his two-handed axe. It occurred to him that they need only wait him out, stand back and watch until he toppled over like a felled tree, too weak to keep on his feet.
And then something was happening. Voices rose, there was sudden movement, and men were scrambling to get out of the way as a horse was reined in scant yards from the royal standard. Stephen felt no surprise. He’d hunted with Chester often enough to know that the earl was always in at the kill.
Chester was in no hurry; this was a pleasure to be savored. For what seemed like forever to those watching, he regarded his foe, brought to bay under his own standard like a fox run to earth. Not so kingly now, by Christ. Swinging from the saddle, he put his hand on his sword hilt. “You can yield,” he said, “or you can die. The choice is yours.”
“Yield to you?” Stephen’s voice cracked, for he had to force words up from a throat raw and parched. “Never,” he said, and then his bruised, swollen mouth twisted into a smile, for God had not utterly forsaken him, after all.
Chester smiled, too. “So be it,” he said, and then his sword was clearing its scabbard, and Ranulf flung himself forward, too late. He never even reached Chester, shoved aside by several of the earl’s men. By the time Ranulf regained his feet, Chester was stalking Stephen, the steel of his blade glinting in the sun. He was grinning, looked to Ranulf as if he were truly enjoying himself. He feinted toward Stephen’s left, then spun away and came in again fast, in a low, lethal lunge, and Stephen brought his battle-axe crashing down upon Chester’s helmet. The blow had the last of Stephen’s strength behind it, and Chester went facedown into the mud, did not move again.
The blow had broken Stephen’s axe, the wooden haft splintering away from the blade. Stephen did not seem to have noticed yet, for he was still staring down at Chester’s body. So were most of the men, and Ranulf was not the only one to feel disappointment when the earl moaned. And then someone-a number of men later claimed credit and Ranulf never knew which one spoke true-snatched up a large, heavy rock and hurled it at Stephen’s head. It knocked his helmet askew, drove him to his knees, and a knight named William de Cahaignes, one of Robert’s vassals, then threw himself upon Stephen, shouting, “I’ve got the king!”
Cahaignes kept yelling that, over and over: “I’ve got the king!” But as he wrenched off Stephen’s dented helmet, Stephen somehow broke free and staggered to his feet. His head was so badly gashed that he was blinded by his own blood, and he was too dazed to draw his dagger, the only weapon he had left, yet when Cahaignes sought to grab him again, he knocked the other man’s arm away.
“No,” he said, “I’ll not yield to you, only to Gloucester…”
Ranulf whirled to seek Robert, only to halt, afraid to leave Stephen alone and defenseless. But then the soldiers crowding around them began to move aside, to let a horseman pass through. Stephen was swaying, willing himself to stand erect even as the ground quaked under his feet. He watched as Maude’s brother dismounted, and for a moment, they faced each other on the crest of the hill, in the shadow of Stephen’s royal standard.
“Are you willing to yield?” Robert asked, and Stephen started to nod, but that slight movement caused him so much pain that he gave an audible, involuntary grunt.
“Yes,” he said, but then he fumbled at his empty scabbard, with the puzzled frown of a man just awakening from an unpleasant dream. Only Ranulf understood. Pushing his way toward Stephen, he held out his sword. There were cries of protest and alarm at that, but by now, Robert, too, understood, and he raised his hand for silence. Stephen swayed again, then took several unsteady steps forward. Offering the weapon to Robert, hilt first, very deliberately, for he knew how it must be done, he surrendered to his victorious foe with his cousin’s borrowed sword, and the Battle of Lincoln was over.
14
Lincoln Castle, England
February 1141
More than men had died at Lincoln. It seemed to Stephen that reality was a casualty, too, for nothing made sense anymore. What was he doing here in the solar of Lincoln Castle, bleeding all over the Earl of Chester’s wife?
“I’m sorry,” he said, but Maud was quite unfazed by the blood splattering her bodice.
