When Christ and His Saints Slept

2

City of Angers, Province of Anjou, France

August 1129

Barbe knew that her sister, Marthe, was a whore. When Marthe had returned to the village three months ago for the funeral of their mother, their stepfather had turned her away, saying she had shamed them all with her evil, ungodly life. As young as Barbe was-just thirteen-she understood what a whore did, that she sold her body to men for money. She understood, too, that it was a grievous sin. Nonetheless, she loved her wanton sister and detested her pious, righteous stepfather. She loathed his new wife, too, for he’d married again with indecent haste, claiming he needed a woman to mind his young sons. There was no room in his new family circle for Barbe, the unwanted, the child not his. She found herself facing a dismal future, treated as a servant, likely to be married off to the first elderly widower willing to accept her youth in lieu of a marriage portion. Barbe wept softly at night, nursing her bruises and muffling her sobs in her straw mattress, praying for the courage to run away. But it was not the Almighty who came to her rescue, it was her sinful sister.

When Marthe came back for her, Barbe never hesitated. Stuffing her meagre belongings into a hemp sack, she walked away from her home and village without a backward look. It was only as their cart neared the city walls of Angers that Barbe began to have qualms about what she’d done. It was plain that her sister did not lack for money, not if she could afford to hire a cart and driver. But what lay ahead in Angers? What would life be like for her here?

A week had passed since then, a week of continual surprises for Barbe. She had been vastly relieved to find that her sister did not live in a brothel. Indeed, Marthe’s residence was the most luxurious dwelling she’d ever seen; it had a kitchen and a hall, with a bedchamber and a loft above, and a garden view of the river. Barbe was astounded, but she was too shy to probe, and Marthe offered no explanation, only a sly smile and a jest about having an accommodating landlord. Marthe had a coffer chest full of clothes, plump hens scratching about in her garden, even a servant, a widow who came in every day to cook and clean. What she did not seem to have was a means of support. Where were the men come to buy what her sister was selling? Since Barbe had been there, nary a one had shown up. Who was paying for Marthe’s fine house and food and jasmine perfume?

Barbe got her answer-and the greatest surprise of all-at week’s end. He rode up at twilight, pounded on the door, and when she pulled back the latch, he brushed past her as if she did not exist, shouting for her sister, using Marthe’s new name, the one Barbe could not get accustomed to: Mirabelle. “You’ll not believe what that bitch did, Mirabelle! I swear to Christ that I’d have throttled her if I’d stayed-” But by now he and Mirabelle were on their way up the stairs, and the closing door cut off the rest of his rage.

Barbe stared open-mouthed after them, for as brief as her glimpse had been, it was enough. She’d seen this handsome, angry youth once before, had watched in awe as he and several hunting companions stopped in her village for wine, while word of his identity spread from house to house, emptying the entire population out into the dusty street. Barbe’s knees had begun to tremble and she sat down abruptly on the closest stool, overwhelmed by the realization that her sister’s mystery lover was the Count of Anjou.

Barbe slept fitfully that night in the loft, and when she awoke the next morning, her sister was already up, gossiping in the kitchen with her neighbor, the red-haired, bawdy Brigette. Barbe started down the stairs, only to stop at sight of the bedchamber door, invitingly ajar. Before she could think better of it, she crept forward.

One of the shutters had been unlatched, and half of the chamber was filled with hot, hazy sunlight, half still deep in night shadows. The floor was littered with discarded clothing and several empty wine flagons, and a scabbard was buried in the rushes, almost at Barbe’s feet. The Count of Anjou was sprawled, naked, upon Mirabelle’s bed, his legs entangled in the sheets, an arm flung across his eyes. His skin was fair and seemed remarkably clean and smooth, tanned wherever he’d been exposed to the sun, white where he had not. His hair was shoulder length and curly, the color of copper, as was the hair between his legs. He was clean-shaven, in the fashion for youths, and when he stirred sleepily, his arm dropping away from his face, Barbe caught her breath, for never had she seen any man so beautiful as this young drunken lord.

When a hand suddenly grasped Barbe’s shoulder, she cried out in fright, spinning around so fast that she tripped over her own skirts. Mirabelle signaled for silence, then pushed her toward the door. Her face flaming, Barbe scurried down the stairs. She began to stammer an apology once they reached the hall, not wanting a witness to her sister’s scolding. But Mirabelle waved her on into the kitchen, where Brigette was drinking cider left over from the Lammas Day celebration. “You’ll not believe where I found the little lass, Brigette-by the bed, lusting after my young lordling!”

