“There will be no surprise attack on York, my lord earl. They are expecting us. I do not know if we were betrayed or they just got lucky, but they somehow learned that we were marching on the city.”
The men exchanged grim looks, and Bennet braced himself to reveal the rest, the worst. “My lords, there is more. The citizens sent an urgent plea to Stephen, seeking his aid. He’s on his way to York with a large force of his Flemish mercenaries, and he moved with such speed that he’s no more than a day away, two at most.”
Afterward, slogging through the mud back to their tent, Henry was still stunned that their ambitious plans had come to such an abrupt end. The men had raged and cursed and fumed, but none of them, not even the volatile, fearless Chester, objected to David’s morose conclusion-that their campaign was over even before it began. Henry was dismayed that they were letting Stephen chase them off, but he took his cues from his elders and held his peace. These men were all experienced soldiers, men of proven bravery. He would not insult them by questioning their courage. But his disappointment was too sharp to hide, at least from Ranulf.
“I know you are unhappy about this, Harry. We all are. But it would be foolhardy to continue on. We were relying upon surprise to carry the day. Now our foes are not only forewarned, but they’ll outnumber us. Remember what I told you about Stephen-that he may not know how to rule, but he knows full well how to fight.”
Henry nodded glumly. It seemed to him that there were three Stephens, so contradictory were the stories circulating about him. There was Stephen the man, good-hearted and well meaning and generous. There was Stephen the king, inept and easily led astray, with no political sense whatsoever. And there was Stephen the battle commander, tough-minded and fast-acting and dangerous. The men in Henry’s world grudgingly liked the first Stephen and scorned the second, but they all respected the soldier.
“How did Stephen assemble an army so rapidly?” he asked, and Ranulf explained that by calling upon his Flemish mercenaries rather than his vassals, Stephen was able to respond with lethal speed, for he need not send out a summons to his barons and then wait for them to gather their own men. It was costly to keep an armed force always on hand, Ranulf conceded, but they were ready to march at the king’s command. This was an interesting argument, that hired soldiers were a more effective way of fighting than the traditional reliance upon the king’s vassals, and ordinarily Henry would have been intrigued, eager to explore it further. Now, though, he asked no more questions, trudging on in silence.
The rain was still pelting the camp, and so many men and horses had soon churned the soaked grassy ground into a muddy quagmire. Until the storm passed, fires could not be lit, and the soldiers were sheltering themselves as best they could. For supper, they’d had to content themselves with dried beef and bread; for beds, they had soggy blankets. The moors were often chilly after dark, even in high summer, and if the rain kept on, they faced a shivery night in wet, clammy clothes. And all for nothing, Henry thought, for on the morrow, they would turn tail and retreat, never having gotten within sight of York’s walls.
“Uncle Ranulf, I’ve a question for you. I want to know if there is another reason for our retreat. Are you all seeking to protect me?”
“I’ll not lie to you, Harry. That was a consideration,” Ranulf admitted, and Henry came to a sudden stop.
“I knew it!” he accused. “I am not a child, Uncle Ranulf, and I will not abide being treated like one. I did not come to England to be coddled!”
“If your parents wanted to coddle you, lad, they’d have kept you in Normandy. Of course we care for your safety! You are England’s future. Should evil befall you, what hope would we have of overthrowing Stephen? Yes, you have brothers, but you are the one who has been groomed for the throne. You are the one whom men know. So we are not going to let you come to harm if we can help it. Plainly put, a king’s life is worth more than the lives of other men.”
Henry was quiet after that. “I just want to do my fair share,” he said unhappily. “I am not afraid to take risks and I need to show men that, to prove to them that I would be a king worth fighting for.”
“You will, lad. Your very presence here is sending a message, that you do not lack for courage. Show men that you have common sense, too, and they will rally to you as they never did to your mother. But there is one thing you must understand, Harry, for your life might well depend upon it.”
“What is it?” Henry asked, impressed by his uncle’s sudden gravity.
“Stephen did not take you seriously two years ago. But from now on, he will, lad. If you fall into his hands, this time he will not be paying for your return to Normandy.”
