When Christ and His Saints Slept

56

Siege Of Wallingford

July 1153

Henry resumed his campaign after the spring thaw. He suffered a loss in May-the death of an ally and kinsman, the Scots king-but he experienced no setbacks upon the field. He captured Berkeley Castle, then laid siege to the Earl of Derby’s stronghold at Tutbury, and once that castle fell, the earl renounced his allegiance to Stephen. Henry then gained control of Warwick Castle, having reached an understanding with the countess, a half-sister of Henry’s new ally, Robert Beaumont. The Earl of Warwick was so distressed by his wife’s action that when he died soon afterward, it was commonly believed that his sudden demise was due to “shame and grief.” After occupying Coventry and visiting Leicester and sacking Bedford, Henry then headed toward Wallingford-and a final reckoning with Stephen.

Stephen had built a countercastle across the river from Wallingford at Crowmarsh. Henry’s first assault upon Crowmarsh won the outer bailey, but the garrison rallied and drove his men back. Henry and his army then settled down to lay siege to the castle, waiting for Stephen.

Once again two enemy armies were confronting each other across a river; this time it was the Thames. At Stephen’s approach, Henry issued a challenge to do battle, one Stephen had every intention of accepting. With his eldest son at his side, he rode out to inspect his troops. His was the larger army, and although he knew that was no guarantee of victory, he felt a reassuring surge of optimism as he looked upon his men. “We’ll fight at dawn,” he told Eustace, “and you’ll command the vanguard.”

That was an honour Eustace felt he deserved, but it pleased him that his father thought so, too. “All I’ve ever wanted,” he said earnestly, “is to meet Maude’s whelp on the field, and teach him a lethal lesson in what manhood is all about. By this time tomorrow-Papa!”

It happened without warning, seemingly without reason. Stephen’s horse reared up suddenly, forelegs flailing at the sky, and then began to buck wildly. Caught off balance, Stephen was pitched over the stallion’s head.

When the Bishop of Winchester and the Earl of Arundel were ushered into William de Ypres’s tent, he dismissed his attendants so they could confer in private. Not that there were any secrets left to guard; there was not a man in the camp still unaware of what had happened that afternoon. Stephen had been thrown from his horse, not just once, but three times in succession. As Stephen was known to be a skilled rider and his mount was a well-trained and battle-seasoned stallion, those who’d witnessed the king’s mishap were at a loss to explain it-except as an ominous portent of disaster.

What the bishop and the earl had come to tell Ypres, he already knew, for his men had been canvassing the camp for hours, seeking to gauge the level of unease. And so when the bishop said that Stephen’s odd accident had spooked his soldiers fully as much as the stallion, Ypres interrupted impatiently.

“Let’s get to the heart of the matter. That skittish horse is not the reason why our men are balking. It is merely an excuse. The king’s men were already loath to fight for him.”

He’d half expected the bishop to argue with him, but Stephen’s brother surprised him, showed that he could hear the truth without flinching. “What you mean,” he said, “is that they are loath to fight against Henry Fitz Empress, against the man they want as their next king.”

And there it was, out in the open at last. His shoulders slumping, the bishop sat down wearily on Ypres’s coffer. The Earl of Arundel hovered by the tent’s entrance, fidgeting with the hilt of his sword. Ypres did not need to see his face to envision his discomfort, for he knew William d’Aubigny to be an essentially decent man, but one without imagination or initiative, caught up, like so many others, in a civil war not of his making. A war that had bled England white for far too many years. It was time to put an end to it. Ypres knew that was what Matilda would have wanted. But would she have understood that peace could not come without sacrificing her son?

The bishop roused himself at last, glancing first at the edgy Arundel, and then at the impassive Fleming. “How are we going to convince Stephen?”

Stephen had retired to his tent to nurse his bruises, puzzled and embarrassed by his stallion’s erratic behavior, but not alarmed, for it had not occurred to him that men might find dire significance in his triple fall. He was utterly unprepared, therefore, for the message his brother and William de Ypres were attempting to deliver-that there could be no battle on the morrow.

“I dare not fight because a horse threw me?” he said incredulously. “You cannot be serious!”

“I am hardly noted for my humor, now am I?” Bishop Henry said irritably. “Stephen, I assure you that never have I been more serious. I am going to be brutally blunt about this, for I know no other way to do it. You’ve always liked your truth and your wine sweetened, but all the sugar in Christendom could not make this easier for you to swallow. Your barons do not want to fight Henry Fitz Empress, and if you force them to follow you into the field, I very much fear you’ll have reason to regret it.”

Stephen stared at his brother, stunned by what he was hearing. “They think I have been such a bad king?”

For all of the bishop’s bold talk of “brutal bluntness,” he could not bring himself to give Stephen an honest answer to that question. He chose to dodge the blow, deferring to Ypres. The Fleming displayed a soldier’s skill at deflection, for he did not answer Stephen’s plaintive query, either. Instead, he said, “My liege, do you not see? You won your war against Maude. The fight is now over the succession. In the past, your barons have fought and bled and died to keep you on the throne. But they are not willing to risk death for Eustace. They fear the sort of king he would be…and in truth, so do I.”

That was a truth, though, that Stephen could not accept. He immediately launched into an impassioned defense of his son, with such vehemence that they suspected he was attempting to quell his own inner doubts about Eustace’s fitness to rule.

But neither the bishop nor the Fleming would relent, not with so much at stake. They took turns pointing out to Stephen just how precarious his position was. Henry enjoyed the support of the Church; the Archbishop of Canterbury was even now in his siege encampment. Unlike Stephen, he had the wholehearted support of his barons and vassals, including the Earls of Chester, Leicester, Gloucester, Hereford, Salisbury, and Cornwall. And more and more, public opinion was shifting in his favor. People had heard about the Epiphany Day prophecy. Men claimed that at Malmesbury, even the wind had been Henry’s ally. Was it surprising, then, that soldiers would react with superstitious dread when Stephen was unhorsed three times before doing battle with his rival? Need they remind him that men who expected to be defeated usually were? Need they remind him of Lincoln?

