“I am performing a double duty, first off to Coventry for the earl and then on to Oxford for his countess. Lady Maud entrusted me with a letter for the empress. I also have one for you,” he said, turning aside to root in his saddle bag.
Ranulf took his letter with a nonchalance he was far from feeling, for he was sure Maud had included a letter from Annora along with her own. After an unobtrusive check to assure himself that Maud’s wax seal had not been tampered with, he tucked the letter inside his tunic, and summoned up a distracted smile. “I missed that. You were saying…what?”
“Is it true that the Earls of Hereford and Devon are no longer with the empress?”
Ranulf’s mouth tightened. Chester must have more spies than a dog had fleas. The mere mention of the earls’ defection was enough to stir up his anger again, for Miles and Baldwin had promised Robert that they would put Maude’s safety before all other considerations. But he was not about to unburden himself to a man who’d carry his complaints straight back to the Earl of Chester. “They were naturally disquieted when word reached us of Stephen’s raid upon Cirencester,” he said, striving to sound offhand, untroubled. “But they will be returning to Oxford once they are sure that their own lands are not in peril.”
“I am glad to hear that, and so will my lady. She was concerned lest her aunt be put at risk by their departure. Now…I’d best seek out the castellan. As I mean to ask his hospitality for my men and myself, I ought not to be tardy in paying my respects.”
“I am afraid you are too late, Bennet. Sir Robert was taken ill last month, and he was not as lucky as Stephen. He died a fortnight ago.”
Bennet had watched too many men die for death to take him by surprise. Nor did he see any point in mourning a man he’d never met. “I am sorry,” he murmured, with perfunctory politeness. “Mayhap I ought to look for lodgings in the town, then…?”
“Indeed not. There is more than enough room. Come on, I’ll take you to my brother.” The word brother never failed to echo oddly in Ranulf’s ears whenever he applied it to Rob d’Oilly, for it seemed such an intimate way to refer to a stranger. They were not actual strangers, of course, more like acquaintances who happened to share the same blood. Ranulf sometimes wondered how many other half-brothers of his might be scattered throughout England and Normandy, sons not even his father had known he’d sired. Any man who could claim more than twenty bastards was bound to have missed a few.
Leading Bennet into the hall, Ranulf watched the other man from the corner of his eye, anticipating Bennet’s surprise when he first saw Rob d’Oilly. In truth, Rob’s appearance could still unsettle him, too, so uncanny was his resemblance to their father: the same stocky build, the same ink-black hair and deep-set eyes. Rob did not have the old king’s commanding presence, though. He was-Ranulf had discovered-just what he seemed to be, an affable, well-meaning man of wealth and privilege and modest ambitions, of whom the worst that could be said was that he was obstinate at times and too impulsive; his vices, like his virtues, were inhibited by his lack of imagination.
Bennet did a comical double-take upon being introduced to Rob, for no one who’d ever met the old king would have forgotten him. Recovering his aplomb, he was expressing his condolences for the loss of Rob’s stepfather when he was interrupted by a sudden shout, loud enough and urgent enough to turn all heads toward the sound. When it came again, Ranulf and Rob both moved swiftly across the hall, with a curious Bennet on their heels.
A rider had just reined in his mount in the crowded bailey. As the man flung himself from the saddle and ran toward them, Ranulf watched with foreboding, for Hugh de Plucknet was well known to him, a quick-tempered but intensely loyal Breton, one of Maude’s most trusted household knights. Hugh had departed at first light for Wallingford Castle, bearing Maude’s letter to Brien Fitz Count. So why was he back so soon? What had caused him to abandon his mission for Maude and return to Oxford in such haste? Ranulf was already sure he was not going to like Hugh’s answer.
“The king is leading an army up the Abingdon Road, heading straight for Oxford!”
Rob gasped, then began to assail Hugh with questions. Was he sure it was Stephen? Where had he seen them? Could he have been mistaken? How many were there?
