banditry. He’d claimed proprietary rights over most of the prisoners captured at Lincoln, and those unlucky souls had been bled for exorbitant ransoms, not always in money. Young Gilbert de Gant had been compelled to wed Chester’s niece as the price of his freedom, and William Peverel had been forced to yield Nottingham Castle. But if the table talk was true, it seemed that Chester had pulled off an even more outrageous coup. He’d lured his old enemy the Earl of Richmond into an ambush, cast the man into one of his dungeons, and neglected to feed him until he’d agreed to turn over Galclint Castle.
As usual, Chester’s utter indifference to public opinion stirred amazement, amusement, disapproval, and possibly even envy. Maude’s feelings were not so ambivalent, though; her response was anger, pure and simple. Once her coronation was over and she could concentrate upon matters of state, she meant to teach the outlaw earl a sharp lesson in the powers of the Crown. He seemed to think he was above the laws of the land, and for that, she blamed Stephen. Her father would never have tolerated such arrant breaches of the King’s Peace, and neither would she.
She glanced down the table now toward her niece. Maud was giggling at something Ranulf had just said. If she was distressed on her husband’s behalf, she was concealing it remarkably well. Maude still thought it prudent to divert the conversation away from Chester’s manifold misdeeds, and she signaled for silence.
“I have good news to share. I received a letter this morn from my husband. He writes that the city of Caen has yielded to him, as have Verneuil and Nonancourt, and he predicts that by summer’s end, he will control all of Normandy west of the River Seine.”
Audible ripples of approval and relief eddied about the hall. All were war-weary and impatient for the succession dispute to be settled. Maude was not the only one who resented Stephen’s barons for their stubborn reluctance to come to terms with political realities.
The venison stew was being ladled onto trenchers when a flustered youth was admitted to the hall, insisting that he had an urgent message for the Earl of Essex. Geoffrey de Mandeville rose at once, and Maude watched with interest as they conferred. So did Robert, for it had occurred to them both that Mandeville’s spy system might have unearthed information about Matilda’s whereabouts or intentions. When the earl turned around, they knew at once that whatever he’d just learned was calamitous, for the color had faded from his face, and he was not a man to be easily shaken.
Striding swiftly back to the high table, he said, “The Londoners are rising up against you, madame. They are massing in the streets, making ready to march on Westminster.”
“No…they would not dare!”
“Yes,” he said flatly, “they would. You can believe it or not as you choose, but I do. This lad’s master is a local merchant, a man who’s given me reliable information in the past, and he is not likely to make a mistake of this magnitude.”
Osborn Huitdeniers’s servant had trailed the earl to the dais, and he nodded vigorously. “It is true, my lady, I swear it,” he assured Maude solemnly. “By the time I reached Ludgate, the church bells had begun to peal throughout the city, calling men to arms. Listen…can you not hear?”
Maude and Robert tilted their heads, and indeed, they could hear the distant, muted chiming of church bells. As stunned as Maude was, she rallied fast and got hastily to her feet, still clutching her napkin. “Thank God for the warning! But we’ll have to act at once if we hope to repel them. Robert, the command is yours-”
“What command?” Geoffrey de Mandeville snapped. “We’re facing a mob, not an army. That is not a fight we can win. But we ought to be able to get away ere they-”
“Run?” Maude was flabbergasted. “Never!”
Robert was on his feet, too. “Maude, he is right. Not only are we outnumbered, but our wives and daughters are with us. If we’d been able to reach the Tower…but we could never hope to keep them out of Westminster and Christ pity us if we try!”
By now those at the high table knew of their peril. Men were pushing their chairs back. Ranulf had already reached Maude’s side, with Brien just a stride slower. Maude’s niece was leaning over Rainald’s wife, coaxing her to rise, but Beatrice seemed incapable of moving; she’d begun to make soft whimpering noises, sounding eerily like a mewing kitten. Maude saw the truth of Robert’s words in their stricken faces, but her every instinct fought against flight. “Is there not some way that we can resist?”
Robert shook his head. “Even if we could hold them off for a time, there is another army on the loose, just across the river. How long do you think it would take the Londoners to open their gates to Matilda and Ypres? No, Maude, if we stay, we doom ourselves.” He glanced around at the hall, now in a state of spreading confusion. Fear stood poised to strike, and nothing was more contagious, as he well knew. If they hoped to head off utter panic, they’d have to act swiftly. “I will tell them,” he offered, “if you wish.”
“No,” Maude said, “it is for me to do.” Wondering how she would ever find the words, she moved toward the edge of the dais. “Be silent so you may hear me,” she urged, “for there is something I must say.”
The retreat from Westminster was done “without tumult and with military order” according to a chronicle favorable to Maude’s cause. One much more sympathetic to Stephen described a “panic” and a “disorderly flight.” The truth lay somewhere in between.
Maude and her coterie got away safely to Oxford, but some of her adherents veered off on their own. The Londoners surged into a ghost palace: food still heaped on trenchers in the deserted great hall, chairs overturned, doors oddly ajar, open coffers, burning candles and silence. A few of the angry citizens were disappointed to have won by default; most were relieved. They celebrated by ransacking the palace, carrying off clothes and bedding and belongings left behind, and some sat down to enjoy Maude’s interrupted meal. As word spread into the city, people flocked into the streets again, to cheer and hug and marvel at the ease of their triumph, while church bells were rung with joyful exuberance, until all of London reverberated with the clamorous, silver-toned sounds of victory.
They had gathered at Eastcheap to wait. At this time of day, the marketplace ought to have been thronged with people looking for bargains, moving from stall to stall, examining the fresh fish, choosing the plumpest hens, buying candles and pepper and needles. The stalls were open, but the fishmongers and cordwainers and butchers were doing no business, despite the growing crowd. The sun was hot, flies were thick, and the odors pungent; no one complained, though. They talked and gossiped among themselves, strangers soon becoming friends, for the normally fractious and outspoken Londoners had forgotten their differences, at least for a day, united in a common purpose and determined to revel in their triumph, for they were pragmatic enough to understand this might be their only one. Now they joked and swapped rumors and waited with uncommon patience, and at last they heard a cry, swiftly picked up and echoed across the marketplace: “She is coming!”
People had been clustered at the bridge, lining both sides of the narrow street. But Matilda had not expected a crowd of this size. Nor did she expect the sudden cheer that went up as she came into view. Her mare shied and the Earl of Northampton kicked his stallion forward, ready to grab her reins if need be. William de Ypres was content merely to watch; he’d learned by now that Matilda was better able to take care of herself than most men realized. Matilda soon got her mare under control, and reined in as the spectators pressed forward. She found herself looking out upon a sea of friendly faces, and she smiled at them, wishing she could thank each and every one, these Londoners who’d fought for Stephen as his own barons would not.
“We have made a beginning this day,” she said. “With your help, good people, we shall set my husband free and restore him to England’s throne.”
18
Guildford, England
July 1141
William de Ypres was taken at once to the queen’s presence, despite the lateness of the hour. Not for the first time, Matilda found herself marveling at the Fleming’s stamina. He was past fifty, his hair thinning into a silver fringe, his skin as rough-hewn as bark from constant exposure to sun, wind, and winter gales. He was fighting age, though, as fiercely as he’d fought all his foes, continuing to expend his energy with the reckless abandon of a twenty-year-old. Matilda knew he must be greatly fatigued, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn. But she knew, too, that he’d never admit to it. Ignoring his protests, she insisted upon ordering him a meal from the kitchen and
