When Christ and His Saints Slept

13

Nottinghamshire, England

January 1141

If winter was the enemy, January was its cruelest weapon. The weather was wet and raw, the road a quagmire of churned-up mud, the men sodden and cold and miserable. They were also uneasy, for warfare as they knew it was comprised of sieges and raids; pitched battles such as they faced at Lincoln were rare. But they kept slogging ahead, mile after plodding mile, impelled by the sheer force of Robert Fitz Roy’s will. He’d already done what many would have thought impossible; in just a fortnight, he’d assembled an army formidable enough to threaten a king. When he then announced that they must be at Claybrook in Leicestershire by January 26th, his men laughed among themselves and made skeptical jokes about sprouting wings. But they reached Claybrook on that last Sunday in January, just as Robert had determined they would, and found the Earl of Chester waiting for them.

They all had the same objectives in mind-the overthrow of the king and a soldier’s chance for plunder-and so there should not have been friction between the two forces. Yet there was. It was due in part to Chester himself, for he was not an easy ally, and some of the strain inevitably trickled down through the ranks. But Chester’s abrasive personality was only half the problem. Riding with his Cheshire vassals and tenants was a sizable contingent of Welsh mercenaries.

Nearly seventy-five years had passed since William the Bastard had led an invading army onto English shores, but those sons and grandsons born after the Conquest did not consider themselves English. English was a word with negative connotations, for it referred to a people who spoke an odd tongue and clung to odd customs, a defeated people. Those of Norman-French descent felt vastly superior to the subjugated English, and that muted their hostility. They had not been as successful, though, in subduing the Welsh. The Welsh were a vexing, unpredictable people, fiercely independent, and few of Robert’s soldiers were willing to embrace them as allies-with one singular exception.

To Ranulf, Wales was a mysterious, alien land of foreboding mountains and blood feuds and Celtic craziness. Much of the time, he even forgot that he was half Welsh, for his mother had been dead for fifteen years and her gentle, elusive spirit had faded long ago into the shadows, leaving him with vague memories of a sweet smile, bedtime hugs, and a lingering fragrance of spring flowers.

All that Ranulf now knew of Wales he’d learned from Robert, whose marriage to Amabel had brought him the lordship of Glamorgan. Wales, Robert had explained, was a hodgepodge of rival realms, each ruled by its own brenin or king. The least significant of these kingdoms was in the south, where the Normans had made the greatest inroads. North Wales was known to the Welsh as Gwynedd, and ruled for the past three years by a man Robert respected, Owain Gwynedd, while the third kingdom was Powys, governed by one Madog ap Maredudd.

According to Robert, theirs was a rural, tribal society, lacking cities or castles or comforts, for the Welsh were hunters and herdsmen, not farmers. He’d found them to be a volatile people, equally passionate in their loves and their hates, uncaring of hardship, generous, vengeful, light of heart, often fickle of purpose, but always inordinately proud of their small mountainous corner of the world. Although Robert had tried to be scrupulously fair, it was clear to Ranulf that Welsh virtues were not those his brother would value, save only what Robert deemed their “marvelous, mad courage.”

On those rare occasions when Wales had insinuated itself into Ranulf’s awareness, he’d sometimes thought he might like to learn more about this shadowy land and its perplexing people. But he’d never truly expected to have such an opportunity. Yet suddenly here he was, riding alongside his mother’s countrymen up the Fosse Way as they headed north into Nottinghamshire. The sound of Welsh, lilting in cadence and utterly incomprehensible to his ear, had begun to stir old memories, long buried, of a small boy listening sleepily as his mother talked wistfully of her homeland and family. She’d sung to him in Welsh, and he realized in surprise that he must have spoken her language, too, but all of his childhood Welsh had sunk down into the bottom depths of his brain, beyond salvaging. And he soon discovered, much to his disappointment, that Chester’s Welsh hirelings spoke little or no French.

Their leaders did, of course. They were both men of importance in their own world, for Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd was the younger brother of a king, Owain Gwynedd, and Madog ap Maredudd was himself a Welsh king, Brenin of Powys. Cadwaladr attracted more attention, for he was bold by nature and not loath to speak his mind. He had a ready smile, a certain cocky charm, but Ranulf had come to mistrust charm; Stephen had taught him that. He was wary of Cadwaladr, the discontented younger brother, and Madog ap Maredudd had no interest in satisfying the curiosity of a Norman-French lordling. But on their third day after departing Claybrook, Ranulf found Gwern, who was good-natured and disarmingly forthright and spoke fluent French.

Gwern was a lean, weathered soldier of middle height like Ranulf, but swarthy as a Saracen, no longer young. He’d cheerfully admitted to “forty winters,” joking that it was “pitiful, an old man like me chasing after English rebels,” and when Ranulf reminded him that they were the rebels, he’d roared with laughter, obviously quite untroubled by the intricacies of English politics. From Gwern, Ranulf learned that Cadwaladr and Madog were linked by marriage and a shared jealousy of Owain Gwynedd, brother and royal rival. He learned that the Welsh scorned the chain-mail armor of the Norman knight, that their weapon of choice was the spear in the North and the bow in the South, and that Gwern hoped this war amongst the English would go on for years.

“No offense, lad, but whilst you’re busy killing one another, you’ll be keeping your Norman noses out of Wales!” Ranulf couldn’t help laughing, and was rewarded with a miracle, for when Gwern discovered his name, he exclaimed, “The old king’s son? By God, then you’re Angharad’s lad!”

Ranulf was dubious at first, almost afraid to believe. Gwern saw his doubt, and clouted him playfully on the shoulder. “There are no strangers in Gwynedd. Hellfire, most of us are kin of some sort. And that was quite a scandal in its day-the English king and Rhys ap Cynan’s daughter. Nor was she a lass that any man would soon forget, as shy as a fawn and just as good to look upon, with hair the color of newly churned butter and a smile like a candle in the dark.” He saw Ranulf’s sudden grin and chuckled self-consciously. “Aye, I’ll own up to it, I was mad for the girl, me and half the striplings in the Conwy Valley. Her going left quite a hole in many a Welsh lad’s lustings!”

