The Villains of the Piece

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

  ‘Three things,’ he presented. ‘First, you are in no position to advise me, which in your terms is to command. Like a good miller, I have sifted the accounts and rumours that have reached me during the past year. I think I know as much as you about the travels and travails of your son, Prince Henry. I know what he did, and where he went, and how ill-prepared he was for his escapade. I know, too, that he found himself threatened by his companions, and appealed to you for money, but received neither coin nor care. I know that, throughout the year, you and Earl Robert savaged each other, and that you finally broke him, your greatest disciple, your own brother. He died quickly, thank God, for he had suffered long. So do not advise me of my duties, Empress, for I am well aware of them, and no longer react like an enchanted simpleton.’

  ‘Arrest yourself a minute! I have never so much as dreamed that you were—’

  ‘I am still speaking.’

  ‘—enchan – what?’

  He stepped forward, placed his hands on the arms of her chair and told her to keep her mouth shut, he was still speaking. Her head jerked back against the high, carved board, and her expression accommodated her most unwelcome tenants – fear and indecision. Her brain screamed at her to reject him, this poverty-stricken, one-night lover, but she was nailed to the chair, and could say nothing.

  ‘Such a creature,’ he continued, ‘would bob and bow and be unhampered by experience. But I know what has happened, best of all to myself, and am no longer receptive to your orders. Ask, if you will. Say what you would like me to do. But do not tell me what part to play, nor whereabouts on the stage I should stand.’

  Matilda looked across at Alyse. ‘Fitz Count’s memory fails him, along with his loyalty. He forgets that I am still Lady of England, and as such—’

  ‘You were,’ Brien said, ‘but you must not keep titles you no longer deserve. England is split, you may have noticed. The north belongs to Stephen, through Ranulf of Chester. The east belongs to him through his own efforts. London and many of the southern counties belong to him through the diligent efforts of his wife, your namesake. And what belongs to you, east of Wallingford? Nothing. You – we – the few who have held true to their vows control nothing but the middle south and the west. So you are the Lady of Ten Counties, maybe less, and a long way from the throne.

  ‘The title, Lady of England, was never more than a courtesy. It showed our optimism and our ambition, but it also admitted our failure to get you crowned. And since you antagonised the citizens of London, and were driven from Westminster, it has seemed less and less appropriate. Times have changed, my lady. You’re bound to ask for help now, not demand it.’

  Alyse sponged up the words as though they were the elixir of life. She had heard Brien defend the empress, endorse her actions, commend her beauty, deliver countless tributes and laudations. But she had never heard him speak as he did now, an impoverished, all but landless noble, yet, more than he had ever been, a voice to be heard. He, Brien Fitz Count, was telling Matilda the truth, and Alyse buried herself in her chair, praying that he would tell it all.

  The empress felt otherwise. But recognisable truth has a fascination of its own.

  ‘The second thing,’ he said. ‘Baldwin de Redvers is neither a yokel nor a peasant. He is, and has always been, one of your staunchest supporters, and by controlling the county of Devon, he has done more than most. Don’t criticise him to me, lady, for I know him better than you. Also, it makes me think you would speak ill of Wallingford in his house.’

  ‘No,’ she denied, ‘not so. He knows you are an exceptional man.’

  He approximated a smile and told her, ‘Indeed I am. For one thing, I’m penniless. And for another, I am one of the few to have extricated themselves from your web.’ He salted the smile and went on, ‘Do you know, I could almost wish your father had died before he did. He was a great man, King Henry of England, but if he had died young I would not have been asked to swear allegiance to you. If I could think back that far… If the thrice-made promise had not been made…’

  ‘But it was.’

  Lost among those earlier times, Brien mused, ‘Stephen and I were as close as men could be… What did he call me, his lifelong friend? If I had earned that title, I would have been second only to him in this country, or anyway, on a level with his brother bishop… I could have given my son such an inheritance…’

  ‘You made your choice,’ Matilda said tonelessly. ‘And you repeated it again and again.’