They broke camp at dawn the next day. The Scots king and his son made for Carlisle, Chester for Cheshire, and Henry and Ranulf and Roger Fitz Miles for Bristol. Upon his arrival in York, Stephen was welcomed enthusiastically by its reprieved citizens. He was furious, though, to find the enemy gone, and sent men off in pursuit. But he realized they did not have much chance of overtaking their quarry, and a fast-riding courier was soon racing for Oxford with an urgent message for Stephen’s nineteen-year-old son. Eustace was to stop Henry from reaching Bristol.
Ranulf and Henry rode fast to outdistance pursuit, but once they reached Hereford in safety, they eased their pace and their vigilance. From Hereford, they continued on to Roger’s stronghold in Gloucester. They were only two days now from Bristol, and Henry was irked when Roger insisted upon accompanying them south, for he was still sensitive about their overprotectiveness, especially now that he was sure the danger was past. His confidence was confirmed when they rode into Dursley Castle without incident the following afternoon.
Roger de Berkeley was Dursley’s castellan, and he made them welcome, but without much enthusiasm. Ranulf did not take it personally, for he doubted that Roger de Berkeley would show enthusiasm even if he were being seduced by Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was the most melancholy man Ranulf had ever met; even when he smiled, no one could tell.
Anyone so doleful was not good company, and Henry, Roger, and Hugh de Plucknet had soon found reasons to excuse themselves. Ranulf remained, for he felt sorry for Berkeley, who’d been ruined by a war not of his making. He’d not really cared who was king, but he’d had the bad luck to hold a very strategic stronghold, Berkeley Castle, which controlled the Gloucester-Bristol Road. A few years ago, he’d been lured into an ambush by Roger Fitz Miles’s ruthless younger brother Walter, and threatened with hanging if he did not yield Berkeley Castle. Walter had gone so far as to string Berkeley up and cut him down just in time, but Berkeley had refused to turn over the castle, gambling on his kinship to the Fitz Miles family to save his life. In the end, it had. But he’d still lost Berkeley Castle, for he’d had to renounce his allegiance to Stephen to gain his freedom, and Stephen then seized the castle for himself.
Berkeley was miserly with words and left it for Ranulf to keep the conversation going. Ranulf soon ran out of topics to talk about and suggested a chess game until he could politely make his escape. But they’d just set up the board when the castle steward announced that a man was pleading to see Sir Roger straightaway. Berkeley seemed to be a man without normal curiosity, for he was inclining toward a refusal when the steward said, “I recognized him, my lord. It is Malcolm, from the Berkeley garrison.”
The man was thin and balding and obviously agitated. Kneeling before Roger de Berkeley, he stammered, “It…it is me, Sir Roger…Malcolm. I had to warn you, for you were right good to me whilst you held the castle. We got word today from the king’s son. Lord Eustace found out that the empress’s son would be staying the night at Dursley, and he means to see that Lord Henry never reaches Bristol. He’ll be here by dawn, mayhap sooner, and he wants our garrison to lay ambushes on the Bristol Road, just in case Lord Henry gets away from him at Dursley.”
Roger Fitz Miles and Hugh de Plucknet had been drawn by the noise, returning in time to hear the last of Malcolm’s warning. As Roger de Berkeley rewarded Malcolm, Ranulf and the other two men huddled together for a quick conference. They agreed with Ranulf’s conclusion, that Dursley was not likely to withstand a siege, and Roger volunteered to fetch Henry, revealing his concern by the alacrity with which he started for the stairwell. Ranulf sent Hugh off to the stables to order their horses saddled. “I know this part of the country fairly well,” he told Berkeley, “but not well enough. We need a man who knows every lane and byway and trail betwixt here and Bristol, for we’ll have to avoid the main roads. Do you have a man like that, Sir Roger?”
Berkeley assured Ranulf that he did, with much more animation than he usually showed; Ranulf could well imagine his relief at not being caught up in a dangerous siege, one that would have imperiled the only castle he had left. He’d do whatever he could to make sure they were long gone by the time Eustace got here, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him a bit. But it was then that Roger Fitz Miles came hastening back into the hall. “Harry is gone,” he panted. “I cannot find him anywhere!”
When a search of the castle grounds turned up no traces of Henry, the men’s anxiety rapidly gave way to outright alarm. At a loss, they regrouped in the great hall to decide what to do next. And it was then that Ranulf
