has been amongst my most stalwart supporters. But so have you, Brien. It would give me great pleasure to grant you an earldom, too. Will you not reconsider?”
When he shook his head, still smiling, Maude moved closer, looking up intently into his face. “But why, Brien? You have been steadfast, a loyal ally and as dear a friend as I could hope to have. Why will you not let me reward you as I’ve done the others?”
Brien was no longer smiling. “I want no reward for serving you. If I can offer you nothing else, I can give you this-the certainty that I seek only to help you claim the crown that is your birthright.”
As their eyes met, Maude found she could not look away. “Ah, Brien,” she said, almost inaudibly, “I begin to think you could be more dangerous to me than Stephen.” Her words seemed to surprise her as much as they did Brien, for color suddenly burned its way up into her face and throat. He drew a sharp breath and then reached for her hand, bringing it up to his mouth. To anyone watching, it was a perfectly proper gesture of respect, but Maude knew better, and she freed her hand from his clasp. She did not draw away, though, not until a sudden shout echoed from the West Gate: “Riders coming in!”
Maude and Brien moved back to the battlements, peering down through the gathering dusk at the approaching horsemen. They were still some distance away, just crossing the bridge, but Maude recognized the rangy grey stallion in the lead, for it was her brother’s favorite mount.
“It is Robert!” she exclaimed. “I do not like this, Brien. Such a rapid return from Winchester does not bode well for us.”
Robert soon confirmed the worst of Maude’s forebodings. In a solar poorly lit by smoldering cresset lamps, he told them that his mission had failed. The Bishop of Winchester was, he reported, as slippery as any eel, impossible to pin down without a forked stick. The bishop had refused to return with him to Oxford, but he’d denied conniving with Matilda to restore Stephen to the throne. He’d insisted that his only concern was the welfare of Holy Mother Church, disclaimed any ambitions of his own, contended that he bore Maude no grudge for her intemperate behavior, provided that she kept faith in the future, and, Robert concluded bleakly, “I believed none of it.”
“I daresay the bishop knows far more of Scriptures than I do,” Maude said, “and I am not sure if this comes from the Book of Matthew or Luke, but the message itself is beyond dispute: ‘He that is not with me is against me.’”
She paused, her gaze sweeping the solar, moving from face to face. She found what she sought: a unity of purpose and a grim resolve to do what must be done. What had been lost in London would be recouped at Winchester.
“Stephen’s kingship died at Lincoln,” she said. “I agree with Miles, that burial is long overdue. Well, God Willing, we shall hold the funeral in Winchester.”
19
Winchester, England
July 1141
William de Chesney finally located his brother Roger in a shabby alehouse on Gold Street, in unseemly proximity to the Church of All Saints. “What sort of peculiar folk do you have in this town? I stopped a monk on the street, asked him the whereabouts of the bishop’s palace at Wolvesey, and damn me if else, but he spat into the dirt at my feet!”
Roger laughed. “There is a sea of bad blood between the bishop and the brothers of Hyde Abbey. For more than six years, he has been blocking their election of a new abbot. Why, you ask? Very simple, lad. As long as they lack an abbot, Bishop Henry gets to control their revenues.”
Will shook his head ruefully. “If men only knew how easy it was to commit legal larceny, banditry would be cut in half overnight. That fits, though, with what I’ve heard about Bishop Henry, that he loves money overly well. I came to Winchester seeking a position in his household as you suggested. But first I ought to ask you this: Is he miserly with those in his service? If so, I’d rather look elsewhere.”
“You need not fret about that. He is tightfisted for certes, but he is also shrewd enough to understand that a man gets only what he pays for in this life. Serve him well and he will reward you as you deserve. Let him down and you get no second chance. So…what say you?”
Will shrugged. “If I’m going to sell my sword, it might as well be to the Church. Mayhap the bishop will put in a good word for me come Judgment Day!”
His brother laughed again, scattered a few coins onto the table, and they sauntered out into the sunlight. This was Will’s first visit to Winchester, and Roger insisted upon acting as his guide, keeping up a running commentary as they ambled along High Street, also known as Cheap or Cheapside. The castle was situated in the southwest corner of the city, and had supplanted the old palace as a royal residence. Bishop Henry had sweet- talked Stephen into turning the palace over to him-“back in the days when they were still talking,” Roger said with a grin. He also held the bishop’s palace at Wolvesey, off to the southeast, and had embarked upon an ambitious building project to make Wolvesey the wonder of Winchester.
Will liked what he saw: a city prosperous and thriving. While Roger didn’t know the exact population, he estimated it to be between six and eight thousand, which made it one of England’s larger cities. It had its own fair, its own saint, and a proud history, for it was once a Roman settlement, later the capital of the Saxon kingdom of Wessex, and several English kings had tombs within the great cathedral. So many bells were chiming that it sounded as if there were a House of God on every corner, and indeed there were too many parish churches to count, Roger reported, as well as the priory of St Swithun, the nunnery of St Mary, and just beyond the walls, Hyde Abbey. “But,” he added, “there are alehouses and bawdy-houses, too, lad, and I might be coaxed into taking you on a sinner’s search after dark!”
They bought apples from a peddler, fended off a tenacious street beggar, then stopped to watch as several small boys threw mud upon a man in the pillory. He raged and cursed, but could not defend himself from the onslaught, for once a man’s hands and head were locked into the wooden frame, he was effectively immobilized. The Chesney brothers saw no reason to spoil the boys’ fun, but when a drunkard was attracted by the commotion and started scrabbling around for good-sized rocks, they sent him reeling on his way. Shaming a prisoner was permitted, even encouraged, but stoning was not, for the pillory was a punishment for petty crime; serious offenders could expect the gallows out on Andover Road. The entertainment over, Roger and Will continued east along High Street, past the royal palace that was now the bishop’s stronghold, where they lingered to flirt with a pretty girl strolling by. It was midday, therefore, by the time they reached the Water Gate that gave entry into the precincts of Wolvesey Palace.
Their leisurely afternoon ended abruptly, though, upon their arrival at Wolvesey. The atmosphere was charged with tension, and Roger de Chesney was ushered at once into the bishop’s private quarters in the West Hall. No one challenged his brother, and so he followed, too. Will was expecting luxury-the bishop’s lavish lifestyle had long provided fuel for gossip-and the chamber furnishings did not disappoint. The walls were hung with rich embroiderings; the bed was vast in size, piled with feather-filled pillows and silk coverlets; a polished oaken table held gleaming silver candlesticks, an ivory chess set, and several leather-bound books. What startled Will was not the elegant surroundings, but the man standing in the midst of them: a thin, nondescript figure clad in the anonymous black habit and cowl of a Benedictine monk.
“My lord?” Roger seemed baffled by the monk’s presence, too; he sounded very dubious.
“Of course it is me,” the bishop said impatiently, jerking back the hood of his cowl. “Why did you take so long to answer my summons?” He gave Roger no chance to respond. “Never mind, for we’ve no time to waste. That accursed woman is approaching Winchester with an army.”
Roger drew a quick, comprehending breath. “You’ll not be waiting around to welcome the empress into the city, then?”
The bishop frowned; he could never understand why so many men insisted upon joking about matters of life-or-death urgency. “Why else would I be wearing this monk’s cowl? It will enable me to slip out of the city undetected, and by the time Maude reaches the East Gate, I ought to be well on the way to my castle at Waltham. I will then seek aid from my own vassals, from my sister-in-law and the Fleming. But it will be up to you, Roger, to hold Wolvesey and the palace until we can break their siege. Can I rely upon you?”
