The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. He was treasurer at Winchester in King Henry’s day before you were breeched.’

  ‘Well, when the Lady sent FitzHildebrand to aid him against our soldier bishop, FitzHildebrand put fetters on William and climbed into his bed in his place.’

  Thurstin gaped. ‘What had the treasurer’s lady to say about that?’

  ‘Presumably she had no say in the matter,’ Bernard remarked drily. ‘And after he had seduced her, what then? It can hardly have been the aid the Empress meant him to give.’

  Roger frowned. ‘Then he came to terms with Bishop Henry and holds the castle for him and for Stephen instead of seizing it for us.’

  Bernard spat in contempt. ‘That’s for him! Mother of God, have you no better tidings?’

  ‘It has served one good purpose anyway,’ Guy said with his usual good humour. ‘It must have been FitzHildebrand’s defection that has sent Stephen roaming about the country near Winchester with so few men that Earl Robert summoned us to join him in an attack. We had been kicking our heels long enough at Wallingford. We march tomorrow. ’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Thurstin leaned forward eagerly. For all they were knights who did not lower themselves to speak to pages other than to shout orders at them, his position as Brien’s attendant gave him a particular advantage. ‘Where?’

  ‘At Wilton – Stephen is there at the moment,’ Roger told him. ‘The Earl is busy making plans with our lord and Earl Miles.’

  Bernard got up. ‘Then I’d best see to the horses and gear. By God, it will be good to be fighting again.’

  He marched off to the stables and Thurstin said enviously, ‘Do you think Brien will let me ride? I can use a sword. ’

  Roger shrugged. ‘Ask him – he is more likely to say yes to a request of that sort than when I was a squire, as you should be by now.’

  The boy flushed. ‘I prefer to stay as I am. ’

  ‘Young cockerel! You think yourself mighty important these days. Holy Rood, I left being a page when I was fourteen.’

  ‘You were not page to my lord. It is a very different matter. But I would like to ride tomorrow. ’

  ‘Then ask him,’ Roger said again. ‘Sometimes these days he answers one as if his mind was elsewhere so you may get your way – though pages are not fighting men.’

  Thurstin ignored this sally and answered loftily, ‘He has more to consider than we have.’

  Guy laughed at him. ‘Jesu, boy, who are “we”? Mind your place.’

  Thurstin glowered at him and walked off, his head in the air. But he had no opportunity to ask his lord anything that day. Brien remained closeted with the Earls and Thurstin went early to his pallet which was at the foot of Brien’s in the room the latter shared with the Earl of Devon. He lay there in the semi-darkness lighted only by one candle flame and thought of the past months when he had watched his lord grow more and more withdrawn, seen two lines develop each side of his mouth, and known that only he knew the reason.

  Roger had been right today, he should have been training by now for knighthood, but despite this he clung doggedly to his place. He endured the teasing, the shafts of mockery from the other lads all grasping ambitiously at the chance to rise, hugging to himself the justification for his determination. He could not rid his mind of those things he had no right to know, could not erase the recollection of his lord coming to bed at dawn, creeping from the Lady’s room, nor the memory of Brien’s expression on that one night he had seen his face clearly.

  He clasped his hands above his head and thought in the wisdom of sixteen that when, not so long ago, he had tumbled a girl from the kitchen in the grass by the river, it had been a sudden hot fumbling affair that when it was over left his body satisfied but his mind untouched. He could walk back to the castle not caring whether he saw the girl again, for another would do as well. It was not so with Brien – he saw that, humbly realising he could not compare his brief experience with Brien’s love of the Empress. To be her lover was something he could not even begin to comprehend, the only thing he did understand was that it had in the end made his lord utterly wretched. Before it had happened Brien had often joked with him when he was preparing for bed, talked with him, told him things about books and people and horses and dogs, which he absorbed eagerly – now there was nearly always silence. When they were at Wallingford it was worse for Brien had even less to say to his lady than before and she was even more unhappy.

  He frowned, thinking of it. Why could Brien not have taken any well-born lady he fancied but left loving the Empress in any way but that of a follower? He thought her very beautiful but arrogant and inclined to be cross and that to make love to her would be like embracing a hedgehog. But again he had seen Brien’s face on that night when the moon had been bright – the Lady must have qualities a mere page could not understand to set such a light there. Yet in the end both she and his lord were made miserable by the whole thing and Thurstin lay and cursed, as he had done so often on Brien’s behalf, that she had ever come to Wallingford. He was only thankful that he could be sure none but himself was aware of the truth.

  In the morning, as he held his lord’s byrnie to fling it over his head, he plucked up courage to put his request, twisting the metal rings in his fingers.

  ‘You may ride if you wish,’ Brien answered briefly. ‘Has my sword been to the armourer?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. It is as sharp as you could want.’ Thurstin knelt to fasten the scabbard about his master’s waist. If he was secretly disappointed by the indifferent accession to his request he did not show it and forced himself to be content that when the army made ready he was among the young squires in the Wallingford group.

