“I know you are unhappy about this, Harry. We all are. But it would be foolhardy to continue on. We were relying upon surprise to carry the day. Now our foes are not only forewarned, but they’ll outnumber us. Remember what I told you about Stephen-that he may not know how to rule, but he knows full well how to fight.”
Henry nodded glumly. It seemed to him that there were three Stephens, so contradictory were the stories circulating about him. There was Stephen the man, good-hearted and well meaning and generous. There was Stephen the king, inept and easily led astray, with no political sense whatsoever. And there was Stephen the battle commander, tough-minded and fast-acting and dangerous. The men in Henry’s world grudgingly liked the first Stephen and scorned the second, but they all respected the soldier.
“How did Stephen assemble an army so rapidly?” he asked, and Ranulf explained that by calling upon his Flemish mercenaries rather than his vassals, Stephen was able to respond with lethal speed, for he need not send out a summons to his barons and then wait for them to gather their own men. It was costly to keep an armed force always on hand, Ranulf conceded, but they were ready to march at the king’s command. This was an interesting argument, that hired soldiers were a more effective way of fighting than the traditional reliance upon the king’s vassals, and ordinarily Henry would have been intrigued, eager to explore it further. Now, though, he asked no more questions, trudging on in silence.
The rain was still pelting the camp, and so many men and horses had soon churned the soaked grassy ground into a muddy quagmire. Until the storm passed, fires could not be lit, and the soldiers were sheltering themselves as best they could. For supper, they’d had to content themselves with dried beef and bread; for beds, they had soggy blankets. The moors were often chilly after dark, even in high summer, and if the rain kept on, they faced a shivery night in wet, clammy clothes. And all for nothing, Henry thought, for on the morrow, they would turn tail and retreat, never having gotten within sight of York’s walls.
“Uncle Ranulf, I’ve a question for you. I want to know if there is another reason for our retreat. Are you all seeking to protect me?”
“I’ll not lie to you, Harry. That was a consideration,” Ranulf admitted, and Henry came to a sudden stop.
“I knew it!” he accused. “I am not a child, Uncle Ranulf, and I will not abide being treated like one. I did not come to England to be coddled!”
“If your parents wanted to coddle you, lad, they’d have kept you in Normandy. Of course we care for your safety! You are England’s future. Should evil befall you, what hope would we have of overthrowing Stephen? Yes, you have brothers, but you are the one who has been groomed for the throne. You are the one whom men know. So we are not going to let you come to harm if we can help it. Plainly put, a king’s life is worth more than the lives of other men.”
Henry was quiet after that. “I just want to do my fair share,” he said unhappily. “I am not afraid to take risks and I need to show men that, to prove to them that I would be a king worth fighting for.”
“You will, lad. Your very presence here is sending a message, that you do not lack for courage. Show men that you have common sense, too, and they will rally to you as they never did to your mother. But there is one thing you must understand, Harry, for your life might well depend upon it.”
“What is it?” Henry asked, impressed by his uncle’s sudden gravity.
“Stephen did not take you seriously two years ago. But from now on, he will, lad. If you fall into his hands, this time he will not be paying for your return to Normandy.”
They broke camp at dawn the next day. The Scots king and his son made for Carlisle, Chester for Cheshire, and Henry and Ranulf and Roger Fitz Miles for Bristol. Upon his arrival in York, Stephen was welcomed enthusiastically by its reprieved citizens. He was furious, though, to find the enemy gone, and sent men off in pursuit. But he realized they did not have much chance of overtaking their quarry, and a fast-riding courier was soon racing for Oxford with an urgent message for Stephen’s nineteen-year-old son. Eustace was to stop Henry from reaching Bristol.
Ranulf and Henry rode fast to outdistance pursuit, but once they reached Hereford in safety, they eased their pace and their vigilance. From Hereford, they continued on to Roger’s stronghold in Gloucester. They were only two days now from Bristol, and Henry was irked when Roger insisted upon accompanying them south, for he was still sensitive about their overprotectiveness, especially now that he was sure the danger was past. His confidence was confirmed when they rode into Dursley Castle without incident the following afternoon.
