THE NEXT TWO YEARS did not see an improvement in Stephen’s fortunes: Geoffrey of Anjou consolidated his control of Normandy and, as many barons owned land on both sides of the channel, Stephen lost those supporters who did not want to give up their Norman holdings—including his old friend and adviser, Waleran of Muelan. It was a bitter blow.
In England he was still having problems with troublesome vassals, most particularly the unpredictable Ranulf of Chester. As the result of an insignificant quarrel between them, about a now-forgotten incident, Stephen had rashly imprisoned the Earl on several trumped-up charges. As Chester was in the King’s peace at the time, this caused a hue and cry among the Earl’s supporters with accusations that Stephen was attempting to do to Ranulf what he had done to Roger of Salisbury years earlier. Terms were quickly negotiated for Chester’s release.
Once freed, the Earl again defected to Maud’s side, snarling defiance, and calling the King a treacherous swine. The upshot of this shameful episode, Stephen realized, was that many nobles, no longer trusting him, withdrew support.
One evening in April, Stephen and his entourage were seated in the great hall at Westminster, eating a light supper, when the steward announced the arrival of the Bishop of Winchester.
As the Bishop’s figure came up to the high table, Stephen rose to greet him.
“What an unexpected surprise, Henry,” he said with a smile. “What brings you to London?”
“A disquieting rumor,” said the Bishop. “I hear that Henry of Anjou has landed on the Wareham coast with a force of one thousand men and the promise of support and funds from the Angevin party.”
Stephen’s face paled. He dropped his goblet of wine into the rushes, spilling half the contents over his green tunic.
“Upstart Angevin pig,” Eustace snarled.
“Be quiet, Eustace.”
Three young squires attempted to mop Stephen’s tunic with a white cloth.
“That seems preposterous,” Stephen said, waving the squires away. “You’re sure it was Henry of Anjou and not Count Geoffrey who landed?”
“The problem is I can’t verify any of this yet, but the report says Henry,” the Bishop replied, seating himself at the high table. “Supposedly he’s seized one town while putting another to the torch. I agree it seems incredible, but certainly someone has landed at Wareham with a force of men.”
Robin of Leicester raised his eyebrows. “When the boy left England two years ago, he was what? Twelve years of age? He can be barely fourteen at the most. Is it possible that the Count of Anjou would be so reckless, so foolish, as to put his son in charge of such an expedition? When was this landing supposed to have taken place?”
“Three days ago now,” replied the Bishop. “The word is he heads west, to join forces with his mother and uncle at Bristol.”
“Where else would he go?” Stephen retorted.
“Since Count Geoffrey is neither reckless nor a fool we must discover for ourselves whether there is any truth in this wild tale,” the Bishop went on. “I propose you send a troop of men to scout the area between Bristol and the coast.”
Stephen rose and turned to his Flemish captain. “William, gather together a troop of five hundred men. We’ll leave at once for the west country. If we travel by night and split our forces, sending some in the direction of Bristol, others toward Purton or Cricklade, we’re sure to intercept the boy somewhere along the way.”
“God has not forsaken us,” the Bishop said, as he and Stephen left the great hall. “If we capture young Henry of Anjou the war will be as good as over. Without their heir, the Angevins will be done for.”
They left the castle and followed the path down to the river.
“Speed is essential here,” the Bishop continued. “Sympathy for the boy may lead men to aid him, thus rallying support for his mother’s cause. That must not be allowed to happen.”
“Have no fear. We will catch him, and once we do—” Stephen smiled grimly.
As they approached the Thames, filled with boats and barges sailing past, Stephen wondered what the young heir of Anjou—Maud’s son—would be like. Despite his bitter resentment of this youth who threatened Eustace’s inheritance, Stephen could not help but feel a secret spark of admiration for this intrepid stripling who dared cross the channel to defy him.
Worn and bedraggled, Henry of Anjou stood with his men before the gates of Cricklade Castle, shivering in the coolness of the April night.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” his sergeant said in a firm voice. “To attempt to take the castle at the odds of one to ten is sheer suicide. Remember what happened at Purton?”
