Dinner was normally served in the morning, but it had been delayed by Eustace’s arrival, and the trestle tables were not set up in Stephen’s tent until noon. The meal was surprisingly good for camp fare-a savory capon stew-and conversation flagged as men concentrated upon their trenchers.
The faces were all familiar to Eustace. In addition to Northampton and Mohun, their dinner guests included Stephen’s loyal seneschal, William Martel, and a handful of highborn lords. William d’Aubigny, Earl of Arundel, had begun to play a more active role on Stephen’s behalf since losing Adeliza to a Flemish convent and an untimely death. Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, was Stephen’s chamberlain, but like so many in this war, his past was chequered, for at one time, he’d been allied with Maude. The same was true of Roger Beaumont, Earl of Warwick, a cousin of the Beaumont twins and a former partisan of the empress. Eustace was glad they were eating with such gusto, for it put off their inevitable and intrusive questions about the Normandy debacle.
Stephen alone had no appetite for the stew; it was growing cold on his trencher as he toyed with a piece of bread. Eustace had not seen him since the spring, and he was taken aback by how much Stephen seemed to have aged. He did think Stephen was old; to twenty-two, fifty-six was tottering on the edge of an open grave. But his father had never looked his age before. Eustace studied Stephen as he ate, not liking what he saw. Mama’s death was a wound that ought to be healing by now. It had been five months, after all. He missed her, too. But Papa could not afford to give in to his grieving. There was too much at stake for that.
The meal was almost over when the talk turned to the topic Eustace had wanted to avoid, yet knowing all the while that it would come up, that it must be dealt with, for Henry Fitz Empress’s triumph would affect them all. It was the affable, tactless William d’Aubigny who breached the tacit conspiracy of silence. Sopping up gravy with a thick chunk of bread, he looked inquiringly down the table at Eustace. “Now that you’re here, lad, you can tell us what truly happened in Normandy this summer. What with the rumors and gossip, who knew what to believe? Did the French king really get chased all the way back to Paris with his tail between his legs?”
Stephen glanced up swiftly, frowning. His sympathy stung Eustace as much as Aubigny’s clumsy curiosity, and he said roughly, before Stephen could intercede on his behalf, “If you heard that the French king’s milksop allies fled like rabbits, that is true enough, and may God forgive them, for I never shall. As for my brother by marriage, Louis hardly covered himself in glory, either. He, of all men, had reason to avenge himself upon Maude’s whelp, but he had no stomach for fighting, for-”
Stephen leaned over. “Eustace…”
Eustace shook off his father’s hand. He knew he was being dangerously indiscreet, but he no longer cared. “You wanted the truth, did you not? Well, I am giving it to you. Henry Fitz Empress did not win the war; Louis lost it. Twice he balked at doing battle with Henry-twice! No wonder he was not man enough for that wanton wife of his, for I’ve seen snakes with more backbone.”
There were some involuntary laughs at that, quickly smothered. Eustace ignored them, unable to stop himself now even if he’d wanted to; his rage had been too long pent up. “Once it became clear that this would be no quick and easy war of conquest, Louis’s resolve began to waver like a broken water reed. Instead of confronting Henry at Pacy, he showed his heels. I’d stayed behind to garrison Neufmarche, and by the time I got to Louis, it was too late; all the fight had gone out of him.”
Pausing to gulp down the last of his wine, Eustace shook his head in angry bafflement. “Louis sees ill omens if he so much as stubs his toe. The botched attack on Pacy was bad enough, but then his cousin died suddenly and after that, he was well-nigh useless, convinced that all these setbacks must be proof of God’s disfavor. His brother and my craven cousins had already flown the coop for Dreux, Blois, and Champagne, and so this wretched war ended with the King of France stricken with a convenient fever, skulking back to Paris in shame.”
Stephen agreed with his son’s scornful assessment of the French king’s inept campaign, but he wished Eustace had waited until they were alone to express it, for he knew every embittered word would eventually get back to Louis; the men in this tent could never resist repeating such choice gossip. “When you spoke of Louis’s mourning his cousin, I assume you mean the Count of Vermandois? We heard that he’d died during the campaign.”
