Lady of the English

Thirty-four

Bristol, October 1139

M atilda considered the man kneeling before her making his obeisance and swearing to take her as his liege lady. Miles FitzWalter, constable of Gloucester Castle and lord of Hereford, was a tall, sandy-haired man with a freckled complexion and eyes the colour of green mud. He was quiet and laconic, but that did not mean he was slow-witted or easily dominated, rather the opposite. When Miles prowled through a room, men stepped aside. As with many of the disaffected here to pay her homage and swear allegiance, he had fallen foul of the scheming of the Beaumont brothers who were determined to bring down any man who might prove a threat to their power. Miles had never been on particularly good terms with Waleran and Robert and the antipathy had increased after Stephen’s coronation to the point where Miles’s position had become untenable. The same was true for John FitzGilbert, Stephen’s former marshal, whom Matilda had now taken as her own. He was another who prowled the court like a leopard among domestic cats. His brother William, made in a less predatory mould, was already her chancellor and a priest of the household. She had accepted the oaths of allegiance, but she had not smiled on the men. First they had to prove themselves in her service.

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“Domina, I swore for Stephen,” Miles said, “because I thought he would be strong and honourable and you were far away in Anjou. But now I have seen how he conducts business and the men he favours, and you are here, I swear that from this day forth you have my absolute loyalty.”

“And I accept that loyalty,” Matilda said, “but deeds are worth more than words.”

His head remained bowed but he looked up at her through his sparse sandy lashes. “I offer you Gloucester Castle and my protection, should you wish to hold your own court away from Bristol. Whatever resources I have are yours.” Matilda inclined her head. “I will indeed consider your offer.” She had been going to suggest it herself, but was pleased he had offered of his own accord. She needed to separate from her brother and take power into her own hands. It also meant that Stephen would have to look in several directions at once.

Once the allegiance-swearing was over and dinner consumed, Matilda took a moment to herself and, with only a maid for company, went for a walk round the castle precincts to freshen her mind. The air was cold and dank and she could smell the pungent waters of the estuary rising from the moat and hear the mournful scream of gulls. Bristol Castle was nigh on impregnable and easily supplied and protected by the rivers Frome and Avon, and able to conduct trade without hindrance. Stephen had tried to take it the previous year and failed abysmally.

The sound of closing shutters came from several of the chambers as useful daylight faded and the sky turned from ash to charcoal with a single glimmer of red like a dying ember.

She was turning back towards her chamber, when she saw Brian FitzCount coming from the direction of the stables, skirting the puddles to avoid miring his fashionable curl-toed boots and the hem of his cloak. He hesitated when he saw her, as if to change direction, then set his shoulders and continued walking.

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“Domina.” He bowed.

“My lord FitzCount.” She gave him a questioning look.

“I was checking my horses to make sure they are ready to take to Wallingford tomorrow,” he said. “Stephen will strike at me next now I have renounced my fealty and I must see to the defences.”

“It is a little too late for shoring up,” she said sharply.

He gave her a reproachful glance. “I have been preparing ever since your father died, but when I think about the future I need to reassure myself that all is in order.” Matilda watched her gown flare and fall back as she walked with him to the domestic quarters. “If Stephen comes to Wallingford, he will not stay camped there for long. He cannot afford to because others will rise against him.” He drew a deep breath. “What if there do not have to be battles? What if we can negotiate a settlement?” She eyed him sharply. “What kind of negotiation?”

“What if Stephen were to acknowledge your son as heir to Normandy and England?”

Matilda snorted. “Is that likely? Even if he did, his wife would refuse. I know my cousin Maheut. Stephen may have sat on the throne, but Maheut has her teeth in it.”

“But let us say this suggestion did come to the table.

Would you be willing to negotiate an agreement based on that premise?”

She arched her brow. “Forgo my crown you mean—the one you all swore you would honour?”

Brian gestured. “But your line would succeed, and everything would meld back together as it should have been.”

“I am not so certain of that.”

“But would you consider it?” he persisted.

“Yes, I would,” she said after a long pause. “But you will not find Stephen willing to do so, believe me.” They were nearing the hall door. He extended his arm in a courtier’s gesture and 298

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she laid her own hand lightly along it. She looked at his fingers.

“I am glad to see you still have your ink stains.”

“Writing preserves my sanity. Sometimes the only thing holding me steady is that line of ink between my mind and the point of my pen.” He lowered his voice and dipped his head towards her. “Sometimes I write words that I send to God in smoke and flame, because if I left them on the page to be seen they would consume the reader.”

Matilda believed in looking people straight in the eye, but she dared not look at Brian now. “I think you are wise,” she said. “Let the words become ash.”

“I do, domina, but it does not mean they were never written. Their imprint stays in my memory, and all you need do is ask me for them. My life and my honour are yours to do with as you see fit.”

“Then keep them both intact if you would serve me,” she said. “Other than your loyalty, that is all I want.”

“Is it?”

She stopped and turned. Her own voice was pitched low so as not to carry. “Do you think you are the only one with a pile of ashes in your hearth? I burned my dreams to build my nightmares.” Removing her arm from his, she swept indoors, walking briskly so that it looked as if she was moving on to the business in hand rather than running away.

ttt

Her sewing unattended in her lap, Adeliza gazed into the fire, watching the flames and trying not to think. It was a raw morning in early November with the trees almost bare of leaves and icy rain in the wind. Helwis the nurse was changing Wilkin’s swaddling while singing a nonsense song to him and blowing on his tummy, making him squeal.

