The Villains of the Piece

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

  The king challenged the disaffected earl to single combat, then threatened to hang every last member of the de Mandeville brood. But he might as well have asked one of the reeds to uproot itself and walk on dry land, for all the effect it had. Geoffrey was happy where he was. Ramsey was now only one of several bases, and he had taught his men to respect and therefore understand the ways of marsh life. They learned how to pole the flat-bottomed boats, and how to exist on a diet of raw eels and rainwater. They developed a crude sign language, and treated the reeds as though they were made of glass. In this way they could tell where Stephen’s men had passed, and in which direction, and at what hour of the day, whilst they themselves left no marks of passage.

  During the summer months the brigands struck out beyond the confines of the fens, riding east to pillage Hugh Bigod’s earldom of Norfolk, and south to plunder Geoffrey’s confiscated territories in Essex. The entire eastern shoulder of England fell beneath the shadow of the sword, while the king flailed aimlessly at the waving rushes.

  Bishop Henry came up from Winchester to repeat the advice he had given his brother eight years before, when Stephen had first quarrelled with Brien Fitz Count.

  ‘Hem them in, and starve them out. Don’t chase after them. De Mandeville is no farm girl, and the fens are not cornfields. If you know your history, you’ll know about the man the Saxons call Hereward the Wake. He set up here, in the fens, and it took our ancestor, the Conqueror, five years to reduce him. But King William was doing what you’re doing now, thrashing about as though he could cut down every stem.’

  ‘Hem them in with what? How long do you think it will take to build a wall right around—’

  Henry hissed with exasperation. ‘You don’t need a wall. Seal off the main entrances to the marsh.’

  ‘That won’t stop them getting out.’

  ‘Brother, brother… I’m overweight, and I tire easily, so don’t make me talk myself breathless. Be a little sharper, I implore you. No, you will not stop them getting out, a few at a time. But you will prevent supplies getting in. They may be inventive, but they are common soldiers in there, not millers, or fletchers, or stone-masons. They need food and weapons, fresh horses, firewood, a thousand things the fens do not provide. Build some castles and sever their supply routes. If they want to stay in the fens, then let them. Just make sure they are discomforted, that’s all. Speaking of which, should I have brought my own wine cask with me?’

  Stephen hurried to be hospitable, while his brother looked around for somewhere to sit.

  * * *

  During the next twelve months, Matilda’s party supplied further proof of her personal magnetism. But they did so in an extraordinary way, by remaining exactly where she had left them.

  Stephen’s army was mired down in the fens, committed to the destruction of Geoffrey de Mandeville. It offered the rebels an ideal opportunity to snatch the initiative and move against London and Winchester. But they did not take it, preferring to await the return of the Lady of England.

  For the first time in a decade, farmers in the south and west were able to harvest their crops. Villagers nervously rebuilt their houses and dared to travel from one settlement to the next. It was as if the poison in the body of England had centred in the inflamed eastern shoulder. The body was still diseased, but seemed to be improving with rest and a more substantial diet. It only remained for the patient to stay quiet, and the poison to be drawn from the infected wound.

  * * *

  One of Stephen’s encircling castles was at Burwell, a few miles from Ely. It barred access to the marshes from the south-east, and its garrison had successfully intercepted a number of supply columns. Geoffrey de Mandeville and Hugh Bigod had survived one winter in the fens, but they were beginning to feel the pinch. Burwell would have to be attacked and destroyed, that much was clear.

  So, in early September, the disaffected barons emerged from the reeds and laid siege to the castle. They lacked slings and catapults, so went at the walls with flexible ladders and crudely forged grappling irons. Geoffrey led the first wave of a hundred men, and was one of the nineteen who survived the retreat. Hot and sweating, his expression modelled on a river demon, he threw off his helmet, flung back the hood of his hauberk, and roared at the next hundred to scale the propped-up ladders.

  ‘The door’s open for you! Get up there and deal with them! Norfolk, lead them in!’

