The Lazarus Vault

XLVI

The spear quivers in the mud, a hair’s breadth from Jocelin’s face. Blood flows from a scratch on his cheek. It went very close. Even as I let it fall, I didn’t know which way I would go.

His eyes are so wide I think he might have died of fright. For the first time, he looks at me properly.

‘Where did you come from?’ he whispers.

There’s nothing to say. Now that I’ve made my decision, I never want to see him again. I stumble into the shadow of one of the houses and puke into the mud. Anselm watches me — he can’t understand why I did it. I don’t understand myself. All I can point to is a feeling, a glimmer in my tangled emotions that one wound won’t heal another. Perhaps mercy will.

Five miles up the road we find the farm where Jocelin’s keeping the village women. The guards leap to attention as we approach, but when they see their lord being led by a rope they quickly throw down their weapons. Anselm breaks down the door with an axe. The women who hobble blinking into the light are pitiful: their hair loose, their dresses untied and so threadbare they hide nothing. Their necks are gaunt, their faces pale from hunger. And yet their fingers drip with gold — golden yarns they’ve been stitching into dresses for noblewomen to wear at court. Each thread must be worth more than Jocelin spends in a month on keeping them alive. It makes me almost wish I’d killed him after all.

Anselm cuts Jocelin loose. ‘If I ever hear you mistreat your vassals again, I’ll stuff that thread down your throat until you choke on it.’ He jerks his thumb towards me. ‘I’m not as forgiving as my friend.’

We leave them in the farmyard. Jocelin looks as dazed as the women. None of them knows what to do now they’ve been freed.

It’s late afternoon, the sun already touching the horizon, when we find the court. It’s at the frontline of a war, but there’s not much fighting going on. Looking down from a ridge, we can see a patchwork of red and green tents dotting the fields, all the way from the forest to the edge of a river. A siege is in progress: on the riverbank, the army’s set up a mangonel. Every ten minutes or so, it quivers like an insect and a rock sails towards the town on the opposite bank. Some fly over the walls to disturb someone’s dinner; some splash into the water. A few hit their target, though with no urgency.

Half a mile back from the river stands a manor house. Two flags flutter from its tower: the two lions of England, and a gold banner beside it.

‘Stephen gives his queen equal standing,’ Hugh says. There’s admiration in his voice, though not for Stephen.

‘At Winchester, it was Queen Matilda who directed his army into battle and routed the Empress Maud,’ says Anselm. ‘Strange times, when women lead armies against women.’

‘Strange times,’ I agree.

We ride through the sprawling camp. There’ll be no winter grain from these fields. An army moves like a giant: wherever it steps, it presses its boot into the ground and crushes it. These giants have been marauding across England for years now. The imprint will remain long after they’re gone.

We reach the manor house. A peg-legged man sits on the grass outside the gate, whittling a piece of ash. The yard is busy with all the business of a court — so busy, no one thinks to challenge us. We dismount and walk straight into the hall.

I’ve never seen a king before. If Anselm didn’t point him out, I probably wouldn’t have recognised him. In a long wide hall a dark-haired man sits dejectedly at the head of the room, while the knights at the tables gossip among themselves. They don’t make nearly as much noise as they should. Even without hearing what they’re saying, I can sense the conversations are sullen and disheartened.

‘He used to be the most powerful monarch in Christendom,’ mutters Anselm. ‘Now look at him.’

Hugh murmurs something to an attendant, who disappears through a serving door. A few moments later, he returns with a man in a vivid blue robe and long fur coat.

‘Henry, Bishop of Winchester and Abbot of Glastonbury,’ the servant announces.

‘A friend of ours,’ Anselm whispers to me.

The bishop looks like an older and plumper version of the man on the throne. His fingers are almost invisible under the quantity of rings he’s wearing — gold and silver, set with stones that are all the colours of a summer garden. They tinkle like bells whenever he moves his hand.

He recognises Hugh and greets him, then gives me a pointed look. ‘Who’s this?’

