The Villains of the Piece

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

  Almost twenty years of marriage to Brien Fitz Count had given Alyse a clear understanding of military strategy. ‘So he’s broken our back in the north, and now he’ll come against us here.’

  ‘I believe so, yes. For once in his life, Stephen’s impetuosity has worked in his favour. I don’t know what those three had in mind, but they seriously underestimated the king. My God, they must have been shaken to the bones when they saw the size of his army.’

  Alyse crossed the room and stood, dwarfed by the statue Varan had commissioned. She ran a finger over Brien’s wooden shoulder, then over the wooden child in her arms. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We keep our eyes wide, that’s what. We’ve waited long enough for it, and it’s about due.’ He tossed the letter on to the window seat and came forward, as though jealous of the crudely-carved replica. He took Alyse’s hands in his and said, ‘I wish I could find some easy way—’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ she told him. ‘Anyway, I don’t want my coffin greased. Tell me as you would tell Varan or Morcar. All I ask is that you tell me first. You say he will come for us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And in earnest?’

  ‘He must, if he is to follow up his success. He has never been so well placed before. The other leaders are scattered. Worse, they have been defeated without a fight. And, however powerful David is in Scotland, or Ranulf in the north, they will not unite again. As for Henry, he’ll probably go home and tell his mother.’

  ‘I see. Then it only leaves us.’

  Brien turned away abruptly. Us she had said, and that was right, for whatever happened to him would happen to her and Alan.

  Shielding his emotions with a smile, he echoed, ‘Then it only leaves us. We’ve been hemmed-in here a damn long time, but the south looks to Wallingford for leadership, and always will. Every day we resist, the south resists, and the cause is kept alive. And if we fall—’ He shrugged.

  ‘He tried it once,’ Alyse said. ‘Do you remember? We burned his siege machines, and Miles of Hereford came along and destroyed his watch-towers.’

  ‘I remember, but he’ll not fall into the same trap again. And there’s no Miles of Hereford to dig us out. An arrow bounced off a tree… Jesus, that was a tragedy…’ He released her hands and said, ‘It might be as well for you to take Alan to Bristol. The place is impregnable, and—’

  ‘I pray you, don’t go on. I, too, have waited overlong, but I do not intend to be absent when the king calls.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Brien said. ‘He’ll do his best to kill us. There’ll be no parleys, or offers of friendship. He’ll flatten this place if he can. He must, for whether we like it or not, we are the last symbol of resistance in the south.’

  ‘And the very first rock may catch Alan, is that what you fear?’

  ‘Or you.’

  ‘So I’m to run away from that, and from you, and from this place where I’ve lived all my life. You say you’re serious, and I know you are. But I also know I’ve earned your respect through the years—’

  ‘You had it from the first day.’

  ‘You have never made me act against my beliefs.’

  ‘No, I trust—’

  ‘Then you’ve waited too long to start now.’ She moved away from the statue and went over to study their other valued possession, the hammered silver mirror bequeathed to Brien by his father, Alan Ironglove. Again, she touched it with her fingers, tracing the engraved border. ‘We have built up to this meeting,’ she said. ‘It comes as no surprise to us. We are against the king, all of us. So either we stay, you and I, and Varan, and Morcar and his wife, and that up-and-coming soldier Ernard and his woman, yes, and Alan and Alder and the other children, or we leave the place empty and in flames.’

  ‘Is that your last word?’ he asked gently.

  ‘It was my last word,’ Alyse told him, ‘from the first.’

  * * *

  Stephen’s show of force at York brought his brother hot-foot from Winchester. Careful to conceal his astonishment, Bishop Henry congratulated the king and attempted to patch up their latest quarrel.

