The Fatal Crown (45 page)

“The day is not yet won,” Henry murmured, a strained look crossing his face. “The Archbishop is troubled by his oath to the King’s daughter; the treasurer is also plagued by an attack of conscience, reluctant to part with the keys to the treasury until he sees which way the wind blows. However, now you’re here let us see if we can put the situation to rights.”

The Bishop signed himself with an elaborate gesture, then turned to the assembled men and raised his hands for silence. “Benedicte! Worthy citizens, noble lords, men of God. We know King Henry has been called to his just reward.” He waited until those present had signed themselves, and murmured a prayer for their dead monarch.

“To follow this mighty sovereign,” Henry of Winchester continued, “this very Lion of Justice, who better than his well-beloved nephew, Stephen of Blois, Count of Boulogne and Mortain. A man who has virtually grown up in England—” He paused. “Grown up in England, I say, and familiar with the customs of this land. A man known to each and every one of you, not a stranger reared in foreign parts, but a Norman like yourselves. A grandson of the great Conqueror, my brother is a devoted son of Holy Church, affable, bold and brave, magnificent and unassuming. No finer warrior exists in all the realm! Married to a daughter of Saxon nobility, who can deny that Stephen is the best suited to wear England’s crown?”

The crowd solemnly nodded their agreement. The oblique reference to those reared in foreign parts—Maud and Geoffrey—was lost on no one present. His brother’s eloquence should convince the devil himself, Stephen thought, with a wary eye on the Archbishop, William of Corbeil, a frail elderly man, who would not meet his glance.

Henry raised his voice. “London has already proclaimed Stephen as the king they desire. Will you now accept him as well?”

There were shouts of approval from members of the crowd. Stephen noticed that the prelates, banded together like a group of black crows, held themselves aloof from the crowd, himself and his brother.

“I doubt if anyone here wishes to be ruled by a female with an Angevin for husband, but what about the oath of allegiance we swore to the King’s daughter?” a nobleman from Sussex called out.

Several other voices joined in: “Aye, what about the oath?”

The group of prelates nodded their heads. Stephen started to speak but the Bishop of Winchester signaled him to remain silent. “I believe the Bishop of Salisbury has something to say about that. My lord bishop?”

Roger of Salisbury limped slowly forward and addressed the gathering in his unctuous voice. “The oath of allegiance exacted by our late King was made under duress. Such an oath is not binding.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the majority of the crowd. Stephen saw the Archbishop of Canterbury whisper into the ear of his cleric. The cleric stepped forward.

“My lord archbishop recalls no duress, but points out that a sworn oath is binding no matter how it is taken. To break such an oath is to imperil your immortal soul!”

From across the crowd, the Archbishop’s eyes seemed to look directly at Stephen.

“Heaven protect us from so-called men of principle,” the Bishop of Winchester muttered, his voice tight with vexation. “Surely the Archbishop sees which way the tide runs?”

“He chooses not to. We must convince him,” said the Bishop of Salisbury, who again raised his voice. “When I say duress, the threat was implicit. Attendance at the homage ceremony was mandatory. The late King had all the ports closed so no one could leave England. Who would have dared oppose him?”

Henry cleared his throat. “With all due respect, my lord archbishop, there is another reason why such an oath cannot be binding: It was conditional on the King’s daughter not being given in marriage to anyone without the consent of the great council.”

The crowd now began to talk excitedly among themselves.

“Of course! I had forgotten that. So King Henry has violated our allegiance, and no one is bound by his oath,” the nobleman from Sussex called out. “I will have Stephen. Gladly.”

There was a roar of approval. “Yes, yes, we will have Stephen,” the crowd shouted as one voice.

The treasurer scanned the crowd with a judicious eye. Then he stepped forward and presented Stephen with a ring of heavy iron keys. “A prosperous reign, my lord. I pray you leave this treasury as full as you find it.”

The crowd cheered even more loudly at this gesture of confidence. The group of prelates dispersed, the majority of them joining the Bishops of Salisbury and Winchester. The few that remained looked uncertainly toward the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Henry smiled. “If the sheep desert the fold, can the shepherd be far behind?”

