The Villains of the Piece

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

  ‘My husband spent all he possessed on the last long defence, yet is now required to repeat his former actions. He will not approach you for help, claiming that you are as short of money as we. I cannot believe this is so, but rather that his pride will not allow him to seek help from the woman he so much admires.’

  That last phrase made her tremble, and it was a while before she could continue. It was true, of course – he did so much admire her – but it was not an easy thing for a wife to admit. However, it had to be said. The natural jealousy had to be smothered, at least until the letter was sent. Dipping the quill each time she completed a word, she continued,

  ‘You are, Empress, well aware of the strategic importance of Wallingford, and of the necessity of its survival. If it falls, King Stephen will dominate much of the Thames and control the eastern gateway to London. It would be a sad loss for both you and me if Brien Fitz Count was forced to abdicate from his position as your foremost supporter. Whatever help you can send will double in value under his leadership.’

  With cold fabrication, Alyse ended,

  ‘I pray that you and your husband, Count Geoffrey of Anjou, may meet with success in Normandy, as I am convinced you pray for your champion, Lord Fitz Count, and his lady.’

  She sat back, and let the letter dry before reading it. She thought it at the same time too formal and too flowery, but she accepted that she would never be satisfied. She was Brien’s wife, and she loved him, and for his sake she had communicated with the creature who haunted them both. She could do no more.

  Alone in the solar, she put her hands to her face and wept quietly, so terrified was she of the soon-to-be-seen Matilda.

  * * *

  Constable Varan set about the problem in his own way…

  The gentleman rider sat well back in his saddle, one arm dangling at his side, the other resting nonchalantly over the red leather pommel. He hummed as he rode, while his eyes darted eagerly from side to side, watching for peasants. He was an innocent young man, one of many who now inhabited King Stephen’s court, and he was anxious to test his appearance on anyone he passed. He hoped he exuded the correct air of gentility; God knew, he had worked hard enough to perfect it. He reminded himself to smile in the abstracted manner of poets, and to practise the toss of the head that would set the peacock feather rippling along his birdsbill hat. From time to time he turned his head sharply to the side, and his long, Saxon-style hair swung around his shoulders.

  … And remember to slap the gauntlets against your thigh… lift the head… twitch… turn… keep the back erect… hum as you smile… that’s it, that’s the way… you are the noble son of a noble family… you bear fashion on your back…

  Since King Stephen had come to tire throne, court fashions had undergone a dramatic change. The young Normans no longer shaved their hair from the nape of the neck to the crown, but let it grow to their shoulders, then curled it with heated tongs. Shoes were drawn to a point, the toes stuffed with wool, then turned back into a scorpion’s tail. Robes had been lengthened until they dragged on the ground, while some of the more modish courtiers effected a pigeon-toed walk, or mimicked the mincing carriage of their high-born ladies. It was the thing to seem effeminate and wear a slightly dazed expression.

  Such excesses appalled the clergy, and they demanded to know where it would end. A few amused observers told them it would end when the young people became bored with it. Then it would probably be hair cropped to the skull, and lasciviously short tunics, and wooden shoes painted scarlet, and a revival of dice games that went on for a week. And when those fashions were exhausted, it would be something else, equally scandalous, equally harmless. But the clergy were not convinced, and continued to speak out against the degenerate nobles. Sodom and Gomorrah, they rumbled; plagues and pillars of salt.

  Meanwhile, the young rider ran a hand along the bill of his pointed hat, and prepared for his entry into Dorchester. He had seen no one in the past hour, and he rather regretted having taken this quiet back road. On the other hand, it had allowed him to practise his twitch and turn.

  His eyes ached from the constant sideways movement, so he gazed directly ahead, anticipating the gasps of wonderment that would greet his appearance in town. In this way, he did not see the figure rise from the roadside ditch and pad along behind him.

  But he heard the dried-out voice growl, ‘Far enough for today, master,’ and turned to see a massive, black-cloaked apparition, its face concealed by a crude black hood. The hood contained eye-holes fringed with frayed straw, and a third hole, midway between the nose and mouth. The man, if it was a man, for it could well have been a demon, held a coil of rope in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. The young rider gaped at the monster, then gulped unfashionably.

