When Christ and His Saints Slept

19

Winchester, England

July 1141

William de Chesney finally located his brother Roger in a shabby alehouse on Gold Street, in unseemly proximity to the Church of All Saints. “What sort of peculiar folk do you have in this town? I stopped a monk on the street, asked him the whereabouts of the bishop’s palace at Wolvesey, and damn me if else, but he spat into the dirt at my feet!”

Roger laughed. “There is a sea of bad blood between the bishop and the brothers of Hyde Abbey. For more than six years, he has been blocking their election of a new abbot. Why, you ask? Very simple, lad. As long as they lack an abbot, Bishop Henry gets to control their revenues.”

Will shook his head ruefully. “If men only knew how easy it was to commit legal larceny, banditry would be cut in half overnight. That fits, though, with what I’ve heard about Bishop Henry, that he loves money overly well. I came to Winchester seeking a position in his household as you suggested. But first I ought to ask you this: Is he miserly with those in his service? If so, I’d rather look elsewhere.”

“You need not fret about that. He is tightfisted for certes, but he is also shrewd enough to understand that a man gets only what he pays for in this life. Serve him well and he will reward you as you deserve. Let him down and you get no second chance. So…what say you?”

Will shrugged. “If I’m going to sell my sword, it might as well be to the Church. Mayhap the bishop will put in a good word for me come Judgment Day!”

His brother laughed again, scattered a few coins onto the table, and they sauntered out into the sunlight. This was Will’s first visit to Winchester, and Roger insisted upon acting as his guide, keeping up a running commentary as they ambled along High Street, also known as Cheap or Cheapside. The castle was situated in the southwest corner of the city, and had supplanted the old palace as a royal residence. Bishop Henry had sweet-talked Stephen into turning the palace over to him-“back in the days when they were still talking,” Roger said with a grin. He also held the bishop’s palace at Wolvesey, off to the southeast, and had embarked upon an ambitious building project to make Wolvesey the wonder of Winchester.

Will liked what he saw: a city prosperous and thriving. While Roger didn’t know the exact population, he estimated it to be between six and eight thousand, which made it one of England’s larger cities. It had its own fair, its own saint, and a proud history, for it was once a Roman settlement, later the capital of the Saxon kingdom of Wessex, and several English kings had tombs within the great cathedral. So many bells were chiming that it sounded as if there were a House of God on every corner, and indeed there were too many parish churches to count, Roger reported, as well as the priory of St Swithun, the nunnery of St Mary, and just beyond the walls, Hyde Abbey. “But,” he added, “there are alehouses and bawdy-houses, too, lad, and I might be coaxed into taking you on a sinner’s search after dark!”

They bought apples from a peddler, fended off a tenacious street beggar, then stopped to watch as several small boys threw mud upon a man in the pillory. He raged and cursed, but could not defend himself from the onslaught, for once a man’s hands and head were locked into the wooden frame, he was effectively immobilized. The Chesney brothers saw no reason to spoil the boys’ fun, but when a drunkard was attracted by the commotion and started scrabbling around for good-sized rocks, they sent him reeling on his way. Shaming a prisoner was permitted, even encouraged, but stoning was not, for the pillory was a punishment for petty crime; serious offenders could expect the gallows out on Andover Road. The entertainment over, Roger and Will continued east along High Street, past the royal palace that was now the bishop’s stronghold, where they lingered to flirt with a pretty girl strolling by. It was midday, therefore, by the time they reached the Water Gate that gave entry into the precincts of Wolvesey Palace.

Their leisurely afternoon ended abruptly, though, upon their arrival at Wolvesey. The atmosphere was charged with tension, and Roger de Chesney was ushered at once into the bishop’s private quarters in the West Hall. No one challenged his brother, and so he followed, too. Will was expecting luxury-the bishop’s lavish lifestyle had long provided fuel for gossip-and the chamber furnishings did not disappoint. The walls were hung with rich embroiderings; the bed was vast in size, piled with feather-filled pillows and silk coverlets; a polished oaken table held gleaming silver candlesticks, an ivory chess set, and several leather-bound books. What startled Will was not the elegant surroundings, but the man standing in the midst of them: a thin, nondescript figure clad in the anonymous black habit and cowl of a Benedictine monk.

“My lord?” Roger seemed baffled by the monk’s presence, too; he sounded very dubious.

“Of course it is me,” the bishop said impatiently, jerking back the hood of his cowl. “Why did you take so long to answer my summons?” He gave Roger no chance to respond. “Never mind, for we’ve no time to waste. That accursed woman is approaching Winchester with an army.”

