When Christ and His Saints Slept

43

Yorkshire, England

July 1149

On Whitsunday, May 22nd, the King of Scotland knighted his nephew Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, the Earl of Hereford. David then made a public peace with his old enemy the Earl of Chester. Chester agreed to acknowledge David as Lord of Carlisle, and for that concession, he was given the Honour of Lancaster by David. They propped up their precarious alliance with a Sacrament, the proposed marriage of one of Chester’s infant sons to one of David’s young granddaughters. They were then ready to strike at Stephen. After some discussion, they decided to launch a surprise attack upon York, for they hoped the fall of England’s second-largest city would deliver a crippling blow to Stephen’s embattled kingship.

By the end of the second week in July, they were within striking distance of York. It began to rain as they set up camp for the night, but the men didn’t mind a summer soaking after a hot, dusty day on the road. By the time he’d made certain, though, that the sentries had been posted, Ranulf was drenched. He shared a tent with Henry and Roger Fitz Miles, but the Scots king, his son, and the Earl of Chester had their own tents, and it was toward the former that Ranulf headed. As he expected, he found them all in David’s tent, discussing plans for the morrow’s attack.

Ranulf had pessimistically predicted that Chester and David would soon be at each other’s throats. Much to his surprise, the tenuous truce seemed to be holding, due in large measure to the youth who was David’s grandnephew and Chester’s first cousin by marriage. Henry showed a deft touch for defusing tension, a skill Ranulf suspected he’d learned in Normandy, caught in the crossfire of his parents’ marital warfare.

No one noticed Ranulf’s entrance, for they were gathered around the Earl of Chester as he drew for them a map of York’s defenses. The city was protected by two rivers, the Ouse and the Fosse, and high earthen banks, erected over the ancient Roman walls. There were four main gates, all of stone, and two motte-and-bailey castles shielded behind timber palisades and deep ditches. Capturing York sounded like a formidable undertaking to Henry, and he kept interrupting with questions, all of which Chester answered with uncharacteristic patience.

Ranulf listened in amusement; who would have guessed that Chester, of all men, would have relished the role of tutor? But Henry had disarmed them all with his unabashed, eager curiosity. He’d so far shown none of the defensive bravado that infected so many sixteen-year-olds. He did not bluster; if he did not know something, he asked. He asked often, listened and learned, and he’d soon won over not only his Scots uncle and cousin but even the notoriously irascible Chester.

Ranulf, who’d always been extremely fond of Henry, now found himself feeling proud of his nephew, too, so much so that he’d begun to wonder if he’d judged Geoffrey too harshly. As far back as he could remember, he’d loathed his brother-in-law, detesting him for the misery he’d caused Maude. But during Henry’s formative years, he’d been in Geoffrey’s care, not Maude’s. If Geoffrey could raise a son like Harry, Ranulf reasoned, he could not be such a worthless wretch, after all. Whatever grief the man had given Maude, he deserved credit for Harry, a fine young king in the making. God Willing, Ranulf added hastily, for he’d learned, at bitter cost, that only fools took victory for granted in a world so fraught with peril.

The talk had now shifted from York’s defenses to its populace. When Chester and David both agreed that its citizens were almost as loyal to Stephen as the steadfast Londoners were, Henry wanted to know why.

Chester shrugged; he had no more interest in what motivated other people than he did in the history of the Druids. David was more politically astute, one of the reasons why his had been such a successful kingship for Scotland, and he said promptly, if somewhat pedantically, “Stephen has always had support in the towns, for they think he favors trade. He has been generous in granting them charters and he courts their guilds quite shamelessly. And then, too, York has prospered under Stephen’s reign, for it has been spared the turmoil and lawlessness that have so troubled the southern parts. In contrast to shires like Oxford and Wiltshire and the godforsaken Fens, Yorkshire has seen little bloodshed.”

“Not since Cowton Moor, anyway,” Chester muttered, unable to resist this snide mention of the Scots king’s calamitous defeat by the English eleven years ago.