Roger de Berkeley was Dursley’s castellan, and he made them welcome, but without much enthusiasm. Ranulf did not take it personally, for he doubted that Roger de Berkeley would show enthusiasm even if he were being seduced by Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was the most melancholy man Ranulf had ever met; even when he smiled, no one could tell.
Anyone so doleful was not good company, and Henry, Roger, and Hugh de Plucknet had soon found reasons to excuse themselves. Ranulf remained, for he felt sorry for Berkeley, who’d been ruined by a war not of his making. He’d not really cared who was king, but he’d had the bad luck to hold a very strategic stronghold, Berkeley Castle, which controlled the Gloucester-Bristol Road. A few years ago, he’d been lured into an ambush by Roger Fitz Miles’s ruthless younger brother Walter, and threatened with hanging if he did not yield Berkeley Castle. Walter had gone so far as to string Berkeley up and cut him down just in time, but Berkeley had refused to turn over the castle, gambling on his kinship to the Fitz Miles family to save his life. In the end, it had. But he’d still lost Berkeley Castle, for he’d had to renounce his allegiance to Stephen to gain his freedom, and Stephen then seized the castle for himself.
Berkeley was miserly with words and left it for Ranulf to keep the conversation going. Ranulf soon ran out of topics to talk about and suggested a chess game until he could politely make his escape. But they’d just set up the board when the castle steward announced that a man was pleading to see Sir Roger straightaway. Berkeley seemed to be a man without normal curiosity, for he was inclining toward a refusal when the steward said, “I recognized him, my lord. It is Malcolm, from the Berkeley garrison.”
The man was thin and balding and obviously agitated. Kneeling before Roger de Berkeley, he stammered, “It…it is me, Sir Roger…Malcolm. I had to warn you, for you were right good to me whilst you held the castle. We got word today from the king’s son. Lord Eustace found out that the empress’s son would be staying the night at Dursley, and he means to see that Lord Henry never reaches Bristol. He’ll be here by dawn, mayhap sooner, and he wants our garrison to lay ambushes on the Bristol Road, just in case Lord Henry gets away from him at Dursley.”
Roger Fitz Miles and Hugh de Plucknet had been drawn by the noise, returning in time to hear the last of Malcolm’s warning. As Roger de Berkeley rewarded Malcolm, Ranulf and the other two men huddled together for a quick conference. They agreed with Ranulf’s conclusion, that Dursley was not likely to withstand a siege, and Roger volunteered to fetch Henry, revealing his concern by the alacrity with which he started for the stairwell. Ranulf sent Hugh off to the stables to order their horses saddled. “I know this part of the country fairly well,” he told Berkeley, “but not well enough. We need a man who knows every lane and byway and trail betwixt here and Bristol, for we’ll have to avoid the main roads. Do you have a man like that, Sir Roger?”
Berkeley assured Ranulf that he did, with much more animation than he usually showed; Ranulf could well imagine his relief at not being caught up in a dangerous siege, one that would have imperiled the only castle he had left. He’d do whatever he could to make sure they were long gone by the time Eustace got here, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him a bit. But it was then that Roger Fitz Miles came hastening back into the hall. “Harry is gone,” he panted. “I cannot find him anywhere!”
When a search of the castle grounds turned up no traces of Henry, the men’
s anxiety rapidly gave way to outright alarm. At a loss, they regrouped in the great hall to decide what to do next. And it was then that Ranulf remembered how friendly his nephew had become with his squire. It had not surprised him that Henry should seek out seventeen-year-old Padarn’s company, for he was rarely allowed the privilege of acting his age. Even in childhood, he’d been expected to show a maturity beyond his years, and he rarely disappointed. But Ranulf had come to realize that there must be times when his nephew just wanted to have fun. “Padarn,” he said abruptly. “He may know where Harry has gone.”
“That Welsh squire of yours?” Roger sounded as dubious as Hugh and Berkeley looked, but they were willing to grasp at any straw, and followed nervously after Ranulf as he went off in search of his squire.
