Miles signaled and his trumpets blasted again; the horses lengthened stride. Up on the hillside, Stephen’s vanguard began a slow advance upon the enemy. The wind unfurled their banners; Waleran and Hugh Bigod were in the forefront. They had lowered their lances, preparing to joust in the French fashion, a formalized fighting that knights favored, for it looked dashing and chivalrous and rarely resulted in fatalities. But the Disinherited were not interested in tournament-style tilting. They wanted victory and vengeance and blood, and they spurred their stallions forward with wild yells, eager to sheathe their swords in enemy flesh, slamming into Stephen’s knights with enough force to send horses back on their haunches.
Lances were useless in close quarters, and were hastily flung aside as men struggled to draw their swords, to defend themselves against this murderous onslaught. The Disinherited knights bore in with savage single-mindedness, not seeking to take prisoners or collect ransoms, just to slay as many of their foes as they could, and Stephen’s astonished earls found themselves fighting for their lives.
It was not a fair match, men with nothing to lose against those with little to gain, and it was over with shocking abruptness. As Miles charged at a knight on a bay destrier, the horse shied away, and when it bolted, the rider let it go. And as suddenly as that, Stephen’s vanguard broke and ran. The earls made no attempt to halt the flight. Instead, they joined it, and within moments, the muddy slope was emptied of all but dropped weapons and sprawling bodies. As both armies looked on in amazement, Stephen’s men spurred their horses away from the field, racing toward the north with the Disinherited in triumphant pursuit.
Stephen was stunned; four of the five fugitive earls owed their earldoms to him. He could not believe they’d betray his trust like this, kept watching for them to rally their men and return to the field. But they were not coming back, Waleran and Northampton and Surrey, men of proven courage, fleeing like cravens, abandoning their king. All around him, he saw dismayed and distraught faces. Baldwin de Clare, flushed with shame on his brother Pembroke’s behalf. Gilbert de Gant, wax-white and wide-eyed, looking much too young to die on this Candlemas battlefield. William Peverel, whose loyalty Stephen had once doubted, and the citizens of Lincoln, who had as much to lose as Stephen did. He read the fear in their eyes, and said reassuringly, “The battle is not over yet.” Swinging about toward the distant forces of his left wing, he signaled them to the attack.
Ranulf’s ears were ringing, for men were shouting and cheering as if they were spectators at a rousing game of camp-ball. He was just as jubilant, but he also felt a small, unwelcome pinch of sympathy for Stephen, deserted by the very men whom he had most reason to trust. And then the shouting changed, and he soon saw why, for Stephen’s left wing was in motion, galloping straight toward them.
Ranulf unsheathed his sword, looked to Robert for guidance. But between them and William de Ypres’s oncoming knights were the Welsh. They were so poorly armed that Ranulf winced as they ran to meet the attack, and felt a sudden flare of anger at Chester and Robert, for putting them in a position of such peril. He wore a chain-mail hauberk that protected him from neck to knees, and a steel helmet with nose guard. The Welsh had padded leather tunics, legs and arms bared to enemy blows, small shields, and spears to deflect sword thrusts. If he feared for them, though, they did not seem to fear for themselves, charging forward with the same beguiling, mad bravado that had sent them splashing into the icy waters of the Fossedyke.
What happened next was horrifying to Ranulf, for William de Ypres and the Earl of York and their men rode the Welsh down. It looked like a slaughter, swords flashing and bodies going under the flailing hooves, men crying out to God in three tongues: Welsh, French, and Flemish. But as the knights and Flemings raced on, many of the downed Welsh were stumbling to their feet, apparently neither mortally hurt nor much disheartened, for instead of fleeing the field like Stephen’s defeated vanguard, some of them heeded Cadwaladr and Madog ap Maredudd and sprinted toward the Earl of Chester’s wind-whipped banner.
It did not occur to Ranulf to wonder why he was so concerned about the safety of these alien Welsh mercenaries. He had time only for a heartfelt hope that Gwern was among those hastening to join Chester’s center, not one of the bodies trampled underfoot by those battle-maddened war-horses. And then Ypres and York and their Flemings were upon them.
