‘In the face, yes. I meant, his hair might go grey.’
Alyse opened her mouth, then closed it. Her question was not yet well enough rehearsed, nor had she dredged up sufficient courage to ask it. In the silence that followed, Edgiva poured wine for the guests, then retired to her place by the door. Alyse drank, replaced the glass and murmured, ‘How old is he now, your son?’
‘Seven years and a few months.’ She waited, perhaps in innocence, perhaps with the blade poised to strike. Then she said, ‘He’s a March child. It’s said the happiest ones are born in the spring.’ She held her glass, and smiled over the rim.
Seven years and a few months… A March child… So, in March of 1133… And Brien had last seen her in the summer of the previous year… But not in June, surely not in—
Yes, in May and June. He had been with her then, in May and June, and the child’s hair might turn prematurely grey, and she could sit there like one of Bishop Henry’s diamond-headed snakes, her lips stretched above the cut-glass goblet, oh, my God, my dear merciful God…
‘I am ill,’ she said, ‘forgive me. Go on with your— Edgiva, see me upstairs. I think I shall—’ She came out of, the box chair, lurched against the table, then spun round, snatching at the high, carved chair rim. Brien and Otto came to their feet, and Edgiva ran forward to catch her mistress.
Matilda said, ‘I always travel with a physician. He is at your disposal. Get him, de Rochese.’ All the time she spoke, her eyes were on Brien.
* * *
In the following month, King Stephen came into open conflict with one of his most powerful magnates, the embittered Ranulf of Chester. Ranulf, known as de Gernons, the Moustache, was still incensed with the king over the matter of the Carlisle inheritance. More than four years had passed since Stephen had bestowed Ranulf’s patrimony on King David of Scotland, but if Stephen had long forgotten the incident, the fiery Earl of Chester had not. Four years, or fourteen, or forty; they were but a click of the fingers to the indignant northern baron. No matter that he ruled the vast county of Chester, nor that he possessed fiefdoms in more than twenty English shires. Carlisle had belonged to his father, and by rights it should now belong to him, and he intended to get it back.
He laid his plans with care, and then, in the third week of August rode eastward across the waist of England. He was accompanied by his wife, his half-brother, William of Roumare, William’s wife and a strong contingent of knights. The group travelled to within half a mile of the royal castle at Lincoln, then turned aside into a deserted stone quarry. While the knights relaxed and ate a cold meat and bread meal – smoke from a cooking-pit might disclose their hideout – Ranulf conferred with his local spies. They told him what he wanted to know; the castellan of Lincoln and his senior knights had left the castle an hour earlier, bent on their usual Thursday boar hunt. They would be away until dusk, perhaps until full dark.
Ranulf leaned on the hilt of his sword, watched their eyes to see if they were lying, then asked, ‘How many are left inside?’
‘We cannot be sure,’ they told him, ‘but our estimate lies between thirty and forty.’
‘And the gates are shut tight?’
‘As ever, sire. There is even a password, though it changes from day to day, and we’ve been unable to—’
‘That’s of no concern; we won’t need it.’ Careful to the last, he paid the men, then told his knights to bind them hand and foot. The spies submitted quietly, aware that they would be held in the quarry until the job was finished. They thought it an unnecessary precaution, for they would rather have crossed the devil himself than Ranulf the Moustache, but they admired his thoroughness.
That done, he discussed the situation with brother William, and they went over to apprise their wives. Two fresh palfreys were made ready, and the women mounted and rode out of the quarry and back on to the Lincoln road.
The chatelaine was more than usually pleased to see them, for Thursdays were always empty, with the men away. They had met before, on occasion, and they spent the afternoon in gossip-fed conversation. The visitors explained that their husbands would be along later to collect them.
An hour before dusk, Ranulf and three of his knights unbuckled their sword belts, withdrew their boot knives and main-gauche daggers, and handed them to William. Then they, too, mounted up and followed the road to Lincoln.
