Roger nodded. “I will do my best, my lord bishop.”
“Good man.” Turning aside, the bishop unlocked a small casket and tossed a pouch toward Roger. He caught it deftly; it had a reassuring heft and clinked loudly as he tucked it away.
“My lord…this is my brother William. He wishes to serve you, too.” The bishop glanced over at Will, nodded briefly. But before he could dismiss them, Roger said hastily, “Your Grace…wait. I must be clear about what you expect of me. You once told me that if we found ourselves under siege, I was to take whatever measures I must to hold out. Is that still your wish?”
The bishop gave him a level look. “‘Silent leges inter arma.’ That was said by a great man, Roger, a Roman statesman named Cicero. ‘In time of war, the laws are silent.’”
Upon her arrival in Winchester, Maude took up residence in the castle. She then summoned the bishop to her presence. The bishop’s men stalled for time, sending forth the bishop’s response, that he “would prepare himself.” Once they were certain that his delay was in fact defiance, Robert dispatched one of his men with a formal challenge. He sent a spear thudding into the gate of Wolvesey Palace, and the siege of Winchester began.
On Saturday noon, the second day of August in the Year of Christ 1141, Waleran Beaumont, Count of Meulan and Earl of Worcester, arrived in Winchester to make his peace with the Empress Maude. Waiting with two of his household knights to be admitted into the castle’s great hall, he sought to sound jaunty and nonchalant. “Well, here I go…into the she-wolf’s den. Say a prayer for my pride, which is about to be shredded into salad and served up to Maude for dinner.” There was too much truth in the joke for humor, though; this was an ordeal he was dreading.
To his surprise and relief, he discovered that his anticipated submission had been more painful than the actual event proved to be. It was not an experience he’d want to repeat. He felt that Maude kept him too long on his knees, and she made no effort to conceal her satisfaction. But he’d expected to be bleeding profusely by now, knowing what a lethal weapon her tongue could be. He remembered-in disheartening detail-telling Maude that he’d beg his bread by the roadside ere he’d acknowledge her as queen, and he well knew that Maude also remembered. So as grateful as he was for her unlikely restraint, he marveled at it, too.
Mayhap those Londoners had done the country a good turn, scared some sense into her. But no…it would not last. If ever there was a woman unable to learn from her mistakes, it was this one for certes. No more than Stephen could. If the Lord God plucked him out of his Bristol prison on the morrow and restored him to power at Westminster, nothing would change. He’d still go on forgiving men he ought to hang, promising more than he could deliver, failing to keep the King’s Peace. Maude and Stephen, a match made in Hell. What was it Geoffrey de Mandeville had once said-a lifetime ago? Ah, yes, that Maude would listen to no one and Stephen to anyone. Had there ever, he wondered, been a war like this? Was there a single soul-not related to them by blood or marriage- who truly wanted to see either one of them on England’s throne?
Maude interrupted his morose musing with a pointed query. “Are you here, my lord earl, to assist in the siege of the bishop’s strongholds?”
“No, madame, I am not,” Waleran admitted. “I shall be returning to Normandy straightaway.” Forcing himself to add a politic “With your permission, of course. I promised your lord husband that I would aid in his campaign.”
Geoffrey or Maude-that was verily like choosing Sodom over Gomorrah. How much the old king had to answer for! If only he’d named Robert of Gloucester as his heir, how much grief and misery they all could have been spared. Being born out of wedlock seemed a minor matter indeed when compared with Maude’s unwomanly ways, Geoffrey’s perverse humors, and Stephen’s well-meaning weakness. No, by the Rood, he’d had enough. He’d do what he must to safeguard his holdings in France, but if he never saw these English shores again, so much the better.
He knew Maude would make him pay for his past allegiance to Stephen, and so he was not surprised when she demanded that he turn over to her the Worcestershire abbey of Bordesley, for it had been founded on royal desmesne lands given to Waleran by Stephen, and Maude refused to recognize Stephen’s right to make such grants. Waleran yielded with what grace he could muster, which wasn’t much.
“As you will, madame,” he said grudgingly. “I shall inform the abbot that-” He got no further, for Maude was staring past him, half rising from her seat on the dais. Turning, he saw her brother striding up the aisle toward them.