When they’d exhausted all their other arguments, Ypres and the bishop were forced to make the most painful one of all. Men did not yet know Henry Fitz Empress all that well, but what they’d so far seen of him, they liked. They did know Eustace, and liked him not. Throughout England, he’d earned himself a reputation for courage, but also for cruelty and arrogance and vengefulness. Men might have accepted him as king had they been given no choice. But they would not fight to make him king.

Eventually, Stephen stopped arguing with them. No matter what they said, though, he kept repeating stubbornly, “I will not betray my son.” And nothing seemed likely to break the impasse, for Stephen’s paternal instincts were stronger than those for self-preservation.

Surprisingly, it was the Earl of Arundel who found a solution. He and the Earl of Northampton had entered the tent in answer to the bishop’s summons; he’d hoped that Stephen would be swayed by the realization that even the steadfast Northampton would rather negotiate than fight. But Northampton’s gruff plea had fallen on deaf ears. It was Arundel who saw what these men more clever than he had not, that Stephen would grasp at any alternative which avoided an outright repudiation of his son.

“We are not asking you to make peace with Henry Fitz Empress, my liege. We seek only a truce, no more than that. So many lives have already been lost. Would it not be better to talk rather than bleed-just this once? If the talks come to naught, what have we lost?”

It was a disingenuous argument, for to seek a truce would be a damaging admission of weakness on Stephen’s part. But it offered Stephen what he so desperately needed-a reprieve, however brief, time in which to try to find a way to save his son’s kingship.

“So be it,” he said dully. “But what makes you think Henry will agree to a truce?”

His brother was not about to give Stephen a chance to change his mind. “Let’s find out.”

Although some moments had passed since Henry had stalked out in a fury, the impact of his anger still smoldered. It was the first time that most of the men had seen Henry’s temper at full blaze, and they’d found it to be a sobering sight. Only the Earl of Chester was impervious to the heat, for he’d been on the safe side of the fire; like Henry, he’d wanted to scorn the offer of a truce and seek a battlefield resolution. But the others had all counseled caution, urging Henry to agree to the truce and enter into negotiations, arguing that there’d been enough killing. Unable to make any inroads or win any converts, Henry finally lost patience and departed, leaving behind dismay and disquiet.

When Henry’s cousin Will suggested tentatively that one of them must follow after Henry and make him see reason, there were murmurings of agreement, but no volunteers. “I will talk to him,” the Archbishop of Canterbury said resolutely, feeling it was only fair, for no one had pressed Henry harder to make peace than he.

“Nay, my lord archbishop, let my brother go.” Rainald nudged Ranulf with his elbow, then winked. “We can spare him easier than you!”

Ranulf jabbed back, but he did not object to being offered up as a sacrificial lamb, for he knew his nephew better than that. “I’ll go,” he agreed, “but not yet. It’ll be better if he comes around on his own to our way of thinking.”

The archbishop looked suddenly hopeful. “Are you so sure that he will?”

“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I am. You see, our future king has a hot temper but a cool head!”

When he did seek Henry out later, he found his confidence had not been misplaced. Henry was inspecting a partially constructed belfry tower, intended to be used in the assault upon Crowmarsh’s outer walls; work upon it had been suspended at the approach of Stephen’s army. From the way Henry was bantering with the soldiers, it was clear to Ranulf that the crisis was past. “Do I need a white flag?”

Henry shook his head. “Did you all draw lots to see which one got to soothe my ruffled feathers?”

“I insisted upon the honour. You know I’ve always been a glutton for punishment,” Ranulf said, and fell in step beside his nephew, following Henry away from the belfry, out of earshot of the soldiers.

“Can you understand, Uncle Ranulf, why I wanted to fight?”

“Of course I can. If you defeat Stephen on the field of battle, the crown is yours for the taking-here and now. No concessions, no compromises, no waiting. But a lot more blood.”

“You’re supposed to twist my arm,” Henry objected, “not break it. I know we must accept their offer of a truce. I am not convinced that I can bargain for the crown instead of fighting for it, but at least we have to try.”

“I was sure that you’d agree,” Ranulf admitted, “but I am right glad to hear you say so, lad!”

“With the Church and common sense on your side, what else could I do?” Henry smiled tightly, without much humor. “Uncle…you know Stephen as well as any man alive. Do you truly think he will agree to disinherit his son?”

“Not willingly, no. But he cannot fight you and his brother and barons, too. It may take a while, but I think he’ll eventually be forced to it.”

“I would never agree,” Henry said, thinking of his unborn child. In less than a fortnight, Eleanor’s lying-in would begin. But not only could he not be with her, he’d have to wait weeks to find out if she’d borne him a son, if she and the babe were well. More women died in childbed than men did on the battlefield. Eleanor was strong and healthy, but so was his mother, and she’d almost died giving birth to Geoff. Frustrated and thwarted, compelled to do what he most hated in all the word-wait-he swore suddenly, with feeling.

“I tell you this, Uncle, that I’d pawn my soul to the Devil for a chance to shed blood on the morrow, provided that it was Eustace’s. Nor would I be loath to see some of Stephen’s spilled, too. But it seems it is not to be…not yet.”

Ranulf sympathized, for he knew that his sister and nephew saw this bloody and ruinous civil war in stark and simple terms-as evil that had sprouted from one poisonous seed, the usurpation of their crown. To others, it might matter that Stephen had been consecrated as England’s king, anointed with the sacred chrism that forever set a king apart from other men. That alone was enough to make some reluctant to see him deposed. But to Henry, it counted for nothing, as a fraud born of a theft. The urge to avenge his mother’s wrongs raced in tandem with his own mettlesome ambitions, and it could not be easy to rein in either of them. Ranulf felt enormously proud of his nephew now, that he was willing to try.

