The Villains of the Piece

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

  The first snow fell and was blown across the field. The troops settled their equipment, notched arrows into bowstrings, murmured a final prayer, snarled a late-thought curse. Then they moved forward among the war machines.

  Stephen had also chosen to fight nearer the ground, and had taken up his position opposite Ranulf of Chester. He would have been more properly placed in the centre, face to face with Matilda’s champion, Earl Robert, but this present confrontation would not have occurred had it not been for Ranulf’s personal enmity towards his monarch. The capture of Lincoln had been Ranulf’s answer to the loss of Carlisle, and it seemed right that they should seek each other out, both crying thief.

  There had been no specific order to dismount, so, although most of the rebels had discarded their horses, more than half the king’s knights and nobles were still in the saddle. This enabled them to move faster about the field, or smash a path through the enemy lines. But it also made escape more certain and, within the first half-hour of the battle, all but a dozen of the riders had turned and fled.

  They had their reasons.

  They had not come north to engage in pitched battle, but to lay siege to Lincoln Castle. As a result, they were undermanned, and had chorused Bishop Henry’s advice concerning the need for more foot-soldiers. Nor had they chosen this unlikely meeting-place, but had been taken by surprise – as had their king.

  All in all, he had dug a trap for himself and now invited his supporters to tumble in with him. They had stayed thus far, partly out of loyalty, partly out of curiosity, to see if the rebels posed a real threat. That confirmed, they saw no value in being massacred in the cold. They would ride back to Westminster, and take their men with them, and prosper from the experience. If the king had any sense he’d keep them company, and admit his mistakes later, in the warm.

  But Stephen had no intention of quitting the field. He had Ranulf in his sight, and he welcomed the chance to kill him. He had always thought the Earl of Chester a potential traitor. If it had not been Lincoln, it would have been somewhere else.

  There was, too, an unspoken reason for his wanting Ranulf dead. For some time now he had been made the butt of comparisons between Ranulf’s florid moustache and his own sparse growth. From all over the country - and on two occasions from Normandy, and one from Flanders – came vials and pots containing the essences and secretions that would, if rubbed on or swallowed, inhaled or sprinkled, stimulate the growth. He had tried some of them, though he had stopped short of the draughts for fear they had been poisoned. But they had only succeeded in stinging his skin, or creating a foul stench in his nostrils and making his eyes water. Some of the potions came from priests and other literate subjects and were accompanied by a letter, in which the king was promised as remarkable a moustache as that of – yes, invariably, Ranulf de Gernons.

  Well, to hell with Ranulf and his deep-rooted hedge. He was about to enjoy his first shave in years. With a sharp, four-foot sword.

  The snow fell more thickly, concealing the horrors of battle. Men staggered through the white curtain, sudden bloody apparitions that were immediately covered by the drifting lace. Friend struck blindly at friend, or mistook the enemy and was cut down. Horses ran loose, until they collided with the mangonels, or with each other, or were hit by stray arrows. Then they, too, went down, or plunged on, maddened with pain.

  The rebel right, under Miles and Brien, inflicted heavy casualties on the royalist lines. The earls of Surrey and Leicester joined the mass desertions, and their leaderless troops found themselves being herded towards the centre. The two lines merged and contracted, and the rebels closed round them, like a hand around a chess-piece.

  Robert of Gloucester pushed forward, and his division emerged from the forest of catapults. Stephen’s depleted force wheeled within the circle, for although the lines to his left had been broken, he had forced Ranulf to give ground.

  So far, he had only glimpsed the earl, and both men had been too hard pressed to seek out their adversary. But as a sudden wind gusted across the field, tearing holes in the white curtain, Stephen and Ranulf stumbled against each other, then drew back, swords whirling.

