The Fatal Crown (75 page)

Concealing her shock and dismay, Maud gave him the only possible reply. “Indeed you have it, my friend.”

Maud could not imagine her life without Brian FitzCount. Strong and steadfast, duty had been Brian’s watchword, as it had been Robert’s. But never Stephen’s. Nor hers, she realized in stunned surprise. Both ambitious, she and Stephen had attempted to take what they wanted, never really counting the cost. With a start of recognition she saw that they were more alike than she had ever dreamed.

After Vespers, Maud and Brian went into supper at the great hall. “Can’t I persuade you to stay with me for a while?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “You no longer need me, Maud. You have found your own voice at last.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s hardly a secret that Normandy fares very well these days. Word has trickled back to England that the duchy is in such capable hands, even Louis of France will think twice before crossing the Normandy borders. From the moment I landed at Barfleur yesterday, all the way to Rouen, wherever I stopped I heard your praises sung: The Regent dispenses fair justice, the Regent is wise and strong, and cannot be fooled. She is her father all over again—but with a compassionate heart.”

“Brian,” she whispered, as a surge of joy swept through her, “do they really say that? Truly?”

“And more besides.” He gave her an affectionate smile. “If only you had behaved in the past as you do now, this day would you wear England’s crown.”

Cautiously, Maud drew aside the curtain of memory, long closed, to face the bitter anguish of those tumultuous seven months when the crown had been within her grasp. What demons had tormented her then, what devils had driven her to behave in so arrogant, ill-tempered, rash, and vengeful a fashion? It seemed incomprehensible now.

“I know,” she agreed in a calm voice. “But all that was a long time ago. My time has come and gone and I have accepted this. Now it is Henry’s turn.” She looked anxiously at Brian as a new thought struck her. “But I fear his stubborn refusal to sign this peace treaty may turn men against him as they turned against me. He must not make the same mistakes.”

“My thoughts exactly. That is why I came.” “But how can I stop him?”

“God will show you the way.”

Maud made no reply. People were apt to offer that, she thought sourly, when they could think of nothing better to say.

The next morning Brian left Rouen to join a party from Brittany that was traveling to Jerusalem. He took her in his arms before mounting his horse, and gave her a warm hug.

“We’ve come a long way together and I’ll miss you, Maud,” he said, his eyes misting as he released her.

“And I you, dear friend,” she said, clinging to his tall frame, unwilling to let him go out of her life. “Do you have no last word of advice before you go? No direction that I can follow?”

Brian mounted his horse. “It’s my opinion that Henry will not be convinced to alter his course of action. Not even by you.” He paused as he wheeled his horse around. “You would do better to appeal to Stephen,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Stephen?” she asked in astonishment. “How would I appeal to Stephen?”

He smiled, a ghost of a twinkle in his eyes. “It will come to you, I doubt not. Goodbye, dearest Maud.”

When he had ridden out of the courtyard, Maud climbed up to the battlements to watch him go, feeling she had lost her last close friend. He dwindled to a tiny speck on the horizon, but still she did not move, her hands grasping the stone embrasure. Why did Brian think she could persuade Stephen to sign the treaty?

Maud began to pace the battlements, then, suddenly, she stopped short. A wave of heat washed through her body, her heart began to pound, and she felt giddy. She let the idea take hold of her, looking at it, considering all the implications. Such a drastic step involved great risk, but it was the only solution that offered itself, and she must act without delay if she were to act at all.

Normandy could safely be left in Eleanor’s hands for the short time she would be gone. As soon as possible she would leave for England.

H
ENRY OF ANJOU STOOD
on the slippery bank of the river, oblivious to the October rain that had been falling for three days now. Across the Thames he could see Stephen’s azure pavilion, the guards walking to and fro, their shoulders hunched against the rain.

Behind him Henry could hear the murmur of voices: the Bishop of Hereford and the Earl of Leicester, who had recently defected from Stephen to join his cause, scheming to get him to sign that damned treaty. The treaty of Winchester everyone was calling it, after the sly serpent, Bishop Henry of Winchester. His jaw jutted out and he gritted his teeth. Well, let them rack their heads and scheme away. He had no intention of signing any treaty. He had come to England to do battle, by God, and battle he would do until the usurper was defeated.