  ‘Yes!’ Brien roared, making both women flinch. ‘Yes, I did! But I swore fealty to his daughter, not to you!’

  ‘I am his daughter!’

  ‘You think so? Do you think so by a single action? King Henry’s daughter? You?

  ‘No, sweet Matilda. You are his daughter because we have said so. Stephen made himself king with less. But you, who have had blood and lineage and the help of thousands, you are no more his daughter than I am, what? The father of your child?’

  She drew herself erect in the chair. ‘So now we come to it. This extraordinary delusion of yours. This earnest, indeed supremely arrogant belief that I should have chosen you to father my son. You have already told me that Lady Alyse knows all there is to know, so I shall not be causing her any distress. But you and I, Fitz Count, we had our night, and you were happy enough to thrust forward then, I remember, and it was over and finished. Or so I thought.’

  Brien glanced at his wife. She smiled at him and said, ‘I enjoy a well-told tale.’ Then, to Matilda, ‘Pray continue, Empress. I am as anxious as you to understand my lord’s delusions. And my own, for I shared them from the start.’

  ‘Think what you will,’ Matilda dismissed. ‘I made passing mention of the colour of my son’s hair—’

  ‘Which was what it is now. Red. A strong, bright red. It was never grey,’ Brien pressed. ‘I’ve checked. Nor was it green, or black. Henry was always a redhead, and the only reason – if reason is the word – the only reason you invented the story was to arouse my wife’s curiosity and test your power over me. But what did you hope to gain? Did you imagine I would come clamouring to you at Bristol? Did you think you would make a wound that could never be healed? What did you think, Empress, when you, yourself, say it was over and finished between us?’

  ‘He did have a few grey strands, at the start.’

  ‘No, he did not.’

  ‘As his mother, I should know.’

  ‘Yes, you should. And I grant you this; you knew what you were doing, and what you were saying, and what you expected to achieve. You have always known, that’s the tragedy. No one can ever say of you that you made a mistake through ignorance, for you are altogether too knowing. Your cousin the king – he blunders and falters, but there is something about him that encourages forgiveness. He’s an uncommanding figure, and his moustache withers on his lips, and he needs to be chained to his advisers. But you are a horse of a different colour, Lady of England. You put yourself above such frailties. Not for you the slip of the tongue. You know what you have said before you say it, which is why, here, in this house, you are condemned out of your own mouth.’ He gave a deep sigh and concluded, ‘God gave you so much of advantage, lady. Why could you not have used it to the advantage of England?’

  Breaking the long silence that followed, Alyse said, ‘There was a third thing.’

  ‘Not important,’ Brien murmured. ‘I would have mentioned that I was once in love with the empress, so find her cruelties all the more wounding. But it’s valueless talk. There’s no sack so flat as the one emptied of affection.’

  Matilda sat rigid in her chair, her face sallow with strain. The flicker of flames mingled with the shadows and with Brien’s shape as he moved to the half-open door. He stood there, seeing nothing beyond the smudges of torchlight on the walls. Then he heard Matilda’s voice, low-pitched and anxious. ‘Well, my lord? Will you take charge for me? After all you have said… As you see, I am asking, not commanding… Will you – please – further the cause?’

&nb
sp; ‘It’s an unnecessary question,’ Brien told the darkness. ‘You know I must. So you know I will.’

  * * *

  In the first few weeks of 1148, Empress Matilda sailed for Normandy. She bade her supporters au revoir. But that was inexact. She should have said adieu.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Alone

  February 1148 – February 1150

  The expected attack did not materialise; at least, not then. Stephen’s troops patrolled the roads around Wallingford and set up watch-towers along the southern ridge of the Chiltern Hills. The king sent the rebel leader several ultimata, all of which Brien Fitz Count rejected.

  ‘The situation is now as it has ever been. You may think that because we have lost Robert, Earl of Gloucester, and Miles of Hereford, we are unable to go on. You may think that because Empress Matilda has left England we are unwilling to go on. You may think, in short, what you will. But the situation maintains, and the war will end when you surrender the crown. Until then, we will hold what we have, trusting in the Lord God and the righteousness of our cause.’

