The Fatal Crown (41 page)

“The Count and Countess of Anjou,” boomed the steward’s voice.

The assembled baronage moved toward the entrance, hastily forming themselves into two rows. Ranulf of Chester pushed his father-in-law aside in an attempt to stand at the head of one of the lines. With a deferential bow, Stephen let the Earl step ahead of him. He was rewarded with a grunt of acknowledgment.

Standing behind Ranulf, Stephen’s heart quickened; the palms of his hands grew damp with anticipation. It had been fourteen months since he and Maud had last seen each other. He waited expectantly, his body tense as a bowstring.

Maud stood poised in the entranceway, the baby in her arms, then began to walk between the formed lines. As the nobles swarmed forward, she slowed her step to allow them a glimpse of her son. Elegantly arrayed in an apricot gown, with a gold mantle thrown over her shoulders, her dark russet hair bound with a gold fillet, she looked magnificent. Stephen’s blood leapt at the sight of her and for a moment he could not draw breath.

“At last! At last!” The King hurried down from the royal chair, almost tripping over his purple robe.

Maud reached him, inclined her knee, and held out the swaddled infant. “Here, Sire, is Henry, your grandson,” she announced. Proudly she laid the child in her father’s arms.

Stephen pressed forward with the crowd, watching the King’s harsh face soften and glow as he gazed raptly at the child. Now Stephen could see the babe clearly. Solidly built, like his Norman forebears, wisps of rust-colored hair framed a rosy face. Large gray-green eyes stared solemnly back at his grandfather. Neither the unfamiliar surroundings nor the fact that he was being held by a stranger seemed to perturb the infant; since entering the hall he had not uttered a sound. An unexpected chill traveled down Stephen’s spine. Even at six months of age, Maud’s son had unusual presence.

Immaculately dressed in green and scarlet, Geoffrey followed his wife into the hall and now stood beside the King. At first glance Stephen was shocked, for this neatly turned out figure was nothing like the ineffectual youth Maud had described. Of course, that would have been about four years ago. The Count was no longer a stripling. Stephen found himself looking with intense dislike at the handsome, arrogant face, crisp red-gold beard, and the ostentatious sprig of yellow broom perched in his blue cap. If the infant resembled Geoffrey at birth, Stephen reflected, he was nothing like him now. Henry of Anjou was Norman through and through.

A group of richly dressed prelates approached the King, the Bishop of Winchester among them, all eager to catch a glimpse of Maud’s child.

“Look, my lords,” the King called out, as he held up the infant for all to see. “Look now upon your new prince. Here is Henry, great-grandson of the Conqueror, to whom you must all swear fealty.”

Stephen stepped back as the barons came forward to greet Maud. Their manner, reserved but courteous, was not lacking in respect. Toward Geoffrey of Anjou, however, they were covertly hostile. Observing the insolent looks cast in the Count’s direction, Stephen knew a moment of grim satisfaction. Among the assembled peers, not one of them treated Geoffrey with the deference that should have been accorded a king-elect. Was his uncle so smitten with his new grandson, Stephen wondered, that he did not notice the snubbing of his son-in-law?

He wandered through the gathered assembly stopping here and there for a smile and a brief word or two, trying to determine who among the nobles present would remain loyal to his sworn oath after the King’s death. The new infant would tend to sway matters in the Angevins’ favor. Suddenly Stephen’s eyes met the icy, calculating gaze of Geoffrey of Anjou. A wave of naked enmity flowed between them. With a start, Stephen realized that the Count was trying to determine the same thing: Now that there was a son to ensure the succession, how many would dispute Maud’s right to wear the crown?

“Come greet your new cousin, Nephew,” the King called out.

Stephen approached his uncle and held out a finger to the baby, who grasped it in a surprisingly strong fist.

“A mighty grip for one so young,” he said, smiling. “Already he shows signs of the warrior to come. A great credit to the House of Normandy, Sire.”

“And Anjou, my lord, and Anjou,” said Geoffrey in a clipped voice from just behind him.

“Indeed,” Stephen replied, but did not look at Geoffrey for Maud had appeared beside her father. “You look well, Cousin,” he said, his heart hammering.

