“Of course it will! Remember how Baldwin de Redvers attacked Corfe to lure Stephen west whilst my aunt and my father landed at Arundel? And then there was—”
“You are forgetting Oxford. When Stephen had Maude trapped in the castle there, not even the Lord Christ could have drawn him away, for nothing was more important than capturing his enemy, the empress. You may be sure that he wants her son no less badly, and he’ll let England go up in flames ere he lets the lad get away.”
Maud stared at him in dismay. He was as cautious as Chester was reckless, the anchor to Chester’s sails, but his argument held the ring of truth. At that moment, her husband emerged from the privy chamber. “I thought I heard your voice,” he said. “Let me guess…you want me to swear a blood oath that I’ll rescue your cousin and uncle, preferably by nightfall.”
“I cannot jest about this, Randolph, not when the danger is so great. Will says nothing can be done, but surely you can come up with a plan if you keep on trying.”
“I already have.”
That got the men’s attention, too. “What mean you to do, Randolph?” his brother asked, sounding perplexed. “If we cannot chase Stephen away and cannot lure him away, what in God’s Name is left?”
“But we can lure him away,” Chester insisted. “It is just a matter of finding the right bait.”
He seemed so pleased with himself that Maud knew this was no empty boast. What was he up to? Whatever it was, she did not doubt he’d benefit by it, too, for that was ever his way. And after a moment’s reflection, she knew what he had in mind, a stratagem at once ruthless and vengeful and sure to succeed. The look she gave him then was one she’d rarely bestowed upon any man but her father and never before upon her husband—one of awed admiration. “Lincoln,” she breathed, and Chester grinned raffishly.
“Just so,” he said. “Lincoln.”
MEN were gathering outside Stephen’s command tent, eavesdropping upon the quarrel raging within. A newcomer jostled the man next to him, wanting to know what was going on. “That hellspawn Chester has attacked Lincoln, and the townspeople are pleading with the king to come and save them ere the city falls. The king wants to set out straightaway and the Lord Eustace is trying to talk him out of it. If you come closer and keep still, you can hear for yourself.”
Stephen hated to argue, and Eustace was often able to use that to his advantage. But not this time. His father remained adamant, determined to come to the aid of the besieged Lincolners, and nothing Eustace could say would sway him.
“Those people suffered dreadfully after the Battle of Lincoln, Eustace. Hundreds drowned when they tried to flee the city and their boats overturned in the flooded river, and countless others were slaughtered by that whoreson, Chester. Through it all, they stayed loyal to me. How can you expect me to ignore their plea for help?”
“Catching Henry is more important, Papa! If we can get rid of Maude’s whelp, we’ve won our war, and we can deal then with Chester. Why can you not see that?”
“Because by then it would be too late for the people of Lincoln!”
“So what?” Eustace was being deliberately, brutally blunt; he prided himself upon his candor, upon daring to say what other men would not, and he hoped that a dose of unsparing honesty might bring his father back to his senses. “So what?” he repeated. “People die all the time, Papa. Why are the Lincolners more important than the Wiltshire villagers who’ll starve this winter? We agreed to do whatever we must to end this war, even if it meant innocent people would die. For England’s greater good, we agreed; for a peaceful land. If that was true yesterday, it is still true today. Let the men of Lincoln fend for themselves.”
Stephen slowly shook his head. “I cannot do that, Eustace. They trusted me once before and I let them down. I could not help them then, but I can now. I’ll not turn away from them in their hour of need.”
Eustace’s frustration served now as fuel for his anger, blazing beyond his control. “It is your pride you want to save, not the Lincolners! Ever since your defeat there, you and Chester have been snarling over that wretched city like two dogs over a bone. Go ahead then, abandon our campaign and race north to their rescue. But it will avail you naught. Men will still remember how badly you were beaten at Lincoln!”
Eustace had meant to wound, and yet he felt an odd pang of remorse when he saw the hurt on his father’s face. He did not know how to make it right, though, for an apology would be an admission of weakness.
