‘I’d have sold off the tapestries, one by one.’
‘But you can only have had them a short while.’
‘Yes, that’s true. However, I have had them.’
Robert looked at him, then shook his head, bewildered. ‘Am I to believe what you said about your family?’
‘Yes, my lord. They have never found much time for me. And now their limitation includes coins.’
‘Then what am I to do with you? You’ve made your submission, but that doesn’t mean you’ll fight for me.’
‘In truth,’ Gilbert said, ‘I’m tired of fighting. For some time now I’ve had it in mind to become a pilgrim. There’s so much of the world to see, and I have no wish to travel with pack- horses and armour. If you imprison me, well, I suppose I could study—’
‘And if I let you run free?’
‘I’ll visit Jerusalem. I can sail from here.’ He smiled. ‘Even if I were to break my word, and take up arms against you and the empress, you know how incompetent a soldier I am. I’d probably do King Stephen’s cause more harm than good.’
‘I must admit,’ Robert nodded, ‘I’d like nothing more than to see you elected Constable of London. We’d have the city in a week.’
Arrangements were made whereby those knights and soldiers who were prepared to swear fealty to Matilda, as Lady of England, were allowed to do so. The rest were imprisoned in Wareham itself, the knights to be held for ransom, the soldiers to be sold-off as slaves.
With the exception of one small tapestry, the castle and its furnishings became rebel property. This single decorated hanging was returned to de Renton, with instructions that he sell it to raise his fare to the Holy Land.
‘Not de Renton,’ he requested. ‘Brother Gilbert. It sounds rather promising, don’t you think?’ Again he knelt at Robert’s feet, this time in gratitude, then bowed to the Angevin barons and to Brien Fitz Count. As he did so, he caught sight of Varan. He remembered seeing him at Lincoln, but he was sure they had met before.
His duties at an end, he started for the gate, taking care to keep the tapestry dry. When he reached the constable he stopped and asked, ‘If I may, master. Do you recognise me?’
The Saxon looked past him, gauged that Brien was out of earshot, and growled, ‘I know you.’
‘Tell me from where. I shan’t see you again, and it will haunt me—’
‘No need for that. I wore a shopping bag as a hood, you remember?’
‘A shopping— Yes, of course! On the Dorchester road! I thought you were a demon, fresh out of the ground.’ He nodded without animosity. ‘It was a good trick. A shopping bag? Well, no one took home so much money before in a shopping bag.’ He turned towards the gate, then felt Varan’s hand on his arm.
‘Brother Gilbert? When you reach the hot countries in the East, always carry water with you. Always.’ He shrugged, but only his right shoulder would move. ‘I was out there. I offer the advice to you. You’ll stay alive longer.’
The young, would-be pilgrim gazed, deeply moved at his kidnapper. I’ll remember,’ he murmured. ‘And thank you, master. I feel well-sent.’ Then he went out through the gate, wondering what colour tassel to buy for his travelling robe.
* * *
Brien waited for his son. He stood on the ground floor of the small, moatless keep and let his gaze roam incuriously over the broken furniture and rubble-strewn floor. What little damage the castle had sustained had been inflicted on the northeastern face of the keep. Here a section of the wall had been breached, and two of the missiles had carried on across the circular chamber, smashing chairs, tables, benches, chests and weapon racks. Brien stooped and picked up a snapped-off sword pommel. It had once held a coloured stone, perhaps a jewel, perhaps merely glass, but it had either been dislodged by the impact of the missile or gouged out by a sharp-eyed defender. Hefting the broken hilt, he thought of the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction. It had been made, of course, as an instrument of death, yet it somehow seemed unjust that it should have been so thoroughly and easily destroyed. Today it was the slings and catapults that reigned supreme. Tomorrow those self-same mangonels might be blown over by great blasts of directed wind, or turned to ashes by manmade dragons. The ingredients of warfare would always be drawn from the elements; fire and air, the earth and the water. But whatever the mixture, there would always be a need for men with jewelled swords.
Robert came into the chamber and asked, ‘Where is he?’
‘Henry? Upstairs somewhere.’
