When Christ and His Saints Slept

27

Oxford Castle, England

December 1142

It was snowing again. From his vantage point up on the castle battlements, Ranulf gazed out upon a frigid, frozen landscape of barren, foreboding beauty. Stephen had set up his quarters at the king’s house north of the city walls. Much of his army was billeted within the town, but he’d established an outer defensive perimeter, and at night it looked as if the city were ringed with flames. Now it was midday and the blowing snow hid the smoldering campfires. So much snow had fallen in December that it even covered up the uglier scars of the siege: the newly dug graves in the outer bailey, the churned-up, pitted earth where mangonel missiles had landed, the ruins of the stables, which had been ignited by a flaming arrow more than a month ago. The snow muffled sound, blurred vision, and transformed the familiar and known into another world altogether, one pristine and alien and eerily, deceptively tranquil.

Ranulf did not remain up on the battlements for long; the wind soon drove him to seek shelter inside. Not that it was so much warmer indoors. As their food supplies had dwindled, so, too, had their fuel. Their firewood had been consumed weeks ago. These days they kept fires burning only in the great hall and the kitchen, but even so, they’d slowly stripped the castle of most of its furniture. Stamping snow from his boots, Ranulf hastened toward the open hearth. Other men were taking their turns there, too, thawing out. Only the ailing had the privilege of staying put, and there were always a few blanket-clad figures crouching close to the flames, for their increasingly Spartan diet and the constant cold were taking an inevitable toll.

The faces around him were grim and pale and gaunt, for hunger had become the enemy lurking within, Stephen’s remorseless accomplice. They had not been as careful with food as they ought in the beginning, confident that aid would be forthcoming. By Martinmas, though, they were on strict rationing, and Maude had contributed greatly to the men’s morale by insisting that portions be shared equally; the highborn usually claimed more than their just due.

As the provisions in their larder were depleted, they’d killed the castle livestock, one by one, and then their horses. Ranulf had hated that. But they had no more grain to feed the animals, and less and less to feed themselves, so it mattered little whether he liked it or not. If the siege dragged on for another month, he might have to make a wrenching decision about his dyrehunds. So far he’d been sharing his own meagre allotment with them, and even if men thought it was foolishly sentimental of him, they kept their opinions to themselves, for he was a king’s son and the empress’s brother. But that could all change if the spectre of starvation became a real danger.

Moving reluctantly away from the hearth, Ranulf began to look for Hugh de Plucknet. It took a while, for it was hard to distinguish one bundled form from another. Eventually he found Hugh slouching morosely in a corner, playing a game of merels with Alexander de Bohun, the Angevin captain of Maude’s household knights. Alexander aligned his pieces in a row just as Ranulf joined them, and both he and Ranulf braced themselves for Hugh’s complaints; the hotheaded Breton was a notoriously poor loser. Now, though, he did not react at all, demonstrating anew how the siege was sapping their spirits.

They made room for Ranulf in the window seat, but no one bothered to talk; it expended too much energy and what was there to say? Beyond the castle walls, the world went on as usual, but they no longer seemed to have a part in it. Ranulf in particular found the isolation hard to endure; it was, he thought, like a foretaste of death, the smothering silence of the grave.

They’d had but one outside contact since the siege began. A daring archer had gotten himself admitted into the city, waited till dark, and then shot an arrow over the castle wall, with a letter from Brien Fitz Count wrapped around the shaft. Brien assured them that he’d sent for Robert. He’d had no luck luring Stephen out to do battle, but he’d been doing all he could to harass and harry Stephen’s occupying army, engaging in hit-and-run raids, disrupting Stephen’s supply barges as they paddled upriver past Wallingford. But Stephen ignored the challenges, and rerouted his supply trains overland.

And since then, nothing. October had yielded to November and then December. The snows came and the noose tightened. What, indeed, was there to talk about?

Alexander was too restless to sit for long and soon wandered off. Ranulf and Hugh were trying to muster up enough enthusiasm for another game of merels when Rob d’Oilly headed their way. Never the most articulate of men, he seemed even more tongue-tied then usual. “Did Maude tell you about our talk?” When Ranulf shook his head, Rob frowned and worried his thumbnail between his teeth. “I spoke to her last night. I told her that…that we ought to consider surrendering.”

Ranulf’s “No!” merged and echoed with Hugh’s equally impassioned protest, and Rob flushed. “I do not want it that way,” he insisted, “God knows I do not. But there comes a time when resistance for its own sake makes no sense. We’re past the point of hope, and are merely prolonging our own suffering. I understand if you do not want to hear that, but it must be said. And Maude knew that, too, for she did not argue.”

“She agreed with you? I do not believe that!”

“Well, she did not say it in so many words, Ranulf, but she listened to what I had to say and made no protest. If you want my opinion, I think she is losing heart for this struggle. Women are not meant for hardships and privation, after all. They despair more easily than men-”

“You’re raving! Maude is braver than any man I know!” Ranulf snapped, and Hugh chimed in, no less indignantly, arguing that Maude would starve ere she’d surrender.

“Then why is she acting so oddly? Why did she say nothing when I talked of surrender? And…and there is more, Ranulf. When I came to her chamber this morn, she was behaving in a most peculiar manner. She and Minna…they were sewing!”

Ranulf and Hugh exchanged astonished glances, and then both burst out laughing. “Good God-sewing? That is indeed proof of madness!”

