Henry, bland and smooth-featured, said, ‘No, Lord Treasurer, I am quite serious.’
‘You think you are. It’s a trait in madmen. Madmen always think they are serious. Well, sir bishop, we are both busy men—’
‘It would be to your advantage to listen, Pont de l’Arche. Its value is not diminished by its novelty.’
‘Yes,’ the treasurer nodded, ‘I admit, I am curious. One does not often come upon such high-placed madness. So if our king, God preserve him, should enter heaven from the mounting block of Normandy—’
‘Say die, treasurer. Leave such embroidery to us. If the king should die—’
‘You want me to pass over his entire fortune. You know that the coinage alone amounts to more than one hundred thousand pounds. Then there’s his property, his plate, his jewellery, his horses—’
‘I know.’
‘—his packs of hounds, his clothes, his furniture, his personal rents, loans that have yet to be repaid—’
‘I said I know.’
‘And I’m to give you all this. And Winchester Castle. What supreme effrontery. It really is a joke, though I doubt if the king’s daughter will be amused by it.’
‘It won’t matter what she thinks. My brother Stephen will inherit the throne, not Matilda.’
‘He’ll do nothing of the kind,’ the treasurer snorted. ‘The king doesn’t want him, and England won’t have him.
‘And if you are wrong, then will you make over the treasury?’
The treasurer had heard somewhere that one should humour madness, and he treated Henry to a pitying smile. ‘Let Stephen be made king,’ he said, ‘and I shall festoon you with royal keys. You shall have all the royal keys. I shall hang them around your neck. Though, of course, if Matilda succeeds to the throne, as she will, you may find yourself wearing a hempen rope instead. We might dress you in that, you see. A noose. Do you follow my meaning?’
‘Just,’ Henry murmured sarcastically. ‘You have such a delicate touch with words.’
Anyway, that was how the story went. Brien accepted that it had been embellished in the retelling, but he had no reason to doubt that Henry had asked for the treasury. It was not the sort of thing one could invent.
He reached the drawbridge, stamped the snow from his boots, then made his way carefully across the iced-over planks. He wondered what Pont de l’Arche was thinking, now that London had elected Stephen king. If Winchester also welcomed him – and with Henry as their bishop it was a foregone conclusion – Pont de l’Arche would have to swim with the tide.
The Lord of Wallingford suddenly realised that he no longer believed what he had told his guards. Give a man a crown and one hundred thousand pounds, and he is unlikely to relinquish them to a female cousin he actively dislikes. And yet, if he does not relinquish them, he risks pitching his country into civil war.
Would Stephen go that far? Would he fight to keep what he had taken?
Brien could not bring himself to answer, but for the first time that day he felt chilled to the bone. He went on into the keep and roared at Varan to organise a work-party and break the ice in the moats.
Four days later – while the terrified emissary was recounting the news of Stephen’s election to the barons at Lisieux – Brien heard that Pont de l’Arche had surrendered the treasury, and that the Chief Justiciar of England and several important churchmen had allied themselves with Stephen.
* * *
Next morning Brien and Alyse were woken by Varan, who handed his master a heavy parchment scroll. It was secured with silk ribbon, the ends of the ribbon buried in a black wax seal. The seal measured more than three inches across, and bore the inscription STEPHANUS DEI GRATIA REX ANGLO- RUM – Stephen by the Grace of God King of England – and on the reverse, STEPHANUS DEI GRATIA DUX NORMAN- NORUM. The contents of the scroll summoned Brien Fitz Count and his lady to the coronation of King Stephen at Westminster Abbey on Sunday, 22nd December.
Beneath the summons Stephen had penned, ‘It has been a long while since we were together, dear friends, and never under such happy circumstances. Come the day before, so we may have some time to talk, and bring your finery, for I have reserved a place close by for you.’ It was signed, again somewhat prematurely, ‘Stephanus Rex’.
‘That,’ moaned Alyse, ‘is the Stephen I remember. He invites us to come early, quite uncaring that it will take the best part of a day to get there. You realise what it means.’ Brien nodded. He was not yet fully awake, and from time to time he picked up the scroll, flattened it with his hand and reread it. He mumbled, ‘It means we must make a start. How long will it take you to prepare—’
‘A week, at least.’
‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘I know. There’s an unseemly haste about the whole affair.’ He put his arms around her, massaging her bare shoulders. No one wore night-clothes. In winter one piled more covers on the bed, or moved the bed closer to the fire. Again he asked, ‘How long?’
‘I shall need to take Edgiva. She knows how to do my hair, and I don’t want some excitable court servant—’
‘Of course. Take who you like.’
Alyse allowed herself a long sigh, to show how inconsiderate she thought the world, then turned to her husband and kissed him, and suddenly became businesslike. ‘Keep clear of me until midday. I’ll be ready by then, though God knows what I shall look like at the ceremony.’
He opened his mouth to tell her she would look beautiful, as always, then thought it better to match her mood. Very well, midday. With luck we should reach London by dark. If not, we’ll stay the night at Windsor.’ He lay back on the bed, the cold air brushing his chest. So Stephen was making the act official. Now what I am to do about that, Brien mused. What do I say when my old friend asks for a solemn oath of fealty? How do I tell him that I hold to the vows I made to Matilda, and regard him as nothing more than a usurper? Christ Almightyl
He swore aloud before he could stop himself, and Alyse mistook the reason and said, ‘Don’t fret, it’s not your fault. We’ll be there in time.’
‘No,’ Brien frowned, ‘we won’t. We’re already too late.’ He lay where he was for a moment, then swung himself abruptly from the bed and made a dash for his clothes.
Chapter Three
Stephanus Rex
December 1135
The coronation of King Stephen had been a bleak and ill-attended affair. Many of the senior nobles had remained at Lisieux, or raced for England in a vain attempt to reach Westminster in time. Others, who lived within riding distance of the Abbey, had pleaded indisposition and sent their sons to represent them, or simply ignored the summons. The ceremony had been conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, assisted by Stephen’s brother Henry, and the Bishop of Salisbury. But this impressive triumvirate was unsupported by the mass of the clergy. In short, the place had been three-fourths empty, the singing cheerless, the atmosphere tense and urgent.
Brien and Alyse had been present, although they too had all but missed the service. The roads between Wallingford and London had proved impassable, and the riders were forced to follow the course of the Thames, thus doubling the length of their journey. As a result, they had not yet spoken to their old friend – their new king.
The young couple, together with Edgiva and six members of the Wallingford garrison, had been lodged in the palace precincts, and they waited there now, Brien and the women in an upper room, the guards directly below, with the horses.
Alyse gazed out of the window, watching the other guests hurry across the cobbled yard to their own quarters. She tried to gauge their movements, but it seemed that they were also awaiting instructions. Brien came to stand beside her, looked down at the snowy yard and asked, ‘Anything happening?’
‘Not that I can see.’ She turned, appealing as much to her maidservant as to her husband. ‘I do not know whether to change out of these robes, or stay in them, or what. Look how the snow has stained the hem.’ She shook her head. ‘Nobody but Stephen could become king in such a
casual way. It’s a wonder he didn’t keep the crown beside his bed last night, then put it on when he got up this morning. It would have saved us all—’
‘Wait,’ Brien said. ‘There’s a steward coming round.’ He called down to the guards, and one of them went to the yard door to take a folded square of parchment from the official. He brought it up to Brien, who unfolded it and held it so Alyse could read it with him.
It was untitled, and read, ‘Stephen by the Grace of God King of England, to our barons and faithful friends, greetings. We bid you present yourselves at the Great Hall of the Palace and eat with us and receive our love on this most joyous occasion. If you have brought members of your family with you, we extend our welcome.’
Brien gave the note to Alyse and strode back to the window. After a moment he saw what he was looking for and said quietly, ‘God’s pity, it’s sad.’
‘What is?’
‘That steward. He’s gone round, and he is still left with a pile of letters. That’s why they carry no title. Stephen did not know how many of us would attend. And that’s why he’s stretched his invitation to the entire family. He’s worried that his banquet will turn into a meal for ten.’
