When Christ and His Saints Slept

8

Caen, Normandy

April 1138

Spring in Caen was cold and damp and disappointing, for April had so far shown itself to be winter’s accomplice. Amabel, a restless sleeper, soon kicked the coverlets off. But when she rolled over, drowsily seeking Robert’s warmth, she found only the chill of an empty bed. Sitting up, she peered into the lurking night shadows, then groped for her bed-robe.

“Lent is over, Robert. How much longer do you mean to deny yourself sleep?”

“It is not penance, Amabel. If I’m wakeful, it is not by choice. But you need not keep vigil with me. Go back to bed.”

“Indeed not! If you broke a leg, I’d fetch a doctor to set it. If you were suffering from a fever, I’d treat it with sage and vervain. So why should I do any less now? You’ve a conscience in need of mending, and I’ve a needle and thread at the ready. Shall I start stitching?”

She could always coax a smile from him, however brief. “Are you so sure you’d know where to stitch?”

“Who would know your wounds better than I? This particular wound was inflicted the day you knelt before Stephen and pledged him your fealty. I’d hoped it would heal in time, but it has begun to fester. You’d best cut it out, Robert, ere its poison starts to spread.”

He could not hide his surprise. “You urged me from the first to make peace with Stephen. Are you saying now that you were wrong?”

“No…but you were, for listening to me!”

“Amabel, this is too serious a matter for jesting. If I were to renounce my allegiance to Stephen, you could accept that? You’d not fear the consequences?”

“Of course I’d fear them-not being a fool! But what I fear more is Stephen’s fear. For he does fear you: your power, your castles, your vassals, and your kinship to Maude. And all the while, William de Ypres hovers close at hand, awaiting his chance. How long ere that Flemish viper talks Stephen into moving against you? One failed ambush is enough, by God! If war is sure to come, then you may as well follow your heart-and the oath you swore to your father on Maude’s behalf.”

“You are a constant source of wonderment, Amabel. I know you like Maude not. You never wanted to see her as England’s queen, never.”

“What of it? Neither did you.” Holding up her hand before he could protest. “Admit it, Robert. Your fondness for Maude notwithstanding, you had grave doubts about a woman’s wielding a man’s power, especially a woman wed to Geoffrey of Anjou. But Maude has a son, a son with the blood-right to Normandy and England, and I’d wager that is what robs you of sleep at night.”

Robert was silent for several moments, marveling at how well she knew him, how easily she’d seen into the most private corners of his soul. “You are right,” he conceded. “I did have qualms about Maude’s queenship. I let her down and I regret that. But it is young Henry who has been haunting my peace. I tried to do what was best for us, for England, and I failed, I failed miserably. Stephen has not the makings of a king, however well-meaning he may be. Nor can I trust him, and if-”

“What more is there to say, then? Why let Stephen choose the time and place for your reckoning? You choose, Robert-here and now.”

Robert’s relief rendered him speechless. It had taken him months to reach that same conclusion, and with great reluctance, for he was that paradox, a man of courage whose nature was inherently cautious and conservative, and rebellion was as rash and reckless an action as he could envision. It was also inevitable, but even after he’d finally acknowledged that, he’d not known how to break the news to his wife, loath to cause her pain.

“I thank God for your change of heart,” he said, “but I’ll confess that I did not expect it. I well remember how you argued with me, insisting that I must recognize Stephen as king.”

“And I was right-then. You’d have stood alone, without allies. But time has favored Maude, not Stephen. The Scots king has led another army across the border, is burning and pillaging Northumbria even as we speak. Stephen’s disgruntled brother grows weary of waiting for that archbishop’s mitre, and who can count all the lords who’ve come to resent the royal favors lavished upon the Beaumonts and their kin? It would have been sheer folly to urge a mutiny when the ship was still in the harbor, sails just catching the wind. But now that same ship is taking on water, those splendid new sails are in tatters, reefs lie ahead…and how much more likely it is that the crew shall be willing to heave Stephen overboard!”

Even after three decades of marriage, Robert could be taken aback by his wife’s ice-blooded practicality, so at odds with the conventional wisdom that women were sentimental creatures, good-hearted and guileless and charmingly giddy. As much as he’d come to value Amabel’s commonsense shrewdness, it troubled him occasionally that honour weighed so lightly on her ethical scales. But not now. Now he was grateful for the stark single-mindedness of her vision, and he said, “It means much to me, that you understand what I must do.”

“I always understand, my love,” Amabel said fondly. “I just do not always approve! Now I think we’d best end this midnight council. No man ever died of conscience pangs. The same cannot be said, though, for men who court chills in drafty, cold, fireless chambers.” And taking his arm, she drew him back to the warmth of their marriage bed.

ON a windy, cool day in June, Geoffrey and Maude rode into the Norman city of Caen. The procession was a colorful one, for they both appreciated the value of pageantry, those “bread and circuses” offered by royalty since time immemorial. They made a striking couple, mounted on matching white palfreys, dressed in rich shades of red silk, Maude’s gold-threaded veil a gossamer swirl of sunlight, Geoffrey’s scabbard aglitter with studded gemstones. The citizens were impressed by their splendor, but they were not won over. However handsome Geoffrey was, he was still Angevin, of the Devil’s Brood, and no Norman could rejoice in his triumph. They were a practical people, though, and now that their liege lord had seen fit to welcome the Angevin and his haughty wife, they turned out in large numbers to watch, if not to cheer.

