The boy pointed at one of the larger taverns. ‘There’s the bishops,’ he said. ‘They’ve prob’ly been at court today.’ ‘Which bishops?’
‘’ow do I know? I was watchin’ your property.’
Ernard gave him the half-penny. The boy flapped a hand in salute and hurried off, sneering to himself. Some trader, givin’ out money like it was old pebbles; ’e wouldn’t get far in business.
The boy might have been right, had Ernard been what he appeared. But he was, in fact, a member of the garrison of Wallingford Castle, the same young soldier who, three years ago, had met the disguised Robert of Gloucester and conducted him to Lord Fitz Count. He had not forgotten the incident and, when his overlord had ordered him to travel the twenty miles to Oxford and learn what he could about the Great Council that had been convened there by King Stephen, Ernard had decided to copy Earl Robert’s disguise.
He had spent the day near the palace, where he had chatted with the guards, and sweet-talked one of the kitchen maids. The Council had met in the morning so, by late afternoon, Ernard had collected a valuable amount of information. Enough, he believed, to merit a mug of mead.
So it was that, on the evening of 24th June, the young soldier-cum-merchant witnessed one of the most extraordinary incidents of Stephen’s reign. He did not know that the action had been carefully planned, nor that it had been masterminded by Stephen’s queen. Nor could he do more than guess at the results. But he saw what happened, and was profoundly shocked by it.
He patted his horse, crossed the riverside path and entered the tavern. It was dark in there, and for a moment he thought the boy had misled him. Then, as he made his way towards the back, he heard raucous laughter and saw that the rearmost tables were occupied by the bishops and armed escorts of Salisbury, Lincoln and Ely, and by Roger of Salisbury’s son, Roger the Poor, Chancellor of England.
Ernard hesitated, moved backward, then settled himself in an alcove near the door. He had never seen such an assembly of clerical power, and he shifted with discomfort.
He came to his feet again, and collided with a serving-girl who snapped, ‘If you lack the leg room, go and sit at one of the tables. Or have you mastered your thirst?’
‘No, I— I’m content enough here.’ She was a very pretty girl, but she spoiled herself when she scowled. He lowered himself on to the seat, and said, ‘You have some distinguished guests tonight, mistress, uh—’
‘So we do. What do you want?’
Oh, just a mug of mead, and the chance to talk with a beautiful woman.’
‘Then you’re only half-way home,’ she told him unkindly, unless you’re waiting for her.’ She left him crouched in the alcove, eyeing the air above the far tables.
The mead came, and again he tried to discover the girl’s name, and again he failed. He peered along the candle-lit room, watching the corpulent Roger of Salisbury, hearing him describe the faults in the tavern wine. Alexander of Lincoln nodded at everything his uncle said, whilst Nigel of Ely sipped the wine, then spat it over the floor.
‘That’s the way,’ Roger boomed, waving his hands so that his bejewelled fingers sparkled in the light. ‘Sip and spit, or sip and swallow; the first for a dip, the last for a wallow. Any man who knows his wine will tell you that. Fill my glass. This tavern stuff is only fit for drinking.’
The girl came by, and Ernard held out his mug. ‘When you are free, mistress, uh—’
Since she had first served him, she had taken time to think. He was a handsome enough young man, though his rough merchant s garb did nothing to enhance him. But with the bishops and their knights dominating the far end of the room, the mead-drinker was the only one worth talking to. The others in the front part of the tavern were all old, or ugly, or infirm. So why not give him her name? It would pass the time.
She stopped and said, ‘Your speech is very halting, master, uh—’
‘Ernard,’ he volunteered. ‘It’s because you leave me hanging from the rim of the world. If I knew your name I could use it as a thread, and climb back on to level ground.’
‘Well, it’s Eadgyth, so you’re saved. You want more mead?’ She pronounced her name Edith, and her yellow hair proclaimed her a Saxon.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and the pleasure of your company. Come on, there’s no one else to serve. Bring something for yourself, and I’ll tell you my true identity.’
