Fires of Winter (41 page)

There is a woman for you. Melusine's voice faded and faded and she fell asleep right in the middle of a crucial remark. What she had said horrified me, and I wanted to argue with her because it all rang too true. I remembered the plot to assassinate Gloucester in Normandy and grew cold despite the warmth of Melusine's body nestled against me. No, that was not possible. Maud would have had a fit not been only worried if there had been a plan to attack the bishop. I could not and would not believe it. Yet it stuck in the back of my mind all the next week while more and more noblemen arrived in Oxford.

By the date the king had set in his summons, I could have sworn that the dog kennels and pigsties had been rented out despite the fact that it was summer and perfectly possible to put up a tent in a field near the town. Some of the lesser folk did so, poor knights and barons who had come to court to plead a case or beg some small favor from the king. I suppose the great men thought their dignity would be lessened, and it was a wet summer. The fair days of June gave way to hot weather, alternating with terrible thunderstorms. These were so frequent that Melusine moved most of her fine gowns to the queen's apartment and changed there from coarser clothes, which she did not mind getting wet and muddy. But no matter what the weather, we both made our way back to the widow's house every night.

On the night before the king was to greet his court officially, the bishop of Salisbury still had not arrived. I could not help wondering whether he had discovered that some plot had been devised against him. Later I learned that he knew nothing for sure, but he had sensed the king's coldness toward him—well, I had seen examples of that myself and Salisbury was no fool. I think myself that the one bred the other; that is, when Stephen was first crowned Salisbury truly intended to be a loyal servant and it was Stephen's suspicion that caused the bishop to begin to lean toward Matilda.

In any case, Salisbury did come, just in time for the king's greeting. I was standing below the dais near the king, ready to perform any necessary service, when the bishop entered the hall, and my heart clenched hard when I saw how all made way for him and how many bowed deeply, unlike Waleran and his party who gave only stiff and shallow acknowledgment. This was no time for an accusation, I knew, but I was not prepared for, and, I must admit, I was sickened by Stephen's overcordial greeting. Whether it deceived Salisbury, I do not know. He thanked the king for his kindness, said a few words about a meeting of the inner council, and then withdrew from the king to greet others in the hall.

I did not sigh with relief—a good servant to a king does not give way to such expressions of feeling, good or bad—and besides, I was not sure that I was relieved. The trouble had to come. Even if Stephen had begun to doubt that Salisbury was as black as he was painted or if Maud had urged him to wait until the bishop showed a sign of his intended treachery, I was sure Waleran would prick him into action with new accusations. So if the break had to come, I wished it to come soon so that I need not see my master shaming himself with falseness.

There was no more that day, at least. Salisbury was an old man and could claim he was tired by traveling and must rest in private. Unlike other latecomers, lodging was no problem for him or for Lincoln and Ely and Roger le Poer, who was the king's chancellor. However, for their guards and clerks and servants—of whom there were a great number; perhaps because of their fears they had come with a force large enough, they thought, to protect them—it was not so easy. Only a few were allowed space in the castle. Most were left to fend for themselves, and since nothing better was to be had, a good number had settled in the sheds and outbuildings in the churchyard of Saint Peter's.

Saint Peter's church was closest to Oxford castle—aside from Saint George's, which was within the grounds—and made it easiest for the men to get to their master. That need and the bad weather and the great pride of Hervey de Lyons, which had rubbed off on his retainers, caused the trouble—I am sure of it, although it is widely said that it was by Stephen's order that Alan of Brittany's men invited attack with insult.

I am sure, but I can offer no proof although I myself was embroiled in the attack by accident. There had been two days of quiet, at least as far as Salisbury was concerned, while the king disposed of most of the business of the minor knights and barons. This was the sort of kindness and considerateness that always made me put aside Stephen's other faults. He knew it was difficult and expensive for a poor man to come to court, and he never made his lesser petitioners wait and wait to see him. Their business was done first, and each was given permission to depart “when it pleased him thereafter”; they were welcome to stay and enjoy the feasts and entertainments and hunts if they so desired, but they were not required to do so. He even made sure that there was a great feast and merrymaking the very day the minor pleas were finished so that those who did intend to leave early would not miss all the amusements.

