When Christ and His Saints Slept

9

Nottingham, England

April 1139

High white clouds dappled a sapphire-colored sky, and a brisk wind rippled the tall marsh grass, giving an occasional glimpse of sun-silvered water. As days go, this one was well nigh perfect, Stephen thought, with the best yet to come. The creature perched upon his fist was equally expectant, its hooded gaze turning instinctively toward the sky, talons digging into the leather of his gauntlet. The greyhounds and their handlers were in position by now, downriver. It was time, and Stephen signaled for his men to flush their prey. As they moved in, the reeds parted, there was a flash of grey, and a large crane flew upward, powerful, beating wings taking it into the air over their heads.

Stephen removed the hood without haste, and by the time he cast the gerfalcon off, the crane was well on its way toward the River Trent. The gerfalcon rose higher and higher into the sky, white and sleek and silent, as if racing the clouds rather than the crane. But then, with sudden and terrible speed, it was diving, a deadly streak of light swooping down upon its quarry. They collided in midair, the gerfalcon striking with such force that the larger bird could not break free, and they plummeted together to earth in a flurry of bloodied feathers.

Stephen gave an exultant shout, echoed by the other men, for hawking was a universally shared passion, even though the best birds were reserved for those of high birth. The dogs had been set loose, and were racing toward the struggling crane. Greyhounds were favored for heron hunting, as there was always a danger that a falcon might be injured by so large a bird; cranes and herons were not its natural prey. Stephen waited tensely, his view blocked by the high marsh grass. But then one of the dog handlers rose up, gesturing triumphantly, and Stephen turned back to his companions, saying with a relieved grin:

“All is well. Come, let’s not keep her waiting for her reward.” As he started to dismount, though, his attention was drawn by approaching riders, already within recognition range: the brothers Beaumont, Waleran and Robert and their younger brother Hugh, newly named as Earl of Bedford.

“Were you in time to see the kill? That was Diana, as fine a Greenland falcon as you’ll find on English shores. Did you see her stoop? Faster than any arrow ever launched!”

They had indeed witnessed the gerfalcon’s strike, and were not stinting in their praise. Waleran was unusually well read for a nobleman-many of his rank scorned reading as a clerk’s skill-and he was knowledgeable enough to appreciate the aptness of the gerfalcon’s name. But he was curious as to how Stephen had learned of a pagan goddess of the hunt, well aware that the king neither knew nor cared about the religious beliefs of ancient Rome. When Stephen explained that the gerfalcon had been a gift from his brother the Bishop of Winchester, Waleran laughed aloud, pleased to have solved the puzzle with such ease.

“Mind her well,” he said jovially, “for you’ll be getting no more hawks from that one, not with his hopes as dead as Diana’s crane!”

Stephen did not join in the laughter, for his breach with his brother was no joking matter. But neither did he chide Waleran for his plain speaking, as he’d only said what they all knew-that the bishop had been nursing a mortal grudge since December, when a church synod had elected Theobald, Abbot of Bec, as the new Archbishop of Canterbury.

Dismounting, the Beaumonts followed Stephen and William de Ypres toward the river. By now, it was all over; the crane had been killed, the gerfalcon retrieved, and the greyhounds rewarded. The crane’s heart had been cut out, saved for Stephen, and he was feeding it to Diana when Geoffrey de Mandeville rode up. He at once urged Stephen to fly the gerfalcon again, complaining that his own falcons were already in moult. Stephen had intended to return to the castle, still visible in the distance, for it had been built upon a towering rock of red sandstone high above the meadows of the Rivers Leen and Trent. It was filling rapidly with highborn guests, summoned to attend his Easter court, and he knew he ought to be getting back. But when the Beaumonts added their voices to Mandeville’s, he let himself be persuaded, and they were soon heading downriver in search of fresh prey.

As they rode along, Stephen boasted of the coming festivities. Virtually every peer of the realm would be at Nottingham to witness his ratification of the treaty Matilda had negotiated at Durham with the Scots king’s envoys. She was due to arrive any day now, and bringing with her young Harry, David’s son and heir. The lad was to be treated as an honoured guest, Stephen said, but with a sly smile, for they all knew he was also a valuable hostage, a pledge of his father’s good faith, and when Waleran wondered aloud how Matilda had ever coaxed the Scots king’s consent, Stephen laughed.

