The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘Jesu!’ he said under his breath. Was this the passion that had driven Master Abelard, the passion he had considered so coolly that night in June of last year and thought beyond him? Was he, Brien the quiet scholar, caught as the man he most admired had been caught, in a primitive urge that was stronger than logic, that was fire to intellect’s coolness? ‘Jesu,’ he repeated, and knew he could never again look at her without that desire burning in him.

  He turned away towards his tiny chamber. In the gallery he passed Roger Foliot who spoke to him but he did not heed him and once in his room sent Thurstin to sleep in the hall. The boy went, humming a little tune, a tune he knew and the words drummed appropriately in his head.

  ‘O lovely restless eyes that speak

  In language’s despite.’

  He flung himself down on his bed, his fingers gripping the fur coverlet, aware that the man who lay thus was a stranger to himself.

  CHAPTER 3

  Seated in his chair of state beneath his banner representing the sign of Sagittarius, Stephen stared at the crowd of grim faces before him and wondered despairingly what his uncle Henry would have done. He remembered him sitting in this very chair, dominating, enforcing his will so cleverly that he could laugh and joke with the very barons he would crush. He, Stephen, could not be like that. He laughed and joked with his friends and thought they loved him for it, but this last piece of news shattered such illusions. He glanced from one to the other of the men before him. How had he thought kingship would be easy when one had only an amiable smile and a desire to please? The hall was full of colour, bright clothes, candles, hanging gonfanons, tapestries and gleaming gold and silver dishes – rich, warm, giving an appearance of stability and wealth, but he was beginning to learn the transience of authority without strength.

  ‘I thought Earl Ranulf my friend,’ he said at last.

  Waleran de Beaumont gave a cynical laugh. ‘He is no one’s friend who does not mean to give him what he wants.’

  ‘Yet I have given him lands and gold from my treasure. I have made his brother Earl of Lincoln.’

  ‘He is obsessed with the north,’ the new Archbishop of York put in. He was Stephen’s nephew, a careful man who measured his words before he spoke them and his power by the extent of his worldly possessions. ‘He would rule the palatinate of Chester and make it extend as far as Hadrian’s wall.’

  ‘The man’s a peacock,’ Robert Marmion said. Owning Scrivelsby in Lincolnshire and Tamworth he did not care to have Ranulf and his brother extending their predatory rule southwards. ‘You’ve only to look at him, those damned moustaches flaunt his conceit. I would like to hang him up by them. ’

  Geoffrey of Mandeville said in his blustering way, ‘Maybe like Samson his strength lies in them. If we get our hands on him we’ll clip them for him.’

  The men about the dais laughed and de Marmion thrust his arm through Geoffrey’s. ‘Give us leave, sire, to catch this peacock for you.’

  ‘It is of no use,’ the Queen spoke calmly from her seat beside her husband, ‘to talk of the Earl’s foibles. We can laugh at him, but it does not bring him down, nor his brother.’

  ‘Their ingratitude is monstrous,’ Stephen said petulantly. ‘To seize Lincoln Castle by such a trick, to break the Christmas peace, and to declare for my cousin – ’

  ‘Ingenious though,’ Simon of Northampton said amusedly. ‘God’s Wounds, I’d not have thought of sending my wife in to wish the castellan’s wife the joy of Christmas and gain entrance by going to fetch her back. Of course the garrison were off guard. ’

  ‘I’d string them all up,’ de Mandeville interrupted vindictively. ‘I hear Earl Ranulf and his brother had no more than three knights with them and yet they took the guards and let their own men in. By St. Peter, hanging is too easy. I’d smoke them over a fire and send their cowardly souls to the devil.’

  There was a buzz of approval but the Bishop of Winchester, standing among a group of prelates, held up his hand for silence. ‘Time enough when you have them shackled to talk of their fate. Brother, you will never bring all the rebels under your heel until you have made peace with the Lady Maud or driven her from your realm. If you would be guided by me – ’

  ‘We tried your way in May,’ Stephen said, ‘and mere talking failed.’