Barbe’s face went even redder. “I was not!” she gasped, sounding so horrified that both women burst out laughing. Some of Barbe’s discomfort began to fade as she realized her sister was not angry with her. “I ought not to have gone into the bedchamber,” she admitted, “but…but I could not help myself. Is he really your lover, Mart-Mirabelle? For how long? And who was he so angry with? Not…not his wife, surely?”

“Oh, so you know about the wife, do you?” Mirabelle asked, but she did not sound annoyed, and Barbe nodded shyly.

“Oh, yes, for that was all we talked about last year, that Lord Geoffrey was to wed the King of England’s daughter. We heard that they had a splendid wedding, that she was a beautiful bride. Is…is that not so?”

“Yes, she is a handsome wench, is the Lady Maude. But I’d not say she made so fair a bride, not when she went to the altar like one going to the gallows!”

Barbe was astonished. “Why ever would she not want to wed the Lord Geoffrey? I do not understand, for he is so handsome,” she sighed, and then blushed again when the women laughed.

“Geoffrey could not understand it, either! But it seems the lady felt she was marrying beneath her. She had been the wife of the Holy Roman Emperor, after all, and Geoffrey was merely the son of a count. And then he was just a lad, only fourteen, and she was a woman grown and worldly-wise of twenty-five. It may be, too, that she did not want to make a marriage so sure to displease her future subjects, who loathed the Angevins. Her objections were for naught, though. The English king was set upon the marriage, for he saw it as a means of thwarting William Clito’s claim to the crown.”

“Who is he?”

“He was another of the English king’s nephews, his elder brother Robert’s son. When Clito allied himself with the French king, Maude’s father feared that Count Fulk of our Anjou would join forces with them against England. Are you following this so far?”

Barbe nodded, wide-eyed. “How do you know all this?” she asked admiringly, and Mirabelle pointed ceilingward, to the bedchamber above their heads.

“Men talk in bed, too,” she said dryly. “So…to win over Count Fulk, the English king proposed a marriage between the Lady Maude and the count’s eldest son, Geoffrey. The count agreed, but the Norman barons liked it little, and the Lady Maude not at all. She balked, refused to make the marriage.”

Barbe was amazed; she’d never heard of a woman’s daring to defy male authority. “Could she do that?”

“Well, she surely tried. But the king was no man to cross, and he had his way in the end. She yielded, and plans went forward for the wedding.”

“Maude’s father did make one concession in her favor,” Brigette interjected, and Mirabelle nodded.

“I was just getting to that. You see, Barbe, the King of Jerusalem faced the same predicament as the English king: no son to succeed him. His eldest daughter was to be queen, and was in need of a husband. And so it was arranged for Count Fulk to take her to wife. As King of Jerusalem, he could well afford to cede Anjou to Geoffrey, so the Lady Maude would at least be marrying a count. And indeed, it all came to pass as the English king would have it. Geoffrey and Maude were wed last year, two months before his fifteenth birthday, in a magnificent ceremony at Le Mans. Count Fulk later departed for the Holy Land and his new destiny, the English king returned contentedly to his own domains, and the war began.”

“War? With that…that William Clito?”

“No, William Clito’s claim came to an abrupt and unexpected end, thanks to a mortal spear thrust. He was wounded whilst putting down a rebellion in Flanders and died soon afterward, little more than a month after Geoffrey and Maude’s wedding! Geoffrey called that ‘ironic,’ a word I know not, but I suspect it is just a fancy way of saying his marriage need not have been. No, when I talked of war, I meant the one between Geoffrey and Maude. It began on their wedding night, and I see no truce in sight. Indeed, their fighting has gotten worse in past weeks. In truth, I’ve never seen Geoffrey as wroth as he was last night. It was no easy task, calming him down, took every drop of wine in the house!”

Barbe felt an odd sense of disappointment, for she’d always assumed that the highborn led blessed and blissful lives. “Why do they not get along?” she asked, and Mirabelle shrugged.

“Geoffrey has complaints beyond counting. To hear him tell it, Maude has no virtues, only vices. He says she is arrogant and sharptongued and quick-tempered, utterly lacking in womanly softness or warmth. But if I were seeking to understand why he hates her so, I’d look no further than their marriage bed. Keep this in mind, child, if you remember nothing else I teach you. There is no insult that wounds a man more than one aimed at his manhood.”

