When Christ and His Saints Slept

12

Westminster, England

December 1140

Goffrey’s cynical assessment of English affairs was more accurate than he knew. Even as he predicted coming chaos, the Earl of Chester was plotting a royal murder.

Chester had not forgiven Stephen for bestowing upon Harry of Scotland the disputed Honour of Carlisle. When the Scots king’s son took as his wife a half-sister of the detested Beaumonts, Chester’s fury reached the flash point. He’d never been one to bother about consequences, and he had no fear whatsoever of the king’s wrath-not this king-for Stephen had repeatedly shown himself to be a believer in second chances, even third, fourth, and fifth chances. Once he made up his mind to take action, Chester turned to the only man he truly trusted, his half-brother, William de Roumare.

William de Roumare was nine years older than Chester, and of a less volatile temperament. He was famed not so much for his own accomplishments as for his fortuitous dockside decision not to sail on the White Ship. Although he was ambitious, even his ambition seemed a pale echo of Chester’s ravenous hunger for power and prestige. The two brothers were very close, but there was no doubt who dominated, and William de Roumare became a willing accomplice to Chester’s vengeful scheme.

Their plan, as reckless as it was ruthless, was to ambush Harry of Scotland and his Beaumont bride as they made their way home from a Michaelmas visit to Stephen’s court. Fortunately for the Scots prince, one of their conspirators had a weakness for wine, and did some rash bragging to a bought bedmate. The young woman was shrewd enough to realize both the value and the danger in such information, and she wasted no time confiding her perilous, prized secret to the most trustworthy of Stephen’s inner circle, his queen. Matilda was appalled, but acted swiftly to frustrate Chester’s murderous intent, persuading Stephen to provide Prince Harry and Adeline de Warenne with a royal escort all the way to the Scots border.

They were then faced with a Draconian dilemma: what to do about the Earl of Chester. There was no easy answer, for this would-be assassin was also the most powerful lord of the realm. As furious as Stephen was with Chester’s treachery, he and Matilda reluctantly concluded that there was no way to punish him for it. The crime had been thwarted, evidence was lacking, and who’d take the word of a drunken hireling over his highborn lord? An earl might be charged with rebellion, but a felony? No, they’d have to find another way to deal with this overmighty, unscrupulous subject, however little they liked it.

Resorting to the tactic that had become a habit by now, Stephen sought to buy Chester’s loyalty. At the time of the old king’s death, there had been no more than seven earls in his domains. In the five years since Stephen had claimed the crown, though, he’d bestowed no less than sixteen new earldoms. Four had gone to the Beaumonts and their kin; in the past year alone, he had created six new earls. Adding a seventh to that list, he conferred upon William de Roumare the earldom of Lincoln.

He then returned to London, confident that he’d outbid Maude and the brothers were his, but with a sour taste in his mouth, withal. He had yet to learn that for some men, “more” is never “enough.” Instead of rejoicing in their new family earldom, Chester and his brother fumed, for Stephen had not included the royal castle of Lincoln in his grudging grant. And as their king rode south, they began to lay plans to remedy his omission.

Christmas Eve revelries at Westminster were lavish that year-deliberately so, as if rich fare and dramatic spectacle could somehow validate Stephen’s contested kingship, as if roast goose and spiced red wine and a baker’s dozen of minstrels could make people forget the burning of Worcester, the sacking of Nottingham, the newly dug graves, and the uncertain tomorrows that lay ahead. The great hall of William Rufus had been adorned with so much greenery that it resembled the forest in which Rufus had met his death, decorated with evergreen boughs and holly and beribboned sprigs of mistletoe. The meal had been so bountiful that the leftover goose and venison and bread and eel scraped from the trenchers would feed Christ’s poor for days to come. The entertainment was equally extravagant: a woman rope dancer, a daredevil who juggled daggers, a Nativity play that offered not only the requisite shepherds and Magi but even a few sheep as props. Then the last of the trestle tables were cleared away and the dancing began, the irresistible, exuberant music of everyone’s favorite, the carol.

Matilda danced so many carols that she began to get dizzy, and when the circle started to form for the next one, she begged off, moving to the sidelines to catch her breath. She had no need for center stage, would have been quite content to watch her husband have fun. But she was still keeping an eye upon her son and his bride; Eustace and Constance had been given permission to attend the evening revelries, although it was well past their bedtime hour. Constance had withdrawn to a cushioned window seat, Eustace had followed, and only Matilda saw what happened next, saw Eustace deliberately pour his cider down the front of Constance’s gown.

