personally taking charge of their defense.
It was not surprising, therefore, that they reacted with such alarm when Stephen’s candle suddenly snapped in half as he held it out to the bishop. A simple mishap…or a sinister portent? Judging from the murmuring he heard sweeping the church, Stephen well knew which explanation seemed more likely to the congregation. During the remainder of the Mass, he could not keep his thoughts upon the Almighty as he ought, distracted by his anger and his disappointment. For if they were so sure that a broken candle was an ill omen, their faith in his kingship must be wavering.
Once the Mass was done, Stephen headed toward the transept door leading out into the cloister garth, waving his companions away when they started to follow. He was given only a brief respite, though, only a few moments of quiet and solitude, for Waleran soon grew impatient and barged out into the cloisters after him, with the Earls of Northampton and York close behind.
“We need to talk, my liege,” Waleran insisted, “for we’ve settled nothing. As I told you last night, we ought not to let them force us into any rash action. We’d be foolish to take the field without enough men to make sure victory would be ours.”
Stephen had heard all this before, until the early hours of the morning. “And as I told you, Waleran,” he said testily, “I will not run from rebels.”
“Stay here in Lincoln, then. But call up the shire levies, let us summon our own vassals-” Waleran broke off in exasperation, for Stephen was no longer listening. Turning to find out why, he saw William de Ypres striding up the walkway toward them. Ypres had scandalized the bishop by missing the Candlemas Mass, instead riding off to judge for himself the immediacy of the danger posed by Robert Fitz Roy’s army. One look at his face now was enough to warn them that they’d not like what they were about to hear.
“If you’re all still debating what to do,” Ypres said grimly, “I can make it easy for you. We’re running out of choices, for we’ve run out of time. That flooded quagmire everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, someone neglected to tell Robert Fitz Roy it was impassable.”
There were exclamations at that, for by now all of Stephen’s battle commanders were crowding into the cloister garth, along with the bishop and more and more of the town’s apprehensive citizens. But Stephen ignored their clamoring.
“So they got across the marshes,” he said, not bothering-as some of the others were-with futile denials. It mattered little if every living soul in Christendom would have sworn it could not be done; if William de Ypres said it was so, Stephen did not doubt him. “And the Fossedyke?” he asked, although he was already anticipating what the Fleming would say.
“They crossed at the ford, whilst your guards fled like women. By the time I got there, they were lighting fires to thaw themselves out. What they do next depends upon you, my liege-whether you come out to give battle or force them to besiege the city.”
“Are we outnumbered?”
“As far as I could tell, but not by much. And you have the more seasoned soldiers under your command. The Welsh are worthless on the field, will break and run at their first chance. As for the Cheshiremen…who knows what they’ll do when put to the test? If you are asking me, my liege, if we can win, I’d say you can. But I’m no soothsayer, cannot promise you victory.”
“Just so,” Waleran said emphatically. “Why should we risk defeat when there are other roads still open to us? I say we hold fast within the town, then send for an army that can give us certain victory. It makes no sense to take the field unless we can be sure of the outcome, and for that, we will need more than God’s Favor and the good wishes of the townspeople.”
The bishop was highly indignant. “My lord Earl of Worcester, you blaspheme,” he said hotly, “for what power can be greater than God’s Favor?”
Waleran could see the bishop was ready to launch into a lengthy lecture, and he sought to head it off with a brusque admission that he had “misspoken.” But he was too late, the damage already done, for Stephen was glaring at him accusingly.
“Do you think I fear God’s Judgment?” Stephen demanded. “Those men are rebels, in arms against their lawful king. How could the Almighty ever give them victory? No, I will not shrink from this battle. Better to make an end to this, here and now. We have right on our side and I am willing to prove it upon the field. I’ll not cower behind these walls whilst traitors and renegades threaten the peace of my realm. We will fight and we will win.”