  ‘Down you get.’

  Of course it wasn’t a demon. Could demons speak? Yes. Yes, they could. They knew all the languages of the world. It was a demon. Oh, dear God, it’s punishment for my vanity. God forgive me, I was only following the fashions.

  ‘I’ll sell them,’ he blurted. ‘I’ll sell everything.’

  ‘No. I’ll sell them. Get down.’

  He dismounted, nodded as the monster motioned with its knife, then unbuckled his sword-belt. The monster growled, ‘What’s your name, master?’ and was told, ‘Gilbert de Renton. I never killed a man in all my life. I’ve cheated at chess, I admit it, the other player was too wined to know what was happening, but I’m not— Why do you ask my name? Don’t you know it?’

  ‘I do now.’

  Gilbert de Renton realised he had been had for a fool. Whatever the hood concealed, it was not the pig’s snout and bat’s ears of a demon, for demons knew everybody. They did not have to ask.

  He drew himself erect, straightened his birdsbill and treated the monster to a toss of the head. The feathers rippled and the long hair swung. ‘You no longer terrify me,’ he said. ‘You are nothing more than a brigand. What do you want, brigand, my horse, my clothes? Take them. I’ll buy more.’

  The monster nodded. ‘No doubt. But first, your father will have to buy you. By the way, are you loyal to King Stephen?’

  ‘I shall not deign to answer that. Even through your badly made eyelets you can see I bear the imprint of the court.’

  ‘So I can, so I can. Right, place your hands behind you. And don’t thwart me, beauty, or I’ll cut you like pork.’ He uncoiled the rope, waited for Gilbert to fold his gauntlets and tuck them neatly in his saddlebag, then tied his hands and directed them towards a narrow forest path. ‘You should have had an escort,’ he said, ‘a beauty like you.’

  Silently, Gilbert agreed with him. But how could a gentleman make the best impression, when he was hemmed in by a dozen sweaty riders?

  They went on into the forest, Gilbert leading the way, the monster following with the caparisoned palfrey. The monster thought, £25 for the horse … £10 for the clothes and trappings… check the sword for a jewelled hilt… and for young Gilbert, £300? No, the de Rentons are a wealthy lot, we’ll make it £400, and forget the belongings… Christ, Edgiva will murder me if she discovers I’ve cut up one of her market bags…

  * * *

  The maidservant set about the problem in her own way…

  She arrived late for her regular riverside assignation with her sergeant-lover, allowed him to fondle her for a while, then twisted from his grasp and told him, ‘No, it’s my turn to ask a favour.’

  ‘Anything,’ he grunted, ‘you know I’d do anything for you. Come here now, you wouldn’t want to exhaust me before—’ He lunged at her, his expression playful, his hands in earnest. Edgiva side-stepped, then repeated, ‘No. First the favour. Then we’ll see who tires.’ She walked to the riverbank and stood beneath one of the alder trees that screened their activities from the castle. The sergeant ducked under the low branches, sure that she was only enticing him into a more secluded spot. He moved beside her under the canopy, then grinned wolfiishly as she picked up a heavy branch stump. So that was it
; disarm me; the game was on. Very well, anything to excite her, though it was not often she sought such stimulus.

  He stepped forward, the would-be ravisher, and she said, ‘I warned you,’ and clouted him with the branch. A trickle of blood appeared below his ear. He gaped at her, felt shock give way to anger, then heard her snap, ‘Don’t press me. I’m not in the mood.’ She hefted the branch in one hand, and with the other pointed at the ground. ‘Sit down, Morcar. I’ll stay on top for once. Here, hold this to your head.’ She produced a clean rag from her sleeve, and the sergeant dabbed irritably at the wound, then threw aside the rag. All he could think of to say was, ‘No girl ever beat me off before. Or wanted to.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Edgiva said gently, ‘but how else could I make you listen?’ She needed him, not only in the grass, but in an official capacity, and decided to pour balm on his wounded pride. ‘I know you,’ she went on. ‘When you are fired with passion nothing can stop you.’

