villages were springing up all over Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, as terrified families fled to the towns for safety. Salisbury and Gloucester and even Bristol were flooded with refugees, people with nowhere to go and no money to buy food. Charred ruins were becoming commonplace throughout the desolated countryside, an acrid, burning smell was carried for miles on the October wind, and what had once been fertile farmlands were now scorched, blackened earth. Oddly enough, never had the roads been so free of bandits, though, for even the outlaws had fled from Stephen’s marauding army.
Devizes had not been spared, either. Some of the royal army’s worst depredations had taken place in and about Devizes. The town had been raided a fortnight ago and the castle subjected to several hit-and-run attacks. It was a rare day when Henry and Ranulf could not see smoke from the castle battlements, and their own provisions were dwindling dangerously. It reminded Ranulf of the sieges of Winchester and Oxford, only now England itself seemed under siege.
The day was coming to a dismal end when refugees arrived from Calne, a small village five miles to the north. They huddled together in the great hall, the most pitiful wretches Henry had ever seen, their clothes shredded and ripped in their flight through the woods, scratched and bruised and still shaking with fright. But they were the lucky ones, the ones who’d gotten away.
The tale they told was as deplorable as it was-by now-familiar. The Lord Eustace had raided Calne, they reported. His men had killed those few who’d dared to resist, setting fire to their church and then to their fields. They’d watched from hiding as their crops went up in flames, and they wept again as they spoke of it, for there would be no food to feed the village once winter came. Their houses could be rebuilt, but what could they eat? How would they survive until spring?
They asked Henry these questions, calling him “young lord” and pleading for his help. He wasn’t sure if they knew who he was. They might have been told of his presence at Devizes. Or they might be assuming that he must be someone of importance since he was well dressed and well fed and lived in a castle. He was not even sure that his name would mean anything to them. This war had been ravaging England for ten years. Did these people truly care who ruled over them as long as they were left in peace? He did not know what to say to them. He did not know how to help them. He ordered them fed, and he yearned to assure them that the danger was past. But he feared that would have been a lie.
He stood it as long as he could. But his pity and anger finally got the best of him, and he bolted the hall, retreating up to the solar with a flagon of wine and a head full of unanswered questions.
He was not alone for long; Ranulf soon followed. He was relieved to see the flagon was untouched, for he’d known too many men who turned to wine when they needed a crutch, and sixteen was a vulnerable age for learning bad habits. Henry was straddling a chair, resting his chin on his arms as he stared into the fire. He didn’t stir, not even after Ranulf pulled a chair up beside him. Ranulf was content to wait, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the flames crackle in the hearth.
“I do not understand,” Henry said at last, “why they do not just lay siege to Devizes? I am the one they want. Why do they not try to take me?”
“I’ve thought about that, too. First of all, they cannot be sure that you are at Devizes. What if they besiege Devizes and it turns out you were at Bristol or Gloucester or Marlborough all the while? None of those castles could be easily taken. Devizes or Marlborough could hold out for months, and Bristol till Judgment Day. And whilst they were laying siege, they’d be vulnerable to attack themselves. That is what happened to Stephen at Wilton. By striking fast and riding on, he avoids becoming a target. By surprise raids, he spreads fear over the entire countryside, for no one knows where he will attack next. And by burning the crops, he takes the food from our table, too, empties our larder.”
“But the others will starve ere we do,” Henry pointed out. “Castles always have food stored away. The villagers and villeins will go hungry first, and they’ll die first, too. Are they willing to do that, Ranulf? To let so many die for no sin of their own?”
“I would have said no,” Ranulf said, “had I not seen this suffering for myself.”
“And yet you claim Stephen is a good man?” Henry sounded hostile, but Ranulf understood that he was not the real target of the boy’s anger. He even welcomed this rage, as proof that his nephew no longer saw all this as a game. He remembered how it was to be that young, to feel invulnerable. Even their wild ride for Bristol had been as exciting as it was urgent, at least to Henry. But this was different. This was war at its ugliest, and no man could look upon it and be unchanged, not if he was of any worth. And so he was sorry for his nephew’s pain, but glad of it, too, for this was a lesson Henry had to learn.
“That they would resort to such drastic measures tells me that they see you as a very real threat, Harry, so much so that they are willing to wade through blood to eliminate you now, whilst they still can. This savage campaign is an admission that they dare not let you reach full manhood. It also shows us that Eustace is the most dangerous sort of battle commander, the kind who cares not how many die as long as he has the victory.”
Henry looked skeptical. “Why are you so sure this is Eustace’s doing?”
“Because this campaign of theirs is both brilliant and brutal…far too brutal for Stephen to stomach on his own. One of Stephen’s worst flaws is that he invariably listens to the wrong people. God help England if he is now listening to Eustace.”
“If they keep on like this,” Henry said somberly, “they’ll end up ruling over a graveyard. Do they truly think they can starve us into submission?”
Ranulf nodded grimly. “Or else force us into doing battle.”
“Hopelessly outnumbered? Thank you, no, Uncle. I like not those odds. I’d just as soon not starve either,” Henry added, striving-with limited success-for flippancy. “Damn them,” he cried suddenly, fiercely, “damn them for killing and not caring! My mother would never have permitted a slaughter like this, never…”
His hair, short and unruly, gleamed in the firelight like a bright, burnished cap, and his fair skin darkened now with a surge of hot blood. He looked angry and shaken, young and resolute, all at the same time. “What can we do to stop this, Uncle Ranulf?”
“Nothing,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “We can only wait, see what happens. We are going to have to depend upon the Almighty and our allies for our deliverance, lad, for this is one trap we cannot escape on our own.”
“‘Our allies’?” Henry echoed, and the same thought was in both their minds. John Marshal and the Earl of Salisbury and Roger Fitz Miles and Robert’s son Will were all in the same sorry plight. Rainald was still in Cornwall, Baldwin de Redvers was said to be ailing, and Henry’s parents were in Normandy, unaware of their son’s peril. Robert and Miles were dead, Brien living as a monk. That narrowed the field to two. But by the time the Scots king could muster an army and march into England to their rescue, it would be too late. So “allies” came down to one powerful, self-serving, unpredictable man: Randolph de Gernons, Earl of Chester.
After a few moments of heavy silence, Henry laughed softly. At Ranulf’s look of surprise, he said with a wry smile, “I was just thinking…When my mother got herself into a tight corner, she could always rely upon Uncle Robert to rescue her. And who do I get-the Earl of Chester!”
He laughed again, and this time, so did Ranulf. When put that way, what else was there to do but laugh?
44
Chester Castle, England
October 1149
The letter came at noon, and Chester and his brother retired to his bedchamber to read it. Maud was standing by that door now, unable to wait any longer. She knew Chester would not like her intrusion, but she pushed the door open and entered anyway. William de Roumare and Bennet de Malpas and Ivo de Coventry all glanced up in surprise; her husband was nowhere in sight. The letter lay open upon the table, and she moved forward, picked it up and read rapidly. Her brother-in-law frowned; his own wife would not have dared to meddle like that. He left it to Chester to reprimand her, however; he would not have admitted it, even to himself, but he was never fully at ease with Chester’s high-spirited, strong-willed wife.
Maud put the letter down, glancing toward the corner privy chamber and then back at her husband’s men.