Ranulf laughed, for now he knew that Gwern was not just telling him what he wanted to hear. He had indeed known Angharad, for she’d been that rarity, a Welshwoman as fair as any Norse maid, with sun-streaked tawny hair that she’d passed on to her son. “I know nothing of her kin,” he confided. “Does she still have family in…that valley?”

Gwern was shocked by Ranulf’s self-confessed ignorance, for to the Welsh, nothing mattered more than bloodlines. “Indeed so, lad. Her father was long dead, of course, when the English king took her, and mayhap just as well. Now poor Emlyn died of a fever ten years back, and Math was slain in a border skirmish soon after. But Rhodri is hale as can be…your uncle, lad, and a good man he is. In fact, his firstborn was set upon coming with Cadwaladr…Cadell, your cousin. But Rhodri got wind of it in time. He’d buried two sons already, was not about to risk a shallow English grave for Cadell.

“I called him a good man, and God’s Truth, he is, but he is an unlucky one, too. Two boys dead ere they reached manhood, a wife gone to God just two years back, a babe smothered in her cradle, another daughter who’ll never find a husband…he’s borne more than his share of sorrows. Small blame to him for wanting to keep Cadell close by the hearth!”

Ranulf was startled by the rush of sympathy he felt for this unknown uncle of his. “Rhodri,” he echoed, and a forgotten memory revived. “He was younger than my mother, was he not?”

Gwern nodded vigorously. “If my memory serves, there were two years between them. He was barely thirteen at the time, and none blamed him for being unable to play a man’s part, but he blamed himself, for he was right fond of Angharad. Wait till he hears I met her son!”

Ranulf was no longer smiling. “I see,” he said flatly. “So her family thought she’d shamed herself by running off with the king.” And although he could hardly blame Angharad’s menfolk for thinking so, he resented it, nonetheless, on his mother’s behalf.

Gwern’s dark eyes flickered in surprise. “The shame was not hers, lad. How could she be blamed when it was not her doing? We Welsh are fairer to our women than that.”

Ranulf stared at him. “Are you saying my father took her against her will?”

Gwern shrugged. “Well, he did not truss her up and throw her across his saddle. But neither did he ask for her yea or nay.” He saw that Ranulf was truly shocked, and added, by way of comfort, “Kings are never ones for asking, though, are they?”

Ranulf said nothing. He’d been thinking that mayhap he might bring Annora into Wales once they were wed and Maude’s England at peace again, for the idea was an appealing one, making a leisurely pilgrimage to this Conwy Valley to seek out his newfound uncle and cousins. But that would have been a fool’s quest. What reason would they have to welcome him, the seed sprung from an enemy’s lust? And after that, he avoided Gwern as much as possible, no longer at ease with the affable Welshman.

ON the first day of February, the citizens of Lincoln awoke to slate-colored skies and icy rain. Cursing and coughing, Stephen’s soldiers grimly manned his siege machines. Slipping in the mud, they loaded heavy stones into the mangonels, sent them crashing into the castle bailey. Others labored upon the belfry, hammering out their frustrations upon the wet wood, dropping nails as they blew upon their chapped hands to ward off the cold. They had not yet begun covering the tower in the vinegar-soaked hides meant to repel fire-arrows, but unless the weather took an even nastier turn, by midweek the belfry would be ready to be wheeled up to the castle wall. Each of its four stories would shelter men, crouching within while bowmen on the top level drove the castle defenders off the wall. The belfry drawbridge would then drop down onto the battlements, they would scramble across, and the final battle for Lincoln Castle would begin.

For Stephen’s soldiers, it could not come a day too soon, especially now that rumors were sweeping the city of an approaching enemy army. They wanted this accursed siege over and done with; winter warfare was, for most men, a frigid foretaste of Hell.

The rain slackened by noon, but the sky stayed dark and foreboding. Stephen did not return to his lodgings at the Bishop of Lincoln’s palace until dusk. It had been an awkward arrangement at first, for Bishop Alexander’s memories of the Oxford ambush were still sharp enough to rankle. He had not forgiven Stephen for his disgrace, the downfall of his uncle and cousins. But once the Earl of Chester seized Lincoln Castle, Stephen’s sins began to dwindle in the bishop’s eyes, and he was determined to do whatever he could to root out Chester’s evil influence from his city and his see.

Supper was neither festive nor memorable, for the bishop’s cooks were restricted to a Saturday fish menu. Afterward, none strayed too far from the open hearth. Stephen and the bishop began to play a game of chess; at least that spared them the need to make polite, stilted conversation. Waleran Beaumont was in a morose mood, nursing a chest cold and bored with Lincoln, Stephen, and the siege. Next time, he vowed, he’d be the one to tend to Beaumont interests in Normandy; brother Robert could have the dubious pleasure of flushing out rebels from their ratholes. He perked up a bit, though, when William de Ypres suggested a game of hasard. Although gambling was frowned upon by the Church, the bishop’s guests knew he was too worldly to take offense, and once a pair of dice was found, Waleran and the Fleming took on the Earls of York and Pembroke. Pembroke’s younger brother Baldwin, the Earl of Northampton, William Peverel, and Hugh Bigod soon came over to watch, bedeviling the players and making side wagers of their own.

There was talk of the belfry, and then some speculation about the Earl of Chester’s whereabouts, for rumors had begun to circulate that he was no longer holed up in the castle. By the time Gilbert de Gant joined the group, conversation had shifted to the new serving-wench at the alehouse in Danesgate Road.