As the procession wound its way through the narrow, thronged streets, the attention of the crowd shifted from their would-be duchess and her hated husband, focusing instead upon the tawny-haired, dark-eyed youth riding at Maude’s side. Ranulf’s spirits were soaring higher than Caen’s circling, raucous gulls, and his laughing exuberance was so contagious that only the most dour soul could resist smiling at his antics.

He was flirting shamelessly with every pretty girl he passed, fishing out coins for street urchins and beggars, saluting priests and widows, and teasing the small boys who were trying to keep pace. As they neared the castle, a young woman leaned from an upper window, throwing down a long-stemmed rose. Ranulf caught it deftly, casting about him for a favor to give in return. Several streets back, he’d amused the crowd by plucking a flowering sprig from an overhanging tree and presenting it to a giggling redhead. Now, though, he saw no gardens to raid. But then his gaze fell upon a nearby street vendor. Moments later, he triggered a burst of laughter by tossing a spiced wafer to the girl at the window-laughter that spread as he then distributed wafers with comic gallantry to all female spectators within reach.

Of those watching, Maude alone was not entertained. Although she was Norman-French and Scots by blood, her formative years had been spent in Germany, and she still clung to those lessons she’d learned at the august and regal court of her first husband, the Holy Roman Emperor. By the time she’d come home to England, it was an alien land, and she’d yearned for the ceremonial elegance and protective protocol of her husband’s world, a world she’d made her own, only to have it taken from her by death and her father’s implacable will. Even now she was disconcerted by informality, finding it too closely akin to familiarity, and Ranulf’s free and easy manner jarred her sense of decorum. It was not seemly that he should jest with these Norman peddlers and craftsmen and their women, for he was a king’s son. She said nothing, though, for this was neither the time nor the place for a reprimand. Geoffrey would overhear and laugh rudely. Nor did she want to spoil the moment for Ranulf. He was entitled to play the fool, as long as he did not make a habit of it.

Ahead lay the castle. The gates were open wide, the walls lined with curious faces, and as they rode across the drawbridge into the bailey, they found Robert and Amabel waiting within, ready to bid them welcome. They were smiling, and Maude smiled back, reining in her palfrey and holding out her hand so Robert could help her dismount. But her pleasure was not as pure and uncomplicated as Ranulf’s, for as much as she rejoiced in Robert’s return to the True Faith, and as much as she wanted to forget his betrayal, she had never learned how to forgive.

It had rained for days, a cold, pelting rain that defied the calendar and frustrated Londoners, for they’d yearned for June’s warmth during a long, bleak winter, and now June was here, but more like March in disguise. Although a fire had been lit in the royal bedchamber, it had yet to chase away the damp. On nights like this, Matilda missed her cozy chamber at Tower Royal; the palace at Westminster might be a more fitting residence for England’s king, but Matilda preferred the manor house that had been her home for most of her marriage.

“When will Papa be back?”

Eustace was straddling a bench by the fire, kicking rushes into the hearth. He sounded quite ingenuous, as if his only concern were with Stephen’s whereabouts, but Matilda knew better, for she knew her son. Of all her children, Eustace was the most stubborn, the one most determined to get his own way. It was bedtime he was resisting, for he’d decided that since he was eight now, he should not have to go to sleep at the same time as his younger brother, William. Occasionally he’d hide, but his usual tactic was delay, the strategy he was employing tonight, and he’d been bombarding his mother with earnest queries about how long dragons live and whether elephants truly fear mice and why it never snows in summer. His sudden interest in his father’s itinerary didn’t fool Matilda in the least, but she was a woman of infinite patience, and she said indulgently:

“Passing strange, for I was sure I’d told you all about your father’s capture of Hereford Castle. It had been seized by a wicked man named Talbot, an accomplice of Maude’s, but Stephen hastened west with an army and took the castle after a four-week siege. As his last letter said he was about to return to London, we may expect him any day now. So…the sooner you go off to bed, the sooner the morrow will arrive-and possibly your papa, too.”

It was not that easy, of course. Eustace made use of all the weapons in his arsenal: pleading, whining, sulking, even tears. Stephen would have capitulated early on, but Matilda was made of sterner stuff than her soft-spoken demeanor would indicate, and she prevailed.

Stephen arrived much sooner than Matilda expected, that very night, as she was making ready for bed. She hastily dismissed her ladies, for she shied away from public displays of affection, waiting until the door closed to welcome her husband home. His mantle was dripping, and underneath, his tunic was wet, too. She was not surprised, for he was as indifferent to weather as he was to late hours, often riding by torchlight or in a drenching downpour; he was, she knew, one of the few battle commanders willing to undertake a winter campaign. What did surprise her, though, was his subdued, offhand greeting. By now he’d shed his mantle, and she helped him struggle free of his soggy woolen tunic. His shirt seemed dry, and she steered him toward the hearth, then poured a cupful of hippocras before beginning her gentle interrogation.

“You seem oddly glum for a man who’s captured a castle and put his enemies to flight. What is amiss, Stephen?”