Stephen looked at his son, saying nothing. Eustace could feel his face getting warm. Just when he thought he could endure it no longer, his father brushed past him and lifted the tent flap. “Make ready to depart at first light,” he commanded someone beyond the range of Eustace’s vision. “I will be riding for Lincoln on the morrow.”
THE citizens of Lincoln put up such a desperate defense that they were able to stave off Chester’s attack until Stephen came to the rescue. Chester withdrew his forces, but he did not go far, and the battle shifted from the city to the shire. Lincolnshire became a bloody ground, as the king and his mightiest subject fought a series of inconclusive skirmishes, ambushes, and raids. In the words of the chronicler of the Gesta Stephani, “They alternated betwen success and disaster, never without the greatest injury to the county, never without loss and harm to its people.”
Stephen’s failure to subdue the rebel earl was observed in other quarters, and the erratic Hugh Bigod was emboldened enough to stir up trouble again in East Anglia. This was his third uprising, but this time he got more than he bargained for. Chester was keeping Stephen busy in Lincolnshire and the task of dealing with Bigod fell to Eustace. He raced north and soon had Bigod in full retreat.
Henry and his allies were quick enough to take advantage of all this chaos and unrest. He and Ranulf joined the Earls of Hereford and Gloucester and raided deep into Devon and Dorset. They set about making life as miserable as possible for Henry de Tracy, Stephen’s chief supporter in the West Country, with some success. Tracy prudently refused to do battle, though, withdrawing behind the fortified defenses of his castle at Barnstaple. But Henry then bloodied his sword for the first time in the capture of the town and castle at Bridgport.
NATURE showed the southwest of England more mercy that year than Man did, and November, usually the least welcome of visitors, was blessedly mild-mannered. But the reprieve was brief for the homeless and the hungry, and by mid-December, winter was stalking the war-ravaged shires in earnest. In the mornings, the ground was glazed with a killing black frost, the winds soon stripped the trees bare, and ponds and lakes began to ice over.
The more weather-wise of Henry’s men were keeping a wary eye upon the gathering clouds, for a mottled mackerel sky was a harbinger of rain or snow. They were riding fast, heading back toward Devizes, having gotten word that Eustace was once again on the prowl in Wiltshire. A second warning from John Marshal had alarmed Henry enough to send an advance guard ahead to reinforce the castle garrison. Roger and Will had thought he was being overly cautious. But Henry had insisted, and Ranulf had backed him up, reminding them that Robert had always been one for taking extra precautions, too.
In supporting one nephew, Ranulf inadvertently offended the other, for Will had become very thin-skinned since his father’s death, twisting any praise of Robert into an implied criticism of himself. Roger ought to have understood Will’s insecurities if any man could, for Miles had also cast a smothering shadow, but he’d so far shown little patience with Will’s defensive outbursts. And Henry was too young and too confident to comprehend such crippling self-doubts. So it fell to Ranulf to act as peacemaker. He did not mind, for he truly did feel sorry for Will; he knew that men were indeed thinking what Will feared: that the son would never measure up to the sire.
The wind had picked up as the day wore on, gusting from the northeast, another sign of unsettled weather on the way. They’d halted to give their horses a rest, but it was too cold for the men to enjoy the respite themselves. Ranulf joined H
enry in the shelter of a massive gnarled oak. “Are you still uneasy about Devizes, lad? You could not have picked a better man to leave in command than Hugh de Plucknet. He was utterly fearless during our escape through the snow at Oxford. I’ve told you about that, have I not?”
“Repeatedly,” Henry said, then ducked, laughing, out of range when Ranulf tried to elbow him in the ribs. “You read me all too well, Uncle Ranulf. I was thinking of Devizes…and of war and why some men are so much better at it than others. What makes a good battle commander? Courage alone is not enough. Roger is so reckless that it is downright scary at times, but he does not seem to have a grasp of strategy. So what is it, then? If he’d not been born an earl’s son, Chester would likely have been hanged as a bandit, but men say he is a right able battle commander. And my uncle David is very good, indeed, at governing, but not as good at fighting. Is it not possible to be good at both?”