Few topics were of greater interest to Gilbert than women, especially wanton ones; he was by far the youngest lord there, still in his teens. But for once he had other, more pressing matters on his mind. He wanted to discuss the rumors, for he did not understand why Stephen and his battle captains had given them so little credence. He was hesitant, though, to be the one to bring the subject up, for he was a battlefield virgin and these men were veterans. He waited until the first game ended, and while the men were summoning servants for wine and ale, he drew Baldwin de Clare aside. No matter how green or foolish his questions, Baldwin would not laugh, for his own military experience was limited to a disastrous expedition against the Welsh.

“Why is it, Baldwin, that no one believes the report of an army being sighted in Nottinghamshire? Why could it not be true?”

“I can give you one hundred and seventy or so reasons, Gilbert-the miles stretching between Lincoln and Bristol.”

“Does it have to be the Earl of Gloucester? What about the Earl of Chester? Mayhap he did escape…?”

“No matter, for Cheshire is nearly as far. An army on the march in the dead of winter would be lucky to cover eight miles a day. Then you have to allow for all the time it would take to raise an army. We were able to head north so fast because Stephen’s Flemish hirelings were on hand; that is what he pays them for, after all. But I’d wager it would take the Earl of Gloucester a month to muster up enough men. When you then consider time for word of the siege to get out, you’ve now accounted for all of January and most of February. There is no way under God’s sky that an enemy army could be nearing Lincoln, not unless Robert Fitz Roy taught his troops to fly!”

Gilbert was very glad he hadn’t asked in front of the others; he’d have been teased about his “phantom flying army” for days to come. He looked so abashed that Baldwin took pity on him. “Come on, lad,” he said, “let’s go find ourselves some fun.”

Gilbert grinned, ran to fetch his mantle, hoping that Baldwin’s idea of fun was a bawdy-house. But before they could start their search, one of the bishop’s servants was hastening into the hall. A man had just ridden in with an urgent message for the king. Should he be admitted?

Stephen welcomed the interruption; he was losing. Pushing away from the chessboard, he said, “Send him in.”

As the man entered the hall, the bishop leaned toward Stephen. “I know him,” he said. “That is Torger of Hunsgate, a local mercer.” In answer then, to Stephen’s unspoken query, he nodded. “Yes, he is reliable.”

The merchant came forward, knelt before Stephen. “I bring grievous news, my liege. Those rumors of an army-Lord help us, for they were true.”

The hall was immediately in turmoil, as men pushed in to hear, the dice game forgotten. Stephen silenced them, then tersely ordered Torger to continue. Drawing a steadying breath, he did.

“I was on my way to Newark, for I’d agreed to buy some woolens and silks and could not lose the deal just because the weather was foul. But I never reached Newark, my liege. I was only halfway there when I heard sounds ahead of approaching horses and men. I barely had time to get off the road and into the woods ere they came into view. They did not see me and passed on by, banners sodden in the rain, more men than I could count, mounted and on foot, heading up the Fosse Way toward Lincoln.”

“You saw their banners?”

The mercer nodded. “It was the Earl of Chester. I recognized him straightaway. And the Earl of Gloucester. I saw his banner, saw his face. It was Robert Fitz Roy, my liege, I’d stake my life on it.”

There was a flabbergasted silence. “How far were they from Lincoln?” Stephen asked in disbelief.

“They are less than ten miles away, my lord king,” Torger said bleakly, and spoke for them all when he added, “Thank God that the rains have made the river and the fosse too dangerous to cross!”

Robert’s men passed a nervous, uncomfortable night camped just to the southwest of the city. The temperature plunged, and as they burrowed into their blankets in a futile search for warmth, they feared they might face snow on the morrow. But when Candlemas Sunday dawned, the sky had been swept clear of clouds by a gusting, northerly wind. Ice glazed the browned winter grass, glinted ominously midst the reeds of the soggy marshland that lay between them and Lincoln. The city was protected by the River Witham and the Fossedyke, an ancient canal of Roman origin, restored by the old king twenty years past. The river was impassable, running at flood tide. Robert hoped, though, to cross the Fossedyke at a ford known to his scouts, Lincolnshire men he’d sent out at first light. But they were soon back with disheartening news. The ford was being guarded by some of Stephen’s men. The marshes along the Fossedyke were knee-deep in runoff from the storm, and the canal’s water level was much higher than normal, surging with the spillover from the rain-swollen river.

Those listening were dismayed-all but Robert, who said calmly, “If we must cross this marsh, then we will,” and that was enough for most of his men, who were learning to take his word as gospel. After all, they reminded one another, he’d promised the empress that he’d raise an army within a fortnight, and by Corpus, he had. He’d said that they’d meet Chester at Claybrook on the 26th, and they had. They’d seen pig wallows less muddy than the roads of these shires, and had there been any more rain, they’d have needed an ark, and they’d gotten enough saddle sores and blisters to last a lifetime, but they’d covered more than ten miles a day, and it was the earl’s doing. So if he said they’d get through this quagmire, then they would, they agreed among themselves, and they made haste to obey his order to break camp.

Their optimism lasted until they saw the fenlands for themselves, for the flooding was more extensive than any of them had expected. Robert gave them no time to reconsider and they were soon splashing through cold, murky marshwater, linking arms for leverage, coaxing recalcitrant horses, complaining that they were wetter than drowned cats, swearing when the mud threatened to suck off their boots, and shouting in triumph when they caught a dull grey gleam through the waist-high rushes ahead.

The waters of the Fossedyke ran fast and cold, surging west toward the River Trent. On the opposite bank, Stephen’s sentries sat their horses in astonishment, staring across at these wet, muddied apparitions as if doubting their own senses. Robert and his battle captains drew rein at the canal’s edge, trying to gauge its depth. It was, they agreed, not as shallow as it should be. But the ford must still be there, else Stephen would not have posted guards.

“Well,” Robert concluded, to no one’s surprise, “there is but one way to find out.” But he then startled them all by saying, “It is only fair that I be the one to test it. If I seem likely to make it across, I’d welcome some help on the other side,” he added dryly, and drawing his sword from its scabbard, he spurred his stallion forward into the water.

