When Christ and His Saints Slept (40 page)

They all had the same objectives in mind—the overthrow of the king and a soldier’s chance for plunder—and so there should not have been friction between the two forces. Yet there was. It was due in part to Chester himself, for he was not an easy ally, and some of the strain inevitably trickled down through the ranks. But Chester’s abrasive personality was only half the problem. Riding with his Cheshire vassals and tenants was a sizable contingent of Welsh mercenaries.

Nearly seventy-five years had passed since William the Bastard had led an invading army onto English shores, but those sons and grandsons born after the Conquest did not consider themselves English.
English
was a word with negative connotations, for it referred to a people who spoke an odd tongue and clung to odd customs, a defeated people. Those of Norman-French descent felt vastly superior to the subjugated English, and that muted their hostility. They had not been as successful, though, in subduing the Welsh. The Welsh were a vexing, unpredictable people, fiercely independent, and few of Robert’s soldiers were willing to embrace them as allies—with one singular exception.

To Ranulf, Wales was a mysterious, alien land of foreboding mountains and blood feuds and Celtic craziness. Much of the time, he even forgot that he was half Welsh, for his mother had been dead for fifteen years and her gentle, elusive spirit had faded long ago into the shadows, leaving him with vague memories of a sweet smile, bedtime hugs, and a lingering fragrance of spring flowers.

All that Ranulf now knew of Wales he’d learned from Robert, whose marriage to Amabel had brought him the lordship of Glamorgan. Wales, Robert had explained, was a hodgepodge of rival realms, each ruled by its own brenin or king. The least significant of these kingdoms was in the south, where the Normans had made the greatest inroads. North Wales was known to the Welsh as Gwynedd, and ruled for the past three years by a man Robert respected, Owain Gwynedd, while the third kingdom was Powys, governed by one Madog ap Maredudd.

According to Robert, theirs was a rural, tribal society, lacking cities or castles or comforts, for the Welsh were hunters and herdsmen, not farmers. He’d found them to be a volatile people, equally passionate in their loves and their hates, uncaring of hardship, generous, vengeful, light of heart, often fickle of purpose, but always inordinately proud of their small mountainous corner of the world. Although Robert had tried to be scrupulously fair, it was clear to Ranulf that Welsh virtues were not those his brother would value, save only what Robert deemed their “marvelous, mad courage.”

On those rare occasions when Wales had insinuated itself into Ranulf’s awareness, he’d sometimes thought he might like to learn more about this shadowy land and its perplexing people. But he’d never truly expected to have such an opportunity. Yet suddenly here he was, riding alongside his mother’s countrymen up the Fosse Way as they headed north into Nottinghamshire. The sound of Welsh, lilting in cadence and utterly incomprehensible to his ear, had begun to stir old memories, long buried, of a small boy listening sleepily as his mother talked wistfully of her homeland and family. She’d sung to him in Welsh, and he realized in surprise that he must have spoken her language, too, but all of his childhood Welsh had sunk down into the bottom depths of his brain, beyond salvaging. And he soon discovered, much to his disappointment, that Chester’s Welsh hirelings spoke little or no French.

Their leaders did, of course. They were both men of importance in their own world, for Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd was the younger brother of a king, Owain Gwynedd, and Madog ap Maredudd was himself a Welsh king, Brenin of Powys. Cadwaladr attracted more attention, for he was bold by nature and not loath to speak his mind. He had a ready smile, a certain cocky charm, but Ranulf had come to mistrust charm; Stephen had taught him that. He was wary of Cadwaladr, the discontented younger brother, and Madog ap Maredudd had no interest in satisfying the curiosity of a Norman-French lordling. But on their third day after departing Claybrook, Ranulf found Gwern, who was good-natured and disarmingly forthright and spoke fluent French.

Gwern was a lean, weathered soldier of middle height like Ranulf, but swarthy as a Saracen, no longer young. He’d cheerfully admitted to “forty winters,” joking that it was “pitiful, an old man like me chasing after English rebels,” and when Ranulf reminded him that they were the rebels, he’d roared with laughter, obviously quite untroubled by the intricacies of English politics. From Gwern, Ranulf learned that Cadwaladr and Madog were linked by marriage and a shared jealousy of Owain Gwynedd, brother and royal rival. He learned that the Welsh scorned the chain-mail armor of the Norman knight, that their weapon of choice was the spear in the North and the bow in the South, and that Gwern hoped this war amongst the English would go on for years.

