The Villains of the Piece

by The Villains of the Piece (retail) (epub)

  The Villains of the Piece

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Dedication

  Principal Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aftermath

  About the Author

  Read More

  Copyright

  The Villains of the Peace

  Graham Shelby

  This book contains views and language on nationality, sexual politics, ethnicity, and society which are a product of the time in which the book is set. The publishers do not endorse or support these views. They have been retained in order to preserve the integrity of the text.

  For Sallie and for F.H.J.W. and Jean

  Principal Characters

  BRIEN FITZ COUNT Lord of Wallingford.

  ALYSE Lady of Wallingford.

  VARAN Constable of Wallingfordv.

  EDGIVA Alyse’s maidservant.

  MORCAR Garrison sergeant.

  HENRY I King of England.

  STEPHEN OF BLOIS nephew of King Henry I.

  HENRY OF BLOIS Bishop of Winchester, brother of Stephen.

  MATILDA Empress, daughter of King Henry I, cousin of Stephen, Countess of Anjou.

  GEOFFREY OF ANJOU husband of Empress Matilda.

  ROBERT OF GLOUCESTER illegitimate son of King Henry I.

  MATILDA OF BOULOGNE wife of Stephen.

  DAVID King of Scotland.

  HENRY OF ANJOU son of Empress Matilda.

  MILES OF HEREFORD.

  BALDWIN DE REDVERS.

  RANULF OF CHESTER.

  GEOFFREY DE MANDEVILLE.

  Chapter One

  Home

  August 1134

  The man interrupted his slow, shuffling progress along the forest track and stood, stooped over, listening to the distant thud of hoofbeats. He had spent the morning by the river, where he had scoured the east bank in search of rushes and osiers. When he had found what he wanted he had lowered himself into the water, cut the reeds with a heavy reaping knife, then run his calloused hand along the stems, stripping them of their leaves. As the morning wore on the stretch of bank was covered with this unwoven rush mat, the first-gathered already dried by the sun.

  The man was practised in his trade, and he had known to within a dozen or so stems how many he could carry. Having collected his quota, he had climbed out of the water, stacked the reeds and bound them with lengths of hemp. He had made a second stack of stripped willows, tied them, then lifted the bundles on to his back. The long stems dipped and swayed as he shuffled along the riverbank and into the forest. He grunted under his breath, a sound that only he would take for singing.

  He was less than half-way through the song when he heard the hoofbeats, but he was too far into the forest to take risks. There were few laws as severe as those that governed the forests; to be caught poaching could mean a fine that would take a lifetime to pay, or the loss of a hand or an eye, or a visit to the gallows on the nearest village green. It was also against the law to cut live wood from the forest, though some more lenient barons permitted their tenants to use bill-hooks to pull down dead branches. But no one would believe that the bundle of willows had been collected in this way – by hook or crook – and if the authorities insisted that they had been taken from within the forest limits—

  The basket-maker swung the bundles from his back and dragged them into the undergrowth. Then he crouched down and waited for the horsemen to pass. He growled another verse of his song before he caught himself and clamped his teeth together. The still forest air now carried the creak of leather and the chink of metal, as the horsemen approached.

  They were almost opposite the man when the leading rider turned in his saddle and called back, ‘In order, messires. We’ll make a show of our return.’ The fifteen horsemen changed position, some trotting forward, others pulling their palfreys to the edge of the forest path. When they had reformed they rode on, three by three, following their suzerain as he led them home.

  The weaver stayed where he was for a while, silent and alert. But there were no laggards, so he dragged his bundles back on to the path and resumed his journey. He had recognised most of the horsemen, and he wondered if he had been overcautious. After all, they were local men, and their leader was one of the best-respected barons in England, and one of the few who was genuinely admired by the common folk. He would probably have nodded good day and otherwise ignored the weaver. But if it had been somebody else, one of King Henry’s patrols, or the verderers who were always so quick to accuse, then it would not have ended with a nod. He told himself he had been wise to get off the path. He had been doing so for forty years, and he still had all his limbs.

  * * *

  The horsemen emerged from the forest. Ahead lay the River Thames, broad and shallow at this point; hence the absence of any bridge. Fifty yards beyond the far bank lay the town of Wallingford, encircled by its distinctive Saxon earthworks and sited opposite one of the best natural crossing points on this upper stretch of the river. Twin rows of stones marked the safe limits of the ford, and the riders splashed across, aware that they made an impressive picture – King Henry’s favourite baron and his retinue of knights. The high-stepping horses threw out plumes of spray, and the sun caught the droplets and added a sheen to wet leather and sand-scoured armour. A few moments ago the riders had been trading jokes and insults, disseminating gossip or, if they knew none, inventing it. But now, returning to their own lands under the eyes of their own people, they held themselves erect, their faces set, arrogant and unsmiling. For some it was made difficult by the friends who waved from the bank, or greeted them by name, but the knights remained obedient to their overlord and crossed the river in silence.

  When they reached the west bank they wheeled right and reined-in in a rough circle around their master.

