When Christ and His Saints Slept

5

Bernay, Normandy

November 1135

The Bernay family took its surname from the town that had sprung up around a Benedictine abbey. The bulk of Raymond de Bernay’s lands lay across the Channel, in England, though, for Raymond’s father had profited handsomely when Normandy’s duke claimed by conquest the English crown. But it had been many months since Raymond had visited his English estates. King Henry had been dwelling in Normandy for the past two years, seemed in no hurry to return to his island kingdom, and Raymond thought it prudent to follow his liege lord’s example.

When the dogs began to bark, Raymond’s daughter darted out the door into the bailey, heedless of the snow and cold. Ranulf was just swinging down from his saddle when Annora flung herself into his arms. “Fool!” he laughed. “Where is your mantle? Do you want to freeze?”

“Are you saying you cannot keep me warm?” She laughed back at him, and he took the dare, kissing her with enough passion to keep the cold at bay, at least until Edith hastened outside and chased them both into the manor, grumbling about such unseemly behavior.

Annora had no memories of her mother, who’d died while she was still in her cradle. But she could not remember a time when Edith had not been part of her life: nurse, confidante, mainstay. She was quite unfazed, though, by Edith’s sermon; she well knew the older woman would forgive her any sin under God’s sky.

Ranulf was equally unperturbed by Edith’s scolding. For all that she freely sprinkled her conversation with “rascal” and “young rogue,” hers was a bark that lacked bite; Edith was utterly delighted that her “darling lass” was to wed the king’s son. At least this was what she told Annora, for she’d never admit that she found Ranulf’s ready grin and good humor as appealing as his royal bloodlines. Jesu forfend that Annora ever suspect the shameful truth, that she was a secret romantic with a weakness, even now, for a likely lad.

The Bernays’ cook also had a fondness for Ranulf, and sent out a heaping platter of hot cheese-filled wafers. As Ranulf divided his attention between Edith and the wafers, Annora fidgeted. When her patience, never in plentiful supply, ran out, she got to her feet so abruptly that she spilled Ranulf’s cider, insisting that he accompany her outside to see the stable cat’s newborn kittens.

As excuses go, it was pitifully thin; only nuns and an occasional eccentric viewed cats as pets. But Edith waved them on indulgently, for Annora’s elder brother Fulk was due back that night, and he’d be far more vigilant about safeguarding his sister’s virtue. Let her lamb and the lad have some sweet stolen moments together. Even if they could not be trusted to be prudent-and in her heart she knew that discretion was an utterly alien concept to Annora-at the very worst, they’d just have to hasten the date for the wedding. But she had no problems with that, for her lamb was fifteen now, old enough to be a bride, a wife and mother.

Ranulf and Annora reached the stables in record time. Once they were safely within its sheltering shadows, Ranulf headed for the nearest bale of hay and drew Annora down onto his lap. Pulling off her veil, he reached under her mantle, then began to kiss her upturned face.

By their society’s rigid standards, Annora was no beauty, for she bore no resemblance whatsoever to the tall, willowy, golden-haired maidens so admired by their minstrels and poets, fair maidens demure and docile and unfailingly deferential to male authority. No bards would be singing Annora’s praises; she was short and dark and stubborn and so volatile that her brothers called her Hellcat.

So did Ranulf, but on his lips, it became an endearment. He wished now that he could have unbraided her hair; when loose, it put him in mind of a hot summer night, so black and sultry-soft was it. But that was out of the question; he could not let her emerge from the stables looking like a wanton, hair unbound and clothes askew. What would be the measure of his love if he cared naught for her honour?

It had not been easy, putting limitations upon their lovemaking. But he meant for Annora to come to their marriage bed a virgin, even if his forbearance half killed him, and at times, he feared it might. It was not that he believed they’d be sinning, for he did not; they’d been plight-trothed since the summer, since Annora’s fifteenth birthday, and a plight troth was almost as binding as a church ceremony. It was not his sense of sin that had so far kept Annora chaste; it was his sense of honour. Annora’s father trusted him, allowed him to see her often and alone, and Ranulf could not bring himself to betray Raymond’s trust by seducing Raymond’s daughter, however much he wanted to-however much Annora wanted him to. Thankfully, their waiting was almost done; her father was talking of a spring wedding.