“My little bird,” he said proudly, “has begun to try her wings, to fly farther and farther from the nest. It was her own suggestion that she be the one to meet with the Scots. Maude was not David’s only niece, she said, and it was time she reminded him of that. I ask you, Waleran, who could have guessed how much fulfillment she’d get from besieging a castle? Women are truly the most mysterious of the Almighty’s creations, and beyond the puny powers of mortal men to comprehend!”

He laughed again, a soaring sound of pure pleasure, the laughter of a man utterly content with his wife, his hawks, and his world on this mild Thursday in Holy Week.

The Beaumonts did not share Stephen’s admiration for Matilda’s newfound fortitude. They feared few rivals at the king’s court, but they well knew the queen could pose a formidable threat should she begin meddling in matters of statecraft. What did it avail them to have the king’s ear whilst in the hall or on the hunt? As long as Matilda held sway in the royal marriage bed, the last word would always be hers. They were too canny to criticize her directly, though, contenting themselves now with expressing qualms about the Scots treaty. Was there not a risk that men might think the king had been overly generous in its terms?

Stephen was not troubled by their doubts. “I know men will like it not,” he conceded. “The talk in alehouses and taverns would scorch my ears off! And I’ll not deny that I paid a high price for peace with the Scots. But I had no choice, not if I was to avoid fighting two wars at once. How could I hope to drive Maude and Robert Fitz Roy into the sea if all the while, I had to keep watching my back? We know what happens to grain when it is caught between two millstones: it is pounded into grist. So if I must buy David’s millstone, I will, and not begrudge the cost, for that frees me to repel Maude’s invasion, if and when it ever comes.”

“Why do you say that, my liege?” Robert Beaumont asked. “Think you that Maude will lose heart now that her appeal to the Pope has come to naught?”

He sounded so dubious that Stephen had to chuckle. “No, Rob, I do not, however much I’d like to. If I’ve learned nothing else in these past three years, it is that Maude’s stubbornness runs wider and deeper than the River Thames. One of God’s own angels could appear before her in a blaze of light, tell her that it was the Almighty’s Will that she abandon this doomed quest of hers, and she’d not listen. But she is still stranded in Normandy, and that is not likely to change in the foreseeable future. I control all the ports now, save only Bristol, and Robert would never let her attempt a Bristol crossing, for it would be much too dangerous to sail all the way around Cornwall. So let her plot and scheme and lust after my crown to her heart’s content, just as long as she does it from a distance!”

The Beaumonts exchanged speculative glances, in which they silently agreed that Stephen was deluding himself if he truly believed Maude was safely “stranded in Normandy.” But they agreed, too, that there was no reason to dispute his delusions, not today. Waleran guided his stallion closer to Stephen’s handsome roan, saying quietly, “Indeed, I hope you are right, my liege, for we have enemies enough in our midst, scheming not ‘from a distance’ like Maude, but ofttimes in your very presence.”

“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. Jesu 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.”

“Ah, but I do have more news,” Geoffrey said, “news sure to startle.” He paused then, deliberately, to ask Dame Agnes if she might pour him another cupful of wine. “There was a great scandal when Stephen’s council met last month at Oxford. It began with a brawl at the dinner table, ended with Stephen’s chancellor and the Bishops of Salisbury, Lincoln, and Ely in disgrace, arrested as enemies of the Crown.”

Geoffrey got the response he was aiming for: exclamations of shock, giving way almost at once to a barrage of sharp questions. But he was in no hurry to relinquish center stage, and he drew out his account in provocative, provoking detail, telling them how the bishops had been summoned to attend Stephen’s council, how the Earl of Richmond’s men had gotten into a squabble with retainers of Bishop Roger of Salisbury, how swords were drawn, a melee breaking out that left one knight dead and several sorely wounded. Stephen had blamed the bishops, demanded that they surrender their castles, as “pledges of their good faith,” Geoffrey reported, drawling out the phrase with ironic relish.

“If it was the castles Stephen wanted, why were they then arrested?”

“The Bishop of Ely was loath to ‘pledge his faith’ and fled Oxford, taking refuge behind the walls of Devizes Castle. When Stephen followed with an army, Bishop Nigel still refused to yield, even when Stephen threatened to hang his cousin Roger…so much for family fondness. But the old bishop’s concubine could not abide the sight of her son with a hempen rope about his neck, and she prevailed upon the garrison to surrender. Lucky that some women are so tenderhearted, is it not?”

“Stephen must have gone mad,” Robert marveled, “for the Church will never forgive him for this. They insist upon the sole right to punish their own.”