Maud gave him a weak smile. There were drops of perspiration on her brow; her gray eyes, enormous in a milk-white face, avoided meeting his but darted continually around the hall; she looked terrified as a cornered doe. It took Stephen a moment to realize that he was the cause of her fear. Why? Stunned and heartsick, he stepped back to let the Earl of Chester exclaim over the infant. Did Maud think he would reveal too much, by look or gesture, in the presence of her husband? Surely she knew him to be more circumspect than that.

Prompted by a sense of urgency, Stephen felt he must see his cousin alone, reassure himself of her love, and tell her what lay in his own heart. Soon she would return to Anjou, and he to England. This might be the last opportunity he would have before events took their course: before … he did not let himself finish the thought.

T
WO DAYS LATER THE
barons swore another oath of homage to Maud, and an oath of fealty as well. Stephen was the first of the lay peers to swear. When Maud clasped his hands between hers, they were as cold as ice; her face was like marble, but Stephen thought he detected a slight shiver pass through her body.

At a celebratory feast held that night in the ducal palace, Stephen waited until Geoffrey of Anjou had entered the great hall. He caught Maud on the threshold, just as she was about to follow her husband.

“Can you meet me tonight?” he whispered.

“Impossible,” Maud said, not looking at him. “Let me pass.”

“Please, I beg you not to refuse. It may be the last chance we have to—” He stopped, noting the sudden pallor of her face and the haunted look in her eyes. “Soon I leave for England, and you return to Anjou. It may be years before we see each other again.”

She hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “If I can slip away undetected.”

“By the falcon mews then, at Matins. It will be deserted at that hour.”

The feast, held in honor of young Henry of Anjou, became a long, drawn-out affair. Finally, to Stephen’s relief, it was over. Those barons who had not fallen unconscious into the rushes lay sprawled across the trestle tables; the rest stumbled drunkenly to their quarters.

The ducal palace overflowed with guests, and Stephen was packed into a chamber with Brian, Robert, the de Beaumont twins, and Ranulf of Chester. He lay down on a straw pallet, listening to the snores and belches on either side of him, almost choking on the stench of wine and unwashed bodies. The air was stifling, the darkness oppressive. Would Matins never ring?

At last! From Rouen Cathedral came the peal of twelve pure tones that signaled the midnight hour. Stephen rose from his pallet. Groping his way past the prone bodies, he left the chamber and made his way through the sleeping palace and out into the courtyard. The night was cool, filled with the scents of damp earth and summer blossoms; he drank in deep breaths of healing air. Above him, a full moon rode flowing black clouds in a charcoal sky, illuminating the towers and ramparts, touching the shadowed corners of the deserted courtyard with a silver sheen. The window slits of the palace were dark. High on the battlements, a light flickered and was gone: a guard making his rounds. Stephen passed the barracks, blacksmith’s forge, and kitchen well. Ahead lay the falcon mews.

“Stephen?” It was Maud’s voice, wafting eerily out of the darkness like a disembodied spirit.

He found her standing by one of the wood-screened windows of the mews. She was covered from head to toe in a long black cloak that blended into the night. Her face was in shadow.

“Geoffrey overindulged in wine and lies like one dead,” she whispered. “Everyone else sleeps, so I came early.”

Gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the half-darkness, Stephen could see her face, a pale oval framed by the hood of the cloak. He reached for her hands under the folds of the mantle and grasped them tightly in his own. To his relief she did not pull away.

“My heart is glad at the sight of you after all this time,” he said.

She let out a long sigh. “And mine as well.”

“Can this be so?” His grip on her hands tightened. “Truly?”

“I have no reason to speak other than the truth. You knew that once.” He heard the slight tremble in her voice and his heart leapt.

“I wasn’t certain,” Stephen said. “You seemed so fearful when you first saw me in the hall. Did you think I would betray my feelings in front of Geoffrey?”

“That’s exactly what I feared. Geoffrey has been much agitated since arriving in Normandy. He is aware of the barons’ open hostility to him, and returns it tenfold.”

To me most of all, Stephen thought, but refrained from saying so.