Will arrived in a flurry of cold air. He was dressed for travel in his sturdiest boots and a thick wool tunic, with a heavy 299

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cloak over the top. He was also wearing his sword. The cloak sparkled with rain and his hair had twisted into tight curls.

Adeliza gnawed her lip as she watched him stoop to their son and tickle him under the chin. The baby giggled and waved his little arms. Will straightened and turned to her. The softness in his eyes and the broad smile given to the baby faded into caution.

Adeliza left her sewing and came to him. Last night they had lain together and it had been the sweetest thing. Now, in the cold, drizzly morning, he was leaving her to ride with Stephen in order to besiege Brian FitzCount at Wallingford. She was finding it difficult to reconcile these two parts of her life: lying with this wonderful lover, the father of their son, fulfilling her duties as a wife, all the time knowing he was going to war to prevent Matilda from claiming her rightful throne. He would be facing men with whom he had once been friends at court, and where an army went, death and destruction inevitably followed, usually of the innocent.

“I know you do not want me to go,” he said, “but it is my duty, even as you felt it yours to welcome the empress in the first place. My oath is to Stephen and I must obey his summons.”

“That does not make the situation less deplorable,” she replied. “When Henry ruled we had peace, and no one dared to break it.”

“But he left a legacy of bitter strife, and now we all suffer the consequences.” He touched her face. “All will be well, don’t worry.” They both knew it was a meaningless platitude. Words to glide over a surface of broken shards without repairing the underlying damage. She did not agree with him, but she was his wife and she would not send him off with sharp words and recrimination. Instead, she kissed him and bade him look after himself, but it was a pale imitation of the sensuous intimacy of the night and she hated the feeling of distance.

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She accompanied him to the courtyard to bid farewell, playing the formal role of chatelaine. She knew it looked to all their retainers as if she was endorsing all this, and it made her feel sick.

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Thirty-five

Wallingford, November 1139

Brian stood in the great undercroft at Wallingford Castle with his constable, William Boterel, and gazed at the piled stores he had been amassing ever since King Henry’s death. Even as he had been kneeling in homage to Stephen, his household officers were buying in stores and making plans to conserve supplies. He eyed the piled bales of dried stockfish, hard as stone.

“You could build walls with them and they wouldn’t fall down,” Boterel said, plucking one of them out of the bale and slapping it against his palm. “Last for years.” A faint fishy-smelling dust drifted under their noses and Brian grimaced. Stockfish had to be one of the most evil foods on earth, but as a basic store for times of privation and siege, there was nothing better.

As well as the stockfish, there were barrels of beef in brine and sausages smoked and dried in long loops. Crocks of honey; bladders of lard, tallow and beeswax, butter and cheese. Oats and grains. Two stone querns stood in a corner, ready to hand-grind flour should the mills be destroyed. And then there were the weapons. Barrel upon barrel of arrows were stacked against the far wall and the fletcher was busy making more. There were mail shirts, many of them given to him by Matilda, fashioned by the famed hauberk-makers of Argentan and transported in LadyofEnglish.indd 302

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leather sacks as part of the ballast on the ships that had come from Normandy. Matilda had given him one as a personal gift, the rivets black as midnight and hemmed with bronze. It was a beautiful, deadly thing, sinuous as snakeskin, with a helm of the same colour. He had donned it to check the fit and had seen the admiration in men’s eyes and he had not known himself. From boyhood, despite being trained to fight, his clever fingers had worn only the ink stains of the written word, never the blood of other men.

“We have enough for years to come, should it be necessary,” William said grimly.

Brian made a face. “I hope it will not come to that.” Leaving the undercroft, he stepped out into the smoky autumn air. His wife was returning from the henhouse with a basket of eggs. At this time of year the birds were not laying in large quantities, but there were enough for the lord’s table. Her dress was spiked with straw and her figure resembled a lumpy sack with a knot tied in the middle. She cast an assessing look at the men. Earlier she had eyed Brian in his fine armour, humphed, and said that looks were all very well, but it was what lay within that mattered.

“Two of the hens have stopped laying,” she grumbled.

“Time to neck them. We cannot afford to keep anything that does not work for its living.”

Brian bit the inside of his mouth, uncertain whether this was a dig at him or just her natural thriftiness coming out. “I will look forward to chicken frumenty then,” he said with a courteous smile. “I appreciate your skills in using all our resources to their best advantage.”

She gave him a hard glance “Someone has to. Fine hauberks, especially when given as gifts, come at a price.” There was a shout from the walls and a serjeant came running across the bailey to Brian. “Sire, it is King Stephen’s army,” he panted as he arrived. “Here, outside the walls!” 303

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Brian set off at a run for the battlements with William hard on his heels. Gazing out between the merlons at the approaching silver line of soldiers, with Stephen’s banner snapping in the wind, his dark imagining became reality. It was not just an undercroft stuffed with supplies and weapons, it was an army spreading out on the opposite bank of the Thames and he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach because he could not breathe.

His wife joined him on the battlements, still clutching her basket of eggs. “Let us hope Waleran de Meulan does not hold it against you that you kept him prisoner here,” she said, eyeing the fluttering banners.

“I care not if he does,” Brian snapped. “They won’t take Wallingford. I have known this day was coming ever since Stephen usurped the crown.”

