Matilda in the least, but she was a woman of infinite patience, and she said indulgently:
“Passing strange, for I was sure I’d told you all about your father’s capture of Hereford Castle. It had been seized by a wicked man named Talbot, an accomplice of Maude’s, but Stephen hastened west with an army and took the castle after a four-week siege. As his last letter said he was about to return to London, we may expect him any day now. So…the sooner you go off to bed, the sooner the morrow will arrive-and possibly your papa, too.”
It was not that easy, of course. Eustace made use of all the weapons in his arsenal: pleading, whining, sulking, even tears. Stephen would have capitulated early on, but Matilda was made of sterner stuff than her soft- spoken demeanor would indicate, and she prevailed.
Stephen arrived much sooner than Matilda expected, that very night, as she was making ready for bed. She hastily dismissed her ladies, for she shied away from public displays of affection, waiting until the door closed to welcome her husband home. His mantle was dripping, and underneath, his tunic was wet, too. She was not surprised, for he was as indifferent to weather as he was to late hours, often riding by torchlight or in a drenching downpour; he was, she knew, one of the few battle commanders willing to undertake a winter campaign. What did surprise her, though, was his subdued, offhand greeting. By now he’d shed his mantle, and she helped him struggle free of his soggy woolen tunic. His shirt seemed dry, and she steered him toward the hearth, then poured a cupful of hippocras before beginning her gentle interrogation.
“You seem oddly glum for a man who’s captured a castle and put his enemies to flight. What is amiss, Stephen?”
“You know me too well, sweet. Lord save me if ever I have a serious secret to keep from you!”
She was not taken in, either by his ready smile or by his rueful jest, and waited. He drank, paused to pull off his boots, and drank again. “My victory lasted about as long as one of our Eustace’s promises not to hit his brother. The garrison surrendered when the town caught fire; I suppose they feared it would spread to the castle. I let them go free, for they were but following Geoffrey Talbot’s orders.”
He shot her a challenging look, was reassured by her obvious approval. “I’d not have been so merciful to that hellspawn Talbot. He was not willing to take his chances with his men, though, and fled as the siege began. But as soon as I rode away from Hereford, he skulked back and torched the houses on the south side of the river.”
“The coward!” she said indignantly. “But you must not brood about such a craven sinner, Stephen. He’ll answer for his treachery, if not before your throne at Westminster, before the Throne of the Almighty come Judgment Day.”
“Talbot is the least of my problems, Tilda. I’ve got the Scots king ravaging the North, and Geoffrey of Anjou leading an army into Normandy again…and on the road to London, I encountered a herald from the Earl of Gloucester. Robert Fitz Roy had renounced his homage, claiming that I’d broken faith by sanctioning William de Ypres’s treachery and that I was no true king, having usurped the throne from the rightful heiress, his sister.”
“Oh, no…” Matilda stared at him in such pained dismay that he reached out swiftly, drew her into his arms. She clung tightly, fearfully, for what she’d most dreaded had come to pass. Behind her closed eyelids, an image formed: Robert of Gloucester, so controlled, so competent, and so dangerous. She’d never doubted that if there was one man in Christendom capable of wresting the crown from Stephen, it was Robert. Why had Stephen not done more to keep Robert content? Too late, though, for recriminations, too late. “So…it is to be war?”
“Yes,” he said, “and I shall need your help, Tilda.”
“Just tell me what you would have me do.”
“Besiege Dover Castle.”
“Me?” she gasped. “You are jesting, of course?”
“No, sweetheart, I am quite serious. I’d intended to march north and force the Scots king to take the field against me. But Robert’s treachery poses a greater threat. I’ve good men in Yorkshire, men whom I can trust to repel the Scots whilst I strike at the heart of Robert’s domains-Bristol Castle. It will not be easy to capture, God knows, but it is much too dangerous to remain a rebel stronghold, not when it can menace the whole of the West Country. Yet I dare not overlook Dover Castle, either. Dover would be Robert’s natural choice for a landing. If I can deny Maude a safe port, mayhap I can strand them in Normandy, and then-”
“Stephen, I understand that, I do. But I cannot-”
“Matilda, you can and you must. You are the Countess of Boulogne in your own right, can summon vassals not only from Boulogne but the Honour of Kent, too. Your fleet can blockade Dover’s harbor, starve the castle into submission if need be, and patrol the Channel, making it too risky for Maude and Robert to attempt an invasion. You have the power, lass, and now I need you to use it on my behalf.”
