“I saw this done once before, in Normandy. The Breton commander put Lisieux to the torch rather than have it fall to Geoffrey. But he was a mercenary, whilst Bishop Henry…Jesú, Robert, he is a man of God!”
“Tell that to those people out on High Street, watching their homes and livelihoods go up in smoke.” Others were clamoring now for Robert’s attention: his own captains, a man who claimed to be the city’s royal reeve, some of the imperiled merchants…and a tearful nun. “Sister? You ought not to be here—”
“My lord earl, you must help us! Our nunnery is afire!”
Robert swore softly. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, seizing her elbow and steering her toward the greater safety of the barricades.
Ranulf’s first impulse was to follow, but he’d promised Maude that he’d report back to her straightaway. He hesitated, and then John Marshal solved his dilemma for him. “I’ve just heard that the fire is spreading to the west, and I own two houses on Scowrtene Street. I could use some help if it turns out to be true.”
Ranulf didn’t care for Marshal’s peremptory tone, but he didn’t take it personally, for those who knew him joked that Marshal would be barking orders to St Peter himself if ever he made it to Heaven’s Gate. Moreover, Scowrtene Street was on the way back to the castle, and so he and Gilbert trailed after John Marshal as he hastened along High Street, using his elbows and shoulders to clear his path.
By now the turmoil was spreading as fast as the fire. Most of the shops had family dwellings above-stairs, and frantic men and women were trying to save all they could, staggering out of their threatened houses with whatever belongings they could carry away. Others were desperately seeking to contain the fires: dousing nearby homes and shops with water, forming bucket brigades. Brooks ran down the center of several streets, but they were shallow, meandering streams, meant to sweep away garbage dumped into the streets, never to quench a conflagration such as this.
Ranulf marveled at the courage of the people. They kept plunging into smoke-filled buildings to retrieve what they could, and when they heard that St Martin’s Church in Fleshmonger Street was ablaze, they rallied to the rescue—the elderly and the young as well as the able-bodied—all responding to the priest’s frenzied plea for help.
John Marshal had quickened his pace, beginning to curse, for smoke was spiralling up ahead. By the time they reached the corner, Marshal’s worst fears were confirmed: one of his houses was already in flames and the other seemed likely to be consumed, too. The neighborhood residents were trying to save the rest of the street by soaking down the roofs. Some were demanding more drastic measures, insisting that they must pull down those houses already doomed in the hopes of creating a fire break. John Marshal at once allied himself with the men arguing against it, for his second house was among those to be sacrificed. Under normal circumstances, he would easily have prevailed, for he was a baron, a man with a notoriously quick temper and a sword at his hip. But the circumstances were anything but normal, and these men were in danger of losing all they had.
The argument raged on, and might well have come to blows if not for the screaming. It was high and shrill and filled with too much terror to ignore. They turned toward the sound as a woman lurched into their midst, falling to her knees. “You are lords,” she sobbed, “you can save him…”
John Marshal pulled away when she plucked at his arm; his sense of chivalry was stunted in the best of times. Ranulf was more obliging, but she was almost incoherent and he did not know what she wanted of them. It was not until she gasped out the word pillory that one of the men understood. “Oh, Christ! There was a man locked in the pillory—”
The woman sobbed again. “I could not get him free…” She choked, clutching now at Ranulf. “Hurry,” she pleaded, “please hurry!”
Ranulf was already in motion, running back toward High Street, the others at his heels. Turning the corner, he came to a horrified halt. The closest house was ablaze, and collapsing rafters had fallen upon the pillory, setting it afire. The man was engulfed in flames; even his hair was on fire, and there was a sickening stench of burning flesh. But he was still alive, his mouth contorted in a silent scream. Ranulf lunged forward, but the heat drove him back. When he tried again, Gilbert grabbed him by both arms.
“It is too late, Ranulf!”
“We cannot let him burn to death!” Ranulf wrestled free, but by then John Marshal was there, shoving him aside as he drew his sword.
