There was talk of the belfry, and then some speculation about the Earl of Chester’s whereabouts, for rumors had begun to circulate that he was no longer holed up in the castle. By the time Gilbert de Gant joined the group, conversation had shifted to the new serving-wench at the alehouse in Danesgate Road.
Few topics were of greater interest to Gilbert than women, especially wanton ones; he was by far the youngest lord there, still in his teens. But for once he had other, more pressing matters on his mind. He wanted to discuss the rumors, for he did not understand why Stephen and his battle captains had given them so little credence. He was hesitant, though, to be the one to bring the subject up, for he was a battlefield virgin and these men were veterans. He waited until the first game ended, and while the men were summoning servants for wine and ale, he drew Baldwin de Clare aside. No matter how green or foolish his questions, Baldwin would not laugh, for his own military experience was limited to a disastrous expedition against the Welsh.
“Why is it, Baldwin, that no one believes the report of an army being sighted in Nottinghamshire? Why could it not be true?”
“I can give you one hundred and seventy or so reasons, Gilbert-the miles stretching between Lincoln and Bristol.”
“Does it have to be the Earl of Gloucester? What about the Earl of Chester? Mayhap he did escape…?”
“No matter, for Cheshire is nearly as far. An army on the march in the dead of winter would be lucky to cover eight miles a day. Then you have to allow for all the time it would take to raise an army. We were able to head north so fast because Stephen’s Flemish hirelings were on hand; that is what he pays them for, after all. But I’d wager it would take the Earl of Gloucester a month to muster up enough men. When you then consider time for word of the siege to get out, you’ve now accounted for all of January and most of February. There is no way under God’s sky that an enemy army could be nearing Lincoln, not unless Robert Fitz Roy taught his troops to fly!”
Gilbert was very glad he hadn’t asked in front of the others; he’d have been teased about his “phantom flying army” for days to come. He looked so abashed that Baldwin took pity on him. “Come on, lad,” he said, “let’s go find ourselves some fun.”
Gilbert grinned, ran to fetch his mantle, hoping that Baldwin’s idea of fun was a bawdy-house. But before they could start their search, one of the bishop’s servants was hastening into the hall. A man had just ridden in with an urgent message for the king. Should he be admitted?
Stephen welcomed the interruption; he was losing. Pushing away from the chessboard, he said, “Send him in.”
As the man entered the hall, the bishop leaned toward Stephen. “I know him,” he said. “That is Torger of Hunsgate, a local mercer.” In answer then, to Stephen’s unspoken query, he nodded. “Yes, he is reliable.”
The merchant came forward, knelt before Stephen. “I bring grievous news, my liege. Those rumors of an army-Lord help us, for they were true.”
The hall was immediately in turmoil, as men pushed in to hear, the dice game forgotten. Stephen silenced them, then tersely ordered Torger to continue. Drawing a steadying breath, he did.
“I was on my way to Newark, for I’d agreed to buy some woolens and silks and could not lose the deal just because the weather was foul. But I never reached Newark, my liege. I was only halfway there when I heard sounds ahead of approaching horses and men. I barely had time to get off the road and into the woods ere they came into view. They did not see me and passed on by, banners sodden in the rain, more men than I could count, mounted and on foot, heading up the Fosse Way toward Lincoln.”
“You saw their banners?”
The mercer nodded. “It was the Earl of Chester. I recognized him straightaway. And the Earl of Gloucester. I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Robert Fitz Roy, my liege, I’d stake my life on it.”
There was a flabbergasted silence. “How far were they from Lincoln?” Stephen asked in disbelief.
“They are less than ten miles away, my lord king,” Torger said bleakly, and spoke for them all when he added, “Thank God that the rains have made the river and the fosse too dangerous to cross!”
