MAUD HAD BEEN AT Oxford three weeks. One hot July morning a herald arrived from Bristol, sent by Robert’s son, William of Gloucester.
“The message is written by the chaplain at William’s behest,” Robert read aloud, his eyes running down the parchment. “He says there are rumors of Ypres’s Flemings in the area, and he fears there may be an attempt to besiege Bristol and free Stephen.” He swore under his breath. “William has doubled the guard and taken other precautions, but he remains uneasy and seeks our advice.”
“There’s little cause for alarm in my opinion,” growled Ranulf of Chester who, along with King David of Scotland, had joined Maud at Oxford. “Bristol lies in the west and that part of England has always remained loyal to the Empress and yourself. Stephen’s supporters wouldn’t dare lay siege to your stronghold.”
“After the attack on Westminster anything is possible,” Brian FitzCount pointed out. “As a precaution, we must send some of our men to reinforce William.”
“If we do, then we’ll be short-handed should we need to defend ourselves or mount an attack of our own,” Miles replied.
Maud listened carefully as they argued back and forth. At the possibility of enemy troops in the vicinity of Bristol, her heart turned to ice. Stephen was her security; despite the attack on Westminster, and the resulting ebb in her fortunes, Maud was convinced that as long as he was in her power she would still have the upper hand.
“We must spare some of our men,” she said. “If there’s even the slightest possibility of trouble—”
“By God’s face, I’ve just thought of an even better solution,” interjected the Earl of Chester. “If we move Stephen to a safer place, it won’t be so easy to free him.”
Robert frowned. “There is no safer place than Bristol, Kinsman.”
“No need to move him from Bristol,” Ranulf explained. “Merely give Stephen a taste of your dungeons, Robert, wrists and ankles fettered.” He sat back on his stool with a pleased expression on his face. “Should an enemy succeed in gaining entry to the castle—unlikely as that is to occur—Stephen will be so carefully hidden none could easily find him.”
“Why such extreme measures?” Robert asked. “Confine him to a smaller chamber surrounded with guards, by all means, but remember that he’s still an anointed king.”
“You grow squeamish, Gloucester,” Miles said. “It’s high time Stephen stopped being cosseted like a pampered child. Let him be treated like the felon he is.”
“Stricter measures should be taken since the attack on Westminster,” agreed David of Scotland. “It will na hurt Stephen of Blois to get a taste of what he gave poor Roger of Salisbury, and others, may they rest in peace. Ranulf ha made a good suggestion.”
The Earl of Chester and the King of Scotland, two of Maud’s most powerful supporters, were traditional enemies for their lands marched side by side along the border of England and Scotland, and there were constant skirmishes over disputed territory. Chester’s original quarrel with Stephen, whom he had initially supported, had been over land belonging to him that had been granted to the Scottish king. Maud noted that their agreement in the matter of Stephen’s confinement was lost on no one present. With the exception of Robert, every man in the hall voiced his support of Chester’s plan.
Robert shrugged dismissively. “If that is everyone’s wish, so be it. But it remains my sister’s decision.”
“I doubt she shares your reluctance,” Chester said.
Stephen in fetters like a common criminal? Maud felt her heart drop like a stone. But how could she possibly deny the advantages of Ranulf’s suggestion? Her spirit cried out in silent protest as she shrank from the horrifying picture in her mind. The men were watching her; Maud knew what she must say if she wanted to keep their respect. The slightest show of reluctance or softening on her part would be taken as a sign of weakness. Just like a woman, would be the verdict.
“An excellent suggestion,” she forced herself to say. “Brian, will you journey to Bristol and see these orders carried out?”
“You may leave the matter safely in my hands, Lady,” Brian assured her.
“That’s settled then. Now,” Maud continued, “I’ve decided how we must deal with the Bishop of Winchester.”
“You mean to make peace with that treacherous prelate?” Chester asked. “After the despicable way he abandoned you to that savage mob of Londoners?”
Maud rose from her seat at the table. “How can I afford not to make peace with him? We must not be blind to our own best interests, Ranulf. To regain our lost ground, we need the support of the Bishop. If there were any other course open to me, I would gladly follow it.”
There were murmurs of agreement from all present.
“First I’ll dispatch Robert to persuade him to return. If he refuses to do so, then we’ll march on Winchester as a show of strength.”
“Attack Winchester? That would be most unwise,” Miles said. “My advice—”
“When I want your advice, Miles, I’ll ask for it,” Maud stopped him. “I’ve told you what I intend to do; the matter is not open to discussion.” She turned briskly to her half-brother. “Robert, can you arrange to leave for Winchester today?” When he nodded, she smiled. “Excellent. I feel sure you can manage Henry, if anyone can.”
The men looked at each other, obviously nettled at her peremptory behavior, and displeased that she had not sought their counsel. Maud watched them, unmoved. Since Westminster, she had wrapped a protective shield of numbness around herself. In truth, she no longer had faith in her supporters who, she had discovered, might be with her today and just as easily gone tomorrow. There had been too many betrayals, too many broken oaths; in the end she had only herself to depend on.