“Maude…” Ranulf was laboring for breath; he’d come on the run. “The window,” he panted, “look!”
Maude darted down the dais steps, with her uncle David and Waleran close behind. The shutters were open wide. Maude leaned out and then gasped, for the blue summer sky was sullied by an ominous cloud of billowing black smoke.
High street was thronged with agitated people, some running toward the fire, others fleeing it. Ranulf and Gilbert realized almost at once that they should not have taken their horses. They had to keep reining in to avoid trampling the men and women surging into their path, and as the scent of smoke reached the animals, they began to balk. After his mount shied and Gilbert banged his head against an overhanging alehouse pole, Ranulf signaled for a halt.
“We’ll make better time on foot,” he said, swinging from the saddle. He was handing the reins to his squire when he heard the screaming. The crowd was scattering, people ducking into doorways of the shops lining both sides of the street. Ranulf followed their example, but then he saw her: a young girl sprinting toward them, her hair streaming out behind her, her skirts smoldering.
Several people were shouting, telling her to roll on the ground, but she was too terrified to heed them; Ranulf doubted that she even heard. A woman tried to catch her arm as she ran by, her fingers just falling short. Ranulf had better luck. Flinging himself forward, he sent the girl sprawling, then scooped her up and dropped her into the closest horse trough. She thrashed about wildly, drenching Ranulf, too, and when he lifted her out, sputtering and choking, she clung to his neck and sobbed. She was even younger then he had first thought, only ten or so, her entire body shuddering with every breath she took. Her wet hair was in his face, had an unpleasant burnt smell, but he couldn’t tell if she was trembling from fear or pain or both.
By now several would-be samaritans had gathered around, and when he asked, a gangling youth in a bloodied butcher’s smock identified her as “Aldith, the wainwright’s lass.” His squire was standing a few feet away, having somehow managed to keep their frightened horses from bolting, and Ranulf entrusted the weeping child into his care. “Take her back to the castle, Luke. This lad here will help you and then find her family…right?” The butcher’s apprentice nodded shyly, and the crowd parted to let them through.
The royal palace was just a few streets ahead. Already, Ranulf could feel the heat, could see the flames shooting skyward along the north side of High Street. Several shops and houses were ablaze, and the fire was moving with deadly speed. Even as he watched, flames leapt across the narrow width of the closest side street and ignited a thatched roof. When he reached the siege site, he stopped in shock, unable to credit what he was seeing. Firebrands were being shot from the palace walls, launched from mangonels in a sizzle of sparks and cinders, raining death down indiscriminately upon citizens and soldiers alike.
The scene meeting his eyes was chaotic. Men were shoving and cursing, coughing whenever smoke blew their way, loading mangonels with heavy stones as archers sought to drive the enemy off the battlements. In the midst of so much urgent activity, it took him some time to find Robert. His brother’s face was streaked with soot and sweat, his eyes red-rimmed, his voice hoarse from shouting orders. At sight of Ranulf, he said wearily, “Can you believe it? Those whoresons set fire to their own city.”
“I saw this done once before, in Normandy. The Breton commander put Lisieux to the torch rather than have it fall to Geoffrey. But he was a mercenary, whilst Bishop Henry…Jesu, Robert, he is a man of God!”
“Tell that to those people out on High Street, watching their homes and livelihoods go up in smoke.” Others were clamoring now for Robert’s attention: his own captains, a man who claimed to be the city’s royal reeve, some of the imperiled merchants…and a tearful nun. “Sister? You ought not to be here-”
“My lord earl, you must help us! Our nunnery is afire!”
Robert swore softly. “I’ll do what I can,” he said, seizing her elbow and steering her toward the greater safety of the barricades.
Ranulf’s first impulse was to follow, but he’d promised Maude that he’d report back to her straightaway. He hesitated, and then John Marshal solved his dilemma for him. “I’ve just heard that the fire is spreading to the west, and I own two houses on Scowrtene Street. I could use some help if it turns out to be true.”
Ranulf didn’t care for Marshal’s peremptory tone, but he didn’t take it personally, for those who knew him