Eustace nodded. “The one besotted with Eleanor’s sister. Louis was right fond of the man, God knows why. In truth, I think he was just looking for an excuse to end the war, and I suppose Raoul’s death was as good a reason as any. Better than that sudden fever, for certes!” He laughed harshly. “So…now you know what ‘truly happened in Normandy this summer,’ my lord of Arundel. It was great fun; a pity you missed it.”
No one knew what to say. Stephen yearned to console his son, but he realized that any comfort he’d offer would ring false to Eustace. Even if Almighty God were to send an archangel into their midst to absolve Eustace of any blame, it would change nothing. All over England, men would still be talking of Henry Fitz Empress, bedazzled by the apparent ease of his victory over the King of France. When he returned to England, this time he would come as a man of proven prowess on the battlefield, a man dangerous to defy. Already a far greater threat than ever his mother had posed. And who knew that better than Eustace?
A servant was moving around the table, refilling their wine cups. Stephen took a swallow; it tasted bitter. “I was surprised,” he said, “when Henry did not start gathering another fleet at Barfleur. Do you know why, Eustace?”
The younger man shrugged. “I heard that he was loath to leave his bride. Judging by his haste in getting back to her bed, all those lurid stories told about her must be true. But no woman can compete with a crown, not for long. Once he gets his fill, he’ll start casting his eyes toward England again. That I do not doubt.”
Neither did Stephen. “Did you hear any talk about how long he means to stay in Aquitaine? Now that winter is nigh, mayhap he’ll tarry there till the spring?”
“I expect he will, although I heard nothing about his plans ere I sailed for England. The only gossip coming out of Aquitaine concerned the incident at Limoges.”
Glancing about the table, Eustace saw no comprehension on the watching faces, only puzzlement and curiosity. “I see you have not heard yet about that. After Henry hurried back to Eleanor, they set off on a progress through her domains. Almost at once, they ran into trouble-at Limoges, where the citizens balked at offering them hospitality. When Henry demanded an explanation, the abbot of St Martial’s pointed out that he and Eleanor were camped on the edge of town and claimed that the Limousins had a duty to provide food for their liege lord only when he actually lodged within the city walls.”
“This is preposterous!” the Earl of Northampton exclaimed, and the others chimed in, too, equally indignant, for in that moment every man there felt a fleeting sense of solidarity with Henry, briefly seeing him not as an enemy but as one of their own, a highborn lord denied his just due by those who owed him deference and respect. Even Eustace’s voice had a grudging note of approval as he described now the retaliation taken by his hated nemesis upon the recalcitrant citizens of Limoges.
“That reasoning did not satisfy Henry, either. The accounts I heard say that he treated the Limousins to a display of Angevin rage that they’ll not soon forget. He then ordered the city’s walls razed, so there’d be no such disputes on future visits.”
This time the murmurs were both appreciative and amused. Stephen alone was dubious. “Surely it was not necessary to take such a drastic measure as that,” he protested, “when a warning would have sufficed.” Reaching for his wine cup, he was bringing it up to his mouth when he realized they were all staring at him in astonishment. “What is it?” he said defensively, for this was not an uncommon occurrence. He’d make an observation that seemed eminently reasonable, only to have his barons react as though he’d suddenly begun to speak a tongue utterly incomprehensible to them.
“Christ Jesus, Papa, that was an unforgivable insult!”
“Lord Eustace is right, my liege. Such a deliberate provocation must never go unpunished, for men would see that as weakness, as-”
“I know that,” Stephen interrupted impatiently. “But in destroying the city walls, that punishment fell upon the innocent as well as the guilty, upon those citizens of Limoges who’d had no say in it, who likely did not even know why Henry was so wroth with them.”
Stephen stopped then, for it was obvious he was wasting his time and his breath. They did not understand his point of view any more than he understood theirs. A familiar and frustrating sense of isolation swept over him. Did all kings feel so solitary, so alone? What did youths like his son and Maude’s son know about the loneliness of kingship? What did they know about the conflicting claims of justice and mercy? Only one person had ever understood how hard the choices could be. Only Tilda, may God assoil her sweet soul. Only Tilda.
