The Villains of the Piece

by The Villains of the Piece (retail) (epub)

  The guards said nothing. It was not their place to make suggestions. They were the eyes and ears and sinews of the castle; only sergeants and up could offer advice to their lord.

  Alyse arrived, her slender shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the metal hauberk. Strangely, the armour made her seem more vulnerable, and the men instinctively formed a protective circle.

  Several of Fitz Count’s loyal knights emerged on the roof, and he realised that if a well-aimed missile hit the top of the keep, Wallingford would lose most of its leaders. Also, the weight of men made the wooden roof creak underfoot. He said, ‘Stay away from the centre,’ then told Morcar to check that the vinegar barrels were in place.

  Alyse asked, ‘What will you do about the catapults?’

  Brien studied the double row of dray horses that were dragging the rafts upstream. He said, ‘If anyone has an immediate idea, let me hear it. Anyone. If not, get about your duties. You all have enough to do, God knows.’ He glanced from face to face, shaking his head when one of the knights suggested a sortie, its object being to kill the drays and set the rafts adrift. Another knight agreed with the sortie, but said they should drag the horses forward and beach the rafts in the shallow water around the ford.

  ‘No,’ Brien repeated. ‘It would be too costly. They may have archers hidden along the east bank. They’d kill us as we went out of the gate.’

  There were other suggestions, some impracticable, others merely heroic. Morcar, who had not yet gone below to organise the fire-fighters, said, ‘Perhaps we could float men downstream, disguised as driftwood.’ He glanced at his mentor, and was encouraged when Varan said, ‘Not that, but something similar. There’s plenty of hay put by for the horses. Bundle it, soak it in pitch, then set it alight and send it down river.’

  ‘It would sink before it got there,’ somebody told him, and Morcar blurted, ‘Not if we used the cork. We keep it to pad the soldiers’ tunics. It gives them some protection against arrows…’

  ‘Why not?’ Varan agreed. ‘Our own rafts. The cork would keep the bundles afloat, and carry them over the ford.’

  Brien nodded. ‘Get it ready. We won’t launch until they reach the ford.’ He turned to Morcar. ‘You help him with it. We’ll find someone else to check the vinegar.’

  The sergeant’s lips twitched in an involuntary smile. He ignored the hard-eyed knights and shouldered his way around the roof. Wait till Edgiva heard about it, how he and Varan had out-thought the nobility.

  As they reached the solar level, Varan told him, ‘You’re coming on.’ It was the closest he would ever get to praise, but it was enough for Morcar that his wife was standing within ear-shot.

  * * *

  King Stephen splashed across the ford, then waved the emissary forward. The rider wore a plain white tunic and, as he trotted towards the castle, he raised a white linen banner. He had done this before – thus the extra two pence a day he was paid – but each time he grew more nervous. He was completely unarmed, and worse, unarmoured. He saw himself as an earthly interpretation of an angel, but without an angel’s immortality. One arrow, one sling-shot, and he would be sent crashing from the saddle. As he neared the eighteen-foot-high walls, he mumbled ungrammatical prayers under his breath…

  Strict formality was observed. The king summoned Brien into his presence. Brien accepted, on condition that the royal army stopped in its tracks, with the catapults down-river of the ford.

  Stephen advocated an exchange of observers, but this was rejected on the grounds that the king had more to learn about the fortifications of Wallingford than Brien needed to know about his attackers. One army, he claimed, was much like another, but every castle was unique.

  However, he would come out to talk, and bring two men with him. As a token of respect he invited the king to bring three. This allowed Stephen the last word, and the opportunity to display largesse towards his once lifelong friend. He replied that he would not, of course, bring three companions to the conference table; he would bring two, tit-for-tat.

  They met in the meadow between Wallingford town and the castle. The king loaned a canopy, whilst Brien supplied the table and chairs. Wine was provided free by the trembling townsfolk. Nobody ate, for it would give the impression that one side or the other was short of food.

  So in all things they were equal, save in the status of their attendants. Stephen was accompanied by the earls of Surrey and Leicester, the two men who, long ago, had crouched beside the dying King Henry in the hunting lodge in the Forest of Lyons and snarled contradictions at Matilda’s bastard brother.