  Henry, tall and forbidding in his plain black robe, stared coolly at his brother. ‘Because you would concede nothing.’

  ‘He is the King,’ Waleran put in softly and the Bishop rounded on him.

  ‘I do not need reminding of that, my lord Count.’

  Stephen shifted uneasily in his chair. Henry would never forgive him for the appointment of Theobald to Canterbury, he thought, but why should he be dictated to by this younger brother? He was the King, even if every man about this dais seemed harder and stronger than he could be.

  His friend, William of Ypres, perhaps the only one he could wholly trust, came to stand beside him. ‘My lord, however the Earls gained the castle, they have it and you need it. You cannot lose Lincoln. Bishop Alexander who is more loyal to you than his brother of Ely, sends word that the Earls take their ease and think themselves secure. They plunder the people and the citizens cry out for your help. If we march at once – ’

  ‘It is Christmas,’ Stephen said, ‘We are within the twelve holy days – no time to make war.’

  ‘Your pardon, sire,’ his captain broke in, ‘but in war the propitious time is the right time, be it Christmas or Easter or even Good Friday. Surprise is worth half an army.’

  ‘I do not know,’ the King said uneasily. ‘It will offend God and Holy Church if we break the season of peace.’

  ‘A swift march,’ the Fleming urged. ‘I know your men and we can do it – as your grandfather did to beat the north.’

  It appealed to Stephen. He knew his qualities as a soldier in the field and could move with astonishing speed when he wanted to, yet his scruples were genuine. He might quarrel with his brother and the other churchmen but his adherence to the outward forms of faith was the expression of deep inner conviction. His founding of a great abbey at Furness was an act of love. The monks would pray for his soul, it was true, conduct him to heaven, please God, when his time came, but he had done it also to show his devotion to Almighty God Himself, and he would not now lay sin upon his conscience. Yet he had also to keep a hold on his kingdom for that was a sacred trust.

  ‘A good plan,’ Waleran was agreeing. ‘We will take them unaware while they drink the Christmas wines and listen to their minstrels.’

  Henry of Blois bent a dark look upon him. ‘Count Waleran, it is an offence to break God’s truce at this season.’

  Waleran laughed. ‘It was an offence the Earls committed first. Holy Virgin, my lord Bishop, what is sauce for one man’s meat will do as well for another.’

  William Martel, seneschal to the King, turned to face his master. ‘Sire, would you have Lincoln another Wallingford to defy you?’ He had touched an irritant sore with the mention of Wallingford, for Stephen resented the defection of his boyhood’s companion all the more for having suspected it even before it became fact. Wallingford! That damned great castle sitting complacently so near to Oxford, secure in its strength, defying him. No, he did not want another such situation in Lincoln.

  He glanced at his majestic and menacing brother, and suddenly angry stood up, silencing him before he could speak. ‘Henry, you are continuously telling me what Holy Church does or does not approve, and I suppose as papal legate you have the Holy Father’s ear, but he is not the captain of my army nor does he have to deal with rebel earls.’

  Waleran, one foot set casually on the dais, glanced mockingly at the Bishop before turning to Stephen to say, ‘Well spoken, sire. We march?’

  ‘In the morning,’ Stephen said and to his captain, ‘Order it, William.’ He held out his arm to his Queen, ignored his brother and walked from the hall.

  Even as he entered their private apartments he heard the wild talk break out, ever
y man voicing his opinion and a slight smile crossed his face as he imagined Henry crossing verbal swords yet again with Waleran and his Flemish captain. Henry had the habit of making him feel stupid and he took a childish delight in thwarting his stately brother. But alone to Matilda he said, ‘Did I do right? To fight at Christmas – ’

  ‘Of course you did right,’ she told him firmly. ‘You are the King and it was your decision. And when my uncles Godfrey and Baldwin took Jerusalem, they said a good day could make a good deed. I wish I could ride with you. ’

  He smiled fondly at her. Sixteen years of matrimony had not dimmed his love for this striking woman and her quiet strength of character dispelled his doubts. ‘You as always will be my regent here. And now we have betrothed our son to the French King’s daughter, Louis will hold our Norman enemies in check and your beloved Kent will be safe. It is a good time.’

