man of God, defender of Holy Church, burdened with a feckless, ungrateful brother, a foolhardy king. And Matilda found his sincerity even scarier than Mandeville’s mockery or Chester’s amorality.
Chester was being damned now from all sides, with great zest and considerable venom. Soldiers were not accustomed to censoring themselves. But few of them were comfortable cursing so freely in front of their queen. Matilda’s presence was inhibiting, therefore, and she knew it. Turning aside, she started back toward her tent, smiling at Warenne’s colorful way with words; he’d just described Chester as “able to slither under a snake’s belly with space to spare.” That got a laugh from Geoffrey de Mandeville. “To give the Devil his due, though, he roots out secrets like a pig going after acorns. How many men know about the king yet? Bristol must be swarming with Chester’s spies! He-madame?”
Matilda had darted forward, grabbing Mandeville’s arm. “Know what? Has something happened to Stephen?”
“My lady, we did not mean for you to hear…” William de Warenne stammered. “I am truly sorry!”
“For what?” Mandeville demanded. “Unless…you mean she does not know?”
Warenne shook his head, looking more miserable by the moment.
“Know what?” Matilda repeated. “What are you keeping from me?” She had her answer not from either man, but from Chester himself, for his parting taunt came back to her then. “Chains,” she echoed, “oh, Sweet Jesus, no!” Whirling around, she sought the one man she trusted not to lie to her. “Have they put my husband in irons? Willem…answer me!”
Ypres was already beside her. “Yes,” he said, “it is so. He has been shackled since mid-July or thereabouts.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
That was a difficult question for him to answer; he’d had so few protective urges in his life that he did not know how to justify such an alien emotion. “I did not see what good it would do for you to know,” he said gruffly.
“You had no right to keep this from me-no right!” Tears had begun to sting her eyes, but she made no attempt to hide them, to wipe them away. What man among them would not have wanted a wife who’d weep for his pain? “Whatever happens to Stephen,” she said tautly, “I must be told. You are fighting to free your king. But I am fighting to free my husband. Do not ever forget that.”
Ranulf Fitz Roy and John Marshal led a force of three hundred knights, crossbowmen, and men-at-arms out of Winchester’s North Gate and onto the old Ickniell Way, toward Andover. It was still dark, dawn more than an hour away. The men were silent, tense. They had less than ten miles to go, but every one of those miles would be fraught with peril.
John Marshal’s plan was not only dangerous, but controversial, too. He’d proposed setting up an outpost at Wherwell, where the River Test could be forded. Once they had control of the Andover Road, they would be able to escort supply convoys safely into Winchester. They would have to fortify the crossing, but that could be done with surprising speed; when a castle was under siege, timber countercastles were often put up by the attacking army. This would be far riskier, and to protect their men while they were building a temporary stronghold, John Marshal meant to take over the nearby nunnery of the Holy Cross. The nuns would be sent to safety in Andover until the nunnery could be returned to them, and would be compensated for their dispossession. But Maude and her allies would be bringing the wrath of the Church down upon them for this intrusion into a House of God, and the Archbishop of Canterbury, already irate at being trapped in the siege, would not be easy to placate. It was a measure of their desperation that they’d approved John Marshal’s daring stratagem.
Maude had not been so willing, though, for Ranulf to lead this high-risk mission, and had quarreled hotly with her brother over it. But Ranulf had insisted and he’d prevailed. The argument he’d made was a valid one, that John Marshal was a good man to have on their side in battle, but not the ideal candidate to negotiate with a convent of nuns. But there was more to his motivation than concern for Holy Cross and its Brides of Christ. Ranulf was in need of diversion-however dangerous-for his nerves were fraying under the strain. He was still an optimist, still believed that Maude would win her war. But they’d come so close! Just three months ago, he’d been lodged at Westminster Palace, anticipating his sister’s coronation, and Annora was within his reach, if not yet his grasp. Now she seemed to slip further away with each passing day of this accursed siege. Maude had lost ground that it would take them months to regain. He was trying not to blame Maude for this, but those were months he could never get back, months in which Annora would be sharing Gervase Fitz Clement’s life and bed, instead of being where she belonged-at his side and in his bed.
Easing his stallion, Ranulf now slowed its pace until Gilbert caught up. “I still say you ought to have stayed back in Winchester,” he grumbled. “You act at times as if I cannot be trusted out of your sight!”
“Well…the last time you ventured into a nunnery, you got yourself arrested!” Gilbert glanced up at the greying sky, for they’d outrun the night, would be racing the sun to Wherwell. “What are the chances, you think, of Ancel’s being in the queen’s encampment?”
“More than likely,” Ranulf conceded. “We know Northampton is there. So why would Ancel not be with his liege lord?”
“It could be that he has seen the error of his ways, is now ready to acknowledge Lady Maude as his rightful queen.”
“As if you believe that!”
Gilbert shrugged. “I will if you will,” he offered, and got from Ranulf a reluctant grin. They rode on, bantering, into a waiting ambush.
They had no warning, for the terrain was ideally suited for concealment, the road narrowing and curving as it wound its way up into the hills, bordered by deep woods, tangled oak and beech and yew providing perfect camouflage for the soldiers who now rushed out to the attack.
There was instant chaos, horses rearing up, men swearing, hastily drawing swords, reeling back under the onslaught. What followed was not so much a battle as a wild melee, confusing and random and deadly.
There was no organized retreat, no orders given. It was each man for himself, doing his best to stay alive. Assailed from both sides of the woods, Ranulf’s companions bunched together for protection, spurring their horses mercilessly, for those who halted were quickly struck down, dragged bleeding from their mounts, trampled and left for dead as the running battle surged up the road, until it reached the moss-covered walls of the Wherwell nunnery.
Warned by the sounds of conflict, two nuns and the porter were struggling to close the doors of the gatehouse. They jumped aside just in time as the first horsemen swept by them into the convent grounds. As the nuns and porter watched helplessly, their nunnery was invaded by armed men, all striving urgently to kill one another.
Ranulf’s stallion swerved suddenly, almost unseating him. Steering with his knees until he was able to snatch up the reins, he glanced back and gasped, for had his horse not veered off so sharply, he’d have ridden down a small child. It was quite common for nunneries to take in children as boarders or pupils, and several youngsters had been drawn outside by the commotion. This particular child was in the greatest peril, for she’d toddled directly into the path of the riders galloping through the gateway. Fighting to swing his stallion about, Ranulf yelled, “Run, lass!” But she was frozen with fear. Crouching down in the dirt, she disappeared into the dust clouds being swirled up by the flying hooves. When Ranulf got a glimpse of her again, her little body was being cradled by one of the nuns, and he was never to know if the nun had gotten to her in time.
Nuns had come running out of their dorter, from the bakehouse and the buttery. Not all the women wore the black habit of the Benedictine Order, for widows often lodged in nunneries, renting themselves a safe haven away from worldly temptations and turmoil. But the real world had intruded upon them with a vengeance on this second Tuesday in September. Some of them screamed, fled back into the nearest buildings. Others stood rooted as the battle raged around them.
John Marshal slashed and cut his way toward the church. “Take shelter inside!” he shouted, shoving aside the priest who tried to block the doorway. Flinging themselves from their horses, his men sprinted after him into the church. Ranulf had just traded blows with a young Fleming, their swords coming together with numbing force, clashing in a shiver of sparks. When the Fleming’s horse stumbled, Ranulf spurred his mount toward the church, too.
He never made it. A dog lunged toward them, barking ferociously. The stallion reared, lost its footing, and went down. When Ranulf tried to throw himself clear, his spur caught in the stirrup. He hit the ground hard enough