“I…I do not understand.”

“I mean that Geoffrey’s wife finds no pleasure in his bed and lets him know it,” Mirabelle said bluntly, and Barbe blushed anew.

“Well…why does he not shun her bed, then?” she suggested timidly. “If he has you, Mirabelle, why does he need Maude?”

“Alas, it is not so simple, Barbe. Geoffrey does need Maude-to give him an heir. And then, too, he is just sixteen. If he were older, her coldness would not matter so much to him. But he has never had an unwilling bedmate, not until now. Why would he, with a face like a wayward angel and all Anjou his for the taking? Women have been chasing after him since he was fourteen or thereabouts, and more often than not, he’d let them catch him. It was a great blow to his pride to discover that his beautiful wife does not want him. He is hurting and angry and baffled, and each time she rejects him, it gets worse. So he punishes her in bed, the one place where he is in control. That only makes her scorn him all the more, of course. Her scorn then goads him into maltreating her again, which…well, just think of a dog chasing his tail if you want to understand this accursed marriage of theirs! They must-Barbe? Lass, are you weeping?”

Barbe ducked her head, trying to hide the tears welling in her eyes. “It is just so sad,” she said, “that they are so unhappy…”

“Save your pity for those who truly need it, for mothers with hungry babes to feed, for that one-legged beggar we saw in the marketplace, for lepers or women with no men to protect them. Geoffrey and Maude may be miserable, but misery is much easier to bear in a castle, child.”

“Amen,” Brigette said fervently, and she and Mirabelle laughed. Barbe was quiet after that, startled by her sister’s unsentimental assessment of her royal lover’s plight.

“Do you think Maude will truly rule England and Normandy one day?” she asked, for she found it incomprehensible that a woman could wield power like a man. “How would she know what to do?”

“Oh, she is clever enough to match wits with most men. Even Geoffrey admits as much. She knows how to read and write, she is fluent in French and German, and Geoffrey says she understands a little Latin. If you ask me, though, I think she is one of God’s great fools. That lad up there in my bed is not a bad sort. But there is no forgiveness in him, none at all. Once he decides that Maude owes him a debt, she will be paying it off for the rest of their marriage. She-”

“Mirabelle, where are you? Get a basin up here fast, for I’m going to be sick!”

The voice was young, imperious, and urgent. Mirabelle grinned and got to her feet. “Coming, my love!” Gathering up a basin, a pitcher of water, and several towels, she started for the stairs, pausing to wink and say softly, “Time to earn the rent.”

Brigette raised her cup and Barbe leaned over, politely poured more cider. “Brigette…what will happen to them, the Lord Geoffrey and the Lady Maude?”

“Who knows?” After a moment, though, Brigette grinned. “If you’re one for gambling, Lucas the Fleming is taking wagers that they’ll kill each other ere the year is out!”

“ Open the shutters, Minna. I would know the worst,” Maude said tautly. The older woman hesitated, then did as she was bade. Summer sunlight flooded the room, warming and indolent and unsparingly bright. Maude drew a deep breath, then raised the mirror. It had been a gift from her first husband, the German Emperor Heinrich, the work of a master craftsman, carved ivory and polished brass, sheeted in thin glass. The metallic reflection was distorted, somewhat blurred, but not enough to hide her swollen, split lip and the mottled, darkening bruises on her cheek. Maude closed her eyes for a moment, then sank down in the window seat.

“What am I to do, Minna? The abbot will be here from St Aubin’s within the hour, and he’ll have only to look at me to know. They all will, anyone with eyes to see…”

Minna’s and Maude’s lives had first intersected at Utrecht, where the young widow had been chosen to attend the even younger empress. After Maude was widowed in her turn, Minna had forsaken her German homeland and accompanied her mistress back to England. They’d been together now for more than ten years, but never had Minna heard Maude sound like this, so utterly despairing. “Mayhap we can cover the bruises with powder, madame.”

“There would not be enough powder in Christendom for that.” Rising from the window seat, Maude began to pace. “Damn him,” she cried suddenly, “damn him to Hellfire Everlasting!”

Minna wondered which one she meant, husband or father. “My lady, my fear for you bids me be bold, bids me speak my mind. You cannot go on like this. Something must be done.”

