When Christ and His Saints Slept (28 page)

“You mean the Earl of Chester, I suppose. I’ll not deny that he’ll be enraged once he learns the terms of the Scots treaty. Nor will I deny that he’ll ne’er forgive me for granting the Honour of Carlisle to David’s son. We did not trust him anyway, though, so naught has been lost. He’s one for blustering and ranting to get his way, but outright rebellion—I think not.”

“You know I like Chester not, my lord king. But we face a more dangerous foe than he, one protected by powerful armor, indeed—the trappings of Holy Church.”

Stephen reined in his mount, turning to stare at the younger man. “My brother? I’ll grant you that I’ve never seen him so wroth. He blames you, too, since the new archbishop comes from Bec, which has benefited handsomely from Beaumont largesse. But even if he truly believes we’re guilty of a sinister conspiracy to deprive him of his just due, I do not think he’d betray me.”

“I was not speaking of your brother, the Bishop of Winchester. It is the Bishop of Salisbury whom I fear.”

“Why?” Stephen was not surprised, though, for he’d long harbored his own suspicions of his uncle’s justiciar.

“No subject of the king should wield the power that Salisbury does. He has more kinsmen at Westminster than a dog has fleas. Just consider how far and wide he has cast his nets. His nephew Nigel is your treasurer and Bishop of Ely. Another nephew, Alexander, is Bishop of Lincoln. His bastard son is your chancellor. And God alone knows how many more cousins and lackeys are underfoot, eager to do his bidding. The Chancery is his and so is the Exchequer. He holds your government in the palm of his hand, and if that were not troubling enough, he controls, as well, some of the best fortified castles in the realm. Sherborne, Devizes, Malmesbury, Newark, Sleaford, and Salisbury. Jesú pity us, my liege, if those strongholds were to fall into Maude’s hands!”

“You have reason to fear that they would?”

“Indeed, I do. My informants tell me that Salisbury and his nephews have begun to stock the larders of those castles, to garrison them with Breton and Flemish mercenaries. They never venture out these days without a large armed bodyguard. If they are innocent, why are they preparing for war?”

“You truly believe they are conspiring with Maude?” Stephen asked, and Waleran nodded solemnly. “Have you any proof of their treachery?”

“No…not yet. But if we wait till we have the evidence in hand, it may be too late.”

By now William de Ypres and Geoffrey de Mandeville had reined in their horses, too, and were listening intently. When Waleran admitted that evidence was lacking, Stephen’s disappointment was so obvious that Geoffrey de Mandeville saw his opportunity. “Proofs can always be…found,” he said significantly.

That was a miscalculation. “No,” Stephen said sharply, “I’ll have no forgeries foisted upon me!”

Geoffrey de Mandeville was a proud man. For a moment, his courtier’s mask slipped, and he came close—dangerously close—to reminding Stephen that his kingship was based upon a lie: Hugh Bigod’s convenient claim that he’d heard the old king’s deathbed repudiation of Maude. He caught himself just in time, and by then Waleran Beaumont had control of the conversation again.

“No one said anything of forgeries, my liege. There is another way. I understand that Bishop Roger has refused to attend your Easter court…a suspicious refusal, in truth. Summon him again to your court, and this time make it a royal command.”

Stephen frowned, for he was still irked with Geoffrey de Mandeville, and vexed, too, by his failure to follow Waleran’s thinking. “And if I did? What then?”

“Bishop Roger and his nephews will come—reluctantly, but they’ll come. We can also be sure that they’ll arrive with an armed escort. All know how hot-tempered the Flemings are, how quick to brawl, especially once wine starts to flow. If trouble breaks out at your court, you’d have every right to demand that the bishops yield their castles to the Crown, for it is a serious offense to breach the King’s Peace.”

Stephen was silent for several moments. “Yes,” he said at last, “I would have the right, just as you say. But what if the bishop’s men cause no trouble?”

“You may be sure, my lord king,” Waleran said blandly, “that there will be trouble.”

DURING
the first week of July, Normandy was battered with gale-force winds and drenching rains, and it seemed drearily appropriate to Maude that the storm should have swept in from the south, from Geoffrey’s Anjou. By Friday, the squall had blown over, but summer had not yet reclaimed its lost territory, and all evening the servants had been stoking a fire in the open hearth. The scene in Argentan Castle’s great hall was one of familiar and reassuring domestic tranquillity—deceptively so, for strain and disappointment and splintered hopes were not always visible to the casual eye.