Ranulf nodded. “Your uncle Robert was such a man, lad. He was a brilliant battle commander, but he would also have made an excellent king.”
“But with one flaw.” Henry glanced around to make sure his cousin was not within earshot. “Will would have been his heir!”
That had never occurred to Ranulf. “God save England,” he said, with feeling, and they both laughed. But then Ranulf stiffened, moving away from the tree with a startled oath, for the sky to the north was streaking with smoke.
DUSK came early in December, and the fading light slowed them down. They forged ahead, though, sure that the smoke was coming from Devizes, and soon had confirmation of their fears. A lone rider was galloping south at a reckless speed. He shouted at sight of them, yanking his lathered stallion to a shuddering halt scant feet from Henry.
“Devizes is under attack, my lord! Eustace burned the town and then laid siege to the castle. By the time we got there, they’d breached the outer defenses and had driven the garrison into the keep. When we rode in, Sir Hugh and his men sallied forth on the attack again. I suppose they thought the whole of your army had arrived. Of course we then went to their aid, but we’re outnumbered, my lord. You must get there fast or you’ll lose the men, the town, and the castle, too!”
RIDING into Devizes was like riding into Hell. Orange flames were shooting up into the darkening sky, black, suffocating smoke was everywhere, and bodies were stacked like firewood in the narrow streets. But the bloody fighting was done. Eustace and his men were in retreat, having broken off the battle once they heard the sounds of an approaching army.
Hugh de Plucknet was limping toward them. Blood was running down his leg, his face was begrimed with smoke, and one eye was squinting, half closed by a rapidly swelling bruise. But he was grinning broadly. “Your timing was well-nigh perfect, my lord,” he told Henry gleefully. “We were being hammered right bad. But they turned tail once they realized you were coming up upon them. Say what you will of Eustace, he’s got brains as well as ballocks, for he knew when he was beaten. And to give the Devil his due, he can fight with the best of them!”
Hugh sounded almost admiring. That would have perplexed Henry at one time, but he was learning that for some men, courage was the true coin of the realm, and as long as a man had it to spend, he could earn himself unlimited credit, whatever his political debts. But while Henry was coming to understand this point of view, he did not share it, and he found it hard to muster up any respect for Eustace, whose only demonstrable talent seemed to be for killing.
Roger was all for pursuing the enemy, but Ranulf and Will thought it a waste of time, and Henry agreed; the men would just scatter in the darkness. For now, it was enough that he’d driven Eustace off and saved Devizes. From all he’d heard of his rival, this would fester with Eustace like a running sore, that he’d been put to flight by the whelp, the stripling, the foe he’d so openly scorned.
Henry felt triumphant, tired, and angry by turns. Dismounting hastily, he set men to fighting the fires. People had begun to creep out of hiding, and cries and lamenting soon filled the air as the survivors discovered the bodies of loved ones. Embers lit the night like winter fireflies, and when snow began to fall, the scene took on an air of eerie unreality to Henry, a weird juxtaposition of fire and ice, heat and cold, grief and joy.
He watched as a church was given up to the flames, as slate-roofed cottages were saved and thatched ones doomed, as horses were blindfolded and led to safety from the blazing stables. All around him, men were shivering and sweating, slipping in the snow only to be singed in the smoldering ruins. People were celebrating their deliverance and mourning their dead, even as the fires continued to burn and the snow to drift down into their midst, and as he walked through the wreckage of this prosperous market town, he heard himself proclaimed as its saviour.
Ranulf eventually found Henry in a churchyard, watching somberly as a weeping man and woman crouched over the body of their four-year-old son, trampled by the horses of Eustace’s fleeing soldiers. “The fires are almost out. Come on back to the castle, Harry. You must be half frozen by now.”
Henry nodded, then flinched when the woman began a high, keening wail. “I am thankful that we got here in time,” he said. “I am beholden to God, and to Hugh de Plucknet for not giving up. I know we won a victory here this night. But I am beginning to see, Uncle, that victories in this war are not what they seem. For what have we truly won? The chance to do it all again on the morrow.”
