Fires of Winter

by Roberta Gellis

  Mary the Merciful knows how that memory of Ulle ached within me, but the pain did not come at once, for the king and queen did not separate immediately after Epiphany and I still had Melusine. Then, too, despite the poor attendance at the court, at first the situation looked hopeful. A huge treasure had been uncovered in Salisbury’s strong room, and Stephen had determined that so much could not belong to the Church but must have come from state revenues. I thought that likely, not that I would have cared much if it was Church coin, for the son of a whore does not get a very good view of priests and the Church. Moreover, neither my father nor Sir Oliver paid more than lip service and the smallest tithe they could manage to the Church. The one priest I knew as a child who was all good, Father Anselm, did not know what money was, I think. He had never taken more than the food he ate and the pallet he lay upon. He never asked even for a new robe, though his own was in such rags that Audris took it away and replaced it.

  Everyone benefitted—although one of the benefits made me anxious because it meant that Melusine would have to go to France with the queen. There had been some talk about betrothing Eustace, the king’s eldest son, now fourteen years of age, to the sister of the king of France. I knew Stephen desired it, hoping that Louis would help him recover Normandy from Matilda’s husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, if he made Eustace duke of Normandy. But promises for the future, particularly when they can only be made good by large expenditures for armies, are a poor inducement to forming a relationship. Now with a huge bribe (called a bride price) available, Maud and Stephen were able to plan for the queen to go to France as soon as a safe passage seemed possible.

  I was not pleased at the thought of losing even the chance of seeing Melusine for months, but I knew we would be fighting most of the time and comforted myself that she would be less likely to discover my lies and be worried if she were in France. Also, the benefits from Salisbury’s hoard even trickled down to me, and when the king offered me the two payments of my pension that he was in arrears and a third for the coming quarter, I took it gladly and did not worry about where the coin came from. It was very welcome, because I found I spent far more than was sensible when I was with Melusine. She scolded, but I could not resist buying her little things that caught my eye—beads and thread for embroidery and rich cloth, red and gold; I loved to see her dark beauty glow in those colors.

  After the queen left for France in February, the well of joy that had bubbled through my blood as long as I had Melusine died down. The spring was darker than the winter. It seemed as if a contagion of greed and madness tainted the whole land. All bonds of loyalty and reason burst asunder. Every little man who could raise an army turned on any other weaker than himself. And the king could not prevent it because great lords, some of whom he had favored and had no reason to rebel and indeed did not declare for the empress, suddenly seized royal property.

  The summer was worse than the spring. There is no use in trying to recall exactly where we fought or how many marches we made—many to no purpose because before we arrived at our objective, we had to turn back to some more urgent fight. I had always enjoyed a good fight, at least after my blooding, in which I came to terms with the fact that use of my sword and lance would bring pain or death to other men whom I did not know and wished no harm. Now, for the first time in many years, I needed to find that place inside myself very far away from the blood and the stink of loosened bowels and the screaming. But worse even than the battles were the constant signs we stumbled upon as we crossed and recrossed the realm of that madness of greed, that loss of all honor, all mercy, all humanity. Again and again we found whole villages and manors where every person had been ripped and disemboweled and burnt for what could not be more than a few coins, a few ells of cloth, or for nothing at all.

  Yet in the blackest moments of that summer and into the autumn there had been some hope of peace. The queen and the bishop of Winchester were attempting to negotiate a truce with Robert of Gloucester. But it came to nothing. Waleran de Meulan played on the king’s too optimistic nature, reminding Stephen of our many successes and saying that all would think him faint of heart to give up half a royal crown—and to a woman too. Perhaps the queen could have changed the king’s mind, but she was not with us and within the week news came from the townsfolk of Lincoln that the earl of Chester and his half brother, William de Roumare, had taken Lincoln keep by a strange stratagem. They had sent their wives to visit the wife of the constable. After some hours, the earl of Chester had arrived, saying he had come to fetch the ladies. He was unarmed, except for the sword by his side, and he was accompanied by only three knights, so he was welcomed without any uneasiness—whereupon he and his knights turned on the guard, seized every weapon they could find, and held gate and drawbridge until his brother came galloping in with a strong troop, with which he ejected the royal garrison.