  Making light of it, Henry said, ‘You no longer need my advice, it seems,’ and was promptly told, ‘No, I do not. I grant you, you were of value in the early years, and I have not forgotten that it was you who laid the path to the throne. But it’s as well that we understand each other. You have always told me to ponder on my actions, to test the water as it were. But I plunged in this time and have emerged victorious. It shows—’

  ‘That you were lucky,’ Henry snarled, ‘nothing more. I came here in good faith, to re-establish fraternal friendship with you, and I find you smitten with the plague of arrogance. You were lucky, brother! They gave you too much warning, and you had time to assemble your army. I’m surprised by your success, but not by your reaction. It’s typical of you, and one time out of twenty it has worked to your advantage. But don’t let it go to your head. You are no peerless general, and we have yet to see you show any tactical sense. We’ve been at war with the Angevins for fifteen years, and they still run half the country. Capture the Plantagenet, or the dogged Fitz Count, and then we’ll let you preen and prance. Until then, think yourself lucky, for that’s all you are.’

  Stephen no longer worried his moustache. That nervous mannerism had been mastered. Instead, he treated the bishop to an expression he had practised in the mirror; that of the brilliant pupil made bitterly aware of his tutor’s shortcomings.

  ‘If you have nothing better to offer than selfish recrimination, I suggest you go back to your ostriches. Or are they peacocks?’

  ‘Both,’ Henry retorted, ‘and each with more right to preen than you will ever have. My sweet brother… Mistaking the taste of Luck, which has always been in your mouth, with the untried fruit of Success. Should you need me, send word to Winchester. If I am not otherwise engaged, I shall be happy to correct your mistakes.’ His bow-like mouth twisted into a sneer, the corpulent bishop hurried for home.

  In truth, Stephen was glad to see him go. He felt his brother had dominated him long enough. Now, armed with the victory at York, he would start south and deal a death-blow to his most determined enemy, his lifelong friend…

  * * *

  The two men stood on the crenellated turret of Alyse’s Tower. They were both wrapped in wolfskin cloaks, their hands buried in fur-lined mittens, their heads concealed beneath woollen hoods and the metal hoods of their hauberks and plain pot helmets and outer cowls, again of wolfskin. Even so, they shivered with cold and blinked tears from their eyes.

  They peered eastward across the river and over the snowcapped forest. Ernard waited for the flurries of snow to clear, then, taking an arrow from its quiver, pointed with it and said, ‘There. Where the gully ends. They’re clearing the ground.’

  Brien squinted along the shaft. ‘I see it.’ He straightened up as a fresh flurry obscured the view. ‘Why’ve they stopped there?’

  Ernard shook his head.

  Throughout the past month, the first of 1150, the occupants of Wallingford Castle had listened to the rhythmical thud of axe on wood and the splintering crash of felled trees. They had soon traced the sounds to that section of the forest due east of the castle and directly opposite the gate tower. Two scouts had been sent across the river to learn what they could about this mid-winter industry. Only one of the men had returned, mortally wounded, but he had lived long enough to deliver his report.

  Out there, he had gasped, a mile beyond the east bank of the Thames, Stephen’s troops were cutting a wide road through the forest. From what he had seen, the enemy were advancing more than fifty yards a day. He wished he could give Lord Fitz Count a fuller description, but he and his companion had been spotted by royalist archers, and it was only by the grace of God that he had managed to get back across…

  The road-makers were now within three hundred yards of the riverbank. If they maintained their remarkable rate of progress they would be through the forest in a week. So why
the clearing? And why there?

  Brien brushed irritably at his eyes, and leaned forward as though the few inches would clarify the view. He told Ernard to wait for a break in the snow, then loose an arrow at the new-made road. ‘See if you can overshoot the clearing.’

  They lost sight of the arrow as it dipped towards the trees, but it told Brien what he wanted to know.

  ‘That’s why they’ve halted there, to widen out. It’s for protective missiles.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘The woodsmen – they are almost within arrow range. They’ll need protection if they are to cut right through to the bank. The clearing is to make room for a line of catapults.’ He expelled his breath as smoke. ‘We’ll be under attack by tomorrow, soldier, unless we foul their nest.’

  Ernard made a vague gesture towards the north. ‘Why doesn’t the king place his machines out there? Flat fields—’

  ‘He remembers what happened to him at Lincoln, when he was caught in the open. No, he’s doing the right thing. I’m the one at fault. I should have remembered it.’

