Lady of the English (53 page)
“Arm up and get your horses!” Will commanded. “Martin, see if you can find out what’s happening but don’t take risks.”
“Sire.” A young serjeant saluted and ran to his horse.
Will dismounted and gave Forcilez to the groom. “Hold him while I put on my hauberk.” Cursing under his breath, Will ran to his tent and, with the aid of a squire, swiftly donned his padded undertunic and mail shirt. As he buckled his swordbelt, he ordered the youth to harness up the baggage ponies and pack the valuables, just in case.
Outside, Adelard had assembled the Albini troop into tight formation. The sounds of battle had escalated and as Will was remounting Forcilez, the smell of smoke began to waft on the evening wind from the direction of the abbey. He leaned down to take his shield and spear from the squire.
“There is only Robert of Gloucester in the vicinity,”
Adelard said grimly.
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“You think he is preempting the king’s strike at Wareham?”
“Could be, sire.”
Will nodded. “It is what I would do, and Gloucester is always ready to seize an opportunity.”
“But what about the king?”
Will compressed his lips and urged Forcilez out of the leper-house gates on to the road that led one way to Wilton and the other to Salisbury. Dusk was closing in, the sun sinking in a yellow pool, smudged by long streamers of charcoal cloud. The smell of smoke was thicker now and Will could hear the crackle of flames. As he picked up the pace, Martin came galloping back towards him and drew rein in a swirl of dust.
“It’s the Earl of Gloucester, sire,” he panted. “And Miles FitzWalter and William of Salisbury. They’ve fired the village and the abbey!”
“The king, did you see the king?”
“No, sire, but one of William D’Ypres’s Flemings said that he and the bishop of Winchester have fled under hard pursuit to the legate’s castle at Downton, and everyone should scatter as best they may!”
Several fleeing horsemen burst out of the dusk at full gallop.
“Go!” one of them bellowed at Will. “Gloucester has overrun the abbey—flee for your lives! The roads south and north are cut off!” He reined his horse around Forcilez and spurred away.
Before Will could turn to give orders, more soldiers arrived at a hard gallop in pursuit of those who had just raced through.
He barely raised his shield in time to ward off a vicious blow from the mallet wielded by a knight on a roan stallion. He groped for his sword, drew it, and twitched the reins. Forcilez half reared and struck out at his opponent’s horse with pawing forehooves. The other stallion shied, and Will was able to land a blow on his adversary’s unguarded leg. Blood spattered and the man screamed and reined away. Will pivoted Forcilez to 421
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take on another opponent, this time slashing through the reins and clipping the destrier on its neck. The knight retaliated, his blade nicking Will’s cheek.
“Sound the retreat!” Will bellowed to Adelard, aware that reinforcements could arrive from Wilton at any moment. A flail connected with his ribs and the blow shot the air out of his lungs. Forcilez turned and lashed out and turned again, and he praised God for the stallion’s courage, training, and implacable nature. He rallied enough to strike again and heard the blare of the horn. Once, twice. His knight Milo Bassett came to his aid and they hacked themselves free and clapped spurs to their destriers’ flanks. The Angevin knights hurtled in pursuit, eager to capture an earl. Forcilez lacked speed but was sure-footed and strong, and this paid off as one of the chasing men drew level. As he reached to seize hold of Will, his horse stumbled. There was a sickening crack as the destrier’s foreleg snapped, and the man was thrown and hit the ground hard.
Two other pursuing knights were too close to swerve and were brought down, and the others, now lacking superior numbers, drew back.
Will and his men rode on hard, using the last of the light to put more distance between them and their enemy. Looking over his shoulder Will could see the glow of fire from the direction of Wilton. The village and abbey were well and truly alight, and it was obvious that the Angevins had carried all before them. He put his hand up to his face and brought it away red-fingered. Most of his men bore superficial wounds. A couple had deeper cuts that needed binding and stitching, and there was one empty saddle where one of his serjeants had died in the skirmish. They had some of their baggage, but all the tents and food supplies were lost.
