The Fatal Crown (64 page)

Eventually Stephen lost all track of time. It might be a week or just a few days that he had been in the cell. He could hardly remember what it had been like to live a normal life. His entire world was defined by the walls of his dungeon, the times he was fed, and whether it was night or day, depending on the degree of light coming from the shaft in the wall. He saw only the guard, changed frequently lest he make one an ally, Stephen suspected. Now and again the guards would engage in a brief conversation with him when he was being fed, but mostly he was left strictly alone.

Stephen’s face bristled with the spiked growth of a beard, his body felt stiff and sore, and his knee joints ached like the very devil, as if the dampness had seeped into his bones. The clothes he wore grew filthy and began to smell; there was no part of his flesh that did not itch from lice and vermin. Sometimes he felt he would sell his soul for a hot bath.

One night, awakened by a loud noise, he sat up, half-expecting to see the beady eyes of a large rat that had taken to creeping into his cell after dark. The door to the cell opened, and instead of the guard, Stephen was surprised to see Phillip with a lighted torch in one hand and a jug in the other.

“Sire, are you well? Are you being fed enough food? It’s so cold in here, have you sufficient covering?” The sound of Phillip’s anxious voice was sweeter than the song of a southern troubadour.

“I’m as well as can be expected, Phillip,” Stephen said. “The food is sufficient, but another blanket would be most welcome, and I badly miss my exercise. A change of clothes would also help.” He peered past Phillip into the darkness of the passage. “Where is the guard?”

“I bribed him to give me a few moments alone with you. He knows I bring no chisel or hammer to break your chain and help you escape.”

Phillip set his torch into an iron sconce fastened to the wall, then knelt in the straw and handed Stephen the jug. “Here is some wine, Sire, it is all I dared bring.”

Much moved, Stephen smiled. “You’re a brave lad, Phillip, to risk coming to me like this. If it’s discovered you’ll be soundly punished.” He took the jug between his hands and drank thirstily. It was inferior wine, bitter on the tongue, but nothing in his life had ever tasted sweeter. “How long have I been here?”

“Five days, Sire. I would have come before, but my Lord of Wallingford was still here, making sure the castle was secure. He only left yesterday.”

“By God’s birth, it feels like a lifetime.” Only five days, Stephen thought, five paltry days and he did not see how he could endure another hour.

“It’s an outrage what they do to you, Sire,” Phillip whispered, his voice throbbing with indignation. “I can’t bear to see you so demeaned. I’ll never forgive my father for this, nor my aunt. I’ll never recognize her as queen.”

Stephen could not repress a twinge of gratification. Without the slightest effort on his part, he had suborned Robert’s son. It was a fitting revenge for the ignoble way he was being treated.

He tousled Phillip’s hair. “I’ll never forget your kindness, and when I am freed from this prison, I will know how to show my gratitude. Now, tell me the news.”

Phillip settled himself in the straw. “Just before the coronation, a London mob sacked the palace of Westminster and the lady barely escaped with her life.”

“Jesu,” Stephen murmured, signing himself. “Sacked Westminster! I can hardly believe it.”

“When the lady fled to Oxford, your queen rode into London with Eustace at her side, and her army behind her. The Lords of Muelan and Leicester and William of Ypres have joined her, as well as others who abandoned you at Lincoln.”

“Thank God. Go on.”

“New life has been breathed into your cause. That’s why you’re here, Sire, because it’s feared that there will be more uprisings and perhaps an attempt to rescue you.”

“By God’s birth,” Stephen murmured, “I should have known it would be something like that.” He was so excited that he threw off the blanket and stood up, cradling the jug in his hands. “So Matilda and Eustace are safe and back in London.” His eyes closed as he gave a silent prayer of thanks. “And my brother?”

Phillip also rose. “He deserted the lady’s cause shortly before the palace was sacked. Brian says he might even have had something to do with it. My father has gone to Winchester to lure him back.”

Knowing Henry, he probably had been involved, Stephen thought, as a great weight lifted from his heart. Now there was reason to hope once more. His brother had the most astute mind in the realm; if there was a way of freeing him, Henry would find it. Tears sprang to his eyes. Should he be released from this foul prison, he vowed, never would he hurt his brother or the church again.