It was Ranulf’s first encounter with hand-to-hand combat, and it changed forever his view of war as a gallant, glorious adventure. This was an ugly, desperate, deadly brawl, a drunken alehouse free-for-all, except that he faced swords, not fists, with far more to fear than bruises or a bloodied nose. He’d been trained in the use of weapons, knew how to dodge and parry blows and keep his shield close against his unprotected left side. But so did the enemy.
Almost at once, he found himself crossing swords with a yelling youth in bloodied armor. Welsh blood, Ranulf thought, and jerked back just in time, as the blade slashed past his ear. The Fleming had mottled skin, a bright-yellow beard. His mouth was contorted, his breath coming in grunts as he moved in to strike again. Their shields thudded together, and for a moment of odd intimacy, they were near enough to see into each other’s eyes. His enemy’s were green. Ranulf would remember those eyes and that face, for this was to be the first man he ever killed. The Fleming looked shocked as Ranulf’s sword thrust through his mail, up under his ribs. Ranulf was shocked, too. He wrenched his sword free, blade dark with blood, and found that he could not swallow, had not even enough saliva to spit. He’d noticed before the battle that many soldiers carried small flasks or wineskins on their belts, had not understood the significance. He did now. Men who went too often into battle had more need of wine than any drunkard.
Some knights had gone down, for there were riderless horses milling about on the field, terrified without the familiar feel of their riders upon their backs, yet still hovering near the fighting. Like horses who’d balk at leaving their stalls even if the stable were in flames, Ranulf thought, and then decided he must be going mad, else why be thinking of stable fires in the midst of Armageddon? He had another clash with an enemy knight, inconclusive but not unsatisfactory, for they both survived it. He had just two objectives-staying alive and finding Robert-and when he did spot his brother, it was as he’d feared. Robert was being hard pressed on all sides, a tempting target for any man hoping to curry favor with Stephen.
Ranulf began to fight his way over. But he was still yards from his brother when a knight on a lathered black stallion careened into him, knocking his horse to its knees. The knight rose in his stirrups, sword poised to strike, and Ranulf swung his shield up to deflect the blow. The impact rocked him back in the saddle, and suddenly his shield was gone, the strap breaking as his stallion lurched to its feet. By then the other knight was attacking again, and this time his sword’s tip caught and tore away metal rings from Ranulf’s hauberk. Pain seared down Ranulf’s arm. He ducked low in the saddle as the follow-through whizzed over his head. But the tide of battle shifted then, swept his foe away, and he turned again to look for Robert.
Robert’s danger was even greater now. He’d been unhorsed, was struggling to protect himself from three determined opponents, one on horseback, two on foot. He’d not been forsaken by his household knights, but they were in trouble themselves, for William de Ypres knew how devastating Robert’s death or capture would be, and his Flemings were jostling and cursing one another in their eagerness to get to the Earl of Gloucester.
Ranulf put his horse into a hard gallop, and the game animal plunged forward, crashing into the Flemings walling his brother in. He had no clear memory of the next moments, a blur of clashing swords and grappling bodies. His stallion, teeth bared like a huge, savage dog, raked open the neck of a screaming bay destrier, and then they were sliding in the mud, going down, and as Ranulf hit the ground, the truth hit him, too, that they were losing.
The Earl of Chester’s trumpets sounded, his banner took the wind, and his men began advancing
up the muddy hillside toward the royal standard of the English king. The whole of the battlefield was open to view, for the few trees growing upon the slope had been stripped of all obscuring leaves, were now barren winter skeletons rising against the pale February sky. They had not covered much ground before it became apparent to them all that their right wing was laboring and might not be able to hold.
Chester called for a halt. He prided himself upon making decisions that were swift and spontaneous, that “came from the gut,” and he knew at once what he must do. He had the blackest eyes Brien Fitz Count had ever seen, and as his imagination caught fire, they glowed like smoldering coals.