Henry scowled, preferring not to remember his shameful defeat at Purton Castle one week ago. He and his ragged troop of fifteen men had made a halfhearted attack on the castle, barely escaping with their lives, followed by the jeers of the King’s garrison. When Henry had started out on this high-spirited adventure, against his father’s express wishes, he had had no clear-cut idea of what he would do when he landed in England. Rumors had reached him that the Earl of Chester and Stephen had had a severe falling out, and as a result Ranulf had recently defected back to his mother’s side once again. Henry had taken this as an indication that perhaps the time was ripe for his appearance on the English scene to give new heart to his mother’s supporters. The men he had persuaded to come with him had agreed to no pay but the promise of future spoils and plunder.
In the back of Henry’s mind, he saw himself, backed by a huge following of troops and arms, defeating Stephen and covering himself with glory. But not one of his mother’s supporters had rushed to his aid. In order to create a positive effect he had sent out a few scouts to spread rumors that he had landed with a huge force and the promise of funds and support. But, thus far, it had produced nothing. Word must have gotten about that he had arrived with few men and no support—not even from his parents.
“My lord, it grows late,” the sergeant said, glancing up at the evening shadows covering the sky. “Best we withdraw into the forest for the night and decide tomorrow what to do.”
Henry glared at him. “We could lead a surprise attack when it’s fully dark, while the garrison sleeps.”
“The men won’t risk their lives, my lord. They haven’t been paid and now they see there may not be spoils to share. If the men did not admire you, my lord, most would have left by now.” The sergeant paused. “Or held you for ransom to the highest bidder.”
Henry gave him a fearless look. “Do you threaten me? I’m not afraid of anyone or anything,” he challenged.
The sergeant bit back a smile. “No one doubts your courage, my lord, but only a fool is going to pit himself against a well-fortified castle like Cricklade without help.”
As Henry and his disgruntled troop trudged listlessly into the nearby woods to spend another uncomfortable night on the damp hard ground, he prayed that his Uncle Robert and his mother would send him money and, hopefully, more men. He was only a day’s journey from Bristol, and had sent a messenger yesterday morning. He should hear by tomorrow at the latest. The humiliation of having promised his men spoils which now appeared not to be forthcoming, was eating into his pride like rust into iron.
The following night, while still hanging about the vicinity of Cricklade, Henry received word from his mother and uncle. Their message said that he was risking his life by this hazardous, foolhardy undertaking; money could not be spared for such folly and he must come to Bristol at once. If Henry refused to comply, Robert’s soldiers would seek him out and ship him back to Normandy in disgrace.
Henry told the sergeant about the message as they sat on the edge of the woods eating the last of a rabbit grilled on a wood fire. Henry knew there could be no thought of returning to Normandy until he had fulfilled his obligations to his men, but whom could he ask for help?
Suddenly one of his men came up to him, gasping for breath. “My lord,” he said, “we are in great danger and must leave at once.”
“Danger? Who threatens?” Henry jumped to his feet.
“As I followed the tracks of a stag, my lord, I saw campfires gleaming in the darkness. Curious, I went deeper into the woods to investigate and stumbled upon the King’s army, not an hour away, setting up their camp.”
“You’re sure it was the King’s forces?” Henry asked, incredulous.
“I recognized the royal standard, my lord, and the azure pavilion the King carries with him whenever he does battle. It’s the enemy, sure enough, and the King himself is with them!”
“Jesu, there is no time to waste,” said the sergeant. “We’re but a few and no match for the King’s forces. I say we head straight for Bristol.”
Henry bit his lip. “Let me think.”
The sergeant shook his head impatiently. “There’s no time, my lord. The Angevin cause is at risk here. If King Stephen’s men catch up with us they’ll take you prisoner and hold you for ransom. Your father will personally slay me—by the slowest means at his disposal.” He signed himself.
“Don’t you think I realize all that?” After a few moments’ thought, a slow smile crossed Henry’s face. “I wish to send a message,” he said to the sergeant.