“What would you have me do, Minna? Cut his throat whilst he sleeps?” Maude’s mouth twisted. “I’ve thought about it, you may be sure!”

“My lady…please hear me out. You’ll not like what I am about to say, but I cannot keep silent, not when I see him hurting you like this. So far he has not lost all control. He may have been angry enough to strike you, but he stopped at that. What happens when he does not? Madame, slaps lead to beatings, sooner or later. You cannot let it reach that point, for there will be no going back then. You must save yourself whilst there is still time.”

“How?” Maude asked, but if the question itself was dispassionate, the tone was not, so defensive that Minna knew it was hopeless, that Maude would not heed her.

“My lady, your husband the emperor was not an easy man to live with, either. He was prey to dark moods and melancholy and sudden fits of temper, and yet…yet you were able to make your marriage tolerable. You learned to deal with his demons, to defer to him when need be. Lady Maude, can you not do the same with Lord Geoffrey? It might well mean your life!”

But Maude was already shaking her head. “No, Minna,” she said, “I cannot do what you ask of me. It is true that I deferred to Heinrich, I do not dispute that. But I was only eight years old when I first met him, and he was a man of stature and significance, crowned by Our Holy Father the Pope. It did not diminish me to acknowledge his authority. And whilst it is true that he was a solitary, secretive man, aloof even in…intimate moments, he never begrudged me his respect. He treated me as his empress, and there was dignity in our marriage.”

She paused, and her hand strayed to her face, her fingers brushing against her throbbing, discolored cheek. “How can you compare them, Heinrich and Geoffrey?” She all but spat the second name. “Heinrich was King of the Germans, the Holy Roman Emperor. But Geoffrey…he is a callow, willful boy, a selfish, boastful whelp who thinks a wife is just one more possession, another mare to ride at his pleasure! You cannot imagine how demeaning it is, Minna, to be subject to a stripling’s whims, to have no rights at all, not even over my own body. You know how I fought against this marriage, but it has been even worse than I’d feared, more than fourteen months of pain and humiliation and misery. I cannot compel Geoffrey to show me the respect a wife deserves. I cannot even deny him my bed. But I will not let him strip away the last shreds of my dignity. I will not beg or grovel before him. I will never give him that satisfaction!”

“My lady, I would never ask that of you. But there must be some ground between defiance and submission. Can you not try to find it? Pride is admirable for certes, but it can also be dangerous, and if you-”

“You do not understand, Minna, not at all. Pride is the only defense I have,” Maude said, and turned away so abruptly that Minna realized she was struggling to hold back tears. She was not a woman who wept easily or often, and knowing that, Minna said no more. Maude had moved to the window. Picking up the mirror again, she stared at her reflection for a long moment. And then she said, “Help me braid my hair, Minna. The abbot will soon be here.”

“My lady, you do not have to do this. I can tell him you are ailing-”

“No!” Maude was very pale, and that ugly blotch of a bruise stood out like a brand, but her dark eyes glittered with a glazed, feverish intensity. “I will not cower up here in my chamber. I am no coward, and I will not hide away like one. I cannot stop people from gossiping behind my back, but I can damned well dare them to do it to my face!”

IT was dusk by the time Geoffrey returned to his formidable stone fortress above the River Maine. He felt wretched, his head pounding, his stomach still queasy, for he was not accustomed to drinking so much. Dismounting in the stable, he surprised the grooms by insisting upon unsaddling his mount himself. He lingered in the stable for almost an hour, rubbing his stallion down, feeding and watering it as the grooms looked on in bafflement. But he finally ran out of chores, and with a leaden step, he crossed the bailey, entered the great hall. To his relief, Maude was not there. He was acutely conscious, though, of the stares, the speculative glances, the eyes averted whenever he turned around. They knew, all of them. So did the townspeople. Most likely every last one of his vassals did, too. Had they begun to wonder how he could govern Anjou, a man unable to rule his own wife? Stalking from the hall, he rapidly mounted the stairs to Maude’s bedchamber.

They were ready for him, having heard the jangling of his spurs on the narrow stone steps. He wasted no time on preliminary skirmishing, saying curtly, “Minna, leave us,” vexed but not surprised when she looked to Maude for confirmation of his command. But he knew how to pay her back, and as soon as she’d reluctantly withdrawn, he slammed the bolt into place, knowing she’d be hovering on the other side of the door, listening.

