When Christ and His Saints Slept (65 page)

“What is it?” he said sharply. “What do you have in mind?”

“I am thinking,” she said, “that we’ve been going about this the wrong way. We have been negotiating with the wrong people, Willem. We’ve been seeking to come to terms with Robert and Maude, when the one we ought to have been bargaining with is the woman who holds Stephen—the woman who wants her husband back just as much as I want mine.”

23

Bristol, England

November 1141

T
HE
first of November was not a comfortable day for travel. Rain had been falling intermittently since dawn and the wind had been constant, blustery and biting. Eustace did not care about the cold; he was so tense he barely felt it. He looked occasionally at his mother, but more often at William de Ypres, for he was very much in awe of the redoubtable Fleming. When Ypres happened to glance in his direction, Eustace stiffened his spine and raised his head, hoping that Ypres would notice how well he rode. He wished he had a stallion as spirited as Ypres’s chestnut, but his horse was a docile gelding. Wolf-bait, he thought scornfully, longing for spurs like Ypres and the other men wore. Despite his disappointment with his placid mount, it was still easy to pretend that he was the one leading an army to Bristol, not Ypres and his mother. If only theirs were a real rescue mission. He was sure they could catch the enemy by surprise, assault the castle and set Papa free. A pity Mama was so timid, so loath to see bloodshed.

Feeling her son’s gaze upon her, Matilda gave him a quick smile. Eustace knew it was meant to reassure, but he resented it for that very reason. “I do not need to be coddled, Mama,” he said indignantly. “I am not a bairn like Will and Mary, and I am not scared to be a hostage, not at all.”

“I know that, Eustace.” Matilda found herself yearning for bygone days, when the distance between them was never so great that it could not be spanned by a hug. After some moments, she said, choosing her words with care: “It will all be over in a matter of days. Upon our arrival at Bristol, your father will be set free. He and Willem and Robert’s eldest son will then ride straightaway for Winchester. Once they get there, Robert will be released. Leaving his son as his pledge, he will hasten to Bristol. You and I will then be escorted safely back to Winchester, and Robert’s son will be freed. So you see, Eustace, we’ll scarcely have time to unpack, will be reunited with your father at Winchester by week’s end.”

“It sounds as if none of you trust each other very much,” he said, with a cynicism that seemed too adult and knowing for his eleven years. Matilda was troubled by it, but she could not contradict him.

“One another,” she corrected automatically, “not ‘each other.’ And you are right, lad. Trust never entered into it.”

He slanted a sidelong glance her way. “Will she be at Bristol, too…the Angevin slut?”

Matilda was no novice at motherhood, knew full well that she was being tested. “I like it not when you use such unseemly language, Eustace. Moreover, you are mistaken as well as rude. Maude’s husband is the Angevin. She is of Norman and Scots stock. Nor is she a slut.”

Eustace’s lower lip jutted out. “Then why do men call her that? I’ve heard them,” he insisted.

“I do not doubt it. But that does not make it true. When people want to insult a man, they cast slurs upon his courage. But the worst they can say about a woman is to impugn her chastity. It is unfair, though, for no scandal has ever sullied Maude’s good name. Whatever her other failings—and I find them plentiful—she is not a wanton.”

Eustace was not convinced, but he prudently refrained from saying so. He didn’t really want to quarrel with his mother, not today. “Will she be there or not, Mama?”

“No, she will not. She has withdrawn to Oxford Castle, will be awaiting Robert there upon his release. I suspect she could not bear to see your father ride forth as a free man.”

Eustace felt a momentary disappointment, for he’d envisioned himself confronting her, this troublesome, wicked woman who’d dared to make war upon his father. “Mama…after Papa is free, what happens then? Will Maude give up, go back to her husband, and leave us in peace?”

Matilda kept her eyes on the road ahead. “I doubt it,” she said bleakly. “I very much doubt it.”

MATILDA
had never been to Bristol, and she was both impressed and chilled by the fortified defenses of town and castle, protected by two rivers and a deep man-made ditch. They would never have been able to free Stephen by force. Thank God and His Holy Son that it had not come to that. Now they passed unchallenged into Robert Fitz Roy’s great citadel, and when they dismounted in the inner bailey of the castle, the Countess of Gloucester was awaiting them. Following Amabel inside, Matilda found a hall crowded with curious, wary, and hostile onlookers. But one glance was all she needed to see that the only man who mattered was not in their midst.

Whirling upon Amabel, she demanded, “Where is my husband? Why is he not here?”

Her suspicions were insulting, but Amabel was willing to overlook the affront, for she could identify with Matilda’s fear. “Stephen is waiting for you in the solar. He wanted your first meeting to be private.” And ushering Matilda and Eustace across the hall, she herself led them up into the stairwell.

Matilda soon moved ahead, lifting her skirts and taking the stairs two at a time. When Eustace would have followed, Amabel blocked his way. “Give them a few moments alone, lad, ere you enter.” Eustace stared at her in astonishment, for this woman was the enemy. Did she truly think he’d do as she bade him? But to his fury, she refused to move aside when he sought to push past her, effectively trapping him in the narrow stairwell.

Matilda was not aware that her son had been waylaid. By the time she’d reached the door, she was breathless and flushed. Nine months he’d been a prisoner, to the very day. How would he look? Could a man like Stephen survive confinement with no scars on his soul? Her heart was pounding. Reaching for the door latch, she shoved inward.