Constance gave a scream, quickly choked off, and began to brush ineffectually at the spreading stain. Eustace laughed, then turned to saunter innocently away. Before he could make his escape, though, his mother was there, with a napkin for Constance and a low-voiced but stinging rebuke for him. He flushed, insisting it had been an accident, that Constance had jogged his arm. But Matilda was not mollified. Sounding like the queen and not at all like his mother, she said coldly, “Do not make your misdeed worse by lying about it, Eustace. When the carol ends, go to your lord father and ask if you may withdraw. Then go to your bedchamber straightaway, and if you wake Will, you’ll have reason to rue it.”

Eustace started to argue, but then thought better of it. He was not a stupid child, and he well knew which of his parents could be gotten around, which one could not. Giving Constance a baleful glance that promised future retribution, he stalked off to do as his mother bade, and Matilda turned her efforts to comforting her daughter-in-law.

Constance was the older of the two children, eleven to Eustace’s ten, although none would have guessed it by appearance, for Eustace was a swaggering, handsome boy, as yellow-haired and bold as a Viking, tall for his age, and Constance’s fairness was ethereal, even fey. She had the flaxen hair and blue eyes and shy nature of her elder brother the French king. Like Louis, she yearned for approval, and like Louis, she could be surprisingly stubborn. But most of the time she was quite biddable, eager to do what was expected of her, fearful of disappointing…fearful, too, of Eustace.

They had been betrothed that past February, wed on the last Sunday before Advent. Constance would be raised at the English court, learning the customs and ways of her new homeland, and when she and Eustace were of an age to consummate their marriage, they would share a bed. It was a common arrangement, but Matilda was already uneasy, sensing that they were poorly matched, this little French fawn and her wolf-cub son.

It was not easy to admit, for Eustace was her flesh and blood and she did love him. For some time, though, she had been troubled by what she was seeing in her son. He had known how Constance had looked forward to this evening-a chance to attend the Christmas fete, to sit at the high table and take part in the carol and wear a grown-up gown of moss-green silk. In spoiling her pleasure, Eustace had been playing no mere prank; it was a meanspirited act, the act of a bully.

Matilda had tried at first to find mitigation for her son’s misbehavior, tried to convince herself that she was exaggerating the significance of his petty sins, sins common to all boys of spirit. But once her eyes were opened, she saw shadows at every turn. Her younger son had too many bruises; no child fell down that often. Four-year-old Mary had begun to shrink back whenever Eustace was nearby. Her own spaniel would not approach the boy, and Stephen’s favorite greyhound was equally wary. There was an awkward incident involving a one-legged beggar who claimed Eustace had stolen his crutch, an accusation he’d hastily retracted upon learning the boy’s identity. And then there was the day when Eustace was seen flinging a cat from an upper-story window. He’d been quite forthright when confronted, admitted the deed freely, explaining he wanted to see if the cat would land on its feet, as folklore held. But Matilda had been unable to repress a queasy suspicion that he’d hoped to see the cat splatter upon the hard ground below.

She did not want to bother Stephen; he had enough on his trencher as it was. After the cat episode, though, she felt she had no choice. Stephen hadn’t liked what he heard, and he’d given Eustace a stern lecture about the obligations of the highborn, the need to protect those too weak to protect themselves, the duties imposed by chivalry and Christianity, duties which no king’s son could shirk. Afterward, he’d assured Matilda that the lad was quite attentive and whilst denying any wrongdoing, promised to make them proud of him. Boys that age ofttimes went astray, it was to be expected, but they outgrew it, for certes he had.

Matilda very much wanted to believe him, but she could never imagine Stephen-no matter how young-tormenting small children or dumb animals. She no longer shared Stephen’s implicit faith that all would always turn out for the best, and she could not help asking unsettling questions. What if Eustace did not outgrow it? What sort of king would he make? What sort of husband?

She’d engaged a new nurse for her children, one who understood that her duties included a discreet surveillance. But Constance was another matter. If her suspicions about Eustace were correct, the girl’s marriage would be a wretched one. She’d become very fond of Constance, and it distressed her enormously to think of her vulnerable daughter-in-law wed to a brutal husband, and he her own son. Pray God she was wrong, that they had not done Constance a terrible injustice, for she did not believe a crown compensated for all of life’s maladies. She would have to teach the lass to speak up for herself, to show more backbone. A pity the child had not come under the sway of her brother’s wife, for no one would ever call Eleanor of Aquitaine docile or sweetly submissive.

