Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  “You tempt me to lie to you, madam,” I said very low, “but you would find me out. There is no trap. You will reach Bristol soon and safely.”

  Chapter 21

  Bruno

  I can only thank God that the weather that October was no exception to the general rule. The dry, bright days were a benefit and permitted us to advance swiftly toward Bristol. I must say also that despite her arrogant manners the empress did not slow us down. She rode as hard and fast as any man, and the only thing she did not complain about was the distance we covered. Perhaps she was afraid Stephen would change his mind. It was no secret that his army was following our track west.

  Aside from that, Empress Matilda was all empress, at least to me. Waleran had appointed me to be in charge of lodging and victualling—I think out of spite, although the reason he gave me seemed logical. He said he would not trust the task to any of Winchester’s men, who might deliberately place us where we might be betrayed to Matilda’s supporters, and on the other hand, Winchester would undoubtedly protest if he appointed any of his own people. There was just enough truth in that, added to the fact that I had no other duties, to keep me from refusing; however, I knew the “honor” would expose me to Matilda’s wrath.

  There was some justification for her complaints about the lodgings. I did not dare arrange for her reception in places that would have been usual for a queen, like the great abbey hospices, where I feared she might flee into the church, claim sanctuary, and wait for her brother to bring an army to rescue her. Nor did I dare stop in the keep of any great independent vassal; I had no idea any longer which of them might cast us into the lowest floor of the donjon—or cut our throats—to please Matilda, and the loyalty of any man grew more suspect the farther west we rode. Thus we were confined to those few keeps held for the king by men of unimpeachable loyalty or to those small places that would not dare challenge the might of the army that moved west a few days behind us.

  I never replied to her tirades on that subject; if she had the brain of a pea she would have understood why I chose the places I did, and Melusine agreed with me that Matilda was stupid. Not that there was anything wrong with her ability to learn; she could read and write, which was a feat far beyond any ordinary woman. It was more as if she would not understand anything that did not fit into life as she planned it, as if she could not look ahead and see any outcome to a plan that she had not arranged—until disaster struck.

  Matilda was a very strange woman. She never said please or thank you; she ordered Melusine to tell me nothing of what she said to the bishop of Winchester or Waleran—and she never seemed to realize that an order delivered in her overbearing manner was sure to inspire just the opposite of what she desired in any normal gentleman or gentlewoman. Had she forgotten that Melusine was not her servant and there was no way she could hurt her? Or did she believe the greatness of her station awed all into instant obedience? I suspect there were some things Melusine did not tell me; I am sure, for example, that Matilda had said she would return Melusine’s lands to her when she was queen, but by then I do not think Melusine would have wanted Matilda as queen, even to get back her lands.

  The empress gave me orders too, most often to beat servants who had not responded quickly enough to her wishes or had not anticipated them. Usually I simply drove the servant out of the chamber, which seemed to satisfy her without doing the servant any harm. If poor Edna had been whipped each time Matilda ordered it, the girl would not have had a sound place on her body.

  Once, however, the empress went too far and ordered me to burn a shop where a merchant had refused her a bolt of cloth without payment. Naturally the man then offered the cloth, but I would not take it nor burn the shop, and I told Matilda that King Stephen did not permit his subjects to be defrauded. She simply raised her voice to overpower mine, not seeming to hear me when I said I was not her servant and would do what I believed was my duty to my master, King Stephen.

  That time I thought I would come into conflict with Waleran, who arrived in response to Matilda’s high-pitched commands. I think he would have agreed to burn out the merchant, but he saw my hand on my sword hilt and instead threw a handful of coin at the man and gestured one of his men to take the cloth. Waleran de Meulan was not afraid of me, although I think I could have won a man-to-man battle, but there were too many witnesses. Waleran would not have wanted the king to hear of his acquiescence to Matilda’s demands, which would have disgusted Stephen or, worse, perhaps made the king suspicious.