There was a cough, and Stephen looked up to see the guard hovering anxiously in the open doorway. “Now then, Master Phillip, time’s up. They’ll be changing the guard any moment. Hurry.”

“Thank you, Phillip,” Stephen said, downing the last of the wine. He watched the torchlight flicker on the boy’s adoring young face.

“I’ll see that you have another blanket at least, more if I can.” Phillip removed the torch, took the jug from Stephen’s hands, and left the cell.

As the door closed and the key turned, Stephen sank to his knees in prayer. The news was like a miracle: his throne still vacant; Matilda returned in triumph to London; his brother once more an ally. Or so he hoped.

If God permitted him a second chance, Stephen swore, never again would he allow envy, hostility, rage, and most of all love—blind, unreasoning love—to cloud his judgment, or compel him to act against his own best interests. Look to yourself, sweet Cousin, he thought. Should I ever again have the chance, I will not let you escape.

I
N AUGUST ROBERT RETURNED
to Oxford from Winchester with the news that Henry was evasive about his future plans and would not commit himself to rejoin their cause.

“We will help him to decide,” Maud announced.

True to her earlier word, Maud gathered together her army and, ignoring the protests of her council, set off for Winchester determined to persuade Bishop Henry to return to her camp. Although her cousin was not at his palace of Wolvesey when she arrived, Maud and her forces were admitted into the city without incident. When Henry returned, however, he made one excuse after another to avoid a meeting between them.

Then, without warning, Matilda’s troops—greatly outnumbering Maud’s—arrived in the dead of night and surrounded the city. Maud knew she had received the Bishop’s answer: He had abandoned her cause.

Six weeks later Maud, standing on the battlements of the stone-and-timber castle in the city of Winchester, looked with hatred at the royal standard fluttering from the Bishop’s palace that lay just outside the walls. A symbol of defiance, she thought bitterly, proclaiming for all to see that he was once more Stephen’s man.

There was a sudden loud hiss. Maud looked up to see a fireball sailing over the walls of Winchester. It seemed to be headed directly toward where she stood. Frozen, she could not drag her eyes away from the flaming orb as it arced across the deep blue of the September sky, coming closer and closer.

“Maud, get back!”

“In heaven’s name, Niece, move!”

Startled, she turned at the sound of Brian FitzCount’s voice, followed by her uncle’s. Booted feet raced over stone. Strong arms wrenched her body forcefully away from the parapet.

“God be thanked, it’s missed the castle,” Brian said.

The burning sphere fell short of the battlements, then disappeared from view. Sudden screams rent the air, followed by the sound of a crackling explosion.

“St. Mary’s Abbey has been hit,” Brian gasped.

“The nuns will be trapped inside,” Maud cried, tearing herself from his arms.

From below came an anguished cry of pain and terror.

“Mother of God,” Brian whispered. “No, no, do not look.”

But Maud was already hanging over the embrasure. One of the nuns who had tried to escape from the burning building was running around in circles, her black habit on fire. Other nuns were trying to beat out the flames with their hands. Maud covered her mouth with her hands as the nun, screaming in agony, became a human torch, fire engulfing her body. Bile rose in Maud’s throat and she gagged even as she said a prayer.

“How much longer must we endure this,” she cried, tears running down her face. “Today it’s that poor sister. Who will it be tomorrow?”

“As God wills, Niece. The good nun will die a martyr’s death,” said David of Scotland, crossing himself.

“As God wills? It is the Bishop of Winchester who sacrifices the lives of innocent victims.” Maud turned and pointed an accusing finger at the roof of the Bishop’s palace. “How can a man of God destroy his own abbeys?”

“Ach, lass, ’tis the hazards of war. Such devil’s work is the Flemish army’s doing, not the Bishop’s.”

“He allows it, doesn’t he? I must go down at once and offer my aid to the sisters.”

The King of Scotland looked at her sharply when, suddenly swaying, Maud grabbed a merlon for support. “When did ye last eat?”

Maud leaned against the stone. “I can’t remember, Uncle. I’ve lost all count of time. Probably after mass this morning.” She grimaced. “Stale bread and rancid meat. I remember now I couldn’t touch it.”

