He should, perhaps, have settled for that, for neither his virtues, nor his vices, had helped lighten the weight of the crown.
He was still casual in his manner, but it was now called indolence, and judged unbecoming. He was still charming to his friends, but the barons interpreted it as favouritism, and used that most damning word – soft. He was a soft king, a contradiction in terms, a soft stone on which England rocked precariously. His generosity was valueless, for he was not uniformly benevolent. He gave to one and withheld from another, and promptly lost the respect of both.
He had been king for two years and three months now, and in that time his greatest flaw showed up clearly. Had he been a building, someone remarked, he would have collapsed before now, for there was a weakness in the structure, and it became more apparent every day.
Definitions varied, for viewpoints varied, but they were brought together by a wisely anonymous poet who wrote:
Before the sword is drawn, he cuts;
Before the wine is poured, he drinks;
Before the food is served, he eats;
—After he speaks, he thinks.
Did he shout, within the womb,
‘I’m born! I’m born! I must have room’?
Before the girth is tied, he mounts;
Before the ship leaves port, he sails;
Before the jest is made, he laughs;
—After he acts, he wails.
Will he cry within the tomb,
‘I am not dead! You are too soon’?
This simple and widely-quoted view of King Stephen contained one line with which the barons were in whole-hearted agreement. Their monarch did speak first, then ruminate afterwards, and often with regrettable results. His insistence that Fitz Count and the others pay homage to him, his overgenerous settlement on King David of Scotland, these and similar pronouncements all went to illustrate Stephen’s impulsive behaviour. Give or take, bestow or deny, threaten or ignore, he cast aside tradition and precedence, in favour of spontaneous action. In short, in favour of favour.
It was a dangerous policy, for those he advanced were envied by their friends, whilst those he rejected plunged into the muttering undercurrent of disaffection.
He had brother Henry to advise him and, so long as he followed the advice, he came to no real harm. But when the muzzle was off, when he was allowed to act on his own initiative, there was no telling what he would do. His visit to Normandy was a perfect example of his impetuousness, and it marked the third serious error of his reign. But he did not see it at the time, and why would he, when, as the insolent poet might have written, he ran with his eyes closed, then opened them to see where he was?
He was accompanied by Matilda’s brother, Robert of Gloucester, who had feigned loyalty and was awaiting his opportunity to strike. Stephen, true to his nature, furnished that opportunity.
* * *
They crouched in the undergrowth most of the morning, glancing at the lookouts, then turning away to fish dice from their purses and roll the ivory cubes on the nearest clear patch of ground. They had been told what to do, and were prepared to go through with it, but for Christ’s sake, how much longer?
They slapped at mosquitoes, crushed flies, pounded insects into the soil. They lost or won money, cursed each other, shielded their heads from the sun, drank wine and water, yawned with boredom. It wouldn’t happen; he wouldn’t come. Another day spent earning a pittance and gambling away a fortune. Aah, get on with it. Come if you’re coming. Let’s get to the killing, or go home. They threw the dice again, argued about the way it fell, squeezed the last of their wine from the skins, slapped angrily at the buzzing insects, stabbed the ground with their daggers. Men stood up to urinate, then got to their knees as their sergeants shouted them down. Christ! What a day! What an endless, shaft-rotting—
The horsemen came along the road at full gallop. The lookouts were taken by surprise, rose up in their excitement, saw that they had been spotted, and roared the alarm. ‘They’re here! Block their way! Bar the way! Jesus, get to your feet before they go through!’
The long-jawed Robert of Gloucester slammed his visor in place, couched his lance in the crook of his left arm – no mean feat – and drew his sword with his right. He did not yet know the identity of the ambushers, nor did he care. When you are attacked, don’t ask names. Just take it for what it is, an attempt on your life, and fight like Satan’s maddest dog.
The ambushers scrambled to their feet, stumbled forward, loosed off arrows, hurled their spears. The members of the mounted column thundered along the narrow road, their shields raised, their lances held tip down, so they could take a man through the throat, or through the chest. There was a brief moment of chaos, in which ambushers and horsemen died, and then the bulk of the riders had charged through the unready trap and were riding on, their minds piecing together the identity of their assailants. Behind them, men staggered into the bushes, or flopped down in bloody despair. As though it would help, some screamed at the vanishing horsemen, whilst others went through their friends’ possessions, hoping to regain what they’d lost at dice. The ambush had been a complete failure, but one did not necessarily have to come out of it without profit.
Robert had lost his lance in the engagement and was surprised to see that his left arm was still crooked. He straightened it, took a count of the dead and wounded, then snarled, ‘Whose idea was that?’
A number of his fellow knights told him what they had seen, and he sent his visor crashing back against the crest of his helmet. ‘Right. As I thought. And in keeping.’ He rode on in silence, then suddenly lifted his head and roared at the summer sky. ‘That has never been tried on me before! And by God, it will never be tried again! He has given me what I need…’ He shook so violently that two of his retinue urged their horses close and held him by the arms. They did not know what frightened them more, the unexpectedness of the ambush or Robert’s quivering fury. They heard him say, ‘Best count yourselves with me, messires, for if you are not with me I shall surely see you buried…’ They nodded to show they were very definitely with him.