  Brien was flanked by his senior knight, a man with the unlikely name of Ferrers de Ferrers, and by Constable Varan. It was mid-October, and tempers were kept cool by a bitter south-east wind.

  The protagonists had not met since Stephen’s Easter court at Oxford, two and a half years ago. They had both changed in appearance, though the king’s moustache was as sparse as ever. He blinked at the recognisable Greylock, and found it hard to accept that his friend-turned-enemy was two years his junior. Neither of them was young any more, yet dignity still eluded the forty-two-year-old king, whereas Fitz Count was every inch the suzerain, striding confidently into middle age. His overwhelming air of authority balanced nicely with the royal preponderance of earls.

  Brien halted beside the table, bowed to Stephen, and identified his companions. The sinewy Ferrers de Ferrers nodded curtly at the king, then at Surrey and Leicester. Varan stood his ground, his eyes on Stephen.

  The courtesies were returned, and the men took their places at the table, Surrey opposite Varan, Stephen and Brien in the centre, the Earl of Leicester doing his best to ignore de Ferrers. A volunteer from the town poured wine into silver goblets provided by the local monastery, then withdrew. He stood, a lone figure in the meadow, waiting to hurry forward at the first thirsty signal.

  Stephen put a hand to his moustache, restrained himself in time, and let his forearms rest on the table. ‘The life of treason seems to suit you, Greylock, though you’re going white around the temples.’

  ‘It’s fear,’ Surrey interposed. ‘He knows he’ll be performing a gallows dance before Christmas.’ He gave a sudden start as Varan slammed a fist on the trestle table. Surrey’s goblet jumped and fell on its side, and rivulets of wine ran to the table edge and dripped on his gown. ‘A cockroach,’ Varan explained equably. ‘It looked ready to bite you, my lord. Must have fallen from your sleeve.’

  The earl recovered quickly and amended his forecast. ‘Two dancers,’ he snarled. ‘And I’ll play the tune.’

  ‘We’ve exchanged enough pleasantries,’ Brien warned. ‘Tell us why we’re summoned, Lord Stephen, or we’ll go back into the warmth.’

  Anxious to avoid further unnerving interruptions, Stephen nodded at the castle. ‘You know why you’re here. Surrender Wallingford, and there will be no bloodshed. Nor will there be any hangings. What I see as treason, you regard as loyalty, and, because we were once special friends, I shall not take revenge on you.’ He smiled, and for an instant there was a trace of the earlier, happy-go-lucky Count of Blois. ‘I’ll even give you a manor house, until the war is won, then put you back in Wallingford again. I pardoned d’Aubigny at Arundel, and he and I were never so close as—’

  ‘Why did you let Matilda go?’

  With a quick sideways glance he said, ‘Because I am no Surrey, that’s why. He would have hanged the entire garrison – isn’t that so?’

  ‘I would,’ the earl agreed. ‘And your cousin would now be in the Tower of London, making her final confession.’ He brushed irritably at his wine-stained gown, then addressed the assembled company. ‘You go your own way to damnation, Fitz Count, you and your gristle-faced constable. But you, King— You have no right to sit here parleying with these vermin. Wounds of Christ, it’s not a meal-table! You allowed Bishop Henry to convince you, and you set the empress at liberty, and that was the worst thing you could have done—’

  Stephen turned sharply, his squirr
el’s fur collar rippling in the wind. ‘Are you lecturing me, Warenne of Surrey?’

  ‘Maybe; who cares? But whether I am or not, I’m telling you to behave like a king at war, not a quiescent rabbit! Your throne is being threatened, you may have noticed, not only by the bastard and his sister at Bristol, but by these creatures here! You smile and tell us how you pardoned d’Aubigny at Arundel. But what happens the next time Matilda calls? He’ll let her in again, that’s what, and they’ll congratulate themselves at your credulity. Don’t offer this traitor a pardon. Let him wait here to be hanged, or burn his nest to the ground! Let’s see some fire!’ He leaned forward, his hand wet with wine. ‘Hey, Leicester! Your tongue still moves, doesn’t it?’

  His compeer nodded. ‘If I may voice an opinion, Lord King; you do seem too tolerant with sworn enemies.’