Ranulf paid no heed, for he knew the interrogation was a waste of time; Hugh was not a man to conjure up phantom foes. But what now? Would Maude be better off slipping out of the city whilst there was still time? But where could she go? Wallingford lay to the south. If she tried to reach Brien’s castle, she’d be riding right into Stephen’s army. No, she’d be safer staying in Oxford. The town was well protected by two rivers, the Cherwell on the east, and on the south and west, the great river known as Isis in Oxford, as the Thames elsewhere. The city’s walls were of stone, its defenses augmented by a deep outer ditch. And the castle itself presented a formidable challenge. He’d almost convinced himself that they could easily withstand a siege when Bennet pulled him aside, thrust the Countess of Chester’s letter into his hand, and asked him to see that the empress got it.
Ranulf stared at him in amazement, unwilling to believe that Bennet truly intended to ride off, indifferent to Maude’s danger. But Bennet was beckoning to his waiting men, telling them to mount up. “What are you doing? Jesu, Bennet, we will need every man we can get to stave off Stephen’s attack!”
Bennet shrugged. “I wish the empress well. But I am not about to risk my life for her. Ranulf, this is not my fight.”
And with that, he signaled again to his men, put spurs to his stallion, and cantered across the bailey toward the drawbridge, leaving Ranulf with an unenviable task-telling Maude that Stephen would soon be at the city gates.
Maude was keeping vigil upon the roofed ramparts of the castle keep. South of the city, where the River Cherwell flowed into the Thames, the late Robert d’Oilly’s uncle had built a raised clay causeway, known to locals as Grandpont. Ranulf and Rob had aligned their men to block this causeway, for the rivers themselves were impassable. Swollen with the run-off from the heavy rains, they’d spilled over their banks, flooding the adjacent meadows. The September sunlight was dazzling, but still not able to lighten the swirling depths of the water, a dark grey-green like the moss on cemetery tombstones.
There were sporadic flashes of brightness as the sun reflected off the swords and chain-link hauberks of the soldiers. Arrows were being intermittently launched across the river, to the accompaniment of taunts and jeers. Some of the citizens had come out to join in this dangerous sport, daring the enemy to attack. Their more prudent brethren were patrolling the city walls, making ready to repel the invaders should they somehow manage to surmount the fast-flowing barrier of the Thames. There were some who’d escaped, like Bennet de Malpas and his men, out of the city’s North Gate. But most were not willing to abandon their homes, to abandon hope. Facing down a king’s wrath and a large hostile army, Oxford remained defiant.
Maude was attended by several of her household knights, by Adam of Ely, her clerk, and William Marshal, a blunt-spoken priest who shared some of the steely qualities of his better-known brother, John. Maude had been impressed enough with Will’s abilities to have named him as her chancellor, but at this particularly precarious moment, he was the wrong brother. It was John Marshal whom she needed, arrogant and pitiless and scarred and miles away, like all the others who had taken Stephen’s bait.
Just before noon, Ranulf returned to the castle. While the kitchen cooks hastily prepared a meal that he could eat quickly, he joined Maude up on the keep battlements. Rob was sure, he reported, that Stephen’s men would not be able to cross the Grandpont. Their bowmen were likely to prove almost as formidable as the river. The city gates were under guard and the townspeople seemed determined to resist, not cowed or disheartened.
“You sound confident,” Maude said when he was done speaking, “but your words are at variance with what I see in your face. Do not keep your qualms from me, Ranulf. We owe each other better than that.”
“I do not understand. What are you looking to find?”
“A missing king. Stephen has been able to bring together a redoubtable force. Most of his barons and vassals seem to have answered his summons. I saw William de Warenne and Geoffrey de Mandeville and the Earls of Northampton and Pembroke, amongst others. Even his brother the bishop is across the river, doing God’s Work with a mace these days. But I looked in vain for Stephen, and that troubles me more than I can say. Just where is he, Maude?”
Downriver from the Grandpont, Stephen stared across at the surging, wind-churned current. After several moments, he stooped and pitched a stone out into the water, watching as it splashed and sank. “This is the secret ford?” he asked skeptically. “It looks to me like a crossing fit only for fish.”
