The Fatal Crown (26 page)

“When you are Countess of Anjou we will lead a very lively life in Angers,” Geoffrey was saying now. He reached over to lay a damp palm on the back of her hand.

“Countess of Anjou,” she repeated dully, forcing herself to endure the touch of his fingers. “I hope to retain my title of empress, even after we—after we’re married.”

He stiffened, withdrawing his hand. “Why? The title of Countess of Anjou is an old and honorable one.”

“Of course it is,” Maud agreed quickly. “I did not mean to suggest otherwise.”

“When I’m King of England I don’t ever intend to forget my origins as Count of Anjou. I’m proud to be an Angevin—whatever the upstart Normans may think of us.”

As Geoffrey’s eyes looked icily into hers, Maud could see the beguiling mask had slipped, briefly revealing another person. But before she could make a judgment, the mask was back in place, and she wondered if she had imagined that fleeting glimpse.

“I will talk to King Henry about the Imperial title,” Geoffrey continued, “as it’s a matter for men to decide, after all.” He smiled, his ease of manner restored. “I understand you are something of an expert at falconry.”

“Hardly that,” Maud replied, bristling. A matter for men to decide, indeed. She had no doubt as to what her father would say.

“I rather fancy the sport myself, and have something of a reputation in Angers.” He rose to his feet, extending his hand to her. “Let us go hawking. Perhaps I can teach you a few fine points. My gyrfalcon, Melusine, is with me, of course.”

“You brought your falcon from Anjou?”

“Naturally. I go nowhere without her.”

“By all means let’s go hawking then,” Maud said, giving him her hand. “Directly after we’ve eaten.”

When the mid-morning meal was over, Geoffrey vanished. He reappeared, freshly bathed, in a different set of clothes. Maud had never seen anyone with such a dazzling variety of tunics, bliauds, and jewels.

“But you’re wearing the same clothes,” he said in astonishment. “Before I go hawking I always bathe and change my garments lest I vex Melusine with an unpleasant odor.”

“I only wash my hands,” Maud replied, “and ensure that what I’ve eaten does not exude a strong scent.”

“To cleanse the hands is not sufficient,” Geoffrey sniffed. “The Norman habits are every bit as barbaric as I had been told. There will be much to teach you in Anjou.”

Maud compressed her lips, biting back a quick retort. Really, he was becoming insufferable.

Together, she and Geoffrey visited the grassy courtyard next to the falcon mews, where the castle hawks sat on their wooden blocks enjoying the sun. Preening even more than usual, the Count carried his snow-white gyrfalcon on a black-gauntleted wrist. A high-bred bird from Norway, Melusine’s hood was adorned with blue feathers, gold thread, and seed pearls; fine leather jesses trailed from the gold rings encircling her legs. The golden bells attached to her feet were engraved with Geoffrey’s name and flower emblem. She was easily the most impressive-looking bird Maud had ever seen.

Accompanied by the falconer, a stooped old man with a brown, seamed face and shaggy white hair, and his two apprentices, Maud walked slowly down the row of hawks looking carefully at each one. Finally she stopped before a dark gray peregrine with a striped breast and black-tipped wings.

“What a beauty,” she said admiringly.

“Aye, she be special,” said the falconer, unhooding the hawk. “King Henry sent her to us a year ago. Bred in the cliffs above the south coast of Wales she was, but we had the training of her in Normandy.”

The bird had fierce black eyes and a cruel, sharp beak. Plain silver bells engraved with the crest of the Dukes of Normandy ringed her feet. When Maud stroked her, she puffed and swelled her feathers, turning her head in an amiable manner.

“I would like to fly her, with your permission.” She gave the falconer a deferential smile. As a very young boy the old man had been apprenticed to the falconer who trained the Conqueror’s hawks for him, thus everyone treated him with respect and awe.

“Aye, my lady, as long as I come along to keep an eye on her.”

“She’s smaller than mine,” Geoffrey said, with a proud glance at his bird. “Is this the best you can do in Normandy, import your falcons from Wales? The finest birds come from Iceland and Norway.” A condescending smile lingered at the corners of his mouth.

Maud exchanged a look with the falconer, who kept his face impassive as he rehooded the bird before setting it on her wrist. For a moment the hawk perched uneasily on Maud’s brown gauntlet, then settled down. Clearly, Geoffrey was not familiar with the falcons bred on the Welsh cliffs, she thought with an inward smile.