“But are you ready?” He gave her a hard look, which she returned with aplomb. “I am a soldier’s daughter,” she said,

“and my first husband was as tough as horseshoes. You talk fine words, and you write them too, my lord, but can you stand?

That is what we will find out now. You had best go and put on that fine hauberk of yours.” With a curt nod to drive her words home, she left with her basket of eggs. A feather floated in her wake and gently drifted to the ground at Brian’s feet.

He watched it land, and then raised his head to the besieging force. He had no choice but to stand, because he was doing this for Matilda, and he had promised.

ttt

A raw wind blustered through the king’s camp. The soldiers had laid down pathways of straw between the tents because the intermittent rain and the constant tramp of men, horses, and siege equipment had churned the ground to mud.

In Stephen’s pavilion, Will stood around a brazier with several other barons. He was whittling at a piece of wood, 304

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working it into the shape of a toy horse for his infant son, keeping his hands occupied. They had been bogged down for a week now, assaulting Wallingford to no avail, like little boys trying to knock down a wall with shingle. Brian FitzCount had made it plain he was not going to be lured out by acts of burning and pillage on the surrounding lands and it was also plain that the place could resist their assault for longer than they were willing to sit.

“I cannot afford to stay here.” Stephen testily plucked at his beard. “Wallingford is the key to London. We must either capture it, or render it useless to the rebels. FitzCount was building this up all the time he was playing the loyal servant at court. He never intended keeping his oath to me.”

“You could construct watchtowers to prevent provisions coming through,” Will said, “and garrison them with men to harass the supply route.”

Waleran de Meulan glared at Will “That woman and her brother should never have been allowed a safe landing in England.” Will blew shavings off the little horse. “It was a matter of honour,” he said, refusing to rise to the bait.

“There is honour and there is folly,” Waleran snapped.

“Enough.” Stephen made a chopping gesture with his right hand. “D’Albini is right, although I could have wished for a better outcome. Next you will be saying I was foolish to let the Countess of Anjou join her brother in Bristol, when it was the only decision I could have made.”

“She is not in Bristol now though, is she?” Waleran sneered.

“She is holding court in Gloucester and encouraging all manner of rabble to join her. We should have taken her when we had the chance.”

A messenger drew rein outside the tent and swung down from his sweating horse. Entering the tent at Stephen’s command, he knelt and his gaze flicked to Waleran. “Sire, 305

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Miles FitzWalter has sacked Worcester. He has burned the suburbs and seized captives and herds.”

“What?” Waleran’s face suffused. He lunged to his feet and hurled his cup at the side of the tent. “The whoreson! I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”

Will stared at the heaving, frightened messenger. Worcester belonged to Waleran and this was more than just political strategy by the rebels; it was a personal attack on Waleran by Miles FitzWalter, who hated him. The war was spreading, like coals dragged from a fire and scattered abroad by a pitchfork.

“This confirms my decision to move,” Stephen said grimly.

“We shall ride to deal with this insurrection now and leave a detail here to build watchtowers. I want the garrison at Wallingford pinned down like a snake with a forked stick.” ttt

It was very late. Brian stood on the wall walk and gazed out across the river. The night was moonless but there was a glimmer of cold starlight and the pin-prick wink of torches from Stephen’s watchtowers. Their garrisons were preventing new supplies from getting through, although they could do nothing to touch Wallingford itself. Brian had managed to send the occasional messenger out and receive information back in, but it was a dangerous and haphazard business. Two of his men had been caught and tortured before being hanged on a gibbet in full view of the Wallingford garrison.

Brian had ordered food to be rationed although they had plenty, because who knew how long this state of affairs was going to last? He was out on a limb here, cut off from communication, and it drove him mad, because communicating was his main skill, over and beyond his weapon play. They had begun to call him “the Marquis” because he was out on a March here, Wallingford pointing like a finger into enemy territory.

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knew he was out of his depth. When instructing the men on watch, he was firm and decisive, but he wondered if anyone guessed how much doubt lay beneath the surface.

The bitter evening chill seeped through his garments and he abandoned the wall walk, going to his chamber to write letters he knew might never arrive and documents that might never be read. Yet, while his mind was connected to the parchment through the flow of the ink, he felt control and stability settle upon him and the sense of dread retreated a little.

When the words began to blur on the page and his eyes to burn with the strain of staring, he sought his bed and curled up, drawing the blankets and furs around his ears. Inside his mind he was still writing, could still see the tip of the quill scratching over the parchment in line upon line of oak-gall ink. Defending his position, defending Matilda. The quill bit deeper and the ink, turning red, ran like blood from the blade of a sword. He tossed and turned, trapped in sweaty visions. He heard chanting, and saw a lone ship hoisting a sail against a carmine sky that might have presaged either dawn or sunset. Behind was loneliness; ahead lay solitude.

The sound of a fist pounding on wood jolted through his dream. At first he thought it was the clunk of the oars in the rowlocks, but it grew louder and suddenly his chamber door banged open. He shot upright, gasping, and fought to free himself from the sour sheet that had tangled around him as he fretted in his nightmare. He stared in bewilderment at Miles FitzWalter, who stood at his bedside clad in dark clothing, filthy with mud from head to toe.