  Already, the most outstanding feature of the battle was the courage shown by the king. No one had ever added cowardice to the list of his failings, but from the outset he had fought with grim determination, endangering any who came within sword-swing. He had been cut twice on the arm and had had one of his link-mail mittens wrenched from his hand. His helmet had been dented by a sling-shot, and the side of his face was smeared with the blood of a recent victim. The snow had been stamped to water underfoot and had soaked through his leather boots. He was cold, exhausted by killing, deserted by all but a handful of his barons. He had every excuse to abandon the fight, snatch at one of the free-roaming horses, and follow his courtiers to London.

  But that did not take into account his personal enmity towards Ranulf. When he had shaved The Moustache, then, perhaps, but not before.

  They squared-off, the King of England, and one of his most powerful magnates, and their breath leaked like smoke in the wind. They said nothing, for they had not come there to talk, but each filled his chest with air and moved forward again, flat-footed, the swordblades shining with watered blood.

  They struck at the same instant, sword on sword, and were sent reeling by the impact of the blow. Men fought around them, but no rebel thought to attack the king, nor royalist to edge crabwise at Ranulf. This was single combat, and it would be a most shameful crime to interfere.

  They struck again, staggered and caught their balance. Ranulf used his powerful wrists to hold his sword horizontal, and stabbed forward with it, aiming at Stephen’s groin. The king recoiled, but was unable to avoid the bruising ram of the sword-point. He hunched forward, gasping, then brought his own sword over in a desperate downward arc. It drove Ranulf’s blade into the ground, but the king’s sword snapped off a foot from the hilt.

  He saw Ranulf lean back, dragging on his embedded weapon. In the moment it took the earl to release the blade, Stephen glanced left and right, saw what he wanted, and mouthed, ‘You? Are you with me?’ As he addressed the nearby soldier he hefted the broken sword, ready to use it as a dagger if need be. But the man nodded, sensed what his king was after, and thrust a Danish axe at him, handle foremost. Stephen snatched it, glimpsed Ranulf’s blade rise up from the ground, and blundered forward, wielding the axe.

  It was a lucky, unmeasured swing, that might as easily have missed as hit. But it did hit, catching Ranulf a solid blow on the helmet. His sword fell from his grasp and he reeled sideways, his mailed hands flailing the air. He went down heavily, and his metal tunic seemed to ripple as he landed. He made an effort to rise, crashed over on his back and lay, staring dazedly at the three-inch spike that tipped the axe. The devil foul him, he thought. He’s going to spit me.

  Stephen intended just that, or at least the semblance of it. But before he could know his own mind – skewer the bastard, or keep him to be hanged – a sling-shot flew from the rebel lines and caught him square in the throat. The blow crushed his windpipe, and fresh blood dripped from where the rock had skinned the underside of his jaw. He sank to his knees, one hand covering his battered throat, the other grasping but failing to hold the axe. It twisted over, and the spike went into the ground a hand’s width from Ranulf’s face.

  The pain in Stephen’s groin was still intense, and vied for attention with his new injuries. He sank lower, his body stooped forward, his neck exposed. Never before in battle had he been so vulnerable to sword or axe blade. He awaited execution.

  But his enemies had other plans for him. He felt fingers on his neck, felt someone drag off his helmet, felt his unseen assailant jerk back his head and yell, ‘To me, everyone, to me! I have the king! Over here! I have the king! I have the king!’

  Ranulf climbed to his feet, stared down at king and captor, then lashed out viciously with his boot. Stephen vomited over his captor’s forearm, and the snowflakes spun and
expanded and blew against his face like jagged white sea-birds. The sky grew dark, and there was red in it, then black, only black…

  * * *

  Among the prisoners was young Gilbert de Renton, the fashion-conscious courtier who had been kidnapped and held to ransom by the hooded monster outside Dorchester. As he was being led away he caught sight of Brien Fitz Count, his head and left leg bandaged, in conversation with a stocky, bleak-eyed companion. There was something familiar about the second man, something in his stance and the slope of his shoulders. Gilbert was sure they’d met before, and not at court, or on the field. He frowned, then stumbled forward as one of the rebel guards gave him a shove.

