The Fatal Crown (72 page)

Ever since Eugenius III had been elected to the Holy See, Stephen and Bishop Henry had been at odds with Rome. The major difficulty, of course, was that this Pope was a disciple of Bernard of Clairvaux, the powerful, charismatic Cistercian monk whose influence extended all across Europe.

To make matters worse, after Stephen had knighted Eustace last winter and ordered the Archbishop of Canterbury to crown the boy king while he still lived, the mild and unassuming Theobald of Bee had proved surprisingly stubborn, refusing to go against custom, tradition, and his own conscience. In a humiliating interview Theobald had accused Stephen of obtaining the throne by perjury. If he had known of this infamy at the time, he said, he never would have agreed to serve the King in any capacity, and he was certainly not going to support Eustace. The new pope had backed the Archbishop’s decision.

Angered by Theobald’s unwillingness to obey him, Stephen had forbidden him to attend a mandatory church council called for by the Pope in Rheims. To everyone’s amazement, Theobald had sailed secretly across the channel in a leaky boat to attend the council. Stephen, thoroughly enraged by this act of defiance, subsequently banished him from the realm. In support of his brother, Bishop Henry committed his own act of defiance by refusing to attend the Pope’s council.

The end result was an almost complete break with Rome, the excommunication of the Bishop of Winchester, and the clergy’s even deeper distrust of Stephen. England fell under interdict; Eustace was no nearer to being crowned.

“I knew that sanctimonious old fool, Theobald, would somehow betray us,” Bishop Henry now said, his voice tight with hostility. “You shouldn’t have banished him, Stephen.”

Stephen and his brother, accompanied by Robin of Leicester and Eustace, were leaving the chapel after Vespers to return to the great hall. “But you agreed that I should banish him for attending the church council against my orders!”

“It was a mistake to forbid Theobald to attend the council merely because he followed the dictates of his own conscience,” Robin commented, watching Henry with cool eyes. “And an even worse mistake for you not to have attended the council, Your Grace. This whole business has been sadly bungled from start to finish.”

“So mistakes have been made!
Mea culpa! Mea summa culpa!
” Henry signed himself. “I don’t recall
your
voice raised in protest at the time, Leicester. And as for you, Brother, may I remind you that Henry of Anjou would not now be a threat if you had held him captive instead of sending him home, far richer than when he came, thus making us the laughingstock of Europe!”

Would he ever live down that incredible piece of folly, Stephen wondered, still finding it hard to believe that the seemingly helpless, charming youth who had so moved him in the forest had become such a formidable foe.

“Let us not rake up the past,” he said, anxious to retreat from the shameful incident, “but deal with the present. Henry, what do we do with this news from Rheims?”

Henry sniffed. “How can I presume to advise you after my gross errors in judgment.”

“You must effect a reconciliation with the Archbishop, Sire, for until you do England will remain under interdict,” Robin said as they paused at the entrance to the hall. “Nor will the Pope lift His Grace of Winchester’s excommunication until Theobald of Bee is returned to favor and your brother makes amends to Rome.”

“My Lord of Leicester is right. How can I be crowned unless you make peace with the Archbishop?” Eustace asked in his petulant voice.

Stephen turned wearily to his brother. “Henry, I ask you again for your counsel.”

The Bishop sighed. “We have no choice but to bring Theobald back. Once he returns, however, tell him he
must
crown Eustace and you will not take no for an answer. Be firm. Meanwhile, I will try to make my peace with the Pope and persuade him to lift my excommunication.”

“Father!” Stephen’s youngest son, William, pale and red-eyed, was racing across the hall toward them. “Mother has taken a sudden turn for the worse and the physicians want you to come immediately.”

“Dear God, she was better this morning! I’m coming at once.”

When, moments later, he burst into the solar, Stephen looked in horror at Matilda’s waxy face, her hands clasped over the silver crucifix on her breast.

“How is she?” Stephen asked the physicians.

“She won’t survive the night, Sire,” one of them said. “We’ve given her a draught of wine and poppy to ease her breathing, but there’s little more we can do. She has been given the last rites and will die in God’s grace.”

“But I don’t understand,” Stephen said, his belly plummeting in dread. “She seemed so much better this morning. What can have happened?”