  Stephen rushed north, but Chester and Roumare had not been idle. They had brought in more men, many more, enough to hold not only the keep but to cow the burghers and hold the walls of the town. Now Waleran spoke for peace. He pointed out that Chester and Roumare had not declared for the empress and that it would truly be a disaster if so powerful a baron changed sides. Then he reminded Stephen how bitter Chester was about the treaty with King David that had given Cumbria, which Chester felt was his, to Prince Henry. If Chester and Roumare would swear loyalty and swear to defend Lincolnshire against Matilda and Gloucester, it would be better to let them hold the keep and town.

  It was sensible advice. I remembered how troubled I had been about that treaty with King David and how I had even mentioned Chester’s claim to the king when I spoke against the treaty. Yet now I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out against Waleran’s ideas. I had begun to feel that Waleran was the king’s evil genius, a clever, perverted creature that brought ill even when what it suggested seemed fair. But in this case all agreed with Waleran. I do not think there was one dissenting voice, except for the displaced constable, and his prejudice because of his shameful expulsion from his keep made his objection ridiculous.

  A peace was patched up, although this time I do not think the king was pleased with Waleran. I thought his acceptance of the vows of Chester and Roumare was sullen; however, they swore on the holiest of relics, on their own souls, and the souls of parents and children that they would be faithful vassals and support the king in all ways without fail. I think they were sincere. I think the great keep at Lincoln and the governance of the shire—even though it was placed in Roumare’s hands, not Chester’s own—was a salve that eased Chester’s sense of ill treatment over the loss of Cumbria, which was a poorer land. In addition, Chester knew well that peace with Scotland might be of short duration while the empress was in England because King David might be induced to break the peace to support her. In that case, Chester might still obtain the restoration of Cumbria.

  Perhaps with that in mind, Chester set himself to be agreeable, and I believed the king had been reconciled to the arrangement by the time we left Lincoln. However, I thought very little about Stephen because we were going to London and I knew Melusine was waiting for me there.

  The next few weeks I performed my duty in a kind of dream, not wishing to hear the plans for more war and still more war in the future. I had Melusine, and we danced together at the feasts and we laughed and played and made love, but I could not talk of Ulle. I know that made Melusine uneasy; I was sorry for it, but I could not bear even a shadow of pain in the little circle of false peace I had made for myself.

  I was not even to have a full measure of the peace my wife brought me. On the last day of December, a new messenger came from the townsfolk of Lincoln, crying to the king of Roumare’s cruelty. Lord William and his brother, he complained, were hanging and fining the people of the town for having warned the king that the keep had been taken. I was hardly listening, only alert for my name in my master’s voice, but I sprang to attention at the king’s roar of rage and the heated
words in which he promised he would not permit such practices. I had a fleeting thought of the burnt-out villages that he had ignored in seeking a greater enemy, but I thrust myself between the king and the messenger when the man suddenly stepped forward.

  “Let him come,” Stephen said.

  I did so, but stood close for I thought it foolish to take a chance, even though I felt myself that this man meant no harm. He came right to Stephen’s feet and knelt down, taking hold of the king’s gown in his anxiety.

  “If you wish to punish them, sire—” His voice was harsh, but hardly more than a whisper and his eyes burned with eagerness. “Chester and Roumare and both their wives are at ease in Lincoln keep—and they have sent away nearly all the men they had summoned to hold the keep and the town. If you come quickly, we will open the town to you. You could surround the keep and take them with great ease. We will even fight with you.”