  ‘Take Lincoln,’ she said intensely, ‘and then march on Bristol – force that she-wolf to her knees.’

  ‘I will,’ he said and his husky voice gained some strength. ‘Mald, you are the very blood that flows in my veins.’

  She came to him and laid her hands on his arms, looking up into his face. Where, she wondered, had he got that beauty of feature? Not from the Norman kings who were not renowned for that kind of handsomeness – perhaps from his father whom she had never met, yet she wished it did not hide a fatal flaw, a weakness that not all her love for him could deny. She took his face in her hands. ‘Be strong, my lord. Win this fight and you will go on to more victories and make our son’s heritage secure.’

  ‘I won’t fail,’ he said and swaggered a little. ‘By Our Lady, I was always a better soldier than statesman and I’ll bring you home Earl Ranulf’s sword and maybe even Robert of Gloucester’s.’

  He bent his head and kissed her, his desire for her a compensation for the doubts, the anxieties, the sense of inadequacy that he felt when facing his brother, Waleran, de Mandeville and the rest. Only later when she slept and he lay still awake did the burdens of kingship come crowding back and he wished, not for the first time, that he could have numbered among his friends such men as Earl Robert and Brien FitzCount.

  The gamble succeeded. He took his men to Lincolnshire with a speed of which his grandfather would have been proud. The citizens of Lincoln opened their gates to him and before Twelfth Night he had laid siege to the castle. But his success was slightly dimmed by the news that, quick as he had been, Earl Ranulf had been quicker and, leaving his brother of Roumare to hold the castle, had gone out over the wall by night. Where he had gone no one knew but it did not need a genius to guess that he had sent to his father-in-law for help.

  Stephen said uneasily, ‘If he brings Earl Robert – ’

  Waleran snapped his fingers. ‘My lord, you have shaken their confidence by your march here. They will not dare to attack you. ’

  Flushed with success Stephen believed him. Hugh Bigod rode in with some men, evidently thinking the tide had turned in the King’s favour; Alain of Richmond arrived with Bretons from his own lands accompanied by William of Aumale who brought a following from York, and Stephen began to believe that he could indeed snap his fingers at his cousin and her claim. Sumptuously entertained by the Bishop of Lincoln, he sat in that lord’s palace, watched his men busy with siege works and stared up the hill at the castle that crowned it.

  On Sunday, the feast of the Purification of the Virgin, he went early to Mass attended by Bishop Alexander and his barons. He had entered the church and was shaking the rain from his mantle when a sodden messenger rode through the dark morning and dismounted by the door, pushing among them, crying out that he must see the King. It had rained all night, a storm breaking over the city and great hailstones beating on the roofs and turning the streets and lanes into thick muddy streams, and the messenger, his fingers blue, was shivering in his wet clothes. When he came to Stephen he threw himself on his knees, gasping out that Earl Robert was upon them, that he was even now leading his army across the flooded dyke and would be outside the city before noon.

  Stephen stood still, aware that every eye was on him. ‘How many followers has he?’

  ‘A great army, sire. The Earl of Chester is therewith countless hundreds from his lands as well as wild Welshmen – they wear fur instead of mantles and carry spiked clubs. It is the greatest army I ever saw.’

  There was silence in the church. The monks waiting to sing Mass stood uncertainly, looking at the group of barons, while the young choristers ready to proceed up the aisle stared round-eyed at the King, the lad who was to hand him his consecrated taper holding it still unlit in his hand. Bishop Alexander pulled at his underlip, wishing they had chosen to fight anywhere but in his city. Waleran de Beaumont and his brothers Robert and Hugh stood together, all three shaken by this news, but a group of younger men headed by Prince Eustace and the sons of William of Warenne and Simon of Northampton, came crowding forward clearly eager for a fight.