  ‘Still your hands, oaf! I’m a de Renton, and—’

  ‘We know,’ the guard grunted. ‘We watched most of your family skitter off.’

  Four hundred pounds, Gilbert thought. That’s what it cost them last time, when I was taken by – Then he turned and squawked, ‘I knew I had – It’s him! Hey, you, guard! What’s he called, that squat creature standing with Lord Fitz Count?’

  ‘Turn on me again like that, and I’ll give you a knife to chew on. Now get moving!’

  Gilbert scowled irritably and followed the line of prisoners. He could imagine how his family would react when they were presented with their second ransom demand in four years. They’d think their fashionable offspring was out to finance the entire rebel cause, single-handed.

  But at least he had not run. His family would have to admire him for that. Wouldn’t they? No, they wouldn’t. They’d think him untimely, and expensive, and wonder why it had not occurred to them to creep up behind him in the melee of battle and resolve the problem of ransoms and clothes bills.

  The guard pushed him again and he stumbled on, an unsung hero.

  * * *

  Ranulf did not stay to crow. He accompanied Robert of Gloucester into the castle, embraced his wife and half-brother, then collected a large force of mercenaries and paid a visit to Lincoln town. By the time the visitors had finished, the town was in flames, the churches desecrated, the wells and sewers choked with corpses. The earl’s companions specialised in rape and strangulation. It was their way of showing the inhabitants that loyalty to the crown, like treason, could be misplaced.

  Chapter Nine

  The Lady of England

  March-June 1141

  They had met that one brief time at Arundel, and she had told him to stop fiddling with his moustache, and to reimburse the pardoned William d’Aubigny. Then she had ridden away, astonished by her cousin’s foolish gallantry.

  And now they met again, one week after the battle at Lincoln, and she had more things to tell him.

  She sat in a cushioned, high-backed chair in the vaulted conference chamber in Gloucester Castle. Her bastard brother was seated at her right hand, Miles of Hereford at her left. Brien Fitz Count was due some time that day, having detoured by way of Wallingford, but she was not inclined to wait for him. She would thank him later, in private, after she had disposed of the prisoner.

  She made a sign, and he was brought in. His head was held high, not with pride, but because his throat had been bandaged, and the bandage enclosed within an iron collar. He moved slowly, taking short steps, as befitted a man who had been chained and manacled. Robert of Gloucester glanced sharply at his sister, then said, ‘What is this? Release him, for God’s sake! He is no common felon.’

  Matilda snapped at the heels of his words. ‘Leave him be! No, brother, he’s a very uncommon felon, and he’ll stay anchored down. What’s that stuff around his throat? It’s too bad if the collar chafes.’

  Robert looked past her at Miles. ‘Who commanded this?’

  For answer, Miles let his gaze flicker to the empress, then away again. She repeated her question, and Robert said, ‘He was wounded, can’t you tell? Matilda, please, this is grotesque. At least take off the collar. Look at him, he’s an ill man!’

  She smiled with the thoroughness of insincerity. She hadher point – she had shackled the king – and now she could emphasise it with mercy. ‘Very well, unlock him. Yes, yes, and the legs. Find him a seat. Give him something to drink, whatever he wants, wine or water. Make him comfortable, by all means, make him comfortable.’

  Stephen stared at her. His dry tongue scraped the roof of his mouth and butted against his clenched teeth. She looked so beautiful sitting there, robed and jewelled, her russet hair brushed until it shone, her elegant fingers curled over the carved pommels of the chair.

  He thought, if only I had the juice, I would spit in her face.

  Somebody brought him a stone mug of water – no goblet for the prisoner-king – and he lifted it to his lips. The water tasted stale, and he tried not to swallow. He said, ‘You should change the casks here,’ but the words emerged broken from his damaged throat.