He turned swiftly at the sound of hooves on the track to his left and, with pounding heart, drew his sword. Moments later, 422
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a white mule emerged through a narrow gap in the hedgerow with Serlo astride. Will slumped with relief. “You fool, I could have cut off your head,” he snapped.
Looking aggrieved, Serlo gestured to the panniers attached to the mule. “I have clean bandages in here and ointments, and needles for stitching flesh if anyone is in need of attention. I thought you would be pleased to see me.”
Will exhaled hard. “Indeed I am. If nothing else this night, you at least are a godsend.”
Serlo glanced back towards the glow from Wilton. “My lady the queen is not going to like this,” he said.
Will grimaced and felt the sword cut tug along his cheekbone. “No,” he said, his heart sinking further. “She isn’t.”
ttt
Adeliza tiptoed into the bedchamber to look at the sleeping children. The soft glow from a lantern set in a niche near the open bed curtains illuminated Wilkin spread-eagled on his back, his chest lightly rising and falling and his face flushed in slumber. Two-year-old Adelis was curled up like a little hedgehog, her thumb in her mouth, and Godfrey, five months, was making soft snoring sounds in his crib. Sarah, his nurse, was gently rocking the cradle and working wool from her distaff to her spindle, a task that could be done in dim light. Watching their innocent and vulnerable slumber, her eyes prickled with tears. It grieved her to think of the many children unable to sleep safely in their beds because of all the strife in the world.
After a while, she crept out and, in a pensive mood, sat down by the open window in her chamber to work on some plain sewing by the last of the light. She glanced at the length of sheeting draped over two trestles. Earlier, Wilkin had constructed a campaign tent for himself and a couple of play-mates. They had pretended to be soldiers at war. Listening to the martial talk of little boys still firmly tied to the apron strings but 423
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fiercely practising their future roles had saddened Adeliza deeply.
She knew that, to survive, they had to learn to be warriors, and how to control and command, but it was as if nowhere was free from the taint of violence, even her own chamber.
Hearing a shout from the walls and the sound of the gates being opened, she set down her sewing and gazed out of the window.
Melisande joined her. “Who is it?”
The servants were kindling torches and she could hear the jingle and clatter of mounted men. “It’s the earl!” Adeliza said in astonishment. “Will’s home!” She clapped her hands, and bade servants bring food and prepare a tub. Remembering Wilkin’s prayer in the chapel earlier, she praised God for answering so promptly, but at the same time felt worried. To return at this late hour suggested they had pushed the horses, which could mean either good news or bad.
Arriving in the great hall to greet the returning men, she recoiled from the powerful stench of sweat, blood, and hard-ridden horses. Will, clad in his mail, was staggering with exhaustion. A clotted cut slashed one cheek and his eyes were glassy.
“We have wounded,” he said. “Do what you can.”
“Wounded?” She stared at him in consternation and dismay.
“Robert of Gloucester caught us unawares,” he said. “We escaped by the skin of our teeth.” His gaze slid from hers as if he was unable to bear the weight of contact. “Stephen is free and clear, thank Christ, but others have not been so fortunate…” He broke off and rubbed his forehead with his cuff, leaving a black smear. “Martel’s been taken prisoner by Robert of Gloucester…” He staggered again. Frightened, Adeliza called two burly menservants to support him and bade them bring him to her chamber, but he pushed them off. “No,” he said. “I must see to my men first.”
She gave a slight nod because she knew about duty and responsibility. However, she bade the servants stay close as she 424
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accompanied him to see what she could do. Most of the injuries were cuts and contusions and small broken bones. The main need was clean water, bandages, sustenance, and rest. These things having been provided, together with words of comfort, she eventually managed to persuade Will to their chamber.
Food and drink had been set out, and water was heating in two cauldrons over the hearth, which attendants now poured into a tub, mixing in jugs of cold to adjust the temperature.
Will’s squire helped him to remove his armour and Will hissed through his teeth as he bent over so the youth could pull the garments over his head.
