The Villains of the Piece

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

  Not sure he had heard right, Brien queried, ‘You want guards, my lord?’

  ‘Guides,’ the Plantagenet repeated. ‘Someone to take me hunting.’

  * * *

  Within days of Henry’s arrival at Wallingford, the Earl of Leicester defected to the Angevins. This was one of the men who had snarled at Robert of Gloucester across King Henry’s death-bed in the Forest of Lyons, insisting that the king had named Stephen, and not Matilda, as his successor. Now, eighteen years later, he changed sides, offering some thirty-five castles as his dowry. He was received with open arms, and another tract of England was sown with the Planta genista.

  Stephen began to despair. He ordered regular estimates of the rebel strength, and learned that it was on the increase. Men came to reaffirm their friendship with Brien Fitz Count, and to pay homage to the young Plantagenet. Twelve thousand, the scouts said; then fifteen; then not far short of twenty. And all the while there were defections from the royalist ranks.

  The king appealed to his brother to come and advise him. Yes, he was told, of course. Once I’ve met the Plantagenet.

  Stephen was invited to the riverbank meeting, but declined. He would not make a move until he had spoken with his brother. If the corpulent bishop said fight, he would fight. If he said talk, he would do his best to shout across the river.

  And if he said surrender?

  The royalists were temporarily heartened by the death of the Plantagenet’s great-uncle, King David of Scotland. But that had occurred in the north, and did not materially affect the situation at Wallingford.

  Stephen appealed to God to visit a plague upon the Angevins, then asked to speak with his dead wife. He gave exaggerated assurances, promising to found monasteries and hospitals, but he heard no voices, and his scouts reported the rebels in good health. Each time the king arose from his knees he felt more lonely, more desperate.

  His bishop-brother sent word that he was on his way, and that on no account was Stephen to move. Certain arrangements had been made, and the situation was well in hand.

  It was a time when even Brien and Alyse felt some sympathy for the king, for they had attended the conference between the Henrys, Plantagenet and Winchester, and they knew what the arrangements were.

  * * *

  The rebel army moved two miles north of Wallingford, then drew up in battle formation, facing the river. The east bank was devoid of trees at this point, and it was here the royalists assembled, also in battle formation, glaring across at their enemies. A spur of land jutted out into the river, and Stephen walked along it, closely followed by his barons. The ground was spongy underfoot, and he glanced anxiously at the water that swirled around the promontory. He wanted to tell his companions to move back, lest they sink the spur, but he knew they would not forego a close look at Henry Plantagenet. Instead, he settled for a nervous, ‘Far enough! Far enough! You’ll have me in the Thames!’ They stopped where they were, peering over shoulders and between helmeted heads.

  Bishop Henry stood immediately behind his brother, intoning a prayer for peace. A few days earlier, he had ridden up to Oxford to acquaint Stephen with the details of the conference. Or rather, with some of the details. Enough to get the king to the riverbank.

  They were kept waiting a while, and the mood of the armies soured in the sun. The royalists could see the Earl of Leicester and other latterday defectors, and roared their disgust. In reply, the Angevins singled out those who were known to have acted treasonably towards Empress Matilda, and treated them to a barrage of invective. Then some of the more excitable archers let fly across the river, and twenty thousand arrows were notched into bow-strings.

  Stephen yelled at his sergeants to control their men, while, on the west bank, Brien Fitz Count thundered along the line, vowing to hang the next archer who loosed a shaft. The arrows went back into the quivers, and the insults were muted.

  Then, accompanied by a phalanx of barons from Normandy, Aquitaine and Anjou, the red-haired Angevin rode to the front of his army. Brien came alongside, and Henry asked, ‘Is that him, out on the spur, that river-reed?’

  Suddenly annoyed by the description, Brien said, ‘Stephen of England, yes. You recognise his brother?’

