When Christ and His Saints Slept (129 page)

Stephen agreed with his son’s scornful assessment of the French king’s inept campaign, but he wished Eustace had waited until they were alone to express it, for he knew every embittered word would eventually get back to Louis; the men in this tent could never resist repeating such choice gossip. “When you spoke of Louis’s mourning his cousin, I assume you mean the Count of Vermandois? We heard that he’d died during the campaign.”

Eustace nodded. “The one besotted with Eleanor’s sister. Louis was right fond of the man, God knows why. In truth, I think he was just looking for an excuse to end the war, and I suppose Raoul’s death was as good a reason as any. Better than that sudden fever, for certes!” He laughed harshly. “So…now you know what ‘truly happened in Normandy this summer,’ my lord of Arundel. It was great fun; a pity you missed it.”

No one knew what to say. Stephen yearned to console his son, but he realized that any comfort he’d offer would ring false to Eustace. Even if Almighty God were to send an archangel into their midst to absolve Eustace of any blame, it would change nothing. All over England, men would still be talking of Henry Fitz Empress, bedazzled by the apparent ease of his victory over the King of France. When he returned to England, this time he would come as a man of proven prowess on the battlefield, a man dangerous to defy. Already a far greater threat than ever his mother had posed. And who knew that better than Eustace?

A servant was moving around the table, refilling their wine cups. Stephen took a swallow; it tasted bitter. “I was surprised,” he said, “when Henry did not start gathering another fleet at Barfleur. Do you know why, Eustace?”

The younger man shrugged. “I heard that he was loath to leave his bride. Judging by his haste in getting back to her bed, all those lurid stories told about her must be true. But no woman can compete with a crown, not for long. Once he gets his fill, he’ll start casting his eyes toward England again. That I do not doubt.”

Neither did Stephen. “Did you hear any talk about how long he means to stay in Aquitaine? Now that winter is nigh, mayhap he’ll tarry there till the spring?”

“I expect he will, although I heard nothing about his plans ere I sailed for England. The only gossip coming out of Aquitaine concerned the incident at Limoges.”

Glancing about the table, Eustace saw no comprehension on the watching faces, only puzzlement and curiosity. “I see you have not heard yet about that. After Henry hurried back to Eleanor, they set off on a progress through her domains. Almost at once, they ran into trouble—at Limoges, where the citizens balked at offering them hospitality. When Henry demanded an explanation, the abbot of St Martial’s pointed out that he and Eleanor were camped on the edge of town and claimed that the Limousins had a duty to provide food for their liege lord only when he actually lodged within the city walls.”

“This is preposterous!” the Earl of Northampton exclaimed, and the others chimed in, too, equally indignant, for in that moment every man there felt a fleeting sense of solidarity with Henry, briefly seeing him not as an enemy but as one of their own, a highborn lord denied his just due by those who owed him deference and respect. Even Eustace’s voice had a grudging note of approval as he described now the retaliation taken by his hated nemesis upon the recalcitrant citizens of Limoges.

“That reasoning did not satisfy Henry, either. The accounts I heard say that he treated the Limousins to a display of Angevin rage that they’ll not soon forget. He then ordered the city’s walls razed, so there’d be no such disputes on future visits.”

This time the murmurs were both appreciative and amused. Stephen alone was dubious. “Surely it was not necessary to take such a drastic measure as that,” he protested, “when a warning would have sufficed.” Reaching for his wine cup, he was bringing it up to his mouth when he realized they were all staring at him in astonishment. “What is it?” he said defensively, for this was not an uncommon occurrence. He’d make an observation that seemed eminently reasonable, only to have his barons react as though he’d suddenly begun to speak a tongue utterly incomprehensible to them.

“Christ Jesus, Papa, that was an unforgivable insult!”

“Lord Eustace is right, my liege. Such a deliberate provocation must never go unpunished, for men would see that as weakness, as—”

“I know that,” Stephen interrupted impatiently. “But in destroying the city walls, that punishment fell upon the innocent as well as the guilty, upon those citizens of Limoges who’d had no say in it, who likely did not even know why Henry was so wroth with them.”

