Authors: Ellen Jones
O
N THE MORNING OF
the second of February, Stephen opened the door of his azure pavilion and gazed into a misty gray dawn. For the past month he and his forces had been camped within the walled town of Lincoln and today, at last, he would do battle with the enemy. A battle he must win in order to reverse the disastrous decline in his fortunes.
For the last sixteen months—ever since he had so recklessly allowed Maud to leave Arundel—the country had been plunged into a full-scale civil war. From her headquarters at Robert’s stronghold in Bristol, Maud had succeeded in rallying to her cause a surprising number of adherents. What had once been sporadic pockets of rebellion was now a unified opposition, far stronger than anything Stephen had imagined. And he had only himself to blame.
“Battle dress today,” he told Baldwin FitzGilbert, who attended him. “The cathedral bells will sound morning Mass any moment now.”
The mist shifted and Stephen caught sight of the forbidding keep of Lincoln Castle perched on an incline above his camp. Although the castle had been under heavy siege ever since his arrival, the garrison installed by Ranulf of Chester continued to hold fast. At the thought of the treacherous earl, Stephen was filled with a murderous rage. Chester, biding his time, apparently had been plotting vengeance ever since Stephen had given King David the Earl’s patrimony of Carlisle. While Stephen’s attention was occupied with other matters, Chester had seized the crown’s castle of Lincoln. To add insult to injury the Earl had escaped from the castle on the very night Stephen had arrived, leaving his wife and brother behind.
The traitor had then made a pact with his father-in-law, Robert of Gloucester. In return for Ranulf’s pledging fealty to Maud, Robert had agreed to help him gather a large army to defeat Stephen’s forces at Lincoln and free the hostages in the castle. Gloucester and Chester had marched their host day and night, arriving across the river from Lincoln in the hours before dawn. It had been too dark to estimate the full size of the enemy forces, but Stephen feared the worst.
Tearing his eyes away from the hated castle, Stephen allowed FitzGilbert to dress him for battle: chain-mail hauberk over a padded leather tunic, chain-mail chausses to protect his legs, sleeveless black surcoat over his shoulders, leather baldric to hold his sword, conical helmet with its long nosepiece, triangular shield, and, last, his sword of Damascus steel.
The bells rang for Prime. He was ready, Stephen thought, ready to reap the fruits of victory—or die in battle as a warrior should. He quickly strode out of the pavilion toward the cathedral.
In Lincoln Cathedral, just as the Mass came to an end, the consecrated wax taper that Stephen was holding broke suddenly in his hand and the flame went out. Shortly thereafter the pyx containing the Blessed Sacrament fell upon the altar just as the Bishop of Lincoln was invoking God’s blessing upon the forthcoming battle. It was the most sinister of omens. Was God’s hand raised against him because he had usurped the throne? Because of his treatment of Holy Church? So great was his fear that he could barely concentrate on the Bishop’s final invocation of God’s favor on the King’s victory and his exhortation to the men to be strong and courageous.
When the ceremonies were over, Stephen left the cathedral and called his leaders together for a final consultation.
“I would seek a temporary truce, Sire,” Count Alan of Brittany advised. “The portents are not auspicious.”
“I agree,” said Waleran of Muelan. “With the unexpected addition of Welshmen to Chester’s and Gloucester’s armies, the enemy now outnumber us. We must gather more arms and men before risking a pitched battle.”
There was a chorus of assent from the rest of the nobles.
Stephen’s jaw clenched; his eyes suddenly blazed with resolution. “Is the knight-service of England afraid of a rabble of Welsh tribesmen? Do we turn tail because the odds are against us? We
will
fight this day,” he said in a voice of such conviction that none dared gainsay him.
Within the hour Stephen was leading his forces out the west gate of Lincoln and down the road to a meadow at the foot of the hill. Across the marshy terrain, he could see Robert’s men already in position.
“Prepare for battle,” Stephen said, turning first to William of Ypres. “We fight in three formations as planned: The mounted Flemings will take the left formation; the mounted Bretons and the earls will take the right, led by the Count of Brittany. I’ll take the center formation on foot with the soldiers of my army, the unmounted knights, and the men of Lincoln.”
