped her black gown from the neck downwards, revealing her breasts. Brien flung himself from his horse with one violent oath. Crossing the street, he seized Philip and wrenched him away. The chalice fell in the dirt as Philip staggered, releasing the girl. He swung round, his face dark with fury and, unaware of the identity of his assailant, flung himself forward only to find himself pinioned. One hand held the back of his hauberk so that he was half choked while the other grasped both his wrists so strongly that he could not free himself.
‘Let the girl go,’ Brien said in a voice stiff with rage. ‘God’s Wounds, man, she’s a nun. ’
Struggling to get his breath and shaken to see at last who had come so surprisingly on him, Philip blustered and swore, writhing helplessly in that iron hold. ‘She’s hiding treasure under that black thing. They tried to keep it from us, scheming black crows.’ He stopped abruptly, finding himself forced to his knees.
‘They are holy women and you would dare to defile them!’
Brien shook him, all his anger at the sack of the place, the sufferings of the innocent, venting itself against Philip. To Gilbert Basset he said, ‘Get these women to sanctuary in the Bishop’s palace.’ He saw the young novice struggling to cover her nakedness, her face blotched with tears, and added gently, ‘Go with this man, child. No one will harm you now. ’
Still terrified, the little group of nuns huddled together, and then surrendering themselves to the care of Gilbert Basset went timidly with him, surrounded by his men.
Philip was on his feet again, mud from head to foot, and trembling with rage and humiliation. ‘I will avenge myself on you, Brien FitzCount,’ he threw the words at him. ‘You will live to regret this day.’
Brien gave him one icy stare. ‘Get out of my sight. If it were in my power I’d hack off the spurs I gave you for this day’s deeds.’
Philip caught at his horse’s bridle and mounted. Then seeing his men gawping at him he shouted one obscenity at them and rode off without looking to see if they followed him.
Guy de Sablé, who had ridden up to witness the end of this scene, said to Brien, ‘What ails that fool? His men say he is possessed of a demon. ’
Brien interrupted him, still taut with anger. ‘He has evil blood from his uncle, the Devil of Bellême.’
‘I had forgotten that,’ Guy said. ‘Holy Virgin, my lord, that roof will come down any minute. We’d best move on.’
As they made their way down the street to safety Ingelric turned to Roger Foliot. ‘I told you, did I not, that it is not wise to arouse the Clever Breton’s anger?’
The victorious army returned to Gloucester bearing their royal captive in their midst. Every man had his share of plunder, saddlebags stuffed with gold and silver, clothes and weapons, pots, pans, anything that might be carried. They sang as they marched, a heady triumph holding them together, roaring out the chorus of their song.
‘Once there was an Abbot of Angers
And they say he had a mighty thirst
Ho and ho and ho and ho!
Glory be to Bacchus!’
The King rode between Brien and Miles, behind the Earls Robert and Ranulf. He spok
e seldom but kept his gaze fixed on his idle hands, for the Sheriff held his reins. When they halted for the night he ate sparingly and slept with his back to his captors. When he did speak it was to say over and over again that the wrath of Heaven was turned against him, that God was angered and punishing him for breaking faith with the Church. Listening to him Brien felt little but astonishment that one who could be so outstandingly brave on the battlefield should so lack courage and dignity away from it. But he pitied Stephen – no man, he thought, should be saddled with the friends the King had, for not one of the great earls had stayed by him. Once he said to Brien, ‘What will the Empress do?’
‘How can I tell?’ Brien countered, to which Stephen replied, ‘If anyone might guess it would be you,’ and Brien looked at him in astonishment.
The Empress was in the great hall at Gloucester Castle attended by Gilbert Foliot and the Bishop of Bath when the triumphal procession arrived. Messengers had long since galloped to tell her of the victory and she sat now in a great carved chair on the dais, dressed in a rich green gown, a mantle lined with ermine falling from her shoulders, a white veil on her head bound with a golden fillet. She looked wholly regal, her eyes alight in this victorious moment. As the two earls brought the prisoner before her they both knelt and her brother said, ‘Lady, we have fought your battle and won. We bring you our cousin Stephen and give him into your custody.’
The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