  ‘A toad among the reeds. Very well, let’s get on with it. Who has the paper?’ One of the barons passed him a sealed scroll, and he dismounted – a boastful, balanced spring from the saddle. He landed without faltering and strode down to the river’s edge. Still wearing the plate armour, he slid his elbows back against his body, pushed the cloak away to expose the moulded iron. The royalists stared at the chest shield, then at the scarred, old-young face. Christ, they thought, who said he was only twenty?

  He reached the bank, felt it yield under his weight, and stepped back on to firmer ground. Then he raised the scroll, pointed it like a hollow finger at Stephen and boomed, ‘Henry, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, Count of Anjou, true son of Count Geoffrey of Anjou and the Empress Matilda. I address you, Stephen of Blois called King of England. I welcome you to this meeting, and am pleased you could finally find the courage to attend. Now, I have something to. But first I shall accept your rejoinder, so we may all hear you speak.’

  On the other side of the river the bishop murmured, ‘Pitch your voice deep, brother. He’s out to make you sound a fool.

  Stephen hesitated, then sucked air into his lungs, pushed his head down and shouted, ‘I thank you for your welcome – kinsman. I do not dispute your foreign titles, but you are no more to me than my cousin’s son. And I must correct you on a point of fact, once and for all. I am called king because I am king, make no mistake about it. If this meeting is to go forward, you will give me my title. If not, withdraw from the river. Courtesy, kinsman, or is that a foreign term in Anjou?’

  Well, well, his brother grinned, he must have been practising in the corridors at Oxford.

  Henry Plantagenet smothered his surprise. They told me he had a voice like a troubadour, all whine and whistle. Still, no matter. Plenty of time to make him shrill.

  He raised the scroll again. ‘We have not met here to trade courtesies. I have in my hand a proposal, prepared by myself and your own brother, Bishop of Winchester—’

  Stephen glanced at the bishop, who said, ‘Arrangements. I told you. Best pay attention,’ then stared intently at the Plantagenet.

  ‘I advise you, all of you, to listen carefully. This is my first and final proposal, and its rejection will turn this country to charcoal. My mother, the Empress Matilda, Countess of Anjou and only legitimate child of the revered King Henry of England, gave fifteen years of her life in pursuit of her claim. It was she who should have been monarch here, not you, Stephen-called-king. You rode a faster horse from Boulogne to Westminster, I’ll admit, and I see you still have a smattering of supporters. But I have these men here, twenty thousand of them, and more arriving by the hour, and the whole might of Normandy and Anjou, and my new-won territory of Aquitaine, and I tell you in all honesty, you cannot win. You will never defeat me in battle, nor in the extent of your power. You are at an end, and I think you must know it.’

  Again Stephen turned to his brother. ‘I trust you didn’t prepare that speech for him.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. He’s just sounding off. He— wait, let’s hear the rest of it.’

  ‘There is much I could do to you,’ the Plantagenet continued, ‘but I am influenced by Winchester. He, along with the loyal Fitz Count and others, seeks peace. They are tired of war, whatever its spurs. They have seen this country torn and ravaged for— yes, for almost the period of my life. Eighteen years, Stephen of Blois; that is how long you have maltreated your kingdom. Like you, it’s time it came to an end. And this is how we propose it should be done.’ He raised the scroll, then ripped the unnecessary seal from it and recited its contents across the fast-flowing river.

  ‘You, Stephen of England, shall recognise Henry, Duke of Normandy, as your successor in this kingdom, and as your heir by the rights of heredity. You shall i
n time give and confirm to me and my heirs the Kingdom of England.

  ‘I, Henry, Duke of Normandy, shall, in return for this gift, honour and confirmation pay homage to you, and give you my surety by oath. Furthermore, I do graciously concede that you, Stephen of England, shall hold this realm for all your life, and that none shall attempt to usurp you.

  ‘Should I survive you on your death, the kingdom shall pass peaceably and without opposition to me, to hold as king. Should I precede you to the grave the kingdom shall, on your death, pass peaceably and without opposition to my heirs.

  ‘Meantime, I shall be faithful to you and guard your life and honour with all my might, as you will guard mine.’

