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 wanting, 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.
“Name of God, Stephen, surrender, I beg you!”
Stephen looked at his cousin, poor lad, but with no breath to speak, no time to explain why he could not do what Ranulf wanted. He shook his head and his vision blurred briefly. He nearly dropped the axe and a shadow lunged at him. When he swung the axe up again, he saw that his enemies had backed off and Ranulf was shouting like a madman at a knight sprawled at his feet, his sword leveled at the man’s throat.
“My liege.” This was a voice he knew, low-pitched and quiet, the way he’d heard men speak soothingly to skittish horses. A man was coming toward him across the muddy, trampled ground. There were gasps when he sheathed his sword, moved within range of that deadly Danish axe. “My liege, you’ve nothing left to prove,” he said coaxingly. “You can surrender with honour.”
“Get away, Brien,” Stephen warned, and as their eyes met, the younger man reluctantly took a few backward steps. Stephen’s next breath was ragged and uneven, but relieved. He’d have hated to split Brien’s head open with his two-handed axe. It occurred to him that they need only wait him out, stand back and watch until he toppled over like a felled tree, too weak to keep on his feet.
And then something was happening. Voices rose, there was sudden movement, and men were scrambling to get out of the way as a horse was reined in scant yards from the royal standard. Stephen felt no surprise. He’d hunted with Chester often enough to know that the earl was always in at the kill.
Chester was in no hurry; this was a pleasure to be savored. For what seemed like forever to those watching, he regarded his foe, brought to bay under his own standard like a fox run to earth. Not so kingly now, by Christ. Swinging from the saddle, he put his hand on his sword hilt. “You can yield,” he said, “or you can die. The choice is yours.”
“Yield to you?” Stephen’s voice cracked, for he had to force words up from a throat raw and parched. “Never,” he said, and then his bruised, swollen mouth twisted into a smile, for God had not utterly forsaken him, after all.
Chester smiled, too. “So be it,” he said, and then his sword was clearing its scabbard, and Ranulf flung himself forward, too late. He never even reached Chester, shoved aside by several of the earl’s men. By the time Ranulf regained his feet, Chester was stalking Stephen, the steel of his blade glinting in the sun. He was grinning, looked to Ranulf as if he were truly enjoying himself. He feinted toward Stephen’s left, then spun away and came in again fast, in a low, lethal lunge, and Stephen brought his battle-axe crashing down upon Chester’s helmet. The blow had the last of Stephen’s strength behind it, and Chester went facedown into the mud, did not move again.
The blow had broken Stephen’s axe, the wooden haft splintering away from the blade. Stephen did not seem to have noticed yet, for he was still staring down at Chester’s body. So were most of the men, and Ranulf was not the only one to feel disappointment when the earl moaned. And then someone—a number of men later claimed credit and Ranulf never knew which one spoke true—snatched up a large, heavy rock and hurled it at Stephen’s head. It knocked his helmet askew, drove him to his knees, and a knight named William de Cahaignes, one of Robert’s vassals, then threw himself upon Stephen, shouting, “I’ve got the king!”
Cahaignes kept yelling that, over and over: “I’ve got the king!” But as he wrenched off Stephen’s dented helmet, Stephen somehow broke free and staggered to his feet. His head was so badly gashed that he was blinded by his own blood, and he was too dazed to draw his dagger, the only weapon he had left, yet when Cahaignes sought to grab him again, he knocked the other man’s arm away.
“No,” he said, “I’ll not yield to you, only to Gloucester…”
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Ranulf whirled to seek Robert, only to halt, afraid to leave Stephen alone and defenseless. But then the soldiers crowding around them began to move aside, to let a horseman pass through. Stephen was swaying, willing himself to stand erect even as the ground quaked under his feet. He watched as Maude’s brother dismounted, and for a moment, they faced each other on the crest of the hill, in the shadow of Stephen’s royal standard.
“Are you willing to yield?” Robert asked, and Stephen started to nod, but that slight movement caused him so much pain that he gave an audible, involuntary grunt.