All eyes now turned to the Archbishop. Aided by two clerics, William of Corbeil walked slowly over to Stephen, his gold-encrusted miter sparkling under the morning sun.

“My lord,” he said to Stephen in a quavering voice, looking uneasily at the huge crowd. “I am an old man now, and will soon follow my late monarch. The Bishop of Winchester’s argument has merit, but not sufficient for me to violate my sworn word. In my heart I share his sentiments, but I dare not crown you king.”

Stephen opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Nothing he could say or do would carry as much weight as the arrival of Hugh Bigod, who would surely have left for England by now. With a silent prayer that the shifty seneschal had not changed his mind, Stephen knelt to kiss the prelate’s ring.

“Perhaps Your Grace will see fit to change his views,” he replied.

The Archbishop inclined his head, then retreated into Winchester Cathedral with his entourage.

Bishop Henry watched him with a sour expression on his face. “How such a timid soul rose so high passes all understanding,” he said.

“It should not be long before the See of Canterbury is occupied by one far better suited to its splendor,” Bishop Roger said, with a fawning smile that set Stephen’s teeth on edge.

It was obvious to him that the Bishop of Salisbury, ever alert to his own survival in the shift of power from one reign to another, had decided to back Henry as the force behind the throne. He needed a new patron, and who better than the future Archbishop of Canterbury? Immediately Stephen felt a stab of resentment toward Roger. If the crafty old prelate thought that the future King of England would become a tool of the church, he was very much mistaken.

Bishop Henry exchanged a look of complicity with Roger of Salisbury. “I fear that day may never come, if my brother is not crowned quickly. For all we know, the Countess of Anjou, my Lord of Gloucester, the entire Angevin contingent in fact, may already be on their way to England.”

“There has scarcely been time for news to reach Angers, but in any case Maud will go to Normandy first,” Stephen said.

The two prelates looked at him in surprise.

“How can you know that?” Henry asked.

“It would be unlike her to think first of the crown, before paying her filial respects to her dead father, even if they were estranged. She will also want to accompany the King’s body to England for burial.”

“I believe Stephen is right,” said Bishop Roger. “After all, as far as the Countess is concerned there is no urgency to come to England immediately. By the time she learns what has transpired here, it will, with God’s grace, all be over. Once Stephen has been anointed as king there will be very little she or anyone else can do.”

“Well, that may gain us more time, but no solution. At this moment my brother is no nearer being anointed king than he was when he arrived. Who has any suggestions?”

Stephen held his tongue. Better to wait until Hugh Bigod actually arrived, otherwise he’d look a proper fool if the seneschal failed to turn up.

As he followed the two bishops down the streets of Winchester, heading for Wolvesey Castle, Stephen realized that three of the most powerful persons in the realm, two of them princes of the church, were all at the mercy of one frail, elderly prelate: the Archbishop of Canterbury. The church was far too busy meddling in temporal affairs that were not its province, Stephen decided. How dare the Archbishop go against the will of the people? In truth, if, after Hugh’s story, that foolish old man still refused to crown him, he would force him to the act. Stephen knew he was more than willing to be a devoted son of Holy Church, but never its slave.

They walked through the city gates and into the grounds of Wolvesey, covered now with a light frost. Inside his brother’s elegantly appointed palace a sumptuous feast awaited them. They had just sat down at the high table in the great hall when the steward announced the arrival from Normandy of Hugh Bigod, the late King’s seneschal.

“I’ve been expecting him,” Stephen said to Henry as he rose to his feet. His heart began to thud in anticipation.

All eyes turned to the hall entrance where Hugh Bigod, travel-stained and weary, had just made his appearance.

“My lord bishops,” he called out, “I bring important news. With his last breath King Henry released his barons from their oath of allegiance to the Countess of Anjou. Yes, my friends,” he continued, raising his voice, “directly after his nephew left Rouen, the King rallied just long enough to renounce his daughter in favor of Stephen of Blois, who is named heir to England and Normandy!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone began to talk all at once. If he lived to be a hundred, Stephen thought with relish, he would never forget the look of total astonishment on Henry’s face. It was the only time in living memory that he had ever caught his brother completely by surprise.

“You have outdone yourself, Brother,” Bishop Henry murmured under his breath.

