Lady of the English (49 page)

“And then what?” she demanded. “What will happen to Matilda?”

“I do not know. He may send her back to Anjou, or make an arrangement with regards to Normandy, because he cannot win that back from the Angevins now.”

“Or he may imprison her.”

“Yes,” he said wearily.

“What of Robert of Gloucester and Brian FitzCount?”

“They are powerless. FitzCount does not have the resources, and even if Gloucester returns with an army, he will have to organise a campaign.” He took her hand in his. “Her back is to the wall, my love. I am sorry to give you this news because I know how much you care about her and feel responsible for her, but, truly, there is nothing you can do.”

“And did you come away so you would not be a part of it?”

“Stephen cannot keep his entire army in the field for months 388

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on end. I have leave to come home to Arundel until after your churching, but then I must return to him.” He gave her a troubled look “I hope Oxford falls in my absence. I would rather not be there when Matilda surrenders.”

Adeliza set her jaw. “She will never surrender. God has always seen her safely out of danger before.”

“She has never been in so difficult a corner, my love, not even at Winchester. At Arundel, Stephen let her go. He will not make the same mistake again.” He shook his head.

“Enough. I do not want you to dwell on such thoughts when you are so recently out of childbirth. What will be, will be.”

“Whatever happens is God’s will,” she said, “not Stephen’s. I shall pray for Matilda. I want you to bring Father Herman to me.”

Will wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up, relieved to have got off more lightly than he had expected. “I will go and do it now.”

“And I ask you to pray for her too.” She fixed him with a steady look.

“Willingly.” He was happy to pray in a broad sense for Matilda’s soul, and to ask God to give her the good sense to negotiate a surrender and return to Anjou.

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Forty-six

Oxford, December 1142

M atilda shivered in her chamber at Oxford Castle.

A bitter freeze had begun at the end of November with day after day of bone-chilling cold, each one hardening upon the other until the earth was like iron and the water in the moat as solid as rock crystal. Two days ago it had snowed heavily, draping the scars of warfare in a thick white blanket, and the sky was leaden with the threat of more. Stephen’s blockade of the castle meant that neither aid nor news nor supplies could reach the beleaguered defenders, and the deep snowfall served only to emphasise their isolation from the rest of the world.

The city was occupied by Stephen, who had taken over the old royal residence outside the town walls. His soldiers were billeted in Oxford with access to the food and warmth that Matilda and her garrison lacked. Here in the keep, they had almost run out of wood to fuel the cooking fires and heat the hall. They had already demolished two storage buildings and a goat shed—having eaten the goats. Now they had begun on the castle furniture and everyone was shivering in one room, trying to keep warm under a huddle of clothes and blankets.

The only sustenance was soup made with meagre handfuls of barley, a few onions, and chunks of stockfish, chewy as rawhide even after pounding and soaking for hours on end. Matilda had LadyofEnglish.indd 390

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insisted on eating the same as everyone else, and felt the same blend of ravenous appetite and queasy revolt as she forced down the disgusting fish broth. At least for the moment it was hot.

The battering of the castle walls had continued day in and day out and the garrison was becoming too weak and cold to resist. Unless she could find a way to escape, Matilda knew it was the end. Every day she prayed for Robert to arrive and lift the siege, and every day her prayers went unanswered. She did not know where he was or how he was faring because the blockade was complete.

“The only option is for me to escape Oxford and make my own way to safety,” she told Alexander de Bohun, chief of her household knights. “Without me, Stephen has an empty fishing net.”

“And just how are you going to get out?” De Bohun gave her a sidelong look. “Stephen has us surrounded.”

“There are gaps between his guard posts, and the weather is so bitter that he will not expect anyone to leave the castle at night.”

“At night?” De Bohun’s eyes widened.

“Stephen’s men will be huddled round their fires. There will only be a skeleton watch on duty. The river is frozen solid—

there are no boats and no fishermen. I can escape over the wall with a small escort, and we can make our way to Wallingford.”

