When Christ and His Saints Slept (69 page)

Matilda did not share Stephen’s smile. “That does not sound like an unguarded hen roost to me.”

“No…not yet. Maude is well served at the moment. That is why I do not plan to besiege Oxford after we capture Wareham. No, there is our next target,” he said, “Cirencester. For however devoted Maude’s men are to her, they’re not likely to stay cooped up at Oxford if their own lands in the west are threatened. My raid on Cirencester will draw them away from Oxford, and then,” Stephen said, with a grim resolve he’d not often shown, “we take Maude captive and end this accursed war once and for all.”

25

Oxford, England

September 1142

O
XFORD
, like Winchester, had two royal residences, the eleventh-century castle by the river and the “king’s house” just north of the city walls. The latter was the more comfortable of the two, but Maude always chose to stay at the castle, for its castellan, Robert d’Oilly, was a loyal supporter and kin by marriage, his stepson being one of Maude’s numerous half-brothers.

Even by English standards, it had been an unusually wet summer and autumn. But this 26th day of September dawned dry and clear and mild. Ranulf was standing on the steps of the great hall, savoring the sun as men passed in and out of the bailey. More riders were coming in, a dozen or more—not an uncommon sight these days, for only foolhardy or desperate travelers braved the roads alone. As they dismounted, Ranulf started forward, catching a glimpse of a familiar figure.

At sound of his name, Bennet de Malpas turned around, his dark face lighting up with a grin of ready recognition. Ranulf was not surprised that Bennet should be so well mounted and armed, for he was one of the Earl of Chester’s household knights, the man entrusted by Chester with that urgent appeal for Maude’s help. He and Ranulf had struck up a casual friendship on their wretched winter march to Lincoln, and renewed acquaintance this past April at Chester Castle. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Ranulf now, although he was deliberately vague about his current task, saying only that he’d been to Coventry at the earl’s behest.

Ranulf would have loved to learn more about Bennet’s mysterious mission for the earl, for he was morbidly curious about Chester’s doings; he’d never been able to resist turning over rocks, even if he knew he’d not like what lurked beneath them. But Bennet would not be revealing any of the earl’s secrets. Although Chester might not practice what he preached, he demanded complete discretion and utter loyalty from those who served him. Ranulf could only hope that Chester was not casting his nets wide enough to entangle Maude, and he said cautiously, “What brings you to Oxford, Bennet?”

“I am performing a double duty, first off to Coventry for the earl and then on to Oxford for his countess. Lady Maud entrusted me with a letter for the empress. I also have one for you,” he said, turning aside to root in his saddle bag.

Ranulf took his letter with a nonchalance he was far from feeling, for he was sure Maud had included a letter from Annora along with her own. After an unobtrusive check to assure himself that Maud’s wax seal had not been tampered with, he tucked the letter inside his tunic, and summoned up a distracted smile. “I missed that. You were saying…what?”

“Is it true that the Earls of Hereford and Devon are no longer with the empress?”

Ranulf’s mouth tightened. Chester must have more spies than a dog had fleas. The mere mention of the earls’ defection was enough to stir up his anger again, for Miles and Baldwin had promised Robert that they would put Maude’s safety before all other considerations. But he was not about to unburden himself to a man who’d carry his complaints straight back to the Earl of Chester. “They were naturally disquieted when word reached us of Stephen’s raid upon Cirencester,” he said, striving to sound offhand, untroubled. “But they will be returning to Oxford once they are sure that their own lands are not in peril.”

“I am glad to hear that, and so will my lady. She was concerned lest her aunt be put at risk by their departure. Now…I’d best seek out the castellan. As I mean to ask his hospitality for my men and myself, I ought not to be tardy in paying my respects.”

“I am afraid you are too late, Bennet. Sir Robert was taken ill last month, and he was not as lucky as Stephen. He died a fortnight ago.”

Bennet had watched too many men die for death to take him by surprise. Nor did he see any point in mourning a man he’d never met. “I am sorry,” he murmured, with perfunctory politeness. “Mayhap I ought to look for lodgings in the town, then…?”

“Indeed not. There is more than enough room. Come on, I’ll take you to my brother.” The word
brother
never failed to echo oddly in Ranulf’s ears whenever he applied it to Rob d’Oilly, for it seemed such an intimate way to refer to a stranger. They were not actual strangers, of course, more like acquaintances who happened to share the same blood. Ranulf sometimes wondered how many other half-brothers of his might be scattered throughout England and Normandy, sons not even his father had known he’d sired. Any man who could claim more than twenty bastards was bound to have missed a few.

Leading Bennet into the hall, Ranulf watched the other man from the corner of his eye, anticipating Bennet’s surprise when he first saw Rob d’Oilly. In truth, Rob’s appearance could still unsettle him, too, so uncanny was his resemblance to their father: the same stocky build, the same ink-black hair and deep-set eyes. Rob did not have the old king’s commanding presence, though. He was—Ranulf had discovered—just what he seemed to be, an affable, well-meaning man of wealth and privilege and modest ambitions, of whom the worst that could be said was that he was obstinate at times and too impulsive; his vices, like his virtues, were inhibited by his lack of imagination.

Bennet did a comical double-take upon being introduced to Rob, for no one who’d ever met the old king would have forgotten him. Recovering his aplomb, he was expressing his condolences for the loss of Rob’s stepfather when he was interrupted by a sudden shout, loud enough and urgent enough to turn all heads toward the sound. When it came again, Ranulf and Rob both moved swiftly across the hall, with a curious Bennet on their heels.