They found Padarn in the stables. He was a wiry, lean youngster, very Welsh in appearance; it had taken Ranulf a while not to think of Ancel-and Annora-each time he glanced at Padarn’s raven hair and black eyes. Padarn looked so guilty now that Ranulf knew his suspicions were correct. “Where is Harry?” he demanded, brushing aside the boy’s unconvincing attempts at denial. “Padarn, we have no time for games. Harry’s life could be forfeit if you do not speak up. Eustace is riding for Dursley, and if we do not get away soon, we’ll not get away at all.”
Padarn had a Welshman’s innate suspicion of authority, but in the past year he’d learned to trust Ranulf’s judgment. “Harry slipped out the postern gate at dusk and went into the town.”
What to the Welsh youth was a “town” was to the men barely more than a hamlet, a church and a handful of cottages clustered in the protective shelter of the castle. “That makes no sense,” Roger insisted. “There is not even an alehouse!”
Ranulf was remembering, though, what it was like to be sixteen. “A girl?”
Padarn nodded. “We saw her by the church as we rode in. She had hair the color of moonlight, and she gave Harry a ‘come back’ smile. You ought not to blame him, my lords,” he added bravely. “Had he known about Eustace, he would not have gone.” The Welsh were notorious for “not knowing their place,” and at another time, Padarn was likely to have earned himself a reprimand for that familiar use of “Harry.” But now the men had no time for breaches of protocol; they were hurrying to catch up with Ranulf as he headed back out into the bailey.
Once there, Ranulf snatched a lantern from a passing servant. “Let me try to find him first,” he said. “Eustace could have men watching the village for all we know. If a crowd goes chasing out into the street, raising the hue and cry, that will be a sure sign that something is amiss.” They agreed reluctantly, and Roger promised to have them mounted and ready to ride as soon as Ranulf and Henry returned. No one mentioned their secret, shared fear: that if Eustace did have spies about, Henry might well have been found already-by the wrong men.
The village was half hidden in the haze of a deepening turquoise twilight, but its inhabitants were still up and about, both apprehensive and excited by Henry’s presence in their midst. Dogs were barking; somewhere a child was wailing. Aware of eyes following him as he moved down the dusty street, Ranulf was trying to think like a sixteen-year-old again. What would a youth most want after finding himself a lass with a “come back” smile? Privacy, of course. There was a small pond beyond the church, screened by yew trees and white willows. What better place for a tryst? Weaving his way between the moss-covered tombstones behind the church, he heard soft, smothered laughter as he approached the pond, merriment so quickly cut off that he knew they’d either heard him or spotted his lantern’s glow. “Harry?” he said quietly into the silence. “You’d best come out, for I am not going away.”
There was a rustling sound, the willow’s cascading silvery camouflage parted, and his nephew emerged from the shadows. The girl stayed where she was; Ranulf caught only a fleeting glimpse of disheveled bright hair as Henry stepped forward into the light cast by Ranulf’s lantern. “How did you know where to look for me?” He sounded both defiant and defensive. “I was not lost, Uncle Ranulf, am quite capable of finding my way back to the castle by myself.”
Ranulf’s relief found expression in anger. “You’re lucky I did find you,” he snapped, “instead of an irate father or a jealous husband!”
“You’re my uncle, not my confessor,” Henry snapped back, “though you are suddenly acting more like a gaoler than a kinsman…and I like it not. I do not need a wet nurse!”
“No,” Ranulf agreed, “but you do need a bodyguard, lad. You’re going to have to learn to live with that, Harry. Kings cannot wander off as they please. That is the price they pay for the power they wield. There is always a price. I just thank God and His Saints that you did not pay it tonight in blood.”
Henry was still frowning, but he was more uneasy now than angry, for Ranulf was not given to hyperbole. “Is something wrong?” he asked warily, sensing that this was the question he should have asked first.
“Well, Eustace is about to attack Dursley, the Berkeley garrison is busy laying ambushes for us in the unlikely event we escape, whilst we pass the time playing hide-and-seek with you instead of riding for our lives.”
Even in the flickering lantern light, Ranulf could see the color crimsoning across his nephew’s cheekbones. “I am sorry,” Henry said. “I did not know. It is not too late, is it?”