I had been on duty from dawn on both days—another mark of Stephen's kindness, not to me but to those lesser subjects. The king thought my manner and dress, which were simpler than those of many of his high-born servants, would put the petitioners more at ease. Perhaps the king felt I had been too much engaged in serious business and that was why he bade me stay after the feast and continue merrymaking with some other young men, all of whom I knew well. I was not at all loathe to do it. I adored Melusine and enjoyed every moment spent in her company, but there is a different kind of pleasure in a hard drinking, loud talking group of men, and I suddenly realized I had not been in such a party since my marriage.

The night was everything I expected, but I stayed longer than I originally intended. I was only a little merry with wine when I got up to leave because I did not want to frighten Melusine by coming to her roaring drunk. On reaching the outer door, however, I discovered there was so violent a thunderstorm in progress that I would have been swept away and drowned if I had set a foot outside. I returned to my companions only to wait out the worst of the weather, but somehow by the time I reeled back to the widow's house the stars were paling in the cleared sky.

Naturally after my initial attempt to leave, I had been well roasted for being henpecked and had received much advice on how to school my wife if she objected to my condition, but I had no need of it. Although I wakened her from a sound sleep, by stumbling over something, probably my own feet, and falling on her, Melusine received me with good humor. Indeed, I must have afforded her considerable amusement, for I recall how much she laughed when my nose nearly touched my knees and she had to catch me to save me from falling over as I tried to undo my cross garters.

Actually, I do not remember much after that—Melusine must have undressed me and got me into bed—until she shook me an hour or so later and told me it was dawn. She began to laugh again when I groaned piteously, and if I had had the strength, I would have used one of the suggestions I had been given for curbing a wife and beaten her soundly. However, I knew that would hurt me more than her at the moment, so I only told her I was excused from duty to the king for this day and to leave me in peace. She was still laughing when she departed, and I cursed her under my breath and vowed to make her rue it, but I forgave her when I woke some hours later. I found the chamber pot set ready for me on a small bench beside the bed so I did not have to bend and seek for it, and next to it, a goblet of wine redolent of strong spices.

That worked so well on me that I, who woke hoping I would never have to eat again, was able to enjoy a hot pie I bought in the market and then have another with a jack of ale so I could escape sitting down to a court dinner. Markets are always noisy, and at first as I walked down the road toward the castle I thought I was still hearing echoes of the hawkers' calls. However, the sound grew louder, not softer, and I realized it was men shouting in rage and the clang of weapons somewhere ahead of me. I started to run, then hesitated; the noise was coming from the hall in which Count Alan was lodged. I had my sword half drawn, but if there was a quarrel between the men of Count Alan and Lord Hervey, I wanted no part of that.

Suddenly a man with blood pouring from a wound on his head appeared in the doorway of the hall and began to shout, “À Salisbury,
à l'aide! Au secours!
” and a mass of men came boiling out of Saint Peter's churchyard. I leapt between, drawing my sword and shouting for them to keep the peace in the king's name, but I hesitated to strike any of the bishop's men, and I was thrust aside so violently that I was knocked backward into the front wall of the house. By then Count Alan's men were pouring out of their hall, and the battle was joined in earnest—not with fists and feet, which is common enough when men are crowded together with strangers, but with knives and even swords.

Plainly no one man on foot would be able to stem what was rapidly growing into a riot, and it would take far too long for me to try to go around the fight, so I charged forward, laying about me with the flat of my blade until I forced a way through, and ran for the castle. There were men enough in the guard who knew me and responded when I called for a mounted force to stop a riot, but the horses had to be fetched and saddled, and by the time we rode back the damage had been done.