‘One of Malegant’s men who changed his ways.’

‘Can they?’

Hugh answers with a nod. ‘Malegant’s coming here. We need to warn the king.’

The bishop glances over his shoulder. The King is still slumped in his chair, staring into the golden cup in his hands. A king should be the heartbeat of his kingdom, the locus of all its energy. There’s something dreadful about seeing him so alone.

‘You’d be better speaking to the Queen. My brother isn’t himself today.’

We find the Queen in a cold, square room facing the river and the siege. She’s more regal than her husband, with creamy skin and hair so fair it’s almost white, hanging in long tresses to her hips. She’s wearing a white silk gown, delicately woven with golden flowers.

She listens as Hugh outlines his fears. He doesn’t mention objects of power or incurable wounds: he just tells her that a man is coming to kill the King. She plays with the clasp of her bracelet, but otherwise she doesn’t show emotion. From the moment she became queen of England, people have been questioning her husband’s right to the throne — usually with the weight of an army behind them. What’s one more man?

And Hugh’s story confuses her. When he’s finished, she asks, ‘But how can they kill him? He’s the King.’

It’s a sensible question. Last year, the Empress Maud captured Stephen at the battle of Lincoln and held him captive for months, until Matilda captured Maud’s brother and forced a swap. I’m not party to an Empress’s inner life, but I’d bet Maud never dreamed of murdering Stephen.

‘Caesar wasn’t so great that Brutus couldn’t stab him.’

The Queen’s an educated woman — she understands the allusion. ‘But that was in pagan times. To kill a monarch consecrated by God …’ She shakes her head. It’s not that the idea’s abhorrent — just unthinkable.

‘These men aren’t nobles,’ Hugh presses her. ‘They’re godless brigands. They killed the Comte de Pêche; now they want to plunge the whole kingdom into anarchy.’

‘Killing a king is not the same as killing a count.’

Hugh acknowledges the point.

‘And have you seen the state of our kingdom?’ She gazes out the window. Night’s fallen, but a crimson glow patches the horizon where someone’s house or field is burning.

‘Crops fail, barons menace their tenants, bodies go unburied and every son turns against his father. Some priests say Christ and all the angels have abandoned England for good.’

Hugh nods soberly. ‘And if King Stephen dies, those same priests will look back on this as a blessed time — a golden age compared to what came afterwards.’

There’s something close to despair in his voice that cuts through the Queen’s composure. She turns to Bishop Henry. ‘You know these men? You trust them?’

The Bishop nods.

‘Then fetch me William.’

Hugh and I withdraw to an antechamber. There are still onions hanging from the rafters — it must have been a storeroom, before the manor became an impromptu palace. Hugh paces the room, while I stare out the window. More fires have sprung up — the whole kingdom seems to be burning.

A golden age.

The door opens. William of Ypres, the captain of the army, sweeps in and strides through to the Queen’s chamber. We follow. He’s a tall, handsome man, with strong features and a commanding gaze. The grey that feathers his dark hair adds to his air of authority, while a lopsided smile makes you want to gain his confidence. I know him by reputation — for years, he was the most feared mercenary captain west of the Rhine. Now he’s captain to a king. Strange times.

‘These men have come from London,’ the Queen tells him. ‘They claim a one-eyed merchant is coming after them to attack the King.’ A royal shoulder gives a discreet shrug, disclaiming authorship of this ludicrous tale. ‘Can you review the arrangements and make sure the King is well protected?’

She’s speaking as much to Hugh and the Bishop, for their benefit: she doesn’t notice William’s reaction at first. The handsome confidence drains away; his face goes grey.

‘The one-eyed man arrived an hour ago. He had a letter from our backers in London — and a sack full of gold for our cause. He wanted to help.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He asked for an audience with the King.’ At that moment, William looks as frightened as a ten-year-old squire. He almost whispers, ‘I thought it would cheer him up.’

Guards are summoned; lamps lit. The whole manor is turned inside out. It takes fifteen minutes to establish the crucial fact.

The King’s gone.