‘Under supervision, I hope. He’s only to fall and break his neck—’
‘Earlier, you said something about his having a temper to match his looks.’
‘So I did,’ Robert grinned, ‘and it should hardly surprise you, friend Brien.’
Testing the words before he spoke them, Brien asked, ‘Why do you say that? Why should I be specially aware?’
The earl kicked a path through the rubble, found an unbroken bench and dragged it against the wall. Then he sank down on it and stretched out his long legs. He yawned widely, rubbed a hand around his jaw and pushed back the hood of his hauberk. ‘You’re in an inquisitive mood today. Why did I say he has a temper? Why should it not surprise you? Because you know the mother, that’s why!’
‘Matilda told—’
‘What? You know what she’s like when she’s aroused, that’s what I’m saying…’
Aroused, Brien remembered. Yes, she was aroused that one time, that one single time.
‘…like mother, like son. Told me what? What might she have told me?’
Brien shook his head, then persisted, ‘In appearance, is he—’
‘See for yourself,’ Robert pointed. ‘Those are his cloven hoofs on the steps.’
They listened to the clatter, the shrill cry ‘I’m not in danger of falling!’ the guttural response, and the further ‘Let me be! If I do fall, it’ll be because you pushed me!’ And then the nine- year-old came twisting and squirming into the chamber, and Brien Fitz Count saw the diminutive mirror image of Count Geoffrey of Anjou, and the red hair that curled to his neck, his appearance matching his temper, and there was not a single fleck of grey anywhere on his head, nor anything else about him that would suggest he was the son of Wallingford. So there had been no need to tell Alyse.
The revelation carried the force of a blow. Brien felt himself slip, heard his own voice blurt ‘A loose footing,’ then stayed down until his mind had cleared. One of Henry’s guards came forward to help him, and the boy followed and asked, ‘Are you Greylock? Is it all dead, your hair? My mother, Matilda, Lady of England, said you are one of her most faithful liege-lords.’ He nodded, pleased that he had remembered it correctly, then added, ‘It looks dead.’
Still on his knees, Brien gazed levelly at him. There was no resemblance. Nothing. ‘Nothing. And she had always known there was nothing, the beautiful, venomous Matilda. It had not been enough for her that he had been unfaithful to Alyse. Nor that he had fought for her and impoverished himself when others had grown rich by defection. Nor that he had guided and counselled her throughout the years and delivered her to within armstretch of the crown. Oh, no, that had not been nearly enough for Matilda. She had found it necessary to test him still further, her loyal Greylock, so had visited upon him the blessing and the curse of paternity.
And it had been a monstrous lie, a mirage constructed of hints and half-truths, fears that were without foundation, chance remarks that had been most skilfully intended. And when it was done, and he had told Alyse, and she had tried to kill herself, then there had been the enigmatic smile and the haunting ‘My, my. Is that what you told her?’
Brien said, ‘You know what we must do, young Prince? We must gather our forces, and rescue your mother the empress—’
‘The Lady of England.’
‘Quite. And then I shall personally conduct you to her. I assure you, Henry, even if she has heard you are in this country, our mutual appearance will astonish her. And, no, my hair is
not dead. Here. Tug it if you will.’
* * *
In the warmer, undamaged solar at Wallingford, Alyse and her maidservant discussed the departure of the Lady of England.
‘She could not have slept for more than an hour,’ Edgiva said. ‘Certainly not as much as two.’
‘Did your husband check with the gate guards?’
‘He did, my lady, but you know what they’re like. Their time candle had burned out, the one they keep in the guardhouse, and they hadn’t replaced it, so all they could say was that the empress and her escort left a while ago.’ She clicked her tongue, and Alyse turned away to smile. Edgiva’s marriage to Sergeant Morcar had made the girl critical of the men who had once been her everyday companions. If she had married Constable Varan – an unlikely thought – she would have been the very devil with the garrison, Morcar included.
‘No matter,’ Alyse said. ‘She’s gone, and I think I know where. Her son—’ should I not rather say Brien’s son? ‘—he was brought over from Anjou, or Normandy, anyway brought over by Earl Robert, so I imagine Matilda has gone to Ware- ham to collect him.’