  Eager to commiserate, Ernard said, ‘Well, even if he lets fly at us from the forest, and his men do cut through to the bank, how will they get across the river? The road is a long way north of the ford.’

  ‘It is, but he has the materials at hand. He’ll use the felled trees to make rafts, maybe even a floating bridge. If he attacks us from all sides…’ His thought swallowed his words, and he turned his back on the scene.

  If they come from all sides… But he will not be caught in the open… He’ll launch his main attack through the forest… Yes, we’ll probably see a complete bridge, run forward on rollers… Christ, I’m marked down for this… I should have sensed it…

  He prowled back and forth across the gate tower, and for the next few moments used Ernard as a sounding board.

  ‘We’ll go out tonight. How many bladders and waterskins are there in the place?’

  ‘I suppose, uh, two or three to each man. Some extra ones in the stores.’

  ‘Fill them with pitch. I’ve seen some barrels of that around. Set up a cauldron in the yard, so the pitch can be heated and pour easily. Nice warm work on a winter’s night. Now then, how many men? We must keep the noise down. Twenty, would you say?’

  ‘In the sortie, my lord?’

  ‘Not more, or they’ll hear us coming. And rags around our feet.’ He looked at Ernard without seeing him, and asked, ‘When were the boats last tested?’

  ‘Constable Varan had them in water a week ago.’

  ‘That’s good. Can we get ten in each boat?’

  ‘We’ve had as many as twelve—’

  ‘And torches. And flints. We can’t take a light with us.’ He stopped pacing, re-examined the plan, then told his bewildered companion, ‘This is what I want. Find Varan and Morcar and send them to me. I’ll be in the conference chamber in the keep. Then make a collection of skins and bladders; wine or water, it doesn’t matter. Have the barrels and cauldron set up in the outer yard, and detail some of the kitchen servants to fill the skins. They should know what they’re doing, they’ve poured soup often enough. Any women you see, tell them to tear strips of rag and pile them beside the barrels.’

  My own woman, Emard thought. Eadgyth. I’ll put her in charge.

  ‘Bring the boats out of store,’ Brien continued, ‘and bind the oars and rowlocks with rags.’ He drummed a fist against his mittened palm. ‘What else?’

  ‘The torches and—’

  ‘Yes, well done. Torches and flints, a dozen of each. I want the torches well soaked in pitch, so they catch alight at the first spark. Right, that’s it.’

  Like the reliable soldier he was, Emard repeated the orders, then hurried down the steps. He was not quite sure what Brien Fitz Count intended, but whatever it was it had a decisive ring.

  * * *

  At dusk the raiding-party assembled in the outer bailey. During the afternoon the constable and sergeant had chosen the seventeen who would go with them. Now, joining them in the yard, Brien realised there had been some misunderstanding.

  He beckoned to Varan and Morcar and led them away from the waiting group. The seventy-year-old Constable of Wallingford limped after his master. It was as much as he could do to walk in a straight line, for his left side was almost paralysed. Beside him came Morcar, less than half his age, strong and muscular. Sergeant Morcar, impatient to try on Varan’s shoes.

  ‘This is wrong,’ Brien told them. ‘We three cannot all go. I know each of you is as anxious as the other to strike a blow, but if the boat sinks, who leads Wallingford?’

  ‘You should stay,’ Varan said flatly. ‘You’ve told us what to do, and we’re able to do it.’

  Morcar gazed pointedly at his mentor’s deadened leg. ‘With respect, Constable, it’s you who should stay. Climbing in and out of the boat, then having to creep about among the trees—’ He broke off as Varan lurched towards him. ‘You think I’ll alert the enemy, eh? A touch of cramp, and you judge me infirm? Why, you natural know-nothing, I’ll be the one to pick you up when you’ve stumbled!’

  ‘Enough of this!’ Brien snapped. ‘No one said you’re infirm. And you put a foot on your opinions, Morcar.’ His gaze swung from one to the other, though he already knew in whose favour he would decide.