Ranulf was the one to end their embrace; Annora never made it easy for him. “I suppose,” he muttered, “that all this self-control will stand me in good stead should I ever decide to become a monk.”

“A monk? I thought you were aiming for sainthood,” Annora gibed, and then gave a squeal when he yanked her braid. “How long can you stay?”

“Just till week’s end. My father had a sudden urge to go hunting, so Monday off he went to his lodge at Lyons-la-Foret, with Robert, a handful of earls, and a bishop or two. When I reminded Robert that Bernay was only a day’s ride away, he gave me leave to ‘pay your respects to your betrothed,’” Ranulf quoted, switching to a passable imitation of his brother’s gravely deliberate tones. “I promised, though, to be waiting when they return to Rouen on Friday. But we’ll not be apart for long. I’m sure your father plans to attend the king’s Christmas court, does he not?”

Annora nodded. “Of course. Who would miss it? Ah…but Maude would, it seems. We heard she quarreled with your father, that she then dared to leave Rouen without his permission. Can that be true, Ranulf?”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But it was not a quarrel of Maude’s making. My father had promised to yield some castles to her husband, and Geoffrey became convinced he was not acting in good faith. So he seized them, which vexed my father sorely. They’ve been squabbling about it all summer, whilst Maude sought to make peace betwixt them, to no avail. At last she wearied of all the strife, and returned to Geoffrey in Anjou. She ought not to have gone without bidding my father farewell, but I can understand her anger, Annora. My father forced her to marry Geoffrey, and for him now to berate her for Geoffrey’s sins is unjust, to say the least.”

Annora’s mouth curved down. “Sometimes I think you’ll be defending that woman with your dying breath. Why you’re so fond of her, I’ll never understand, for no one else can abide her foul tempers and arrogance-”

“You’re not being fair, Annora. People are too quick to find fault with Maude, judge her too harshly. It is true that she has ever been one for speaking her mind, and mayhap such forthrightness is unseemly in a woman, but I rather like it myself. There is no pretense to Maude; she says what she thinks and means what she says. As for her temper, I’ll not deny she is quick to anger. But if that be a sin, it is one she shares with most of mankind. And she is very loyal to those she loves. Do you remember me telling you about that remarkable dog I saw in Paris last year? It looked verily like a wolf, but with a jaunty, bushy tail curling over its back. It belonged to a Norwegian merchant, and he said such dogs were common in his homeland, known as dyrehunds, that they were bold hunters, able to track elk, moose, wolves, even bears-”

“I do not care if they can chase down unicorns! What do dyrehunds have to do with Maude?”

“If you’ll curb your impatience, you’ll find out. I was much taken with the dog, but the man would not sell it. I happened to mention it to Maude, and she sent for the man, secretly arranged for him to bring back two breeding pairs of dyrehunds on his next trip to Oslo, and surprised me with them on my birthday. Handsome beasts, I cannot wait for you to see them. But how many people would have done what Maude did for me? She has a giving heart, and that should count for more than a sharp tongue.”

Annora was not convinced. “I’m glad she got you the Norse dogs you fancied. But the world is still filled with people who love that lady not. At the mere thought of her queenship, my father turns the color of moldy cheese!”

“I know how common such qualms are,” Ranulf conceded. “We’ve never had a queen who ruled in her own right, and the novelty of that scares a lot of people. If only Maude were not wed to Geoffrey of Anjou! He may lack for scruples, but not for enemies, and every one of them is now Maude’s enemy, too, for they fear that he’d share her throne as he does her bed. Poor Maude, she cannot win, for when men are not berating her for her unwomanly willfulness, they are accusing her of being Geoffrey’s pawn! How can she be both a virago and a puppet?”