  It was a brave response, and was circulated among the rebel barons. But it was not entirely accurate, for Matilda’s departure seemed dangerously akin to desertion, and a number of her party switched sides. Brien tried to convince himself that she had gone to raise help, and would soon return, accompanied by her husband or young Prince Henry. The belief flickered for a while, then died. She would not return. She had no intention of returning. The fight – that others had carried on in her name – had gone out of her.

  But if Matilda had lost heart, her supporters had by no means lost the war. They still controlled all but half the country, and Stephen ranged the length and breadth of England, damping the fires of insurrection. Time after time he prepared to launch an attack against Wallingford, only to be distracted by other, more urgent outbreaks. His inherent weaknesses rose to the surface, and his sleep was once again riddled with suspicion and mistrust. Men who thought him their friend found themselves under arrest, their lands confiscated, their wealth appropriated by the royal treasurer. He spurned his brother’s advice, and the tempestuous pair parted for the hundredth time in their lives. Bishop Henry withdrew to Winchester, where he devoted himself to his menagerie and his enviable collection of European statuary. Brother Stephen could run himself ragged, chasing real and imagined enemies. Or he could come cap in hand and beg forgiveness. It was up to him. He was, after all, the king, and free to choose.

  So the year turned, and Wallingford remained unassailed. It withstood the natural onslaught of winter, and the snow melted, and the country made ready for its fourteenth year of civil strife…

  * * *

  In April 1149, Henry of Anjou – now better known as Henry Plantagenet after the sprig of golden broom, the Vlanta genista, he had taken as his crest – returned to England. He was sixteen years of age, already bow-legged from riding, his temper sharpened by the knowledge that his earlier visit had ended in failure. On that occasion his enemy had paid his fare home; this time he made sure he arrived with a full purse.

  There were two reasons for his visit, the first that he had come to receive the buffet of knighthood from his great-uncle, King David of Scotland.

  It was now generally accepted by the rebel party that Empress Matilda had abandoned all hope of becoming queen. Instead, she, and they, would support Henry Plantagenet and offer England a new king. Those barons who had always been averse to a female monarch could transfer their allegiance to Henry and still honour their thrice-made vows. He was young and headstrong, but he had the makings of a king and he compared favourably with the precipitate Stephen.

  Thus the show of unity with the hard-voiced David. His formal acceptance of Henry allowed the barons to press forward with a clear conscience. Like mother, David told them, like son.

  The second reason for the visit had been a close-kept secret, and it was not until Henry had travelled the length of England to join King David at Carlisle that his suspicions were allayed. What he had heard had seemed so unlikely, so far-fetched, that he had treated it as nothing more than a wishful rumour. But it was a fact – the brutal and powerful Ranulf of Chester had once again decided to change sides.

  Earl Ranulf, the Moustache, had had quite enough of King Stephen. Or, put another way, he had had nothing of him. For the last two years he had fought alongside the king, and safeguarded his own vast territories in the north. And his reward? Effusions of praise, and the odd, two-a-penny trinket. No lands, honours or concessions. No rights or shrievalties. Not even a sack of coins, or a set of plate. Just words and smiles and promises as hollow as a drainpipe. We are grateful to you, Lord Ranulf, and accept this token of our esteem, and we will assuredly advance you before long…

  Ranulf cast his memory back eight years, to that snow-swept day at Lincoln, when he and Stephen had faced each other beneath the castle walls. The earl’s prismatic memory had distorted the incident, and he conveniently overlooked the fact that Stephen had knocked him off his feet with a borrowed axe. Instead, he saw himself as the victor, and regretted that he had not finished the king, there and then.

  Fortunately, the mistake could still be remedied. If not there and then, some other place, and soon.

