The Villains of the Piece

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

  * * *

  Alyse hurried to share the news with Brien. Kneeling beside the bed, she told him his loyalty had at last been rewarded.

  ‘Amply rewarded, for there is not another man in the country who could stir such feelings. They have come to save you, my lord. It’s no party thing, this incredible response. It is a personal act of love. And unbesought, remember that. I have issued no appeal, nor even bruited your illness. They have heard about it somehow or other, and decided for themselves. Twelve thousand of them, so the messenger said, and more arriving all the time. I thank God that you have—’

  ‘What?’ he whispered. ‘Lived to enjoy it? Don’t be foolish, sweet. It was all a ruse. Now that I have lured them here, I can start my recovery.’

  She nodded, playing the game with him. Then, looking at his sunken features, and the patches of pale skin where his hair had come away in handfuls, she said, ‘You’re too intense an actor, Brien Fitz Count. You overplay the part.’

  * * *

  Faced with the threat of pitched battle, Stephen withdrew his army to Oxford. His own features had taken on a greyish pallor, as though he realised the finality of the move. Bishop Flenry rode up from Winchester, not to attempt a further reconciliation with his brother, but to ask him what kind of creature he was these days, a king at war, or some romantic figment?

  ‘You had them in the bowl of your hand, the only pair with enough authority to unite the Angevins! You had them, and you let them go. Oh, yes, beloved lady, take time to think… I shall sit here and count my teeth with the tip of my tongue… And when that’s done, I’ll polish my crown, or cheat at chess… . Take all the time you need. Why not? This is only the spearpoint of the rebel line, commanded by my most efficient and implacable enemy… Now you must excuse me, dear lady. Someone has brought a tapestry for me to embroider…’

  ‘Why don’t you shut your mouth!’ Stephen snarled. ‘I was not to know this would happen. The Angevins have never stirred themselves like this before. Anyhow, it’s not too late.’

  ‘For what?’ Henry queried maliciously. ‘Not too late for what? To surrender the crown?’

  ‘To meet them on the field, what else? Fitz Count is at death’s door. He won’t be there, and without a firm leader—’

  ‘Then it’s a widespread problem, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘You think I am incapable of leading an army?’

  ‘I think you were absent when we beat the Scots at Northallerton, at the Battle of the Standard. I think you were present when we were routed at Lincoln. No, you were not routed; you were captured. And I think it was only the size of your force that panicked King David and Earl Ranulf and the Plantagenet at York last year. In short, I don’t like to think about it at all, for if you do fight here, and lose, it will be over for you.’

  ‘But not for you, eh, you gross, self-opinionated—’

  ‘No. Not for me. I can always make myself useful. You see, brother, I am not only a wealthy landowner, and well versed in politics, but also a man of God. And, if bad becomes worse, and I lose my position in the Church, I can sell my statuary, or write that book I promised myself, the one on wild animals. But I am no real danger to the Angevins, as they know. They’ll keep me around, if only to do what you no longer let me do – advise and, what did you say, opinionate?’

  ‘You are well prepared,’ Stephen said.

  Henry beamed, showing several fresh folds of skin. ‘I always was, brother. One never knows when the weather will change.’

  The king allowed himself a long, nervous sigh. He listened to the sounds of Oxford, given a harsh timbre by the influx of soldiery. His scouts had told him that the rebel force had encamped around Wallingford and were prepared to stay there until Doomsday. If the king wanted a fight, he would have to ride fifteen miles for it. After all, his adversaries had travelled a hundred miles or more from the West Country.

  He glanced at Henry, spoke too quietly for the question to be heard, then asked again, ‘Would you attack them?’

  ‘I hope that’s not a personal request!’ Henry laughed. ‘It’s all I can do to get on a horse these days.’

  ‘Bishop—’

  ‘Yes, yes, there’s no need to glower. I know what you mean. And don’t torture your moustache. I thought you’d cured yourself of that.’

