I loathe each other, it’s no secret. I’ve vowed to outlive him, if only for the pleasure of pissing on his grave. But Fitz Walter is still the man I’d want at my back, sword in hand, be it on the battlefield or in an alley of the Southwark stews,” he said and gave a loud, ringing laugh. “He’ll keep Stephen too busy to spare even a thought for us. On that I would wager my castle at Lincoln, my lustful little wife, and indeed, my hopes for salvation and Life Everlasting!”
“You’ll be wagering your earthly life, too, and mine, and the lives of every man fighting under our banners,” Brien warned, but that did not faze Chester in the least. He was already turning away, beginning to shout orders.
Victory was at hand. William de Ypres had fought in enough battles to read the signs. The faces of his enemies showed fatigue and fear and a despairing recognition of their own defeat. They’d not yet lost the will to fight, but slowly, inexorably, they were giving ground, being pushed back toward the cold grey waters of the Fossedyke.
The wind gave a muted warning, carrying ahead the sounds of shouting, thudding feet, echoes of a trumpet fanfare. The Flemings paid no heed, caught up in the frenzy of the battle. Ypres was one of the few who did. Cursing in Flemish, he swung his stallion about, tried frantically to alert his men to this new danger. But it was too late; Chester’s soldiers were almost upon them.
The fighting was brutal, but brief. Robert’s knights surged back with renewed vigor, Chester’s men were eager to rout the hated Flemings so they could seek the battle’s real prize-the king-and Ypres’s soldiers, finding themselves outnumbered and overwhelmed, soon reached Chester’s cynical conclusion: that Stephen was not paying them enough to die for him. First one and then another wheeled his horse, and then they were all in flight across the field, away from the fighting. William de Ypres and the Earl of York attempted at first to rally them, saw the futility in it, and they, too, fled.
For once the Earl of Chester got all the accolades he felt he deserved, and he found acclaim was especially sweet when it came from men who detested him. Shoving his way through to his father-in-law’s side, he thrust a wineskin at Robert, waited impatiently as the older man drank in gulps.
“We’re not done yet,” he said, and looked about at Robert’s bleeding, battered knights and his own gleeful Cheshiremen. “But bear in mind,” he warned, “that the king is mine!”
AS soon as Chester’s center halted its advance, Stephen guessed what the rebel earl meant to do, and he immediately gave the order to attack. His men started down the slope, swords drawn. But by then Miles Fitz Walter had halted the pursuit of Stephen’s runaway earls, rounded up most of his own men, and headed back toward the battlefield. They arrived onto a scene of utter chaos. At first glance, it looked as if their center was attacking their right wing, and a few of the Disinherited briefly suspected it might indeed be so, for it was generally agreed that the Earl of Chester would double-cross the Devil on a good day. Miles needed just one look, though, to comprehend what had happened in his absence. “Seek out the king!” he commanded, and his knights charged over the crest of the hill.
Stephen’s soldiers scattered as the Disinherited rode into their midst. But they did not lose heart, and quickly rallied to Stephen’s side. Miles had the advantage of surprise, but they had the greater numbers, and some of the fiercest fighting of the battle now took place. Stephen more than held his own, and when he caught a glimpse of Baldwin de Redvers, he lunged forward like a man possessed, for at last his enemy had a familiar face. After months and months of combating rumors and suspicions and smoke, he now had a flesh-and-blood foe before him, a rebel baron who could answer for his treachery as Maude could not, sword in hand.
But he never reached Redvers. Gilbert de Gant was running toward him. The boy had been keeping closer than Stephen’s own shadow, and he’d tried to watch over the lad when he could, knowing this was Gilbert’s first battle. Now he was shouting and pointing, but the noise was too great and Stephen could barely hear him.
“…fleeing the field!” The youngster darted forward, in his agitation forgetting to keep his sword up. A knight on a blood-streaked stallion saw and bore down on the boy. Stephen shouted a warning that Gilbert couldn’t hear. But at the last moment, he sensed danger, spun around too fast, and stumbled, falling into the path of the oncoming stallion. The knight was quite willing to run him down, but the horse was not. The stallion swerved and by the time the knight circled back, Stephen was there. Facing now a far more formidable adversary than Gilbert, the man veered off in search of easier quarry.