“Poor Maude, indeed! She was born a king’s daughter, wed first to the Holy Roman Emperor and then the Count of Anjou, she’s borne Geoffrey two healthy sons, she’ll one day be Queen of England and Duchess of Normandy, and the Lord God saw fit to make her a beauty in the bargain. There has probably never been a woman so blessed since Eve woke up in Eden!”

Ranulf grinned. “I’d say you were more blessed than Maude. After all, you’re going to marry me!” he said, and stifled her riposte with a kiss. “What you say about Maude is true enough, Annora. But truth, as my cousin Stephen is fond of pointing out, has as many layers as an onion. Peel away a few of them and you get a different truth, a view of Maude’s life not quite so ‘blessed.’ She was sent to Germany at age eight, wed to a man nigh on twenty years her senior, a man of black moods and brooding temper, notorious for having betrayed his own father. She somehow made a success of the marriage, though, and won the hearts of her husband’s subjects, too. When she was widowed, they wanted her to stay in Germany. So did she, for she’d learned by then to look upon Germany as her home. But my father insisted that she return to England, and when she did, he named her as his heir.”

“Oh, no! To be burdened with a crown-that poor lass.”

Ranulf tweaked her braid again. “But the crown had a baited hook in it, for he then forced her to wed Geoffrey of Anjou. When she objected, he confined her within his queen’s chambers under guard, kept her there until she yielded.”

“I never knew that! The king made Maude a prisoner?” When Ranulf nodded, Annora felt a twinge of grudging pity for Maude; her own upbringing had been one of indulgence and coddling, as the youngest and the only girl in a family of sons. “I’ll admit that Maude’s marriage does sound like a match made in Hell. But they did in time make their peace, did they not?”

“More like an armed truce. It helped when Maude gave birth to a son two years ago, and then a second lad a year later. Both Maude and Geoffrey dote on the boys, especially young Henry, their firstborn. But for all that they’ve iced over their differences, a bystander could still get frostbite if he lingered too long in their company. Do you see what I am saying, Annora? Do you remember last summer, when Maude nearly died in childbirth? She was stricken with childbed fever, and for nigh on a week, she suffered the torments of the damned. I was there at Rouen; I saw her agony. We were sure she was dying. So was she, and she told us she wanted to be buried at the abbey of Bec. But my father…he said no, that he would have her buried in Rouen. Even on her deathbed, Annora, she was given no say.”

Annora reached up, put her fingers to his lips. “I yield. You’ve convinced me that some of Maude’s blessings have been bittersweet. But I still think she brought much of her trouble on herself. If she’d not been so haughty, if she’d been more tactful, more womanly-”

Ranulf laughed rudely. “Like you? Sweetheart, I’d back your claws against Maude’s any day!”

Annora pretended to pout. “I suppose you’d prefer a meek little lamb like the Lady Matilda-oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth, as if to catch her heedless words. The gesture was affected, but her remorse was real. “I ought not to have said that,” she said contritely. “My heart goes out to Matilda, Ranulf, truly it does. I can think of no greater grief than the loss of a child…”

Ranulf nodded somberly, and for a moment, they both were silent, thinking of the sudden death that summer of Stephen and Matilda’s son. Theirs was an age in which too many cemeteries held pitifully small graves; one of every three children never even reached the age of five. But Baldwin had been their firstborn, a lively, clever nine-year-old whose death had left a huge, ragged hole in their lives.

“Their grieving was painful to look upon,” Ranulf said sadly. “They buried him in London, at Holy Trinity Priory. They’re in Boulogne now; I’ve seen them just once since their return. They’ll probably come to Rouen, though, for my father’s Christmas court. Indeed, I do hope so. Mayhap it would cheer them somewhat, being at the revelries,” he said, with the well-intentioned, misguided optimism of youth, and sought to banish Death’s spectre then, by focusing all his attention upon the girl on his lap.