A rider had just reined in his mount in the crowded bailey. As the man flung himself from the saddle and ran toward them, Ranulf watched with foreboding, for Hugh de Plucknet was well known to him, a quick-tempered but intensely loyal Breton, one of Maude’s most trusted household knights. Hugh had departed at first light for Wallingford Castle, bearing Maude’s letter to Brien Fitz Count. So why was he back so soon? What had caused him to abandon his mission for Maude and return to Oxford in such haste? Ranulf was already sure he was not going to like Hugh’s answer.

“The king is leading an army up the Abingdon Road, heading straight for Oxford!”

Rob gasped, then began to assail Hugh with questions. Was he sure it was Stephen? Where had he seen them? Could he have been mistaken? How many were there?

Ranulf paid no heed, for he knew the interrogation was a waste of time; Hugh was not a man to conjure up phantom foes. But what now? Would Maude be better off slipping out of the city whilst there was still time? But where could she go? Wallingford lay to the south. If she tried to reach Brien’s castle, she’d be riding right into Stephen’s army. No, she’d be safer staying in Oxford. The town was well protected by two rivers, the Cherwell on the east, and on the south and west, the great river known as Isis in Oxford, as the Thames elsewhere. The city’s walls were of stone, its defenses augmented by a deep outer ditch. And the castle itself presented a formidable challenge. He’d almost convinced himself that they could easily withstand a siege when Bennet pulled him aside, thrust the Countess of Chester’s letter into his hand, and asked him to see that the empress got it.

Ranulf stared at him in amazement, unwilling to believe that Bennet truly intended to ride off, indifferent to Maude’s danger. But Bennet was beckoning to his waiting men, telling them to mount up. “What are you doing? Jesú, Bennet, we will need every man we can get to stave off Stephen’s attack!”

Bennet shrugged. “I wish the empress well. But I am not about to risk my life for her. Ranulf, this is not my fight.”

And with that, he signaled again to his men, put spurs to his stallion, and cantered across the bailey toward the drawbridge, leaving Ranulf with an unenviable task—telling Maude that Stephen would soon be at the city gates.

MAUDE
was keeping vigil upon the roofed ramparts of the castle keep. South of the city, where the River Cherwell flowed into the Thames, the late Robert d’Oilly’s uncle had built a raised clay causeway, known to locals as Grandpont. Ranulf and Rob had aligned their men to block this causeway, for the rivers themselves were impassable. Swollen with the run-off from the heavy rains, they’d spilled over their banks, flooding the adjacent meadows. The September sunlight was dazzling, but still not able to lighten the swirling depths of the water, a dark grey-green like the moss on cemetery tombstones.

There were sporadic flashes of brightness as the sun reflected off the swords and chain-link hauberks of the soldiers. Arrows were being intermittently launched across the river, to the accompaniment of taunts and jeers. Some of the citizens had come out to join in this dangerous sport, daring the enemy to attack. Their more prudent brethren were patrolling the city walls, making ready to repel the invaders should they somehow manage to surmount the fast-flowing barrier of the Thames. There were some who’d escaped, like Bennet de Malpas and his men, out of the city’s North Gate. But most were not willing to abandon their homes, to abandon hope. Facing down a king’s wrath and a large hostile army, Oxford remained defiant.

Maude was attended by several of her household knights, by Adam of Ely, her clerk, and William Marshal, a blunt-spoken priest who shared some of the steely qualities of his better-known brother, John. Maude had been impressed enough with Will’s abilities to have named him as her chancellor, but at this particularly precarious moment, he was the wrong brother. It was John Marshal whom she needed, arrogant and pitiless and scarred and miles away, like all the others who had taken Stephen’s bait.

Just before noon, Ranulf returned to the castle. While the kitchen cooks hastily prepared a meal that he could eat quickly, he joined Maude up on the keep battlements. Rob was sure, he reported, that Stephen’s men would not be able to cross the Grandpont. Their bowmen were likely to prove almost as formidable as the river. The city gates were under guard and the townspeople seemed determined to resist, not cowed or disheartened.

“You sound confident,” Maude said when he was done speaking, “but your words are at variance with what I see in your face. Do not keep your qualms from me, Ranulf. We owe each other better than that.”

He gave her a quick, tense smile, one that acknowledged the validity of her complaint. And then he told her the truth, why he’d really come back to the castle—not for roast chicken and ale, but for the superior view from the keep roof.

“I do not understand. What are you looking to find?”

“A missing king. Stephen has been able to bring together a redoubtable force. Most of his barons and vassals seem to have answered his summons. I saw William de Warenne and Geoffrey de Mandeville and the Earls of Northampton and Pembroke, amongst others. Even his brother the bishop is across the river, doing God’s Work with a mace these days. But I looked in vain for Stephen, and that troubles me more than I can say. Just where is he, Maude?”

DOWNRIVER
from the Grandpont, Stephen stared across at the surging, wind-churned current. After several moments, he stooped and pitched a stone out into the water, watching as it splashed and sank. “This is the secret ford?” he asked skeptically. “It looks to me like a crossing fit only for fish.”

The man at his side nodded vigorously, stubbornly. “The river can be forded here, my liege,” he insisted. “I swear it upon the tears of the Blessed Mother Mary. It is just deeper than usual because of the rains.”