“No more talk about pawning souls, though,” he joked, “not in the archbishop’s hearing, anyway. You do not want to remind him that the Devil’s daughter roosts in a branch of your family tree, do you?” That got a grin from Henry, and Ranulf reached out, clouting the man fondly on the shoulder. “You are twenty and Stephen fifty-seven. Time is your ally, Harry, not his. And as unhappy as you are with this truce, just think how Eustace must feel!”

“ Eustace, wait! Stay and hear me out. It is true that I agreed to ask for a truce, but only because they gave me no choice. I have no intention, though, of bargaining with Maude’s son, that I swear to you, lad, upon your sweet mother’s soul!”

“Do not besmirch Mama’s memory with your lies!” Eustace was drunk on despair; the very ground seemed to be shifting under his feet and all he had to hold on to was his rage. “You betrayed me, admit it! I know you mean to make a deal with that Angevin hellspawn! But what sort of man would disown his own son?”

“Will you listen to me? I agreed to a truce, nothing more! I would never betray you. Our men have lost heart for further fighting, but we can remedy that. Together, we can find a way, Eustace, to restore their faith in you. But you must trust me, for I cannot do it alone-”

“Trust you? What a sour joke that is! You’d give your last coin to a beggar by the roadside, even if it meant your own would starve! By the time Maude’s accursed son is done with you, you’ll be plucked clean and thanking him for leaving you a chamber pot to piss in, old man! But you’ll not barter away my birthright, by all that’s holy, you will not! I’ll see you both in Hell first!”

Stephen caught his arm as he swung away, but Eustace jerked free, and within moments, he’d disappeared into the darkness beyond Stephen’s tent. Badly shaken, Stephen deemed it best not to follow; they both needed time to calm down before their healing could begin. It was a sensible decision, but one he would soon come to lament. For in the morning, he discovered that Eustace was gone. He had ridden off in the night, leaving Stephen with an anguished regret, that his son’s last words to him had been a curse.

The Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester negotiated a fortnight’s truce, under terms beneficial to Henry. Stephen and Henry agreed to lift the sieges of Wallingford and Crowmarsh. Stephen also consented to raze his castle at Crowmarsh, and Henry permitted its eighty-man garrison to march out, unharmed. But the preliminary efforts to end the war by mediation did not progress well. Eustace cast a long shadow.

Eustace soon made his presence felt in a far more ominous way. Gathering a large band of mercenaries, he rode north into Cambridgeshire, and began to pillage and rob. Whether he was simply venting his own fury and frustration or seeking to bait Henry into coming after him, no one knew for certain, possibly not even Eustace himself. But the skies over Cambridgeshire were once again darkening with smoke, as in the wretched days when Geoffrey de Mandeville had rampaged through that unhappy shire.

The monks of Bury St Edmunds knew that Eustace’s army was on the prowl and getting closer, for panicked refugees had been streaming into the monastery for days. Abbot Ording continued to hope, though, that his abbey would be spared, for St Edmund’s tomb was England’s most sacred shrine. Surely the king’s son would not allow his brutal hirelings to desecrate such holy ground? He’d held to that hope right up to the moment that a terrified lay brother stumbled into the Chapter House, crying out that Eustace’s men had been sighted on the Cantebrigge Road, heading for their abbey.

When Eustace rode into the abbey precincts, he found Abbot Ording waiting for him. Flanked by his prior and hospitaller, with the other brothers huddled a few steps behind, the abbot sought to ward off disaster with a wan welcoming smile. They were indeed honoured, he said, to have the Count of Boulogne as their guest again, and he’d already given orders to prepare his own quarters for the count’s comfort, just as he’d done at the count’s visit last year with his lord father, the king. Their cook was busy making a dinner sure to be to the count’s liking: fresh pike from their fish pond and a special delicacy, rabbit stew.

Eustace seemed taken aback, and the abbot prayed that their feeble defense-hospitality-would hold. Was it too much to hope for, that if Eustace was treated as a guest, he’d act like one? But this Eustace bore little resemblance to the privileged, unhappy youth the abbot remembered. Unkempt and almost gaunt, blue eyes bloodshot and suspicious, this was no pampered king’s son. The abbot had seen men like this before, men haunted and hunted, some of them brigands and bandits, others merely victims of bad luck, but all of them with nothing left to lose.

“Thank you, my lord abbot. I would be pleased to dine with you and your brethren.” But if Eustace had been surprised into civility, he had not been dissuaded from his purpose. “But first we have a matter of money to discuss. I am running short of funds to pay my troops. I am sure, though, that I can rely upon the generosity of your abbey.” He named a sum, then, that caused the monks to gasp.

The abbot had gone ashen. “My lord, that…that is a vast amount of money!”

Eustace smiled, chillingly. “You are too modest, my lord abbot. So prosperous an abbey could easily spare that much. In fact, I’d say it was a bargain, indeed, in view of what you’d be gaining-the favor of a future king.”

“My lord count, I swear that you’ve been misled. Even if our revenues were twice what they are, we would not be able to raise such a sum!”

A muscle twitched in Eustace’s cheek and his smile became a grimace. “Think you that I am some green, callow stripling, to be put off with soft words and honeyed lies? All know that you Black Monks have even more money than the Jews!”

“I entreat you-” the abbot began hoarsely, but his prior could no longer keep silent. Well past sixty, too old to be intimidated, he glowered at this intruder in their midst, his high, reedy voice cracking with indignation, not fear.

“There can be no greater crime than to steal from Almighty God. Look to your immortal soul, son of Stephen, ere it is too late!”

The prior might have lacked the majestic presence of an Abbot Bernard, but he did make an impressive sight, tonsured silver hair streaming down onto the somber black cowl of the Benedictine order, cobalt-blue eyes aiming at Eustace like arrows, a clenched fist upraised as if to invoke the Almighty’s intercession.