“I heard you were in need of reinforcements,” Miles said with a broad grin, his teeth very white in his dirty face. “I think it is time to do something about those towers, don’t you?” Brian staggered out of bed and clasped Miles in a hearty embrace, partly to make sure that he was not a figment of the dream. “I was praying you would come, but I did not know 307

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when or even how you’d achieve such a thing!” he said, his voice raw with relief.

“Hah! It takes more than a shallow king and a gaggle of piss-proud hangers-on to stop me!”

Brian scrabbled around, donning his crumpled tunic, raking his hands through his hair. He shouted for servants to bring food and wine, which Miles devoured with gusto.

“In plotting to bring me down, they have fomented their own ruin,” Miles said with a feral gleam in his eyes Brian’s spine tingled. Miles FitzWalter was like a deep, cold pool. The shallows at the edges were safe enough, but go any further and you risked drowning.

Miles dusted his hands. “My men are awaiting my signal outside. It was easier for just a few of us to sneak past their guards and reach you. I will need some pitch-soaked arrows and your best archers. You’ve got your Welshmen?” Brian nodded and strove to gather his wits.

“Good.” Miles grasped Brian’s arm. “Put on your hauberk and summon your men. I’ll meet you in the hall.” He strode from the room with a brisk air, leaving Brian opening and shutting his mouth.

ttt

In the bleak dark preceding the November dawn, Brian handed his stallion’s reins to a squire and studied the black outline of the right-hand watchtower he had been designated to take.

Miles was to deal with the left using the men he had brought with him. Brian’s stomach was queasy; the wine he had drunk earlier lay sour in his gut.

Miles gave him a fierce grin. “Good fortune,” he said.

“And you,” Brian replied hoarsely.

“It will be like a day out at a fair with the ladies after Worcester,” Miles said, and was gone like a wolf on the hunt: light, swift, and focused. A detail of Brian’s Welsh bowmen 308

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accompanied him, and several serjeants. Brian turned to those remaining with him: more serjeants, archers, and his own knights from the garrison. His breath was a pale vapour in the air and his chest shook on each exhalation. To the east the sky was a touch paler than it had been at the blackest part of the night.

“Now,” he said, swallowing. “Now or never.” They loped across the marshy ground, crouching low.

Grapnels attached to rope ladders soared over the stakes of the outer palisade and men began to climb at speed. An alarm note blared on a hunting horn, summoning the defenders to arms.

Brian’s archers shot blazing arrows into the compound. Brian muttered a prayer under his breath and took his turn on the swaying grapnel ladder. His hands burned on the rope as he pulled himself upward, all the time fearing that he would be speared like meat on a skewer or crushed by a falling stone. And this was only the first obstacle. The main tower lay beyond.

He gained the top of the palisade, pulled himself over on to the walkway, and, with sword drawn, ran towards the gates.

A defender came at him with a hand axe. He avoided the downward chop of the blade and with a side-swipe, knocked his assailant off the palisade. The soldier struck the bailey floor with a solid thud and Brian suppressed a heave. The world had run mad, and this was hell.

In several places the palisade was burning. Brian caught a lungful of hot smoke and turned aside, coughing. Someone else came at him and he dodged and cut and struck and felt sick.

An arrow slammed into the side of his coif, spinning him to the ground. Blood filled his right eye.

“Sire!” William Boterel leaned over him. “Sire…”

“Take the men!” Brian gasped. “Get that gate open. We can’t lose the impetus! Go!”

Boterel did as he was bidden, leaving Brian to be attended by a serjeant. “Just a surface wound, sire,” the man said. “Arrow’s 309

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lodged in the mail. You’ll have a red stripe tomorrow, no worse.” He snapped off the shaft with a grunt. “Lucky though.” Brian removed his helm and coif and gazed at the arrowhead, his vision blurred with blood. The serjeant produced a strip of bandage and used it to wipe Brian’s eye and stanch the wound.

He strove to his feet. The broken shaft and arrowhead on the walk reminded him of a snapped quill pen. Picking up his sword, he drew a shaken breath. He had to carry this through, and write his will in blood and fire, because how else was he going to be a leader of men, keep his word to Matilda, and give her a crown?

The thatch on the outbuilding roofs was ablaze and men fought amid swirls of smoke and stinging sparks. Brian strode among his soldiers, shouting encouragement, urging them on, and forcing himself forward. “For the empress!” he bellowed, wiping a fresh trickle of blood from his eye corner. “For the rightful queen of England!”

As dawn paled the eastern horizon, Brian and his men over-came the last resistance on the outer works and tore down the gates. Then it was on to the tower itself. No scaling here, just brushwood and pitch and flaming arrows. Some defenders tried to escape by ropes from the battlements and were shot down by Wallingford’s archers. Those who reached the ground were taken for ransom if wealthy enough. If not, they were stripped of their weapons, purses, and clothing and sent on their way in their underwear. Brian had the booty, such as it was, piled up outside the gates while the tower burned, surrounded by a ring of fiery palisade. His right temple throbbed as if a small drum was being beaten against his orbit and brow bone. He could only half see out of his right eye.

Facing the gateway, he watched Miles FitzWalter come towards him. The man’s surcoat and face were freckled with soot and blood, but his smile was incandescent.

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“Success!” he cried. “Stephen’s going to be too busy running hither and yon to return and rebuild these for a very long time, if ever.” He cocked his head and considered Brian’s injury.

“Close one,” he said.

Brian reached up to touch the clotted line at the side of his eye. “It was one of our own arrows,” he said. “Taken up and shot back.”