Ranulf could not argue, for he’d come to realize that, too, a bitter lesson learned at grievous cost in the past two years. He did not know whether to be sorry or glad that his nephew was learning it so young.
THE winter weather put a temporary halt to campaigning. Henry paid a prudent courtesy call upon the Bishop of Salisbury, who was still pressing the Church’s claim to Devizes. He visited John Marshal, who was just fourteen miles away, at Marlborough. And he and Ranulf passed a quiet Christmas at Devizes Castle.
January was cold and blustery, and Ranulf and Henry were surprised in midmonth by the unexpected arrival of John Marshal and the Earls of Hereford, Gloucester, and Salisbury. After a hearty meal of roast goose and pork pie, they withdrew to the solar, where the men soon revealed why they were at Devizes—to convince Henry that he ought to go back to Normandy.
Although they phrased it as tactfully as possible, the gist of their message was unmistakable: Henry had become a liability. He stiffened in shock, but did not interrupt, hearing them out in silence. Only then did he say coolly, “It sounds as if you want to get rid of me.”
Roger and Will and the Earl of Salisbury at once made vociferous denials. John Marshal sat back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, looking like a bored pirate chieftain. When Henry glanced his way, he drained his wine cup, set it down with a thud, and then said candidly, “You are right. We do want you out of England, at least for a while.”
The other men protested even more vehemently, but Henry paid them no heed. “Go on,” he told Marshal. “Explain yourself.”
“It is a matter of survival, ours and yours. You do not have enough of an army to force another Battle of Lincoln upon Stephen, not yet. But as long as you remain on English soil, you’ll be a target for Stephen and Eustace. You saw what they did to these shires last autumn. Well, it will happen all over again come spring, and it will keep on happening until you get safely beyond their reach…back to Normandy.”
“What are you saying, that I should just give up?”
The older man shook his head impatiently. “Good Christ, no! We want the crown for you almost as much as you want it yourself. But this is not the way to win your war. You’ve acquitted yourself well this past year,” he said, and Henry flushed with pleasure, for he knew Marshal was not a man to pay polite compliments. “What we need now, though, is some time to heal our wounds and plant our crops and strengthen our defenses. You can give us that time—but not if you stay in England.”
They all watched Henry intently once Marshal was done speaking. But he gave them no clue as to what he meant to do. “I sha
ll think upon what you’ve told me,” he said, and they had to be content with that, for they’d learned that, like his mother, he’d balk if pushed.
RANULF thought Marshal’s argument made sense. But he was not sure if Henry had been ready to hear it. It was only natural that he’d long for a decisive victory to end his first campaign. Ranulf did not want his nephew’s pride to put him at needless risk. But neither did he want the youth to return to Normandy thinking that he’d failed. An uncle-nephew talk was in order, he decided.
He was groping his way up the spiral stairwell toward Henry’s bedchamber when he collided with someone coming down. His initial contact was enough to tell him he’d bumped into a female, and his first guess was that she was a maidservant, for she was carrying a tray and wine flagon. But then he caught a whiff of jasmine perfume, too expensive for a serving-girl, and realized that this was Henry’s bedmate.
“Lora?” There was a wall sconce several feet above them, casting a feeble light upon the stairs, and before she ducked her head, he saw the tear tracks on her cheek. “What is wrong, lass?” he asked, wondering why she should be weeping alone out in the stairwell. This could be no lovers’ quarrel, for her tryst with Henry was a business transaction. He’d met Lora upon his visit to Salisbury, and had taken a fancy to the young prostitute, coaxing her into coming back with him to Devizes. Ranulf had approved of his nephew’s taste, for she was fair of face and lush of body and seemed quite worldly for her years, just eighteen or thereabouts. “What is it, lass?” he asked again, gently. “Why do you weep?”
She startled him, then, with a flare of temper, for until now, she’d always appeared cheerful and accommodating. “Did you think whores had no tears?” she snapped. “If we do not often weep, it is only because we learn early on that it avails us naught.”
When Christ and His Saints Slept Page 77