Rob bridled, his face getting even hotter. “Do not mock me till you’ve heard it all. The room was in utter disarray, the coverlets thrown on the floor, the bed stripped, coffers open as if they’d been searching for something. And there they were, sewing away in the midst of all this chaos, so intently you’d think they were getting paid by the stitch. And mind you, they were not mending old clothes, or even making new ones. They were cutting up and hemming bed sheets!”

“Sheets?” Ranulf said blankly. “Are you sure, Rob? What could they possibly make out of bed sheets?”

“That is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Rob frowned again, lowered his voice, and said uneasily, “I’ve thought upon it and I can come up with only one answer-a burial shroud.”

Ranulf did not share Rob’s anxiety about Maude’s emotional state; he knew their sister better than Rob. He was curious, though, about those mysterious bed sheets. But when he sought Maude out, she shrugged off his curiosity with a cryptic smile, saying she’d explain that evening, after Vespers.

The twilight service was held in the chapel adjoining St George’s Tower. It was well attended; most men found that their piety increased in direct proportion to the urgency of their need. Once it was over, Ranulf accompanied Maude and Minna across the snow-drifted bailey, back to Maude’s chamber in the upper story of the keep. There they found Alexander de Bohun, Hugh de Plucknet, William Marshal, and Adam of Ely, Maude’s clerk, awaiting her return. They were soon joined by William Defuble, another of Maude’s knights.

Ranulf could not help smiling, thinking they made an odd sight, indeed: muffled in mantles up to their ears, their breath frosting the air as they searched for seats; the castle’s chairs, benches, and stools had long ago gone up in smoke. Rob d’Oilly was the last one to arrive. As a rule, Maude did not like to be kept waiting. Tonight, though, she seemed quite tolerant of Rob’s tardiness, which confirmed Ranulf’s suspicions-his sister had something in mind, and he’d wager the surety of his soul that it was not surrender.

“I have been giving thought to what you said, Rob, and I have decided that you are right. Our men have put up a gallant defense, but they have endured enough. The time has come to put an end to this. If you offer to surrender the castle, you ought to be able to get generous terms from Stephen, a promise that the garrison goes free.”

Rob looked relieved, the other men stunned. “Maude, no!” Ranulf exclaimed. “It may seem hopeless, I’ll not deny that. But you cannot give up. If you surrender, you’ll be shut away from the world for the rest of your life. Stephen will never let you go!”

“I am not giving up, Ranulf. And I have no intention of surrendering to Stephen. But it is obvious by now that we have no reasonable hopes of being rescued. Robert would never abandon me. If he has not come to my aid, it is because he cannot. So it is up to me to save myself-if I can-by escaping from the castle.”

“My lady, I doubt neither your resolve nor your enterprise, and for certes, not your courage. But this time I fear you are well and truly trapped. You cannot very well fly over the castle walls, and every gate is watched night and day by Stephen’s sentries, even the little postern in the west wall.”

“No, Hugh, I cannot fly over the wall,” Maude agreed, with just the hint of a smile. “But I could be lowered down from St George’s Tower onto the iced-over moat. The marshes must be frozen solid by now, and the river, too. If I am right, I ought to be able to cross in safety. If I am wrong…” A slight shrug. “As I see it, I do not have much to lose.”

She did, of course. She was putting up the highest of all stakes-her life. But Ranulf would have made the same wager, had he been the one facing a lifetime’s imprisonment. “You are proposing, then, to walk right through Stephen’s lines? That is without doubt the maddest idea I’ve ever heard. When do we try it?”

Maude looked at him and laughed. “Tonight…after it is full dark.”

“Would it not be safer to wait until the snow stopped? To be out and afoot on such a night…you’d have as much to fear from the weather, Maude, as from Stephen’s men.”

Marveling at his slowness, Maude said patiently, “What better cover could I have, Rob, than a snowstorm? Stephen’s guards will not be able to see beyond the noses on their own faces, and they’ll be too cold and wretched to be showing much zeal for sentry duty. With but a bit of luck, we ought to be well-nigh invisible. Show them, Minna.”

Even as Minna reached into the closest coffer, Ranulf had a sudden epiphany. “The sheets!” he cried, bursting into enlightened laughter. Hugh began to laugh, too. The others remained perplexed-until Minna straightened, holding up her handiwork for them to see: a hooded mantle as white as milk…or newly fallen snow.

By now they were all laughing. Maude passed the white cloaks around for their admiring inspection. “I count four of these remarkable garments,” Hugh said, “and since two are already spoken for, I hereby lay claim to the third. Who gets the last one?”

Alexander de Bohun looked irked that it should even be open to question. But before he could speak, Maude headed him off. “I would like you to remain at the castle, Alex, so you might assist Rob in striking a deal with Stephen.” The words themselves were bland; the real message was relayed as their eyes met. They’d been together long enough to read each other without difficulty, and Alexander understood at once what Maude was telling him-that she wanted him to keep Rob from making any costly errors in the negotiations with Stephen. He did not like it any, but he did not argue; he shared her doubts about Rob’s judgment.

“The fourth man has to be a local lad,” Ranulf pointed out, “someone who knows every lane and deer track in the shire. Stephen’s sentries are not going to be the only snow-blind ones out there. Without a truly trustworthy guide, we’re likely to wander around out in the woods till we freeze to death.”

Their eyes all turned toward Rob, who was quiet for a few moments, his brow furrowed in thought. And then he smiled. “I know just the man you need. He was born and bred in Berkshire, could probably find his way to Wallingford in his sleep. And he is cocky enough to jump at the chance to show off his tracking skills. Moreover, he has a brother or a cousin-I’m not sure which-who took vows at St Mary’s Abbey. You will be heading for Abingdon first?”

