When Christ and His Saints Slept (47 page)

She opened her mouth, but she could not think of an answer to that, and for the first time, she began to take him seriously. “I do not understand what you are telling me. If you truly regret deserting Stephen, why did you do it?”

He shrugged again. “There is not much time for reflection in the midst of a battle. When my Flemings broke and ran, I tried to rally them. Obviously I did not try hard enough. But I’d not truly taken the measure of the man, not until it was too late, until I learned how he’d refused to flee, willing to fight to the death—”

“But why did he have to buy your loyalty with his blood? My husband is a good and decent man. Why could you not see that sooner?”

“Ah, but I did, Lady Matilda. Stephen has courage and a generous spirit and he is for certes one of the most likeable men I’ve ever met. As you say, he is a good man. But he is not a good king.”

Matilda wanted to protest the unfairness of that verdict. But she did not, and after a moment, she said quietly, almost beseechingly, “Why is that? Why do men think that Stephen is not a good king? I do not understand.”

“Well…” He frowned thoughtfully. “Suppose you had a Greenland falcon, a joy to behold, so handsome he was, whiter than a winter snowfall. A falcon that flies straighter and higher than any arrow, and twice as fast. Every falconer’s dream…except that he falters when it is time to make the kill.”

Once again, Matilda wanted to argue; once again, she did not. “Did you truly mean what you said—about helping Stephen?”

He nodded. “If not, I’d be in Gloucester by now, offering my services and men to Maude. Instead, I am here, offering them to you. I do not—” He got no further; Matilda gave a sudden gasp, clasping her hand to her mouth.

“You are my sign!” she cried. “I begged the Almighty to show me how to aid Stephen, and He did, He sent you to me!”

William de Ypres burst out laughing. “I’ve often been called the Devil’s henchman, but this is the first time anyone ever accused me of being one of God’s good angels!” He stopped laughing, though, as he realized that Matilda was utterly in earnest. “I’d not lead you astray, Lady Matilda. It may be too late. And you should know this, too—that many men may have to die to set your husband free. Will you be able to do what must be done to restore him to the throne?”

Matilda hesitated. “I cannot answer that,” she said at last, “for I do not know what might be asked of me. If I could secure Stephen’s freedom by sacrificing his crown, I would. But even if he agreed to abdicate—and I doubt that he would—Maude would still not let him go, for she is not a woman who knows how to trust.”

“Indeed, she is not,” he agreed, “and that is why we must be very cautious. Stephen survived the battle, and they must not regret it—not yet.”

He was pleased to see that his bluntness had not shocked her. She was nodding somberly. “I know,” she said. “That is all I can think about: Stephen’s danger and Maude’s controversial queenship. If I were Maude, I’d be treading with great care and speaking softly, doing whatever I could to dispel men’s doubts and ease their minds.”

“At least until the coronation,” he said dryly. “But you do not think Maude will follow that prudent path, do you?”

“I pray to God she will not,” Matilda said, “for that is the only chance Stephen has. His future, mayhap his very life, depends upon Maude’s making mistakes.”

IT
was midmorning, but wall torches and cresset oil lamps had been burning for hours in the great hall of Geoffrey d’Anjou’s castle at Angers. Although this last day of February was sunlit and clear, it was still too cold to open the shutters. A desk had been set up in a corner for study, and Henry was hunched over a primer, his face hidden by a tumbling thatch of copper-gold hair.

Geoffrey resented his brother’s absorption in the book, for he felt it keenly that Henry could read and he could not. He was still learning his letters, and he was supposed to be practicing them now, copying the Christcross row their tutor had etched onto a wax tablet. But the alphabet held no charms for Geoffrey, and his parchment sheet remained blank. Instead, he’d been amusing himself by aligning and realigning his writing supplies: a pumice stone to erase mistakes, a boar’s tooth to polish the parchment afterward, a small knife to trim his quill pen, a ruler to make margins, and his favorite, an inkhorn made from a real cow’s horn, stuck down into a hole in the desk to minimize spills.