“You know me too well, sweet. Lord save me if ever I have a serious secret to keep from you!”

She was not taken in, either by his ready smile or by his rueful jest, and waited. He drank, paused to pull off his boots, and drank again. “My victory lasted about as long as one of our Eustace’s promises not to hit his brother. The garrison surrendered when the town caught fire; I suppose they feared it would spread to the castle. I let them go free, for they were but following Geoffrey Talbot’s orders.”

He shot her a challenging look, was reassured by her obvious approval. “I’d not have been so merciful to that hellspawn Talbot. He was not willing to take his chances with his men, though, and fled as the siege began. But as soon as I rode away from Hereford, he skulked back and torched the houses on the south side of the river.”

“The coward!” she said indignantly. “But you must not brood about such a craven sinner, Stephen. He’ll answer for his treachery, if not before your throne at Westminster, before the Throne of the Almighty come Judgment Day.”

“Talbot is the least of my problems, Tilda. I’ve got the Scots king ravaging the North, and Geoffrey of Anjou leading an army into Normandy again…and on the road to London, I encountered a herald from the Earl of Gloucester. Robert Fitz Roy had renounced his homage, claiming that I’d broken faith by sanctioning William de Ypres’s treachery and that I was no true king, having usurped the throne from the rightful heiress, his sister.”

“Oh, no…” Matilda stared at him in such pained dismay that he reached out swiftly, drew her into his arms. She clung tightly, fearfully, for what she’d most dreaded had come to pass. Behind her closed eyelids, an image formed: Robert of Gloucester, so controlled, so competent, and so dangerous. She’d never doubted that if there was one man in Christendom capable of wresting the crown from Stephen, it was Robert. Why had Stephen not done more to keep Robert content? Too late, though, for recriminations, too late. “So…it is to be war?”

“Yes,” he said, “and I shall need your help, Tilda.”

“Just tell me what you would have me do.”

“Besiege Dover Castle.”

“Me?” she gasped. “You are jesting, of course?”

“No, sweetheart, I am quite serious. I’d intended to march north and force the Scots king to take the field against me. But Robert’s treachery poses a greater threat. I’ve good men in Yorkshire, men whom I can trust to repel the Scots whilst I strike at the heart of Robert’s domains-Bristol Castle. It will not be easy to capture, God knows, but it is much too dangerous to remain a rebel stronghold, not when it can menace the whole of the West Country. Yet I dare not overlook Dover Castle, either. Dover would be Robert’s natural choice for a landing. If I can deny Maude a safe port, mayhap I can strand them in Normandy, and then-”

“Stephen, I understand that, I do. But I cannot-”

“Matilda, you can and you must. You are the Countess of Boulogne in your own right, can summon vassals not only from Boulogne but the Honour of Kent, too. Your fleet can blockade Dover’s harbor, starve the castle into submission if need be, and patrol the Channel, making it too risky for Maude and Robert to attempt an invasion. You have the power, lass, and now I need you to use it on my behalf.”

Matilda shook her head mutely, daunted by the magnitude of what he was asking, and he stepped back, looking down intently into her face.

“You are their liege lady; you have the right.” Adding coaxingly, “It is not as if you’d be making command decisions, sweet. You’d have battle captains to direct the siege. No one would expect you to pitch a tent under the castle walls or to launch the mangonels with your own hand!”

But she would be expected to give commands, to deal with unruly vassals, to enter into a man’s world and make all believe she belonged there. “Stephen, I do not think I can do this. It is not a woman’s place…”

“Tell that to Maude!” His smile was wry, but his hands had tightened upon her shoulders. “You must agree, my love. You must do this for me. You are the only one who can.”

Stephen quickly realized that his siege of Bristol Castle was going to take months, and with no certainty of success. Robert’s chief castle was virtually impregnable, ensconced behind two fast-flowing rivers, the Avon and the Frome, encircled by a deep ditch, protected not only by its own bailey walls but by those of the town, too. Patience had never been one of Stephen’s virtues, and he soon grew restless, then discouraged, and was not long in deciding that Bristol’s downfall could wait. Abandoning the siege, he went looking for easier targets and found them at Castle Cary and Harptree, held by Robert’s vassals. But as July ebbed away in a haze of heat, trouble flared in the border town of Shrewsbury.

Shrewsbury’s castle had been given by the old king to his young queen Adeliza twelve years earlier. As castellan, she’d appointed the sheriff of Shropshire, William Fitz Alan-a man of influence in the Marches-Lord of Blancminster. But he was also a man with marital ties to the enemy camp: his wife, Christina, was niece to Robert and Amabel Fitz Roy. As soon as Robert renounced his allegiance to Stephen, Fitz Alan did, too, declaring that he held Shrewsbury Castle for his liege lady and rightful queen, the Empress Maude. By the first week of August, he found himself disputing that point with his king.

Shrewsbury had been blessed with natural defenses; the town lay within a horseshoe curve of the River Severn. Surrounded on three sides by water, Shrewsbury could be approached by land only from the north-site of the castle. For the past four weeks, a royal army had been encamped before the rebel fortress. But so far Stephen’s assaults had been driven off, and Fitz Alan remained defiant, scorning all demands for surrender.