Annora cooperated so enthusiastically that the shadow of Stephen and Matilda’s small son soon receded, unable to compete with the lure of smooth, female flesh, soft curves, and the fragrance of jasmine. After a time, they broke apart by mutual consent, breathing deeply, and smiled at each other. Ranulf had begun to stroke her cheek, and Annora gave a contented sigh; as exciting as it was when the fire burned hot between them, she also took pleasure in quiet moments like this, for Ranulf could be gentle, too.

They talked idly of the upcoming Christmas revelries, and then Annora related the latest Paris scandal. Ranulf was not surprised that she should be so well informed about the bed-roving of the French nobility; Annora adored gossip the way a child craved sweets. But he was momentarily at a loss when she insisted, “Now you owe me some good gossip in return-and it has to make me blush or it does not count.”

Ranulf pondered for a moment. “Well…Queen Adeliza’s confessor is said to be smitten with one of her ladies-in-waiting, following the lass about like a lovesick swain-”

“Ah, Ranulf, Ranulf…you’ll have to do better than that. The Church can preach chastity for its priests from now till Judgment Day, and that will not change the fact that half the clerics in Christendom have wives or hearthmates. Jesu, what of the Bishop of Salisbury, the old king’s justiciar? He’s openly kept a concubine for thirty years, even got their bastard son appointed chancellor. No, my lad, you’d best look farther afield for scandal. Catching wayward priests is like spearing fish in a barrel; there is no sport in it.”

Ranulf laughed softly, pulling her back into his arms. “We’ll just have to make our own scandal then,” he said, and began to kiss her again. But the dogs were barking out in the bailey, and they reluctantly drew apart, hurriedly adjusting their clothing.

“I suppose that will be Fulk,” Ranulf said glumly, for there would be no dalliance with Annora as long as her elder brother was on hand. But the brother who now burst into the stable wasn’t Fulk; it was Ancel, who should have been at Lyons-la-Foret with Robert and the royal hunting party.

“Ancel? What are you doing here?”

“Your brother sent me to fetch you straightaway. It is your lord father, Ranulf…He was taken ill soon after we arrived at the hunting lodge.”

“How ill? Ancel…how ill?” Ranulf repeated tensely, for it had not escaped him that Ancel had yet to meet his eyes.

“That is for the doctors to say, not me,” Ancel said evasively. “But Lord Robert said…he said for you to make all haste. He said not to tarry.”

Ranulf sucked in his breath, for he understood then what Ancel was so loath to tell him. They thought his father was dying.

When Ranulf had assured Robert that Bernay was just a day’s ride from Rouen, he’d stretched the truth somewhat; it was thirty miles, more or less, and indeed a hard-riding traveler could cover the distance in one day-a summer’s day. Travel on rutted and icy winter roads was a far riskier and slower venture. Ranulf knew, though, that he was racing Death, and he and Ancel spurred their horses without regard for their safety, making their way by glimmering lantern light as darkness fell. When they halted, it was only to rest their lathered mounts. But their reckless, breakneck dash through the frozen December countryside still took them all night and most of the following day. They reached the hunting lodge at dusk, only to learn that Ranulf’s father had died at dawn.

Having completed his prayer for his father’s soul, Ranulf got stiffly to his feet and stood staring down at his father’s body. Henry seemed at peace; Ranulf had been assured that he’d died in God’s Grace, shriven of his sins by the Bishop of Rouen. Ranulf fervently hoped it was so, but his treacherous memory refused to cooperate, conjuring up shadows of his father’s blinded, maimed granddaughters, the ghost of a king slain mysteriously in the New Forest, a brother’s body abandoned in the woods whilst Henry raced for Winchester to claim a crown. Even if his father had sincerely repented all his earthly misdeeds, a lengthy stay in Purgatory seemed a foregone conclusion.

It was odd; he could have been looking upon a stranger. Why was he so calm, so queerly detached? He felt exhausted, numbed, regretful that he’d not been able to bid his father a final farewell. But his sorrowing was muted; his eyes were dry.