Maude nodded, moved to the coffer chest, and drew out a small leather-bound book. “Rob, I want you to keep this safe. There are two letters hidden in the binding, one to Robert, telling him that this was my doing and my choice, and one to my sons…just in case.”

They looked at one another, the edgy laughter stilled, acknowledging in their sudden silence the magnitude of the risk and the slim likelihood of success.

They gathered in an upper chamber of St George’s Tower shortly before midnight. The only light was a flickering oil lamp, and when they were ready to unlatch the shutters, Minna prudently blew upon the sputtering wick, for darkness was their only defense, the continuing snowfall their only hope.

Their preparations had been made. Hugh had a small sack filled with dried meat, Ranulf carried flint and tinder, Maude a pouch in which coins had been wrapped in cloth to keep them from clinking, and the men had wineskins hooked to their belts. The farewells had already been said, and Maude had coached Rob in how to deal with Stephen’s demands. “Tell him,” she instructed, “that you ask nothing on my behalf, that your concern is for the safety of the garrison. That way he cannot accuse you of lying later, once he learns I am gone.”

Their guide was a skinny, undersized youth, barely twenty, with an unkempt shock of fair hair, so blond it looked white, and as incongruous a name as they could imagine: Sampson. At first glance, he seemed an unlikely candidate for such a dangerous mission. But his slender build was deceptive; he was as lean and lithe as a greyhound and as eager to hunt. “Are we ready?” he queried jauntily, sounding for all the world as if they were embarking upon a grand adventure instead of attempting to cross through enemy lines in the midst of a snowstorm. “I’ll go first,” he offered, swinging his legs over the window ledge. A moment later, he was gone, climbing down the rope so rapidly that he made it look easy.

Ranulf was the next to go. “If any of you whoresons eat my dogs once I’m gone, I’ll come back from the grave if need be to make you pay,” he warned, and launched himself out into space to the accompaniment of joking threats about dyrehund stew. His trip was a lot rougher than Sampson’s had been; buffeted by the wind, he was bumped bruisingly against the tower, and slid the last few feet, leaving rope burns on his palms.

Hugh was already shinnying down the swaying rope. Alexander and Rob were to lower Maude slowly once the men had climbed down, and Ranulf and the others watched nervously now as she started the perilous descent. The wind tugged at her cloak, blew back her hood, and at one point, the rope jerked, plummeting her briefly toward the ground before the men above were able to brace themselves again. By then she was close enough for Ranulf and Hugh to catch. She leaned against Ranulf, struggling to regain her breath as Hugh cut away her rope harness. No one spoke-they dared not risk it-but the same thought was in all their minds. It was not a comfortable feeling, being on the wrong side of the castle walls.

Their first test of faith was the castle moat. With Sampson in the lead, they stepped out gingerly onto the ice, and when it held, they shared tense smiles. It was bitterly cold, but the wind was not constant. A sudden gust would send snow swirling across their path, stinging their eyes and skin, but then it would subside. If not for the castle wall rising up at their backs, Ranulf would have been utterly disoriented, for all recognizable landmarks were camouflaged or buried. But Sampson showed no hesitation, striking out boldly as if following the King’s Highway. Peering into the impenetrable blackness ahead, he whispered, “We’re coming up on the millstream.” Ranulf and the others could not see a foot in front of their faces, so dark was it. They could only put their trust in Sampson, and they trailed after him out onto the ice again, for the millstream was just where he’d said it would be.

Off to the east and west, they could now see smoke rising, and Sampson plotted a course that would take them between these enemy campfires. They had agreed that Stephen’s sentries would not likely be patrolling on a night like this; for certes, any man with sense would be keeping as close to the fire as he could get. They felt sure they had logic on their side. But they knew, too, that gambles are won by luck as much as logic.

The drifts were deep, and it was more tiring than any of them had anticipated, their pace a slow and laborious one. The marshes were hidden under a blanket of soft snow, but the ground was frozen so hard that it was difficult to remember these same meadows had been under water when the siege began.

They crossed a second stream with encouraging ease. Ranulf guessed they had come no more than half a mile, but already the castle had disappeared into the darkness. Visibility was so poor that Hugh walked straight into a tree, a mishap that might have been comic if not for the fact that he gashed his cheek on a splintered branch, just missing his eye, more proof-as if they needed it-of how vulnerable they were out here, for any mistake was likely to be lethal.

Sampson was in the lead, with Ranulf and Hugh close behind, breaking a trail for Maude, who was hampered by her skirts. When Sampson stopped abruptly, flinging up his hand in warning, they froze as a rider materialized out of the night. His stallion’s hoofbeats made no sound upon the snow; moving with a ghostly grace, it seemed more like a phantom spirit than a flesh-and-blood animal, an illusion enhanced by its odd color, the shade of pale smoke. The rider was enveloped in a dark mantle, his face shadowed by a peaked hood, and he seemed no more real than his mount. There was a fey, dreamlike quality to the encounter-until he turned his head and looked in their direction.

No one moved. No one even blinked. For seconds that lasted longer than years, he seemed to be staring right at them. And then he shook his head, like a man trying to clear cobwebs from his brain, made a sketchy sign of the cross, and rode on. No one spoke for another eternity. Had he decided he could not possibly have seen what he’d first thought? Had he concluded that these spectral white shapes were but a figment of his imagination? Or had he only sensed a presence, instinct overruled, then, by reason? They would never know.