  The strip of worn grassland – which, when occasion demanded, served as a games field, local market-place, or fairground – ran between the palisaded town and the river, and was enclosed at the southern end by a marsh, and at the northern end by the new stone walls of Wallingford Castle. The walls were the work of the man who now lifted his helmet from his head, scratched at his long grey hair and addressed the circle of riders. His name was Brien Fitz Count. He was the bastard son of Count Alan of Brittany, and his hair had turned grey ten years before, when he was twenty-four years of age.

  Holding his helmet by its nasal, he told his knights, ‘A constructive council, all in all. Count Stephen remarked on your bearing, and that’s praise indeed coming from such an exemplary nobleman. You won’t be required for another three weeks or so; time enough for you to impress your friends with stories about London.’

  The remark brought a laugh from the knights. For nine of them, it had been their first visit to the capital. They had not seen the king – he was in Normandy, celebrating the birth of his grandson and namesake — but they had knelt before the king’s nephew, Count Stephen of Blois, who had been delegated to conduct the Great Council in his uncle’s absence. And they had seen London, so extensive a city that the nine newcomers were frightened they would lose their way and be forced to five out their days in some strange street. Eventually, Lord Brien told them to ask the way to the river, then follow
it upstream, through the open fields, and they would reach their lodgings at Westminster. It was advice they could understand, and they became more adventurous in their wanderings.

  Now he thanked them for their companionship, a courtesy that ended each long journey, and they replied in kind. ‘It is an honour to ride with you, Lord Fitz Count. We are at your beck and call.’

  He nodded, dropped the helmet over the pommel of his saddle and moved out of the circle. Behind him, wives and friends besieged the riders with questions, and the streets of London grew longer and more tortuous with every response.

  Brien smiled to himself as he crossed the patchy meadow and conveniently forgot that when he had first settled at Wallingford, he had been terrified by the featureless plains and the dark, dripping forests, and the river that hissed with its quantity of water-snakes…

  * * *

  The castle had been founded within a few months of the Norman conquest of England. Built at the behest of King William, it had consisted of an outer ditch, the earth from which had gone to make a steep bank, topped by a wooden palisade. In the centre of the fenced-off area was another ditch, and inside that an even steeper mound, on which had been constructed a second palisade and a wooden watch-tower. But defensive techniques had advanced since then and, when Brien Fitz Count had been given the lands and honour of Wallingford, he had replaced the wood with stone, and all but gone bankrupt in the process. The castle now boasted an eighteen-foot high outer wall, complete with a wall-walk, gatehouse, interior steps and five towers, one of them still unfinished. This outer structure was enough to daunt any would-be attacker. But the centre-piece of the fortification was the keep, a square, forty-foot high building, situated on the firm foundation of the original Saxon mound. The ditches had become moats – with the Thames at one’s doorstep there was no shortage of water – the stone shaft was reflected on all sides, a pale, unweathered example of local workmanship.

  Wallingford was not an important castle – not yet – but it was already described as impregnable, and neighbouring barons visited the place and went away, their heads reeling with stolen details.

  The keep had been completed four years ago and, although the rain and flying seeds had not yet made their mark, its interior was smudged with smoke, its floors worn smooth, its doors either closing easily or warped by time. It was lived-in, this castle, and it had an air of permanence. Small wonder, for neither Brien Fitz Count nor his wife were the types to hold life in a loose grip. Brien had been given the fief by the King of England, and what the king gave, only the king could reclaim. And there was another reason. Brien was illegitimate, but he was still the son of the Count of Brittany, the man called Alan Fergant – Ironglove. And a man did not earn that nickname by letting things slip from his grasp.

  So it stood, each side of the keep measuring thirty feet at the base, almost as broad as it was high, a solid and, within reason, a comfortable home for Lord Fitz Count and his Lady Alyse.

  She was in the keep now, teaching her maidservant to read. The girl, Edgiva, had spent the past hour struggling through a page of poetry – bad poetry, but in clear English – and while she mouthed the words, syllable by syllable, Alyse strolled about the second storey chamber. Known as the solar, it occupied the entire floor, and served as the living and sleeping quarters for the Lord and Lady of Wallingford. From time to time Alyse halted, corrected the girl’s pronunciation, then moved on, skirting the fire, resting in one of the box chairs, prompting the uncertain Edgiva, glancing out of the single large window. The glassless aperture faced south, so she could see the town and the ford and the horsemen who were, at that moment, dispersing from the worn meadow.

  Alyse would say afterwards that she had been watching for him. But in fact she hurried into the window recess, peered down until she was sure, then gave a cry of delight and spun round, her dark hair swinging around her shoulders.

  Edgiva laboured, ‘… ride with you on flowing – on flowered fields, and seek with you sweet sol – sweet solace…’

  She asked, ‘What does that mean, solace?’

  ‘Comfort. Leave it now. Lord Brien is here.’

  The girl rolled the sheepskin sheet. ‘He’s a day early.’