The door opened quietly behind him. Robert looked tired and tense, but composed. Ranulf glanced at his elder brother, then back at the dead man, thinking of Adeliza, his father’s queen. Would she weep for Henry? Would any eyes? It was a disturbing thought, that a man could wield great power as God’s anointed on earth, he could rule an empire, and yet leave none to mourn him when he died.

“People will say they grieve for him,” he said softly, “but they will be lying. He’ll be forgotten even ere he is buried, for men’s thoughts are already turning to tomorrow, to Maude. It sounds mad to say this, Robert, for I knew he would die one day, and I knew, too, that he’d not change his mind about the succession. So why does it come as such a surprise?”

“That he should die? Or that Maude should be queen?”

Ranulf considered. “Both, I think.”

Robert was quiet for a time. “In that, lad, I’d wager you’re not alone,” he said, and Ranulf turned, gave him a startled, searching look, half fearful of what he might find. If even Robert was so troubled by their sister’s coming queenship, it did not bode well for Maude, for England. Men might not mourn his father, but there’d be many who’d dread his death, dread the unsettled times that lay ahead.

“I’ve been praying for Papa, Robert. But mayhap we ought to be praying, too, for Maude,” he said, sounding so uneasy and so earnest that Robert reached out, let his hand rest briefly on the boy’s arm, a gesture that Ranulf found both surprising and bracing, for Robert was as reticent as Maude about open displays of affection.

“I think, lad,” Robert agreed, “that it would not be amiss to pray for Maude. And whilst you are at it, pray, too, for England.”

Angers, the ancient capital of Anjou, was bisected by the River Maine. But the heart of the city beat upon the east bank, for there was to be found the abbey of St Aubin, the great cathedral, and the hilltop castle where generations of Angevin counts had dwelled and died. It was toward the castle that Ranulf rode, bringing his sister Robert’s letter, bringing the news of their father’s death.

Maude already knew. Ranulf saw that as soon as he was ushered into the great hall. She wore the somber shades of mourning, and her demeanor was solemn, as befitting one newly bereaved. But her eyes were as dry as Ranulf’s own. She welcomed him with the aloof dignity that public decorum demanded, her pleasure at seeing him revealed only in the slight curve of her mouth, the alacrity with which she suggested that they withdraw to her private chamber.

Once they reached her bedchamber, Maude sent a servant for wine and then turned to Ranulf, taking his hands in hers. “I am so glad that you’ve come,” she said. “Were you with Papa when he died?”

“No,” Ranulf said regretfully, “but Robert was,” and he handed her their brother’s letter. Because he did not know what Robert had written, he told Maude then what he had learned about their father’s death. “He was stricken on Monday eve, the 25th of November, after eating a heaping plateful of stewed lamprey eels, and died early the following Sunday.”

Maude had begun to read Robert’s letter, but at that, she slanted a sudden glance in his direction. “Lamprey eels,” she said, shaking her head. “The doctors warned him time and time again that he ought not to eat them. Of course he paid them no heed.”

Neither of them took notice of the opening door, assuming it was a servant with the wine.

“Well, if it is not the little brother.”

The voice was low-pitched and would have been very pleasing to the ear if not for the suggestion of smugness, echoes of the mockery that insinuated itself into Geoffrey’s every utterance; Ranulf doubted that he could even pray to the Almighty without sounding disrespectful. “The sight of you gladdens me, too, Geoffrey,” he said sourly, for he’d long ago learned the futility of squandering courtesy upon Maude’s husband.

Geoffrey seemed amused by Ranulf’s sarcasm; it vexed Ranulf enormously that his sister’s husband never took him seriously enough to quarrel with. He watched sullenly now as Geoffrey sauntered over, grazed Maude’s cheek with a careless kiss, while glancing covertly at the letter she held open in her hand.

Maude casually shifted the letter. “Did you want anything in particular, Geoffrey?”

“Why, I was looking for you, dear heart,” he said blandly. “I was told your brother had arrived. Alas, I was not told that it was the wrong brother.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I should think my meaning would be obvious. Robert ought to have come himself rather than send this green lad. You are, after all, more than his right beloved sister now. You’re to be his queen.”

