remembered how friendly his nephew had become with his squire. It had not surprised him that Henry should seek out seventeen-year-old Padarn’s company, for he was rarely allowed the privilege of acting his age. Even in childhood, he’d been expected to show a maturity beyond his years, and he rarely disappointed. But Ranulf had come to realize that there must be times when his nephew just wanted to have fun. “Padarn,” he said abruptly. “He may know where Harry has gone.”
“That Welsh squire of yours?” Roger sounded as dubious as Hugh and Berkeley looked, but they were willing to grasp at any straw, and followed nervously after Ranulf as he went off in search of his squire.
They found Padarn in the stables. He was a wiry, lean youngster, very Welsh in appearance; it had taken Ranulf a while not to think of Ancel-and Annora-each time he glanced at Padarn’s raven hair and black eyes. Padarn looked so guilty now that Ranulf knew his suspicions were correct. “Where is Harry?” he demanded, brushing aside the boy’s unconvincing attempts at denial. “Padarn, we have no time for games. Harry’s life could be forfeit if you do not speak up. Eustace is riding for Dursley, and if we do not get away soon, we’ll not get away at all.”
Padarn had a Welshman’s innate suspicion of authority, but in the past year he’d learned to trust Ranulf’s judgment. “Harry slipped out the postern gate at dusk and went into the town.”
What to the Welsh youth was a “town” was to the men barely more than a hamlet, a church and a handful of cottages clustered in the protective shelter of the castle. “That makes no sense,” Roger insisted. “There is not even an alehouse!”
Ranulf was remembering, though, what it was like to be sixteen. “A girl?”
Padarn nodded. “We saw her by the church as we rode in. She had hair the color of moonlight, and she gave Harry a ‘come back’ smile. You ought not to blame him, my lords,” he added bravely. “Had he known about Eustace, he would not have gone.” The Welsh were notorious for “not knowing their place,” and at another time, Padarn was likely to have earned himself a reprimand for that familiar use of “Harry.” But now the men had no time for breaches of protocol; they were hurrying to catch up with Ranulf as he headed back out into the bailey.
Once there, Ranulf snatched a lantern from a passing servant. “Let me try to find him first,” he said. “Eustace could have men watching the village for all we know. If a crowd goes chasing out into the street, raising the hue and cry, that will be a sure sign that something is amiss.” They agreed reluctantly, and Roger promised to have them mounted and ready to ride as soon as Ranulf and Henry returned. No one mentioned their secret, shared fear: that if Eustace did have spies about, Henry might well have been found already-by the wrong men.
The village was half hidden in the haze of a deepening turquoise twilight, but its inhabitants were still up and about, both apprehensive and excited by Henry’s presence in their midst. Dogs were barking; somewhere a child was wailing. Aware of eyes following him as he moved down the dusty street, Ranulf was trying to think like a sixteen-year-old again. What would a youth most want after finding himself a lass with a “come back” smile? Privacy, of course. There was a small pond beyond the church, screened by yew trees and white willows. What better place for a tryst? Weaving his way between the moss-covered tombstones behind the church, he heard soft, smothered laughter as he approached the pond, merriment so quickly cut off that he knew they’d either heard him or spotted his lantern’s glow. “Harry?” he said quietly into the silence. “You’d best come out, for I am not going away.”
There was a rustling sound, the willow’s cascading silvery camouflage parted, and his nephew emerged from the shadows. The girl stayed where she was; Ranulf caught only a fleeting glimpse of disheveled bright hair as Henry stepped forward into the light cast by Ranulf’s lantern. “How did you know where to look for me?” He sounded both defiant and defensive. “I was not lost, Uncle Ranulf, am quite capable of finding my way back to the castle by myself.”
Ranulf’s relief found expression in anger. “You’re lucky I did find you,” he snapped, “instead of an irate father or a jealous husband!”
“You’re my uncle, not my confessor,” Henry snapped back, “though you are suddenly acting more like a gaoler than a kinsman…and I like it not. I do not need a wet nurse!”
“No,” Ranulf agreed, “but you do need a bodyguard, lad. You’re going to have to learn to live with that, Harry. Kings cannot wander off as they please. That is the price they pay for the power they wield. There is always a price. I just thank God and His Saints that you did not pay it tonight in blood.”