Robert’s men passed a nervous, uncomfortable night camped just to the southwest of the city. The temperature plunged, and as they burrowed into their blankets in a futile search for warmth, they feared they might face snow on the morrow. But when Candlemas Sunday dawned, the sky had been swept clear of clouds by a gusting, northerly wind. Ice glazed the browned winter grass, glinted ominously midst the reeds of the soggy marshland that lay between them and Lincoln. The city was protected by the River Witham and the Fossedyke, an ancient canal of Roman origin, restored by the old king twenty years past. The river was impassable, running at flood tide. Robert hoped, though, to cross the Fossedyke at a ford known to his scouts, Lincolnshire men he’d sent out at first light. But they were soon back with disheartening news. The ford was being guarded by some of Stephen’s men. The marshes along the Fossedyke were knee-deep in runoff from the storm, and the canal’s water level was much higher than normal, surging with the spillover from the rain-swollen river.
Those listening were dismayed-all but Robert, who said calmly, “If we must cross this marsh, then we will,” and that was enough for most of his men, who were learning to take his word as gospel. After all, they reminded one another, he’d promised the empress that he’d raise an army within a fortnight, and by Corpus, he had. He’d said that they’d meet Chester at Claybrook on the 26th, and they had. They’d seen pig wallows less muddy than the roads of these shires, and had there been any more rain, they’d have needed an ark, and they’d gotten enough saddle sores and blisters to last a lifetime, but they’d covered more than ten miles a day, and it was the earl’s doing. So if he said they’d get through this quagmire, then they would, they agreed among themselves, and they made haste to obey his order to break camp.
Their optimism lasted until they saw the fenlands for themselves, for the flooding was more extensive than any of them had expected. Robert gave them no time to reconsider and they were soon splashing through cold, murky marshwater, linking arms for leverage, coaxing recalcitrant horses, complaining that they were wetter than drowned cats, swearing when the mud threatened to suck off their boots, and shouting in triumph when they caught a dull grey gleam through the waist-high rushes ahead.
The waters of the Fossedyke ran fast and cold, surging west toward the River Trent. On the opposite bank, Stephen’s sentries sat their horses in astonishment, staring across at these wet, muddied apparitions as if doubting their own senses. Robert and his battle captains drew rein at the canal’s edge, trying to gauge its depth. It was, they agreed, not as shallow as it should be. But the ford must still be there, else Stephen would not have posted guards.
“Well,” Robert concluded, to no one’s surprise, “there is but one way to find out.” But he then startled them all by saying, “It is only fair that I be the one to test it. If I seem likely to make it across, I’d welcome some help on the other side,” he added dryly, and drawing his sword from its scabbard, he spurred his stallion forward into the water.
Chester was the first to react. His flaws might be beyond counting, as his enemies alleged, but none had ever accused him of timidity. “What are we waiting for?” he challenged, and charged into the Fossedyke after Robert.
Ranulf and Brien were quick to follow, but it was the Welsh prince Cadwaladr who made sure that no man would dare balk. “Come on, lads,” he called out cheerfully in Welsh, “let’s show these pampered English that they need not fear getting their feet wet!” And laughing as if he relished nothing more than a winter’s soaking in icy waters, he plunged into the Fossedyke. The Welsh needed no further urging, scrambled down the bank and splashed into the canal.
After that, they all had to cross over, even those who most feared drowning, for they could not let themselves be shamed by these “misbegotten Welsh churls,” and they waded into the Fossedyke, shivering and cursing
at the first shock of frigid water on their legs. Fortunately the storm-fed current was still not too deep at the ford, and by the time they reached the opposite shore, there was no need to fumble for weapons. Stephen’s vastly outnumbered guards were already in retreat, fleeing with a frantic warning for Stephen, that the enemy would soon be at the city gates.