The sky was barren of clouds, a bleached blue-white that shimmered with heat, for August had been a month of drought and dust. Stephen’s stallion had broken out in a sweat and was pawing the trampled grass. War-horses were bred as much for their fiery tempers as for their strength, and those nearest to Stephen prudently retreated. Stephen himself did not notice his destrier’s restiveness, for his attention was utterly focused upon the castle.

It looked deserted, for most of its inhabitants were barricaded within the great keep, and the men posted along the bailey walls were hunkered down out of sight, rising up occasionally to heave a lance or shoot a bow, then hastily ducking behind the stockade as Stephen’s archers returned the fire. Large rocks scattered about the bailey, churned-up earth, smashed horse troughs, and collapsed wooden sheds-all testified to the damage done by Stephen’s siege machines. As he watched, one of his mangonels went into action again. A creaking windlass slowly hauled the beam back, the men loaded a pile of heavy stones, and then released the triggering cord, causing the beam to snap upright, slamming into the crossbar and catapulting a rock shower over the castle walls. They could hear the thudding as the stones hit, and then a choked-off scream.

That was a familiar sound, though, and they paid it no heed. By now Stephen’s companions were watching him as intently as he was studying the castle. The Earl of Leicester was the first to lose patience, for the Beaumonts had as scanty a supply of that particular commodity as Stephen did. “What say you, my liege? Are we going to make another try with the scaling ladders or not?”

“No…we’ve lost enough men that way.” Stephen tightened the reins, swinging his mount in a circle. “Meet me in my command tent-all of you.”

They did, although it took a good quarter hour to gather them together. Stephen sat cross-legged on his bed, watching them jockey for position in the tent’s confining quarters. Robert Beaumont was comfortably seated on a coffer chest, swapping bawdy jokes with Miles Fitz Walter, but his blue eyes were keeping Stephen under an unobtrusive surveillance. Stephen had come to realize that the nonchalant affability of the Beaumonts masked a shrewd sense of their own worth and their own wants. He’d come, too, to rely upon that shrewdness, even if he sometimes fretted that their loyalties were not rooted deep. He did believe they’d keep faith, though, for no family had benefited as much from his kingship as theirs had done.

Geoffrey de Mandeville had profited, too. So had Simon de Senlis, for Stephen had restored to him part of his lost patrimony, granting him the earldom of Northampton to compensate for the earldom claimed by his stepfather, the Scots king. Stephen’s gaze rested upon them both for a moment before moving on to Maude’s men, for that was how he thought of Miles Fitz Walter and Brien Fitz Count.

Miles was not one to escape notice, for he had a redhead’s temper, a soldier’s taste for blunt speaking, and a steely-eyed stare that was in itself a formidable weapon. He looked like a man who’d spent most of his life outdoors, with flyaway reddish-brown hair that always appeared windblown and skin deeply freckled by the sun, taut as leather. Bowlegged and barrel-chested, he was a skilled huntsman and an aggressive, able battle commander. He cast a lengthy shadow over the Marches, sheriff of Gloucestershire and Staffordshire, and it was often said of him that he ruled the whole Welsh border, “from the River Severn to the sea.” He’d been devoted to the old king; his allegiance to Stephen had yet to be tested. But if he made an uncertain friend, he’d make a more dangerous enemy, and so Stephen was trying hard to convince himself that self-interest would keep Miles loyal.

If what first impressed about Miles was the coiled power, the sheer physical impact of his presence, the initial impression of Brien Fitz Count was of polished, impeccable courtesy, a disarming smile, and distance. The most superficial assessment revealed Miles to be just what he was-a man most at home in the saddle, sword in hand. Brien, attractive, urbane, and unusually well educated, was obviously a courtier, and thus easily dismissed by those scanning the horizon for political rivals. That was too simple, though, for there was nothing at all simple about Brien Fitz Count, a man who kept his own counsel, a cynic who was still saddened whenever his jaundiced view of mankind was confirmed, a man of deliberation and caution who was reckless in the extreme upon the battlefield, a man of noble blood and ignoble birth, tolerant of all failures but his own.

Stephen trusted Brien even less than he did Miles, for Brien was that rarity, a man who seemed willing to admit women into that select circle of those who wielded royal authority. Stephen had long suspected that Brien would defect to Maude within hours of her landing on English soil, and oddly, that hurt, for he had a genuine liking for this illegitimate, honourable son of a Breton count, sensing that they shared an uncommon willingness to forgive human folly. A great pity, he thought, that Brien should be so eager to entangle himself in Maude’s web.

They were all here by now, all but one. Stephen was not surprised that it should be the Earl of Chester who’d keep them waiting; nor did he doubt it was deliberate. Randolph de Gernons counted it a day wasted if he did not ruffle a few feathers, and if the feathers were royal, so much the better. He was a man with vast estates, numerous vassals, and equally numerous enemies, for he was as bad-tempered as a badger, as proud as Lucifer, and he collected grudges as if he thought they were coins of the realm. But even if he’d possessed the serene temperament of a saint, he’d have been the object of Stephen’s suspicions, for his young wife was Robert Fitz Roy’s daughter, not only Maude’s namesake but her favorite niece. So far, though, Chester had remained aloof from the political turmoil afflicting England and Normandy, and if he had any interest in making Maude Queen of England, he alone knew it.