  He read on, providing for an exchange of prisoners, the custodianship of certain castles, the autonomy of the Church. Stephen was asked to accept that on all state business he would seek and abide by the advice of Henry Plantagenet. He was asked to accept many things, each of which allowed him to live with the crown on his head, yet guaranteed that the young Angevin would act as king. It was not so much a proposal as a deposition.

  The reading of the scroll took more than an hour, and Henry’s voice grew hoarse and guttural. When it was over, Stephen turned once more to his brother and asked, ‘Was it primarily your work? It’s a very pretty piece.’

  ‘Well, now,’ Henry beamed, ‘I am relieved. I cannot claim all the credit, but yes, I suppose I am the prime mover. I imagine that, if the whole thing was balanced, phrase for phrase—’

  Keeping his back to the Angevins, the weary king brought his hand up, as though to worry his moustache. Then, instead, he slapped his brother in the mouth. It was as forceful a blow as he could manage, and most sincerely meant.

  The bile of defeat rising within him, he faced his enemies again and bowed across the river. Yes, I accept… I accept all of it… Yes, yes…

  He shouldered aside the bleeding bishop and pushed his way through the group of iron-clad barons. They let him pass, not sure whether they should cheer him or tear him apart.

  * * *

  And so, for England and Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine, it was over. The first great civil war and the longest in the history of England was at an end. There would be others, better known, but there would be none like this, built on the simple foundation of a thrice-given vow. The men who engaged in it were often deep and devious, and they clouded the issues and turned them to their own advantage. But the foundation remained. It had been a war of words, an affair of honour.

  * * *

  The Treaty of Wallingford, as it came to be known, was ratified at Winchester on 6th November, 1153.

  One week later, Brien Fitz Count received a letter from Empress Matilda. In it she wrote:

  ‘My sweet Greylock, I have heard of your injuries, and of how you rallied my supporters to your side. My son writes glowingly of your loyalty, and it is because of this, and the love you still bear me, that I set out to persuade you and the enchanting Lady Alyse to remove yourselves from that unhappy country and settle in Anjou. I have reserved a fine castle for you, and purchased a large area of land, containing several profitable villages. You will be happy here, I am sure, and you will be able to live out your lives content in the knowledge that you have been more than compensated for your efforts.

  ‘I shall ask nothing of you, other than this; when you are visited by friends, or approached by envious strangers, tell them you reside beneath the banner of Empress Matilda, mother of England’s king. And, if you feel so disposed, tell them it was my gift to you. Dearest Greylock, I await your answer.’

  He showed the letter to his wife, and then to Morcar and Edgiva, and to Ernard and Eadgyth, and then he nailed it to the inner face of the main gate, so that everyone in Wallingford could read it, or have it read to them. Then, when he had asked their opinion on the matter, he settled himself in the solar and penned a reply.

  ‘We are grateful for your offer,’ he wrote, ‘but unhappily your letter was delayed twenty years. Would that it had come sooner.’

  With no one there to see him, Brien Fitz Count moved away from the table and gazed at Varan’s statue. Then he crossed the chamber and stared down into Ironglove’s mirror. Eventually, looking from one to the other, he asked, ‘Well, Constable? Well, my lord? Do you agree?’

  Standing in that position, his shadow animated the painted wood and brought a positive reflection from the hammered silver. They said what Alyse had been saying for days, and he went back to the table to warm some sealing-wax.

  Aftermath

  In the following month, the Earl of Chester, Ranulf the Moustache, was invited to dine with one of his neighbours, an influential baron named William Peverel. Throughout the meal, William flooded his guests with wine – no hardship for Ranulf – though William himself bemoaned the fact that he dare not drink for fear of aggravating an ulcerated throat.

  True to form, Ranulf said he would drink for both of them. He left the table after midnight, but was called back from his bed-chamber to minister to one of his companions. For some reason the man was writhing on the floor, and the left-over meats were brought out for inspection.

  By the time the suspicion had taken hold in Ranulf’s mind, his companion had been joined by the others who had ridden with him from Chester. While they screamed through clenched teeth and flailed the rush-strewn floor, the first man died in agony.