‘Wareham?’ Edgiva queried. ‘Isn’t that where Lord Fitz Count—’
‘Yes.’ She moved in her chair. ‘There’s not much to be done in this weather. Why not try another reading lesson?’
Edgiva nodded without enthusiasm and went to fetch one of the scraped skins from the library box. Long ago, before she had married Morcar, she had been willing to struggle with the written word. But in those days she had harboured dreams of marrying a clerk. Morcar was all very well in his way, but he had no desires, outside bed or the bailey. However…
* * *
Matilda and Brien passed each other en route. It would have been surprising if they had met, for the empress and her three companions kept to the side-roads, whilst Brien and Robert zig-zagged from one friendly stronghold to the next, gathering support as they made their way north-east towards Wallingford.
But the rebel army was still some way short of the Thames-side castle when they heard of Matilda’s remarkable escape. They heard, too, that Oxford had surrendered to Stephen, and that the furious king was massing his troops for a spring drive against the rebellious outposts.
The march on Oxford was abandoned. Earl Robert took his young charge with him to Bristol. Brien and Varan continued homeward. The other rebel leaders went their ways. They would follow the established pattern of warfare, holding their castles through the winter, then reforming in the spring. Pitched battles had been fought in the snow, and Lincoln was a prime example, but they were the exception rather than the rule. Spring was the testing time, spring and summer and autumn. Winter was supposedly the peaceful season.
* * *
None was more grateful for the lull than Brien Fitz Count. The news he brought to Alyse was mortar for their marriage. He was not Henry’s father, so it could not be concluded that Alyse was barren. No physician could say she was unable, not yet, whilst there was still hope.
* * *
The new year set the example for those that were to follow. And, in the same way that a wounded man will fight for life in the morning, singing and praying on his sick-bed, then die blaspheming at nightfall, so the people of the island chose this year to sound the death-rattle of discipline. They had lived near the edge, peasant and patrician, and their bellies had contracted with hunger. The coffers were empty; the grain barrels had gone unfilled. Throughout the country, on marshland and mountain, in forest and valley, in the teeming cities of London and York and Bristol, and in the towns and villages and hamlets between, the twin plagues of hunger and violence had gone unchecked, and the population had reached the brink and clung there and were now ready to fall. The war ebbed and flowed across the country, a flood of fire that consumed crops and houses, immolated entire families, turned peaceful communities into bands of roaming brigands. The peasantry adopted the motto of the landless nobles and disinherited barons – Sauve Qui Vent! Each man for himself!
Castles were taken and recaptured. Highway robbery became commonplace, and, as the crimes of violence increased, hastily-formed groups of vigilantes reacted with equal ferocity. For every murdered traveller who lay denuded in some roadside ditch, a convicted felon swung from the gibbet. But the vigilantes were as indiscriminate as the brigands. Innocent men were hanged along with the guilty, and it was not thought extreme to deck the gallows with women and children.
The country was now like a crudely-made quilt, its divisions marked by track and stream. Barons emerged from their strongholds to lead raiding parties against the surrounding settlements, and the villagers replied with ambush and assassination. There was no form to the war. Rumours were believed, authentic reports disputed. Today’s ally was tomorrow’s enemy, so the time to strike was now.
The rival leaders faced each other once that year. On ist July, King Stephen was surprised in the act of besieging Wilton castle. The battle was a repetition of the debacle at Lincoln, and the royalist troops were routed. The king and his bishop-brother escaped, though a number of his senior knights were captured, men he could not afford to lose. He retreated to Kent, his one sure base, where his wife greeted him with further disquieting news.
Be it fact or rumour, she had received repeated warnings that Geoffrey de Mandeville, Earl of Essex and constable of the Tower of London, intended to renounce his king. If this happened, the counties of Essex, Middlesex and Hertfordshire would most certainly go over to the empress, for de Mandeville was their justiciar. He had to be stopped, before he started.
But if there was one man of whom Stephen was truly frightened, it was Geoffrey de Mandeville. It was easy enough to say he must be stopped – one could say that of an armed lunatic, or a wild boar – but it was not so easy to achieve. He was never seen outside the company of his bodyguards and, if an arrest was attempted in London or Westminster, the court would probably be stormed by his loyal townsfolk.
