The Villains of the Piece

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

  Now, on this sixth day, the first day of December, all trace of the hunter monarch had wasted away. The earls gazed down at the sunken features of a sick old man, and found it hard to imagine him on horseback. The king was sixty-seven years of age. He had never been without enemies, but he had defeated all who set themselves against him. It seemed unjust that such a giant should fall prey to a plate of boiled fish.

  Robert touched his father’s hand. The skin was cold and damp. The king’s eyelids fluttered and he stared up at the ring of faces. He did not know where he was, nor did he recognise his son. He mouthed something and the nobles leaned forward, rainwater dripping on to the sheepskin coverlet. One of them queried irritably, ‘What did he say?’

  Robert was not sure, and ignored the question. He put his head close to Henry’s ear and murmured, ‘My lord king, it is your son, Earl Robert. You will soon be well—’

  Another of the barons barked, ‘God, Gloucester, don’t tell him that. Allow him the truth, or we will hear nothing from him. He must believe he is dying. He must know this is his last chance.’

  Robert glared at the man, then turned back to his father. He broke off once as Henry coughed blood, and waited while a physician wiped the king’s face. Then he moved close again and said, ‘One question, my lord. In front of these witnesses, Surrey, Perche, Meulan and Leicester. Affirm your successor; say finally who it is to be. Do you remain in favour of the Empress Matilda, or would you now have your nephew, Stephen of Blois? Or do I take the reins as your male child? In the name of God, sire, make your choice, or your dominions will be seized piecemeal by usurpers. We will follow whomsoever you say.’

  In fact, Henry had already named his successor and, on three separate occasions, he had extracted an oath of allegiance from his barons. First at London, then five years later at Northampton, and finally at Le Mans three years ago, the king had compelled the Norman nobility to accept his daughter Matilda as heiress to the English throne. Since then father and daughter had quarrelled and parted, and there were many who believed that Henry had undergone a change of heart, and would renounce Matilda in favour of his favourite nephew, Stephen of Blois. A third faction supported Robert of Gloucester, even though his illegitimacy weakened his claim. It was essential that the situation should be resolved, if necessary with King Henry’s dying breath.

  Robert gently squeezed his father’s hand. The old man responded slowly and bubbled what might have been ‘… terminate your misery… do as I have arranged…’ then something else, so indistinct that each man heard what he wanted to hear. Then the king coughed again, and a violent shiver ran through his frame and his life force shook itself free, leaving him still and settled, diminished in death.

  The men looked at each other across the body of their king. They held their gaze for a long time, until Robert murmured tonelessly, ‘He said his daughter. He said the Empress Matilda.’

  The earls of Surrey and Leicester shook their heads. ‘We heard otherwise. He said he had renounced her. We heard him say Stephen.’

  ‘Be warned,’ Robert told them. ‘Keep your imaginings to yourselves.’

  ‘Why?’ the Earl of Surrey retorted. ‘You won’t.’

  * * *

  Some stayed to escort the royal corpse west to Rouen, thence via Caen to England. Others set out for Lisieux, where they went into conclave to discuss the situation. And one enterprising minor baron turned his horse northward and thundered through the rain-washed forest in the direction of Boulogne. He felt sure his news would be of interest to its overlord, Stephen of Blois.

  * * *

  For three weeks the arguments raged back and forth.

  From Lisieux, emissaries were sent to fetch Stephen and Matilda, but neither could be located. Stephen was no longer at Boulogne, which meant perhaps that he was already on his way to the conference. As for Matilda, she was thought to be with her husband Geoffrey in his counties of Anjou or Maine. But no one could discover their precise whereabouts, so the conference continued without them.

  Robert made his position clear from the outset. He was King Henry’s son, albeit a bastard, and he knew he could gain some support from the continental overlords. Normally they would have added their weight to any legitimate claimant, but this time they were confronted by a major obstacle, a mental barrier they were unwilling to surmount. The only legitimate claimant was the Empress Matilda, and it was not in the Norman nature to follow a woman.