* * *
Had Henry been there to guide him, Stephen might have denied all knowledge of the ambush. But Henry was with his ostriches, on the other side of the channel.
Even so, there was no proof that the incompetent assassinsin the king’s pay. Robert’s knights had told him they thought they had recognised a face here and there, and they thought they had heard someone shout ‘Kill the Angevin-lover!’ But it was not conclusive, not until Robert strode into the court at Lisieux and shouldered his way across the crowded chamber. The mass of barons, there to discuss an imminent advance against the Angevins, sensed trouble and moved back. A few of them thought of disarming Robert before he came within swordswing of King Stephen, but no one cared to try. If he went for his sword, well, then, maybe.
The Earl of Gloucester did not trouble to bow – how do you salute your would-be murderer? – but launched into a brief account of the ambush, then demanded, ‘Was it done on your say-so, or will you pretend it’s fresh news?’
In fact, Stephen had received a private report of the incident a few hours earlier, but without Henry to shore up his defences, he had not prepared a riposte. So, to the astonishment of the assembly, he fidgeted under Robert’s murderous gaze and confessed to his part in it.
‘I heard such things about you, Gloucester. I was told you were only keeping me company in the hopes of making contact with Matilda, and that you would then go over to her.’
‘So you thought you would lay for me, is that it, King?’
‘It was a passing remark. I did not know it would be enacted.’
‘You just said, “I wish somebody would rid me of my cousin’s brother, the Angevin lover,” something like that?’
‘I forget. I swear to you, it was spoken and forgotten.’ In an attempt to justify himself, he hurried, ‘You worry me, Gloucester. You prowl at my side, saying nothing, refusing to take the field against M
atilda and Geoffrey, and all the while I know you are her brother, her greatest champion!’
‘I see. So, if I say nothing, you mark it as treason, whereas, when you announce that you wish me dead, it is not to be taken seriously. Well, well, it bodes ill for all the others who do not speak against you. Silence presages treason, does it? And a threat is not a threat. Look about you, King. Study these silent nobles. Commit their names and faces to your memory, for surely they are all traitors, condemned out of their own unmoving mouths.’
Stephen glanced round, treated his barons to a faltering smile of reassurance, then said, ‘I am not suspicious of them. It’s you I mistrust.’
‘Ah. Then my life is still in danger. It would be prudent to withdraw from the court—’
‘I did not say—’
‘—and take my troops with me. Thank God I command such a large force. It seems I shall need them.’
‘There is no call for that. I regret what happened. It was an unfortunate mistake.’
‘The two knights who died in the ambush would agree with you, I’m sure.’ Timing his appeal well, Robert turned his back on the king and paced around the perimeter of a small, imaginary circle. In this way, he faced his peers and belittled Stephen’s sideways glance.
‘It is a dangerous world we are in, messires. If our king mistrusts us, he will mouth his fears, and we will be struck down on some quiet country road. Of course, that would not be his intention, and he would mourn the tragedy. An unfortunate mistake. A passing remark. I regret it happened.
‘Well, I regret it, as much as he, for I am no wooden head, to be tilted at whenever he chooses. I advise you to learn from this unfortunate incident. Tell him you love him every hour of the day, lest your silence be construed as treason. Or do what I shall do and retire to the safety of your own lands. Being around our king is altogether too chancy a pastime.’ He nodded once, then strode out, careful to let no one see his smile, compounded of contempt and satisfaction. As he had roared after the ambush, Stephen had given him what he needed. The king had confessed to the crime of attempted murder. It would frighten some of the barons into making protestations of loyalty, but it would drive others from the court. And it gave Robert the perfect excuse to renounce his allegiance and side openly with his sister. She would be delighted, for Robert would bring half the nobility of England under her banner. Among them, Brien Fitz Count.
* * *
The campaign in Normandy dragged on until November. Stephen met and made his peace with his elder brother Theobald, the man who had been king-for-a-day at Lisieux. Geoffrey of Anjou continued to harrass the southern borders of the duchy, but before Stephen could draw him into battle, internal strife erupted within the English ranks. The king’s regular Norman contingents came to blows with a large force of Flemish mercenaries, hired for the campaign, while the Norman barons complained that Stephen was showing excessive favouritism towards the mercenary leader, William of Ypres. These squabbles, so incessant among the Normans, mired down the entire army, and the advance never materialised.
Eventually, the king met his Angevin adversary, and they agreed on a three-year truce. But again, as with King David of Scotland, Stephen allowed himself to be out-manceuvred. Instead of threatening Geoffrey with a massive invasion of Anjou, should the truce be broken, the king came away from the conference chamber poorer by two thousand silver marks, payable annually, in advance.
He turned snarling on the baron who suggested that he was financing the enemy.
* * *
In England, the news of Earl Robert’s imminent defection sent the barons to re-stocking their cellars and checking their defences. They had done this before, some of them, and it was Robert himself who had counselled patience. But now it was different. Now, they knew, they were nearing the brink of war. When Robert made public his renunciation – his diffidatio – they would be expected to declare, either for Matilda or Stephen. Whichever, the country would be torn apart.
