Aye, drink helped. And women, of course.
There were plenty of men to drink with in a town overrun with soldiers. And, for him, there were always willing women. Which one hardly mattered. He had even less expectation of finding a woman who could make him happy than he did of achieving knightly glory in this wretched war.
He wondered what it would be like to be with a woman who was strong and brave and clever. A woman who would not settle for him being less than the man he could be.
Could she save him? Was he worth saving?
He knew only one woman like that, and he did not expect to meet another. Still, he enjoyed women. Talking with them. Flirting with them. Bedding them. He did not have to be fully sober, however, to know the one asleep beside him was a mistake.
Keeping a watchful eye on Marie’s still form, he eased himself down from the bed. She slept like the dead, the saints be praised. When he leaned over to gather his clothes, his head throbbed so violently he feared he would be sick. He waited for his stomach to settle before pulling the shirt and tunic over his head. Teetering on one foot, he nearly fell as he struggled into his leggings.
He grabbed his boots in one hand, his belt and sword in the other, and made his escape.
God’s beard, the corridor was freezing!
He could see now he was in the castle’s keep. But whose bedchamber was that? It would be just like Marie to take him to another lover’s bed. The woman thrived on trouble.
Caen Castle was huge, with numerous buildings scattered across acres of bailey yard. The walk to the main gate was almost long enough to clear his head. When he finally crossed the bridge into the Old Town, he entered the first public house he found.
He was still there hours later, drinking with a boisterous group of soldiers, when he felt eyes upon him. The familiar form of his half brother, Lord William FitzAlan, filled the doorway. When the other men noticed the great commander, they fumbled to their feet and offered to make room. William kept his gaze on Stephen.
Stephen poured more wine into his cup and ignored his brother. When one of his companions called out, “May God bring us more victories,” he did not raise his cup with the others. But he drank it down all the same.
He poured another and decided to make his own toast.
“God grant us victory,” he said, clutching the edge of the table, “even if we must starve women and children to achieve it.”
Before he saw William move, his brother had an iron grip on his arm and was leading him out the door. Outside, William slammed him up against the wall.
William cupped Stephen’s chin and jaw in his hand. With his face so close their noses nearly touched, he said, “God in heaven, Stephen, what am I to do with you?”
Drunk or sober, Stephen would not let any other man lay hands on him. But this was William. “ ’Tis a long time since I’ve been your responsibility, big brother.”
“I have served as both father and brother to you for far too many years to stand by and let you do this to yourself!”
William released his hold and leaned heavily against the wall beside Stephen. In a quiet voice he said, “We did what we could. You must try to put it behind you.”
Stephen did not want to talk about what happened the day the siege of Caen broke and the English army swarmed through the town. By the time he and William reached the market square, English soldiers were massacring the crowd of women, children, and old men gathered there. He and William rode through the melee, swinging their swords in the air, shouting and pushing, until at last the order to halt was heard and obeyed.
The images of that day would not leave him.
When it was over, Stephen walked through the carnage in the square. The wails of women filled his ears, and the smell of blood choked him as he stepped over broken bodies of children and old men. When he looked down, a child’s severed arm lay before his bloody boot. He leaned against a wall and vomited until his knees were weak.
“This is not the path to glory I expected when we came to fight the French,” he said.
“King Henry’s army slaughtering old men, women, and children!” William said, his voice hard with anger. “I never thought to see it.”
“You must have known. Why else did you order Jamie to remain outside the city walls that day?” Despite the accusation in his voice, Stephen was immensely grateful his nephew did not witness the slaughter in the square.
“The lad is only fifteen,” William objected. “ ’Tis true I suspected trouble, though not as foul as that. The men were full of bloodlust after our knight was burned to death.”
The city defenders had thrown bales of burning straw onto the knight, who lay injured in the ditch at the base of the wall. Unable to reach their man, listening to his screams, the English sat by their campfires in frustrated rage.
“And the king?” Stephen asked, though he knew the answer.
“He believes the people brought the wrath of God upon themselves,” William said in a grim voice. “They had only to submit to him as their rightful sovereign to escape their fate.”
“The women and children had no part in the city’s decision to hold out against us.”