  So it was that the two redheads, Henry and Ranulf, came together under King David’s roof. On 22nd May, the young Plantagenet was knighted by the king. Next day, Henry and Ranulf swore homage to David as Lord of Carlisle, the town that Ranulf had always regarded as his, by inheritance. In return, the Scottish monarch gave Ranulf the honour of Lancaster. To seal the bargain, one of King David’s granddaughters was betrothed to Ranulf’s son, and both men then affirmed their support for Henry, as future King of England.

  Each of them had profited by the agreement, and the meeting degenerated into an orgy of fellow-feeling. Pounding the tables, the wine-warmed trio decided to put their drawing power to the test. They would raise an army and move against York, Stephen’s northern stronghold.

  ‘He’s been singularly unsuccessful in the south, where we lack any leader except Fitz Count of Wallingford, so how will he do up here, with us three against him? He’ll soil his legs at the sight of us!’

  ‘You’ll be king by autumn, Henry.’

  ‘And you, my dear Ranulf, will pick and choose your rewards.’

  ‘When do we show ourselves to the people?’’

  ‘Soon,’ David growled. ‘As soon as we hear the cellar’s run dry.’

  * * *

  Brien waited for his four-year-old son to finish a long and exaggerated description of a juggler he had seen in town, then asked Alyse, ‘Will you give him to Edgiva again? I want your views on this.’ He held up a letter, and went over to re-read it in the window alcove. Alyse steered the chattering child to the solar entrance. The maidservant emerged from her room at the head of the stairway and grinned down at the boy. ‘What now, master Alan? Am I to bear out one of your stories?’

  Alyse said, ‘If he has not entirely exhausted you, will you take charge of him for a while longer?’

  ‘Did he tell you about the travelling fair?’

  ‘In detail. I doubt if their performance has ever received such rapturous acclaim. Did the juggler really spin silver dishes on the point of a spear?’

  ‘What?’ Edgiva laughed. ‘Is that how he saw it? He’ll be a troubadour, your son. He’ll tour the courts of Europe, telling his tales. The silver dishes were only clay plates, and the spear was a stick. But, yes, he did spin them.’ She shook her head, bemused by the boy’s inventiveness. Her own son, the ten-year-old Alder, was as much like his father as Morcar was like Constable Varan. Alder never embellished, but rather stripped the embroidery from life and redressed it in plain garb. If he saw a high-stepping Arab stallion, he called it a horse. If Alan saw a farmyard pig, he told how he had escaped from a wild, tusky boar.

  She took the child by the hand, and Alyse thanked her and went back into the solar. Noting Brien’s serious expression, she closed
and barred the door.

  ‘What is it, husband? Another of Stephen’s final warnings?’ ‘In a sense, though it is not yet directed at us.’ He stood facing the room, the summer sun on his back. ‘This is from a man I know in the north. He has always proved reliable before, so I believe him now.’ He read aloud, relaying the writer’s account of the union between King David and Prince Henry and Earl Ranulf. But that was only part of the letter. The rest, the all-important section, described how the trio had raised an army and advanced on York.

  ‘You might think, Lord Fitz Count, that with three such leaders, all opposition would crumble. And it would have done so, had they buttressed their talk with action. But they are mules, these three. They bray and kick, but they don’t go down the road.’

  ‘He’s very obtuse,’ Alyse commented. ‘What is he trying to say?’

  Brien discarded the letter. ‘You’re right; he does decorate. But what he is saying, in his own way, is that the King of Scotland, and the Plantagenet, and that turncloak Ranulf gave ample warning of their intentions. By the time they had assembled their army, Stephen had assembled his. And his was twice the size.’

  ‘And the attack on York?’

  ‘They never reached it. Stephen got there first, and confronted them with an overwhelming force.’ He referred to the letter, hoping that he had mis-read it. But it was all there, penned in dark green ink.

  ‘They were never even brought to battle. King David has withdrawn to Carlisle, and there’s talk of him going back over the border. Ranulf has retired to Chester. The Plantagenet has fled to Bristol. Fled; that’s the word used here.’ He turned the letter in his hands. ‘A short-lived resurrection, wouldn’t you say?’