Stephen, his brother Henry, and William of Ypres had just made camp and were now seated around a fire drinking wine when an advance party of scouts returned.
“Sire, the boy and his men are camped not an hour away,” said one of the scouts. “The most dispirited, ragtag group of knaves I have ever set eyes upon. I counted fifteen, all told. We could have dispatched them like a warren of hares.”
William of Ypres laughed. “One thousand men indeed!”
Stephen frowned. “Fifteen men? I can hardly believe it. I wonder if it’s a trap to lure us into thinking their numbers are few. Was the boy with them?”
“Aye, Sire, he sat by the campfire, eating. I doubt it is a trap.”
“How did you know it was the Angevin heir?” asked the Bishop of Winchester.
The scout paused, looking perplexed. “I—I’m not sure, my lord bishop, but there was something about the boy, something different. You couldn’t miss him.”
Stephen exchanged a glance with his brother. So the youth had made an impression. “Very well. I’ll take fifty men with me, you keep the rest here, William, in case we are attacked from another quarter. I would see this ragtail group for myself. Brother, do you join me?”
“No, I’ll wait until you bring the quarry back to the camp.”
Stephen and the Bishop had just gone inside the pavilion when a guard appeared at the tent door.
“A message for you, Sire. Urgent, I’m told.”
The Bishop took the wax tablet and handed it to Stephen. “Who brought it?” he asked.
“A stranger left it with the guard posted on the edge of the camp, then disappeared.”
Stephen frowned. He lifted a candle in an iron holder and holding the tablet under the flickering light squinted down at the message. Suddenly he gave a shout of laughter.
“By God and all His Saints, never did I see the like!” He laughed until the tears streamed down his face. “Oh, the arrogant young rogue, the knave. By God, what brazen cheek!”
The Bishop looked at his brother in amazement.
“The boy, Henry, would you believe it? He has the gall to ask me for money! Neither his uncle nor his mother will give him any, and he promises to leave at once for Normandy if I’ll send him enough money to pay his men. He ends by reminding me of our close relationship as second cousins.”
A brief smile crossed the Bishop’s face. “He does not lack wit at least, the presumptuous young cockerel.”
“Could this be a trap set by Robert, using the boy as bait?” Stephen wondered, more sober now.
The Bishop pursed his lips, took the wax tablet from Stephen, and scanned the contents. “No, it has the ring of truth.”
Stephen slipped on his mailed shirt and buckled on his sword.
“To be safe, I’ll request the boy meet me alone, and keep my men hidden under cover of tree and brush. When I’m assured that he is indeed alone I’ll blow my horn, the men will rush from the forest, and we’ll take him prisoner.”
“I would not meet young Henry in your own person,” the Bishop advised. “He may become suspicious if you claim to be the king. Say you are a lord sent by the King to treat with him. The boy won’t know the difference for he has never seen you. Good hunting.” He rose to his feet and left the pavilion.
A short time later, a squire poked his head through the tent door. “Your horse is saddled, Sire, and the men waiting.”
“Good. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Stephen saw his ivory horn protruding from a leather saddlebag, and bent to remove it. As his hand reached into the bag it encountered a small leather pouch filled with silver coins. He hesitated, then slowly withdrew the pouch, weighing it in his hand. Without quite knowing why, he stuffed the pouch into the purse fastened to his belt, then slipped the horn’s cord around his neck, blew out the candle, and left the pavilion.
It was still dark when Henry felt an arm shaking him awake.
“An emissary from King Stephen,” the sergeant whispered in an excited voice.
Henry threw off the cloak that covered him and sat up abruptly, rubbing his eyes. “Did he bring money?”
“I think so,” the sergeant replied. “He shook a leather pouch and it sounded like coins.”
“Was he alone?”
“I could neither see nor hear anyone else, yet I like it not. It has the smell of a trap. I say we make our escape while we can.”
“You worry like an old woman. If he’s come with the money then all is well.” Henry grinned. “There’s nothing to fear.”
