cups. “I suggest a scrubbing with lye soap for your hand, a few flagons of hippocras for the foul taste in your mouth. You ought to be very proud of yourself, my lady. I am, for certes. The temptation to spit in his face must have been well nigh irresistible-”
“No, Willem, you are wrong,” Matilda said earnestly. “It never even occurred to me. I dared not offend him or let my true feelings show, not as long as he holds…”
The rest of her sentence was lost in the depths of her wine cup. Ypres was about to finish her sentence for her with the obvious answer-the Tower of London-when Matilda said, “Constance.” He looked away quickly, lest she read his surprise in his face, for he did not want her to know he’d almost forgotten that Mandeville had abducted her son’s child-wife. Matilda set the wine cup down, snatching up a parchment. “He even brought me a letter from Constance! The gall of the man!” She sputtered indignantly, muttering something under her breath that he’d have taken for an obscenity-had it been anyone but Matilda. “He is still posing as Constance’s protector,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief, “promising to return her to me as soon as her safety can be assured.”
“And what promises did he demand from you? What price does he put on his resurrected loyalty to the Crown?”
“He wanted me to match all that Maude had given him at Oxford. Which I did, of course. It is passing strange, Willem. The more I lie, the easier it gets.”
“Did I forget to warn you that sinning can be habit-forming?” But Matilda found no humor in his joke. She looked down at Constance’s letter again, and he said, quite seriously this time, “You are doing what you must, my lady.”
“I know,” she said. “But what if it is not enough, Willem? What if it is not enough?”
As Ranulf crossed the castle’s inner bailey in response to his sister’s summons, he slowed to watch the crowd lined up outside the kitchen’s door. When they’d begun giving out bread, most of the supplicants had been women and children, for the townsmen had been shamed at having to rely upon charity and had sent their wives to collect their share. But that was no longer so. On this overcast afternoon in early September, most of the people in line were males, for no man wanted his woman or child out on the streets, not anymore. The danger was too great. Matilda’s blockade had brought more than hunger to the citizens of Winchester. Once she’d lifted the siege of Wolvesey, their town had become a battlefield. The bishop’s men prowled the battlements of both his strongholds, shooting at anything that moved, even venturing out occasionally to clash with the enemy, and they included the townspeople in that hostile category, for Winchester had backed Maude, not their bishop, and he was not likely to forgive or forget. The city was now split into two broken halves, divided by the blackened boundary of Cheapside; the bishop’s men held the south side, and Maude’s forces the castle and the damaged neighborhoods north of High Street. There were daily skirmishings, daily deaths, and many feared that the worst still lay ahead of them.
Miles and Robert were standing on the steps leading up into the great hall. The tension between them was unmistakable, and not a surprise to Ranulf, for their rivalry was no secret, exacerbated by the very real differences in their natures and their approach to war; both men were capable battle commanders, but Robert was inherently more cautious than Miles, and that made conflict all but inevitable.
Ranulf was near enough now to catch the gist of their argument, low-voiced but intense, nonetheless. He’d heard it all before, for Miles had been very vocal about his desire to fight fire with fire, insisting that they take advantage of the castle’s high ground to hurl firebrands down upon their enemies. He’d not been convinced by Robert’s counterargument, that if the winds shifted, the rest of the city could burn, and he’d not taken defeat with any measure of grace, continuing to complain long after the issue had been rendered moot by Matilda’s arrival upon the scene.
They turned as Ranulf approached. He opened his mouth to remind them that Maude was waiting, instead heard himself say belligerently, “Robert was not the only one loath to put the city’s survival in peril. So was Maude.”
Miles was caught off balance; he’d long ago tagged Rainald as the family hothead, not Ranulf. He recovered quickly, though, and said caustically, “I daresay Stephen would have balked, too, and where did his misguided mercy get him?”