Another of the physicians spread his hands. “Who can question God’s will, Sire?”

“Matilda, beloved,” Stephen whispered as he bent over her, aware of the labored breath wheezing in her throat.

Matilda, drowsy from the effects of the poppy, slowly opened her eyes. “Stephen,” she whispered, “has Theobald returned from the council yet? Has he agreed to crown Eustace?”

Although she appeared to have forgotten that the Archbishop of Canterbury had been forbidden to return, it was just like Matilda, even at the hour of her death, to think first of her son.

“Theobald has returned and agreed to crown Eustace, beloved,” Stephen replied, smoothing back pale wisps of hair from her damp forehead. “All is in hand.” He would make certain that what he told her became the truth.

A wave of relief passed across Matilda’s face. “Then my job is done,” she whispered. “You must promise me that you will never again offend Holy Church. Our son must be crowned.”

“I promise. Rest in peace, for all that you have worked and prayed for has come to pass,” Stephen said. He bent to kiss her cheek.

“Stephen—” Matilda’s eyes suddenly clouded over in a spasm of pain. “Stephen, there is one last matter—I’ve never dared to ask you, but now it weighs heavily on my mind. My heart has been so troubled—” She turned her head away.

His body stiffened in protest. Dear God, if it was what he feared … He pulled himself together, already knowing how he would respond. “You may ask me anything, dear heart.”

“Maud—did you ever truly love her?” Her voice was barely audible. “I … would know the truth before I die.” Tears trembled in her eyes, and Stephen, wondering how long she had known, could only guess at the agony she must have suffered in silence all these years.

“Never,” he lied with complete conviction. “Never. I was possessed by lust that gripped me like a wasted fever. It has long since passed. I’ve only truly loved one woman: you.” He took the silver crucifix from between her hands, pressing it to his lips. “By the body of Our Lord, before God and all His Saints, I swear it.” The silver seemed to sear his mouth like a flame. “May I be damned forever if aught but the truth has passed my lips.”

At the look of radiant happiness that flooded his wife’s face, giving her the illusion of beauty, Stephen knew that if his false oath caused him to suffer the torments of hell for all eternity, it would be well worth it to have given his loyal wife this moment of absolute joy.

Matilda died shortly after Matins. Dry-eyed amid a weeping crowd of mourners, Stephen brushed aside his brother’s offer to pray with him in the chapel. He stumbled out of the chamber to walk alone in the grounds.

Outside it was cold, the night sky crowned with a thousand silver stars. How could he go on, Stephen wondered in anguish, how could he live with the immense burden of guilt and shame he carried? Suddenly he threw himself down onto the soft, moist earth sobbing as if his heart would crack in two, his body heaving with the force of his grief. Finally spent, he sat up, wiping his eyes upon the sleeve of his tunic. He took deep breaths until he felt calmer. The intensity of his torment lessened, as if he had purged himself of some poison.

He felt a sudden need to talk to someone, to unburden himself of a lifetime of thoughts and feelings never before revealed. It occurred to him that, except for Henry, he had no one, and, in this instance, his brother would not serve his needs. The companions of his youth—Brian, Robert, the de Beaumont twins—were either dead or estranged from him. Only one person remained to whom he could open his heart and soul, one person who would understand.

Tonight, despite all the enmity that had passed between them, Stephen felt an overpowering need for his cousin. In a silent cry for help, his spirit reached out to touch her. Maud, Maud. A vast silence answered him.

At that moment, he realized that for the remainder of his life he would be alone. His one goal, the only purpose he had left, was to fulfill Matilda’s last wish: Eustace must be crowned.

To his surprise, Stephen found he could not wait to relieve himself of that golden symbol of his royal authority. The crown he had so desperately desired, connived and betrayed for, fought for so ruthlessly, had become a crown of thorns. He would be well rid of it. Looking up at the clusters of winking stars, he stretched his arms above his head, remembering that various nobles, Waleran of Muelan among them, had taken the cross and joined a new crusade to free the Holy Land.

I will see Eustace crowned, he decided, ensure the realm is safe from Henry of Anjou, then join a group of knights on crusade. A journey to the Holy Land would be just what he needed to expiate his sins. What better way to seek God’s forgiveness? It would be a new beginning. Stephen’s heart quickened at the prospect, and he felt Matilda’s benign presence gently smiling her approval.

