The knight nodded, and the men took the strain, grunting as he slithered from sight. Matilda listened, half expecting a shout of alarm, a howl of pain as an archer let fly at the dangling man. But there was only the rasp of the rope against the sill, and the continued plaint of the wind. Then the rope went slack, and the lowering crew grinned at Matilda. The first one was down.
The garrison commander balanced himself on the step, pressed his hands against the sides of the window and leaned dangerously far out. He could not see the knight, but that was just as well, for it meant the man was huddled down under the wall. The rope was hauled in, and the commander stepped back into the room.
Another knight went next. He copied the leader, kneeling with his back to the moat. Then, as the garrison commander moved to help the lowering crew, the knight slipped from the icy sill. The men grabbed at the rope, cursing as it burned their hands. They caught it in time and it jerked taut. Ten feet below, the knight squirmed with pain, his feet kicking against the stone. They lowered him quickly and his companion released him and pulled him into the lee of the wall.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Christ,’ he hissed, ‘I’m snapped in half!’
‘Ssh – You’ll live. Lie on the ground. Give me your white— that’s it. I’ll lay it over you.’ He watched the loop rise again, then peered anxiously across the ice. There were lights on the far bank, and the silence was suddenly broken by the blare of trumpets. He hunched down, still as death, then relaxed a little as he realised the sound had come from somewhere in the town. Out here there was nothing but the scattered camp-fires and the gaunt trees and the countryside, blanketed by snow.
Matilda was lowered without mishap. She dragged the loop over her head, then leaned against the wall, looking down at the prostrate knight. ‘Do you want to be taken back?’
The man shook his head. ‘It’s not as I feared, Lady. I’ll be ready.’
‘Are you sure? If you’re injured, you’ll be better off inside.’
‘I thank you for your concern, but—’
‘Concern for all of us,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be slowed.’ The man swallowed his gratitude, eased himself upright and wrapped the white cloak around his shoulders. As he did so, the third knight swung to the ground. The lastcomer freed himself from the rope, and it hung for a moment, offering them a final chance to retreat. Then it was hauled up, and they donned their crude camouflage.
The heaviest knight went first, to test the ice. It creaked under his weight, but held firm. He hurried across, stooped over, and the others followed, moving in line abreast. They reached the far bank and scrambled up. Matilda glanced back at the castle. The rope had gone, and there was nothing to be seen in the window.
They went on through the trees. They saw a dozen campfires, and on three occasions they huddled against snowbanks, waiting for patrols to pass. They were astonished at the depth of Stephen’s lines. Small wonder no one had come to their rescue. It would have taken an army at full strength to cut the besieging belt.
They emerged from the trees to face a new hazard; open fields that seemed to magnify the sliver of moonlight. For a while they kept to the hedgerows, adding miles to their journey, but the cold began to bite into them and they knew they would have to move faster, or freeze in their tracks.
They decided to risk discovery and cut straight across the fields. It would take only a sleepless farm dog, or one of the numerous road patrols, or even, God help them, a startled poacher, and the hunt would be on. But they could not continue skirting every field, not if they were to survive the night.
So they trudged south, four wraithlike figures, their arms wrapped around them, their breath swept away by the wind. The injured knight began to lag behind, and one of the others pulled him forward by the hand. Matilda felt her legs grow heavy, and then, crossing one of the furrowed fields, she tripped and fell on her pierced hand. The leading knight lifted her, grunting encouragement. ‘We must have covered five miles, near enough. Abingdon’s over there, if I’ve led us right. If we can reach it, we’ll ride the rest of the way.’
‘Ride? How?’
‘Leave it to me, Lady. Will you allow me to assist you?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Until the next field.’
They stumbled on, pausing now and again to let the air warm in their lungs, then continued their flight. They skirted iced-over ponds, crossed ditches and banks and the occasional rutted cart track. The leading knight still supported the empress, and then he fell, bringing her down with him. She lay, half buried in the snow, wishing nothing more than to sleep. The frozen pillow was quite soft, and there was something comforting about the pale light that suffused the field… It was easy to close one’s eyes, while the snow deadened all pain…
The knight pulled her to her feet, and she felt his arm around her waist, a metal hook that dragged her forward across the uneven ground. She tried to walk, but her feet twisted under her, and she heard him say, ‘Rest yourself. We’re not far off.’ She murmured something and then her head sank forward, her face framed by a dripping curtain of hair…
Black fingers reached down to strangle her, and she twisted violently in an effort to escape. They were all about her, moving in for the kill, grotesque monsters disguised as— ah, yes, of course, just trees.
The injured knight crouched beside her. ‘Be still, Lady. You’re quite safe. We are in a small grove, near Abingdon. There’s a farm across the way. The other two have turned robber.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They’ve gone to find some transport for us.’
‘I’m cold… I’m so cold.’ She squinted at the dim, hunched figure and said, ‘Lend me your white cloak for a while.’
‘I would, Lady, but I’m none too warm myself—’
‘Damn you, I am the empress! Do you expect me to freeze?’
‘—since I gave it to you some time ago.’