  ‘Short of being bludgeoned.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Her awareness of his irresistible ardour mollified him enough to ask, ‘Well, what is this favour, for which I have to be knocked flat?’

  She studied him for a moment, satisfied herself that he was not badly hurt, then answered his question with one of her own.

  ‘Have you heard of Hercules?’

  ‘No, what is it?’

  ‘He was a warrior. Lady Alyse made me read a poem about him. My reading is coming on— well, never mind. He lived in Greece.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Somewhere between Italy and the Holy Land, I think; it doesn’t matter. But reading about him gave me an idea.’

  ‘To club me with a tree branch?’

  ‘No, to discover the depth of your love for me.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Why such surprise? That’s not very gallant. You do love me, don’t you, Morcar?’

  ‘I hadn’t given it— Yes, of course. Why else would I be here?’

  ‘Not just because you lust for me?’

  ‘Lust, love— Nonsense.’ Love, he thought? What next? Marriage? He wiped, sweat from his face and smiled wanly at the maidservant. ‘Hercules,’ he mouthed, ‘what of him?’

  Edgiva looked down at him and shook her head. She told herself, his thoughts are like a fish in a pool, there for all the world to see. He has no more love for me than for any girl he can straddle. But at least he has been faithful in his mounting. Perhaps they are the same; perhaps I should have said I’ll test the keenness of his lust.

  ‘Hercules,’ she explained, ‘he was set twelve labours, by some king or other. I don’t know what his reward was, but each time you fulfil a task we’ll be able to come here and, well, enjoy each other.’

  ‘You mean, before we tumble any more, I have to—’

  ‘Yes, sweet.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do, climb the wall of the keep, wrestle a bear, learn the lute, what?’

  ‘Nothing so difficult,’ she encouraged. ‘Just visit each of Lord Fitz Count’s vassal knights, or anyway their sergeants, and convince them to support Wallingford when the time comes.’

  ‘All fourteen of them?’

  ‘There are fourteen knights, yes, but we must also have their men and weapons. All the sergeants know you, Morcar. They respect you. They’ll listen.’ She sent the branch spinning into the river and sank down beside him. ‘It’s a quest,’ she murmured, one hand climbing his thigh. ‘And remember, the Greek gave up after twelve.’

  * * *

  The de Rentons had no choice but to pay. Young Gilbert was an idiot. He looked idiotic in his fashionable garb, and he sounded idiotic when he spoke with his affected lisp, or his high-pitched chirrup, or whatever was the week’s favourite. But he was still Gilbert de Renton and, although the family could scarcely afford to keep him, they could not afford to lose him. People would talk. They would think it odd that the wealthy de Rentons had refused to ransom their only son.

  So they delivered the sacks of coin to the appointed place, and in time the hooded Varan collected them, then released the young noble from his forest hideout.

  ‘Go on, beauty, back to court. And next time, spend less on feathered hats and more on guards.’

  ‘If you were a man,’ Gilbert reared, ‘you’d remove that hood and show yourself.’

  ‘Be glad I don’t,’ Varan growled, ‘or I’d have to poke out your bright blue eyes.’

  After that, Gilbert issued no more challenges, but worked on the story he would tell his family. By the time he had reached Westminster, he had been set upon by a twenty-strong band of brigands, and the remarkable thing was that, although he had lolled three of them in the ensuing fight, none of his captors had managed to inflict a single scratch.

  His family listened to the fable and chewed their tongues, or coughed, or gazed out of the window. There was so much they wanted to tell pretty Gilbert, even through clenched teeth.

  * * *

  The weeks passed, and the year drained away. In November, five knights pledged themselves to Brien Fitz Count, and Edgiva and Morcar paid the same number of visits to the river. In December, Constable Varan told his master that someone, some unseen well-wisher, had left a sack of money at the gate. He’d had it counted, and it came to exactly £400, enough to finance a lengthy siege. With it was an unsigned note that read, ‘For the future of Wallingford, and the safety of England.’ In that same month, six more knights promised themselves and their men, and Alyse warned her maidservant that she’d catch her death of cold if she haunted the damp riverbank.