For a brief moment, Eustace looked at the aged monk, and then he turned in the saddle, saying to his men, “Take whatever we need, whatever you want.”

At first, the monks offered no resistance, watching in appalled silence as Eustace’s soldiers plundered and despoiled their abbey. The stables were hit first, and then the storehouses. Abbot Ording’s lodgings, too, were stripped bare. The guest hall, the monks’ dorters, the kitchen and bakehouse and buttery, even the infirmary-all were ransacked.

The looting soon spilled over into the town, and smoke began to stain the cloudless August sky. Somewhere a woman was screaming; Abbot Ording flinched away from the sound, groping for his rosary. This was his domain; the townspeople, too, were under his protection. And yet he could do nothing for them. His eyes blurred with tears and he sank to his knees in the dust, praying to St Edmund to protect his own.

When some of the soldiers emerged from the church, laden with chalices and expensive altar cloths and St Edmund’s special silver candlesticks, there were gasps of outrage from the monks. At sight of the pyx, holy receptacle for the Host, now tucked under a brigand’s arm, several of the younger monks could not contain their fury and rushed at the offender, only to be beaten down into the dirt by his comrades, for mercenaries rarely held monks in much esteem.

“Do not resist them!” the abbot cried. Crouching over one of his bruised and dazed monks, he pillowed a bleeding head in his lap, staring up at the king’s son, white-faced and accusing. “St Edmund will punish you for the evil you have done. You have sinned against him and against the Almighty, and for that, there can be no forgiveness.”

There was a time when Eustace would have been dismayed and alarmed by the abbot’s words. Now he did not care. What did God’s Curse matter when compared to the loss of a crown? “Tell your St Edmund to do his worst,” he said mockingly. His men laughed, impressed by his bravado, but the monks shuddered and Abbot Ording made the sign of the cross.

Stephen had easily captured the North Sea port town of Ipswich, and for the past ten days, he’d been besieging Hugh Bigod’s castle. The siege was faring well, but he was not. He sought to fill all his waking hours with enough activity to keep from thinking of his renegade son and crippled kingship, only to lie wakeful and wretched, night after endless night.

The Bishop of Winchester was no longer with him, having gone off to consult again with his erstwhile adversary the Archbishop of Canterbury. Stephen might have admired his brother’s newfound zeal for peacemaking, had he not known that any proposed peace plan must, of necessity, involve a repudiation of Eustace. But the others in his dwindling inner circle were here at Ipswich: the Earls of Arundel and Oxford; William Martel; his younger son, Will; and even William de Ypres, again exposing himself to the rigors of the road and the pity of others for Stephen’s sake. And yet never had Stephen felt so isolated, so utterly alone.

The blows had been coming in swift succession, giving him no time to recover his bearings. Eustace’s rebellious flight had been followed by the sudden death of one of the few men Stephen truly trusted, Simon de Senlis, Earl of Northampton. And as he mourned his old comrade-in-arms, word began to filter into Suffolk of Eustace’s outlaw raids, tales of crops burned in the fields and villages torched, culminating in last week’s outrage at Bury St Edmunds. Horrified and heartsick, Stephen refused to discuss his son’s marauding with any of his men, forcing them to join him in a conspiracy of silence, in which it was tacitly understood that as long as Eustace’s banditry was not acknowledged, nothing need be done about it. Before the others, Stephen stubbornly held his peace; alone in the night, he prayed for his son to come to his senses, and he grieved.

After occupying the town, Stephen had found lodgings at Holy Trinity, a small priory of Augustinian canons. He’d returned this Monday at dusk, after another long, tiring day at the siege site. Although he knew the others were waiting for him in the guest hall, he slumped down in a chair by the window; at times he found it hard to remember why it mattered whether he took this castle or not. He’d been told that Henry had gone north, that he was now laying siege to William Peverel’s castle at Stanford, apparently as a favor to the Earl of Chester. He wondered if it ever occurred to Henry that they were playing a peculiar form of chess. A castle taken here, another lost there, and the game went on.

He was turning away when several men raced past the window, running flat-out on a hot August evening, when even a brisk walk would work up a sweat. He leaned out, saw nothing in the gathering dusk, but the oddness of it lingered and when William Martel entered a few moments later, he commented upon it, half humorously, to the seneschal. “I just saw two of the Black Canons sprinting across the garth. They’re usually so protective of their dignity, but these lads were kicking up so much dust you’d swear Satan had come calling!”

William Martel did not return his smile. “It is Eustace.”

Stephen froze. “What of him?”

“He is here, my liege. He just rode into the priory.”

Their shouting had carried beyond the chamber, out into the garth where men gathered to listen. When Stephen and Eustace finally emerged, their covert audience scattered in haste, but neither man noticed, so caught up were they in their private war. Stephen kept staring at this stranger who was his son, unable to admit that there was nothing left to be said. He’d raged and cursed and then pleaded, but he’d gotten no answers from Eustace, only angry abuse. Eustace had offered neither explanations nor apology for what he’d done. He’d come back, he said defiantly, because if he were not here to defend his rights, no one else would. And for Stephen, that was the most painful of his wounds, that Eustace had been so quick to believe in his betrayal.

Eustace stumbled as they entered the hall, jostling his father, and only then did Stephen realize how much his son had been drinking. But he found a small measure of comfort in that; if Eustace had not dared to face him sober, how could he be as unrepentant as he claimed?

Their entrance killed all conversation. Several of the Augustinian canons were present, but not for long, for as soon as Eustace came through the door, they made a hasty exit. Stephen’s men seemed no less hostile than the canons, although they at least attempted-however poorly-to hide their antipathy. Eustace raked the hall with a bold, challenging stare, as if defying anyone to speak out. None did, yet there was no thaw in the air, no easing of the tension.