“That seems to have occurred to Stephen, too,” Geoffrey agreed, “for he is claiming that he acted against these men in their capacity as ministers of the Crown, not as shepherds of the Church’s flock. I rather doubt whether that particular hawk will fly, but to give credit where due, it’s a devilishly clever argument.”

“Too clever by half,” Maude said caustically, “all of it. Stephen could no more hatch a scheme like this than he could hatch an egg! I’d wager the whole concoction was brewed up elsewhere and then spoon-fed to Stephen, with enough sweetness added to conceal any sour aftertaste.”

“You do ‘know thine enemy,’ dear heart,” Geoffrey conceded. “The verdict amongst the English echoes yours-that Stephen is not guileful enough to spring a trap like this on his own. Stephen may have fostered this crafty offspring, but it was most likely sired by a Beaumont.”

Geoffrey’s guess hit its target dead-on, and there were knowing nods of agreement. Their resentment of Geoffrey was muted for the moment, and they began feverish speculation as to how they could turn the Oxford events to Maude’s benefit, for they were all sure that Stephen had blundered badly. It was Ranulf who unwittingly fanned the flames again, for the hostility between Maude and Geoffrey never fully died out, and there were always a few smoldering embers waiting to catch fire. The spark this time was a seemingly innocuous question. “When,” Ranulf wondered, “did all of this happen?” And Geoffrey’s casual response, “Midsummer’s Day,” drew murmurs of surprise.

Even Maude was looking at Geoffrey with reluctant respect. “The 24th? And you had word in less than a fortnight? I was not aware, Geoffrey, that you had such reliable English sources of information.”

“Unfortunately, I do not,” he said, favoring her with one of his most disarming smiles. “But you do, dear heart, and I had the good luck to encounter his messenger at the city gates. The man was hesitant at first to yield up his prize, but as you can see”-pulling a letter from his tunic-“I persuaded him to see reason.”

Maude drew a breath sharp enough to hurt. “You took my letter? Who was it from?”

“Who was it from?” he echoed. “Now why cannot I remember the name? Was it Bertram? No…Barnabas? Mayhap Brien?”

“You did not have the right!”

“Of course I did, Maude. I had a husband’s right. If I did not read it, how could I be sure it was not a love letter?”

“Damn you, Geoffrey!” Maude was white with fury, her hands knotted against her skirt, clenched into fists to stop herself from snatching at the letter, for she knew he’d just jerk it away, and she would not give him that much satisfaction. She’d not let him strip her of her dignity, too. For the same reason, she dared not demand the letter. He’d only refuse, and what could she do then? For God rot him, but he did have the right, and not even her brothers would deny it.

Her brothers did indeed believe that a man had the right to read his wife’s mail, for she-and all she owned-was his. But that was theoretical, a belief easy to argue in the abstract. In the raw reality of Argentan’s hall, Ranulf found that he could not stomach it, and he took a threatening step toward his sister’s husband. “Give her the letter-now.”

It was a reckless, foolhardy thing to do, and Maude loved him for it. But Geoffrey reacted as she’d known he would, smiling coldly and saying, “I think not.” Rainald was on his feet now, too, for if there was going to be bloodshed, he meant to make sure it was Geoffrey’s rather than Ranulf’s. Robert was already in motion, though, reaching out and grasping Ranulf’s arm.

“Think, lad, what you may be starting,” he cautioned.

“It is easy enough to stop. He needs only to turn over her letter,” Ranulf retorted, and Robert found himself staring at his youngest brother in dismay, suddenly seeing not a malleable youth but a man grown, a man who was not going to back down.

Rapidly reassessing, Robert decided to gamble upon a show of unity. “You’ve read the letter, Geoffrey,” he pointed out, “so you have no reason to hold on to it. Why not give it to Maude?”

Geoffrey was no longer smiling. “Because,” he said, “I choose not to.”

Maude alone was not surprised by his refusal. Ranulf pulled free of Robert’s grip, not yet sure what he was going to do, but determined to get Maude’s letter, one way or another.

Amabel had jumped to her feet, hissing at Maude, “Stop this whilst you still can!” And as if coming to her senses, Maude did stretch out her arm, seeking to catch Ranulf’s sleeve. But the one who stopped it was the one they’d all forgotten, Maude and Geoffrey’s six-year-old son.