“What with showing the babe to the court, Geoffrey’s antagonism, the rigors of the journey, and the thought of seeing you again, I’ve been under great strain,” Maud continued. “Especially seeing you again. Forgive me if I seemed distraught.”

“I can forgive you anything, sweet Cousin,” Stephen replied, with as much gentleness as he could muster, determined not to indulge in recriminations. “Even the manner of your leaving Rouen—abruptly, without so much as a word.”

“Without so much as a—what do you mean? Did you not receive my message?”

He shook his head. “No message was left, according to Gervase, and I inquired myself to be sure.” He gave a short laugh. “I was like a lovesick swain, demented by your absence, with wild thoughts of following you to Angers.”

“I gave a roll of parchment to one of the guards. He promised faithfully to give it to Gervase. I cannot understand what happened.”

There was no mistaking the shock in her voice, the troubled look on her face. Stephen’s heart lifted. She
had
sent him word!

“Truly, I had little choice,” she began. “You see, my father—”

He put a finger over her lips. “I guessed what must have happened. There’s no need to explain. It no longer matters.” His finger smoothed out the wrinkle of concern on her forehead. “What does matter is that we are here, together, and neither of us has changed. You look even more beautiful than I remembered. Are you happy?”

She took his hand and held it against her cheek. “Happy? True happiness I left behind with you. But my son has brought me much joy. I have accepted my life in Angers, resigned myself to Geoffrey as a husband, and look forward to the day when I will reign as queen.”

Stephen held out his arms and she walked into them. Holding her close, he kissed the curve of her temple, held his cheek against hers, and finally found the softness of her lips, warm and responsive against his own. The familiar surge of excitement and desire flooded his body, mingled with an overwhelming tenderness.

As they stood together by the mews, wrapped in each other’s arms, Stephen felt himself pass into a dream-like state, quite unlike anything he had ever experienced. The confines of time and location vanished, and within his heart a door magically opened. Words he had never intended to say, never even thought of before, poured out, almost as if someone else were saying them.

“Don’t go back to Anjou, dearest love. Stay with me.”

“If only I could,” Maud said with longing in her voice.

“But you can. There is nothing to prevent it.”

“Nothing to prevent it?” Incredulous, she drew back her head to look at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he said. “Remember our idyll in the lodge outside the New Forest? It was like our own Eden, removed from the vanities of the world while still in the world. That’s how we will live.”

Speechless, Maud stared at him as if he had lost his wits. He smiled at her, certain she would agree once she fully understood. She would grow to accept the idea of a simple life, a life that flowed with the natural order of things: the forests, the streams, even the animals. Everything had become wondrously clear in Stephen’s mind. All he had to do was follow his instinctive nature, that part of him in harmony with all of creation. He would tell his brother that he had forsaken ambition for love. What need was there for crowns, intrigue, power? He and Maud would have each other.

“We can settle on some land in Blois,” Stephen said, his heart soaring. “My elder brother, Theobald, is Count of Blois, and he will not turn us away. We can live quietly, raise a handspan of children, and not trouble ourselves with the affairs of the kingdom.” It was extraordinary how alive and certain he felt.

“Dearest love,” Maud said gently. “You know that’s an unreal dream. No one can return to the primitive innocence of the Garden. We would forfeit our children, earn the undying enmity of Anjou, Normandy and England, and be forced to live as adulterous outcasts—if we lived at all. We would be excommunicated, and shunned by all the world. Is this the life you envision for yourself? For me? And what of Matilda? The scandal would be ruinous to her. You must see how impossible—”

“Not impossible,” he stopped her, almost resenting her for the harsh note of reality she introduced into his vision.

“What happens to England and Normandy when my father dies?” She stroked his face with loving fingers. “Do you suggest we deny our blood and heritage? How can we ignore the weal of the kingdom? When I’m queen I will be depending on your support and wisdom to guide me. The realm needs us both.”

“You now value the crown more than a life with me,” he accused. “You did not use to be the slave of ambition.” His dream-like state began to fade.

“That’s unfair.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “How could I not be ambitious when I’ve been bred to the responsibilities of royalty since I was a child?” She paused, struggling for control. “But ambition has never been my master, and I pray God it never will be.”