David gave him a cool glance of dismissal, more insulting in its way than outright anger would have been. “Moreover,” he continued, “Stephen has made several visits to York and each time he was open-handed with royal boons. When the hospital of St Peter’s burned down in the great fire of ’37, Stephen and Matilda paid for its repairs, and then founded a leper hospital outside the city. These are the sort of goodwill gestures that people remember, lad.”

Henry nodded thoughtfully. Ranulf teased him occasionally that he seemed to be storing away information like a squirrel hoarding acorns, and he always laughed, but it was more than a joke and they both knew it. This was a great adventure for him, but it was also an education. He was well aware that he lacked seasoning and he was even willing to admit it-to a select few-for he had no false pride. But it was a lack he was eager to remedy, and besieging York would make a good beginning.

There was a sudden commotion outside, and a few moments later, Bennet de Malpas was escorted into the tent. He was soaked to the skin, splattered with mud, and stumbling with fatigue as he hastened forward to greet his lord and the Scots king. But what riveted all eyes upon him was not his haggard, disheveled appearance; it was that he was supposed to be in York, spying for the earl. When he knelt before Chester, the earl said tensely, “You look like a man on the way to his own hanging. Go on, spit it out, Bennet. What do you have to tell us that we’ll not want to hear?”

“There will be no surprise attack on York, my lord earl. They are expecting us. I do not know if we were betrayed or they just got lucky, but they somehow learned that we were marching on the city.”

The men exchanged grim looks, and Bennet braced himself to reveal the rest, the worst. “My lords, there is more. The citizens sent an urgent plea to Stephen, seeking his aid. He’s on his way to York with a large force of his Flemish mercenaries, and he moved with such speed that he’s no more than a day away, two at most.”

Afterward, slogging through the mud back to their tent, Henry was still stunned that their ambitious plans had come to such an abrupt end. The men had raged and cursed and fumed, but none of them, not even the volatile, fearless Chester, objected to David’s morose conclusion-that their campaign was over even before it began. Henry was dismayed that they were letting Stephen chase them off, but he took his cues from his elders and held his peace. These men were all experienced soldiers, men of proven bravery. He would not insult them by questioning their courage. But his disappointment was too sharp to hide, at least from Ranulf.

“I know you are unhappy about this, Harry. We all are. But it would be foolhardy to continue on. We were relying upon surprise to carry the day. Now our foes are not only forewarned, but they’ll outnumber us. Remember what I told you about Stephen-that he may not know how to rule, but he knows full well how to fight.”

Henry nodded glumly. It seemed to him that there were three Stephens, so contradictory were the stories circulating about him. There was Stephen the man, good-hearted and well meaning and generous. There was Stephen the king, inept and easily led astray, with no political sense whatsoever. And there was Stephen the battle commander, tough-minded and fast-acting and dangerous. The men in Henry’s world grudgingly liked the first Stephen and scorned the second, but they all respected the soldier.

“How did Stephen assemble an army so rapidly?” he asked, and Ranulf explained that by calling upon his Flemish mercenaries rather than his vassals, Stephen was able to respond with lethal speed, for he need not send out a summons to his barons and then wait for them to gather their own men. It was costly to keep an armed force always on hand, Ranulf conceded, but they were ready to march at the king’s command. This was an interesting argument, that hired soldiers were a more effective way of fighting than the traditional reliance upon the king’s vassals, and ordinarily Henry would have been intrigued, eager to explore it further. Now, though, he asked no more questions, trudging on in silence.

The rain was still pelting the camp, and so many men and horses had soon churned the soaked grassy ground into a muddy quagmire. Until the storm passed, fires could not be lit, and the soldiers were sheltering themselves as best they could. For supper, they’d had to content themselves with dried beef and bread; for beds, they had soggy blankets. The moors were often chilly after dark, even in high summer, and if the rain kept on, they faced a shivery night in wet, clammy clothes. And all for nothing, Henry thought, for on the morrow, they would turn tail and retreat, never having gotten within sight of York’s walls.

“Uncle Ranulf, I’ve a question for you. I want to know if there is another reason for our retreat. Are you all seeking to protect me?”

“I’ll not lie to you, Harry. That was a consideration,” Ranulf admitted, and Henry came to a sudden stop.