‘I wish I could be so compassionate,’ Alyse told him. ‘Perhaps I’d see it differently if he had given sufficient warning. But what else can he expect, when half the nobility are out of England, and the rest snow-bound? The only reason we are here is because we rode half the night. It’s not sad, husband, it’s inevitable.’
‘I suppose so.’ He called downstairs again, then asked the sergeant of the guard if he had arranged food for the men. The sergeant, who was in the throes of a secret affair with Edgiva, tried hard to avoid her gaze. ‘I have, lord,’ he nodded. ‘They will feed all the troops in the kitchens. Do you wish me to, uh, see that mistress Edgiva gets fed?’
‘No, she can join the other maidservants. There will be a room set aside for them near the hall.’
The sergeant nodded again, with less enthusiasm, then bowed and went back down the stairs. Edgiva stifled a sigh of relief. She was enjoying her affair with the sergeant, though tonight she was happy to forgo his attentions. He would be there tomorrow, but she might never again get the chance to eat in the next room to the King of England, and exchange gossip with the servants of a dozen great households. Well, not exchange gossip. She was not given to that sort of thing. Just listen to it; listen and learn.
Brien collected the invitation, draped his cloak around his shoulders and fastened the throat clasp. Edgiva helped Alyse into an embroidered mantle – and the hem of that was snow-stained, Alyse noticed – then donned her own woollen cloak and followed Fitz Count and his lady to the head of the stairs.
* * *
The Great Hall at Westminster lived up to its name. Built by King Henry’s predecessor, William Rufus, it measured two hundred and forty feet in length, and was sixty-seven feet wide. It had been constructed over and around an earlier wooden building, so that at no time was the banquet-loving king denied his comforts. When the vast, ragstone hall had been completed, the wooden structure was torn down, and clay tiles laid from wall to wall. In the forty years since then, almost every tile had been cracked or chipped.
A raised platform covered the northern end of the floor, and supported a single, fixed table. Rows of less substantial trestle tables filled the body of the hall and, because of its extreme length, the building boasted three fire-pits. The smoke rose to the vaulted ceiling and escaped through louvres – unless the rain or snow drove it back, or the wind blew it under the rafters to fall as soot on the guests. Chests and benches and dismantled tables stood against the walls, interspersed with helmeted guards from Stephen’s Norman and English fiefdoms; men he could trust.
Each long wall contained twelve large windows and twenty-five smaller apertures. There had been talk of importing glass from Palestine, or commissioning inferior work from the blowers at Guildford. But nothing had been done about it, and the windows remained unglazed. They were, however, covered by heavy leather curtains, and these did something to lessen the draught.
Outside, Brien directed Edgiva to the servants’ chamber, then offered Alyse his right arm, his hand palm downward, his fingers extended. Alyse rested her left arm on his. As they approached the south door of the hall, she asked, ‘Is there any way by which you could come to terms with him?’
‘One I can think of, though I don’t hold out much hope for it.’
‘May I know?’
Surprised, he said, ‘Of course you may know. Do you believe I would risk alienating us from Stephen without first consulting you? I’ll swear fealty to him, if he will acknowledge that he is simply custodian of the crown.’
‘And will pass it on to Matilda?’
‘Exactly. The day she sets foot in England.’
‘Then you are right.’
‘Hmm?’
‘There’s not much hope of it. It is hardly the question to ask a king within an hour of his coronation.’
‘He is not king,’ Brien said firmly, ‘not until we say he is king.’
Alyse glanced at her tall, grey-haired husband, then walked on with him to the door. She wanted to agree with him, but she could not. Yet neither could she tell him that his truth was distorted by reality. There had been a coronation, and there was a king. He did not accept it, but it was a fact. In a moment they would see Stephen, King Stephen, and they would be expected to address him according to his rank. Whatever Brien saw in the mirror, England and the world would accept the reflected image.
But it was not acceptance or rejection that concerned Alyse. It was something much less admirable, something she dare not put into words. Brien did not acknowledge Stephen as his king. Very well. But was it for the reasons he had given, or was it because not only his loyalties, but far more, belonged to Stephen’s rival cousin, the Empress Matilda? Was Brien enamoured of her, as the rumourmongers said? Had she once held him in thrall, and could do so again, whenever she chose? Ashamed and angry, Alyse thought, the devil snatch her, before she ruins Fitz Count!