Ranulf shouted, but the sword was already thrusting downward. It was a clean, powerful stroke, decapitated the man with one blow. Splattered with blood, Ranulf stumbled backward, fighting queasiness. The other men looked sick, too; one had doubled over and was vomiting into the dirt. Several were trying to keep the woman from seeing, to no avail. She screamed just once, then crumpled to the ground, almost at John Marshal’s feet. Sheathing his sword, he said matter-of-factly, “I’d hope that someone would do as much for me.” They watched him in silence, stunned not so much by his act as by the realization that he was utterly unaffected by it.
WITH the coming of night, the city took on an eerie, awful beauty. Flames lit up the darkness for miles, smoke shrouded the town in a garish orange haze, and each time the wind shifted, embers drifted down like fiery snowflakes. It was past midnight, but no bells were chiming the hour; too many churches lay in ruins. A few fires still burned, but the worst seemed over. Ranulf fervently hoped so. Never had he been so exhausted. Finding an overturned horse trough, he sank down upon it, not looking up until he heard footsteps crunching through the ashes and debris.
Brien did not have to proclaim his fatigue; his slow, uneven step did it for him. Upon recognizing Ranulf, he limped over, and Ranulf made room for him on the trough. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I fell off a ladder.” Brien did not elaborate, and Ranulf did not probe. They’d all seen sights this night that they’d want only to forget. They sat in silence for a time, absorbed in thoughts neither wanted to share. But then Brien’s head came up. “Horses,” he said, and they watched as riders emerged from the shadows. A moment later both men were on their feet, Maude’s name an unspoken echo between them.
They reached her even before she reined in, insisting that she should not be there, that it was too dangerous, that she must return to the castle where she’d be safe. Maude heard them out with unusual patience, and then said simply, “I could not wait any longer, had to see for myself. Do you know where Robert is? And is it true that St Mary’s nunnery could not be saved?”
“No, it all burned.” Brien moved closer to Maude’s restive mare, fighting the urge to reach for her reins. “I do not mean to belabor the point, but some of the bishop’s men might still be loose in the city, and if you were recognized—”
“Brien, enough!” Maude frowned, but as she gazed down into his face, her mood changed abruptly, and she surprised them by yielding. “If it will ease your mind, I’ll return to the castle. But I want you both to come back with me. You look as if either one of you could be toppled over by a feather, and little wonder, after such a night as this…”
Maude’s guards could not hide their relief, and hovered protectively around her when she insisted upon a pace slow enough to accommodate Brien and Ranulf. As they walked along High Street’s smoldering trail of misery, Ranulf found himself wondering what would become of these people, burned out of their homes and their shops. Winchester was in for a wretched winter, he concluded bleakly, just as a shower of sparks blew across their path, spooking the horses. Maude was a good rider and soon quieted her mare. But then she looked up uneasily at the sky. “Tell me I am wrong,” she said, “tell me the wind is not rising.”
They could not, for they felt it, too. The wind was indeed picking up. Flames that had almost died down were surging back to life, embers kindling anew, flames burning higher and hotter, putting the city again in peril.
THE fire raged through the night and into the following day. Driven by gusting winds, the flames razed much
of Winchester north of High Street. By midmorning, airborne embers and cinders had soared over the city wall onto the shingled roofs of Hyde Abbey. The monks managed to save most of their livestock. But their church, chapter house, infirmary, kitchen, and stables were burned to the ground.
THE sky was an overcast, ashen shade, the air humid and still, as if the night’s firestorm had never been. Daylight revealed a scene of widespread desolation: ashes and rubble and charred fragments of shattered lives. Maude was shocked and shaken by what she saw. Had she been asked about a king’s responsibilities, she would have said that he must safeguard the subjects of his realm, for Scriptures spoke of saving the poor from the sword and feeding the hungry. But faced with the reality of it—a city in ruins, people homeless and in despair—she was suddenly at a loss. What could she possibly do to ease suffering on a scale like this?
She was accompanied by William Pont de l’Arche, sheriff of Hampshire and castellan of Winchester’s royal castle, by her brothers and Miles and Brien, all of whom had argued in vain against this expedition, and by the newly arrived Archbishop of Canterbury, who seemed stunned by what he was finding.