“Always the most dangerous.” Hands on hips, Miles turned in a slow circle and nodded with satisfaction. “A good night’s work. That, my lord, is how you run rings around your enemy.” 311

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Thirty-six

Gloucester Castle, Spring 1140

M atilda paced up and down her chamber in agitation.

“It is intolerable,” she snapped at Brian, who stood by the hearth looking wary. “I will not stand for this!” He avoided her gaze. He had been at court since Christmas, working tirelessly on arguments supporting her right to be queen and her son’s right to inherit. Negotiations were about to take place in Winchester, brokered by Bishop Henry, the proposal being that Stephen would acknowledge Matilda’s claim to the crown in right of her descendants and grant her the rule of Normandy in her lifetime. Her son Henry would be brought to England and sworn in as heir to the throne.

The difficulty was that Stephen and Matilda were to be represented by intermediaries, and Stephen had appointed his wife to speak as his—a shrewd move that stole a march on the opposition.

She reached the end of the room and flung round. “Where is the right in allowing Stephen’s wife to negotiate on his behalf, while I may not speak?”

“It is the role of a queen to be a peacemaker,” Brian said.

“And Stephen has nominated her to represent him. We can do nothing about that.”

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outcome is a foregone conclusion. You won’t prise her jaws off the throne.”

The atmosphere between them bristled with tension and was broken as Matilda exhaled on a hard breath and waved her arm in a gesture filled with angry dismissal. “If because of this

‘sacred tradition’ I am barred from attending in person, I expect you and my brother not to yield an inch of ground.” He rubbed the pink scar at the side of his eye, legacy of the fight to take down the Crowmarsh siege towers that had threatened Wallingford. Miles had commended him at court as a fine compatriot in battle, but whenever the subject arose, Brian shrugged it off, and moved on to other things. “You can trust us, domina.”

“Can I?” Her tone was weary and sceptical. “I sometimes wonder if I have any trust left to give.” ttt

Brian shifted his buttocks on the bench and folded his arms as he listened to Robert of Gloucester advancing proposals for a peace that would end the fighting. He knew Stephen’s party were unlikely to agree to them, but the suggestions were not outrageous and Robert’s eloquence lent weight and credibility to the argument.

Stephen’s queen, Maheut, was leaning forward in her seat with a pained expression on her face as if she was struggling to hear what Robert was saying, her attitude patronising and authoritative. Beside her, dwarfing her own chair, stood an empty throne as a reminder that, even without his presence, the king was a part of the process and would see and hear all.

Maheut was small and sturdy, with close-set shrewd eyes set beneath heavy, dark brows, her prim mouth concealing small, pearly teeth. Matilda often called her a terrier and the comparison was apt, but beyond his amusement at the analogy, Brian knew her tenacity was dangerous. She was utterly loyal 313

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to Stephen, and her brisk, motherly manner engendered loyalty in others. When with Stephen in public, she kept her eyes lowered and her mouth closed, cultivating the persona of a modest, submissive wife, but Brian suspected it was a different matter behind their bedchamber door.

The empress had no such maternal image to temper her own abrasive nature. If she thought a man was a fool, she said so to his face in front of others, and gave no quarter. She was tall, slender, beautiful, desirable—like a mistress, and while few men would ever strike their mothers, he knew many who would take a fist to a mistress, or leave her for another woman.

“You ask the impossible, my lord,” Maheut said to Robert.

“My husband is an anointed king, elected to his throne by the barons and bishops of England. He will neither share power with your sister the Countess of Anjou, nor acknowledge her claim.”

“She is the only surviving legitimate child of my father,” Robert asserted calmly. “All swore to her before they ever swore to your husband. Moreover, she is the only claimant born of a reigning king and queen, and she is owed that respect and acknowledgement.”

“Her father absolved his barons of that vow on his deathbed,” Maheut replied with equal firmness. “We could argue that point all week and get nowhere. We might concede the dower castles in Normandy that the Countess of Anjou was granted on her marriage, but the Countess would have to quit England, and all warfare in Normandy would have to cease forthwith.”

“You cannot grant what is already acknowledged as belonging to the empress,” Robert said. “My sister has a right to England’s crown and the coronet of Normandy. She will settle for rule in Normandy while her son grows to manhood, and in the fullness of time, he will inherit England. To that end, he will be brought here and the barons will swear him their allegiance.” 314

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Maheut sat back, hands gripping the finials of her chair.

“That is out of the question. One of the reasons men swore to my husband was that they knew him and his stock. England and Normandy have no wish to be ruled from Anjou by a woman who has spent her life in foreign courts and has no knowledge of our ways. If King Henry had wanted his daughter on the throne, he would have said so on his deathbed!”

“Likely he did and it went unreported,” Robert retorted.

“Oaths are bought and sold these days like cheeses at a market.

Perhaps England and Normandy do not want to be ruled from Blois and Boulogne…and France. Perhaps England would rather a king of the true blood sat on the throne, a grandson of King Henry and the king of Jerusalem.” Maheut’s spine was as rigid as the back of her chair. Her eldest son had been betrothed earlier in the year to the French king’s daughter. “You would have people swear for an untested child?” she scoffed. “You would further disrupt the country? People will swear to him and then perhaps think they no longer need to be loyal to their rightful anointed king. I say no and no.” The bishop of Winchester had been watching the proceedings with sleepy eyes that nevertheless missed nothing. Now he rose to his feet and opened his broad, bejewelled hands in an encompassing gesture. “This entails a deal more discussion,” he said in his rich, carrying voice. “Time now to take stock and refresh ourselves. We must think upon these issues and gauge what to do in order to have a binding peace.” Brian did not trust the bland, urbane bishop of Winchester.