The women were stitching patterns, later to be pieced together into a vast and intricate wall-hanging, an ambitious undertaking that Amabel meant to rival the famous tapestry of Bayeux, depicting William the Bastard’s English invasion. Maude alone had declined to contribute to Amabel’s creation. She was a very proficient needlewoman, easily Amabel’s equal, for she was that most driven of beings, a perfectionist, compelled to excel even at pastimes that gave her no pleasure. But she cared little for female companionship and even less for traditional female pursuits, preferring instead to challenge Robert to a game of chess.

Robert was a skilled player, his game flawed only by an excess of caution, but because he made his moves with the protracted deliberation that men usually reserved for life-or-death decisions, Maude had ample opportunities to observe the other inhabitants of the hall.

Their brother Rainald was dozing in the closest window seat. Maude envied him that ability to catnap at will; he never seemed to let their troubles diminish the zest he took in satisfying hungers of the flesh, be they for food, ale, women, or sleep. He was as rash as Robert was circumspect, headstrong and easily angered, but he did not lack for courage and he could be boisterous, exuberant good company. He’d been quick to follow Robert’s lead, and Maude had found it easier to welcome him back into the fold, for she’d never expected as much from him as she had from Robert.

Robert was still contemplating the chessboard, and she turned to check upon her son. Henry should have been abed with his brothers, and the command was forming on her lips. But the scene that met her eyes was so engaging that she smiled, instead.

That spring Ranulf had bred his dyrehunds, resulting in a litter of five furry little whirlwinds. Now that they had reached their eighth week, Ranulf had promised Henry his pick, and the boy was rolling about in the floor rushes, fending off pink tongues and cold noses and nipping milk teeth. Ranulf was sprawled beside him, as if he and Henry were both of an age, keeping an eye upon Cinder, the wary mother. As Maude watched, Henry lost the battle and the puppies swarmed over him like a pack of pocketsized wolves, making him shriek with laughter.

“I can see where this
is
going,” Maude said ruefully. “What do you wager that Henry will want them all?”

Robert looked up blankly, still intent upon the game. And it was then that the castle dogs began to bark, Ranulf’s dyrehunds joined in, and a servant hastened into the hall to announce the arrival of Maude’s husband.

The temperature in the hall had dropped dramatically by the time Geoffrey strode through the doorway. He paused just long enough to register the sudden chill in the air, and then faced them with the cocksure, beguiling smile his wife had long ago learned to hate. Maude got slowly to her feet. Robert was already rising. But Henry was quicker.

“Papa!” Abandoning the puppies, he raced across the hall and flung himself joyfully at his father. Geoffrey pretended to stagger backward, an old game between them, and then swung the little boy up into the air, high enough to make Henry squeal with delight. Maude’s mouth tightened. She’d tried to convince herself that Geoffrey’s fondness was feigned, just another of his stratagems—more subtle than most—in their marital warfare. But his playful patience was too convincing; even Geoffrey was not that good an actor. No, as baffling and out of character as it seemed to her, Geoffrey was a genuinely attentive father, a very real rival for the affections of their sons…and of all the wrongs he’d done her, that was the greatest wrong of all.

Setting his son back on the ground, Geoffrey started across the hall, and Maude had no choice but to meet him halfway. Their union had been rockier than usual in recent months, for she’d been bitterly disappointed by his Normandy campaign. When Waleran Beaumont and William de Ypres had thwarted his siege of Falaise, that was all the proof Maude had needed to confirm her direst suspicions. Geoffrey wanted Normandy, that she did not doubt, but not enough to bleed for it. And in that aggrieved state of mind, she’d brought their sons to Angers for his Easter court, only to discover one of his concubines in residence.

His adultery came as no surprise. She knew he’d sired at least three children out of wedlock, for he was conscientious about claiming them as his own. But she had neither expected nor desired fidelity. Let him seek his pleasures in any bed but hers—as long as he was discreet about it. At Easter he had not been discreet, and her rage and lacerated pride had fueled one of the most heated quarrels of their marriage. Yet now that he was here at Argentan, once again she found herself compelled to patch up their tattered flag of truce, for pride demanded that they make a public pretense of marital harmony, even before her brothers, who knew better.

