smiling. The Earl of Chester had a rivalry of his own with the Scots king, for he and David had competing claims to the Honour of Carlisle. And many of the men were simply grateful that an alien Scots invasion had been thwarted. Only two exchanged a covert glance of quickly masked dismay-Miles Fitz Walter and Brien Fitz Count-for Maude had gone down to defeat with David at Cowton Moor, and they both knew it.
Wine was soon flowing in abundance. Toasts were drunk to the aged Archbishop of York, and then to Robert de Ferrers and William d’Aumale, Stephen’s battle commanders, the heroes of the day. Jokes were made at the Scots king’s expense and Maude came in for her share, too. The Scots were damned as a savage, barbaric people; highly partisan accounts of Scots atrocities were related, for which they blamed Maude fully as much as David. She was, after all, the man’s niece, they reminded themselves, and only Brien and Miles remembered that David was Matilda’s uncle, too.
But in the midst of these revelries, Stephen suddenly grew quiet. Setting down his wine cup, he gazed across the hall toward the unshuttered windows, and then said pensively, “I was wondering if it might not be a Christian act to spare those prisoners who’ve not yet been hanged. What better way to thank the Almighty for our victory?”
They stared at him, momentarily startled into silence. All but the abbot, who’d been waiting patiently for the king to resume their interrupted audience. There were worldly men of God, and then there were those like Abbot Herbert. Beaming at Stephen, he said warmly, “Bless you, my liege, that would be a deed well done!”
“In a pig’s eye!” Robert Beaumont sputtered, half choking on his wine, and Miles reached over, thumping him solicitously on the back.
“You disappoint me, Rob. Where is your sense of charity? I think the king is right, that it would indeed please the Almighty to pardon those poor wretches.”
“For certes, it would please the Lady Maude,” the bishop said acidly, “as you know right well, my lord!”
By now the hall was in turmoil, each man attempting to voice his opinion, to make himself heard above the din. Only two held their peace, Geoffrey de Mandeville and Brien Fitz Count. The former looked faintly amused by the uproar, the latter pained. It was not that Brien did not want to see the condemned prisoners reprieved, for he did. In Brien’s eyes, they were not rebels, and they did not deserve to die for keeping faith with their queen. For Maude was the rightful sovereign, not Stephen, and God forgive him, but he ought never to have disavowed his oath, for in saving his lands, he’d sacrificed his honour.
But still Brien kept silent, unable to encourage Stephen’s folly, as Miles was doing with such zest. If Stephen had determined at the outset to spare the Shrewsbury garrison, as he had spared the garrisons at Exeter and Hereford, he’d have done himself no good for certes. However much mercy might be admired in saints, Brien mused, it made men most uneasy when encountered in kings. But to condemn the prisoners and then relent, that would be sheer madness. He might stand aside and watch as Stephen cut his own throat. He could not bring himself to offer Stephen a dagger.
Stephen was under siege, being assailed from all sides by insistent voices. His head had begun to ache. Why did a crown complicate matters so? As Count of Mortain and Boulogne, he’d done what he pleased, and an easier life it had been, too. He glared at his brother the bishop. How dare Henry speak to him like this, as if he were a green stripling without a grain of sense! Well, he’d best learn to content himself with Winchester, for by all that’s holy, he’d never get his grasping hands upon Canterbury. If only Tilda were here. But she was at Dover and his only allies a weakling abbot and that crafty tame fox of Maude’s. If Miles was urging clemency, it must be wrong. So why, then, did it feel right?
“Enough!” he said angrily, flinging up his hand for silence. “You chatter at me like a flock of hungry magpies, and for naught. I never said I intended for certes to pardon those men. It was idle talk, no more than that.”
They subsided, relieved. Eventually conversation resumed, men drifted away from the dais, talk turned again to the humiliation of the Scots king, the likely whereabouts of William Fitz Alan, the need to appoint a new sheriff in his place, and out upon the castle battlements, men continued to die.