  ‘Oh, well put,’ Surrey sneered. ‘How forceful!’

  There was a malevolent silence for a moment, and then Stephen asked, ‘Will you come out, Greylock? You’ll not be hanged, you have my word—’

  ‘No. Not until you give Matilda her crown.’

  ‘I cannot promise that, but you shall have your manor—’

  ‘No.’

  He questioned the scrawny Ferrers de Ferrers. ‘Are you and your brother knights willing to lose all in the service of Fitz Count? How many of you must we ruin?’

  ‘The answer to the first question is yes,’ de Ferrers replied, ‘though, if we retain our honour, we have not lost much. As for the second question, it probes our secrets.’

  Stephen sighed. ‘Then what choice have I, Greylock? I must attack you.’

  ‘Or keep to the vows you thrice made to King Henry.’

  ‘Hang in flames!’ Surrey shouted. ‘Let’s see how you are when your women are alight!’

  Brien rose to his feet and said he would send men to collect the table and chairs. The conference was over.

  * * *

  There were flames, but they did not scorch the buildings or occupants of Wallingford Castle. They arose instead from the pitch-soaked bundles that were sent drifting downstream to the ford. The cork blocks carried them over the bubbling shallows and, even though four in every five were doused, or hooked ashore by Stephen’s men, enough reached the raft- borne catapults. By dusk they were both burning on the water.

  Since the night of Stephen’s coronation, four long years ago, the master and men of Wallingford had anticipated such an attack. They had rehearsed their counter-moves a hundred times, fired a thousand practice arrows, set alight their own outbuildings, then stifled the flames with vinegar. There was little an outsider could teach them, for they were already self- taught.

  The offensive lasted five days, at the end of which Stephen withdrew his forces and set them to building two wooden watch-towers, one south of the Wallingford marsh, the other on the open ground to the west of the castle. They were each designed to hold fifty or sixty men, whose sole duty was to keep the world away from Wallingford. All carts and riders were to be intercepted, all river craft stopped and searched. The castle would be starved of food, materials, news – even of rumours. It would be a place alone; the Leper of the Thames.

  On 27th October, King Stephen led his army west towards Trowbridge and Cerney, two more rebellious outposts. The leaders of Wallingford watched him go. Brien and Alyse climbed to the roof of the keep and were soon joined there by Varan, Morcar and Edgiva, and a handful of knights. Other knights watched from the walls, as did Ernard and the girl he had rescued from the tavern at Oxford, Eadgyth called Edith. One of the fourteen knights had been killed by a crossbow quarrel, and Ferrers de Ferrers nursed a shattered wrist. But the number of fatalities was remarkably low. Six men and a woman had died within the confines of the castle, and perhaps twice that number had been wounded. A section of the stable roof had collapsed – though this had had nothing to do with the siege – and three horses had been crushed beneath the broken timbers. Somebody had stabbed a dog to stop it barking, and a pig had broken loose from its sty and been shot by an archer, testing his skill. But these deaths and injuries were as nothing compared with the losses among the king’s ranks. Surrey and Leicester had emerged unscathed, but the defenders’ arrows had accounted for five knights, several dozen foot-soldiers, and God alone knew how many common labourers, hired to assist the dray horses.

  Brien Fitz Count could not claim a victory, for the countryside was now cluttered with two tall watch-towers. But the king had been forced to withdraw, and thus admit that he found Wallingford too tough for his teeth.

  * * *

  Three weeks later there were more flames, this time curling against the hastily-built watch-towers. Brien scrambled on to the battlements, turned to help Alyse up the unlit steps, then stared incredulously at Stephen’s briskly burning fortresses.

  Alyse asked, ‘That’s not your doing, is it? You didn’t send out men—’

  ‘No. We’re nowhere near strong enough to sortie. There’s an army out there somewhere, but—’ He shook his head in the darkness.

  His wife peered at the twin flowers of flame, then ventured, ‘Robert of Gloucester, perhaps? Or— or am I about to meet the fair Matilda?’ She felt him tighten his grip, and complained, ‘Don’t break me!’ Frowning, she withdrew her hand and massaged the knuckles. God in Heaven, did Brien have to react with such – fervour?

