Epic Historial Collection (84 page)

Philip's mind turned to the implications of yesterday's battle. Did it mean the war was over? Probably. Stephen had a wife, Queen Matilda, who might fight on: she was countess of Boulogne, and with her French knights she had taken Dover Castle early in the war and now controlled much of Kent on her husband's behalf. However, she would find it difficult to gather support from the barons while Stephen was in prison. She might hold on to Kent for a while but she was unlikely to make any gains.

Nevertheless, Maud's problems were not yet over. She had to consolidate her military victory, gain the approval of the Church and be crowned at Westminster. However, given determination and a little wisdom she would probably succeed.

And that was good news for Kingsbridge; or it would be, if Philip could get out of here without being branded a supporter of Stephen.

There was no sun, but the air warmed a little as the day got brighter. Philip's fellow-prisoners awoke gradually, groaning with aches and pains: most of them had been at least bruised, and they felt worse after a cold night, with only the minimal shelter of the roof and bars of the cage. Some were wealthy citizens and others were knights who had been captured in battle. When most of them were awake Philip asked: “Did anyone see what happened to Richard of Kingsbridge?” He was hoping Richard had survived, for Aliena's sake.

A man with a bloodstained bandage around his head said: “He fought like a lion—he rallied the townsmen when things got bad.”

“Did he live or die?”

The man shook his wounded head slowly. “I didn't see him at the end.”

“What about William Hamleigh?” It would be a blessed relief if William had fallen.

“He was with the king for most of the battle. But he got away at the end—I saw him on a horse, flying across the field, well ahead of the pack.”

“Ah.” The faint hope faded. Philip's problems were not to be solved that easily.

The conversation lapsed and the cage fell silent. Outside, the soldiers were on the move, nursing their hangovers, checking their booty, making sure their hostages were still in captivity, and getting breakfast from the kitchen. Philip wondered whether prisoners got fed. They must, he thought, for otherwise they would die and there would be no ransoms; but who would take the responsibility for feeding all these people? That started him wondering how long he would be here. His captors would have to send a message to Kingsbridge, demanding a ransom. The brothers would send one of their number to negotiate his release. Who would it be? Milius would be the best, but Remigius, who as sub-prior was in charge in Philip's absence, might send one of his cronies, or even come himself. Remigius would do everything slowly: he was incapable of prompt and decisive action even in his own interest. It could take months. Philip became gloomier.

Other prisoners were luckier. Soon after sunrise, wives and children and relatives of the captives began to trickle into the castle, fearfully and hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, to negotiate the ransom of their loved ones. They would bargain with the captors for a while, protesting their lack of money, offering cheap jewelry or other valuables; then they would reach an agreement, depart, and return a little later with whatever ransom had been agreed, usually cash. The piles of booty grew higher and the cages emptied out.

By midday half the prisoners had gone. They were the local people, Philip assumed. Those remaining must be from distant towns, and were probably all knights who had been taken during the battle. This impression was confirmed when the constable of the castle came around the cages and asked the names of everyone remaining: most of them were knights from the south. Philip noticed that in one of the cages there was only one man, and he was confined in stocks, as if someone wanted to be doubly sure he could not escape. After staring at the special prisoner for a few minutes Philip realized who it was.

“Look!” he said to the three men in his own cage. “That man on his own. Is it who I think it is?”

The others looked. “By Christ, it's the king,” said one, and the others agreed.

Philip stared at the muddy, tawny-haired man with his hands and feet confined uncomfortably in the wooden vise of the stocks. He looked just like all the rest of them. Yesterday he had been king of England. Yesterday he had refused Kingsbridge a market license. Today he could not stand up without someone else's leave. The king had got his just deserts, but all the same Philip felt sorry for him.

Early in the afternoon the prisoners were given food. It was lukewarm leftovers from the dinner provided for the fighting men, but they fell on it ravenously. Philip hung back and let the others have most of it, for he regarded hunger as a base weakness that ought to be resisted from time to time, and considered any enforced fast to be an opportunity to mortify the flesh.

While they were scraping the bowl there was a flurry of activity over at the keep, and a group of earls came out. As they walked down the steps of the keep and across the castle compound, Philip observed that two of them went a little in front of the others, and were treated with deference. They had to be Ranulf of Chester and Robert of Gloucester, but Philip did not know which was which. They approached Stephen's cage.

“Good day, Cousin Robert,” Stephen said, heavily emphasizing the word
cousin
.

The taller of the two men replied. “I didn't intend for you to spend the night in the stocks. I ordered that you be moved, but the order wasn't obeyed. However, you seem to have survived.”

A man in priest's clothing detached himself from the group and came toward Philip's cage. At first Philip paid him no attention, for Stephen was asking what was to be done with him, and Philip wanted to hear the answer; but the priest said: “Which one of you is the prior of Kingsbridge?”

“I am,” Philip said.

The priest spoke to one of the men-at-arms who had brought Philip here. “Release that man.”

Philip was mystified. He had never seen the priest in his life. Clearly his name had been picked out of the list compiled earlier by the castle constable. But why? He would be glad to get out of the cage, but he was not ready to rejoice—he did not know what was in store for him.

The man-at-arms protested: “He's my prisoner!”

“Not anymore,” said the priest. “Let him go.”

“Why should I release him without a ransom?” the man said belligerently.