Matilda had to smile at the very thought; during her stay in Paris, she’d been somewhat shocked by Eleanor’s outspokenness, while envying it, too. She’d had to take a much more active part in Stephen’s fight to save his crown than she’d ever envisioned, and she was proud of her accomplishments on Stephen’s behalf, but it was neither easy nor natural for her to play such a role, not as it was for Eleanor.

She could not leave the hall herself, and she looked over her guests until her gaze finally settled upon Robert Beaumont’s daughter Isabel, the Earl of Northampton’s countess. A wife at thirteen, a mother at fifteen, she’d surely sympathize with Constance’s discomfort, and when Matilda beckoned her over, she volunteered at once to assist the child in sponging off her gown, salvaging the remainder of the evening. Watching as Isabel gently steered Constance across the crowded hall, Matilda vowed to have another long, frank talk with her son, one he would not enjoy.

Matilda wanted suddenly to be with her husband. For a few hours, she was not going to fret about Eustace or Constance or Maude or that vile hellspawn Chester. For a few hours, she was going to focus upon Stephen and only Stephen, hoping that his high spirits would be contagious.

But Stephen would have to wait, for one of her guests was bearing down upon her, clearly intent upon interception. She guessed him to be about her own age, midthirties, and her initial impression was of a lord both pleasant and prosperous. While his tunic was not cut in the latest fashion, it was finely stitched and of good-quality wool, and his shoes had silver buckles. He looked like a man who smiled easily and often. He also looked familiar, but his name eluded her. He was shepherding a woman, a slim, dark creature not much taller than Matilda herself, and quite young. Had her hair been loose and her feet bare, she would have looked right at home in a gypsy encampment. She did not look at home at Westminster, and Matilda’s heart warmed toward her, as it did toward all of life’s misfits and orphans and lost lambs.

As they reached her, the man’s name bobbed up from the depths of her memory, just in time for her to say with a smile, “Sir Gervase, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Her memory’s reprieve won her a lifelong champion. He beamed, so flattered to be remembered by the queen that it was a moment before he recollected himself. “Madame, may I present my wife, Annora?”

The girl curtsied hastily, murmuring a conventional response, then raised her lashes to reveal brilliant black eyes. “The little lass…was that the Lady Constance?” It was soon apparent to Matilda that Constance was merely a conversational bridge, meant to get Annora Fitz Clement where she wanted to go-across the Channel to the French court, home of Constance’s celebrated sister-in-law. “You met the French queen, my lady. Is she as fair as men claim? I heard that she does just as she pleases, says whatever is on her mind, and yet the French king dotes on her every whim! Can that be true?”

Matilda stifled a laugh, amused both by Annora’s candor and the faintly wistful tone. She tried then to think of a diplomatic way to deflect Annora’s curiosity, but Annora’s husband was quicker.

“You cannot ask questions like that, lass. Queens do not gossip.” His laugh was indulgent, his rebuke kindly meant, but Matilda saw it was not kindly taken; color had flared in the girl’s face and the corners of her mouth drooped.

“Well…in truth, Sir Gervase, queens fancy gossip, too. For certes, I do,” Matilda lied cheerfully. “Queen Eleanor is indeed a beauty, with green-gold cat eyes and a cat’s elegant grace. She has a cat’s confidence, too, and I suspect that would be true whether she wore a crown or not. She is lively and quick-witted and strong-willed and worldly, but very young, withal, only eighteen or thereabouts,” Matilda concluded, satisfied that she’d given Annora an intimate glimpse of the French queen she so admired and envied, but without saying anything hurtful or too revealing.

There was still so much Annora yearned to know about the French queen, questions she could never have asked in front of her husband, for she had convinced herself that Eleanor would have been willing to brave scandal for a lover’s sake. She needed to believe that not all the women in her world had their wings clipped; surely there must be a few still able to soar up into the sky, untamed and fearless and free. She smiled at Matilda, torn between gratitude and guilt. Why did Stephen’s queen have to be so likable? Pray God she’d somehow survive Stephen’s fall.

It was the sudden break in the music that caught their attention. The carol had not ended; it just stopped in midnote. Heads were turning toward the door, where several of Stephen’s guards were scuffling with a very determined intruder. Even as they dragged him away, he was shouting that it was life or death, he must see the king.

