‘Leave him.’ he shouted to the soldiers around him, ‘Leave him! To Winchester!’
And, caught in the high tension of the fight, the men obeyed, some riding, others on foot, running over the rough dry stones of the narrow road, spreading out over the scrub grass and abandoned fields to either side of it.
Roger, cursing and furious, was surrounded by the enemy who, angry at their momentary defeat, rushed to take their vengeance on him. His sword was wrenched from his hand, he was pulled down and thrown to the ground so that his helmet rolled off and his shield fell with a clatter. He saw a man with a raised sword stand over him and cried out, ‘Christ, have mercy! ’
But the blow was not struck. Another man said, ‘He is a knight and may be worth ransoming. Bring him to the captain.’
Held by the prisoning hands and hustled away Roger twisted his head to see a cloud of dust that was the last sign of his comrades, and his main emotion was not one of thankfulness that his life had been spared but of black fury that Philip who had seen his plight had acted as a worse enemy than the men who held him now.
Barely an hour later Brien was on the road again, but this time riding towards Bristol and in the centre of the men of Wallingford, close beside him, rode the Empress, her face tense with anger, disappointment and frustration. She rode like a man, upright in the saddle, her hands holding the reins strongly.
‘The feast of the Holy Cross!’ she said between closed teeth. ‘By Our Lady, it is I who am crucified today.’
Keeping pace beside her Brien felt so strong a surge of pity, adding yet another dimension to his love, that he wanted to reach out, to seize her hands, to comfort her with words he might not speak. He closed his fingers hard on his own reins and said, ‘It is only a temporary setback, Domina. If we have to do it all again we will.’
She gave him a swift appraising glance as they hurtled down the road side by side. ‘Do you think so? I am not so sure. Henry of Winchester will not come back to me now.’
‘He is not the only Bishop in England. And Robert will bring your army safely out. Reginald and Baldwin are not far behind us and our losses won’t be too heavy, please God.’ But even as he spoke he thought of Roger who, according to the garbled version he had been told, was taken by the enemy and of the men of Wallingford who lay dead in the burnt-out wreckage of Wherwell Priory. The loss of the Priory had brought a moment of final decision to the commander of Winchester and Robert had had no hesitation in ordering a retreat before they were entirely surrounded. He would not risk his sister’s freedom, still less her life, and despite her protests deputed Brien to take her away to Bristol with all possible speed while he himself fought a rearguard action to delay pursuit. Brien did not waste time arguing.
He and his knights brought the Lady out of the west gate and on to the road for Devizes. It was hot, the land lying browned in the sun, the leaves beginning to turn. He rested his charges for a short while at noon but dared not stop longer. In the afternoon the pace was slower for they had the Empress’s women with them, including Reginald’s wife, and Philip of Gloucester’s young bride. The latter’s face was blotched with weeping for she had left behind not only her husband but all her jewels and bridal clothes. By the time the autumn dusk was falling he knew he must halt for they were exhausted and at Ludgershall rode into the small manor for shelter. The knight who held the place was with Earl Robert and his servants brought food for them and gave the Empress their master’s bed. Brien saw her go to it with the other women and busied himself in setting the watch and seeing the men fed. He did not sleep until midnight when he had settled the next day’s route with Gilbert Basset and Ingelric, and he was up by dawn to have them all on the road again.
On the second night they lay at Devizes Castle in safety, but still Brien dared not linger and on the third day led them in under the barbican of the stronghold at Bristol – only then did he feel certain of his charge’s safety. A sudden summer storm had soaked them all and the women were in a state of utter exhaustion, even Maud herself; beneath the hood her face was grey with fatigue and she allowed Brien to lift her from her horse, her limbs too stiff to obey her.
‘You are safe now,’ he said and for a moment held her lest she should fall.
‘Safe!’ she echoed. ‘Safe! We have lost everything.’
‘No,’ he said with a conviction he was far from feeling. ‘You still hold your cousin.’
‘Stephen!’ She drew in her breath on the word and her voice shook. ‘I wish I could hang him. ’
He began to lead her gently towards the doors into the great hall. ‘That would be a mistake, Domina. He is your guarantee. As long as we hold him – ’
She began to shiver, drawing her wet cloak about her. ‘I wish we had not left Robert.’
In the hall men were bustling about, throwing logs on the fire in the centre, calling out for food and wine for the Empress, serving women running to prepare beds, the hunting dogs asleep by the fire lifting their heads to stare at the newcomers. One of Robert’s dogs, as if by some instinct, rose and regarded them watchfully, looking intently for his master.
Maud sank down on a stool close to the blaze and taking wine from a hovering servant Brien held it out to her. ‘I am sorry I had to keep such a pace,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but Robert charged me with your safety and I dared not delay.’
She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. ‘What are a few aching bones? I trust you as I trust no other but Robert himself.’