Henry had been playing with the puppies, oblivious at first to the angry adult voices; his was a household in which raised voices were the norm. But his mother’s choked cry of “Damn you, Geoffrey!” jerked his head up, set his heart to pounding. He did not understand what was wrong, but the fury in the room was frightening. He’d often heard his parents quarrel, and hated their quarrels, sometimes even hated them, too, for the way their quarreling made him feel-as if he was lost, surrounded by strangers, with no familiar landmarks to guide him home.

This time their fighting was worse than usual, for his uncle Ranulf and his uncle Robert were caught up in it, too, all of them against his father. It was not fair, and he wanted to go to his father, to let Papa know he was not alone. But he could not, for then he’d be hurting Mama. When he could endure the conflicting urges no longer, he snatched up the fire tongs and began to jab furiously at the logs burning in the hearth. The flames shot upward, and embers and sparks were soon flying about, beginning to smolder in the floor rushes. The heat was hot on his face and his eyes were stinging, but he kept on thrusting into the fire, again and again, not even hearing his name, not at first.

“Henry! Henry, stop it!” His mother’s voice sounded scared to him, muffled and scratchy. But he shook his head, continued to prod the flames, sending up another shower of cinders. His eyes were blurring and he blinked hard. When he looked up again, they were clustered around the hearth, Mama and Papa and Uncle Ranulf and Uncle Robert and Aunt Amabel, and they were all talking at once, urging him away from the fire. Instead, he moved even closer, glaring at them, biting down on his lower lip as it started to quiver. Jabbing with the fire tongs, he dislodged a burning brand, and his mother cried out as it whizzed by his cheek, thudding into the floor rushes in a sizzle of sparks.

They were demanding that he get away from the hearth, but they made no move to grab him, and he knew why. They were afraid he’d struggle and get burned. He was already closer than he wanted to be, for his skin felt scorched, and he could smell something burning…the floor rushes! But Aunt Amabel had seen it, too, was pouring wine into the smoking reeds. That was clever. His father was telling him to put down the fire tongs, and he wanted to, he truly did. But all he could do was shake his head again, mutely, gulping back tears. And then Uncle Ranulf was kneeling so their eyes were level, telling him about the puppies.

“Lad, you’re scaring them. They fear fire. Look at them, see for yourself.”

Henry glanced over at the puppies, cowering down by their mother, whimpering, and then let the fire tongs clatter to the floor. A moment later, he was caught up in his mother’s arms. He wasn’t sure if she was going to hit him or hug him, and she may not have been sure, either, but then she embraced him tightly, until he had to squirm to breathe. He knew he was going to be severely punished, for he’d done something dangerous and then defied them, not sins adults were likely to forgive.

But once he’d nerved himself to look up into their faces, Henry realized, with a jolt of bewildered relief, that there would be no punishment, after all. His father was mussing his hair, saying he was well roasted by now, ready for carving. He smiled at that, for Papa liked him to laugh at his jokes. But it did not seem funny to him, none of it, not even when Aunt Amabel doused the fire with wine. A silence had fallen, and he shifted uneasily, fearful that they might start fighting again. He saw, then, that they were watching his father, for he’d turned away to retrieve a letter, dropped into the floor rushes.

No one moved. All eyes followed Geoffrey on his way back to the hearth, where he held out the letter to his son. “Here, lad,” he said, “give this to your mother.”

The hall was still and shadowed, like an empty stage. Henry had gotten a parental escort up to bed, for Geoffrey had surprised the men and earned himself a bit of credit with Amabel by promising his son a bedtime tale about a ravening pack of killer dyrehunds. Amabel had dismissed her wide-eyed, spellbound ladies, knowing full well they’d soon set the entire castle abuzz with embellished accounts of all they’d witnessed this night. Now she sat with Robert and his brothers around the hearth, finishing up the wine in a morose silence.

“I hope you realize that you only made a bad situation worse, Ranulf.”

Robert was frowning, but it did not have the desired effect; Ranulf remained noticeably unrepentant. “I’m sorry about the part I played in scaring the little lad. But for the rest, no. Why should I be sorry for speaking up for my sister? We ought to have done it sooner, Robert, for as long as we keep silent, he’ll keep on maltreating her.”

“You mean well, Ranulf, but you’ve much still to learn. No man is going to take it well if you seek to meddle in his marriage. What do you gain by angering Geoffrey? He’ll just turn that anger onto Maude, and there is little you can do about it, for you can act as her champion in the great hall, but not in the bedchamber.”