The Earl of Gloucester sounded his trumpets for the attack. The men under Earl Robert’s command charged the first line of the King’s cavalry with such vigor that it was scattered almost immediately. The Welsh attacked the second line of the royal cavalry. The line held and the Welsh were pushed back until Chester’s men scattered the Breton knights in turn. As Chester’s forces pressed forward, accompanied by a storm of Welsh arrows, the entire body of the King’s horsemen fell back and scattered. Alarmed at the enemy’s superior strength, they retreated as one body. Stephen was dumbfounded to see his earls and their knights, with his Flemish captain in the lead, take flight.
“Follow us, Sire,” William of Ypres cried. “I can take you up behind me.”
“I stand firm,” Stephen shouted. “Regroup and return!” Stephen, his foot soldiers, a group of knights, and the men of Lincoln were left alone on the battlefield in the midst of a foe who closed round on all sides, assaulting them with sword, mace, and arrow. A knight astride a black charger, unrecognizable in his helmet, reared suddenly in front of Stephen. A blade flashed. Stephen jumped nimbly aside and holding his shield high, thrust upward with his sword toward the enemy’s breast, knocking his opponent’s weapon out of his hand. Suddenly, he caught sight of flashing emeralds set into the pommel of the sword falling through the air toward him. Robert!
Just in time he deflected his blade so that it rang harmlessly against Robert’s shield.
“You grow clumsy, Gloucester,” Stephen cried, as he bent to pick up the sword. He tossed the blade to Robert, who deftly caught the pommel. “Look to yourself, my friend. Next time I may not be so generous.”
“I am in your debt, Cousin,” Robert said, with a catch in his voice. He turned his charger deliberately away from Stephen and plunged into the battle.
From behind him, through the chorus of screams and curses, Stephen could hear the Norman battle cry: “Dex Ais!” He knew he was losing ground. Vainly he looked to see if the earls and their knights had returned, but could only distinguish his own force of men, now seriously diminished, and the men of Lincoln armed with bills and axes. Sweet Jesu, was it possible that the earls and their men had all deserted?
“To me, to me!” Stephen shouted.
The remaining men formed a living wall behind him. The enemy horsemen dashed against that bulwark, opening a small breach each time but constantly being driven back from the center point where Stephen stood like a lion at bay, cutting down everyone who came within reach of his sword. Soon the hilt and blade were covered in blood, as he slashed and hacked and thrust. Around him the pile of dead bodies and severed limbs grew even larger.
Suddenly a stone hurtled through the air and clanked loudly against his helmet. He staggered, then fell to his knees. An enemy knight jumped from his horse, seized Stephen’s nasal, and yanked off the helmet.
“The King, the King, I have the King!”
Stumbling to his feet, his ears ringing from the stone, Stephen seized the knight by the throat and threw him onto the wet, red earth. He looked around him. Only four men remained. All the rest either were slain, had fled, or had been taken prisoner. A ring of hostile faces surrounded him, swords raised, painted shields thrust forward. It was over.
“I will surrender only to the Earl of Gloucester,” Stephen said at last.
Robert pushed through the crowd of men and stood before Stephen. He removed his helmet and the two men faced each other.
Ranulf of Chester approached them. He pounded Robert on the back. “Victory, Kinsman,” he shouted, his voice jubilant. “Victory is ours!” He turned to a knight standing just behind him. “Bring chains. We will manacle this fallen king and parade him through the streets of Lincoln as an example of our justice.”
Robert turned on him in a fury. “For shame that you would think to put this knight in chains! Only by the cowardice of his men has he lost the field to us. Never in all my years of battle have I witnessed greater prowess or courage! We have seen the Conqueror himself this day.”
There was a loud murmur of agreement from Chester’s and Gloucester’s troops as they eyed Stephen with grudging respect and awe. Amidst the shouts of victory and the cries of the wounded, Robert led him off the battlefield.
“We ride to Gloucester, Cousin,” he said. “To Maud.”
Stephen closed his eyes. Maud. It was the final blow.
M
AUD PACED HER CHAMBER
at Gloucester castle. Any moment now Robert would ride into the courtyard with his royal prisoner. She stopped by the window set into the stone wall, removed the heavy wooden shutter, and peered out. A gust of damp February air blew into her face. It was barely mid-afternoon yet the sky was already streaked with dark shadows; a gentle rain fell soundlessly to the earth below.