  I do not think Waleran was tempted by the empress’s offers—not then, although it was those veiled temptations to treachery that Matilda forbade Melusine to mention to me, as if I would not have guessed without telling that Matilda was wooing both Waleran and the bishop of Winchester. I never gave the matter much thought because I could not conceive that any man in his right mind who had spent a week in Matilda’s company could believe for a minute that she could rule. I do not blame myself for not reporting her long conversations with her escorts to Stephen; he would, as I did, have assumed such talk could bear no fruit. Moreover, Matilda must have given Waleran one order too many, for he turned back to join Stephen’s army when we reached Calne, leaving Winchester and myself to finish the journey with her.

  In one way that made matters easier, removing any chance of another open confrontation, but I did not want Matilda to complain too bitterly to Winchester about my behavior. Thus, most of my attention was given to getting around the empress’s unreasonable demands without angering her more than necessary. I do not think I could have succeeded without Melusine, who most often interposed herself between us by carrying Matilda’s orders to me. I fear I would have lost my temper and taken that idiot woman over my knee, which she surely deserved, but Stephen could not have overlooked such an offense against his cousin’s high birth. And Melusine and I had our nights together, for another order Matilda gave Melusine that she would not obey was to forsake my bed and sleep in her chamber to serve her during the night. Abed Melusine turned all Matilda’s tantrums into subjects of laughter.

  That made it possible for me to face each new day, but I have never been more relieved than when, about midway between Bath and Bristol, we met Robert of Gloucester by arrangement and handed Matilda over to him. As soon as his force was in sight, she ordered Melusine to come with her. I do not know why I seized Vinaigre’s rein and held her back. Melusine looked at me most strangely, but she made no protest, and Matilda rode ahead with the bishop of Winchester without a backward glance. I do not think she realized Melusine had not obeyed her until the groups were separating. Then I heard her voice raised although, shrill as it was, I could not make out the words. I saw Gloucester look toward us, and laid my hand on my sword. He sent a man after the bishop of Winchester, who also looked toward us as he answered, but the man rode back to Gloucester. I saw Earl Robert shake his head at his sister and then turn his horse back toward Bristol though Matilda had not moved and I could still hear her voice.

  The men Gloucester had brought moved out into the road to fall in around her, casting long shadows that reached toward us. I almost backed Barbe to avoid the touch of those dark fingers. That was foolish; shadows could do no harm, as Matilda herself was no threat. But Matilda’s claim to the throne with Robert of Gloucester to control her was another matter entirely. I saw the shadows touch the bishop of Winchester, who was watching the group move away—Matilda was now either silent or speaking quietly and was riding beside her brother—and I wondered how many more slights Winchester would endure from Stephen, brothers though they were. For a moment I thought the bishop was about to ride after Gloucester, but he turned back and came toward us.

  “Lady Melusine, did you tell Empress Matilda that you wished to be her lady?” he asked when he reached us. “She seemed convinced that you wished to leave Sir Bruno.”

  “I do not know how she can have thought that, my lord,” Melusine replied calmly, although her voice s
ounded strange to me. “She knew I would not take night service because I wished to be with my husband. I may have said I was glad to be able to serve her. I could not with civility say other than that.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” the bishop said, but rather absently, as if his mind was elsewhere. “Well, then, let us return to Bath,” he added more briskly after a moment, “and decide whether we will continue on together.”

  There was no question in my mind but that my duty was to join the king at once, since he was in action in the field, and of course I could not take Melusine with me. I told Winchester that if I had to, I would send her east with my three men and Edna, but I was relieved and grateful when Winchester said he would take her to the queen. I thought Melusine would also be pleased; however, when we were alone in our quarters, she unleashed a blast of fury that made no sense to me. For the first time in our marriage, she would not listen, although I explained until I was hoarse that when the king was fighting, my place was at his side, not escorting my wife about the country. At last, unable to think what else to say, I assured her that she would be perfectly safe with Winchester—at which point she slapped my face and I stormed out and slept in the stable loft.