Henry’s eyes smoldered. Was the Bishop of Winchester foolish enough to imagine that the volatile Eustace would honor any treaty that cut him out of the succession? His great-grandfather, the mighty William, had not relied on treaties but conquest. His grandfather, Henry, had done away with his enemies: no agreements to be broken, no loose ends left dangling that might rise up in the future and threaten all that had been won. Suddenly his eyes narrowed.

Across the river Stephen appeared out of the mist, accompanied by his brother and William of Ypres. Imposing in a purple mantle, Stephen walked along the riverbank, deep in conversation with the Bishop of Winchester. The Thames narrowed at this juncture and barely sixty yards separated Henry from the King. On impulse he bent to pick up a stone that lay in the mud.

“Is it too wet for you to fight, Sire?” he called out, slicing the stone through the air. As he had intended, the small rock landed well short of Stephen.

Stephen turned, drawing his sword with such speed Henry blinked in surprise. Incredibly fast for a man his age, Henry thought, impressed despite himself. Here was a worthy opponent indeed. Several guards ran to Stephen’s side; one raised his spear and took aim. Henry held his ground. For a wild moment he hoped the guard would actually throw the spear; at least that would be an excuse to attack Stephen’s forces. His pulse quickened at the thought of plunging into action. But the King restrained the guard’s raised arm as he peered through the veil of rain trying to see from where the voice and stone had come. Finally he spotted Henry across the bank and after a moment’s hesitation sheathed his sword.

“It’s never too wet for me to fight,” he called back. “Left to myself I would have done battle long since, and this day would you be resting in my dungeons. But my barons will have peace at any cost.”

“Then let us meet in single combat and decide the issue once and for all,” Henry shouted.

Stephen pushed back the hood of his cloak. Drops of rain fell onto his beard. “Do you tire of life so soon? I do not challenge untried youths to single combat.”

Henry was filled with rage as he heard the mocking laughter of the Flemish captain. He was about to make a hot retort when the Earl of Leicester grabbed him firmly by the arm and steered him down the bank.

“He’s baiting you, my lord, come away. Please be more circumspect in future—that guard might have thrown his spear.”

“Would that he had. We might have seen some fighting then,” Henry snarled. “My destiny is not to die on a muddy riverbank, I assure you.”

He stomped into his tent. By God’s splendor, how ironic that the only person who felt as he did, who wanted the matter settled by combat rather than treaty, was his greatest enemy.

Maud landed at Wareham in mid-October accompanied by two knights from Rouen. A party of three was not likely to call attention to itself, and these were men she knew she could trust. After resting the night in an inn, she spent the following day buying three mounts for herself and her companions. To further conceal her identity she intended to ride to Wallingford disguised as a merchant’s wife from Normandy traveling to London. Until the conflict between Henry and Stephen was resolved, as far as she was concerned there was still a civil war going on. Should she be stopped she did not want Stephen’s forces to discover who she was or where her destination lay.

The next morning, clad in sober gray, Maud began the two day journey to Wallingford. The closer she came to her destination, the more fearful she became of risks that might present themselves. A member of Stephen’s forces might find her face familiar and decide to hold her for ransom. She would be a rich prize for anyone. Then there was always the possibility of someone from the stronghold of Wallingford itself recognizing her and informing Henry, who, furious at what he would consider her meddling, was certain to put a stop to her plans. At all costs her son must not find out she was in England. Not now, not ever, if she could prevent it.

Doubts assailed her, and by the following day she was tempted to turn back to the coast. Then, across the wooded downs, she caught a glimpse of the gray walls of Reading Abbey where her father lay buried. The thought of King Henry gave her the strength to go on and accomplish her mission.

It was mid-afternoon when the road suddenly turned and Maud faced a river, swollen from the rains, spanned by a narrow wooden bridge. In the distance she could see the misty towers of Wallingford. A light drizzle began to fall.

“Let us cross the river before the rain becomes heavier, my lady,” one of the knights said with an anxious look at the turbulent water. “If the rains continue the water could sweep away the bridge.”