Yanking Gilbert to his feet, Stephen brushed aside his stuttered thanks. “Christ, lad, keep your guard up if you hope to make old bones!”
Gilbert gulped and nodded and then remembered. “The Flemings…they are running away!”
Stephen had been shocked by the flight of his earls. But he took William de Ypres’s defection even harder, for he’d come to trust the Fleming, convincing himself that Ypres was more than a well-paid hireling, that he truly cared who was king in a land not his own. He kept insisting that Ypres would be coming back, that he’d rally his Flemings and return to the fight. But Ypres was long gone, and Stephen found himself alone on a cold, muddy battlefield with the knights of his household and the scared citizens of Lincoln, abandoned by his own barons and his most trusted captains, surrounded by the enemy, men in rebellion against a consecrated king.
They were being assailed now on three sides, and retreated slowly up the hill. But once they reached Stephen’s royal standard, he looked up at the golden lions on a field of crimson and refused to go any farther. They pleaded with him to seek safety within the city, for the battle had been fought within sight of its walls. Stephen was deaf to their urgings, and at last Baldwin de Clare cried out in anguish, “My liege, do you not understand? We are beaten!”
“I know,” Stephen said. “That is why you must save yourselves now. Go and go quickly, whilst you still can.”
They looked at him, and then one by one, they took up position around his standard, shoulder to shoulder as they braced themselves for the final assault. Tears stung Stephen’s eyes, for they did not ask if his quarrel was good or his cause was just. He was their king and that was enough. Their steadfast loyalty made it easier to bear, the dreadful realization that he’d been abandoned, too, by Almighty God, judged as a king and found wanting, not deserving of victory.
The last moments of the Battle of Lincoln were the bloodiest. Encircled by the enemy, Stephen and his men fought off one attack after another, but his foes kept coming back, until Stephen found himself shielded by the bodies of those who’d fallen. His sword was bloody to the hilt; so was his chain mail, even his beard. When he saw William Peverel go down, he lashed out at Peverel’s assailant with such force that his blade snapped against the man’s shield. Almost at once one of the townsmen thrust a Danish axe into his hands, and it, too, was soon sticky with blood.
He’d taken blows, and beneath his hauberk, his body was already darkening with massive bruises and contusions, and he was soaked in sweat, as if it were a day in summer. He was so exhausted that he’d begun to feel drunk. The air itself was pressing him down, and he moved like a man walking through water. His throat had closed up, his head was throbbing, and when he brought his battle-axe down upon a man’s shoulder, it seemed to descend in slow motion, to take days to slice through chain mail to the flesh and bone beneath. But through it all, he could still see his golden lions streaming above his head, gilded by the sun, the royal arms of England.
Baldwin de Clare was no longer at his side, and Gilbert de Gant was gone, too. He reeled back, panting, against the pole of his standard, intent only upon wielding his axe as long as his arms had the strength to lift it. But then he saw a familiar face, and the fatigue fogging his brain receded, enough for him to cry hoarsely, “Ranulf?” He did not trust his own senses anymore. But surely Ranulf was real? Almost close enough to touch, looking so stricken and so young, like Gilbert de Gant, who might be dead.
“Name of God, Stephen, surrender, I beg you!”
Stephen looked at his cousin, poor lad, but with no breath to speak, no time to explain why he could not do what Ranulf wanted. He shook his head and his vision blurred briefly. He nearly dropped the axe and a shadow lunged at him. When he swung the axe up again, he saw that his enemies had backed off and Ranulf was shouting like a madman at a knight sprawled at his feet, his sword leveled at the man’s throat.
“My liege.” This was a voice he knew, low-pitched and quiet, the way he’d heard men speak soothingly to skittish horses. A man was coming toward him across the muddy, trampled ground. There were gasps when he sheathed his sword, moved within range of that deadly Danish axe. “My liege, you’ve nothing left to prove,” he said coaxingly. “You can surrender with honour.”
“Get away, Brien,” Stephen warned, and as their eyes met, the younger man reluctantly took a few backward steps. Stephen’s next breath was ragged and uneven, but relieved. He’d have hated to split Brien’s head open with