  “I—”

  I thought the king was about to say, “I cannot do that. I have just taken their oaths of homage and sworn to protect them from their enemies as they protect me from mine.” I could understand why he hesitated, having only just promised, too hastily as usual, to help the folk of Lincoln. Instead, he said, “I must take counsel with my barons. Go now, but come back after the evening meal. Bruno”—he gestured toward me—“will bring you to my private closet.”

  Years past, I had come to terms with the fact that the king’s honor was not mine, that my duty was to serve him not to be his conscience, but until now Stephen’s lapses, at least those of which I knew, had been omissions. He had chosen not to know certain things. This was different. This time when he told his chief men to order their troops to make ready to march and told them where to go, even Waleran and Ypres, whose own souls were not spotless, looked taken aback, and Geoffrey de Mandeville looked disgusted.

  They all protested, but Waleran and Ypres were soon won over, and Mandeville, although he still looked like a man who had bit on something very sour, became silent when Stephen pointed out that once Chester and Roumare were safely imprisoned, there would be no chance at all that they would turn rebel and no need to give them more and more to keep them loyal. Moreover, Stephen reminded his men, Chester’s wife was Robert of Gloucester’s daughter, which would give them a strong pawn for bargaining with Gloucester. In addition, the king swore that when Gloucester was defeated and Matilda driven out of England, he would make restitution to Chester and Roumare. This was only a necessary expedient in a time of great crisis.

  To be more swift and more secret, every man-at-arms who could sit a horse was mounted, and we rode in small groups by different ways. We were in Lincoln by the sixth of January, but Chester and his brother were not quite as off guard as the king had been told. Although we came to the town by night and the gates were opened as promised, somehow warning was given. The earl of Chester escaped, and Roumare had drawn his men into the keep and sealed it tight.

  We had not men enough to take the keep by assault. Although the townsfolk were willing to fight, they were not trained for such work and would be useless. However, Lincoln had not been stocked for siege, the king was told, and it would not take long to starve them out. Stephen was not so sure; he sent summons to war to the local barons, and many came so we had a decent army. Still, Lincoln was very strong and it seemed reasonable to wait and try to induce Roumare to yield. We set up the siege machines to pound the walls and we made feints of attack to tease the garrison into wasting arrows and wear them down with lack of sleep and constant alarms.

  But there was a side to mewing up the earl of Gloucester’s daughter that had not been properly considered. We soon discovered that Chester did not flee to his own lands but to Gloucester himself, and although Gloucester had had reason for ill-feeling against Chester in the past, he did not hesitate. From the army that came against us, it was apparent that Gloucester had sent Chester back to his lands to call upon his men and hire Welsh archers while Gloucester summoned his own supporters. Together, they marched west—and again the evil sown by the destruction of Salisbury bore bitter fruit. We only learned of Gloucester’s advance when he was less than a day’s march distant, and it was far too late for the king to collect a greater army.

  As too often happened these days, the king’s council was divided. The more cautious of the king’s vassals, Ypres and Mandeville, advised him to ride south before Chester and Gloucester arrived, leaving one or more of them in Lincoln with their troops to hold the town and continue the siege of the keep. The king could then return with a greater army and attack Gloucester from the rear while those within could come out and assault his front. Caught between the two armies, Gloucester would surely be defeated and probably captured. Simon de Senlis, William d’Aumale, and others agreed, offering to ride south with the king and raise more men. I had my doubts about their reasons, and I did not agree with them.

  Now I know it would have been better, far better, for the king to have taken that advice. At the time, I found myself, unwillingly, in agreement with Waleran, Alan of Brittany, and most of the younger barons, who all cried that it would be a shame to flee Gloucester. I was less concerned with the shame—to my mind there is no shame in retreating from a certain loss so that one may triumph later—than with the loss of opportunity to end the war. If we failed to meet him now, who could tell when we would again find Gloucester so exposed, and we seemed to have at least a small advantage. The reports we had made the rebel force out to be smaller than ours, if we included the townsmen who would fight afoot, and Gloucester’s men had had a long, hard march while ours were well rested.

