had begun to circulate that he was no longer holed up in the castle. By the time Gilbert de Gant joined the group, conversation had shifted to the new serving-wench at the alehouse in Danesgate Road.
Few topics were of greater interest to Gilbert than women, especially wanton ones; he was by far the youngest lord there, still in his teens. But for once he had other, more pressing matters on his mind. He wanted to discuss the rumors, for he did not understand why Stephen and his battle captains had given them so little credence. He was hesitant, though, to be the one to bring the subject up, for he was a battlefield virgin and these men were veterans. He waited until the first game ended, and while the men were summoning servants for wine and ale, he drew Baldwin de Clare aside. No matter how green or foolish his questions, Baldwin would not laugh, for his own military experience was limited to a disastrous expedition against the Welsh.
“Why is it, Baldwin, that no one believes the report of an army being sighted in Nottinghamshire? Why could it not be true?”
“I can give you one hundred and seventy or so reasons, Gilbert-the miles stretching between Lincoln and Bristol.”
“Does it have to be the Earl of Gloucester? What about the Earl of Chester? Mayhap he did escape…?”
“No matter, for Cheshire is nearly as far. An army on the march in the dead of winter would be lucky to cover eight miles a day. Then you have to allow for all the time it would take to raise an army. We were able to head north so fast because Stephen’s Flemish hirelings were on hand; that is what he pays them for, after all. But I’d wager it would take the Earl of Gloucester a month to muster up enough men. When you then consider time for word of the siege to get out, you’ve now accounted for all of January and most of February. There is no way under God’s sky that an enemy army could be nearing Lincoln, not unless Robert Fitz Roy taught his troops to fly!”
Gilbert was very glad he hadn’t asked in front of the others; he’d have been teased about his “phantom flying army” for days to come. He looked so abashed that Baldwin took pity on him. “Come on, lad,” he said, “let’s go find ourselves some fun.”
Gilbert grinned, ran to fetch his mantle, hoping that Baldwin’s idea of fun was a bawdy-house. But before they could start their search, one of the bishop’s servants was hastening into the hall. A man had just ridden in with an urgent message for the king. Should he be admitted?
Stephen welcomed the interruption; he was losing. Pushing away from the chessboard, he said, “Send him in.”
As the man entered the hall, the bishop leaned toward Stephen. “I know him,” he said. “That is Torger of Hunsgate, a local mercer.” In answer then, to Stephen’s unspoken query, he nodded. “Yes, he is reliable.”
The merchant came forward, knelt before Stephen. “I bring grievous news, my liege. Those rumors of an army-Lord help us, for they were true.”
The hall was immediately in turmoil, as men pushed in to hear, the dice game forgotten. Stephen silenced them, then tersely ordered Torger to continue. Drawing a steadying breath, he did.
“I was on my way to Newark, for I’d agreed to buy some woolens and silks and could not lose the deal just because the weather was foul. But I never reached Newark, my liege. I was only halfway there when I heard sounds ahead of approaching horses and men. I barely had time to get off the road and into the woods ere they came into view. They did not see me and passed on by, banners sodden in the rain, more men than I could count, mounted and on foot, heading up the Fosse Way toward Lincoln.”
“You saw their banners?”
The mercer nodded. “It was the Earl of Chester. I recognized him straightaway. And the Earl of Gloucester. I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Robert Fitz Roy, my liege, I’d stake my life on it.”
There was a flabbergasted silence. “How far were they from Lincoln?” Stephen asked in disbelief.
“They are less than ten miles away, my lord king,” Torger said bleakly, and spoke for them all when he added, “Thank God that the rains have made the river and the fosse too dangerous to cross!”