Maud turned away from the window and walked over to the oak table. There lay the half-written letter to Geoffrey requesting that he send her son Henry to join her in England. She had not seen her son, who would be eight next month, in almost a year and a half. Not a day passed that she did not miss him, wishing with all her heart that he was with her.
She sat down on the stool, picked up the parchment, then put it down again. It was impossible to concentrate. All she could think about was Stephen’s imminent arrival. The last time she had been face to face with her cousin was the year before her father died—seven years earlier. A lifetime ago. How would she feel when—
The door opened abruptly and Robert’s wife, Mabel, entered the chamber. Her face was flushed, and her black eyes fairly snapped with excitement.
Maud’s heart began to pound; she half rose. “Have they arrived?”
“Soon now; they have been sighted a quarter of a league away,” Mabel said, giving Maud a brief smile. Her manner was unbending, reflecting the barely suppressed hostility Maud knew her sister-in-law harbored toward all things Angevin.
She had always suspected that Mabel disapproved of her, but it was not until she had joined Robert at Bristol that she realized the full extent of her sister-in-law’s resentment. Despite Maud’s efforts to win her affection, the Countess of Gloucester remained prickly as a thorn bush. As Mabel’s eyes fell on the unfinished parchment, she frowned, her thick black brows making a single hirsute line across her forehead. That a woman was able to read and write, Maud knew, she regarded as the devil’s work.
“It’s a letter to my husband in Normandy,” Maud explained carefully, “telling him about our victory at Lincoln and requesting that he send young Henry to join me.”
“I wonder that you did not send for the boy before now.”
“I did, many times, but Geoffrey felt England was too dangerous. Henry’s safety could not be guaranteed.”
“It has been dangerous for all of us, including my own children,” Mabel retorted.
“But since that is no longer the case,” Maud continued, choosing to ignore the barb, “I can look forward to the joy of having my son and heir stand beside me when I’m crowned.”
Mabel’s face became impassive. “As well as letting the nobles and commonfolk see for themselves that the dynasty founded by your grandfather will continue into the future. Most politic for your son to be here, Madam.”
“Naturally that is true, but it is not why I want him here,” Maud began hotly, then stopped herself. There was little point in tilting a lance with her sister-in-law. This was a time to rejoice and she must not allow Mabel’s resentment to spoil it.
After a moment’s silence the Countess of Gloucester continued with her attack. “I hear that Queen Matilda—the former Queen Matilda, I suppose I must call her—has been dragging her son, Eustace, all over Kent these past few days trying to raise an army on Stephen’s behalf. She has been clever enough to ensure the wretched child is visible to everyone, look you, while Henry of Anjou is completely unknown to the English.”
At this mention of Stephen’s wife, Maud’s whole body stiffened. Trust Mabel to remind her that Matilda had stolen a march on her. Only a month ago the former queen had traveled secretly to Paris and persuaded young Louis, the new French king, to betroth his sister to her six-year-old son and recognize Eustace as future Duke of Normandy. When she heard the news Maud had become enraged, for the ducal title belonged by right to Henry. But until Geoffrey attained a clear victory in Normandy there was nothing to be done. Louis of France was the nominal overlord of the duchy and his acknowledgment of Eustace had been a masterstroke on Matilda’s part. Overnight, it appeared, her gentle cousin had become a tigress. Of course, now that Stephen was no longer king it would be a different story—
The sound of a horn broke into her thoughts. Walking quickly over to the window, Maud saw a party of mounted men ride into the courtyard. She recognized Robert, and Miles, Sheriff of Gloucester, whose castle this was; then she saw Brian FitzCount. Her heart missed a beat. Where—yes, there was Stephen being helped from his horse by two grooms. Maud had been told her cousin was not seriously injured, yet he walked stiffly, favoring his right leg.
Trembling, Maud clutched the wall for support, unprepared for the treacherous tide of feeling that swept through her. Sweet Marie, was it to be Arundel all over again ?
“Have they arrived?” Mabel asked.
Maud nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Their baths have been prepared. I will see if everything is readied for the feast,” her sister-in-law said.
“I must dress. Tell Robert I will join him at the feast.”