  Matilda frowned, seemed ready to ask him to repeat them, then said, ‘You’ve fallen badly cousin. You’ve come to a messy end, wouldn’t you say?’ She sighed, for all the world steeped in sorrow, then again reverted to compassion, an artist changing her colours. ‘I’m sorry you were damaged in the fight. But I am more sorry you were in it at all. Give it up now, Stephen. Return the crown you stole, and I’ll let you rejoin your wife and take her to – where shall we say – the island of Cyprus? It’s sunny there, all the year. Or join your friend, the King of France. Or settle in Ireland, we could allow that, why do you shake your head?’

  Is it not evident? I am refusing you.

  ‘Do you understand what I say?’

  I’m nodding. Yes, I understand.

  ‘Can’t he speak at all?’

  ‘Not for the present,’ Robert told her. ‘The physicians say his throat will heal, but slowly.’

  ‘Well, I say this. He is finished as king. You. Stephen. Your reign is ended. If you are prepared to sign the necessary papers and surrender the accoutrements of monarchy, we will let you go. There are enough witnesses here. All you need do is nod. Do you declare that you gained the throne of England by false means, and are now willing to admit your errors, sins, failings, shortcomings and the like? In short, cousin, are you ready to step down? A nod will suffice. Just nod.’

  She leaned forward slightly and watched him move his head – from side to side.

  Hurry on to hell, Matilda. You are not what you seem. You have come a long way on your looks and spirit, but if you were ugly, or docile, we would not even know your name.

  She sat back, stared at him for a moment, then murmured, ‘Dress him again. Take him down to Bristol. Find him somewhere dark and deep. I want no more of him, until he’s ready to sign. I said dress him!’

  Guards hurried forward to clamp the irons around his neck and ankles. Robert of Gloucester came out of his chair, pushed back against the upper rim and strode from the chamber. The chair crashed to the tiled floor and the back board splintered. Miles of Hereford stood up, risked one appealing glance at Matilda, then followed Robert from the room. The empress sat impassive, watching the guards manacle her cousin. She thought it as well that Ranulf of Chester was not present, for then things would have gone badly for Stephen.

  * * *

  Success, when it comes, brings attendant dangers.

  There are those who parade it, like some proud leopard on a leash, never aware that the beast must be respected and nurtured. They make no attempt to understand the nature of their prize, and are amazed when it escapes, or turns to savage them.

  And there are those who track the animal to its lair, then retreat, their courage evaporated. They realise that it is the search, and not the capture that excites them, and that they are not equipped to possess the beast. They are the unhappy ones, for they know they brought the net, but must ever afterward explain why they did not throw it.

  And there are those who have learned how to ensnare the animal, and contain it, and they bring back a perfect specimen, and fondle its ears. Their friends come forward to admire it, whilst their enemies steer clear.

  And the
n, in wilful disobedience of all they have learned, they destroy that which is most precious to them. Thus do husbands alienate their wives, and liege-lords lay waste their fiefdoms, and queens despoil their thrones.

  Thus did the Empress Matilda mutilate the leopard of England.

  * * *

  She watched the convoy take Stephen down to Bristol. Brien had not yet arrived from Wallingford, though he had sent word to say his wife was ill with fever. Alyse was indeed ill, but he was unwilling to give the true cause. The empress sent her well-wishes, ending her note with the cryptic suggestion, ‘Join me as soon as possible. Preferences and promotions become tasteless if they are boiled too long.’ Then, accompanied by Robert and Miles, she set out for London. En route, she visited Cirencester, Oxford and Winchester, where she accepted the submission of Bishop Henry. He had been one of the last to flee from the field at Lincoln, but he had fled – ‘So that I may continue to safeguard Holy Church, for which reason I was appointed papal legate by our father in Rome.’ In the face of such a selfless claim, it was difficult to accuse him of cowardice.

  The activities of winter had done nothing to reduce Henry’s girth, nor had defeat and flight sharpened his bland expression. He realised that he would make little headway with the empress if he defended his brother, but that even Matilda would be unlikely to attack the Pope’s representative in England. His loyalties had always lain first and foremost with the Church; he simply had to make more noise about it now, that was all.