The Fatal Crown (20 page)

“I’d prepared a brave speech of apology to you,” he said, earnestly, holding out his hands, “but now that I’m here the words are gone from my mind.”

“Apology?” She reached out to grasp his hands.

“I didn’t respond to the King’s news with good grace on Christmas Eve. I should have offered my congratulations on the signal honor the King bestows on you, but the truth is I was heartbroken and angry. You know how much I wanted the crown. Forgive my discourtesy?” He squeezed her hands.

“Surely it is I who should ask your forgiveness for being given what you so badly wanted.”

Stephen could not have been more open or disarming, and her fears that he would no longer care for her quickly evaporated. Why, then, remembering his taut face and blazing eyes on Christmas Eve, did his words strike her as somehow too glib, almost rehearsed?

“I’d no idea what my father would say,” she continued. “Please believe me, it came as much of a surprise to me as it did to you.” She paused and swallowed. “I know how you must feel, having your hopes dashed, and I can’t say I blame you, but I hope it won’t destroy our friendship.”

Something flickered at the back of his eyes, then was gone. “Nothing will ever destroy our friendship, Cousin. Put the matter from your mind. I intend to faithfully serve you as my queen.” His eyes danced. “It should prove no great hardship.”

Pleased but still faintly troubled, Maud smiled her acknowledgment. She wanted to ask him about the business with Robert at the ceremony but decided to leave well enough alone. She sensed a mystery about Stephen: subtle shifts of mood, something held back, facets of his character that caused a faint doubt in her mind, a cobweb of uneasiness so fragile that it vanished before she could catch hold of it. In truth she was not sure what she sensed.

As he looked at her now, his eyes embracing her, the touch of his fingers intoxicating, Maud’s breath caught in her throat; her reservations melted away like wax before a flame.

“I must see my father now,” she murmured, releasing her hands.

He stepped back. “Perhaps we’ll meet again at supper?”

She nodded and floated up the narrow staircase to the King’s chamber.

When she entered the room Maud knew immediately that something of moment had occurred. Attended by the Bishop of Salisbury and one of his physicians, her father’s face was pale and his manner agitated.

“Sire, please, take this draught of wine mixed with poppy juice,” the gray-bearded physician urged.

“I refuse to have my wits dulled for the remainder of the day. Go, and leave me in peace.”

“What’s happened?” Maud asked, alarmed.

“The King is upset. He received some bad news from Anjou, my lady. Really, he should be bled—”

“You’ve said enough. Get out!” The King, suddenly enraged, grabbed the goblet the physician was holding and poured the contents over the dried rushes on the chamber floor. “I would be dead and in my grave if you doomsayers had anything to say about it,” he shouted. “Out, out, both of you.” He threw the goblet at the man’s feet.

Clucking like an old hen, the physician, followed by Bishop Roger, hastily withdrew.

“By God’s splendor, what a bunch of old women.”

“Of what bad news does he speak, Sire?” Maud ventured. “Has some new trouble arisen between Count Fulk of Anjou and yourself?”

The King looked at her for a moment without speaking, then began to stroke his chin. “Old trouble. Not new.” He took a deep breath. “Normandy has had trouble with Anjou for over a century. But ever since your brother William died matters have become even worse.”

Maud refrained from saying that it was hardly surprising there continued to be bad blood between Anjou and Normandy. She remembered, the Emperor telling her that after William’s death her father had shipped his son’s thirteen-year-old widow back to Anjou minus her very considerable dowry. When Count Fulk, her father, demanded its return, Henry had delayed, making one excuse after another. When it became evident that he had no intention of returning the dowry, the Count of Anjou had sworn vengeance.

The King walked over to the oak table and looked down at the parchment map of Europe that covered it. “Matters have come to a head with Anjou, far sooner than I’d imagined. It’s imperative you fully understand what is at stake, for your support is needful.”

Intrigued, Maud joined him at the oak table. “Anything that I can do to help, Sire.”

The King stabbed his finger at a large black dot. “Here is Anjou to the south, France to the west, and Normandy to the north, with the Vexin in between. Louis of France has long had his eye on Normandy. In fact, the House of Capet has coveted the duchy since the days of the early Norman dukes.”