Whether it was due to courtesy or curiosity, Stephen was almost always willing to hear a man out. “Let him approach,” he commanded, and a path cleared among the dancers.

The man was exhausted, staggering with fatigue. When he sank to his knees before Stephen, it seemed more an act of physical prostration than one of protocol. “I’ve ridden from Lincoln, my liege, and in four days’ time, too, God smite me if I lie. I come at the behest of Sir Robert de la Haye, your castellan. I bear, too, a letter from His Grace, the Bishop of Lincoln, and a third plea from the townspeople…”

He faltered then, and Stephen said quickly, “Wine for this man.” It was more than one hundred thirty miles to London. No man would race the Devil over winter-ravaged roads unless it truly was “life or death.” Stephen waited impatiently until the man had gulped down a cupful of sweet wine, spilling as much as he swallowed. “Tell me,” he demanded. “What evil has overtaken Lincoln?”

“The Earl of Chester and his brother, the new Earl of Lincoln…they have betrayed you, my liege. On Thursday last, they seized control of Lincoln Castle.”

There were audible gasps from those listening. “That cannot be,” Stephen said incredulously. “The castle could never be taken in just a day!”

“They did not assault it like honest men, my lord king. They took it by guile and perfidy. The men of Lincoln were to play camp-ball with a neighboring town, and the castellan agreed to let most of the garrison take part in the game, the honour of Lincoln being at stake. So there were only a few guards at the castle when the Countess of Chester and the Countess of Lincoln came to pay a call upon Lady Muriel, the castellan’s wife. A short while thereafter, the Earl of Chester arrived to escort the ladies back to their lodging, but none suspected evildoing, for he wore no sword and had just three men with him. Once they were admitted into the castle, though, they seized weapons belonging to the garrison and attacked the sentries. One of their men then rushed to open the postern gate, letting in William de Roumare and the rest of their cohort. By the time word got out into the town, it was too late, for the deed was done.”

Withdrawing several sealed parchments from the pouch at his belt, he offered them to Stephen. “These letters bear out what I say, my liege. Once they held the castle, Chester and his brother began to make harsh demands upon the townspeople. They sent out men to ransack houses and carried off food and provisions to replenish the castle larders, and if they came upon an item of value in their search for flour and salted pork, they took that, too. Several townsmen have lost horses, and rumor has it that women have been molested, although I cannot confirm that for certes; they would naturally keep silent from the shame of it.”

He at last paused for breath. “My lord king, the citizens and the bishop and your castellan all implore you to deliver them from these wicked men. Highborn they may be, but they are no better than brigands, God’s Own Truth. As long as they hold the castle, they are safe from retribution and well they know it. Help us, my liege. Take back your castle and return the King’s Peace to your loyal subjects of Lincoln.”

“You need not fear,” Stephen said grimly. “This time that renegade whoreson has gone too far, and he’ll soon regret it. Upon that, you have my word.”

IT was late when the Earl of Chester finally mounted the stairs to his bedchamber, and his wife was already asleep. He was irked that she’d not waited up for him, but not surprised, for they’d still not made their peace after their last quarrel.

Impatiently waving aside his squire’s attempts to help him undress, he stripped off his clothes, left them where they landed, and deliberately dropped his boots onto the coffer so they’d make a sleep-rousing thud-in vain, though, for his wife did not stir. Climbing into bed, he started to pull the bed-hangings, but stopped in midgesture, gazing down at the woman beside him.

It was Chester’s considered opinion that his wife had inherited the worst traits of both her parents, for she had Amabel’s barbed tongue and Robert’s sense of moral certainty. She was also the only member of his household who was not afraid of him. She was the first woman who’d ever dared to stand up to him, and he was of two minds as to how he felt about that, or indeed, about this exasperating, prideful, vexing, exciting wife of his. All her virtues were flaws, too, in his eyes. As proud as he was of her royal blood, he was often annoyed by her stubborn loyalty to the aunt whose namesake she was. He admired her courage, admired the way she’d played her part as bait for his trap. But that same boldness of spirit kept her from being a dutiful and submissive wife. Even when she did affect that role in public, he always suspected it was done tongue in cheek.