  Hugh hesitated, and an arrow flew from the castle and slashed the side of Geoffrey’s head. Blood ran around his ear, and Hugh put out a hand to steady him.

  Geoffrey slapped the hand away. ‘It’s nothing. Leave it. You see!’ he shouted, ‘we have them so terrified they— we have them so terrified—’ He lurched drunkenly. Hugh caught him and was again pushed away. ‘They cannot even aim straight. I’ve been standing here in the open, and—’ He stamped to keep his balance. ‘…I think I’ve caught the sun…’ He sat down hard on the ground, blood pouring from the wound.

  Near to panic, Hugh said, ‘It’s the impact of the blow. You’re not badly cut.’

  Geoffrey lolled forward, his head between his knees. ‘I know it,’ he snarled. ‘It’s the sun and the blow. Christ, if my head would clear I’d—’ Then his words ran into a long, chilling scream, to show his brain had been destroyed, and he arched backwards, his eyes staring at the incurious sun.

  Hugh stood over him, not knowing what to do. Geoffrey wasn’t dead, not from so slight a thing. He couldn’t be dead! He was Geoffrey de Mandeville, the most terrible of scourges… Fate would not allow a stupid, glancing blow… yes, one aimed in such fright that it was not even straight… not allow it to snuff out the bitter flame of… Oh, God, he was so still!

  He’s become senseless with pain… He needs, what do I do, dare I lift him, he must be bandaged… He needs, that’s it, yes, shelter from the sun…

  A mercenary crouched beside Geoffrey, turned the bloody head from side to side, pressed fingers over his heart.

  ‘He’s dead. Hey, Bigod, you’re in charge now. Earl Geoffrey is dead. Is that his only wound?’ He went away without an answer, spitting disapproval. He’d always thought de Mandeville immortal. It just went to show.

  The reign of terror was over. Royalist troops swept the fens and found nobody. The brigands had never respected Hugh Bigod, and anyway he had not stayed around to regroup them. So they had made their way out of the marshes, sniffing the air for the scent of blood.

  The body of Geoffrey de Mandeville was claimed by a group of Templar Knights. The earl’s excommunication had been echoed by the authoritative Bishop Henry, so they laid his body in a lead coffin and had it carted to London. There it was attached to the branches of a tree in the Temple garden.

  It was to hang there, denied burial, for twenty years, suspended between earth and sky, between the heaven he had scorned and the hell that so much wanted him.

  Meanwhile, the scent of blood drew the brigands north, where the second spectre was ready to snatch up the banner of insurrection. It was gripped by shorter, thicker fingers than those of de Mandeville, and the wandering brigands grinned with anticipation. They would not like to say which was the stronger, the more merciless, the closer to Satan – Earl Geoffrey or his successor, Ranulf de Gernons, the Moustache.

  * * *

  It was a world that believed in miracles. They happened every day. If a man was asleep, and his house caught fire, and he woke in time to save his family and livestock, it was a miracle. If a farmer prayed for rain, and after five weeks of prayer the clouds were torn, it was a miracle. It was a miracle to find a coin in the street, or to be cured of sickness, or to discover love requited. Priests traded in miracles, and the artifacts that would make them happen were sold for a high price. So what occurred at Wallingford was judged a miracle, even though it had taken fifteen years of prayer and intimacy.

  Alyse was pregnant. And, had she already given easy birth to ten children, it would still have been miraculous, for her condition was confirmed one week short
of her thirty-eighth birthday.

  The townsfolk of Wallingford thought the civil war had ended, judging by the clamour within the castle. But they accepted the announcement as the next best thing, which it was.

  Alyse felt sick, her body churned by achievement, and she cried openly, knowing she had justified two lives. For his part, Brien Fitz Count contained himself within the boundaries of pride and protectiveness. It was only in private, alone in the chapel, or beside the swift-flowing Thames, that he allowed the tears to come. It was a miracle, and it broke the last strands of Matilda’s web. Brien was neither Henry’s father nor was he unable. He was the father of Alyse’s child, the next Lord of Wallingford, or a Lady of Considerable Beauty, it did not matter which.

