‘Nothing,’ Brien lied. ‘Very well. Bring him in, and find a place for his cart. And treat him well – you’ll know why soon enough.’
The guard nodded, wishing he could know now, then went to fetch the drover. He felt foolish, ushering the man into the castle, and he knew by the expressions on the faces of the other guards that he looked damn foolish. One of them called down from the wall, ‘What is he, Ernard, made of glass, or are you after a job in his business?’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Ernard snarled, torn between giving the merchant a shove and gesturing towards the inner bailey. His charge murmured, ‘Don’t let them annoy you, soldier. Behave with me, and you’ll have them babbling apologies.’ It was a strange thing for a one-horse traveller to say, but it matched Lord Brien’s warning, and Emard decided to play it out. ‘This way,’ he muttered, and then, too quietly for his comrades to hear, ‘master.’
They went into the inner courtyard and found Fitz Count there, waiting for them. The merchant looked at him, saw what he was about to do and said, ‘No, Wallingford, it will keep. This man of yours has been the model of hospitality. Now dismiss him.’
Ernard blinked as Brien said, ‘Of course. Go back to your post.’ The soldier retreated, astonished that Lord Fitz Count could allow himself to be cowed by a common merchant. It had looked for an instant as though he was going to kneel to the caller. Hell’s smoke, who was this man?
He saw Brien watching him, and hurried back to the gate. His companions asked, ‘Did he break on the way? You should have cradled him in your arms, if he was so fragile. Aah, don’t fret, Ernard, he’ll take you into the business. It must be thriving, one spavined horse and an empty bronette!
Ernard swung his head left and right and swore vilely into the cloud of laughter.
* * *
In the inner bailey, the long-jawed visitor motioned Brien ahead, then followed him across the drawbridge and into the keep. Sunlight gave way to the flare of torches, and both men paused, waiting for their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The single shaft of light from the entranceway bisected the ground-floor chamber, and after a while the traveller saw his surroundings. As with most of the dozen places he had visited, he was in the main hall.
Brien took the letter from his belt, glanced at it as though for confirmation, then asked, ‘Shall I make us private in here?’
‘It would be better, though I hope to meet Lady Alyse before I go.’
‘You shall, sire, whenever you wish.’ He closed the outer door, slid the bar in place, then repeated the procedure with the single inner door. That done, he shouted down to the cellar, heard nothing, but lowered the trap-door for good measure. Everyone who was now in the keep would have to remain there, imprisoned on one of the upper floors, or shut in with the siege stores. He came back to the centre of the hall, knelt quickly and said, ‘My Lord of Gloucester, I heard you were in the country, but I was unable to find you.’
Well, I’m found now,’ Robert said. ‘Are you still my man, Brien Fitz Count?’
‘I am, sire, as ever. I belong to you and your sister. Whatever has changed here, in this country, nothing has changed in my heart.’
‘Nor had my expectations,’ Robert smiled. ‘Get to your feet, Greylock. Matilda has instructed me to embrace you for her, and I share her sentiments.’ The two men wrapped their arms around each other and kissed and stood away, their eyes wet with tears. Men who could not weep for rage or joy were to be pitied, as were those who had been denied the gift of laughter. Occasionally, one came across a knight or nobleman who consciously withheld his tears, and such a man was viewed with suspicion. What other natural outlets might he have dammed? Might he not, for instance, still his tongue when it should be moving, or keep his purse closed when it should be stretched wide through generosity? And in battle, might he not sit tight instead of striking out at his enemies? No, there was not much to be said in favour of walled-up tears and a sawn-off laugh.
Matilda’s brother untied the leather thong that fastened his merchant’s cloak and tossed the garment on a chair. Brien brought a flask of wine and two stone mugs from an alcove in the wall, then manhandled another of the heavy box chairs so that they could sit facing each other, with a corner of the table between them. Robert did not wait to be served, but poured the wine, passed a mug to Brien, then raised his own in salute. ‘I’d have come to you before this,’ he said, ‘but the geography of the country is against you.’
‘Where have you been, Lord Robert?’