It infuriated Ranulf to hear himself dismissed as a “green lad,” for the age difference was not that great; he was seventeen to Geoffrey’s twenty-two. Even more did he resent the slur upon Robert, and he said hotly, “Robert still had duties to perform for our father. He had to escort the body back to Rouen, and then go to Falaise, for my father had instructed him to withdraw sixty thousand pounds from the royal treasury to pay the wages of his servants and soldiers and give alms to the poor, that they might pray for his soul.”

Geoffrey’s mouth quirked. “If he thought to bribe his way past Heaven’s Gate, I daresay he found that even sixty thousand pounds would not buy him prayers enough. He’d have been better off spending the money to earn himself some goodwill amongst the Devil’s minions.”

Ranulf gasped, but Maude put a restraining hand upon his arm. “You would know more about pleasing the Devil than most men. The counts of Anjou trace their descent from Lucifer’s daughter, do they not?”

Geoffrey was not offended. “Her name is Melusine.” Seeing their blank looks, he added helpfully, “The Devil’s daughter who wed one of my ancestors-her name was Melusine.”

“I have the utmost trust in Robert,” Maude said, very coolly, and Geoffrey’s smile became a smirk.

“You trust the sainted Robert. You trust Cousin Stephen. You trust young Ranulf here, and God knows how many others in that flock of bastard brothers of yours. Dear heart, it pains me to say this, but you’re as free with your trust as a whore is with her favors, and you run the same risk that the whore does, for men hold cheaply what comes to them too easily.”

“The same can be said for your advice, Geoffrey. I might value it more if you offered it less.”

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed, and Ranulf shifted uncomfortably. All his sympathies were with Maude; it still was no fun, though, to be caught in their crossfire. But at that moment a servant entered with the wine, dispelling some of the tension. Geoffrey and Ranulf drank in a less than convivial silence as Maude conferred with the servant. Once the man had withdrawn, she smiled at Ranulf. “Since you missed dinner, I’ve instructed the cooks to prepare an uncommonly lavish supper this eve in your honour. I told them to serve baked pike stuffed with chestnuts, for that is a favorite of yours, no?”

Ranulf nodded, pleased that she should have remembered. But Geoffrey’s brows shot upward. “Shall you be up to it? You must not be alarmed, Ranulf, if your sister bolts the hall in the midst of the meal. Other women suffer from morning sickness when they are breeding, but Maude is, as ever, a law unto herself, and her queasiness comes at night!”

Ranulf swung around to stare at his sister. “You are with child?”

Maude nodded, and Geoffrey moved to her side, striking the playful pose of a proud father-to-be. He might even be sincere, Ranulf allowed grudgingly, for to give the Devil his due, Geoffrey did seem fond of his sons. As he looked at them now, Ranulf could not help admiring the picture they presented, for whatever else might be said of them, they made a very handsome couple.

Handsome was a word often applied to Geoffrey, for not only was he taller than most men, he’d been blessed, too, with an athlete’s build and a cat’s grace. His hair color was a bronzed reddish-gold, his eyes a compelling shade of blue-grey, fringed with thick, tawny lashes, eyes agleam with sardonic humor, boundless confidence, and a sharp, calculating intelligence, yet not a hint of warmth.

As for Maude, Ranulf had to acknowledge that her youth was gone, for she was thirty-three, past a woman’s prime. But her age had not yet impaired her ability to turn male heads. Like Annora, she’d been cursed with unfashionable coloring: she had inherited her father’s dark hair and eyes. But she was more fortunate than Annora in that her skin was fair and flawless, and her features so finely sculptured that none could deny her beauty; no man looking upon the high curve of her cheekbones or the red fullness of her mouth was likely to care that her eyes were brown.