“I don’t intend to cross the river,” Maud said, knowing the time had come to swear the knights to secrecy, trusting them not to betray her destination.

The two knights exchanged startled glances. “But the King holds the right bank and Duke Henry the left bank. In order to get to the left side we must cross the river.”

“We remain on the right bank,” she said, explaining what she intended to do and making the knights swear never to reveal it.

Ignoring their dumbfounded expressions, Maud turned her palfrey and started down the right bank of the river toward Stephen’s camp.

Stephen was dozing inside his pavilion when he became aware of raised voices outside. He had returned from noon Mass and been seized with an attack of queasiness accompanied by the usual feeling of weakness. Such attacks were becoming more frequent of late.

“In God’s name, Walter,” he finally called to his squire, “what is all that noise about?”

The squire opened the tent flap that served as a door. “Sorry to disturb you, Sire, but there is a woman here who insists on seeing you. We have been trying to escort her out of the camp but she refuses to go.”

Stephen sat up with a yawn, relieved that the discomfort had begun to ease off. “Woman? What woman? A camp follower?”

“Oh no, Sire, a very respectable lady, but she won’t give her name.”

“Is she alone?”

“Yes, Sire.”

Intrigued, Stephen rose to his feet. “Show her in, show her in. She sounds harmless enough.” He winked at Walter. “After all, if a lady is that eager to see me, how can I disappoint her?”

The squire grinned and left. Stephen looked at the jumble of hauberks, clothes, and weapons scattered across the tent, wondering if the place was fit to receive a female visitor. He set two stools near the charcoal brazier and, finding two wooden cups on the floor, put them on a small oak chest beside a flagon of wine.

Presentable enough, he decided with another yawn, trying to fight off the enervating weakness that was still with him. As he had told his physicians, except for the occasional pain, he did not feel ill so much as apathetic. The forced inactivity of the last two months depressed him; the constant pressure of his brother and barons urging him to sign Bishop Henry’s damned treaty infuriated him. In fact, there was nothing wrong with him, he decided, that would not immediately be cured by a resounding battle with Henry of Anjou’s forces.

He hoped the meeting with this unknown woman would take his mind off the deadlock with his magnates and the ever-present, gnawing worry about Eustace.

After hearing the details of the treaty that would disinherit him, his son had flown into a violent rage despite Stephen’s assurances that he would never sign such a document. He had then stormed out of the camp cursing both his father and his uncle of Winchester, laid waste the estates that supported Henry of Anjou, then senselessly attacked the monastery holdings of Bury St. Edmunds. The alarmed monks had appealed to Stephen for aid, and yesterday he had sent a troop of soldiers to bring back Eustace.

Since then he had received no word. Stephen had worn his knees raw in daily prayer, beseeching Our Lord for a miracle to occur that would transform his evil-tempered son into a man of wisdom and calm disposition. With a sigh he walked toward the door of the pavilion.

As Maud approached the azure pavilion she remembered so well from the sieges at Arundel and Oxford, she was seized by panic. Certain she could not now go through with her plan, she turned to the squire and told him she had changed her mind.

The tent door opened and Stephen, his green eyes disbelieving in a face suddenly drained of color, stood transfixed in the entrance. Maud’s breath caught in her throat, her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and her heart pounded so heavily she thought it would burst. For what seemed like a small eternity they stared at each other. Stephen recovered first.

“This woman is known to me,” he said in a hoarse voice. Then, stepping forward, he grasped Maud firmly by the arm, led her into the tent, and shut the door behind them.

Inside, Stephen indicated one of the stools, then poured wine into two cups, spilling almost half the contents of the flagon. Maud threw back the hood of her cloak, and sat down, her trembling fingers tightly laced together. During the long hours she had spent agonizing over what she would say, she had not imagined that the impact of seeing him would be so overwhelming. It was virtually impossible to take her eyes off him. Despite the fact that he was over fifty years of age, the tall lean body clad in a rumpled blue tunic appeared unchanged. Although the golden-brown hair and beard were heavily speckled with silver, this only lent an air of majesty to his face, a face furrowed by lines of strain but still arresting, still comely. She felt the familiar surge of blood race through her veins, as her body, roused from a long sleep, began to stir with new life.