Robert’s men passed a nervous, uncomfortable night camped just to the southwest of the city. The temperature plunged, and as they burrowed into their blankets in a futile search for warmth, they feared they might face snow on the morrow. But when Candlemas Sunday dawned, the sky had been swept clear of clouds by a gusting, northerly wind. Ice glazed the browned winter grass, glinted ominously midst the reeds of the soggy marshland that lay between them and Lincoln. The city was protected by the River Witham and the Fossedyke, an ancient canal of Roman origin, restored by the old king twenty years past. The river was impassable, running at flood tide. Robert hoped, though, to cross the Fossedyke at a ford known to his scouts, Lincolnshire men he’d sent out at first light. But they were soon back with disheartening news. The ford was being guarded by some of Stephen’s men. The marshes along the Fossedyke were knee-deep in runoff from the storm, and the canal’s water level was much higher than normal, surging with the spillover from the rain-swollen river.
Those listening were dismayed-all but Robert, who said calmly, “If we must cross this marsh, then we will,” and that was enough for most of his men, who were learning to take his word as gospel. After all, they reminded one another, he’d promised the empress that he’d raise an army within a fortnight, and by Corpus, he had. He’d said that they’d meet Chester at Claybrook on the 26th, and they had. They’d seen pig wallows less muddy than the roads of these shires, and had there been any more rain, they’d have needed an ark, and they’d gotten enough saddle sores and blisters to last a lifetime, but they’d covered more than ten miles a day, and it was the earl’s doing. So if he said they’d get through this quagmire, then they would, they agreed among themselves, and they made haste to obey his order to break camp.
Their optimism lasted until they saw the fenlands for themselves, for the flooding was more extensive than any of them had expected. Robert gave them no time to reconsider and they were soon splashing through cold, murky marshwater, linking arms for leverage, coaxing recalcitrant horses, complaining that they were wetter than drowned cats, swearing when the mud threatened to suck off their boots, and shouting in triumph when they caught a dull grey gleam through the waist-high rushes ahead.
The waters of the Fossedyke ran fast and cold, surging west toward the River Trent. On the opposite bank, Stephen’s sentries sat their horses in astonishment, staring across at these wet, muddied apparitions as if doubting their own senses. Robert and his battle captains drew rein at the canal’s edge, trying to gauge its depth. It was, they agreed, not as shallow as it should be. But the ford must still be there, else Stephen would not have posted guards.
“Well,” Robert concluded, to no one’s surprise, “there is but one way to find out.” But he then startled them all by saying, “It is only fair that I be the one to test it. If I seem likely to make it across, I’d welcome some help on the other side,” he added dryly, and drawing his sword from its scabbard, he spurred his stallion forward into the water.
Chester was the first to react. His flaws might be beyond counting, as his enemies alleged, but none had ever accused him of timidity. “What are we waiting for?” he challenged, and charged into the Fossedyke after Robert.
Ranulf and Brien were quick to follow, but it was the Welsh prince Cadwaladr who made sure that no man would dare balk. “Come on, lads,” he called out cheerfully in Welsh, “let’s show these pampered English that they need not fear getting their feet wet!” And laughing as if he relished nothing more than a winter’s soaking in icy waters, he plunged into the Fossedyke. The Welsh needed no further urging, scrambled down the bank and splashed into the canal.
After that, they all had to cross over, even those who most feared drowning, for they could not let themselves be shamed by these “misbegotten Welsh churls,” and they waded into the Fossedyke, shivering and cursing at the first shock of frigid water on their legs. Fortunately the storm-fed current was still not too deep at the ford, and by the time they reached the opposite shore, there was no need to fumble for weapons. Stephen’s vastly outnumbered guards were already in retreat, fleeing with a frantic warning for Stephen, that the enemy would soon be at the city gates.
February 2nd was a holy day of special significance, the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, commonly known as Candlemas. Stephen heard Mass in the great cathedral of St Mary, and dozens of anxious citizens crowded into the church to hear the bishop celebrate the Eucharist and to study the king for clues, for some indication as to what he meant to do. They already knew he was being advised to withdraw, to leave behind enough men to hold Lincoln until he could return with a larger army. That rumor had raced through the city, faster than any fire and just as frightening, for the men and women of Lincoln would feel safe only as long as Stephen was