Chester was the first to react. His flaws might be beyond counting, as his enemies alleged, but none had ever accused him of timidity. “What are we waiting for?” he challenged, and charged into the Fossedyke after Robert.

Ranulf and Brien were quick to follow, but it was the Welsh prince Cadwaladr who made sure that no man would dare balk. “Come on, lads,” he called out cheerfully in Welsh, “let’s show these pampered English that they need not fear getting their feet wet!” And laughing as if he relished nothing more than a winter’s soaking in icy waters, he plunged into the Fossedyke. The Welsh needed no further urging, scrambled down the bank and splashed into the canal.

After that, they all had to cross over, even those who most feared drowning, for they could not let themselves be shamed by these “misbegotten Welsh churls,” and they waded into the Fossedyke, shivering and cursing at the first shock of frigid water on their legs. Fortunately the storm-fed current was still not too deep at the ford, and by the time they reached the opposite shore, there was no need to fumble for weapons. Stephen’s vastly outnumbered guards were already in retreat, fleeing with a frantic warning for Stephen, that the enemy would soon be at the city gates.

February 2nd was a holy day of special significance, the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, commonly known as Candlemas. Stephen heard Mass in the great cathedral of St Mary, and dozens of anxious citizens crowded into the church to hear the bishop celebrate the Eucharist and to study the king for clues, for some indication as to what he meant to do. They already knew he was being advised to withdraw, to leave behind enough men to hold Lincoln until he could return with a larger army. That rumor had raced through the city, faster than any fire and just as frightening, for the men and women of Lincoln would feel safe only as long as Stephen was personally taking charge of their defense.

It was not surprising, therefore, that they reacted with such alarm when Stephen’s candle suddenly snapped in half as he held it out to the bishop. A simple mishap…or a sinister portent? Judging from the murmuring he heard sweeping the church, Stephen well knew which explanation seemed more likely to the congregation. During the remainder of the Mass, he could not keep his thoughts upon the Almighty as he ought, distracted by his anger and his disappointment. For if they were so sure that a broken candle was an ill omen, their faith in his kingship must be wavering.

Once the Mass was done, Stephen headed toward the transept door leading out into the cloister garth, waving his companions away when they started to follow. He was given only a brief respite, though, only a few moments of quiet and solitude, for Waleran soon grew impatient and barged out into the cloisters after him, with the Earls of Northampton and York close behind.

“We need to talk, my liege,” Waleran insisted, “for we’ve settled nothing. As I told you last night, we ought not to let them force us into any rash action. We’d be foolish to take the field without enough men to make sure victory would be ours.”

Stephen had heard all this before, until the early hours of the morning. “And as I told you, Waleran,” he said testily, “I will not run from rebels.”

“Stay here in Lincoln, then. But call up the shire levies, let us summon our own vassals-” Waleran broke off in exasperation, for Stephen was no longer listening. Turning to find out why, he saw William de Ypres striding up the walkway toward them. Ypres had scandalized the bishop by missing the Candlemas Mass, instead riding off to judge for himself the immediacy of the danger posed by Robert Fitz Roy’s army. One look at his face now was enough to warn them that they’d not like what they were about to hear.

“If you’re all still debating what to do,” Ypres said grimly, “I can make it easy for you. We’re running out of choices, for we’ve run out of time. That flooded quagmire everyone was so sure could not be crossed? Well, someone neglected to tell Robert Fitz Roy it was impassable.”

There were exclamations at that, for by now all of Stephen’s battle commanders were crowding into the cloister garth, along with the bishop and more and more of the town’s apprehensive citizens. But Stephen ignored their clamoring.

“So they got across the marshes,” he said, not bothering-as some of the others were-with futile denials. It mattered little if every living soul in Christendom would have sworn it could not be done; if William de Ypres said it was so, Stephen did not doubt him. “And the Fossedyke?” he asked, although he was already anticipating what the Fleming would say.

“They crossed at the ford, whilst your guards fled like women. By the time I got there, they were lighting fires to thaw themselves out. What they do next depends upon you, my liege-whether you come out to give battle or force them to besiege the city.”

“Are we outnumbered?”

“As far as I could tell, but not by much. And you have the more seasoned soldiers under your command. The Welsh are worthless on the field, will break and run at their first chance. As for the Cheshiremen…who knows what they’ll do when put to the test? If you are asking me, my liege, if we can win, I’d say you can. But I’m no soothsayer, cannot promise you victory.”

“Just so,” Waleran said emphatically. “Why should we risk defeat when there are other roads still open to us? I say we hold fast within the town, then send for an army that can give us certain victory. It makes no sense to take the field unless we can be sure of the outcome, and for that, we will need more than God’s Favor and the good wishes of the townspeople.”

The bishop was highly indignant. “My lord Earl of Worcester, you blaspheme,” he said hotly, “for what power can be greater than God’s Favor?”

Waleran could see the bishop was ready to launch into a lengthy lecture, and he sought to head it off with a brusque admission that he had “misspoken.” But he was too late, the damage already done, for Stephen was glaring at him accusingly.

“Do you think I fear God’s Judgment?” Stephen demanded. “Those men are rebels, in arms against their lawful king. How could the Almighty ever give them victory? No, I will not shrink from this battle. Better to make an end to this, here and now. We have right on our side and I am willing to prove it upon the field. I’ll not cower behind these walls whilst traitors and renegades threaten the peace of my realm. We will fight and we will win.”

SO sure was Robert that Stephen would come out to confront them that as soon as his men were dried off, he set about assembling them in battle array. This sparked an argument with the Earl of Chester, who insisted that he should have the honour of striking the first blow, the quarrel being his. But Robert pointed out that Maude’s grievance was greater, and he prevailed.

