Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,123
constant tramp of men, horses, and siege equipment had churned the ground to mud.
In Stephen’s pavilion, Will stood around a brazier with several other barons. He was whittling at a piece of wood, 304
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working it into the shape of a toy horse for his infant son, keeping his hands occupied. They had been bogged down for a week now, assaulting Wallingford to no avail, like little boys trying to knock down a wall with shingle. Brian FitzCount had made it plain he was not going to be lured out by acts of burning and pillage on the surrounding lands and it was also plain that the place could resist their assault for longer than they were willing to sit.
“I cannot afford to stay here.” Stephen testily plucked at his beard. “Wallingford is the key to London. We must either capture it, or render it useless to the rebels. FitzCount was building this up all the time he was playing the loyal servant at court. He never intended keeping his oath to me.”
“You could construct watchtowers to prevent provisions coming through,” Will said, “and garrison them with men to harass the supply route.”
Waleran de Meulan glared at Will “That woman and her brother should never have been allowed a safe landing in England.” Will blew shavings off the little horse. “It was a matter of honour,” he said, refusing to rise to the bait.
“There is honour and there is folly,” Waleran snapped.
“Enough.” Stephen made a chopping gesture with his right hand. “D’Albini is right, although I could have wished for a better outcome. Next you will be saying I was foolish to let the Countess of Anjou join her brother in Bristol, when it was the only decision I could have made.”
“She is not in Bristol now though, is she?” Waleran sneered.
“She is holding court in Gloucester and encouraging all manner of rabble to join her. We should have taken her when we had the chance.”
A messenger drew rein outside the tent and swung down from his sweating horse. Entering the tent at Stephen’s command, he knelt and his gaze flicked to Waleran. “Sire, 305
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Miles FitzWalter has sacked Worcester. He has burned the suburbs and seized captives and herds.”
“What?” Waleran’s face suffused. He lunged to his feet and hurled his cup at the side of the tent. “The whoreson! I will rip him apart with my bare hands.”
Will stared at the heaving, frightened messenger. Worcester belonged to Waleran and this was more than just political strategy by the rebels; it was a personal attack on Waleran by Miles FitzWalter, who hated him. The war was spreading, like coals dragged from a fire and scattered abroad by a pitchfork.
“This confirms my decision to move,” Stephen said grimly.
“We shall ride to deal with this insurrection now and leave a detail here to build watchtowers. I want the garrison at Wallingford pinned down like a snake with a forked stick.” ttt
It was very late. Brian stood on the wall walk and gazed out across the river. The night was moonless but there was a glimmer of cold starlight and the pin-prick wink of torches from Stephen’s watchtowers. Their garrisons were preventing new supplies from getting through, although they could do nothing to touch Wallingford itself. Brian had managed to send the occasional messenger out and receive information back in, but it was a dangerous and haphazard business. Two of his men had been caught and tortured before being hanged on a gibbet in full view of the Wallingford garrison.
Brian had ordered food to be rationed although they had plenty, because who knew how long this state of affairs was going to last? He was out on a limb here, cut off from communication, and it drove him mad, because communicating was his main skill, over and beyond his weapon play. They had begun to call him “the Marquis” because he was out on a March here, Wallingford pointing like a finger into enemy territory.
Maude said nothing, but her expression was enough. He 306
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knew he was out of his depth. When instructing the men on watch, he was firm and decisive, but he wondered if anyone guessed how much doubt lay beneath the surface.
The bitter evening chill seeped through his garments and he abandoned the wall walk, going to his chamber to write letters he knew might never arrive and documents that might never be read. Yet, while his