Stewart Binns - Anarchy

The burgh was in chaos. There were men and horses everywhere; it was a sultry day and tempers were frayed. There were too few beds and only about half the stables needed – either Stephen’s royal household had miscalculated, or the lords and bishops had brought far bigger entourages than had been agreed.

Our host, Bishop Roger, had brought a retinue of more than thirty assorted bodies, most of them armed. If he was typical, there could well have been over 500 visitors to the modest burgh. He introduced us as Englishmen who had been raised in Aquitaine, and said that we were now in his retinue as professional soldiers. Thankfully, no eyebrows were raised by our presence and we moved around unnoticed.

A certain calm descended in the afternoon as men filled the taverns and forgot their frustrations, leaving the stewards to try to sort out the sleeping arrangements. Stephen’s Royal Chamberlain, aware that the King was due to arrive that evening, convened a meeting of all the stewards in order to resolve the problems with the accommodation. But rather than produce a solution, it created chaos.

The Chamberlain began the meeting by producing a list of those magnates who were required to give up their planned lodgings in Oxford and move to whatever could be found in the villages around the burgh. In most cases, that was little more than a barn, cowshed or open field. The indignation among those on the list bordered on fury. Word spread like wildfire and soon reached the taverns, where jests became taunts, banter became brawls, and fisticuffs became sword fights.

Eadmer and I were with Bishop Roger’s Constable and some of his senior knights when our tavern suddenly turned from a merry haunt into a gladiator’s arena. Our neighbours, the men of Earl Alan of Richmond – a Marcher earl from Northumbria who, up to that point, had been quietly drinking ale – suddenly made straight for us, swords drawn. Their attack seemed premeditated, rather than provoked by the general melee.

Roger’s Constable bellowed at a group of his knights.

‘Get the Bishop back to Devizes! Don’t hesitate, and don’t let any man stop you!’

We were outnumbered, three or four to one, and Roger’s Constable was cut down by almost the first blow. Eadmer gathered our men in a close circle around us and tugged at my cloak.

‘Let’s get out! This is an ambush.’

He was right. We turned to fight our way towards the rear of the tavern. There were men and weapons everywhere – so many and so much, that it was difficult to strike a blow. Even so, seaxes were doing damage and maces were being wielded overhead. The tavern’s whores were caught in the scrimmage, all shrieking in horror, and many were cut down.

We managed to reach the rear door of the tavern, where we tried to join the many who were pouring out like water from a pump. I saw a knight about to club Eadmer with his mace and ran him through with my sword.

Almost at the same instant, I felt the searing pain of several blades. A blow to my shoulder pushed me into the heavy timber of the tavern doorway. I remember my head striking the door jamb, then nothing else for some hours.

When I came round, my men-at-arms had laid me out on one of the tables in what appeared to be a refectory. I was covered in blood from a gash to my forehead, and had suffered deep wounds to my side, shoulder and thigh, which physicians were already binding with bandages, making no sound as they did so.

When I looked around me, I saw a figure standing in the shadows, dressed in the black habit of the Benedictine’s monastic order and wearing an Abbot’s crucifix. In my confused state, I pieced together a jigsaw of memories from the tavern in Oxford, and realized that Eadmer must have managed to get me away to the sanctuary of a nearby abbey. I struggled to raise myself upright, and bellowed at the hooded figure.

‘Away with you, priest, I have no need of you!’

The Abbot did not appear shocked by what he probably assumed was the anger-laden fear of a dying man. His reply was gentle.

‘As you wish, I will be nearby if you need me. I am Gilbert Foliot, Abbot here at Gloucester.’

‘Forgive me, Abbot…’

I winced in pain and began to falter.

‘Perhaps we could talk a little…’

I could not finish the sentence and fell back. My head hit the hard oak of the table with a thump. Stunned and incapable of further speech, I listened to the Abbot and his infirmerer discussing the extent of my injuries.

‘Abbot, he has lost much blood, I doubt that he will survive the night.’

‘Do what you can. What’s his name?’

‘We don’t know; he would not give us his name, and neither will his men.’

I heard the Abbot ask his Prior to give me the extreme unction of Christ’s sacrament, and then his footsteps started to recede as he turned to leave the refectory. But as he reached the door, the Prior summoned him back.

‘Abbot, look at the amulet he is wearing – I’ve never seen anything like it. It must be an evil charm!’

The Prior seemed very agitated by it, but the Abbot replied with a calm authority.

‘It is certainly unusual. I have tucked it under his jerkin; give him extreme unction and we will ask him about the amulet in the morning. If he lives that long…’

The Abbot’s words were obscured by the fog of unconsciousness that threatened to claim me, when all hell suddenly broke loose in the Abbey. First it was the thunder of the hooves of a large force of cavalry, then the hurried footsteps and clanging of armour of a significant body of men, followed by orders being barked and the door of the Abbey being thumped impatiently, demanding admittance.

The Abbot swiftly issued his commands to the Prior.

‘Draw the screens around our wounded visitor. The law of sanctuary requires us to protect him, whoever he may be – and however he may have acquired his injuries. Then prepare to open the door and greet our guests.’

‘But, Abbot, there are a lot of men out there–’

‘Open the door!’

The Prior did as he was bid, and I heard the unmistakable sounds of at least a dozen fully armed and breathless men pouring through the entrance. Hidden behind the screens, feeling as weak as a baby, my safety depended on the Abbot’s ability to contain the violent intent of the intruders.

‘We seek a knight and his band of brigands! They have committed mayhem and murder at King Stephen’s court at Oxford.’

‘Sir Knight, I realize you are on important business, but is it not courteous to begin with formal introductions? I am Gilbert, Abbot of Gloucester, and this is Prior Anselm. And you are?’

‘I am Waleran, a Knight of Northumbria. I serve my Lord Alan, Earl of Richmond. He and his men have been attacked in full view of the King by a group of thugs in the service of the Bishop of Salisbury.’

I was aware that everything hinged on the Abbot’s reply. Was he a supporter of the Empress Matilda’s claim to King Stephen’s throne?

‘I know Roger of Salisbury well. I’m sure his men would not commit a heinous crime anywhere, let alone at the King’s court.’

‘Abbot, I must apologize for contradicting you, but that is the case. And the men responsible were only an hour or so ahead of us as we approached your Abbey. Are they taking shelter here? At least one of them is wounded.’

Again, I had no idea how the Abbot would respond. If he denied that I was here, and with my men’s horses still outside, he risked aiding and abetting men who seemed to be beyond the law. Andy yet, my instincts suggested that he too was a supporter of Matilda and that the identity of his nameless guest interested him – an identity made even more intriguing by the peculiar amulet I wore around my neck, and which had so alarmed the Prior.