Robert’s battle tactics held no surprises, for he was a highly capable commander but not an innovative one, and he chose the traditional formation: two lines of horsemen flanking the center, which would fight on foot. The left wing, or vanguard, would lead the first assault, and for that crucial offensive, Robert shrewdly chose those men who’d had their lands confiscated by Stephen, men like Baldwin de Redvers and William Fitz Alan, men with nothing to lose. These knights, the “Disinherited,” would fight under the most formidable of Robert’s battle captains, Miles Fitz Walter. Chester was to have command of the center, and Robert himself took the right wing, while the Welsh were positioned out in front of his mounted knights.

Robert then made the commander’s customary speech to his troops, reviling the enemy and predicting victory, for their cause was just. A prayer was said and a priest called upon the Almighty to bless their efforts with success.

By then, Stephen’s army had already ridden out through the city’s West Gate. Aligning his men along the slope that extended from the town wall down to the Fossedyke, Stephen thus began with a tactical advantage, for the enemy would have to charge uphill. Stephen chose to command his center, entrusting his left wing to William de Ypres and the Earl of York, who’d earned his earldom by defeating the Scots king so decisively at the battle in Yorkshire two summers ago. His right wing was, like Robert’s, a division of mounted knights, leadership shared among the Earls of Worcester, Pembroke, Surrey, Northampton, and Richmond and Hugh Bigod, for none of those prideful lords were willing to defer to the others.

Because Stephen’s voice was softly pitched and did not carry well, young Baldwin de Clare was chosen to speak to the troops on the king’s behalf, and pleased by the honour, he began zestfully ridiculing their enemies, promising both victory and retribution. But his spirited oration was cut off in midflow by the blaring of trumpets. Not willing to wait any longer, the other army was moving to the attack.

Ranulf had asked to fight under Robert’s command. Never had he been so proud of his brother as in the weeks of this campaign. Robert did not have a flamboyant bone in his body; he weighed his words and pondered his actions, and in both speech and manner, showed all the elan and flair of a sedate, scholarly clerk. Even when he’d plunged into the Fossedyke, he’d made it seem perfectly natural and not particularly heroic. Ranulf loved his brother dearly, knew him to be a man of honour. But until now he’d not appreciated just what Robert could accomplish in his quiet, understated way. He yearned to tell Robert of his newfound admiration, but of course he could not, for that would have embarrassed them both. Instead, he said a special prayer for Robert’s safety, and then reined in his stallion at Robert’s side so they could watch together the beginning of the battle.

Ranulf had never fought in a pitched battle between equal forces, his experiences of warfare limited to Geoffrey’s skirmishings in Normandy and raids upon Worcester and Nottingham with Robert and Miles. He was by turns, excited, apprehensive, fearful, and eager, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw those same contradictory emotions chasing across the faces of his friends. Gilbert urged his mount forward to ask, “Ranulf, think you that Ancel is with Stephen’s army?”

“I hope not,” Ranulf said, but he did hope Gervase Fitz Clement was fighting with Stephen, and God forgive him, but he hoped, too, that when the dead were counted at day’s end, Annora’s husband would be amongst them. He was too ashamed to admit it, and felt a superstitious pang of unease, for what goes around comes around and evil rebounds upon the wisher. He could not help himself, though, for the thought persisted: How much easier it would be if Annora were widowed on this Candlemas Sunday.

Miles signaled and his trumpets blasted again; the horses lengthened stride. Up on the hillside, Stephen’s vanguard began a slow advance upon the enemy. The wind unfurled their banners; Waleran and Hugh Bigod were in the forefront. They had lowered their lances, preparing to joust in the French fashion, a formalized fighting that knights favored, for it looked dashing and chivalrous and rarely resulted in fatalities. But the Disinherited were not interested in tournament-style tilting. They wanted victory and vengeance and blood, and they spurred their stallions forward with wild yells, eager to sheathe their swords in enemy flesh, slamming into Stephen’s knights with enough force to send horses back on their haunches.

Lances were useless in close quarters, and were hastily flung aside as men struggled to draw their swords, to defend themselves against this murderous onslaught. The Disinherited knights bore in with savage single-mindedness, not seeking to take prisoners or collect ransoms, just to slay as many of their foes as they could, and Stephen’s astonished earls found themselves fighting for their lives.

It was not a fair match, men with nothing to lose against those with little to gain, and it was over with shocking abruptness. As Miles charged at a knight on a bay destrier, the horse shied away, and when it bolted, the rider let it go. And as suddenly as that, Stephen’s vanguard broke and ran. The earls made no attempt to halt the flight. Instead, they joined it, and within moments, the muddy slope was emptied of all but dropped weapons and sprawling bodies. As both armies looked on in amazement, Stephen’s men spurred their horses away from the field, racing toward the north with the Disinherited in triumphant pursuit.

Stephen was stunned; four of the five fugitive earls owed their earldoms to him. He could not believe they’d betray his trust like this, kept watching for them to rally their men and return to the field. But they were not coming back, Waleran and Northampton and Surrey, men of proven courage, fleeing like cravens, abandoning their king. All around him, he saw dismayed and distraught faces. Baldwin de Clare, flushed with shame on his brother Pembroke’s behalf. Gilbert de Gant, wax-white and wide-eyed, looking much too young to die on this Candlemas battlefield. William Peverel, whose loyalty Stephen had once doubted, and the citizens of Lincoln, who had as much to lose as Stephen did. He read the fear in their eyes, and said reassuringly, “The battle is not over yet.” Swinging about toward the distant forces of his left wing, he signaled them to the attack.

Ranulf’s ears were ringing, for men were shouting and cheering as if they were spectators at a rousing game of camp-ball. He was just as jubilant, but he also felt a small, unwelcome pinch of sympathy for Stephen, deserted by the very men whom he had most reason to trust. And then the shouting changed, and he soon saw why, for Stephen’s left wing was in motion, galloping straight toward them.