A ghostlike swirling fog had wafted in from the Channel, shrouding the chalky cliffs usually visible for miles. The night air was damp, uncommonly cold for September, and a sea-salted wind chilled victors and vanquished alike as the gates of Dover Castle slowly swung open to admit the Queen of England.
The sight that met Matilda’s eyes was an eerie one: a circle of flickering flames, yellow beacons of light stabbing through the fog. As she drew nearer, she realized that she was looking upon the flaring torches of her own guards, for they’d insisted upon entering the castle first, intent upon making sure that there would be no surprises, no eleventh-hour change of heart by the castellan. Her nervousness eased somewhat as she rode toward their beckoning glow, wondering if sailors felt this way upon catching the reassuring glimmer of Dover’s light tower.
Blessed Lady Mary, how lucky she had been and how well served! It had been her vassals’ duty to respond, of course, once she’d called upon them. But she’d gotten from these men of Kent and Boulogne more than grudging service. Rank seemed not to matter, for she’d found champions in equal numbers among her knights, serjeants, and men-at-arms. She still did not understand how she’d managed to touch their calloused soldiers’ hearts, could only be grateful for it.
She was grateful, too, for the man riding at her side. She was convinced that the arrival of Robert de Ferrers, fresh from his triumph over the Scots, had marked a turning point in the siege. How good of Stephen to send her such a stalwart knight. He’d be well rewarded; she and Stephen would see to that.
“There he is, my lady. Walkelin Maminot, who held the castle for Robert Fitz Roy, and waits now to deliver it into your hands.” Reining in his stallion, Robert de Ferrers swung to the ground, then reached up to help Matilda dismount.
Approaching her was one of the largest men she’d ever seen, towering over her like a massive oak. To look up into his face, she had to tilt her head back so far that her veil started to slip. She grabbed for it awkwardly, more uneasy than she cared to admit.
“I yield to you, my lady.” The giant had a surprisingly gentle voice. His face was grave, but unafraid, for he’d been assured there would be no bloody reprisals taken against his men, as at Shrewsbury. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he held it out to her, hilt first, and as she timidly took it, he sank to his knees before her. “Madame, Dover Castle is yours.”
“I accept it in the name of my lord husband, the king,” Matilda said as loudly as she could; she well knew that her whispery little-girl’s voice did not carry far, and it was important that all should hear. Turning, she handed the sword to Robert de Ferrers, glad to be rid of it, and then motioned Walkelin Maminot to raise. At that, her men raised a cheer, for the siege of Dover Castle was over.
“My lady, may I escort you back to the priory guesthouse?”
She nodded, and took Ferrers’s arm, letting him lead her toward her mare. “Sir Robert, thank you. If not for you, Dover Castle would not have surrendered. You may be sure I will not forget.”
He shrugged off her praise with a smile. “I talked some sense into Walkelin, no more than that. It would have been foolhardy for him not to listen, in truth, what with him wed to my daughter!”
“This is an evil war,” Matilda sighed. “I know that is a woman’s belief and not one you’d be likely to share. But this war is more accursed than most, Sir Robert, for it is tearing families asunder.”
“God Willing, it shall soon be over now. The loss of Dover Castle is a grievous blow to Maude’s hopes. But you give me too much credit and yourself too little, my lady. It was your fleet that blockaded Dover’s harbor, was it not? Those were your captains directing the siege, your men vowing to hold fast, through the winter if need be. They were fighting for you, my lady. You came often to the camp, you fetched a priest for the dying, you comforted the wounded. Believe me, madame, this victory was yours, too.”
Matilda almost argued with him, so strong was the force of habit. But then she smiled, a smile of sudden realization and startled reassessment. “Yes,” she said proudly, “it truly was!”
9
Nottingham, England
April 1139
High white clouds dappled a sapphire-colored sky, and a brisk wind rippled the tall marsh grass, giving an