Leaning back against the door, he said, “Alone at last,” more for the eavesdropping Minna’s benefit than for Maude’s. His wife had yet to say a word. She knew more ways to unsettle a man than any woman he’d ever met, silence being only one of them. She was standing in the shadows behind the table, but he was sure she’d not stay there for long. However much she might fear him, he knew she’d fear showing it even more.

As he expected, she soon circled around the table. But he drew a sharp breath as she moved into the lamp’s light. Jesu, her face was swollen up like a melon! He had not realized he’d hit her that hard. Not that he was sorry. She deserved it, by God she did.

He found, though, that he did not like to look at her bruises, for they were uncomfortable reminders of his own failure. He had his share of the notorious Angevin temper. His father had always claimed it was Lucifer’s legacy, passed down from the Devil’s daughter, said to have beguiled a long-dead Count of Anjou into taking her to wife. But Geoffrey had never given that accursed anger free rein, not as his father had, for it was very important to him-being in control at all times. That was why he’d suffered through so few drunken dawns like today’s, why he’d learned at such an early age that words could be crafted into weapons, giving him power over others. Yet not over Maude, never over her. No matter how often he vowed not to let her goad him again into a heedless, fool’s rage, it always came to that: someone he did not even know shouting and raving at her like a madman, losing more than his temper.

Maude watched warily as he moved about the chamber, slanting toward her an occasional sideways glance that gave away nothing of his thoughts. He guarded his secrets well. In that, he was a worthy opponent, for she rarely knew what he was thinking. What was he doing here? Not to offer an apology, for certes! What did he want of her? To share her bed? God, no…not after last night’s ugliness. Surely he could not expect her to…not so soon? But of course he would, if that was what he wanted. Had he not proved that often enough?

“We need to talk, Maude,” Geoffrey said abruptly. “Things must change between us. This constant quarreling must stop. I am bone-weary of entering this bedchamber and having it become a battlefield.”

“I assure you it gives me no joy, either, Geoffrey.”

“Then you ought to be willing to do your part. Are you?”

Maude hesitated, searching his face intently. Was he sincere about making a new beginning? Or was this some sort of trap? “What do you want of me?”

“It is very simple. I want you to start acting like a wife.”

She should have known better. “You mean obey you in all particulars?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Why not? You alone would think to question that, for the rest of Christendom recognizes it as a natural right, that a wife owes her husband obedience.”

“And does the husband owe nothing? Is that all marriage is to you, a lifelong debt incurred by the woman?”

She saw the muscles tighten along his jawline, but he surprised her, then, by saying coolly, “So tell me what I owe. I cannot very well satisfy a debt unless I know what it is.”

“I want you to treat me with courtesy. If I balk at obeying you, it is because you shame me in front of others. In truth, you speak more kindly to your dogs than you do to me. It would not unman you to ask instead of order, and you’d get better results.”

Geoffrey could feel heat rising resentfully in his face. “I was willing to treat you well. You were the one who-” No, not again. This time he would not be provoked-by Corpus, he would not. “Fair enough,” he said brusquely. “I show you courtesy and you show me respect. Anything else?”

“You truly need to ask? Look at my face!”

“That was as much your doing as mine!”

“What are you saying-that I wanted to be hit?”

“I am saying it would not have happened if not for your shrew’s temper and poison tongue. You do not want it to happen again? That is fine with me. Just do not give me cause, as easy as that.”

Maude clenched her fists in the folds of her skirt. Her breathing had quickened, but she couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs and she felt as if she were going to suffocate on her choked-back rage. She said nothing, but gave Geoffrey a look of utter loathing, a look that was not lost upon him.

“We are agreed, then,” he said, “that we stop entertaining all of Anjou with our feuding. From now on, we do our squabbling behind closed doors. Is that understood?”

“Yes, I understand. All your talk of change was just that-talk. You do not want to make peace between us. You do not even want a truce, merely a public pretense.”

“A ‘public pretense’ is the best I can hope for-dear wife. If you were to tell me otherwise, I’d know you lied. You can no more sheathe your claws than a wildcat can, and as for your bed thawing out…well, we’ll see the Second Coming first.”

Maude flushed. “If my bed is cold, the blame is yours.”

“The Devil it is!”

“If you treated your yellow-haired harlot the way you do me, you’d have to pay her a lot more money than you do now! You never ask, you just take. You force yourself upon me whenever you choose, and you do not care if I am ailing or tired. It is not unreasonable to want to say no sometimes. But then, you’d never hear me, would you?”