“I knew it!” he accused. “I am not a child, Uncle Ranulf, and I will not abide being treated like one. I did not come to England to be coddled!”

“If your parents wanted to coddle you, lad, they’d have kept you in Normandy. Of course we care for your safety! You are England’s future. Should evil befall you, what hope would we have of overthrowing Stephen? Yes, you have brothers, but you are the one who has been groomed for the throne. You are the one whom men know. So we are not going to let you come to harm if we can help it. Plainly put, a king’s life is worth more than the lives of other men.”

Henry was quiet after that. “I just want to do my fair share,” he said unhappily. “I am not afraid to take risks and I need to show men that, to prove to them that I would be a king worth fighting for.”

“You will, lad. Your very presence here is sending a message, that you do not lack for courage. Show men that you have common sense, too, and they will rally to you as they never did to your mother. But there is one thing you must understand, Harry, for your life might well depend upon it.”

“What is it?” Henry asked, impressed by his uncle’s sudden gravity.

“Stephen did not take you seriously two years ago. But from now on, he will, lad. If you fall into his hands, this time he will not be paying for your return to Normandy.”

They broke camp at dawn the next day. The Scots king and his son made for Carlisle, Chester for Cheshire, and Henry and Ranulf and Roger Fitz Miles for Bristol. Upon his arrival in York, Stephen was welcomed enthusiastically by its reprieved citizens. He was furious, though, to find the enemy gone, and sent men off in pursuit. But he realized they did not have much chance of overtaking their quarry, and a fast-riding courier was soon racing for Oxford with an urgent message for Stephen’s nineteen-year-old son. Eustace was to stop Henry from reaching Bristol.

Ranulf and Henry rode fast to outdistance pursuit, but once they reached Hereford in safety, they eased their pace and their vigilance. From Hereford, they continued on to Roger’s stronghold in Gloucester. They were only two days now from Bristol, and Henry was irked when Roger insisted upon accompanying them south, for he was still sensitive about their overprotectiveness, especially now that he was sure the danger was past. His confidence was confirmed when they rode into Dursley Castle without incident the following afternoon.

Roger de Berkeley was Dursley’s castellan, and he made them welcome, but without much enthusiasm. Ranulf did not take it personally, for he doubted that Roger de Berkeley would show enthusiasm even if he were being seduced by Eleanor of Aquitaine. He was the most melancholy man Ranulf had ever met; even when he smiled, no one could tell.

Anyone so doleful was not good company, and Henry, Roger, and Hugh de Plucknet had soon found reasons to excuse themselves. Ranulf remained, for he felt sorry for Berkeley, who’d been ruined by a war not of his making. He’d not really cared who was king, but he’d had the bad luck to hold a very strategic stronghold, Berkeley Castle, which controlled the Gloucester-Bristol Road. A few years ago, he’d been lured into an ambush by Roger Fitz Miles’s ruthless younger brother Walter, and threatened with hanging if he did not yield Berkeley Castle. Walter had gone so far as to string Berkeley up and cut him down just in time, but Berkeley had refused to turn over the castle, gambling on his kinship to the Fitz Miles family to save his life. In the end, it had. But he’d still lost Berkeley Castle, for he’d had to renounce his allegiance to Stephen to gain his freedom, and Stephen then seized the castle for himself.

Berkeley was miserly with words and left it for Ranulf to keep the conversation going. Ranulf soon ran out of topics to talk about and suggested a chess game until he could politely make his escape. But they’d just set up the board when the castle steward announced that a man was pleading to see Sir Roger straightaway. Berkeley seemed to be a man without normal curiosity, for he was inclining toward a refusal when the steward said, “I recognized him, my lord. It is Malcolm, from the Berkeley garrison.”

The man was thin and balding and obviously agitated. Kneeling before Roger de Berkeley, he stammered, “It…it is me, Sir Roger…Malcolm. I had to warn you, for you were right good to me whilst you held the castle. We got word today from the king’s son. Lord Eustace found out that the empress’s son would be staying the night at Dursley, and he means to see that Lord Henry never reaches Bristol. He’ll be here by dawn, mayhap sooner, and he wants our garrison to lay ambushes on the Bristol Road, just in case Lord Henry gets away from him at Dursley.”