Roger drew a quick, comprehending breath. “You’ll not be waiting around to welcome the empress into the city, then?”

The bishop frowned; he could never understand why so many men insisted upon joking about matters of life-or-death urgency. “Why else would I be wearing this monk’s cowl? It will enable me to slip out of the city undetected, and by the time Maude reaches the East Gate, I ought to be well on the way to my castle at Waltham. I will then seek aid from my own vassals, from my sister-in-law and the Fleming. But it will be up to you, Roger, to hold Wolvesey and the palace until we can break their siege. Can I rely upon you?”

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 joked that Marshal would be barking orders to St Peter himself if ever he made it to Heaven’s Gate. Moreover, Scowrtene Street was on the way back to the castle, and so he and Gilbert trailed after John Marshal as he hastened along High Street, using his elbows and shoulders to clear his path.

By now the turmoil was spreading as fast as the fire. Most of the shops had family dwellings above-stairs, and frantic men and women were trying to save all they could, staggering out of their threatened houses with whatever belongings they could carry away. Others were desperately seeking to contain the fires: dousing nearby homes and shops with water, forming bucket brigades. Brooks ran down the center of several streets, but they were shallow, meandering streams, meant to sweep away garbage dumped into the streets, never to quench a conflagration such as this.

Ranulf marveled at the courage of the people. They kept plunging into smoke-filled buildings to retrieve what they could, and when they heard that St Martin’s Church in Fleshmonger Street was ablaze, they rallied to the rescue-the elderly and the young as well as the able-bodied-all responding to the priest’s frenzied plea for help.

John Marshal had quickened his pace, beginning to curse, for smoke was spiralling up ahead. By the time they reached the corner, Marshal’s worst fears were confirmed: one of his houses was already in flames and the other seemed likely to be consumed, too. The neighborhood residents were trying to save the rest of the street by soaking down the roofs. Some were demanding more drastic measures, insisting that they must pull down those houses already doomed in the hopes of creating a fire break. John Marshal at once allied himself with the men arguing against it, for his second house was among those to be sacrificed. Under normal circumstances, he would easily have prevailed, for he was a baron, a man with a notoriously quick temper and a sword at his hip. But the circumstances were anything but normal, and these men were in danger of losing all they had.

The argument raged on, and might well have come to blows if not for the screaming. It was high and shrill and filled with too much terror to ignore. They turned toward the sound as a woman lurched into their midst, falling to her knees. “You are lords,” she sobbed, “you can save him…”

John Marshal pulled away when she plucked at his arm; his sense of chivalry was stunted in the best of times. Ranulf was more obliging, but she was almost incoherent and he did not know what she wanted of them. It was not until she gasped out the word pillory that one of the men understood. “Oh, Christ! There was a man locked in the pillory-”

The woman sobbed again. “I could not get him free…” She choked, clutching now at Ranulf. “Hurry,” she pleaded, “please hurry!”

Ranulf was already in motion, running back toward High Street, the others at his heels. Turning the corner, he came to a horrified halt. The closest house was ablaze, and collapsing rafters had fallen upon the pillory, setting it afire. The man was engulfed in flames; even his hair was on fire, and there was a sickening stench of burning flesh. But he was still alive, his mouth contorted in a silent scream. Ranulf lunged forward, but the heat drove him back. When he tried again, Gilbert grabbed him by both arms.

“It is too late, Ranulf!”

“We cannot let him burn to death!” Ranulf wrestled free, but by then John Marshal was there, shoving him aside as he drew his sword.

Ranulf shouted, but the sword was already thrusting downward. It was a clean, powerful stroke, decapitated the man with one blow. Splattered with blood, Ranulf stumbled backward, fighting queasiness. The other men looked sick, too; one had doubled over and was vomiting into the dirt. Several were trying to keep the woman from seeing, to no avail. She screamed just once, then crumpled to the ground, almost at John Marshal’s feet. Sheathing his sword, he said matter-of-factly, “I’d hope that someone would do as much for me.” They watched him in silence, stunned not so much by his act as by the realization that he was utterly unaffected by it.

With the coming of night, the city took on an eerie, awful beauty. Flames lit up the darkness for miles, smoke shrouded the town in a garish orange haze, and each time the wind shifted, embers drifted down like fiery snowflakes. It was past midnight, but no bells were chiming the hour; too many churches lay in ruins. A few fires still burned, but the worst seemed over. Ranulf fervently hoped so. Never had he been so exhausted. Finding an overturned horse trough, he sank down upon it, not looking up until he heard footsteps crunching through the ashes and debris.