“Stephen can wait,” he said. “If we do not come to Gloucester’s aid, that accursed Flemish whoreson might well prevail. But if we join the fray, we can trap his men between us, and his Flemings will scatter to the winds, intent only upon saving their own skins. Stephen does not pay them enough to die for him, now does he? Then we can turn upon Stephen at our ease, gaining so great a victory that men will be talking of nothing else for years to come!”
Brien glanced back at that seething mass of men and horses, his every instinct urging him to go to the rescue of their beleaguered right wing. How could he do nothing whilst Robert went down to defeat and mayhap death, Robert who was his friend and Maude’s brother? “But what if Stephen then attacks us from behind? We could be the ones entrapped, not Ypres.”
“He’ll not have the chance, for even now Miles Fitz Walter must be on his way back to the field.” Chester’s teeth flashed white in his dark face, in a wolfish, avid smile that could already taste victory. “That Devil’s whelp and I loathe each other, it’s no secret. I’ve vowed to outlive him, if only for the pleasure of pissing on his grave. But Fitz Walter is still the man I’d want at my back, sword in hand, be it on the battlefield or in an alley of the Southwark stews,” he said and gave a loud, ringing laugh. “He’ll keep Stephen too busy to spare even a thought for us. On that I would wager my castle at Lincoln, my lustful little wife, and indeed, my hopes for salvation and Life Everlasting!”
“You’ll be wagering your earthly life, too, and mine, and the lives of every man fighting under our banners,” Brien warned, but that did not faze Chester in the least. He was already turning away, beginning to shout orders.
Victory was at hand. William de Ypres had fought in enough battles to read the signs. The faces of his enemies showed fatigue and fear and a despairing recognition of their own defeat. They’d not yet lost the will to fight, but slowly, inexorably, they were giving ground, being pushed back toward the cold grey waters of the Fossedyke.
The wind gave a muted warning, carrying ahead the sounds of shouting, thudding feet, echoes of a trumpet fanfare. The Flemings paid no heed, caught up in the frenzy of the battle. Ypres was one of the few who did. Cursing in Flemish, he swung his stallion about, tried frantically to alert his men to this new danger. But it was too late; Chester’s soldiers were almost upon them.
The fighting was brutal, but brief. Robert’s knights surged back with renewed vigor, Chester’s men were eager to rout the hated Flemings so they could seek the battle’s real prize-the king-and Ypres’s soldiers, finding themselves outnumbered and overwhelmed, soon reached Chester’s cynical conclusion: that Stephen was not paying them enough to die for him. First one and then another wheeled his horse, and then they were all in flight across the field, away from the fighting. William de Ypres and the Earl of York attempted at first to rally them, saw the futility in it, and they, too, fled.
For once the Earl of Chester got all the accolades he felt he deserved, and he found acclaim was especially sweet when it came from men who detested him. Shoving his way through to his father-in-law’s side, he thrust a wineskin at Robert, waited impatiently as the older man drank in gulps.
“We’re not done yet,” he said, and looked about at Robert’s bleeding, battered knights and his own gleeful Cheshiremen. “But bear in mind,” he warned, “that the king is mine!”
AS soon as Chester’s center halted its advance, Stephen guessed what the rebel earl meant to do, and he immediately gave the order to attack. His men started down the slope, swords drawn. But by then Miles Fitz Walter had halted the pursuit of Stephen’s runaway earls, rounded up most of his own men, and headed back toward the battlefield. They arrived onto a scene of utter chaos. At first glance, it looked as if their center was attacking their right wing, and a few of the Disinherited briefly suspected it might indeed be so, for it was generally agreed that the Earl of Chester would double-cross the Devil on a good day. Miles needed just one look, though, to comprehend what had happened in his absence. “Seek out the king!” he commanded, and his knights charged over the crest of the hill.
Stephen’s soldiers scattered as the Disinherited rode into their midst. But they did not lose heart, and quickly rallied to Stephen’s side. Miles had the advantage of surprise, but they had the greater numbers, and some of the fiercest fighting of the battle now took place. Stephen more than held his own, and when he caught a glimpse of Baldwin de Redvers, he lunged forward like a man possessed, for at last his enemy had a familiar face. After months and months of combating rumors and suspicions and smoke, he now had a flesh-and-blood foe before him, a rebel baron who could answer for his treachery as Maude could not, sword in hand.