She raised her eyes to the roof. ‘You are really a prince, is that it? Your true place is along there, with the bishops. You dress this way because some evil enemy has stolen your inheritance, and you drink mead—’
‘Because I like it. You fetch the mugs, mistress Eadgyth, and then you can judge my story.’ He grinned at her, and watched her walk over to the barrels. He was still grinning when the armed men entered the tavern, shouldered her against the wall and strode towards the rear tables. Ernard’s head swung as though jerked by the ears. He came to his feet, intent on helping the fallen girl. One of the intruders said, ‘Keep out of it,’ and he felt a massive blow on the chest. He sprawled back, slamming his head against the upright of the alcove. Eadgyth crawled along the wall and they crouched together, blinking at the ill-lit scene.
At the far end of the tavern, members of the bishops’ households clambered to their feet. Somebody shouted, ‘How dare you profane the peace?’ and then there was the recognisable clash of weapons, the unmistakable howl of the wounded. Christ on earth, Ernard gaped, they’re murdering the church!
The fight spilled past them and the tavern doors were wrenched open, splitting at the hinges. Men rolled on the ground, or stabbed wildly, whilst those who had the breath roared threat and defiance. A knight staggered sideways before the crouched pair, his throat open to the world. He blundered into the rack of barrels, grabbed at them and went down, bringing the casks on top of him. Eadgyth screamed into Ernard’s chest, and he held her tight, if only for something to hold.
Inside the tavern and beyond the battle raged. Roger of Salisbury was pinioned by the arms and hustled out, as though he weighed no more than a child. Alexander of Lincoln was thrown down and a foot pressed against his neck. Somebody hurled a bench and it splintered against the alcove and fell, catching Ernard on the forehead. In total disbelief he sat, couching Eadgyth, blood running into his eye. It was time to leave.
He hissed, ‘Can we get out by the back?’ Then, when he received no answer, he grabbed the girl by the hair and pulled her face level with his. ‘Can we leave by the back?’
She mouthed a yes, and they swayed to their feet and ran past the tables. Men lay beneath upturned benches, and there was blood on the walls. Somebody roared, ‘Those two! Get after them!’ and Ernard pushed the girl through the rear door and out into an alley. He followed her out, dragging a bench with him. Then he slammed the door, jammed one end of the bench against the heavy wooden latch, and gasped, ‘There! That way! Get going!’
They ran along the alley, turned right, away from the river, and zig-zagged through the darkened streets. They reached a deserted market-place, lit by a waxing moon, and sank down in the deep shadow of a horse-trough. The mead fomented in Ernard’s stomach, and he turned aside, retching over the cobbles. When he had finished he raised a cautious hand, scooped water from the trough and splashed it on his face. The girl shuddered with fear: ‘What was it about?’, but Ernard could do no more than roll his head from side to side. Where were the angels, he wondered, the hosts of seraphim? How could they, who were all-powerful, have allowed God’s senior servants to be so abused? He sighed, smothering the noise with his hand, then peered round the end of the trough. The market-place was still deserted, save for a dog that trotted across the cobblestones.
He asked Eadgyth, ‘Have you caught your breath?’
‘Enough for walking.’
‘Good. Where do you live?’
‘Above the tavern. The owner and his wife, and two of us, two girls.’
‘Well, you can’t go back there. Those men were also after us, remember. I suppo
se because we saw what happened.’ He told her who he was, and where he came from. He did not reveal why he had spent the day in Oxford, but asked her if she wanted to travel back with him. She nodded quickly. ‘I’ve only been in this town a month or so. I was in another tavern before, but the owner there— well, it doesn’t matter. But there’s no one I could go to here. Are you really one of Lord Fitz Count’s men? I saw him once. He has grey hair, doesn’t he? He was with his lady. Alyse, is it? If I was wealthy, I’d dress like that. She’s a beautiful woman, Lady Alyse.’
Ernard snorted. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘That she is beautiful?’
‘No. That their coffers bulge with coins?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of course,’ he echoed bitterly, ‘the way all knights are honourable, and all priests pious. Come on, let’s find the cart.’