As soon as they dared, they pushed on, blessing Maude’s foresight, her camouflaging white cloaks. They’d not gone far when they saw a gleam through the trees up ahead. Quickening their steps, resisting the urge to keep looking over their shoulders, they halted on the riverbank, staring in silence at the icy grey surface of the Thames.

The moat and millstream had been obstacles to be overcome, but the Thames would be their grave if Maude’s gamble failed, if the ice was not solid. Trying not to think of the depth and power of that frigid current, trying not to remember how unusual it was for the Thames to freeze over, they clasped hands and slowly ventured out onto the ice. As they moved farther from shore, they could hear snapping sounds as the ice settled, and first one and then another would pause, eyes straining for cracks. Each footstep was an act of hope, an expenditure of courage. They had almost reached the far bank when Ranulf’s boot skidded. In the fragmented instant before his body hit the ice, they all saw it break under his weight, pitching them into the ink-black water. There was a thud that could surely have been heard back in Oxford, and then…nothing. The ice held firm, and a few moments later, they had achieved a rare distinction: they would be able to say in all honesty that they had crossed the River Thames without even getting their feet wet.

“That was fun,” Maude said faintly, and caught the flicker of shaken grins. By common consent, they sought the shelter of a massive oak. Hugh pulled out his wineskin and passed it around. Maude drank so deeply that she choked; the wine was heavily spiced, burned its way down her throat, but she welcomed the heat, for never in her life had she been so cold. She’d not expected to be so tired so soon. She estimated they’d come about a mile or more. Which meant they had at least another five miles ere they reached Abingdon. “I am rested,” she lied. “Let’s go on.”

The ground was sloping upward, and the snow was knee-deep in spots. It was like trying to run through water. The wind had shifted, was coming now from the south, and seemed intent upon blowing them back to Oxford. They stumbled repeatedly, clutching at one another to keep from falling. The trees were glazed in ice; branches broken off by the weight of the snow crunched underfoot and occasionally sent one of them sprawling. Hugh’s hands were growing numb; he tucked them into his armpits in an attempt to warm them, deciding that gloves might not be such an effete fashion, after all, even if they were worn only by women and princes of the Church. Panting and shivering, they struggled on, until at last they reached the crest of the hill.

“Look,” Maude said softly, pointing back down the hill. The blowing snow was already drifting across their trail; soon all signs of their tracks would be gone, blotted out as if they’d never passed this way.

“By God,” Hugh murmured, sounding awed, “we just might make it!”

“You did not think we would?” Maude asked, and he shook his head with a grin.

“Not a chance in Hell,” he admitted cheerfully, and Maude turned away hastily, moved almost to tears by their fealty and their reckless, rash gallantry. And there in the December darkness on this snow-clouded, silent hill, she beheld a glimmer of illuminating light, the realization that such loyalty could only be earned, not commanded, no matter who claimed England’s crown.

It took them another six hours to reach Abingdon, and by the time they were within sight of the abbey walls of St Mary’s, they were in danger of losing the night. Leaving Ranulf and Maude to hide in the woods, Sampson and Hugh trudged out to seek admittance from the porter at the gate. Maude and Ranulf were both acquainted with Abbot Ingulph, had dined with him at Oxford Castle that summer, and Maude did not want to implicate him in her escape; while Stephen was not usually given to searching for scapegoats, it was difficult to predict what a man might do when reeling from the blow Stephen was about to take.

So they had concocted a cover story for Sampson and Hugh, which explained their urgent need for horses without stirring up suspicions. Sampson was going to claim that he’d left Rob d’Oilly’s employ before the siege began, and now served Hugh, who’d taken on Bennet de Malpas’s name for the occasion, Ranulf’s sardonic contribution to the fable. Sampson’s cousin, Brother Joseph, would know better, of course, but Sampson swore he’d not say so, and they were fast learning to accept whatever the slight young soldier said as gospel, for he’d gotten them this far, had he not?

The snow had stopped several hours ago, but began again as soon as Hugh and Sampson were out of sight, and this time the flakes were not soft and lazy, floating wisps of white lace. This dawn snowfall was wet and icy, pelted against their skin like sleet. Hugh and Sampson had shed the white cloaks that had so effectively disguised their mantles, and Maude and Ranulf made a little tent of them, huddling together in a futile search for warmth. They took turns talking, keeping each other awake, for exhaustion was on their trail, even if Stephen was not. And they could not be sure of that, either. Discovery and capture were still very real threats. That sentry might have reevaluated what he’d seen and decided to give the alarm. Or they could have the bad luck to run into one of Stephen’s patrols, now that daylight was nigh. Or Hugh and Sampson might fail, be unable to buy or borrow horses. There were any number of ways disaster could descend upon them, and between them, Maude and Ranulf thought of them all, seeking to scare away sleep.

The last night-shadows were in retreat and the wind was picking up as they heard approaching horses. Ranulf unsheathed his sword, drawing Maude in behind him. Moments later Sampson and Hugh rode into the clearing, mounted upon matching bay geldings, grinning from ear to ear. They’d agreed that it would be too suspicious to seek four horses, and now Sampson swung nimbly from the saddle, tossing Ranulf the reins. As soon as he’d assisted Maude up behind her brother, he vaulted onto Hugh’s mount, and confidently pointed out the direction they were to take. Putting spurs to their horses, they set off at as fast a pace as the weather and their double burdens would allow, leaving in the snow for the villagers to find and puzzle over, four hooded white cloaks.

Wallingford Castle was nine miles away, so close and yet so far. Sampson was taking no chances, though, and steered clear of the Abingdon-Wallingford Road in favor of a safer cross-country route that he followed as unerringly as a bloodhound on the scent of prey. So it was almost noon before the castle at last came into view.