The priest replied equally forcefully. “First, because he's neither a fighting man in the king's army nor a citizen of this town, so you have committed a crime by imprisoning him. Second, because he's a monk, and you are guilty of sacrilege by laying hands on a man of God. Third, because Queen Maud's secretary says you have to release him, and if you refuse you'll end up inside that cage yourself, faster than you can blink, so
jump to it
.”

“All right,” the man grumbled.

Philip was dismayed. He had been nursing a faint hope that Maud would never get to know of his imprisonment here. If Maud's secretary had asked to see him, that hope was now dashed. Feeling as if he had hit rock bottom, he stepped out of the cage.

“Come with me,” said the priest.

Philip followed him. “Am I to be set free?” he said.

“I imagine so.” The priest looked surprised by the question. “Don't you know whom you're going to see?”

“I haven't an inkling.”

The priest smiled. “I'll let him surprise you.”

They crossed the compound to the keep and climbed the long flight of steps that led up the mound to the gate. Philip racked his brains but could not guess why a secretary of Maud's should have an interest in him.

He followed the priest through the gate. The circular stone keep was lined with two-story houses built against the wall. In the middle was a tiny courtyard with a well. The priest led Philip into one of the houses.

Inside the house was another priest, standing in front of the fire with his back to the door. He had the same build as Philip, short and slight, and the same black hair, but his head was not shaved and his hair was not graying. It was a very familiar back. Philip could hardly believe his luck. A broad grin spread across his face.

The priest turned. He had bright blue eyes just like Philip's and he, too, was grinning. He held out his arms. “Philip,” he said.

“Well, God be praised!” Philip said in astonishment. “Francis!”

The two brothers embraced, and Philip's eyes filled with tears.

III

The royal reception hall at Winchester Castle looked very different. The dogs had gone, and so had King Stephen's plain wooden throne, the benches, and the animal skins from the walls. Instead there were embroidered hangings, richly colored carpets, bowls of sweetmeats, and painted chairs. The room smelled of flowers.

Philip was never at ease at the royal court, and a
feminine
royal court was enough to put him in a state of quivering anxiety. The Empress Maud was his only hope of getting the quarry back and reopening the market, but he had no confidence that this haughty, willful woman would make a just decision.

The Empress sat on a delicately carved gilded throne, wearing a dress the color of bluebells. She was tall and thin, with proud dark eyes and straight, glossy black hair. Over her gown she wore a pelisse, a knee-length silk coat with a tight waist and flared skirt; a style that had not been seen in England until she arrived, but was now much imitated. She had been married to her first husband for eleven years and her second for fourteen, but she still looked less than forty years old. People raved about her beauty. To Philip she looked rather angular and unfriendly; but he was a poor judge of feminine attraction, being more or less immune to it.

Philip, Francis, William Hamleigh and Bishop Waleran bowed to her and stood waiting. She ignored them for a while and continued talking to a lady-in-waiting. The conversation seemed to be rather trifling, for they both laughed prettily; but Maud did not interrupt it to greet her visitors.

Francis worked closely with her, and saw her almost every day, but they were not great friends. Her brother Robert, Francis's former employer, had given him to her when she arrived in England, because she needed a first-class secretary. However, this was not the only motive. Francis acted as link man between brother and sister, and kept an eye on the impetuous Maud. It was nothing for brothers and sisters to betray one another, in the treacherous life of the royal court, and Francis's real role was to make it difficult for Maud to do anything underhand. Maud knew this and accepted it, but her relationship with Francis was nevertheless an uneasy one.

It was two months since the battle of Lincoln, and in that time all had gone well for Maud. Bishop Henry had welcomed her to Winchester (thereby betraying
his
brother King Stephen) and had convened a great council of bishops and abbots which had elected her queen; and she was now negotiating with the commune of London to arrange her coronation at Westminster. King David of Scotland, who happened to be her uncle, was on his way to pay her a formal royal visit, one sovereign to another.

Bishop Henry was strongly supported by Bishop Waleran of Kingsbridge; and, according to Francis, Waleran had persuaded William Hamleigh to switch sides, and pledge allegiance to Maud. Now William had come for his reward.

The four men stood waiting: William with his backer, Bishop Waleran, and Prior Philip with his sponsor, Francis. This was the first time Philip had set eyes on Maud. Her appearance did not reassure him: despite her regal air he thought she looked flighty.

When Maud finished chatting she turned to them with a triumphant look, as if to say: See how unimportant you are, even my lady-in-waiting has priority over you. She looked at Philip steadily for a few moments, until he became embarrassed, then she said: “Well, Francis. Have you brought me your twin?”

Francis said: “My brother, Philip, lady, the prior of Kingsbridge.”

Philip bowed again and said: “Somewhat too old and gray to be a twin, lady.” It was the kind of trivial, self-deprecating remark that courtiers seemed to find amusing, but she gave him a frozen look and ignored it. He decided to abandon any attempt to be charming.

She turned to William. “And Sir William Hamleigh, who fought bravely against my army at the battle of Lincoln, but has now seen the error of his ways.”

William bowed and wisely kept his mouth shut.

She turned back to Philip. “You ask me to grant you a license to hold a market.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Francis said: “The income from the market will all be spent on building the cathedral, lady.”

“On what day of the week do you want to hold your market?” she asked.

“Sunday.”

She raised her plucked eyebrows. “You holy men are generally opposed to Sunday markets. Don't they keep people from church?”

“Not in our case,” Philip said. “People come to labor on the building and attend a service, and they do their buying and selling as well.”

“So you're already holding this market?” she said sharply.