“No offense, lad, but whilst you’re busy killing one another, you’ll be keeping your Norman noses out of Wales!” Ranulf couldn’t help laughing, and was rewarded with a miracle, for when Gwern discovered his name, he exclaimed, “The old king’s son? By God, then you’re Angharad’s lad!”

Ranulf was dubious at first, almost afraid to believe. Gwern saw his doubt, and clouted him playfully on the shoulder. “There are no strangers in Gwynedd. Hellfire, most of us are kin of some sort. And that was quite a scandal in its day—the English king and Rhys ap Cynan’s daughter. Nor was she a lass that any man would soon forget, as shy as a fawn and just as good to look upon, with hair the color of newly churned butter and a smile like a candle in the dark.” He saw Ranulf’s sudden grin and chuckled self-consciously. “Aye, I’ll own up to it, I was mad for the girl, me and half the striplings in the Conwy Valley. Her going left quite a hole in many a Welsh lad’s lustings!”

Ranulf laughed, for now he knew that Gwern was not just telling him what he wanted to hear. He had indeed known Angharad, for she’d been that rarity, a Welshwoman as fair as any Norse maid, with sun-streaked tawny hair that she’d passed on to her son. “I know nothing of her kin,” he confided. “Does she still have family in…that valley?”

Gwern was shocked by Ranulf’s self-confessed ignorance, for to the Welsh, nothing mattered more than bloodlines. “Indeed so, lad. Her father was long dead, of course, when the English king took her, and mayhap just as well. Now poor Emlyn died of a fever ten years back, and Math was slain in a border skirmish soon after. But Rhodri is hale as can be…your uncle, lad, and a good man he is. In fact, his firstborn was set upon coming with Cadwaladr…Cadell, your cousin. But Rhodri got wind of it in time. He’d buried two sons already, was not about to risk a shallow English grave for Cadell.

“I called him a good man, and God’s Truth, he is, but he is an unlucky one, too. Two boys dead ere they reached manhood, a wife gone to God just two years back, a babe smothered in her cradle, another daughter who’ll never find a husband…he’s borne more than his share of sorrows. Small blame to him for wanting to keep Cadell close by the hearth!”

Ranulf was startled by the rush of sympathy he felt for this unknown uncle of his. “Rhodri,” he echoed, and a forgotten memory revived. “He was younger than my mother, was he not?”

Gwern nodded vigorously. “If my memory serves, there were two years between them. He was barely thirteen at the time, and none blamed him for being unable to play a man’s part, but he blamed himself, for he was right fond of Angharad. Wait till he hears I met her son!”

Ranulf was no longer smiling. “I see,” he said flatly. “So her family thought she’d shamed herself by running off with the king.” And although he could hardly blame Angharad’s menfolk for thinking so, he resented it, nonetheless, on his mother’s behalf.

Gwern’s dark eyes flickered in surprise. “The shame was not hers, lad. How could she be blamed when it was not her doing? We Welsh are fairer to our women than that.”

Ranulf stared at him. “Are you saying my father took her against her will?”

Gwern shrugged. “Well, he did not truss her up and throw her across his saddle. But neither did he ask for her yea or nay.” He saw that Ranulf was truly shocked, and added, by way of comfort, “Kings are never ones for asking, though, are they?”

Ranulf said nothing. He’d been thinking that mayhap he might bring Annora into Wales once they were wed and Maude’s England at peace again, for the idea was an appealing one, making a leisurely pilgrimage to this Conwy Valley to seek out his newfound uncle and cousins. But that would have been a fool’s quest. What reason would they have to welcome him, the seed sprung from an enemy’s lust? And after that, he avoided Gwern as much as possible, no longer at ease with the affable Welshman.

ON
the first day of February, the citizens of Lincoln awoke to slate-colored skies and icy rain. Cursing and coughing, Stephen’s soldiers grimly manned his siege machines. Slipping in the mud, they loaded heavy stones into the mangonels, sent them crashing into the castle bailey. Others labored upon the belfry, hammering out their frustrations upon the wet wood, dropping nails as they blew upon their chapped hands to ward off the cold. They had not yet begun covering the tower in the vinegar-soaked hides meant to repel fire-arrows, but unless the weather took an even nastier turn, by midweek the belfry would be ready to be wheeled up to the castle wall. Each of its four stories would shelter men, crouching within while bowmen on the top level drove the castle defenders off the wall. The belfry drawbridge would then drop down onto the battlements, they would scramble across, and the final battle for Lincoln Castle would begin.