  Stupefied with drink, Ranulf dragged his sword from its scabbard and accused William of having administered poison. ‘In the wine, eh, Peverel? You’ll deny it, but Christ, it’s clear as day to me!’

  ‘I deny nothing,’ William retorted. ‘You’ve guessed right, though it took you long enough. Yes, Ranulf, you’ve been poisoned. I knew you would out-last the others, and that pleases me. You’re as strong as an ox, and it’ll take you a long while to die. Do you feel any pains yet?’

  ‘Not a thing. But you will. A bad throat? It will be beyond repair by the time I’ve fin—’ He doubled over, and his sword nicked the table. He heard William say, ‘Another one’s dead. One more to go, then you.’

  With the last of his strength, Ranulf pushed himself away from the table and hurled his sword at the dim outline of his host. The weapon clattered into the fireplace, and William said, ‘You’d better find a seat, while you can. You are a vile and hideous man, Ranulf of Chester, and I am doing tonight what others should have done years ago. You have thrived on the profits of pillage, and entertained yourself with acts of rape and torture. You are an abomination, there is no better word for it.’

  ‘My business…’ Ranulf gasped. ‘What is it to you?’

  ‘You don’t know? Well, that would be ironic, if you died without knowing why. You are thick with the Plantagenet, are you not?’

  ‘Friends…’ He dragged himself to the nearest bench and bowed forward over the table.

  ‘Friends, yes,’ William continued. ‘And, as such, he intends to give you my lands here.’

  Even then, Ranulf managed a sneer. ‘Don’t want them… Paltry fief…’

  ‘I agree, they are not so extensive, and he’ll give me something better. But I cannot let you have them. Not when you will turn them into one great torture chamber. I would not let these people suffer your presence.’

  ‘So you kill me…’

  ‘Hell,’ William snapped, ‘you’re long overdue; don’t complain.’ With a last glance at the others, yes, the third was dead, he collected Ranulf’s sword from the grate and slid it back in the scabbard. That would cause the Moustache the greatest pain of all, knowing he would die with his weapon sheathed.

  Ranulf asked for a priest, but his lips were no longer moving, and the slam of a door told him there was no one to hear…

  * * *

  Throughout 1154 Stephen and the Plantagenet toured the country. They were an ill-matched pair, though Henry’s utter lack of regard for the river-reed was soon replaced by a more compassionate viewpoint. The rigours of monarchy were far greater than he had anticipated, and he looked more and
more to Stephen for guidance. This was given reluctantly at first, for Stephen was clearly intimidated by the booming Angevin. Gradually, however, he accepted the role that had always been denied him, that of advisor and counsellor. Henry was eager to learn, and Stephen was overjoyed to find that his advice was taken, his counsel respected.

  He risked the occasional joke, and flinched in the face of Henry’s resonant laugh. ‘You must tell that when we get back to court! No, better still, let me tell it! You can rehearse me.’ He reached over and cuffed Stephen on the shoulder. ‘Very good. Let’s see now, how does it go again?’

  But the joke was destined to go unrepeated, for Stephen was suddenly stricken with internal bleeding, and died at Dover on 25th October. He was buried beside his wife in the Cluniac monastery at Faversham, and Henry went on alone to collect his crown.

  This son of Blois had never shown the resolve that was required of a king, and he had often borne out the poet’s insolent assessment of his character. But he was not a river-reed, not by a long way.

  * * *

  His brother mourned him, then set about arranging the new king’s coronation. This was celebrated on 19th December, and shortly after the service King Henry II of England asked the bishop whom he would recommend to fill the post of chancellor. This other son of Blois suggested one of his proteges, an ambitious, middle-class clerk named Thomas Becket. The king agreed.

  * * *

  On the other side of the Channel, Empress Matilda moved between Anjou and Normandy, between good works and politics. She would not die for another thirteen years, but she never again made contact with Greylock of Wallingford. He had had his chance. If he chose to live like a pauper, he was free to do so. And it was that thought that haunted her – that he was free.