  Yet three times they had sworn fealty to her, and they were hesitant to break their word. King Henry was dead, so they had nothing to fear from him, though they would be happier when his body was in the ground. But even then they could not, in good conscience, sweep aside his daughter. Neither could they bring themselves to fulfil their thrice-spoken vows. It was one thing for a man to say he would obey a woman, and another to kneel and nod. If only Matilda had been of the other sex. If only Robert had been born in wedlock. If only Henry had mastered his weakness for lampreys…

  It was Robert himself who simplified the situation. He waived all personal claim to the throne, and announced that he would champion his half-sister.

  ‘Men have been ruled by women before. History is speckled with them; it is not such an outlandish thing.’

  ‘That’s only part of it,’ the Earl of Surrey countered. ‘Bad enough that she is a woman, but far worse that she is married to that primping Angevin. It’s a disgusting union, and no Norman will take orders from Anjou.’

  ‘You are very noisy on the subject, Surrey, yet you also pledged allegiance to my sister.’

  ‘We all did. Henry was not a man to cross. But remember this; the first time we swore fealty, Matilda was not married to the Angevin. We were supposed to choose her husband; that was the condition we set. I discount the repeated oaths. They were forced from us.’

  ‘So now where do you stand?’

  The Earl of Surrey shrugged. ‘That’s what we’re here to discuss. For myself, I favour Stephen of Blois. The king named him on his death-bed—’

  ‘He did not. The only name that left his lips—’

  ‘He did. We heard him.’

  ‘—was Matilda.’

  ‘No. Stephen.’

  ‘You are a liar, Surrey, an easy liar and an oath-breaker!’

  ‘And you are in your sister’s pocket! And elsewhere, maybe!’

  They squared-off, the tall, long-jawed Robert, and the shorter, more powerfully built William of Surrey. They went for their swords at the same instant, and other nobles shouldered between them, snarling restraint. ‘The world would like to see this, how we elect our king! Bury your weapons, my lords, before we are all disgraced.’ One of the barons wisely suggested they adjourn the debate and spend some time clarifying their thoughts. ‘We can speak for and against every candidate; Empress Matilda, Count Stephen, Earl Robert, although he says he is no longer in contention. But those who favour one candidate will not be swayed by their opponents. Perhaps we should compromise. Anyway, let’s catch our breath.’ They moved away in groups, scowling and muttering. Outside, the rain had followed them from the forest.

  * * *

  They reassembled three days later to find that someone had installed a number of tables in the council chamber. The tables were arranged in a hollow square, so there was no longer any excuse for the barons to cluster together, or poke chests. They could still glare at each other, and pound the table to emphasise a point, but none of them risked ridicule by stalking an adversary around the trestle square. They sat and they talked, and a new candidate was proposed.

  There was still no sign of Matilda, and, whichever direction Stephen had taken when he had left Boulogne, it had not brought him to the conference at Lisieux. But the wintry light of dawn had revealed an unexpected visitor – Stephen’s elder brother, Theobald of Blois.

  Throughout his life, Theobald had remained loyal to King Henry, and his presence at Lisieux was welcomed by the rival factions. Whereas Stephen was Count of Boulogne and Mortain, and master of ex
tensive holdings in England, Theobald was Count of Blois, Champagne and Chartres, and grandson of that most famous Norman, William the Conqueror. He was also King Henry’s eldest nephew and, the more the barons thought about it, the higher Theobald’s star ascended. Stephen might have been Henry’s favourite, but Theobald preceded him in every way. He was a true Norman, easy to get along with, and renowned for his generosity. He suffered from a bad stammer, but that was no problem. He could always find someone to read his speeches for him.

  There followed two weeks of proposal and counter-proposal. Robert continued to champion Matilda, while others looked directly at Theobald and told him they still preferred Stephen.