Chester seemed to sense just how far he could push his provocations, and he made his entrance mere moments before Stephen’s irritation flared into active anger. Swarthy and stocky, with deep-set dark eyes half hidden under lowering brows, lanky ink-black hair that reached below his shoulders, and a harsh, gravelly voice that could rattle shutters when he was in full cry, Chester looked at first glance more like a brigand than a baron of the realm, and since he so often acted as if his only true peer were God, he got no warm welcome now from the other lords. Unfazed by the chill, he elbowed his way toward Stephen. “I assume this summons means we’ll be launching another attack, and high time, too!”

Stephen ignored the gibe. “We have no choice but to attack again, for it could take months to starve them out. And they’ve made it offensively clear that they’ll not surrender.”

“God’s Bones, why should they surrender? They know full well that their defiance will cost them nothing, no more than it did the garrisons at Exeter and Hereford.”

Stephen glowered at the outspoken earl. “And of course,” he said sarcastically, “men would be so much quicker to surrender if they expected to be hanged!” Satisfied with his riposte, he glanced back at the other men. “We have much to do and little time to spare, for I want the assault to begin at noon.”

There were surprised murmurs, for none saw the need for such haste. “Why today?” Miles asked curiously. “Why not wait till the morrow?”

“Because,” Stephen said, “we cannot be sure that on the morrow the wind will still be blowing from the north.” And he watched, smiling faintly, as he saw them absorb, understand, and approve.

The final assault upon Shrewsbury Castle began after a priest called upon the Almighty to grant them victory. The castle defenders, warned by the sudden activity in the royal encampment, had taken up position along the bailey walls, watching warily as the battering ram was brought up. They were puzzled, though, by what the king did next, for he dispatched a small armed force toward the castle. Crouching behind large shields, they advanced upon the castle moat. A deep, dry ditch, it had been filled in weeks ago by Stephen’s soldiers, heaped with dirt and brushwood and rocks. When the castle garrison realized that the men below them were throwing more brushwood and straw into the ditch, they understood, and arrows and stones began to rain down from the battlements. But they were too late. Torches were already searing through the air, aimed at the sun-dried straw, and within moments, the moat was filled with fire.

The garrison tried frantically to contain the flames, pouring water onto the timbered walls in a vain attempt to keep the blaze from spreading. But in fighting the fire, they exposed themselves to another sort of fire, coming from Stephen’s archers and crossbowmen. What drove them off the walls, though, was the smoke. Men were soon coughing and choking, for the wind was blowing dense black clouds over the walls. They retreated, reeling about blindly in the sudden dark smothering the bailey. And by then, the king’s battering ram was smashing into the smoldering wooden gates.

The siege of Shrewsbury Castle had lasted more than four weeks. The final assault lasted less than four hours. Once Stephen’s men had control of the bailey, they set fire to the door of the keep, forced their way into Fitz Alan’s refuge. The fighting was brief and bloody and over by Vespers. As the peaceful pealing of church bells echoed through the town, the fearful citizens bolted their doors, shuttered their windows, and prayed that Shrewsbury would be spared the fallen castle’s fate.

But Stephen’s triumph was flawed, and his initial elation was soon curdled by disappointment, for a thorough search of the castle revealed a frustrating fact-that William Fitz Alan had somehow managed to escape the trap. He was not among the prisoners taken, nor among the bodies being collected for burial. An interrogation of the survivors revealed nothing of substance, for Fitz Alan’s men were loyal and Stephen loath to resort to torture. Fitz Alan’s wife was gone, too, but Stephen had expected that, for rumors had circulated for weeks that all the women had been spirited out of the castle before the siege began. Fitz Alan’s flight was far more recent, possibly only hours old, and Stephen gave orders for a house-to-house search of Shrewsbury, although without any expectation of success. His men had barricaded both of Shrewsbury’s bridges, but he knew Fitz Alan could have gotten a small boat, crossed the river by night, and so there was no surprise when the town’s search proved futile.

If Fitz Alan had slipped through the royal nets, his uncle was not so lucky. Arnulf de Hesdin had remained behind, and that night he was escorted into the great hall to confront his king. The hall still bore the visible scars of the day’s assault. Broken tables and stools had been piled in a corner, forming a forlorn pyramid of splintered wood. There had been no time to sweep up the bloodied floor rushes, and the smell of smoke still hung heavily upon the air. Arnulf de Hesdin had not emerged unscathed, either, from the siege. His thinning hair was matted and snarled, his eyes smoke-reddened, a rivulet of dried blood smudging his cheek, caking in his beard. But he stode into the hall as if his chains were badges of honour, and faced Stephen defiantly, without a trace of fear or repentance. “I am here, my lord king. Do with me what you will,” he said, flinging down his submission as if it were a gauntlet.

“One might think you were the anointed king,” Stephen snapped, “instead of a miserable wretch of a rebel, that craven Fitz Alan’s scapegoat.”

Arnulf flushed angrily. “My nephew is no coward! We insisted he get away whilst he could, for he’d be of no use to the Empress Maude in one of your prisons.”