“I’m familiar with the history of Normandy and France,” Maud said.

“Then you’ll grasp the situation all the more readily. William Clito, my brother Robert’s son, was only a babe when I captured the duchy. Since coming of age, he fancies himself the true Duke of Normandy, and has caused continual unrest in my domains. Caught between these two enemies, France and my nephew, Normandy is in constant danger.”

“We heard in Germany that William Clito and Louis of France had made common cause against Normandy,” Maud said, her interest quickening as she grasped the full import of his words. “Joined, as I now recall, by Fulk of Anjou.”

The King nodded. “Indeed, they formed an alliance with the sole purpose of taking over Normandy.”

“But then,” she continued, “just after the Emperor died, Anjou suddenly became your ally, and Louis of France backed down. The threat came to naught. That is all I remember.”

King Henry tapped his finger against the map. “Anjou and Normandy together would be able to repel successfully any attack from France. Would you agree that such an alliance is vital for our survival?”

“Oh, I heartily agree, Sire.” Maud came round the table to stand next to him. “How did you persuade Fulk of Anjou to throw in his lot with Normandy instead of France?”

“I made a bargain with him,” the King said in a casual voice, “but if I don’t keep my part, he’ll withdraw his support.”

“What was the bargain, Sire?” She searched her father’s face.

With an enigmatic smile, the King hooked his thumbs in his black belt, and began to pace the small chamber. Maud’s eyes followed him, more intrigued than ever.

“I regret that you didn’t know your grandfather,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.

Maud was immediately on guard. When the King talked of his father, she had learned, it usually meant he wanted something. Like a crab, he approached everything sideways.

“The tales he would tell me of our Viking forebears,” the King continued. “What a heritage is ours, Daughter, a two-hundred-year-old heritage that began with Rollo, first duke of the Normans, eventually passing on to Duke Richard the Fearless, Duke Robert the Magnificent, Duke William Bastard, the Conqueror, and now myself. After me comes the Duchess Maud, followed by her sons and grandsons.”

Distrustful at first, Maud now felt her blood stir at his words. She gazed at her father with a rapt expression on her face.

“We started as savage Norse adventurers, yet the Norman spirit, bold and fearless, has traveled to England, southern Italy, and Sicily.” He walked to the window seat and back again. “Queen Maud,” he said. “What a noble ring it has.”

“Queen Maud,” she repeated in hushed reverence, savoring the title in her mind, imagining herself as England’s sovereign, beloved as her mother had been, respected as her father was now.

“Nothing must put the realm in jeopardy. Nothing,” he stated firmly. “Whatever needs to be done, no sacrifice is too great to ensure the safety of our line, the continuation of our proud dynasty.”

Maud nodded vigorously. “Oh, Sire, it is a sacred trust.” Tears sparkled in her gray eyes. “Before God and all His Saints, I promise to be worthy.”

The King looked deeply into her eyes, reached out to pat her shoulder, then stepped back. “When I tell you of your forthcoming marriage,” he said, “I know I can hold you to that promise.”

Maud reeled back in stunned disbelief. Her mouth fell open; the blood drained from her face, and her body felt as if it had received an impact of such violence that she could not draw breath.

When there was no answer to his statement, the King said, “You heard me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, unable to find her voice. Fool! Fool! With no more caution than an unsuspecting rabbit, she had walked right into the trap he had laid for her. Trembling, Maud sank onto a stool. “To whom will I be married?” But she already knew the answer.

“You’re far too clever not to have guessed by now.” The King confronted her squarely.

“Count Fulk,” she said, in a voice unrecognizable as her own. “So I’m to be the price of Anjou’s support. In return, the Count receives the crown of England and the duchy of Normandy.”

Her father nodded. “But it would be more accurate to say Anjou
shares
the crown of England and the dukedom. A fair exchange.”

“For whom?” A memory flashed across her mind and she frowned. “Perhaps I’m mistaken, but in Germany we heard that Fulk of Anjou is to marry the King of Jerusalem’s daughter. Does he give up the Holy Land for the throne of England?”