Reaching for the bed coverlets, he pulled them back so he could look upon his wife’s body, for that never disappointed him. She was a handsome young woman, bearing a striking resemblance to Maude, in both demeanor and coloring. Fortunately, though, she differed from Maude in one crucial aspect of her womanhood. The mere thought of that difference was enough to bring a smile to Chester’s lips. Geoffrey of Anjou had once confided that the best place for a man to come down with frostbite was in Maude’s bed. But his Maud…she was a lustful wench, as hot for their bedsport as he was. Sometimes it even seemed that the more quarrelsome their days, the better their nights.

Sliding over onto her side of the bed, he entangled his fingers in her lustrous, loose hair, while his other hand cupped her breast. Maud opened her eyes, looked up at her husband, and yawned. “Just once I wish you’d let me sleep through till dawn,” she complained, but he could feel her nipple hardening against the palm of his hand, and when he continued to fondle and stroke her body, she soon wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers. This was the sort of sex they both liked best, sudden and hungry, with just enough hostility to give it an edge. But their lovemaking had barely begun when they were interrupted by a loud hammering on the door.

Chester raised up on an elbow, aiming a blistering stream of profanity at the door, but his squires were already sitting up sleepily, his mastiff was adding his belligerent bellowing to the din, and the pounding persisted, unabated, accompanied now by demands for admittance. Recognizing the voice as his brother’s, Chester jerked the bed-hangings all the way open, and snapped, “Let him in.” His body might still be quivering with thwarted need, but his brain was back in command. This was trouble.

William de Roumare looked as if he’d been roused from bed, too. He had gone gray while still in his thirties, and his tousled silver hair and ashen skin added at least a decade to his actual age. One glance and Chester felt a chill, for Will was not a man given to panic. Striding toward the bed, Roumare said hoarsely, “The king’s men are in the town, and they come not as friends. Randolph, we are under attack…or we will be at first light.”

Chester swore again, with even more heat. Maud’s eyes had widened, but she said nothing, clutching the sheet to her breasts as she waited to find out their fate. Roumare envied his brother her composure; his own wife was even now having hysterics back in their bedchamber. Chester swung out of the bed, grabbing for the tunic discarded in the floor rushes. “Tell me what you know for sure,” he said, pulling the tunic over his head.

“Some of our men were caught in the town. One made it back to the castle, and he says the streets are full of Stephen’s soldiers. Those accursed townspeople let them in the city gates, damn their souls. Stephen is vowing to see our heads up on pikes, vowing that the siege will last till Judgment Day if need be. Randolph…what shall we do?”

“God rot that misbegotten, meddlesome, bungling lackwit!” Chester said savagely. “He is no more fit to rule than any beggar we’d pluck off the streets, a Beaumont puppet not worth a cupful of warm piss!” But even as he raged, his thoughts were racing ahead, clearly and coldly analyzing their danger, weighing their options.

“I will need two of our best horses saddled and ready to go,” he said abruptly. “I’ll take Padrig the Welshman with me, for once I reach Cheshire, I can send him on into Wales with word for Cadwaladr. He’ll throw in with us if we make it worth his while, and Madog of Powys may, too. Just Padrig, though, for two men will have a better chance of getting through their lines. They must be in disarray, arriving in the middle of the night, and Stephen’s captains will have no hope of imposing order till daylight. If I slip out through the postern gate, I ought to be able to get away unseen. But it has to be done now and done fast. Will, think you that you can hold out till I get back with aid?”

“God Willing,” the older man said somberly. “But we are in a tight corner, indeed. Even if you succeed in getting safe away from the castle-and if I were a wagering man, I’d put my money on Stephen-what then? Mayhap we ought to give thought to surrender-”

“I’d sooner walk barefoot through Hell’s hottest flames!”

“I like it not, either, but think on this, Randolph. We can always talk our way around Stephen. It means swallowing our pride. No man ever died, though, from a serving of humble pie. And what would it avail us to resist? Even if you can summon every last one of our tenants and vassals and add in Cadwaladr’s Welsh hirelings for good measure, we’ll still not have enough men to raise Stephen’s siege.”

“No, we will not,” Chester admitted, “but I know where we can get them.” Striding over to the bed, he caught Maud by the shoulders, claimed her mouth in a brief but passionate kiss. “For all our sakes, girl, let’s hope that your kin are as fond of you as you say!”

The feast of Epiphany was celebrated with great enthusiasm, for not only was it an important festival in its own right, it offered one last burst of brightness in the winter’s dark. On this Twelfth Night, Christians bade farewell to the joy and light of Christmastide, while bracing themselves for the bleakness of the looming Lenten season of sacrifice and self-denial.