There was no mistaking the new note of respect in his voice. A moment to savor and cherish.

It was well after dark when Stephen, the Bishops of Salisbury and Winchester, and Hugh Bigod arrived at Winchester Cathedral where they confronted the Archbishop of Canterbury with the startling news.

The Archbishop listened carefully. “By the Rood, this is a surprising turn of events,” he said, when Hugh had finished. “You have evidence that the King changed his mind? I mean to say, my lord, it is a highly unusual development, is it not?”

“How so?” Roger of Salisbury interjected quickly, before Hugh Bigod could speak. “Indeed, my lord archbishop, it is common knowledge that the late King and his daughter were estranged. Why, Geoffrey of Anjou had as good as declared war on Normandy! This news doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Nor any of us,” added the Bishop of Winchester.

Obviously uncertain, the Archbishop hesitated. Stephen held his breath.

“I’m sure that Hugh Bigod is prepared to swear a holy oath that the King named Stephen his heir,” Henry said, turning to the seneschal with a confident smile.

Slowly, the Archbishop nodded. “Very well. If you are prepared to swear such an oath, my son, I must accept it. And accept it with glad grace,” he added timidly, “for as God is my witness, I did not see how we would ever be reconciled to a female sovereign.”

Hugh swallowed and glanced at Stephen. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I’m prepared to swear such an oath.”

Stephen let out his breath in a long sigh of release as he wrung the seneschal’s hand. Bishop Roger and Bishop Henry exchanged complacent smiles while Stephen uneasily watched Hugh Bigod glibly perjure himself before the huge gathering. He was unable to quell the feeling that his unholy bargain with Hugh had already diminished some of his power.

After Hugh had sworn, the Archbishop suddenly raised a cautionary hand. “Before I agree to crown you, my lord, there is something I require of you.”

Stephen flashed a look at his brother who gave a slight frown as if to say, humor the old fool. He turned back to the Archbishop with a questioning smile.

“You must swear an oath to restore and maintain the liberties of Holy Church,” William of Corbeil announced.

“Well said, Your Grace. I am in favor of such an oath,” Bishop Roger said promptly.

“And I,” echoed the Bishop of Winchester, nodding his approval.

It appeared to Stephen that the three prelates moved imperceptibly closer together, as if aligning themselves against him. Three pairs of eyes, united now in a common purpose, fixed him with a piercing look. He suppressed a strong surge of resentment; the church was forever complaining about its rights. Fortunately, the concept of “restoring and maintaining the liberties of Holy Church” was sufficiently vague that he could not be held to any specific promise.

“I agree, Your Grace. I will swear whatever you like.”

Still the Archbishop hesitated, as if not quite certain he could trust Stephen’s assurances. The man was less a fool than he seemed, Stephen decided.

The Bishop of Winchester stepped forward and put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I will stand surety for my brother’s good faith,” he said. “Your Grace has my solemn word.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury nodded, apparently satisfied. “Then as God is my witness, I promise to crown you King of England.”

Henry took Stephen’s hands in his and said: “Who would have believed this moment, that fateful day so long ago, when you sailed for England, alone and friendless, one against the world?”

Stephen thought he saw a bead of moisture in Henry’s eyes, then decided it must be a trick of the candlelight. On the way back to his brother’s castle, Stephen felt bathed in a golden glow of victory; his feet hardly touched the frozen ground and his spirits soared as high as the steeple on the cathedral. Looking up at the dark winter sky he felt he had only to reach out his hand for the heavens to shower him with stars.

Stephen was crowned at Westminster on the twenty-second day of December—St. Stephen’s Day; a day of good omen, he was convinced. It was a cold morning, with icy blue skies and an orange sun. The bells of Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s, St. John’s, St. Bride’s, and St. Mary-le-Bow rang out in a glorious crescendo of sound to herald the arrival of a splendid new reign. By Stephen’s side, Matilda, soon to be brought to bed of her third child, smiled radiantly at the cheering throng. When the Archbishop of Canterbury placed the Conqueror’s crown on Stephen’s head, he thought his heart would burst. This was the symbol of all his hopes achieved, a golden promise that the peace and plenty of King Henry’s reign would continue with King Stephen.