Stephen had reddened, too. “How dare you speak so to me, your king? You come before me in chains, boast of your loyalty to that unworthy woman, and you expect me to do…what? Commend you for your candor? No, by God, no-I’ve had enough!”

Stephen paused for breath, his chest heaving. His rage was surging to the surface, like a river spilling its banks, for his resentment had been rising for months, and there in Shrewsbury Castle’s great hall, it at last reached flood tide, breaking loose in a torrent of infuriated, frustrated accusation and reproach.

“I swore to rule by law and God’s Holy Word, to do justice to every man, be he beggar or bishop. I sought no bloodshed, forgave betrayals with a good heart, and held out my hand to enemies and rebels and malcontents alike, for Scriptures would have us ‘forgive their inequity and remember their sin no more.’ And my reward was to be mocked, to be made the butt of jokes, to see my mercy scorned as weakness.”

Again, he paused. The hall was utterly silent. All were listening attentively for once. Let them listen, let them learn! “But Scriptures speak of more than forgiveness,” he said hoarsely, for his throat had become tight and raw. “They say, too, that ‘rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft’ and ‘the wages of sin is death.’ This man, Arnulf de Hesdin, was taken in rebellion against his lawful king. He deserves to hang…and hang he will.”

Stephen swallowed with an effort. Arnulf de Hesdin’s mouth was ajar, his color draining away. There was open surprise on the faces of his barons, and sudden wariness on the faces of the other prisoners, but not outright fear, not yet. They owed him a mortal debt, every man jack of them; did they think him too softhearted to demand payment? He’d show them otherwise. He knew full well what his uncle the old king would have done, and he said harshly:

“Hang the garrison, too. Hang them all.”

THE following day dawned in a burst of late-summer sunlight; by midmorning, the great hall was stifling. Stephen’s bitter satisfaction had ebbed away during the night; he awoke in an oddly morose mood, not sure why his triumph should have soured while he slept. He picked indifferently at the food on his breakfast trencher, and refused curtly when he was asked if he wished to watch Arnulf de Hesdin die.

The doomed men had been given a night’s grace to make their peace with God, but once the sky lightened, the executions began. There were too many for a gallows-ninety-four of them, more than Stephen had realized-and so his Flemish mercenaries were dragging them up onto the castle battlements. Bodies were soon dangling above the moat like grotesque decorations, a sight to strike terror into the hearts of the cowed townspeople, but death was much quicker this way, if less dignified: most of the men died of broken necks rather than the slow strangulation of a gallows execution. Stephen’s chosen hangmen went about their task with matter-of-fact efficiency, but the sheer numbers of the condemned slowed them down, and as the morning wore on, Stephen grimly concluded that the hangings were likely to take all day.

Stephen’s fraying temper was subjected to still more strain by the unexpected noontime arrival of his brother the Bishop of Winchester. Attended by his usual deferential entourage, the bishop swept into the great hall like an ill wind, made Stephen a perfunctory obeisance, subject to sovereign, and then demanded, brother to brother, to know what was going on.

“That should be obvious,” Stephen said tersely. “We are hanging the castle garrison.”

The bishop nodded approvingly. “God’s Will be done,” he said sententiously, and then lowered his voice, revealing he did have a modicum of tact. “I’m glad to hear that you’re finally showing some sense. In truth, Stephen, if you’d heeded my advice all along, you’d not be racing about the country like a crazed fire fighter, dousing one blaze only to have another flare up as soon as you move on.”

The bishop glanced about the hall then, frowning, for it was filled with men he little liked or trusted. One of those high-flying Beaumont hawks. Waleran? No-the other one, Leicester, for Waleran was in Normandy, trying to chase Geoffrey back into Anjou. The taciturn Earl of Northampton, a man likely to welcome salvation with a scowl. That hellspawn Mandeville, looking much too comfortable at Stephen’s side. Maude’s spies, Miles Fitz Walter and that Breton count’s bastard get. The Earl of Chester, holding court across the hall as if he and Stephen were competing kings. Not men he’d want as an audience. Not men he’d want within a hundred miles of his brother, but Stephen was a sheep stubbornly set upon running with wolves. “I need to speak with you, Stephen…in private.”

Stephen could guess what was in store for him: another of his brother’s lectures about his manifold failings as a king, interspersed with indignant rebukes for taking so unforgivably long to name him Archbishop of Canterbury. Not that Stephen could actually bestow the archbishop’s mitre, as that was for an ecclesiastical synod to do. But the king’s candidate would clearly have the advantage, and Henry was determined to obtain Stephen’s official endorsement, an endorsement Stephen was equally determined to withhold, for both he and Matilda were convinced that his brother could not be trusted with so much power. Yet he was reluctant to be the one to slay Henry’s dream, and so he’d been temporizing for months now, hoping that if the problem could be ignored long enough, it might somehow go away. Of course it did not; the bishop only grew more insistent, more aggrieved, and Stephen knew a confrontation was inevitable. But not today, God Willing, not today.

“I would that I could spare the time,” he said, “but I’ve promised to grant an audience to the townspeople and the monks from the abbey.”

The citizens of Shrewsbury had dreaded the castle’s fall, not because they were so devoted to Maude’s cause, or even to their lord, William Fitz Alan. Most of them cared little about who ruled in faraway Westminster, as long as they were left in peace. Instead, they’d found themselves caught up in a rebellion not of their making, spoils of war for Stephen’s much-feared Flemings, as it was customary to reward a victorious army with plunder and looting.