Brien did not have to proclaim his fatigue; his slow, uneven step did it for him. Upon recognizing Ranulf, he limped over, and Ranulf made room for him on the trough. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I fell off a ladder.” Brien did not elaborate, and Ranulf did not probe. They’d all seen sights this night that they’d want only to forget. They sat in silence for a time, absorbed in thoughts neither wanted to share. But then Brien’s head came up. “Horses,” he said, and they watched as riders emerged from the shadows. A moment later both men were on their feet, Maude’s name an unspoken echo between them.

They reached her even before she reined in, insisting that she should not be there, that it was too dangerous, that she must return to the castle where she’d be safe. Maude heard them out with unusual patience, and then said simply, “I could not wait any longer, had to see for myself. Do you know where Robert is? And is it true that St Mary’s nunnery could not be saved?”

“No, it all burned.” Brien moved closer to Maude’s restive mare, fighting the urge to reach for her reins. “I do not mean to belabor the point, but some of the bishop’s men might still be loose in the city, and if you were recognized-”

“Brien, enough!” Maude frowned, but as she gazed down into his face, her mood changed abruptly, and she surprised them by yielding. “If it will ease your mind, I’ll return to the castle. But I want you both to come back with me. You look as if either one of you could be toppled over by a feather, and little wonder, after such a night as this…”

Maude’s guards could not hide their relief, and hovered protectively around her when she insisted upon a pace slow enough to accommodate Brien and Ranulf. As they walked along High Street’s smoldering trail of misery, Ranulf found himself wondering what would become of these people, burned out of their homes and their shops. Winchester was in for a wretched winter, he concluded bleakly, just as a shower of sparks blew across their path, spooking the horses. Maude was a good rider and soon quieted her mare. But then she looked up uneasily at the sky. “Tell me I am wrong,” she said, “tell me the wind is not rising.”

They could not, for they felt it, too. The wind was indeed picking up. Flames that had almost died down were surging back to life, embers kindling anew, flames burning higher and hotter, putting the city again in peril.

The fire raged through the night and into the following day. Driven by gusting winds, the flames razed much of Winchester north of High Street. By midmorning, airborne embers and cinders had soared over the city wall onto the shingled roofs of Hyde Abbey. The monks managed to save most of their livestock. But their church, chapter house, infirmary, kitchen, and stables were burned to the ground.

The sky was an overcast, ashen shade, the air humid and still, as if the night’s firestorm had never been. Daylight revealed a scene of widespread desolation: ashes and rubble and charred fragments of shattered lives. Maude was shocked and shaken by what she saw. Had she been asked about a king’s responsibilities, she would have said that he must safeguard the subjects of his realm, for Scriptures spoke of saving the poor from the sword and feeding the hungry. But faced with the reality of it-a city in ruins, people homeless and in despair-she was suddenly at a loss. What could she possibly do to ease suffering on a scale like this?

She was accompanied by William Pont de l’Arche, sheriff of Hampshire and castellan of Winchester’s royal castle, by her brothers and Miles and Brien, all of whom had argued in vain against this expedition, and by the newly arrived Archbishop of Canterbury, who seemed stunned by what he was finding.

Maude and the archbishop had wanted to visit the burned-out nuns of St Mary’s, but Robert balked at that, for the nunnery was perilously close to both siege sites. He was so adamant that they had to content themselves with an offer of shelter until the nunnery could be restored. But who would rebuild the shops and homes of the townspeople? It was a question that shadowed Maude as they inspected the scorched wreckage of High Street, a troubling one, for she had no answer.

William Pont de l’Arche proved to be too knowledgeable a guide, for he had fought the fires all night long, and there seemed to be no tragedy that he’d not heard about, no sorrow that had escaped him. He pointed out a blackened shell where a child had died. He reeled off the casualty list of the city’s churches-at least twenty, he said, mayhap more. He showed them the spot where the pillory prisoner had met his gruesome death, and he told them what had occurred at St Mary’s Church over in Tanner Street. The priest had rushed back inside to retrieve the holy relics-St Swithun’s tooth and straw from the Christ Child’s manger-and had been overcome by smoke. When three parishioners attempted to rescue him, the roof collapsed, trapping them all inside. “Our city will never be the same,” he said mournfully, and there were none to refute him.

People were wandering about like sleepwalkers, as if the full magnitude of their loss had not yet sunk in. Many clutched bundled-up clothes, candlesticks, blankets, whatever they’d been able to snatch from the flames. Some merely stared blankly at Maude as she passed by. Others sought to get close to her, and when her guards kept them away, their voices echoed after her, crying out their fear and their grief and their pleas for help. She ordered her chaplain to distribute alms, but it seemed a futile gesture, offering good wishes to one bleeding to death, and Maude felt a rush of relief as they neared the castle, for there was naught she could do. But then she drew rein abruptly, common sense forgotten.