De Bohun continued to stare at her as if he she had grown two heads. “Without horses and in the snow?” he said. “In the dark? It’s as cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

She fixed him with a resolute gaze. “I would rather trust myself to the elements and God’s mercy than kneel to Stephen.

I know I must yield Oxford because we are at the end of our endurance, but without me his victory is as hollow as his crown.”

“There will still be guards, even if reduced in number. What if you are seen and caught in the open? Prayer alone will not make you invisible.”

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“Of course not. Do you think I have not thought this through?” She glared at him. “We will go clad as if we are made of snow, and Stephen’s men will see only what they expect to see.”

He raised his brows.

“Bring me whatever white material we have,” she commanded. “Sheets, tablecloths, blankets.”

De Bohun hesitated for a moment, as if he really did think she was mad, but then bowed and went to give the order.

As servants returned from turfing out the contents from various coffers and garderobes, Matilda studied their finds.

“The undyed blankets can be made into mantles by cutting a head hole,” she said. “These sheets will make good hoods.”

Matilda and her women set to with a will while the escape plans were discussed. She chose Alexander de Bohun, Hugh Plucknett, and two other strong knights to accompany her, together with Ralph le Robeur who was one of her messengers. He had been born in Oxford, knew the roads and pathways well, and would see them safely to Wallingford.

“We should go by way of Abingdon,” he said. “That’s about six miles all told. We can stop at the priory to warm ourselves and borrow horses.”

Matilda agreed with him. She knew Abbot Ingulph well.

He would succour them in the name of God. With each stitch she took, her determination solidified. Better to die of cold and exhaustion than yield.

She gave orders to relax the food rationing and told the cooks to boil up full portions for everyone, and to broach the last barrels of wine. As the dim winter afternoon darkened into dusk, everyone sat down to make a feast of the last of the stockfish, onions, and barley, augmented with plenty of pepper from the spice cupboard to add increased heat. Matilda was not hungry, but forced down her portion, knowing this was her last 392

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meal before she went out into the biting cold. She tried not to think about what was to come, but her mind was locked on to a treadmill and she kept returning to the same place time and again. There was a postern door she could go out of, but it attracted too much scrutiny from Stephen’s guards. The more dangerous way physically, but which held much less chance of being seen, involved climbing down from the window of the domestic chambers by rope.

Her women dressed her in men’s woollen hose and three layers of gowns. One of the garrison donated his spare gambeson to her because of its stuffed, quilted warmth. Her ankle boots were lined with unwashed sheepskins, and the outers were slathered in rancid goose grease to try and water-proof them. Once clad in their white sheets and blankets the travellers resembled shapeless, living mounds of snow. One of the knights carried a stout rope, another a lantern, although it would be kept unlit so close to Oxford. Besides, there would be cold blue snowlight by which to navigate.

“It is snowing again,” said Ralph le Robeur as he and Hugh Plucknett secured a stout rope around the central mullion of the window arch.

Matilda peered out at the white flakes dancing in the dark blue. “The better to hide us,” she said, but inside she was quaking with terror.
I am going to die,
kept running through her head. “In God’s name, let us be about our business,” she said harshly.

Ralph dropped the rope out of the window and slithered after it like an eel over a weir. He made it look so easy. Hand over hand down the knots. Fluid filled her mouth. Alexander de Bohun followed, more bulky and less agile than the messenger. His sword chape scraped on the sill with a loud rasp and she could hear him panting with effort. She began to shake her head, to say no, she could not do this thing; but still her feet carried her forwards and Hugh lifted her up. “Hold 393

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tightly,” he said. “Let yourself down slowly and they will catch you. Have courage.” She felt the gritty stone beneath her feet and the fierce grip of the rope under her hands. The bite of the wind. The frozen air burning in her nostrils. The soft white touch of snow on her face like the wing feathers of a plucked angel. Inside she was screaming in terror, but her jaws were locked and the sound stayed in her chest and throat as a solid ball of pain. She closed her eyes, committed her soul to God, and started down the wall, hand over hand, legs sliding down the rope. Dear Christ, dear Holy Virgin. Her arms burned with the effort of holding on and bearing her weight as she swung in the blackness.