They were luckier than they knew, though, for William de Ypres was in Normandy with Waleran Beaumont. Had he been at the siege, the town’s fate might have been far different; he’d have insisted that Shrewsbury be turned over to his Flemish mercenaries for their sport. But Stephen had chosen to rein them in, much to their disappointment. There had been enough killing, he said brusquely, and although they’d continued to grumble among themselves, they’d not dared to disobey him. Those bodies already stinking in the sun were a convincing argument, indeed, that this king was not to be trifled with, after all.

The townspeople had selected their provost and a handful of their most prominent citizens to plead their case with the king. Stephen was not interested in their carefully rehearsed pledges of heartfelt support, only half listening to their predictable disavowals of entanglement in Fitz Alan’s treachery. But when they were done, he agreed to spare Shrewsbury his royal wrath, provided that they kept faith from now on. The delegation willingly promised loyalty to the grave, so great was their relief at their reprieve, and they then made haste to withdraw, lest Stephen change his mind.

Stephen was not as accommodating to the abbot of the Benedictine monastery of St Peter and St Paul, for he’d been stung by the monks’ attempt to remain neutral, as if he and Maude were claimants on equal footing, as if he were not a consecrated king and a good son of the Church. Nor was Abbot Herbert a particularly effective advocate, for he was a well-meaning man of limited vision, and not even ten years at the abbey’s helm had done much to expand his horizons. Stephen had already decided to levy punitive fines upon the townspeople and the monks. He was wondering whether or not the abbey might also benefit from a change of command when a courier was ushered into the hall, crying out that he was the bearer of news the king must hear straightaway.

The messenger was disheveled and dusty, his tunic sweat-stained, his fatigue as deeply etched in his face as the dirt of the road. He looked triumphant, though, and as he knelt before Stephen, he broke into a wide, cocky grin. “I come from His Grace, the Archbishop of York, my liege. He would have you know that a great battle was fought against the Scots army on Monday last at Cowton Moor near Northallerton. God was with us, my lord king, for your enemies were utterly routed. The field was strewn with their bodies and the Scots king fled like a hare! So did his son-”

But Stephen was no longer listening; the details could wait. Rising to his feet, he gave a jubilant shout, silencing the hall. “Did you all hear?” he demanded. “We have defeated the Scots king, slaughtered his army, and sent him slinking back across the border where he belongs!”

Stephen was immediately surrounded by men eager to offer their congratulations and share in his joy. Some were motivated by a desire to curry favor with the king. Others-such as Robert Beaumont-had a vested interest in Stephen’s survival. The Earl of Northampton rejoiced in David’s defeat fully as much as Stephen; he was actually smiling. The Earl of Chester had a rivalry of his own with the Scots king, for he and David had competing claims to the Honour of Carlisle. And many of the men were simply grateful that an alien Scots invasion had been thwarted. Only two exchanged a covert glance of quickly masked dismay-Miles Fitz Walter and Brien Fitz Count-for Maude had gone down to defeat with David at Cowton Moor, and they both knew it.

Wine was soon flowing in abundance. Toasts were drunk to the aged Archbishop of York, and then to Robert de Ferrers and William d’Aumale, Stephen’s battle commanders, the heroes of the day. Jokes were made at the Scots king’s expense and Maude came in for her share, too. The Scots were damned as a savage, barbaric people; highly partisan accounts of Scots atrocities were related, for which they blamed Maude fully as much as David. She was, after all, the man’s niece, they reminded themselves, and only Brien and Miles remembered that David was Matilda’s uncle, too.

But in the midst of these revelries, Stephen suddenly grew quiet. Setting down his wine cup, he gazed across the hall toward the unshuttered windows, and then said pensively, “I was wondering if it might not be a Christian act to spare those prisoners who’ve not yet been hanged. What better way to thank the Almighty for our victory?”

They stared at him, momentarily startled into silence. All but the abbot, who’d been waiting patiently for the king to resume their interrupted audience. There were worldly men of God, and then there were those like Abbot Herbert. Beaming at Stephen, he said warmly, “Bless you, my liege, that would be a deed well done!”

“In a pig’s eye!” Robert Beaumont sputtered, half choking on his wine, and Miles reached over, thumping him solicitously on the back.

“You disappoint me, Rob. Where is your sense of charity? I think the king is right, that it would indeed please the Almighty to pardon those poor wretches.”

“For certes, it would please the Lady Maude,” the bishop said acidly, “as you know right well, my lord!”

By now the hall was in turmoil, each man attempting to voice his opinion, to make himself heard above the din. Only two held their peace, Geoffrey de Mandeville and Brien Fitz Count. The former looked faintly amused by the uproar, the latter pained. It was not that Brien did not want to see the condemned prisoners reprieved, for he did. In Brien’s eyes, they were not rebels, and they did not deserve to die for keeping faith with their queen. For Maude was the rightful sovereign, not Stephen, and God forgive him, but he ought never to have disavowed his oath, for in saving his lands, he’d sacrificed his honour.