  ‘A day less late,’ Alyse preferred. ‘Quick, you must help me dress. The grey gown, the one with marten—’

  ‘It’s in the chest there. I’ll find it.’ She laid aside the poem – with some relief, for she had found too many unreadable words – and went over to raise the iron-bound lid. Inside, carefully folded, lay a number of full-length gowns and a tray of belts and tasselled girdles. She sorted through the gowns, the red, the pale blue, the night blue, the grey, and lifted it out. When she faced Alyse again the Lady of Wallingford had stripped off her simple linen kirtle and stood naked, waiting for the gown. Sunlight streamed through the single window and through the narrow vertical slits of the arrow loops. With no embarrassment, the Saxon maidservant carried the gown to her Saxon lady and raised it over her head. As Alyse settled the gown and chose an orange girdle from the tray she said, ‘Give me his pendant.’ Edgiva took the silver cross and chain from its hook and hung it around her mistress’s neck. Alyse shook her hair to cover the chain, then crossed the solar to the oval mirror, Brien’s bequest from his father.

  Ironglove had not left his bastard son much of material value. His lands had gone to his legitimate children, but he had given Brien something of greater value than any fief or coffer. As one of King Henry’s closest friends, Count Alan had committed his son into the king’s care, and Brien had grown up in Henry’s court, where, in time, he had been knighted at the king’s hand and earned a place in the king’s affections. The one saleable item Ironglove had bequeathed had been the mirror, a sheet of hammered silver, chased at the edges, a delicate and valuable piece which he had brought back from Palestine after the first crusade. It could have been sold, perhaps, for five Spanish warhorses, or ten times its weight in silver coin, and it would certainly realise enough to finance the completion of the fifth tower. But Brien Fitz Count would not think of parting with his distorting mirror.

  Alyse derived some comfort from this, for it was the only one in the castle. But whenever she used it, it was with a fleeting sense of trepidation. No nightmare was more vivid than the one in which the mirror slipped from her hands and fell into the fire, where it melted.

  She stood in front of it now, knowing that Brien was spurring his horse along the narrow path between the east wall and the river. She stayed there, sweeping the comb through her hair, aware that he must have entered the main gate and was about to dismount in the outer courtyard. She delayed another instant, another comb stroke, sensing that he had handed his reins to the waiting ostler and was striding across the yard. Then she tossed the comb into the nearest chair and, followed by Edgiva, hurried down the stairs and across the first floor of the keep and down more stairs to the main hall and out into the sunlight.

  The women reached the drawbridge, where the servant waited while Alyse went on alone. Solace, Edgiva thought, yes, that is what they find with each other. She retreated to the entrance and watched from the darkness as Brien came forward and embraced his wife.

  The forests of England were infested with brigands, so it was advisable to travel armed and armoured. Merchants would hire mercenaries, whilst men like Fitz Count relied on their own abilities, and the added protection of their knights. For the journey to London, the young baron had worn helmet and hauberk – a knee-length link-mail tunic, with long sleeves and mittens laced at the wrists – and carried a small, circular shield, a pitted longsword and a dagger. It would be an intrepid band of brigands who dared to ambush such a spiky column, but it had been done, and every month brought news of another nobleman hacked down among the trees. The shield and hauberk afforded some protection, though they also acted as a lure to the brigands. A carefully-forged tunic would fetch a good price at market, and a well-tempered sword was prized as highly as an obedient horse. So to ride out in armo
ur was to issue a challenge, though to travel without it was to risk easy butchery.

  Brien grinned down at his wife, his arms around her waist. His metal mittens hung like empty purses. He had been away for five days, and she thought of it as five weeks, too long for him to have been gone, too long for the master of Wallingford to be away from home.

  ‘You look tired,’ she told him; then, ‘You scratched your face on a branch.’ She licked her finger and wiped a trace of blood from his jaw.

  He said, ‘We rode hard on the way back. If you had seen us cross the Chilterns you would have thought we’d started the devil from his lair.’

  ‘And were charging in pursuit, like brave men?’

  Matching her gentle mockery, he retorted, ‘No, lady, and were fleeing for our lives, like sensible cowards!’ He laughed with her, then glanced round the inner yard and asked, ‘Have things been peaceful here?’

  ‘Varan found some counterfeiters in town. They’re locked up in the guardhouse. Otherwise, nothing of account. Did you see Count Stephen at court?’

  ‘I did, and he sends you affectionate greetings. Do you know, he told me the population of London now exceeds ten thousand. I can understand why my knights were terrified to stray from their lodgings.’

  ‘Does it still smell as bad? I remember my few visits there with disfavour, especially in summer.’

  Brien nodded. ‘If anything, it’s worse. If the wind’s against you, you can catch the scent before you see the first building. With all the extra people, the authorities have been forced to dig public latrines along the riverbank. There’s one at Edredshithe, nicely placed between two churches, if you can believe it. God knows what they’ll do; the city has already spilled out beyond its own walls. I suppose they’ll have to prohibit further settlement, or build on this side of the River Fleet and lay roads across Moorfield. It’s changed so much since I was there. And to think I once spoke of it as a paradise.’