SO sure was Robert that Stephen would come out to confront them that as soon as his men were dried off, he set about assembling them in battle array. This sparked an argument with the Earl of Chester, who insisted that he should have the honour of striking the first blow, the quarrel being his. But Robert pointed out that Maude’s grievance was greater, and he prevailed.
Robert’s battle tactics held no surprises, for he was a highly capable commander but not an innovative one, and he chose the traditional formation: two lines of horsemen flanking the center, which would fight on foot. The left wing, or vanguard, would lead the first assault, and for that crucial offensive, Robert shrewdly chose those men who’d had their lands confiscated by Stephen, men like Baldwin de Redvers and William Fitz Alan, men with nothing to lose. These knights, the “Disinherited,” would fight under the most formidable of Robert’s battle captains, Miles Fitz Walter. Chester was to have command of the center, and Robert himself took the right wing, while the Welsh were positioned out in front of his mounted knights.
Robert then made the commander’s customary speech to his troops, reviling the enemy and predicting victory, for their cause was just. A prayer was said and a priest called upon the Almighty to bless their efforts with success.
By then, Stephen’s army had already ridden out through the city’s West Gate. Aligning his men along the slope that extended from the town wall down to the Fossedyke, Stephen thus began with a tactical advantage, for the enemy would have to charge uphill. Stephen chose to command his center, entrusting his left wing to William de Ypres and the Earl of York, who’d earned his earldom by defeating the Scots king so decisively at the battle in Yorkshire two summers ago. His right wing was, like Robert’s, a division of mounted knights, leadership shared among the Earls of Worcester, Pembroke, Surrey, Northampton, and Richmond and Hugh Bigod, for none of those prideful lords were willing to defer to the others.
Because Stephen’s voice was softly pitched and did not carry well, young Baldwin de Clare was chosen to speak to the troops on the king’s behalf, and pleased by the honour, he began zestfully ridiculing their enemies, promising both victory and retribution. But his spirited oration was cut off in midflow by the blaring of trumpets. Not willing to wait any longer, the other army was moving to the attack.
Ranulf had asked to fight under Robert’s command. Never had he been so proud of his brother as in the weeks of this campaign. Robert did not have a flamboyant bone in his body; he weighed his words and pondered his actions, and in both speech and manner, showed all the elan and flair of a sedate, scholarly clerk. Even when he’d plunged into the Fossedyke, he’d made it seem perfectly natural and not particularly heroic. Ranulf loved his brother dearly, knew him to be a man of honour. But until now he’d not appreciated just what Robert could accomplish in his quiet, understated way. He yearned to tell Robert of his newfound admiration, but of course he could not, for that would have embarrassed them both. Instead, he said a special prayer for Robert’s safety, and then reined in his stallion at Robert’s side so they could watch together the beginning of the battle.
Ranulf had never fought in a pitched battle between equal forces, his experiences of warfare limited to Geoffrey’s skirmishings in Normandy and raids upon Worcester and Nottingham with Robert and Miles. He was by turns, excited, apprehensive, fearful, and eager, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw those same contradictory emotions chasing across the faces of his friends. Gilbert urged his mount forward to ask, “Ranulf, think you that Ancel is with Stephen’s army?”
“I hope not,” Ranulf said, but he did hope Gervase Fitz Clement was fighting with Stephen, and God forgive him, but he hoped, too, that when the dead were counted at day’s end, Annora’s husband would be amongst them. He was too ashamed to admit it, and felt a superstitious pang of unease, for what goes around comes around and evil rebounds upon the wisher. He could not help himself, though, for the thought persisted: How much easier it would be if Annora were widowed on this Candlemas Sunday.
Miles signaled and his trumpets blasted again; the horses lengthened stride. Up on the hillside, Stephen’s vanguard began a slow advance upon the enemy. The wind unfurled their banners; Waleran and Hugh Bigod were in the forefront. They had lowered their lances, preparing to joust in the French fashion, a formalized fighting that knights favored, for it looked dashing and chivalrous and rarely resulted in fatalities. But the Disinherited were not