Wallingford was one of the best-defended strongholds in England, and they were challenged as soon as they came within bow range of its massive walls. “Open up,” Ranulf shouted, “for the empress!” a claim so unexpected and so startling that the guard forgot all about caution and popped up to peer over the wall embrasure.

“The empress is trapped at Oxford,” he shouted back. “What sort of lunatic trick is this?”

Maude’s teeth were chattering too much for speech. Reaching up impatiently, she pulled back the hood of her mantle so the skeptical guard could see her face. There was a strangled sound up on the battlements, which might have amused her had she not been so very, very cold. She would later realize that Brien’s men had acted with impressive dispatch, but now it seemed to take an extraordinarily long time before the drawbridge began to lower and the gate swung open to admit her.

Crossing into the bailey, they rode into utter pandemonium. Men were coming on the run from all corners of the castle, and they were mobbed as soon as they reined in. A dozen eager hands reached up to help Maude dismount, but her muscles were so numbed and cramped that she stumbled and had to grab at the nearest arm to keep from falling. When she faltered again, Brien was there to catch her. As soon as he felt her trembling, he jerked off his own mantle and wrapped her in it before escorting her into the great hall, leaving Ranulf, Hugh, and Sampson to fend for themselves.

Maude was dazed by the furor. She had often been the center of attention, but never before the object of such intense and unbridled enthusiasm. Every man in the hall was beaming at her, admiring, marveling, approving. She was being assailed from all sides with shouted questions and lavish praise; it was unseemly behavior and she reveled in it.

Ranulf and Hugh and Sampson were fighting their way toward her, overwhelmed by so much goodwill; men were slapping them on the back, spilling wine on them with overeager generosity, inadvertently keeping them from what they most wanted: to thaw themselves out by that blazing hearth. Maude was so close to the flames that she was in danger of being singed. She was thirsty and hungry and half frozen and so fatigued she felt lightheaded. But none of that mattered. She was quite content to stay right where she was, in Brien’s arms, surrounded by laughing, exultant men, men who were calling her Queen Maude as if they truly meant it, rejoicing in her triumph and making it their own.

Brien was holding her as if he had no intention of letting her go, dark eyes never leaving her face. “You are the most amazing woman,” he said, and laughed, too happy to hide it, to keep up the pretense between them any longer. Maude smiled at him as her own defenses dropped, realizing what was happening and not caring, not now, not anymore.

“My only regret,” she said, “is that I’ll not be there to see Stephen’s face when he finds out I’ve bested him!” That set them all to laughing, and this time she knew the jokes were at Stephen’s expense, not hers.

“If I do not sit down soon, I’m likely to fall down,” she confided to Brien, for she could admit to physical frailties now; she’d earned that right. His arm tightened around her shoulder, and when he called out for a chair, so many men volunteered that Maude began to laugh. Never had she felt like this, so in harmony with her world, so at ease with herself. It was a wonderful feeling, had been a long time coming.

She smiled again at Brien. But he was no longer gazing down into her face with such flattering and heartfelt joy. He was looking over her shoulder, and although he showed no overt signs of tension, Maude saw enough subtle indications-a tightening around his mouth, a flickering of his eyelids-for her to turn around, seeking the source of his stress.

A woman was coming toward them. She was about Maude’s age, although without Maude’s statuesque carriage or her elegant, high-cheeked handsomeness. Maude’s features were boldly stated, her coloring as dramatic as her demeanor. This woman’s appeal was as delicate as it was conventional, delineated in gentle, muted shades, hair a pale ash-brown, golden lashes, eyes a soft, misty blue, eyes that were as clear as spring water and as transparent, giving Maude an unwanted glimpse into the very depths of her woman’s soul. There was pain in the look she now gave Maude, pain and fear and a quiver of hopeless hatred.

“Welcome to Wallingford, madame,” she said tonelessly. “Welcome to my husband’s home.”

Stephen felt more than triumph as he watched the castle drawbridge being lowered; he felt a quiet but intense sense of vindication. Judging from the comments he overheard as they rode into the bailey, he knew his men were experiencing emotions no less jubilant and a good deal more vengeful. As much as he’d wanted to take Maude prisoner, he had no desire to see her humiliated, and in that, he was clearly in the minority. His brother in particular was anticipating Maude’s surrender with more pleasure than seemed becoming for a man of God. Stephen hoped Henry would not gloat too openly, but he could not very well say anything. Not only would that infuriate his brother for days and even weeks to come, but it would reinforce the lingering suspicions of his other allies, that he lacked the old king’s implacable will and unforgiving royal memory. It would be a great relief once he no longer had to compete with a ghost; in ending the threat Maude posed, he hoped, too, to put her father to his long-overdue rest.

Rob d’Oilly was awaiting them upon the steps of the great hall, standing with a tall, burly man whom Stephen recognized as the captain of Maude’s household knights. But there was no sign of Maude, and Stephen’s smile faded. “That is odd,” he said, “I would have wagered any sum that Maude would be the first one we’d see.”

“It is not so surprising,” the bishop countered. “She is facing utter ruin, confinement for the rest of her days. Little wonder she might want to put off the moment of surrender as long as possible.”

“After all this time, Henry, do you know Maude as little as that? The greater her defeat, the more determined she’d be to meet it head-on. I do not like this, not at all. Mayhap she is ailing? That might explain her sudden capitulation. In truth, I’d expected her to hold out until the last morsel of bread had been swallowed.”