‘Domina,’ he said and leaned forward, his pity rising in a tide of dangerous emotion. ‘Domina, if I could take your burden from you, if I could – ’ he broke off. ‘I served you always because King Henry wished it but now because – I cannot say it, but,’ he lowered his voice even further, ‘but to me it does not matter whether you are Queen or not except insofar as it is for your good and your happiness. I would serve you under any circumstances, anywhere – ’ He became aware that servants were about them, bringing dishes, laying trestles, carrying flagons of wine, that other men were coming into the hall, hurrying to their Empress and that he and she were not alone. He closed his mouth hard, angry with himself for his impulsive speech. Only the tension, the anxiety and weariness of the last few days could have brought him so close to an avowal.
Maud was looking at him strangely, her dark eyes gleaming. ‘Nothing is finished yet,’ she said. ‘Do not think I have lost my courage.’
‘Never,’ he answered vehemently, but later when she rose to go to the chamber prepared for her, her legs would not bear her and she stood swaying, for once defeated by physical and mental devastation. She would have fallen had he not caught her.
‘I will carry you,’ he said, and lifting her in his arms crossed the crowded hall, men-at-arms and servers falling back to allow him to pass. He took her up the spiral stair and in that dim circular place for a few brief moments he had her as he desired, alone and in his arms. He felt himself trembling so that his own legs were unsteady and he went up the steps slowly that he might prolong the delight, the feel of her body close to his, her arm about his neck, her head resting against his shoulder. He wanted only to carry her away, somewhere where they might be alone, where he might forget she was the Empress, the woman seeking the crown of England, wife to Geoffrey Count of Anjou. But somehow, something of the discipline he had practised all his life kept him going steadily upwards until he came to the curtain that hung over the arched doorway of her chamber.
There he set her down and her eyes which had been closed opened and she looked up at him. There was no one in the narrow gallery.
‘I owe you my freedom, if not my life,’ she said. ‘I shall not forget, Brien FitzCount.’
Before he realised what she was doing she had taken his face in her hands and kissed his mouth. ‘Domina!’ He reached out both hands, but she was gone behind the curtain.
All next day the remnants of their army came straggling in, men arriving at the last stage of exhaustion, all pouring out their versio
ns of what had happened so that by evening a picture had emerged of what had become a rout, men fleeing in all directions, many slaughtered by the wild mercenaries William of Ypres did not trouble himself to restrain. Others were tortured for any plunder that might be had, for their horses and swords and clothing, some were even slain by the infuriated peasants whose fields had been ruined by the fighting. The road from Winchester, one tired Welshman said, was strewn with arms and baggage and plunder that their men had discarded in their haste to flee and which served some purpose in that it held up the pursuing army.
Standing behind the Empress’s chair, Brien listened in rising horror. She seemed restored now to her normal proud self and she made no reference to last night’s revealing moment in the gallery. She asked every man who came in, ‘What news of my brother? Have you seen the Earl of Gloucester?’
And when each man shook his head the heavy frown grew on her forehead, drawing her dark brows together ominously. She said to Brien, ‘I fear for him. Yet I dare not think – ’
He broke in, ‘Domina, he will come. He said he would fight in the rearguard. He will come.’
But no news reached them until the following evening after the Empress had retired.
The hall was quietening down, men settling for the night and Brien having a last word with Reginald who had come in earlier in the day, hot, tired and cursing volubly, when the doors opened and Earl Miles staggered over the threshold. His face was streaked with sweat and dirt, he was without mantle or chainmail, his tunic ripped across, no helmet on his head, and blood from a cut cheek matting his beard.
‘Earl Robert is taken,’ he cried out and collapsed on to the nearest stool. He leaned his head on one hand, swaying with fatigue and his son Mahel, with one gasp of horror, ran to him with wine. He drank it thankfully, his hand shaking so that it spilled in a red stream down his chin mingling with the blood and dirt.
‘For God’s sake,’ Reginald said, ‘tell us what happened. Is my brother hurt? Speak, man.’
Earl Robert’s sons, William and Philip, who had come in with Reginald, hurried across to the group and Roger the chaplain came to stand beside them, his gentle blue eyes filling with anxious tears. Baldwin came too, with Ingelric and Gilbert Basset and other knights, all waiting to hear, alarmed by the sight of the powerful Earl of Hereford reduced to such straits.
‘You cannot mean it.’ Baldwin sat down astride the bench opposite him. ‘Miles, did you see him taken?’
‘Aye.’ The Earl drained the cup and set it down, drawing a long breath. ‘We were at the ford at Stockbridge. I was across with a few men and Robert the other side waiting for stragglers. The enemy must have laid an ambush, guessed we were coming that way. They came up out of the banks where the undergrowth is thick – we did not see them until Robert and the rest of his men were surrounded. By God, he fought well – ’
Philip leaned forward and seized his shoulder with thin grasping fingers. ‘And you let him be taken, you ran when he was taken. God’s Wounds, I never thought to call you coward.’
Miles heaved himself upright and with one hand seized Philip and shook him.