Indeed, a handsome couple. But did they think so? Did they find each other as desirable as others found them? For a moment, Ranulf tried to imagine what it would be like, making love to a woman he loathed. It was not an appealing prospect, and he decided that he’d not have traded places with Geoffrey or Maude for all the crowns in Christendom. How lucky he was to have Annora, to-Suddenly becoming aware of the silence, he saw that they were staring at him, and he flushed in embarrassment, looking hastily away lest they somehow read his mind.

“Well? Are you not going to offer your congratulations?” Geoffrey was shaking his head, as if lamenting Ranulf’s bad manners, but Ranulf had an uncomfortable suspicion that his brother-in-law knew what he’d been thinking. He stammered an apology, belatedly wished them well, and was greatly relieved when Geoffrey headed for the door.

As soon as they were alone, Ranulf smiled at his sister, eager to make amends. “I am right glad about the babe,” he lied. “When is the birth?”

“Not for months yet, not till the summer.”

Her smile did not linger, and Ranulf found himself wondering if she feared the coming birth. He did, for certes, remembering that harrowing week in Rouen. That was not something he could ask her, though. A faint frown had settled across her brow; the brown eyes were opaque, inward-looking. But then she said briskly, “The timing could not have been worse, could it? The English are already skittish about being ruled by one who wears skirts. Somehow I suspect the sight of a swelling belly beneath those skirts is not likely to reassure.”

As always, Ranulf was impressed by her candor. “Well,” he said, “they shall have to get used to it. And I may as well confess that I’m looking forward to watching as certain high-flying lords get their wings clipped!”

So was Maude. “Anyone in particular?”

“The Earl of Chester, amongst others. He’s made no secret of his reluctance to take orders from a woman. Think how gladdened he’ll be to grovel before one great with child!”

“Chester is not a man to grovel, lad, not even to God. But he will pay me the debt he owes his sovereign, one of obeisance and fealty and homage. They all will.”

Ranulf felt a surge of admiration, strong enough to let him forget his own past qualms about her queenship. How many women could face such a formidable challenge with so much fortitude? For that matter, most men would have been daunted, too, by the demands that were about to be made upon his sister. “Your coronation will be but the beginning. Your greatest trials will be still to come. Maude…does it not scare you at all, knowing the troubles that lie ahead?”

“Scare me?” she echoed, sounding genuinely surprised. “Ah, no, Ranulf, I do not fear. I know it will not be easy. I know there will be men who’d be content that I merely reign, not rule. But I will rule-by God, I will. The Crown of England is a burden and a blessing and my birthright. To me, it means…”

She paused, and Ranulf waited, curious to hear how she would complete the sentence: power? duty? opportunity? But then she smiled, a smile he would long remember, for it was the smile of a hopeful, eager young girl, not a woman widowed and disenchanted and wretchedly wed. “It means,” she said, “freedom.”

Supper that evening was as sumptuous as Maude had promised. Her cooks had to confine their menu to fish, for the season of Advent was upon them, but they did themselves proud with Ranulf’s pike, gingered carp, white trout in mustard sauce, almond rice, roasted apples, marzipan, and cinnamon wafers, all washed down with ample servings of spiced red wine, hippocras, and malmsey.

Afterward, Maude told Ranulf of her plans. She meant to depart on the morrow for Normandy. The Vicomte Guigan Algason had sent word that he wanted to do homage to her for his holdings in Argentan, Domfront, and Exmes. She would be pleased, she added, to have Ranulf at her side upon her entry into Argentan. Ranulf assured her that he would be honored to witness Algason’s submission to his new duchess, and then asked, as tactfully as he could, if Geoffrey would be accompanying them. To his vast relief, Maude said that Geoffrey had agreed-for the present-to remain in Angers.

Ranulf could not say so, of course, but he thought that was a shrewd tactical move; the Norman barons would be much more likely to acknowledge Maude’s suzerainty if she was not encumbered by the unwelcome presence of her detested Angevin husband. Thank the Lord Christ that Geoffrey was choosing to be so accommodating, to get Maude’s reign off to the best possible beginning. But how long was his cooperation likely to last? And how could they stop him when he decided to take his rightful place at her side as husband, consort,…or even, God forbid, king?