Stephen was standing by the window. It had occurred to her that he might have gained weight, an active man suddenly forced into idleness. Instead he seemed to have lost weight. His face was thinner, his cheekbones noticeably hollowed, and he had more grey in his hair than she remembered. But his eyes were crinkling at the corners, alight with such a blazing blue joy that her throat tightened and she found herself thinking that no crown was worth more than Stephen’s smile. He moved so fast that before the door could close behind her, he had her in his arms, holding her so hard it hurt a little. She clung tightly, raising her face so he could claim her mouth, not even realizing she was crying until he’d begun to kiss away her tears.

“I was so afraid,” she confessed, “that this day would never come.”

“I never doubted,” he assured her, encircling her waist and pulling her even closer, “never.”

She’d worried as much over his mental state as she had over his physical danger. “Truly, Stephen?”

“Truly,” he said and grinned. “With you and God both on my side, Tilda, how could I lose?” He kissed her again, hungrily. “But I’d pawn my crown right now for a bed.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “oh, indeed, yes…” Giving him so ardent a look that his joke lost all humor. But at that moment, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by their son’s angry entrance.

“That meddlesome woman would not let me in!” Eustace’s outrage flamed out quickly, though, at sight of his father. He was suddenly uncertain, oddly ill at ease.

Stephen felt no such shyness. “Look at you, lad,” he marveled. “You are taller than your mother!”

Eustace nodded, very pleased that his father had seen it at once, just how much he’d grown. “I am glad you are free, Papa,” he said, sounding rather formal even to his own ears, but surely he was too old now for open displays of affection? Stephen thought otherwise, and once Eustace found himself caught up in his father’s embrace, he forgot his qualms and clung no less urgently than his mother had done.

Amabel gave them as much time as she could, but she could not wait long, not with so much at stake. “I am sorry to intrude,” she said, “but the sooner you are on the way to Winchester, Stephen, the sooner I’ll have my husband back. Now there is someone else waiting to see you.” And she stepped aside so William de Ypres could enter the room.

The Fleming paused, almost imperceptibly, before crossing the threshold. In his entire adult life, he could not remember ever offering an apology for any act of his, and he was not sure how to go about it. But if they were to put the ghost of his Lincoln betrayal to rest, he’d have to say a few words at graveside. “I owed you better than you got,” he began awkwardly, “and for what it is worth, I did regret it. But by then, it was too late.”

“Regrets always are,” Stephen said. He felt Matilda’s hand tighten on his arm, and he covered it with his own before turning his gaze back to Ypres. “It is passing strange,” he said, “how confinement has affected my memory. For the life of me, I cannot seem to remember anything at all about your conduct at Lincoln. Yet I have a very clear and vivid recollection of the great service you did me at Winchester…and I was not even there!”

Amabel, watching from the doorway, said nothing. She was still furious with her sister-in-law. But somewhat to her surprise, she experienced a sudden, sharp pang of pity for Maude, who had right on her side, but little of Stephen’s generosity and none of his charm.

MATILDA’S
dream was at first fanciful and then increasingly erotic. Stirring drowsily, she opened her eyes and discovered this dream was—at long last—real. “Are you getting hungry again, my love?” she murmured, and Stephen laughed into her hair.

“I did not mean to wake you. I was just taking inventory of treasures I’ve been too long without. I ought to warn you, Tilda, that we are likely to create something of a scandal, for I may not let you leave this bed for days.”

“Promise?” she said and he laughed again, drawing her in against him until they lay entwined, two halves made whole. “I was so proud,” she said, “of the way you accepted them back into the fold, all the sheep who had strayed…Willem and Northampton and Warenne and the others.”

“‘Willem’?” he echoed, as if affronted by the intimacy. But she caught the playful tone, and bit him gently when he traced her mouth with his fingers.

“It was easy enough,” he said lightly, “for I believe in redemption. I would that I could say I also believe I am my brother’s keeper, but that saintly I am not, sweetheart.”

She saw through the flippancy, for she knew that of all the betrayals he’d suffered, none wounded so deeply as his brother’s defection. Shifting so she could cradle her head in the crook of his shoulder, she said, “I think Henry will be loyal from now on…in his own, odd way. At least you need not fear any more dalliances with Maude. He’s burned that bridge for certes.”

“Along with most of Winchester,” he said, “and I wonder if he spares any regrets for the city when he mourns all his losses.”

“Speaking of loss,” she said softly, “I came too close to the abyss, Stephen. You must promise me that you’ll never put yourself so at risk again. You have nothing to prove, for not even your most bitter enemies have ever questioned your courage. No more Lincolns, my love…promise me.”

“Such a promise would be hollow, Matilda, unless it came from the Almighty. I cannot promise you that I’ll never come to harm. I can pledge to you that I will not be so careless of my own safety in the future. Lincoln was…my Antioch, but that is not a mistake a man makes twice.”

Lincoln and Antioch. The similarities between the two sieges had occurred to Matilda almost at once, so striking were they. The crusaders capturing Antioch, Stephen besieging Lincoln Castle. Both armies then caught by surprise, confronted by a large enemy force. Stephen’s father had abandoned the siege, rode away from Antioch and—fairly or not—into infamy, disgrace that not even his subsequent martyr’s death had fully expiated. Stephen had chosen to stay and fight. It was Matilda’s belief that he’d been paying off his father’s debt, but she had not expected him to see that for himself, as he was the least introspective of men.