Matilda shook her head mutely, daunted by the magnitude of what he was asking, and he stepped back, looking down intently into her face.
“You are their liege lady; you have the right.” Adding coaxingly, “It is not as if you’d be making command decisions, sweet. You’d have battle captains to direct the siege. No one would expect you to pitch a tent under the castle walls or to launch the mangonels with your own hand!”
But she would be expected to give commands, to deal with unruly vassals, to enter into a man’s world and make all believe she belonged there. “Stephen, I do not think I can do this. It is not a woman’s place…”
“Tell that to Maude!” His smile was wry, but his hands had tightened upon her shoulders. “You must agree, my love. You must do this for me. You are the only one who can.”
Stephen quickly realized that his siege of Bristol Castle was going to take months, and with no certainty of success. Robert’s chief castle was virtually impregnable, ensconced behind two fast-flowing rivers, the Avon and the Frome, encircled by a deep ditch, protected not only by its own bailey walls but by those of the town, too. Patience had never been one of Stephen’s virtues, and he soon grew restless, then discouraged, and was not long in deciding that Bristol’s downfall could wait. Abandoning the siege, he went looking for easier targets and found them at Castle Cary and Harptree, held by Robert’s vassals. But as July ebbed away in a haze of heat, trouble flared in the border town of Shrewsbury.
Shrewsbury’s castle had been given by the old king to his young queen Adeliza twelve years earlier. As castellan, she’d appointed the sheriff of Shropshire, William Fitz Alan-a man of influence in the Marches-Lord of Blancminster. But he was also a man with marital ties to the enemy camp: his wife, Christina, was niece to Robert and Amabel Fitz Roy. As soon as Robert renounced his allegiance to Stephen, Fitz Alan did, too, declaring that he held Shrewsbury Castle for his liege lady and rightful queen, the Empress Maude. By the first week of August, he found himself disputing that point with his king.
Shrewsbury had been blessed with natural defenses; the town lay within a horseshoe curve of the River Severn. Surrounded on three sides by water, Shrewsbury could be approached by land only from the north-site of the castle. For the past four weeks, a royal army had been encamped before the rebel fortress. But so far Stephen’s assaults had been driven off, and Fitz Alan remained defiant, scorning all demands for surrender.
The sky was barren of clouds, a bleached blue-white that shimmered with heat, for August had been a month of drought and dust. Stephen’s stallion had broken out in a sweat and was pawing the trampled grass. War-horses were bred as much for their fiery tempers as for their strength, and those nearest to Stephen prudently retreated. Stephen himself did not notice his destrier’s restiveness, for his attention was utterly focused upon the castle.
It looked deserted, for most of its inhabitants were barricaded within the great keep, and the men posted along the bailey walls were hunkered down out of sight, rising up occasionally to heave a lance or shoot a bow, then hastily ducking behind the stockade as Stephen’s archers returned the fire. Large rocks scattered about the bailey, churned-up earth, smashed horse troughs, and collapsed wooden sheds-all testified to the damage done by Stephen’s siege machines. As he watched, one of his mangonels went into action again. A creaking windlass slowly hauled the beam back, the men loaded a pile of heavy stones, and then released the triggering cord, causing the beam to snap upright, slamming into the crossbar and catapulting a rock shower over the castle walls. They could hear the thudding as the stones hit, and then a choked-off scream.
That was a familiar sound, though, and they paid it no heed. By now Stephen’s companions were watching him as intently as he was studying the castle. The Earl of Leicester was the first to lose patience, for the Beaumonts had as scanty a supply of that particular commodity as Stephen did. “What say you, my liege? Are we going to make another try with the scaling ladders or not?”
“No…we’ve lost enough men that way.” Stephen tightened the reins, swinging his mount in a circle. “Meet me in my command tent-all of you.”