Outside the ducal palace they joined Robert, Brian, and several of Geoffrey’s companions. In addition to a host of grooms and squires, also present were the head huntsman and the keeper of hounds with the fewterers, who led small black and tan dogs coupled together on long leads. Geoffrey’s friends carried tiercels, the male hawks, smaller than the female peregrine. These were to be set against lesser prey, while Maud and Geoffrey hoped to bag bigger game such as a crane or, with luck, a heron.

It was a fine afternoon for hawking; gray clouds now obscured the sun and the wind had died.

They mounted their horses. A groom adjusted the girth on Maud’s palfrey, Geoffrey blew the ivory horn that hung from his neck, and the whole gathering trotted toward the city gates.

Outside Rouen, Maud gave the mare her head, letting her race over fences, fields and brooks, through woods, until they came to a marshy meadow. Here the dogs were unleashed and sent into the tall grasses to flush out any birds. Finally a large crane flew out of the underbrush, its wings beating the air as it rose majestically upwind.

“I will enter Melusine against the crane,” Geoffrey said, unhooding his falcon. He threw up his arm and the bird flew off. The gyrfalcon was a beautiful sight as she ringed wide circles in the air.

“I fear your Welsh peregrine has no chance against such a large bird,” Geoffrey remarked complacently. “Now you will see the art of falconry at its finest.”

The last shred of caution frayed and snapped. Maud glanced at the head falconer hovering by her side. He gave an imperceptible nod. Without a word, Maud unhooded her gray falcon and with a flick of the wrist sent her into the air, the mighty talons lifting as her wings spread out like a smoky sail.

Geoffrey frowned, then shrugged. “Melusine is not used to hunting with another bird. No matter. The crane will be dead before your bird comes within striking distance.”

“Oh, but the Welsh—” Robert started to say when Maud interrupted him.

“Robert! Geoffrey is not interested in our Welsh birds.”

The falconer repressed a smile; Robert colored, biting back his words as he moved his horse closer to Maud’s.

“Is this wise, Sister?” he asked in an undertone, watching Geoffrey’s bird mount upward.

“Is what wise?” she responded with an air of innocence, her gaze fixed expectantly on the two hawks and the crane.

Accompanied by the chime of her golden bells, Geoffrey’s bird soared into the air above the crane. Slower at first, the Welsh falcon hovered above the group, then began to circle higher and higher, until Maud thought she had flown straight into the clouds.

“She stoops,” Geoffrey cried, as the white bird reached her pinnacle and began her downward plunge toward the crane.

Maud looked anxiously at her peregrine, who must have reached her full pitch by now. Suddenly the sky was cleaved by a charcoal streak. With a tinkling of bells, Maud’s falcon shot straight down like an arrow in flight, overtaking the gyrfalcon, digging her talons into the luckless crane, and bringing it to earth seconds before Melusine had completed her stoop. The hounds raced to the hawk’s assistance.

Dumbfounded, Geoffrey stared in disbelief as his gyrfalcon, cheated of its kill and confused, lighted a few feet away from the crane, hissing angrily. Geoffrey blew upon a silver whistle and she sulkily returned to his wrist. He murmured to her, stroked the white breast, then took a dead pigeon from the pouch at his waist and threw it on the ground. The bird flew to its meat, attacking it with a flurry of feathers.

He turned to Maud, his face scarlet. “You have made me look a fool, Madam,” he said accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me of the prowess of the Welsh bird?”

“How could I have known it would prove superior to yours, my lord?” Maud said, trying to conceal her intense feeling of satisfaction. “Didn’t you say that Norse gyrfalcons are far superior to any other?”

Geoffrey gave her a look of such cold fury she recoiled. He called his bird to him, hooded it, and rode off with his followers without another word.

After Maud’s falcon had gorged on her reward—the heart of the crane cut out by the falconer—and the crane had been tied to the back of one of the horses, Maud, Brian, and Robert returned to Rouen.

“That was very wicked, Maud,” Robert said, as they rode through the woods on the outskirts of Rouen. “You should have warned Geoffrey of the reputation of our Welsh hawks. No more noble bird exists.”

“He is insufferable,” Maud said, tossing her head, “and badly needed to be taught a lesson.”