“Are you hungry, Geoffrey?” she asked, for a wife was expected to care about her husband’s comforts. “I can rouse the cooks if so. And I’d best send servants to make a chamber ready for you. If only you’d sent us word of your coming—”

“I’ve no need of my own bed, dear heart, not when I can share yours.” Smiling, he pulled her into his arms, bringing his mouth down upon hers in a wet, probing kiss, and Maude knew then that his anger had not abated in the weeks since Easter, that it still burned at full flame.

Keeping his arm around his rigid, unresponsive wife, Geoffrey offered jaunty greetings to her brothers. Robert’s reply was civil, if unenthusiastic. Ranulf and Rainald didn’t even manage that much. But their grudging attempts at courtesy seemed to amuse Geoffrey enormously.

Releasing Maude, he turned then toward the other women, engaging in a round of gallant hand-kissing. Amabel accepted his attentions with aplomb, but several of the women blushed and giggled. One in particular, the youngest and prettiest of her ladies, seemed much too receptive for Amabel’s liking, casting Geoffrey a long-lashed sideways glance that did not speak well for her discretion. Or her common sense, Amabel thought, promising herself a long and frank talk with Dame Agnes at the first opportunity. She could not blame the lass for looking, though; Geoffrey of Anjou was a sight to fill any woman’s eyes. Of course he was also false and perverse, and had he been her husband, she’d have been sorely tempted to flavor his wine with hemlock. But she knew, too, with just a trace of smugness, that she’d have handled him much better than Maude.

“Papa!” Henry was jerking impatiently at Geoffrey’s sleeve. “Come see my puppies!” Geoffrey obliged, was soon teasing his son about “this pack of meagre, mangy whelps.” Maude ordered wine, then sat down again at the chessboard, reaching for a chessman, a display of composure that might have been more convincing had the rook not been Robert’s.

“Let’s leave this till the morrow,” he said quietly, and when Geoffrey sauntered back, he spoke out before Maude’s silence could become conspicuous. “So…tell us, Geoffrey, what news are you bringing from Anjou?”

“I do have news,” Geoffrey said, “but from England, not Anjou.” Claiming a wine cup, he settled himself in a high-backed chair, turning a vibrant smile upon Dame Agnes when she demurely offered a cushion. “Did you hear about Stephen’s heroic feat at Ludlow? Whilst he was besieging the castle, the garrison swung a large grappling hook over the wall and caught a very big fish, indeed—none other than the Scots king’s son! They’d begun to reel him in when Stephen galloped up, grabbed the hook, and pulled their fish free!”

“That is already known to us,” Rainald said, so brusquely that it bordered upon rudeness.

Geoffrey ignored the interruption. “What with Stephen’s saving the lad from capture, mayhap that treaty of Matilda’s will last, after all. Your little cousin has had quite a remarkable year, dear heart. First taking Dover Castle and then coaxing David over to Stephen’s side. I’d not be surprised if she deserves credit, too, for the Pope’s finding in Stephen’s favor!”

Maude took the bait, hook and all. “That is not so,” she snapped. “The Pope did not decide my appeal on the merits. As for Matilda’s meddling, it matters little, for she can do us no harm. Calling a wren a merlin does not make her a hawk, Geoffrey. It merely raises doubts about the soundness of your judgment.”

Geoffrey’s smile held steady, but his eyes reflected the light like shards of blue ice. “Now who could blame me, Maude, for admiring such a loyal, loving little wife? So few men are lucky enough to wed a Matilda, after all.”

Maude fought back a barbed rejoinder, with an effort obvious to them all. Her brothers were struggling with their own indignation, Ranulf and Rainald glaring as balefully as hawks, Robert showing his displeasure with more subtle signals, but easily read by his wife. Amabel would have been hard put to say which one vexed her more, Geoffrey or Maude. They were worse than children, she fumed, for marriage was a serious matter, a Sacrament. Did these fools think contentment was ladled out onto their trenchers just for the asking? But no, they could not make their peace like sensible souls, and she’d say “So be it” if not for the fact that they kept miring Robert down, too, in this matrimonial swamp of theirs. One more exchange of insults and that hothead Rainald would be lunging for Geoffrey’s throat, with Ranulf not far behind, and her Robert having to mop up the blood, as always.

“Well,” she said abruptly, “unless you have other news to share, Geoffrey, I think it time we bid one another a good night. Of a sudden I am weary beyond words.”