Roger Fitz Miles and Hugh de Plucknet had been drawn by the noise, returning in time to hear the last of Malcolm’s warning. As Roger de Berkeley rewarded Malcolm, Ranulf and the other two men huddled together for a quick conference. They agreed with Ranulf’s conclusion, that Dursley was not likely to withstand a siege, and Roger volunteered to fetch Henry, revealing his concern by the alacrity with which he started for the stairwell. Ranulf sent Hugh off to the stables to order their horses saddled. “I know this part of the country fairly well,” he told Berkeley, “but not well enough. We need a man who knows every lane and byway and trail betwixt here and Bristol, for we’ll have to avoid the main roads. Do you have a man like that, Sir Roger?”

Berkeley assured Ranulf that he did, with much more animation than he usually showed; Ranulf could well imagine his relief at not being caught up in a dangerous siege, one that would have imperiled the only castle he had left. He’d do whatever he could to make sure they were long gone by the time Eustace got here, and Ranulf couldn’t blame him a bit. But it was then that Roger Fitz Miles came hastening back into the hall. “Harry is gone,” he panted. “I cannot find him anywhere!”

When a search of the castle grounds turned up no traces of Henry, the men’s anxiety rapidly gave way to outright alarm. At a loss, they regrouped in the great hall to decide what to do next. And it was then that Ranulf remembered how friendly his nephew had become with his squire. It had not surprised him that Henry should seek out seventeen-year-old Padarn’s company, for he was rarely allowed the privilege of acting his age. Even in childhood, he’d been expected to show a maturity beyond his years, and he rarely disappointed. But Ranulf had come to realize that there must be times when his nephew just wanted to have fun. “Padarn,” he said abruptly. “He may know where Harry has gone.”

“That Welsh squire of yours?” Roger sounded as dubious as Hugh and Berkeley looked, but they were willing to grasp at any straw, and followed nervously after Ranulf as he went off in search of his squire.

They found Padarn in the stables. He was a wiry, lean youngster, very Welsh in appearance; it had taken Ranulf a while not to think of Ancel-and Annora-each time he glanced at Padarn’s raven hair and black eyes. Padarn looked so guilty now that Ranulf knew his suspicions were correct. “Where is Harry?” he demanded, brushing aside the boy’s unconvincing attempts at denial. “Padarn, we have no time for games. Harry’s life could be forfeit if you do not speak up. Eustace is riding for Dursley, and if we do not get away soon, we’ll not get away at all.”

Padarn had a Welshman’s innate suspicion of authority, but in the past year he’d learned to trust Ranulf’s judgment. “Harry slipped out the postern gate at dusk and went into the town.”

What to the Welsh youth was a “town” was to the men barely more than a hamlet, a church and a handful of cottages clustered in the protective shelter of the castle. “That makes no sense,” Roger insisted. “There is not even an alehouse!”

Ranulf was remembering, though, what it was like to be sixteen. “A girl?”

Padarn nodded. “We saw her by the church as we rode in. She had hair the color of moonlight, and she gave Harry a ‘come back’ smile. You ought not to blame him, my lords,” he added bravely. “Had he known about Eustace, he would not have gone.” The Welsh were notorious for “not knowing their place,” and at another time, Padarn was likely to have earned himself a reprimand for that familiar use of “Harry.” But now the men had no time for breaches of protocol; they were hurrying to catch up with Ranulf as he headed back out into the bailey.

Once there, Ranulf snatched a lantern from a passing servant. “Let me try to find him first,” he said. “Eustace could have men watching the village for all we know. If a crowd goes chasing out into the street, raising the hue and cry, that will be a sure sign that something is amiss.” They agreed reluctantly, and Roger promised to have them mounted and ready to ride as soon as Ranulf and Henry returned. No one mentioned their secret, shared fear: that if Eustace did have spies about, Henry might well have been found already-by the wrong men.

