The Pillars of the Earth (79 page)

Philip was left with only one hope: that King Stephen would be defeated in the forthcoming battle.

The bishop said mass in the cathedral when the sky was beginning to change from black to gray. By then the horses were saddled, the knights were wearing their chain mail, the men-at-arms had been fed, and a measure of strong wine had been served to give them all heart.

William Hamleigh knelt in the nave with the other knights and earls, while the war-horses stamped and snorted in the aisles, and was forgiven in advance for the killing he would do that day.

Fear and excitement made William light-headed. If the king won a victory today, William’s name would forever be associated with it, for men would say that he had brought the reinforcements that tipped the balance. If the king should lose ... anything could happen. He shivered on the cold stone floor.

The king was at the front, in a fresh white robe, with a candle in his hand. As the Host was elevated, the candle broke, and the flame went out. William trembled with dread: it was a bad omen. A priest brought a new candle and took away the broken one, and Stephen smiled nonchalantly, but the feeling of supernatural horror stayed with William, and when he looked around he could tell that others felt the same.

After the service the king put on his armor, helped by a valet. He had a knee-length mail coat made of leather with iron rings sewn to it. The coat was slit up to the waist in front and behind so that he could ride in it. The valet laced it tightly at the throat. He then put on a close-fitting cap with a long mail hood attached, covering his tawny hair and protecting his neck. Over the cap he wore an iron helmet with a nosepiece. His leather boots had mail trimmings and pointed spurs.

As he put on his armor, the earls gathered around him. William followed his mother’s advice and acted as if he were already one of them, pushing through the crowd to join the group around the king. After listening for a moment he realized they were trying to persuade Stephen to withdraw and leave Lincoln to the rebels.

“You hold more territory than Maud—you can raise a larger army,” said an older man whom William recognized as Lord Hugh. “Go south, get reinforcements, come back and outnumber them.”

After the portent of the broken candle, William almost wished for withdrawal himself; but the king had no time for such talk. “We’re strong enough to defeat them now,” he said cheerfully. “Where’s your spirit?” He strapped on a belt with a sword on one side and a dagger on the other, both of them in wood-and-leather scabbards.

“The armies are too evenly matched,” said a tall man with short, grizzled hair and a close-trimmed beard: the earl of Surrey. “It’s too risky.”

This was a poor argument to use with Stephen, William knew: the king was nothing if not chivalrous. “Too evenly matched?” he repeated scornfully. “I prefer a fair fight.” He pulled on the leather gauntlets with mail on the backs of the fingers. The valet handed him a long wooden shield covered with leather. He hooked its strap around his neck and held it in his left hand.

“We’ve little to lose by withdrawing at this point,” Hugh persisted. “We aren’t even in possession of the castle.”

“I would lose my chance of meeting Robert of Gloucester on the battlefield,” Stephen said. “For two years he’s been avoiding me. Now that I have an opportunity to deal with the traitor once and for all, I’m not going to pull out just because we’re evenly matched!”

A groom brought his horse, saddled ready. As Stephen was about to mount, there was a flurry of activity around the door at the west end of the cathedral, and a knight came running up the nave, muddy and bleeding. William had a doomy premonition that this would be bad news. As the man bowed to the king, William recognized him as one of Edward’s men who had been sent to guard the ford. “We were too late, lord,” the man said hoarsely, breathing hard. “The enemy has crossed the river.”

It was another bad sign. William suddenly felt colder. Now there was nothing but open fields between the enemy and Lincoln.

Stephen too looked struck down for an instant, but he recovered his composure swiftly. “No matter!” he said. “We will meet them, all the sooner!” He mounted his war-horse.

He had a battle-ax strapped to his saddle. The valet handed him a wooden lance with a bright iron point, completing his weaponry. Stephen clicked his tongue, and the horse obediently moved forward.

As he rode down the nave of the cathedral, the earls, barons and knights mounted and fell in behind him, and they left the cathedral in procession. In the grounds the men-at-arms joined them. This was when men began to feel scared and look for a chance to slip away; but their dignified pace, and the almost ceremonial atmosphere, with the townspeople looking on, meant it would be very difficult for the fainthearted to escape.