The man at his side nodded vigorously, stubbornly. “The river can be forded here, my liege,” he insisted. “I swear it upon the tears of the Blessed Mother Mary. It is just deeper than usual because of the rains.”
Stephen looked at the man’s earnest face, then back at the river. “This is probably not one of my more rational decisions,” he said at last, “but I say we risk it.”
William de Ypres shrugged. “Why not? It is as good a day to drown as any, I suppose.”
“If Robert Fitz Roy could cross the Fossedyke at flood tide in the dead of winter, then we ought to be able to survive a September dunking in the Thames. Besides,” Stephen smiled suddenly, “if the Almighty meant for me to drown, he’d have let me sail on the White Ship.”
“Even God can change His Mind,” Ypres pointed out, but he was already gesturing to one of their scouts. “Tell my lord Earl of Northampton and the others that we are going to cross at the ford. Have them stand ready to move onto the Grandpont.”
Mounting his stallion, Stephen glanced at his waiting men, handpicked by Ypres and eager to reap the bounty that victory would bring. “Now,” he said, and plunged into the river. Their guide had not lied. There was indeed a ford there, but it was not for the faint of heart; the current was strong and the water level dangerously deep for such a crossing. Splashing toward the shore, swimming at times, Stephen’s stallion scrambled up onto the bank, and the others soon followed. Only one man had been swept from his saddle, and he’d managed to grasp his horse’s tail, holding fast until he could regain his footing in the shallows. Stephen looked them over, his eyes moving from face to face, shadowed by their conical helmets. Satisfied by what he found, he unsheathed his sword. “A gold ring,” he promised, “to the first man into the city!”
They were soon spotted by sentries up on the city walls, who hurried to sound the alarm. But by then it was too late. Rob d’Oilly’s men were not expecting a flank attack on their own side of the river. They recoiled in confusion, and as Rob and his captains frantically tried to regroup, the main body of Stephen’s army came charging across the causeway and into the fray. Assailed from two sides, the defenders broke rank and sought to retreat back into the town. But when the guards up on the walls opened the South Gate to admit them, Stephen’s soldiers surged in, too, and the battle for Oxford was suddenly being fought in the streets of the city.
From the keep battlements, Ranulf and Hugh de Plucknet and the others had watched helplessly as Stephen and Ypres bore down upon Oxford’s defenders. Racing to aid their beleaguered comrades, they were halfway down Pennyfarthing Street when the first fugitives from the battle fled into the town. Warned by the noise ahead, Ranulf slowed his stallion. The men with him reined in their mounts, too, just as the wind brought to them one of the most dreaded of all cries: “Fire!” As soon as they saw the smoke swirling up from the direction of Southgate Street, Ranulf and Hugh looked at each other in appalled understanding. “Christ, they are in the city!”
Swinging their mounts about, they galloped back to the castle. There was no need for words; they all knew what must be done if they hoped to survive Stephen’s assault. Fortunately, Maude had anticipated disaster, and servants were already heating water in huge cauldrons. Once it reached the boiling point, they carried it up onto the wall-walk on either side of the gatehouse, knowing they’d have no margin for error and but one chance.
Oxford was in chaos. The citizens had no training in the skills of war, and many of them panicked now, fleeing from Stephen’s pursuing soldiers instead of defending themselves. Stephen’s men were throwing torches into shops and onto roofs, and people were soon stumbling out of their barred and shuttered houses, coughing and choking. Some tried to take refuge in St Frideswide’s Priory, clambering over the monastery walls when the monks refused to open their gate. Knights on war-horses rampaged through the streets, and a few unlucky souls were trampled when they fell under the plunging hooves.