  Before the troops moved off Brien stood for a moment below the great gate with Earl Robert, Miles and Baldwin. Reginald of Dunstanville was missing for once from their councils for he was in the west keeping a watchful eye on the traitor William de Mohun.

  ‘It is the best opportunity we have had,’ the Earl was saying optimistically. If he had been disappointed by their lack of success, by Count Geoffrey’s virtual refusal to help his wife’s cause, he gave no sign of it.

  ‘The town of Wilton is indefensible,’ he went on, ‘and the castle a wooden affair that will burn well. Stephen is not a fool – if we arrive before the gates he must come out to fight us and his force is small. The Flemish captain appears to be still in London.’

  John the Marshall asked, ‘Shall I ride with you or do you want me to hold here?’

  ‘We must keep Marlborough,’ Robert said. ‘I do not expect attack from any other quarter, but we cannot risk it. And I leave my young nephew in your charge.’

  Baldwin gave John a quick grin. ‘We’ll bring you some plunder, John, never fear. Arms for your men and horses maybe.’

  Henry, excited and flushed, cried out, ‘I want to go too.’

  Mollified, the castellan said, ‘You and I must guard here, my lord. Perhaps someone will bring you a dead knight’s sword or a fine shield.’

  As they mounted Brien said to Miles, ‘That puts me in mind of a matter between us. Jodwal of Cardiff died in a skirmish a week or two back. I’ll need another knight in his place.’

  Miles grunted. He was slinging his helm on the pommel of his saddle, postponing the moment of wearing it for already the day was hot and it was not yet nine o’clock. For a moment he watched his sons, Roger and Mahel, calling his men to order. ‘You shall have one – when I go back to my lands.’

  ‘Holy Cross,’ Brien said shortly. ‘You’ve enough men here – surely there is a knight from Abergavenny to serve me? Three fees are small enough payment for that castle and land.’

  Miles looked at him in surprise. ‘What worm eats at you, Brien? You’re not pressed for a man or two – and you’ve scarce had a word to say since you came.’

  Brien was silent, pulling on his gloves, taking a grip on Puissance’s reins. It was true, he supposed. His frustration and disappointment that the summons to join Robert ha
d been here and not in Bristol had been so strong that he was short with his friends and even more curt with his subordinates – but the endless weeks since he had taken Maud to Bristol had been as a dead weight on him. He had left her there and gone back, as Robert wished, to keep Wallingford, even though he had assured their commander that it would never fall. He waited for a summons to war councils or to a fight pacing his battlements, watching the empty countryside, trying to ensure some sort of harvest in the fields about his castle. The war had indeed become a local war of castles. Those who held them controlled their immediate surroundings while in the debatable areas men who had no right built themselves fortresses of wood or stone and drained the countryside of everything they could take. Out of reach of such castles the forces of either side could move about often undetected or come upon one another unexpectedly. In the north David of Scotland did what he could but his forces were contained by those of the Earl of Northumberland and by Alain of Richmond. His half-brother, Brien thought, had shown a surprising loyalty to Stephen.

  He fretted and watched, his patience worn thin. And then, when the summons came at last it was to meet Robert at Marlborough with all possible speed. He covered the journey in half the time it normally took, driving himself and his men in his need for action of any sort.

  Now he said, ‘There is nothing amiss with me that a victory for the Empress would not cure.’

  Miles nodded. ‘You are right there. God go with you, Brien. You shall have your man with horses and equipment.’

  He moved away to join the Hereford contingent and Brien turned Puissance’s head towards his own, riding out with Roger Foliot and Gilbert Basset beside him and missing the company of Ingelric whom he had left behind in command of Wallingford. He was glad to be on the move, glad to be facing a battle, thankful he could release the pent-up repression in him in a fight, to slay, to drive his sword into the body of Maud’s enemies.

  The fight, when it came, was brief but it served Brien’s purpose as well as the Earl’s. Stephen was indeed caught unawares at Wilton and did as Robert had expected him to do – bringing out his small force to face his enemy in the open where there was at least a line of retreat.

  The Empress’s army crashed down a slightly wooded rise and fell on the King’s men. William Martel, by Stephen’s side as always, shouted orders, using the small army to the best of his ability but from the beginning there was little he could do but postpone the moment of defeat. As soon as he felt the weight of the army facing him he shouted to the King to retreat, to make his escape while he could and Stephen, after a brief scrap with the men of Bristol, disengaged and with his body-men about him rode headlong away over the rough grass.

  Brien plunged forward, striking out with his sword, watching men go down under his swinging blade, trampling them beneath Puissance’s hooves, caring nothing for the blood, oblivious of a slash on his own arm. It was his men who at last surrounded William Martel, decimating his small force. Those of Wallingford remembered that it was he who had burned Swyncombe and Ewelme and they wanted vengeance, yelling their fury in the hot July sunshine. Thurstin, shaking with terror and excitement, rode into the seething mass and slew a King’s man and then stared aghast at the corpse at his feet. He looked at the slit belly, the blood and guts oozing out, and the smell of it got in his nostrils. He tried, violently, to rub the blood from his hands but they were sticky and stained with it, and in the midst of the other shouting triumphant youths he had ridden with he alone found himself sick and shaking. When they seized dead men’s arms and equipment; he could not bring himself to touch the broken bodies.