Gloucester Castle’s great hall had been newly whitewashed, fresh, fragrant rushes laid down, and enough candles and torches lit to banish all but the most tenacious shadows, for Maude was determined that her Epiphany revelries be perfect in all particulars. Her cooks had prepared an elaborate feast: fresh herring, stewed capon, savory rice, a spectacular roasted peacock refitted with feathers, rissoles of beef marrow, pea soup, Lombardy custard, and nut sweetmeats, served with spiced red wine and hippocras and a sweet white malmsey. Afterward, a French minstrel from the sun-warmed South sang and strummed a gittern and recited verses from a highly popular chanson, The Song of Roland. But his performance was cut short by the arrival of shocking news from the North-that the Earl of Chester had seized control of Lincoln Castle.

No one had any more interest in hearing of Roland’s epic deeds, and for the remainder of the evening, there was but one topic of conversation, speculation about Chester’s duplicity and Stephen’s likely response. Opinion was united on the former, that Chester’s greed had deranged his senses, and decidedly mixed on the latter, some sure Stephen would have to retaliate, others equally certain that he would once again turn a blind eye, as he had done so often in the past. All were hopeful that this astonishing turn of events would somehow rebound to Maude’s benefit.

Robert and Amabel were furious, stunned that Chester would have so risked their daughter’s safety. A woman was expected to defend her husband’s castle if it was besieged in his absence, but it was unheard-of to use a wife as Chester had done, as a decoy. Baldwin de Redvers was likewise outraged, for his younger sister Hawise was William de Roumare’s wife. Their concern cast a pall over the festivities. Robert and Amabel soon excused themselves, intent upon dispatching a messenger to Lincoln at first light, bearing a demand that Chester get their daughter out of that castle straightaway. Miles Fitz Walter was no longer in a festive mood, either; he’d had a quarrel earlier that evening with his eldest son, and both he and Roger were still out of sorts. Once the Fitz Walters had withdrawn, too, there seemed no reason to linger. Maude dismissed the minstrels, and her guests went off to bed.

But Maude was too restless to sleep. She wandered aimlessly about her chamber, failed to find a book that could hold her interest, and finally snatched up her mantle. The great hall was already dark, beds laid out where trestle tables had stood earlier in the evening. Maude moved quietly down the center aisle, out into the inner bailey.

It was cold, but the wind had died down and the starlit sky was clear of clouds. It had snowed earlier in the week, and most of it had been trampled into a dingy grey slush. But white still glistened along the south wall, protected by Maude’s garden fence. Maude liked snow, liked the way it blurred harsh edges and hid ugliness and made the world seem new and pure and pristine. Pushing open the garden gate, she sat down on a wooden bench. Her thoughts soon carried her far from Gloucester, and she started violently when a voice said, very close at hand, “Lady Maude? May I be of service?”

Maude flushed self-consciously; she hated to be caught off guard, to be watched unaware. But the interloper was a man she valued, and she bit back a dismissive retort, forcing a smile, instead. “Thank you, Brien, but nothing is amiss. I just could not sleep. What about you? Why are you not abed at such an hour?”

Brien shrugged. “I could not sleep, either,” he said, and looked pleased when Maude beckoned him toward her bench. He smiled as he sat beside her, and she found herself thinking that she liked his smile, liked so much about Brien Fitz Count-his insight and his loyalty and his competence; everything he did, he did well. He did not intrude now upon her privacy, seemed content to sit in silence, until or if she chose to speak. Maude appreciated his reticence, and soon realized that she did want to talk, after all.

“I had a letter this week from my son Henry,” she said. “His own letter, the first one that was not written for him by his tutor or a scribe…”

Her voice trailed off, as if she’d lost interest, but Brien knew better. He studied her profile, thinking that most women benefited from the more subdued, softer lighting cast by candles or stars, but not Maude. She looked her best in the bright light of day, able to take the sun’s glare full on, without flinching. “It troubled you, this letter?” he asked, and after a moment or so, she nodded.

“Henry asked me if I was ever coming back,” she said, and he thought he heard her sigh. “I’ve not seen my sons for more than a year, Brien, nigh on sixteen months. If this war drags on long enough, I’ll not even know them upon my return. They’ll be strangers…”

He would not trivialize her pain with facile denials or comforting banalities. The truth was that she’d never get back the time she’d lost with her sons. Childhood could not be relived; children grew up, and a quest for a crown could last for years. “To be a mother and a queen, too,” he said at last, “must be a burden no man could fully comprehend.”