But he never reached Redvers. Gilbert de Gant was running toward him. The boy had been keeping closer than Stephen’s own shadow, and he’d tried to watch over the lad when he could, knowing this was Gilbert’s first battle. Now he was shouting and pointing, but the noise was too great and Stephen could barely hear him.
“…fleeing the field!” The youngster darted forward, in his agitation forgetting to keep his sword up. A knight on a blood-streaked stallion saw and bore down on the boy. Stephen shouted a warning that Gilbert couldn’t hear. But at the last moment, he sensed danger, spun around too fast, and stumbled, falling into the path of the oncoming stallion. The knight was quite willing to run him down, but the horse was not. The stallion swerved and by the time the knight circled back, Stephen was there. Facing now a far more formidable adversary than Gilbert, the man veered off in search of easier quarry.
Yanking Gilbert to his feet, Stephen brushed aside his stuttered thanks. “Christ, lad, keep your guard up if you hope to make old bones!”
Gilbert gulped and nodded and then remembered. “The Flemings…they are running away!”
Stephen had been shocked by the flight of his earls. But he took William de Ypres’s defection even harder, for he’d come to trust the Fleming, convincing himself that Ypres was more than a well-paid hireling, that he truly cared who was king in a land not his own. He kept insisting that Ypres would be coming back, that he’d rally his Flemings and return to the fight. But Ypres was long gone, and Stephen found himself alone on a cold, muddy battlefield with the knights of his household and the scared citizens of Lincoln, abandoned by his own barons and his most trusted captains, surrounded by the enemy, men in rebellion against a consecrated king.
They were being assailed now on three sides, and retreated slowly up the hill. But once they reached Stephen’s royal standard, he looked up at the golden lions on a field of crimson and refused to go any farther. They pleaded with him to seek safety within the city, for the battle had been fought within sight of its walls. Stephen was deaf to their urgings, and at last Baldwin de Clare cried out in anguish, “My liege, do you not understand? We are beaten!”
“I know,” Stephen said. “That is why you must save yourselves now. Go and go quickly, whilst you still can.”
They looked at him, and then one by one, they took up position around his standard, shoulder to shoulder as they braced themselves for the final assault. Tears stung Stephen’s eyes, for they did not ask if his quarrel was good or his cause was just. He was their king and that was enough. Their steadfast loyalty made it easier to bear, the dreadful realization that he’d been abandoned, too, by Almighty God, judged as a king and found wan
ting, not deserving of victory.
The last moments of the Battle of Lincoln were the bloodiest. Encircled by the enemy, Stephen and his men fought off one attack after another, but his foes kept coming back, until Stephen found himself shielded by the bodies of those who’d fallen. His sword was bloody to the hilt; so was his chain mail, even his beard. When he saw William Peverel go down, he lashed out at Peverel’s assailant with such force that his blade snapped against the man’s shield. Almost at once one of the townsmen thrust a Danish axe into his hands, and it, too, was soon sticky with blood.
He’d taken blows, and beneath his hauberk, his body was already darkening with massive bruises and contusions, and he was soaked in sweat, as if it were a day in summer. He was so exhausted that he’d begun to feel drunk. The air itself was pressing him down, and he moved like a man walking through water. His throat had closed up, his head was throbbing, and when he brought his battle-axe down upon a man’s shoulder, it seemed to descend in slow motion, to take days to slice through chain mail to the flesh and bone beneath. But through it all, he could still see his golden lions streaming above his head, gilded by the sun, the royal arms of England.
Baldwin de Clare was no longer at his side, and Gilbert de Gant was gone, too. He reeled back, panting, against the pole of his standard, intent only upon wielding his axe as long as his arms had the strength to lift it. But then he saw a familiar face, and the fatigue fogging his brain receded, enough for him to cry hoarsely, “Ranulf?” He did not trust his own senses anymore. But surely Ranulf was real? Almost close enough to touch, looking so stricken and so young, like Gilbert de Gant, who might be dead.
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