‘Where have I not? Your friends, or should I say Matilda’s, are widely-spaced throughout England. I’ve been calling on them, one by one.’
‘Then you’ve heard of the defections back to Stephen.’
‘I should hope so,’ Robert smiled wearily. ‘I contrived them.’ Brien lowered his mug, then brushed a dribble of wine from his chin. ‘You? You sent them back?’
‘Don’t look so grim. I may be dressed to mislead, but as you said, nothing has changed in my heart. Sit back awhile and listen. You would probably obey me without question, but I have a greater regard for your mind. Also, Matilda would make my life a misery if she thought I’d bullied you into it.’
‘She is well, I hope.’
‘Well enough, for someone who has been robbed of their throne. By the way, I have a reward for you, if you’ll hear me out.’ He took the second letter from his purse, allowed Brien to see that it was from the empress, then put it away again. ‘As I told you, the geography prevented my bringing it to you sooner. Anyway, let me say my piece.’
Robert of Gloucester gave some thought to what he would tell Fitz Count. Taking his own advice, he sat back in his chair and said, ‘You and I have been close for many years, Greylock, but I wonder if you have ever assessed the extent of my holdings.’ He held up a hand. ‘It’s not a guessing game; I’ll answer my own question. I am, as you know, Earl of Gloucester, a position I’ve held for fifteen years or more. I also hold the honour of Torigny in Normandy, the lordship of Glamorgan in Wales – and so Cardiff Castle – and, in this country, Dover, Canterbury and Bristol, among others. Put another way, I am an extremely rich and powerful man, on a level with the king and his brother Henry. I have earned what I own, and I have no wish to lose it. Nor, I imagine, are you anxious to lose Wallingford.’
‘If I were,’ Brien said, ‘I would not have spent every penny I possess on its defence.’
Robert came forward in his chair, his feet slamming the floor. ‘Don’t grow impatient with me,’ he snapped. ‘I am not listing my properties for fun. I am telling you that I have much to lose, and that you risk losing everything.’ He glared at Brien for a moment, then cradled his long jaw and sighed, ‘Forgive me. I know the straits you’re in. Time will take care of that. All I am saying is – may I help myself to some wine?’
The change of direction caught Brien by surprise. He reached forward and filled Robert’s mug, then said, ‘Please continue, my lord. I’m more receptive than I seem.’
Robert nodded. ‘I want you to go back,’ he said. ‘I want you to make your peace with Stephen, and to accept what he tells you as the truth. Well, no, not quite that. Rather, to convince him that you accept it.’
‘What does he say?’
‘Oh, that he guards the throne for Matilda, but that she is planning to invade Normandy and squeeze us dry with some ownership tax or other. I don’t know the details; that’s the beauty of rumours, they are so imprecise. Anyway, it’s all a product of Bishop Henry’s fertile mind. It is supposed to incense us against her, and draw us closer to our king.’
‘Yes,’ Brien murmured, ‘I have heard the talk.’
‘And dismissed it, no doubt. Well, don’t. At least, not at court. Pretend to accept it. Stephen is so eager to reclaim you, he will not question your authority. In fact, tell him you have grown to distrust my sister, and me too, for all I care.’
‘And if I do not?’
Robert had just put the mug to his lips, and his laugh sprayed wine across t
he floor. ‘Word for word,’ he spluttered. ‘You all ask the same question.’
‘It seems reasonable to ask it, when we are in a state of undeclared war with Stephen.’
‘Yes,’ Robert allowed, ‘it is reasonable. And so is my answer. If you do not go back to him, he will starve you into submission. If I come out against him, he will lay siege to my castles, garrison them with his own men, confiscate what remains of my lands, reduce me to nothing. You see, Greylock, your actions are beyond reproach; they are gallant, loyal to Matilda, immediate and whole-hearted. Quite a mouthful. But they are also dangerously premature. With the greatest respect, you are not in a position to upset the throne. Not yet. Not when you have so few on your side. But – and this is important – you are in a position to jeopardise any future landings, and to rob your leader of his strongholds. I mean, of course, myself.’ He drank again, this time taking the wine to his stomach.