Geoffrey set the pumice stone on its end, was attempting to balance the ruler on top of it when he glanced up, saw their tutor heading their way. He hastily dunked the quill in the inkhorn, drew a large, crooked
A
on the parchment. Master Peter had stopped by Henry first, complimenting him for having gotten through most of the Pater Noster. Geoffrey slopped a
B
onto the page, splattering ink upon his sleeve. Fortunately Master Peter seemed in no hurry, for he was still talking to Henry, joking about his birthday next week.

Geoffrey scowled, putting down his pen. That was all anyone talked about these days, Henry’s upcoming birthday. He was so jealous of the attention Henry was getting that he forgot he was likely to receive a scolding for his own lackluster efforts. But luck was with him, for Master Peter was now being called away. Instead of putting his reprieve to good use, though, Geoffrey leaned over and dribbled ink onto Henry’s side of the desk. “So you are going to be eight,” he said. “So what? I’ll be eight in June.”

Henry prudently moved his book out of ink range. “No, you will not,” he said calmly. “You’ll only be seven.”

As much as Geoffrey yearned to refute that fact, he didn’t know how. “Well…I’ll be eight next year,” he countered, and Henry grinned.

“Yes,” he said, “but then I’ll be nine!”

Geoffrey glowered at his brother. Somehow Henry always seemed to get the better of him. “Birthdays are stupid,” he said, and pretended to stretch, taking the opportunity to prod Henry in the ribs with his elbow. Henry jabbed him back, but his retaliation was halfhearted; he was staring across the hall. Like a cat at a mousehole, Geoffrey thought, looking to see what had claimed Henry’s attention. It was that lady, he decided, Papa’s friend. He wished he knew why Henry disliked her so much, but Henry would not tell him, acting as if he knew a secret no one else did. Sometimes Geoffrey went out of his way to be friendly with the lady, just to vex Henry. But today it was their little brother, Will, who was doing that, holding her hand and laughing as she ruffled his hair. As soon as she moved away, Henry gave a sharp whistle and beckoned to Will, who trotted obediently across the hall in response to the summons.

“I told you to stay away from her, Will,” Henry said accusingly, and Will blinked in bewilderment.

“Why? She tells me riddles, and she smells good, like flowers in the garden, like Mama. She looks like Mama, too—”

“She does not!” Henry glared at the little boy. “She is not at all like Mama!”

For once, Geoffrey and Henry were united in their indignation. “Her hair is as yellow as butter,” Geoffrey pointed out scornfully, “and Mama’s hair is black. You must be daft, Will, if you cannot tell the difference!”

Will’s mouth trembled, and Henry was suddenly struck by an unlikely suspicion. “Will…do you remember what Mama looks like?”

“Of course I do! I remember better than you!” But in truth, Will did not. His mother had been gone a year and a half, and that was almost a third of Will’s lifetime. It had happened so gradually that he was not aware of it, the fading of his memories. There just came a day when he could no longer call up an image of his mother’s face, and now when her letters were read to him, he heard no echoes of her voice. But he could not admit that to his brothers, and he insisted, “I do remember Mama, I do!” before spinning on his heel and running from the hall.

He did not get far, colliding in the doorway with his father. Geoffrey scooped his son up into his arms, and soon had the little boy giggling. Henry and young Geoffrey watched as he strode toward them, Will gleefully riding astride his shoulders, his earlier distress quite forgotten. Setting Will back upon his feet, Geoffrey smiled down at his sons, and it was only then that they saw the letter in his hand.

“Is that from Mama?”

“Yes, Henry, it is, and a remarkable birthday gift she has for you, lad. It seems she has won her war. Your uncles fought a battle with Stephen on Candlemas, at a place called Lincoln. The victory was theirs, and Stephen was taken prisoner.”