“We are wasting time,” Robert said impatiently, and turned on his heel. Miles and Ranulf followed in a strained silence. The others were already in the solar: Maude, her uncle the Scots king, Rainald, Brien, Baldwin de Redvers, William Pont de 1’Arche, and John Marshal.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” the usually urbane David snapped; the siege was rubbing raw the nerves of even the most phlegmatic among them.
Miles was irked, but not enough to contradict a king. Straddling a seat, he said, “We need to talk about that mob down in the bailey. I know charity is a virtue, but we can no longer afford to be quite so virtuous.”
Maude frowned. “It is not a womanly weakness to feed hungry children, Miles!”
“I did not say it was, madame. But it is an indulgence. We’ve already cut our daily portions in half, and even that may not be enough. You’ve not been in a prolonged siege, and I hope to God you never are, for it is an ordeal no woman ought to endure.”
“He is right, my lady,” Baldwin de Redvers said emphatically. “I am indeed grateful that you were not at Exeter during Stephen’s three-month siege. My men ended up eating their horses, and when the well went dry, they had to put out fires with wine, until that ran out, too. Had they not surrendered when they did, they’d have been drinking their own piss.”
Maude was not impressed; she hated it when men treated war as their own private province, acting as if suffering were a uniquely male experience that no woman could hope to comprehend. She was particularly vexed by Baldwin’s contribution, for he’d escaped at the start of the siege, leaving his wife behind in the castle. She yearned to point that out, but she resisted the temptation, contenting herself with a cool reminder that “Our well has not gone dry. Moreover, we are expecting aid any day now.”
They had reason for optimism, for they’d sent out writs to Geoffrey de Mandeville, the Earl of Chester, his brother the Earl of Lincoln, the Earl of Warwick, the Earl of Oxford, and Hugh Bigod, among others. Robert created a stir, therefore, by saying suddenly, “What if aid does not come? Mayhap we ought to consider a withdrawal.”
“No!” Maude’s indignant cry was echoed at once by other voices, all expressing the same urgent argument- that Maude could not afford two successive defeats. After the disastrous setback she’d suffered in London, she must prevail here in Winchester. She dared not lose again.
Robert did not dispute them, merely waited them out. “I am not saying that we should retreat. I am saying, though, that we need a plan should it become necessary.”
“Why would it?” Rainald demanded. “Even if a few of these lords do not keep faith, they could not all fail us! Once we have more men, we can force a battle, put an end to this damnable war once and for all.”
“We have to settle this, Robert,” Maude agreed. “If I were to withdraw, people would see it as running away. And what of the townspeople? What would happen to Winchester once we’d abandoned it to Ypres’s Flemings?”
“In war, madame,” Miles said calmly, “soldiers expect to be rewarded for the risks they take. When a city falls, it is plundered by the victors. So it was at Lincoln, so it would be at Winchester.”
Maude started to protest, stopped herself just in time. What could she say, after all? She had indeed accepted the suffering of the citizens of Lincoln as a necessary evil, war’s ugly aftermath. So why could she not do the same for Winchester? Was the suffering real only if she could see it for herself? But she had never seen suffering like this before-hungry babies and homeless women and a city in ruins. She could not admit that, though. They would neither understand nor approve. Compassion was a woman’s frailty, one she dared not show, for it would but confirm their qualms about her fitness to rule.
John Marshal was lounging against the wall, arms folded across his chest, seemingly oblivious to the tensions and undercurrents swirling about the solar. When he spoke up now, heads turned in his direction. “As I understand it, the good news is that reinforcements are on the way, whilst the bad news is that we may run out of food ere they get here. So we ought to be thinking how to feed ourselves in the meantime…unless we really do want to empty out the stables.”
Baldwin de Redvers took that as a jab at his siege story. “I suppose you have a way to do that?” he scoffed, and was startled when Marshal nodded.
“I may,” he said, “I just may.” He glanced around to make sure they were all listening, and only then did he tell them what he had in mind.
It was very quiet after he was done speaking. Maude was regarding him thoughtfully. “You’d be taking a
