Brien and Alyse took their places at one end of the table, Alyse between her husband and the corpulent Bishop of Salisbury. The churchman had discarded his robes of office and was now dressed in an embroidered woollen tunic and long, fur-lined mantle. His fingers were heavy with rings, two of which were known as casket rings and could be opened to reveal a splinter of wood, said to be from the True Cross, and a fragment of bone from the right hand of the blessed St Joseph of Arimathea. The rings were so large that the bishop had had holes cut in the fingers of all his gloves.
Alyse knew little about him, save that he was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom – Brien would not have used that word; in the land, then – and that Stephen had done well to win him over. Ah, yes, she remembered, and one other thing. At a recent ecclesiastical council, Bishop Roger had spoken out against the hundreds of parish priests who had flouted their vows of celibacy and engaged in clandestine marriages. Then, having decreed that these hapless wives could, if discovered, be sold into slavery, he had returned to his mistress, Maud of Ramsbury.
Food was brought; stews of beef and venison; spit-roasted lamb, salted bacon, dishes of onions, and circular loaves of rye bread. Roger poured wine for Alyse, then leaned across to pass the jug to Brien. As he did so, he dragged the sleeve of his mantle in her stew, then let the mixture drip across the table. Alyse sat quiet, exhaling against the odour of his breath.
His first slurred comments confirmed her suspicions; he was well and truly drunk. Nevertheless, he was one of God’s senior servants, and she sat in fear of him, aware that it was within his power to have anyone who offended him struck down, burned to a cinder by a bolt from heaven. The laity, whether nobleman or commoner, were as weeds in the hands of such men. They could be stamped flat, or plucked from the earth, or, if they were fortunate, earn an episcopal blessing.
He put a hand on her shoulder and let his other arm rest on the table, unaware of the stew-stained cuff. ‘Are you educated in drink, Lady Alyse? Taste what I’ve given you. Tell me where it comes from.’
‘My lord bishop, I am not well versed—’
‘That’s it, swill and swallow. Did you say Poitou?’
‘I could not say where—’ She felt Brien nudge her, and nodded quickly. ‘Yes, at a guess, Poitou.’
‘Well now,’ he beamed, ‘that’s right.’ He gave her shoulder a congratulatory pat. ‘It’s rare to find a lady who knows her wine. It was brought out from La Rochelle. As you probably know, I have my own fleet.’
Brien put his head back, gazed incuriously at the rafters and murmured, ‘Rack or harvest?’ Alyse glanced at him, then took her cue and in complete ignorance echoed, ‘Rack or harvest, Lord Bishop?’
The florid churchman croaked with delight and turned away to tell his neighbour. While he did so Brien hastened, ‘If the weather’s right they get two shipments. In spring it’s called rack wine, in September it’s harvest. I can smell his breath from here.’
She nodded, then once again surrendered herself to the bishop’s wine-laced attentions. There was nothing more Brien could do for her, so he let his gaze roam the hall, now and then nodding at recognised friends. Stephen edged behind the chairs and leaned on the end of the table, sharing Brien’s view of the hall.
We have a few chairs left at the other end, and the venerable William of Canterbury is beginning to bore me. Who else shall we have up here?’
‘That’s for you to decide, my lord.’
Stephen said, ‘No, no, you’re free to suggest—’ Then he broke off, cleared a space on the table and hitched himself on to it, his stockinged legs dangling over the end. ‘Why do you still call me that? I know my crowning was a hurried affair, but even so, I am wearing the headpiece.’
Brien looked up to see his friend smiling apologetically. He could hear Bishop Roger droning on, but he sensed that Alyse was no longer listening. The moment they had dreaded had arrived.
‘I could call you king,’ Brien measured, ‘but I would not mean it.’
‘Oh? Why not? I am king. Does the word come awkwardly to you? I suppose it does seem strange after all these years. It’s only when we’re in public. In private I shall always be Stephen.’ ‘It’s not that.’