* * *
Whatever personal satisfaction the soldier and serving-girl might have derived from their meeting, the seizure of the bishops was to have the gravest repercussions within the kingdom. Stephen’s party regarded it as a signal victory, for in Roger of Salisbury they had captured the most powerful churchman in England. His lands were even more extensive than those of Bishop Henry, and he was responsible for the construction of castles at Salisbury, Malmesbury, Sherbourne and Devizes. His nephew, Alexander, who had had his neck trodden on in the tavern, had commissioned similar strongholds at Lincoln, Newark and Sleaford, whilst Roger the Poor – so-called because he, alone among the family, possessed no bishopric – held the influential post of Chancellor. Had held, for with his arrest he was dishonoured.
The results of the swoop had been less than perfect, for Nigel, Bishop of Ely, had escaped across the river and was now besieged in his uncle’s fortress at Devizes. Nevertheless, king and queen were delighted. The cause of Stephen’s nightmares had been removed. His brother had been denied the see of Canterbury, and they had netted three of the Salisbury fish. Within the space of six months, the monarchs had crushed all clerical opposition to the crown, and done so before the Church had had the chance to strike. Now, with the capture of Devizes a foregone conclusion, the victory was complete.
The rival faction saw it differently. They regarded the arrest of the bishops as an act of sacrilege and the final release from fealty to the crown. Bishop Henry’s visit to the Pope had been grossly misinterpreted, and the bishops of Salisbury, Lincoln and Ely had neither spoken nor behaved in a treasonable manner. The disaffected barons remembered the lines of the: ‘Before the sword is drawn, he cuts… After he speaks, he thinks…’ How well they applied to the impetuous Stephen. How easily they could be adapted to suit Queen Matilda, architect of the tavern brawl.
They sent news of the arrests to the Angevins. Make your move, they pleaded, for never was the iron so hot. Strike now, while half the doors of England are bolted against the king. For the love of God and England, mount your invasion!
* * *
On 18th September, Brien Fitz Count received a letter from the Empress Matilda. It was no longer than the one the disguised Robert of Gloucester had delivered in the spring of 1136. But it did not need to be, for it said,
‘Everything is now ready. As I told you long ago, the sails are run up, and we wait only for the tide. Well, Greylock, the tide is with us at last, and we are on our way. I am advised that we shall arrive in England near the end of the month. If you choose to meet us, we shall be heartened beyond measure. I know this letter will reach you safely, for I know you have not allowed my accursed cousin to come within arrow-shot of your walls. Until soon, dearest Greylock.’
He showed the letter to Alyse, then embraced her and swung her off her feet. He was surprised when she snapped, ‘Let me down! Why should you be the only one? Has it always been her policy to ask, but never answer?’
He deposited her gently, then moved back to inquire, ‘What is this? Why can’t you share the pleasure of half England? And what do you mean, me, the only one? She will have written to fifty others.’
‘Maybe,’ Alyse grated, ‘but she’s a poor respondant. I wrote to her a year and a half ago.’
‘You did? For what purpose?’
‘To ask for help,’ Alyse said coldly. ‘And to learn which of you was the giver and which the taker.’ She held up Matilda’s letter, then let it twist and tumble to the floor. ‘She sent no answer, until now. But by this I know which is which.’
Brien put out a hand, but his wife brushed it away and hurried from the solar. He stared after her, puzzled by her attitude. Then he picked up the letter and re-read it, and his frown cleared and became a smile of remembrance. Alyse was being too silly for reason. Matilda was coming!
* * *
On 30th September, 1139, Empress Matilda, accompanied by Earl Robert of Gloucester and one hundred and forty knights, landed at the Sussex port of Arundel, which in those days was open to sea-going ships. Legitimate sister and bastard brother knelt together on the bank of the estuary and kissed the mud. Then they rose, hand in hand, and smiled at each other. ‘Well,’ Robert said, ‘you have embraced your kingdom.’ Their knights milled around them, calming their horses or vomiting with sea-sickness. It was difficult to envisage the landing for what it was – the first invasion of England since the Norman Conquest.