  He looked at Varan, the man who, at fourteen, had accompanied Brien’s father, Ironglove, on the first Christian Crusade. For twenty-five years the Saxon had ridden at Ironglove’s shoulder. And for twenty-five years after that he had devoted himself to Wallingford and Lady Alyse and Count Alan’s bastard. It was a long time.

  He looked at Morcar, another Saxon who, through his own abilities, had risen from the ranks. True, it was Varan who had singled him out for advancement, but Morcar had proved himself worthy of selection. Brien would be pleased to have him as constable, one day.

  Varan again. A touch of cramp? No, something far more serious. In his absence, members of the garrison called him Stonehead, but there was no longer any humour in the title, for the left side of his body did, indeed, seem to be turning to stone. Each year it grew worse. Each winter the immobility came earlier, and stayed later with the spring. Only in the hot, mid-summer months did Varan recapture his stride and find a use for his stiffened hand.

  Morcar again. No such problem there. He’d move silently among the trees, quick and sure-footed. No real chance of him stumbling, or shouldering snow from the branches.

  But fifty years was a long time. After that a man deserved to choose how he would spend the night.

  Brien nodded at Morcar. ‘You’ll command here while we’re away. If the castle comes under attack you will set the pitch barrels alight. We should see the glow, even in the forest.’ He nodded again, this time in dismissal. Morcar snatched the edge of his cloak, as though slamming a door, then plunged away into the darkness. Later he would accept Brien’s decision. But later Brien himself would be consumed by doubt.

  The raiding-party had wrapped the rags around their boots. They had discarded their link-mail hauberks for fear they would chink and rattle, and were now shivering in plain woollen tunics and short, rabbitskin cloaks. They carried no bows or crossbows, and Brien told a few of them to get rid of their spears.

  ‘Knives only at this meal. Right; we’ve found you four bladders apiece. Hang them around your necks, so you can keep one hand over them. Twelve of you collect torches and flints. The rest carry out the boats. And I’ll say this once. The only voices you’ll hear will be mine or Varan’s. I won’t be gentle with anyone who speaks.’ He unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it to one of the remaining garrison. Then he looped his share of the pitch-filled bladders around his neck and signalled to the gate guards to open up.

  The boats were carried out and lowered on to the river. The ice cracked beneath the hulls. One by one the soldiers lowered themselves into the broad-beamed tubs. One of the last men in caught a wine-skin on the edge of the boat. The skin split and warm pitch oozed across his che
st and dripped on to his bare knees. He stifled a curse, whilst those beside him grinned at his discomfort.

  Brien and Varan joined their crews. The boats were pushed away from the bank, and the chosen oarsmen swung the craft in mid-stream, so the leaders would be first ashore. The current swept the boats down river, but the Thames was less than sixty yards wide along this stretch, and they quickly bumped against the east bank.

  Brien clambered out, then glanced surreptitiously at Varan. The constable had straddled the bow, but he could not raise his left leg quickly enough and the boat began to drift away from the bank. There was a splash and a sharp hiss of suppressed anger, and he hauled himself ashore, his body soaked below the waist. The crews followed, peering in among the trees.

  However, they were first made to haul the craft upstream, well past the castle. Now, if they were forced to retreat in a hurry, the current would, with luck, carry them down to the launching point. The boats were moored to deep-rooted trees, and the raiders moved inland.

  Snow, which had over-laden the upper branches of the trees, fell like cold phosphorus, breaking apart as it hit the lower limbs. It caught some of the men as they passed underneath, but the constant falls covered the sounds of advance. Brien leaned close to Varan to mouth instructions, and the raiders spread out. The warlord had counted his steps and estimated the line was now one hundred yards from the clearing. It was again time to divide the force.

  Leaving Varan to pass on his instructions to the right-hand section, Brien edged over to the other end of the line. There he told four of the men to continue on another five hundred paces, then move across and block the road. Five hundred paces would take the men past the clearing and, with Varan’s four, the detachment would cut off all escape. They went forward, each wearing an extra cloak of snow.