Ranulf nearly spilled his wine. “If he hurts her, I swear to Christ that I-”

“What?” Robert asked impatiently. “What could you do? Kill him?”

“Not so fast,” Rainald protested. “Why does Ranulf get to do it? What about me? At the very least, we ought to dice for the chance!”

“This is no joking matter, Rainald!”

Rainald gave a mock sigh. “There is nothing under God’s sky that cannot be joked about, Robert. How is it that you reached such a respectable age without learning that? Look, we all agree that Geoffrey had the right to read Maude’s letter. But did he also have the right to taunt her with it? I agree with the lad. She deserves better than she gets from him, and I for one am heartily sick of it.”

“What would you have me say, Rainald? I do not deny that Maude is miserable in her marriage. But antagonizing Geoffrey does her no service. Bluntly put, we need him. Until we can find a safe English port, Normandy is the battlefield for our war, and we cannot hope to win it without Geoffrey’s support. So the next time you two get the urge to make Maude a widow, bear in mind that your gallantry might cost her a crown.”

That silenced both Ranulf and Rainald, at least for the moment, and Amabel seized the opportunity to bolster Robert’s argument. “You’ll not like what I have to say; I’d have you hear me out, nonetheless. I am not defending Geoffrey, but Maude is not blameless, either. She puts me in mind of a woman who salts a well and then complains when the water is not fit to drink. A few smiles and some honeyed words might work wonders in that marriage!”

Ranulf was already shaking his head in sharp disagreement. “What I most admire about Maude is her lack of pretense. Her ship never flies under false colors. She is honest even if it hurts her, and that is a rare trait, indeed.”

Amabel was not won over. “A blade that cannot bend will eventually break, my lad. All I am saying is that women have no easy time of it in this world, and a woman who scorns to use the only weapons at her command makes her life more difficult than it needs be.”

Now it was Robert’s turn to shake his head. “I doubt that smiles or flattery could redeem Maude’s marriage, Amabel. Geoffrey does not strike me as a man who could be coaxed against his will, no more than I could-”

Amabel’s grin stopped him in midsentence, and he seemed so genuinely perplexed that Ranulf and Rainald could not help laughing, laughter that was cut off abruptly by Geoffrey and Maude’s return to the hall.

They all tensed, but soon saw the crisis was over; Geoffrey and Maude’s anger had burned itself out. They looked tired and subdued and, to Amabel’s critical eye, somewhat ashamed of themselves. She’d have liked to believe that the lesson would take, but she thought it more likely that they’d just blame each other all the more; she’d never known two people so unwilling or unable to learn from their mistakes. Aloud, she asked about Henry, wanting to know if he slept.

“For now,” Maude said, “but I’ll look in upon him later. Robert”-avoiding Geoffrey’s eye, she held out Brien Fitz Count’s letter-“I’d like you to read this.”

Geoffrey crossed to the table, where he poured the last of the wine into two cups, giving one to Maude. Robert passed on the letter to his brothers, and they read it together. The tension was back in the hall, feeding upon silent echoes, all that must be left unsaid.

Robert was studying his sister, troubled by her pallor. There was a brittle edge to her beauty, shadows lying like bruises under her eyes and in the corners of her mouth, and it occurred to him that shadows lay deep, too, in the corners of her life-a thought that startled him, for it seemed much too fanciful to have been his. He could not banish her shadows, but there was something he could offer, a need he could fill. He could give her hope, and he said forcefully:

“I’m much heartened by Brien’s letter. It is indeed as Scriptures say, ‘I was wounded in the house of my friends.’ Of course the Beaumonts cannot take all the blame for Stephen’s folly; he chose to heed them of his own free will. He has made more than his share of mistakes since seizing your throne, Maude, but this breach with the Church might well be the fatal one. We’ll be able to sow dissension with ease, and God Willing, we’ll reap enough support to harvest a crown.”

That was bold talk for Robert, a man who measured his words with such scrupulous care that he could put a lawyer to shame, and Maude gave him a grateful smile; tonight of all nights, that was what she needed to hear. Ranulf and Rainald were chiming in with eager assurances of their own. But Geoffrey’s voice cut through their confidence with knifelike clarity.

“Are you not putting the cart before the horse?”

Maude’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine cup. “What do you mean by that, Geoffrey?” she asked warily, and he shrugged.