Rob d’Oilly drew a visibly bracing breath. He was obviously not looking forward to this coming confrontation, and that was the true measure of the difference between them, Alexander de Bohun thought, with just a trace of disdain, for he was relishing what lay ahead. His eyes flicked past Stephen to the familiar faces behind him: the cutthroat Fleming, the swaggering Warenne whelp, that sour pickle Northampton, whose smiles always looked borrowed, and Winchester’s ungodly bishop, as smug as a cat with a mouse between its paws. No, he was glad now that his lady had asked him to keep her brother from blundering. He’d not have missed this for all the whores in Babylon.

Rob d’Oilly’s sin was not in being nervous; it was in letting it be seen. He was determined, though, to follow the proper code of conduct for such occasions, and as Stephen dismounted, he stepped forward stiffly, knelt and formally offered his sword. “Oxford Castle is yours, my liege.”

Stephen accepted the sword with appropriate gravity and did not keep Rob on his knees any longer than need be. Say what you will about the man, Rob thought, he knew how to play his part. But he did not yet know that Maude had rewritten the ending. And when he did?

“Where is the Countess of Anjou?” the Bishop of Winchester demanded, and Rob found himself-oddly enough-taking umbrage on Stephen’s behalf, that his partisans should feel so free to usurp his role. He hesitated and was not sure whether to be relieved or resentful when Alexander de Bohun spared him the dangerous duty of revelation.

“You were expecting to find the empress here?” Alexander queried blandly. “You are in for a disappointment, then.”

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, and then, uproar. Stephen had to shout to make himself heard above the din. “How witless do you think we are? She must be here-unless she has learned to fly! Now where is she? I’ll have the truth from you,” he warned, adding ominously, “one way or another!”

Rob gulped, saying nothing, but thinking all the while of the garrison hanged at Shrewsbury Castle. Alexander was not as easily intimidated; he even smiled. “I do not expect you to take my word for it. See for yourselves.”

Several of the men seemed ready to fling themselves at Alexander de Bohun and Rob, threatening to beat the truth out of them if need be, and Rob took an involuntary backward step. But Stephen stopped them with a peremptory gesture, “Search the castle,” he commanded. “Take it apart stone by stone if you must, but find her!”

They took Stephen at his word, all but tore the castle apart. Rob and Alexander de Bohun and the rest of Maude’s men were herded into the great hall under guard. Those who showed too much pleasure in the frantic search were soon nursing bruises and split lips, and Rob warned them hoarsely that prudence was the order of the day. Sidling up to Alexander, he asked softly if they ought not to remind Stephen of his promise to free the garrison. But Alexander shook his head. “No, just stay quiet till their fury burns out. Only once has Stephen sent men to their deaths in a rage, and it is said he later regretted it. I do not doubt Ypres or the bishop would hang the lot of us before breakfast without blinking an eye, but Stephen will not let them take out their anger on us-if we are half as lucky as the empress!” It was sound advice and Rob took it. For the remainder of the search, he and his men kept as low a profile as they could.

“The bitch is gone,” the Earl of Northampton reported, sounding as if he could not believe his own words. “We’ve looked in every corner and cranny of this accursed place. If she is still here, she is in one of those fresh graves out in the bailey, for we’ve not missed so much as a mousehole.”

Stephen turned away without answering. His brother was beside him now, ranting in his ear again. Listening to Henry was like pouring salt into an open wound. Swinging about, he headed for the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time up to the chamber he’d been told was Maude’s. His spurs struck sparks against the stone steps, and his heart thudded in rhythm to the dirge echoing in his brain. Gone. She is gone. But how? Christ on the Cross, how?

Maude’s chamber had been demolished, bedding slashed, coffers spilled open, her clothes strewn about, ripped into rags. William de Ypres had backed a heavyset woman against the wall, pinning her by her wrists. Her hair had been shaken loose, falling over her face in salt-and-pepper dishevelment, and there was blood welling in the corner of her mouth. But she showed no fear, and that seemed to goad the Fleming all the more.

“Where is she, old woman? You’d best tell me now, whilst you still have a tongue to talk!”

“I do not know! And if I did, I’d never tell you!” she spat, before calling Ypres a name that sounded German to Stephen, and clearly no compliment.

“Let her go, William,” he said angrily, and Ypres spun around to protest, but saw something in Stephen’s face that silenced him. Moving to an overturned coffer, he picked up a woman’s chemise, tore it in half, and flung the pieces contemptuously at Minna’s feet.

Minna expelled an audible breath as Ypres stalked out, watching Stephen warily as he moved about the chamber. “I know who you are,” he said. “You have been with Maude for a long time. It surprises me that she could leave you behind like this. Had she no fear for your safety?”

“She knew you’d not harm a woman,” Minna said calmly, retrieving the torn chemise and using it to daub at her bleeding mouth.

“Did she, indeed? I find it passing strange,” Stephen said, with sudden bitterness, “that my enemies value my virtues more than my friends do.”

Minna continued to watch him closely, rubbing her chafed wrists now that Ypres was not there to see. “I was not lying,” she insisted. “I do not know where my lady is.”

“I do,” Stephen said, “Wallingford. Where else could she go? But I need to know how she did it. You owe me that much.”

He did not truly expect her to answer him, but she did, saying readily, “She had us lower her from St George’s Tower, down onto the ice outside the walls.”