  ‘You are a Norman, no doubt of it. But you have never been to England, you do not speak one word of their native language, and no one here has ever heard you mention that island. Stephen, on the other hand, owns more land there than anyone, save the church. And his mother is King Henry’s sister.’

  ‘D-d-damned fool!’ Theobald exploded. ‘D-don’t you think I know that? I’m his b-b-brother! She’s m-my mother too! She was m-mine before she was his, idiot!’

  The spokesman slumped down in confusion, buried beneath the raucous laughter of his peers.

  But the succession was no laughing matter. Robert would not be swayed, though he grew increasingly anxious at the reports of violence among the small landowners. Eager to extend their borders, they were taking advantage of the situation to launch surprise attacks on their neighbours. It was time the conference delivered its verdict. But for whom? Matilda? Stephen? Theobald?

  With a show of hands they chose Theobald, and he stammered his acceptance. It was by no means a popular decision – he had merely gathered more votes than the empress, or his brother – but the nobles recorded that on 19th December they had elected him King of England.

  If Theobald’s arrival at the conference had been thought timely, the date of his election was a supreme irony, for exactly one day later a messenger reached Lisieux to explain Stephen’s disappearance from Boulogne. He had travelled north to Wissant and caught a ship for England. He had landed at Dover, where he had been refused entry by the constable of the castle. Undeterred, he had ridden on to Canterbury, and again been refused admission.

  Small wonder, Robert thought, since both castles belong to me. But he allowed himself no smile of satisfaction, for the messenger had not come to tell them that. There had to be more.

  Unnerved by the hard-eyed assembly, the messenger mumbled, ‘…then, when they…that’s to say, when Count Robert’s men—’

  ‘Speak up!’

  ‘…when Count Robert’s men turned him away from Dover and Canterbury, he went straight to London.’

  ‘Why not? He’s no stranger to the place.’

  ‘Let him tell it, will you? Go on, man, get it said.’

  ‘…went to London, yes, and the people…well, they accepted him.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Terrified that he would be made the object of their fury, the messenger blurted, ‘The people of – They’ve elected him King! They say it’s their right to do so, to choose their own ruler. When I last heard, the church had also acknowledged him. He’s to be crowned tomorrow, or the day after, at Westminster. He’s—’ But the rest was lost in an uproar of joy and anger. It was the most audacious theft imaginable – the taking of a country. And it was fait accompli, a bloodless victory that left the thief in residence in a palace, his short black hair encircled with a crown. It also left the conference chamber at Lisieux well stocked with enemies.

  * * *

  Mid-December, and Wallingford lay under snow. It was a pretty enough sight to make the coldest traveller pause and slap his hands against his thighs and nod with admiration at the white-capped castle. Fox and rabbit tracks criss-crossed the surrounding fields, and a number of farmers had reported seeing wolves within half a mile of the town.

  On both sides of the ford the riverbank was rutted by cart wheels, the marks of each day’s traffic freezing overnight. The ice was broken anew, every morning, and the carters prayed that their wagons would not break down in mid-stream. It was unbearably cold up there on the driving seat, but if one had to climb down and stand in the river—

  They made good use of their whips, and their curses carried through the still air.

  Brien Fitz Count could hear them as he descended from the wall tower. The upper section of the tower had only been finished a few months ago – to be a baron did not necessarily mean to be rich – and the fortifications were now complete. Shaped like a horseshoe, with towers for nail holes, the outer wall enclosed the keep, inner and outer courtyards, a smithy, guardhouse, kitchens, stables, a storeroom and armoury, and a well that froze, like the river, every night. The inner courtyard also contained a vegetable garden, but this was hidden under several inches of snow.