“Yes,” he said, but then he fumbled at his empty scabbard, with the puzzled frown of a man just awakening from an unpleasant dream. Only Ranulf understood. Pushing his way toward Stephen, he held out his sword. There were cries of protest and alarm at that, but by now, Robert, too, understood, and he raised his hand for silence. Stephen swayed again, then took several unsteady steps forward. Offering the weapon to Robert, hilt first, very deliberately, for he knew how it must be done, he surrendered to his victorious foe with his cousin’s borrowed sword, and the Battle of Lincoln was over.
14
Lincoln Castle, England
February 1141
MORE than men had died at Lincoln. It seemed to Stephen that reality was a casualty, too, for nothing made sense anymore. What was he doing here in the solar of Lincoln Castle, bleeding all over the Earl of Chester’s wife?
“I’m sorry,” he said, but Maud was quite unfazed by the blood splattering her bodice.
“A good reason to get a new gown,” she said cheerfully, continuing to daub at his gashed forehead with a wet cloth. “I think it is clean enough to bandage now. But a doctor ought to tend to it as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” he said politely, although he knew his were wounds no doctor could hope to heal. He had claimed a crown, been consecrated with the sacred chrism that set him forever apart from other men, for a king was God’s anointed on earth. He had believed in his right. So why, then, had he lost? Had his kingship been counterfeit from the very beginning? Had he wronged Maude and sinned against the Almighty by thwarting His Divine Will?
“All done,” Maud murmured, stepping back to inspect her handiwork. Not only had her bandage stanched Stephen’s bleeding, but she thought it looked rather rakish, too. Reaching for a flagon, she poured Stephen wine, relishing the incongruity of it, that she should be treating him as an esteemed guest when her husband would have cast him into the castle’s darkest dungeon. But he was not here to object, and so she was taking a perverse pleasure in honouring his enemy—until it stopped being a game, until she noticed that Stephen had not touched the wine, that his blue eyes were blind and his hands clenched upon the arms of his chair as if it were all he had left to hold on to.
“I’ll be back…” She hesitated, not knowing what to call him, for etiquette was conspicuously silent upon the subject of captive kings. She settled upon “Cousin Stephen” before giving him the only comfort she could at that moment: privacy.
Crossing the solar, she joined Stephen’s gaoler in the window seat, and answered his unspoken query with a sigh. “He is in pain,” she said softly, and Ranulf frowned.
“A city the size of Lincoln must have at least one damned doctor! Why is it taking so long to fetch him?”
“He’ll be here soon,” Maud said soothingly, and was unable to resist adding a playful “Uncle,” for it amused her enormously, that she should have an uncle so close in years to her own age. “But in all honesty, I doubt that a doctor can ease what ails him, Ranulf.”
“I know,” he conceded quietly. “Nothing leaves so bitter an aftertaste as betrayal, not even wormwood and gall.” He shook his head, still shocked by the flight of Stephen’s earls, for he’d been taught that men of high birth were more courageous, more steadfast and honourable than the rest of mankind. “Ah, but you should have seen him, Maud! Men were flinging themselves at him without pause, for all the world as if he were a castle under siege, and he kept beating them back, wielding his axe like a scythe—”
Ranulf’s admiring account of Stephen’s defiance went no further, for he’d just remembered that Maud’s husband was amongst those mowed down by that Danish axe of Stephen’s. Upon their arrival at the castle, he’d informed Maud and Chester’s brother of his injury, assuring them that he was not badly hurt. William de Roumare had rushed off to see for himself, leaving Maud to tend to their royal prisoner. If she was fretting about her husband’s health, she hid it well, and when Ranulf now provided additional details, she listened with a faint, enigmatic smile.
“And by the time Robert bade me to get Stephen safely into the castle,” he concluded, “the earl was already regaining his senses. He’s like to have a god-awful headache in days to come, but he was indeed lucky, for if Stephen’s axe haft had not broken, his helmet might not have saved him.”
“Thank God for that hard head of his!”