Geoffrey was incredulous. “Christ Jesus, woman, you make it sound as if I rape you!”

“You do,” she said flatly, and his disbelief exploded into outrage.

“Have you gone mad?” When he strode toward her, she took an involuntary backward step, for although she was tall for a woman, he still towered above her. “I have every right to lay with you, for you are my wife! Need I remind you of that?”

“As if I could forget!”

His eyes were of a changeable color, blue or grey depending upon his mood or the light. They were dark now, like slate. He’d made no move to touch her, but as soon as she could retreat without seeming to, she put some space between them.

“I would to God I knew what ails you, woman. Mayhap you’re not just bad-tempered and perverse, mayhap you’re truly crazy! I do not know how else to explain half of what you say. Unless you are mocking me? Is that it, Maude?”

“No!” she protested. “Why is it honesty when a man speaks his mind and madness when a woman does?”

He shook his head in disgust. “God help the English if ever you do become queen. But until then, you are going to do what I say. I am not offering you a choice, Maude. I can compel your obedience if need be, and we both know that.”

Maude swallowed. “I am not afraid of you, Geoffrey.”

“Then you are truly a fool,” he said coldly, “for you’ve given me no reason to think fondly of you. You’ve proven yourself to be a disagreeable companion, an indifferent bedmate, and a barren wife…Have I left any of your failings out?”

Maude gasped. “That is not so! I bore the emperor a son!”

“Dead,” he shot back. “What good does it do a man to have a stillborn heir?”

“My son lived…” she began, but she got no further; to her horror, her voice was no longer steady.

“Not long enough. How old were you when you started to share the imperial bed…thirteen? Fourteen? So you had nigh on ten years to conceive another child, and you could not do it. Your husband needed a healthy, living heir, and you failed him. So why should I think you could do any better for me?”

“God will give me a son,” she said huskily, “a son who will be king. My only regret is that the child must be yours, for I would rather lay with any man but you! Even a leper’s touch could not be more loathsome than yours-”

It was then that he lunged at her. But as fast as he was, she was even faster, and his hand just brushed her sleeve. She spun around and he thought she meant to dart behind the table. Instead, she snatched something from an open casket and whirled back to face him. “You will not hit me again,” she warned, “I swear by the Rood that you will not!”

He took a quick step toward her and then froze, shocked into immobility not by her defiance but by the sight of that jeweled dagger glinting in her fist. His eyes narrowed, flicking from the knife to her white face, back to the dagger again. She was holding it too high, too far out from her body. She’d not had his training with weapons. Nor did she have his greater reach. Measuring the risk, he decided he could probably get the blade away from her without too much trouble. He made no attempt to do so, though. Her breathing was uneven and shallow; he could see how rapidly her breasts rose and fell. Perspiration had begun to trickle down her neck, into her cleavage, and a pulse was throbbing in her throat. She’d never looked so desirable, or so desperate. But it was as if he were watching her from a distance. Even his anger had suddenly iced over. And he knew then what he would do.

“I have had enough,” he said. “The throne of England is not worth this. The Throne of Heaven itself would not be worth it. Our marriage is over.” And he turned away, strode toward the door.

Maude was stunned. “What are you saying?”

Sliding the bolt free, he looked back over his shoulder. “I no longer want you as my wife. Tell your women to start packing, for I’d have you gone by first light.”

Before she could respond, the door closed, quietly, and that was somehow more ominous than if he’d slammed it shut. Reaction set in and she began to tremble. The dagger slid from her fingers, dropped into the floor rushes.

“My lady? What happened? You look white as chalk! He did not hurt you?”

“No, Minna.” The other woman shoved a brimming wine cup into her hand, and Maude drank gratefully, entwining her fingers around the stem to steady her grip. “He says…says the marriage is over.”

Minna was dumbfounded. “He cannot mean that, madame…can he?”

“No,” Maude said, as emphatically as she could. “Of course he does not mean it! There is too much at stake-the succession of Anjou, England, and Normandy. The scandal would be beyond belief. All of my father’s plans would be set at naught.” She paused, turning then, to meet Minna’s troubled gaze. “My father,” she said softly, “would never forgive me…”

Maude spent the evening’s remaining hours seeking to convince herself that Geoffrey could not possibly have been serious. But she still slept badly and awakened at dawn, so tense and edgy that she decided she had but one course of action: to confront Geoffrey straightaway.