He was consummate at playing one side off against the other, all for his own gain. It seemed to Brian that whoever offered Bishop Henry the most power would be the one to win his support and influence.

“I believe we must widen the discussion and take further consultation with our neighbours, and the Holy Father,” 315

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Bishop Henry said. “He may have more to say on this issue now that each side has put its case.” Indeed, Brian thought cynically. Rome was for sale just as much as Henry of Winchester. With jewels and bribes, with promises of profitable deals from trade and commerce. With gifts to the Church and enticements of lucrative appointments.

The sacred manipulating the profane. The Church would claim to be a peacekeeper and arbiter of the rules, but only inasmuch as it suited those in ecclesiastical power. It made Brian feel smirched and unutterably weary.

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Thirty-seven

Wymondham Priory, Norfolk, Autumn 1140

K neeling before the altar of Wymondham Priory, Adeliza felt the baby kick, and pressed her hand to her womb in gratitude for the new life growing there. Her second pregnancy was as much a miraculous gift as her first. Today they were attending a mass followed by a feast to honour Will’s father, who had founded Saint Mary’s more than thirty years ago and now lay enshrined in the choir. Will had presented the priory with a silver chalice and candlesticks for the altar, his own weight in beeswax for candles, and five marks for distribution to the poor.

Following mass, Adeliza doled out more silver pennies to the folk waiting outside to see them in the bright November cold. Many hailed her as queen, which made her glow. It was so peaceful here that it was hard to believe there was so much strife in other parts. Three days ago, they had heard about the failure of the latest round of negotiations. The bishop of Winchester had returned from conferring with the French and his older brother Theobald, Count of Blois. All had agreed that the empress’s son, Henry, should be acknowledged as the heir to England and Normandy, but Queen Maheut had refused to countenance such a future, and, supported by her backbone, Stephen had dug in his heels too.

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Now the fighting would escalate. Adeliza hated it when Will went on campaign with the king. He had spent the summer fighting rebels in the Fens. She did not understand what Will saw in Stephen. Will in his turn was impatient with her attitude towards Matilda, and it created considerable friction between them.

Hands on hips, Will was looking at the priory. “My father often brought me here to watch them building this place,” he mused. “He laid some of these stones himself and I helped him, although I would only have been three or four years old. I want to do the same with my own sons. I want to build things and know that they will last beyond our lifetime. I want to enfold and protect what I have, and I will fight tooth and nail to do so.”

“I know,” Adeliza said, and shivered, because his words were both a comfort and a reflection of the times.

Immediately he was all concern, folding his arm tenderly around her shoulders. “You have been out in the cold too long.

Come, we should go within.”

She was glad of his support, but insisted on completing her duty of doling out the silver to the poor, who she knew had been standing in the cold for much longer than she had, and with less protection.

In the Prior’s lodging, Father Ralph, eager to please his patrons, had laid a fine table. The surplus pigs had recently been slaughtered and the main dish was pork garnished with apples from the priory orchard. Servings of stew, barley pottage, and blood sausages were sent out to the poor.

“We hear grave news from further south.” Prior Ralph dabbed his lips with his napkin. “The sacking of Worcester and the siege of Hereford are shocking. These are godless times when men desecrate graveyards to better position their siege machines and turn churches into fortifications when they are not burning them to the ground.”

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“It is indeed appalling,” Will agreed diplomatically. “Be assured, no harm shall come to the Church by my hand, on my honour. I will so vow at the altar before I leave.”

“I am glad to hear it. You are a good man, my lord.”

“I am not,” Will said gruffly, “but should I tear a cross from an altar or defile a grave, I would be dishonouring God, and I would never be able to look my wife in the eyes again or be at peace with myself.” He reached for Adeliza’s hand and squeezed it.

A young monk approached the table to announce that a messenger had arrived with urgent news for the Earl of Lincoln.

Adeliza exchanged a worried glance with her husband. Urgent news these days was seldom good. Will stood up with an apology to the prior for the interrupted meal. “I will see him in the guest house,” he said as he assisted Adeliza to rise.

The messenger was waiting for them and, kneeling, removed his cap. “Sire, madam, grave tidings. The Earl of Chester and his half-brother have seized Lincoln Castle and declared ownership.”

Adeliza stifled a gasp. Lincoln Castle was Stephen’s property but Will was Earl of Lincoln with administrative rights and privileges.

“Go on,” Will said.

“The earl and the sire de Roumare sent their wives into the castle to visit the constable’s wife and talk as women do. Then the earl and his brother returned with just a few men to escort the ladies home; but, once inside the castle, they overpowered the soldiers on the gate and threw the doors open to their own troops.”

Will absorbed the news with a set jaw. He dismissed the messenger, telling him to find sustenance and a fresh horse ready to set out again within the hour. Then he entered the guest house and breathed out hard. “Well, this makes my earldom a complete laughing stock, does it not?” 319

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Adeliza shook her head. To her, it was just another sign of Stephen’s unfitness for kingship. Men walked all over him because he had no authority.