But still Brien kept silent, unable to encourage Stephen’s folly, as Miles was doing with such zest. If Stephen had determined at the outset to spare the Shrewsbury garrison, as he had spared the garrisons at Exeter and Hereford, he’d have done himself no good for certes. However much mercy might be admired in saints, Brien mused, it made men most uneasy when encountered in kings. But to condemn the prisoners and then relent, that would be sheer madness. He might stand aside and watch as Stephen cut his own throat. He could not bring himself to offer Stephen a dagger.

Stephen was under siege, being assailed from all sides by insistent voices. His head had begun to ache. Why did a crown complicate matters so? As Count of Mortain and Boulogne, he’d done what he pleased, and an easier life it had been, too. He glared at his brother the bishop. How dare Henry speak to him like this, as if he were a green stripling without a grain of sense! Well, he’d best learn to content himself with Winchester, for by all that’s holy, he’d never get his grasping hands upon Canterbury. If only Tilda were here. But she was at Dover and his only allies a weakling abbot and that crafty tame fox of Maude’s. If Miles was urging clemency, it must be wrong. So why, then, did it feel right?

“Enough!” he said angrily, flinging up his hand for silence. “You chatter at me like a flock of hungry magpies, and for naught. I never said I intended for certes to pardon those men. It was idle talk, no more than that.”

They subsided, relieved. Eventually conversation resumed, men drifted away from the dais, talk turned again to the humiliation of the Scots king, the likely whereabouts of William Fitz Alan, the need to appoint a new sheriff in his place, and out upon the castle battlements, men continued to die.

A ghostlike swirling fog had wafted in from the Channel, shrouding the chalky cliffs usually visible for miles. The night air was damp, uncommonly cold for September, and a sea-salted wind chilled victors and vanquished alike as the gates of Dover Castle slowly swung open to admit the Queen of England.

The sight that met Matilda’s eyes was an eerie one: a circle of flickering flames, yellow beacons of light stabbing through the fog. As she drew nearer, she realized that she was looking upon the flaring torches of her own guards, for they’d insisted upon entering the castle first, intent upon making sure that there would be no surprises, no eleventh-hour change of heart by the castellan. Her nervousness eased somewhat as she rode toward their beckoning glow, wondering if sailors felt this way upon catching the reassuring glimmer of Dover’s light tower.

Blessed Lady Mary, how lucky she had been and how well served! It had been her vassals’ duty to respond, of course, once she’d called upon them. But she’d gotten from these men of Kent and Boulogne more than grudging service. Rank seemed not to matter, for she’d found champions in equal numbers among her knights, serjeants, and men-at-arms. She still did not understand how she’d managed to touch their calloused soldiers’ hearts, could only be grateful for it.

She was grateful, too, for the man riding at her side. She was convinced that the arrival of Robert de Ferrers, fresh from his triumph over the Scots, had marked a turning point in the siege. How good of Stephen to send her such a stalwart knight. He’d be well rewarded; she and Stephen would see to that.

“There he is, my lady. Walkelin Maminot, who held the castle for Robert Fitz Roy, and waits now to deliver it into your hands.” Reining in his stallion, Robert de Ferrers swung to the ground, then reached up to help Matilda dismount.

Approaching her was one of the largest men she’d ever seen, towering over her like a massive oak. To look up into his face, she had to tilt her head back so far that her veil started to slip. She grabbed for it awkwardly, more uneasy than she cared to admit.

“I yield to you, my lady.” The giant had a surprisingly gentle voice. His face was grave, but unafraid, for he’d been assured there would be no bloody reprisals taken against his men, as at Shrewsbury. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he held it out to her, hilt first, and as she timidly took it, he sank to his knees before her. “Madame, Dover Castle is yours.”

“I accept it in the name of my lord husband, the king,” Matilda said as loudly as she could; she well knew that her whispery little-girl’s voice did not carry far, and it was important that all should hear. Turning, she handed the sword to Robert de Ferrers, glad to be rid of it, and then motioned Walkelin Maminot to raise. At that, her men raised a cheer, for the siege of Dover Castle was over.

“My lady, may I escort you back to the priory guesthouse?”

She nodded, and took Ferrers’s arm, letting him lead her toward her mare. “Sir Robert, thank you. If not for you, Dover Castle would not have surrendered. You may be sure I will not forget.”

He shrugged off her praise with a smile. “I talked some sense into Walkelin, no more than that. It would have been foolhardy for him not to listen, in truth, what with him wed to my daughter!”

“This is an evil war,” Matilda sighed. “I know that is a woman’s belief and not one you’d be likely to share. But this war is more accursed than most, Sir Robert, for it is tearing families asunder.”

“God Willing, it shall soon be over now. The loss of Dover Castle is a grievous blow to Maude’s hopes. But you give me too much credit and yourself too little, my lady. It was your fleet that blockaded Dover’s harbor, was it not? Those were your captains directing the siege, your men vowing to hold fast, through the winter if need be. They were fighting for you, my lady. You came often to the camp, you fetched a priest for the dying, you comforted the wounded. Believe me, madame, this victory was yours, too.”

Matilda almost argued with him, so strong was the force of habit. But then she smiled, a smile of sudden realization and startled reassessment. “Yes,” she said proudly, “it truly was!”