“Come, take a seat,” Stephen insisted. Eustace’s arm was rigid under his hand, but Stephen’s grip was too tight to shake off, and he reluctantly allowed his father to steer him toward the high table. Familiar faces were all about him. Arundel. That Judas Fleming. His milksop of a little brother. To his fury, none of them seemed willing to meet his eyes. Did they think they could make him disappear by pretending not to see him? If they hoped he’d slink away in the night, they would be sorely disappointed. He’d never make it easy for them. They’d have to confront him openly from now on, if they dared.

It enraged him, though, to be shunned like this, as if he were a foul, stinking leper instead of the rightful heir to the English throne. Draining his wine cup, much too fast, he signaled for a refill. The food on his trencher was a favorite dish of his, a lamprey-eel pie, but he was too angry to savor it and ate quickly, without tasting what he swallowed, brooding upon the injustice of it all, silently cursing Henry Fitz Empress and his weak-willed father with every bite.

It was proving to be a miserable meal for Stephen, too; the food on his trencher went untouched, even unnoticed. What was he going to do? If he punished his son as he deserved, he’d risk pushing Eustace into open rebellion. But the monks of St Edmunds had been grievously wronged, and how could he ignore that? Eustace could not have served Henry better than he had at Bury St Edmunds; why could he not see that? If only Tilda were here to counsel the lad; mayhap she could have made him see reason. Each time Stephen glanced up, he saw men warily watching Eustace. How long would they remain loyal if he continued to force Eustace upon them? And yet how could he ever abandon his own son?

So unnaturally quiet was it that the sound of an overturning chair was shockingly loud, startling them all. Seeing his son on his feet, Stephen felt a throb of despair. What sort of mischief was Eustace up to now? Could he not even get through a single meal without shaming them both?

But once he got his first clear look at his son’s face, he cried out sharply. Something was wrong. Eustace was clutching at his throat, his eyes cutting frantically toward Stephen. When he lurched into the table, knocking a wine flagon over onto the other diners, there were curses and even a few audible mutterings about “drunken sots.”

Stephen knew better. “Eustace, what is wrong? Tell me!”

Eustace seemed to be trying to do just that. His mouth was working, but no words were emerging. By now they’d all realized that he was having some sort of seizure. Chairs were shoved aside and men scrambled away from the table, away from Eustace, for the same thought was in most of their minds: a plundered abbey and a saint’s curse.

Eustace’s face was suffused with blood. He sank to his knees, one hand still clawing at his throat, the other reaching out toward his father.

“He is choking!” Time seemed to have slowed, even to have stopped, as Stephen struggled to get to his son. Eustace was convulsing; there was spittle and blood on his lips and his skin had taken on a bluish hue. Stephen began to pound him desperately upon the back and shoulders. Someone was shouting for a doctor. There were a few cries, too, for a priest. But most of the men just stood there, watching. Eustace’s eyes were rolling back. His body jerked in several uncontrollable spasms and then went limp. Those who’d ventured closer now caught the smell of urine. Death was no stranger to any of them. But few had ever witnessed a death like this one, so sudden and swift and divinely ordained. For surely it could not be mere happenchance that Eustace would be struck down in all his youthful arrogance just days after defiling a holy shrine?

As Stephen cradled his son and wept, men glanced at one another, and then crossed themselves. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and St Edmund was not to be mocked, for he tended to his own. And as the shock began to subside, more than a few of the witnesses gave silent thanks to this vengeful saint, even as they looked with pity upon their stricken king.

Stephen’s younger son still stood, rooted, at the end of the table. He did not seem capable of movement, so chalky-white that he appeared likely to keel over himself at any moment. When someone shoved a wine cup into his hand, though, he drank obediently. As color slowly came back into the boy’s face, William de Ypres said, “Go to your father, lad. He has need of you.”

The youth blinked, then did as he was bade, moving as if in a daze. He did not have it in him to take charge, but fortunately there would be others to do what must be done. William Martel was already at Stephen’s side, gently seeking to coax him away from his son’s body.

Ypres was more than willing to let others shoulder the burdens for a change. Surprised by how tired he suddenly felt, he fumbled for a chair, sat down wearily midst the wreckage of Eustace’s last meal. He’d choked on a mouthful of lamprey eel, the same dish that had supposedly caused the old king’s death, too. Ypres’s mouth twitched in a grim and private smile, for the eerie aptness of it appealed to his sense of irony. If Henry Fitz Empress were prudent, he’d ban eels from the royal table in future. Why tempt Providence, after all?

It had been a hot summer for England, an even hotter one for Aquitaine. By midmorning, Eleanor’s lying-in chamber was already sweltering and the windows were opened as wide as they could get. Insects soon invaded the room, and as her ladies fanned Eleanor and wiped the sweat from her face, they also had to swat away flies. In late afternoon, thunder rumbled in the distance, a promise of relief that never came. The air remained utterly still, stifling. Eleanor refused to cry out, too proud to lay bare her pain for the world, listening under those unshuttered windows. She held on to her sister’s hand, so tightly that her nails left scratches on Petronilla’s wrist, but the other woman did not complain. Theirs was a sisterhood not just of blood, but of the birthing chamber, too, for Petronilla knew firsthand-as Colette and Yolande did not-what Eleanor was enduring.

Childbirth was the Curse of Eve, but Eleanor’s curses were directed at her absent husband, at a world in which women must reap what men had sown. The midwife was shocked, but Petronilla grinned and confided that during the most difficult of her three deliveries, she’d vowed to live as chastely as a nun from then on, whether Raoul liked it or not. “But fortunately for the future of mankind,” she quipped, “God has given women flawed memories!”

Eleanor laughed, to the midwife’s amazement. But then she groaned, biting down on her fist. When the contraction passed, she muttered that if the folklore was true that sons were birthed more easily than daughters, it must be because girls knew what awaited them outside the womb. And again the midwife marveled, for it had been her experience that the birthing chamber was a setting for hope and fear and joy and, too often, peril, but rarely for humor.