When his mouth was empty, he continued, ‘Stephen’s seizure of the throne took us unawares, I admit it. I was in the Forest of Lyons, holding my father’s hand. I had no inkling that Stephen would do what he did, nor that he would meet with a favourable response in London. Consequently, we need time to adjust.’
‘How much time?’
‘A little. A few months. Enough, anyway, to land in force and achieve our aims. I want you ready to greet us and declare for us. I certainly do not want you chained up in some dank prison, a convicted traitor without a charcoal-burner’s hut to your name. That is not what your former— what Matilda expects of you.’ He studied his cheap, mud-caked boots, then looked directly at Brien. ‘Have I said enough?’
‘You want me to kiss Stephen’s hand,’ Brien said bitterly. ‘You have said enough, yes, Lord Robert, but you have asked a great deal more.’
‘Have I?’ Robert queried. ‘Is it more than what you do now? You sit here, your last penny spent, waiting for an attack that will never come. He won’t fight you, don’t you see that? He’ll starve you out, and Wallingford, a very pretty place, may I say, will fall without your ever having seen the enemy. Kiss his hand? Kiss his foot, what does it matter, when it is a strategy of war?’ He finished his wine, stood the mug on the table and passed over the letter. ‘This may give you heart,’ he murmured. ‘But if you can leave it unread for a while, perhaps I could meet your lady.’
Brien took the letter, turned it over in his hands, then glanced up and asked, ‘Something you said just now. Something you didn’t finish. You said of Matilda that she was my former— what?’
‘The only one of you I haven’t visited,’ Robert said. ‘Baldwin de Redvers. Still ensconsed at Exeter. I really am pressed for time.’
Brien felt the breath shudder into his body as he slid the letter inside his tunic and pushed himself from the chair. ‘I’ll fetch Lady Alyse. She’ll be glad to see you.’
‘And I her,’ Robert enthused. ‘It’s been a long time.’
* * *
It was more of a note than a letter.
‘To Brien Fitz Count, Lord of Wallingford, the most affectionate greetings and the most gentle embrace, from Matilda, his friend.
‘I have sent my other champion, Robert of Gloucester, to encourage you and prepare you for my arrival. He has carried letters to one or two of my loyal supporters, but none so warm as this. My cousin’s theft has angered and surprised me, but whatever his tricks, I know you remain constant, as do I.
‘You are well matched with your young wife Alyse, of whom I have heard the kindest reports. But in your happiness, I know you will not forget Matilda, who was once Empress of Germany, who should now be Queen of England, and who is forever your close companion.
‘Keep watch for us, Greylock. The sails are already run up, and we wait only for the tide.
‘I shall not end this greeting, but sign as I started.’
It was a sure way to get him to re-read it.
Unwilling to destroy the missive – she might one day ask him if it was still in his possession – Brien hid it among his administrative papers.
Two days later, in all innocence, whilst checking to see how much milled flour they had ordered, and therefore to assess how much they were consuming by the week, Alyse sorted through the records and found the letter. Less innocently she allowed the letter to unfold, allowed herself to walk around the table until the words faced her, then allowed herself to read it.
Brien interpreted her silent anguish and loss of appetite as symptoms of her long-term restriction in the castle. It helped convince him to put Robert’s advice into practice.
In the second week of April, Brien Fitz Count attended King Stephen’s court at Oxford. Stephen found his lifelong companion somewhat withdrawn, and he did not risk further outbursts by demanding a public display of homage. He told Brien what Henry had primed him to say, and Brien followed Robert’s suggestions and pretended to accept the king’s word.
The wounds closed amid sounds of merriment, but the scars remained.
Chapter Five
After He Speaks…
March 1137 – June 1138
Henry, Bishop of Winchester, was in love, no question of it. The relationship did not merit congratulations, and the object of his affections remained sublimely indifferent to his feelings. But there he was, every day, wrapped in his robes of office, balanced on a rickety platform and coo-cooing at his inamorata as she strutted about beneath his adoring gaze.