  We parted only a shade more civilly. When I lifted her to her saddle, I said one more time, “I am sorry not to be able to take you myself, Melusine,” and she replied, “Do not trouble yourself, I understand very well,” and turned Vinaigre toward the bishop of Winchester’s mount. I cursed Empress Matilda all the way from Bath to Wallingford, where I joined the king. Perhaps it was unjust to blame the empress for my quarrel with Melusine, but I had never known my wife to be unreasonable before. It was as if a poison flowed out of Matilda and fouled everyone who came near her.

  I was in the mood to kill when I rode into the king’s camp, but there was no action at Wallingford. Stephen had tried some feints, but the keep was plainly too strong to take by assault without great loss. When I arrived the army was engaged in building two small wooden keeps at no great distance from Wallingford from which Stephen’s men could prevent Gloucester’s vassal from dominating the area. That did not improve my mood. Had I known, I could have escorted Melusine to the queen. I did not endear myself to anyone over the week it took to make the little keeps defensible, but the work went faster when anyone saw me.

  Fortunately, as we marched west toward Bristol, which only meant another siege that would give me no relief, a keen-witted captain of a troop of foragers brought word that the enemy-held keep at Cerney was ill guarded. We were upon the place that very night, and the next day took it by storm. I had killing enough that day, for I was first up a scaling ladder, and I had three—one through the throat, one through the belly, and a third over the wall after I lopped off a hand—before I got onto the walkway. I did not count the full total, but Stephen awarded me an extra share in the loot so I must have made a mark during the assault. After that day’s work, I felt somewhat better, and two days later I felt even more cheerful, seeing the prospect of more fighting when a deputation from the town of Malmesbury came and begged Stephen to rid them of the tyrant who had taken Malmesbury keep by a mean trick.

  Stephen had heard the keep had fallen into the hands of Robert Fitz Hubert, but he had done nothing because the man was kin to William of Ypres. However, on hearing of the abominations Fitz Hubert had inflicted on the town and the surrounding countryside, even Ypres was disgusted and had not a word to say in the defense of his kinsman. He did not protest when the king garrisoned Cerney and changed the direction of his march from southwest to northwest, but that did me no good. I was foiled of the chance to relieve the fury that tore at me because, the town having opened its gates to the king, Fitz Hubert cravenly yielded the keep without a blow being struck.

  In deference to Ypres, Fitz Hubert was allowed to go free and all—except me, and I knew I was in the wrong—rejoiced that so strong a place and one so near rebel strongholds had fallen into the king’s hands undamaged. There was a bright feeling of confidence in the councils called to determine where next to strike. I stayed apart as much as I could and held my tongue, for I felt like a black crow ready to caw disaster.

  I know that one man’s black mood cannot call down ill upon others. Often enough bad news came when I was in the best of spirits, but I could not shake off a feeling of guilt when trouble struck. The king, having taken the advice of the other leaders of the army, had determined to take Trowbridge. This, with Malmesbury and Cerney, would give us a half circle of strongholds from which powerful attacks could be launched at Bristol. Moreover, taking Trowbridge would be a sharp stroke against Miles of Gloucester—an ungrateful devil who had declared for the empress as soon as she landed despite the favors Stephen had done him—because it was held by Humphrey de Bohun, Miles’s son-by-marriage. We were camped within a few miles of the place considering when and how to attack when a few ragged and bloody men arrived with the news that Miles had marched a large force, almost as strong as Stephen’s army, around our rear, had attacked and demolished the keeps the king had built to control Wallingford, and threatened to attack London.