Ranulf grinned, but he could not help hoping that Annora would not be so nonchalant should he ever be hit on the head with a battle-axe. He started to tease Maud about her unwifely insouciance, but she was twisting around on the seat, fumbling with the shutter. “I thought so,” she cried triumphantly. “It is my father!”
ROBERT had ridden in through the postern gate in the west wall, bypassing the town just as Ranulf and Stephen had done. He was dismounting in the bailey when his daughter shot through the doorway of the keep, flew down the stairs, and into his arms. Robert hugged her tightly; of all his children, this one was his secret favorite, for Maud’s cheeky, blithe spirit never failed to stir up memories of a young Amabel. “You were not harmed, lass?”
“Indeed not, Papa. In truth, I was not even scared,” she confided, and it was not bravado, for she’d known Stephen would have seen to her safety had the castle fallen to him.
“I’d wager she even enjoyed herself,” a new voice now chimed in, and Maud turned to grin at her elder brother Will, then stuck out her tongue as if she were still his pesky little sister and not an earl’s wife.
“We will be departing on the morrow,” Robert said, “and I want you to come back with us, Maud. Your mother will not believe you are truly safe and well until she sees you with her own eyes.”
“Of course I’ll come back with you! Do you think I’d miss being there when Aunt Maude learns that we’ve won?” Maud sounded so excited that Robert smiled. He knew that even among those who’d become disillusioned with Stephen’s rule, the news of the Battle of Lincoln would be greeted with ambivalence, with both expectation and unease. But at least one of his sister’s subjects had no doubts whatsoever. Maude’s niece and namesake was utterly delighted that her aunt was—at long last—to be England’s queen.
THIS was the first time that they’d been alone since the battle. Ranulf hesitated, then rose and crossed the chamber to Stephen’s side. “Can I get you anything?” he asked, sounding as awkward as he felt. He’d not expected this, to be caught up in a treacherous tide of memory and regrets. He’d not expected to feel Stephen’s pain as if it were his own. “Stephen? Did you hear me?”
Stephen jerked at Ranulf’s touch, looked up at his cousin with clouded eyes. Making an obvious effort, he focused upon the dried blood caking the sleeve of Ranulf’s hauberk. “You’re hurt, lad.”
Ranulf shrugged. “A scratch, although I hope it’ll leave a scar I can brag about.” His humor was forced, for he did not know what to say, wanting to offer Stephen comfort, realizing there was none. He opened his mouth to reassure Stephen that his life was in no danger, only to stop, defeated. What solace could Stephen derive from the promise of a lifetime’s confinement? For how could they ever let him go?
Ranulf was still groping for words when the door opened and Robert entered, followed by Maud, her brother Will, and Brien Fitz Count. Stephen started to get to his feet, only to discover that his abused muscles were cramped and constricted, beginning to stiffen. Robert saw his involuntary grimace and waved him back into his cha
ir, seating himself on the other side of the table. “I am sorry it is taking so long to find you a doctor,” he began, but Stephen was indifferent to his own injuries.
“I ask nothing for myself,” he said. “But I do for my wife and children. Have I your word, Robert, that they’ll not suffer for any sins of mine?”
Robert’s response was as prompt as it was predictable. “Of course,” he said. “No harm will come to them, I promise you. Nor need you worry about your son’s right to inherit the county of Boulogne, since that is Matilda’s legacy.”
Matilda’s legacy. That was all Eustace had left now, for his paternal legacy was to have been England’s crown. Nothing in Stephen’s past had prepared him for this moment, for he’d been born with an infinitely deep reservoir of hope, and he’d never before experienced the sort of suffocating, dark despair that engulfed him now. It was more frightening even than the final moments of the battle, for war he knew, but desperation was an alien emotion to him. He could not give in to it, though, not here, not before these men. Grabbing for his forgotten wine cup, he drained it in several deep swallows, and then raised his head defiantly.
They were watching him intently, but he did not find in their faces what he’d dreaded—mockery or, Jesú forfend, pity. “What of Baldwin de Clare?” he asked huskily. “William Peverel and the lad, Gilbert de Gant? What befell them?”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 32