Ranulf unsheathed his sword, looked to Robert for guidance. But between them and William de Ypres’s oncoming knights were the Welsh. They were so poorly armed that Ranulf winced as they ran to meet the attack, and felt a sudden flare of anger at Chester and Robert, for putting them in a position of such peril. He wore a chain-mail hauberk that protected him from neck to knees, and a steel helmet with nose guard. The Welsh had padded leather tunics, legs and arms bared to enemy blows, small shields, and spears to deflect sword thrusts. If he feared for them, though, they did not seem to fear for themselves, charging forward with the same beguiling, mad bravado that had sent them splashing into the icy waters of the Fossedyke.

What happened next was horrifying to Ranulf, for William de Ypres and the Earl of York and their men rode the Welsh down. It looked like a slaughter, swords flashing and bodies going under the flailing hooves, men crying out to God in three tongues: Welsh, French, and Flemish. But as the knights and Flemings raced on, many of the downed Welsh were stumbling to their feet, apparently neither mortally hurt nor much disheartened, for instead of fleeing the field like Stephen’s defeated vanguard, some of them heeded Cadwaladr and Madog ap Maredudd and sprinted toward the Earl of Chester’s wind-whipped banner.

It did not occur to Ranulf to wonder why he was so concerned about the safety of these alien Welsh mercenaries. He had time only for a heartfelt hope that Gwern was among those hastening to join Chester’s center, not one of the bodies trampled underfoot by those battle-maddened war-horses. And then Ypres and York and their Flemings were upon them.

It was Ranulf’s first encounter with hand-to-hand combat, and it changed forever his view of war as a gallant, glorious adventure. This was an ugly, desperate, deadly brawl, a drunken alehouse free-for-all, except that he faced swords, not fists, with far more to fear than bruises or a bloodied nose. He’d been trained in the use of weapons, knew how to dodge and parry blows and keep his shield close against his unprotected left side. But so did the enemy.

Almost at once, he found himself crossing swords with a yelling youth in bloodied armor. Welsh blood, Ranulf thought, and jerked back just in time, as the blade slashed past his ear. The Fleming had mottled skin, a bright-yellow beard. His mouth was contorted, his breath coming in grunts as he moved in to strike again. Their shields thudded together, and for a moment of odd intimacy, they were near enough to see into each other’s eyes. His enemy’s were green. Ranulf would remember those eyes and that face, for this was to be the first man he ever killed. The Fleming looked shocked as Ranulf’s sword thrust through his mail, up under his ribs. Ranulf was shocked, too. He wrenched his sword free, blade dark with blood, and found that he could not swallow, had not even enough saliva to spit. He’d noticed before the battle that many soldiers carried small flasks or wineskins on their belts, had not understood the significance. He did now. Men who went too often into battle had more need of wine than any drunkard.

Some knights had gone down, for there were riderless horses milling about on the field, terrified without the familiar feel of their riders upon their backs, yet still hovering near the fighting. Like horses who’d balk at leaving their stalls even if the stable were in flames, Ranulf thought, and then decided he must be going mad, else why be thinking of stable fires in the midst of Armageddon? He had another clash with an enemy knight, inconclusive but not unsatisfactory, for they both survived it. He had just two objectives-staying alive and finding Robert-and when he did spot his brother, it was as he’d feared. Robert was being hard pressed on all sides, a tempting target for any man hoping to curry favor with Stephen.

Ranulf began to fight his way over. But he was still yards from his brother when a knight on a lathered black stallion careened into him, knocking his horse to its knees. The knight rose in his stirrups, sword poised to strike, and Ranulf swung his shield up to deflect the blow. The impact rocked him back in the saddle, and suddenly his shield was gone, the strap breaking as his stallion lurched to its feet. By then the other knight was attacking again, and this time his sword’s tip caught and tore away metal rings from Ranulf’s hauberk. Pain seared down Ranulf’s arm. He ducked low in the saddle as the follow-through whizzed over his head. But the tide of battle shifted then, swept his foe away, and he turned again to look for Robert.

Robert’s danger was even greater now. He’d been unhorsed, was struggling to protect himself from three determined opponents, one on horseback, two on foot. He’d not been forsaken by his household knights, but they were in trouble themselves, for William de Ypres knew how devastating Robert’s death or capture would be, and his Flemings were jostling and cursing one another in their eagerness to get to the Earl of Gloucester.

Ranulf put his horse into a hard gallop, and the game animal plunged forward, crashing into the Flemings walling his brother in. He had no clear memory of the next moments, a blur of clashing swords and grappling bodies. His stallion, teeth bared like a huge, savage dog, raked open the neck of a screaming bay destrier, and then they were sliding in the mud, going down, and as Ranulf hit the ground, the truth hit him, too, that they were losing.

The Earl of Chester’s trumpets sounded, his banner took the wind, and his men began advancing up the muddy hillside toward the royal standard of the English king. The whole of the battlefield was open to view, for the few trees growing upon the slope had been stripped of all obscuring leaves, were now barren winter skeletons rising against the pale February sky. They had not covered much ground before it became apparent to them all that their right wing was laboring and might not be able to hold.

Chester called for a halt. He prided himself upon making decisions that were swift and spontaneous, that “came from the gut,” and he knew at once what he must do. He had the blackest eyes Brien Fitz Count had ever seen, and as his imagination caught fire, they glowed like smoldering coals.

“Stephen can wait,” he said. “If we do not come to Gloucester’s aid, that accursed Flemish whoreson might well prevail. But if we join the fray, we can trap his men between us, and his Flemings will scatter to the winds, intent only upon saving their own skins. Stephen does not pay them enough to die for him, now does he? Then we can turn upon Stephen at our ease, gaining so great a victory that men will be talking of nothing else for years to come!”

Brien glanced back at that seething mass of men and horses, his every instinct urging him to go to the rescue of their beleaguered right wing. How could he do nothing whilst Robert went down to defeat and mayhap death, Robert who was his friend and Maude’s brother? “But what if Stephen then attacks us from behind? We could be the ones entrapped, not Ypres.”