“A good reason to get a new gown,” she said cheerfully, continuing to daub at his gashed forehead with a wet cloth. “I think it is clean enough to bandage now. But a doctor ought to tend to it as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” he said politely, although he knew his were wounds no doctor could hope to heal. He had claimed a crown, been consecrated with the sacred chrism that set him forever apart from other men, for a king was God’s anointed on earth. He had believed in his right. So why, then, had he lost? Had his kingship been counterfeit from the very beginning? Had he wronged Maude and sinned against the Almighty by thwarting His Divine Will?
“All done,” Maud murmured, stepping back to inspect her handiwork. Not only had her bandage stanched Stephen’s bleeding, but she thought it looked rather rakish, too. Reaching for a flagon, she poured Stephen wine, relishing the incongruity of it, that she should be treating him as an esteemed guest when her husband would have cast him into the castle’s darkest dungeon. But he was not here to object, and so she was taking a perverse pleasure in honouring his enemy-until it stopped being a game, until she noticed that Stephen had not touched the wine, that his blue eyes were blind and his hands clenched upon the arms of his chair as if it were all he had left to hold on to.
“I’ll be back…” She hesitated, not knowing what to call him, for etiquette was conspicuously silent upon the subject of captive kings. She settled upon “Cousin Stephen” before giving him the only comfort she could at that moment: privacy.
Crossing the solar, she joined Stephen’s gaoler in the window seat, and answered his unspoken query with a sigh. “He is in pain,” she said softly, and Ranulf frowned.
“A city the size of Lincoln must have at least one damned doctor! Why is it taking so long to fetch him?”
“He’ll be here soon,” Maud said soothingly, and was unable to resist adding a playful “Uncle,” for it amused her enormously, that she should have an uncle so close in years to her own age. “But in all honesty, I doubt that a doctor can ease what ails him, Ranulf.”
“I know,” he conceded quietly. “Nothing leaves so bitter an aftertaste as betrayal, not even wormwood and gall.” He shook his head, still shocked by the flight of Stephen’s earls, for he’d been taught that men of high birth were more courageous, more steadfast and honourable than the rest of mankind. “Ah, but you should have seen him, Maud! Men were flinging themselves at him without pause, for all the world as if he were a castle under siege, and he kept beating them back, wielding his axe like a scythe-”
Ranulf’s admiring account of Stephen’s defiance went no further, for he’d just remembered that Maud’s husband was amongst those mowed down by that Danish axe of Stephen’s. Upon their arrival at the castle, he’d informed Maud and Chester’s brother of his injury, assuring them that he was not badly hurt. William de Roumare had rushed off to see for himself, leaving Maud to tend to their royal prisoner. If she was fretting about her husband’s health, she hid it well, and when Ranulf now provided additional details, she listened with a faint, enigmatic smile.
“And by the time Robert bade me to get Stephen safely into the castle,” he concluded, “the earl was already regaining his senses. He’s like to have a god-awful headache in days to come, but he was indeed lucky, for if Stephen’s axe haft had not broken, his helmet might not have saved him.”
“Thank God for that hard head of his!”
Ranulf grinned, but he could not help hoping that Annora would not be so nonchalant should he ever be hit on the head with a battle-axe. He started to tease Maud about her unwifely insouciance, but she was twisting around on the seat, fumbling with the shutter. “I thought so,” she cried triumphantly. “It is my father!”
Robert had ridden in through the postern gate in the west wall, bypassing the town just as Ranulf and Stephen had done. He was dismounting in the bailey when his daughter shot through the doorway of the keep, flew down the stairs, and into his arms. Robert hugged her tightly; of all his children, this one was his secret favorite, for Maud’s cheeky, blithe spirit never failed to stir up memories of a young Amabel. “You were not harmed, lass?”
“Indeed not, Papa. In truth, I was not even scared,” she confided, and it was not bravado, for she’d known