“Stephen will have to nip this in the bud,” Will said. “He cannot allow Chester and de Roumare to do this to him—or to me.”

“It looks full blown already to me,” Adeliza replied. “As you say, this makes a mockery of your power in the shire.” Her exasperation overflowed. “None of this would have happened when Henry was king. He would have dealt with Chester and de Roumare long before now.”

“And well he might, but he left enough of a mess that we are all suffering for it,” Will snapped. “He was no saint for all you are forever making him out to be one. He should have left Matilda in Germany or married her to a Lotharingian prince and left England to Stephen. If there is war now, then Henry’s decisions and selfishness are the root causes of it.” Adeliza recoiled as if he had struck her. “He was my husband and he was a great king.” She tried to steady her voice. “I will not be disloyal to him or to his memory, and you should not speak ill of him.”

“It is not disloyal to say he had faults. Were you never hurt by the number of bastards he sired on the string of women he took to bed under your nose? Did it never trouble your sleep that he blinded his own grandchildren because their parents rebelled against him? Or the manner in which he manipulated his daughter without a thought beyond his own schemes?” He gave her an exasperated look. “He was great because he was ruthless. Stephen for all his faults would never have done any of those things, and that is part of the reason I follow him. Henry exacted a price from us all, and we are still paying.” He made an abrupt gesture. “Enough. I will take you to Arundel and then I will go to the king and all this will be set to rights.” 320

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Adeliza’s throat was painful with tears. Stephen was inca-pable of setting anything to rights, whatever Will thought, but she held her tongue. Too much damage had been done already.

She pressed her hand to her belly, her emotions a solid, heavy block. “I beg your leave to retire,” she said shakily. “I need to rest.” With a gesture to her women, she left his side and disappeared behind the screened-off partition at the rear of the room where her travelling bed and chest had been set up.

Will rubbed his face and softly groaned. This news was a serious blow to his prestige and to Stephen’s authority.

Chester and de Roumare were half-brothers and similar to the Beaumont twins in their ambitions. They were a disruptive element when at court, and bad enemies to make. Thus far he had managed to avoid involvement in the power play of the Beaumonts and had scrambled his way through the issue of opening Arundel to Matilda while still supporting Stephen.

But now he risked being caught in the riptides involving the Chester faction. If he sank, his family sank too; his wife, much as he loved her, did not understand.

His favourite dog, Teri, padded up to him and licked his hand. He stooped to tousle the silky ears. Dogs were faithful and demanded nothing of you but food, exercise, and affection. Sometimes he found himself wishing he had been born a common kennel boy. Instead he had married a queen and climbed so high on fortune’s wheel that the distance to the ground was dizzying.

ttt

The green wood in the hearth of Lincoln Castle’s great hall gave off gouts of smoke and aggravated Will’s hacking cough as he huddled over what heat there was, feeling decidedly unwell.

The raw damp of the early December weather seemed to have permeated every crevice of the walls, and every joint and sinew in his aching body. He folded his arms inside his cloak and 321

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shivered so hard, he felt as if his flesh might leave his bones.

King Stephen was pacing the room like a caged lion. The half-brothers Ranulf, Earl of Chester, and William de Roumare watched him with steely eyes. De Roumare was playing with his dagger, tossing it end over end.

“Our mother’s family has a hereditary right to the custody of Lincoln Castle,” de Roumare said, jutting out a pugnacious jaw pocked with acne scars. “It should be ours. We have only taken what we are entitled to.”

Stephen whirled, the hem of his cloak flaring at his ankles.

“Lincoln Castle is a royal one even if its constables have served in the past by heredity,” he snapped. “You have no automatic right.” He gave de Roumare a hard glare. The latter sheathed his dagger, but continued to play suggestively with the hilt.

Ranulf of Chester pulled on his long, auburn moustaches.

“Then give us what we are due, sire. We have upheld your reign thus far, but you ignore us at your peril. Would you deny us our patrimony?”

“You have had lands and privileges from me in plenty already, without Lincoln,” Stephen said tersely.

De Roumare pivoted and stabbed his finger at Will. “Why make him Earl of Lincoln and not one of us?” he demanded.

“He is nothing but a jumped-up hearth knight who has ideas above himself because of his marriage to the dowager queen.” Will started to his feet. “You insult me!” he said, his chest burning with the need to cough.

“No more than my brother and I am insulted that you are Earl of Lincoln and claiming the third penny of a shire that should be ours,” de Roumare spat. “You act like an amiable big dog with no brain between its ears, while all the time you are lying under your master’s table, taking the bones that belong to better men. No matter how many fancy castles you build, you are still nothing.”

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Rage flamed through Will’s body. “But at least I am faithful,” he snarled, and then had to turn aside to cough and then spit into the fire.

“Oh indeed,” de Roumare sneered. “This is why you harboured the empress in your bosom last year.”

“Peace!” Stephen roared. He glared at the brothers. “Since you feel so greatly aggrieved and I value your fealty, I shall heed your argument. De Roumare, you can take the title of Earl of Lincoln if my lord D’Albini is willing to accept that of Earl of Sussex instead.”

Will’s gut curdled. He felt insulted and humiliated, but was too sick and feverish to argue.

“And you will give me the right to Lincoln Castle?” pushed de Roumare.

Stephen ground his jaw. “Providing you swear me fealty and stay within bounds.”

The way that the brothers were staring at Stephen made Will apprehensive. His dogs had that air when they fought each other for dominance of the pack.