‘Coward! By Christ’s Blood, any man who calls me that – ’
‘Keep your tongue from my father,’ Mahel added angrily. ‘It was you who ran and left Roger Foliot at Wherwell.’
Philip’s face was suffused with colour, and he ignored a warning glance from his brother William. ‘What is one knight more or less? But my father – ’
‘You were not there,’ Miles said roughly, but he released Philip and sank down again. ‘There was nothing I could do from the other bank, not with a few dozen men. Don’t you think I would have saved him if I could?’ He stopped abruptly, staring round at the faces above him, some incredulous, others fearful, horrified. Philip folded his arms on his chest, his mouth drawn down in a vicious manner, but he said nothing more.
There was a silence, as if every man there realised the heavy import of the loss, missed from this hall the vital presence that had held them all together.
At last Reginald said, ‘What will they do to him? By God, if they harm him – ’
Miles laughed shortly. ‘He’s too valuable to them for that. Holy Cross, they must be pleased with themselves. It is the most damnable piece of misfortune that could have come to us.’
William of Gloucester leaned forward. ‘We must ransom him. If it takes every gold piece we have – ’
‘They will want more than ransom,’ Brien put in. ‘Do you not see – ’
‘Aye,’ Baldwin interrupted, ‘it’s plain enough. They have Robert, we have Stephen.’
‘And everything we have done since Lincoln fight is for naught,’ Brien finished.
‘Where is the King of Scots?’ William asked. ‘Was he taken with my father?’
Miles gave a faint amused smile. ‘I heard he was taken three times and each time bought his freedom with gold – or so a knight of Chester told me. He must have gone into the fight with a money belt about his waist. Trust a Scot to think of that! As far as I know he’s gone north with Ranulf.’
‘His captors can’t have known his value,’ Gilbert Basset said practically. Both his sons were with Stephen, to his mortification, and he wondered if they would buy his freedom if he were caught. ‘The King of Scots must be worth more than a handful of gold coins.’
‘I doubt they knew him,’ Miles said, ‘but even King David, when – if – he returns to us, cannot replace Robert, though the Lady will be glad her uncle escaped. He will come back in due course, I don’t doubt.’
Brien was sitting staring at the burly, muddied, untidy figure of the Sheriff, trying to digest the significance of all this. ‘Will you tell her, Miles?’
‘I? I am not fit for the Lady‘s bower and I’ve lost every stitch of clothing I had with me. Besides,’ he glanced at Reginald, ‘I think it is for her brother to do that.’
Reginald shook his head. ‘She will take bad news best from you, Brien.’ He looked straightly at him and Brien, meeting that gaze, was half aware of what lay behind the words, though too concerned for Maud to care if the whole world knew what he had determined that none should know. He got up.
‘Very well. Go to your bed, Miles. Mahel, find him some clothes.’ He left them and went down the hall, through the groups of men all talking in anxious voices, the hubbub growing as the news spread. When several pressed round him asking questions, he said he knew no more than they and went up the spiral stair where he had carried the Lady of England two nights ago. Half way up beside a small slit window, he paused, staring out into the gathering darkness. It was the worst blow he could have conceived. Robert was their strength and he could not imagine the Angevin cause without that able figure in the centre of it. This castle was strong and the Lady safe, for which he thanked God, but he had now to deal her a blow that might shatter her more than the exhaustion of her flight. If he could have held her in his arms as he had done on this very spot, given her a measure of his own strength, his love to sustain her first – but he would not find her alone, nor could he presume on her gesture of that night. For a moment he felt again the pressure of her mouth on his, that brief touch that sent desire through every nerve. Yet what had it meant to her? She had given no sign the next morning and he must take it as no more than an act of gratitude, of passing emotion in a moment of weakness. But if it were more? There were so many things she had said to him that might be taken to mean more than the mere words conveyed. With a sudden shudder he thrust the hope from him, for what could he hope for? There was no end, could be no consummation, and setting his hand on the rope, for he was deadly weary, he went on up to knock on the door of the bower.
King Stephen was weary too, weary of his underground vault, weary of the semi-darkness, weary of his fetters. He had come to terms with the rats and played a game with them, throwing small stones from the floor as they appeared. He never aimed at them, only at the wall beside their holes, for if he killed them he would have lost their co
mpany, the only living things to share his wretched solitude. As if they understood they would emerge and stare at him, scurrying away as he hurled a pebble, only to reappear and wait for the crumbs of bread he sometimes threw to them. But he was tired even of this occupation, utterly sick of the boredom, the loneliness, the indignity of this damp, evil-smelling place. Surely his Queen, his friends would not let him stay here forever? He looked down at his hands. They had once held the staff, the sceptre of England and now they were grimed, the nails broken, the iron marking his wrists. How many weeks was it? Thirty? Thirty-one? He had lost count though at first he had scratched the passing of the days on the wall. Sweet Mother of God, he thought, was there to be no end?
The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Page 19