Not until dark did the heat begin to abate. From her bed, Eleanor could see a starlit, ebony sky. When Yolande tilted a cup to her swollen, bitten lips, she swallowed thirstily, too tired even to identify what she was drinking. Deep shadows lurked under her eyes, hollowed her cheekbones, and for the first time, she looked her age to Yolande, a woman of thirty-one, a woman past her first flush of youth, all the glamor and glitter stripped away by her twelve-hour ordeal. But as Eleanor smiled down at the infant in her arms, Yolande felt tears sting her eyes, so great was her regret that her lady’s husband would never see that smile.

“Ah, madame, if only you could be there when Lord Harry hears!”

“I wish so, too, Yolande,” Eleanor admitted, “but it was not to be.” Fighting her fatigue, she looked again at her baby, and then up at the women hovering by the bed. “Nor would I have minded being there when Louis and Abbot Bernard hear,” she murmured, and this time her smile was irrepressible, wickedly triumphant.

Ranulf had been to the Lincolnshire market town of Stanford once before, on his odyssey with the Fenland orphans; he’d had to seek out a barber in St Peter’s Street to yank Simon’s infected tooth. The barber was still there, older and grayer and understandably alarmed by the siege under way up the road, barely a stone’s throw from his small, cramped shop.

The castle of William Peverel boasted a newly constructed circular stone keep, rising above the meadows of the River Weland. It had held out for the past fortnight under heavy bombardment, the local quarries providing ample ammunition for Henry’s mangonels. But September got off to a promising start; the garrison was offering to talk.

The Benedictine priory of St Leonard’s, just east of the town, had become Henry’s headquarters, and the Black Monks were making heroic efforts to accommodate not only the Duke of Normandy and his entourage, but a handful of demanding lords, including the notorious Earl of Chester, long the bane of Lincolnshire. On this ominously overcast morning, Ranulf had lingered at the priory to tend to a personal matter; he was sending one of his Welshmen home with a letter for Rhiannon. He’d thought that their separation would get easier with time; the opposite seemed to be occurring. Without even realizing what was happening, he’d given his heart away, and England was now the alien land.

Padarn was waiting out in the priory garth with their horses, and they headed into the town. By the time they reached the siege, rain had begun to fall. The marketplace adjoined the castle, and would normally have been crowded with stalls and booths, had the siege not utterly disrupted town life. Instead of customers, it was occupied by soldiers, and it was here that Ranulf found his nephew, conferring bareheaded in the rain with Rainald and a visibly irate Earl of Chester.

Catching sight of Ranulf, Henry beckoned to him, just as the clouds split asunder and a torrent engulfed the marketplace. Men scattered for cover, Ranulf following Henry toward the closest shelter, the alcove of All Saints’ Church. As they waited for the rain to subside, Henry revealed why Chester was so disgruntled, even though the garrison had agreed to surrender.

“We discovered that William Peverel was never in the castle. It seems he is holed up at Nottingham, so of course that is where Chester wants us to go next. I told him that I’d have to think about it. Helping Chester settle scores with all his enemies could well turn into a lifetime’s occupation!” Henry said and laughed.

Ranulf laughed, too, pleased to see his nephew in such high spirits. August had not been a good month for Henry, not at first, for he was waiting impatiently for word from his wife, finding it hard to focus all his energies upon the Stanford siege, still vexed that he’d been cheated of a battlefield confrontation with Stephen and Eustace at Wallingford.

But that had all changed dramatically once they learned of the events at Ipswich on August 17th. Most people seemed convinced that Eustace’s death was divine retribution for his sins, and even more impressive proof that the Almighty favored the Angevin cause. Naturally, Henry did nothing to contradict this view, remarking privately to Ranulf that God could hardly be improved upon as an ally. But whether he owed a debt of gratitude to an unforgiving saint or a lamprey eel, the result was the same: the removal of the last obstacle in his march to the throne.

Roger Fitz Miles was holding forth on that very subject a few feet away, assuring all within hearing that peace was at hand, it was just a matter now of working out the details.

“One of which is the Earl of Surrey,” Henry interjected. “You do remember him, Roger-Stephen’s other son? How can you be sure that Stephen will not want him to step into Eustace’s shoes?”

“No one can see Will as England’s next king, not even Will himself,” Ranulf commented, and then added, sotto voce, for Henry’s ear alone, “You know that, too, Harry. You might as well face it, lad. You’re not going to be able to fight for the crown. You’ll just have to grit your teeth and let us hand it over to you at the bargaining table.”

But Henry always gave as good as he got. “I think you mean at Stephen’s grave, do you not, Uncle? That is the fly in the ointment, after all. Unless you want me to start sending the man eel pies?”

“Only as a last resort!” But no sooner were the words out of Ranulf’s mouth than he regretted them, for he had too complicated a history with Stephen to joke comfortably about his demise. Before he could say more, a voice carried across the marketplace, calling out for Henry. A rider was cantering toward the church, close enough now to be recognized as one of Rainald’s household knights.

Dismounting, he swore lustily as he stepped down into a widening puddle; the churchyard was fast becoming a sea of mud. “My lord duke, I have a message for you. One of the monks was coming to find you, and I told him I’d pass the word on. A courier has ridden into the priory with a letter for your eyes only.”

“From Aquitaine?”

While many of Henry’s men knew how anxiously he was awaiting word from his wife, this particular one did not even know Eleanor was pregnant. Surprised by the urgency in Henry’s voice, he nodded, and then stood, gaping, as Henry snatched the reins from his hand, vaulted up into the saddle, and galloped off on his horse.

By the time Ranulf and Roger got to their own horses and followed, Henry was out of sight. They spurred their mounts along High Street, on toward the priory, arriving onto a scene of jubilation. Henry was standing in the guest hall, surrounded by Abbot Thorald’s smiling monks. As soon as he saw Ranulf, he broke away from his well-wishers, strode across the hall, and gave his uncle a wet, joyful hug. “Eleanor has borne me a son!”