“You may well be right about the seriousness of Stephen’s blunder. But even if he has set chaos loose upon his land, how does it benefit you? Unless you find a way to cross the Channel, Stephen’s government can be unraveling like a ball of yarn and it will avail you naught.”

They were all glowering at him, but for once Geoffrey’s tone was free of mockery. As hard as it was to give him the benefit of any doubt, it did seem as if he’d not meant to be malicious this time. He was right, of course, too, for nothing could be done until they broke Stephen’s stranglehold upon the English ports. They could not, in fairness, fault him merely for speaking the truth, however unpalatable or ill-timed. And so they held their peace, and as always, Maude thought wearily, Geoffrey got the last word.

ON a sunlit Friday four weeks later, Ranulf led his horse from the stables. He was about to swing up into the saddle when his eye was drawn to a blaze of vivid red color. Maude might scorn embroidery and needlework, but she did enjoy gardening, and her roses were in spectacular scarlet bloom. Detouring across the bailey, Ranulf hitched his stallion and set about helping himself to some of his sister’s damask roses. He picked only a few, though, before the screaming started.

Two small boys were rolling about in the dirt near the stable door. By the time Ranulf reached them, Henry looked to be the winner, straddling Geoffrey while his brother kicked and screeched. Grabbing his tunic, Ranulf yanked Henry to his feet, and then caught Geoffrey before he could flee. “Enough! What is this squabbling about?”

“He stole my sword,” Henry panted, “and then broke it!”

“I did not!” Geoffrey was just as breathless and just as indignant. “It was mine!”

The disputed sword lay a few feet away, its wooden blade snapped off near the hilt. One glance was all Ranulf needed to give his verdict. “That was not your sword, Geoffrey,” he said, with such conclusive certainty that his nephew stared up at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed.

“How…how did you know?”

Ranulf concealed a smile. “Because,” he said gravely, “I made that sword myself, and gave it to your brother on his birthday last March. So you owe Henry an apology. Go on, tell him you are sorry.”

Geoffrey mumbled a “Sorry” that did not sound very convincing, but it seemed to satisfy Henry, and Ranulf sent them off to play again with a promise to make wooden swords for them both. Henry came running back a moment later, though. “Uncle Ranulf…will you make my sword bigger?”

“Well…” Ranulf pretended to ponder the request, but Henry caught the glint in his eye, and they grinned at each other. The boy spun around then, to chase after Geoffrey, and Ranulf, laughing softly to himself, headed back to retrieve his horse and his roses.

He did not need to go far. Gilbert Fitz John was coming toward him, leading the stallion and carrying the flowers. “So…did you get the lads to make their peace?”

“At least until supper.”

Gilbert laughed, playfully jerking the flowers out of Ranulf’s reach. “What is your hurry? And why the roses? Ah…you’re going courting again! The goldsmith’s daughter?”

“Who else? Lora sent me word that her father left this morning to deliver a chalice to the monks at St Martin’s. Since he’ll not be back to Argentan till late, I thought I ought to stop by, keep her from getting lonely.”

“How good-hearted of you! Will that be after you visit with the widows and orphans?”

Ranulf laughed, jabbed Gilbert in the ribs, and snatched back his flowers. But as he reached for the reins, Gilbert put a restraining hand upon his arm.

“Ranulf, wait. I’ve a letter that you’ll want to see-from Ancel.”

They’d not heard from Ancel in almost two years, not since his return to England, and as soon as Gilbert produced the letter, Ranulf grabbed for it eagerly. Gilbert was explaining that Ancel had found a man going on pilgrimage to the Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela, and he’d persuaded the man to stop at Argentan. “I promised him a seat at supper in the great hall and a bed for the night. But what he really wants is to talk with you, Ranulf. That was how Ancel coaxed him into taking the letter, offering him a chance to meet a king’s son-even one born on the wrong side of the blanket!”

But Gilbert’s banter was wasted, for Ranulf was no longer listening. After rapidly scanning the letter, and not finding what he sought, he turned aside, swearing softly.

“Ranulf?” Gilbert followed, puzzled. “What is amiss?” And then he understood. “Annora? Good God, Ranulf, is that wound still sore?”

“No,” Ranulf said curtly, “it is not. But I still have a fondness for her, wish her well. Why should that surprise you? I simply wanted to know if she is content, and if Ancel ever used the brains God gave him, he’d have understood that! But no, nary a word about her-”

“What did you want him to tell you? That her husband dotes on her and she goes about her days singing? Or that she has grown thin and wan and weeps in secret?”