Henry’s heartfelt apology only made Ranulf regret his sarcasm all the more. “No, lad, we still have time,” he assured the boy quickly. “My nerves are on the raw, that’s all. We feared, you see, that Eustace might have an assassin or two on the prowl.”
Henry’s eyes widened, for this had never occurred to him. “Stephen would not do that,” he said, his tone nowhere near as certain as his words.
“Eustace would,” Ranulf said flatly. “Never doubt that, Harry, not if you want to live to make old bones. Now…I suggest you bid your lass farewell, for we have a long, hard ride ahead of us.”
The girl had ventured out from beneath the sheltering willow. Padarn had been right; her hair did have a silvery sheen. She would have been very pretty, indeed, if not for her pout. Arms akimbo, little chin jutting out, she was clearly losing patience fast. But then Henry came swiftly back to her side, took her in his arms, and kissed her with a boy’s exuberance and a man’s passion. When he finally released her, she looked dazed. Kissing her hand gallantly, he said, “Someday, sweetheart, you’ll be able to tell your children that you once kissed a king!”
“Eustace and God Willing,” Ranulf said dryly, amused in spite of himself, and Henry grinned.
“I hope you are not suggesting that the Almighty and Eustace are allies? I’d not presume to answer for Our Lord God, but I’m willing to wager that I can hold my own against Eustace.”
His cockiness was contagious and Ranulf grinned, too. “I do believe, lad, that you will. Now…are you ready for the ride of your life?”
Henry nodded. “I say we race the Devil and Eustace to Bristol, winner take all!”
Eustace and his men arrived in Dursley before daybreak, but they were too late. Enraged that his prey had eluded him, Eustace set out in hell-bent pursuit. But Henry evaded the ambushes, outran Eustace, and managed to reach Bristol safely. Eustace chased him almost to the gates of Bristol. He did not have enough men, though, to besiege the city and reluctantly withdrew, laying waste to the countryside as he retreated back to Oxford.
Stephen had been forced to remain in Yorkshire that summer, for as long as the Scots king was at Carlisle, York was not safe. He put up several countercastles and did all he could to encourage his supporters and dishearten his foes, but it was not until September that he was able to return to London. He soon joined his son at Oxford, and Eustace set about convincing him that Henry had presented them with an opportunity that might not come again. Was it not better, he argued, to put an end to this accursed war once and for all? So persistent and persuasive was he that Stephen overcame his misgivings and reluctantly agreed to wage war with such ferocity that their enemies wou
ld be compelled to surrender-or starve.
Even the pro-Stephen chronicle, Gesta Stephani, was shocked by the campaign conducted that autumn by the English king and his son: “They took and plundered everything they came upon, set fire to houses and churches, and, what was a more cruel and brutal sight, fired the crops that had been reaped and stacked all over the fields, consumed and brought to nothing everything edible they found. They raged with this bestial cruelty especially round Marlborough, they showed it also very terribly round Devizes, and they had in mind to do the same to their adversaries all over England.”
The day had begun with trouble and it got steadily worse. In midmorning a messenger from John Marshal had reached Devizes with disturbing news. Marshal reported that he was being hard pressed by the king and Eustace. They had launched several lightning raids upon the town and castle, doing considerable damage before they were driven off. They’d laid waste to the nearby farms and manors, and when Marshal had attempted to bring in a supply convoy, they’d ambushed it and burned what they did not take away with them. John Marshal was the least likely man to panic, as Ranulf well knew. For him to admit that he did not know how he was going to feed his people through the winter, he had to be in dire straits, indeed.
Ranulf and Henry had gotten similar complaints from Marshal’s brother-in-law Patrick Fitz Walter, Earl of Salisbury, and from the castellan of Trowbridge. Even Roger Fitz Miles had been harassed at Gloucester. Ghost villages were springing up all over Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, as terrified families fled to the towns for safety. Salisbury and Gloucester and even Bristol were flooded with refugees, people with nowhere to go and no money to buy food. Charred ruins were becoming commonplace throughout the desolated countryside, an acrid, burning smell was carried for miles on the October wind, and what had once been fertile farmlands were now scorched, blackened earth. Oddly enough, never had the roads been so free of bandits, though, for even the outlaws had fled from Stephen’s marauding army.
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