“No man needs to understand, for no man needs to bear it,” she said, with more than a trace of bitterness. “What makes it so hard, Brien, is that I see no end in sight. Sometimes I find myself wondering where I will be in five years. Will I still be at Gloucester or Bristol, clinging to my shredded hopes whilst Stephen clings to his stolen crown? All I know for certes is that in five years, Henry will be almost thirteen.”

“I truly believe you will one day reclaim your crown,” he said softly, and she turned to look at him with a brief, bleak smile.

“I do, too,” she said, “most of the time. I am not often so downhearted, for I do not let myself dwell upon my disappointments or defeats. But none of the Christmas news has been good. Lord knows, the tidings from Cornwall have been dismal. Rainald is holding on to the one Cornish castle he has left, but Stephen has the shire, and Rainald’s prospects grow dimmer by the day. He has been excommunicated by the Bishop of Exeter, who blames him for the damage done to a Launceton church, and his wife…Rainald tries to make light of it in his letters, Brien, but others tell me the girl was so distraught and fearful at being caught up in the fighting that her wits have been affected. She weeps all the time and hears voices and cannot be left alone lest she do herself harm.”

“I’d heard the lass was…overwrought,” Brien admitted. “But just as those sick of body can heal, so, too, can the sick of mind. You must not give up hope, Lady Maude.”

“I inhale hope with every breath I take,” Maude said ruefully. “But lately it seems that if anything can go wrong, by God, it does. Robert is at odds with his younger son, Philip, as I expect you know; it is no secret that Robert rebuked Philip for being needlessly brutal during the assault upon Nottingham. And now he and Amabel have Maud to worry about, too. Miles is another whose temper is on the raw, and the same can be said for Baldwin de Redvers. In truth, everywhere I turn these days, I see naught but discontented, surly men and fretful wives.”

“What of Ranulf?” he protested. “That lad is cheerful enough to raise all sorts of suspicions!”

“How true,” she conceded. “If Ranulf were a cat, I’d be checking his whiskers for cream!”

They both laughed, and then Maude surprised herself by saying, “You’ve been a good friend, Brien, for longer than I can remember. You helped me get through the worst time of my life, and I never thanked you…not until now.”

She did not need to elaborate; he understood. Their memories were suddenly functioning as one, taking them back more than thirteen years. She had been twenty-five, and no longer able to resist her father’s will, agreeing at last to wed Geoffrey of Anjou. On her betrothal journey from England to Normandy, the old king had entrusted her to the custody of his eldest son, Robert, and his foster son, Brien. They had carried out the king’s charge, escorted Maude to Rouen for the plight troth, and the following year she and Geoffrey had been wed at Le Mans.

“Why should you thank me? I did as the king bade, turned you over to Geoffrey of Anjou, when I ought to have hidden you away where he could never have found you.”

Maude was startled. “You did what you could, Brien. You made me feel-without a word being said-that you understood, that you were on my side. That may not sound like much, but it was.”

“If I had it to do over again…” His smile held no humor, just a disarming flash of self-mockery. “I suppose I’d do the same, however much I’d like to think I would not. But my regrets would be so much greater, knowing as I do now how miserable he’d make you. I never forgave your father for that, for forcing you to wed a man so unworthy of you-” He stopped abruptly, and a tense, strained silence followed, which neither of them seemed able to break.

Maude was staring at Brien, a man she’d known all her life, and seeing a stranger. Had she lost her wits altogether? How could she have confided in him like this? She’d long ago learned to keep her fears private, her pain secret, all others at a safe distance, yet here in a barren winter garden, she’d lowered her defenses, allowing Brien to get a glimpse into her very soul. Even worse, she’d seen into his soul, too, discovered what she ought never to have known. She felt suddenly as flustered as a raw, green girl, she who was a widow, wife, and mother, a woman just a month shy of her thirty-ninth birthday, a woman who would be queen. Getting hastily to her feet, she drew her mantle close about her throat, chilled to the bone.

“I want to go in,” she said, sounding curt even to her own ears.

Brien had risen as soon as she did. “Of course,” he said. An awkward moment then ensued, for he started to offer his arm as chivalry demanded, but it was no longer a simple gesture of courtesy, and they both knew it. After a discernible hesitation, Maude let her hand rest lightly on his sleeve, and they walked in silence toward the great hall.