Chapter Seven
Cousin Matilda
September-December 1139
She looked along the estuary, then shielded her eyes and gazed up at the castle. ‘They are not flying the flag,’ she said. ‘Why is that?’
Her brother studied the towers and ramparts of Arundel. There was no sign of the Angevin banner, and he searched hastily for an explanation. ‘It would have been too risky,’ he told her. ‘They did not know on what day we would arrive, and it would have been foolhardy to announce our landing. If one of Stephen’s men had seen it—’
He heard the well-known tetch of irritation.
She said, ‘They could have waited until we entered the river. It would have been safe to hoist it then.’ She moved to the sunbaked ground above the waterline. Robert shrugged and started after her, noting that most of the mounted knights were already in position at the foot of the cliff path. If Stephen had learned the time and place of Matilda’s arrival, the horsemen would fight a rearguard action, whilst Robert hurried her back aboard ship. But no archers appeared on the cliff-top, and there were no sudden shouts of alarm. The water lapped peacefully against the mud-banks, and the warm air was filled with the drone of insects. The only jarring sound had been the click of Matilda’s tongue.
They walked up the path, the long-jawed Earl of Gloucester following in his sister’s footsteps. She held herself erect, her arms at her sides, her elbows pressed tight against her waist. In height, Robert dominated most of the Norman aristocracy, yet he had out-grown his sister by less than a handsbreadth. She was not the tallest woman in England, for there were always freaks and the monstrous, nine-foot-high creatures of the Scottish islands, but there was no ennobled lady who could look her levelly in the eye. Throughout her life, she had made the most of this natural advantage, marrying it to a caustic wit and a viperous temper. Both issued from a wide mouth, a mouth, one might think, that was better made for love.
It would have been enough for her Creator to mould the tall, elegant body and generous lips, and judge her well-endowed. But He had further fashioned dark, deep-set eyes, a straight nose and a pale skin that remained immune to all sores and blemishes. By then He may have accepted His own challenge and worked to perfect His creation. Whatever His reasons, He had allowed her russet hair, long, slender fingers and a faultless grace of carriage. In appearance, she was incomparable, a constant rule against which other women measured themselves, and fell short.
Why, then, Robert wondered, had her maker equipped her with the mind of a wildcat, and the tongue of a snake?
They reached the cliff-top, where they were welcomed and received into the castle by its chatelaine, the dowager Queen Adeliza, widow of King Henry,
and now Countess of Sussex. Adeliza had been Henry’s second wife, but had failed to bear him any children. As a result, she had lavished her affections upon Matilda, demanding nothing in return. It was as well that she was selfless, for the empress thought her stepmother fussy and sentimental. Adeliza had allowed Henry to treat her as little more than a furrow for his seed and, when it became clear that she would never conceive, he dismissed her from his mind. He had been a hard man, Henry the fish eater, but equally, Adeliza had been weak and malleable.
She had loved him, that was her undoing, for he had not loved her, and had never been heard to speak the word. Love, she seemed to think, was like the sewn bladder of a pig, which could be tossed from hand to hand, or thrown against a wall, from which it would rebound, bringing with it shards of stone and mortar. But Henry had been reluctant to part with even these fragments of affection. She was his wife for a purpose and, since she had failed to give him a son, she had failed to earn her title. Pronounced barren, she became an embarrassment to the man who had sired nineteen bastards…
But Henry was long-since dead, the victim of fish stew, and Adeliza had married again and was overjoyed to stand beside her husband and greet the fair Matilda.
‘Well, well, so you are here at last. It’s hard to believe. Life has favoured you, daughter, I can see that. As each year passes, it leaves you more beautiful, I know you will not mind my remarking on it. And now you are at home with us. Come, I urge you to greet my husband, William d’Aubigny, Lord of Arundel. Earl Robert we know from previous visits. Ah, yes, yes, it is a blessed day for England.’
She went on in that vein until Matilda said, ‘Whatever pride you feel should be declared, Lady Adeliza. Or shall I send to the ship for one of my banners?’
The Villains of the Piece Page 11
