Chapter Two #5
Bronwyn’s mouth set firmly. Why couldn’t a woman lead an army? She felt annoyed on behalf of the queen. To be put down because of her sex would be rude and embarrassing, but then, that was Sir Robert’s tactic, she realized. He was being petty on purpose.
“I’ll not be answering to you. This country belongs to Englishmen. Not French bits of pastry.”
Matilda shook her head, her long hair swaying prettily.
“That is unfortunate, Sir Robert, for now, the city of Winchester will suffer for your mistress’s selfishness.
She has already lost, and it is a poor loser who refuses to give up when the game is over.
I do not wish to kill you, but if you do die today, know that it was in service to a lost cause. ”
Queen Matilda rode back to the front of the line, her cloak billowing, her long hair streaming behind her like a wave.
She raised a sword and called out, a sharp cry that the men took up.
What began as a cry rose into a bellow, and then a roar, with the thunderous sound of crashing fists against helmets and shields, the thumping of pikes and spears against the ground, and the yell of men, ready to fight. Any chance of a parley was over.
The battle began. The men started to march.
Sir Robert raised his hand, and the archers raised their bows and shot. Suddenly, the air filled with arrows, almost darkening the morning sky. They whistled and fell, peppering against hundreds of helmets and shields.
Bronwyn gasped. The cries of men who fell, their bodies pierced by deadly arrows assaulted her ears. She never wanted to hear that again.
Sir Robert narrowed his eyes at her. “Get back and stay out of the way,” he told her. “Hold the line!” he shouted to his fighters.
Bronwyn looked around. “Where’s Squire Rupert?”
Silence and stony expressions met her. She didn’t understand. The archers ignored her and kept shooting. Theobold approached her with gritted teeth.
“Your friend Rupert is a filthy traitor, a bloody coward. He turned tail and left when he saw the army coming.” Theobold shook his head. “I should’ve known. Did you know?”
Her jaw dropped. Rupert, a coward? No. It can’t be.
Seeing her shocked expression, he said, “I guess not. Well, he’s fooled both of us. That’s what we get for trusting one of Stephen’s men.”
Bronwyn’s right hand darted to her mouth.
Her hands trembled as she touched the stone wall for comfort.
She wanted to hold on to something stable and solid.
She had thought he was allied with the empress now, especially as his master sat in prison with the king in Bristol.
But perhaps he’d stayed loyal to his master. Still, his desertion surprised her.
Theobold said, “You should head back. It’s not safe for you here. Do you know the way?”
“I’ll find it.” Her eyebrows knit together.
“Go now.” He gave her left hand a squeeze. “Go with God, Bronwyn.”
She squeezed his hand in return. “You stay safe too.”
Their eyes met, and he winked. “Always do. You worried about me?”
She opened her mouth to speak, Sir Robert ordered, “Archers, fire!”
Bronwyn ran. She moved faster than she thought her feet could carry her, down the parapet and the stone stairwells to the main west hall, where she fled out through a servants’ back passage that took her out a side entrance into the street, near the latrine block, judging from the noxious smell.
She dodged around people and into empty streets. People had fled and were hiding. The birds no longer sang, and all was quiet but for the steady sound of marching, men’s booted feet and horses approaching. She dimly heard Sir Robert roar, “Fall back! Fall back to the cathedral!”
Bronwyn got lost on the way, becoming confused while trying to avoid the men filling the streets.
At a loss, and what felt like hours but must have been just minutes, she found her way back to Winchester Castle and climbed the hill, her legs groaning from the sudden exercise as she climbed up and clawed at tufts of grass and earth.
Panting and out of breath, her face streaming with tears, she begged the guards to be let in.
The guards at the gate paused at first. “Who are you? Why aren’t you hiding?”
“Please.”
They took one look at her bedraggled state and let her in, not stopping to hear her babbling, and she ran in without a moment’s thought, running for her life.
She was breathless, lurching as if she were drunk.
She had to move to escape the sound—the stamping of hundreds of men’s boots, the thundering of war horses’ hooves striking the ground, the cries of men dying—it terrified her.
The noise grew louder, and Bronwyn ran up to the towers, the parapets, to see.
The space was full of archers, but she crept near the entrance and saw.
The attacking fighters had not only entered the city, but they were also marching through the streets.
Hundreds of fighting men beat their hands and weapons against shields and armor, raising an almighty clang, their voices rising in a dreadful cheer.
A light rain began to fall. The streets soon muddied, the hard-packed earth becoming wet and slick with churned-up muck from horse hooves. The men didn’t care and kept coming. The voices of the attackers hooted and whooped, and in the hundreds, it sounded like waves and crashes of thunder.
She saw from afar, the men retreated, and Queen Matilda’s forced had gained ground, stopping just short of entering the castle. But it was close.
Fires raged and buildings burned, but they were safe, for the moment. Bronwyn leaned against the stone wall and panted, catching her breath. She was glad to be alive. She didn’t know it was to be the start of six weeks of stalemate.