The gate-guards watched the four men approach, recognised the red moustache and assumed that one of the other three was William of Roumare. They were relieved to see that the riders were unarmed, for it would save embarrassment. The Lord of Lincoln had insisted that no armed stranger be allowed into the castle, but he had never had to voice such a command to Ranulf of Chester. The drawbridge was lowered and the gates swung inward, and the guards were in the act of saluting their noble visitors when Ranulf snarled, ‘Now! Get to it!’ and the riders hurled themselves from the saddle.
Before shock had turned to reason, the skirmish was over. The guards were slammed back against the gatehouse walls, their throats pricked with their own weapons. A spear shaft was jammed into the winding mechanism of the drawbridge. The gates were bolted in the open position. One of Ranulf’s knights dashed out into the entranceway, waved his arms in silent exhortation, then ran back into the bailey, followed by William and the invading force. They spread out across the yard, swarmed up the watchtower steps, infiltrated the chambers and passageways. Within moments they had achieved the most audacious victory of the war. The bridge was raised, the gates shut and barred, the arrow-loops manned. The banner of Lincoln was hauled down and that of Chester run up in its place. The castle was taken and, in the solar, the unwitting chatelaine laughed at an item of scandal, amusingly presented by the Lady of Roumare…
* * *
It was not only the matter, but the manner of it, that enraged the king. It was bad enough that Earl Ranulf and his scabrous brother had turned against their monarch and seized a reputedly impregnable fortress, but to have done it in so brazen a manner reduced the Lord of Lincoln and, by association, Stephen, to a laughing-stock. With members of the nobility changing sides every day, it was becoming impossible to keep the lists up to date. Tomorrow, some other ambitious baron might knock at a royalist door and, if admitted, expel the occupants. God’s teeth, it might be London itself next time!
Stephen determined to recapture the castle and make an example of the traitors. If he hanged them high and left them long, their rotting bodies might act as a deterrent to other would-be turncoats. There was something innately sobering in the sight of a hanged man, turning in the wind.
He brought his army north through the first snows of winter, and the white fields around Lincoln were soon churned into a morass by men and mounts and a bewildering variety of siege machines. There had always been an element of the experimental in siege warfare, and the terrain afforded the king the opportunity to try out some of the latest weapons. Along with the trebuchet – a massive sling, capable of launching a halfhundredweight rock – and the similar petrary and French-developed perrier, there were the rams and assault towers, the ballistas and springals – both forms of giant crossbow – and the straightforward mangonels and catapults. The missiles ranged from polished rocks that splintered on impact, to bales of burning, pitch-soaked straw, and the carcases of germ-ridden cattle. Metal bolts were loosed, and stone chips, and barrels of quicklime. If a man could not be transfixed, he could be torn by the shards of granite, or burned by the caustic powder.
And there were the new inventions; clay tubes that fragmented when they hit, releasing a cloud of iron darts; grappling hooks that, in flight, towed long leather ladders; four-pointed spikes, so designed that, wherever they landed, they formed a tripod, with the remaining spike erect.
This, at any rate, was the theory. In practice, the clay tubes often broke the instant they were launched, spraying the darts over the engineers. The ladders tended to twist in the air, while, nine times out of ten, the hooks failed to grapple the battlements. The sp
ikes, called caltraps, were more effective, but if they fell short, they littered the ground beneath the walls, or whirled back at the attackers.
Apart from the freedom to manceuvre, an advantage denied to Ranulf and William, one other important factor favoured the king. The citizens of Lincoln had remained loyal, and welcomed the advent of the royal army. Ranulf had expected otherwise, and soon realised that, without outside help, he would lose his latest acquisition. No castle was impregnable; it merely resisted certain methods for a certain time.
He turned his eyes towards Bristol, towards Earl Robert of Gloucester. The long-jawed Robert was the man to ask, for although the earls of Gloucester and Chester shared a mutual antipathy, they had one thing in common. Ranulf’s wife was Robert’s daughter, and he would come, if only for her.
He timed his exit with the care he had given to his entrance, and used the distractions of Christmas Eve to cover his escape. He did not take his wife with him, telling her she would be safer in the castle than on the road. He did not tell her that, if she came with him, there would be no reason for Robert to play the saviour.