Their numbers were augmented by a hundred or more townsmen, fat bakers and shortsighted weavers and red-faced brewers, poorly armored and riding their cobs and palfreys. Their presence was a sign of the unpopularity of Ranulf.

The army could not pass the castle, for they would have been exposed to archery fire from its battlements, so they left the town by the north gate, which was called Newport Arch, and turned west. This was where the battle would be fought.

William studied the terrain with a keen eye. Although the hill on the south side of the town sloped steeply to the river, here on the west there was a long ridge which fell gently to the plain. William saw immediately that Stephen had chosen the right spot from which to defend the town, for no matter how the enemy approached they would always be downhill from the king’s army.

When Stephen was a quarter of a mile or so out of the city two scouts came up the slope, riding fast. They spotted the king and went straight to him. William crowded closer to hear their report.

“The enemy is approaching fast, lord,” said one of the scouts.

William looked across the plain. Sure enough, he could see a black mass in the distance, moving slowly toward him: the enemy. He felt a shiver of fear. He shook himself, but the fear persisted. It would go when the fighting started.

King Stephen said: “What are their dispositions?”

“Ranulf and the knights of Chester form the middle, lord,” the scout began. “They are on foot.”

William wondered how the scout knew this. He must have gone right into the enemy camp and listened while marching orders were given. That took a cool nerve.

“Ranulf in the center?” said Stephen. “As if he were the leader, rather than Robert!”

“Robert of Gloucester is on his left flank, with an army of men who call themselves The Disinherited,” the scout went on. William knew why they used that name—they had all lost lands since the civil war began.

“Robert has given Ranulf command of the operation, then,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “A pity. I know Robert well—I practically grew up with him—and I could guess his tactics. But Ranulf is a stranger to me. No matter. Who’s on their right?”

“The Welsh, lord.”

“Archers, I suppose.” The men of South Wales had a reputation for bowmanship.

“Not these,” the scout said. “They are a raving mob, with their faces painted, singing barbaric songs, and armed with hammers and clubs. Very few have horses.”

“They must be from North Wales,” Stephen mused. “Ranulf has promised them pillage, I expect. God help Lincoln if they get inside the walls. But they won’t! What’s your name, scout?”

“Roger, called Lackland,” the man said.

“Lackland? You shall have ten acres for this work.”

The man was thrilled. “Thank you, lord!”

“Now.” Stephen turned and looked at his earls. He was about to make his dispositions. William tensed, wondering what role the king would assign to him. “Where is my lord Alan of Brittany?”

Alan edged his horse forward. He was the leader of a force of Breton mercenaries, rootless men who fought for pay and whose only loyalty was to themselves.

Stephen said to Alan: “I’ll have you and your brave Bretons in the front line on my left.”

William saw the wisdom of that: Breton mercenaries against Welsh adventurers, the untrustworthy versus the undisciplined.

“William of Ypres!” Stephen called.

“My lord king.” A dark man on a black war-horse raised his lance. This William was the leader of another force of mercenaries, Flemish men, a shade more reliable than the Bretons, it was said.

Stephen said: “You on my left also, but behind Alan’s Bretons.”

The two mercenary leaders wheeled about and rode back into the army to organize their men. William wondered where he would be placed. He had no wish to be in the front line. He had already done enough to distinguish himself, by bringing his army. A safe, uneventful rearguard position would suit him today.

King Stephen said: “My lords of Worcester, Surrey, Northampton, York and Hertford, with your knights, form my right flank.”

Once again William saw the sense of Stephen’s dispositions. The earls and their knights, mostly mounted, would face Robert of Gloucester and the “disinherited” nobles who supported him, most of whom would also be on horseback. But William was disappointed not to have been included with the earls. Surely the king could not have forgotten about him?

“I will hold the middle ground, dismounted, with foot soldiers,” Stephen said.