“That’s all we have available,” Brian said with a sigh, “and we’re fortunate to have that. Stores of food are so low some areas of the city are starving.” He looked at her in concern. “You must eat something, Lady, no matter how unpalatable. I think you’re in no condition to aid anyone at the moment.”

“Lack of food and water—” David turned to Brian. “If we do na get provisions soon, my lord, we’ll be forced to surrender—or starve to death.”

“Surrender? Never,” Maud said firmly. “Never will I become Matilda’s prisoner, not while I have breath within my body. I’d rather starve!”

“Ach, ye ha’ a proud spirit, lass, but ye nay ha’ experienced a long siege afore. Nor ha’ ye seen men die of starvation.”

As Maud watched the citizens of Winchester bring buckets of water to keep the flames from spreading, she wondered, not for the first time, if her uncle and the others blamed her for the disastrous position in which they now found themselves: daily fireballs threatening the city, meager rations, and a growing despair that made life in Winchester a continuing nightmare. The bells tolling for Sext mercifully interrupted her grim thoughts.

After noon Mass when Maud and the others were gathered in the great hall the Scottish king told Robert they could not go on as they were. “A surprise attack, men trying to scale the walls, presents a more immediate threat than starvation. And since ye just lost three hundred men, how will ye resist the Flemish horde?”

Maud sighed, hating to be reminded of their latest failure. Two weeks ago Robert had dispatched three hundred men under cover of darkness to stop their supplies being intercepted and their escorts slain by the enemy before they could reach the city. William of Ypres’ Flemings had fallen on the troops in a surprise attack and massacred them to a man.

“Do you say we should surrender, Uncle?” Maud whispered, dreading his reply.

“Nay, lass. But we must retreat, aye, and with no delay, I’m thinking. None of us be safe here.”

Robert nodded. “Retreat or be captured.”

“The conditions are hazardous for retreat,” Miles protested. “We’re surrounded by enemy forces.”

“We must get Maud to safety,” Robert stated, “regardless of the conditions.”

“Surely there’s something else we can do,” Maud cried out in despair. “This is Westminster all over again. We must stand our ground.”

“This is far worse than Westminster,” Robert said. “There at least we had an army waiting for us at Oxford. Now men are in short supply. No.” He shook his head decisively. “We must get you out of Winchester to safety at Bristol.”

That night at their meager supper, Robert outlined the scheme for their retreat.

“The escape is planned to coincide with Vespers tomorrow night, a Sunday, which is also the feast of the Holy Cross. It’s to be hoped that a greater number of enemy troops will be attending service, leaving fewer to guard the walls.”

Using ivory chessmen to demonstrate his strategy, Robert spread out the large pieces on the trestle table.

“An advance bodyguard will be sent on ahead, led by King David and his Highlanders.” He slid a few men across the boards, then turned to Maud. “You’ll follow on their heels, Sister, attended by guards on either side. Miles and Brian will be right behind you, protecting the rear.” He moved another handful of ivory figures.

“And you, Brother? Where will you be?”

“Behind them with my men, overseeing the whole retreat.” He swept the rest of the pieces off the table with a flourish.

“Who covers your rear then?” Maud asked.

“None need cover my back,” Robert said, tossing his head in a proud gesture. “Come now.” He raised dark brows. “Why do you wear such a long face, Sister? I’ve been fighting battles since I was big enough to wield a sword. Have I ever been captured? Or defeated? The only warrior to match me lies captive at Bristol!”

The next day dragged on endlessly. Would Vespers never come? An hour before the evening service was due to start, Maud sat down to supper with her half-brother, Brian, Miles, her uncle, and the castellan of Oxford Castle, Robert d’Oilli, who had joined her forces when she left Oxford for Winchester.

The Vespers bell sounded at last. It was time to leave. Cloaked and hooded, almost suffocating in the breathless heat of early evening, Maud was hoisted into the saddle of a Flemish bay mare she had never ridden before. She took a last look around the crowded courtyard, shading her eyes from the blood-red rays of the setting sun. An armed escort rode on either side of her; behind, in the order her half-brother had determined, Brian and Miles waited with their men. At the rear Maud could see Robert astride his horse, with Lord d’Oilli beside him. She knew he was to remain in the town until she had passed safely through the west gate of the city. He raised his lance to her in a huge mailed fist.