The village was half hidden in the haze of a deepening turquoise twilight, but its inhabitants were still up and about, both apprehensive and excited by Henry’s presence in their midst. Dogs were barking; somewhere a child was wailing. Aware of eyes following him as he moved down the dusty street, Ranulf was trying to think like a sixteen-year-old again. What would a youth most want after finding himself a lass with a “come back” smile? Privacy, of course. There was a small pond beyond the church, screened by yew trees and white willows. What better place for a tryst? Weaving his way between the moss-covered tombstones behind the church, he heard soft, smothered laughter as he approached the pond, merriment so quickly cut off that he knew they’d either heard him or spotted his lantern’s glow. “Harry?” he said quietly into the silence. “You’d best come out, for I am not going away.”

There was a rustling sound, the willow’s cascading silvery camouflage parted, and his nephew emerged from the shadows. The girl stayed where she was; Ranulf caught only a fleeting glimpse of disheveled bright hair as Henry stepped forward into the light cast by Ranulf’s lantern. “How did you know where to look for me?” He sounded both defiant and defensive. “I was not lost, Uncle Ranulf, am quite capable of finding my way back to the castle by myself.”

Ranulf’s relief found expression in anger. “You’re lucky I did find you,” he snapped, “instead of an irate father or a jealous husband!”

“You’re my uncle, not my confessor,” Henry snapped back, “though you are suddenly acting more like a gaoler than a kinsman…and I like it not. I do not need a wet nurse!”

“No,” Ranulf agreed, “but you do need a bodyguard, lad. You’re going to have to learn to live with that, Harry. Kings cannot wander off as they please. That is the price they pay for the power they wield. There is always a price. I just thank God and His Saints that you did not pay it tonight in blood.”

Henry was still frowning, but he was more uneasy now than angry, for Ranulf was not given to hyperbole. “Is something wrong?” he asked warily, sensing that this was the question he should have asked first.

“Well, Eustace is about to attack Dursley, the Berkeley garrison is busy laying ambushes for us in the unlikely event we escape, whilst we pass the time playing hide-and-seek with you instead of riding for our lives.”

Even in the flickering lantern light, Ranulf could see the color crimsoning across his nephew’s cheekbones. “I am sorry,” Henry said. “I did not know. It is not too late, is it?”

Henry’s heartfelt apology only made Ranulf regret his sarcasm all the more. “No, lad, we still have time,” he assured the boy quickly. “My nerves are on the raw, that’s all. We feared, you see, that Eustace might have an assassin or two on the prowl.”

Henry’s eyes widened, for this had never occurred to him. “Stephen would not do that,” he said, his tone nowhere near as certain as his words.

“Eustace would,” Ranulf said flatly. “Never doubt that, Harry, not if you want to live to make old bones. Now…I suggest you bid your lass farewell, for we have a long, hard ride ahead of us.”

The girl had ventured out from beneath the sheltering willow. Padarn had been right; her hair did have a silvery sheen. She would have been very pretty, indeed, if not for her pout. Arms akimbo, little chin jutting out, she was clearly losing patience fast. But then Henry came swiftly back to her side, took her in his arms, and kissed her with a boy’s exuberance and a man’s passion. When he finally released her, she looked dazed. Kissing her hand gallantly, he said, “Someday, sweetheart, you’ll be able to tell your children that you once kissed a king!”

“Eustace and God Willing,” Ranulf said dryly, amused in spite of himself, and Henry grinned.

“I hope you are not suggesting that the Almighty and Eustace are allies? I’d not presume to answer for Our Lord God, but I’m willing to wager that I can hold my own against Eustace.”

His cockiness was contagious and Ranulf grinned, too. “I do believe, lad, that you will. Now…are you ready for the ride of your life?”

Henry nodded. “I say we race the Devil and Eustace to Bristol, winner take all!”

Eustace and his men arrived in Dursley before daybreak, but they were too late. Enraged that his prey had eluded him, Eustace set out in hell-bent pursuit. But Henry evaded the ambushes, outran Eustace, and managed to reach Bristol safely. Eustace chased him almost to the gates of Bristol. He did not have enough men, though, to besiege the city and reluctantly withdrew, laying waste to the countryside as he retreated back to Oxford.