Stephen stopped then, for it was obvious he was wasting his time and his breath. They did not understand his point of view any more than he understood theirs. A familiar and frustrating sense of isolation swept over him. Did all kings feel so solitary, so alone? What did youths like his son and Maude’s son know about the loneliness of kingship? What did they know about the conflicting claims of justice and mercy? Only one person had ever understood how hard the choices could be. Only Tilda, may God assoil her sweet soul. Only Tilda.

SERVANTS
had cleared away the dishes and were dismantling the trestle tables when the messenger arrived from John Marshal. Ushered into Stephen’s tent, he knelt awkwardly in the cramped space, and held out a sealed parchment. As Stephen broke the seal and began to read, the others watched, glad that this troublesome siege was finally over.

“Holy Christ…” Stephen’s hoarse whisper was almost inaudible, but they all saw the color drain from his face. “The man is mad,” he said, sounding stunned. “He must be…”

When they crowded around, clamoring for answers, Stephen handed Marshal’s letter to his son. Eustace scanned it rapidly, his eyes widening. “Marshal says he’ll not surrender the castle. As for our threat to hang his son, he said go ahead, hang him, that he has the hammer and anvil to forge other and better sons.”

These were men not easily shocked, but John Marshal had managed to do just that. There was silence and then uproar, with all talking at once. Stephen had reclaimed Marshal’s letter; he kept rereading it as if expecting to find there’d been some mistake, for he simply could not believe any man capable of saying of his five-year-old son, “Hang him.”

“I never thought I’d see such evil as Geoffrey de Mandeville loosed on the Fenlands,” he said, “but even he murdered other men’s children, not his own…”

“I always heard that Marshal had no nerves at all. Look at the way he held out up in that burning church at Wherwell, willing to risk being broiled alive rather than surrender. But this…Jesú!” Eustace elbowed around the encircling men to reach his father. “Papa…I am truly sorry. I know how hard this will be for you.”

Stephen had never heard his son sound so solicitous. Raising his eyes from the letter, he saw Eustace was watching him intently. So were the other men. He did not at first understand. When he did, he expelled his breath in an audible rush, as if he’d just taken a blow to the pit of his stomach. “You cannot think,” he said incredulously, “that I am going to do it?”

“Papa, you have no choice.”

“Lord Eustace is right, my liege.” Northampton heaved a sound much like a sigh. “I hate this,” he said heavily. “What man would not? But it must be done. You cannot let Marshal defy you like this. You threatened to hang his son if he did not yield Newbury. Now you have to follow through with your threat. You cannot back down, God help you, but you cannot!”

“No! I will not kill a child just to save face!”

But when Stephen looked to the other men for support, he found none. One by one, they began to voice their agreement with Eustace and Northampton. Mohun was chillingly composed, contending that the age of the hostage was immaterial. Aubrey de Vere mumbled his assent, as if hoping God would not hear. William d’Aubigny wanted no part in it, but when forced to declare himself, he condemned the child with tears in his eyes. Shaken by their unexpected unanimity, Stephen turned to his seneschal, for he knew William Martel to be a decent, God-fearing man, one whose judgment he trusted. But Martel, too, argued for the hanging, all the more convincing for his obvious distress.

Stephen would later look back upon that afternoon as one of the worst of his life. Reeling under their assault, he continued to insist that he’d not execute a child, no matter what the provocation. But they continued to insist that he must, and they had logic and history and political necessity on their side, whereas he had only instinct, an aversion rooted in emotion, heartfelt but not easy to articulate.

He could not rebut their arguments. All they said was true. Hostages lost their value if there was no risk. Why would a man ever keep faith if he could be sure his hostages would come to no harm? A king’s word must be good. Whether he promised or threatened, he must do what he said he would. If Marshal was allowed to get away with this, other would-be rebels would take heart. Respect was but one side of the royal coin; the other was fear. For unless men feared to cross him, why would they stay loyal? He had a tenuous grip at best upon the allegiance of his subjects, war-weary and yearning for peace. And now he was no longer facing a haughty, irksome woman as his rival for the throne. With Henry Fitz Empress breathing down his neck, he had no margin for error. He could afford to make no more mistakes, to do anything that might cause men to doubt his will, to see him as weak or indecisive.