  Aside from reason, I knew the king would not go. This was too close to his father’s betrayal of his men in Antioch. Stephen might refuse battle in the open if he saw no chance of victory, but I was not sure that he would retreat, even from certain disaster, once he was committed to the protection of a city. I do not think he considered fleeing south for a moment. He barely waited for the voices to cease before he committed us to battle.

  I slept well that night, possibly a special gift from Mary the Merciful, for I lit a candle to her and prayed, not for myself but for Melusine. My death might grieve but could not really harm her, but if Stephen fell to Gloucester, the queen would likely flee England. Perhaps she would take Melusine with her, but to what uncertain and dreadful future? And if Maud left Melusine in England, could she travel the whole length of the war-torn kingdom to reach Jernaeve? And once there, what? She would be cherished, but what purpose could her life have? There was King David and a second marriage and Ulle—but I put that from my mind. Perhaps I should have loved her enough to wish for it, but I was not that good a man. No, that was a thought to keep for the battlefield, where I could draw it out and it would give me a berserker’s strength.

  The following dawn there was a misfortune at Mass. The flame on the thick white candle, which was the usual royal offering, went out, and the candle broke as the king placed it in the hands of the bishop of Lincoln. The church was full to bursting, mostly with the men of the town who were joining us to defend their city, and a cry went up from them as they saw what happened. Then the pyx holding the body of Christ fell out of the bishop’s hand, and a silence more profound than should be induced by the Mass followed. If it would not have caused even more terror, I would have broken Alexander of Lincoln’s neck, twisting it between my hands like a chicken’s. I do not know how the bishop of Lincoln caused the candle to break, but I am sure he did as I am sure he broke the hasp of the pyx. It was Alexander whom the king had threatened to hang before Devizes keep in front of the bishop of Salisbury’s eyes—could either event have been an accident?

  The king knew too, but he could do no more than I. If we prevailed, Stephen would have his revenge. But because he no longer trusted them to stand firm, he chose to fight afoot with the burghers of Lincoln, a detachment of his mercenary men-at-arms, and such knights and barons as wished to join him. While Stephen was tellin
g his battle leaders of his decision and giving orders that they form in two lines to defend the flanks of the foot battle, we heard the messengers crying that Gloucester’s army had somehow made its way through the swamp created around the Fosse Dyke by the flooded Witham. The king hastened his instructions, and we all made for the gate and marched out on the plain, which was mostly level except for one small rise, upon which the king stationed himself.

  I held my usual place to Stephen’s left and half a step behind, and a leather-lunged baron called Baldwin Fitz-Gilbert, who would exhort the men, Stephen’s voice being too soft, stood to the right. Camville, who had given way to Fitz-Gilbert, was behind him, and in their usual places, although on foot instead of mounted, were the others who shared my duties. I was glad to see that our own group was well fortified by a number of the local knights. I did not know all their names, only Richard de Courcy on my left and Ilbert de Lacy behind him, near me; but they were all in good spirits.

  Marsh or no marsh, Gloucester’s army came on to the field in good order and advanced on us until I could make out the arms and blazons of the leaders. Chester lead the center, and he was already reviling the king and his supporters. I could hear a few words and had to bite my tongue to suppress a cheer when I heard him call Waleran crafty and perfidious, but like most exhortations much of it was lies. He called Waleran a coward and pusillanimous in deeds, and neither was true—even though he certainly acted the part that day.

  I heard nothing more from our enemies because Fitz-Gilbert was paying them back insult for insult and lie for lie in a voice like a brass gong. Certainly what he said about Miles of Gloucester, Chester, and Earl Robert was untrue, and he had not quite finished his exhortation when roars from the enemy line and shouts from our own men cut him off. In fact, Chester was in the act of proving he was no coward by charging at the footmen’s line well ahead of his troop. He and the men who followed hoped to shake the footmen and force them to break their close formation. Men on horseback are at a huge advantage over individual men on foot, but they cannot penetrate a solid line of pikemen without sacrificing many horses.