Earls of Derby and Chester? Is that cause for suspicion? I wish I knew, but it would take a soothsayer to sort it all out. What I can say for a certainty is that these men have no stomach for this particular battle…whatever their reasons. If you force them into it, they’ll follow you. But I do not trust them to hold fast if the battle turns against you.”
Stephen sucked in his breath. “Lincoln,” he said hoarsely, and for an unsettling moment, it was almost as if he were reliving that nadir of his kingship, abandoned on the field by the men he had most reason to trust.
Ypres nodded. “Just so, my liege. I think they’d bolt at the first hint of trouble.”
A sudden blast of wind blew back Stephen’s hood, and he grasped at it with frozen fingers. “But what would you have me do, Will? How can I retreat without doing battle? How can I lose face like that?”
“Would you rather lose your crown?” Ypres asked bluntly. “You cannot risk it. How many Lincolns can you hope to survive, Stephen?”
It was the first time that he’d ever called Stephen by his given name. Stephen looked at him, realizing with relief just how much he trusted this aging, unscrupulous mercenary. Before he could respond, though, another voice cut into their conversation, as sharply as any sword thrust.
“I cannot believe it!” The wind had covered the sound of Eustace’s approach. His hood had fallen back and the rain had plastered his hair to his skull, running in rivulets down his face. His skin was reddened and chapped by the cold, but he seemed oblivious to the storm, staring first at his father and then, accusingly, at Ypres. “That you would betray us like this! When I was a lad, I…I thought you were a godsend, my father’s champion-” His voice choked. “More fool I, for forgetting what you really were-a man selling his soul to the highest bidder! How much is Henry paying you this time?”
“Eustace, you are wrong!” But Stephen’s protest went unheeded; his son had already spun on his heel. “Will…Will, I am sorry. I’ll make him understand…” Even in his agitation, Stephen did not forget Ypres’s need, and he hastily led the other man the few remaining steps toward his tent before plunging after his son.
Ypres caught hold of the tent moorings and stood motionless for several moments, shivering, in the freezing rain. He could do nothing for Matilda’s son. His kingship was already lost. The best they could hope for now was to try to save Stephen’s tottering throne. The Fleming was sure Matilda would have understood. He was just as sure Stephen did not, at least not yet. But Eustace did. The fear in his voice told Ypres that he understood all too well.
A wan February sun flitted between clouds, providing little warmth, but still a welcome sight to the winter- weary residents of Wiltshire. Ranulf and his Welshmen were pleased to see it, too, for as inured as the Welsh were to wet weather, their journey from Wales had tested even their proverbial hardihood. But they were young, eager for excitement and plunder, and their spirits rose as soon as the road started to dry out. Ranulf’s mood was less festive; if ever he’d viewed war as an adventure, those days were long gone. As they rode south, he was preoccupied and tense, spurred on by concern for his wife and child back in Wales and increasingly anxious for his nephew, as his hopes faltered that he’d reach Malmesbury in time.
Ranulf approached Malmesbury, therefore, with some degree of trepidation, not knowing what they’d find, sure only that he’d never forgive himself if evil had befallen Henry in his absence. As they’d ploughed their way along the waterlogged roads of Wales and western England, he’d done his best to reassure himself that Henry would be a match for Stephen. Stories of Henry’s spectacular summer campaign against the French king had penetrated even into the mountain fastness of Eryri, and he’d eventually gotten glowing reports from Maude, Rainald, and his niece in Chester, as well as a firsthand account from Henry himself. But as proud as he was of his nephew’s growing fame, he could not banish a nagging unease, for he knew what a capable commander Stephen was.
Much to Ranulf’s amazement, by the time he reached Malmesbury, it was all over. Stephen and Henry had agreed to a truce, and Stephen had then pulled back his army without ever taking the field. North of the Avon, Stephen’s camp was deserted, nothing remaining but the charred ashes of quenched fires and mounds of rubbish strewn about. Within Malmesbury itself, the mood was mixed: for Henry’s soldiers, jubilation, and for most of the citizens, relief, at least for those not mourning loved ones slain in the capture of the town.