  ‘In God’s name! Answer the question!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You refuse to—’

  ‘No, I would not attack them. They are there for one reason or, rather, one person. You would be better advised to wait for him to die. Or, if you can arrange it, have him killed.’

  ‘Send someone in to murder Fitz Count? Do you really think I would employ such methods?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘No, King, I do not. But that’s another worry I have always had about you.’ It was nearly midday, and he was hungry. He walked away in search of food, leaving Stephen to roll an uprooted moustache hair between his fingers.

  * * *

  After that, the current ran fast against the king. Brien Fitz Count did not die but, as he had promised, started to recover. He was fifty now, and terribly weakened by injury and illness. But he was determined to visit the rebel army and let them see that the patient was up and about. It would take weeks, perhaps months, for he dared not risk a relapse. But his compeers had already been to see him, two and three at a time, and had assured him they were in no hurry. They had worked out an elaborate rota system, whereby there were never less than eight thousand men around Wallingford. Supply routes were kept open from the south and west, and the contingents took it in turn to ride home and rest and till their fields. The presence of the army, so near Oxford, forced Stephen to match their numbers. The temptation to raid the unguarded western counties was almost irresistible, but he knew that if he deserted Oxford, the important crossing-point would fall to the Angevins.

  However, he did not remain completely inactive, and launched a half-hearted attack against Worcester. He succeeded in razing the town – an act that typified his frustration – but failed to reduce the nearby castle. Nevertheless, he proclaimed it a victory, which it was, over civilians.

  In July, Brien walked out of the gates of Wallingford and into the rebel camp. Men interrupted their dice games to cheer him, and bodyguards were hastily recruited to prevent the enthusiastic soldiers sweeping him off his feet.

  He had lost a quarter of his weight, and henceforth it was rare to hear anyone use the term Greylock. It sounded too much like an insult, for his illness had left him tonsured, like a monk.

  In a low-pitched voice he addressed the army, thanking them, not so much for having saved Wallingford, as for showing King Stephen and, yes, Empress Matilda and Count Geoffrey of Anjou, that the great and dead King Henry of England had not been forgotten, and that even in the midst of anarchy, there were men who honoured their vows.

  He made no mention of the hundreds among them who had thought of changing sides, or done so. What was past was past. All that mattered was that the cause had been saved and that Stephen was still regarded as a usurper, fifteen years after he had snatched the crown.

  ‘We have not yet won,’ he told them, ‘but we are as close to winning as we have ever been. We have been deserted and abandoned, defeated in battle, and taught to survive the loss of our greatest leaders. Many of us, even knights and barons, are as poor as wood-cutters. We did not expect this, nor are we happy about it. But we would be far poorer if we had traded our vows for money, or ploughed our loyalties into a gift of land.

  ‘There are some who have prospered from the war, as they always will. But those creatures have a bubble of air for a conscience, and swill-water in place of honour. We are all fallible, God knows. I own one or two possessions with which I would not readily part, so perhaps I am not as impoverished as I make out. But there is a difference, I think, and your presence here illuminates it. You will get no money from this venture, and very few of you wil
l be advanced. But you knew that before you started out, and still you are here. I tell you, though it will not bring the taste of wine to your tongue, or ripen the corn in your fields, you are rich, every one of you, for you have been true to your beliefs. So am I, messires, though I would ask you not to raid my larder.’

  He climbed down from the cart on which he had been standing, and spent the rest of the day with the army. His army. He could say that now.

  * * *

  The next twelve months passed almost without incident. It was scarcely a time of peace, for both sides kept their hands on their swords. But the leaders stood, stooped over, leaning on the hilt. The civil war had occupied the greater part of their adult lives, and they were tired. Stephen and Brien were both over fifty. It was not an age that brought senility with it, and there were many, like Varan, who lived to be seventy and beyond. But at fifty a man glanced around for a chair, and edged over to the hearth. He thought of death more often, and conserved his strength.

  But death, when it came, moved farther down the line to claim one of the younger protagonists.

