Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,135

ride because only women, the infirm, and servants rode in carts. In the end, they had given him a bay gelding, strong and sturdy with an even stride.

“I am an anointed king,” Stephen told Brian, who was riding beside him to make sure he did not fall. He was certainly in no condition to attempt an escape. “Whether you kill me or imprison me for life, it does not alter that fact. Nor that my army is still intact and will regroup to sweep you aside.”

“They deserted you,” Brian said.

Stephen gave Brian a shrewd glance from a livid purple eye socket. “They expected me to leave the field too,” he said.

“They will continue the fight, and so will my wife. Your empress will never cast down the crown from my Maheut’s head. I may be your captive, but this is far from the end of the matter.”

“It is a matter that should never have begun in the first place, sire. I do indeed pray that this is the end.” LadyofEnglish.indd 335

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Stephen looked scornful despite his battered countenance.

“You do not like to soil your hands, do you, Brian, but warfare is a dirty business. My cousin will use you up until you are dust trickling through her fingers, and then she will say it was only her due, and you will have no one to blame but yourself for your choice.”

Brian said nothing, but he was unsettled by the prophetic wisdom in Stephen’s words. Yesterday’s battle was still working its way through him both physically and mentally and his thoughts remained bruised and dark. When he told himself that this was the beginning of Matilda’s rightful rule, he felt satisfied and vindicated, but when he thought that it might be the beginning of even harder fighting, he felt sick. He had promised to give her his life, but sometimes he wondered what he had set upon himself.

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It was dark outside; the February dusk had closed in an hour since and in the chapel of Gloucester Castle, the pools of candle flame were the only source of light. Matilda looked up from her prayers to Saint James, Saint Julian, and the Blessed Virgin Mary and regarded her chancellor and chaplain, William Giffard. His face was naturally laconic and difficult to read even without the candle shadows casting deep hollows in his cheekbones and eye sockets.

“Domina,” he said, “there is news from Lincoln. The Earl of Gloucester’s messenger is here.”

She was aware of the cold tiles beneath her knees, the heat of the candle flames, and the chill beyond their ovals of light.

Her heart began to bang against her ribs. Ever since Robert and her commanders had taken the road to Lincoln, she had been poised on the edge of a precipice.

“Domina, he says the Earl has won a great victory and Stephen is taken prisoner. He is being brought to you.” 336

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“A great victory?” Her voice caught in her throat.

“Yes, domina.” A faint smile broke across his features. “The king’s earls deserted him. Even William D’Ypres fled the field, but Stephen would not, and he was struck down and captured.” The words filled her mind but grasping their meaning beyond the superficial was impossible. Robert had won. Stephen had lost. For a moment she stood in a void. She had been striving for so long, pushing and pushing, and now suddenly, out of her sight and her presence, victory had been secured and a crown was hers for the taking.

“Domina?” Giffard touched her arm in concern.

She drew herself together. “Bring the messenger to my chamber,” she said. “And gather the household together in the hall so that I may talk to them.”

When he had left on his errand, Matilda lit another candle to add to those already burning, and knelt to give thanks and pray for the strength she would need in the months to come.

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Robed like a queen, her gown glittering with precious stones, her imperial crown set on her head, and her father’s sapphire ring glowing on her finger, Matilda gazed down at Stephen who had been brought to kneel before her in Gloucester Castle’s great hall. His head was bowed and she could see where his hair was thinning at the crown, exposing the freckled pink scalp. The bruises from Lincoln mottled his face in varied hues of purple, magenta, and yellow. He was robed in a plain tunic of brown wool and the only jewellery about his person was