“But not by his future wife. That is hardly the way to win his heart,” Brian pointed out. “He’s still very young, remember, and his pride is easily bruised.”

“The Angevins do not take kindly to public humiliation,” Robert added, with a reproving glance at Maud. “You behaved like a virago and must apologize to Geoffrey at once.”

“Apologize?” she almost choked.

“You heard aright. He was much offended and we must cool the boy’s ire before the King arrives tomorrow.”

Her heart sank, the minor victory forgotten, at this reminder of her father’s imminent arrival and all that would follow: First the King would knight Geoffrey, then the betrothal ceremony would take place. Sometime thereafter the wedding would be held in Anjou. When she thought about her future with Geoffrey, she was filled with despair. Although Maud knew he was as much a victim in this business as she, unreasonably she held him, as well as her father, responsible for the unwelcome marriage.

“For all his youthful posturing, Geoffrey of Anjou has the makings of a remarkable man,” Brian said to her as they approached the gates of Rouen. “Most women would be delighted with this comely youth.”

Most women had not fallen deeply in love with Stephen of Blois, she wanted to respond. In truth, she realized, as Alix had already told her, it would not have mattered much whom she was to marry, for her heart had been left behind in England, and all that remained was an empty shell.

How could she tell her half-brother or Brian about the sleepless nights, the tear-stained pillows, the desire and anguish she was daily forced to hide? How explain her body’s longing, the midnight hours spent tormenting herself with the memory of Stephen’s lips on hers, the feel of his hands on her breasts, the pressure of his body molded against her own. The thought of someone else touching her was unbearable.

That evening after supper she took Geoffrey aside.

“I must apologize for—my jest this afternoon,” she said. “I meant no harm.”

He gave her a curt nod. “I do not take kindly to such jests.”

“I realize that now. I ask your forgiveness for my thoughtless frivolity.”

“I’m disinclined to give it,” he said.
“Grâce à Dieu,
you made me look a fool. That is not something I intend to forget. When you’re Countess of Anjou, you will never behave in such a disgraceful way again.”

Dumbfounded, Maud watched him walk away. Once again, the mask had slipped. Beneath the winning exterior and facile charm, she now detected an overweening pride and humorless nature, a coldness of heart and lack of feeling that repelled her. Envisioning their life together, Maud felt an icy chill of foreboding.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY KING
Henry arrived in Rouen. There immediately began a stultifying round of ceremonies: Geoffrey’s knighting, the ritual betrothal, and the endless festivities that followed. Through it all Maud performed her requisite duties as if she were in a dream, suppressing her desolation beneath an agreeable facade. Her outward demeanor, courteous and scrupulously polite, could not be faulted, even toward her father.

In April, Geoffrey and his party left for Anjou to prepare for a June wedding. Maud was glad to see him go, but when he had gone she found herself no less gloomy. Her heart ached for Stephen who, she learned to her intense disappointment, would not be able to attend the wedding. Someone had to keep an eye on the Welsh who were causing trouble at the border, explained her father. Stephen alone would understand her wretchedness; she had counted on his silent but loving support to get her through the ordeal of the wedding. Each day she was assailed by memories of her cousin, reliving over and over again every detail of their brief time together.

In early June the Norman party left for Fulk of Anjou’s castle at Le Mans in Maine where the nuptials were to take place.

Maud awoke on the day of her wedding with a heavy heart. By contrast, the day itself dawned fair and warm.

“Not a sign of rain, God be praised,” said Aldyth, as she opened the narrow casement window to let in a stream of sunlight. “And today is the seventeenth of June, the octave of Pentecost. A good omen for the wedding.”

“How I wish that were true,” Maud said, as one of her women slipped a tight-fitting violet gown over her head.

“Of course it’s true, child,” Aldyth replied. “Once you’re properly wed, all your doubts will vanish. Remember, one day a son of this marriage will rule England, Normandy, and Anjou. He’ll be the most powerful monarch in Europe!”

True enough, Maud realized, but at the moment the thought did not help; there was still the ceremony, the wedding night, and all the months and years ahead to endure.

“You look beautiful, every inch a queen,” Aldyth said, taking a skein of gold thread and weaving it through the two russet plaits that hung down over Maud’s breasts. “But I have never seen a bride look so unhappy.” She placed a violet-colored veil on Maud’s head, and over this the gold crown of England, on loan from King Henry for this auspicious occasion.