Guards stopped them at the door. Brien thrust the invitadon at them, and they stamped to attention.
You’re poorly trained,’ he told them. ‘Anybody could have obtained one of these. And I doubt that you can read it. As it happens, I am the Lord of Wallingford, and a close friend of the – of Stephen, but you will have to settle for my word. I could be an assassin. Think of that.’
He escorted Alyse between them and entered the smoky, candle-lit hall. The guards grimaced at each other. That was the third baron who’d snapped off their heads. It was going to be an eventful evening.
* * *
Stephen was making a fool of himself, and knew it. He could not decide whether to stay at the high table and wait for his guests to present themselves, or come down and greet them man to man, friend to friend. So far, he had mounted and descended the side steps a dozen times, like an actor who has lost his nerve. He would have to settle for being on stage or off, one or the other.
He climbed on to the platform, looked along the hall, then hurried down again. But this time his smile was sincere.
‘Fitz Count! My Lady Aline – Alyse! I thought I glimpsed you in church. God, what a chilly performance that was!’ Alyse, he told himself, it’s Alyse. What is the matter with you, you don’t even know anyone called Aline.
Alyse took her hand from Brien’s arm, raised the hem of her gown and made a deep curtsey. She said nothing and thought immediately, now there is no turning back. I am as one with my husband. I did not call him king.
She raised her head, smiling, and Stephen thought the smile was for him.
Brien bowed, stood erect again, and said with complete honesty, ‘My Lord Stephen. I am pleased to see you again.’ He gazed directly at his thin, black-haired friend, remembering that if all else was lost between them, they would still share the same birth date. Stephen was three years older, although today, weighed down by his regalia, he looked young, u
ncertain of himself, a son who had stolen away to dress in his father’s clothes. He had grown a moustache, which had come out paler than his head hair. He looked – yes, vulnerable. And God knew, he was.
‘And I am pleased to see you,’ Stephen said. ‘Both of you. My lady, you are without doubt one of the most beautiful women in England.’
Alyse smiled. ‘And you, my lord, are one of the most perceptive of men.’
Why do they both call me lord? I thought they’d be among the first to exercise my new title. Well, no matter. They’re the truest friends I’ve seen today.
He grinned at Alyse’s rejoinder and held out his arm, inviting her to take it. Then he led her along the hall, past the fire-pits – to hell with you other women, you never stretched your lips until London opened its gates to me – and up the steps to the high table. Brien followed, nodding politely at his peers.
Only one side of the table was furnished with chairs, enabling the occupants to overlook the hall. The chairs were heavy and uncomfortable, but they were the only individual seats in the chamber and it was enough for a guest to be up there – above the bench. Such an honour was normally reserved for senior members of the clergy and barony, and both Brien and Alyse felt out of place. Although they were Stephen’s friends, they were embarrassed by the casual way he flouted tradition. He was not only making enemies for himself, but was directing the angry glare of excluded nobles at the Lord and Lady of Wallingford.
However, they were on the platform now, and stood facing the table while Stephen effected the introductions. Brien had met some of the guests before, and Alyse knew one or two by sight, but this was the first time they had been invited to sit with the magnates as social equals.
Stephen gripped Brien’s arm above the elbow and announced, ‘My lords, may we commend to you our lifelong friend, Brien Fitz Count, Lord of Wallingford-on-the-Thames, and his Lady Alyse, who is descended from an earlier English king.’ He then indicated the aged Archbishop of Canterbury, William of Corbeil; the bishops of Winchester and Salisbury; the treasurer, Pont de l’Arche; Earl Ranulf of Chester and a smattering of local dignitaries. Stephen’s brother, Henry of Winchester, was the only one to smile, though it was hard to assess the sincerity of his bland welcome. The others merely nodded, or looked at Stephen, as though waiting for him to explain his behaviour. Their expression seemed to say, who will you next invite to sit with us, your pet monkey, another lifelong friend?
The Villains of the Piece Page 4