“You are injured!” Adeliza reached to him in consternation.
“Cracked ribs,” he panted. “I took a blow from a flail when we were fighting our way out.”
The armour removed, he dismissed the squire and let Adeliza finish helping him undress. She gasped at the sight of the purple and red mottles flushing his right side. “Dear Jesu! And your face!”
“It could have been much worse, believe me.” He stepped gingerly into the tub and eased down into the hot water.
“Where was this battle? You have not said?” She tried to keep the panic from her voice, hoping it was not close to home.
He clenched his eyelids. “It was at Wilton.”
Adeliza went rigid. “Wilton?” That was very close to home indeed.
He uttered a soft groan. “I wish I did not have to tell you.
Stephen wanted to capture Wareham from Robert of Gloucester and bade us muster at the abbey.”
“You did not tell me that when you left to join him.”
“I did not want to upset you, and all I knew was that it was the muster point. I did not know he was fortifying the nunnery until we arrived.”
“He put soldiers in the nunnery?” Her voice rose in outrage.
“He used Wilton to make war?” She felt as if she had been 425
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stabbed. “To occupy a nunnery is against God’s holy word!
How could Stephen do such a thing—and how could you let him?” Her voice was harsh with disgust.
“I didn’t let him.” Will snapped. “He was already in occupation when we arrived. I made my camp at Fugglestone—
and before you rail at me about that, I gave alms to the lazar house, and my men made their billets in a field away from the chapel.”
She turned away from him and, in a fruitless attempt to calm her anger, began fussing with a pile of towels. He spoke as if he thought his actions made everything all right.
“Stephen might have taken over the nunnery to billet his men and discuss his strategies,” he said in a hard voice, “but it was Robert of Gloucester and Miles of Hereford who threw torches into the buildings and burned the place to the ground.”
“Wilton is burned?” Adeliza whirled to face him, and now she truly was furious.
He grimaced. “Gloucester’s troops sacked the abbey and set it alight. I heard that they even seized men who had claimed sanctuary at the altar.”
Adeliza pressed her hand to her mouth and sat down abruptly as the strength left her legs. “Dear God,” she said with revulsion. “There is no end to this, is there?” Wilton. She tried to envisage the sanctuary in flames. Her retreat from the world after Henry’s death. The nuns who had been her comfort and her support. She thought of the rough tramp of soldiers’ feet in the cloister, and imagined the torches whirling through the air and landing in the thatch. “What happens now? What of the people burned out of their homes? They cannot turn for succour to secure castle walls and the arms of a waiting wife.
How can the Church help them, when the Church itself is naught but ashes? It does not matter who set the torches, husband, the result is the same.”
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He continued with his ablutions, his movements slow and painful and his shoulders rigid. She wondered if he was trying to cleanse himself of more than just the grime of hard riding and battle.
“You may not have thrown the torch, but you have dwelt in the house of God with a sword in your hand,” she said, hurling her words against his silence.
“Peace, wife,” he replied in a dull voice. “What has been done to Wilton is a terrible thing and a sin, I agree. I am no callous warmonger to be ignorant of the desperate plight of the people caught up in this battle.”
“Peace? How can I be at peace when my house has been razed by the man my husband follows and honours?” Bitterness scalded her throat. “What is going to happen to all of us if we continue to burn and rend and destroy? What will be left for our sons and daughters but a wilderness of ashes and bones, bereft of all moral worth?”
“I said peace!” he snarled. “I have enough bruises and cuts without taking more from your tongue!”
“As you wish, sire.” She plucked her cloak from the peg in the wall and flung it on. “Have your peace!” She spat the last word as she swept from the room. Once outside, she put her face in her hands and allowed herself a brief shudder of tears, and then felt guilty because tears were not going to help Wilton.
She felt as if a hard splinter had entered her heart. Was this how Matilda felt? Was this how it began, before gradually everything solidified as the splinter worked its way inwards and there was no longer any flexibility and no joy from which to fashion a smile?