* * *
The half-year at Wallingford had brought Alyse the first real unhappiness since her marriage to Brien Fitz Count. Matilda’s visit, and the inferences she had made, had thrown Alyse into the depths of despair. Time and again she went over Matilda’s words, and time and again recoiled from her understanding of them. The empress had not said that Brien was the father of her elder son, but she had voiced her suspicions about the boy’s hair, and made quite sure they acknowledged the year and month of his birth. Everything she had said had indicated Brien’s paternity, and there was no doubt that he had been with Matilda at the time of her conception. Indeed, he admitted it, though he swore he had never lain with her and claimed ignorance of Henry’s birth-date.
When she had recovered sufficiently to broach the subject, she asked, ‘Why, then, did Matilda mention her son, and say you would know about it?’
Brien shrugged. ‘God alone can tell. She must have meant that I’d have heard about the boy, that’s all. Alyse—’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s the name to use now. But when was it Matilda? You know you are enamoured of her. You have always been. And you were there when she – when you – Oh, God, must I say it out?’
He so much wanted to comfort her, to roar defiance at the empress, to somehow prove to his wife that what had been almost said was not almost true. But he could not, for he had been with Matilda during those early summer months, eight years ago.
And he had lain with her.
And he believed what she had almost said.
And, if it was true, if Stephen was deposed, and Matilda took her place on the throne of England, then her elder son would become prince of the realm, and Brien Fitz Count might well be the father of a future king.
Yes, he had lain with Matilda. He was guilty of everything Alyse suspected, and he felt laughter rise like gall in his throat. Just once, that was all. That one time, one single act of unfaithfulness in all the years of marriage, and from his seed there might spring the second King Henry of England. One brief intercourse of passion – oh, yes, brief, for Count Geoffrey had been due to arrive – and it had haunted Fitz Count and he had ever since been enmeshed in Matilda’s web.
He thought of others he knew, Miles of Hereford, Baldwin de Redvers, dozens more, all of whom lived lives of easy debauchery. They were still good men, caring for their wives and those in their charge, but they were consummate – the ideal word – consummate lovers of women. House servants and pig girls tumbled beneath them; countesses and chatelaines preceded them into the bed-chamber. They sired bastards with casual indulgence, regarding fidelity as something to be offered to liege-lords and monarchs.
The laugh became more bitter with the realisation that he might have chosen any other woman than Matilda, and gone unpunished. However, he had not chosen Matilda. She had chosen him.
For Alyse, the pain cut deeper. If Brien had sewn his seed within Matilda’s body, and become the father of her child, then it meant that the Lady of Wallingford was barren. It was something she had always feared, though not a thing she had ever dared discuss. There were many who were barren in those times. It was called the Eastern Disease, for the early settlers in the Holy Land were often made arid, as though by the nature of the country. It was common, too, in the West, but there was no more hurtful a question spouse could ask of spouse than, ‘Are you unable?’
Until Matilda’s visit, Brien had believed that it was he who was unable.
Until she heard the empress hint and insinuate, and saw Brien’s reaction, Alyse had believed that it was she who had failed.
But now, despite the denials, they both flinched from the mirror, for Brien saw himself as nothing more than a progenitor, robed in deceit, whilst Alyse turned away from her hollow, tear-stained reflection.
It was with something akin to relief that she heard Brien say he’d received a call to arms from Robert of Gloucester and was required to join the rebel army at Lincoln. ‘I must go. You understand—’
‘Yes. Go. I shall pray for you. Come back when you will. I’ll hold Wallingford till then.’
‘It’s Robert’s daughter. That damned madman Ranulf of Chester… She’s ringed in by Stephen’s army. We must do what we can—’
‘I said yes, husband. There are no barriers in your way. Leave what men you can spare, and go along.’
‘I’ll leave you Morcar, he’s well enough trained by now. He’ll sense what Varan would do.’
Alyse nodded, then ran forward and clung to him, her body wracked with weeping. They both knew why, but they pretended it was because they would be apart. There was no time left for truth.