  I was on duty in the king’s tent, and I saw the sudden bleakness in the faces of every man there. William of Ypres’s lips thinned to nothing; Waleran snarled an obscenity; Geoffrey de Mandeville looked down at the ground with a face turned to stone. Although I was no great leader, I had been in the king’s service long enough to understand that it was not the setback of the destroyed strongholds or the loss of men that troubled Stephen’s vassals. Had it been the men of Wallingford and local supporters who inflicted the defeat, the king’s men would have been angered and annoyed but not deeply disturbed. What struck them so hard was that Miles had been able to march an army halfway across England without a word of warning from the shires through which he had passed.

  That could not have happened in King Henry’s time. Any knight through whose territory so large a force passed—even if it did no harm—would have sent messengers to the sheriff, who would have sent the news to the king at once. Indeed, the reason that Stephen had been able to quash the rebellions of 1138 and move so quickly that one rebel could bring no help to another was because he had just such warnings from the sheriffs and often from the bishops who held sees in those places and had news from a local priest that a baron was arming and buying men. But that was before Stephen had struck at Salisbury; now both Church and sheriffs were silent.

  Only Stephen was not downhearted. He ordered the army to march east immediately, for London must be protected at all costs. He was sorry to miss the opportunity to take Trowbridge and then strike directly at the source of Gloucester’s strength; however, he pointed out to his glum council, the situation was not all bad. If Miles was marching toward London, he had no stronghold east of Wallingford. He could be caught in the open, forced into battle, and utterly destroyed.

  There was no answering light in the vassals’ eyes nor did my heart lift. The same lack of support that had permitted Miles to march east in secret could easily prevent the king’s army from coming close enough to force a battle. Stephen was not unaware of this. He sent riders out both to the sheriffs and to spy out the country—only Miles was not marching on London. That news had been false. While we searched to the east, riding all the way to London, Miles of Gloucester had circled around us again well to the north and sacked Worcester.

  Waleran was beside himself, for he had been made earl of Worcester and had no warning from his own sheriff. I was as angry as he, but for a far different reason. The king had sent a messenger to bring the queen to London, but she had not yet come when we had the news of the attack on Worcester, so I missed seeing Melusine and any chance of making peace with her before we went west again—to no purpose; Miles was gone, safe behind the high walls of Gloucester. Stephen took some small revenge by assaulting and capturing the little keep at Sudeley, but I think he might have followed Miles and attacked Gloucester, despite the danger of ourselves being struck
from the rear by forces from Bristol, had not news come of the death of the bishop of Salisbury on 11 December.

  Leaving a strong garrison at Sudeley and a substantial force at Worcester with Waleran, the king moved swiftly to Salisbury to secure the see. To my great joy, Stephen sent messengers ahead to the queen and she arrived in good time to keep Christmas with us. For others it may have been a sad time; few came to Stephen’s court that season. But for me, light returned to my life. It was not the same light; there were shadows it did not reach and a flickering that made it unsteady, but I did not see that at first. It was light, and there was warmth in it. After more than a month of total darkness, it was so bright to me that I was blinded.

  I am not certain to what I owed Melusine’s forgiveness—not that I felt she had anything to forgive; as I had told her twenty times over when I left her in the care of the bishop of Winchester, I was only doing my duty to the king. However, I was not such an idiot as to mention our parting, and neither did she. Perhaps she had reconsidered her unreasonable anger and realized that I was right, but long acquaintance with Audris’s humors told me that was unlikely. Probably the fact that I was limping had more to do with the softness of her greeting than any acceptance of the concept that my service to the king must precede my attention to her as long as she was in no danger.

  The king did not ride out to meet the queen because he, and all of us who had come to his court, was attending the funeral services of the bishop of Salisbury. We had already been standing in the church for an hour when a messenger sidled discreetly up to Stephen and whispered that Queen Maud’s cortege was in sight. The king’s face lit with eagerness, and he looked toward the door. To my shame, I found I was praying he would leave instead of that he would stay, although I knew word of such an outrage would spread like wildfire and do him harm. Geoffrey de Mandeville laid a hand on his arm, and Stephen turned back to the altar.