That was a truth, though, that Stephen could not accept. He immediately launched into an impassioned defense of his son, with such vehemence that they suspected he was attempting to quell his own inner doubts about Eustace’s fitness to rule.
But neither the bishop nor the Fleming would relent, not with so much at stake. They took turns pointing out to Stephen just how precarious his position was. Henry enjoyed the support of the Church; the Archbishop of Canterbury was even now in his siege encampment. Unlike Stephen, he had the wholehearted support of his barons and vassals, including the Earls of Chester, Leicester, Gloucester, Hereford, Salisbury, and Cornwall. And more and more, public opinion was shifting in his favor. People had heard about the Epiphany Day prophecy. Men claimed that at Malmesbury, even the wind had been Henry’s ally. Was it surprising, then, that soldiers would react with superstitious dread when Stephen was unhorsed three times before doing battle with his rival? Need they remind him that men who expected to be defeated usually were? Need they remind him of Lincoln?
When they’d exhausted all their other arguments, Ypres and the bishop were forced to make the most painful one of all. Men did not yet know Henry Fitz Empress all that well, but what they’d so far seen of him, they liked. They did know Eustace, and liked him not. Throughout England, he’d earned himself a reputation for courage, but also for cruelty and arrogance and vengefulness. Men might have accepted him as king had they been given no choice. But they would not fight to make him king.
Eventually, Stephen stopped arguing with them. No matter what they said, though, he kept repeating stubbornly, “I will not betray my son.” And nothing seemed likely to break the impasse, for Stephen’s paternal instincts were stronger than those for self-preservation.
Surprisingly, it was the Earl of Arundel who found a solution. He and the Earl of Northampton had entered the tent in answer to the bishop’s summons; he’d hoped that Stephen would be swayed by the realization that even the steadfast Northampton would rather negotiate than fight. But Northampton’s gruff plea had fallen on deaf ears. It was Arundel who saw what these men more clever than he had not, that Stephen would grasp at any alternative which avoided an outright repudiation of his son.
“We are not asking you to make peace with Henry Fitz Empress, my liege. We seek only a truce, no more than that. So many lives have already been lost. Would it not be better to talk rather than bleed-just this once? If the talks come to naught, what have we lost?”
It was a disingenuous argument, for to seek a truce would be a damaging admission of weakness on Stephen’s part. But it offered Stephen what he so desperately needed-a reprieve, however brief, time in which to try to find a way to save his son’s kingship.
“So be it,” he said dully. “But what makes you think Henry will agree to a truce?”
His brother was not about to give Stephen a chance to change his mind. “Let’s find out.”
Although some moments had passed since Henry had stalked out in a fury, the impact of his anger still smoldered. It was the first time that most of the men had seen Henry’s temper at full blaze, and they’d found it to be a sobering sight. Only the Earl of Chester was impervious to the heat, for he’d been on the safe side of the fire; like Henry, he’d wanted to scorn the offer of a truce and seek a battlefield resolution. But the others had all counseled caution, urging Henry to agree to the truce and enter into negotiations, arguing that there’d been enough killing. Unable to make any inroads or win any converts, Henry finally lost patience and departed, leaving behind dismay and disquiet.
When Henry’s cousin Will suggested tentatively that one of them must follow after Henry and make him see reason, there were murmurings of agreement, but no volunteers. “I will talk to him,” the Archbishop of Canterbury said resolutely, feeling it was only fair, for no one had pressed Henry harder to make peace than he.
“Nay, my lord archbishop, let my brother go.” Rainald nudged Ranulf with his elbow, then winked. “We can spare him easier than you!”
Ranulf jabbed back, but he did not object to being offered up as a sacrificial lamb, for he knew his nephew better than that. “I’ll go,” he agreed, “but not yet. It’ll be better if he comes around on his own to our way of thinking.”
The archbishop looked suddenly hopeful. “Are you so sure that he will?”
“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I am. You see, our future king has a hot temper but a cool head!”