The King was silent. He walked back to the table and began to fidget with a corner of the map. “No, you heard correctly. It’s not Fulk who will be your husband, but his son. Fulk has abdicated in the boy’s favor, and young Geoffrey is now Count of Anjou. The bad news I received was from Fulk, who grows impatient to leave for Jerusalem and his new bride. He demands that our arrangements for the betrothal be completed—or he will withdraw his support of Normandy and again throw in his lot with Louis of France.”

“Boy? How young is this Geoffrey?”

“A mature youth of almost fifteen, in possession of a powerful county,” the King told her in a calm voice.

“Almost fifteen! You would wed me to a child?” she shrieked.

“Child? Child? It’s common to marry at such an age. You were only thirteen when you married the Emperor. Geoffrey is a remarkable youth, I hear, looking far older than his years, and of such an unusual beauty he is called Geoffrey the Handsome. Imagine! Highly intelligent, trained in the arts of war, and a great scholar. With your scholarly background, you’ll suit each other well.”

Maud heard her father’s voice from a long way off but his words had ceased to have any meaning. She felt as if she were in a dream. At any moment she would wake and all would be as it had been a few moments ago. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a great rage simmered, threatening to explode.

Not an hour since, she had been congratulating herself at having won her father’s respect and esteem. Now it appeared that he had been toying with her, only pretending to treat her as a person in her own right, beguiling her with a magic rhetoric that would have induced her to agree to anything. She had just begun to trust him, and he had betrayed her. Yet again.

The King poured some wine from the leather flagon on the table into a pewter goblet. “I realize this comes as a shock, but I know you can see what this marriage will mean to Normandy’s future—which is to say, your future.”

Maud drank the wine in a single gulp, not tasting it but glad of the warmth it bought. Her father stood over her, an expression of concern softening the harsh lines of his face.

He put a tentative hand on her arm. “Daughter—”

She threw off his hand as if it had been a live coal. “I was an empress,” she said. “I will be a queen. How can you marry me to a mere count? It’s an outrage!”

“I expected that to be your first reaction, but you did agree we need Anjou as an ally.”

“Yes, but—”

“Good. Then you’ll help to bring that about.”

“I’ll help you to find another solution.”

“There is no other solution,” Henry insisted. “The price of Fulk’s alliance was your hand in marriage.”

“I can’t marry a lowly count,” she retorted, feeling her initial horror giving way before the force of the King’s arguments.

“How many kings or emperors are there available, eh?”

“That’s beside the—”

“Didn’t think of that, did you?”

Maud fell silent. All that her father said was true: The marriage would ensure the safety of the Norman realm; as Queen of England it would be to her political advantage. But, quite unaccountably, the woman in her rebelled, recoiling in protest and dismay at the unequal, loveless match.

“Geoffrey will not be fourteen forever, Daughter,” the King said, sensing a chink in her resistance. “Bear in mind that when you are twenty-nine he will be only twenty. A good age to pleasure an older woman and continue to fill her womb with lusty sons!” He gave her a suggestive wink.

Maud suddenly had an image of her Uncle David of Scotland’s thirteen-year-old son whom he had brought to attend the homage ceremony: an ungainly, coltish boy, clumsy and unsure of himself, with a spotty face and fuzzy down on his chin like a newborn chick. Undoubtedly, the young Geoffrey would be like that, regardless of what her father said.

Quite without warning she was assailed by the memory of Stephen’s lips on hers, the heat of desire in his eyes, the warmth of his smile, the spell of his vibrant manliness. With every fiber of her being she ached to belong to her cousin, whether or not he ever claimed her. Her heart cried out in protest at the thought of an untried youth touching one hair of her head.

“As far as Geoffrey’s status is concerned,” the King continued, “for a few years perhaps, you will be a countess. But not for long, Madam, not for long.” He rolled his eyes upward. “By God’s splendor, I’m not a well man, no, not well at all. In confidence, my physicians have given me only a year or two at the most.”

She stared at him suspiciously. She knew that he was not in the best of health, but he would say anything now to persuade her.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “Soon you will be queen, and Geoffrey will be king. Can it matter then that he was once a count? Of course not.” He came to rest beside her stool. “Meanwhile, Anjou marries Normandy, and Maud and Geoffrey make the best of it. Such are empires made. We must all make personal sacrifices.”