  Brien shouted again and again to the King’s steward to surrender and at last Martel, hot and spattered with blood, considered he had given his master enough time to escape and flung up his sword, calling to his men to yield. He grinned at his enemies, showing yellowing teeth. ‘Well, Messires, you may have me, but the King is safe away so much good it may do you.’

  Brien seized his sword and handed it to Gilbert Basset. He wished the fight were not over, as if he had not vented enough hatred upon Maud’s foes, as if it was they who had brought him to this pass. ‘Come,’ he said briefly and taking off his helm wiped his face.

  Martel laughed. ‘Is it you, Brien FitzCount? I might have expected it. You were a good servant to King Stephen once – have you not had enough of the Angevin she-wolf?’

  And at that all the pent up anger, the pain and frustration that was left in Brien blazed to the surface so that he went blind with it. He reached out and grasped Martel by the throat and shook him, his fingers pressing deep into the thick flesh. He heard Martel choking, felt the steward’s breath in his face and would have squeezed the life from him had not Gilbert Basset caught at his arm.

  ‘My lord – my lord! Earl Robert will want him alive.’

  His urgent voice broke through the fog in Brien’s head. He released Martel, so suddenly that the latter fell, clutching at his throat. Somehow he controlled himself, fought off the red tide that had swept over him. ‘Bind him,’ he said curtly, ‘and bring him to the Earl.’

  The last of the King’s men were now captured or fled. Stepping over the dead and dying, sending his men to help their own wounded, Brien found Robert at last before the gates of the castle.

  Already the Empress’s men were pouring into the town while others stormed the nearby nunnery of St. Etheldreda; flames were spurting upwards into the hot July air, humble people in the town running from their homes clutching all manner of belongings while from the conventual buildings came the all too familiar screams and crashes as men greedy for plunder sacrilegiously seized gold and silver, wrenching open alms boxes to pour their contents into bloodstained hands.

  Brien watched for a moment in tight-lipped silence, seeing it all in his mind though before him there was only smoke and bloodied corpses and men running.

  Robert said, ‘I know – I would not have it so either, but some of Stephen’s knights took refuge in the nunnery and I cannot deny my men their plunder.’ He turned to survey Brien’s prisoner with moderate satisfaction. ‘Well, we may not have caught Stephen, but at least he will pay dearly for the life of this one. Hold him for me until I have negotiated with Stephen.’

  ‘I’d rather hang him,’ Brien answered tersely, ‘for what he has done on my lands – and other things.’

  Robert looked surprised. ‘Maybe so, but he is too valuable to waste on the end of a rope. If I judge the matter rightly Stephen will yield me as much as a castle to regain a friend.’

  Martel laughed mockingly, ‘By God, Earl Robert, you attribute to an enemy what you do not show yourself! You called my master friend once and swore oath to him. ’

  Robert frowned. ‘I do not propose to argue my case with you, Martel.’

  ‘Because you do not dare.’

  ‘Hold your tongue,’ the Earl said angrily. ‘Take him to Wallingford, Brien, and keep him close.’

  Brien took the Earl by the arm and drew him aside where Martel, standing between his guards, might not hear. ‘Shall I not bring him to Bristol, ride back with you? We have much to discuss – nor have I paid my respects to the Lady for some time.’

  ‘We’ll sleep here tonight and we can talk over supper, but as to Martel I’d rather you held him at Wallingford. And we must keep our hold as far east as we can to spread our defences.’

  ‘Wallingford is safe enough and Ingelric the best commander I’ve had.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but I have Miles and Baldwin with me in the west and I need you to watch our eastern limits where our hold is tenuous to say the least. Ingelric is a good fellow but you are a leader.’

  Brien was silent, staring at the scene of carnage all about them, at men stripping the dead, taking arms and boots and mantles and purses, at the smoking town, -the crashing buildings. That he should now have to return to Wallingford instead of riding to Bristol was the crowning disappointment. But Robert was already deep in the business of a commander, issuing orders, talk
ing with his men, and Brien turned away, all his frustrated anger vented on Martel as he ordered Gilbert Basset to bind him. Suddenly it seemed as if it was Martel who stood between him and Maud, Martel who was the author of so much evil, who personified the conflict, both outward and inward, in which he was involved.

  He called sharply for Thurstin to take his fighting gear and paused to speak to Baldwin who had come up, bloodied and dusty, but cheerful and unharmed. It was Roger Foliot who noticed that Thurstin’s face was grey and that he was trembling so that he could barely walk.

  ‘What is it?’ Roger asked. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Thurstin shook his head. His eyes were red, the lashes wet. ‘I turned sick,’ he muttered, ‘like a clerk or a woman,’ and he put a hand to his mouth.

  ‘It was your first fight,’ Roger said patronisingly. ‘I remember I spewed up my guts after mine, but you get used to it. Here, have a swallow of this – it will steady you.’