February 2nd was a holy day of special significance, the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, commonly known as Candlemas. Stephen heard Mass in the great cathedral of St Mary, and dozens of anxious citizens crowded into the church to hear the bishop celebrate the Eucharist and to study the king for clues, for some indication as to what he meant to do. They already knew he was being advised to withdraw, to leave behind enough men to hold Lincoln until he could return with a larger army. That rumor had raced through the city, faster than any fire and just as frightening, for the men and women of Lincoln would feel safe only as long as Stephen was personally taking charge of their defense.
It was not surprising, therefore, that they reacted with such alarm when Stephen’s candle suddenly snapped in half as he held it out to the bishop. A simple mishap…or a sinister portent? Judging from the murmuring he heard sweeping the church, Stephen well knew which explanation seemed more likely to the congregation. During the remainder of the Mass, he could not keep his thoughts upon the Almighty as he ought, distracted by his anger and his disappointment. For if they were so sure that a broken candle was an ill omen, their faith in his kingship must be wavering.
Once the Mass was done, Stephen headed toward the transept door leading out into the cloister garth, waving his companions away when they started to follow. He was given only a brief respite, though, only a few moments of quiet and solitude, for Waleran soon grew impatient and barged out into the cloisters after him, with the Earls of Northampton and York close behind.
“We need to talk, my liege,” Waleran insisted, “for we’ve settled nothing. As I told you last night, we ought not to let them force us into any rash action. We’d be foolish to take the field without enough men to make sure victory would be ours.”
Stephen had heard all this before, until the early hours of the morning. “And as I told you, Waleran,” he said testily, “I will not run from rebels.”
“Stay here in Lincoln, then. But call up the shire levies, let us summon our own vassals-” Waleran broke off in exasperation, for Stephen was no longer listening. Turning to find out why, he saw William de Ypres striding up the walkway toward them. Ypres had scandalized the bishop by missing the Candlemas Mass, instead riding off to judge for himself the immediacy of the danger posed by Robert Fitz Roy’s army. One look at his face now was enough to warn them that they’d not like what they were about to hear.
“If you’re all still debating what to do,” Ypres said grimly, “I can make it easy for you. We’re running out of choices, for we’ve run out of time. That flooded quagmire everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, someone neglected to tell Robert Fitz Roy it was impassable.”
There were exclamations at that, for by now all of Stephen’s battle commanders were crowding into the cloister garth, along with the bishop and more and more of the town’s apprehensive citizens. But Stephen ignored their clamoring.
“So they got across the marshes,” he said, not bothering-as some of the others were-with futile denials. It mattered little if every living soul in Christendom would have sworn it could not be done; if William de Ypres said it was so, Stephen did not doubt him. “And the Fossedyke?” he asked, although he was already anticipating what the Fleming would say.
“They crossed at the ford, whilst your guards fled like women. By the time I got there, they were lighting fires to thaw themselves out. What they do next depends upon you, my liege-whether you come out to give battle or force them to besiege the city.”
“Are we outnumbered?”
“As far as I could tell, but not by much. And you have the more seasoned soldiers under your command. The Welsh are worthless on the field, will break and run at their first chance. As for the Cheshiremen…who knows what they’ll do when put to the test? If you are asking me, my liege, if we can win, I’d say you can. But I’m no soothsayer, cannot promise you victory.”
“Just so,” Waleran said emphatically. “Why should we risk defeat when there are other roads still open to us? I say we hold fast within the town, then send for an army that can give us certain victory. It makes no sense to take the field unless we can be sure of the outcome, and for that, we will need more than God’s Favor and the good wishes of the townspeople.”
The bishop was highly indignant. “My lord Earl of Worcester, you blaspheme,” he said hotly, “for what power can be greater than God’s Favor?”
Waleran could see the bishop was ready to launch into a lengthy lecture, and he sought to head it off with a brusque admission that he had “misspoken.” But he was too late, the damage already done, for Stephen was glaring at him accusingly.