STEPHEN WAS SITTING DOWN to a solitary meal in his chamber at Bristol when the door burst open and Brian FitzCount entered, accompanied by four guards and Robert’s sons, William and Phillip. He stood up, reaching instinctively for his sword, before remembering he had no weapons. At the grim look on Brian’s face he backed away in alarm.
“Brian, what do you here?”
“You’re going to be taken to the dungeons and held there for your own safety,” Brian said.
“Why?” Stephen protested, his throat suddenly dry, and his heart thudding.
“I’ve just told you. Cause no trouble and you will come to no harm.”
The guards pointed their spears at him and marched him down to the bowels of the castle. William unlocked a rusted iron gate and he was led along a chill stone passage. The walls on either side were covered with green slime; the air was fetid and damp with mold. They had passed numerous empty cells when they came to what Stephen thought must be the end of the passage. Then the guards abruptly turned a corner and stopped at a small cell filled with fresh straw. It was separated from the other cells, and anyone looking down the passage would not even suspect its existence.
The cell contained a straw pallet, a coarse gray blanket of unwashed wool, one empty wooden bucket and one filled with water. A chipped earthen cup lay by the water bucket. Age and dampness had mildewed the massive stone walls, and the place stank of old excrement and countless years of unwashed bodies. The stench was so bad Stephen wanted to gag. A narrow shaft set into one wall admitted a ray of smoky light.
“Shall I fetter him, my lord?” asked one of the guards, holding up a pair of iron anklets.
Stephen felt the blood drain from his face as he examined the dismal surroundings, and saw the iron clamps.
“Brian, why is this being done to me?” he whispered.
“Domina’s orders,” Brian said, without looking at him. “Yes, fetter him,” he told the guard, who fastened the heavy iron clamps over Stephen’s ankles. “No, leave his hands free,” he added, as the guard started to fasten iron clamps to Stephen’s wrists.
“Domina,” Stephen repeated. “Then Maud is not yet crowned. Why not?”
“Because the Londoners—” Phillip started to say.
“Hold your tongue, Phillip,” Brian cut him off.
Stephen looked from Phillip to Brian. What in heaven’s name had happened? Trouble. As he had predicted, Maud had run into serious trouble. “I don’t believe these are the lady’s orders,” he said. “Why is Robert not here? This is his castle, it’s for him to say how I’ll be treated.”
“Believe what you wish. What does it matter who originated the orders? Both Robert and the lady agreed to Chester’s—” Brian stopped short, and Stephen knew he had not meant to say so much.
An icy chill ran through him at the mention of the treacherous earl. Jesu! So this was Chester’s idea. But why? What had happened to precipitate such harsh treatment?
“There’s to be a guard by the cell at all times, and four more outside the gate to the dungeons, William,” Brian said to Robert’s eldest son. “The prisoner must be treated as befits his rank, and fed in a manner that will not injure his health, but under no circumstances is he to be allowed out of this cell or freed from his chains.”
“It’s senseless cruelty,” cried Phillip, “the kind of vicious behavior one may expect from the Angevins.” Tears glistened in his dark eyes. “Stephen is not a common criminal, he’s King of England! This is my Aunt Maud’s doing, and I hate her for it!”
“If there’s one more word out of you, Phillip, I’ll take a rod to you this minute, and, by Christ, you won’t soon forget the beating you’ll get,” Brian shouted, raising a menacing arm.
This outburst was so unlike the cool, even-tempered Lord of Wallingford that Stephen did not know what to think. It slowly dawned on him that Brian might not be in full agreement with his orders, and that if Chester himself had come he now would be chained by wrists as well as ankles, perhaps subjected to torture as well. In his own way, without violating his instructions, Brian was attempting to ease the strain of his confinement. Thank you, old friend, Stephen thought, knowing that if he attempted to express his gratitude, Brian would hotly deny any show of compassion.
“You cannot tell me what has prompted this action?” he pleaded.
Brian, still avoiding Stephen’s eyes, shook his head. Stephen sighed his frustration. Ever since last spring, when he had given permission for the Archbishop of Canterbury to support Maud, he had been starved for news. No one told him what was happening in the outside world, not even the Countess of Gloucester. At least now he knew Maud had not been crowned and must be having difficulties.
The four guards, Brian, and Robert’s two sons left the cell. The door banged shut behind them; the iron key grated in the lock. There was the sound of footsteps retreating down the passage, and a cough as one of the guards took up his position outside the cell.
Stephen had never felt so alone in his life. For the first time since he had left Blois, he could not see a future ahead. What would happen to him? Did his enemies eventually intend to kill him? Was that why he had been put in this dismal place? Maud would never give such an order, but would others do it without her knowledge? It hardly seemed likely, but how could he be sure? Perhaps he would be kept hidden away for the rest of his life? Quite suddenly Stephen remembered that his uncle, King Henry, had kept his older brother, Duke Robert of Normandy, imprisoned in a Welsh fortress for twenty-eight years.
Without warning, his body began to shake as if he had a fever. Twenty-eight years! Merciful God! The thought was unbearable; he would prefer to die. Rather than shame himself in the guard’s hearing, Stephen stuffed his fist into his mouth to keep from crying his anguish aloud. Signing himself, he dropped to his knees and prayed.