Suddenly hands gripped her thighs and steadied her, and for a brief moment she was clasped breast to breast with Alexander de Bohun as he set her on her feet in the crunchy, powdery snow.

“Domina, you have given me a memory to keep me warm throughout this journey,” he said with a forced smile as she staggered and clung to him.

Matilda managed to laugh as she straightened up, but the sound seemed to come from far away and someone else because she was still locked into her terror and it was as if a part of her was still hanging against that outer wall in dark mid-air. Hugh and the other knights shinned down the rope in turn, Hugh giving it a tug as he landed. The watchers at the top untied it and cast it down and the escapees knotted themselves together, so that should one fall through the ice, the others could pull him out. It also meant they would not lose each other if the weather worsened. Matilda strove to secure the rope around her waist but her hands were shaking so badly that de Bohun had to do it for her.

They set out with Matilda in the middle, protected from the elements by the men. The moat was the first obstacle and although they all knew it was frozen, still their steps were 394

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tentative, for they were afraid of slipping and instinctively crying out, thus alerting the enemy. Worried too that they might be seen anyway by Stephen’s guards.

Matilda crunched ankle deep in the snow until her boot soles rested on ice. She took a tentative step and then another, her eyes wide with fear and the effort to see in this monochrome world that was absorbing her, her ears straining for a raised alarm. But there was nothing but snow whirling in the wind and darkness. They navigated the moat, shuffled their way off the ice, and began trudging towards the greater stretch of the frozen Thames that lay between themselves and Abingdon. The drifts were knee deep, and without a path to follow, they had to make one of their own. The knights took turns forging a way for the others to follow, lunging like horses on the rope. It was tiring, difficult work, but at least it kept their muscles warm and each step took them further from Oxford and closer to sanctuary.

Matilda felt her scarf grow warm and wet from her exhaled breath as they snaked a route between Stephen’s picket posts.

Her stomach clenched as they passed between two shelters, but there was no sign of any guards. A fox crossed their path, streamlined and swift despite the deep snow, and was gone.

“Further north it would be wolves,” Ralph said cheerfully.

After what seemed like hours of trudging, they arrived at the riverbank. Bits of tree branch were frozen in the water like skeletal hands adorned with icicles. The snow was silvery in places and opaque white in others. Birds had scribbled tracks amid the stiff sedges. Matilda stared out across the white swathe of the river, her breath clouding the air with pale vapour.

“Well,” said Ralph, pointing to the row of paw prints leading into the night. “If the fox came this way, then he must be our portent.” He forayed gingerly on to the ice with de Bohun following, and as the rope paid out and Matilda felt the tug, she had no option but to follow them, terrified that she was going 395

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to hear the creak of strained ice, feel it shatter, and fall through a jagged crack into black, icy water to drown as her brother had done when the
White Ship
went to her doom. Snow continued to twirl down as they stepped like clumsy dancers across the frozen water, step after step sinking through the powdery surface until the snow compacted underfoot with a soft crumping sound, and each time that happened, she felt another surge of fear.

Then suddenly they were once more amongst frozen sedges and willows and clambering through the tangle on to the opposite bank. Panting, Matilda turned to look over her shoulder.

Their churned tracks were obvious, stretching away to the opposite side, but the way the snow was falling, all signs would be covered by dawn.

“Drink,” said de Bohun, offering her a flask. The wine had been hot when they set out and a residue of warmth remained, enhanced by added pepper and spices. Matilda felt it burn down her gullet. De Bohun produced bread and dripping from a cloth in his satchel. The bread was so hard he had to smash it into pieces with his sword hilt. Matilda pouched a morsel in her cheek and sucked on it until it softened. They still had six miles to walk to reach Abingdon, and another fifteen to Wallingford.