‘What then? You called Henry king, and I never heard you stumble over it. Why do I present such a hurdle?’
‘I accepted your uncle. There’s a difference.’
Stephen’s frown was slow in coming. He did not understand why Greylock, his, yes, as he had said, his lifelong friend, should suddenly turn against him. ‘What difference?’ Somebody called to him from the body of the hall, but he waved the caller down without looking. ‘Tell me, Brien. I must know why you, of all people—’
‘Because we swore fealty to your cousin, Empress Matilda. We made our vows, made them—’
‘You don’t seriously—’
‘—three times, and I see no reason—’
‘—hold to them. Henry bullied them from us!’
‘—to break my given word. I have never done so yet.’
‘I tell you, he extracted them from us under threat! How many ways must I put it? They were empty promises! And apart from all else, we swore on condition that we could choose her husband. How were we to know she would marry that trouble-maker Geoffrey, a proven enemy of England?’ He glanced sharply at Alyse, then said, ‘You must forgive me, my lady, but Lord Fitz Count is in need of instruction. We both know he is inordinately fond of the empress, and is blind to all her faults.’
‘Address me directly,’ Brien said. ‘I’m not in the next street.’
‘Very well. I shall risk your wife’s discomfort and say straight out that from all I have seen and heard you are under Matilda’s spell.’
‘Then both your senses are faulty. Matilda can be credited with many things, but not with magic. You talk of the conditions we set, but you know as well as I that no one dared curb King Henry with conditions. We swore fealty to Matilda because she was, and is, the rightful heir to the throne. You have the throne, I don’t dispute it, but it remains her property until she relinquishes it.’
‘You may as well call me a thief,’ Stephen said indignantly. ‘You’re skirting around it.’
Brien looked at him, then shook his head. ‘No, I would not call you that, for it is not yet a fact. I’d prefer to think of you as the custodian of the crown, safe-guarding it for your cousin.’
‘And Geoffrey? Am I keeping it polished for him too?’
‘He has no rights. He can be controlled.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. But there’s one point you omit. On his death-bed, King Henry renounced Matilda, and made me his heir. The messenger who came to me at Boulogne – that was the first thing he said. Or would you call me a liar as well as a thief?’
‘I believe he told you, yes. But I don’t believe Henry ever said it. It’s a game we can all play. Whisper into your cupped hands, and we will all hear something different. Henry was your uncle and my guardian; we have both spent the greater part of our lives in his presence. Yet when did he ever change his mind at the last instant, or make some momentous decision without committing it to paper? You find the document, my lord, the one that confirms you are his heir, and I shall be the first to swear fealty to you. But I don’t think you’ll find it, because it doesn’t exist.’
It was then, after a moment’s pause, that Stephen made the first grave mistake of his reign. He was prompted, perhaps, by the sudden silence that blanketed the high table, or by the need to impress his authority on Fitz Count. Whatever the cause, he sprang down from the table and in an over-shrill voice shouted, ‘As you say! You shall be the first! Get to your knees. Say you love and honour me as your king. Come on, Fitz Count, here and now, in front of your peers. I am king, damn you! Let me hear you say it! Come on. Come on.’ His voice echoed around the hall, and then there was no other sound but the flap of the leather curtains and the crackling of the fires.
The Norman nobility awaited the outcome with interest. They ha
d heard little of the preceding conversation, but it was clear that King Stephen and Lord Fitz Count had had a serious falling out. Eruptions of anger were commonplace among the touchy, quick-tempered nobles, and it was a rare meeting that did not contain at least one noisy altercation. A man was not worth his salt until he had learned the value of a raised voice.
By their own critical assessment the nobles were not overly impressed by their new king’s show of temperament. He had a long way to go before he matched the splenetic rages of Ranulf of Chester, or the destructive precision of Robert of Gloucester. But the content of his speech made up for its hysterical delivery. He had issued his first command as king, and it was essential that he be obeyed.
