EARLY IN THE NEW year, 1139, Stephen, still totally estranged from his brother, underwent a series of major setbacks: Robert of Gloucester, visiting his estates in Normandy, sent him a formal declaration of defiance, naming the King usurper and refusing to honor him any longer as his overlord. As if Robert’s defection were the signal for rebellion, various uprisings sprang up all over southwest England. Following this came disquieting rumors that Robert and Geoffrey of Anjou had made common cause and, along with Maud, were secretly plotting to invade England with the help of various nobles who still remained loyal to the late King Henry’s wishes.
On the heels of this news, the treasurer, Roger of Salisbury’s nephew, informed Stephen that the treasury was so depleted that he would not be able to pay, among others, William of Ypres’ Flemish mercenaries. Beset by conflicting advice from the de Beaumont twins, William of Ypres, and the Bishop of Salisbury, Stephen did not know which way to turn.
After much hesitation he finally decided to besiege Robert’s stronghold at Bristol as a means of retaliation. No sooner had he arrived than news came that King David of Scotland had again broken the peace, marching across the Scottish border to invade Yorkshire. Abruptly abandoning Bristol, Stephen made for Yorkshire, but was diverted by an uprising of rebels at Shropshire. In truth, he could have marched in almost any direction and found an insurrection to subdue.
Fortunately, by the time he reached the Midlands the Scottish king was already fleeing back to the border, put to rout by the stouthearted men of Yorkshire. Wearily, Stephen began the long ride back to Westminster, dreading the problems that lay in store for him. He did not know what action to take against Robert, how to prevent more uprisings, or, most urgently, what to do about the dwindling treasury. These were exactly the sort of crisis situations his brother was so adept at handling, he realized with a stab of regret. If he had not acted so precipitously, Henry would still be an ally instead of an enemy.
An icy shiver of apprehension ran through him as he pondered the rumors of a possible invasion. Such an event, while unlikely, could not be discounted. Jesu, all the troubles he had endured up to now would be as nothing if Maud and Robert of Gloucester landed on England’s shores.
In September of that same year Stephen was at Oxford Castle for an emergency meeting of his council. After much debate and soul-searching, he and his council decided upon a momentous step: to debase the coinage. He was being forced to it by empty coffers, Stephen argued with himself as he sat alone in the great hall of Oxford Castle staring moodily into a goblet of mullet wine.
After all, was it his fault the treasury was empty? Hadn’t he done his best to keep it filled? He was unpleasantly reminded of the incident of last June when William of Ypres and Waleran of Muelan had convinced him that his justiciar, the Bishop of Salisbury, was secretly plotting against the crown with the Countess of Anjou and the Earl of Gloucester. Only the desperateness of the situation had persuaded him to seize Roger’s considerable wealth and castles. The elderly prelate and members of his family had been imprisoned and roughly treated—not on his orders, he told himself. By the time he was released Roger had become mortally ill and now lay near death.
Stephen quickly downed the wine. By God’s birth, it had never been his intention to harm Roger, merely remove him from power and fill the empty treasury. Of course he felt distressed about the poor bishop but, after all, the man was guilty of treason. His advisers had assured him of that.
What he had not expected, Stephen realized with a sigh, was the fact that the church, as well as many barons, were horrified by what he had done. In a humiliating confrontation led by his brother Henry, now Papal Legate, he had been accused of a lamentable crime, an offense unheard of in Christian lands, and severely reminded that he owed obedience to Christ’s church. And where was the evidence that Roger had been guilty of treason? Henry had asked. When it came down to it no one could produce any hard facts—only rumors and gossip.
Stephen had attempted to soothe the ruffled feathers of the clergy with promises to make amends to Roger’s family. But how was he supposed to do that? The prelate’s confiscated wealth had not been sufficient to revive the ailing treasury for long. He could not create bricks out of straw, which was why he was now forced to debase the coinage.
Feeling the need to clear his head, Stephen left the hall and climbed the staircase to the battlements. Two guards stood at attention as he approached. He stood before an embrasure, knowing with a sick heart that the tide was running against him. In a desperate gamble to win the loyalty of all the English barons, now that the church was opposed to him, he had started giving away lands, castles, and titles as if there were no end to them—yet how many true adherents had he won?
The Matins bell began to chime. Stephen, about to seek his bed, thought he saw, far to the south across a range of hills, a flicker of light. He rubbed his eyes. Was he imagining things at this witching hour? No, by God, there it was again. The tip of the range was crowned with a cone of fire.
“Sire, look,” said one of the guards. “What can it mean?”
Stephen made no reply, watching in disbelief as the light spread. A beacon suddenly blazed from a tower on the outskirts of Oxford; another appeared behind Reading Abbey. Suddenly his heart began to pound like a drum; his hands gripped the stone merlon. Sweet Jesu! The light was a signal that his worst fears were about to be realized. He knew exactly what path the signal would travel: Abingdon, Faringdon, the Cotswolds, Bristol, Gloucester, and away west to the border of Wales. The burning trail would herald the news to her supporters: Maud had at last come home to claim her crown.