Eventually Stephen lost all track of time. It might be a week or just a few days that he had been in the cell. He could hardly remember what it had been like to live a normal life. His entire world was defined by the walls of his dungeon, the times he was fed, and whether it was night or day, depending on the degree of light coming from the shaft in the wall. He saw only the guard, changed frequently lest he make one an ally, Stephen suspected. Now and again the guards would engage in a brief conversation with him when he was being fed, but mostly he was left strictly alone.
Stephen’s face bristled with the spiked growth of a beard, his body felt stiff and sore, and his knee joints ached like the very devil, as if the dampness had seeped into his bones. The clothes he wore grew filthy and began to smell; there was no part of his flesh that did not itch from lice and vermin. Sometimes he felt he would sell his soul for a hot bath.
One night, awakened by a loud noise, he sat up, half-expecting to see the beady eyes of a large rat that had taken to creeping into his cell after dark. The door to the cell opened, and instead of the guard, Stephen was surprised to see Phillip with a lighted torch in one hand and a jug in the other.
“Sire, are you well? Are you being fed enough food? It’s so cold in here, have you sufficient covering?” The sound of Phillip’s anxious voice was sweeter than the song of a southern troubadour.
“I’m as well as can be expected, Phillip,” Stephen said. “The food is sufficient, but another blanket would be most welcome, and I badly miss my exercise. A change of clothes would also help.” He peered past Phillip into the darkness of the passage. “Where is the guard?”
“I bribed him to give me a few moments alone with you. He knows I bring no chisel or hammer to break your chain and help you escape.”
Phillip set his torch into an iron sconce fastened to the wall, then knelt in the straw and handed Stephen the jug. “Here is some wine, Sire, it is all I dared bring.”
Much moved, Stephen smiled. “You’re a brave lad, Phillip, to risk coming to me like this. If it’s discovered you’ll be soundly punished.” He took the jug between his hands and drank thirstily. It was inferior wine, bitter on the tongue, but nothing in his life had ever tasted sweeter. “How long have I been here?”
“Five days, Sire. I would have come before, but my Lord of Wallingford was still here, making sure the castle was secure. He only left yesterday.”
“By God’s birth, it feels like a lifetime.” Only five days, Stephen thought, five paltry days and he did not see how he could endure another hour.
“It’s an outrage what they do to you, Sire,” Phillip whispered, his voice throbbing with indignation. “I can’t bear to see you so demeaned. I’ll never forgive my father for this, nor my aunt. I’ll never recognize her as queen.”
Stephen could not repress a twinge of gratification. Without the slightest effort on his part, he had suborned Robert’s son. It was a fitting revenge for the ignoble way he was being treated.
He tousled Phillip’s hair. “I’ll never forget your kindness, and when I am freed from this prison, I will know how to show my gratitude. Now, tell me the news.”
Phillip settled himself in the straw. “Just before the coronation, a London mob sacked the palace of Westminster and the lady barely escaped with her life.”
“Jesu,” Stephen murmured, signing himself. “Sacked Westminster! I can hardly believe it.”
“When the lady fled to Oxford, your queen rode into London with Eustace at her side, and her army behind her. The Lords of Muelan and Leicester and William of Ypres have joined her, as well as others who abandoned you at Lincoln.”
“Thank God. Go on.”
“New life has been breathed into your cause. That’s why you’re here, Sire, because it’s feared that there will be more uprisings and perhaps an attempt to rescue you.”
“By God’s birth,” Stephen murmured, “I should have known it would be something like that.” He was so excited that he threw off the blanket and stood up, cradling the jug in his hands. “So Matilda and Eustace are safe and back in London.” His eyes closed as he gave a silent prayer of thanks. “And my brother?”
Phillip also rose. “He deserted the lady’s cause shortly before the palace was sacked. Brian says he might even have had something to do with it. My father has gone to Winchester to lure him back.”
Knowing Henry, he probably had been involved, Stephen thought, as a great weight lifted from his heart. Now there was reason to hope once more. His brother had the most astute mind in the realm; if there was a way of freeing him, Henry would find it. Tears sprang to his eyes. Should he be released from this foul prison, he vowed, never would he hurt his brother or the church again.
There was a cough, and Stephen looked up to see the guard hovering anxiously in the open doorway. “Now then, Master Phillip, time’s up. They’ll be changing the guard any moment. Hurry.”
“Thank you, Phillip,” Stephen said, downing the last of the wine. He watched the torchlight flicker on the boy’s adoring young face.
“I’ll see that you have another blanket at least, more if I can.” Phillip removed the torch, took the jug from Stephen’s hands, and left the cell.
As the door closed and the key turned, Stephen sank to his knees in prayer. The news was like a miracle: his throne still vacant; Matilda returned in triumph to London; his brother once more an ally. Or so he hoped.
If God permitted him a second chance, Stephen swore, never again would he allow envy, hostility, rage, and most of all love—blind, unreasoning love—to cloud his judgment, or compel him to act against his own best interests. Look to yourself, sweet Cousin, he thought. Should I ever again have the chance, I will not let you escape.