The guests watched in silence, as Stephen indicated where his lifelong friend should kneel.
During her six years of marriage to Brien Fitz Count, Alyse had done many things to amuse or enrapture him. But she had never before been called upon to parade her loyalties; indeed, she abhorred public displays, preferring her emotions to be kept private. Yet now, without thinking, for that would open the doors to fears and uncertainties, she rose to her feet, to find that Brien had risen with her.
Stephen turned triumphantly towards the body of the hall.
That’s better. They will do it and, when they are finished, I shall help them up and embrace them. Let everyone see that from the first day I was a magnanimous king.
He smiled down at the assembly.
Then the Lord and Lady of Wallingford bade him good night and crossed to the steps, and his smile shrank and he was forced to clamp a hand on the table to steady himself. He thought, they are walking out on me. Bones of Christ! They are walking out on mel
He shouted after them, and later he had to ask someone what he had said. Smoke and wine fumes blurred his gaze. The scene twisted and shivered, elongating faces, splintering the firelight. ‘You leave me now,’ he roared, ‘and you are branded! Do you hear me? I am the king! You saw me crowned! You saw me!’
The Bishop of Salisbury, his eyes veined with blood, flapped a hand at the tables. ‘See what you’ve done… There’s quite a procession of them… Miles of Llereford, he’s going… And Baldwin de Redvers . . . And two over there. Damned smoke, I can’t see that one…’ He lolled forward, fumbling with his wine glass. ‘Rack or harvest, eh… Surprisingly knowledgeable for such a pretty creature… Don’t know why, but one doesn’t expect it, in such a pretty…’
Stephen stood on the platform, blinking to clear his sight, unaware that he was tearing at one side of his sparse moustache.
* * *
They waited for the others to come out. Then, while Brien exchanged a few words with Miles and Baldwin and the four or five more who had emerged from the hall, Alyse went to collect Edgiva from the servants’ chamber. By the time the two women returned, the disaffected barons were striding away across the snow-covered yard.
Edgiva said, ‘I thought you would be in there most of the night, my lady. Was the strain of the service too much for the king?’
‘Rather for us,’ Alyse answered. Then, looking to Brien for confirmation, she said, ‘We will start for home tonight. Go on ahead and get the things packed. And Edgiva – we are pressed for time; don’t be too perfect with the creases.’
The girl nodded and picked her way across the slippery cobbles. Several questions crowded her tongue, and she decided to ask her sergeant-lover if he knew the reason for their sudden departure. She was sorry they were leaving Westminster so soon. She had hoped to see the palace and the cathedral by day, and more especially to catch a glimpse of King Stephen. But the visit had not been completely wasted; she had heard more gossip in one evening here than in a year at Wallingford, and it would be exciting to match stories with the sergeant. She would have to ration them out, of course; if possible make them last the winter.
Brien took his wife’s arm, then glanced back, half expecting to see guards pour out from the building. Alyse shared his thoughts and asked, ‘Will he have us arrested?’
I don’t know. And I don’t imagine he knows, not yet. He has been taken by surprise, and that should give us time to get clear.’
‘What did you arrange with Miles and the others?’
‘Nothing of substance. We’ll return to our lands and sit it out. The next move is up to Stephen, though I’m anxious to hear from the barons at Lisieux. In a day or two we’ll know for certain what King Henry said on his death-bed, if anything.’ ‘But you are already convinced he did not disown Matilda. You don’t think it at all possible?’
‘No, I do not.’
Alyse slipped on a patch of ice, and Brien pulled her to him. ‘Take care,’ he smiled. ‘If anything happens to us now, Stephen will claim it is divine retribution. Still, Bishop Roger will not denounce you to God. He has quite an appetite for you, along with his wine. Rack or harvest. You set him on his ear with that one. He may very well send you samples, for your opinion.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Don’t have to what?’