When he did seek Henry out later, he found his confidence had not been misplaced. Henry was inspecting a partially constructed belfry tower, intended to be used in the assault upon Crowmarsh’s outer walls; work upon it had been suspended at the approach of Stephen’s army. From the way Henry was bantering with the soldiers, it was clear to Ranulf that the crisis was past. “Do I need a white flag?”
Henry shook his head. “Did you all draw lots to see which one got to soothe my ruffled feathers?”
“I insisted upon the honour. You know I’ve always been a glutton for punishment,” Ranulf said, and fell in step beside his nephew, following Henry away from the belfry, out of earshot of the soldiers.
“Can you understand, Uncle Ranulf, why I wanted to fight?”
“Of course I can. If you defeat Stephen on the field of battle, the crown is yours for the taking-here and now. No concessions, no compromises, no waiting. But a lot more blood.”
“You’re supposed to twist my arm,” Henry objected, “not break it. I know we must accept their offer of a truce. I am not convinced that I can bargain for the crown instead of fighting for it, but at least we have to try.”
“I was sure that you’d agree,” Ranulf admitted, “but I am right glad to hear you say so, lad!”
“With the Church and common sense on your side, what else could I do?” Henry smiled tightly, without much humor. “Uncle…you know Stephen as well as any man alive. Do you truly think he will agree to disinherit his son?”
“Not willingly, no. But he cannot fight you and his brother and barons, too. It may take a while, but I think he’ll eventually be forced to it.”
“I would never agree,” Henry said, thinking of his unborn child. In less than a fortnight, Eleanor’s lying-in would begin. But not only could he not be with her, he’d have to wait weeks to find out if she’d borne him a son, if she and the babe were well. More women died in childbed than men did on the battlefield. Eleanor was strong and healthy, but so was his mother, and she’d almost died giving birth to Geoff. Frustrated and thwarted, compelled to do what he most hated in all the word-wait-he swore suddenly, with feeling.
“I tell you this, Uncle, that I’d pawn my soul to the Devil for a chance to shed blood on the morrow, provided that it was Eustace’s. Nor would I be loath to see some of Stephen’s spilled, too. But it seems it is not to be…not yet.”
Ranulf sympathized, for he knew that his sister and nephew saw this bloody and ruinous civil war in stark and simple terms-as evil that had sprouted from one poisonous seed, the usurpation of their crown. To others, it might matter that Stephen had been consecrated as England’s king, anointed with the sacred chrism that forever set a king apart from other men. That alone was enough to make some reluctant to see him deposed. But to Henry, it counted for nothing, as a fraud born of a theft. The urge to avenge his mother’s wrongs raced in tandem with his own mettlesome ambitions, and it could not be easy to rein in either of them. Ranulf felt enormously proud of his nephew now, that he was willing to try.
“No more talk about pawning souls, though,” he joked, “not in the archbishop’s hearing, anyway. You do not want to remind him that the Devil’s daughter roosts in a branch of your family tree, do you?” That got a grin from Henry, and Ranulf reached out, clouting the man fondly on the shoulder. “You are twenty and Stephen fifty-seven. Time is your ally, Harry, not his. And as unhappy as you are with this truce, just think how Eustace must feel!”
“ Eustace, wait! Stay and hear me out. It is true that I agreed to ask for a truce, but only because they gave me no choice. I have no intention, though, of bargaining with Maude’s son, that I swear to you, lad, upon your sweet mother’s soul!”
“Do not besmirch Mama’s memory with your lies!” Eustace was drunk on despair; the very ground seemed to be shifting under his feet and all he had to hold on to was his rage. “You betrayed me, admit it! I know you mean to make a deal with that Angevin hellspawn! But what sort of man would disown his own son?”
“Will you listen to me? I agreed to a truce, nothing more! I would never betray you. Our men have lost heart for further fighting, but we can remedy that. Together, we can find a way, Eustace, to restore their faith in you. But you must trust me, for I cannot do it alone-”
“Trust you? What a sour joke that is! You’d give your last coin to a beggar by the roadside, even if it meant your own would starve! By the time Maude’s accursed son is done with you, you’ll be plucked clean and thanking him for leaving you a chamber pot to piss in, old man! But you’ll not barter away my birthright, by all that’s holy, you