Ranulf whirled, eyes narrowed to glittering slits. “I said I wanted only to know if she was well!”

“If she were ailing, Ancel would have told you. But her happiness is no longer your concern. She is a married woman, and by now, it’s likely she has a babe in the cradle and another on the way-”

“I know full well that Annora is another man’s wife, do not need to have you throw it in my face!”

Gilbert was not perturbed by Ranulf’s anger, for he knew his friend’s rages were fast-burning and soon over, sooner forgotten. What troubled him was the reason for Ranulf’s flare of temper. He’d truly believed that Ranulf’s feelings for Annora were-like Annora herself-part of his past. “I am sorry about the sermon, Ranulf. I guess I’ve been spending too much time with my cousin the priest.”

“Indeed you have,” Ranulf agreed coolly, although the corners of his mouth were quirking. “But what I cannot understand, Gib, is why I’m still here with you when I could be in Master Jehan’s house with Lora.” And Gilbert grinned, stepped back, and waved him on.

Ranulf had gotten no farther than the gatehouse when he heard his name being shouted behind him. He reined in, then sent his stallion cantering back toward Gilbert. “What now?”

“Lady Maude and Lord Robert…they want you to come back straightaway!” Gilbert was gasping for breath; he’d sprinted all the way across the inner and outer baileys so he could catch Ranulf in time. “A courier came for her soon after that pilgrim brought Ancel’s letter. I heard men say he bore a message from your father’s queen. Her news…it must be very good or truly terrible, Ranulf, if Lady Maude is so intent upon finding you!”

Maude had never found many friends among her own sex, but the Lady Adeliza was the exception. She and Maude had taken to each other from the moment of Maude’s forced return from Germany. Not so surprising, perhaps, for they shared much in common. Adeliza was German by birth, Maude by choice. They were the same age, a young queen in a land not her own, a young widow no longer at home in England, and both childless, although that would change, Maude bearing Geoffrey the sons she’d not borne for the emperor, and Adeliza-whose barren marriage had altered so many lives, especially Maude’s-now in her second year with a new husband and said to be great with child. But if their circumstances had radically changed over the years, the bond between the two women had held fast, and Ranulf, ever the optimist, had no trouble convincing himself that Adeliza’s news was good.

Gesturing for Gilbert to mount behind him, Ranulf headed back toward the inner bailey. Maude and Robert were too impatient to wait for him within the castle keep, and were on the outer stairs. As soon as Ranulf’s horse came into view, Maude lifted her skirts and ran lightly down to him, calling out his name.

Ranulf flung himself from the saddle. “No one,” he said, “is ever in such a tearing hurry to share bad news. So we must have reason for rejoicing?”

“Indeed we do! Adeliza has offered us a safe landing in the south of England.”

Ranulf gasped. “At Arundel? She’d truly do that for you? Jesu, Maude, Arundel Castle is almost as formidable as Bristol!”

“Stephen thinks he has locked us out of England, but now we have the key. No more waiting, Ranulf-the time has finally come to reclaim my stolen crown!”

A sudden high-pitched yell floated across the bailey, a sound rarely heard off the hunting field. Rainald was standing in the doorway of the keep, cupping his hands to shout, “Get in here, Ranulf, so we can start to celebrate in earnest!”

Ranulf was too busy hugging his sister to pay Rainald any heed. By the time Maude broke free, laughing and breathless, Robert had reached them, with Amabel close behind. Rainald ducked back into the keep, reemerged brandishing a wine flagon. “If you’re all so set upon holding the festivities out in the bailey, at least I can provide fuel for the fire!”

After that, it got very chaotic for a time. Ranulf was kissed by Maude and Amabel, shared smiles with Robert, had wine spilled on him by Rainald, and was knocked to the ground by his dyrehunds, who’d bolted from the great hall at their first opportunity. Midst much laughter, Ranulf was helped to his feet and dusted off. It occurred to him that he ought to send Lora a message, not wanting her to worry when he failed to appear, and he glanced about for Gilbert. But then Maude drove all thoughts of the goldsmith’s daughter from his head, for she was saying with a fond smile:

“We have so much to do and not enough time. But this I vow to you, Ranulf-ere we sail for England, I will see to it that you are knighted.”

“Maude…thank you,” Ranulf stammered, at a rare loss for words, and they all laughed again. Maude happened then to notice Robert’s squire, standing a few feet away, still holding the reins of Ranulf’s horse.