“He’ll not have the chance, for even now Miles Fitz Walter must be on his way back to the field.” Chester’s teeth flashed white in his dark face, in a wolfish, avid smile that could already taste victory. “That Devil’s whelp and I loathe each other, it’s no secret. I’ve vowed to outlive him, if only for the pleasure of pissing on his grave. But Fitz Walter is still the man I’d want at my back, sword in hand, be it on the battlefield or in an alley of the Southwark stews,” he said and gave a loud, ringing laugh. “He’ll keep Stephen too busy to spare even a thought for us. On that I would wager my castle at Lincoln, my lustful little wife, and indeed, my hopes for salvation and Life Everlasting!”

“You’ll be wagering your earthly life, too, and mine, and the lives of every man fighting under our banners,” Brien warned, but that did not faze Chester in the least. He was already turning away, beginning to shout orders.

Victory was at hand. William de Ypres had fought in enough battles to read the signs. The faces of his enemies showed fatigue and fear and a despairing recognition of their own defeat. They’d not yet lost the will to fight, but slowly, inexorably, they were giving ground, being pushed back toward the cold grey waters of the Fossedyke.

The wind gave a muted warning, carrying ahead the sounds of shouting, thudding feet, echoes of a trumpet fanfare. The Flemings paid no heed, caught up in the frenzy of the battle. Ypres was one of the few who did. Cursing in Flemish, he swung his stallion about, tried frantically to alert his men to this new danger. But it was too late; Chester’s soldiers were almost upon them.

The fighting was brutal, but brief. Robert’s knights surged back with renewed vigor, Chester’s men were eager to rout the hated Flemings so they could seek the battle’s real prize-the king-and Ypres’s soldiers, finding themselves outnumbered and overwhelmed, soon reached Chester’s cynical conclusion: that Stephen was not paying them enough to die for him. First one and then another wheeled his horse, and then they were all in flight across the field, away from the fighting. William de Ypres and the Earl of York attempted at first to rally them, saw the futility in it, and they, too, fled.

For once the Earl of Chester got all the accolades he felt he deserved, and he found acclaim was especially sweet when it came from men who detested him. Shoving his way through to his father-in-law’s side, he thrust a wineskin at Robert, waited impatiently as the older man drank in gulps.

“We’re not done yet,” he said, and looked about at Robert’s bleeding, battered knights and his own gleeful Cheshiremen. “But bear in mind,” he warned, “that the king is mine!”

AS soon as Chester’s center halted its advance, Stephen guessed what the rebel earl meant to do, and he immediately gave the order to attack. His men started down the slope, swords drawn. But by then Miles Fitz Walter had halted the pursuit of Stephen’s runaway earls, rounded up most of his own men, and headed back toward the battlefield. They arrived onto a scene of utter chaos. At first glance, it looked as if their center was attacking their right wing, and a few of the Disinherited briefly suspected it might indeed be so, for it was generally agreed that the Earl of Chester would double-cross the Devil on a good day. Miles needed just one look, though, to comprehend what had happened in his absence. “Seek out the king!” he commanded, and his knights charged over the crest of the hill.

Stephen’s soldiers scattered as the Disinherited rode into their midst. But they did not lose heart, and quickly rallied to Stephen’s side. Miles had the advantage of surprise, but they had the greater numbers, and some of the fiercest fighting of the battle now took place. Stephen more than held his own, and when he caught a glimpse of Baldwin de Redvers, he lunged forward like a man possessed, for at last his enemy had a familiar face. After months and months of combating rumors and suspicions and smoke, he now had a flesh-and-blood foe before him, a rebel baron who could answer for his treachery as Maude could not, sword in hand.

But he never reached Redvers. Gilbert de Gant was running toward him. The boy had been keeping closer than Stephen’s own shadow, and he’d tried to watch over the lad when he could, knowing this was Gilbert’s first battle. Now he was shouting and pointing, but the noise was too great and Stephen could barely hear him.

“…fleeing the field!” The youngster darted forward, in his agitation forgetting to keep his sword up. A knight on a blood-streaked stallion saw and bore down on the boy. Stephen shouted a warning that Gilbert couldn’t hear. But at the last moment, he sensed danger, spun around too fast, and stumbled, falling into the path of the oncoming stallion. The knight was quite willing to run him down, but the horse was not. The stallion swerved and by the time the knight circled back, Stephen was there. Facing now a far more formidable adversary than Gilbert, the man veered off in search of easier quarry.

Yanking Gilbert to his feet, Stephen brushed aside his stuttered thanks. “Christ, lad, keep your guard up if you hope to make old bones!”

Gilbert gulped and nodded and then remembered. “The Flemings…they are running away!”

Stephen had been shocked by the flight of his earls. But he took William de Ypres’s defection even harder, for he’d come to trust the Fleming, convincing himself that Ypres was more than a well-paid hireling, that he truly cared who was king in a land not his own. He kept insisting that Ypres would be coming back, that he’d rally his Flemings and return to the fight. But Ypres was long gone, and Stephen found himself alone on a cold, muddy battlefield with the knights of his household and the scared citizens of Lincoln, abandoned by his own barons and his most trusted captains, surrounded by the enemy, men in rebellion against a consecrated king.

They were being assailed now on three sides, and retreated slowly up the hill. But once they reached Stephen’s royal standard, he looked up at the golden lions on a field of crimson and refused to go any farther. They pleaded with him to seek safety within the city, for the battle had been fought within sight of its walls. Stephen was deaf to their urgings, and at last Baldwin de Clare cried out in anguish, “My liege, do you not understand? We are beaten!”

“I know,” Stephen said. “That is why you must save yourselves now. Go and go quickly, whilst you still can.”

They looked at him, and then one by one, they took up position around his standard, shoulder to shoulder as they braced themselves for the final assault. Tears stung Stephen’s eyes, for they did not ask if his quarrel was good or his cause was just. He was their king and that was enough. Their steadfast loyalty made it easier to bear, the dreadful realization that he’d been abandoned, too, by Almighty God, judged as a king and found wanting, not deserving of victory.