It took a while for a semblance of calm to return to the hall, and Ranulf had to wait to learn that Eleanor was in good health, that the baby had his father’s bright hair, and that she’d christened him William.

“She claims she named him after my great-grandfather, William the Bastard,” Henry chortled, “but I know damned well she really had her father and her beloved ‘Grandpapa Will’ in mind. I guess I can count myself lucky she did not name the lad after another one of her illustrious ancestors-Charlemagne!”

“I am gladdened for you, Harry,” Ranulf said, experiencing a sudden longing for his own small son, Gilbert. “Eleanor has given you a great gift, indeed.”

Roger agreed, although he could not keep from pointing out the political benefits of this birth. “Stephen lost a son, you gained one. The contrast will not escape people, that your fortunes are rising as Stephen’s are plummeting.”

“Especially once they learn that my son was born on a Monday eve, two days after the Assumption,” Henry said, and nodded as they stared at him in amazement. He was no longer smiling, for that was so uncanny a juxtaposition of life and death, hope and doom, that there could be no joking about it. “On the same day that Eustace was dying at Ipswich, Eleanor was giving birth to William.”

It took another two months of negotiations to end the war, but an end did come, due in great measure to the patient and persistent mediation of the Church. The eventual agreement was a compromise in the truest sense of the word, in that no one was fully satisfied. Stephen acknowledged Henry’s hereditary right to the English crown, and agreed to accept Henry as his “son and heir.” Henry, in his turn, conceded that Stephen should continue as king for the remainder of his life. Stephen’s surviving son, William, was to receive all those lands and titles that Stephen had held prior to his kingship, and Henry agreed to recognize him as Count of Boulogne and Mortain and Earl of Surrey; as his young Warenne wife was a great heiress in her own right, William would emerge from the peace conference as the richest lord in England, his wealth eclipsed only by that of the king.

The other provisions of the agreement were aimed at implementing it. The Tower of London and the castles of Windsor, Oxford, Lincoln, and Winchester were to be entrusted to castellans acceptable to both sides. Solemn oaths were to be exchanged to uphold the pact, Henry was to do homage to Stephen, and their barons would then do homage to him as England’s future king. The men disinherited by the war were to have their lands restored. Foreign mercenaries were to be expelled, and castles constructed since the death of the old king were to be razed. Lastly, Stephen agreed to consult with Henry in the governance of the realm, although it was deliberately left vague as to how that would work out in practice, for no one truly knew; they were breaking new ground.

On November 6th, 1153, almost eighteen years after Stephen had claimed Maude’s crown, he met with her son at Winchester, the city that had suffered more than any other during those desolate, blighted years when it was believed that Christ and all his saints slept. They agreed to the terms hammered out by their go-betweens, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Winchester. Although a formal treaty still had to be concluded in December, the people of England at last dared to hope that peace was within reach.

Ranulf found it unsettling at first to be back at Winchester. More than twelve years had passed since their catastrophic rout, and while much of the city had been rebuilt, there were still scars of the siege and fire to be found, most of them on the souls of its citizens. His return stirred up memories Ranulf would rather not have relived, yet upon reflection, it seemed appropriate to him that the healing should begin here.

The gathering in the great hall of the castle was an odd experience, too, for him: fraternizing with men he’d have been crossing swords with had they met on the battlefield. As he watched the awkward interaction, it was obvious that he was not the only one unsure of his footing. There were a few satisfied faces to be found. The Archbishop of Canterbury and Stephen’s brother were basking in their success as peacemakers. But most of those present looked more wary than joyful. It would be a slippery road ahead, for certes, but God Willing, not a bloody one.

Across the hall, Stephen was mingling with men who’d done their utmost to dethrone him. He was making a gallant attempt to be cordial, with better success than most. But then, he’d never been one for collecting grudges; Ranulf would wager that there were few, indeed, whom Stephen would not be able to forgive. John Marshal. Chester. The latter’s absence was both a puzzle and a blessing. Ranulf could not imagine what might have kept Chester away from Winchester and a chance to gloat, but thank God for whatever it was; even on his best behavior, he’d have muddied the waters enough to splatter them all.

As Stephen moved toward the hearth, his son trailed after him. He’d not let Stephen out of his sight all day, so plainly in over his depth that Ranulf felt pity flickering. Was Will wounded at being bypassed? It was true that he’d not been raised with the expectation of kingship, as Eustace had. Stephen had consoled himself with that; he’d confided as much to Ranulf earlier in the day. Ranulf wondered if Will had ever indulged in secret dreams of crowns and sceptres. Even if so, no one else seemed to have ever thought of him in regal terms. He was not like Harry.

Glancing around then in search of his nephew, Ranulf finally located him standing alone in the shadows on the dais. This was the first time all day he’d not been mobbed, for suddenly his world was overpopulated with men eager to ingratiate themselves. Ranulf supposed it was only to be expected, for people always prized tomorrow more than yesterday. Stephen might now be guaranteed that he’d die as a king, but Henry’s favor would be courted more ardently, for he was England’s future. Whether Stephen knew it yet or not, the remainder of his reign had become a death vigil.

Taking advantage of this rare chance to catch his nephew alone, Ranulf moved swiftly across the hall, up onto the dais. Henry was watching the activity below him with what appeared to be alert interest. But Ranulf recognized that look for what it was, a mask. “What is the matter, Harry? I know you’ve never been one for waiting…” He stopped, for Henry was shaking his head..

“It is not that. As you said, Uncle, time is on my side, not Stephen’s.”

“What is it, then?”

“I do think this settlement was best for England. As you also pointed out, there has been far too much bloodshed. I know it will not be easy to make this pact work, but I can rely upon the Church to stave off any double-dealing down the road. Oddly enough, I think I can rely upon Stephen’s good faith, too.” His smile came and went, almost too quick to catch. “Do not tell my mother I ever said that, though!”

“You still have not told me what is troubling you?”