  The fires crawled higher, and they heard shouts and screams, and then the towers began to fall apart. Single candles of flame toppled over, turning the ground red where they fell. The town of Wallingford was silhouetted against the blaze of the southern outpost, while the western tower sent deep shadows vaulting across the open fields. Figures were discernible, but it was impossible to tell who had fired the forts.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Brien said. ‘Whoever did that, did it for us.’ He hurried down the inside of the shaft and out into the bailey. Varan and Morcar were there. The horses were saddled, the knights mounted. They followed their leader and for the first time in a month the defenders rode to the attack.

  It took them until dawn to find their saviour – the grinning, smoke-smeared Miles of Hereford, the first man to follow Brien and Alyse from the Great Hall at Westminster on the night of Stephen’s coronation, and the first to obey Robert of Gloucester and feign a reconciliation with the king. Miles of Hereford, known as Sharpscent, because it was said he could sniff a wild boar’s lair at a distance of a hundred feet, in thick undergrowth.

  They met near the western tower, swung down from their horses and strode towards each other through the smoke. Their followers glanced around, to make sure none of the watch-tower archers were in a condition to let fly. Then they mopped their faces and exchanged stories of siege and sack.

  Miles and Brien flung off their helmets and embraced each other. They clung together wordlessly for a moment, then stood back, arm on arm. Brien remembered the sense of shock with which he had received the news of Sharpscent’s alleged reconciliation with Stephen, and even now, more than three years after, he felt a pang of shame. God, had he really doubted one of his truest friends?

  ‘Hey, now!’ Miles exclaimed. ‘We’ve won, not lost, you know. Show some teeth, Greylock, or I’ll think you’re sorry I broke down the fence.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Brien assured him, ‘and there’s no one on earth I’m happier to see.’

  With a wry grin, his rescuer said, ‘Not quite true, though it’s unlikely she’ll visit you before Christmas.’

  ‘The empress? Is she well?’

  ‘She is, and asks when you will go to Bristol. But I must tell you, Earl Robert advises otherwise. He prefers you to stay on here—’

  ‘I intend to,’ Brien nodded. ‘When Stephen learns of the fate of his towers – for which, by the way, I’ll get some undeserved credit – he will make an all-out effort to destroy us here. It’s no place for Matilda.’

  Nor for Lady Alyse, Miles thought, but said nothing.

  There were wounded to be cared for, dead to be buried, prisoners to
be guarded. The two nobles remounted their horses, agreed to meet later in the keep, then wheeled apart. Behind them, the western tower lay like a giant cooking-pit, complete with charred twigs and bones…

  * * *

  On 11th December the wine-loving Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, died. King Stephen’s chroniclers said it was of shame, for his having behaved in such a treasonable manner towards his monarch. Those who were opposed to the king maintained that the prelate had succumbed to a broken heart, brought about by Stephen’s unjustified persecution of God’s senior servants. Whatever the true cause, it gave Stephen the opportunity to secure the see of Salisbury and appropriate Roger’s personal fortune. This was considerable, and helped pay for the royal Christmas at Westminster.

  Chapter Eight

  On the Field

  January 1140 – February 1141

  One might have lifted a brazier of burning coals and thrown them on to a patch of grassy ground. That was how England looked, in the fifth year of King Stephen’s reign. Magnified, the coals became castles, villages, even towns, for there were several towns razed by those who loved their country.

  Much to Brien’s surprise, Wallingford did not come under attack. Throughout that year, Stephen was kept busy elsewhere, and was unable to find time to lead an army against his lifelong friend. In mid-summer, Henry of Winchester arranged a peace conference between Queen Matilda and the Earl of Gloucester – the bishop was not so optimistic as to imagine he could bring the women together, queen to empress, Matilda to Matilda – but nothing came of the meeting, and the war continued.

  In June the king summoned the Great Council to Westminster to discuss a successor to Roger of Salisbury. Bishop Henry put forward two candidates, both of whom were opposed by Stephen. Once again the king found himself at odds with his brother, who stormed from the chamber, as Brien Fitz Count and Miles of Hereford had stormed from the coronation feast, as others had later quit council and conference. As Queen Matilda sourly observed, her husband’s guests seemed incapable of finishing a meal.