The platform was necessary, for the ostrich hen stood seven feet high and was contained within a fenced field.
On each visit Henry was accompanied by a thin, darkskinned man named Zengi, and the bishop’s servants were further intrigued by the way Henry deferred to his companion. Whatever the man said was agreed with and acted upon, no matter what cost or effort was involved.
An Egyptian by birth, Zengi had spent most of his life in Nubia, in the desert lands between the Nile and the eastern shore of the Red Sea. He was an accomplished linguist, a master boat-builder, and a respected authority on the wildlife of Arabia. It was in this last capacity, and because of the princely fee he had been offered, that he had accompanied his latest acquisitions to England and Henry’s menagerie at Winchester. His charges had been caught to order; four caracal lynxes, a nest of beautifully-marked, yet deadly-poisonous snakes, and a pair of Arabian ostriches, Henry’s pride and joy.
However, the huge, scarlet-skinned male ostrich had not yet paid much attention to its mate. Give them time, Zengi had said. They do not come together until the spring, and they might not yet realise that it is spring in this damp country. Be patient and, if Allah wills it, you will get your egg.
The Egyptian had already corrected a number of widely- held misconceptions concerning the clumsy, flightless birds.
They are not helpless, he said. They can out-run a hound over a short distance and, although they would rather flee than fight, they will strike out with their feet if they are cornered. And they do not hide their heads in the sand, imagining that because they cannot see, they are invisible. Their plumage is concealment enough, so they merely crouch down and lay their long necks on the ground, and thus change their shape.
Henry sponged-up these lectures, nodding, remembering what he could, dictating the more difficult lessons to his clerks. He intended to write a book on the subject, a Bestiary, for the enlightenment of the world. He would, of course, make some mention of Zengi, probably at the end.
In the field the ostriches preened and strutted. Henry gazed benignly at them, then asked, ‘In your country, do you still use them to find precious gems?’
Zengi laughed quietly. He did not wish to seem impolite, but was there no end to the fables that surrounded these ungraceful birds? What had Bishop Enefri in mind this time? Did he imagine they had the sense to pick emeralds from the earth, or sort rubies by size and colour?
‘You have been misled, I think. These birds, and many others, are attracted to anything bright or colourful. They swallow stones, crystal, they would swallow one of your rings if y
ou threw it to them.’
‘Then there is no truth—’
‘I fear not. If it were true, we would be foolish to part with such prized diviners.’
Make a note, Henry thought. The Arabian ostrich is not the jewel-mine ignorant people suppose.
He would have been content to stand all day in the spring sunshine, watching the black-and-white male, and the grey-brown hen, studying his birds and learning from his expensive expert. But duty called, and he turned reluctantly from the fence. Under his breath he murmured, ‘Tomorrow. I’ll visit you tomorrow.’ Then he clambered down the uneven steps and became once again a power in the land.
* * *
So far, March had been a good month for Bishop Henry. His menagerie was thriving, and the Angevins had turned one of his political rumours into reality. One year ago, he remembered, he had sat with brother Stephen in the Great Hall at Westminster, and dreamed up ways of reclaiming the king’s disaffected barons. They had decided – well, Henry had decided, while Stephen agreed – to put it about that Matilda planned to invade Normandy. Now, it seemed, truth was about to overtake invention, for they had recently heard that Matilda and her despicable husband were inciting unrest within the duchy. Good. The rebellion could not have been better timed. Stephen would raise an army and go there and crush the Angevin menace once and for all. Matilda and Geoffrey were both traitors now, for they had taken up arms against their duly-elected sovereign. They were fast losing the sympathy of the barons and, when the common people heard what they were about, they would clamour for a place in Stephen’s army. Yes, Henry acknowledged, one way and another it promised to be a fruitful spring.
* * *
In the years before he became king, Stephen of Blois had earned himself a reputation for generosity, gallantry and easy good humour. He had been a ladies’ man, charming and attentive, though not exclusively an indoor creature. He had proved himself in battle, and had been thought of as a convivial young baron, liked by men and loved by women.
The Villains of the Piece Page 7