“Do you think I fear God’s Judgment?” Stephen demanded. “Those men are rebels, in arms against their lawful king. How could the Almighty ever give them victory? No, I will not shrink from this battle. Better to make an end to this, here and now. We have right on our side and I am willing to prove it upon the field. I’ll not cower behind these walls whilst traitors and renegades threaten the peace of my realm. We will fight and we will win.”
SO sure was Robert that Stephen would come out to confront them that as soon as his men were dried off, he set about assembling them in battle array. This sparked an argument with the Earl of Chester, who insisted that he should have the honour of striking the first blow, the quarrel being his. But Robert pointed out that Maude’s grievance was greater, and he prevailed.
Robert’s battle tactics held no surprises, for he was a highly capable commander but not an innovative one, and he chose the traditional formation: two lines of horsemen flanking the center, which would fight on foot. The left wing, or vanguard, would lead the first assault, and for that crucial offensive, Robert shrewdly chose those men who’d had their lands confiscated by Stephen, men like Baldwin de Redvers and William Fitz Alan, men with nothing to lose. These knights, the “Disinherited,” would fight under the most formidable of Robert’s battle captains, Miles Fitz Walter. Chester was to have command of the center, and Robert himself took the right wing, while the Welsh were positioned out in front of his mounted knights.
Robert then made the commander’s customary speech to his troops, reviling the enemy and predicting victory, for their cause was just. A prayer was said and a priest called upon the Almighty to bless their efforts with success.
By then, Stephen’s army had already ridden out through the city’s West Gate. Aligning his men along the slope that extended from the town wall down to the Fossedyke, Stephen thus began with a tactical advantage, for the enemy would have to charge uphill. Stephen chose to command his center, entrusting his left wing to William de Ypres and the Earl of York, who’d earned his earldom by defeating the Scots king so decisively at the battle in Yorkshire two summers ago. His right wing was, like Robert’s, a division of mounted knights, leadership shared among the Earls of Worcester, Pembroke, Surrey, Northampton, and Richmond and Hugh Bigod, for none of those prideful lords were willing to defer to the others.
Because Stephen’s voice was softly pitched and did not carry well, young Baldwin de Clare was chosen to speak to the troops on the king’s behalf, and pleased by the honour, he began zestfully ridiculing their enemies, promising both victory and retribution. But his spirited oration was cut off in midflow by the blaring of trumpets. Not willing to wait any longer, the other army was moving to the attack.
Ranulf had asked to fight under Robert’s command. Never had he been so proud of his brother as in the weeks of this campaign. Robert did not have a flamboyant bone in his body; he weighed his words and pondered his actions, and in both speech and manner, showed all the elan and flair of a sedate, scholarly clerk. Even when he’d plunge
d into the Fossedyke, he’d made it seem perfectly natural and not particularly heroic. Ranulf loved his brother dearly, knew him to be a man of honour. But until now he’d not appreciated just what Robert could accomplish in his quiet, understated way. He yearned to tell Robert of his newfound admiration, but of course he could not, for that would have embarrassed them both. Instead, he said a special prayer for Robert’s safety, and then reined in his stallion at Robert’s side so they could watch together the beginning of the battle.
Ranulf had never fought in a pitched battle between equal forces, his experiences of warfare limited to Geoffrey’s skirmishings in Normandy and raids upon Worcester and Nottingham with Robert and Miles. He was by turns, excited, apprehensive, fearful, and eager, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw those same contradictory emotions chasing across the faces of his friends. Gilbert urged his mount forward to ask, “Ranulf, think you that Ancel is with Stephen’s army?”
“I hope not,” Ranulf said, but he did hope Gervase Fitz Clement was fighting with Stephen, and God forgive him, but he hoped, too, that when the dead were counted at day’s end, Annora’s husband would be amongst them. He was too ashamed to admit it, and felt a superstitious pang of unease, for what goes around comes around and evil rebounds upon the wisher. He could not help himself, though, for the thought persisted: How much easier it would be if Annora were widowed on this Candlemas Sunday.
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