Her husband’s squire could not hide his surprise, for she’d never before made an early-morning appearance in Geoffrey’s bedchamber. Geoffrey was already up and dressed; his high boots and dark-green tunic indicated he had a day’s hunting in mind. He gave Maude a cool, mocking glance. “Into the lion’s den? How brave of you, darling.”

Now it was Maude’s turn to say, “We need to talk. Will you send Raimund away?” Forcing herself to add “please” through gritted teeth.

He shrugged, dismissing his squire with a casual gesture. “Have you come, then, to bid me farewell?”

Maude stared at him. “You cannot do this, Geoffrey. You could not be so irresponsible, so reckless!”

“You think not? Go to the window, then. Your escort is waiting below, ready to see you safe into Normandy or Hell or wherever else you care to go.”

“For God’s sake, Geoffrey, this is madness! You’ve not thought this through. The Church will not annul our marriage; we have no grounds. You’ll not be able to wed again. Neither one of us will. What will you do for an heir?”

Moving to the table, he poured himself a breakfast beverage of watered-down wine. “If it comes to that, I suppose I can wait for you to die, dear heart. The only benefit of having such an older wife is that you’re not likely to outlive me, are you?”

“This is nothing to joke about! What of your father? He’ll be enraged if you commit this folly and well you know it!”

“I expect so,” he acknowledged airily. “But Jerusalem is a long, long way from Angers. It’ll be months ere he even hears.”

“ My father is not in Jerusalem,” she snapped. “What of his rage?”

“That is your problem, dear heart, not mine,” he said, and smiled at her.

It was like looking at a stranger. He even sounded different; there was malice in his tone but no anger. Maude was at a loss, not knowing how to deal with this new Geoffrey, defeated by this odd mixture of boyish flippancy and adult resolve. “So be it,” she said at last. “I’ll not beg.”

“A pity,” he said, “for that would have been one memory of our marriage I might have cherished.” The smile he gave her was lighthearted, quite genuine. Moving past her to the door, he said, “Well, I’m off to the hunt. It would be sporting of you to wish me luck. I wish you Godspeed and a safe journey. But Maude…do be gone by the time I get back tonight.”

He didn’t bother to close the door; she could hear him whistling as he started down the stairs. Maude stood very still, listening to the sounds of his receding footsteps in the stairwell, the fading echoes of his jaunty tune. God in Heaven, what now?

IN early September, Maude arrived at her father’s royal manor at Quevilly, in the parish of Saint-Sever on the outskirts of Rouen. The king was no longer in Normandy, though, having returned to England in July. Writing to her father was one of the most difficult tasks Maude had ever faced. It left her pride in tatters, lacerated and raw. But she had no choice. Her father had to know how Geoffrey had abused her, how miserable he’d made her. If he understood that, he might not blame her for the breakup of her marriage.

After dispatching a letter to her father at Windsor, Maude then had a confidential, candid, and disheartening discussion with Hugh d’Amiens, the new Archbishop of Rouen. He confirmed what she already knew: that the Church recognized but three grounds for dissolving a marriage-a previous plight troth, a blood kinship within the seventh degree, or a spiritual kinship such as godparent and godchild-and that Geoffrey and Maude could satisfy none of them. Which meant, Maude later confided bitterly to Minna, that she was chained to Geoffrey as surely as if he’d cast her into an Angevin dungeon and clapped her in irons. As wretched as their life together had been, all she could hope for was that he might relent and take her back. If he did not, her father’s dynastic dreams would be destroyed, and so would her own dreams of queenship, for Henry would not keep her as his heir if she could not give him a grandson.

She’d always liked Rouen, but now she hated it. Heads turned and whispers began each time she ventured into the city’s streets. She found it intensely humiliating, knowing that she was the object of so much gossip, much of it salacious, her broken marriage the butt of alehouse jokes and crude tavern humor. But worst of all was the suspense, the silence from England as the weeks passed. She wrote again, and after that, all she could do was wait for her father’s response.

It came at last on a rain-chilled October eve. Maude and Minna were seated before the solar hearth, playing a game of chess. Maude glanced up as the door opened, expecting a servant, and found herself gazing at her eldest brother and his wife.