“Then Mama will be queen?” This from Henry, and “Will she come home now?” from Geoffrey.

“Yes, she will be queen, and yes, she will come back…in time. But England will be her home now, and Normandy, of course. Once she has been crowned, though, you’ll be able to visit her. Me, too,” Geoffrey said and laughed, for he’d just added a silent, “
when Hell freezes over
.”

“You’ll have to go away now, too, Papa,” Henry said, and Geoffrey nodded, surprised and proud that Henry was so quick; he was becoming convinced that his firstborn had been endowed with an uncommonly sharp intelligence.

“Yes,” he said, “I shall have to go into Normandy straightaway. Until Maude is formally recognized as England’s queen and the crown is set upon her head at Westminster, the danger of rebellion remains. It will be up to me to convince the Norman barons to come to terms without delay.”

Henry and Geoffrey had fallen silent, for they understood that when their father rode into Normandy, he would be riding off to war. That had escaped Will, though, for he was still focusing upon the good news, that Mama would be queen. “Will Mama let me wear our crown sometimes?”

Geoffrey hid a smile. But if Will was too young to comprehend the concept of primogeniture, his eldest son was not, as Henry now proved.

“Oh, no, Will,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. “It is not your crown. It is Mama’s and mine.”

A MONTH
to the day after the Battle of Lincoln, Maude met with Stephen’s brother the Bishop of Winchester at Wherwell. It was a wet, blustery March afternoon, and they were all shrouded in wool mantles and hoods, for this kingmaking conference was being held in an open field not far from the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Cross. The mood was almost as cheerless as the weather, for neither the empress nor the bishop truly wished to be there. Theirs was an alliance of expediency, a grudging recognition of unpalatable political realities—that Maude’s claim to the throne needed the sanction of the Church, and the bishop’s ambitions necessitated a cooperative relationship with England’s sovereign.

At this dismal March meeting, they were to ratify already agreed-upon terms, terms Maude liked not at all, for she had reluctantly promised that “all major affairs, especially the bestowal of bishoprics and abbeys, should be subject to the papal legate’s authority.” In return, the bishop had vowed to recognize her as queen and pledged her his loyalty. Maude had let herself be persuaded, but she resented having to concede so much royal autonomy to gain support that should have been hers by right. She did not trust Stephen’s brother the bishop, and even though she knew they needed him as an ally, she could not help despising him a little for abandoning Stephen with such alacrity. Stephen may have been luckier in wedlock, she thought, but not in brotherhood. There she’d been truly blessed, and she glanced proudly at her own brothers Robert and Ranulf and Rainald, newly come back from Cornwall.

Oddly enough, the bishop’s private thoughts were not so far removed from Maude’s musings. He was studying the men flanking her—Robert of Gloucester, Miles Fitz Walter, and Brien Fitz Count—and he was wondering why Maude had been able to attract men of stature and integrity whilst Stephen had relied upon self-serving knaves and malcontents, like the Beaumonts and that treacherous Fleming. If only Stephen had not been so stubborn, so shortsighted. For if Stephen had heeded his advice, he would not now be imprisoned at Bristol Castle and Maude would not be about to set his crown upon that haughty dark head of hers. He’d gotten some impressive concessions from her, more than he’d been able to coax from Stephen, but this was not how he’d wanted it to be. Yet he’d had no choice, for he had to protect the interests of Holy Church. In time, Stephen would come to understand that. Or so he hoped.

FROM
the Gesta Stephani Chronicle: “So that when the bishop and the Countess of Anjou had jointly made a pact of peace and concord, the bishop came to meet her in cordial fashion and admitted her into the city of Winchester, and after handing over to her disposal the king’s castle and the royal crown, which she had always most eagerly desired, and the treasure the king had left there, though it was very scanty, he bade the people, at a public meeting in the market place of the town, salute her as their lady and their queen.”

16

Oxford Castle, England

April 1141