  Edgiva sought out her mistress and recited a poem it had taken her a month to read and memorise.

  Varan debated for a long time, then accepted that he would live and die at Wallingford, and spent his life savings on a wooden statue of three figures, a lord and lady, holding a child. The carving was crude and dominant, because the constable had stipulated a lifesize representation, but had only allowed the sculptor an occasional, secretive glance at the subjects. Nevertheless, the message was clear, and the massive group was given pride of place in the solar.

  Sergeant Morcar journeyed beyond the borders of Brien’s land, and poached a well-fleshed deer from the neighbouring forest. This he presented to his master, with an extenuating explanation.

  Presents arrived for Alyse from Robert of Gloucester, Baldwin de Redvers, and from Miles of Hereford’s widow. Trinkets and sweetmeats were delivered by villagers and townsfolk, and the members of the Wallingford garrison presented their liege-lord with a complete suit of armour. It did not matter that Lady Alyse might give birth to a girl, or that, in the event of its being a boy, the armour would only fit him when he was seven or eight, not before or after. None of that mattered, for they were saying we will protect your child, we want to see him safe.

  Who could say it was not a miracle, and well deserved…

  * * *

  The disease, cured in the shoulder, now infected the throat. Earl Ranulf was only too pleased to welcome the brigands from the fens, and he set them to ravaging the northern counties, again engaging Stephen’s undivided attention. In May 1145, the month in which Alyse gave birth to a perfect male child, naturally named Alan after Brien’s father, Alan Ironglove, Ranulf the Moustache attacked York. He showed himself as experienced in depravity as the deep-spoken Geoffrey de Mandeville, and better placed in his search for money and valuables.

  One of his favourite methods was to warm the truth from the citizens. This entailed hanging them by their feet from a pulley over a blazing fire, or reversing the process, so that their bare feet blistered in the flames. It never failed, for even if the human venison possessed nothing, he would quickly name his friends and neighbours.

  Those who disobeyed the Moustache, be they soldier or civilian, were usually garotted, or their skulls squeezed inside a circle of knotted rope, or were lowered into a pit already- occupied by snakes. If their crime fell short of the ultimate penalty, they were nailed up in a box that was just too small in which to sit, just too short in which to lie. A week of that, and they had managed to deform themselves. It kept the army in line, and made the ensuing months the most profitable of Ranulf’s career.

  In the autumn, Empress Matilda returned to England, this time without her son. She was infuriated by her party’s stagnation, and personally visited most of the rebel-held castles. One fortress she did not visit was Wallingford-on-the-Thames, though she wrote to Alyse, congratulating the chatelaine on the birth of her son.

  ‘There are those who conceive in tranquillity, and those who do so in the first fever of desire. You must never think my adoring Greylock loves you the less, because his seed had taken a while to flourish. I, too, would have been patient, had my husband, Count Geoffrey, suffered the torments that so easily beset our men.’

  Alyse showed the letter to Brien, who asked, ‘Yes?’ and, when she nodded, tore it across and across, until his fingers ached.

  The rebel leaders broke the rules of winter and stirred themselves into action. They captured a number of royalist castles, and contributed to a fund to purchase Ranulf of Chester’s allegiance. But he was doing well enough by himself, and had no need of the snow-bound southerners. He had conquered almost one-third of the country, and suddenly saw himself in contention for the throne. Now that would be something, he thought. Ranulf of England.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Last Leader

  February 1147 – January 1148

  Henry of Anjou had changed, and become an imitation man. He no longer clambered up and down stairways, pursued by bulky knights, or yelled in the corridors, or pestered the courtiers with endless, unrelated questions. He measured his tread where earlier he would have run, and expended his energies on riding, tilting at the quintain, and sword-play.