The woman might have been Maude’s own age, but childbearing and hard work had aged her beyond her years. She had three boys clinging to her skirts, a baby in her arms, and she was weeping silently, rocking back and forth as if oblivious to the devastation around her. It was the children who’d drawn Maude’s eye, for they all had curly reddish-copper hair-the same shade as Maude’s sons’. The smallest had looked to be about three, and in him, Maude saw her own youngest son, for Will had been just three when she left to claim her crown, when she saw him last…nigh on two years ago.

The woman’s husband had been searching through the charred timbers for anything worth salvaging. He straightened up slowly, belatedly becoming aware of the royal cavalcade. “This was my apothecary shop,” he said. “Over there I kept my mortar and pestle, and in the back, my brazier. Some of my customers came all the way from Southampton, for no one had a better selection of herbs and spices and soothing potions. Ginger and clover and antimony and wormwood and henna and camphor and calamine and hemlock…” Squatting down, he sifted ashes through his fingers, looking up at Maude with a lopsided smile. “Not much for a lifetime’s toil, is it? Our house is gone, too, for we lived above-stairs. Not that we lost everything: Alice found a ladle and our fire tongs did not burn. Fire tongs,” he repeated, and began to laugh hoarsely, a painful, rasping sound that caused those listening to glance away.

A small crowd had gathered, and Robert nudged his mount forward, offering them the only comfort he could, a grim promise that the men responsible for burning Winchester would pay a terrible price for it. Maude’s guards urged her on toward the castle, but she kept looking back over her shoulder, and at last reined in her mare. She was fumbling with a ring as Miles rode up beside her. As their eyes met, he shook his head. “Why not?” she demanded. “You saw them, Miles. They lost everything!”

“I know,” he said. “But do you have rings for them all?” sweeping his arm to encompass the rest of the ravaged city.

Maude looked away. “You know I do not…” she conceded, and they rode on in silence. They’d almost reached the castle before she spoke again. Although he caught her words, he did not understand them, and gave her a quizzical, questioning look. “I was just remembering an old German proverb,” she said in a low voice. “‘In time of war, the Devil makes more room in Hell.’”

Winchester’s great fair was held annually on August 31st, the Eve of St Giles, on the hill of the same name just east of the city. Gunter had not missed a St Giles Fair for the past ten years; it was one of his most profitable markets. He’d expected this trip to be particularly rewarding, for his cart was loaded with goods sure to appeal to discriminating fairgoers: staples such as razors, scissors, and spindles, supplemented by luxuries like incense, perfume, parchment, and quicksilver.

His sojourn in Winchester was to be special for another reason: his daughter was accompanying him. He’d been reluctant to expose Monday to the perils of the road, but it seemed riskier to leave her home alone, for she was twelve now, balancing precariously on the border between childhood and womanhood, not yet ready to cross over, but close enough to see the other side. Gunter’s doubts had been swept away by her excitement; to Monday, this trip to Winchester was as great a gift as she’d ever been given.

Gunter’s disappointment was acute, therefore, when he learned that Winchester would be holding no fair this year, for his loss was twofold, as both merchant and father. Monday was inconsolable, all the more so because she’d come so close; they’d been within ten miles of Winchester when they encountered people fleeing the city.

She was no longer weeping, but her eyes were still swollen and her voice held a betraying tremor. “I do not understand, Papa. Even if the fair was called off this year, why could we not go on into the city? At least I’d get to see it!”

“It would be too dangerous, girl. You heard what we were told, that half the town is in ruins and a siege is still under way. Think you that I’d have brought you to Winchester had I known that the town would be full of soldiers?”

Monday sniffed into her sleeve, obviously not convinced. Gunter glanced at her occasionally from the corner of his eye, but she’d averted her face, and all he could see was a curve of flaxen hair. She was getting too old to wear her hair loose like that. More and more, he regretted not having remarried after Isolda died; it was no easy task, raising a lass alone. “Here, girl, you take the reins for a while,” he said. She was always pestering him to let her do that, but now he got only a shrug, and she slid over on the seat as if she were doing him a great favor.

“Pull up, lass,” Gunter said suddenly, and beckoned to the couple trudging along the side of the road. “I can see your woman is with child. She can ride in the cart with us.” His offer was gratefully accepted, and the woman was soon seated next to Monday, her husband walking briskly beside Gunter. He was young and brawny, looked as if he could hold his own in a brawl, an important consideration in these lawless times. Now that they had three males in their party-Gunter, his hired lad, and the stranger-Gunter felt somewhat safer, for bandits and masterless men were less likely to prey upon travelers able to defend themselves.