She looked down, plucked at the two layers of sackcloth, then blew angrily on her hands. The knight gazed at her, acknowledged that she was quite unrepentant, and pushed himself to his feet. Matilda heard him fumble with the clasp of his own squirrel-skin cloak, then watched it swirl like a giant bat and settle over her legs.
‘You would not want my armour,’ he told her. ‘It’s the wrong size.’
She made a note of his sarcasm, but said, ‘You’ll be rewarded for this. I promise you. As soon as I’m safe back at Gloucester—’
‘What will you give me, Lady? A warm grave?’ He moved to the edge of the trees, then called softly to her, ‘They’re coming back.’
Swathed in the cloaks, she went out into the moonlight and watched the two knights lead a horse and cart away from the silent farm. Their injured companion asked, ‘Were you spotted?’
‘Some old man. He started shouting at us from one of the windows.’
‘Yes. So you—’
‘—took care of it. Yes.’
Matilda glanced from one to the other. ‘I hope you left them well tied. It won’t help us if they break free and raise the alarm.’
The senior knight held out a hand and helped her on to the cart. ‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘The dead aren’t known to shout.’
* * *
They stayed clear of the river-path and made their way around Abingdon, then along snow-silted side-roads. It was a slow and indirect journey, and the sky had taken on a grey pallor by the time they reached Wallingford-on-the-Thames.
They were challenged by a gate guard, and the knights heaved themselves to their feet. Matilda had fallen asleep during the ride, but had woken a mile back. Now she said, ‘Let me answer him. Help me up.’ Then she raised her voice and called, ‘I am the Empress Matilda, Lady of England. I have arranged my own escape from the castle at Oxford. Tell Lord Fitz Count I request shelter for myself and my men. Add that he need not fear the cost this time. There are no more of us to come.’
It was as though the courtyard had been set alight. Every available
torch was lit, and the yellow glow flooded over the walls, turning the snow to sand. The gates were swung open and the cart rolled in. Soldiers ran to kneel before their empress, and they implored her to warm herself at one of the fires. But she stayed in the cart, her eyes on the inner gate. She would descend at Greylock’s invitation, and allow him to escort her into the warmth.
Flurries of snow spat on the torches and settled on the waiting figures. Matilda thought of her two previous flights, from the dining-table at Westminster, and the battlefield outside Winchester. And now from the castle-turned-prison at Oxford. Three times God had delivered her from her enemies, though He had made each successive escape more difficult. No matter. He was clearly on her side, and would not see her taken by Cousin Stephen.
She brushed snow from her eyes, peered again at the inner gate, then frowned as Alyse walked towards her. She had not expected this. Nor did she want it. She wanted Fitz Count.
Alyse made her way across the yard, neither dawdling nor hurrying. She came level with the cart, looked up at her exhausted visitor, then bowed. Again, it was neither subservient nor scornful.
‘My husband is not here, Lady. He is at Wareham, with your brother, Earl Robert. You’ve called on the wrong night.’
‘I have come when providence allowed, Lady Alyse. To ask for a bed, and food, and a fire, that’s all. And perhaps, when I have slept, the chance to speak with you.’
‘That’s only half the battle,’ Alyse countered. ‘The other half is to make me listen, and that I am not willing to do. Anyway, you surprise me; I’d have thought you eager to get on to Wareham.’
‘I am, but I’m sure my brother has things in hand, and—’
‘I don’t mean the earl.’
‘Well, if you mean Fitz Count, there’s no special reason—’
‘No, nor him. I mean your son Henry. Earl Robert brought the boy over with him, hadn’t you heard? And Lord Fitz Count has gone there to greet him. After all, one of you should be there, don’t you agree, the mother or the father?’
Matilda leaned against the side of the cart. She had no strength left, but managed to say, ‘Let me sleep, Lady Alyse. Let me sleep, and I will repay you with the truth.’
Alyse nodded slowly. She had already ordered her servants to prepare food, set out mattresses on the ground floor of the keep, and bank the massive fire. Even so, she doubted that Matilda could honour her part of the bargain.
Chapter Eleven
Truth and Consequence
December 1142 – December 1143
For the first time in his life, Constable Varan bowed to the weather.
The wind that keened across the marshes around Wareham could not compare with the howling blizzards of Cilicia. Nor did the driven snow contain the cutting-edge of a German winter. The dampness that mildewed clothing did not approach the rotting, irritating humidity of the Syrian coast, and the countries of the West would never be scoured by sandstorms, or crushed beneath the golden heel of an Arabian summer.
Varan had experienced all these, and suffered them without lasting ill-effect. But the left side of his body was now stiff and unresponsive, and he felt chilled from within, as though ice encrusted his bones. He blamed the weather, for his pride would not allow him to admit the truth. He was sixty-three years of age; an old man.
He had accompanied Brien Fitz Count from Wallingford, and they had reached Wareham to find Robert of Gloucester in the act of accepting the surrender of the castle. The purpose of their visit was to advise Robert that King Stephen would not be drawn from Oxford, whatever the lure. He had Matilda trapped in the keep there, and seemed content to demolish the building, block by block. The contingent at Wallingford was not strong enough to launch an attack on the royal army, but if Robert would sound a general call-to-arms they might yet be in time to save the empress.