* * *
‘Before the sword is drawn, he cuts…’
They were conversant with the poem, and knew, as soon as they reached Lincoln, that Stephen was living the part. He had come north with his army, but for every foot-soldier there was an engineer, for every archer a cooper, assembling the barrels that would hold the quicklime. Equipped for a siege, Stephen had discounted all thoughts of pitched battle and was totally unprepared for the arrival of the opposing force, under the joint command of Earl Robert, Ranulf the Moustache, Miles of Hereford, and Brien Fitz Count.
In London, and later on the windswept fields of Lincoln, the peacock-loving Bishop of Winchester had advised his brother to supplement his ranks. ‘You could not even deal with a counter-attack from the castle. This collection of catapults and paraphernalia, what good is it against a hundred charging knights? You’ve turned the field into a forest of balanced timbers, and you risk losing the lot. What if Matilda or Robert ride to the rescue? You’ll spend all your time dodging behind these constructed trees. Get more men up here, brother, before you’re made to look bad.’
But the advice had gone unheeded, and the flat grey light of 2nd February, 1141, revealed two armies, only one of which was ready to fight on the flat.
That day was both a Sunday and Candlemas. On the rebel side, mass was celebrated early, and in haste, but the royal army was still on its knees when the perimeter guards raised the alarm. The enemy were advancing, and would soon be within arrow-range. Bishop Henry abandoned the service and the soldiers fled to their positions – and in many cases continued their flight.
As the sky paled, promising further falls of snow, Stephen stared aghast at his depleted ranks. As many as one-fourth of his troops had deserted the field, whilst the rest were assembled in two wavering lines.
To the west were ranged three distinct enemy divisions. The one nearest the castle was commanded by Ranulf the Moustache. In the centre was the main force, under Earl Robert. On the right flank, a contingent of Welsh mercenaries and a number of minor barons, with their sergeants and men, all under the dual command of Miles and Brien. Ranulf intended to strike the first blow, and was busy rehearsing his battlecry – ‘Remember Carlisle!’
Between the armies stood the siege machi
nes, as though arranged to form an obstacle course in the snow. Riderless horses cantered among the slings and catapults, and the cold air rang with the dissonance of menace and indecision.
Then, in keeping with the formalities of war, the rebels halted to hear the pre-battle speeches.
Ranulf claimed their attention, pointed to the castle and thanked those who had come to save his wife. She was courage itself, this daughter of Gloucester, and had proved once again that even a delicate and determined woman could outwit an imitation king.
‘He’s been here a month or more, and he’s yet to make the slightest impression on the castle. Or on my lady. When this is over, and we have rescued her, she will probably tell us we were not needed. “But, my Lord Ranulf,” she’ll say, “why bring these fine men on such a cold journey? I was about to go out with a broom and sweep Stephen off the step!”’
The army roared its delight, and Ranulf bowed in the saddle. Then, no longer needing the height, he dismounted and had his horse led to the rear. The field was slippery underfoot, but it would be worse if the destrier lost its balance and threw him on to the iron-hard ground. Looking around, he saw that several of his compeers and their knights had reached the same decision.
Now Robert of Gloucester took over, listing the king’s nobles and finding something scathing to say about each of them. This one was a foul excrement, that one a coward, whose feet worked in reverse. Another was undoubtedly gifted – a gifted liar and oath-breaker, while a fourth sought satisfaction with animals and dead women. They were facing, he said, the cesspool of England, and the sooner it was scoured clean, the better for everyone…
The insults were hurled back by Stephen’s leaders. The king himself was no shouter, so he delegated his speech to one of his more resonant barons.
The Earl of Gloucester was a unique creature, for where else would one find an animal with the jaw of a lion and the heart of a rabbit? He was abnormal, and would remain so, until he rid himself of the Idiot of Chester and the embarrassing Miles of Hereford, who stained every bench and saddle. And it would not do to forget Matilda’s grey squirrel, Brien Fitz Count, whose only ambition was to scurry inside her gown. What a sad collection to bring against the lawful King of England; they must be defeated, but it would be done more in sorrow than in wrath. They were the dregs of the barrel, which no one cared to drink…
The Villains of the Piece Page 15