The last moments of the Battle of Lincoln were the bloodiest. Encircled by the enemy, Stephen and his men fought off one attack after another, but his foes kept coming back, until Stephen found himself shielded by the bodies of those who’d fallen. His sword was bloody to the hilt; so was his chain mail, even his beard. When he saw William Peverel go down, he lashed out at Peverel’s assailant with such force that his blade snapped against the man’s shield. Almost at once one of the townsmen thrust a Danish axe into his hands, and it, too, was soon sticky with blood.

He’d taken blows, and beneath his hauberk, his body was already darkening with massive bruises and contusions, and he was soaked in sweat, as if it were a day in summer. He was so exhausted that he’d begun to feel drunk. The air itself was pressing him down, and he moved like a man walking through water. His throat had closed up, his head was throbbing, and when he brought his battle-axe down upon a man’s shoulder, it seemed to descend in slow motion, to take days to slice through chain mail to the flesh and bone beneath. But through it all, he could still see his golden lions streaming above his head, gilded by the sun, the royal arms of England.

Baldwin de Clare was no longer at his side, and Gilbert de Gant was gone, too. He reeled back, panting, against the pole of his standard, intent only upon wielding his axe as long as his arms had the strength to lift it. But then he saw a familiar face, and the fatigue fogging his brain receded, enough for him to cry hoarsely, “Ranulf?” He did not trust his own senses anymore. But surely Ranulf was real? Almost close enough to touch, looking so stricken and so young, like Gilbert de Gant, who might be dead.

“Name of God, Stephen, surrender, I beg you!”

Stephen looked at his cousin, poor lad, but with no breath to speak, no time to explain why he could not do what Ranulf wanted. He shook his head and his vision blurred briefly. He nearly dropped the axe and a shadow lunged at him. When he swung the axe up again, he saw that his enemies had backed off and Ranulf was shouting like a madman at a knight sprawled at his feet, his sword leveled at the man’s throat.

“My liege.” This was a voice he knew, low-pitched and quiet, the way he’d heard men speak soothingly to skittish horses. A man was coming toward him across the muddy, trampled ground. There were gasps when he sheathed his sword, moved within range of that deadly Danish axe. “My liege, you’ve nothing left to prove,” he said coaxingly. “You can surrender with honour.”

“Get away, Brien,” Stephen warned, and as their eyes met, the younger man reluctantly took a few backward steps. Stephen’s next breath was ragged and uneven, but relieved. He’d have hated to split Brien’s head open with his two-handed axe. It occurred to him that they need only wait him out, stand back and watch until he toppled over like a felled tree, too weak to keep on his feet.

And then something was happening. Voices rose, there was sudden movement, and men were scrambling to get out of the way as a horse was reined in scant yards from the royal standard. Stephen felt no surprise. He’d hunted with Chester often enough to know that the earl was always in at the kill.

Chester was in no hurry; this was a pleasure to be savored. For what seemed like forever to those watching, he regarded his foe, brought to bay under his own standard like a fox run to earth. Not so kingly now, by Christ. Swinging from the saddle, he put his hand on his sword hilt. “You can yield,” he said, “or you can die. The choice is yours.”

“Yield to you?” Stephen’s voice cracked, for he had to force words up from a throat raw and parched. “Never,” he said, and then his bruised, swollen mouth twisted into a smile, for God had not utterly forsaken him, after all.

Chester smiled, too. “So be it,” he said, and then his sword was clearing its scabbard, and Ranulf flung himself forward, too late. He never even reached Chester, shoved aside by several of the earl’s men. By the time Ranulf regained his feet, Chester was stalking Stephen, the steel of his blade glinting in the sun. He was grinning, looked to Ranulf as if he were truly enjoying himself. He feinted toward Stephen’s left, then spun away and came in again fast, in a low, lethal lunge, and Stephen brought his battle-axe crashing down upon Chester’s helmet. The blow had the last of Stephen’s strength behind it, and Chester went facedown into the mud, did not move again.

The blow had broken Stephen’s axe, the wooden haft splintering away from the blade. Stephen did not seem to have noticed yet, for he was still staring down at Chester’s body. So were most of the men, and Ranulf was not the only one to feel disappointment when the earl moaned. And then someone-a number of men later claimed credit and Ranulf never knew which one spoke true-snatched up a large, heavy rock and hurled it at Stephen’s head. It knocked his helmet askew, drove him to his knees, and a knight named William de Cahaignes, one of Robert’s vassals, then threw himself upon Stephen, shouting, “I’ve got the king!”

Cahaignes kept yelling that, over and over: “I’ve got the king!” But as he wrenched off Stephen’s dented helmet, Stephen somehow broke free and staggered to his feet. His head was so badly gashed that he was blinded by his own blood, and he was too dazed to draw his dagger, the only weapon he had left, yet when Cahaignes sought to grab him again, he knocked the other man’s arm away.

“No,” he said, “I’ll not yield to you, only to Gloucester…”

Ranulf whirled to seek Robert, only to halt, afraid to leave Stephen alone and defenseless. But then the soldiers crowding around them began to move aside, to let a horseman pass through. Stephen was swaying, willing himself to stand erect even as the ground quaked under his feet. He watched as Maude’s brother dismounted, and for a moment, they faced each other on the crest of the hill, in the shadow of Stephen’s royal standard.

“Are you willing to yield?” Robert asked, and Stephen started to nod, but that slight movement caused him so much pain that he gave an audible, involuntary grunt.

“Yes,” he said, but then he fumbled at his empty scabbard, with the puzzled frown of a man just awakening from an unpleasant dream. Only Ranulf understood. Pushing his way toward Stephen, he held out his sword. There were cries of protest and alarm at that, but by now, Robert, too, understood, and he raised his hand for silence. Stephen swayed again, then took several unsteady steps forward. Offering the weapon to Robert, hilt first, very deliberately, for he knew how it must be done, he surrendered to his victorious foe with his cousin’s borrowed sword, and the Battle of Lincoln was over.