I
N APRIL OF 1149
, Henry of Anjou faced his parents in the great hall of the ducal palace in Rouen.

“I wish to cross the channel to be knighted by my great-uncle of Scotland,” he announced.

It was a request Maud had been expecting—and dreading—ever since word reached Normandy that Earl Ranulf of Chester, once again in Maud’s camp, had joined forces with King David of Scotland against Stephen. Maud knew Henry would find some excuse to sail for England, although she was positive his true intention was to stir up trouble against the enemy. The knighting provided a reason with which few could argue.

“You’re so young,” she reminded him, more for form’s sake than anything else.

“Sixteen is not too young to be knighted. I’ve campaigned with my father all over Normandy and Anjou for the past two years now. I’m a man, and fit to be honored as such.”

“Of course you are,” Maud said with a sigh. “Very well, if you’re determined to go, travel only to Scotland for your knighting, then return at once to Normandy. If you keep to the west country, make no show of arms or let your identity be known, no harm should befall you.”

“I understand,” Henry replied with an air of compliance that did not fool her for a moment.

“The boy wouldn’t be foolish enough to attempt another campaign in England,” Geoffrey said. “It’s still far too dangerous,” he warned Henry, “and your mother’s supporters say the time is not yet ripe. In any case a small escort is all I can spare you, which should be sufficient if you go only to be knighted.”

“Fair enough, my lord.” Henry bowed formally to Count Geoffrey, pristine as always in a new indigo tunic.

When Henry kissed her warmly on each cheek, Maud held back the impulse to cling to him. She knew perfectly well that he would ignore sound advice and, however foolhardy, follow his own bent. After all, he was his father’s son as well as hers. For good or ill, both she and Stephen had pursued their own headlong courses regardless of the hazards. She could almost hear Aldyth’s words echoing in her head: “How far does the apple fall from the tree?”

“Take care, my son,” she whispered. As her eyes followed him out the hall, she prayed that he would not meet up with Stephen’s forces. Whenever she imagined her son and his father face to face on a battlefield she felt as if she would drown in a dark pool of anguish. Yet one day it must happen if she were ever to regain the crown.

Retreating from the unbearable thought, Maud closeted herself in the solar to write a long message to Brian FitzCount, still holding his own at Wallingford, asking him to keep an eye on her impetuous son. Beyond that she was powerless to help him.

Six weeks later one of her uncle David’s clerics wrote on his master’s behalf to inform Maud that on the Mass of the Pentecost, May 22, the King of Scotland had knighted his great-nephew. Misty-eyed, she could imagine Henry in the requisite purple robe and cloth-of-gold tunic, holding his shield engraved with gold lions in one hand, the ash-tipped spear in the other. Surrounded by hairy clansmen and dour Scottish lords she could just see him kneeling reverently before his great-uncle to receive the open-handed sword blow that would dub him Sir Henry Fitz-Empress. Now an invincible knight, Henry probably assumed that Stephen’s defeat was a foregone conclusion, and England his for the taking. Maud’s heart ached for his courageous innocence.

Not long after this, just as Maud had feared, she heard that Henry had persuaded his great-uncle and Earl Ranulf to ravage the north of England and march as far south as York. Here they were met by Stephen’s superior forces and, much against Henry’s will, forced to retreat.

In December a message arrived from Brian FitzCount informing Maud that despite being pursued by Prince Eustace, Henry had managed to reach Bristol in safety. Here he had been well received by his cousin, William of Gloucester, whom he had persuaded to ride to the south of England to harry Stephen’s supporters there. By this time, Brian went on to say, Henry had picked up quite a following, having had quite a success in Devon and Dorset. At Bridport, he had even forced Stephen’s lieutenant to take refuge in his castle.

“Listen to this,” Maud told Geoffrey, tears in her eyes as she read from Brian’s letter. “‘I’ve finally persuaded him to return to Normandy and the New Year should see him once more in Rouen. Do not be too harsh on Henry when he returns. Although he cannot as yet hope to defeat Stephen, the boy has acquitted himself with honor. Knighted by a royal monarch, he has successfully won the minor skirmishes he fought, evaded capture, and gained many new adherents to his cause. England will not soon forget this young lion of Anjou.’”