It had to be done, yes, but not on Geoffrey’s home ground, where he might turn the tables on his nervous monarch. But neither could the venue be so alien as to deter him.
Accepting the advice of his queen, Stephen arranged to hold his autumn court at St Albans, twenty miles north of London. Situated well within the borders of Hertfordshire, the once Roman town seemed to offer Geoffrey the security he demanded. Nevertheless, he kept company with a dozen hard-eyed knights.
* * *
Such councils were evenly divided between prayer, the planning of military strategy, and snarling ill-humour. The court met together on several occasions; groups whispered in private; individuals sought an audience with the king; committees were formed, or disbanded. It was an opportunity for the leaders of the party to test the wind, and for Stephen to revise his lists. In the matter of Geoffrey de Mandeville, the lists balanced, for and against. The general sessions rang with accusation and rebuttal, though Geoffrey chose to make light of his alleged treason. He neither admitted it nor denied it, but told his compeers to wait and see.
His deep, seductive voice flooded the chamber as he told them, ‘I shall do as I think fit. I may be the most loyal man here. Or maybe not. But since none of you have ever shown the gift of prophecy, you must await events. Hindsight you have, by the bushel. But you cannot say what I shall do next – see, I scratch my arse, but you did not foretell it – so why not shut your mouths and cease blathering!’
His remarks were greeted by a storm of approval, and an equal outburst of abuse. His supporters roared that he was stopping the rot. If they did not trust the mighty Earl of Essex who in hell would they trust? His opponents accused him of vile deception, and of daring to ridicule the truth. His intentions were as plain as day, yet he had the impertinence to tell them it was dark outside.
They were so preoccupied with their squabble that they did not see Stephen exchange a surreptitious glance with the guards at the door.
The meeting ended, as so often, with nothing resolved. The barons bowed perfunctorily to their ki
ng and made their way from the chamber. Geoffrey found himself held in conversation by some of his accusers, whilst his allies filed out. Then, surrounded by his dozen knights, he strode to the door. As he reached it, Stephen called, ‘Essex! Give me a moment.’
The earl turned, and his accusers swept past him, right and left, shouldering the bodyguards from the building. Then they jumped back, and Stephen’s guards dragged the doors shut and dropped the bar in place. Geoffrey’s few remaining knightswhere they were, their chins raised by sword tips. The manoeuvre may have lacked style, but it had worked.
Stephen stepped from his chair, pumping anger into his voice to dispel the fear. ‘You are arrested, Essex, as a potential traitor! I was never fooled by your dissimulation! You plan to defect, and we know it. You’ve risen up by swinging from one tree to the other. Whatever I gave you in the past, my cousin Matilda has doubled. Then you came back to me, and I gave you more. And now you intend to swing again. Well, sire, I tell you this. The next swing you make will be at a rope’s end!’
The doors shook as the excluded bodyguards pounded on them. Geoffrey pressed back against the wall, swords aimed at his throat and belly. His lean cheeks were sucked in, and his eyes blazed with fury.
Invisible weights seemed to hang from the corners of his mouth as he snarled, ‘Petty little king… You’d catch a chill and swear the wind was against you… Christ weep for the miserable thing you are… A pathetic, mindless doll, frightened of the dark, and of the shadows the nightlight throws…’
He snatched at one of the sword blades, and blood ran from his hand.
‘Stand off!’ Stephen commanded. ‘We have him safe. Chain his knights.’ Then he drew his own sword – one does not go unarmed against a wild boar – and delivered the speech his queen had taught him.
‘If you have not yet acted treasonably towards me, and I say you did when you first let Matilda into London, it is in your heart to do so. Your past speaks for itself, for you have changed sides more times than a dice. If you think I have ever trusted you, Geoffrey de Mandeville, I’m pleased, for it means I have deceived you. You are a self-seeker of the worst kind, for you do not even make provision for those who ride with you. To be your friend is to bare one’s back for the knife, which is why I have never presented such a target to you…
The Villains of the Piece Page 21