  There was no word from Matilda, although the messenger had delivered the letter into the hands of one of the senior Angevin captains.

  The dawn of 1138, and Stephen had been king for three years…

  In early February he hurried north at the head of a large army to forestall another Scottish invasion. Speed was essential, for there was talk of union between the Scots and the disaffected magnate, Ranulf of Chester. But the punitive expedition was bogged down, its ranks riddled with turncoats. By April, the Scots were established south of the border, and England was swept by the long-awaited rumour – Robert of Gloucester was about to declare for Matilda.

  In Wallingford and fifty similar strongholds, final preparations were made. It was learned who would stay with Stephen, who would side with Matilda. Heads swung between the Scottish border and Anjou. Ears were stretched in anticipation of the news. When, Robert, when?

  The answer came in May. The Earl of Gloucester gave over his continental territories of Caen and Bayeux to his sister, and announced his formal diffidatio. He would no longer serve King Stephen, but would lead Matilda’s forces across the Channel, invade England and reclaim the throne for his sister. Those who supported her should now declare themselves.

  It was as though a tarred rope had been thrown across England, and one end set alight. Bristol, Canterbury and Dover declared for the Angevins. Then Shrewsbury and Hereford, Dorchester and Wallingford, Wareham and Dunster, Corfe and Castle Cary, these and a dozen more. Salisbury wavered, as did Cirencester and Trowbridge. Abergavenny and Cardiff went over, along with Gloucester, Stafford and Worcester. A pattern emerged. Cut the country down the middle, and the majority of castles and townships to the east proclaimed for Stephen, those to the west for Matilda. England had her civil war.

  Chapter Six

  Wrath of Bishops

  August 1138 – September 1139

  For some weeks now the king had suffered recurrent nightmares and had woken, flailing the bedclothes. His wife did what she could do to calm him, and tried to discover the nature of his dreams. But the terror that had stalked his sleep, and the shock of waking, had rendered Stephen inarticulate, and by the morning they had both forgotten his garbled explanations.

  The royal pair took to sleeping within a square of angled torches, and this lessened the shock sufficiently for him to bring his nightmares into the light.

  It s a conspiracy,’ he mumbled.
‘Those who are closest to me are those who will strike me down.’

  His queen, who bore the same name and year of birth as the empress, was a pale, delicate-looking woman, whose appearance totally belied her character. She lacked Stephen’s spontaneity and casual manner, and substituted a clear, logical mind and a remarkable firmness of purpose. Her husband was as fine a lover as any decent woman should want, but his excesses had to be curbed, in bed and out. He was not given to introspection, nor to questioning the motives that drove him to do this and that, and so he remained unaware that it was he who cried start and his queen who counselled stop.

  The flaring torches had been her idea. She wanted to expunge his nightmares, but also to reveal their contents. Why should the king scream and thresh? Who were these deadly intimates with whom he struggled? He would never know, for he would never trouble to have the torches lit at bedtime.

  He came awake on that warm, mid-summer night, his face bathed in sweat, his thin arms weaving across his face. He saw the lights, and his arms dropped heavy as lead on the thin coverlet.

  The queen laid her hands over his and asked, ‘Who is it? Who are you fighting?’

  ‘Must be mistaken,’ he droned. ‘My brother broke a bauble from the crown …’ Then, more awake, ‘My brother? Henry? But I am not suspicious of him… He doesn’t need to pick the jewels…’

  ‘Sit up. Can you feel my hands? That’s better. Now, tell me again, how did Henry attack you?’

  Stephen yawned and rested his head against the plaster wall. ‘I don’t know… I dreamt that they were…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry… It’s gone… We were in a church, a cathedral, I’m not sure…”

  ‘Did he go for your person? Did he bear a weapon?’

  ‘God, no! He loomed over me, they all did, clawing at my crown. They were trying to wrench the rubies from it… He broke one of the points, Henry…’