There was some resistance offered, and the fighting was bloodiest in Great Bailey Street, where Rob d’Oilly and his knights were attempting an ordered retreat back to the castle. Once they were within sight of its walls, the drawbridge was lowered and they sprinted desperately for safety. When the enemy followed, seeking to rush the castle gates as they had the town’s gate, the men up on the walls poured scalding water down into their midst. There were terrible screams, most scattered, and several rolled on the ground in agony. Before the attackers could try again, the castle defenders raised the drawbridge.
Rarely had a city been captured with such ease. Stephen could afford to be magnanimous, and sent some of his men to help put out the fires they had set, thus sparing Oxford the massive fiery destruction that had devastated Winchester. But when a town was taken by storm, it was turned over to the victorious army for their sport. Knowing what to expect, some of Oxford’s women had fled, hiding themselves in the woods or seeking refuge in the nearby nunnery at Godstow and the priory at Osney. Oxford’s shops were located mainly in Northgate Street and High Street, and these neighborhoods were pillaged first. Private homes could be plundered, too, and often were, for crimes were not crimes if committed in war. The townsmen concealed their valuables as best they could, feared for their wives and daughters, and prayed for Oxford.
Not all the citizens were so distraught, of course. Some were relieved, for the suffering of those trapped in a besieged city could be terrible. Now at least they need not fear starvation. And the alehouses and brothels in Gropecunt Lane would thrive under the occupation.
They were in the minority, though, and most of Oxford passed a nervous, wakeful night, the quiet broken by the brawling of celebrating soldiers, by laughter and cheerful cursing and, occasionally, a woman’s screams. In the morning, the city reeve, the prior of St Frideswide’s, and several members of the merchant’s guild made their way to the king’s encampment and pleaded for an audience with Stephen. When they finally returned, they brought comforting news for their anxiously waiting colleagues. The king had assured them that he held no ill will for the citizens of Oxford, and as long as they cooperated fully with his army, they’d not be harmed. All he wanted was the castle and the woman trapped within.
Maude stood at the open window in the upper chamber of the castle keep, looking out at her cousin’s army. It was three years, almost to the day, since she’d gazed out upon a similar scene at Arundel Castle. But there were deadly differences between that siege and this one. Robert would have been able, then, to come to her rescue. Now he was in Normandy and unaware of her peril. Nor was Stephen going to set her free, send her safely on her way in another act of mad gallantry. Oxford was not Arundel. This time there would be no reprieve.
26
Cerences, Normandy
November 1142
Winter came early that year to Normandy. Upon his arrival at Cerences, the latest Norman stronghold to yield to his father, Henry was delighted to find a dusting of snow upon the ground. He’d spent several hours collecting eno
ugh to build a snow fort and two days later, it remained intact out in the bailey, not yet melted. Although a blazing fire burned in the open hearth, the great hall still held a chill. Henry had a wax tablet propped up on his knees, and a bone stylus clutched in his fingers. He was supposed to be practicing his declensions of Latin nouns and adjectives, for he’d promised that his brief visits to his father’s sieges would not disrupt his studies, but he’d gotten no further than amicus magnus and amici magni.
He knew what came next-amico magno-but instead he scratched Bastebourg into the wax, followed by Trevieres, Villiers-Bocage, Briquessard, Aunay-sur-Odon, Plessis-Grimoult, Vire, Tinchebray, Teilleul, St Hilaire, Mortain, and Pontorson. He had just space enough to add Cerences. He’d not made a conscious effort to memorize his father’s conquests, but he’d followed the campaign so closely that he now knew the names of the captured castles as well as he did the names of the servants who tended to him back in Angers.
They were getting easier, these victories. Cerences had surrendered at once. Glancing across the hall, Henry studied his father and uncle as he should have been studying his Latin. He knew about their quarreling; all of Normandy knew. One more castle. It was always one more castle. They would triumph and then they would argue and his father would make Robert more promises, promises few thought he had any intention of keeping. Henry did not understand the rules about lying. His tutor said that lying was a grievous sin. But his father often joked that life without sinning was like food without salt, pure but tasteless. As far as Henry could figure, some lies were harmless, some were necessary, and some were unforgivable. But what if people could not agree which was which?
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