“It just seems so…so incomplete, Uncle Ranulf, to have it end like this. This is not the resolution I’d sought, and Stephen is not the enemy I’d thought I’d find. We talked alone for the first time last night, just the two of us. I do not know what I’d expected, but…” Henry frowned impatiently, for he was not accustomed to having such trouble expressing himself. “There was nothing to be said. I could not even hate him as I ought. You know that he has promised to treat me as his son? Well, as crazy as it sounds, it is almost as if he is starting to think of me that way, Ranulf!”

“Not so crazy if you know Stephen,” Ranulf said. “There is an…an innocence about him, lad, and despite his blundering and the grief he’s brought upon himself and others, it still survives, like a candle that is never quite quenched. I suspect that he’d not find it hard at all to treat you as a son, Harry, for that is the world as he’d like it to be, a world where men are honourable and women comforting, where good deeds are always rewarded and debts paid and Christian kindness prevails-”

“But his debt is not paid!” Henry interrupted, with sudden intensity. “Not to my mother!” He caught Ranulf’s arm, grey eyes flashing, as the words came rushing out, no longer measured or even voluntary. “He did her a great wrong. Not all men think so, but you must, Ranulf, for you know what he took from her, more than a crown. I’ve been fighting for the throne, but I was fighting for her, too, to make Stephen pay for all he’d stolen from her. I feel cheated now, if you want the truth. The kingship is mine, or it will be. But I could not redress her grievances, and it was not supposed to be like that!”

“I know. Nothing on God’s earth will give Maude more pride and pleasure than seeing you as England’s king. But you are right; it is not enough. What she lost, no one could get back for her, not even you, lad. But you are wrong if you think Stephen has somehow escaped payment. He buried his wife. His son died in his arms. He could not secure the throne for his other son. And he will live out his days knowing that men judged his kingship as an abysmal failure.”

“And one day, he may even die,” Henry said dryly, but he’d begun to sound amused. “Now that you have convinced me, Uncle, it is only fair that you get to come back with me to Rouen and convince my mother!”

“Sorry,” Ranulf said, grinning, “but as soon as this war is finally pronounced dead and ready for burial, I’m off to Wales, so fast you will not even see my dust. And for at least a year thereafter, I am instructing my niece not to send on any messages or letters. Every time I get a letter from you, lad, I end up packing my saddlebags, sharpening my sword, and sleeping around campfires instead of snug in my wife’s bed!”

Instead of smiling, Henry gave him a thoughtful look. “There is something I ought to tell you, for I know how fond you are of my cousin Maud. We thought it best to say nothing until this council was over. A few of us know besides me: the archbishop and Stephen and his brother and the Earl of Derby, who found out on his own, being wed to Peverel’s daughter. Everyone has been asking after Chester’s whereabouts. He is at Gresley Castle up in Derbyshire, and not likely ever to rise from his sickbed, if the accounts I’ve heard are true.”

Ranulf whistled softly. Chester was such an elemental force that he’d seemed well-nigh invincible, if not downright immortal. “After I saw him survive a blow to the helmet that broke Stephen’s axe but left him with no more than a headache, I’d have wagered on him against Death itself,” he admitted. “As the joke goes, God would not want him and the Devil would not take him. Maud will cope; we need not fret about that. But why the secrecy? Let’s be honest; we’d have to hunt far and wide to find any mourners for Chester’s funeral. And what does Peverel have to do with this? Given how much he hates Chester, he’d like nothing better than to spit into Randolph’s open coffin, but so would half of Christendom!”

“Spitting would not have satisfied Peverel. He had murder in mind, a poisoned wine that claimed three other lives and so sickened Chester that he is not expected to live.”

As Ranulf stared at Henry in astonishment, another voice delivered a harsh judgment. Neither one had heard Stephen approach, and they both spun around as he said, “It would be better for England, better for us all that he does not recover. You can be sure, Cousin, that he would give you fully as much trouble as he gave me. A scorpion must sting, for that is its nature.”

Henry had at last found some common ground with Stephen. “I daresay you are right. I gave him a very ample grant this spring, but it would not have kept him content for long. If he does indeed die, his epitaph should be that his hand, like Ishmael’s, was against every man.”

Stephen nodded, all the while studying Henry so intently that he finally felt compelled to say coolly, “Cousin? Is there something wrong?”

Stephen caught himself, and smiled ruefully. “I was staring at you, was I not? Do not take this amiss, but I found myself thinking how very young you are. Not in judgment or maturity, in years. Should God grant you as many winters as I have seen, twenty will seem heartrendingly young to you, too, Cousin,” he explained, and Henry could only look at him in bemusement, sure now that it had not been his imagination; Stephen was regarding him with a benevolence that was indeed paternal. He dared not meet Ranulf’s knowing eyes, lest he laugh at the absurdity of it all, that this war which had lasted for almost all of his life should end, not in bloodshed, but adoption.

The day was to conclude with a Mass of Reconciliation at St Swithun’s Cathedral. As Henry and Stephen emerged from the shadows of the castle barbican, they drew rein, startled, for High Street was thronged with spectators, men and women and youngsters who’d been waiting patiently in the winter cold for hours, all in hope that peace would be made. At sight of Stephen and Henry riding side by side, a vast roar went up from the crowd, so loud it could almost have been heard in Heaven.

Henry felt his throat tighten as he looked out upon their faces, some beaming, others streaked with thankful tears. Although this was his first visit to Winchester, he felt a close kinship with its citizens, for he’d grown up on tales of their suffering and their steadfast loyalty to the Angevin cause. Their joy was as contagious as it was rapturous, and he wished passionately that his mother could have been here to witness it.

As Henry urged his stallion forward, the noise intensified. Hats and caps were tossed into the icy air, parents lifted children so they could see, and Henry heard his name taken up as a chant by the crowd. It was only then that he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Stephen had halted for the moment, a generous gesture but also a realistic recognition that the cheers belonged to Henry.