* * *
None were more alert to the dangers than the occupants of Wallingford, yet few were so ill-prepared. It was a question of money, or rather the lack of it, for Brien and Alyse had, to use their own term, air in their purses.
Last year they had maintained the castle in a state of readiness for four months, awaiting the attack that never came. In that time they had emptied their coffers, and proved the accuracy of Bishop Henry’s forecast. It was an expensive business, waiting for war.
And now they were expected to do it again, to replenish the larders, lay in stocks of arrows, javelins, crossbow quarrels, bow-strings, coarse woollen blankets, vinegar to douse any fires that might be started, wood to shore up weakened sections of the wall, horses that could be ridden in a counter-attack, then eaten when the salted meat was finished. There were a hundred other things to be bought and paid for, all essential ingredients of the life and death stew.
There were men to be hired.
As one of King Stephen’s tenants-in-chief, Brien was required to furnish his sovereign with fourteen knights for a set period each year. In time of peace they would garrison one of the royal castles, or escort senior court officials about the country. In time of war they would fight.
But these self-same knights were also loyal to their suzerain, Lord Fitz Count. Last year the majority of them had sided with Brien. But last year he had been able to pay them. He wondered how many of the fourteen would again risk their lives and lands, and this time spend their own money doing it.
There were also archers and foot-soldiers to be enlisted, and such men were untroubled by divided loyalties. They fought for money, coin on the barrelhead, not for the love of a lord and his lady.
But there was no money, and unless some was found there would be no fight.
* * *
Lady Alyse set about the problem in her own way…
Several times she had suggested to Brien that he write to Empress Matilda and explain the situation. ‘Tell her how it is with us. Let her know what you’re doing for her. If she thinks so highly of you, she’s bound to send help. If it were not for her—'
‘She is not bound to do anything,’ Brien said. ‘She did not ask me to show defiance last year. That was my decision. Besides, she is embroiled in Normandy. She’s probably as much in need of money as we are. We’re defending one castle, whilst she is financing an entire campaign.’
‘Well, it won’t do her much good,’ Alyse responded sharply, ‘not if her supporters in England are under lock and key. She needs Wallingford, and she needs you, and she should pay for it.’
Brien shook his head. ‘We’ll find other ways. Robert of Gloucester might help us, or Miles of Hereford, they’re both rich enough. But not Matilda. I will not ask her for money.’
Why not, Alyse thought; are you too proud, or do you fear rejection? I wonder if that woman loves you as much as you think. And you must also wonder it, or you would put it to the test. Embroiled in Normandy? No, dearest, I believe the real conflict is in your heart.
She tried again next day, and a few days later, and a week after that. Each time, Brien’s refusal came more quickly, more irritably. He sensed that his wife’s repeated suggestion was not merely a request for help. She was growing openly jealous of the unseen Matilda. It had become a trial of strength between them. Having at one time tried to dismiss Matilda from her thoughts, Alyse was now seeking a direct confrontation. Well, he would not encourage it. And he would not write any begging letters.
His assessment was only partially correct. Alyse had repeated her request because she did, indeed, seek a confrontation with Matilda. But it was not as Brien imagined. It was simply that the young chatelaine had already decided on a course of action, and wished to learn as much as possible about the empress. It was necessary, she believed, since she, herself, would write the begging letter.
It was composed in private. The maidservant, Edgiva, was dismissed from the solar and, when Alyse had finished with the writing materials, she replaced them exactly as
before. If the letter went unanswered, Brien need never know it had been written. If there was a reply— She shrugged. She would face the consequences of that when it came.
It was the most difficult letter she had ever written. Matilda was clearly an extraordinary woman, gifted with beauty, presence, and an astonishing power over men. Over Brien, yes, but not only him. Over most men of consequence. The air was full of stories of Matilda-and-this-one, Matilda-and-that-one. They were not always stories of love, but they invariably told of her power, of the spell with which she bound her admirers.
So jealousy combined with awe, and possessiveness with an appeal for help. Alyse dared not make demands of Matilda, yet neither could she bring herself to plead. If the empress loved Brien as much as he believed, she would surely send men and money and materials. If not, it would confirm Alyse’s suspicions; there was no tide of affection, merely a one-way current, flowing from Wallingford-on-the-Thames to Anjou.
She smoothed the dark hair from her face, dipped the quill pen in the small pot of squids’ ink, and wrote:
‘To the Empress Matilda, Countess of Anjou, from Alyse, Lady of Wallingford, greetings.
‘You will have heard from your brother, Earl Robert of Gloucester, how, last year, Brien Fitz Count and several others loyal to your cause, armed their castles against King Stephen. At Earl Robert’s command, these nobles feigned a reconciliation with the king, and thus avoided a too-early conflict. Now, however, with the approach of winter, we hear of the ambush that was laid for your brother in Normandy, and once more take up arms on your behalf.’
Alyse was about to start the next line with the words ‘Lord Brien’, but changed her mind at the last instant and, with a slight smile of satisfaction, penned,
The Villains of the Piece Page 8