For Stephen’s soldiers, it could not come a day too soon, especially now that rumors were sweeping the city of an approaching enemy army. They wanted this accursed siege over and done with; winter warfare was, for most men, a frigid foretaste of Hell.

The rain slackened by noon, but the sky stayed dark and foreboding. Stephen did not return to his lodgings at the Bishop of Lincoln’s palace until dusk. It had been an awkward arrangement at first, for Bishop Alexander’s memories of the Oxford ambush were still sharp enough to rankle. He had not forgiven Stephen for his disgrace, the downfall of his uncle and cousins. But once the Earl of Chester seized Lincoln Castle, Stephen’s sins began to dwindle in the bishop’s eyes, and he was determined to do whatever he could to root out Chester’s evil influence from his city and his see.

Supper was neither festive nor memorable, for the bishop’s cooks were restricted to a Saturday fish menu. Afterward, none strayed too far from the open hearth. Stephen and the bishop began to play a game of chess; at least that spared them the need to make polite, stilted conversation. Waleran Beaumont was in a morose mood, nursing a chest cold and bored with Lincoln, Stephen, and the siege. Next time, he vowed, he’d be the one to tend to Beaumont interests in Normandy; brother Robert could have the dubious pleasure of flushing out rebels from their ratholes. He perked up a bit, though, when William de Ypres suggested a game of hasard. Although gambling was frowned upon by the Church, the bishop’s guests knew he was too worldly to take offense, and once a pair of dice was found, Waleran and the Fleming took on the Earls of York and Pembroke. Pembroke’s younger brother Baldwin, the Earl of Northampton, William Peverel, and Hugh Bigod soon came over to watch, bedeviling the players and making side wagers of their own.

There was talk of the belfry, and then some speculation about the Earl of Chester’s whereabouts, for rumors had begun to circulate that he was no longer holed up in the castle. By the time Gilbert de Gant joined the group, conversation had shifted to the new serving-wench at the alehouse in Danesgate Road.

Few topics were of greater interest to Gilbert than women, especially wanton ones; he was by far the youngest lord there, still in his teens. But for once he had other, more pressing matters on his mind. He wanted to discuss the rumors, for he did not understand why Stephen and his battle captains had given them so little credence. He was hesitant, though, to be the one to bring the subject up, for he was a battlefield virgin and these men were veterans. He waited until the first game ended, and while the men were summoning servants for wine and ale, he drew Baldwin de Clare aside. No matter how green or foolish his questions, Baldwin would not laugh, for his own military experience was limited to a disastrous expedition against the Welsh.

“Why is it, Baldwin, that no one believes the report of an army being sighted in Nottinghamshire? Why could it not be true?”

“I can give you one hundred and seventy or so reasons, Gilbert—the miles stretching between Lincoln and Bristol.”

“Does it have to be the Earl of Gloucester? What about the Earl of Chester? Mayhap he did escape…?”

“No matter, for Cheshire is nearly as far. An army on the march in the dead of winter would be lucky to cover eight miles a day. Then you have to allow for all the time it would take to raise an army. We were able to head north so fast because Stephen’s Flemish hirelings were on hand; that is what he pays them for, after all. But I’d wager it would take the Earl of Gloucester a month to muster up enough men. When you then consider time for word of the siege to get out, you’ve now accounted for all of January and most of February. There is no way under God’s sky that an enemy army could be nearing Lincoln, not unless Robert Fitz Roy taught his troops to fly!”

Gilbert was very glad he hadn’t asked in front of the others; he’d have been teased about his “phantom flying army” for days to come. He looked so abashed that Baldwin took pity on him. “Come on, lad,” he said, “let’s go find ourselves some fun.”

Gilbert grinned, ran to fetch his mantle, hoping that Baldwin’s idea of fun was a bawdy-house. But before they could start their search, one of the bishop’s servants was hastening into the hall. A man had just ridden in with an urgent message for the king. Should he be admitted?

Stephen welcomed the interruption; he was losing. Pushing away from the chessboard, he said, “Send him in.”

As the man entered the hall, the bishop leaned toward Stephen. “I know him,” he said. “That is Torger of Hunsgate, a local mercer.” In answer then, to Stephen’s unspoken query, he nodded. “Yes, he is reliable.”