“You, too, Gilbert. I’ll have Geoffrey knight you both,” she promised impulsively, and Gilbert’s fair skin flushed as red as his hair. He was even more thrilled than Ranulf, for Ranulf had never doubted that knighthood would eventually be his. But for Gilbert, a younger son with no prospects of inheriting his family’s manor, it had been far more problematic.

“How can I ever thank you?” he blurted out, and then found a way when he added, “my lady queen,” for Maude would remember that she’d been recognized for the first time as England’s sovereign on an August afternoon in the inner bailey of Argentan Castle.

Eventually they headed indoors, at Rainald’s prodding, for he’d run out of wine. Robert and Amabel had begun to argue, low-voiced but intently, after she’d announced her intention to sail with him back to England. Ranulf and Gilbert were eager to tell their fellow squires of the honour soon to be bestowed upon them, and Maude had plans to make, letters to write, a triumph to savor. But as she turned to follow the others, she felt a sudden tug upon her skirt, and found herself looking down into the anxious face of her eldest son.

Henry had been drawn from the stables by the commotion out in the bailey. He’d kept silent, careful not to attract attention to himself, and he’d listened. But now he could wait no longer for answers, and he yanked again on his mother’s skirt. “Mama? Are you going to England, to this…this Arundel?”

“Yes, Henry, I am,” she said, and he grinned, for he loved to travel and he was especially eager to make his first sea voyage.

“When will we go, Mama? Soon?”

Maude knelt, heedless of her skirts, and put her hands on his shoulders. “I am sorry, lad, but you cannot come. It would be too dangerous. As much as I would love to have you with me, I cannot put your safety at risk.”

Henry’s breath stopped, disappointment warring with disbelief. His father was often gone. As much as he missed Papa, he’d learned to accept it, that Papa came and went as unpredictably as the stable cat he’d befriended when Mama had first brought him to live at Argentan. Fathers and cats were like that, not reliable like dogs. Or mothers, for Mama had always been there, and when she did go away, it was never for long. He knew better, though, than to beg. He could wheedle his way with his father most of the time, with his mother some of the time-but never when she used this tone of voice, very serious and yet patient, too, how he imagined God would talk, if ever He talked to mortal men. He bit his lip, stared down at the ground, and then raised his eyes to meet hers.

“If it is too dangerous for me,” he said, “what about you, Mama? How will you be safe?”

Maude had so often prided herself on his precocity, gloried in her firstborn’s quickness, his obvious intelligence. But not now; now she’d have welcomed childish incomprehension, anything but those direct grey eyes, fixed unwaveringly upon her face. “Yes…there will be some danger. But your uncles will be with me, and they’ll keep me safe.”

Henry wanted to ask why they could not keep him safe, too, but she was still using her God voice, and he didn’t dare. “How long will you be gone, Mama?”

That was the question Maude had been dreading. She could not bring herself to lie to him, though, for she believed strongly that her children deserved the truth. But never had the truth been so sure to hurt. “I wish I could tell you that I’d soon be able to send for you, Henry. God knows I would have it so. But I can make you no promises, for I do not know how long it will take to win my war. I just do not know.”

For Henry, it was like the time his brother Geoffrey jabbed him with a broom handle-a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach, slowly easing to a dull ache, and even after the pain went away, he still felt so hollow that it hurt.

His mother’s hands had tightened on his shoulders. “Ah, Henry, do not look like that! Your father will take good care of you, and you’ll have your brothers for company and your tutor and your new puppy…” Maude forced a smile. “And when we are together again, I’ll be wearing upon my head a gilded crown, a crown that will one day be yours, lad. You must remember that whenever you feel sad, remember that shining, golden crown.”

Henry said nothing. His eyes had darkened, and a few freckles stood out across the bridge of his nose. Maude got slowly to her feet, brushed dirt from her skirts. Her name was echoing again on the wind. First Rainald and then Ranulf had appeared in the doorway of the great hall, urging her not to tarry. Now it was Robert, admonishing her to make haste, reminding her of “all that must be done and done yesterday if we hope to sail ere winter weather sets in.”

“We’ll talk later, Henry, I promise,” she said, and bent down, kissing him quickly on the cheek. She glanced back once, just before reaching the hall. Henry had not moved. Shoulders hunched forward, so pale that her lip-rouge marked his skin like a brand, he was such a forlorn little figure that Maude dared not let herself look back again.