After a long pause, de Roumare stepped forward and bent his knee. “I do so swear,” he muttered. Chester followed suit.

“Oh get up,” Stephen snapped. “We will make it official tomorrow before all, and let this be an end to it. I will yield no further!”

The tension was palpable. This wasn’t the end, Will was certain, because appeasement was not control, and no one in this room was satisfied.

ttt

Will lay in bed beside Adeliza, lazing in delicious warmth, the furs drawn up to his chin. He did not want to move to get ready and go to the Christmas court at Windsor, but knew he must. Stephen was expecting him, and he was to kneel and pay homage for his replacement earldom of Sussex. There was 323

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a bitter taste in his mouth over the arrangement, although in truth, it made sense and should have been given to him as his earldom from the outset.

He could hear the nurse in the anteroom cooing to their son as she changed his wet linens. Against his body, Adeliza’s womb was round and full with their second child. She was soon to go into confinement, and it gave him pleasure to feel the baby kick against the palm of his hand. Adeliza had said nothing about his change of title, and he was grateful for her silence even if her looks had been eloquent and knowing.

Eventually, aware of his duty and prodded by the increasing sounds from the antechamber, he left the cosy nest of their bed, shoved his feet into his shoes, and, scratching and yawning, ambled to use the latrine. Then, wrapped in his fur cloak, he went to see his son. Wilkin squealed and held out chubby arms, demanding to be picked up. Will swept him into his embrace and nuzzled the baby’s pale brown curls. He smelled of fresh, warmed linen and sleep. “Pa!” he said and pulled his father’s whiskers.

“Well, my little man,” Will chuckled, “what shall I bring you from court? A silver spoon? A golden cup? Bright silver bells? Or perhaps a new earldom, hmm?”

“Sire…”

He glanced up to see Milo Bassett, one of his senior knights, hesitating in the doorway. “What is it?” Will beckoned him into the room.

“A messenger’s just ridden in.” Milo’s expression was tense with two fine creases between his eyes. “William de Roumare and Ranulf of Chester have just gone the full distance and declared for the empress. They’ve closed Lincoln against the king.” Will stared at him. “I knew this would happen,” he said grimly. “I told Stephen he should not trust them, but he would not listen. He gives too many the benefit of the doubt.”

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Windsor,” Milo continued. “I’ve set the grooms to harnessing more packhorses and told the steward to increase the provisions.” Will nodded briskly. “Give me a moment to dress and I’ll attend you. Find Adelard and tell him I’ll need my hauberk and weapons.”

As Milo strode off, Will returned the infant to his nurse and went to tell Adeliza he was not going to Windsor as planned, but north to Lincoln and war.

ttt

Matilda was holding court in Gloucester when a hard-travelled messenger brought her the news about Lincoln, together with the information that Stephen had abandoned his Christmas court at Windsor and was riding north to deal with the situation.

“Now is our chance to take on Stephen and bring him down,” Robert said, his eyes full of a hunter’s light. Ranulf of Chester was his son-in-law and he had long been working at dividing him from Stephen.

Matilda frowned and pursed her lips. “Ranulf de Gernons and William de Roumare are wily dissemblers and they will exact a high price for their loyalty. Just because they have seized Lincoln does not mean they have had a complete change of heart. All they see is their own opportunity.”

“But if they can run Stephen off, then by coming to their aid we gain at least a nominal hold on Lincoln. Hugh Bigod is wavering in his support of Stephen, for all that he was one of the first to swear for him. It will only take another push. It might be worth offering him the earldom of Norfolk to secure his help. He’s an untrustworthy self-seeker, but if we can work on him to abandon Stephen, then to the good.” Matilda rubbed her aching forehead. Even though the news held promise, she still felt as if she were trying to swim across a cold, dark lake with weights on her ankles. There was never enough money, and she was well aware that men who knelt to 325

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her and smiled one day would as likely stab her in the back and abandon her on another. Those who stayed with her had nothing left to lose. Sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it, but would then shake herself. This was for her son, and for his sons (God forbid they would be daughters), stretching in a line that travelled so far she could not see the end of it, and if she gave up, that line would not exist. “Do whatever you can,” she said.

Robert pressed his hand to her shoulder and left the room.

Brian, who had been listening silently, a little to one side, said,

“You will win this, domina.”

“Will I?” She went to stand before the hearth, rubbing her arms.

“Assuredly, domina.”

“Your voice carries platitudes,” she said irritably.

“I hope not, because then I would be deluding myself.” She turned to him. “I want to succeed, Brian,” she said, vehemently. “I want this so much that I could set the world ablaze with what I feel inside.” She pressed her hand to her stomach in emphasis. “Sometimes I think it will consume me and there will be nothing left. You tell me ‘assuredly’ and I want to rage at you because it is the slick word of a courtier.”

“That is all I thought you wanted from me,” he answered woodenly. “If you desire me to say I will go through that blaze for you, I will do so, gladly.”

Matilda retreated behind her shield again. What she desired of him she could never have, and she was far too sensible to ask what he desired for himself. “Do you not have matters to deal with outside of this chamber?” she asked curtly.

There was a taut silence. Then he said, “Domina,” and left the room, the cold air lingering on the tail of the closing door.

She stared at the hearth for a long time; then she moved away from it, and set her mind to the matter of Lincoln and what defeating Stephen might mean.

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