  In the autumn of 1151, Count Geoffrey of Anjou was following the river road from Paris to his capital, Angers. The weather was hot and overcast, and every few miles he interrupted his journey to swim in the Loire. His companions declined to join him, though they denied it was because they feared water demons.

  ‘Ah, you protest too loudly,’ Geoffrey taunted them. ‘Splash about, and they’ll keep their distance.’

  Two days later he was stricken with fever and, on 7th September, he died at home. He was thirty-five years old.

  He left his son, the young Plantagenet, the vast inheritance of Anjou and Normandy; but Geoffrey had never set foot in England, the centrepiece of the struggle. Matilda and Henry saw him buried, then walked away, their arms linked, as though each was supporting the other in their hour of grief. Anyone who had had the ill-grace to eavesdrop on the bereaved pair would have heard them discussing the attributes of a woman named Eleanor…

  * * *

  In May 1152, two events occurred to sweep the current still faster against the king. The first struck a direct and personal blow against him, for on 3rd May his wife died. All her life she had shown constraint and self-discipline and, throughout her marriage to Stephen, she had helped curb his impetuousness. He had held the reins of power, but, more often than not, he had allowed his queen to draw them tight.

  Understandably, her death unnerved him, and he embarked on a series of short-lived campaigns. He attacked Wallingford, and was beaten off, then by-passed it in an attempt to capture less well-defended castles. He achieved one or two victories – mere grains in the salt pot – but his disorganised forays were terminated by news of the second event. He heard that on 18th May, Henry Plantagenet had married the ex-wife of King Louis of France; the twenty-nine-year-old Eleanor of Aquitaine. This woman, who would one day bear two future kings of England – Richard the Lionheart and John Lackland- bestowed upon her new husband the vast duchy of Aquitaine, and so made him the most formidable landowner in Christendom. He was already Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy. All that remained was to become King of England.

  * * *

  One hundred and forty knights,’ Brien said, ‘and more than three thousand foot-soldiers.’ He handed Alyse the letter, and she read the Plantagenet’s message. He had landed, he wrote, at Wareham, and was on his way to Wallingford. The letter was dated 6th January, five days ago.

  ‘Then he’ll soon be here.’

  Brien nodded, then stooped in front of the metal mirror. ‘I remember the first time I met him. That was at Wareham. He was a squalling brat in those days, fighting with the guards, running around with lungs like bellows. He asked me if my hair was dead. I invited him to pull it – which he did – but I can’t risk that again. One good tug and I’ll be as bald as an egg.’

  ‘You look fine,’ Alyse told him. ‘It’s your vanity that shows, not your baldness.’

  ‘Hmm… Maybe so.’ He guided a few pale grey strands across the open patches, frowned at the result, then walked over to his clothes chest. ‘We should dress up for this; the return of our future king.’

  ‘Is that what you want?’ she asked. ‘Would you really welcome Henry as master of England?’

  Brien raised the lid of the chest, then turned back to his wife. ‘I don’t know,’ he mused. ‘He has come a long way since we last met. And he is Matilda’s son, so—’ He caught her eye, and a slow, gentle smile stretched his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ Alyse affirmed, ‘he’s Matilda’s son. And so?’

  ‘He has a direct claim to the throne. And now that he rules Normandy and Anjou and Aquitaine – Well, I think Stephen will be hard put to stop him.’

  Alyse nodded, Brien thought reluctantly.

  ‘Are you opposed to him? You never spoke of it before.’

  ‘No, it’s just that—’ She gathered her thoughts and continued, ‘We speak of the throne and the crown, and of claims and lineage, but we so rarely mention the people. What if Henry Plantagenet has inherited the worst of Matilda’s traits? We know he shares her quick temper, so why not her arrogance, and her distaste of commoners? Do you remember how she alienated the Londoners, how she threatened to reduce the city to ruins if they did not pay compensation for having supported her cousin? You say Stephen will be hard put to stop Henry. What I fear is that we may all find it hard. Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine; Count of Anjou; King of England. That’s a weight of titles.’

