Winter Siege Read Free Page A

soul, she never prayed again.

Chapter Two
     
Kenniford Castle, Oxfordshire, February 1141
     
    STANDING IN HER own chapel in her own castle for her own wedding, sixteen-year-old Maud of Kenniford wondered whether they’d even have the courtesy to ask if she’d take this man, fifty-three-year-old Sir John of Tewing, to be her lawful wedded husband.
    If they did, the honest answer would be: ‘What in hell else can I do?’
    The question being put at the moment by the mud-flecked, out-of-breath priest in front of her was: ‘Who giveth this woman …?’
    At which point, one of the Beaumont twins grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. ‘I do, Waleran de Meulan, Earl of Worcester. This lady is a ward of our blessed King Stephen. In his name do I give her to this man. And for the sake of God, get on with it.’
    The earl, like this priest he’d brought with him, like the dozen or so knights surrounding Maud, smelled of sweat, horse and panic. They’d fled the Battle of Lincoln, which they’d apparently lost, to race here and marry her off to a man she’d never seen before in the name of a king who’d been captured – who might not even be king any more.
    For all they knew the Empress’s forces were about to overwhelm the country, a disaster which had to be avoided at all costs because, as Queen of England, Matilda would take away the lands of those who’d opposed her –
their
lands.
    And one of the costs, to Maud at any rate, was a marriage that would put said Maud’s castle and, more importantly, the vital crossing it commanded over the upper Thames, into the hands of said Sir John of Tewing, one of King Stephen’s most loyal supporters, so that the Empress could be denied access to the West if she came this way.
    Matilda’s own supporters, her head steward, Sir Bernard, her cousin, Lynessa, and Father Nimbus – who were to be witnesses – were hemmed in by a group of Stephen’s knights in case they objected – indeed, the Earl of Leicester, Waleran’s brother, was holding a dagger suggestively near Father Nimbus’s throat. Milburga, her nurse, had elbowed her way in, and not even England’s foremost barons had been able to deny her, or dared.
    Sir Rollo, the commander of Maud’s troops, stood in the bailey below with his milling soldiers, bellowing up at the chapel window: ‘Are you all right, my lady?’
    No, I’m not, you stupid old pillock. Why in hell did you open the gates?
    Strictly speaking, of course, Sir Rollo had no choice, just as Lynessa, Milburga and Father Nimbus could make no objection as long as Maud gave her consent. Kenniford was already nominally held for the King to whom, at the coronation, Maud’s dying father had chosen to pay homage, leaving Maud and her inheritance in Stephen’s wardship to be bestowed on whomsoever the King wished to reward.
    Unlucky gifts for the bestowees, as it had turned out. It became known that to choose Maud of Kenniford as a bride was to choose one’s coffin – a superstition that suited Maud down to her shoes. All Stephen’s three choices for her had died before marriage could take place: the first broke his neck in a hunting accident; ditto the second in a tournament; while the third, a five-year-old – Maud’s favoured choice because she thought she’d have no difficulty managing him – had shown deplorable carelessness by drowning in a well.
    But Sir John was prepared to court bad luck. He was bad luck himself. She wouldn’t be able to manage
him
, that was for sure. Overlarge, grizzled, scarred, lumbering, rank like a bear, the man’s manners were as boorish as his appearance; he had even brought his concubine with him, a sullen-looking unkempt woman by the name of Kigva who was lurking in the corner of the room staring sourly at Maud.
    Hello. The officiating priest was turning to her, opening his mouth, asking
the
question without which the marriage would not be strictly legal. ‘Do you, Maud of Kenniford, take this man …?’
    Maud