The truce was all that people were talking about, and Ranulf had no trouble learning the terms-terms as favorable to Henry as they were detrimental to Stephen. It had been agreed that Stephen would retreat, a battle would be avoided, and Henry would halt his siege of Malmesbury Castle. Stephen’s castellan would then raze the castle to the ground, thus denying the stronghold to both sides. And Stephen, in turn, had agreed to end the continuing siege of Wallingford, nor to assault it again for six months.
Ranulf was astounded by what his nephew had accomplished-a reprieve for Wallingford and a humiliating setback for Stephen-all without a battle’s being fought. Once he finally located Henry, walking in the cloisters with the abbot of Malmesbury’s great Benedictine abbey of St Mary and St Aldhelm, he wasted no time congratulating his nephew upon his brilliant and bloodless victory. He knew at once that he’d trod amiss, for the stately abbot stiffened, then excused himself so abruptly that Ranulf realized he’d somehow offended.
Ranulf was not left alone with Henry for long. As Abbot Peter stalked away, Rainald came barreling up the walkway toward them. But Ranulf had not forgotten the abbot’s odd reaction, and once boisterous greetings had been exchanged with his brother, he asked Henry why the abbot had seemed so irate.
“Because my victory was not bloodless for the townspeople or the monks. Malmesbury has long been a royal stronghold for Stephen, and when we attacked, some of the citizens joined the castle garrison in the town’s defense. We were able, though, to get over the walls with scaling ladders. Most of the garrison managed to reach safety within the castle, but some of them fled into the abbey. Our men followed, and blood was spilled in the church itself.”
Ranulf crossed himself. “No wonder the abbot was wroth.”
“It was even worse than you think, Uncle. Not only were some of the men seeking refuge in the church slain, but so were a few monks who’d tried to intervene.” Henry shook his head, in remembered anger. “Breton mercenaries…all they know is killing.”
“Ah, but you’d have been so proud of our nephew, Ranulf,” Rainald interjected. “Harry acted at once to reassure the monks and townspeople, whilst also showing our men what would happen to those who dared shed blood in God’s House.”
“What did you do, Harry?” Ranulf was relieved that Henry had taken action, and curious to know what he’d done, for one of the most vexing challenges facing a battle commander was how to keep his army under control. Some did not try very hard; Geoffrey had been one of those. Others deliberately encouraged their soldiers to commit cruelties, as one more weapon of war, the way the Earl of Chester had turned his men loose on Lincoln. Even commanders like Robert Fitz Roy, who did attempt to rein in their troops, were not always successful.
“I got rid of them,” Henry said. “I do not expect soldiers to act like holy monks, but I’d warned them that I’d not abide sacrilege or wanton killing. If the Bretons are not yet out of England, they soon will be. I sent them under guard to Bristol, to be put on the first available ship back to Normandy. The only thing worse than keeping them bloody-handed in my hire would have been for them to turn up next in Eustace’s service!”
As they talked, they’d been walking briskly back toward the abbey guest hall. Ranulf explained that he’d been delayed first by family illness-the night before he was to depart, his young son had been stricken with a high fever- and then by the sorry state of the roads. Henry and Rainald gave him a more detailed account of their assault, and revealed their immediate plans: to remain at Malmesbury just long enough to make sure that Stephen’s castellan would follow through with the order to destroy the castle, and then head for Bristol. For with Wallingford no longer in immediate danger, they could take their time in deciding where they should strike next.
Henry paused just as they reached the hall. “It could not have been easy for you, Uncle Ranulf, riding away from your wife and son, not knowing how long you’d be gone. I’ll not forget that, you may be sure.”
“Introduce me to Eleanor and we’ll call it even,” Ranulf said, and Henry pushed him, laughing, into the hall. Within, it was full of familiar faces, and Ranulf spent the next quarter hour greeting friends and kinfolk. He was heartened to see how many of England’s barons had responded to Henry’s summons, and as he glanced about the noisy, crowded hall, it seemed to him that he could almost see the benevolent ghosts of his brother Robert, Miles, and Brien, watching in satisfaction from the shadows.
Laughing at his own sentimentality, he elbowed his way back to his nephew’s side. “Why do you think Stephen balked at doing battle with you, Harry? The talk I heard in the town was that he was thwarted by the winter storm and flooding, but there has to be more to it than that.”
“You’d be loath to fight, too,” Rainald said smugly, “if you had to keep looking over your shoulder.”