They were accustomed to speaking their minds freely with Stephen, and they did not hold back now. They reminded him that his uncle, the old king of blessed memory, had agreed to mutilate his own granddaughters, so important was it that the king’s word could be trusted. They reminded him, too, how he’d gallantly allowed Maude to ride away safe from Arundel, whereas had he taken her captive, the war would have ended then and there. They’d staked their futures upon his kingship. And what of his son? How could he risk Eustace’s birthright upon an impulse of misguided mercy?

“I am not saying it is right, my liege,” William Martel said softly, “only that it is necessary. Sometimes an innocent must be sacrificed so that other innocents may live. Is it not better that one child should die if his death would hasten the end of this accursed war?”

“I suppose it would depend upon whether the child was yours.” But Stephen was beaten and he knew it. He could not fight them all, for much of what they’d said had hit its target dead on. How many had died in the thirteen years since he’d let Maude go free at Arundel? Whenever he’d heeded his own inner voice, it was invariably wrong.

The men read surrender in his silence, and were relieved that they had prevailed. But this would not be a victory to celebrate; it would be one to forget—if they could. Now that the crisis was over, the toll it had taken showed clearly on their faces. William de Mohun alone seemed to have emerged unscathed in this battle between conscience and kingship, and the others suspected that was because his own conscience had been stillborn. He proved that by volunteering for a task any rational man would have shunned, offering to take charge of the execution of John Marshal’s son. They were more than willing to put the onus off onto him, and Eustace nodded assent, all the while thinking that Mohun was a fool if he believed this would gain him any royal favor. Who wanted to dine with a hangman, to break bread with a gravedigger?

When Mohun reentered the tent, the men hoped he’d come to report that it was done. But instead, he announced with odious indifference that the arrangements had all been made. “Do you want to witness the hanging, my liege, or shall I just inform you once it is over?”

Stephen raised his head, regarding Mohun with revulsion. But it was nothing compared to his own self-loathing. “If a child is to die by my command, I owe it to him to watch.” Turning hollowed, accusing eyes upon his accomplices—for that was how he saw them—he said bitterly, “We all owe him that much.”

EXECUTIONS
were usually a grisly form of entertainment, drawing large crowds in cities and towns. Rarely had a hanging been as poorly attended as this one, but as word spread through the camp, few of the men wanted to watch. Only the calloused and morbidly curious were gathered by the tree chosen as a gallows. Most found reasons to keep away.

Stephen’s barons were there, but by command, not choice. They shifted uneasily, for few men could contemplate a child’s death with William de Mohun’s sangfroid. He might not know it yet, but Mohun had gained himself several new enemies this day, cursing him under their breaths for putting Stephen—and them—through this needless ordeal. Why had the fool just not gone off and done it?

Eustace felt honour-bound to stand shoulder to shoulder with his father, although he would rather have been anywhere else in Christendom. He’d not thought he would hate anyone more than Henry Fitz Empress, but John Marshal now ran Henry a close second. No matter how long it took, he would make Marshal pay for springing this diabolic trap upon them; the death of the boy was only a down payment on the debt. He knew full well that his father would never forgive himself for what they were forced to do here. As much as he hated to admit it, he was feeling a certain queasy tension, too, as the time drew nigh. He could only hope that the lad would not weep and sob.

But when William Marshal appeared, Eustace discovered that there was more to be feared than tears. A lively, handsome child, brown-haired and sturdy, William was utterly at ease, for he’d been well treated during his weeks in the royal encampment. He was too young to understand what being a hostage meant; he knew only that the king had been unfailingly kind to him, and he smiled at sight of Stephen, with an appalling and heartrending innocence.

They’d set up a barrel under the tree, so that the lad would break his neck when it was kicked away, instead of slowly strangling, William de Mohun explained, oblivious, as the men shrank back as if he were a leper. Stephen’s throat had closed up, and it hurt to breathe, but he forced himself to watch as William Marshal was led toward the barrel.

The boy paused to gaze admiringly at William d’Aubigny’s lance, which the man had been shifting nervously from hand to hand, wondering why the earl looked so odd when he asked if he could hold it later. Aubigny’s face twisted in anguish, and he muttered an obscenity that made William giggle, for he’d heard enough cursing from his father to recognize it for what it was.