Standing with them on the churned ground outside his tent, Robert said, ‘I appear to have misjudged the man. Stephen was never the easiest creature to predict, but I was sure he would come. You’ve heard, I suppose, that I brought Matilda’s son over from Normandy?’
Brien looked at him for a moment, but read nothing in his expression. Did Robert know? Had Matilda ever let slip that the boy’s father was not Geoffrey of Anjou but her loyal supporter, Greylock of Wallingford? Indeed, was it not obvious that young Henry lacked his parents’ red hair? It might not be conclusive, of course, but when red squirrels mate, the offspring are rarely grey.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I heard. And Stephen must also know it, which shows his steadfastness. He wants Matilda. And he’ll have her unless we make a move.’ With studied nonchalance he added, ‘By the way, where is the boy?’
Robert jerked his head in the direction of the castle. Brien decided that the food-stocks in Wareham must have been very low, for the Angevin invaders had only managed to assemble three or four siege machines, and the castle was largely undamaged. He heard the earl say, ‘I sent him on a tour of inspection. He’s taken one of Count Geoffrey’s banners with him; says he’s going to climb to the highest turret and unfurl it there. I’m to wait here and wave to him when it’s done.’ He grinned like the distant uncle he was. ‘He’s a lively boy, our young Henry. But by God, he has a temper to match his looks.’
Brien frowned. It seemed a strange thing to say. How could a nine-year-old have angry features?
He was about to query the remark when the men heard a shrill cry and saw the boy signalling to them from the turret. Snow was still falling, and it was impossible to discern more than a skinny arm, and the taller, conical shapes of guards, sent up there to keep watch over the prince and the surrounding countryside. Then the Angevin banner was unfurled, and Earl Robert returned the boy’s wave. ‘Let’s go in,’ he said. ‘There are still some formalities of the surrender to be observed.’
They made their way across the flat, frozen marshland. Varan followed at a distance, favouring his stiff left leg.
As they approached the snow-capped walls, Brien asked, ‘Who’s the castellan here?’
‘A rather gaudy young man,’ Robert said. ‘We’ve had him in our hands before, at the Battle of Lincoln. Name’s Gilbert de Renton. His father bought him back with an extremely ill grace, and now Gilbert’s been telling me there’s no point in my holding him to ransom again. He says this is the third time he’s been taken, and that his family have already refused to reclaim him.’ He chuckled quietly. ‘You know what he did with his money instead of laying in food? He bought tapestries for the walls, and had embroidered cloaks made up for his guards. I wish all our enemies were as house-proud.’
* * *
The boy ran to the head of the turret steps, leaned forward and shouted into the darkness. ‘Clear the way! I’m coming down! I have taken this castle in the name of my father, Count Geoffrey of Anjou, so make way for me!’ Then he clambered down the circular stairway, feeding the echoes as he went.
Robert of Gloucester had assigned a permanent escort to the young prince, and these burly knights clattered muttering in his wake. Damned jumping flea. Couldn’t he hold still long enough for them to catch their breath? Up the stairs, down the stairs, how does this work, what does that do… On and on, from the moment he’d been put in their charge, and they were getting damned tired of his piping and prancing. The sooner Earl Robert sent him back to Anjou, the better they’d like it…
The capture of Wareham had not been entirely bloodless, but both garrison and castle had been spared the usual ravages of defeat. Gilbert de Renton’s sense of priorities had ensured that starvation quickly overtook his men, and they were now hunched in three shivering lines, awaiting their fate. Their young overlord stood a little apart, his polished helmet in hand, his head covered by the hood of his link-mail hauberk, the hood capped with snow. The six or seven knights who had agreed to accompany him to Wareham – his first fiefdom – glared at him from the far side of the courtyard. They wanted their captors to see that they disassociated themselves from their spendthrift master; not fo
r them the tapestries and embroidered uniforms, and never again service under the fashionable de Renton.
The boy erupted from the doorway at the foot of the tower, saw that everybody was still standing about, and ran off in the direction of the squat, round keep. His guardians lumbered after him, while Brien glanced too late in their direction. He wanted to see Prince Henry, very much wanted to see him, and he started towards the keep.
‘One moment,’ Robert said. ‘I’ll hurry this along, then we can all get warm.’ He strode forward, exchanged a few muttered words with de Renton, then allowed the young nobleman to kneel and make his submission. As he came to his feet again, he brushed snow from the hem of his gown and said, ‘I must repeat what I told you, my Lord of Gloucester. You won’t get a penny from my family. They warned me of that before I came here. You see, they bought this place for me from King Stephen, and they allowed me five hundred silver marks and told me to make the most of it. I must say it seems unfair, just because I’m prone to capture.’
It was impossible to dislike the man. He was effete and narcissistic, and he had an extraordinary sense of values. But at least he made a change from the sweaty, brutal self-seekers who dominated both parties.
‘I’m curious,’ Robert said. ‘Your food-stocks were so low – How did you expect to see out the winter?’
The Villains of the Piece Page 20