Maude and the archbishop had wanted to visit the burned-out nuns of St Mary’s, but Robert balked at that, for the nunnery was perilously close to both siege sites. He was so adamant that they had to content themselves with an offer of shelter until the nunnery could be restored. But who would rebuild the shops and homes of the townspeople? It was a question that shadowed Maude as they inspected the scorched wreckage of High Street, a troubling one, for she had no answer.
William Pont de l’Arche proved to be too knowledgeable a guide, for he had fought the fires all night long, and there seemed to be no tragedy that he’d not heard about, no sorrow that had escaped him. He pointed out a blackened shell where a child had died. He reeled off the casualty list of the city’s churches—at least twenty, he said, mayhap more. He showed them the spot where the pillory prisoner had met his gruesome death, and he told them what had occurred at St Mary’s Church over in Tanner Street. The priest had rushed back inside to retrieve the holy relics—St Swithun’s tooth and straw from the Christ Child’s manger—and had been overcome by smoke. When three parishioners attempted to rescue him, the roof collapsed, trapping them all inside. “Our city will never be the same,” he said mournfully, and there were none to refute him.
People were wandering about like sleepwalkers, as if the full magnitude of their loss had not yet sunk in. Many clutched bundled-up clothes, candlesticks, blankets, whatever they’d been able to snatch from the flames. Some merely stared blankly at Maude as she passed by. Others sought to get close to her, and when her guards kept them away, their voices echoed after her, crying out their fear and their grief and their pleas for help. She ordered her chaplain to distribute alms, but it seemed a futile gesture, offering good wishes to one bleeding to death, and Maude felt a rush of relief as they neared the castle, for there was naught she could do. But then she drew rein abruptly, common sense forgotten.
The woman might have been Maude’s own age, but childbearing and hard work had aged her beyond her years. She had three boys clinging to her skirts, a baby in her arms, and she was weeping silently, rocking back and forth as if oblivious to the devastation around her. It was the children who’d drawn Maude’s eye, for they all had curly reddish-copper hair—the same shade as Maude’s sons’. The smallest had looked to be about three, and in him, Maude saw her own youngest son, for Will had been just three when she left to claim her crown, when she saw him last…nigh on two years ago.
The woman’s husband had been searching through the charred timbers for anything worth salvaging. He straightened up slowly, belatedly becoming aware of the royal cavalcade. “This was my apothecary shop,” he said. “Over there I kept my mortar and pestle, and in the back, my brazier. Some of my customers came all the way from Southampton, for no one had a better selection of herbs and spices and soothing potions. Ginger and clover and antimony and wormwood and henna and camphor and calamine and hemlock…” Squatting down, he sifted ashes through his fingers, looking up at Maude with a lopsided smile. “Not much for a lifetime’s toil, is it? Our house is gone, too, for we lived above-stairs. Not that we lost everything: Alice found a ladle and our fire tongs did not burn. Fire tongs,” he repeated, and began to laugh hoarsely, a painful, rasping sound that caused those listening to glance away.
A small crowd had gathered, and Robert nudged his mount forward, offering them the only comfort he could, a grim promise that the men responsible for burning Winchester would pay a terrible price for it. Maude’s guards urged her on toward the castle, but she kept looking back over her shoulder, and at last reined in her mare. She was fumbling with a ring as Miles rode up beside her. As their eyes met, he shook his head. “Why not?” she demanded. “You saw them, Miles. They lost everything!”
“I know,” he said. “But do you have rings for them all?” sweeping his arm to encompass the rest of the ravaged city.
Maude looked away. “You know I do not…” she conceded, and they rode on in silence. They’d almost reached the castle before she spoke again. Although he caught her words, he did not understand them, and gave her a quizzical, questioning look. “I was just remembering an old German proverb,” she said in a low voice. “‘In time of war, the Devil makes more room in Hell.’”