For the first time William disapproved of a decision. It was always better to stay on horseback as long as you could. But Ranulf, at the head of the opposing army, was said to be on foot, and Stephen’s overwrought sense of fair play compelled him to meet his enemy on equal terms.

“With me in the center I will have William of Shiring and his men,” the king said.

William did not know whether to be thrilled or terrified. It was a great honor to be chosen to stand with the king—Mother would be gratified—but it put him in the most dangerous position. Worse still, he would be on foot. It also meant the king would be able to see him and judge his performance. He would have to appear fearless and take the fight to the enemy, as opposed to keeping out of trouble and fighting only when forced to, which was the tactic he preferred.

“The loyal citizens of Lincoln will bring up the rear,” Stephen said. This was a mixture of compassion and military good sense. The citizens would not be much use anywhere, but in the rear they could do little damage and would suffer fewer casualties.

William raised the banner of the earl of Shiring. This was another idea of Mother’s. He was not entitled to the banner, strictly speaking, because he was not the earl; but the men with him were used to following the Shiring banner—or so he would argue if challenged. And by the end of the day, if the battle went well, he might be earl.

His men gathered around him. Walter was by his side, as always, a solid, reassuring presence. So were Ugly Gervase, Hugh Axe and Miles Dice. Gilbert, who had died at the quarry, had been replaced by Guillaume de St. Clair, a fresh-faced young man with a vicious streak.

Looking around, William was infuriated to see Richard of Kingsbridge, wearing bright new armor and riding a splendid war-horse. He was with the earl of Surrey. He had not brought an army for the king, as William had, but he looked impressive—fresh-faced, vigorous, and brave—and if he did great things today he might win royal favor. Battles were unpredictable, and so were kings.

On the other hand, perhaps Richard would be killed today. What a stroke of luck
that
would be. William lusted for it more than he had ever lusted for a woman.

He looked to the west. The enemy was closer.

Philip was on the roof of the cathedral, and he could see Lincoln laid out like a map. The old city surrounded the cathedral on the hilltop. It had straight streets and neat gardens and the castle in the southwest corner. The newer part, noisy and overcrowded, occupied the steep hillside to the south, between the old city and the River Witham. This district was normally bustling with commercial activity, but today it was covered with a fearful silence like a pall, and the people were standing on their rooftops to watch the battle. The river came in from the east, ran along the foot of the hill, then widened into a big natural harbor called Brayfield Pool, which was surrounded by quays and full of ships and boats. A canal called the Fosdyke ran west from Brayfield Pool—all the way to the River Trent, Philip had been told. Seeing it from a height, Philip marveled at how it ran straight for miles. People said it had been built in ancient times.

The canal formed the edge of the battlefield. Philip watched King Stephen’s army march out of the city in a ragged crowd and slowly form up in three orderly columns on the ridge. Philip knew that Stephen had placed the earls on his right for they were the most colorful, with their tunics of red and yellow and their bright banners. They were also the most active, riding up and down, giving orders and holding consultations and making plans. The group to the king’s left, on the slope of the ridge that went down to the canal, were dressed in dull gray and brown, had fewer horses, and were less busy, conserving their energies: they would be the mercenaries.

Beyond Stephen’s army, where the line of the canal became indistinct and merged with the hedgerows, the rebel army covered the fields like a swarm of bees. At first they had appeared to be stationary; then, when he looked again after a while, they were closer; and now, if he concentrated, he could just discern their motion. He wondered how strong they were. All indications were that the two sides were evenly matched.

There was nothing Philip could do to influence the outcome—a situation he hated. He tried to quiet his spirit and be fatalistic. If God wanted a new cathedral at Kingsbridge, he would cause Robert of Gloucester to defeat King Stephen today, so that Philip could ask the victorious Empress Maud to let him repossess the quarry and reopen the market. And if Stephen should defeat Robert, Philip would have to accept God’s will, give up his ambitious plans, and let Kingsbridge once more decline into sleepy obscurity.

Try as he might, Philip could not think that way. He wanted Robert to
win
.