“Robert, thank God!” Maude was not demonstrative by nature, but now she flung herself into Robert’s arms and even embraced Amabel, although the two women had nothing in common except Robert. “Why did you not let me know you were coming? How the sight of you gladdens me! You…you do know about Geoffrey?”

“Yes,” he said, “that is why I am here.” There was a brief delay while Robert and Amabel exchanged pleasantries with Minna and wine was served. But as soon as they were alone, Robert took a sealed parchment from a pouch at his belt and silently held it out to her.

He watched sadly as Maude read their father’s letter, saw the color fade from her face, only to flood back as she continued to read, and then ebb away again. Raising wide, stricken eyes to his, she said, “Papa blames me, Robert. He says it is all my fault.”

“I know.”

“This is so unjust! Did he not get my letters? Did he read them?”

When he nodded reluctantly, she reached out and caught his arm. “Then he knows how Geoffrey maltreated me! What did he say to that?”

“I do not remember, lass,” he said, no longer meeting her eyes.

“Robert, tell me!”

Still he said nothing. It was Amabel who finally told Maude what her husband would not. “He said, Maude, that you’d likely brought it upon yourself.”

Maude stared at her sister-in-law, then swung back toward her brother. “He truly said that?”

“He was in a rage, Maude. When men are angry, they are careless, ofttimes say what they do not mean-”

“No,” Maude said, “not Papa. He never says what he does not mean.” She was badly shaken, and it showed. “How can he be so uncaring? How can he take Geoffrey’s side over mine?”

“Maude, he is not doing that.”

“No? It certainly sounds that way to me! But I am not the one who murdered our marriage. It is Geoffrey’s dagger buried in the body, for it was Geoffrey who cast me out. What would Papa have me do? Beg him to take me back? This was not my fault, Robert. Why could you not make Papa see that?”

“Ah, Maude…” He glanced at her, then looked away, and it was then that Maude saw the truth.

“My God,” she whispered. “You, too? You think I am to blame?”

“Maude, it is not a matter of blame. I am not defending Geoffrey, in truth I am not. But I would to God it had never happened, that you-”

He broke off, but not in time. “Go on,” Maude challenged. “Finish the thought, Robert! What ought I to have done? Suffered in silence? Let him beat me black and blue without complaint?”

“You know better than that,” he said quietly. “This serves for naught. We can talk in the morning when you are not so distraught. But for now, I think it is best that we bid you goodnight.” Stepping forward, he kissed her upon the cheek and then paused, as if waiting for her to speak. She did not, and he turned toward the door. Amabel followed.

Maude moved to the hearth. She was suddenly so cold that she’d actually begun to shiver. When the door opened, she did not turn, assuming it was Minna. But it was Amabel.

“There is something I would say to you, Maude. You must not blame Robert. This was not a mission of his choosing. His father commanded him to come. He would never willingly hurt you, and you ought to know that by now.”

“All I know is that I was the one wronged. I am here because Geoffrey banished me from Anjou. So how is it that I am at fault? Suppose you tell me, Amabel. You’ve never been at a loss for words!”

“Indeed, I do speak my mind. And I will now, woman to woman. I do agree that you have been wronged. If your marriage was a ship, Geoffrey was the one who ran it upon the rocks. But you ought to have seen this coming. A ship does not sink with no warning. Why were you not aware that it was taking on water? In all honesty, I do not understand how you botched this so badly. You are a beautiful woman, Maude. Why you could not bedazzle or bewitch a lad of fifteen-”

“How dare you pass judgment on me! Does Robert ever hit you? Does he boast openly of his bedmates? Take pleasure in your pain? Unless you can answer those questions with a yes, you cannot know what my marriage was like, and you have no right to criticize me!”

“There is truth in what you say,” Amabel admitted. “But there is truth in what I said, too, and for your sake, I hope you can see that in time. Sooner or later, Geoffrey will take you back. Surely you know that? Your father is not about to let a headstrong cub thwart his will or undo his carefully crafted plans for the succession. Geoffrey will come to his senses; the king will see to that. And when he does, I hope you’ll remember what I said this night.”

“Go away, Amabel,” Maude said, and although her sister-in-law looked aggrieved, she did. Maude still clutched her father’s letter, crumpled within her fist. She smoothed it out now, but did not reread it. Instead, she thrust it into the hearth. A scorching smell filled the room as the parchment caught fire, began to smolder. She watched it burn, not moving until it was engulfed in flames.