Henry was still frowning, but he was more uneasy now than angry, for Ranulf was not given to hyperbole. “Is something wrong?” he asked warily, sensing that this was the question he should have asked first.
“Well, Eustace is about to attack Dursley, the Berkeley garrison is busy laying ambushes for us in the unlikely event we escape, whilst we pass the time playing hide-and-seek with you instead of riding for our lives.”
Even in the flickering lantern light, Ranulf could see the color crimsoning across his nephew’s cheekbones. “I am sorry,” Henry said. “I did not know. It is not too late, is it?”
Henry’s heartfelt apology only made Ranulf regret his sarcasm all the more. “No, lad, we still have time,” he assured the boy quickly. “My nerves are on the raw, that’s all. We feared, you see, that Eustace might have an assassin or two on the prowl.”
Henry’s eyes widened, for this had never occurred to him. “Stephen would not do that,” he said, his tone nowhere near as certain as his words.
“Eustace would,” Ranulf said flatly. “Never doubt that, Harry, not if you want to live to make old bones. Now…I suggest you bid your lass farewell, for we have a long, hard ride ahead of us.”
The girl had ventured out from beneath the sheltering willow. Padarn had been right; her hair did have a silvery sheen. She would have been very pretty, indeed, if not for her pout. Arms akimbo, little chin jutting out, she was clearly losing patience fast. But then Henry came swiftly back to her side, took her in his arms, and kissed her with a boy’s exuberance and a man’s passion. When he finally released her, she looked dazed. Kissing her hand gallantly, he said, “Someday, sweetheart, you’ll be able to tell your children that you once kissed a king!”
“Eustace and God Willing,” Ranulf said dryly, amused in spite of himself, and Henry grinned.
“I hope you are not suggesting that the Almighty and Eustace are allies? I’d not presume to answer for Our Lord God, but I’m willing to wager that I can hold my own against Eustace.”
His cockiness was contagious and Ranulf grinned, too. “I do believe, lad, that you will. Now…are you ready for the ride of your life?”
Henry nodded. “I say we race the Devil and Eustace to Bristol, winner take all!”
Eustace and his men arrived in Dursley before daybreak, but they were too late. Enraged that his prey had eluded him, Eustace set out in hell-bent pursuit. But Henry evaded the ambushes, outran Eustace, and managed to reach Bristol safely. Eustace chased him almost to the gates of Bristol. He did not have enough men, though, to besiege the city and reluctantly withdrew, laying waste to the countryside as he retreated back to Oxford.
Stephen had been forced to remain in Yorkshire that summer, for as long as the Scots king was at Carlisle, York was not safe. He put up several countercastles and did all he could to encourage his supporters and dishearten his foes, but it was not until September that he was able to return to London. He soon joined his son at Oxford, and Eustace set about convincing him that Henry had presented them with an opportunity that might not come again. Was it not better, he argued, to put an end to this accursed war once and for all? So persistent and persuasive was he that Stephen overcame his misgivings and reluctantly agreed to wage war with such ferocity that their enemies would be compelled to surrender-or starve.
Even the pro-Stephen chronicle, Gesta Stephani, was shocked by the campaign conducted that autumn by the English king and his son: “They took and plundered everything they came upon, set fire to houses and churches, and, what was a more cruel and brutal sight, fired the crops that had been reaped and stacked all over the fields, consumed and brought to nothing everything edible they found. They raged with this bestial cruelty especially round Marlborough, they showed it also very terribly round Devizes, and they had in mind to do the same to their adversaries all over England.”
The day had begun with trouble and it got steadily worse. In midmorning a messenger from John Marshal had reached Devizes with disturbing news. Marshal reported that he was being hard pressed by the king and Eustace. They had launched several lightning raids upon the town and castle, doing considerable damage before they were driven off. They’d laid waste to the nearby farms and manors, and when Marshal had attempted to bring in a supply convoy, they’d ambushed it and burned what they did not take away with them. John Marshal was the least likely man to panic, as Ranulf well knew. For him to admit that he did not know how he was going to feed his people through the winter, he had to be in dire straits, indeed.
Ranulf and Henry had gotten similar complaints from Marshal’s brother-in-law Patrick Fitz Walter, Earl of Salisbury, and from the castellan of Trowbridge. Even Roger Fitz Miles had been harassed at Gloucester. Ghost