  ‘Well, my lords,’ Stephen said, ‘I would have your advice.’

  Alain of Richmond, closest to the King, shrugged his shoulders. ‘My lord, I doubt if, even with my men, you have enough troops here to meet both the Earls. I would suggest you retire and assemble the shire levies before you give battle.’

  Count Waleran nodded. ‘I agree. If Ranulf has brought so many to join Earl Robert we are outnumbered.’

  William of Warenne pushed his broad bulk through a group of lesser barons to add his opinion that the King had best wait until the men of Kent and Sussex could be rallied, and cuffed his son when the latter accused him of being battle-shy. Bishop Alexander began to feel a wave of relief that they might yet take their fighting elsewhere, when Prince Eustace stepped forward. Not yet sixteen, he was itching to draw his sword in his first fight.

  ‘You cannot run away, father,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘The old men may run,’ he glanced scornfully at his elders, ‘but we who are young will fight.’

  A crowd gathered about him, young Simon of Northampton, the younger de Warenne, William Peveral of Nottingham craving revenge for the sack of that city, all voicing their agreement.

  There was momentary pandemonium, every man shouting his opinion, all ignoring the waiting monks and clergy. Eustace cried out that his elders were poltroons, cowards who would not fight for the King, and Stephen, listening to the raised voices, wondered if it was his imagination that he heard one mocking speaker ask if this was to be another Antioch. Antioch! His father, besieged with the crusaders in that place in the Holy Land, had fled ignominiously and never lived down the shame of it – if he fled now would he be labelled coward as the elder Stephen had been?

  Yet he was no coward, he knew himself a better soldier than half the men here; the point to be decided was whether this was the best moment to fight.

  Eustace and the younger men surged about him and even William of Ypres said practically, ‘The enemy will be weary, my lord, after their march and crossing the dyke. Our men are rested. Let us fight.’

  He saw the eager faces in front of him, the challenge there. He ignored the murmurs of disapproval from older men and Alain of Richmond’s angry cry of ‘Folly!’ ‘We will fight,’ he said and taking the consecrated taper from the spell-bound chorister indicated that the Mass should begin. The procession formed and he followed the Bishop but his hand, holding the taper, shook. Jesu, would he still wear his crown tonight? Halfway up the narrow church the taper broke in his fingers, a piece of it rolling away, the flame extinguished.

  He stopped, staring at it, a hard knot of tension holding his stomach. There was a hush, the men behind him aghast, and someone cried out that it was an omen, a sign of God’s anger. He crossed himself and, white-faced but with admirable calm, bade the Bishop begin the Mass.

  In driving rain, an icy wind blowing in their faces, the Empress’s army assembled on the flat ground to the north of the city.

  ‘God’s blood,’ Earl Ranulf grumbled, ‘I never liked swimming and it’s a poor enou
gh start to a fight.’

  Baldwin laughed. ‘What better way to warm our limbs?’ He was wringing out his mantle and shaking the water from his hair. ‘My fellows are spoiling for the fight, for the only warmth they can see is up there in that city.’

  The Earl pulled at his famous moustaches. ‘Aye, my brother will have a feast ready for us in the castle, you can be sure of that. I knew he would hold until we came.’

  Earl Robert said with his usual gravity. ‘I thank God for it as my daughter and your sister, Baldwin, are within its walls. What news, man?’ as a messenger rode up.

  ‘My lord, the King is riding out to meet you. As far as I can make out he has fewer men than we thought. He will not wait for the shire levies.’

  ‘Good,’ Robert strained his eyes through the murk. All around him men were assembling in groups, straggling up from the dyke, foot soldiers muttering at the inclement weather, leaders endeavouring to bring some order to the large army of men from as far apart as Chester and Exeter. The most senior of these joined the group about the Earl. He leaned on his saddle, his arm resting on the pommel, his helm already on his head, his eyes gleaming behind the nosepiece, his mail tunic slit to the knees but reaching nearly to his ankles. He glanced at Brien. ‘Can you see them?’