She would later wish fervently that she’d held her tongue. But she felt compelled to prop up her diminished defenses, and so as they reached the steps, she said coolly, “You should bring your wife with you the next time you come to Gloucester. It has been too long since I’ve seen her.”

She at once wanted to call her words back, for she saw the hurt they’d inflicted. His dark eyes searched her face, and in them she found a mute reproach. They had just shared all that they could ever have, a few brief moments of unspoken intimacy, cheapened now by her needless, heavy-handed rebuff. She understood, read his thoughts as if they were her own. But what he did not understand, and what she could never let him know, was that her pointed mention of his marriage was a reminder meant, not for him, but for herself.

“My wife will be pleased to attend you, madame,” he said tonelessly.

Maude was mercifully spared the need to respond, for a commotion had erupted up on the bailey walls. Shouts were echoing on the quiet night air, a challenge offered and met. Moments later, the drawbridge was going down, a lone horseman coming through.

Sliding from the saddle, the rider tossed the reins to the nearest of the guards. “You must awaken the Earl of Gloucester and the empress, for my news cannot wait!”

He was young, weary, and disheveled, but he was exhilarated, too, by the gravity of his mission, and somewhat nervous, now that his moment was at hand. He sounded bellicose, combative, for he was anticipating a refusal. But as he braced himself for a long, heated argument, he glanced across the bailey, recognizing the woman standing upon the steps of the great hall. “Madame, thank God and His good angels!” Unable to believe his luck, he hastened forward and dropped to his knees before Maude. “I am Sir Bennet de Malpas, my lady, cousin and liegeman to my lord Earl of Chester. I bring you his urgent appeal for aid, and his pledge of fealty.”

There was to be no more sleeping at Gloucester that night. Rumors assailed the castle, soon spilling over its bailey walls into the town. The great hall was a scene of confusion and turmoil, but all knew the solar was where the significant activity was occurring. They’d been sequestered above-stairs for hours-Maude, Robert, Miles, Brien, Ranulf, and Baldwin de Redvers-and what they decided would affect many more lives than their own.

Within the solar, there was no sympathy to spare for Chester; he had no friends in this room, and few indeed in the rest of the realm. Nor did they give credence to his sudden conversion, his belated recognition of the justice of Maude’s cause. They well knew that Chester would have embraced the Devil himself in his hour of need. But all of their foregoing feelings were irrelevant to the issue at hand. They would do as Chester wanted, march to Lincoln and confront the king. They had no choice, for the chance might not come again. At Lincoln they could catch Stephen off guard, force a battle that might determine once and for all who would rule England-Maude or Stephen.

The dark had faded away, the sky lightening to a shade of misty pearl, for dawn was nigh by the time Maude returned to her chamber. Minna had turned back the bed coverlets invitingly, and put out a selection of sugared wafers and watered-down wine to break the night’s fast. But Maude had no appetite. Nor could she sleep. Crossing to the window, she opened the shutters, staring down at the uproar below her.

The bailey was crowded and chaotic, at first glance resembling a fairground more than a castle ward. People were rushing about, shouting orders and yelling out questions, trying to dodge the dogs and children darting underfoot. Half the men in the castle were either in the stables or already in the saddle, for they had levies to raise, vassals to summon to arms, horses and carts and supplies to requisition, buy, or barter. Time was the enemy as much as Stephen, and speed of the essence.

Maude did not feel the cold, not on a conscious level, but then Minna draped a mantle about her shoulders and she realized she’d been shivering. The German widow was not one for fussing or coddling; Maude would never have stood for it. But Minna could not help noticing the sleepless smudges under Maude’s eyes, the greyish pallor of her skin. “My lady, you look bone-weary. Can you not spare a few hours to rest?”

“I’d not be able to sleep, Minna.” Maude watched as Miles Fitz Walter bade farewell to his wife, Sybil, then mounted and joined his waiting men. “Last night I told Brien Fitz Count that I saw no end in sight. Now it may well end at Lincoln, might even be over by the start of Lent.”

“Does that not gladden you, madame? I ask because you do not sound glad.”

“There is too much at stake for gladness, Minna.” Maude swung away from the window to face the older woman. “Do you not understand? My hopes, my crown, my son’s legacy-all are balanced upon the blade of a sword. My future will be decided at Lincoln, but not by me. I cannot even be there to watch whilst others decree my fate. Because the Lord God saw fit to make me a woman, I can do naught but wait.”