‘Make light of it, for my sake. I have no doubts. I believe what we did was right.’
As they neared their quarters Brien said, ‘Do you think I am under Matilda’s spell, as he claimed?’
‘Let me answer you with your own words,’ she told him. ‘I don’t know. And I don’t imagine you know, not yet. We will have to wait until she comes ashore.’
‘Then pray heaven it’s soon.’
No, Alyse thought, I won’t pray that. I’ll pray it’s never.
* * *
The riders clattered alongside the lighted cathedral. The king was expected to spend the latter part of the night in silent vigil at the foot of the altar, but he would more likely pass the time in conference with his leaders. Meanwhile, the monks chanted their prayers and shivered with cold.
Once clear of the cathedral, the columns divided. Brien decided to return the way he had come, following the Thames all the way to Wallingford. It was a longer and more hazardous route, but it was passable, or had been a few hours ago. So, if no more snow had fallen out in the country, and they were not set upon by brigands, and none of the horses slipped and sent their riders crashing through the ice, and no sleepless peasant pointed the king’s guards in their direction, then they would reach the castle by dusk tomorrow. But if the wind had blown the snow from the main road, and Stephen’s troops had taken the more direct route, Brien’s party would find their pursuers waiting for them on the doorstep.
With this in mind, they rode for home.
Chapter Four
Chessmen
January-April 1136
The sense of shame stayed with them for several weeks. They did not regret having spoken out against the king, but the urgency of their departure – in truth, their flight – left them feeling faint-hearted, almost cowardly. And yet, if their fears had become reality, they would have congratulated themselves on their promptitude. They knew this, and it did not help.
They had reached Wallingford two days before Christmas, to find the place exactly as they had left it. There were no armed horsemen in the bailey, or outside the gate. Nor did any arrive next day, or the day after, or ride in on the tail of the year.
They heard that Stephen had spent Christmas at Westminster, then left for Reading, where, on 4th January, he had attended King Henry’s funeral. That done, he was free to wreak vengeance on those who had left his table, but still there was no sign of catapults and siege-towers. It was as though he had forgotten the incident, or been advised to dismiss it as a childish tantrum, unworthy of his attention.
At Wallingford, shame gave way to perplexity. T’m beginning to feel damn foolish,’ Brien told his wife. ‘We’ve sealed ourselves in against an invisible enemy. I almost wish he would. attack, or at least pitch camp around us, so we could re-assert our views. I don’t think I have an exaggerated sense of my own importance, and if I had been the only one to speak against him, I could understand why he would ignore me. In his place I would do the
same. But neither Miles, nor Baldwin, nor any of the others have come under attack.’
‘Perhaps he expects you to go to him. It was always King Henry’s boast that he would forgive any man who faced him at court. Stephen may wish to emulate his uncle.’ Quickly she added, ‘Not that we seek his forgiveness.’
‘Not unless he has made it clear that he holds the throne for Matilda. And we would have heard about that, I’m sure.’ He prowled the solar, his hands clasped over the buckle of his sword-belt. Alyse sat in one of the box chairs, watching his distorted reflection as he passed in front of the hammered silver mirror.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t be so restless. You agreed with the others to sit it out. Wait a few more days. Then, if we hear nothing, send Constable Varan—’
‘Three days,’ he told her, ‘after which I’ll go myself. This thing must be resolved. He either claims the throne for life, in which case I am not his man, or he guards it for Matilda. One or the other.’
‘I thought he had made his position clear at Westminster. And who’s that man, Hugh somebody-or-other—’
‘Bigod.’
‘Yes, who said he had heard King Henry name Stephen as his heir.’
‘The man’s a bar. Robert of Gloucester was with his father at the last, and he says Hugh Bigod was not even in the room. It’s a cooked-up story, to strengthen Stephen’s claim. Anyway, Stephen has had time to think since bis ravings at Westminster. He might still relinquish the crown.’
The Villains of the Piece Page 5