WINCHESTER’S great fair was held annually on August 31st, the Eve of St Giles, on the hill of the same name just east of the city. Gunter had not missed a St Giles Fair for the past ten years; it was one of his most profitable markets. He’d expected this trip to be particularly rewarding, for his cart was loaded with goods sure to appeal to discriminating fairgoers: staples such as razors, scissors, and spindles, supplemented by luxuries like incense, perfume, parchment, and quicksilver.
His sojourn in Winchester was to be special for another reason: his daughter was accompanying him. He’d been reluctant to expose Monday to the perils of the road, but it seemed riskier to leave her home alone, for she was twelve now, balancing precariously on the border between childhood and womanhood, not yet ready to cross over, but close enough to see the other side. Gunter’s doubts had been swept away by her excitement; to Monday, this trip to Winchester was as great a gift as she’d ever been given.
Gunter’s disappointment was acute, therefore, when he learned that Winchester would be holding no fair this year, for his loss was twofold, as both merchant and father. Monday was inconsolable, all the more so because she’d come so close; they’d been within ten miles of Winchester when they encountered people fleeing the city.
She was no longer weeping, but her eyes were still swollen and her voice held a betraying tremor. “I do not understand, Papa. Even if the fair was called off this year, why could we not go on into the city? At least I’d get to see it!”
“It would be too dangerous, girl. You heard what we were told, that half the town is in ruins and a siege is still under way. Think you that I’d have brought you to Winchester had I known that the town would be full of soldiers?”
Monday sniffed into her sleeve, obviously not convinced. Gunter glanced at her occasionally from the corner of his eye, but she’d averted her face, and all he could see was a curve of flaxen hair. She was getting too old to wear her hair loose like that. More and more, he regretted not having remarried after Isolda died; it was no easy task, raising a lass alone. “Here, girl, you take the reins for a while,” he said. She was always pestering him to let her do that, but now he got only a shrug, and she slid over on the seat as if she were doing him a great favor.
“Pull up, lass,” Gunter said suddenly, and beckoned to the couple trudging along the side of the road. “I can see your woman is with child. She can ride in the cart with us.” His offer was gratefully accepted, and the woman was soon seated next to Monday, her husband walking briskly beside Gunter. He was young and brawny, looked as if he could hold his own in a brawl, an important consideration in these lawless times. Now
that they had three males in their party—Gunter, his hired lad, and the stranger—Gunter felt somewhat safer, for bandits and masterless men were less likely to prey upon travelers able to defend themselves.
Gunter’s generous gesture was indeed bread cast upon the waters, for his new companion had more to offer than youth and muscle and a stout oaken staff, thick enough to crack a man’s head wide open. Oliver was a Winchester man, born and bred, able to provide Gunter with a vivid eyewitness account of his city’s troubles. He and his wife were luckier than most, though, for they had kin willing to take them in until the siege ended and life got back to normal.
“We’re going to Alton,” Oliver confided. “Clemence will stay with her brother until I can fetch her home.”
“And you? You’re not staying with her?”
Oliver shook his head, casting a regretful glance toward the cart. “The babe is not due for another three months, not till after Martinmas. Pray God that the fighting will be long over by then. In truth, I am loath to leave her, but I must go back. I will lose my job if I do not.”
“I’d not think there’d be much work, not if the fire was as bad as I’d heard…?”
“It was,” Oliver said somberly. “I just hope I live long enough to see the bishop stripped of his finery and turned out of the city. If it were up to me, I’d send him on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, with bare feet and hairshirt and no bread but what he could beg. But there is not much chance of that. The great never seem to pay for their sins, at least not in this lifetime.”
“Then you want to see the empress win?”
Oliver smiled mirthlessly. “What I want is to repair my house, bring my wife home in time for her to give birth there to our child—a son, God Willing. I want to see the bishop punished, but I doubt he will be, for the Church tends to its own. And I want this accursed war to end. Let Maude rule or Stephen—you think I care? Am I ever likely to see Westminster? Hellfire, I’ve never even seen Southampton, and that’s but twelve miles away.”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 41