Stephen had been forced to remain in Yorkshire that summer, for as long as the Scots king was at Carlisle, York was not safe. He put up several countercastles and did all he could to encourage his supporters and dishearten his foes, but it was not until September that he was able to return to London. He soon joined his son at Oxford, and Eustace set about convincing him that Henry had presented them with an opportunity that might not come again. Was it not better, he argued, to put an end to this accursed war once and for all? So persistent and persuasive was he that Stephen overcame his misgivings and reluctantly agreed to wage war with such ferocity that their enemies would be compelled to surrender-or starve.

Even the pro-Stephen chronicle, Gesta Stephani, was shocked by the campaign conducted that autumn by the English king and his son: “They took and plundered everything they came upon, set fire to houses and churches, and, what was a more cruel and brutal sight, fired the crops that had been reaped and stacked all over the fields, consumed and brought to nothing everything edible they found. They raged with this bestial cruelty especially round Marlborough, they showed it also very terribly round Devizes, and they had in mind to do the same to their adversaries all over England.”

The day had begun with trouble and it got steadily worse. In midmorning a messenger from John Marshal had reached Devizes with disturbing news. Marshal reported that he was being hard pressed by the king and Eustace. They had launched several lightning raids upon the town and castle, doing considerable damage before they were driven off. They’d laid waste to the nearby farms and manors, and when Marshal had attempted to bring in a supply convoy, they’d ambushed it and burned what they did not take away with them. John Marshal was the least likely man to panic, as Ranulf well knew. For him to admit that he did not know how he was going to feed his people through the winter, he had to be in dire straits, indeed.

Ranulf and Henry had gotten similar complaints from Marshal’s brother-in-law Patrick Fitz Walter, Earl of Salisbury, and from the castellan of Trowbridge. Even Roger Fitz Miles had been harassed at Gloucester. Ghost villages were springing up all over Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, as terrified families fled to the towns for safety. Salisbury and Gloucester and even Bristol were flooded with refugees, people with nowhere to go and no money to buy food. Charred ruins were becoming commonplace throughout the desolated countryside, an acrid, burning smell was carried for miles on the October wind, and what had once been fertile farmlands were now scorched, blackened earth. Oddly enough, never had the roads been so free of bandits, though, for even the outlaws had fled from Stephen’s marauding army.

Devizes had not been spared, either. Some of the royal army’s worst depredations had taken place in and about Devizes. The town had been raided a fortnight ago and the castle subjected to several hit-and-run attacks. It was a rare day when Henry and Ranulf could not see smoke from the castle battlements, and their own provisions were dwindling dangerously. It reminded Ranulf of the sieges of Winchester and Oxford, only now England itself seemed under siege.

The day was coming to a dismal end when refugees arrived from Calne, a small village five miles to the north. They huddled together in the great hall, the most pitiful wretches Henry had ever seen, their clothes shredded and ripped in their flight through the woods, scratched and bruised and still shaking with fright. But they were the lucky ones, the ones who’d gotten away.

The tale they told was as deplorable as it was-by now-familiar. The Lord Eustace had raided Calne, they reported. His men had killed those few who’d dared to resist, setting fire to their church and then to their fields. They’d watched from hiding as their crops went up in flames, and they wept again as they spoke of it, for there would be no food to feed the village once winter came. Their houses could be rebuilt, but what could they eat? How would they survive until spring?

They asked Henry these questions, calling him “young lord” and pleading for his help. He wasn’t sure if they knew who he was. They might have been told of his presence at Devizes. Or they might be assuming that he must be someone of importance since he was well dressed and well fed and lived in a castle. He was not even sure that his name would mean anything to them. This war had been ravaging England for ten years. Did these people truly care who ruled over them as long as they were left in peace? He did not know what to say to them. He did not know how to help them. He ordered them fed, and he yearned to assure them that the danger was past. But he feared that would have been a lie.

He stood it as long as he could. But his pity and anger finally got the best of him, and he bolted the hall, retreating up to the solar with a flagon of wine and a head full of unanswered questions.

He was not alone for long; Ranulf soon followed. He was relieved to see the flagon was untouched, for he’d known too many men who turned to wine when they needed a crutch, and sixteen was a vulnerable age for learning bad habits. Henry was straddling a chair, resting his chin on his arms as he stared into the fire. He didn’t stir, not even after Ranulf pulled a chair up beside him. Ranulf was content to wait, and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the flames crackle in the hearth.