  Brien crossed the outer bailey, mounted the last tower and stood for a while, conversing with the guards. His regular tours of inspection were appreciated by his men. Most of them had served under other leaders and, like soldiers everywhere, they expected their suzerains to meet certain required standards. They had no time for warlords who hibernated in winter, or emerged, swaddled in sheepskin, whilst they themselves shivered in threadbare cloaks. And on that score, Lord Fitz Count came off well, dressed as they were dressed, his face and hands as blue as theirs. If they could fault him at all, it was for his insistence that every tower be manned, day and night, as though an attack was imminent. He was right to protect what was his, but they had yet to see anything more warlike than one of King Henry’s patrols, en route to Oxford.

  That, at any rate, was how they had felt until the first week of December. Then, like ripples in a pool, the news of King Henry’s death spread through Normandy and across the channel and up from the English ports, and violence erupted around them.

  They looked at Fitz Count with renewed respect. He could not have known that the king would die in that distant forest, but he had prepared for the eventuality. And so far the snow-covered fields around Wallingford were devoid of siege machines.

  Bracing himself against the battlements, Brien leaned forward and studied the frozen moat. ‘D’you think that would bear a man’s weight?’

  The two guards shook their heads. One of them said, ‘I saw Constable Varan go out and test it this morning. He kicked a hole in the ice near the gate. He couldn’t have stood on it.’

  Brien grunted. ‘Even so, we’ll keep the moats open. Ice can double its thickness in a day. Next week it will be a carpet for uninvited guests.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll come under attack, my lord?’

  ‘I don’t know. At present we are the eye of the storm. There’s fighting at Newbury, and around Abingdon, and the manor at Wycombe was set alight. But Wallingford is not a contested fief. No one has any cause to covet it.’

  The second guard hazarded, ‘My Lord Fitz Count, may I ask something?’

  ‘Ask on.’

  ‘Who is going to rule England? They say you’re among those who swore loyalty to the Empress Matilda –’

  ‘I am, and proud of it.’

  ‘But you are also a friend of Count Stephen.’

  ‘One of the closest. We grew up together at court.’

  ‘Then surely you feel some conflict, now that the Londoners have accepted him.’

  ‘It’s a temporary thing,’ Brien assured the man. ‘Count Stephen is aware of the need for stability. He will act for his cousin until she arrives in this country. There’s no question of his keeping the crown.’

  The guard nodded. If Lord Fitz Count said the crown would be passed peaceably from head to head, that’s how it would be. But why would Count Stephen take it, if he intended to hand it on almost immediately? It hardly seemed worth the trouble.

  Turning towards the slippery steps, Brien said, ‘Keep your eyes open. I’ll send one of the servants up with soup before long. Shout if you see anything that arouses your suspicions, however slight. T
here’s many a castle been taken through the shyness of watch-guards.’ He went down the steps, his boiled-leather boot heels crunching on the ice.

  As he made his way towards the keep, he thought of what he had just told the guards about Stephen and asked himself if he believed it.

  Today was the fifteenth. If the latest news was reliable, Stephen was now at Winchester with his younger brother, Bishop Henry. They were very close, these two, and, in Henry, Stephen had a brilliant and well-respected ally. The younger man had only been in the country a few years, and in that time he had risen from comparative obscurity to become the most powerful bishop in England. In an age in which churchmen owned extensive private holdings, rode to battle in full armour, and played an influential part in the government of the country, Bishop Henry was very much a man of his time.

  He was also far-sighted, for the moment King Henry left for Normandy, on the journey that would eventually take him to the forest of Lyons, the young bishop set about preparing the ground for Stephen’s arrival. Like Brien Fitz Count, Bishop Henry anticipated the inevitable. But he was not content to post guards and build towers. Instead, he approached William Pont de l’Arche, Treasurer of England, and coolly suggested that, in the event of the king’s death, William should make over to him the entire treasury and the massive castle at Winchester.

  ‘Is this a joke?’ William snapped. ‘Is it? Is it a joke?’ He favoured repetition, in the belief that it added weight to his comments.