  ‘You’re condemning the horse before it runs.’

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘I have another animal in mind. I would rather say I am fearful that the offspring of a wildcat will also have claws.’

  Brien lifted his best robe from the chest, then laid it over the lid to let the creases fall. ‘Your fears may be justified,’ he said, ‘and I’ve nursed similar ones. But we both know the choice. Support those with the right to rule, and pray they’ll be worthy of their position, or treat the throne – yes, I’m speaking of it again – as the goal for every self-seeker in the land. The people are at the mercy of king and court, and always will be. But how much better to put them under the guidance of a man like Henry, who has at least been trained and schooled in the ways of monarchy, than some power-hungry creature like Ranulf of Chester.’

  ‘There is no choice, I agree. But can you say that the rightful heiress, Empress Matilda, would have been better than Stephen? He might have made a king, had we supported him from the first.’

  ‘Yes, he might. And so might his elder brother, Theobald, or Bishop Henry, or Robert of Gloucester. Or I. But, if it had been offered to us, it would have been offered to Earl Ranulf, and Geoffrey de Mandeville, and God knows who else. As you suggest, in time and with our help Stephen might have attained some stature. But the truth is this. He had no right to try.’

  ‘Someone’s sounding trumpets,’ she said. ‘We’d better dress.’

  * * *

  They met Henry in the outer yard, and accompanied him on a tour of Brien’s army. The Plantagenet was not yet twenty, though he looked twice that age. His passion for hunting had left its mark on his face and hands, and he was almost comically bow-legged. But no one smiled at his appearance, or gave more than a hastily-banished thought to his earlier visit, when he’d ran short of money. The circumstances had been different then. He had been young and foolhardy, a truant from his father’s court.

  But it was his court now, and in it he had found the money with which to buy men. This time, they knew, his visit was more than an adventure. He had come as a married man, laden with titles, to claim the greatest title of all. There was nothing humorous in that.

  He was dressed for battle, his stocky chest encased in a moulded iron tunic. Sensing Brien’s curiosity, he said, ‘Everybody asks about it. It’s a revival of the Roman style. A crossbow quarrel will tear straight through the links of a hauberk, but it hardly dents plate.’

  ‘It looks damned heavy.’

  ‘It
is,’ Henry grinned, ‘so it pays to keep fit.’

  ‘What happens if you’re knocked down? Isn’t it impossible—’ He stopped, warned off by Henry’s angry glance.

  ‘I’ve never been knocked down, Fitz Count, so I cannot answer you.’ Having aired the boast, his expression cleared and he said, ‘It wouldn’t be so difficult.’

  With a straight face, Brien said, ‘If one was fit enough, eh, Prince? With sufficient strength in the arms?’

  ‘Just so. You would roll over and push yourself up again. Anyway, it’s the common thing among my men. You’ll see several of them wearing plate.’ He strode on through the camp, nodding at the soldiers, and occasionally plunged left or right to drink a proffered mug of wine. His red hair and briar-torn face marked him out, and he enjoyed rapping his fist against the breast-plate and recommending it to the attendant barons.

  When he had quartered the camp he asked the leaders to accompany him to the northern perimeter. ‘Can I see Stephen’s force from there?’

  ‘No,’ Brien said. ‘They’re rooted at Oxford. We’ve been waiting for Stephen to attack, but he seems disinclined.’

  ‘How far away is he?’

  ‘Fifteen miles along the river.’

  ‘Yes, well, I want a meeting. There. He can stand there, on the other bank. We’ll talk across the water.’

  ‘As you wish, Prince, though why not meet him half-way, or allow him into the camp?’ As soon as he had asked, he knew the answer. Henry, with a voice that boomed, and Stephen, who employed other men to deliver his speeches. Vanity, he thought. Alyse is right; it shows in all of us.

  Henry studied the open ground to the north, then looked in the direction of the forest. ‘Arrange the meeting,’ he said, ‘and meanwhile lend me some guides.’