“I have been trying to decide which of my lords I can rely upon and which of them will seek to take advantage of me if I let them. Hear me out, Ranulf, and see if you agree with my conclusions.”

Ranulf nodded, enormously flattered that Maude should see him as a worthy confidant. “I’m no soothsayer, but I’d wager I can name the chief prop of your throne,” he predicted, unable to resist this small jab at Geoffrey. “Robert.”

“Robert,” Maude echoed, “Robert first and foremost. And then my uncle David; I am indeed blessed that my lady mother was sister to the Scots king. There are others, too, who will do whatever they can to make my throne secure. My cousin Stephen, of course. Stephen’s elder brother Theobald has rarely set foot in England; his interests are firmly rooted in his own domains. And the youngest brother, the bishop…he is too ambitious to be truly trustworthy. As for our brothers, Rainald is quite able, can be of great help as long as he reins in that runaway temper of his. And then there is Brien Fitz Count. You remember Brien, do you not, Ranulf?”

Ranulf thought he did. “The lord of Wallingford Castle?”

Maude nodded. “He is a good friend of Stephen’s, and like Stephen, he is a man of honour. He was utterly loyal to my father, treated almost as a foster son, and I trust he will be just as loyal to me.”

Geoffrey had drifted over in time to catch Maude’s declaration of faith in Brien Fitz Count. “There is that word again — trust. Passing strange, how often it crops up in your conversation, dear heart.”

Maude’s mouth thinned, but a cease-fire, however precarious, was to be preferred to outright marital warfare; that was a lesson she’d learned the hard way. “Then,” she said, “to please you, Geoffrey, we shall now speak of those I do not trust. The Earl of Chester. His half-brother, William de Roumare. That self-seeking constable of the Tower, Geoffrey de Mandeville. Waleran and Robert Beaumont.”

“Ah, yes, the Beaumont twins, double trouble.” But Geoffrey’s humor was wasted on Ranulf, and Maude was turning away to hear a servant’s murmur.

“A messenger has just arrived,” she said, “from England, from Brien Fitz Count. Did I not tell you that Brien would be amongst the first to declare his allegiance to his queen?”

Left alone with Geoffrey on the dais, Ranulf concentrated upon his wine cup, trying to ignore his brother-in-law’s amused gaze. But Geoffrey was impossible to ignore. “So…tell me, Ranulf, have you forsworn eating lamprey pie ever again? It is one of my favorite dishes, I confess, but it would have been in bad taste, I suppose, to have served it tonight-so soon after your father’s unfortunate eel encounter.”

Ranulf gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Geoffrey was entertained by his silent struggle for control, but he knew it was a losing battle, knew how easy it would be to fire the lad’s temper-almost too easy, for it was already smoldering. He was getting ready to fan the flames when Ranulf stiffened, half rose in his seat. “Maude?”

Geoffrey turned, puzzled, and then forgot about badgering the boy at sight of his wife. Maude had spun back toward the dais, all the color gone from her face, a parchment crumpled in her hand.

“Christ Jesus, woman, what ails you?” Geoffrey came down the dais steps in two strides, for in seven turbulent years of marriage, he’d never seen Maude look as she did now: vulnerable.

Ranulf was even faster, reached her first. “Maude, what is it? What did Brien tell you?”

Maude looked blindly at him, her eyes wide, dark, and dazed. “Stephen…” She stopped, swallowed. “He has claimed the English throne,” she said, with the unnatural calm, the dulled disbelief of one still in shock.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Geoffrey spat out an extremely obscene oath, and Ranulf cried, “No, that cannot be! It must be a mistake, for Stephen would never do that, Maude, never!”

Maude’s hand clenched into a fist, shredding Brien’s letter with fingers that shook. “But he did,” she said tautly. “God rot him, Ranulf-he did!” She drew a ragged, betrayed breath. “Stephen has stolen my crown.”