Gunter’s generous gesture was indeed bread cast upon the waters, for his new companion had more to offer than youth and muscle and a stout oaken staff, thick enough to crack a man’s head wide open. Oliver was a Winchester man, born and bred, able to provide Gunter with a vivid eyewitness account of his city’s troubles. He and his wife were luckier than most, though, for they had kin willing to take them in until the siege ended and life got back to normal.

“We’re going to Alton,” Oliver confided. “Clemence will stay with her brother until I can fetch her home.”

“And you? You’re not staying with her?”

Oliver shook his head, casting a regretful glance toward the cart. “The babe is not due for another three months, not till after Martinmas. Pray God that the fighting will be long over by then. In truth, I am loath to leave her, but I must go back. I will lose my job if I do not.”

“I’d not think there’d be much work, not if the fire was as bad as I’d heard…?”

“It was,” Oliver said somberly. “I just hope I live long enough to see the bishop stripped of his finery and turned out of the city. If it were up to me, I’d send him on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, with bare feet and hairshirt and no bread but what he could beg. But there is not much chance of that. The great never seem to pay for their sins, at least not in this lifetime.”

“Then you want to see the empress win?”

Oliver smiled mirthlessly. “What I want is to repair my house, bring my wife home in time for her to give birth there to our child-a son, God Willing. I want to see the bishop punished, but I doubt he will be, for the Church tends to its own. And I want this accursed war to end. Let Maude rule or Stephen-you think I care? Am I ever likely to see Westminster? Hellfire, I’ve never even seen Southampton, and that’s but twelve miles away.”

“I’ll own up that I’m not losing any sleep over the outcome, either. I thought it was for the best when Stephen claimed the crown. But if a king cannot keep the peace, what good does he do us? The roads were never so dangerous whilst the old king was alive-”

“Gunter? Is something amiss?”

“It may be,” Gunter said, and there was suddenly so much tension in his voice that Oliver felt an instant unease. The older man was staring off into the distance, his eyes narrowed against the sun, riveted upon the horizon. “Do you see it? It would take a lot of men and horses to churn up that much dust.” Making up his mind, he swung around toward the cart, yelling for his hired man, asleep in the back. “Wat, bestir yourself! I want to get the cart off the road, into that grove of trees, and fast!”

Oliver helped him lead the horses across the field, while Clemence and Monday clung to the cart as it swayed and bumped over the rough ground. “Is this truly necessary, Gunter? Even if it is an army, most likely it is Geoffrey de Mandeville, since they’re coming along the London Road. It was known in the city that the empress has summoned him to aid in the siege.”

Gunter gave the young townsman the pitying gaze of a seasoned traveler for a rank novice. “The Pope himself could be leading that army and I’d still burrow down till they’d passed by. It matters little if they be friend or foe. Would you trust your wife with a tamed wolf?”

Once they’d hidden the cart amid the sheltering trees, Gunter and Oliver crept forward to watch the road, hunkering down in the underbrush. After a while, the high grass began to ripple, and Gunter swore as his daughter crawled up beside them. “Get back to the cart,” he ordered, but then he grabbed her arm, pulling her down again, for it was too late. “Stay still,” he warned, and as they watched from their hiding place, the army’s scouts and advance guard rode by, sun glinting on the chain links of their armor, lean and fit and sun-browned and fascinating-at least to Monday, who’d never before seen men who looked like the heroes in her favorite minstrel songs, the ones about gallant knights errant who had amazing adventures and never failed to rescue highborn ladies in peril.

After the advance guard passed, the army followed, men-at-arms and mounted knights. Monday was so enthralled that it almost made up for missing Winchester. She wished she could squirm closer to the road, but her father held her in an iron grip. “Oh, look, Papa!” she whispered. “A lady rides with them!”

“Nonsense,” he said curtly, but when he raised up on his elbow, he saw that she was right. “Jesus wept,” he murmured, “it is the queen!”

Oliver gaped at him. “How can you be sure?”

“I’ve seen her before, once at the St Ives Fair and twice in London. It is Stephen’s queen and no mistake.”

Oliver had gone very pale. He stared after Matilda, and when Monday glanced his way again, she was startled to see tears in his eyes.

“Papa?” she whispered. “Why is he so distraught? Why does he weep?”

“For Winchester, lass,” he said softly. “He weeps for Winchester.”