“I do not understand,” Henry said at last, “why they do not just lay siege to Devizes? I am the one they want. Why do they not try to take me?”

“I’ve thought about that, too. First of all, they cannot be sure that you are at Devizes. What if they besiege Devizes and it turns out you were at Bristol or Gloucester or Marlborough all the while? None of those castles could be easily taken. Devizes or Marlborough could hold out for months, and Bristol till Judgment Day. And whilst they were laying siege, they’d be vulnerable to attack themselves. That is what happened to Stephen at Wilton. By striking fast and riding on, he avoids becoming a target. By surprise raids, he spreads fear over the entire countryside, for no one knows where he will attack next. And by burning the crops, he takes the food from our table, too, empties our larder.”

“But the others will starve ere we do,” Henry pointed out. “Castles always have food stored away. The villagers and villeins will go hungry first, and they’ll die first, too. Are they willing to do that, Ranulf? To let so many die for no sin of their own?”

“I would have said no,” Ranulf said, “had I not seen this suffering for myself.”

“And yet you claim Stephen is a good man?” Henry sounded hostile, but Ranulf understood that he was not the real target of the boy’s anger. He even welcomed this rage, as proof that his nephew no longer saw all this as a game. He remembered how it was to be that young, to feel invulnerable. Even their wild ride for Bristol had been as exciting as it was urgent, at least to Henry. But this was different. This was war at its ugliest, and no man could look upon it and be unchanged, not if he was of any worth. And so he was sorry for his nephew’s pain, but glad of it, too, for this was a lesson Henry had to learn.

“That they would resort to such drastic measures tells me that they see you as a very real threat, Harry, so much so that they are willing to wade through blood to eliminate you now, whilst they still can. This savage campaign is an admission that they dare not let you reach full manhood. It also shows us that Eustace is the most dangerous sort of battle commander, the kind who cares not how many die as long as he has the victory.”

Henry looked skeptical. “Why are you so sure this is Eustace’s doing?”

“Because this campaign of theirs is both brilliant and brutal…far too brutal for Stephen to stomach on his own. One of Stephen’s worst flaws is that he invariably listens to the wrong people. God help England if he is now listening to Eustace.”

“If they keep on like this,” Henry said somberly, “they’ll end up ruling over a graveyard. Do they truly think they can starve us into submission?”

Ranulf nodded grimly. “Or else force us into doing battle.”

“Hopelessly outnumbered? Thank you, no, Uncle. I like not those odds. I’d just as soon not starve either,” Henry added, striving-with limited success-for flippancy. “Damn them,” he cried suddenly, fiercely, “damn them for killing and not caring! My mother would never have permitted a slaughter like this, never…”

His hair, short and unruly, gleamed in the firelight like a bright, burnished cap, and his fair skin darkened now with a surge of hot blood. He looked angry and shaken, young and resolute, all at the same time. “What can we do to stop this, Uncle Ranulf?”

“Nothing,” Ranulf admitted reluctantly. “We can only wait, see what happens. We are going to have to depend upon the Almighty and our allies for our deliverance, lad, for this is one trap we cannot escape on our own.”

“‘Our allies’?” Henry echoed, and the same thought was in both their minds. John Marshal and the Earl of Salisbury and Roger Fitz Miles and Robert’s son Will were all in the same sorry plight. Rainald was still in Cornwall, Baldwin de Redvers was said to be ailing, and Henry’s parents were in Normandy, unaware of their son’s peril. Robert and Miles were dead, Brien living as a monk. That narrowed the field to two. But by the time the Scots king could muster an army and march into England to their rescue, it would be too late. So “allies” came down to one powerful, self-serving, unpredictable man: Randolph de Gernons, Earl of Chester.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Henry laughed softly. At Ranulf’s look of surprise, he said with a wry smile, “I was just thinking…When my mother got herself into a tight corner, she could always rely upon Uncle Robert to rescue her. And who do I get-the Earl of Chester!”

He laughed again, and this time, so did Ranulf. When put that way, what else was there to do but laugh?