  He already showed extraordinary physical prowess. No one of his own age dared compete with him, and he delighted in unhorsing his seniors. He kept his red hair cropped short, for he preferred to hunt without hood or helmet, and thus risked catching his hair in the briars. Whenever he returned from the hunt it was with his face mapped by scratches and, as often as not, one eye closed by a low branch, his forehead purpled with bruises.

  His chest and shoulders were filling out, his voice deepening, his temper as splenetic as ever. He mixed unquestioned with Angevin nobles in their early twenties, and enjoyed the deception, as would any thirteen-year-old.

  In one week’s time it would be March, and on the fifth of that month his fourteenth birthday. He decided to celebrate it in England, his future kingdom.

  * * *

  Stephen was still engaged in the drawn-out conflict with Ranulf of Chester when he heard that Matilda’s son had landed at Wareham with fifteen thousand men.

  ‘He has also brought a galley-load of treasure, and a thousand Arab chargers donated by his father. His army is moving northward to Salisbury, and seems all set—’

  Stephen stilled the flow of bad news and glanced at his. ‘We’ll have to get down there before he joins forces with his mother and Earl Robert. I’ll give the order to strike camp, and then—’

  ‘One moment,’ Bishop Henry cautioned. ‘Before you lead us in hectic flight, examine it again.’

  ‘Does it need further study? If there is an invading army on the south coast—’

  ‘Yes, if there is.’ He pointed a bejewelled finger at the messenger. ‘Tell us again. How many men?’

  ‘Fifteen or twenty thousand, my lord. Their lines extend—’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’

  ‘Not I, personally, but I’ve heard—’

  ‘And the horses? Those you’ve seen?’

  ‘No. My brother rode up from the south, and he told me.’

  ‘Ah… Then he saw this array, did he?’

  ‘He was nearby when they landed—’

  ‘Near enough to hear about it—’

  ‘Yes, my lord bishop.’

  ‘—but not to see. So we have it at third hand. Precise numbers, even the breed of horses. And one galley-load of treasure, not two, or five.’ He let his hand droop and flapped the messenger away. ‘Too neat,’ he murmured. ‘Much too tidy. You’re being stampeded, brother. You’re being asked to put weight on your own weak spot.’

  ‘Many thanks. And what is that?’

  ‘To act first, and think second.’

  Stephen scowled at the truth. ‘And if you are wrong?’ he queried truculantly. ‘If the prince overruns the south of England?’

  ‘Then the chroniclers will record that you employed the most inept spies in the history of the world. Fifteen thousand Angevins? From where, may I ask? Since when could the Count of Anjou call on such forces? If he had them, don’t you think he’d have sent them over years ago? And if he has them now, which he does not, would he really entrust them to a boy? And what source these myt
hical Arab stallions; you know how much they cost apiece? As for the treasure ship, it’s not quite the thing to place at the mercy of spring storms. No, King, no. The invasion is imaginary. It’s a tale that grows with the telling.’

  Much against his will, Stephen agreed to wait a week. In that time, a stream of messengers entered the royal camp, among them several who had actually seen the invading force. It was true that it was led by the young red-headed prince of Anjou; they were all agreed on that. But the estimated number of troops varied – between thirty-five and sixty. There was, of course, no treasure ship, and the forty or so horses were commonplace palfreys and destriers.

  Stephen did his best to smother his embarrassment, though he all but plucked his moustache in the process. The corpulent bishop was content to breathe on his rings and polish them on the hem of his embroidered cope.

  * * *

  The Prince of Anjou’s presence in England caused Empress Matilda and Earl Robert acute anxiety. It transpired that the fourteen-year-old had left his father’s court at dead of night, without permission and without stating his destination. On his way to the coast he had recruited a motley group of knights and mercenaries, promising them excitement and the highest rates of pay.

  The adventurers had made the crossing from Barfleur in three fishing boats, and young Henry had financed the passage with a promissory note, to be delivered to Count Geoffrey’s court.