“And then what? She just walked past my army?” Stephen asked incredulously, and she nodded proudly. “I see…so you are telling me she escaped from a besieged castle in the midst of a snowstorm. I suppose I should say that if she could endure such an ordeal, take such a mad risk, then she deserved to get away. But I will not. I cannot,” he said, his voice cracking with rage, and another emotion, one more raw and revealing than anger.

Minna was folding the bloodied and shredded chemise neatly, as if it were still a whole garment and not a fragment beyond salvaging. “Even if you had captured my lady,” she said, “you would not have won your war.”

He turned to look at her, and she continued quietly. “You’d only have gained yourself some time. The empress is fighting for her son, and even if you were to confine her in the Tower until she died, men would still see young Henry as the rightful heir.”

“That may well be,” he said at last. “But Maude had best understand this, that I am fighting for my son, too.”

At Wallingford, Maude was still enjoying her newfound celebrity status. The garrison could not do enough for her, and on the few occasions when she’d ventured beyond the castle walls, the townspeople flocked around her, the way Londoners had once trailed after her mother, “Good Queen Maude,” on her visits to the city’s lepers and Christ’s poor. Maude was no saint, nor did she want to be one. But she’d been popular with her German subjects, and it had stung her pride when the English acknowledged her so grudgingly, with suspicion and scorn instead of approval. So there was a healing balm in this belated acceptance, even though she knew that nothing had truly changed. Men might praise her courage, admire her intrepid escape, but they were still not willing to obey her.

The sun was blinding on the snow, so bright that it hurt Maude’s eyes. Some of the younger men were having an exuberant snowball fight, but they waved and held their fire until she’d safely passed by. As soon as she entered the hall, a young page offered to fetch her an almond milk custard from the kitchen, and when she declined, he confided that the cooks were planning a special Christmas Eve subtlety in her honour: they were baking a cake shaped like Oxford Castle, surrounded by sugared snow. Up in her bedchamber, Maude found she’d been given extra pillows, and yet another gown was spread out on the bed, a soft wool in a flattering shade of green. As Maude was too tall to borrow any clothes from Brien’s wife, he had engaged some of the townswomen on her behalf, and to judge by the way her wardrobe was expanding, they must be sewing day and night. Maude had never been treated so well as she had during her stay at Wallingford, and she wanted nothing so much as to get as far away as she could.

Ranulf was in the solar, decorating it with mistletoe and evergreen boughs. Smiling at sight of his sister, he said “Catch!” and tossed Maude a wafer. It was hot from the oven and filled with honey, the aptly named angel’s bread. “If Robert does not get here soon,” Ranulf confessed, “I’ll not find a horse big enough to bear my weight. I’ve not been able to stop eating, spend more time in the kitchen than the cooks!” He was pleased when she laughed, for he knew she was not as cheerful as she would have others believe. He suspected that her victory had left a sour aftertaste in her mouth, and he thought he knew why. But Maude would never admit it, mayhap not even to herself.

“I saw Sampson in the stables this morning, Maude. Flying higher than any hawk, is that lad. He says he’s coming with us back to Devizes, sounding like a man offered a post guarding Heaven’s Gate!”

“Actually, he approached me first, said he had a yearning to see more of the world than Wallingford. I was going to take him with us, anyway, though, for I do not care to think what might have befallen us without him.”

Sitting down, she helped herself to another wafer. “Ranulf, I’ve been thinking about the ransoms. We might as well send word to Stephen now, find out what we must pay to free Rob and Alexander and Minna and the others. I know Brien wants to wait till Robert arrives, but surely Stephen knows by now where I am.”

Ranulf sat down across from her; so simple an act as sitting in a chair was a pleasure after all those weeks of feeding their furniture into the fire. “You are not worried about your safety here, Maude? There is no need, you know. Robert was already gathering an army to march to your rescue when he got Brien’s message about your escape, and so he should reach us any day now. And you may be sure that Stephen knows he is on his way. But even if Stephen were foolish enough-or furious enough-to assault Wallingford this very morn, he’d have no chance of taking it ere Robert arrives. If the worst happened and he somehow captured the town as he did Oxford, he’d never be able to take the castle. And Brien has his larders well stocked. I’d wager we could hold out at Wallingford till spring and beyond if need be!”

He’d meant to reassure her, but the look on her face was one of dismay. It was painfully obvious that she found the prospects of a Wallingford siege even more daunting than the dangers she’d braved in escaping from Oxford. She would, he suspected, flee barefoot out into the snow rather than be trapped here with Brien and his wife, and he understood why; thinking of Annora, he understood all too well.

The door burst open and Hugh reeled into the room. “Riders approach,” he panted, “under a flag of truce!”

Maude and Ranulf both flew to the window, fumbling with the shutters. For all his bold talk, Ranulf felt a chill that was not caused by the sudden infusion of cold air. Was Stephen making a demand that Brien give Maude up? He leaned out the window, so recklessly that Maude and Hugh grabbed for his belt to anchor him. “I can see them now,” he reported. “They are Stephen’s men, for certes. Either a messenger or an escort-Holy Mother!”

He was blocking Maude and Hugh’s view, and they could only wait impatiently until he withdrew safely back into the solar. As soon as he turned, they knew his news was good. “It is Minna! Stephen has sent her back to you, Maude!” His grin widened. “And damn me if else, but he threw in my dyrehunds, too!”

Maude was sitting beside the hearth in her bedchamber while Minna brushed out her long, dark hair. It had been quiet for a while, a comfortable quiet; they were finally talked out. Moving to the table, Minna poured wine for them both, then went back to brushing Maude’s hair.

Maude sipped the wine without enthusiasm; it was a malmsey, too sweet for her taste. “Did you ask for Ranulf’s dogs?”