Hastily he dressed, wishing his garments were cleaner and did not smell so strongly. Through the trees a faint pink glow heralded the break of day. He followed the sergeant deeper within the woods to where a tall man waited beside a horse. Although it was still too dark to see the man’s face clearly, Henry could detect an unusual presence about him. Surely this was no common emissary but some highborn lord sent to treat with him. Trying to mask his excitement, he squared his shoulders, lifting his head proudly.
“Henry of Anjou?” the man asked softly. When Henry nodded, he took a few steps toward him. “King Stephen honors his second cousin. He wishes to know what your intentions were when you made this voyage?”
Henry felt himself flush. He cleared his throat. “Well, to be honest, I had hoped to raise support for my mother’s cause, but matters didn’t fall out that way.”
“I see. We heard initially that you landed with a thousand men. Did Count Geoffrey or your mother aid you in this venture?”
“Oh no, my lord. Neither of them knew anything about it until I’d left Normandy. In fact, I have greatly displeased them. I’m commanded to go at once to Bristol and then return home.” He paused. “I spread the rumor about the thousand men myself.”
There was a faint chuckle from the man. “Did you indeed! Tell me, why do you want the money if you return home?”
Henry hesitated. “Well, in truth, I promised my men—there are only a few—either pay or spoils and I … well … my uncle and mother would not give me any money—” He was so mortified that he could not continue, but rubbed his booted foot into the mossy forest floor.
“No need to explain further,” the man said. “I quite understand. To keep faith with your men is the first sign of a good commander.”
To hear himself referred to as a good commander was balm to his wounded pride. Henry’s chest swelled and he found himself drawn to this courtly knight. Quite unexpectedly, the man threw him a leather pouch which Henry caught with one hand.
“King Stephen bids you take the money and leave for Wareham immediately. From there you will set sail for Normandy.”
Henry hefted the bag. Enough, more than enough it felt like, to pay his men, their passage back to Normandy, and some left over. He could hardly believe it, and found himself much moved by this princely gesture from one who was his avowed enemy.
“I’m most grateful to King Stephen,” he stammered, looking up at the man towering over him. “I will never forget his kindness to me this day.”
There was a long silence while the two curiously examined each other. In the dawn light, Henry could now see the knight’s face clearly: Beneath the hood of his cloak, golden brown hair, streaked with white, curled damply on his brow. A pair of warm green eyes dancing with golden lights illuminated a strongly sculpted face with high cheekbones and mobile lips. The man reached out and gently tilted Henry’s face toward the sun.
“Your mother’s eyes,” he murmured with a catch in his voice.
“You know my mother?” Henry asked, amazed.
“At one time, yes.” The man dropped his hand but not before Henry had glimpsed his massive gold ring set with precious stones flashing in the pale sunlight. “The King says that if he finds you or your men in these parts by midday he will take you captive. Be warned and leave now.”
“Yes, yes, I leave at once, upon my honor.” Henry hesitated. “May one ask your name, my lord?”
“My name is not important. Let us just say one who wishes you Godspeed.” As he spoke, the man mounted his horse. “Fare well, young Henry of Anjou.” Turning his mount toward the east, he was soon lost to view.
Thoughtful, Henry walked back through the forest to join his men. He held up the bag of coins and was greeted with cheers. Later, as he told his men of the encounter with the King’s emissary, the sergeant asked him to describe the ring again.
“I’ve seen Stephen of Blois many a time when he was in Normandy, before he assumed the throne, but in the dark I didn’t recognize him. That sounds like the ring he always wore, right enough. Green eyes, you say, tall, hair like honey in the comb. God’s teeth, that could only be the King himself.”
The men spoke among themselves, looking speculatively at Henry.
“A courtly man, is this king,” Henry said, wonderingly. “So have I heard men say and now I know it to be true. But in his place I would have withheld assistance and taken me captive for a goodly ransom.”
He threw back his head and laughed aloud, a joyous, innocent sound that rang through the stillness of the forest. “Which is why I will win, by God’s splendor,” he cried, with all the boundless confidence of youth. “Yes, I will win and he will lose.”