Several of the men-at-arms were down and bleeding, but far more important was that Count Alan's nephew had been badly hurt. I recognized him at once and drove Barbe at two men fighting directly over him. Angry as they were, they knew too much of destriers to dare Barbe's teeth and hooves and they broke and ran. The other guards did even better, since they were experienced in quelling market troubles, and in minutes I was able to dismount and take the young man into my arms and carry him into the hall.

I laid him on the table, pushing away trenchers of half-eaten food and cups of wine, some overturned by the violence with which men had left their meal. I slashed his clothes into strips with my knife (I could see no reason to ruin my own; I was angry enough at having my tunic stained with blood) and bound his head and his arm, shouting to the servant boy who was cowering in a corner to run for a chirurgeon, or if one could not be found, for a barber to sew up his wounds.

A guard came in then, and I ordered him to watch by the young man while I rode to the keep and informed the king. Had the count's nephew not been hurt, I would not have thought the matter important enough to trouble the king, but I found that I was not the first to report the fight. Lord Hervey himself was already recounting the insult and hurt the bishop's men had done to his servants. Stephen soothed him, promising that the insult and damage would not be overlooked, even though it was the men of the highest official in the land who had committed the offenses. The king looked angry, but something about his voice shocked me; there was a kind of satisfaction under the anger that told me Stephen had found a cause for stripping Salisbury of his power.

I suppose I made some movement, or possibly Stephen was growing a little restive under Lord Hervey's unending complaints and let his eyes wander, and the king started up out of his chair, crying, “Bruno! You are all over blood! Are
you
hurt?”

“No, my lord,” I assured him, “not at all, but I saw the fight and brought men to quell it. All is quiet now, but I am afraid Count Alan's nephew was injured. It is his blood you see, my lord.”

“I will send my chirurgeon to him at once.” Stephen gestured to a page and told him to bring the chirurgeon, then turned back to me. “Will you wait and guide him, Bruno? You will need to go back to your lodging to change your clothes anyway.”

“Yes, my lord.” I could say nothing else, but I knew the purpose for keeping me there was for my bloodstained clothing to start questions going among those who had not heard Hervey's protests—or who would be overjoyed at his men getting a drubbing, only regretting it was not he himself who had received it.

That thought was amusing, but what followed was not. Salisbury was summoned, the complaint was lodged, and restitution demanded. The bishop first said his servants were not wholly at fault; they had been swamped and terrorized during the terrible storm the previous night and had gone peaceably to seek lodging in Count Alan's hall, where they knew there was space aplenty. The three men who had gone with the request were not only refused but beaten and had naturally called for help. The captain of Count Alan's troop protested vigorously, admitting that the lodging had been denied but claiming that it was Salisbury's men who, in fury, struck first, crying that Salisbury was a far greater man than Count Alan and that they would drive all Alan's men out and Alan himself too and take the lodging for themselves.

Salisbury refused to accept this version, but said it was the duty of the Church and its servants to keep the peace even under provocation. For this reason, he was willing to give satisfaction for the ill behavior of his men, whereupon the king demanded the surrender of all his keeps and his offices, and those of his nephew also. I do not think the bishop was really surprised, but he pretended hurt and deep shock and cried out that the punishment was too severe for so small an offense and one not even given by himself. Still he did not refuse; he asked for a day or two to consider, but only a few hours later he was arrested in his chamber in the castle and his nephew Alexander of Lincoln was seized in his lodging in the town.

The arrests were dreadful to me because they violated right and custom, which decreed that any man who came to court must be allowed to depart in peace. Yet I could see the necessity. King Henry had been strong enough to let go a man who had defied him and punish him later; Stephen's rule was still too uncertain to allow men of such power to escape. I did not like the cruelty with which the king forced the bishops to yield their keeps either, starving them and threatening to hang the bishop of Lincoln, but their sufferings were brief and many would have suffered worse and died too if the king had let the bishops go and fought to take the places. Perhaps it was a sin to lay hands on the anointed of God, but it saved much bloodshed both for the bishops' men and ours.