Minna shook her head regretfully. “In truth, I never thought of them,” she admitted. “No, that was Stephen’s doing.”

Maude set her wine cup down, turning so she could look into Minna’s face. “Did he take it hard…my escape?”

“Yes,” Minna said, and Maude smiled.

Another silence settled over the chamber. Minna had begun to hum under her breath, a German song from her youth, and it was like a cat’s purring, proof of Minna’s contentment. “What a Christmas this will be, madame. It would be well-nigh perfect if only Lord Robert were here. Do you know what sort of festivities are planned? I asked that woman, but she was not very forthcoming.”

Minna’s loyalty was a fierce and elemental force; it took no prisoners. She managed to make the innocuous phrase “that woman” sound as damning as anything Maude had ever heard. She hid a smile in her wine cup, for there was a primitive, sweet pleasure in it, but it was a forbidden pleasure, nonetheless, one she dared not indulge. “You might as well call her what she is, Minna-Brien’s wife.”

“I know,” Minna said, but she could not resist adding a muttered comment under her breath, which seemed to fault Brien’s wife for an odd sin, indeed, that she shared Maude’s name. Maude said nothing, but she could feel heat rising in her face.

It had happened on her third night at Wallingford. She’d gone into the solar to retrieve a book, and she was already in the room before she realized she was not alone. They were standing in the shadows, beyond the reach of the cresset lamp. Brien had his hands on his wife’s shoulders; his back was to Maude, and he was speaking too softly for her to hear, but his tone was soothing. His wife’s face was turned up toward his, and it was wet with tears. Maude froze, not wanting to be there, to witness this intimate moment. She’d taken a stealthy backward step when the other Maude’s voice rose, just enough for her words to carry clearly across the solar. “How lucky for you, Brien, that I was christened Maude, for you need never fear crying out the wrong name in bed.” Maude never knew how Brien responded, for she heard nothing after that but the blood pounding in her ears as she slowly retreated toward the door. She could not have borne it had they turned and seen her, but she was spared that, at least. Yet the memory lingered, one she would never share with another soul, not even Minna.

“I’ve never been able to abide women like that, Minna. The ones who flutter their lashes and coo like doves whenever a man walks by, just the sort of woman Geoffrey would fancy.”

“Just remember, my lady, what God has given you and denied her. Her marriage is barren, whilst you have three healthy sons.”

That gave Maude pause. “Sons I never get to see,” she said, and at once regretted it, for even to her ears, that sounded suspiciously self-pitying. “I am so thankful, Minna, to have you back with me. We’ve traveled a bumpy road together, too many miles for us ever to go our separate ways.”

Minna smiled, began to hum again. Within moments dogs were barking out in the bailey. “That sounds like Ranulf’s wolf pack,” Maude said. The barking did not subside; the other castle dogs were joining in. “Minna…do you think it could be Robert?” Maude was on her feet, re-tying the lacings of her gown, and Minna was brushing her hair back, preparing to pin it at the nape of her neck, when they heard the footsteps on the stairs.

It was Ranulf and Brien, and Maude knew at once that her hunch had been right. “Robert?” she asked eagerly, and they nodded in unison. Ranulf’s emotions always ran close to the surface; Brien’s did not. Now, though, the same expression was mirrored on both their faces, a look of jubilation and joy that was somehow expectant, too, the sort of inner excitement that hinted at secrets and surprises. But Maude had no time for curiosity, for Robert was coming in behind them, and then she was in his arms, being held in a wordless embrace, one that said what they could not.

“These narrow escapes of yours,” Robert said, “are becoming the stuff of legend.”

Maude laughed. “Ah, Robert, I cannot begin to tell you how the sight of you gladdens me!”

“I have to admit,” he said, “that you truly surprised me with that miraculous midnight escape of yours. But I have a surprise of my own.” He looked back toward Brien then, and nodded.

Maude watched, puzzled, as Brien pulled the door all the way open. And then she gasped, “Dear God!” for her son was standing in the doorway.

Henry’s qualms about not being recognized now seemed very foolish to him, for he was suddenly sure that his mother would have known him anywhere, on any street in Christendom. He liked the way her hair fell loose about her shoulders, black and shiny like the polished jet in the hilt of his uncle’s dagger, and he liked it, too, that she did not pounce on him, swooping him up in one of those tearful, perfumed embraces that squeezed the air out of him. He did not want her to act like the mothers of his friends. She said his name, making it sound like the “Amen” that ended prayers, and he was drawn forward into the room, straight as an arrow toward its target.

“We were coming to rescue you,” he explained, with just a trace of reproach, “and we would have, too. But you were too quick, Mama. You rescued yourself.” Had she known he was on the way, she said, she’d have waited, and she laughed. He laughed, too, and then she was hugging him, and instead of being embarrassed, he found himself hugging her back.

Henry was not shy, and he was soon settled cross-legged across from his mother in the window seat, talking a blue streak: asking about her trek through the snow, interrupting to brag a bit about his own adventures, then wanting to know if she’d been scared, if she’d gotten lost, if she’d mind that he went to bed later tonight, since he was not tired at all, and there was so much still to share.

Minna and the men watched and listened and then, one by one, discreetly slipped away. Brien was the last to go. He’d seen Maude look more beautiful than she did at this moment. Ironically enough, he’d always thought she had never looked fairer than on the day of her wedding to Geoffrey. But never had he seen her look happier. “Merry Christmas, Maude,” he said softly, and closed the door, leaving her alone with her son.